In the Roar of the Sea

“To be sure,” responded Wyvill, “never was a truer word said than when Solomon was called the wisest o’ men.”

CHAPTER L.

PLAYING FORFEITS.

“Here am I once more,” said Mr. Scantlebray, walking into Othello Cottage with a rap at the door but without waiting for an invitation to enter. “Come back like the golden summer, but at a quicker rate. How are you all? I left you rather curtly—without having had time to pay my proper congé.”

Judith and Jamie were sitting over the fire. No candle had been lighted, for, though a good many things had been brought over to Othello Cottage for their use, candles had been forgotten, and Judith did not desire to ask for more than was furnished her, certainly not to go to the Glaze for the things needed. They had a fire, but not one that blazed. It was of drift-wood, that smouldered and would not flame, and as it burned emitted a peculiar odor.

Jamie was in good spirits, he chattered and laughed, and Judith made pretence that she listened, but her mind was absent, she had cares that had demands on every faculty of her mind. Moreover, now and then her thoughts drifted off to a picture that busy fancy painted and dangled before them—of Portugal, with its woods of oranges, golden among the burnished leaves, and its vines hung with purple grapes—with its glowing sun, its blue glittering sea—and, above all, she mused on the rest from fears, the cessation from troubles which would have ensued, had there been a chance for her to accept the offer made, and to have left the Cornish coast for ever.

Looking into the glowing ashes, listening to her thoughts as they spoke, and seeming to attend to the prattle of the boy, Judith was surprised by the entry of Mr. Scantlebray.

“There—disengaged, that is capital,” said the agent. “The very thing I hoped. And now we can have a talk. You have never understood that I was your sincere friend. You have turned from me and looked elsewhere, and now you suffer for it. But I am like all the best metal—strong and bright to the last; and see—I have come to you now to forewarn you, because I thought that if it came on you all at once there would be trouble and bother.”

“Thank you, Mr. Scantlebray. It is true that we are not busy just now, but it does not follow that we are disposed for a talk. It is growing dark, and we shall lock up the cottage and go to bed.”

“Oh, I will not detain you long. Besides I’ll take the wish out of your heart for bed in one jiffy. Look here—read this. Do you know the handwriting?”

He held out a letter. Judith reluctantly took it. She had risen; she had not asked Scantlebray to take a seat.

“Yes,” she said, “that is the writing of Captain Coppinger.”

“A good bold hand,” said the agent, “and see here is his seal with his motto, Thorough. You know that?”

“Yes—it is his seal.”

“Now read it.”

Judith knelt at the hearth.

“Blow, blow the fire up, my beauty,” called Scantlebray to Jamie. “Don’t you see that your sister wants light, and is running the risk of blinding her sweet pretty eyes.” Jamie puffed vigorously and sent out sparks snapping and blinking, and brought the wood to a white glow, by which Judith was able to decipher the letter.

It was a formal order from Cruel Coppinger to Mr. Obadiah Scantlebray to remove James Trevisa that evening, after dark, from Othello Cottage to his idiot asylum, to remain there in custody till further notice. Judith remained kneeling, with her eyes on the letter, after she had read it. She was considering. It was clear to her that directly after leaving her Captain Coppinger had formed his own resolve, either impatient of waiting the six hours he had allowed her, or because he thought the alternative of the Asylum the only one that could be accepted by her, and it was one that would content himself, as the only one that avoided exposure of a scandal. But there were other asylums than that of Scantlebray, and others were presumably better managed, and those in charge less severe in their dealings. She had considered this, as she looked into the fire. But a new idea had also at the same time lightened in her mind, and she had a third alternative to propose.

She had been waiting for the moment when to go to the Glaze and see Coppinger, and just at the moment when she was about to send Jamie to bed and leave the house Scantlebray came in.

“Now then,” said the agent, “what do you think of me—that I am a real friend?”

“I thank you for having told me this,” answered Judith, “and now I will go to Pentyre. I beg that you will not allow my brother to be conveyed away during my absence. Wait till I return. Perhaps Captain Coppinger may not insist on the removal at once. If you are a real friend, as you profess, you will do this for me.”

“I will do it willingly. That I am a real friend I have shown you by my conduct. I have come beforehand to break news to you which might have been too great and too overwhelming had it come on you suddenly. My brother and a man or two will be here in an hour. Go by all means to Captain Cruel, but,” Scantlebray winked an eye, “I don’t myself think you will prevail with him.”

“I will thank you to remain here for half an hour with Jamie,” said Judith, coldly. “And to stay all proceedings till my return. If I succeed—well. If not, then only a few minutes have been lost. I have that to say to Captain Coppinger which may, and I trust will, lead him to withdraw that order.”

“Rely on me. I am a rock on which you may build,” said Scantlebray. “I will do my best to entertain your brother, though, alas! I have not the abilities of Obadiah, who is a genius, and can keep folks hour by hour going from one roar of laughter into another.”

No sooner was Judith gone than Scantlebray put his tongue into one side of his cheek, clicked, pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and seated himself opposite Jamie on the stool beside the fire which had been vacated by Judith. Jamie had understood nothing of the conversation that had taken place, his name had not been mentioned, and consequently his attention had not been drawn to it away from some chestnuts he had found, or which had been given to him, that he was baking in the ashes on the hearth.

“Fond of hunting, eh?” asked Scantlebray, stretching his legs and rubbing his hands. “You are like me—like to be in at the death. What do you suppose I have in my pocket? Why, a fox with a fiery tail. Shall we run him to earth? Shall we make an end of him? Tally-ho! Tally-ho! here he is. Oh, sly Reynard, I have you by the ears.” And forth from the tail-pocket of his coat Scantlebray produced a bottle of brandy. “What say you, corporal, shall we drink his blood? Bring me a couple of glasses and I’ll pour out his gore.”

“I haven’t any,” said Jamie. “Ju and I have two mugs, that is all.”

“And they will do famously. Here goes—off with the mask!” and with a blow he knocked away the head and cork of the bottle. “No more running away for you, my beauty, except down our throats. Mugs! That is famous. Come, shall we play at army and navy, and the forfeit be a drink of Reynard’s blood?”

Jamie pricked up his ears; he was always ready for a game of play.

“Look here,” said Scantlebray. “You are in the military, I am in the nautical line. Each must address the other by some title in accordance with the profession each professes, and the forfeit of failure is a pull at the bottle. What do you say! I will begin. Set the bottle there between us. Now then, Sergeant, they tell me your aunt has come in for a fortune. How much? What is the figure, eh?”

“I don’t know,” responded Jamie, and was at once caught up with “Forfeit! forfeit!”

“Oh, by Jimminy, there am I, too, in the same box. Take your swig, Commander, and pass to me.”

“But what am I to call you?” asked the puzzle-headed boy.

“Mate, or captain, or boatswain, or admiral.”

“I can’t remember all that.”

“Mate will do. Always say mate, whatever you ask or answer. Do you understand, General!”

“Yes.”

“Forfeit! forfeit! You should have said ‘Yes, mate.’” Mr. Scantlebray put his hands to his sides and laughed. “Oh, Jimminy! there am I again. The instructor as bad as the pupil. I’m a bad fellow as instructor, that I am, Field-Marshal. So—your Aunt Dionysia has come in for some thousands of pounds—how many do you think! Have you heard?”

“I think I’ve heard——”

“Mate! Mate!”

“I think I’ve heard, Mate.”

“Now, how many do you remember to have heard named? Was it five thousand? That is what I heard named—eh, Captain?”

“Oh, more than that,” said Jamie, in his small mind catching at a chance of talking-big, “a great lot more than that.”

“What, ten thousand?”

“I dare say; yes, I think so.”

“Forfeit! forfeit! pull again, Centurion.”

“Yes, Mate, I’m sure.”

“Ten thousand—why, at five per cent. that’s a nice little sum for you and Ju to look forward to when the old hull springs a leak and goes to the bottom.”

“Yes,” answered Jamie, vaguely. He could not look beyond the day, moreover he did not understand the figurative speech of his comrade.

“Forfeit again, General! But I’ll forgive you this time, or you’ll get so drunk you’ll not be able to answer me a question. Bless my legs and arms! on that pretty little sum one could afford one’s self a new tie every Sunday. You will prove a beau and buck indeed some day, Captain of Thousands! And then you won’t live in this little hole. By the way, I hear old Dunes Trevisa, I beg pardon, Field-Marshal Sir James, I mean your much respected aunt, Miss Trevisa, has got a charming box down by S. Austell. You’ll ask me down for the shooting, won’t you, Commander-in-Chief?”

“Yes, I will,” answered Jamie.

“And you’ll give me the best bedroom, and will have choice dinners, and the best old tawny port, eh?”

“Yes, to be sure,” said the boy, flattered.

“Mate! mate! forfeit! and I suppose you’ll keep a hunter?”

“I shall have two—three,” said Jamie.

“And if I were you, I’d keep a pack of fox-hounds.”

“I will.”

“That’s for the winter, and other hounds for the summer.”

“I am sure I will, and wear a red coat.”

“Famous! but—there I spare you this time—you forfeited again.”

“No, I won’t be spared,” protested the boy.

“As for a wretched little hole like this Othello Cottage——” said Scantlebray. “But, by the bye, you have never shown me over the house. How many rooms are there in it, Generalissimo of His Majesty’s Forces!”

“There’s my bedroom there,” said Jamie.

“Yes; and that door leads to your sister’s?”

“Yes. And there’s the kitchen.”

“And up-stairs!”

“There’s no up-stairs.”

“Now, you are very clever—clever. By Ginger, you must be to be Commander-in-chief; but ’pon my word, I can’t believe that. No up-stairs. There must be up-stairs.”

“No, there’s not.”

“But by Jimminy! with such a roof as this house has got, and a little round window in the gable. There must be an up-stairs.”

“No there’s not.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Because there are no stairs at all.” Then Jamie jumped up, but rolled on one side, the brandy he had drunk had made him unsteady. “I’ll show you mate—mate—yes, mate. There three times now will do for times I haven’t said it. There—in my room. The floor is rolling; it won’t stay steady. There are cramps in the wall, no stairs, and so you get up to where it all is.”

“All what is?”

“Forfeit, forfeit!” shouted Jamie. “Say general or something military. I don’t know. Ju won’t let me go up there; but there’s tobacco, for one thing.”

“Where’s a candle, Corporal?”

“There is none. We have no light but the fire.” Then Jamie dropped back on his stool, unable to keep his legs.

“I am more provident than you. I have a lantern outside, unlighted, as I thought I might need it on my return. The nights close in very fast and very dark now, eh, Commander?”

Mr. Scantlebray went outside the cottage, looked about him, specially directing his eyes toward the Glaze. Then he chuckled and said:

“Sent Miss Judith on a wild goose chase, have I? Ah ha! Captain Coppinger, I’ll have a little entertainment for you to-night. The preventives will snatch your goods at Porth-leze or Constantine, and here—behind your back—I’ll attend to your store of tobacco and whatever else I may find.”

Then he returned and going to the fire extracted the candle from the lantern and lighted it at a burning log.

“Halloa, Captain of thousands! Going to sleep? There’s the bottle. You must make up forfeits. You’ve been dishonest I fear and not paid half. That door did you say?”

But Jamie was past understanding a question, and Mr. Scantlebray could find out for himself now what he wanted to know. That this house had been used by Coppinger as a store for some of the smuggled cargoes he had long suspected, but he had never been able to obtain any evidence which would justify the coast-guard in applying to the justices for a search-warrant. Now he would be able to look about it at his leisure, while Judith was absent. He did not suppose Coppinger was at the Glaze. He assumed that an attempt would be made, as the clerk of St. Enodoc had informed him, to land the cargo of the Black Prince to the west of the estuary of the Camel, and he supposed that Coppinger would be there to superintend. He had used the letter sent to his brother to induce the girl to go to Pentyre, and so leave the cottage clear for him to search it.

Now, holding the candle, he entered the bedroom of Jamie, and soon perceived the cramps the boy had spoken of that served in place of stairs. Above was a door into the attic, whitewashed over, like the walls. Mr. Scantlebray climbed, thrust open the door and crept into the garret.

“Ah, ha!” said the valuer. “So, so, Captain! I have come on one of your lairs at last. And I reckon I will make it warm for you. But, by Ginger, it is a pity I can’t remove some of what is here.”

He prowled about in the roomy loft, searching every corner. There were a few small kegs of spirit, but the stores were mostly of tobacco.

In about ten minutes Mr. Scantlebray reappeared in the room where was Jamie. He was without his candle. The poor boy, overcome by what he had drunk, had fallen on the floor and was in a tipsy sleep.

Scantlebray went to him.

“Come along with me,” he said. “Come, there is no time to be lost. Come, you fool!”

He shook him, but Jamie would not be roused, he kicked and struck out with his fists.

“You won’t come? I’ll make you.”

Then Scantlebray caught the boy by the shoulders to drag him to the door. The child began to struggle and resist.

“Oh! I’m not concerned for you, fool,” said Scantlebray. “If you like to stay and take your chance—my brother will be here to carry you off presently. Will you come?”

Scantlebray caught the boy by the feet and tried to drag him, but Jamie clung to the table-legs.

Scantlebray uttered an oath—“Stay, you fool, and be smothered! The world will get on very well without you.”

And he strode forth from the cottage.

CHAPTER LI.

SURRENDER.

Scantlebray was mistaken. Coppinger had not crossed the estuary of the Camel. He was at Pentyre Glaze awaiting the time when the tide suited for landing the cargo of the Black Prince. In the kitchen were a number of men having their supper and drinking, waiting also for the proper moment when to issue forth.

At the turn of the tide the Black Prince would approach in the gathering darkness and would come as near in as she dare venture. The wind had fallen, but the sea was running, and with the tide setting in she would approach the cove.

Judith hastened toward the Glaze. Darkness had set in, but in the north were auroral lights, first a great, white halo, then rays that shot up to the zenith, and then a mackerel sky of rosy light. The growl and mutter of the sea filled the air with threat like an angry multitude surging on with blood and destruction in their hearts.

The flicker overhead gave Judith light for her cause; the snow had melted except in ditches and under hedges, and there it glared red or white in response to the changing, luminous tinges of the heavens. When she reached the house she at once entered the hall; there Coppinger was awaiting her. He knew she would come to him when her mind was made up on the alternatives he had offered her, and he believed he knew pretty surely which she would choose. It was because he expected her that he had not suffered the men collected for the work of the night to invade the hall.

“You are here,” he said. He was seated by the fire; he looked up, but did not rise. “Almost too late.”

“Almost, maybe, but not altogether,” answered Judith. “And yet it seems unnecessary, as you have already acted without awaiting my decision.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I have been shown your letter.”

“Oh! Obadiah Scantlebray is premature.”

“He is not at Othello Cottage yet. His brother came beforehand to prepare me.”

“How considerate of your feelings,” sneered Captain Cruel. “I would not have expected that of Scantlebray.”

“You have not awaited my decision,” said Judith.

“That is true,” answered Coppinger, carelessly. “I knew you would shrink from the exposure, the disgrace of publication of what has occurred here. I knew you so well that I could reckon beforehand on what you would elect.”

“But, why to Scantlebray? Are there not other asylums?”

“Yes: so long as that boy is placed where he can do no mischief, I care not.”

“Then, if that be so, I have another proposal to make.”

“What is that?” Coppinger stood up.

“If you have any regard for my feelings, any care for my happiness, you will grant my request.”

“Let me hear it.”

“Mr. Menaida is going to Portugal.”

“What!”—in a tone of concentrated rage—“Oliver?”

“Oliver and his father. But the proposal concerns the father.”

“Go on.” Coppinger strode once across the room, then back again. “Go on,” he said, savagely.

“Old Mr. Menaida offers to take Jamie with him. He intends to settle at Oporto, near his son, who has been appointed to a good situation there. He will gladly undertake the charge of Jamie. Let Jamie go with them. There he can do no harm.”

“What, go—without you! Did they not want you to go, also?”

Judith hesitated and flushed. There was a single tallow candle on the table. Coppinger took it up, snuffed it, and held the flame to her face to study its expression. “I thought so,” he said, and put down the light again.

“Jamie is useful to Mr. Menaida,” pleaded Judith, in some confusion, and with a voice of tremulous apology.

“He stuffs birds so beautifully, and Uncle Zachie—I mean Mr. Menaida—has set his heart on making a collection of the Spanish and Portuguese birds.”

“Oh, yes; he understands the properties of arsenic,” said Coppinger, with a scoff.

Judith’s eyes fell. Captain Cruel’s tone was not reassuring.

“You say that you care not where Jamie be, so long as he is where he cannot hurt you,” said Judith.

“I did not say that,” answered Coppinger. “I said that he must be placed where he can injure no one.”

“He can injure no one if he is with Mr. Menaida, who will well watch him, and keep him employed.”

Coppinger laughed bitterly. “And you? Will you be satisfied to have the idolized brother with the deep seas rolling between you?”

“I must endure it. It is the least of evils.”

“But you would be pining to have wings and fly over the sea to him.”

“If I have not wings I cannot go.”

“Now hearken,” said Coppinger. He clinched his fist and laid it on the table. “I know very well what this means. Oliver Menaida is at the bottom of this. It is not the fool Jamie who is wanted in Portugal, but the clever Judith. They have offered to take the boy, that through him they may attract you, unless,” his voice thrilled, “they have already dared to propose that you should go with them.”

Judith was silent.

Coppinger clinched his second hand and laid that also on the table. “I swear to heaven,” said he, “that if I and that Oliver Menaida meet again, it is for the last time for one or other of us. We have met twice already. It is an understood thing between us, when we meet again, one wets his boots in the other’s blood. Do you hear? The world will not hold us two any longer. Portugal may be far off, but it is too near Cornwall for me.”

Judith made no answer. She looked fixedly into the gloomy eyes of Coppinger, and said—

“You have strange thoughts. Suppose—if you will—that the invitation included me, I could not have accepted it.”

“Why not! You refuse to regard yourself as married, and if unmarried, you are free—and if free, ready to elope with——” he would not utter the name in his quivering fury.

“I pray you,” said Judith, offended, “do not insult me.”

“I—insult you? It is a daily insult to me to be treated as I have been. It is driving me mad.”

“But, do you not see,” urged Judith, “you have offered me two alternatives and I ask for a third, yours are jail or an asylum, mine is exile. Both yours are to me intolerable. Conceive of my state were Jamie either in jail or with Mr. Scantlebray. In jail—and I should be thinking of him all day and all night in his prison garb, tramping the tread-mill, beaten, driven on, associated with the vilest of men, an indelible stain put, not on him only, but on the name of our dear, dear father. Do you think I could bear that? or take the other alternative? I know the Scantlebrays. I should have the thoughts of Jamie distressed, frightened, solitary, ill-treated, ever before me. I had it for a few hours once and it drove me frantic. It would make me mad in a week. I know that I could not endure it. Either alternative would madden or kill me. And I offer another—if he were in exile, I could at least think of him as happy among the orange groves, in the vineyards, among kind friends, happy, innocent—at worst, forgetting me. That I could bear. But the other—no, not for a week—they would be torture insufferable.” She spoke full of feverish vehemence, with her hands outspread before her.

“And this smiling vision of Jamie happy in Portugal would draw your heart from me.”

“You never had my heart,” said Judith.

Coppinger clinched his teeth. “I will hear no more of this,” said he.

Then Judith threw herself on her knees, and caught him and held him, lifting her entreating face toward his.

“I have undergone it—for some hours. I know it will madden or kill me. I cannot—I cannot—I cannot,” she could scarce breathe, she spoke in gasps.

“You cannot what?” he asked, sullenly.

“I cannot live on the terms you offer. You take from me even the very wish to live. Take away the arsenic from me—lest in madness I give it to myself. Take me far inland from these cliffs—lest in my madness I throw myself over—I could not bear it. Will nothing move you?”

“Nothing.” He stood before her, his feet apart, his arms folded, his chin on his breast, looking into her uplifted, imploring face. “Yes—one thing. One thing only.” He paused, raking her face with his eyes. “Yes—one thing. Be mine wholly—unconditionally. Then I will consent. Be mine; add your name where it is wanting. Resume your ring—and Jamie shall go with the Menaidas. Now, choose.”

He drew back. Judith remained kneeling, upright, on the floor with arms extended—she had heard and at first hardly comprehended him. Then she staggered to her feet.

“Well,” said Coppinger, “what answer do you make?” Still she could not speak. She went to the table with uncertain steps. There was a wooden form by it. She seated herself on this, placed her arms on the board, joining her hands, and laid her head, face downward, between them on the table.

Coppinger remained where he was, watching and waiting. He knew what her action implied—that she was to be left alone with her thoughts, to form her resolve undisturbed. He remained, accordingly, motionless, but with his eyes fixed on the golden hair that flickered in the dim light of the one candle. The wick had a great fungus in it—so large and glaring that in another moment it must fall, and fall on Judith’s hand. Coppinger saw this and he thrust forth his arm to snuff the candle with his fingers, but his hand shook, and the light was extinguished. It mattered not. There were glowing coals on the hearth, and through the window flared and throbbed the auroral lights.

A step sounded outside. Then a hand was on the door. Coppinger at once strode across the hall, and arrested the intruder from entering.

“Who is that?”

“Hender Pendarvis”—the clerk of St. Enodoc. “I have some’ut partickler I must say.”

Coppinger looked at Judith; she lay motionless, her head between her arms on the board. He partly opened the door and stepped forth into the porch.

When he had heard what the clerk of St. Enodoc had to say, he answered with an order, “Round to the kitchen—bid the men arm and go by the beach.”

He returned into the hall, went to the fireplace and took down a pair of pistols, tried them that they were charged, and thrust them into his belt.

Next he went up to Judith, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Time presses,” he said; “I have to be off. Your answer.” She looked up. The board was studded with drops of water. She had not wept, these stains were not her tears, they were the sweat of anguish off her brow that had run over the board.

“Well, Judith, our answer.”

“I accept.”

“Unreservedly?”

“Unreservedly.”

“Stay,” said he. He spoke low, indistinctly articulated sentences. “Let there be no holding back between us. You shall know all. You have wondered concerning the death of Wyvill—I know you have asked questions about it. I killed him.”

He paused.

“You heard of the wreckers on that vessel cast on Doom Bar. I was their leader.”

Again he paused.

“You thought I had sent Jamie out with a light to mislead the vessel. You thought right. I did have her drawn to her destruction, and by your brother.”

He paused again. He saw Judith’s hand twitch: that was the only sign of emotion in her.

“And Lady Knighton’s jewels. I took them off her—it was I who tore her ear.”

Again a stillness. The sky outside shone in at the window, a lurid red. From the kitchen could be heard the voice of a man singing.

“Now you know all,” said Coppinger. “I would not have you take me finally, fully, unreservedly without knowing the truth. Give me your resolve.”

She slightly lifted her hands; she looked steadily into his face with a stony expression in hers.

“What is it!”

“I cannot help myself—unreservedly yours.”

Then he caught her to him, pressed her to his heart and kissed her wet face—wet as though she had plunged it into the sea.

“To-morrow,” said he, “to-morrow shall be our true wedding.”

And he dashed out of the house.

CHAPTER LII.

TO JUDITH.

In the smugglers’ cave were Oliver Menaida and the party of Preventive men, not under his charge, but under that of Wyvill. This man, though zealous in the execution of his duty, and not averse, should the opportunity offer, of paying off a debt in full with a bullet, instead of committing his adversary to the more lenient hands of the law, shared in that failing, if it were a failing, of being unable to do anything without being primed with spirits, a failing that was common at that period, to coast-guards and smugglers alike. The latter had to be primed in order to run a cargo, and the former must be in like condition to catch them at it. It was thought, not unjustly, that the magistrates before whom, if caught, the smugglers were brought, needed priming in order to ripen their intellects for pronouncing judgment. But it was not often that a capture was effected. When it was, priming was allowed for the due solemnization of the fact by the captors; failure always entitled them to priming in order to sustain their disappointment with fortitude. Wyvill had lost a brother in the cause, and his feelings often overcame him when he considered his loss, and their poignancy had to be slaked with the usual priming. It served, as its advocates alleged, as a great stimulant to courage; but it served also, as its deprecators asserted, as a solvent to discipline.

Now that the party were in possession of the den of their adversaries, such a success needed, in their eyes, commemoration. They were likely, speedily, to have a tussle with the smugglers, and to prepare themselves for that required the priming of their nerves and sinews. They had had a sharp struggle with the sea in rounding Pentyre Point, and their unstrung muscles and joints demanded screwing up again by the same means.

The Black Prince had been discerned through the falling darkness drawing shoreward with the rising tide; but it was certain that for another hour or two the men would have to wait before she dropped anchor, and those ashore came down to the unloading.

A lantern was lighted, and the cave was explored. Certainly Coppinger’s men from the land would arrive before the boats from the Black Prince, and it was determined to at once arrest them, and then await the contingent in the boats, and fall on them as they landed. The party was small, it consisted of but seven men, and it was advisable to deal with the smugglers piecemeal.

The men, having leisure, brought out their food, and tapped the keg they had procured at the Rock. It was satisfactory to them that the Black Prince was apparently bent on discharging the cargo that night and in that place, thus they would not have to wait in the cave twenty-four hours, and not, after all, be disappointed.

“All your pistols charged?” asked Wyvill.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Then take your suppers while you may. We shall have hot work presently. Should a step be heard below, throw a bit o’ sailcloth over the lantern, Samson.”

Oliver was neither hungry nor thirsty. He had both eaten and drunk sufficient when at the station. He therefore left the men to make their collation, prime their spirits, pluck up their courage, screw up their nerves, polish their wits, all with the same instrument, and descended the slope of shingle, stooped under the brow of rock that divided the lower from the upper cave, and made his way to the entrance, and thence out over the sands of the cove. He knew that the shore could be reached only by the donkey-path, or by the dangerous track down the chimney—a track he had not discovered till he had made a third exploration of the cave. Down this tortuous and perilous descent he was convinced the smugglers would not come. It was, he saw, but rarely used, and designed as a way of escape only on an emergency. A too-frequent employment of this path would have led to a treading of the turf on the cliff above, and to a marking of the line of descent, that would have attracted the attention of the curious, and revealed to the explorer the place of retreat.

Oliver, therefore, went forward toward the point where the donkey-path reached the sands, deeming it advisable that a watch should be kept on this point, so that his party might be forewarned in time of the approach of the smugglers.

There was much light in the sky, a fantastic, mysterious glow, as though some great conflagration were taking place and the clouds over head reflected its flicker.

There passed throbs of shadow from side to side, and as Oliver looked he could almost believe that the light he saw proceeded from a great bonfire, such as was kindled on the Cornish Moors on Midsummer’s Eve, and that the shadows were produced by men and women dancing round the flames and momentarily intercepting the light.

Then ensued a change. The rose hue vanished suddenly, and in its place shot up three broad ribbons of silver light; and so bright and clear was the light that the edge of the cliff against it was cut as sharp as a black silhouette on white paper, and he could see every bush of gorse there, and a sheep—a solitary sheep.

Suddenly he was startled by seeing a man before him, coming over the sand.

“Who goes there?”

“What—Oliver! I have found you!” the answer was in his father’s voice. “Oh, well, I got fidgeted, and I thought I would come and see if you had arrived.”

“For heaven’s sake, you have told no one of our plans?”

“I—bless you, boy—not I. You know you told me yourself, before going to the station, what you intended, and I was troubled and anxious, and I came to see how things were turning out. The Black Prince is coming in; she will anchor shortly. She can’t come beyond the point yonder. I was sure you would be here. How many have you brought with you?”

“But six.”

“Too few. However, now I am with you, that makes eight.”

“I wish you had not come, father.”

“My boy, I did not come only on your account. I have my poor little Ju so near my heart that I long to put out if only a finger to liberate her from that ruffian, whom by the way I have challenged.”

“Yes—but I have stepped in as your substitute. I shall, I trust, try conclusions with Coppinger to-night. Come with me to the cave I told you of. We will send a man to keep guard at the foot of the donkey path.”

Oliver led the way; the sands reflected the illumination of the sky, and the foam that swept up the beach had a rosy tinge. The waves hissed as they rushed up the shore, as though impatient at men speaking and not listening to the voice of the ocean, that should subdue all human tongues, and command mute attention. And yet that roar is inarticulate, it is like the foaming fury of the dumb, that strives with noise and gesticulation to explain the thoughts that are working within.

In the cave it was dark, and Oliver lighted a piece of touchwood as a means of observing the shelving ground, and taking his direction, till he passed under the brow of rock and entered the upper cavern.

After a short scramble, the dim yellow glow of light from this inner recess was visible, when Oliver extinguished his touchwood and pushed on, guided by this light.

On entering the upper cave he was surprised to find the guards lying about asleep, and snoring. He went at once to Wyvill, seized him by the arm and shook him, but none of his efforts could rouse him. He lay as a log, or as one stunned.

“Father! help me with the others,” said Oliver in great concern.

Mr. Menaida went from one to the other, spoke to each, shook him, held the lantern to his eyes; he raised their heads; when he let go his hold, they fell back.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Oliver.

“Humph!” said old Menaida, “I’ll tell you what this means. There is a rogue among them, and their drink has been drugged with deadly night-shade. You might be sure of this—that among six coast-guards one would be in the pay of Coppinger. Which is it? Whoever it is, he is pretending to be as dead drunk and stupefied as the others, and which is the man, Noll?”

“I cannot tell. This keg of brandy was got at the Rock Inn.”

“It was got there and there drugged, but by one of this company. Who is it?”

“Yes,” said Oliver, waxing wrathful, “and what is more, notice was sent to Coppinger to be on his guard. I saw the sexton going in the direction of Pentyre.”

“That man is a rascal.”

“And now we shall not encounter Coppinger. He will be warned and not come.”

“Trust him to come. He has heard of this. He will come and murder them all as he did Wyvill.”

Oliver felt as though a frost had fallen on him.

“Hah!” said old Menaida. “Never trust anyone in this neighborhood; you cannot tell who is not in the pay or under the control of Coppinger, from the magistrate on the bench to the huckster who goes round the country. Among these six men, one is a spy and a traitor. Which it is we cannot tell. There is nothing else to be done but to bind them all, hand and foot. There is plenty of cord here.”

“Plenty. But surely not Wyvill.”

“Wyvill and all. How can you say that he is not the man who has done it? Many a fellow has carried his brother in his pocket. What if he has been bought?”

Old Menaida was right. He had not lived so many years in the midst of smugglers without having learned something of their ways. His advice must be taken, for the danger was imminent. If, as he supposed, full information had been sent to Captain Cruel, then he and his men would be upon them shortly.

Oliver hastily brought together all the cord of a suitable thickness he could find, and the old father raised and held each Preventive man, while Oliver firmly bound him hand and foot. As he did not know which was shamming sleep, he must bind all. Of the six, five were wholly unconscious what was being done to them, and the sixth thought it advisable to pretend to be as the rest, for he was quite aware that neither Oliver nor his father would scruple to silence him effectually did he show signs of animation.

When all were made fast, old Mr. Menaida said:

“Now, Noll, my boy, are you armed?”

“No, father. When I went from home I expected to return. I did not know I should want weapons. But these fellows have their pistols and cutlasses.”

“Try the pistols. There, take that of the man Wyvill. Are you sure they are loaded?”

“I know they are.”

“Well, try.”

Oliver took Wyvill’s pistol, and put in the ramrod.

“Oh yes, it is loaded.”

“Make sure. Draw the loading. You don’t know what it is to have to do with Coppinger.”

Oliver drew the charge, and then, as is usual, when the powder has been removed, blew down the barrel. Then he observed that there was a choke somewhere. He took the pistol to the lantern, opened the side of the lantern and examined it. The touch-hole was plugged with wax.

“Humph!” said Mr. Menaida. “The man who drugged the liquor waxed the touch-holes of the pistols. Try the rest.”

Oliver did not now trouble himself to draw the charges; he cocked each man’s pistol and drew the trigger. Not one would discharge. All had been treated in like manner.

Oliver thought for a moment what was to be done. He dared not leave the sleeping men unprotected, and he and his father alone were insufficient to defend them.

“Father,” said he, “there is but one thing that can be done now: you must go at once, fly to the nearest farmhouses and collect men, and, if possible, hold the donkey path before Coppinger and his men arrive. If you are too late, pursue them. I will choke the narrow entrance, and will light a fire. Perhaps they may be afraid when they see a blaze here, and may hold off. Anyhow, I can defend this place for a while. But I don’t expect that they will attack it.”

Mr. Menaida at once saw that his son’s judgment was right, and he hurried out of the cave, Oliver holding the light to assist him to descend, and then he made his way over the sands to the path, and up that to the downs.

No sooner was he gone than Oliver collected what wood and straw were there, sailcloth, oilcloth, everything that was combustible, and piled them up into a heap, then applied the candle to them, and produced a flame. The wood was damp and did not burn freely, but he was able to awake a good fire that filled the cavern with light. He trusted that when the smugglers saw that their den was in the possession of the enemy they would not risk the attempt to enter and recover it. They might not, they probably did not, know to what condition the holders of the cave were reduced.

The light of the fire roused countless bats that had made the roof of the cave their resting-place, and they flew wildly to and fro with whirr of wings and shrill screams.

Oliver set to work with all haste to heap stones so as to choke the entrance from the lower cave, by which he anticipated that the smugglers would enter, should they resolve on so desperate a course. But owing to the rapid inclination, the pebbles yielded, and what he piled up rolled down. He then, with great effort, got the boat thrust down to the opening, and by main force drew it partly across. It was not possible for him completely to block the entrance, but by planting the boat athwart it, he could prevent several men from entering at once, and whoever did enter must scramble over the bulwarks of the boat.

All this took some time, and he was thus engaged, when his attention was suddenly arrested by the click of a pistol brought to the cock. He looked hastily about him, and saw Coppinger, who, unobserved, had descended by the chimney, and now by the light of the fire was taking deliberate aim at him. Oliver drew back behind a rock.

“You coward!” shouted Captain Cruel. “Come out and be shot.”

“I am no coward,” answered Oliver. “Let us meet with equal arms. I have a cutlass.” He had taken one from the side of a sleep-drunk coast-guard.

“I prefer to shoot you down as a dog,” said Coppinger.

Then holding his pistol levelled in the direction of Oliver, he approached the sleeping men. Oliver saw at once his object: he would liberate the confederate. He stepped out from behind the rock, and immediately the pistol was discharged. A bat fell at the feet of Oliver. Had not that bat at the moment whizzed past his head and received the ball in its soft and yielding body, the young man would have fallen shot through his head.

Coppinger uttered a curse, and put his hand to his belt and drew forth his second pistol. But Oliver sprang forward, and with a sweep of his cutlass caught him on the wrist with the blade as he was about to touch the trigger. The pistol fell from his hand, and a rush of blood overflowed the back of the hand.

Coppinger remained for one minute motionless. So did Oliver, who did not again raise his cutlass.

But at that moment a harsh voice was heard crying, “There he is, my men, at him; beat his brains out. A guinea for the first man who knocks him over,” and from the further side of the boat, illumined by the glare from the fire, were seen the faces of Mr. Scantlebray, his brother, and several men, who began to scramble over the obstruction.

Then, and then only in his life, did Coppinger’s heart fail him. His right hand was powerless; the sharp blade had severed the tendons, and blood was flowing from his wrist in streams. One pistol was discharged, the other had fallen. In a minute he would be in the hands of his deadly enemies.

He turned and fled. The light from the fire, the illumined smoke, rose through the chimney, and by that he could run up the familiar track, reach the platform in the face of the cliff, thence make his way by the path up which he had formerly borne Judith. He did not hesitate, he fled, and Oliver, also without hesitation, pursued him. As he went up the narrow track, his feet trod in and were stained with the blood that had fallen from Coppinger’s wounded arm, but he did not notice it—he was unaware of it till the morrow.

Coppinger reached the summit of the cliffs. His feet were on the down. He ran at once in the direction of Othello Cottage. His only chance of safety lay there. There he could hide in the attic, and Judith would never betray him. In his desperate condition, wounded, his blood flowing from him in streams, hunted by his foes, that one thought was in him—Judith—he must go to Judith. She would never betray him, she would be hacked to death rather than give him up. To Judith as his last refuge!

CHAPTER LIII.

IN THE SMOKE.

Judith left Pentyre Glaze when she had somewhat recovered herself after the interview with Coppinger and her surrender. She had fought a brave battle, but had been defeated and must lay down her arms. Resistance was no longer possible if Jamie was to be saved from a miserable fate. Now by the sacrifice of herself she had assured to, him a future of calm and innocent happiness. She knew that with Uncle Zachie and Oliver he would be cared for, kindly treated, and employed. Uncle Zachie himself was not to be trusted; whatever he might promise, his good nature was greater than his judgment. But she had confidence in Oliver, who would prove a check on the over-indulgence which his father would allow. But Jamie would forget her. His light and unretentive mind was not one to harbor deep feeling. He would forget her when on board ship in his pleasure at running about the vessel chattering with the sailors, and would only think of her if he wanted aught or was ill. Rapidly the recollection of her, love for her, would die out of his mind and heart; and as it died out of his, her thought and love for him would deepen and become more fixed, for she would have no one, nothing in the world to think of and love save her twin-brother.

She walked on in the dark winter night, lighted only by the auroral glow overhead, and was conscious of a smell of tobacco-smoke that so persistently seemed to follow her that she was forced to notice it. She became uneasy, thinking that someone was walking behind the hedge with a pipe, watching her, perhaps waiting to spring out upon her when distant from the house, where her cries for help might not be heard.

She stood still. The smell was strong. She climbed the hedge on one side and looked over; as far as she could discern in the red glimmer from the flushed sky there was no one there. She listened, she could hear no step. She walked hastily on to a gate in the hedge on the opposite side and went through that. The smell of burning tobacco was as strong there. Judith turned in the lane and walked back in the direction of the house. The smell pursued her. It was strange. Could she carry the odor in her clothes? She turned again and resumed her walk toward Othello Cottage. Now she was distinctly aware that the scent came to her on the wind. Her perplexity on this subject served as a diversion of her mind from her own troubles.

She emerged upon the downs, and made her way across them toward the cottage that lay in a dip, not to be observed except by one close to it. The wind when it brushed up from the sea was odorless.

Presently she came in sight of Othello Cottage, and in spite of the darkness could see that a strange, dense, white fog surrounded it, especially the roof, which seemed to be wearing a white wig. In a moment she understood what this signified. Othello Cottage was on fire, and the stores of tobacco in the attic were burning. Judith ran. Her own troubles were forgotten in her alarm for Jamie. No fire as yet had broken through the roof.

She reached the door, which was open. Mr. Scantlebray in leaving had not shut the door, so as to allow the boy to crawl out should he recover sufficient intelligence to see that he was in danger.

It is probable that Scantlebray, senior, would have made further efforts to save Jamie, but that he believed he would meet with his brother, and two or three men he was bringing with him, near the house, and then it would be easy unitedly to drag the boy forth. He did, indeed, meet with Obadiah, but also at the same time with Uncle Zachie Menaida and a small party of farm-laborers, and when he heard that Mr. Menaida desired help to secure Coppinger and the smugglers, he thought no more of the boy and joined heartily in the attempt to rescue the Preventive men and take Coppinger.

Through the open door dashed Judith, crying out to Jamie whom she could not see. There was a dense, white cloud in the room, let down from above, and curling out at the top of the door, whence it issued as steam from a boiler. It was impossible to breathe in this fog of tobacco-smoke, and Judith knew that if she allowed it to surround her she would be stupefied. She therefore stooped and entered, calling Jamie. Although the thick mattress of white smoke had not as yet descended to the floor, and had left comparatively clear air beneath it—the in-draught from the door—yet the odor of the burning tobacco impregnated the atmosphere. Here and there curls of smoke descended, dropped capriciously from the bed of vapor above, and wantonly played about.

Judith saw her brother lying at full length near the fire. Scantlebray had drawn him partly to the door, but he had rolled back to his former position near the hearth, perhaps from feeling the cold wind that blew in on him.

There was no time to be lost. Judith knew that flame must burst forth directly—directly the burning tobacco had charred through the rafters and flooring of the attic and allowed the fresh air from below to rush in and, acting as a bellows, blow the whole mass of glowing tobacco into flame. It was obvious that the fire had originated above in the attic. There was nothing burning in the room, and the smoke drove downward in strips through the joints of the boards overhead.

“Jamie, come, come with me!” She shook the boy, she knelt by him and raised him on her knee. He was stupefied with cognac, and with the fumes of the burning tobacco he had inhaled.

She must drag him forth. He was no longer half-conscious as he had been when Mr. Scantlebray made the same attempt; the power to resist was now gone from him.

Judith was delicately made, and was not strong, but she put her arms under the shoulders of Jamie and herself on her knees and dragged him along the floor. He was as heavy as a corpse. She drew him a little way and desisted, overcome, panting, giddy, faint. But time must not be lost. Every moment was precious. Judith knew that overhead in the loft was something that would not smoulder and glow, but burst into furious flame—spirits. Not, indeed, many kegs, but there were some. When this became ignited their escape would be impossible. She drew Jamie further up; she was behind him. She thrust him forward as she moved on upon her knees, driving him a step further at every advance. It was slow and laborious work. She could not maintain this effort for long and fell forward on her hands, and he fell also at the same time on the floor.

Then she heard a sound, a roar, an angry growl. The shock of the fall, and striking his head against the slate pavement, roused Jamie momentarily and he also heard the noise.

“Ju! the roar of the sea!”

“A sea of fire, Jamie! Oh, do push to the door.”

He raised himself on his hands, looked vacantly round, and fell again into stupid unconsciousness. Now still on her knees, but with a brain becoming bewildered with the fumes, she crept to his head, placed herself between him and the door, and holding his shoulders, dragged him toward her, she moving backward.

Even thus she could make but little way with him; his boot-tops caught in the edge of a slate slab ill fitted in the floor and held him, so that she could not pull him to her with the additional resistance thus caused. Then an idea struck her. Staggering to her feet, holding her breath, she plunged in the direction of the window, beat it open, and panted in the inrush of pure air. With this new current wafted in behind her she returned amid the smoke, and for a moment it dissipated the density of the cloud about her. The window had faced the wind, and the rush of air through it was more strong than that which entered by the door. And yet this expedient did not answer as she had expected, for the column of strong, cold air pouring in from a higher level threw the cloud into confusion, stirred it up as it were, and lessened the space of uninvaded atmosphere below the descending bed of vapor.

Again she went to Jamie. The roar overhead had increased, some vent had been found, and the attic was in full flagrance. Now, drawing a long breath at the door, near the level of the ground, she returned to her brother and disengaged his foot from the slate, then dragged, then thrust, sometimes at his head, sometimes at his side; then again she had her arms round him, and swung herself forward to the right knee sideways; then brought up the other knee, and swung herself with the dead weight in her arms again to the right, and thus was able to work her way nearer to the door, and, as she got nearer to the door, the air was clearer, and she was able to breathe freer.

At length she laid hold of the jamb with one hand, and with the other she caught the lappel of the boy’s coat, and assisted by the support she had gained, was able to drag him over the doorstep.

At that moment passed her rushed a man. She looked, saw and knew Coppinger. As he rushed passed, the blood squirting from his maimed right hand fell on the girl lying prostrate at the jamb to which she had clung.

And now within a red light appeared, glowing through the mist as a fiery eye, not only so, but every now and then a fiery rain descended. The burning tobacco had consumed the boards and was falling through in red masses.

Judith had but just brought her brother into safety, or comparative safety, and now another, Coppinger, had plunged into the burning cottage, rushed to almost certain death. She cried to him as well as she could with her short breath. She could not leave him within. Why had he run there? She saw on her dress the blood that had fallen from him. She went outside the hut and dragged Jamie forth and laid him on the grass. Then, without hesitation, inhaling all the pure air she could, she darted once more into the burning cottage. Her eyes were stung with the smoke, but she pushed on, and found Coppinger under the open window, fallen on the floor, his back and head against the wall, his arms at his side, and the blood streaming over the slate pavement from his right gashed wrist. Accident or instinct—it could not have been judgment—had carried him to the only spot in the room where pure air was to be found, and there it descended like a rushing waterfall, blowing about the prostrate man’s wild long hair.

“Judith!” said he, looking at her, and he raised his left hand. “Judith, this is the end.”

“Oh, Captain Coppinger, do come out. The house is burning. Quick, or it will be too late.”

“It is too late for me,” he said. “I am wounded.” He held up his half-severed hand. “I gave this to you and you rejected it.”

“Come—oh, do come—or you and I will be burnt.” In the inrushing sweep of air both were clear of the smoke and could breathe.

He shook his head. “I am followed. I will not be taken. I am no good now—without my right hand. I will not go to jail.”

She caught his arm, and tearing the kerchief from her neck, bound it round and round where the veins were severed.

“It is in vain,” he said. “I have lost most of my blood. Ju!”—he held her with his left hand—“Ju, if you live, swear to me, swear you will sign the register.”

She was looking into his face—it was ghastly, partly through loss of blood, partly because lighted by the glare of the burning tobacco that dropped from above. Then a sense of vast pity came surging over her along with the thought of how he had loved her. Into her burning eyes tears came.

“Judith!” he said, “I made my confession to you—I told you my sins. Give me also my release. Say you forgive me.”

She had forgotten her peril, forgotten about the fire that was above and around, as she looked at his eyes, and, holding the maimed right arm, felt the hot blood welling through her kerchief and running over her hand.

“I pray you, oh, I pray you, come outside. There is still time.”

Again he shook his head. “My time is up. I do not want to live. I have not your love. I could never win it, and if I went outside I should be captured and sent to prison. Will you give me my absolution?”

“What do you mean?” And in her trembling concern for him—in the intensity of her pity, sorrow, care for him—she drew his wounded hand to her and pressed it against her heaving bosom.

“What I mean is, can you forgive me?”

“Indeed—indeed I do.”

“What—all I have done?”

“All.”

She saw only a dying man before her, a man who might be saved if he would, but would not because her love was everything to him, and that he never, never could gain. Would she make no concession to him? could she not draw a few steps nearer? As she looked into his face and held his bleeding arm to her bosom, pity overpowered her—pity, when she saw how strong had been this wild and wicked man’s love. Now she truly realized its depth, its intensity, and its tenderness alternating with stormy blasts of passion, as he wavered between hope and fear, and the despair that was his when he knew he must lose her.

Then she stooped, and, the tears streaming over her face, she kissed him on his brow, and then on his lips, and then drew back, still holding his maimed hand, with both of hers crossed over it, to her heaving bosom. Kneeling, she had her eyes on his, and his were on hers—steady, searching, but with a gentle light in them. And as she thus looked she became unconscious, and sank, still holding his hand, on the floor.

At that instant, through the smoke and raining masses of burning tobacco, plunged Oliver Menaida. He saw Judith, bent, caught her in his arms, and rushed back through the door.

A moment after and he was at the entrance again, to plunge through and rescue his wounded adversary; but the moment when this could be done was past. There was an explosion above, followed by a fall as of a sheet of blue light, a curtain of fire through the mist of white smoke. No living man could pass that. Oliver went round to the window, and strove to enter by that way; the man who had taken refuge there was still in the same position, but he had torn the kerchief of Judith from the bleeding arm, and he held it to his mouth, looking with fixed eyes into the falling red and blue fires and the swirling flocks of white smoke.

There were iron bars at the window. Oliver tore at these to displace them.

“Coppinger!” he shouted, “stand up—help me to break these bars!”

But Coppinger would not move, or, possibly, the power was gone from him. The bars were firmly set. They had been placed in the windows by Coppinger’s orders and under his own supervision, to secure Othello Cottage, his store-place, against invasion by the inquisitive.

At length Oliver succeeded in wrenching one bar away, and now a gap was made through which he might reach Coppinger and draw him forth through the window. He was scrambling in when the Captain staggered to his feet.

“Let me alone,” said he. “You have won what I have lost. Let me alone. I am defeated.”

Then he stepped into the mass of smoke and falling liquid blue fire and dropping masses of red glowing tobacco. A moment more, and the whole of the attic floor, with all the burning contents of the garret, fell in.