The Smuggler of King's Cove; or, The Old Chapel Mystery

When Percy reached the castle he found Cordelia all ready for her ramble, with her maid in waiting to attend her. Mary Seymour was this maid’s name, a cheery-faced, intelligent, pretty girl, just a year older than was her mistress. She had flaxen hair and blue eyes—eyes full of good-nature and frolic; straightforward, truthful and honest.

The friendship between Percy Maitland, the smuggler’s son, and the daughter of Sir William Chester was something curious. It had commenced within a month after the girl’s first appearance at Allerdale—shortly before she had completed her twelfth year of life.

One of the first impressions made upon the baronet, after he had accepted a home at the castle, had been in relation to the earl’s grandson—Matthew Brandon—who, as we remember, had then entered upon his sixteenth year; or he was about entering upon it when the baronet and his daughter arrived.

Instinctively—in spite of his love and esteem for the boy’s noble father; in spite of his love and deep reverence for the good old grandfather, he conceived a strong, shuddering dislike toward that boy. He fought against it, but without avail.

Under these circumstances little Cordelia chanced to fall in with Percy Maitland, and a mutual attachment, as strong and enduring as it was sudden and unbidden, was the result.

Percy took her in his boat, and led her by the banks of the river, and taught her to fish, and he guided her through the wild passes of the crag, and gathered for her all the beautiful flowers he could find.

At length the boy of the stone cottage came under the eye of Sir William. Cordelia brought him. She had told so much about him that her father had become eager to see and know him.

In a very short time the keen-eyed, observing baronet had read the boy’s character without mistake. In fact, it was one of those characters—and the character was written on a face and stamped in a voice—which could not be mistaken.

And the baronet had, from the very first, felt it in his heart to thank his good fortune that had brought such a companion and playmate for his sweet child: and when, later, he had discovered that the low-born boy was competent to teach all that his loved one could wish to know, his thankfulness was increased to a degree that rendered him happily content.

And so, as we have already seen, matters had gone on during the few remaining months of the parent’s life. And since that time there had been no change. Percy had remained the lady’s true and loyal knight, teaching her all that she knew of school studies, and attending faithfully upon her whenever need required, or opportunity offered. In truth, the earl had appointed the youth to the post of teacher.

When the question had arisen concerning a resident tutor for the young girl, she had herself decided. She had put her foot down emphatically, and had said:

“I will have Percy Maitland for my tutor, and none other.”

And the earl had not disputed her. Really, he did not want a strange tutor beneath his roof; he did not want the trouble of selecting, with a chance, in the end, that he might be cheated.

The men in every way competent and morally qualified to teach a beautiful young lady, like his sweet ward, were not plenty. So it was, truly, a source of great relief to him when it had been finally decided that young Maitland should be her tutor.

And so matters had gone on from that time. If the old earl had ever asked himself if mischief, or trouble, could possibly come from it, he had not made the query manifest to others. Everything went so evenly, so smoothly, and so happily, that he had not the heart to disturb it.

With regard to Matthew, the young Lord Oakleigh, he was at home but little. It had been from the first his desire that he should attend school, with friends whom he loved, at Oxford; and his grandfather had not flatly refused him, though he had seriously objected.

Knowing the boy’s character as he did—knowing how prone he was to error, how untruthful he could be and how easily he gave way to passion—knowing this, the earl had felt it to be his duty to keep the lad at home if he could.

But it was not to be. On the first occasion when he had asserted his authority, and kept master Matthew within the castle walls against his will, he had run away at night, and had remained away two months and more, and before he went he had robbed his grandfather’s strong box of a large amount of money in gold. After that the earl had surrendered, and the boy had been suffered to lead his own life after his own will and pleasure.

One thing, and one only, gave the old man a grain of comfort: his grandson seemed desirous to gain a good education; and so long as the boy was at Oxford, at his studies, he would try to be content. Ah! if Lord Allerdale could have known the character and extent of the youth’s studies, it might have been different!

At the age of eighteen Matthew had entered one of the best colleges, or, at least, he professed so to have done, and the time for his graduation was now near at hand.

Touching the matter of money, he had plenty to spend; more, in fact, than he should have had, but his father had left him a goodly sum. He had also inherited from his mother, so his guardian, as the less of two evils, had let him have about all he had asked for. The greater evil, which the earl could not have put away, was debt.

During his visits to the castle, from first to last, Lord Oakleigh had given Cordelia but little trouble; though he sometimes looked at her in a manner that made her afraid. And he had once let fall a remark that she could not forget. It had been about a year previous to the time of which we are now writing. He had been at home on the autumnal vacation.

One day he met Cordelia in one of the halls, alone, and offered to kiss her. She pushed him away angrily, and bade him, with quivering lips and flashing eyes, never to repeat the offense.

He laughed at her, seeming to enjoy her spitefulness, as he called it; and he said to her, with significant nod, and a look straight into her eyes:

“Don’t be afraid of me, my pretty one. I should be a fool to harm you, seeing that you are my own. Look sharp, Cordelia. Be sure you’re ready when I call for you!”

And with that he had turned away, and had never alluded to the subject since; but our heroine was very sure he thought of it, and it worried and fretted her exceedingly.

They set forth, a happy, merry trio—Cordelia, Percy, and Mary—the latter being regarded as a dear companion rather than as a servant.

The distance from the castle to the foot of Witch’s Crag was a full mile, perhaps a little more. Two-thirds of the way lay through the park, the remainder being woods.

The day had thus far been clear and bright. With the coming of noon it had grown to be very warm—almost too warm for September—but a gentle breeze fanned their cheeks and gave them comfort.

The course they were pursuing was toward the north. If there were clouds rising beyond the crag they did not see them. And had they seen them they would have taken no alarm.

“We must visit the old chapel of the monks!” said Cordelia, as they were entering the forest.

“Certainly,” responded Percy. “A visit to the Witch’s Crag, without paying one’s respects to the memory of the old Franciscans, would seem almost sacrilegious.”

Accordingly, when half-way through the wood, they turned into a path that swerved to the right, which they followed to the foot of the crag. They had seen the wonderful mass of ragged rock many times, yet they viewed it now in awe and wonder.

There it arose before them, a steep, wild ascent of broken, jagged rocks—ledge on ledge and bowlder on bowlder—until, at the summit, a height of 600 feet above sea level was reached.

And on that south side, which our adventurers had approached, the acclivity was bold and abrupt. Toward the west, as we remarked in the beginning, it sloped down gradually, its foot a mile and a half from the top, reaching to the water’s edge. But the rugged rise of the crag was not all of interest their eyes looked upon.

Bearing to the right, a short distance up the rough ascent, was seen what, at first sight, appeared to be a mass of rock, thus quaintly piled up by some wonderful convulsion of nature; but, upon nearer view, it was found to be the work of human hands.

It was a solid, massive structure; its walls built from the rock of the crag; large enough to comfortably accommodate three to four hundred people within.

It was oblong in form: the walls were not far from fifteen feet in height: its roof—its most wonderful part—being a massive arch, formed of large blocks of stone hewn to the required form for the purpose.

Its broad doorway was an open arch toward the south, and on the sides were six arched openings for windows, with the brazen frames and leaden mullions of the casements intact; but there were no panes—no signs of glass to be seen.

How many years the structure had stood there none could tell. Tradition told that a fraternity of Franciscans—gray friars—had once occupied a monastery near where the castle now stood; and that they had erected this chapel as an offering to St. Francis, whose effigy, in stone, had stood near the altar, while they had occupied it.

How many years it had stood there, none could tell; yet its wall, and its wonderful roof, were as tight, as impervious to water, as ever. At the open windows, and at the deep arch of the vestibule, the storm could find entrance; but nowhere else.

Our three adventurers entered the chapel and looked around. The altar, at the end opposite the entrance, was a single stone set against the rear wall.

It was four feet high by about five feet wide, and three feet deep from front to rear. In a far corner at the other end, toward the door, were a dozen or more square blocks of stone that had evidently been intended for seats.

In those old times, and amongst those old friars, it was not deemed necessary that a worshiper should sit while holding communion with Jehovah; and seats, as a general thing, were not provided.

These few granite blocks might have been designed for the sick, lame, or aged, who could not stand. As they left the chapel Percy looked at his watch, a reliable time-piece his father had brought to him from France, and found it to be almost three o’clock.

“Shall we have time to go to the top of the crag?” he asked, with a shade of anxiety on his face.

“Oh, yes! yes! We shall have plenty of time—four hours, at least.”

“It will be very dark in four hours from now, dear lady.”

“Time enough. Oh, I must see the top; and the view out to sea! You shall know how fast I can walk.”

Percy smiled and nodded assent, and on they went. It was a wild, rugged road, but more in the seeming than in fact, for the experienced guide, who had traversed the crag in every direction from earliest childhood, knew every inch of the way, and was able to follow a path almost as easy of ascent as would have been the climbing of a grassy slope of the same inclination.

By and by they came to a stretch of path which was restful—a grand aisle, with perpendicular walls towering aloft on either hand; the floor of which was very smooth and even, and wide enough to allow two persons to walk abreast, with room to spare.

In reaching this point, they had climbed an ascent where our hero had given to Cordelia his hand; and he continued to hold it after the need had passed.

Mary was several yards in the rear, and seemed inclined to remain so.

For a time the two in advance had been silent. The sublimity of the scene around them had inspired them.

Presently Cordelia looked up, with a new light in her eyes and a new look on her beautiful face. A new thought had possessed her—a thought that sent a tremor to her heart, imparting a perceptible quiver to her lips.

“Percy!” she said, withdrawing her hand from his grasp and transferring it to his arm, where it clung trustingly. “Percy! what did you mean by what you said to me last evening when you asked me to look when you worked out that matter of interest?”

He looked at her with surprise, and his look plainly asked her to what she referred.

“Don’t you remember?” she said, in answer to his silent question. “You said I shouldn’t have you always to help me; and—and—Percy—you spoke as though I might not have you a great while. Did you mean that?”

The girl’s look and tone—the light of her eyes, and the deep feeling unmistakably stamped on her face, would have caused a colder, sterner, and a duller man than was Percy Maitland to pale and tremble. The great love of his heart was never so near the surface before. It threatened, almost, to burst the bounds of sense and reason, and find for itself utterance.

But it must not be. The pure, gentle girl had trusted him, and that trust he would not betray.

“Dear lady,” he said, as soon as he dared venture his voice, “you can not know how aimless is the life I now lead. I gave to my father, when he lay dying, a solemn promise that I would remain with my mother until I was one-and-twenty. That event is past. I saw the dawning of my twenty-second year three months ago. I am but wasting my life here.”

“Wasting—your—life! Oh, Percy! Have all the months—the years—been wasted that you have spent in helping me? What should I do if you were gone?”

“Hush, hush! You know not what you are saying.”

“Percy! What is the matter with you? What new freak have you taken into your head? Why are you so eager to go away?”

Was she playing with him—trifling with his heart? He asked himself the question, and then bent his gaze upon her upturned face. Oh, no, no! There were tears in her eyes, and on her face a soul-sent prayer.

What could she mean? How much dared he to speak? A curious thought occurred to him. In all the years he had known her—through all their intimate association—though she had always called him by his Christian name, she had done it in the days of childhood, and she had done it ever since—in all that time he had never dared, had never presumed, to address her in any way save as a lady, set by the rank of birth high above him.

In the early days he had been old enough, with manly feelings enough, to respect the rank she held, and he had felt proud that he was admitted to her friendship.

And now the thought came to him—an audacious thought—that he would call her as her grandfather called her; as Lord Oakleigh was permitted to call her. He would do it, and mark the result. He expected it would startle her; most likely, offend her; she might be angry, but he would try it.

He trembled with thought of the daring; but, after a time, he felt that his voice might be trusted. He looked down upon her—so looked that her eyes must gaze straight into his own when she lifted her head, and then, drawing the hand upon his arm more closely to his side, he made the venture:

“Cordelia!”

She looked up quickly, looked up with a joy in her face, with a happiness beaming in her sparkling eyes, such as the youth had never seen there before.

Never had his voice sounded so softly sweet in her ears, never had she heard music so nearly divine. She clung to him fondly, and expectantly, waiting for him to go on.

“Percy!” she whispered, when she found that he would speak no further. “What were you going to say?”

He could contain himself no longer. The deep feelings of his heart, held in check so long, were to find utterance at length. But he had a thought of the maid walking behind them, and was guarded.

“O dear, dear lady! Cordelia! How dared I speak that name? How dared I call you as those of your own rank in life call you? I will tell you, if I may. Shall I go on?”

“Yes, yes; go on.” And she wound her arm more closely around the support it had found.

“I spoke that name for a test, dear—”

“Ah! Have a care, sir!” she broke in, as his voice hung for a moment in choice for a word, and she looked up archly, with something in her eyes that startled him.

“Cordelia!” he cried, gazing now without flinching, “I can not believe that you would trifle with me. I can not believe that you could find it in your heart to make light of the holiest feelings—the purest and loftiest aspirations of my soul. Something tells me—I see it in your face—in your kindly smile—that you will not be offended if I confess to you the one deep controlling sentiment of my heart. I can make the confession, and then bid you farewell. Ah! if—But why complain? I must suffer. And yet I would not lose the memory of this blessed hour for all the world beside! Cordelia, could I have been with you all these years—so intimate—our companionship so close and trusting—could I have lived through it all without—without—loving you? Are you very angry?”

She looked up, and smiled divinely through her tears—looked up, and clung still more closely to his side.

“Percy, do you think you alone have the capacity to love? Do you think I would have associated with you all these years if I had not found in you one whom I could honor and respect? And, dear Percy, how could I honor and respect one like you, without loving?”

“Cordelia! Oh, do not let me mistake! Do you understand me? Do you know what my love means? Oh, if I were to pour out the whole volume of my love—”

“Well—what would you say? Would you call me by another name?”

“Yes! Yes! Oh, my darling! my angel!”

“Percy,” looking straight up into his eyes, with a wealth of love in her beautiful face which no mortal could have doubted—“I will not trifle; I will not mince words. I know what you mean; and when I tell you, from the uttermost depths of my heart, that your words have made me happier than I was before—happier than I had thought I could ever be—when I tell you that, you will know that I, too, have learned to love. Oh, Percy, I have loved you from the first; and I believe it has been the same with you.”

“Yes, yes. Oh, how I have loved you, Cordelia! But I had never dared to dream of this. I can scarcely believe it even now. Shall I awake and find it a dream?”

“If the dream makes you as happy as it makes me, dear Percy, I can only say—dream on.”

“Aye! So I will. But—”

“But what?”

“The earl!”

“Look ye, my own dear love,” said the brave girl, without a break or a quiver in her voice, “let the earl rest for the present. Let us become more used to our new-found joy. I have no wish to deceive the dear old man, and at a proper time I shall tell him. I expect he will be surprised; perhaps disappointed; but I can not believe he will be angry. At all events no power on earth shall take our love from us nor separate us.”

“Oh, Cordelia!”

“Percy!”

“God grant that our love may prosper! Something whispers to me that I may hope.”

“Yes, dear love, hope, and trust in me. I will forsake you never, never!”

Just then they heard the footfall of the maid drawing near, and Cordelia turned to speak with her.

While Cordelia turned to speak with her maid, our hero, having shaken himself to make sure that he was awake and in possession of his sober senses, looked forward to see how far they were from the summit of the crag.

It was close at hand—not a hundred yards distant. He was surprised. He had supposed it still a long way off. But his surprise vanished when he had consulted his watch—half-past four!

“Mercy! Dear lady! Do you know what time it is?”

“No. I have not thought of it.”

He told her; but she was not alarmed. Even though it should be dark when they reached the castle, it would not matter.

“Not if the weather holds fair,” returned the guide. “I don’t like the looks of those clouds rising away to the eastward.”

“I thought storm-clouds always came from the sea.”

“No, no. Clouds that give us long rains generally come from that direction; but, if you will remember, I think you will find that our severest storms are brewed on the other hand. But we will not complain in advance. Ah!”

“Oh! Oh, is it not beautiful!” It was Mary Seymour who had thus exclaimed.

Her mistress stood, drinking in the scene in awestruck silence. The sublimity of the view was too great for her poor speech to do it justice. And Percy was also silent. The single interjection had burst from him as his eyes first took in the grand panorama, and that was all.

The sea; the many islands; the long stretch of rugged coast; the beautiful park; the old castle; the forest; the silvery lakelets, and the sparkling streams—altogether, it was a picture well worth climbing to see. Cordelia gazed her fill—gazed until the first whelming emotions of awe were past, and then pointed out certain points with regard to which she wished for information. Her guide explained all he could—told her all he knew; and at length suggested that they had better be thinking of home.

“But the flowers! You promised me I should have them,” insisted Cordelia. She was playful in her manner, yet earnest.

“Will you take time for that, lady? They are somewhat out of our way; but you shall have them, if you say so.”

“Oh! never mind the time. A little twilight won’t harm us. Let’s have the flowers.”

Evidently she was determined to prolong the walk, and, had it not been for those threatening clouds, her guide would have liked it as well as she.

“Dear lady—I tell you, truly, I do not like the looks of those clouds. I’m afraid we shall have rain before we get home, unless we make all possible haste.”

But the lady insisted; and the guide yielded. A detour was made to the eastward and the flowers found and secured. Cordelia was happy.

She had wanted the sweet little treasures of scent and blossom for a long time, and she could not thank her kind guide enough for his goodness in getting them for her.

“Fifteen minutes of six!” said Percy, in a tone of hushed anxiety. “Oh! what would I give for a good horse.”

“And, what would you do with a single horse, sir?” the lady demanded, quickly.

“I would look to the girths, make sure all was secure, then lift you to its back and start you homeward, my lady.”

“But, dear Percy, do you really feel so uneasy about the weather?”

“I do, truly, dear lady. Look for yourself. If there is not a goodly store of electricity in those clouds, then I am much mistaken.”

“Well, we must hurry. You will let me take your hand.”

He put forth his hand, took hers in a warm, loving grasp, and they set forward; but time had sped beyond the lady’s calculations, or beyond her belief, for she had had no calculation about it.

By the time they had gained half the distance down the rugged slope cool gusts of wind struck their cheeks; the clouds had become so dense and so completely covered the firmament as to bring night on prematurely.

And that was not the worst. Pretty soon a vivid stream of fire shot athwart the dark vault, and a crash of thunder followed almost immediately.

“Courage, courage!” said Percy. “The old chapel is close at hand. We shall find good shelter there.”

“Oh! Just think, dear lady,” said the maid, who had drawn nearer the strong man since the lightning bolt. “We haven’t touched the luncheon I have in the basket.”

“Oho, it grows heavy, does it, Mary?”

“No, no; that isn’t it. And yet,” she confessed, after a momentary pause, “it is pretty heavy, come to carry it so far.”

“Well, we’ll empty it at the chapel.”

But Percy took the basket into his own hand, despite the maid’s earnest protestations, and he found it heavier than he had thought. It was but as a feather to him, but he could feel that it must have pulled on the weak girl during so long a walk.

“Ho! There it is!”

“Aye, and here is the rain.”

It was the chapel which Cordelia had discovered, and they reached it with not a moment to spare, for scarcely had Mary crossed the threshold when the rain came down in a torrent. As the maid expressed it, with more of truth than poetry—it came down “like they were pouring it out of a tub.”

But they had found perfect shelter, though somewhat gloomsome. Percy selected three of the most comfortable seats he could find, and he did not have occasion to move them.

They were already in the corner farthest away from the storm—in a corner between the arch of the vestibule and the first window on the easterly side. And there in the deepening gloom Cordelia opened the basket, and took out a portion of the provisions she had with her own hands packed into it. She had brought but one drinking-cup, but it answered every purpose.

“We can call it ‘the Loving Cup,’” suggested the maid, little dreaming what chords she was touching to tuneful response in the bosoms of her two companions.

But the others knew, as a hidden hand-grasp testified.

“Now, mark!” commanded the lady, as Percy began to express his regrets at the unfortunate situation of the two women, “Mark what I say, and remember, we will have not a word of fault-finding, not a word of complaint. Here we are, and here we must make the best of it. It is all my fault, every bit and grain of it, and I am willing to bear the blame; but don’t blame me too severely.”

“Mercy! how it pours!” exclaimed the maid. “I am only thinking—how shall we ever find the way home in pitch darkness?”

Percy said, cheerfully, he thought there would be no trouble about that. “These sort of storms,” he went on, “are not of long duration. The clouds will soon pass off when the rain is done falling, and then we’ll have a moon within a day or two of its full to light us on our homeward way. My only serious thought is of the good old earl.”

“Hush!” cried the law-giver, with a light laugh. “That is complaint, and is forbidden. I will make it all right with dear old grandpa.”

The rain continued to fall in a torrent, ever and anon the lightning gleamed and the thunder came crashing down upon the solid roof.

The adventurers had eaten their luncheon and Mary had carefully packed the empty dishes back into the basket, by which time the darkness had shut them in like a pall. The blackest midnight could not have been darker.

Mary Seymour had found a seat at Percy’s feet, and, despite the terrific voices of the storm, was inclined to sleep. The long walk, the weight of the basket, and, moreover, the soporific influence of the atmosphere, had completely overcome her, and, with the basket for a pillow, she was ere long soundly asleep.

Percy held his watch in his hand, waiting for the next gleam of heaven’s light, and when it came he saw that it was close upon seven o’clock.

The sun had been gone little more than half an hour. Cordelia nestled close, held firmly in his loving embrace. And here, and thus, they exchanged the first sweet, ecstatic kiss of love.

“Oh, Percy! What would life be without your dear companionship, without your blessed love?”

“My love, darling, you will always possess. No power on earth can take it from you. It is yours now and forevermore.”

“And your dear self with it, sweet love.”

“Heaven send it may be so.”

“Amen! and amen!”

After this they sat for a time in silence, their thoughts too deep for words. Her head was pillowed on his bosom, and his strong arm encircled her.

What need was there of further speech? The silence was eloquent; and the crashing thunder, when it fell, was as grand music in their ears.

By and by the patter of the rain upon the roof grew less; but, as the rain held up, the lightning seemed to come more frequently and with increased brilliancy. Oh, how dark it was when the fire of heaven had gone out!

Several minutes had passed thus after the rain had commenced to slacken, and the furious blast that had accompanied the first flood had died away, when our hero was startled and his heart caused to bound suddenly by the unmistakable sound of a footfall without. It was the fall of a human foot upon the surface of rock in front of the chapel!

“Hush!” he whispered, as he felt his companion start and nestle more closely to him.

“Oh, Percy! What can it be? Is it somebody in search of us?”

“No; I think not. They would have scarcely had time since the storm arose. Hush! Promise me, darling, that you will utter no cry of alarm, let it be who or what it may. They may not discover us in this corner if we keep perfectly quiet. Ah! Hush! Not a lisp!”

The footstep—a heavy one—was upon the threshold, and a faint glimmer of light, seeming to come from the dingy lens of a dark lantern, shot into the chapel with just power enough to render the surrounding darkness visible.

A human figure entered; a figure tall, erect, and apparently bulky. The lantern was carried in the right hand, with its lens turned toward the rear of the place—toward the altar—in which direction the figure moved.

Cordelia’s breath was almost hushed; and she clung to her dear lover closely and with perfect trust.

Nothing like a cry—not even a loud breath—had escaped her.

The figure—only one had entered—had reached a point directly opposite the place where our adventurers sat, when a terrific crash fell that shook the structure from its massive roof to its foundation; and following close upon it came a flood of light, filling the old chapel with a blaze as of noonday; and the light enveloped the new-comer as in a glowing halo.

And this is what Percy Maitland saw—saw it as plainly and clearly as he ever saw anything in his life:

A man, tall and stalwart, in the robe of a gray friar, with the cowl drawn only partially over his head. And the face—Oh! what did it mean?

It was his father’s face!—the face of Hugh Maitland, as he remembered it, in its manly strength and vigor.

It was only for a moment—for two or three seconds—and then the darkness fell again and the poor glimmer of the lantern appeared no more than the glow of a fire-fly. Only for one poor moment; yet had he looked for an hour he could not have seen it more distinctly.

If ever he saw his father’s face, he was sure he saw it then under that gray cowl. Or it had been something so nearly resembling it that the distinction could not be traced?

And still, with wildly beating heart, he listened. He heard the footfall, and he saw the ghostly glimmer of the lantern; the gray friar was approaching the altar.

Suddenly the light disappeared. A moment later the watcher heard a low, rumbling sound, and then all was still.

By and by another bolt of thunder fell, and a flood of electric light filled the chapel. Both Percy and Cordelia peered with all their might into the far end of the place; but the friar had gone!

The altar was there and the solid wall behind it, and that was all. The strange intruder had disappeared as though the stone pavement had opened and swallowed him up!

“Percy!” whispered the trembling girl, as soon as she dared to trust her voice above her breath, “What was it? Who was it?”

“Darling, I do not know. I am lost in wonder.”

“But where did he go? I certainly saw him, close by the altar. I saw the lantern when it cast its feeble rays on the dark rock. Where could he have gone to?”

“Dear girl, I can not imagine. But we may henceforth be able to better understand the peasants’ earnest stories of the place being haunted. You have heard them?”

“Yes, yes, often; and have laughed at them. But,” after a pause, “is not the solution a greater puzzle than were the ghosts?”

“Verily, dear girl, it is even so. Aye, it is a puzzle; and it must, I fear, remain a puzzle, until we can gain more light than we are likely to receive to-night.”

He would not tell her of the greatest marvel of all to himself. What to think of it he did not know. His mind was in a whirl.

He must have time to consider. He knew his father was dead; for he had sat by his dying bed, and had held his hand while he breathed his last, and had seen the mortal body buried in its mother earth.

So, it could not be his father in the flesh he had seen roaming in that old chapel, with a dark lantern in his hand. As to its being his father’s ghost or spirit, that was to him simply monstrous.

Even admitting that the return of a spirit could be possible, the spirit of his father would have been engaged in no such nocturnal escapade.

Could there be another man—a man amongst the living—with his father’s face? A wonderful likeness, like that, offered the most satisfactory solution of the marvel. But who could it be? If such a man lived, and was familiar with that part of the country, why had he never seen him before?

But—where was the use? Puzzle and conjecture as he would, he could come no nearer to the truth. The only thing to do was to take time; keep his eyes and ears open, and search. And one thing which he meant to search was this very chapel.

Almost before they were aware of it the rain had ceased to fall, and a low murmur of thankfulness fell from Cordelia’s lips as she saw a stream of silvery moonlight on the chapel floor.

Aye, the clouds were rolling away and the bright moon, near its full, looked forth right cheerily from the eastern sky, casting light enough through the three tall windows on that side to illumine the chapel very clearly. At all events, the stone altar was plainly visible, and all the adjacent wall.

“Cordelia, the man whom we saw—the gray friar—must have found a way out somewhere near the altar. Shall we look?”

“You do not think he can be lurking near?” she asked.

“No, no; there can be no danger of that. Be sure, he was seeking a place of hiding when he entered here. Darling!” he added, after a considerable pause, during which he had appeared to be thinking deeply, “I think I can tell you something new. It has come to me since we saw the moonbeam on the pavement.

“Listen; I remember—but I had forgotten it completely—I remember, when I was but a small boy—certainly not more than eight or ten years old—of hearing my father, in conversation with his chief mate, old Donald Rodney, mention the Monk’s Chapel; and I am very sure that at that time he was trying to persuade Donald to go with him and explore. Of course, I can’t remember their words, nor anywhere near thereto; yet I am confident that I am not mistaken about the object my father had in view.

“Cordelia, he believed there were secret crypts beneath the old pile, fashioned when it was built, and he wished very much to find them; but I am very sure he never did it. He probably searched, and had to give it up. If he had found them I should have known it. Aye, as sure as you live, there is a hidden way beneath where we stand, and, I tell you, I will find it if the finding is possible.”

“Oh, you will be careful, Percy! What would become of me if harm should come to you?”

“Have no fear. Ah, Mary is awake. I think we had better not tell her of what we have seen.”

“No, we will tell nobody, until we have gained further knowledge. Shall it be so?”

“Yes. We will leave it at that. And now for home. The way will be damp, but I think we shall survive.”

The maid, when she had collected her scattered senses, and had called to mind the situation, was agreeably surprised upon finding the storm at an end, and the moon brightly shining. She picked up her basket, and was soon ready, with the others, to set forth upon the homeward way.

They encountered several pools of water over which Percy was obliged to carry the two girls in his arms; but nothing serious interposed to render the return at all unpleasant. Fortunately the path through the woods was broad and open, and lay in such direction that the moonlight fell full upon it for most of the distance.

They had reached very near to the southern extremity of the wood, and our hero had just borne his two companions across the last pool, when their ears were saluted by loud cries and shouts of distress and alarm, and a little later the glare of a dozen torches, in full blaze, burst upon them.

“Oh, my precious lady, are you alive? Are you safe? Oh! how frightened we have been.” So exclaimed the stout old steward, Michael Dillon, when he had seen his young mistress in the flesh before him. And the glad acclaim of the party, when they knew that Cordelia was alive and well, told how deeply and truly she was loved by the household of the castle.

There were twelve men in the party which our adventurers had thus met; and two other parties had gone in other directions; but they were small.

The larger number had come this way, because this had been the path hit upon as most likely to be the true one.

As soon as old Michael had made sure that all was well with the dear young lady, he ordered two heavily charged muskets to be fired, which had been brought for that purpose, to inform the other parties that the lost one had been found.

He next dispatched a swift runner to the castle, with information to the earl of the happy ending of the search; and then, with a curious mingling of joy and pomposity, he issued his order for the homeward march.