Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

FOR THE LOVE OF LADY MARGARET

Lady Margaret Carroll

FOR THE LOVE OF
LADY MARGARET

A Romance of
the Lost Colony

BY

WILLIAM THOMAS WILSON

CHARLOTTE, N. C.
STONE & BARRINGER COMPANY
1908

Copyright, 1908
By STONE & BARRINGER COMPANY

THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.

CONTENTS

FOR THE LOVE OF LADY MARGARET

CHAPTER I THE END OR THE BEGINNING

And so this was the end? Well, no matter—I had lived my little day—had played my part. The bell had tapped; the curtain had fallen; and so the scene must end. How many of those who had seen the little game played out, and had applauded the actor, would remember after the lights were out and the house was dark? I had passed from Heaven to Hell in four short hours—four hours!

My new white trunks, with the gray doublet, were on the bed, where I had laid them out. I had planned to wear them to Lady Wiltshire's ball to-night.

The guests were just beginning to arrive—Raleigh, with the gallant air and courtly mien; Lord North, with his stupid and insufferable egotism; Francis Bacon, the austere and brilliant, and the Viscount James Henry Hampden, who would, in my absence, promptly take possession of Lady Margaret Carroll.

Ah, my lady! wouldst thou give one thought to me when I had passed out of thy life forever? Wouldst thou, like the rest, move on without one sigh, thine eyes fixed upon the moving figures about thee, forgetful that there was wont to be another by thy side, who was now gone for aye? Would one tear fall from those beautiful eyes which I had looked into so often within the last two years?—years that seemed so short to me to-night, as I looked back over them, and thought of the golden hours, which had once gleamed so bright and happy before me, but now lay so far behind, lost in the moldering ashes of the forgotten past.

It seemed like long years since I had received that short note from my father, with its few curt lines, saying that our paths must separate; that I had disgraced the family; that he had borne with me till flesh and blood could stand no more, and henceforth I would be as a stranger to him.

Life indeed seemed black to me! Past my first youth (I was thirty-two), brought up to do nothing except to enjoy myself, with an ample income, which my father, Lord Richmond, had always supplied—what wonder that I felt as if the anchor had indeed slipped, and that I was adrift at the mercy of the wind and tide.

I might, it was true, drift on for a few weeks on credit, and borrow from my friends, but I had no mind to do that. Whatever my faults, and they were many and grievous, I had at least lived like a gentleman, and had nothing on that score to reproach myself with.

I did not wish to run deep into debt, and cause honest tradesmen to lose their just dues because they had trusted to my honor. No; whatever came, I would not do that. I would face the situation fairly and squarely—would work out as best I could my own salvation, without fear or favor from any man.

The old lord, my father, had always disliked me; I remember as a boy how he never had a kind word for me. My older brother, Richard, was his favorite, and Richard had never lost an opportunity to prejudice him against me.

My brother, as a little boy, had always treasured up all my mistakes and punishments at school, and when he returned home, would recount them to my father with a grave face, so that he would have the pleasure of hearing him reprove me, which I believe that Richard delighted in.

What wonder was it, when I finished school, that I chose, after a year or two in the Irish campaign, to return and remain in London, rather than journey down to the grim old castle, built by the third Lord Richmond during the reign of Stephen, and live there with my father and Richard.

My mother had been dead for years. From out of the dim memories of my childhood I see her arise—a gentle, sweet-faced woman, who loved her family and her home more than all else. She died when I was young, and there remained of the family only my father, Richard, and myself.

This sudden fury of my father's was Richard's work, I had no doubt. He had played on my father's old hatred for me, and had fanned it by his hints of my extravagance and wildness, until it had burned into a flame ready to sweep all before it. Well, they could go their own way now, and I would go mine. Henceforth they should not be troubled with me.

I walked over to my window, and looked down upon the crowd, as it surged to and fro along Cheapside. Many parties of richly clad gallants hurried along, bound for the playhouse and the rout.

On the opposite side of the street, amidst the throng, I descried Bobby Vane, in his new plum-colored cloak, as he hastened to my Lady Wiltshire's ball. I followed him with my eyes, until the torch of his linkboy was lost in the crowd.

The night was hot and sultry, and to me, exhausted by my painful thoughts, the room seemed insufferably close and stifling. Hardly knowing what I did, I picked up my coat and hat, and passed out into the street.

How long I walked, or where, I know not. The faces about me on the street I saw dimly, as though in some dream—indistinct, faint, which on the morn comes to the mind in broken fragments. Thou knowest that such thoughts, such faces, have passed before thine eyes, but when and where thou canst not tell.

I strode on rapidly, looking neither to right nor left, not knowing or caring whither I went; glad that I was occupied, and not sitting idle, tortured with painful thoughts of the morrow. Many I passed thus, some of whom stopped to look back at me as I left them behind in my rapid walk. Some sound of their conversation came to my ears as they whispered after me.

I was coming now into the less frequented part of London, where I did not remember to have ever been before. The crowd upon the streets was smaller here, and was of the poorer class, mostly laborers and tradesmen, and the sight of a well-dressed stranger must have created some sensation in their minds. They said naught to me, however, and I passed on.

I had halted at a corner to let a cart pass by, and moved by some impulse of the moment, I now looked back. A man stood by a house a few feet away, and as he caught my look he shrank against the wall, as though to conceal himself from my sight. I had seen him before—a short, squat man, with a dark bronzed face, and thick black hair sprinkled with gray. He was dressed in the garb of a well-to-do tradesman, but there was an indescribable something in his appearance or manner, I know not exactly what, that suggested the sea to me. It may have been his walk, rolling and clumsy, or the slits in his ears, which showed where once there had been ear-rings, that made me think of a seaman.

I had seen him several times within the last few days, hanging around the corners near my apartments, as though watching for someone. Once on coming down my steps, I ran full into his arms as he stood on the landing, and as I disengaged myself, he glanced keenly into my face as though to fix it in his mind, and with a word of apology passed on. It seemed as though he followed my footsteps, for half an hour later, on passing a fruit stand near the Thames, I had seen him gazing intently at me through the lattice.

And now the same man was just behind me, and when I glanced at him, innocently enough, he shrank back as though to avoid my look. Could it be that he dogged my steps, and for some purpose of his own wished to keep me in sight? I knew not why he should do so. I had no enemy in the city, who would go to so much trouble on my account. But it was worth looking into, and so I turned into an alley, and stepping quickly into a dark doorway, I waited.

A few moments, and footsteps sounded on the pavement, and the figure of my pursuer, for pursuer he undoubtedly was, came in sight. Pausing at the entrance of the lane, he looked cautiously into it, no doubt pondering where I could have disappeared so suddenly. The moonlight shone full in his face as he stood there, and from my hiding place I could see every sinister feature, as like a baffled hound he sought to rediscover the lost scent. An instant thus he stood, as if undecided; then silently he stole into the dark alley, and passing the doorway where I stood melted away in the gloom.

Waiting a few minutes where I was, I stepped down, and turning strode out of the lane and back to the corner whence I had come only a moment ago. Congratulating myself on the fact that I had shaken this spy, I resumed my walk. Through strange twisted streets, overhung with gabled, many-windowed houses; by dark shops, now closed for the day; and along ill-paved crooked lanes I strode, engaged with my own thoughts, as black and gloomy as my surroundings.

What was I to do? Turn my back upon London and all my friends, and one bright lady, more than all the rest to me? I could not remain among those where once I held high sway, the chief amidst the gay throng—now poor, despised, forsaken, stripped of my rank and means, for I had been dependent upon the old lord, my father, for all that I had. Monthly he had sent to me through a London bank, a good round sum in shining gold, which I had promptly sown to the four winds.

The life of a gentleman of leisure in the reign of Elizabeth was no cheap thing, I can tell thee. There were many new doublets, made of silk and satin, of varied colors and shapes, which were ever changing, even as a maid blushes—and as readily. There were the routs and balls; playhouses where the painted actors strutted and declaimed; the dice games in the evenings at the houses of the noble ladies who entertained, where we threw for the golden coin, stacked high upon the table, until daylight peeped in at the closed shutters, and shone upon the flushed, haggard faces and disheveled hair of the lords and ladies. Then there were our servants, many and skillful; our horses and hounds; our wines and dinners; our banquets and routs—all the most elegant. No wonder the sovereigns melted from our purses as snow before a summer sun.

Those were brave old days in London town, when we laughed and idled around, free and happy as the larks. Naught to do save enjoy ourselves; naught to think of save the color of some fair lady's eyes. Sweet, happy days—but gone forever!

Even now, when my hair has grown as white as the driven snow and my eye is dim and feeble, I think of them sometimes with a smile. I would give all of worldly fame and fortune I possess, if, for one brief moment, I could feel again the bounding blood of youth pulse through my withered veins, and my bent form could straighten with the old proud fire, and my step be as light and care-free as of yore; if in my ears could ring the sound of those dear voices—Walter Raleigh's ringing laugh, Bobby Vane's piping tones—and if those true and tried friends—many of whom are scattered east and west, some of whom sleep the last, long, quiet sleep—could be gathered with me as of yore in the great room about the roaring fire of the Mermaid Inn.

A great bar of light loomed ahead of me across the narrow street, and as I drew nearer I heard the sound of shouting and carousing, the clink of glasses, and the deep roars of laughter of the drinkers. Evidently some crowd held high carnival to-night, bent on feasting and frolic.

Nearing the latticed window, I peered in. It was a low room in a tavern, its ceiling black with smoke and age. A great log fire roared up the wide fireplace. Around a long table in the center of the room was seated what looked to me like the crew of some foreign ship—swarthy-faced, with earrings hanging from their ears, and cutlasses and swords buckled around their waists—they seemed none too good for any wild deed of crime and plunder.

There were some twenty-five or thirty of them, who, flagons in hand, sat about the table, telling many strange tales of the unknown regions of the Spanish Main, and motioning to the waiters, who ran frantically to and fro, filling the ever empty glasses. They were plainly the terror and admiration of the other guests, who, huddled together in a corner near the chimney, leered and whispered at their boisterous conduct and wild appearance.

I looked in at them for a few moments, aroused from my thoughts by the extraordinary spectacle. It was doubtless the crew of some foreign merchant vessel, probably a Spaniard, who, returning from a long voyage to the West, and touching at London, had chosen this night to celebrate their return to civilization.

As I peered in, a door at the rear of the room opened, and there advanced rapidly into the room my pursuer, whom I had but just outwitted a few brief moments ago in the alley. Hot and breathless he stood there, as though he had just emerged from some race, and I chuckled when I thought what a chase I must have given him.

He crossed the room to where the foreign seamen drank and feasted; bending over two, who sat at the head of the table, he placed his hands upon their shoulders, and whispered a few words in their ears. Instantly they rose, and putting on their caps, followed him out through the rear door, deaf to the taunts and entreaties of their comrades to "drink one more glass."

"He Placed His Hands upon Their Shoulders"

The seamen cried out in Spanish, a tongue which I understood, and their conversation, mostly about their voyages, was carried on in that same language. But they talked only of such things as seamen were wont to do; so turning away from my station, I retraced my steps toward my room.

Why had this man come so quickly into this place, and whispering to two of the seamen, gone out as silently and speedily as he had appeared? Plainly he was known to these men, for they had shouted at him, and two had followed him out without a word. Where? Was it in pursuit of me? And if so with what motive? Perhaps they meant to capture me, and exact a ransom from my doting father, and at the thought, I smiled bitterly to myself. Ah! a kingly ransom would he pay for my return. Long would he grieve, together with the saintly Richard, should I vanish from his ken.

To reach this place was easier than to find my way back through the long labyrinth of turns and corners, of cross streets and alleys. Retracing my steps, I wended my course through a maze of dark lanes, and had almost despaired of ever finding my way home, when turning I saw two men, who seemed to be engaged in an earnest discussion, and quickening my steps, I approached them, inquiring, as I did so, whether they could direct me to Cheapside.

The taller turned quickly at the sound of my voice, and stood looking down at me. He was wrapped in a great cloak, and I only saw, bent upon me, the flash of a pair of cold black eyes. "Turn the first corner to the right," he answered, with a slight foreign accent. "That will take thee straight to it," and he turned again to his companion as though eager to be rid of me.

With a brief word of thanks I passed on, but had gone only a few steps when I heard a loud oath, and wheeling about saw one of the men draw his sword and make for the other, who seemed to be surprised and dismayed by the sudden attack.

The sword flashed in the moonlight, and I barely had time to dash back, and running in between them to catch it upon my own, which I had hastily drawn, else the luckless victim had departed this flesh in a twinkling.

With another loud cry, the assailant made a hasty pass at me, and we closed. Even in the moonlight I was struck with the unusual beauty of the face—its long aquiline nose, and keen hawk eyes. The hat had fallen from his head, and his jet black hair shone like the wing of a raven.

I had small time to observe these things, however, for he pressed me with the fury of a demon, now thrusting with the point, then cutting at me with the blade. I had on merely a light rapier, more for dress than work, while he was using a heavy service sword, and I began to realize that this could not last much longer, for he would beat me down by the strength of his arm, as with all his swordsmanship he pressed upon me.

I was bleeding from several slight wounds where he had touched me, for he was undoubtedly the finest blade with whom I had ever crossed swords—I, Thomas Winchester, accounted one of the best swordsmen of the North Country; backward, backward he was pressing me, and I could see the evil look on his face, as he steadily pushed me to the wall.

How much longer the unequal fight would have lasted, I know not. I had abandoned all hope and given myself up for lost, when the gentleman to whose rescue I had come, and who had stood by in the meantime as if dazed, suddenly drew his sword and came to my assistance.

Together we rushed upon my tall assailant with all our skill and force, but try as we would, we could never cross the gleaming hedge of steel, with which he seemed ringed about. Now he would meet my ally's blade and beat him back, and when I rushed upon him, thinking to take him unawares, I would meet that impenetrable wall of fire, and would be forced to retreat again. It seemed more than mortal man could endure, but his dark, gleaming eyes showed no change; and it looked as if we would have both been held at bay, had it not been for an unlooked for and unforeseen circumstance.

In meeting the attack of my friend, for I knew not what else to call him, the tall stranger's foot slipped, and he fell at full length on the pavement. We both rushed forward quickly, eager to disarm so dangerous a foe, when raising himself on his elbow, he drew a little silver whistle from his breast, and blew one sharp, long blast.

Immediately it seemed as if the whole street were alive with men. They looked as if they sprang from the very pavements. My friend was seized before he could turn to meet the new foe, and a dozen or more sprang upon me. The first, a burly ruffian armed with a cutlass, I ran through the body with my rapier, but as he fell, he dragged my weapon out of my hand, and before I could disengage it from his body, the others were upon me.

I had one glimpse of a mass of dark, bronzed faces, evil and leering; then there was a noise as of many waters in my ears—I seemed to be falling, falling, and I knew no more.

CHAPTER II I HAVE AN OFFER

I seemed to be back at Richmond Castle. I could see the great green lawn and the dove-cot with its pigeons. Old Dennis, the gardener, was speaking to me, "Mister Thomas, it's glad I am to see thee back." My hound came running forward to lick my hand, and I could feel the fresh breeze of the country, so different from the hot, feverish air of London, upon my face. A great peace fell upon me—I was at home.

The scene changed; I was at Lady Wiltshire's ball. I could see the brilliantly lighted rooms, the eager, joyous faces about me. There was the young débutante, unaffectedly pleased and amused; the bored, tired rake, weary of the game. Yonder comes my Lord Leicester, followed by his crowd of satellites, and with him my Lady Wiltshire and her beautiful ward, the Lady Margaret Carroll, surrounded by a little coterie of admirers.

I could see the light as it fell upon her beautiful brown hair, turning every thread into gold, as rich and pure as any mined from the far fabled land of the Indies in the days gone by, and the deep violet of her eyes, like the azure blue of the sky on a summer day, with not a cloud to disturb or ruffle it. As she turned her head, I could see the rich full throat, white as the driven snow, and the lovely rose color upon her cheek—that fair cheek, the envy and despair of many a titled beauty.

I could hear the whispers of the Viscount James Henry Hampden, who stood beside her; and while he fanned her with the pretty jeweled fan and poured out a stream of small talk, it was a sight for gods and men. It was more than mortal man could bear, and stretching out my arms, I called to her, "Margaret!" She turned her dark blue eyes upon me, and as she did so faded from my sight.

I seemed to be wandering in a vast and limitless desert, no vegetation was in view, and I could see nothing but the hot, burning sand. I was thirsty, but though I searched far and wide, I could find no water to cool my burning tongue. But as I looked toward the horizon, I saw a beautiful, cool oasis; the fresh, green trees seemed to beckon me on. I struggled through the terrible heat and sand, and finally as I reached it, it vanished, and I awoke.

My first sensation was one of pain. I raised my hand to my head. It was bandaged, as was also my left arm; and on attempting to turn on the bunk where I lay, a sudden pain seized me, which turned me faint and sick.

I lay perfectly still for some time, gazing at the ceiling above me—so different from my own apartments. My eyes were met with the sight of plain, unpainted pine boards, the rough, unfinished wood broken and defaced in places, as though dented by some heavy article coming into violent contact with it.

I also became conscious of a rocking, tossing motion, as if caused by the rolling of a vessel upon the open sea, and while wondering where I was, I dropped off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

I was awakened by someone shaking me roughly by the shoulder, and on looking up, I perceived the man who had dogged my steps on last evening standing over me, with a platter in one hand, upon which there was some salt beef and ship biscuits, and a candle in the other.

He, on perceiving my rueful countenance, broke out into a loud peal of laughter.

"Here, my fine fellow, eat whilst thou mayst!" he cried. "Perchance a day may dawn when thou canst not."

"Where am I?" I exclaimed weakly.

"Eat and ask no more questions," he replied. "Our captain will see thee after thou hast eaten."

Without more words I fell to upon the food, and notwithstanding that it was rough fare, I managed to make a good meal of it. My head had ceased to pain me, and while my arm still throbbed and ached, I was beginning to feel like myself again.

I thought of my encounter with the tall stranger of the night before—at least I supposed it was the night before; for although the room in which I was confined was without windows or openings of any kind, and was dark save for the candle, I had seen a gleam of light, as the sailor had opened the door. He was a short, bronzed fellow, with bold, dark eyes, and a sullen face, garbed in the rough clothes of a seaman.

I fumbled in my pocket, and finding a sovereign, drew it out, and extended it to him.

"My man, I would ask thee a question. Wilt answer it?"

At the sight of the gold, the face of the seaman changed. His dark sullen look was replaced by one, which, if not of delight, plainly indicated that he was pleased, and he extended his hand, with a rough, uncouth bow.

"Anything that I know, I will answer, your honor," he said.

"Well, then, where am I?" I asked.

The man did not answer, and looking at his face, I saw that he seemed to hesitate between a desire to answer, and fear to do so.

"Come now, didst not thou say that thou wouldst answer my question?" I cried.

"Thou art on the ship 'Betsy' of London," he answered sullenly; and picking up his empty platter (for I had almost demolished the salt beef and bread), he strode out of the room before I could stop him, and I heard the heavy bolts turn, as he secured the door.

I had discovered on looking around the room while eating, that I was in a common sailor's cabin, the windows of which were boarded, so as to exclude all light from the room.

Groping my way in the dark, as best I could, I crossed over to the other side of the cabin, and began to feel with my right hand along the side of the room for the boards, with which the window had been planked up. But I was still weak and dizzy, and after a few minutes' work, I was compelled to sink down on the floor to rest, and while I lay there, I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door.

The heavy bar creaked; the door swung open; and I was gazing into the face of the tall stranger, with whom I had fought upon the streets of London. The same high forehead, aquiline nose, thin, cruel lips, and jet-black eyes and hair. He wore a plum-colored doublet, with dark fawn trunks and hose, and had about him that ease and grace which mark the gentleman.

In truth, he would have passed as a handsome gallant, had it not been for the cruelty and sensuality of his face. I have never been able to determine what feature it was that gave him that air of sinister, reckless cruelty. Analyzing his face, no one single member gave it that expression, but the combined effect was that of a man who had never let any fear or scruple come between himself and his desire.

He stood in the doorway a moment in silence, a candle in his hand, looking upward; then closing the door, he advanced into the room, and with a bow and smile, addressed me as I sat upon the floor, speaking in English, but with a pronounced accent:

"I trust that Sir Thomas Winchester will pardon this rude abode, and this somewhat unceremonious treatment. I assure him that nothing but the most urgent necessity is to blame for it."

"If thou wilt have the goodness to tell me where I am, how I came here, and by whom and what authority I am detained in this place?" I said angrily, for the Richmond blood, which had never brooked opposition, and which had been the pride and curse of my race, was up now, and was boiling in my veins.

"One thing at a time, my dear sir," he replied, and seating himself on a stool near the rude table on which he had placed the candle, he motioned me to a seat upon the other side of the room.

But my temper was aroused, and by a shake of the head I declined the proffered seat, at the same time indicating my desire that he should answer my questions.

"In the first place," he replied, "thou art on the brig, 'Betsy,' two days out from London. In the second place, as doubtless thou rememberest, thou didst attack me on the street of London, without any just cause, and wouldst have slain me, hadst thou had thy way. On my men coming up, thou wert unfortunately struck on the head, and being senseless, wert brought on board this ship. In the third place, thou art detained on board this vessel by me, and by my authority," and he looked down coolly upon me, as I sat upon the floor.

"Who art thou," I exclaimed, rising to my feet, "that thou shouldst detain me?"

My heat produced no noticeable effect upon him; with an evil smile he calmly replied, "The Count DeNortier."

In a flash I knew into whose hands I had fallen—DeNortier, the Spanish adventurer and pirate, whose boldness and cruelty had been the talk of London two years ago.

He had taken a Portuguese merchant vessel, bound from Lisbon to the West Indies, and fearful tales had been told of the way in which he had tortured the men and women. After taking everything of value from the ship, he had cut the throats of those who remained alive, and scuttling the ship, had sailed away. The ship, however, had not sunk immediately, and two days later was found by a Spanish vessel, and from a dying sailor the news of the tragedy had been heard.

Since that day, from time to time, had come news of some further devilish act, until the whole of Europe knew and feared this human fiend.

But I was a man. I could meet death like a gentleman, and if this desperado expected me to flinch, he would be disappointed. So unmoved, I awaited further explanation.

The Count, seeing that I was unaffected by his name, continued:

"Thou wouldst perhaps know why I had thee brought aboard, and I will satisfy thy curiosity. I am in need of men—not puppets, but men. When thou wert overpowered upon the street of London, I knew thee to be a man, and had thee brought aboard this ship, not knowing who thou wert. Since bringing thee aboard, I have discovered thy name and reputation. Several of thy countrymen are with me. Come with us. I have lost my lieutenant, and thou shalt have the place. What more couldst thou desire? Gold, wine, the wealth of the broad seas at thy command, a climate the finest in the world, a life of stir and enterprise, which would appeal to thee. Is there more that thou couldst wish?" And leaning back upon his stool against the wall, he looked at me with his cold black eyes.

For a moment the audacity of the scheme amused me. I, a gentleman, to become a wild sea rover; to roam the sea knowing no law or God save that of my captain? It was ridiculous and laughable.

The Count perceived the look of covert amusement upon my face.

"Laugh not, my friend—I am in earnest!" he exclaimed slowly and deliberately. "Weigh my offer well before thou refusest," and he looked at me grimly.

And now the tempter rushed upon me, and whispered—why not? Thou art cut off from thy friends and people, and left an outcast upon the earth, with no home or friends. Why not? To roam the wide seas with none to say thee nay; free as a bird that wings its way among the clouds, far above the path of weary mortals; gold, the wealth of the seas at thy command. Why not?

All the demons of hell assailed me to bear me down. I had no one to mourn for me, or grieve that I should take such a course. To live the bold, free life, though but a day—were it not better than to stand a pariah among men? What matter the morrow? We could live the night with song and laughter, and if with the morn came the pale spectre to hold us to a grim account, we would at least have the consolation of knowing that for one brief night we had lived.

I had almost accepted his offer, forgetting all honor and manhood, forgetting all those higher, nobler things. I had turned to DeNortier, and had opened my mouth to close with his proposition. Already his eye had brightened at the prospect of securing a bold assistant and lieutenant.

And even as I turned there flashed into my mind the thought of a fair maiden, with clear, blue eyes and gold-brown hair, into whose pure soul there had never come one unworthy thought; and I could see with what scorn those eyes would be turned upon me, as one who had disgraced his birth and rank and the honored name he bore.

No, come what might, I would endeavor to be as she would have me. Cut off from her by an impenetrable barrier, I would yet live as a gentleman should, and would pursue my solitary path throughout the long night until the morn.

"Thou hast my answer," I said. "I will not join thee."

The pirate's face had changed, and had grown dark with anger. Although he endeavored to conceal his wrath, his eyes sparkled with rage, and his hand played with the hilt of his sword.

"Thou hadst best reconsider my offer," he said in a low, fierce voice. "We have a short way of dealing with those who thwart us."

"I have decided," I replied. "I am willing to abide by my decision."

He arose to his feet, and stood looking at me a moment; then picking up his candle, he left the room. The bolt turned in its socket; his footsteps died away; and I was left to my own meditations.

They were far from pleasant; afloat on the seas in the hands of a man who knew no law save his own will; shut off from all help, I was indeed in a not-to-be-envied position.

My thoughts turned to London. What did my old friends think had become of me? What did Bobby Vane think? Good old Bobby! How many times had we explored the city by moonlight. How many escapades we had had together, in the ten years we had been in London. We had been more like brothers than friends.

And then there were a score of others, boon companions, with whom I had laughed and drank and feasted; had frequented the playhouses, and seen the puppet shows with their tinsel and glitter. What did they think of me—or care?

Well, it was the way of the world. We have our little day, our little jest, our little song, and then the night falls, and shuts out the last faint gleam of the setting sun. As travelers who pass upon the road, we meet—a moment's greeting; then the journey is resumed, and we disappear in the deepening gloom. And so thinking I fell asleep.

Then passed long uneventful days and nights, during which I saw only the sailor who had first brought my meals, and who had told me his name was Herrick. Three times a day he brought my food, and stood by me, sullen and morose, while I ate. When I finished, he would take the platter and candle and leave me, locking the heavy bolt behind him. All my efforts to draw him into a conversation proved vain; he would not be drawn out, or answer any of my questions.

My health began to suffer from my close confinement, and I had almost given up all hope of ever seeing again the blue skies of heaven. I could still feel the rocking and tossing of the vessel, and sometimes could hear the shouts of the men, but outside of this, I was as much dead to the world as if I had been buried.

It was about the twentieth day, I reckoned, after my conversation with DeNortier, when I heard footsteps approaching the door of my prison at an unwonted hour; as only a few minutes before the grim Herrick had brought my meal—whether breakfast, dinner, or supper, I did not know.

The heavy lock groaned; the door opened, and Herrick stood outside.

"Come," he said, "thou art wanted on deck," and candle in hand, he waited for me.

The candlelight threw into relief his grim, dark features; his broad, flat nose and coarse, rough mouth; sparkled on the earrings in his ears; gleamed on his cutlass, which was suspended from his waist by a broad leather belt—altogether it was a picture for some ancient master, as he stood in the doorway.

Picking up my tarnished hat, I passed up the ladder and stood on the deck of the ship.

The vessel lay motionless upon the water. About the deck there clustered a group of rough sailors—English, by their costume and language, some thirty or more.

On the other side of the vessel there stood about fifty of the most villainous-looking men I had ever seen—the ruffians whom I had noticed in the alehouse in London—of every clime and nationality, their faces stamped with all manner of vice; they were a crew repulsive enough to make men shudder.

Between these two groups there stood DeNortier, and a broad, squat man, whom, from his dress and deportment, I surmised to be the master of the ship.

A few ship-lengths distant there lay another vessel, long, low, with the hull painted a dull black. Many culverins protruded their frowning mouths from her dark sides; her decks were crowded with men. From her mast there flew a black flag, and as I gazed at it the folds opened wide to the wind, and I saw upon its face the skull and crossbones of the sea rover.

From the vessel was putting out a boat filled with men, which was making for the ship on which I stood.

The voice of DeNortier fell upon my ears at this moment.

"Well, honored sir, I trust that thou hast had a pleasant trip."

I turned to him as he stood beside me looking at my face, with a sinister smile on his own.

"Pleasant trip!" I cried. "Yes—as the sufferings of the damned are pleasant, such pleasure have I had."

He shrugged his shoulders, then came close to me, and spoke in a lower tone:

"Thou hast in thy power to change it. Would it not be better to be a leader among those merry men yonder—to have the treasure of the world at thy command—than to languish out a miserable existence in some foul prison, shut out from the world; or perhaps to die by the thumbscrew and the torture?"

"Better," I replied, "perhaps—but answer one question."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Why dost thou detain me here?"

"I have told thee once," he answered; "it is not necessary to repeat it."

"Granting that," I said; "in case of my refusal, what dost thou intend to do with me?"

"I shall take thee with me to my rendezvous; shall keep thee until thou dost change thy mind. If thou wilt not join us after a reasonable time—why, dead men tell no tales." And as he said this, his black eyes narrowed to a mere slit.

He gazed at me a moment, then, turning his back, walked to where the pirates, whose boat had arrived, were scrambling aboard the vessel.

I was about to follow him, when my attention was attracted to two seamen who came up the companionway, bearing between them a man. They came forward to where I stood alone, and as they neared, I looked at the burden in their arms. It was not—could not be? Yes, it was the gentleman to whose rescue I had come on the street of London, and to whom I owed my present situation.

The confinement had told on him, great hollows were under his eyes, his cheeks were wan and thin; no wonder I looked at him twice before I knew him. The seamen brought him forward to where I stood, and there deposited him, as though he were a bundle of goods.

I believe he did not know me when he raised his eyes blankly to my face, but as he looked at me a moment, the light of recognition crept into them, and he held out his hand in greeting, with a smile.

"Pardon me, that I did not at first know thee, but thou must remember that I only saw thee a moment in the moonlight, when we were both engaged, and this cursed imprisonment has so worked upon me, that I hardly believe I would know my own mother, could I see her."

I laughed at the energy with which he spoke, and after grasping his proffered hand, sat down beside him.

"Dame Fortune has played us a scurvy trick," I said, "but perhaps the wheel may turn. I am Thomas Winchester, Kt., of London. Pray, whom have I the honor of addressing?"

He bowed. "I well know Sir Thomas Winchester by reputation, and am glad to know in person so redoubtable a gentleman," he answered. "Thou wert in Ireland some years ago with Sir Philip Sidney. Permit me to introduce Captain Henry Steele, at thy service."

Steele? Steele? Where had I heard that name before? Ah, yes, it all came back to me. I remembered Philip Sidney's recounting, at the old Mermaid Inn, over a pipe of the fragrant Virginia tobacco, the tale of how this man Steele had swam across a river in the Low Country, during the campaign with Spain, and had traveled ten miles through a country swarming with the enemy, where capture meant certain death, to carry dispatches to a besieged fortress.

I remembered the crowded room; the cloud of blue tobacco smoke, through which peered the eager, interested faces of the listeners; remembered the applause which the tale evoked; and Francis Drake's "By God! 'twas a gallant deed, sir."

No wonder was it that I wrung his hand, glad to have so sturdy a warrior with me. Short, erect, strongly built, with a face that bespoke courage and determination, his was a noble spirit, and one calculated to invite confidence and trust.

"And now let me thank thee for thy assistance in that fight on the street of London," he said. "The gods only know what I would have done without thy arm, for I have never before seen such swordplay in mortal man."

"Tell me," I inquired, "how thou didst come to get into a difficulty with thy assailant?"

And then, in a few short words, he told me that he had just returned from the Low Country a few days before, where he had been engaged in the noble fight that the Netherlands were waging against their Spanish oppressors. He had spent the early part of the night at a tavern with some of his friends, and was returning to his lodgings, his head heavy with wine, when he was stopped on a corner by DeNortier, who held up a sparkling ring, set with a precious stone, and asked him if he had lost it. He stepped nearer, to look at the gem; the man struck him in the face, and then, drawing his sword, had rushed at him.

The rest I knew. Then he requested me to tell him where he was, and I told him all that I knew. I had barely finished, before I saw DeNortier approaching us.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "the boat awaits you."

I looked around—I had no weapon, neither had Steele. We were both weak from our long confinement, and were surrounded by the cutthroats whom DeNortier had brought with him from London. Resistance seemed useless, so gathering up my faded cloak, and assisting Steele, who was very feeble, I followed DeNortier to the boat.

For a moment I hesitated at the ladder, which led down to the little craft, but the pirate, as if divining my purpose, had placed his whole force at the entrance. Grim and cold they stood, weapons in hand. Bowing to the inevitable, we went down the ladder into the boat, and were rapidly rowed over to the pirate vessel.

The men who manned the craft were like those I had seen on the "Betsy," wild and reckless, and were dressed in fantastic costumes. They were also heavily armed.

On attempting to address one of them, I was immediately silenced by Herrick, who seemed to be in command, and who growled out that if I wanted to save my neck, I had best hold my tongue. Taking the polite suggestion, for the remainder of our trip I held my peace, and we neared the vessel in silence.

Reaching the pirate, we were immediately carried down the cabin way into a large bare room, with a rough bunk in one corner, and only a rude table together with a chair or two. The window of this room was enclosed by an iron grating. Here Steele and myself were left alone.

CHAPTER III WE TAKE THE MERCHANT

Ten days more passed; but they were not so dull and tedious as those I had spent heretofore. Both Steele and myself were rapidly improving in health, under the cheering influence of our mutual companionship and conversation.

We passed the days in recounting our mutual adventures; he telling of his experience in the Low Country; the many hairbreadth escapes that he had met with at the hands of the Spaniards; of the struggles that the people of Holland were passing through in their fight for freedom, and how many gallant Englishmen had drawn swords in their cause. He also asked me something of my Irish campaign with Sidney many years ago, when I was but a light-hearted lad, before I had ever gone to London and lost the sweetness and freshness of my youth in that great city of fashions and society.

I would tell him of the gayeties of London of which he knew little; of the nobles and ladies of fashion, and their empty, care-free, butterfly existence.

I told him of a great play which I had seen, when the little man, Shakespeare, had played a noble tragedy before the crown, and tried to give him some idea of the great lighted house with its audience of nobles and fair ladies.

Steele's eyes flashed, as I tried to depict the play, and the enthusiasm of the people as they saw some noble scene.

"It must have been grand!—grand! lad," he cried. "I would give five years of my existence to live such a life, be it only for a day."

I also told him of my father's dismissal, for Steele's was a fine and generous nature, which invited confidence; and he agreed with me that Richard must have had a hand in it.

We also talked of the golden Virginia, which Raleigh was determined to make into a great, vast empire; and discussed its wild, ferocious tribes, and its mines of gold and gems. So passed ten days.

We had exhausted all plans for escaping; none seemed feasible. Were we to overpower our jailer, our condition would not be bettered; and so being surrounded by a shipload of pirates, and with no means of escape, we mutually agreed to wait until land was reached before making an attempt to free ourselves.

On the eleventh morning, just as we finished our breakfast, Steele went to the grating to look out, and as he did so, uttered an exclamation.

"Look!" he cried, pointing out upon the sea.

I ran over to the window, and following his finger, saw far away on the horizon a dark speck, which Steele asserted was a ship. Even as we looked we heard a hoarse order in Spanish, a language I am familiar with. It was DeNortier's command to the pirates to put about in the direction of the distant vessel.

All the morning long we followed that dark speck upon the water, gaining little by little, until about two of the evening we had gotten well in sight of her. She was a great galleon, bearing the yellow flag of Spain, her decks crowded with men, women, and children, who pointed and gesticulated at us.

Slowly, steadily, we drew nearer, nearer, until within a few yards of her. I could see the soldiers trying to drive the women and children down below. Suddenly we came about; I heard the hoarse word of command, and then like a peal of thunder from a clear sky, the pirates discharged their culverins into the galleon.

The slaughter was fearful. Men, women, and children were mowed down; and the screams of the wounded and dying rang loud and clear in our ears. Men ran hither and thither upon the decks. A few of the soldiers returned the fire of the pirates, but they seemed paralyzed with terror.

Slowly our vessel came around in the wind, and discharged another broadside—and yet another, the musketoons of the pirates keeping up an incessant fire all the while. The deck of the galleon literally ran blood. Of the many who had thronged the vessel but a few minutes before, barely one-half were alive.

The others lay huddled into great heaps—some dead, others grievously wounded, many praying, others screaming with pain. An officer, his steel helmet gleaming, ran to and fro, trying to get the men in order—but in vain.

They seemed utterly beside themselves with fright, and abandoning the culverins, from which they had never fired a shot, the gunners ran down the hold; while the remainder of the men stood as if dazed by the destruction which the pirates had wrought.

As we looked on, sick at heart, and wishing but for some weapon, that we might strike one blow for the galleon, we heard the door behind us open, and old Herrick, a grin of delight upon his face, came into the cabin.

"The captain wishes you to come on deck," he informed us.

We followed the old ruffian in silence up the companionway, and stood upon the deck. A few dead and wounded pirates lay about us.

DeNortier, sword in hand, stood by the mast, two or three of his lieutenants around him. He gave us a dark look and said, "Gentlemen, you will accompany me to yonder ship."

I merely inclined my head in token of our assent.

The boats were gotten out, and crowded with the pirates, made their way to the stricken vessel. As we drew nearer, we saw that the slaughter was even worse than it had appeared from the deck of the ship.

Here lay the body of a fresh young girl; there that of a grizzled old sailor; here a soldier in his armor, musketoon in hand; there a young child, his chubby arm under his head, as if asleep and dreaming; there a negro, dark and scowling. It was a horrible sight.

We climbed on deck, and immediately DeNortier ordered a squad of sailors to throw the dead bodies overboard; another to divide the prisoners—the men into one group, the women and children into another.

Steele, who had been examining a culverin that stood near him, touched me on the sleeve. I turned and looked at the gun to which he pointed—it was spiked and useless. We looked at another—spiked too.

The culverins had all evidently been disabled by some trusty ally on the ship. This accounted for the fact that they were never fired. I turned sick at the thought of such treachery, which had cost so many human lives, and so much blood and carnage.

And now we noticed that the pirates had stood all the men, who were left alive, by the side of the rail, their hands bound behind them. DeNortier advanced in front of the silent line.

"My men," he cried in Spanish (most of the men were Spaniards), "who of you wish a merry life, plenty of wine, gold in abundance, and a good ship under you, to roam the wide blue seas? Any who prefer that to a watery grave, step forward."

There were about one hundred men left; some twenty stepped forward; the rest stood firm and unyielding. Some of their faces were pale; a few of them were wounded; some had wives and children in far-off Spain, who would watch for their coming in vain. The suns would wax and wane; the hair of the watchers would fade slowly into the white of the winter snows; their children would grow up, live their little day, and lie down in the arms of the great angel, "Death"—but still they would not come. Not for them was a grave beneath the sunny skies of Spain, with the mourners to weep about their lifeless clay—theirs was a watery grave, lonely and deep, beneath the ocean's brine.

"I will give you one more chance," the pirate said. "Step forward, and your lives are saved—if not, overboard you go."

I have never admired the Spaniard as a race; but at this moment I felt a thrill of admiration and respect for those men, most of them bronzed and battered veterans, who could look into the face of death and meet him unafraid and undismayed.

The captain raised his hand; but I could not see them go down without one effort to save them. I sprang forward, as did also Steele.

"Count," I cried, "thou canst not mean to throw them overboard?—thou dost not mean to do that?"

"Why not?" he said coolly. "They are of no use to me, if they will not join me. I cannot keep them as captives. What other course is open to me?"

"Unbind them," I said; "give them the ship and let them go. Better starvation upon the seas, than such a death as this."

"What? And let them bring down a swarm about my ears? Hardly!" he sneered. "I was not born yesterday, brave sir." Then raising his voice he shouted, "Herrick, seize them!"

The sturdy Herrick and a score of others rushed upon us. The struggle was brief; we were unarmed, and two against a score, for many others of the pirates had rushed to the assistance of their companions.

I felled some two or three of my assailants to the floor, and Steele did the like, but flesh and blood could do no more. We were seized, bound hand and foot, and deposited like two logs on the floor of the deck to await the destruction of the captives.

The prisoners, with their hands bound and tied together, could only dumbly watch the struggle, which was to decide their fate.

As the pirates, after securing us, turned to their captives to put the brutal sentence of their captain into execution, the prisoner who stood at the end of the line next us, and who wore a long white beard, which flowed down over his armor, turned to us and cried in English:

"We thank you, noble sirs, for your gallant struggle in our behalf. May the blessings of the Holy Virgin be with you forever! May you ever remember that you have stood up manfully for those who could not help themselves; and may the memory of this deed be as water to the thirsty traveler in the desert. Farewell! may the benediction of God be ever with you."

As he finished, the pirates rushed upon them. I had been a soldier in Ireland, and had looked unmoved on many a bloody field, but this slaughter of men, bound hand and foot, was more than I could see unmoved. A moment of brief struggle; I turned my head aside; there was a thud, as man after man struck the water—then silence. I looked again; they were gone; only the pirates, laughing and jeering among themselves, remained.

And now the burly Herrick appeared, leading by the sleeve a girl, dark, slender, petite, with a complexion like a wild rose, and great glorious black eyes. Truly she was a beautiful sight, though she shrank back in affright from the admiring eyes of DeNortier.

"By the Holy City! Here is a find!" he cried. "Herrick, thou shalt be made a bishop, and wear a miter; I swear it shall be so."

The rascal bowed, a leer upon his face.

"I thought that this would please thy Excellency," he said.

"I have long searched the broad blue seas for a bride—what need to go further? Here is a pearl from the Antilles, a very jewel of the West. Bid Father Francis stand forth, and make us one."

The girl stood as though frozen into stone, during this conversation, as if dazed by the terrible scene through which she had passed. But as DeNortier motioned a seaman to find the priest, whom he called Father Francis, the full horror of the situation seemed to burst upon her, and breaking away from the grasp of old Herrick, she threw herself at DeNortier's feet, in a torrent of tears.

"Señor! Señor!" she cried, "for the love of God, have mercy! Hast thou no soul? Hadst thou a mother? For her sake I implore! Kill me if thou wilt, but do not do this act; 'twill be a stone about thy neck, to drag thee down to the bottomless pit."

The Count smiled and touched her with his hand.

"Rise up, fair one," he said; "thou shalt be queen of the tropic isles, and share my throne. Thou shalt have slaves to answer thy beck and call; thy slightest wish shall be my law. Dry those tears; Father Francis shall tie the wedding knot—and then, ho! for the fragrant isle where we shall reign."

The girl sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.

"Dog!" she cried, "rather would I die than be the wife of such as thou! Rather would I let the crows pick the flesh from my bones, than to submit to such an outrage! Knowest thou not that I am the Donna Maria DeCarnova, the daughter of the Duc DeCarnova? The blood of kings and princes runs in my veins. Kill me, if thou wilt, but do not compel me to be thy wife."

The Count laughed—such a laugh as the damned might have uttered, as they gloat in the regions of the Inferno over a soul that is lost.

"Donna," he said, "save thy pretty blandishments, until after the priest hath finished with us. Thou mightst as well try to climb into the clouds of Heaven as to move me, after my mind has been made up. My wife thou shalt be, whether thou dost desire it or not. Prepare thyself for the wedding."

I could stand this scene no longer; for, from where I lay, bound and tied, I could see and hear all that passed. The agony of the girl touched me to the heart. I have seen much of the evil side of life; but all the scenes of sin and sorrow have made me unable to turn a deaf ear to the cry of suffering, agonizing humanity.

Naught had I to live for, disowned and spurned by my own father; cut off by an impenetrable barrier from all I knew and loved, what did there remain for me? What mattered a few short days? I could not ask the Lady Margaret Carroll to share such a life as this—would not let her do so, even were she willing.

The Spanish girl was young, wealthy, beautiful; life held much, meant much to her; stretched out rich and wonderful before her eyes. I would let the maiden go. I was a soldier and a gentleman, and death's cold hand had been near me too often on the fields of Ireland to fear him now.

"Steele," I said, "I am past my youth; have seen the best in life; have drunk deep of the golden cup. The maiden is young and lovely. I will exchange myself for the girl. DeNortier may do what he wishes with me, if he will but let the maid go free. Good-by, old friend—God bless thee! We have been together but a small space as time goes, yet I have learned to love thee. When thou returnest to England in the days to come, thou wilt bear my devoirs to Lady Margaret Carroll, and tell her that I was ever unto death her loyal knight. That I died as became a soldier and a gentleman—my last thoughts were of her. Farewell!"

I could not see his face, for they had bound and thrown me with my back to him; but in a moment he spoke, his voice husky with emotion:

"Truly, my friend, thou art the bravest gentleman that it has ever been my good fortune to know. I would I could persuade thee from this deed."

"Thou canst not," I answered. "My mind is fixed and immovable."

"Then fare thee well!" he answered, "and God be with thee. If ever I come to England, I will search out the Lady Margaret Carroll, and deliver thy message, though I be compelled to walk through England barefoot to do so."

"So be it," I replied, and I called loudly for DeNortier.

The Count came forward to where I lay bound, his face dark with anger, his eyes flashing; plainly the Spanish girl had not left him in the best of moods.

"What wouldst thou have?" he cried. "Speak quickly, my time is short."

"Count," I answered, "thou art a soldier, and sometime a gentleman. Release the maid; swear to me that thou wilt furnish her a safe conduct to Spain; let my friend, Steele, go with her as escort, and thou mayst do what thou wilt with me."

"Art thou mad," he said, "that thou proposest such a thing? Art thou flesh and blood, that thou shouldst pass through such torture as I can devise? Granting that thy life should be of enough value to me that I should release the maid, of what benefit would that be to me? What is the maid to thee, that thou shouldst give thy life for her?"

As I lay there, a verse of Scripture passed through my mind, learned long years ago, at my mother's knee. I had not thought of it for twenty years, but it came clear and fresh to my mind, as if learned on yesterday. "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." Hardly knowing what I did, I repeated these few words, more to myself than to him. They were so short, and yet so full of meaning.

The loving face of my mother came back to me as of old, when kneeling at her feet, I would repeat my simple prayers. Much had I learned since then, more of sin and evil than of good; yet many things, that I had lisped long years ago, would come back to me at unexpected moments, like rich gold buried for a season, and but awaiting the spade of the miner to uncover the yellow ore. Dear patient one, thy toil was long and weary, but perhaps thou builded better than thou dreamed.

DeNortier burst into a peal of laughter at the words. "This is the best yet!" he shouted, stamping his feet with glee. "The devil turned priest! I had as soon expected old Herrick to don the cassock."

I answered him: "The maid is naught to me, yet I would not see her young life blighted. Swear to me on the crucifix that she shall go unharmed, with my friend as an escort; that thou wilt send them to some Spanish port, and I am content. Let it be said that thou didst one good deed in all thy career of blood and crime; perhaps it will avail thee much, at the last grim moment."

He still stood looking at me. "Thou art a strange and perverse man, that thou wouldst give thy life for an unknown maid, but the humor of the thing appeals to me. I, too, am strange, and have my whims and fancies. So be it; the maid shall go free with thy friend to see her safe. I have another vessel, which meets me in a day or two; they shall go on that, and thou canst take her place."

"One last word," I said, "thou canst take my life if thou wilt, but thou canst not make me stoop to play the knave. A gentleman I was born, and by God's help, a gentleman I will die."

A bitter smile played around his mouth for a moment. "So be it," he said, and turning, he called: "Francis! Francis! where art thou?"

"Here, thy Excellency," cried a voice; and from out of the group of pirates, there waddled towards us the large, stout figure of an Englishman, clad in the gown of a priest; a man on whose rubicund face the mellow juice of the grape had stamped its seal. The nose red and swollen, the cheeks puffed and bloated, the watery eye, all told the tale of his vice as plainly as if it had been spoken in words.

He came forward, a smile of triumph upon his face. "Ah! thy Excellency," he cried, as he came nearer, "did I not do my work well? Not one culverin to answer thee with, and all at the risk of my life. Was I not nearly discovered several times? I would not go through the like again for a mine of gold, freshly dug from the virgin soil."

"Thou shalt be well requited for thy pains," DeNortier replied. "In the meantime, hast thou a cross?"

"Most assuredly," he answered; "the servant hath ever the tools of his calling," and he plucked from under the folds of his cassock a little iron cross, and held it out to the Count.

"Swear upon it," I said, "that by the bones of thy ancestors, by the body of Jesus, by all the fears of perdition, thou wilt deliver the maiden, with Captain Steele, safe and unharmed, into the hands of her friends. If thou failest to do so, may a thousand curses weigh down thy soul."

"I swear it," he said sullenly, kissing the cross, and returning it to the priest.

"And thou foul imp of Satan," I cried to the priest, "the first time I get but a chance, I will run my sword through thy traitor heart; and this I swear."

"Bold words, brave sir," he answered. "Strange words from a dying man. I will heed them more, when thou art more able to perform thy threat," and with a leer at me, he hobbled after DeNortier, who had gone forward to acquaint the girl with the fact that she was free.

As he told her that she was at liberty, and would be placed in the hands of her friends in a few days, and that I had taken her place, she ran forward to where I lay, and threw herself at my feet.

"Oh, Señor!" she cried, "thou must be a blessed saint in disguise."

"No saint, maiden," I answered, "only a weak, erring man."

"But thou canst not mean that thou wilt stay among these dreadful men, and let me go back to my home? I cannot let thee do that; thy blood would be upon my hands."

"No," I answered, "I am in the hands of God; thou canst do no good by remaining here. I am in the power of these men already, and can be in no worse position. Perhaps," I said, speaking in a lower tone, "thou canst bring succor, and thus assist me."

"I will," she answered quickly, "though I be compelled to go to the King himself. Have no fear, I will send back as soon as I reach my friends, and rescue thee." And before I could prevent her, she had caught my hand, and pressed it to her lips.

Herrick and a party of his men came forward at this moment, and with his accustomed sneer, he bowed.

"I am sorry to interrupt this touching scene, but orders thou knowest must be obeyed," and with that two of his men picked me up and carried me forward. Passing the group of weeping women and children, huddled together near the companionway, they carried me in a small boat over to the other vessel and down below to my old prison. I was alone this time though; unbinding my hands, they left me.

Two days later DeNortier summoned me to come on deck. At some little distance there lay a small vessel; and on its deck, leaning upon the rail, stood two figures—one I knew for Steele, and the other was the Spanish maiden.

Even as I looked, the ship got under way; I waved my hand at them, and they replied. They still waved at me as far as I could see them. Smaller, smaller, smaller the vessel grew, until she dwindled to a mere speck upon the water; finally I could discern it no longer—the ship was gone. And thus I saw them no more.

CHAPTER IV THE ISLAND ELDORADO

DeNortier now allowed me to come and go upon the ship as I chose; only the ever present Herrick dogged my footsteps every minute of my waking time, and dutifully locked me in at night. I was at a loss to account for this sudden liberty; perhaps the pirate thought that he was now in his own dominion; perhaps he no longer feared me, and so allowed me this much of freedom. I knew not the reason, nor did I ponder over it, so long as he allowed me to roam the decks unmolested.

It was on the fourth day after we had parted from the little vessel on which Steele and the maiden had left us, that I heard the watchman on the mast call, "Land! Land!" It was about seven in the morning when I heard the cry, and hastily dressing myself, I rushed on deck. There to the west of us, loomed up what appeared to be an island, and a couple of hours' time brought us to it.

It was a beautiful spot; any sort of land would have been welcome after the long, weary voyage, but such a land as this was doubly so. Long, feathery trees fringed the water's edge; tropic flowers, wondrous, many-hued, bloomed everywhere; strange birds, their plumage gorgeous and brilliant, flitted from tree to tree, and filled the air with their songs; fruits, luscious and tempting, hung from the trees and lay upon the ground; everywhere profusion and plenty seemed to reign.

No wonder that this lovely spot had been chosen by the pirate for his home; such a place as this was an earthly paradise, with the needs of existence already supplied. The climate was soft and balmy, and though it must have been about the middle of November, the air was as warm and pleasant as a May morning.

The voice of DeNortier sounded at my elbow: "Welcome, Sir Thomas! Welcome to Eldorado!"

"And so this is Eldorado?" I said. "Long have I searched for Eldorado; I had not looked to find it here."

"Fate plays us many strange tricks," he answered, his eyes upon the island.

"Where is this Eldorado?" I inquired.

"It is near the coast of Cuba," he answered, "which is only a few leagues distant. I discovered it several years ago on one of my expeditions. It is safe and pleasant, out of the track of stray ships, and here, when home from my voyages, I reign as though I were a king."

The ship had fired a culverin some moments ago, and now, in answer to the signal, a long canoe put off from the shore and came rapidly toward us.

We watched it come forward in silence, and as it drew nearer, I saw that the men who filled the boat were the wild Indians, like the savage Manteo, whom I had seen in London—and yet not like him. Like him in the bronze color of their skin, in their black, glittering eyes, and long, coarse hair; yet not like him, for they wanted the rugged strength of his face, wanted the martial pose of his bearing and the freedom of his glance.

They were not clad in skins, as had been Manteo, but wore jerkins of some cotton material, their legs and arms bare. Upon their feet were fastened light sandals. Evidently, by their countenances and deportment, they did not belong to the warlike tribes which roamed the virgin forests of Virginia, but were a gentler type of that race.

In a few minutes their light boat touched the ship, and one, who seemed to be the leader, ran forward to where DeNortier stood, and dropping on one knee, spoke some words in a soft tongue which I did not understand.

The Count answered him in the same language, and turning to me, told me that I might go ashore.

"One thing, Count," I said, detaining him as he turned to leave, "when am I to recover my sword? I am strangely ill at ease without the tapping of the blade against my knee, and care not to go among yonder barbarians without a weapon."

He looked at me in some surprise. "Thy sword? Of what use is a sword to a captive? Swords are for the free. As for yon Indians, thou couldst drive them before thee with a lash. But thou shalt have thy sword upon one condition. Give me thy word of honor as a gentleman that thou wilt not attempt to escape while upon this island, and thou shalt be free to come and go as thou dost please."

I pondered a moment. Escape was not possible, even should I break forth from my prison, for the boundless ocean stretched between me and land. So he should have my word of honor for the present; should a favorable opportunity for escape present itself, I could retract my word.

"Thou shalt have my word of honor for the present," I said. "Should I see proper to change my mind, thou shalt be informed."

A sardonic smile was upon his face. "Dost thou think that I am a child, to bring thee here, and then let thee escape? Suit thy own fancy; when thou seest fit to retract thy promise, I shall secure thee well. As for thy sword—Francis! come hither."

The priest, who had hovered near during this brief conversation, drew closer to us.

"Go into my cabin, and bring my gold-hilted Toledo blade," DeNortier commanded.

The rogue turned, and walked toward the cabin. In a few minutes he returned, bringing with him a splendid gold-hilted sword.

The Count took it from him, and drawing the long, bright blade from its sheath, turned to me with a bow.

"Allow me to present thee with this sword in lieu of thine own, which was unfortunately lost the night thou wert brought on board. It is of the finest steel, and, I am sure, could be in the hands of no more gallant gentleman."

I bowed in reply, as I took the sword from him.

"I thank thee," I said, "and hope that it will not be dishonored in my hands."

"I am sure it will not," he answered. "But it is time that we were on shore," and he walked forward to where the canoe lay. Together we descended the ladder and stepped into the boat.

The natives bent their muscles to the task; the paddles flew, and the canoe passed rapidly through the water to a spot which seemed suited for landing, and where a little throng of the Indians, both men and women, together with a few of the pirates, awaited us.

The canoe grated upon the beach, and treading our way through the crowd of Indians, who stood with bent heads as we passed by, we took a well-beaten path which led through the trees, and after about fifteen minutes' brisk walking turned a corner and passed into a broad, level savannah, carpeted with long luxuriant grass.

A long, low building stretched to the left, rough and unpainted; while to the right there arose a splendid mansion, many-windowed, with broad, white pillars—stately and magnificent it stood, looking like a pearl among swine.

The Count noticed the surprise depicted upon my face.

"Be not dismayed," he said. "It is but my poor home; for though shut off in some sense from the world, I yet manage to enjoy some of the good things of the flesh. The world has contributed to my comfort and the furnishings of yonder house. Italy has given us of her sculpture and painting; England, our furniture and tapestry; Spain, our wine and goblets; from Venice have come our carpets and tableware; the Netherlands have given us linen and clothing; from Portugal have come our gold and silverware. I have managed to make my brief stays here not unpleasant. Yonder is the barrack for the men," he said, pointing to the rough, unfinished building, which stood to the left.

As we came nearer to the mansion, one of the Indians, detaching himself from the group of servants on the steps, ran forward to greet his master. As he reached us, he caught DeNortier's hand and carried it to his lips, crying out a few words in the same musical language which the native who first came aboard the vessel had spoken.

The pirate answered in the same tongue, and turning to me, said:

"Thou seest that I have something human in me after all; these poor dogs worship the very ground that I walk upon."

Resuming our steps, we passed on into the house. When within, I stood amazed at the elegance of its furnishings; the floor carpeted in some soft material into which the feet sank as we walked; the walls covered with elegant tapestry; the chairs and other furniture, massive and splendid; on pedestals stood the choicest statuary of the masters of Italy; from the walls there hung paintings, costly and exquisite; and the perfume of sweet-scented flowers filled the rooms. Wealth and culture seemed to reign supreme.

This might be the palace of some noble in far-off England or Spain, a man of wealth and refinement, but not the home of a reckless, blood-thirsty pirate, devoid of conscience or soul, his head resting insecurely upon his shoulders—for so unmerciful and terrible had been the cruelty of DeNortier that, if captured by any civilized nation, his neck would pay the penalty of his crimes. No wonder I was amazed.

The Count had thrown himself upon a velvet couch, which stood near the center of the great room into which he had led me. Stretching out his hand he touched a little silver gong, which stood upon a pedestal near his elbow. A soft-footed attendant stood noiselessly in the doorway. A word in that same unknown language, and the servant disappeared.

A moment later he reappeared, a bottle and two goblets in his hand. Drawing up a small table, he pushed another soft couch opposite me as I stood gazing around the room, and silently passed out of the apartment.

"Be seated, sir," the Count said. "Drink one glass with me. This wine," he continued, filling a golden goblet and holding it up to the light, "was intended for his Catholic Majesty, the King of Spain. I took it from a galleon near the coast of Cuba, a year ago, after a bitter fight. Little thinks his Majesty that to-day we drink it." And he poured a glass for himself, his goblet matching mine.

"Come, Sir Thomas, let us lay aside all enmity for a few brief moments, and drink one glass together. I give thee a toast which thou canst not refuse," he cried, rising to his feet, and holding out the glass at arm's length—"Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of England!"

"Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of England"

"The Queen!" I rejoined, rising. "May her glory never wane or fade!"

"Amen to that," the pirate said, and we both sank back upon our couches.

"Where, pray, didst thou find these rich treasures which adorn thy mansion? If all be of the same quality as the wine we have just drank, thou art well named King of Eldorado."

He glanced around the room before replying, and then answered, speaking slowly and clearly:

"Some of these things I took from vessels upon the seas; some I obtained when I raided the South American coasts, the spoils of monasteries and cathedrals; some I bought in Europe and sent in merchant vessels, which I met as I did the 'Betsy' and transferred to my own ship. It has been the work of several years, but it is well worth the price. Some day, when I tire of war and bloodshed, I shall come back here, and pass the remainder of my life in this lovely spot, with the song of the bird and the odor of the rose. Allow me to fill thy glass." And he poured me out another goblet, and refilled his own.

"And now as we talk," I said, "what of myself? Of what advantage am I to thee? Why not release me and let me go back to England?"

"Release thee? No; my dear sir, not yet. Did I not give up a Spanish maiden, a jewel of the West, to have the pleasure of thy company? Wouldst thou deprive me of it so soon, and bought with such a price? Cruel! Cruel!" and he laughed again.

"But of what advantage am I here to thee? I am not gold; thou canst not melt me into shining coin."

"No," the pirate answered, looking at me narrowly, "I cannot melt thee—but there are other things. I offered thee a place beneath me, to be my right-hand man——"

"Which I refused," I interrupted. "Dost thou take me for a child, one day to refuse an offer, the next to accept it? I credited thee with more wisdom."

A dark look had spread over the sea rover's face, accentuating the thin lips and dark overhanging brows. His eyes glittered; he reminded me of a snake as it rears back to strike its victim.

He spoke thickly: "Thou canst not say that I have not done my best to save thee from thy own folly. Join me, thou art safe; refuse me——" and he shrugged his shoulders. "Thou hast powerful enemies, wouldst thou refuse an ally?"

He had drank several glasses to my one. Twice, during our conversation, had the soft-footed native replaced with full bottles the empty ones upon the table, as DeNortier finished them.

I waited until the Indian disappeared before I spoke.

What meant the pirate, when he said powerful enemies? Might not this explain my abduction and detention in this place? I would see whether he would not say more, under the generous influence of the wine.

"Is that so?" I answered. "I know not what thou meanest by powerful enemies; such a thing as that might change my resolution."

But he would not be drawn out. Evidently alarmed by what he had said, he arose unsteadily from the couch.

"Think on what I have said," he replied, as he turned toward the door; "perhaps thou mayest yet come with me." And turning a deaf ear to all my endeavors to detain him, he walked out of the door, bidding me remain where I was.

I still reclined on the couch after DeNortier had passed out of the room. I was tired, my limbs ached, and the wine had produced a pleasant torpor which sapped my energy.

What meant the pirate when he said that I had powerful enemies? Could it be that my father or Richard had taken this method to get me out of the way? Not my father, certainly; he hated me, it is true, but he was too much of the aristocrat to stoop to such work as this. He had cast me off forever, but what motive could he have for condemning me to the life of an exile? No; whoever it was behind the scene, it could not be my father.

Richard, then? It was more like him, for he had always been wont to do his dirty work under cover of darkness, and was none too good for such a trick. But where was the motive? He was the eldest son; the estate and title would fall to him at my father's death; he stood near my father's heart, while the old lord despised me. Why should he wish to do this deed, which might come to light and ruin him? No, I did not think it was Richard. He would have put a dagger in my back, and so been rid of me, once and forever. He would never have had me kidnaped and carried out of England.

There only remained the Viscount James Henry Hampden. It might be that his was the master hand that worked the wires; but I could not believe he would do such a deed. He might wish to get so dangerous a rival out of the way, but why in such a manner as this? He was a soldier; would it not be more likely that he would have picked a quarrel with me, and fought it out as a gentleman? But there came to my mind the threat he had made, that Margaret should be his in spite of Heaven and Hell.

Rumor had it that he had done strange deeds in the Low Country—things that would not bear the light of day. Tales were told of a house in which some Spanish prisoners were confined, which was burned by his command, cooking them alive in its ruins.

Yes, it might be his work. At the thought I ground my teeth together, and my hand sought the hilt of my sword. There was no one else I could think of who had any motive for keeping me out of England. I would keep my eyes open, and perhaps the plot would thicken; in the meantime I would watch and wait.

Woe to whomsoever had done this deed; for whoever it was, I would never rest until I had punished him. The world was too small to hold both of us; one must pass out should we meet face to face. With these thoughts, I caught up my hat, and walked out upon the broad veranda.

Without, dusk was just beginning to fall. The men were struggling up from the vessel bringing their booty, the spoils of the ships they had rifled, and their rude songs floated up to me. The natives, men, women, and children, were running to and fro, their arms loaded with small articles.

A little apart from the men stood a small group, composed of DeNortier, Herrick, Francis, and one of the Indians. Even as I looked, they separated—the Count and the Indian going toward the barrack, Herrick going down the path toward the landing place, and the priest coming toward me.

As he drew nearer I could see his fat, evil face, with its watery eyes, looking like some bloated monster of the deep. He called to me as he drew closer, the habitual leer upon his face:

"How does my lord stand the fatigue of his travel? I trust that he has not been greatly inconvenienced by our rude accommodations."

I answered calmly, having my own reasons for not angering the man; perhaps he knew something of the plan to detain me here, and who stood behind it.

"Not greatly fatigued," I said, "and yet tired. Come inside and have a glass of the wondrous wine of the Count."

The pale eye lit up, his tongue protruded from his lips, as I have seen a dog's at the sight of a bone, and he glanced hastily around him. Only a few men were in sight, busy at work around the barrack.

Coming nearer he spoke in a low voice: "I will take one glass with thee, noble sir; only one glass, to celebrate thy safe arrival."

"Come into the house, then," I said. Retracing my steps to the room which I had just left, I threw myself upon one of the divans, motioning him to take the one opposite.

He did so, at the same time catching up the bottle of wine from the table and looking at the seal. A smile broke over his face, as he saw the rich amber fluid.

"The wine of the King of Spain!" he cried. "How camest thou by this?"

"The Count opened it," I answered. "Drink!" And taking the bottle from his unwilling hands, I poured out a brimming glass.

Catching it up, he put it to his lips; then held out the empty glass to me.

"Wine!" he cried, "that warms the cockles of the heart as old age creeps on; that turns life's cheerless existence into gold. Wine, the curse of youth; the friend of middle life; the staff of old age—the great alchemist that turns the dull, gray hours into sunshine. Ah, I drink to him who first discovered wine!" And he drained the second goblet, though somewhat slower than the first, as if to taste each drop of the precious fluid.

Upon finishing this glass, a thought seemed to strike him, and he held up the golden goblet to the light; for while we sat, the same noiseless servant lit the candles that stood in the golden candelabras which hung upon the walls, and the great room was bathed in a flood of light.

"Ah! this goblet," the priest resumed, "well do I remember it; taken by the impious son of Holy Church from the Cathedral at Cartagena. I implored, but my anguish availed nothing." And the great tears rolled down the fat cheeks of the rascal, whose face was fast settling into the cunning of intoxication.

The two great goblets he had drunk in rapid succession—and I surmised that he had been celebrating before now the safe return of the vessel—had almost overcome him. Although his head was like a stone, from constant, excessive drink, yet even a stone can be worn away by continual dripping.

His eye rested on my goblet which I had not filled, for I needed a clear head to pump the rascal. Suspicion struggled for a moment upon his face.

"Why dost thou not drink?" he said. "It is nectar for gods and men."

"Thou forgettest," I replied, "that I have already drunk with DeNortier, and my head will stand no more at present."

Suspicion died out of his eyes, and in its place there appeared a look of gentle merriment.

"Ah! you boys! You boys!" he chuckled. "Wait until thou hast reached my years; then thy head will be stronger; thou wilt learn wisdom." Solemnly shaking his head, he poured another brimming goblet and slowly drank it down.

"Such trinkets as these," he went on, still holding the massive goblet in his hand, "should belong to the faithful servants of Mother Church, to reward them for their constant prayer and vigil," and he fetched a great sigh, that caused the very candles on the wall to flare. "See the carving upon the sides of the goblet—a miter and robe. Who knows that I may not wear the miter?" His face brightened at the thought, and he looked at me inquiringly, a drunken smile upon his face.

"A miter would surely become so pious a man," I said, "who spends his days and nights in vigil and fastings."

His head had fallen to one side; his red cheeks shone in the candlelight; the bald pate; the hair white around the edges; his cassock ruffled and disheveled—surely he was a sight to make the gods weep.

I judged that the moment was ripe to broach the subject. I looked cautiously around—not a soul was in sight but the drunken priest. I leaned forward.

"Why not?" I said. "Why not? My uncle, thou knowest, is an Archbishop, a few words spoken in his ear by one whom he loves, and presto—Francis, Bishop of the Holy Catholic Church!"

I leaned back and watched the effect of this announcement upon him. A look of avarice replaced that of drunken wisdom, and bending, he placed his head upon his hands, looking up at me. His eyes swam with the liquor he had drunk. I saw plainly that he was hesitating. He sat thus for a moment; then looking at me broke the silence:

"Sayest thou so? Would I had known this before; rather had I burnt my right hand to the stump, than to have helped to bring thee here," and he broke into sobs, the tears running between his fingers and mingling with the little puddle of wine upon the table. "My last chance gone," he gurgled, "gone!—gone!"

"No," I continued, still watching narrowly his face, "thou hast only to say one word, and the place is thine."

"What?" he cried, looking up, a smile swiftly replacing the tears. "But no; promises are easy to make, hard to keep. How do I know that thou canst fulfill that which thou dost now promise?"

I hesitated; the time had come for me to play my last card. Months before, I had found one night on the streets of London a ring, large, peculiar, strange, with a miter carved upon the soft gold. I had carried it to a jeweler, thinking that I might possibly find the owner. He, being a Catholic, and high in the church councils, had told me that it was a ring of state of some bishop; whose he did not know. I had kept the ring, not finding the owner, and now drew it from my finger, where I had worn it, holding it out to Father Francis.

He took it in his fingers, and gazed at it. A look of amazement came over his face, and he looked up, the ring still in his hand.

"What is it that thou wouldst ask? I will answer it," he said, bending nearer to me, our heads almost meeting over the table, his flushed face touching mine.

"Who is it that is at the bottom of this plan to kidnap and detain me here?" I asked.

He would have answered—a moment of hesitation—he opened his mouth, and I bent forward eagerly to catch the answer.

Suddenly a look of horror came over his face; he was gazing up, the expression upon his countenance such as I have seen in the eyes of a bird, charmed by the baleful gaze of a snake.

The voice of DeNortier at my elbow broke the silence. "My dear sir, I object to thy asking such pointed questions," he said.

I arose to my feet, and turned around. DeNortier, sober now, stood near me, a look of almost devilish anger upon his face. Near him stood the grim Herrick, sword in hand. They had entered the room just in time to scatter my plans to the four winds—just at the moment when victory was in sight.

"And so thou didst think to wring my plans from my servants," the pirate continued, his face white with rage. "Thou didst try all thy art upon me, and I, unsuspecting, almost fell a victim. Then when thou failed on me, thou attempted to pick from yonder drunken sot the secret of thy detention. This is the work of a gentleman."

"And so is that of a jailer," I replied, angered at the gibe. "It is the work of a gentleman to kidnap a man, struck senseless in the street by one of thy ruffians, and detain him here against his will. I count it no sin to fight the devil with fire," and I drew my sword, and stood on guard.

He drew his sword also, and for a moment I thought that he would cross with me, but he hesitated—then sheathed it.

"Another time, sir," he said. "Believe me, it is only for important reasons, which I cannot explain, that I do not satisfy thee now. Ah!" he said, as I laughed aloud in scorn, "thou dost laugh. It is an old saying and a true one, that 'He laughs best who laughs last.' Have no fears, I will satisfy thee, but the time is not yet ripe. Herrick, take yon drunken sot out of here."

The sailor strode to the door and called. At the sound two natives entered. He motioned to the priest, who had fallen asleep upon the table, and whose stentorian snores shook the very goblets. Picking him up between them, they carried him out of the door.

The Count stood looking at me after the priest had been removed from the room; the anger had died out of his face, and a look of grim humor had replaced it. Finally he spoke:

"It was a fortunate thing for thee, Sir Thomas, that I came in when I did; a little more, and thy head would have rested on an uneasy pillow."

But I was tired; tired of the enigmas and puzzles; tired of wearying my brain with unfruitful guessing. I cared not whether he laughed or frowned, so I merely inquired whether my room was ready, and made known my wish to retire.

"Certainly," he answered, and touching the silver gong again, he spoke to the native. Then turning to me he said, "José will show thee thy room. Good-night, and pleasant dreams," and with a bow he threw himself upon the great couch.

"Thanks," I answered.

Following the Indian, I was shown up a noble stairway, through the splendid hall into a large room, where my guide left me, after lighting the candle in a great silver stick, the spoil of some cathedral, I doubted not.

As he went out, I heard the key turn in the lock, and I was left alone. I glanced around the room. It was furnished like the one downstairs; was smaller certainly, and had a bed instead of the luxurious couch.

I walked over to the window, through which beamed the splendid tropic moon, and drawing aside the curtain, I saw that the window, the only one in the room, had an iron grating over it. I was fastened in securely, no doubt of that.

CHAPTER V THE CAVE

I had been on the island three months, and as yet had found no clew as to why I was kept there, or who was responsible for my detention.

I was free in a sense. I wandered all around the country, and had visited the native settlement, some five miles from the mansion, as I called DeNortier's palatial home; had tramped over the island, which was about fifteen miles square, and had seen about all that there was to see upon it.

But I had not been able to discover where the adventurer kept the treasure which he took from the vessels that he scuttled. I knew that the galleon on which the Donna DeCarnova had been, carried treasure for the Spanish crown; knew that he had taken many other ships laden with gold.

My life went on much as usual. DeNortier had been gone for two months, but I saw no change in my condition; the servants were at my beck and call, always ready to wait upon me. I spent my days in roaming over the island, my nights in exploring the great house.

Somewhat discouraged I was, as I wended my way homeward this February evening. The air was fresh and balmy, despite the fact that it was winter and the people in England were huddled over the fires, and were wrapped in their great-coats and furs. I had spent the day hunting, and two natives who trotted in front of me carried the spoils of the day, a lordly stag; a third Indian carried my musketoon.

The last three months had been spent profitably in a way; the time had been passed in the open air, and my muscles were like steel. I could spend the whole day in the chase, and at night be fresh and untired. I had also devoted a good deal of my time to learning the language of the Indians, and had gotten such a fair idea of it that I could carry on an intelligible conversation.

But I was low-spirited and downcast. Would I ever see England again—and Margaret? At the thought I groaned aloud, and the sound caused the Indians to look back at me.

Shouting to them to go on, I quickened my footsteps and followed faster. They were rapidly getting out of speaking distance, and breaking into a long, swinging trot, they turned in among some trees, and were lost to my view.

I resumed my train of thought. What did Margaret think had become of me—or did she care? England I would fain see again, but more than England, more than all else, I longed for a sight of her whom I worshiped, as the heathen worship the sun. She was my sun. As the captive longs for a sight of the sun, when shut up for weary months in some deep dungeon far below the prison walls, so I longed for one sight of the Lady Margaret Carroll, and with it I would have been content.

What had become of Steele and the lovely Spanish maiden? Were they safe in Spain, or had the pirate but cozened me with his promise, and were they not now in some prison like my own? If Steele had reached England safely, had he delivered my message to my lady? What would she say to such a greeting as that? These and many other thoughts filled my mind, as I walked briskly on to overtake my carriers.

Descending a steep hillock overgrown with brush and undergrowth, I saw far below me, some one hundred yards away, the mansion, from the windows of which the light streamed down and brightened up the dusk below—for it was beginning to grow dark.

I had almost reached the foot of the hill, when I stopped. The dull murmur of conversation caught my ear, and I looked around me; there was no one in sight. Where could the sound come from? It was near me somewhere. I turned, and retraced my steps a few feet, the voice becoming plainer. Stepping cautiously, for I did not know what I was running into, I peered around.

The noise seemed to come from the ground beneath me. A thick hedge of bushes was at my elbow, and from this the sound proceeded. Softly pushing them aside, I looked behind them. Below me I could see a light; that was where the people were, evidently, and talking in English.

I crawled under the bushes, and found myself in a low cave. Quietly moving forward, I looked down. The soft dirt on which I stood came abruptly to an end, and a sheer fall of fifteen feet was directly beneath me.

Sitting together, facing each other, a candle between them, were Herrick and the old priest, Father Francis. Herrick was talking, and I bent forward to hear what he said.

"Yes, the captain has gone forward to meet him now. They will come back together."

"A curse on them both!" Francis replied. "What do we care whether they come back or not?" and he leaned forward to peer at Herrick; but the pirate's face was inscrutable. He straightened back with a sigh, and looked up to where I lay.

"It is a shame," the priest went on, "to keep so gallant a gentleman here in this hole. If he loves the maid, let him have her, and be hanged to him."

"Thou wilt sing a different tune, when I tell the Count what thou hast said," Herrick answered, and he leaned back calmly against the rock.

"Hell and the furies!" cried the old rogue, his face white with terror. "Thou wouldst not tell what I have said in jest?"

"Why not?" answered the sailor. "I could get a handful of gold for it."

"Herrick," the priest implored, his face ashy with fright, "ask what thou wilt. I will do anything, if thou wilt but keep secret what I have said to thee here, only in jest," and he arose, a look of terror awful to behold upon his face.

"Well, I will keep silent," the pirate answered, seemingly enjoying the fright of his companion, "but only upon one condition, which I will tell thee in a moment. But what said thou awhile ago?—that the Count was half-crazy. Why dost thou say that?"

Francis hesitated; then he answered: "Did I not see him walk the floor in agony only a few days ago, and cry out as if in pain? Would a man in his senses do that, thinkest thou?"

"It may be that he has something upon his mind that thou dost not know of," the sailor replied, his face grim and stolid.

The priest smiled, his wrinkles deepening. "Or perhaps it is more likely this devil of an Englishman that he has upon his hands. A thousand fiends fly away with them both to perdition!" the priest continued, his face flushing with anger. "Betwixt them, I am 'between the devil and the deep blue sea.' The Count swears that he will burn me alive, if I so much as intimate to this fellow what I know about his imprisonment; the Englishman will kill me if I do not tell. Between them I do not know what to do," he finished in a wail of agony.

Herrick still looked at him unmoved. I thought I could even discern, from where I lay, a faint trace of irony about his mouth.

"And thou wouldst have lost thy head," he rejoined, "if we had not come upon thee in the nick of time, one night three months ago."

"What wouldst thou have?" Father Francis cried. "The fool had me fuddled with wine, and offered one a king's ransom. What could I do?"

The seaman shrugged his shoulders. "What matter! It is done. We saved thee—and now what other strange thing hast thou seen the Count do lately? Thou art like a cat, creeping silently about the house, thy paw in the cream of all."

"The Count sighs for some lady love," the priest continued deliberately, eying his companion, to see what effect this announcement would have upon him. "Why, even on the night I tell thee of, did I not hear him call out once, twice, 'Margaret! Margaret!'" and he chuckled to himself in glee at the thought.

I started in my hiding place, and a lump of dirt dislodged itself and rolled down to where the villains sat. They started; Francis sprang to his feet in terror.

"What is that?" he cried, and he peered uneasily up to where I crouched.

His companion kept his seat unmoved.

"Art thou a fool," he said, "to be scared out of thy wits by a clod of dirt falling? Thou art even as if thou hadst seen a ghost," and he laughed at his ally's fright.

The priest resumed his seat, still gazing up to where I lay.

"I fancy Sir Thomas Winchester is after me in every breeze I hear," he muttered, as he reseated himself.

"Calm thy mind," the seaman rejoined. "He is safe at his supper long ere this, dreaming over the king's wine," and he grinned.

"What foolishness is this? The Count yearning for some fair lady! Dost thou take me for a schoolboy, that I should believe this? Did he pine for some maid, he would bestir himself and take her; quietly, if possible—if not, then by force. Faith! thou little knowest him, if thou thinkest he would pine over any maiden."

"All the same, comrade, I saw him wring his hands, with my own eyes, but three short months ago, and cry out, as I have told thee, the name Margaret. Who could this Margaret be, if not a lady?"

All this time I was craning my neck to catch every word that was uttered, my mind in a tumult. Why did the Count cry Margaret? There was but one Margaret—pure, innocent, sweet. As soon would I have expected a worm to raise his eyes to the far-distant stars, as that this bloodstained villain should raise his evil eyes to her—so far above him.

And yet would this not explain my detention? Perhaps the pirate expected to lure Margaret from her home, and bring her here to torture me with the sight of her in his arms, before he should make away with me.

Yes, it was like him. He would exult in such exquisite anguish as this, and at the thought I ground my teeth together, and felt for the hilt of my sword. Happen what might, this should not come to pass. Rather would I, with one swift blow, put an end to her misery, and fall upon my own sword, than to witness such a scene as this—death would be a boon beside it.

Perhaps DeNortier was even now returning with her on his ship, that evil smile upon his face as he thought of my anguish and his triumph. He had been gone three months; and I had heard one of the men say only the day before, that the Count would return now almost any time.

I bent forward again; they had resumed their conversation.

"And now," said Herrick, "I will tell the price of my silence. Answer the question that I ask, and the grave shall be no more silent than I; refuse, and I will go to DeNortier immediately upon his arrival, and tell him what thou hast said to me. Thou hast thy choice," and he looked carelessly at the other, as though he would not give a farthing which course he pursued.

Father Francis was moistening his white lips with his tongue. "Thou knowest I must answer," he said sullenly. "Why trifle with me? What is thy question?"

"Who is it behind this plot to keep Sir Thomas Winchester here?" Herrick asked quietly, and leaning back, he gazed up at the wall of the cave above him.

His companion was trembling with fear. "'Tis as much as my life is worth to tell thee!" he cried excitedly. "I durst not! Anything but this—anything! I implore thee to ask me some other question. Herrick, I have been thy friend; have stood by thee through thick and thin, when others would have forsaken and left thee to thy fate. For God's sake! ask not this of me. Dost thou remember Gromas? Did I not save thy life there, when the very breath of thy body hung by but a thread, and I could have slain thee with a word? For the sake of this spare me!" And with clasped hands he looked at the other.

"It is as much as thy life is worth not to tell me," boldly answered the adventurer. "Rememberest thou the tender mercies of our captain—the Indian burned alive at the stake; the mutineer crucified; the slave branded with red-hot irons; the——?"

"Hush!" cried the poor priest, his eyes almost starting from their sockets. "Thou makest my very blood run cold. Lean forward, and I will whisper it in thy ear—the very walls have ears in this place."

Herrick leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. The priest bent over to whisper to him. In my eagerness to hear, I leaned forward further—further over the edge of the ledge, and Dame Fortune, with a twist of her wheel, turned the propitious fates aside. For even as I bent forward, my ears strained to catch the slightest whisper, the soft earth under me gave way, and in a perfect avalanche of dirt, shrubbery, and rocks, I rolled down into the camp of my enemies.

With a yell—shrill, loud, and piercing, which rang through the cave like the blast of a trumpet, the priest sprang up. With one spring like a wild goat, he was upon the ledge from which only one short moment ago I had fallen. I heard him tear through the bushes, and run down the hill outside, as though the furies were after him. The sound died away in the distance—he was gone.

But the other rogue was of sterner mold. With an oath, he whipped out his cutlass, and was upon me as I was rising from the ground. Well it was that I had on my light steel breastplate, for the blade, coming viciously down, struck full upon it, and glanced off harmlessly, or I would not have been here to tell the tale. In an instant I had drawn my sword and was on guard.

"I have against thee a goodly account to settle, Master Herrick," I said. "The night wanes, and we must to business."

"Aye," he cried, "I will rid the world of one rascal," and he pressed upon me, thrusting, cutting, striking with such fury that, had my blade not been a good one, it would have broken sheer off, from the very force of the blows.

I let him come on, contenting myself with parrying his thrusts, for by and by I knew that he would exhaust himself, and then I would force from him the secret of my imprisonment; for the priest had whispered it into his ear before I had rolled down upon them.

Of Father Francis I had no fear. He would not bring help to his comrade. No, I knew him too well to think that he would fail to protect himself. It was to his interest that Herrick should be silenced, now that he knew so much, and he was too shrewd not to know what was best for his own interest.

So I held my own, and let him exhaust himself with his fruitless efforts. Back he came upon me, striking down blow after blow with his blade, any one of which, had it gone home, would have split me like a herring. I could have run him through at any moment, for he left his whole breast exposed in his insane fury; but I merely waited, calmly, coolly meeting every thrust, parrying every cut with a wrist of steel.

Five minutes passed, and the smile which at first had been upon his face died away. The great beads of sweat began to gather upon his forehead, as he saw his every trick and maneuver met easily, without an effort; and how fresh I was, and knew that he was rapidly exhausting himself.

Another little trick he tried, but I read what was coming in his eyes, even before he thrust, and met him, parried his blade, and thrusting back, laid open his cheek—the first time that I had drawn blood.

Then slowly I began to advance towards him, thrusting faster, faster, faster—surrounding him with a flaming wall of steel, which, try as he might, he could not penetrate. Backwards—backwards I pressed him.

It was a grim, weird scene. The white, bare walls of the cave lit up by the gleam of one little candle; the shadows coming and going upon the sides, as the air from above flared the wick of the candle. Now we were in the light; now in darkness.

The wind was rising outside; already it wailed and moaned, like the souls of the lost. There was not a sound to break the stillness that reigned throughout the cave, save only that—for we had fought in grim silence—only the sound of our feet upon the stones, as we moved and turned hither and thither, and the quick panting of our hot breath.

There, within the walls of the cavern, we fought out the last hard battle, that sooner or later, in some guise or other, comes to all of mortal flesh; that grim, silent struggle in darkness and agony, and in that despair that wrings the heart, as we run the last race, with Life in the balance, and the specter, Death, holding in his fleshless hand the scales.

I could feel his presence that night, as he stalked about us, his garments almost touching us, as we struggled to and fro—shut off from the world, with only the feeble rays of one little candle. Life seemed far away and unreal; Death seemed near and omnipresent.

Strange thoughts crossed my mind, as I cut and thrust at the grim pirate. I recalled how my mother had looked, twenty years ago, as she lay in state in the great hall at Richmond Castle. My years seemed to fall from me as a mantle, and I was again the little boy, innocent and fresh, as, holding my nurse's hand, I looked down upon the cold, waxen features of one whom I had known and loved.

I remembered the thrill of fear—or was it only dread of the unknown?—that filled my mind, as I looked upon the change that had been wrought by the hand of the great destroyer. The calm, serene features, lovely with a beauty not of earth; with that look of majesty which death brings to the face of mortals, as they lie wrapped in the embrace of the last foe.

It is as if he would erase the lines and wrinkles that sorrow and care had wrought—which the toil and pain of this cold sphere had imprinted upon that patient face—and instead would imprint upon its calm lineaments that great mystery which none but the immortal can know.

It all came back to me, and I could remember how I had turned away in the throes of my first real grief. Ah! many since then had old "Time" brought me, but none so bitter as the first.

Strange thoughts to think, as I pressed the sea rover back nearer the wall.

Ah! I had him—but he sprang nimbly aside, and my blade passed under his arm.

I had forgotten my scheme to spare his life; the blood thirst was upon me; the blood of the fighting Richmonds was up. Angered by the long fight, angered at myself that I had not slain him when I had a chance, I pressed him harder and harder, with no thought but to run him through.

And now his back was against the wall; he could retreat no further. He turned in despair, as I have seen some hunted thing do when driven to its lair; as I have seen some lone wolf when brought to bay by the hunters, and hope has fled, determined to strike one last blow, and then if need be, to go down with its face to its foes, and its teeth clinched in the throat of some good hound.

The adventurer sprang at me in such fury that I was compelled to give back a pace or two, or be cut to pieces. But his strength was gone; he was exhausted—the end had come.

I know not at that last moment, whether I would have spared his life—I cannot tell; but Fate, who ever stands patiently at our side, awaiting a favorable opportunity to interfere, took the matter out of my hands. For even as I drew back to end the matter by one home thrust, my feet slipped upon the stone and I stumbled.

With a cry, he thrust full at my breast, a blow that would have finished me; but he was too much exhausted to strike true. The blade slipped between my arm and my shoulder, and caught for an instant—it was enough. Recovering myself, I made one good lunge. He had on no armor, and the blade striking him full in the breast, right above the heart, passed entirely through his body and stood out a foot behind his back.

With a shout, he threw up his hands and dropped like a log, the force of the fall wrenching the blade from his body. I stood holding the dripping sword in my hand, and looked down at him, as he lay upon the floor. A slight shudder passed over his body; one deep, long sigh came from his lips—and then he lay motionless.

That figure, which but a short moment before had been animated with hatred and thirst for my life, was now powerless to help or hurt me. Only a moment ago he had been a man, with a man's soul; had loved and sorrowed; had rejoiced and mourned; had toiled and striven—now he was but a lump of senseless clay. He had fought a good fight; he had his faults, but he was a man. Peace to his ashes!

Picking up what remained of the candle from the floor, I walked back further into the cave. It seemed to me to be the work of nature; and at the further end a long, dark passageway led deeper into the earth.

I hesitated a moment, as I peered into it. Then I listened, but could hear nothing, so I plunged boldly into the tunnel, the candle in my left hand, my drawn sword before me in my right, its red blade still dripping. Stopping I wiped the blood off upon my kerchief, and passed on down the narrow way.

Where it led I did not know; nor with what secret traps it was filled. It might be that I would learn the mystery of my captivity at the end; it might be that I would meet with such a fate as Herrick.

Probably this tunnel led to some place where the pirates gathered to discuss the plans for their expeditions and forays; or it was possible that DeNortier had his treasure concealed somewhere within its dark depths, and even now these two men whom I had seen had been sent to watch it. I must be careful, or I would walk full into the pirates' arms.

I had walked perhaps a hundred feet, when I stopped. Two paths diverged here—one to the right, the other to the left; both yawned dark, gloomy, and mysterious before me. I had long since passed out of the natural part of the cave, and this was plainly the work of man, for I could see upon its sides the mark of the pick and shovel.

Both ways looked alike to me. Hesitating a moment, I drew a coin from my pocket. If the Queen's head fell uppermost, I would go to the right; if the reverse, to the left. I tossed the coin into the air and bent over it as it fell. It had fallen upon its face, and turning to the left, I passed on down the path about one hundred and fifty feet more.

I stopped again. Before me, shining down from the top of the rock overhead, a few yards away, there gleamed a light. Moving cautiously forward, I blew out my candle, and in a moment came upon a flight of stone steps. Looking up, I could see that what had appeared to me to be a light was simply an opening in the wall above me, which led into a lighted room.

Ascending the steps, I stood in the bed-chamber of DeNortier. I had never been in it before. It was the only room in the house, so far as I knew, that I had never entered; but the door was always fastened when I tried it, and I could find no key that would fit the lock.

Heavy tapestry lined the walls, and as I stood in the room I was concealed from view by the embroidered arras, which hung directly in front of the trap-door, hiding it from the sight of the occupants of the chamber.

The floor was of polished wood, as was the rest of the house, and bending down I closed the aperture through which I had come, noting as I did so how cunningly it fitted into the wood, so as to be indiscernible to the eye.

A thought struck me. I had best leave the trap-door ajar; it might be that those who had left it open might wish to go through it again. It would arouse suspicion were it found closed. Bending down I endeavored to again open the door, but in vain. It was evidently worked by some secret spring, and desisting from the vain attempt, I peered through the hangings into the brilliantly lighted room.

The same golden candelabra suspended from the wall; the same heavy, elegant furniture and luxurious couches; the same soft rugs and skins upon the floors; even the identical odor of flowers, tropical and sweet-scented.

Upon a little table stood a bottle of that same delicious nectar that I had drunk before; even the very golden goblets were there, from which DeNortier and I, and also Father Francis, had sipped the amber juice.

I had not tasted such wine as that since the fat priest had drunk with me, that night which had proved so near his undoing. DeNortier had sailed the next day, where, I did not know; the burly Francis I had not seen since, until this evening in the cave; only Herrick, the grim, with a few hardy ruffians, had remained behind.

I had already stepped into the room, thinking to let myself out of the door and into the great hall, when the soft thud of approaching footsteps caused me to dodge back behind the friendly tapestry. A key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and I heard the tread of footsteps across the threshold.

The key turned again, and the voice of DeNortier broke the silence. "Come, my dear Lord, thou art safe here. Be seated, pray."

The noise of some heavy article being pushed over the floor, and I could hear them throw themselves upon the couches.

Only one man with the Count, whom, I did not know. I had only heard him growl out a brief "Thank thee," as he took the proffered seat. A man of rank, too, evidently, for DeNortier had said, "My Lord." What did a noble in this part of the world? English, too, by his voice. I had as soon expected to see an elephant here as an English lord.

The stranger spoke. "Where is our prisoner?" he said in a low, clear voice. "I care not to meet him during my brief stay here."

Where had I heard that voice before? It sounded as familiar to me as my own. In London, surely, but I could not for my life remember whose it was. Could I but peer out from my hiding-place without detection, I would soon find out who the visitor was.

Carefully, very carefully, I drew aside a fold of the arras and looked out. There facing me and looking down at DeNortier, who sat opposite, a grin of pleasure upon his face, sat the Viscount James Henry Hampden. The same piercing gray eye, dark brown hair and pointed beard; the same nose and broad, wide mouth; the same cold, hard expression upon his face. As though he were at Lady Wiltshire's ball, instead of upon a wild island in the unknown Western seas, he sat there, gay and careless.

So this was the explanation that I had sought so long. He should pay dearly for this deed. I had a heavy reckoning against him, but it could wait for a while. Perhaps I would learn something of interest to me to-night.

Luckily this part of the room (I was in the furthest corner) was in the shadow, for the tapestry hung some six or eight inches from the wall, and I could move stealthily behind it without being seen from the room.

But the Count was speaking. "No fear of that, my Lord. I inquired from one of the servants as I came in, and he informed me that our prisoner had not returned from a long hunt. He is probably sleeping in the hut of some native to-night. Have no fear—he cannot hear of thy arrival."

And now he proceeded to fill one of the golden goblets with wine; pushing it toward Hampden, and filling another for himself, he said, "Let us drink a toast in this rare old wine. What shall it be? I await thy pleasure," and he rose to his feet and bowed.

The Viscount hesitated; for a moment he sat as if undecided. But the wine he had drunk before had mounted to his head, and he too arose to his feet and extended his glass.

"I give thee a toast!" he cried, his colorless cheek warming. "One for gods and men! Drink with me to the fairest of earth's mortals, as divinely beautiful and as innocent as an angel; one upon whose slightest word all London hangs—to the Lady Margaret Carroll!" And he drained the great golden goblet in a draught.

"The Lady Margaret Carroll!" rejoined the sea rover, lifting the goblet to his lips. "May she be the bride of the bravest gallant!" and he too drained his cup to the dregs.

The Viscount still stood staring at him as the Count finished his cup and set it upon the table. "Yes," said he finally, with a frown, "may the bravest man win her." And following the example of DeNortier, he resumed his reclining position upon the couch.

"And now, my Lord," the adventurer continued, "how long since is it that thy noble uncle died, and thou didst come into the possession of the title and estate?"

"Only a bare two months ago," answered Hampden, with a growl. "I thought the old fool would never die. He hung on to the estates and title as though he thought that he could carry them in his doublet with him, when he passed out of this world. I had thought that I would finally have to end his sufferings with my dagger, but he at last saved me that trouble. The Saints be praised!"

With a devout sigh at the thought of such sin and wickedness, he put to his lips the goblet that the Count had refilled, and drank off half of its contents with a gulp. Then putting it down once more on the table, he continued:

"I had been here long since had it not been for that; but from day to day I kept waiting for the old Lord to die. Each day we thought would be his last, but he held on for months," and looking up at the golden candelabra, he sighed again.

"And what effect had the titles and estates upon thy lady love?" asked DeNortier, with a slight smile. "Surely, Lord Dunraven, the possessor of an ancient title and lordly estates, would be a fit mate for any lady, barring none. Even the Queen would not stoop did she unite her fate with so noble a line."

Lord Dunraven frowned blackly. "It is true many a titled lady would be proud to be Lady Dunraven, wife of one of the greatest noblemen of England, but the foolish girl is as obstinate as a donkey. She would have none of it; told me she would be my friend ever, but I could never hope for more. The foul fiend fly away with such a friend!" he cried, his anger, stimulated by the rich wine, arising at the thought.

"I believe that she loves this Sir Thomas Winchester, so I had thee to bring him here."

My heart gave a great bound of joy as I heard this. Was it possible that Lady Margaret Carroll, courted and admired, with the choice of England's nobility before her, herself the bearer of a proud name, and with great estates, did she—could she—love and remember a gentleman spurned by his own family, penniless, an outcast from his home? Was she true to me, or was it only maidenly coyness, but used to heat my lord's passion, that she repulsed him thus?

"If I cannot win, he shall not!" and rising to his feet, Dunraven began to pace the floor.

The pirate's face wore a serious air, and fingering the goblet before him, he spoke to Lord Dunraven, who was tramping restlessly to and fro.

"If thou fearest that, my Lord, why not say the word? A dagger in the back, and thy rival would be out of thy way forever."

"No," Dunraven said, stopping for a moment his aimless walk. "No; I reserve him for a more exquisite torture than that; he would not suffer—a blow, and he would be out of his misery. But to see her in my arms, his successful rival, to have her cry to him for aid, and he bound helpless, unable to do aught but writhe in impotent agony—agony which wrings the soul—ah, my friend! that would be revenge indeed, such as I long for. Watch over him carefully. I would not have him come to harm for an earl's ransom. Curse him! How I hate him! When I can bring him to such a fate as this I shall be content, and not until then will I rest."

"And what are thy plans?" DeNortier asked, his hands still fingering listlessly the massive goblet.

The other looked at him keenly with his cold gray eye. "Can I trust thee?" he asked suspiciously.

The adventurer laughed sardonically. "Thou hast trusted me thus far," he answered. "Have I played thee false in aught that thou askest me this?"

"Forgive me," replied the Viscount. "Forgive me—but there hangs so much at stake that I fear to trust myself. Listen, and thou shalt learn my plans and purpose," and drawing up a heavy chair to the table, he seated himself.

Filling up another goblet of wine, and drinking it down as though it were a thimbleful, he resumed:

"The lady will not yield to me. I will give her but one more chance to freely and of her own will become my bride. If she still refuses to consent, then," a frown, dark and ominous, passed over his face, "I will by some ruse obtain possession of her and by force carry her on board one of my ships. Then, ho for Eldorado!"

"Yes," he said, noticing the look of astonishment upon the Spaniard's face, "Sir Thomas Winchester shall behold her my bride. When he has suffered enough to satisfy me, I will put him out of the way. We will stay here until my lady becomes reconciled, and then we will sail back to England and home," and his eyes, so cold and gray, lighted up with delight and pleasure as he surveyed the face of the other.

His companion did not at once speak, but sat in silence. "And all this," he finally said musingly—"all this toil and blood and sweat for one woman, when a score as beautiful stand at thy elbow. Truly did some wise man say, 'What fools we mortals be.'"

"Ah!" answered Dunraven, rising from his chair, "thou hast not seen the Lady Margaret Carroll. Didst thou but lay eyes upon her, thou wouldst wonder no longer, for she is the daintiest slip of mortality that ever graced this cold gray earth. Man, half London is wild over her!"

"It may be so," DeNortier replied, yawning behind his hand. "I would, for my part, prefer some less lovely maid who would be won more easily, and without all this labor."

"Tendit ad astra!" cried my lord. Then bending across the table, "Thou shouldst see this lady. Did I not fear that she would entangle that black heart of thine in her golden tresses, I would take thee in disguise with me to London, and show thee this wondrous beauty."

"No fear of that," rejoined DeNortier, a grim smile of amusement upon his countenance. "Would the lady prefer a worn old warrior, his neck resting uneasily upon his shoulders, to a noble of England, handsome, rich, accomplished?" and he drummed his fingers restlessly upon the table, his legs sprawled out before him.

"Thou flatterest me, my friend, and underratest thyself. The lady would look twice before she refused thee." And Dunraven looked at his companion.

Truly they were a striking pair as they sat together beneath the candlelight, and thou couldst have searched Europe, and not have found their match for comeliness and martial bearing. Dunraven, with his broad shoulders, his striking face, his proud pose, dark brown hair and beard; the Spaniard, more slender, but quicker, more agile, his jet-black hair and beard gleaming like the wing of a crow in the light.

They were a dangerous couple. DeNortier was the leopard, restless, cunning, lurking ready to spring at a moment's warning—not so big as his bulky companion, but with muscles of steel; Dunraven, bigger, heavier, clumsier, but more powerful—the bear. Woe to the creature that he locked in his iron arms; he would crush the life from him, even as a vise.

They both now sat silent and motionless, wrapped in their own thoughts, neither breaking the deep silence that reigned in the room.

Quick steps sounded upon the floor outside. A loud rap upon the door, and then another.

"What is it?" DeNortier cried, springing to his feet and catching up his sword, which lay upon the floor beside him.

"The sentry swears that he saw the gleam of the moonlight upon a sail, captain," a gruff voice answered.

"The fiends!" cried the adventurer. Then turning to Dunraven, who had risen to his feet, he whispered rapidly, "Down the stairs into the passageway—quick! Wait for me there; I will join thee as soon as I can," and he stepped forward to unbolt the door.

Hampden dashed behind the tapestry. "Where?" he cried. "What passageway?" and he looked at the floor about him.

"I forgot," DeNortier answered, "that thou dost not know the secret."

Crossing the room and pushing aside the tapestry, he knelt a moment upon the floor and pressed his hand against it. There was a quick click, and slowly the trap door rose. Hampden sprang through it. I held my breath, my unsheathed sword in hand. Surely they must see me; but no, they were too much engaged.

DeNortier sprang up as soon as the trap door yawned open, and rushing over to the door, unlocked and opened it. It slammed to behind him, and he ran down the hall, the sailor following.

In an instant I was through the opening beside me, sword in hand. My enemy was in my grasp. We would fight out the quarrel below, with none but the dead to interrupt us. One of us would come out perhaps; he would have the field to himself; however it ended, the matter would be settled. If my lord fell, I would have the ground to myself; if he triumphed, it would not disturb me; if I fell beneath his sword, it could not matter to the dead.

At the sound of my footsteps, he, not knowing who it was that followed, quickened his own. The dim light through the trap door died out, and we were treading in total darkness. Guided by the sound of his feet, I ran on after him. I had no wish to fight under DeNortier's chamber; some one might hear and interrupt us. I would wait until we got further on into the cavern, where we would be undisturbed.

Several minutes passed; I judged that we were out of hearing, and raising my voice shouted: "Why hurry, my Lord? The night is young yet, and we have much to settle between us. Wait for me but a moment, and I will join thee."

I heard him stop in the darkness.

"Ha!" he said, "speak of the devil and we hear his wings. So that was thou who ran down after me into this black hole; thou must have been behind the arras and have heard all that I said. Well, no matter, dead men tell no tales," and he laughed, a ring of menace sounding in it.

I thrust out in the darkness before me with my sword; he could not be far away, by the sound of his voice—but my blade only struck against the wall, the steel ringing as though struck by a hammer. I heard his footsteps move on down the tunnel.

"Stop!" I cried, "I have long wished to settle several small matters with thee. If thou wilt but wait for me an instant, we will go out into the moonlight, and there we will cross blades and fight out our difference."

"Why should I fight thee?" he answered, his voice coming from in front of me. "The game is mine; did I wish thee knifed, a dozen men stand ready to do it at my command. Why should I risk my life? I do not wish to kill thee, for I reserve thee for a more delicious fate," and his laugh, low and smothered, floated back to me.

"Dog!" I cried, my anger getting the best of me—anger at the taunt—anger that my sword could not reach him. "Boast not, 'there be many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' I may not win my lady but thou at least shalt not have her. Rather would I see her dead than meet such a fate."

"When thou beholdest her resting peacefully upon my breast, my arms around her, my lips pressed close to hers, then, and not till then, will I be content. Fear not. Only a few months, and thou wilt behold her mine. Till then—adieu!" and his footsteps moved again. Then silence.

With a curse I rushed on down the dark passageway, prodding with my sword the walls, cutting the darkness in front of me wildly. Like a madman I dashed on until, cracking my head upon the projecting stone, I staggered back, fell at full length upon the floor, and so was checked in my mad career.

Getting on my feet again, I called. No answer. "Dunraven!" I cried, "Where art thou?" But only the echo of my own voice answered me. He was gone, as though the darkness had swallowed him up to protect him from my wrath. Truly the devil had taken good care of his own.

I resumed my way on down the cavern, for a gleam of light had caught my eye, far in front of me. I drew cautiously nearer; it was the moon shining down at the mouth of the cave, which I had entered a few brief hours ago.

Stumbling over the body of Herrick as it lay where he had fallen, I scrambled up the embankment, pushed aside the bushes, and stood once more in the open air. Far below me lay the mansion, its lights shining out into the darkness as though to welcome me back once more to life and hope. Descending the hill, I made my way down to it.

It was midnight when I stood again on the broad veranda between the great white pillars. No one was in sight, and passing into the hallway I ascended the stairs to my own room.

CHAPTER VI THE PLOT THICKENS

The next day after the death of Herrick I set out again for the cavern, determined to find out, if possible, whether Lord Dunraven still lurked in its dark recesses; and also to follow the right-hand tunnel to its termination, for it might be that it led to some place from which I could escape.

I strode up the hill again, and before pushing through the hedge which screened the mouth of the cave, I turned and looked about me. There was no one in sight, and so bending my head, I brushed aside the bushes and entered. Lighting the candle which I had brought with me, I peered around. The body of Herrick was gone; evidently someone had removed it since last night.

I passed rapidly down the passage, until I reached the place where the two paths diverged. I took the one to the right, and with my candle over my head made my way down it. There was nothing unusual about the tunnel, it loomed about me much as had the other. Its sides and floor were of white stone which gleamed in the candlelight.

I had probably gone about two hundred feet when there came a sudden gust of wind which blew my candle out. Now I was at a loss to account for this, as it felt more like an artificial gust than a natural one; more as if someone with a great fan had created a breeze. Fumbling about, I found my flint and steel which I always carried with me, and striking it, I relit my candle and looked around. There was no one in sight, and so pausing an instant, I started on my way again.

I had barely taken a couple of steps when there came a second blast of wind, as sudden and unexpected as the first, and my candle was blown out again, as silently and quickly as it had been before. Exasperated by this recurrence I angrily struck another light, and as I did so the candle was snatched from my hand, and a low mocking laugh ran through the tunnel; sinister and cold it sounded in my ears, and at the noise I shrank back.

I am not a superstitious man (I have seen too much of the world for that), but the flint and steel as I struck it, had lit up the cave around me for an instant with a flash of light, and it was at that instant that the candle had been caught from me. It had been no human hand that had done this, for I could see distinctly around, and naught had touched my hand; only as I looked had the candle fallen from my fingers.

Again and again I struck the flint and steel, and peered wonderingly about me. There was no trace of the candle anywhere, only the bare, cold walls of the cave could I see, as I stood with white face and shaking hands.

The accents of a voice, stern and low, from I knew not where, fell upon my ears: "Go back! Go back! And if thou wouldst live, come not again to this place."

A sudden shiver passed over me, and my knees knocked together with terror; there was a grandeur and majesty in the tones that I had heard in no earthly language. It was as though I listened to the voice of a god. A sudden dread fell upon my soul as I stood there, and the craven "Fear" which I had never known before in all my life, on the fields of Ireland, or in great London, smote me with his cold hand.

Gone were my manhood and courage now, and I became as some old withered hag, crouched in the chimney by the fire. With a yell I turned and fled down that silent cavern, as though grim Death himself were at my heels. Twice I dashed into the wall in the darkness and fell, screaming at the top of my voice, thinking that the fiends had me for sure; but I was up again in an instant, and with another wild yell had resumed my flight.

My reason had forsaken me for the moment, and I was as though a madman. I fancied I could see white figures, with outstretched hands and glaring eyes, awaiting me at every step. Screaming and yelling I rushed on, and never once did I slacken pace, until in front of me I saw the light streaming through the undergrowth at the entrance.

Dashing up the embankment, I tore through the bushes and out into the open air again, where I cast myself flat upon the ground and sobbed with thankfulness for the sunlight, the calm blue sky above me, and the fresh air beating upon my face.

It must have been a ruse of DeNortier's to frighten me from the cave, fearing that I would discover some of his secrets or perhaps his buried treasure; and if it were a trick, it served his purpose well, for never, from that day to this, have I put foot again in that cavern. Not for a barrel of gold would I tread again its dark recesses and feel that thrill of horror at the sound of that solemn voice. I sometimes now at night awake trembling with fear, thinking I hear once more in my ears those calm, majestic tones, the like of which I have never heard again from the lips of man.

An hour after I had rushed from the cavern I was standing on the porch of the mansion, watching the ocean as it roared and chafed against its sandy prison, as though it were some caged thing striving to be free.

* * * * * * *

Two weeks had flown by since I had listened to Lord Dunraven's voice in DeNortier's chamber. Two weeks in which I had waited, my nerves keyed up to the highest pitch, for the next move from my enemies; but no sound came.

My lord I had not seen since that night when he had disappeared in the cavern. It was as though he had vanished forever; but I knew that somewhere behind the scene he was watching and waiting for the time to ripen, so that the curtain could rise for the last scene in the tragedy. DeNortier had said naught to me, though he must have known of Herrick's death, and of the fact that I now had discovered the secret of my captivity. He still came and went as heretofore.

I heard the sound of footsteps behind me and turning I saw one of the Indian attendants, called José.

"What is it, José?" I asked, speaking in his own tongue.

"The Señor wishes to talk with thee," he answered. "Even now he waits in the great room," and so saying he disappeared into the house.

So the next move had come after all. I would be very watchful and silent, and so thinking, I passed into the hall and back to the great room where DeNortier awaited me.

He was seated there in one of the huge chairs, his head buried in his hands, and did not hear me as I entered.

"What is it, Count?" I asked.

I had not seen him in several days, and the change in his appearance startled me; it was so different from his accustomed look.

"Art sick?" I asked, "or what is it that ails thee?"

He answered slowly and lifelessly. "I have even now a throbbing headache. But be seated, there is something of importance that I would speak to thee of."

Seating myself near him, I waited in silence to hear what he would say.

"Thou wilt remember that a few months ago I freed a beautiful Spanish girl at thy request. At that time thou didst tell me that I might do with thee what I would, if I but freed the maid. Is this not true?"

"It is true," I answered. "But at the same time I told thee that I would do nothing unworthy of an English gentleman. Thou dost remember that too?"

"Distinctly," he replied. "What I now ask of thee is nothing that would stain the honor of even the most scrupulous. 'Tis but a simple thing. If thou wilt sign the paper that I shall hand to thee in a moment, then not only wilt thou have kept thy promise to me, but in addition thou shalt be set at liberty, with the sum of five hundred pounds to speed thee on thy way. Come, 'tis a generous offer, and one worthy of thy acceptance."

"Where is the paper?" I asked. "Let me but see that, and I will then tell thee in a few moments whether I will sign it or not."

The Count reached his hand within his doublet and drew out a long stiff paper. He looked me full in the eye, and I could see the excitement upon his face, try as he would to conceal it.

"Do nothing rash," he said in a hurried tone. "Believe me or not, I wish thee well, and would grieve to see thee come to harm. Be cool, and weigh well what thou doest; for after thou hast once chosen, thy decision cannot be revoked. On one side liberty, on the other side imprisonment and perhaps death," and he coughed dryly behind his hand. "Choose which thou wouldst have," and he extended the paper to me.

I took it in my hand and breaking the seal, held it up to the candlelight. What paper could it be, that would be worth such a price as this?

"This indenture made and entered into this the twenty-fifth day of February, 1587, A.D. and in the reign of our Sovereign Queen——" I glanced on further down. "Between Thomas Winchester, Kt., of the City of London, England, party of the first part, and James Henry Hampden, Lord Dunraven, of the city and county aforesaid, party of the second part. Witnesseth: that for, and in consideration of the sum of five hundred pounds to me in hand paid——"

A long string of legal phrases followed, all jargon, and without meaning to me.

" ... Said party of the first part, doth hereby relinquish, release, assign and transfer all the right, title, interest or pretension, which he may have or possess, to and in the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll, of Riverdale, England. And the said Thomas Winchester, Kt., doth hereby promise and bind himself not to have any communication by any means whatsoever with the said Lady Margaret Carroll, and doth further bind himself not to set foot in England for the space of fifty years from the date hereinbefore set out; and to reside abroad during the whole of that time."

I had seen enough. Tearing the document into a thousand fragments, I scattered them to the four winds, before the astonished Spaniard could rise from his chair.

Then turning to him, my voice hoarse with anger, I cried:

"And thou hast the hardihood to present such a paper as this to me to sign? On guard and defend thyself," and drawing my blade, I stood waiting for him to rise.

But the Count did not move from his seat nor turn even so much as an eyelash.

"Strike if thou wilt," he replied calmly. "I will not defend myself," and he sat still and motionless where he was.

I could not murder him in cold blood, and he would not budge to raise a finger in his own behalf. Sheathing my sword I leaned over the table, and speaking slowly and distinctly, my face almost touching his own, I said:

"Go back and tell thy master that I spurn his offer as I would himself, were he not too much of a coward to be here in person, instead of sending thee as a tool in his place." And turning on my heel, without so much as another look at him, I strode away and out of the house.

A storm was brewing upon the sea. Already the dark, heavy clouds hung over us, and a calm, deep, ominous silence seemed to brood over earth and sky, as though the storm god gathered every nerve and sinew, and crouching low, poised himself for one great effort that would carry terror into the hearts of men.

Passing down the steps of the house, I made my way out to the sea. My mind was in a chaos of thoughts and doubts, and I longed for the storm and struggle of the tempest.

The pale twinkling stars above me were vanishing one by one behind the storm clouds; cold and silent they looked down on me from their great heights, as they had gazed upon so many of the storm-tossed children of men. Generations and ages had passed away since they had seen the first mortal upon the earth. What mattered it to them that poor sin-cursed humanity lived and died; had their loves and hates; their friends and foes; their good days and their bad ones; lived their little span, and then crept away to make room for others who would take their places.

A sense of my own littleness crossed my mind. Out here with nature, stripped of all the gloss and glitter of civilization; alone, without that sense of security which comes to us when we are huddled with our fellows; a single atom upon the troubled sea of life—my own perplexities seemed to dwindle, and a feeling of peace swept over my care-worn spirit.

The storm was about to burst; great white-capped billows surged up, like the serried ranks of the foe ready to charge. The roar deepened and increased to a perfect thunder which seemed to shake the very earth. The sea lashed and whipped itself into a foaming caldron; the winds howled like the spirits of the departed; and the great black clouds seemed to almost touch the very sea. A flash of lightning forked, many-tongued, sprang athwart the sky, and a burst of thunder peeled forth like the roar of a score of culverins.

One lone bird, solitary and forsaken, beat forward before the approaching gale. Such was my life I thought, as I watched him struggle against the wind. Why must I ever be the storm petrel, sport for the wind and wave, borne on, ever on, before the tempest, by the resistless force of the blast.

My old friends sat in London to-night with lights and cheer. The old Mermaid Inn rang with song and jest as they passed the cup, and smoked the fragrant weed that had been brought back from the golden Virginia. I could almost hear the hoarse tones of Francis Drake as he spun out some long-winded yarn; could hear the deep-chested laugh of Raleigh; and the yell ring out as Bobby Vane struck up some light-hearted ditty, and the others with a roar joined the chorus.

Theirs was a pleasant, easy way, smooth to the foot, bright with the garlands of flowers and the companionship of their fellows; mine was a solitary, lonely road, rough and stormy, with no friend to help or aid me. I must walk high up above the crowd, walk as best I might, this untrod path until morn. So be it. I would not murmur at what fate held in store for me. Come what might, I would at least play my part with what courage I possessed.

A slight sound seemed to come from the darkness about me. I bent forward and listened. Someone was evidently approaching, making his way toward the mansion. I could hear the quick crunch of the sand under the advancing feet, though the night had grown inky black and I could distinguish no figure in the gloom. Throwing myself flat upon the sand, I waited for the coming traveler.

The sound came nearer and passed where I lay, invisible in the night. Just as it moved swiftly by, there was a blinding flash of lightning, illuminating the darkness with dazzling brilliancy, and throwing into relief the stout form of Father Francis, as with head bent down to avoid the force of the wind, he stood motionless, his back to me, waiting for the crash of the thunder to die away. What was the priest doing here, at this time of night and in such a gale? It must be something of importance that called him forth, for he loved his own ease too well to sally out in the storm and tempest without good cause.

Like a flash I sprang to my feet, drawing my sword as I did so; and as he stood there motionless, before he could turn, I was upon him. Catching the weapon by the blade, I brought the heavy hilt upon his head, and with a dull thud, he fell to the ground.

Kneeling beside him, I ran my hand over his garments as he lay there. Perhaps he had some paper or message that he was carrying, which would be of use, could I but discover it. Ah! I touched a square oblong package in the folds of his cassock, and running my hand on the inside, I drew it out. They were papers most probably, tied up securely, with a fold of canvass around them. Was there aught else there? I searched thoroughly, but could find nothing further, though I felt over every inch of his robe.

As I straightened myself up the storm broke, and a perfect torrent of rain poured down upon me. Hastily sheathing my sword, I left the priest where he was, and made for the house in a run, the package clutched in my hand. Had it not been for the light that streamed from the windows, I would never have found it in the darkness; but I reached the porch, after a brief dash of a few minutes, the wind tugging and fighting at my heels as if to impede my progress, loath to see me escape from its fury.

Hastily slipping the bundle in my doublet, I stepped upon the veranda and passed into the hall. DeNortier, pale and distraught, was standing in the door, surveying with lusterless eye the storm.

"'Tis an awful gale," he said, on perceiving me. "See the surf," and he pointed out to where the great waves pitched and tossed below us.

"Terrible," I answered. "The wind roars like the culverins of a fleet."

Passing him, I made my way up to my own room. Lighting the candle and fastening the door, I looked around me. All was quiet and silent, and going to the window, I drew the curtain across it. Then seating myself under the light, while the storm howled and roared outside, I cut the fastenings and opened the package.

Drawing out a paper, I looked at it. It was a brief account of the coming of Hampden to the title and estate of his uncle, written by someone evidently well acquainted with the state of affairs which existed.

But it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, I picked up the next one. An account of the disappearance of Sir Thomas Winchester. "He had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... A great loss to London society. A diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without avail...."

I threw it aside with a smile. Evidently this was Dunraven's work, for though no name was signed to the paper, I had no doubt that he was the author. My lord wished it thought that I was dead, and most likely at that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my remains. If ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with consummate ease and skill, it was Dunraven.

Several other papers I saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of mine, and also of DeNortier's, from day to day, setting out the minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it.

The rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the Viscount James Henry Hampden. I had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. I had oft smelt just such a perfume, sweet, delicate. There was only one whom I knew, around whose dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. Opening it with a hand which despite my efforts trembled, I read the few brief lines it contained. Only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and signed with the name—Margaret Carroll.

Yet there, in that brilliantly-lighted room, in a far-away island, separated from her by leagues of rolling water, I pressed that sweet-scented billet to my lips, and forgetting all else, was happy. Thrusting it into my doublet, there next my breast, where I could feel the quick pulsing of my heart's blood against it, I arose to my feet.

Replacing the other papers in the oilcloth, I looked around the room. Where should it be concealed? I could not keep it about my person, that was out of the question. My eye fell upon a heavy chest against the wall, and moving it I pushed the papers under the bottom; they could stay there at least, until I could find a better place.

I was weary, and throwing myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed, I dropped off to sleep.

CHAPTER VII THE PHANTOM

And now I am about to recount an occurrence so strange and unearthly that I have sometimes since doubted whether it was not the creation of my own fancy; whether or not I really saw what I am about to relate. I can offer no reasonable hypothesis that would account for such a physical impossibility—something that we are taught to sneer at—I can only say with others who have trod before us: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in thy philosophy." I can only set down in black and white what really took place, as best I can.

I know not how long I slept, whether one hour or five; I only know that I was awakened by that peculiar sensation which thou hast felt in thy sleep, when conscious that someone is gazing intently at thee. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room.

The storm clouds had passed away as rapidly as they had come, and the moonlight, streaming through the window, bathed the whole room in a flood of light, and lit it up as brightly as could the noonday sun.

There, standing cold and grim and gray near the bed, some six or eight paces away, clothed in a coat of antique armor, leaning upon his great bloody sword, his eyes fixed sternly upon me, was the figure of Geoffrey Winchester, first Lord Richmond.

There is a tradition in the family, handed down from father to son, from generation to generation, which runs somewhat like this: When William the Conqueror landed in England, he brought with him from Normandy a certain stout, sturdy, and gallant gentleman—this same Geoffrey Winchester—whom he held in high esteem for his stout arm and undaunted courage.

At the great battle of Hastings, the death-blow to so many noble Saxon scions of great families, this gentleman, Geoffrey, bore himself with great valor. Twice was William beaten to his knees by the furious assaults of the desperate Saxons, and twice did Geoffrey come to the rescue, and with his great two-handled sword clear a path around the King.

And so after the battle was over, William had called the Norman to him, and had asked him what he would have, telling him that he should have what he willed, even to the half of his kingdom. And Winchester had answered, so the legend ran, that he cared not for earthly honors, but he would that he might be able to come to the rescue of those of his own blood, when in some danger from their foes.

The King, struck by the strangeness of his request, had called to him a pious bishop who had fought by his side that day, and recounted to him what the soldier would have.

The holy man of God had turned to Geoffrey Winchester, and bidding him kneel, had prayed to the God of Battle that he grant the request of Winchester's heart, and then blessing him, had said: "Thou hast chosen wisely. So be it. In the ages to come, when thou hast long crumbled into the dust, still thou shalt have the power to appear once to those of thine own blood when they are in sore distress, and warn them of danger. Go thou in peace."

And so it had been from that day. When Richmond Castle was sacked during the troublous times of Stephen's reign, the phantom had appeared to warn the third Lord Richmond, who had escaped barely in time to save himself. In the reign of Richard Cœur de Lion, John Winchester, sixth Lord Richmond, who accompanied the King on his crusade to the Holy Land, saw this vision, which told him not to embark on the vessel that was to carry the host across the Mediterranean Sea. He did as the spectre had cautioned, and though his companions jeered at him for his craven heart to fear a dream of the night, still he stood firm, and the ship had gone down with all her crew on board. And so on down the ages. My grandfather, fighting the Scots upon the frontier, was warned by the gray Geoffrey to ride for England without delay. He waited for naught, but mounted and dashed away post-haste; an hour later the camp was sacked and burned by the wild Highlanders, and the whole company put to the sword.

Once, and only once, he had appeared, sooner or later, to each of the blood of Winchester, and in their hour of direst need had warned them of their danger.

True to the story, he stood before me to-night, just as he had stood when the bishop had blessed him at the battle of Hastings, the great dents still in his armor, his huge sword dripping with blood. There was no mistake; I had often seen his picture, when I had been but a child at the castle, and it had made an impression upon me. There was something wild, but yet noble, that I could never forget, in that bold, dark eye, the broad, high forehead, prominent, curved nose, and mouth set in its stern mould.

And now as I lay gazing at him the marrow almost froze in my bones; the cold, damp sweat stood out in great beads upon my forehead; my very hair seemed to rise on my head; my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; I could not speak.

For a moment he stood thus, looking down at me, while his dark piercing eyes seemed to read the very secrets of my bosom. And then he spoke—or was it but the beating of my own heart? "Up! Be vigilant!" For an instant I saw him standing there, and then—there was only the moonlight as it cast the moving light and shadow upon the wall opposite. He was gone.

Springing up, with trembling hand I found my flint and steel, and lit the candle. Carefully I searched every nook and cranny of the broad room—there was nothing here; no one but myself.

Whatever there was to fear was plainly outside, and I knew not what to guard against, nor how to prepare myself for the danger that even now approached me; for I had no doubt that the specter spoke truth. He had never deceived one of my name yet, and deep down in my heart, I felt—yes, I knew—with a conviction unmistakable, that I stood to-night in perhaps the greatest peril of any which I had yet faced.

Blowing out the candle and drawing my sword, I took my seat in the darkest corner of the room, and waited—I knew not for what. I sat there an hour; no sound floated up from the silent house, nothing stirred; only the moon, pale and calm, shone down into the window. What meant the warning? Did danger imminent and portentous threaten me? I could draw no other meaning from the vision; and if so, where and how did it approach? I could only wait.

This much I knew, that whenever the first Lord Richmond had appeared to any of my house, on down through the ages, he had ever warned of some great peril, which, but for his appearance, would have proven the end of him to whom he spoke.

An hour I sat there, silent and motionless, my drawn sword in my hand, and then—I had almost persuaded myself that I had dreamed of the spectre, and turned to go to bed when lo! I heard a slight sound. It was as if someone had halted near me, I knew not exactly where, and stopped to listen. Then a click, and from the shadow of the room opposite, as though from out the solid wall, there stepped a man. Slowly, silently, he crept forward; quietly, softly, as though he feared to breathe, he crossed the room and drew near the bed. Then as he stood beside it, he straightened himself, raised his hand high, and as he drew back to strike I saw something glitter in the dim light.

Dropping my sword, I sprang forward with one bound, and caught him by one hand on his throat, the other clutching the arm that held the dagger. A short struggle, and I felt him grow limp under my iron grasp, for I held his throat like a vise. Carrying him forward in my arms to the window, and laying him down on the floor, I peered into his face. It was the fat priest.

I waited patiently, the dagger that he had dropped clasped in my hand. It was a long, sharp blade, and had it not been for my ghostly visitant, I would even now sleep that sleep that knows no waking.

A long sigh from the priest; he was coming to his senses. Sitting up, he looked around him, and catching sight of me as I stood opposite, the dagger in my hand, he cowered back against the wall, and covered his face with his hand.

"Listen," I said, bending toward him. "One sound, and I will run this dagger into that craven heart of thine. If thou dost fail to answer one question of mine, I shall say no word, but I will kill thee where thou sittest. Take away thy hand from thine eyes, and answer me quickly, as I put the questions to thee. Dost hear?"

Father Francis had jerked his hands from his face like a puppet figure, and now he sat by the window, his ruddy face all white and ghastly in the moonlight. "What wouldst thou have?" he moaned.

"Who sent thee here?" I asked. "Answer me quickly and truly, or into the nether world thou goest," and I flashed his dagger in his face.

"In the name of Heaven!" he cried in alarm. "Good Sir Thomas, brandish not the dagger about me so recklessly; should it but slip and strike me, I would be done for this world," and he shrank back against the wall.

"It would but serve thee right," I answered grimly. "Thou deservest no better fate. Answer me as I tell thee," and I pricked his fat arm with the point of the weapon.

With a loud howl of pain, he rubbed the injured spot vigorously.

"No one sent me," he said sullenly. "Didst thou not strike me down but a few short hours ago, without cause or provocation, as I walked peaceably along the shore, and then take from me papers that concerned thee not? Am I a man, that I should bear such treatment as this quietly? My head rings yet from the blow," and he raised his hand to his forehead, where there was a great swollen place as large as an egg.

"Thou liest," I answered coolly. "Speak truly; one last chance I give thee, and if thou dost fail to answer, thy soul shall go out to join that of thy comrade Herrick," and I made as if to stab him.

The ruse succeeded admirably.

"Stop!" he cried. "Stop! Wouldst thou murder me? I will answer truly, if thou wilt but give me time. It was DeNortier."

"And so thou wouldst creep upon a man and slay him unawares, while he sleeps. Is that all the manhood that remains in thee? I would not soil my hand with such carrion as thou art. Though thou dost richly deserve death, yet thou shalt go unharmed this once; but remember this, if thou dost cross my path again I will slay thee as I would a serpent, calmly and without compunction. Go! And tell thy master that he should do such work as this like a man; not hire such scum to do that which he fears to attempt himself. But stay a moment," I said, as the priest scrambled to his feet, and began to slink toward the door. "Give me that ring of mine which thou wearest upon thy finger." And I held out my hand for it.

Slowly he drew it from his pudgy finger, and dropped it into my outstretched palm.

"And another thing, how camest thou into the room? Show me but that, and thou shalt go unharmed." And catching him by the collar, I dragged him across the floor to the corner where I had seen him first.

With a growl he raised his hand, and touched the wall with his finger. Immediately a panel slipped back and disclosed an opening in the solid wood.

I turned to him. "Go!" I said, pointing to the door, "before I forget myself and run thee through. No—not through the panel, but out yonder door."

He waddled back across the room, and turning the key in the lock, opened the door. Stopping on the threshold, he looked back at me as I stood by the open panel. A smile was upon his fat countenance—a smile of triumph.

"Be not so sure that thou wilt explore yon passage to-night, my Lord," he cried in glee. "The battle thou knowest is not ever to the strong;" and as he said this the secret door in the wall slid to with a snap, and with a loud laugh, even as I sprang towards him, he slammed the door of the room and the bolt turned in the lock. He had touched some secret spring outside, that closed the aperture in the wall.

Long I stood there on the floor listening, but I heard no sound. The house was as though all were wrapped in slumber.

Crossing to the window, I looked out; along the sand outside there was passing the figure of a man. I did not have to look twice to know who it was; short, thick, and clumsy, it could be none other than Father Francis.

He halted, and I saw another man step forward to meet him. They were too far away for me to recognize who the stranger was; wrapped in a great cloak, he stood close to Francis and they seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation, for they would turn and point towards the mansion as they talked, and I saw the priest double in a loud fit of laughter.

At the sight a bitter smile crossed my lips, for I surmised that he was relating how he had outwitted and trapped me.

I turned my head; footsteps soft and slow were coming down the hall, and at the sound I crossed over to the door, and beat upon it with the hilt of the dagger. The steps stopped outside.

"What is it, Señor?" said the low voice of one of the Indian attendants, called José.

"Open, José," I whispered. "'Tis I, Sir Thomas."

A moment of silence. "I dare not, Señor," he whispered. "What would the Count say?"

"Open," I pleaded, "and thou shalt have a fine piece of gold with the face of the great mother across the water on it."

An instant, and then the key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and the face of the native peered in.

"I know not what the lord would say, did he know that I had done this," he muttered, trembling.

"He need not know of it," I replied. "Not unless thou dost tell him, for I most assuredly will not;" and tossing him a coin, I stopped only long enough to pick up my sword, which lay in the corner where I had dropped it.

Rushing quickly down the stairs and out of the house, I dashed toward the place where I had seen the priest and the stranger a few minutes before. The sky had clouded again, and it was evident that we were to have another storm; for in this changeable climate one moment the weather would be fine, and the next the heavens would be darkened by the heavy clouds.

I made my way cautiously down the path and followed the couple who, several hundred yards ahead of me, were walking slowly by the side of the water, seemingly deep in confab. Quietly and stealthily, keeping some distance behind, I followed them, gradually drawing nearer all the while. Never once did they look behind, as with heads bent, they walked steadily on.

Suddenly I saw them stop, and I threw myself flat upon the sand. They were evidently discussing something of more than ordinary interest. Who could the priest's companion be? I could not tell from this distance.

They had seated themselves upon the bench, and at the sight, I crawled cautiously up to where the rough, uneven sand lay heaped back from the water, and began to worm my way, flat on my stomach, towards them. 'Twas slow work, for I had to move at a snail's pace lest I should startle the twain, so engrossed in their conversation.

Minutes passed; I was getting nearer to them now, when there rang out a splash from the sea, and peering gradually up, I saw a boat, manned by four seamen, approaching rapidly the spot where the priest and his companion awaited them. Turning my head, I could see that I was within a few yards of them; but I did not care to run into their hands with the boat approaching, so I lay quiet where I was.

Nearer it drew, until within a few yards of the land; then one of the sailors hailed. Father Francis answered; and the boat grated upon the sand, while the men rested on their oars in silence. As they did so, a stray moonbeam came out from behind the clouds and fell full into the face of the tall stranger, who had arisen and was about to step into the boat. It was Lord Dunraven.

For a moment I lay still; and then, reckless of the seamen, thinking only of the way that he had slunk from me in the cave, of his plans against Margaret, and how he would wrest her away from her friends and home if he could, I arose to my feet.

"And so Lord Dunraven is afraid to walk in the day, and slinks about under cover of darkness to meet his hired assassins!" I cried ironically. "Such bravery as this is worthy of thee, and deserves commendation."

At the sound of my voice he had turned toward me, his foot upon the stern of the boat.

"Ah, Sir Thomas!" he said, "did I not have other plans on foot, I would meet thee here, and once and for all settle all matters of difference between us; but mighty reasons, which I have already stated to thee, forbid me from doing so. Should I by any mischance fall by thy sword, it would be a shame that the loveliest lady of England should weep out her eyes in sorrow at my untimely fate. Even now I go back to England to her kisses. I trust that thy stay upon the island may not prove unprofitable, and should time hang heavy on thy hands, perchance thou mightst amuse thyself with the thought of the bright lady in my arms. Farewell!" And he stepped into the boat.

"Dog!" I cried, rushing forward, "wait but one moment, and thou shalt hold no lady in thy foul arms again."

The priest, who had stood quietly on the sand, intending I suppose to see my lord off, at the first sound of my voice had pushed by Dunraven and sprang into the boat. Now as I ran forward, he cried:

"Wouldst thou wait for him? He is a fiend in disguise. Did I not lock him up, and has he not broken loose? Push off!—for the love of God push off!" his voice rising to a shriek as I neared them.

The boatmen needed no second bidding; plainly they feared the cold steel in my hand, for in a twinkle they had pushed off, and bent their backs to the oars with a will. When I reached the spot where my lord had stepped on board, they were fifty feet or more from me.

I hesitated for one moment, sorely tempted to spring into the surf and swim after them; but angered as I was, calm common sense came to my rescue. I was burdened with my steel breastplate and sword, and could not overtake the light boat manned by four sturdy seamen; even though I should, it would mean certain death to me. Six men to one, and he in the water; so I stood and watched them pull away.

Oh for a musketoon! I could have picked off my lord, as he sat in the stern facing me, as easily as I would a hare.

And even as I stood there upon the shore, biting my lips with rage to see them so easily glide out of my reach, my lord arose, and sweeping his hat from his head, bowed. "Adieu!" he said. "May thy dreams be pleasant. I shall remember thee to my lady," and he took his seat with a smile upon his face.

The boat dwindled down into a speck upon the water; still I stood there silent. Dunraven seemed ever to escape me, as I had my hand upon his throat. What meant he when he said that he returned to England? Did he speak truth, or was it but some lie to throw me off his track while he remained here to watch my movements?

Was the priest his spy kept here but to watch me, and perhaps the Spaniard also, and report all that we did or said? It seemed so from the diary that I had read. Perhaps Dunraven distrusted the Count as much as he did me, and was keeping an eye on us both.

I was beginning to think that he had good reason to fear the Spaniard, for had not the priest said in the cave to his companion Herrick that he had seen DeNortier walk the floor in agony, and cry out "Margaret! Margaret!"

I knew something of the Count by this time, and realized that he was a dangerous foe. Instead of one rival, it began to look as if I had two. Perhaps I might be able to join forces with DeNortier, and thus outwit Dunraven; then I could settle with the adventurer later. But where had the Spaniard seen Margaret? Echo answered "where?"

And so musing I retraced my steps towards the mansion, my head bent low in thought. The wind was rising again, and we would have a great storm if this but kept up for the night.

It was nearly day when I stood again in my own room. Something hung and dangled from the window, swinging to and fro in the rising wind, and knocking against the side of the house. My God! It could not be!

Rushing to the window, I drew through the grating the rope that hung outside; and there, his face bruised and disfigured, with gaping tongue, a great cut in his breast, hung the body of José, the servant who had released me from the room only a short while before. Cold, stiff, and lifeless he hung, and there, kneeling by his lifeless body, I swore that if God gave me health and strength I would pursue and punish the fiend who had done this deed.

CHAPTER VIII I DICE FOR A LIFE

It was noon before I awoke; a terrific storm was raging outside, and the sea was white with foam. Dressing rapidly, I made my way to the great dining hall. Often had I eaten there, sometimes alone, and sometimes with DeNortier, for when he was not on the island I ate alone; the men always kept to their barrack, and never came to the house save on some errand. They were uniformly respectful to me; they had evidently had orders from the captain to be so, and they knew him too well to dare to disobey his commands. I, of course, had naught to do with them, save occasionally to ask them some question.

DeNortier supplied me with all that I needed. One evening when I returned from a stroll, I had found a new doublet and hose in my room; at another time a new feather for my hat. I had several times found small sums of money upon my table, and appreciated that delicate sense of honor which realized how I must feel, and did not roughly force what I needed upon me.

DeNortier was seated at the table alone, eating a slice of venison.

"Welcome!" he said in a cordial tone. "This venison is excellent," and he took a great bite as he glanced up at me.

There was no trace of the pallor and wildness of the night before in his manner; now self-composed, alert, calm, he was himself again.

Seating myself opposite him, I helped myself to the meat.

"Count, I have a grievance to lay before thee," I said.

"What is it?" he inquired. "Have any of the men failed to show thee the proper respect? If so, thou hast but to speak, and I will know how to punish them."

"No, it is not that," I answered. "I find this morning the body of one of the natives swinging in front of my window. Who has done this deed?" and I looked intently at him.

His voice was cold as he replied: "He was a mutinous rogue, and even dared to disobey my orders. The safety of my plans—the safety of us all—depends upon the rigidity of the discipline which I maintain. Did I but loose the reins, even for a moment, the men would break out of all bounds, and our heads would pay the penalty; so I punished him as he deserved."

"No need to hang him to my window, if thou didst!" I cried. "Thou hast done many deeds of bloodshed and sin, but as I live I shall have thy life for this!" and I struck the table with my fist a loud blow.

"It is a warning, Sir Thomas," he drawled, "'a word to the wise is sufficient.' As for thy sword, put it up. I will not fight thee now; I told thee once before, that I could not cross swords with thee just yet. Have no fear, I will meet thee; thou hadst best save thy wind and thy sword too, for thou wilt need them;" and he drummed upon the table with his fingers, unconcerned, though I stood within two feet of him, my sword in hand, and could have run him through before he could have saved himself.

"Dost thou call thyself a gentleman?" I asked bitterly, "and hire a cutthroat to slay a man, whom thou fearest to meet thyself?"

A dull red flush covered the Count's face, his eyes glittered like a trapped beast.

"What meanest thou?" he growled hoarsely. "Explain thyself, for I know not what thou referrest to."

"I refer to last night, when Father Francis tried to knife me by thy command while I slept," I answered. "Oh! thou art a noble of Spain to do such work as this; and then fear to meet the man thou didst try to have murdered. I would disgrace myself by crossing swords with such as thee."

"Have a care," he growled, his face swollen with anger, "have a care lest I forget myself and run thee through. As for the priest, I swear to thee that I know naught of that which thou sayest, until thou didst tell me of it but a moment ago. This much I will say to thee, that I never yet feared man or devil. I have ever done my work in the open, have never stooped to such tricks as this, and were it not for a matter that I cannot explain I would fight thee now, and forever rid myself of thee."

"Save thy breath for one who will believe thee," I answered. "As for myself, I believe naught that thou hast said." And picking up my hat, I left him there, his face hot and red with rage, and walked out upon the porch.

Looking out I saw two sailors coming up the path, leading a youth between them. He was a stranger, young, handsome, with a sunny brown eye, long yellow locks, a frank, open face, and could not have been more than twenty years at most. As he came nearer I saw him glance at me.

"What hast thou here?" I asked one of the men.

He answered, respectfully enough: "A young gentleman, sir, who was washed ashore last night from the brig that went down. We kept him in the barrack, for he was half drowned, although to-day he is as bright as a cricket, and is the only soul that came ashore alive out of the ship."

"Art thou English?" I asked the youth.

"Yes," the young fellow replied, looking at me out of his frank eyes. "In whose hands am I?"

"Ask those who are better acquainted than myself," I replied. "The Count is in the dining hall, my men."

"Come," said one of the sailors, and they led him in to where DeNortier sat.

I watched him as they carried him into the hall; his was a fresh, young face, virile and strong, a captive too, like myself, and I naturally felt an interest in his fate. Turning, I passed back into the dining hall, where the Count, silent and moody, still sat.

He was questioning the lad when I entered.

"What is thy name?" he asked, speaking in English.

"Oliver Gates," the boy replied in the same tone, his head held high.

"What art thou doing in these strange seas?" the other said.

"I was page to my Lord Lamdown," the lad answered brightly; "but I had grown tired of the soft, idle life, and being an orphan, with none of kin in England, I embarked with Captain Jones as a gentleman adventurer for the coast of Cuba to trade with the natives. We had gotten this far and all seemed well, until last night the storm arose, and the ship went down."

"Where am I?" continued the boy, as DeNortier sat silent in the great chair, his head bent in thought, as though forgetful of all around him.

At this question the pirate stirred, and raised his eyes to the handsome face of the lad.

"I could best answer that question by telling thee into whose hands thou hast fallen," he said, with a frown. "I am the Count DeNortier."

Oliver started, a look of fear crossed his face.

"What!" he cried. "Not DeNortier the pirate?"

"The same," answered the adventurer, unmoved by the other's alarm.

"I am in need of recruits," he continued. "Thou dost seem a likely strippling, wilt thou come with us? Thou shalt be my right-hand man, with thy pockets full of gold, and sword in hand thou wilt be the envy and admiration of all the maids in London," and he laughed, a grim look of mirth upon his face.

But the lad stood determined.

"I will not come," he said firmly, "though thou dost slay me. I was raised in the family of, and have served, a nobleman; thinkest thou that I would disgrace my training like this? To roam the seas with a band of cutthroats, and finally to swing 'twixt heaven and earth, a rope around my neck?"

The answer seemed to fan the smoldering rage of the Count into a flame. With an oath, he caught up his sword which lay upon the table, and drew it from its sheath.

"Choose!" he cried. "Either thou shalt join me without more words, or prepare to meet thy doom; for as certain as thou dost stand there, I will run thee through if thou dost not join me."

The boy threw back his head, his cheeks were pale, but his look was high and unflinching.

"Strike," he said, "if thou wilt, for I refuse to join thee."

The Spaniard raised his sword, but leaning over I caught the hilt with my hand and held it.

"Ruffian!" I cried. "Wouldst thou slay the youth? He is but a child."

A slow, evil look was upon his face; for a moment his anger mastered him.

"Twice hast thou crossed my path to thwart me," he growled. "Take care, there shall be no third time." Then drawing back, he sheathed his sword.

"I will dice with thee for the lad's life," he said suddenly. "If thou dost win, he is thine to do with what thou wilt; if thou shouldst lose, then he is mine. Wilt cast with me?"

I hesitated a moment; then turning to the boy, who stood gazing with wide-open eyes upon us, I cried:

"Art thou content that we should dice for thy life, or wilt thou have none of it?"

His face was pale, but he answered me quickly: "I am content; better that I should die, than be in the hands of such as he."

"So be it," I answered. "Where are the dice?"

Turning to the corner, he drew from a chest the dice, and a little round box, and with those in his hand, moved to the table.

"Wilt thou throw first?" he asked, "or shall I?"

"No," I answered; "do thou throw. I will follow thee."

It was a strange scene in that great room. The rough seamen gathered around the table watching, eager to see which way the dice would fall; the boy, Oliver Gates, as he stood behind me, watching the dice in the Count's hand—his life the stakes for which we gamed. DeNortier, a dark scowl upon his face, fingering coolly the box in which the dice lay, ready to cast without a tremor the little squares on which depended a human life; myself, with face as white as the boy's, as I thought of the great load which rested upon me, and of how much depended upon "Chance," the blind goddess.

DeNortier stood opposite me, only the little light in his dark eyes betraying his excitement. I watched his hand narrowly while he shook the dice in the box, preparing to throw. I have often thought of that scene since, and wondered if I fully appreciated its solemnity as I watched the Spaniard, and yet I was oppressed by the thought that a human life lay in my hands, either to be lost or to be gained; but as the lad had said, better that he should die than to live a captive in the pirate's hands and at his mercy.

He threw, and with a rattle the dice rolled out upon the table. For a moment I feared to look, and then summoning all my courage, with an effort I looked at the dice—double fours—could I beat that?

I saw the look of triumph in DeNortier's eyes, plainly he thought that he had won; and there as I stood with the box in my hand, I sent up one fervent prayer to whatever gods there be, to fight for me in that hour, and guide the dice aright.

Raising my hand I tossed, and they rolled down upon the table and over to the further side. I bent over them with eyes that feared to behold the result, and I could hear the quick, deep breathing of Oliver Gates behind me, as with beating heart he awaited to hear his fate. The two seamen were bending over the table with eager faces. I straightened myself up—five and four.

"The day is mine, Count," I said triumphantly.

"Yes," he answered, "thou hast it; the fates are propitious. Beware! they will not be ever at thy side;" and turning from me he passed out of the room. The men followed, leaving me alone with Oliver.

"Thy life is safe," I said to him, "and thou shalt be my page. Wilt enter my service?"

"Who art thou?" he asked. "It seems as if I had seen thy face before, yet I know not where."

"Sir Thomas Winchester, of London," I answered.

"I recognize thy face now," he said. "Oft have I seen thee in London, but thou art changed," and he hesitated.

"Say that I have grown older," I replied. "Nay, do not deny it. I know that I have grown older, and that the gray is beginning to fleck my hair; hadst thou been through what I have the last six months, thy hair would be gray too."

"What doest thou here?" he asked, his eyes fixed still upon my face. "Thou hast not joined these ruffians, and become one of them?"

"The saints forbid!" I answered quickly. "I am a captive here even as thou art." And then I related in a few words all I wished him to know of my kidnaping and detention upon the island.

He listened intently, a look of wonder upon his face.

"And why does my Lord Dunraven hound thee thus?" he cried. "What motive has he, that he should detain thee here?"

"Lad," I answered, a bitter smile upon my face, "thou art young yet, and hast much to learn; when thou growest older thou wilt know what a man will do for the love of a maid. Dost know the Lady Margaret Carroll?"

"Aye," he answered, "the loveliest lady in England; as well ask me if I know my master."

"Then," I answered, "is there need to look further than the lady for a cause?"

A look of understanding came into his face.

"I see," he said, "and wonder no longer. A lady so fair would tempt a man to risk his soul, could he but win her."

"But thou hast not answered my question; wilt be my man and enter my service? I have need of such a one here, and when I come to my own again, thou shalt not regret it."

"Yes," he answered, a look frank and true upon his open face. "I owe my life to thee. I am thy man, for better or for worse, and here is my hand on it," and he stretched out his hand to me.

I reached out and grasped it, a mist before my eyes. 'Twas the first friendly hand I had clasped since Steele had sailed away and left me weary months before, and I knew what it meant to be alone and friendless among bitter foes.

"Thou shalt not rue it," I said.

And thus Oliver Gates entered my service. He was a treasure, that boy; he fell to and cleaned my muddy clothes and boots, polished my rusty breastplate, mended the rents in my ragged doublet, and was ever at my elbow, ready to serve me.

He had cleaned the musketoon which I carried, and one morning I came suddenly upon him, his eyes fixed upon the sight, the weapon at his shoulder.

"What art thou doing?" I asked in surprise, seeing no one at whom he pointed.

He lowered the gun, a look of confusion upon his face.

"I was but wishing that my Lord Dunraven walked below," he answered, "and I would soon rid thee of him forever;" and he looked up into my face.

I was strangely touched by his thoughts of me, for I had grown to love him well, with his frank and merry ways, ever with a song upon his lips, ever busy with thoughts of my comfort and welfare.

"Lad," I said, "I know not what I would do without thee."

A tear came into his eye, and rolled down his rosy cheek; he tried to speak, but could not, and turning, hurried from the room.

Sometimes at night as we sat together in my room under the candlelight, I would have him to tell me of London, and what my friends did there, of himself, and of his life before he sailed on his ill-fated voyage.

I learned that my old comrade Drake had sailed for the Spanish Main in search of gold; that Bacon was busy with his law; Raleigh was in high favor with the Queen, and seemed at present to be the favorite; Bobby Vane he did not know. The Lady Margaret Carroll was the toast of London, happy, gay, light-hearted; rumor had it that she would soon become the bride of the Lord Dunraven, who, devoted, gallant, and attentive, was ever her constant shadow, and since I had vanished so mysteriously from London, he had no rival of importance.

Of me, London had gossiped for a few days; the tale of my disinheritance had been the talk of the town, and followed so soon by my disappearance had created quite a sensation, and a dozen different stories had been circulated by way of explanation. Some said I had committed suicide; others that I had gone to the Low Country to assist the Dutch; still others that I had joined the freebooters and become a sea-rover.

It had furnished sensation for the ladies and gentlemen of fashion, as they gathered under the evening candles and sipped their tea, but other things came to engage their attention; what cared they if one poor gentleman, stripped of his position and fortune, lived or died? I had passed from their world forever, and so with a jest upon their lips they had flitted to some new topic.

Only a few friends had made an effort to find some trace of my fate. Bobby Vane and Raleigh had indeed searched, but could find no clue. It was as though the earth had swallowed me up.

Oliver Gates loved me, I believed. He followed me about like a dog; had searched the island for Father Francis and Dunraven, and was ever vigilant to track the Spaniard in hope that he would discover some trace of my lord, but in vain.

Dunraven and Father Francis I had never seen since they left the island that stormy night in the boat. Sometimes I thought they had gone down in the gale, but they were too wicked to die like honest men. No, I believed they were alive, perhaps in England, engaged in plots to abduct my lady, and at the thought I would pace the floor and wring my hands. At such times Oliver was a boon to me. He would sing some ballad of the olden days, when a knight, brave in his armor, and with his waving pennant, would ride out to do battle for his lady love; and at the sound of his rich, mellow voice, the care and sorrow would fade away from my heart, and I would forget myself and all my woes.

So the time passed, and spring had come; the sun shone brightly, and its beauty had tempted me out of the house. All was light and merry beneath the morning light; the birds were singing, and all earth seemed to lie quiet and peaceful, as though weary of toil and labor, and resolved to take holiday for one brief day.

Oliver I had not seen for several minutes, and I strolled down the lane that led to the little settlement of the natives. A few of them I met as I walked down the path, and with a word of greeting, they had stepped aside to let me pass.

I kept steadily on my way, my head bent, thinking of old England and wondering if I would ever see it again. The grass was green and fresh there, the spring flowers were beginning to bloom, and in the fields the sod lay upturned to the sun. The fresh scent of the turf struck my nostrils. Ah, this was England! It held naught for me, perhaps only scorn and hatred; still my heart yearned for the Old Country like that of the exile condemned to some prison, far from his home. It was where my eyes had first beheld the light, and it was there, when I finished my weary journey and life's brief sorrows were over, that I wished to rest quietly beneath its green turf, where naught of the world's turmoil and strife could reach; safe from all harm, with only the silent stars to shine down upon me, I would sleep with my fathers.

I was coming into the group of bark huts; only one old woman was visible, her form bent nearly double with age, her hair snow white, her eyes sunken, her face weather-beaten as though by many a storm. Crouched by one of the low entrances she sat, her eyes fixed upon me. There was that look of knowledge, of understanding, in them, which comes only with extreme age; the look of one who has tasted of all life's secrets, and who has known all that it contains.

I paused beside her, struck by the look of withered age upon her face, and by her snow-white hair; for I had never seen a native with white hair before.

"What is thy age, old crone?" I asked her, in the native tongue.

She did not stir, only her sunken eyes were fixed upon my face, and then, in a voice cracked and broken, she replied:

"Neulta has seen the suns of one hundred and four summers, and still she remains; those whom she knew in her youth have long since gone from among her people."

One hundred and four years old! She was mad; but still she was extremely old, her face showed that.

I knew the name too; often when the servants at the mansion had lost aught, or anything had mysteriously disappeared, they would go to Neulta, and she would tell them where to find the missing article. Strange to say, when they had looked where she directed, they would always discover the missing thing.

Wonderful stories were told of her superhuman powers by the natives. It was said that DeNortier always consulted her before embarking on his voyages; that she had foretold to Herrick, months before, that he would meet death by the hand of a tall stranger, alone in a cavern; he had laughed at her, but lo! it had been even as she had said. The Indians swore by Neulta, and regarded her as a goddess.

I had scoffed at the tales told me by the dead José and the other servants; had told them that the old hag had stolen the things herself, and did but tell them where they were hidden that she might increase their faith in her, but I could never persuade them that I spoke truth. Some thought of the idle tales crossed my mind as she told me her age.

"Thy mind wanders," I answered. "It is not possible; tell me something that I can believe."

The old woman sat still and motionless, then she answered: "Before the Señor's father came into this world I was a middle-aged woman. When the Señor dies I will still be here; for I hold the magic power handed down from my people, who dwelt on this island long before these miserable natives whom thou now seest about thee had landed in this place. Ah," she continued, rising to her feet at the thoughts of the past, "they were a race of men! These are but cattle, who are fitted to wait upon the white man. But why do I talk thus?" she muttered, seating herself again. "My people have vanished, and I alone remain.

"The Señor does not believe me; he thinks that I dream. Let the Señor but come into my hut here, and I will show him things which are not of this world. Does he wish to behold whom he thinks of? But follow me and he shall see what he wots not of. Come!" and she hobbled to the door of the hut and threw it open.

I hesitated; she was mad doubtless, but I was in no hurry. I had naught to engage my mind; perhaps she might amuse me. It might be that this was but a trick of DeNortier's to lure me into this hut and then put me out of the way; for that was a scheme worthy of his master mind.

The old crone stood in the doorway, looking at me.

"Ah! the Señor fears," she croaked. "Afraid of an old woman, alone and unarmed," and she cackled in glee.

My mind was made up; stepping upon the threshold, I pushed the door wide open and entered. The old woman closed the door, and I was in total darkness. She moved about in the dark, until presently she struck two hard stones together, and going to where three great torches of light-wood were fastened in the wall, she lit them.

Immediately the room became brightly illuminated, and I looked around. There was nothing in the hut; only a rough pile of leaves in the corner, which served as a bed, and a rough stone bench in the center of the room, together with a little wooden chest.

Going to the chest, she raised the lid, calling as she did so to me, "Let the Señor seat himself upon the bench."

I did so, and watched her movements, until finally she drew an article from the chest, and turning, held it out to me. I took it in my hands, and glanced down to see what she had given me. It was a polished disk of silver, perhaps a foot in diameter, curved and embossed with strange and barbarous shapes. I had seen naught like it in all my travels.

"How camest thou by this?" I asked sternly.

The old woman, her back to me, was groping again in the box. "Let not the Señor be troubled," she said dryly, "for the mirror was handed down to me from my fathers, who dwelt here in the days of yore. It is mine; be not uneasy on that score."

And then from the box she drew a little stone image of a man, grotesquely shaped, with great staring eyes, and with a cold, sinister expression upon his carved face. She set it on the floor in front of me; as I looked at it, the face reminded me of someone whom I had seen. Yes, the same hard, cold look and hawk nose of Lord Dunraven; I was struck by the resemblance, for rough, uncouth as the image was, it resembled my lord.

The old crone had sprinkled a yellow powder in front of the idol, and had lit it, and now she was kneeling in front of the image, crooning a low savage song, her eyes, keen and piercing through the smoke, fixed upon me. I rose in disgust. Was I a fool, to sit through such mummery as this?

She called to me even as I stirred, "Let not the Señor arise; but a moment, and he will behold a sight upon the mirror such as he has never seen before. Let him wait but a moment, and gaze upon the disk."

There was something in that look, eager, commanding, fixed upon me, that I could not resist. I resumed my seat.

"I will remain but a moment," I said. "Quick with thy foolery, I am wearied and would go."

"Look upon the glass!" she shrieked. "Look!"

I looked down carelessly at the mirror in my hand. Unaccountably, marvelously, there was something dim, misty, and hazy, growing upon the polished disk; more and more distinct it became, until wonder of wonders, I looked into the violet eyes of Lady Margaret Carroll!—there, lovely, beautiful, divine, she gazed at me, gowned for some ball, a flower in her hair, the soft curved neck encircled by a chain of precious stones, her lovely dimpled chin, and little mouth curved as though laughing at its own red beauty. For a moment I looked at her, and then I was gazing at the vacant glass in my hand.

I sprang to my feet. "Hag!" I cried, "what trick is this? Beware how thou triflest with me."

The voice of the crone floated across to me through the smoke.

"No trick," she mumbled; "'tis but the magic of the great white spirit. Would my lord behold his rival? Look!"

And there upon the silver disk, with his brave, true eyes upon me, shone the face of Bobby Vane.

"'Tis false!" I cried. "False! He would not act thus."

"Wonder not," replied the crone. "Stranger things than this have happened; men would betray all for love of such a maid;" and she muttered something to herself. "Wouldst behold how thy friend conducts himself in thy absence with thy lady-love? Behold!"

And there upon the glass I saw my lady and Bobby. They were at some dance or merry-making, for I could see dimly the moving forms around them. Suddenly they turned and passed out into a moonlit garden, and seated themselves in the shadow of some thick trees. I saw Bobby lean forward nearer that beautiful face; saw him whisper something into that little shell-like ear; saw the smile upon her face; and then, reaching out his hand, he took one of Margaret's in his own, and bent down as though to kiss her, looking into her beautiful blue eyes all the while.

It was more than flesh and blood could stand. With an oath, I cast the mirror far from me, and throwing the cowering crone a coin, strode out from the miserable hut into the free air of heaven.

CHAPTER IX THE LAST REVEL

March, 1588, was here; I had been restrained of my liberty since the sixteenth day of September, 1586, Oliver and myself had made many schemes for our deliverance, but they had all come to naught. We could not cross the mighty sea without a vessel; there was nothing but frail canoes here—light, fragile, they would suffice for a brief sail, but they could never live through the thousands of miles of water that rolled between us and England.

I had spent a great deal of my time in fencing and shooting with the lad, until now I felt that I could hold my own against DeNortier himself. My wrist was of steel, and my strength had grown enormously with my exercise in the open air; I could hit a small coin at thirty yards with a musketoon. Oliver, who knew nothing of a sword when he landed, had become a fairly good swordsman under my training, and was getting so that he could bring down the wild fowl on the wing with the gun.

Returning from a long stroll one evening and going up to my room, I found Oliver engaged in holding up to the light a splendid new doublet of light gray silk. It was a beautiful garment, and he was so occupied in admiring it that he did not hear me come into the door.

"What hast thou there, lad?" I asked. "Thou must have at thy disposal the shops of London, that thou shouldst have such a doublet as that. Faith, not but thou dost need one! That thou hast on now is almost in rags."

The boy turned to me, his face aglow.

"Ah, Sir Thomas! thou mayest laugh, but it is full time that we had some new garments. I have mended the one that thou hast on, until I fear that not a piece of the original cloth remains," and he broke into a merry, ringing laugh. "But the doublet that thou jeerest at is for thee. I have a new lilac one," and turning, he lifted it from a chair and held it up for my inspection.

"What means such prodigality?" I asked in astonishment. "What scheme is on foot?"

"The men hold high revelry to-night," he answered. "Pepin, who came up only a few moments ago, brought us each an entire outfit of new clothing, and told me that the Count sails to-morrow with all his men; that on his return he would resign command to one of his crew, and depart for the great region from whence he came, to return here no more. I asked him whether we were to go with the Count on his cruise to-morrow, and he replied yes, that only the natives would remain behind. He told me also that the Count DeNortier bade us dress in these new garments, and be at the board to-night to join in the feast."

The candles had been lit. Slowly, with the lad's help, I dressed myself in the silks and laces; it had been long since I had been garbed as fitting my birth and station. The clothes brought back to me my old, useless, happy life in far-away London, and the thought of the gayety and pleasure of days gone by, when I had softly spoken into the dainty ears of fair ladies the little useless whispers that went to make up their lives; had moved among the gay throng, the petted plaything of society. It had been sweet while it lasted, but it had passed from me.

Oliver had buckled on my gold-hilted sword, and given me a last touch.

"Thou art prepared, Sir Thomas," he cried, with a grand air and a sweeping bow. "And though thou mayest jeer at me if thou choosest, I will say to thy face, that thou art a goodly sight. Would that the fair ladies of London might see thee to-night; it would create a sensation, I can tell thee."

"Nonsense, boy!" I replied. "I have grown too old and rough to be a pleasant sight for a lady. She would want some fawning tailor's model, sweet-scented and delicate, and not a rude man such as I am."

But, nevertheless, pleased by his light flattery, I stepped forward to where one of the great mirrors hung and glanced at myself. Was this the silent, rough man, clad in his faded doublet, his sword in hand, ready at a moment's notice to defend himself from the foes who sought his life?

There looked back at me from the mirror the figure of a man, clad in splendid silks, a rich collar of lace about his neck, elegantly and richly dressed; his hair, in which the gray threads were beginning to shine, was combed back and fell upon his shoulders. The little pointed beard which he wore, was flecked with gray here and there; and his face, tanned and brown, was one which seemed created to command. The deep lines of suffering had purified and ennobled the face never handsome; the youth and gayety were gone from it, never to return, but 'twas stronger, deeper, better than it had been in the old days. The light hazel eyes, with that look of understanding that only sorrow brings, were more sympathetic and kinder than they had been of yore.

Yet as I looked at myself in the glass, and saw the gray threads in my hair and beard, I felt to-night as though I had reached the summit of the hill of life, and was beginning the long descent down the other side. Yes, to-night I realized that I was beginning to be an old man, with the best in life behind me.

I knew not what the night or morrow held in store for me, but the struggle and toil and suffering of the last year had taught me patience; the fire of youth had burned out, and I would wait, and the morrow would tell.

Oliver had already dressed himself; young and comely he stood there, and I, for the moment, envied him his youth and buoyancy.

Together we descended the stairs, and passed into the great dining hall; both of the large sliding doors between the dining and front room had been thrown back, and now there was but one immense room.

The candlelight that night streamed down on a strange and motley crew. Down the great room there ran three long tables; around them there sat the entire crew of the ship, clad in the silks and satins of the nobles of Europe; with fine collars of lace and gold about their bronzed throats; their long hair perfumed and scented; their faces those of every nationality. It was a scene such as I have never witnessed before or since.

At a small table placed at the head of the room sat DeNortier, stroking his black beard. He arose as we entered.

"Welcome!" he cried. "Welcome to the last revel! Gentlemen, to-morrow we sail for the Spanish Main; who knows how many of us will ever return? Come, be seated here with me," and he motioned us to seats at his table.

There was only one vacant chair left; he noticed my glance at it.

"An old friend, detained by important business; he will not be here to-night. I am sure that thou must regret it," and he grinned at me.

"It is perhaps best that he did not come," I answered. "The night air possibly would not agree with him;" for I guessed that he referred to Dunraven.

He did not answer me, but beat upon his table for silence. The hubbub and noise ceased, and he arose to his feet, goblet in hand.

"My men," he said, "we go on a voyage long and perilous; I know not how many will meet with us again. When we return, I leave thee forever; Davis shall take my place, and be thy chief. I shall return to the Old World and dwell in peace. But before we drink to our voyage, I have one toast that I will give thee in honor of our guest, the Englishman. I give thee the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth of England!—may her years be full of glory and happiness!"

The men had arisen to their feet, glasses in hand; many of them were Englishmen, and, degraded and besotten as they were, they still felt a love for old England and a pride in the achievements of her Queen, whose name and fame rang around the world. As DeNortier ceased, there arose a shout that made the very candles upon the wall flicker in their sockets; once, twice, thrice it rose and fell, like the deep beat of the surf upon the beach—then it died out.

I arose to my feet, cup in hand.

"My men," I said, "I thank thee in the name of the Queen for thy courtesy, and would give thee in return—King Philip of Spain!"

The Spaniards drank it with a cheer, but it was nothing like the shout that had greeted the name of Elizabeth.

Then there were toasts of every sort and kind; the noise at the long tables arose to an uproar as some toast was drank of more than usual interest.

I glanced down the tables where the men sat, for we took no part in their merriment, but sat at our own table, quiet and composed. There were the spoils of many a galleon upon the board; goblets and drinking cups of gold and silver; candlesticks and vessels from the monasteries; richly embroidered altar cloths spread the long tables; and the heavy carved chairs of the priests seated the pirates at their revel. Behind the tables the natives, soft-footed and silent, filled the glasses as oft as they were emptied.

Without the night, quiet and silent, brooded; within the lights, the laughter, the song—revelry held high carnival. To-morrow they would sail, and who knew how many would return? They would feast to-night; what mattered the morrow, which might hold for them the halter? But to-night—ah, yes!—to-night was theirs, and the night was young yet; fill up again.

A tall fellow, his face flushed with the wine he had drunk, was roaring out a wanton love song, his fellows keeping time to the tune with their glasses upon the board. He finished amidst a storm of cheers and applause. Far down the table one of the men had already fallen forward upon the board, overcome by the wine that he had poured down.

A feeling of anxiety came over me; what were not the rogues capable of, when later in the night they should be crazed by the liquor that they had drunk, with nothing to hold them in check except the fear of their chief, and he was but one man, no matter how resolute and determined? What could he do against two hundred and fifty drunken, crazed wretches, hardened to every scene of misery and woe, who feared neither God nor man? Would they not, when they had reached the pitch of frenzy, turn upon Oliver and myself, and vent their fury upon us? For myself, I cared not, but I feared for the boy.

DeNortier must have seen the thought upon my face as I turned to him, for he spoke immediately.

"Have no fear," he said. "I have often had such revels before, and no harm came of it; my men know my hand too well to attempt to anger me."

"For myself, I fear not," I answered. "My only fear was for the boy; I would not have him harmed." And I turned my head to look at Oliver, who with wide eyes was surveying the scene before him.

"Thou needst not worry," he replied; "he is as safe as though he were in his father's house."

"Where is the priest?" I asked. "It is strange that he is not here. I would have thought that he would be the first to come."

The Count smiled. "I looked to see him here too," he answered, "but perhaps he would not come for fear that thou wouldst kill him. He fears thee as though thou wert the foul fiend himself," and he finished with a laugh.

"He has good cause to," I said grimly. "If I had but given him his deserts, he would have been now where no revelry could disturb him."

"He is a strange fellow," DeNortier said musingly, as though half to himself, stroking his pointed black beard. "I picked him up in London, five years ago; he had been expelled from the monastery for drunkenness, and was adrift without chart or compass, when I discovered him. But he has well requited me for my trouble, for he is a useful fellow, and true as steel to me."

I looked at him; it might be that I could win him to my side, or if I could but make him distrust Dunraven, it would be a good night's work.

"Be not so sure of that," I answered.

He started and peered at me, a look of suspicion upon his face.

"Why dost thou say that?" he cried. "Dost know aught of what thou speakest?"

I leaned back in my chair, and regarded him with a cold smile.

"Am I a child, that I speak of what I know not of?" I said.

The look of suspicion deepened upon his face; then there came another, a look of anger.

He spoke: "Show me some proof of that which thou sayest, Sir Thomas; not that I doubt thy word, but this is a matter of importance that thou talkest of, and not to be lightly decided."

"And of what advantage will this be to me?" I asked. "Why should I go to the trouble, if it is to be of no benefit to me?"

He answered me, speaking slowly:

"It is of more importance than thou mayest think; thou art held here by my power; did I but say the word thou shouldst go scot-free. Would that be of advantage to thee? Could I think that the fat rogue played me false, I would soon settle his fate. But why should he do that? It would not be to his advantage, and he knows too well where his bread lies to cut his own throat. His hopes are all based upon me; take me away, and they fall to the ground. No, thou art mistaken, it could not be so."

"Thou hast forgotten that Dunraven is rich and powerful; that he has gold in abundance to reward his servants and tools. He wishes to keep an eye upon thee, as well as myself. Perhaps he thinks that thou mightst become a dangerous rival to him, or mightst be tempted to play him false. What better spy could he choose on us both than Father Francis?" I gazed at him, a smile of triumph upon my face.

He brought down his fist upon the table with a blow that made the glasses ring.

"Show me the proof!" he cried—"but the proof, and then I shall know how to act."

"Oliver," I said, turning to the boy, "go up into my room; move that heavy chest which stands next the wall, and bring down to me the bundle of papers that thou findest behind it."

He arose, and ran lightly from the room. I sat quietly in my seat, and gazed at the Spaniard.

"What effect will this have upon my detention?" I asked. "Wilt thou free me?"

"I shall know better how to answer when I see the papers," he replied hoarsely.

The noise at the tables had redoubled. One of the seamen had brought out a couple of flutes and was urging a short, squat sailor to give them the sword dance. After much pressing by his friends, and after drinking off a couple of glasses of wine, "only to steady his nerves a bit," as he informed them, he announced that he was ready to begin.

A space was cleared in the middle of the room, and in it a dozen swords were fastened, blades upward. The man had taken off his shoes, and stood in his stocking feet, his eyes covered with a cloth.

The flute struck up a wild, barbarous air, and springing into the midst of the swords he began to dance, while the men crowded eagerly around him. Up he went, turning, twisting, whirling, all the while chanting a low savage tune, now leaping to the right, now to the left, but always alighting in the space, perhaps four inches in width, that lay between each sword. Now advancing, now retreating, always evading the perilous blades with a skill that was marvelous to me, when I thought of the cloth over his eyes.

A loud burst of music; he had finished, and was untying the bandage from about his face, midst the cries, "Well done!" of his companions.

And now the outer door opened, and from the darkness outside an Indian appeared, leading by a rope a tame bear. Often had I seen the animal about the native settlement. He was a huge, clumsy, good-natured brute, and as he stood in the middle of the room sniffing the air, his little eyes blinking in the light, his head rolling from side to side, he looked anything but dangerous. His master had taught him to wrestle, and as the animal stood erect on the floor, I saw one of the seamen stripping off his doublet to struggle with him.

The Indian untied the rope from about the brute's head.

"The Señor had best treat him gently to-night," he said in his native tongue to the sailor as he advanced, "for he has been in an ugly humor all day, and it has been only within the last few moments that I have been able to approach him."

I remonstrated with DeNortier.

"The man had best not wrestle with the bear to-night," I said. "The Indian says that he is in an ugly humor, and he might do the sailor a harm."

The Count shrugged his shoulders.

"The brute does not look dangerous," he answered. "I have seen him around here for more than a year, and never have I known him to do any mischief."

I looked at the beast again; truly he did not look dangerous. To-night he seemed the same good-humored giant that he had ever been; only he was a little restless, perhaps the light and the unaccustomed crowd made him so. He was a tremendous fellow, standing six feet or more on his hind legs, and with his long curved paws, he could tear a man to pieces as if he were a leaf, should he become infuriated.

The sailor was ready, and advanced to meet the bear. He was as fine a specimen of mankind as the brute was of the animal creation—tall, broad-shouldered, with big corded arms, upon which the great muscles stood out like the ivy upon some gigantic oak. He might well have stood for a statue representing the brute strength of man.

The beast did not seem disposed to meet his antagonist, and it was only by repeated blows with his stick that his master could persuade him to advance toward the seaman, and then he did so very unwillingly.

The sailor threw his arms around the unresisting animal, and bore down his great weight upon him; with a crash they went down, the man upon the bear. The pirate arose lightly in an instant, but the beast lay still, as if stunned by the fall. Angered by the easy overthrow of his pet, the native brought down his heavy stick with a dull thud upon the bear. With a hoarse growl, he sprang to his feet, his little eyes flashing fire, his tongue protruding from his teeth.

"Do not approach him!" I cried out to the sailor.

But he, flushed with his easy victory and by the wine he had drunk, and goaded on by the cheers of his fellows, would not listen to me. With an oath he sprang forward, wrapped his arms about the brute again, and now followed a terrible struggle.

The bear had wound his paws around the assailant's body, and to and fro they moved, each endeavoring to throw the other. Twice, incredible as it may seem, the man had put forth all of his bull strength, and the bear had tottered—had almost fallen—but each time he had recovered himself, and had borne the man back again. Both times the men had raised a cheer as the bear had staggered, and each time silence had fallen upon them as the brute had hurled back their favorite.

And now they were both becoming exhausted by the fury of the struggle. The great drops of sweat stood out upon the head and arms of the man, his shoulders heaved with the effort—but he was game; the little eyes of the brute had grown dull and glassy, he was plainly tired. It was time for the thing to stop. I had already opened my mouth to DeNortier, to ask him to put a stop to this, when the end came.

The brute had almost ceased to struggle, and his victorious antagonist was bending him backwards, when suddenly the bear stepped upon one of the swords, which still lay edge upwards upon the floor, where the dancer had left them. With a grunt of anger he straightened himself, his eyes flashed fire; plainly his brute mind in some way connected his assailant with the pain. In an instant he tightened his grasp about the man's body, tighter, tighter, tighter; and even as a score sprang forward to drag him from his prey, there was a dull crunch, and the man bent double, fell limp and lifeless to the floor, crushed to death in the terrible paws of his foe.

For an instant the beast stood there erect, his eyes upon the man as he lay at his feet; then a dozen blades leaped from their sheaths, and the seamen were upon him. The light flashed upon their swords for an instant—then the beast fell, pierced in a dozen places, and a convulsion passed over him.

The Indian, in a torrent of tears, threw himself upon his body. "Pepin!" he moaned, "they have killed thee—Pepin, speak to me."

The dying beast opened his eyes, as though called back to life by the voice of one whom he loved; a low grunt of pleasure came from him as he recognized his master. Raising his muzzle, he rubbed it against the Indian's face; then the head fell back upon the floor, a low whine, and he lay still.

The seamen had gathered around the body of their companion, who lay upon the floor where he had fallen. One of their number, who possessed some knowledge of medicine, knelt beside him; rising, he shook his head sadly. "He is dead," he said in a low voice.

DeNortier had arisen, and following him, I passed down to where the sailor lay. The face of the man was stern and set, as he had looked when he was wrestling with the animal. He had had no time for preparation; as he lived, so had he also died. We looked at him for a moment. Only a few brief minutes before he had been among us, in the prime of his magnificent manhood; now he lay there cold and stiff, fit food for the worms and foul reptiles of the earth.

Turning to the pirates, the Count ordered them to remove both the man and the beast, and he made his way back to his seat without so much as another glance. I lingered a moment where the Indian lay upon the body of the animal, his arm locked about its rough head. Here was love, deep and deathless.

The rough sailors were removing the body of one whom they had eaten and caroused with, one who had faced death with them many a time, a comrade and friend, and yet they knew no such love as this. True they stepped softly and spoke in low voices, but that was out of their awe for the unknown; of that cold hand which had beckoned to one with whom they had feasted to leave the board, and he could but obey.

But the poor untaught savage loved the wild beast whom he had trained and fed. His love was something higher, finer, nobler than they could know; and treading softly, I stood by his side with uncovered head and dropped a coin beside him. But he did not move, and quietly I passed back to where DeNortier sat.

Some wise man hath said truly that "in the midst of life we are in death." He was one who knew of the secrets of the soul, had drank deep of the wine of understanding, and who realized how uncertain is our brief hour.

They had carried out both the sailor and the bear, together with the Indian, who had refused to leave his pet, when the door opened and Oliver appeared, the package in his hand.

"I would have returned sooner," he panted, as he extended it towards me, "but the chest was heavy, and I had much work to move it; for the package had slipped under the bottom, and it was some time before I could discover where it lay."

"Why didst thou not call for aid?" I asked, as I cut the cord with which it was secured.

"It was not necessary," he answered, his eye upon me; plainly he thought that I had some reason for remaining behind.

"Here is the proof," I said, as I turned to the Count and laid the bundle of papers upon the table.

It contained the diary and all the notes, save that of my lady, which had lain next my heart ever since I had discovered it. He took the package, and opening it, began methodically to read the papers.

Oliver and myself had resumed our seats, to await the result of DeNortier's investigation. I glanced down the long tables; the men had taken their seats, but, hardened as they were, the tragedy had cast a gloom over their spirits, and they sat in silence, drinking deeply of the wine, only speaking softly among themselves. Their silence, deep and unbroken, was a strange contrast to the mirth and turmoil that only a few minutes before had rung through the room.

There is something in silence that oppresses the mind; we can bear the noise and roar with a good grace, but silence is a quality that strikes dismay within the breast of man. To-night, as I gazed upon these silent men, I felt a thrill of something pass over me—'twas not fear, it was more like dread, that foe I had seldom experienced since I came to man's estate. They were dangerous thus; in the feasting and revelry they had not had time to plot, but now they were silent and had the opportunity.

I was now aroused by Oliver, who caught my sleeve.

"What is it?" he whispered. "Why have the men grown so silent?"

I whispered to him what had happened.

"Awful," he murmured, as he covered his face with his hands, "I am glad that I missed the sight."

The pirate had spoken not a word since he had taken the papers. Slowly, carefully, he glanced over them one by one, but now he had finished. With an oath, he threw them from the table.