Father Mendez, on reaching Lerwick, found a vessel about to sail for Leith. He might probably have taken a courteous farewell of the inhabitants of Lunnasting, had he not wished to steal a march on Pedro Alvarez. He had discovered that the worthy lieutenant suspected his designs, and would, if he had the power, counteract them; he therefore resolved to deprive him, forthwith, of that power. The Inquisition, that admirable institution for the destruction of heresy, existed in full force in those days in Spain, and the father well knew that if he could induce its officials to lay hands on his rival that he would give him no further trouble. The father reached Leith in safety, and thence was able to proceed on, without loss of time, direct to Cadiz. Not far off from that fair city was the magnificent mansion of the Marquis de Medea. The father, on landing, did not at once hasten to visit his relations and friends, to receive their congratulations on his escape; nor did he even go to pay his respects to the superior of his order, but, without a moment’s loss of time, he hurried off to the residence of the marquis. He introduced himself without much ceremony. The marquis could not at first believe the unwelcome news he brought.
“I have no object in deceiving you, most noble marquis,” answered the priest, with a calm, unruffled brow. “I have ample proofs of the truth of my statements, and should I bring them forward you could no longer keep possession of this beautiful mansion, of yonder fertile fields, of the time-honoured title you hold. But do not be alarmed; far be it from me to wish to dispossess you; the real heir is the son of a heretic woman, and will be brought up as a heretic; and I feel that I shall but be supporting the cause of our Holy Mother Church by saying nothing about this matter, and by maintaining you in possession of your property; you, who will, I doubt not, prove yourself one of her most devoted and zealous sons.”
The marquis was a person with a narrow forehead, small grey eyes, and that peculiar expression of countenance which the vice of indulged avarice seems generally to produce. Though his lips denoted sensuality, their total want of firmness showed the astute Father Mendez that he would be easily moulded to his will. The marquis was perfectly well aware of the way in which the church was at times apt to bleed those whom she designated her most devoted sons, and he winced at the thoughts of having to part with the large portion of his newly-acquired wealth which would be required.
“I know not what you mean, father,” he answered. “I have always been a devoted son of Holy Mother Church, and shall ever be ready to pay those dues which she can rightly demand.”
The priest fixed his eyes sternly on him.
“It will be as well, Don Anibal, that we come to a right understanding on the matter,” he remarked, in a low firm tone. “Remember, I have the power of depriving you of every silver piece of the wealth you enjoy; of stripping you of your title and estates, and reducing you to the state of poverty from which you have sprung; that is what I have the power of doing. The heir—the real owner of this superb mansion, of these broad lands—is a fine healthy child; a word from me would bring him over, and put him, or his proper guardians, in possession of them. Now, if I refrain from doing this, I am in duty bound to demand a sufficient recompense, not for myself—far be it from me to claim any earthly reward, for my labours are for the benefit of our Holy Mother Church, whose devoted servant I am. Here you will see I know the exact value of your property, and its rental. This paper contains my terms: if you agree to them, well and good—if not, you know the consequences. I leave you for half an hour to consider over the matter, while I go and pay my respects to the marchioness; she is a wise woman and a faithful daughter of the church. I doubt not how she will decide.”
Now Father Mendez was excessively clever and acute, but Don Anibal Villavicencio’s cunning had been sharpened in the school of adversity. He looked up with an innocent expression of countenance, and asked—
“How do I know that the child you speak of is in existence? Pardon me for putting so rude a question, father. Where is he to be found? Give me particulars which will enable me to judge whether I am making a fair bargain with you.”
The father smiled at Don Anibal’s frankness; he was in no way offended at the doubt cast on his veracity; he liked people to be open with him; it gave him, he thought, more power over them. He knew that the marquis could have no interest in bringing the child from Shetland, and as that island was a long way off, he was not likely to set off there to verify the accounts he might give. He might, therefore, have told him any story he pleased. In this instance, however, as it answered his purpose to speak the truth, seeing that the truth would have more influence with Don Anibal than any tale he could invent, he told him all that had occurred, and gave him a full description of Lunnasting, and its position. The marquis had learnt to conceal his thoughts as well as the priest; he assumed a dull and indifferent air as Father Mendez continued his account.
“I see the justice of your remark, father, and rest assured that I will do my duty,” he answered, with a twirl of his moustache and a stiff bow of the head. “The child is heir, you tell me, to a good property in this far-off island of Shetland, of which till now I never heard; he may well be content with that; indeed it is clear that he would be out of his element as the possessor of an estate like this; besides, as you wisely remark, he will be brought up as an heretic. Yes, father, my conscience is at rest; I feel that I am doing what must be well-pleasing to the church, and you assuredly shall receive the reward you demand.”
“His conscience!—I wonder of what that is composed,” muttered the priest, and then added aloud, “You have not yet decided with regard to the paper I put into your hands, Don Anibal.”
“Well, do as you propose,” answered the marquis. “I hope that you have not been too hard on me, though.”
The priest gave a searching glance at the marquis, and without speaking, left the room. Don Anibal’s countenance did not wear a particularly pleasant expression as his eyes followed the priest.
“I’ll be even with you,” he muttered, as he ground his teeth and shook his clenched fist towards the door at which the priest had retired. “What! Does he think I am fool enough to pay him the enormous sum he demands? He has given me the key to the means of settling the matter in a cheaper way than that. I must, however, in the meantime, keep my plans secret as the grave, or he will manage to counteract them.”
At the end of the time Father Mendez had fixed, he returned, and was highly pleased with the ready acquiescence with which the marquis agreed to his proposals. He then, with a conscience at rest, hastened on to his convent to report his arrival, and to give an account of his proceedings. The marquis waited till he had assured himself that he had without doubt left the neighbourhood, and then set out for Cadiz. He had a mansion in that city where he took up his abode. He had been in his youth at sea, and had still a number of seafaring acquaintance. They were not all of them amongst the most respectable orders of society; perhaps they were the better suited to carry out the object he had in view. He was a cunning man if not a wise one, and knew that he was more likely to succeed by doing things deliberately than in a hurry. He began to frequent places where he was likely to fall in with his old nautical associates, and when he met them he seemed to take great interest in their welfare, and made many inquiries as to their late adventures and mode of life.
War had just broken out between England and France, and all the other nations of Europe were in consequence arming, both afloat and on shore, not knowing when they might be drawn into the vortex of strife.
In all the ports of Spain, and at Cadiz especially, not only at the royal, but at the mercantile dockyards, vessels were being fitted out and armed ready to take a part in the contest. People of all descriptions, many who had long been wanderers on the face of the globe, were collected there with the hope of getting employment on board the numerous privateers fitting out, caring nothing which side they espoused, provided an abundance of prize-money was to be obtained. Among these worthies the marquis found several old acquaintances. He did not fail in the course of conversation to make inquiries about other former shipmates. He invited them to his house, and treated them with unexpected liberality. One and all declared that he was well worthy of the exalted rank to which he had attained. He was seated one day alone, not having yet found the description of man of whom he was in search, when a stranger was announced.
“He is a seafaring man,” said the servant, “but he declines to give his name, as he says your excellency is not acquainted with it.”
“Let him come in—perhaps he may have business with me,” said the marquis; and a tall, thin, swarthy personage, with a large pair of moustaches which totally concealed his mouth, entered the room. He probably was about fifty years old, but he had as much the appearance of a soldier as of a sailor about him; he seated himself in a chair, and immediately said: “Your very obedient servant, most noble marquis. I understand that you are in search of a trustworthy man to undertake some work or other for you.”
“I—I never said any such thing,” exclaimed the marquis, somewhat confused.
“Your excellency may not have said it, but the tenor of your conduct shows me what you require. You would not trouble yourself with the company of all the people you have lately invited to your house unless you required something from them. Come, be frank; I have guessed rightly, have I not?”
“Before I answer that question I must know whom I address,” answered the marquis, trying to look very wise.
“As to that, my name is not unknown to fame,” replied the stranger in a careless tone. “I am Don Josef Tacon, or Captain Tacon, as I am generally called; we have met before now in the days of our youth; in the West Indies; on the coast of Africa; you remember me, perhaps. You recollect how we boarded the Dutchman, and how we relieved the Mynheers of their cash and cargo, and provisions and water; and you haven’t forgotten the English West Indiaman we captured and sent to the bottom with all her crew when they threatened to send one of their cruisers after us. These and other little similar incidents have not escaped your memory, most noble marquis.”
Don Anibal winced not a little while the pirate—for such he avowed himself to be—was speaking; but he notwithstanding held out his hand and hailed him as an old shipmate, “My memory is as good as you suppose, my friend,” he remarked; “but we will not dwell on those matters. There are some things a man would gladly forget if he could. However, there is an affair in which an intelligent fellow like you would be useful, if you will undertake it.”
“Name your price, Don Anibal, and I will tell you if I can undertake it,” answered Captain Tacon; “my fortunes are somewhat at a low ebb, and I am ready to engage in any enterprise which promises sufficient remuneration.”
“You were always a reasonable man. What do you say to two thousand dollars? It would be worth a little exertion to gain that,” observed the marquis.
“Tell me what you require to be done, and I will then give you a direct answer,” said the pirate.
The marquis thought for some time before he replied. “I must swear you to secrecy in the first place, and in the next, that you will decide, when I have put before you the outline of the work required, without obliging me to descend to particulars.”
“Depend on me, marquis,” exclaimed the pirate. “As I see a crucifix at the other end of the room, I will take the oath; and now hasten on with your sketch; I am a man of action, and will speedily decide.”
“Listen, then,” said Don Anibal. “You can, I doubt not, obtain command of one of the numerous vessels fitting out as privateers; I will use my influence. I can speak to your character for bravery, enterprise, sagacity—you understand me: you must use every exertion to find a craft. I know your talents—you will not fail.”
Captain Tacon smiled grimly at the compliments the marquis paid him. “But the enterprise, the work you require of me, most noble marquis?” he said, with a slight gesture of impatience.
“I am coming to that, my friend,” was the answer. “It lies in a nutshell: in a northern region there exists a child, of whose person, for certain reasons, unnecessary now to state, I wish to obtain possession. He lives in a mansion capable of defence; you may possibly, therefore, have to use force, but that of course will only make the work more agreeable to you. On your bringing me satisfactory assurance that you have disposed of the child as I may direct, the reward shall be yours. In the meantime, this purse, as soon as you decide, I will present to you. It is but an earnest of my liberal intentions.”
The exhibition of the gold was a bright thought of Don Anibal’s. As the taste of blood whets the appetite of the wild beast, so did the glittering bait the avarice of the pirate.
“Give me the purse,” he exclaimed, eagerly stretching out his hands; “I will take the oath.”
“Take the oath, and you shall have the purse,” answered the marquis, smiling blandly. “No mental reservations, though; I do not forget your antecedents, my old comrade.”
Captain Tacon gave a hoarse laugh, and twirling his moustachios, while his countenance wore the expression of a person about to swallow a nauseous draught, he walked across the room towards the crucifix. The marquis followed, with a self-satisfied look, as if he had achieved a victory. It is not necessary to repeat the oath taken by the pirate, or to describe the final arrangements entered into between the two worthies.
In a few days Captain Tacon again made his appearance, habited in a handsome nautical costume, with a huge cocked hat, and a richly-mounted sword by his side, and announced that he had become the captain of the privateer schooner “San Nicolas.”
“Never did you set eyes on a finer craft, most noble marquis,” he exclaimed; “she will fly like the wind, and swim like a wild-fowl. She carries eight guns, and an unlimited supply of small arms, with a bold crew of sixty men, villains every one! There is no deed of violence they will not dare or do; and now we are ready to sail when we receive your final orders.”
“I knew that I could trust you in the selection of your followers,” said the marquis, quietly. “Here are your orders; you will open them when at sea, and see that you carry them out in the spirit as well as in the letter. You will, of course, be well provided with flags. It may be convenient, at times, to sail under some other flag than that of Spain.”
Don Tacon smiled. “I have some little experience in those matters,” he answered, “trust me.”
That evening the “San Nicolas” privateer was seen standing out of the harbour and steering to the northward. It was announced that she had sailed on a cruise, and would before long return.
It must not be supposed that all these arrangements took place with the rapidity with which they have been described. The Spaniards love dearly to do everything with deliberation; the summer had ended, and the winter had come and gone, before the events just narrated took place.
Two or three days after the “San Nicolas” had sailed, it became generally known that Lieutenant Pedro Alvarez, the only surviving officer of the unfortunate “Saint Cecilia,” had arrived at Cadiz. Such was the case—Pedro had obtained a passage on board an English man-of-war. When some sixty leagues to the north of Cadiz, she had fallen in with a suspicious-looking craft, which hoisted Spanish colours. An officer was sent to board her, and Lieutenant Alvarez was requested to go as interpreter. The stranger proved to be the privateer schooner “San Nicolas,” and in her captain he recognised an old acquaintance. The last time they had met, it had been under somewhat unpleasant circumstances for Captain Tacon, who had almost got his head into a halter, and but narrowly slipped it out again. The worthy lieutenant very naturally suspected, from his knowledge of Don Josef’s previous history, that he was not engaged in any very creditable undertaking. He at once suspected that he was not sailing on a simple privateering voyage, but of course he failed to ascertain the truth. The more questions he asked, the more mysterious and important his quondam acquaintance became. The result of his conversation was, that he resolved, as soon as he arrived at Cadiz, to make all the inquiries in his power about Captain Tacon, and the “San Nicolas.” Pedro Alvarez was a blunt sailor, but he had a very considerable amount of sagacity. Before long, he discovered that his quondam acquaintance had been known to pay frequent visits to the Marquis de Medea, who was also known to have had some correspondence with the owners of the “San Nicolas.” More than this Pedro could not discover; but it was sufficient to make him suspect that the schooner’s voyage was in some way connected with the affairs of the marquis himself. He was not however a man to do things by halves, so he continued to work on in the hope that he might at last ferret out the truth. However, he had not much time for this occupation; for having reported himself to the naval authorities, he was forthwith promoted, and appointed to the command of a brig-of-war. His great aim, however, before he sailed, was to place in proper train with the legal authorities the claims of young Hernan Escalante to the title and estates now held by Don Anibal de Villavicencio. He was aware that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and that he must expect to have a very tough battle to fight.
“Never fear for the consequences,” said he to his legal adviser. “I have neither wife nor child, nor any one depending on me, and as long as I have a silver piece belonging to me, I will expend it in claiming the rights of that poor child.”
Having just given expression to this virtuous resolution as he was leaving the lawyer’s door, he found himself standing face to face with Father Mendez.
The priest looked narrowly at the house. He recollected that a well-known lawyer lived there. What could the rough lieutenant want with him? He jumped at a conclusion, which was not far from the truth; still his countenance wore its usual calm and inexpressive look.
“Ha! my old shipmate! I did not expect to see you so soon in our own well-beloved native land,” he exclaimed. “These are stirring times, and you did well to return: you will not be long on shore, however, I conclude?”
“Not long enough to lose my sea legs or sea manners,” answered Pedro, bluntly.
“Have you another appointment yet, my friend?” asked the priest.
“My superiors think me too useful to allow me to remain long unemployed,” replied Pedro.
“That is well: take the advice of a friend, and attend to your own duties,” said the priest, in a suppressed tone, sinking at last to a whisper; “you will but burn your fingers if you interfere where you have no concern.”
“Thank you for your hint, most astute priest. Then you guess what I am about,” thought Pedro, but he did not speak aloud. He only tried to look totally unconscious of what Father Mendez could possibly mean. He did not succeed as well as he wished or fancied that he had done, and the father saw that it would be necessary to watch him very narrowly, to counteract any scheme he might attempt to carry into execution.
The lieutenant, meantime, fancied that he had outwitted the priest, and continued with the greatest energy to prosecute the work he had commenced.
Father Mendez was not long in discovering this, and with fully equal resolution took steps to put a stop to his proceedings. He also prided himself on performing whatever he undertook in the most effectual manner. He saw that Pedro might cause him a great deal of trouble and inconvenience. There were two ways which suggested themselves of disposing of him: he might inform the marquis of his proceedings, who would, without the slightest scruple, probably get him assassinated; but the bravo’s dagger was not always sure, and if the marquis knew that he was dead he might be tempted to assume more independence than would be convenient. He had another plan, which could not possibly fail.
Pedro Alvarez, as do most captains, lived on shore while his ship was fitting out. He continued to do so after she was ready for sea, and while he was waiting for orders. He had made every preparation for sailing, and was ready to trip his anchor at a moment’s notice. At last his despatches arrived. He was paying his last visit to the shore, when, as he was sitting in the room of his lodging glancing over a few accounts which remained unpaid, a stranger was announced. Captain Alvarez rose to receive him, and requested to know the object of his visit. As he did so, he recognised a person of whom he had caught a glimpse more than once, watching him as he left the house.
“No matter who I am,” said the stranger; “I but obey the orders of my superiors, and I am directed to desire you to attend at the office of the Holy Inquisition, there to answer certain accusations which have been brought against you. This, it is hoped, you can at once easily and completely do, and that you will therefore not hesitate to accompany me. A carriage waits for us at the end of the street. You can arrange the matters about which you are now occupied on your return. I am directed to accompany you, and as the council is now sitting there is no time to be lost.”
“Do you expect to catch a weasel asleep?” thought Pedro, at least an equivalent Spanish proverb occurred to him. Pedro was conscious that he had at times expressed himself, in coffee-houses and taverns, in a way not over complimentary, either to the priests or the Inquisition itself; and he felt very sure that no explanations he could give would prove satisfactory to the Inquisitional council. The bold determined look he gave the officer was such as that worthy officer was little accustomed to receive from the trembling wretches on whom he served his summonses.
“You have performed your duty, my friend, and now go back to those who sent you, and inform them that you have delivered your message, but that my avocations prevent me from acceding to their demands.”
The official looked wonderfully astonished, and, without saying another word, drew a pistol from his bosom, and clapping it to the seaman’s head, told him that he must enforce obedience.
“Must you, friend?” exclaimed Pedro, by a sudden movement of his arm striking up the pistol; “then I must resist by force.”
The official pulled the trigger, but the weapon had not often been used, and the powder flashed in the pan. He was about to draw another, but Pedro’s quick eye saw the man’s purpose. His own sword lay on the table. He seized it with one hand, while with the other he grasped the barrel of the pistol about to be turned towards him. At that instant the official’s foot slipped, and, as he fell heavily forward, the point of the sword entered his throat and pierced through to the spine. Pedro caught him as he fell, but the wound was mortal, and in another minute he was dead.
Pedro Alvarez was as bold and brave a seaman as ever stepped; but he knew full well that killing an official of the Inquisition in the execution of his duty, would make the country too hot for him. The instinct of self-preservation was as strong with him as with most men. He considered how he could avoid the consequences of his act. There was a large cupboard in the room. He dragged the body in, and locking the door put the key in his pocket. The wound had not bled much, and he was able to get rid of the traces without much difficulty. It just then occurred to him that the owners of the house would get into trouble when the body should be discovered; so he wrote on a piece of paper—“This man attempted to kill me, and in self-defence, I, against my wish, slew him.—Pedro Alvarez;” and, opening the door of the cupboard, pinned it on the stranger’s coat. He then put all the papers belonging to him into his pocket, and deliberately walked down to the quays. His boat was waiting for him. His heart beat much more regularly than it had done for the last half hour, as he sprang on board and shoved off. His crew gave way, and he soon stepped the deck of his beautiful little brig, the “Veloz.” The next instant the boats were hoisted in, the anchor was weighed, the topsails were let fall and sheeted home, and the brig, with a fine breeze from the southward, stood out of the harbour. Every sail the brig could carry was pressed on her. The officers and crew were delighted with the way she flew through the water. Her captain turned his spyglass very often towards the town: he made out, at last, a boat pulling off rapidly towards the brig, and shortly afterwards his signal midshipman reported that one of the ships-of-war in the harbour was telegraphing to them.
“You must be mistaken, boy; it cannot be intended for us shut up your book, we are beyond signalling distance,” he answered. “And so farewell to lovely Spain—for ever, perhaps,” he thought to himself. “It will take more years than I am likely to live to make those wretches forget or forgive the death of their official. From henceforth I am a banished man. For myself I care not; but for poor young Hernan—who is to advocate his cause? Well, I fear for this time the spirit of evil and his imps have got the upper hand of honest folk.”
The winds whistled round the towers of Lunnasting, and the wild waves, as they were wont, washed the base of the rock on which it stood, and time sped on without any material change taking place among its inhabitants. Hilda spent the greater portion of the day in her turret chamber, gazing out—when not engaged in nursing her child—on the wide-spread ocean, and thinking of him who slept beneath its surface. Her infant, however, was her constant and only source of interest.
The little fatherless infant grew and flourished, and gave every promise of becoming a strong healthy boy. Meantime the health of Bertha Morton became week after week worse and worse, and her mother began to fear, too justly, that her days on earth were numbered. Rolf had been compelled to make a voyage to Greenland, as first mate of a ship; and he came back only in time to have his little boy put into his arms and to receive the last breath of the wife he so fondly loved. At Hilda’s special invitation the young Ronald was carried up to castle that his grandmother might have the entire charge of him.
“He will make a good playmate for my little Hernan, dear Bertha,” observed Hilda; “so you see he will amply repay me for any advantage he may obtain by the arrangement. I trust the boys may be friends through life. They are of kindred blood, and Morton is a person in manners and conduct far above the position he holds. From his appearance it has more than once occurred to me that he must be of gentle blood. He that is gone, who saw a good deal of him, several times made the same remark.”
“He was brought up by a good, kind, Christian man, and it is on that account, rather than on account of his birth, that he possesses the qualities of which you so kindly speak, my dear mistress,” answered Bertha.
Hilda made no reply; affliction had not taught her to adopt the principles which guided Bertha’s conduct.
The brief daylight hours of the northern winter had once more begun to increase, when Hilda received a letter from her father, announcing his intention of returning to Lunnasting in the early part of the summer, with Edda. He also spoke of her sister’s engagement to a Colonel Armytage, remarking that the marriage would soon take place.
It is scarcely possible to describe the varied, but chiefly painful feelings which this information created in Hilda’s bosom. Her father had hitherto remained ignorant of her conduct, and she felt that he would be very justly incensed when he heard of it. Still she was too proud and self-willed to meditate for an instant asking his pardon, or seeking for reconciliation, and her whole thoughts were occupied in considering how she could best meet the storm of indignation and anger which she expected to burst on her. For Edda, however, she had as warm an affection as it was in her nature to feel for anybody so totally different as her sister and she were to each other. She could scarcely help despising Edda for her gentleness and her kind and affectionate disposition, as well as for the implicit obedience she yielded to their father’s often imperious commands.
“I pray heaven the gentleman our sweet Miss Edda is going to marry is worthy of her—good, and generous, and kind—or it will break her heart,” said nurse Bertha, as they were talking over the subject together.
“It takes a good deal to break a Wardhill’s heart, or mine would have gone long ago,” answered Hilda, with a sigh so deep and sad that it made Bertha’s sicken as she heard it.
Lawrence Brindister was as little pleased as any one with the report of Sir Marcus Wardhill’s intended return. Poor Lawrence had that instinctive dread of his guardian which a cat or a dog has of the person who takes every occasion of giving them a kick or a buffet when they meet. He felt that he was unjustly and tyrannically treated, yet he had no means of breaking away from his thraldom. Sir Marcus had a very simple plan for keeping him within bounds; he never intrusted him with money; and as poor Lawrence was known to be of unsound mind, nobody was found willing to lend him their gold to supply his wants, as none of it was ever likely to be repaid.
Pending the expected arrival of her father, Hilda was seated as usual at her turret window; now gazing at her infant, who was sleeping on a pile of cushions at her feet; now casting a glance across the ocean, over which the sun, now declining towards the west, was casting a rich glow, when her eye was attracted by the white sails of a vessel which, lighted up by his beams, shone like driven snow. There was a light wind from the south-east, before which the vessel under all sail was standing in towards the land. Hilda, who from having lived all her life near the sea was well acquainted with the rigs of vessels, recognised the one now approaching as a schooner, and from her wide spread of canvas she judged that she was a large one.
On stood the stranger, directly towards Whalsey. At first, from the bold way in which she approached, Hilda thought that she must have a pilot on board, but as she drew in with the channel between the south end of Eastling and the little island known as Grief Skerry, she hauled her wind, and then went about and hove-to, with her head off shore.
“What can possibly be her errand here?” said Hilda to herself. “Can my father be on board her? But no, he would have stood on, and brought the vessel to an anchor.”
The family retired to rest at the usual hour of ten o’clock, and probably not long after that were wrapped in sound sleep. Not so poor Hilda. The mistress of the mansion slept far less than any of those who obeyed her orders. She invariably retired long after the household were in bed, rose early, and probably seldom obtained more than an hour’s continuous sleep. On this evening her child had been somewhat fretful, and Bertha insisted on carrying the little fellow off to sleep in her room with her grandson, Ronald Morton. Hilda had reluctantly consented to the arrangement, and frequently awoke with a start of terror on missing her little companion from her side. At length she had fallen into a comparatively sound sleep, when she was suddenly awakened by a loud, crashing sound. She started up. The noise brought to her recollection, with painful clearness, the moment when the “Saint Cecilia” struck on the rocks of Ossa Skerry. She thought she must have been dreaming, but again the sound was renewed. She felt confident that it was caused by heavy blows dealt against a small postern gate which led out on the front terrace overhanging the sea. From the noise, Hilda suspected that this had already partly given way, and she feared that the assailants, whoever they were, would already have gained an entrance before she could summon any of the servants to resist them. Besides Lawrence, it was not likely that there were more than five or six men in the house. The bell belonging to her room led only to the chambers of the women, and she feared that when they awoke, they would do little more for the defence of the castle than scream; nor had she much confidence in the valour of old David Cheyne, the butler. Still she herself felt no overwhelming alarm. Throwing some garments round her, she hurried to the hall, where a bell rope communicated with the servants’ room. She pulled it violently, and then hastened on to call Lawrence. She had little confidence, however, in the way he might behave; still, she had no reason to doubt his courage, and knew that if he comprehended what was required, he was likely to be of as much value as any other man. He had fire-arms, and so had all the servants, and she hoped, if there was time for them to collect, to give the assailants a warm reception. The door, it was evident, had resisted the first attack made on it, for again there came a succession of thundering blows, which echoed through the castle, and must have aroused the soundest sleepers. Hilda took a turn up and down the hall to relieve her impatience. She felt inclined herself to go to the gate to ascertain how far it had resisted the attacks made on it, but she reflected that this would be folly, because, should she be seized by the enemy, it would make all further resistance useless. Every moment her impatience increased.
“What! are the men turned cowards?” she exclaimed, when she found that no one appeared; “are they skulking in bed, afraid to encounter the unexpected foe? Oh! that I were a man, to be able to fight as brave men do! I thought better things of Lawrence. If they would but come, we might yet drive back these marauders. It shall never be said that the castle of Lunnasting was given up without a desperate struggle.”
Again she rang such a peal, that Davie Cheyne must have been aroused, had he been twice as sound asleep as he had ever been before. It produced its effect, and with startled looks, his hair on end, with his night-cap in one hand and his coat in the other, the old butler rushed into the hall, followed by the other serving-men, and some farm labourers who slept in the castle.
“Oh my lady!—oh Miss Hilda! Oh—I beg pardon, Madame Escalante—what is the matter? What is going to happen?”
“That you, lazy-bones, have been snoring in bed, while the castle is being attacked by a band of robbers or privateers; and that, unless you stir yourselves to defend it, you may all be murdered as you deserve. Quick!—get your arms, and try to defend the place. Where is Mr Lawrence? Is he as cowardly as the rest of you?”
“No, cousin Hilda, he is not,” said Lawrence, who entered at that moment with a musket in one hand, a sword in the other, and a brace of pistols in his belt. “I have been to take a look at the besiegers. They are taking breath to make a fresh attack, and it’s my opinion that we take them on the flank, and if we work our guns well, we shall be able to shoot them down before one of them can return to their boats.”
“Excellent, Lawrence,” exclaimed Hilda, pleased with his unexpected sagacity and promptness. “Place the men as you think best. What could induce an enemy to attack this place, it is difficult to say, unless from its apparent strength they suppose it contains large stores of plate and jewels. However, I trust to your courage and conduct to disappoint them.”
While Hilda was speaking, some of the men were loading their firelocks; others found that they had forgot their ammunition, and ran back to get it; and Davie Cheyne was putting on his coat and arranging his garments in a seemly manner, and stuffing a night-cap into his pouch, he armed himself with a huge blunderbuss, which, with its ammunition pouches, hung over the mantelpiece.
“Give me a musket!” cried Hilda. “Where there are not enough men, women must fight. I would sooner lose my life than allow these marauders to enter the castle.”
Hilda was speaking while Davie Cheyne was getting down the fire-arm and handing it to her. Not another moment was then lost, and the party, led by Lawrence, were hastening to the eastern tower which commanded the gate, when several of the women rushed with loud shrieks into the hall, exclaiming that the robbers were breaking into the castle, and that they were all going to be murdered.
“Silence, wenches!” cried Hilda, indignantly. “When I show signs of fear it is time for you to be afraid. Those who have the nerve to load the guns come with me; the rest go and remain with Bertha Eswick and the children. She will shame you, I doubt not, by her coolness.”
Two of the damsels alone were influenced by this address, and followed their mistress, while the rest, every now and then giving way to a shriek, ran up stairs as fast as they could go, to the nursery, where, surrounding Bertha, who was sitting up with the children, they said the mistress had sent them, and pulling away at her, entreated her to tell them what was going to happen.
“Girls, girls; it is something very dreadful, I doubt not,” she answered, solemnly. “But shrieking and crying will not ward off the danger. Let us rather silently pray to Him who can alone save us, for protection and the safety of those we best love.”
The girls were silent for a short time, but Bertha’s address did not seem to have much effect on them; and the sound of a volley of musketry, which was soon afterwards heard again, set them off shrieking louder than before.
The effects of the volley did not appear to have much availed the defenders of the castle, for, almost before it had ceased, the thundering blows on the gate were renewed with greater violence than before, and the crashing noise which followed showed that it was yielding to them. There were, as Bertha well knew, two small gates, one within the other. The first had, as she suspected, given way to the attack the assailants had first made, the crushing sound of which had awakened her as it had Hilda. The second gate was the one against which they were now directing their efforts. Lawrence had not been aware of this, and he fancied that it was the outer gate alone which had to be defended. On reaching the first storey of the tower, and on looking from the window which commanded the space before this outer gate, he saw a large group of armed men, apparently prepared for attacking it.
“There are the enemy! Have no parley with them! Fire, boys!” he exclaimed, setting the example by discharging his musket. The rest fired likewise, and apparently several of the enemy were hit; but, instead of taking to flight, they fired in return, and several of the Lunnasting party might have been hit had they not speedily retired from the window. In the chamber below, however, there were several loopholes, and in these they forthwith assembled, and commenced firing away as before. Hilda had not used her musket; but she in no way felt inclined to shrink from the contest, and her presence wonderfully animated the rest. They soon, however, discovered that the first of their defences had been taken, and that they were not in the slightest degree impeding the progress of the attacking party, who, in spite of the repeated volleys with which their comrades were saluted, continued to batter away at the door with an evident determination to succeed. At the same time the door was a very solid one, and resisted all their efforts. Several of those outside had been wounded. One or two had been seen to fall. This encouraged Lawrence and his followers.
“Could you not make a sally and drive them off?” at length exclaimed Hilda, as the blows on the door became louder and more reiterated. “If you rushed out suddenly they would not know how many men were following, and might take to flight.”
“They know well enough how many men are inside these walls, or they would not have dared to attack us, my lady,” observed Davie Cheyne. “With your permission, my lady, we’ll fight on till the powder is gone, with the thick stone between us, but there is no use in venturing our lives against six times our number without some such aid.”
The firing on both sides now became very warm till two of the servants were hit, and a bullet passed through the sleeve of Lawrence’s coat. On discovering this Hilda despatched one of the girls for bandages, while she endeavoured to staunch the blood of the man who was most hurt with her handkerchief.
“Thank ye, ma’am—thank ye, my lady,” said the poor fellow, looking up at her with an expression of gratitude in his countenance; “it will not be much harm done, and if ye will let me I’ll be at them again.”
The girl was absent nearly a minute, and, as she appeared, in a voice of terror she exclaimed, “the gate is giving way, and they will be into the castle in a moment!”
The courage of Hilda and her two attendants formed a great contrast to the behaviour of the women who had taken refuge with Bertha. The more constant the firing the louder they shrieked; and, as the sound of the blows on the gate reached them they clung to her gown, entreating her to tell them what to do. At last there came a crash louder than any that had preceded it, followed immediately by shouts and cries, and the report of fire-arms, evidently inside the castle, and the cries and shrieks increased, and then there was the heavy tramp of men’s feet, some hurrying along the passages, others ascending the stairs.
“Oh, they are coming here—they are coming here!” cried one of the servant girls. “We shall all be murdered, and the castle will be burnt. Oh, Mistress Bertha, where shall we run to?—where shall we hide?”
“Close the doors, girls,” said Bertha, calmly. “Perhaps they will not come here.”
The sound of the footsteps drew nearer and nearer. One room after the other was entered, and at last that next to the nursery. A moment afterwards the nursery door was violently shaken. Bertha made a sign to the women to keep silence, but in vain: as a heavy blow was struck against the door, one of them shrieked out. Some words in a strange language were spoken by men with gruff voices, and the next instant the door was burst open, and a dozen or more armed men, fierce looking fellows, rushed into the room. The girls fled to the extreme corner, but the pirates—for that they were desperadoes of that description, there seemed no doubt—took at first but little notice of them, turning all their attention to Bertha and the two children. A tall sinewy fellow, with long moustachios, stalked up to her, and, before she was aware of what he was about, snatched one of the children from her, and scrutinising its countenance returned it to her, and then seized the other, which he examined still more minutely. He seemed sorely puzzled, and pulled away furiously at his moustachios, while he talked and gesticulated to his companions.
They then commenced an examination of the children, and were so absorbed in the matter, that the serving girls were able to make their escape from the room, while poor Bertha was left alone with the savage-looking band of strangers. However, the matter was soon decided. The tall man, who seemed to be the captain, attempted to snatch the one he had first seized from poor Bertha’s grasp. In vain she struggled, and entreated him to let it go. Both the little fellows shrieked out with terror, as, hugging them in her arms, she endeavoured to escape from him; but, tearing the child from her, he held it up to his companions, and seemed to be asking them certain questions. They nodded in return; and while two of them held back poor Bertha, who was struggling to regain the child, he threw a cloak over it, and, calling to his followers, hurried down stairs. Bertha attempted to follow, in the hopes of regaining the child, but, overcome with terror and agitation, she sunk exhausted on the ground. The marauders took their way to the postern gate, by which they had entered the castle. Near it was a room, at the door of which a number of their companions were standing, guarding the defenders of the castle, whom they had overpowered. Leaving them there, he passed on, and, getting over the terrace parapet wall, he descended the cliff with his burden towards the boat which lay at the foot of it, and to which the men who had been wounded had been already conveyed. The little boy was all the time shrieking out most lustily, and desiring to be taken back to his mamma. Placing the child in the boat, with strict charges to one of the men who were in her not to let it out of his arms, he climbed the cliff again with the agility of a cat, and rejoined his comrades. He addressed them in Spanish.
“My men,” he observed, “we have thus far fulfilled our engagement. Now let us recompense ourselves in case the promised reward should not be forthcoming.”
His proposal seemed to meet with the warm approval of all the party. It was necessary, however, to leave some of them to guard the prisoners, at which those who were to be left grumbled much. “No matter,” he observed; “three of you will do, and if any of the prisoners attempt to escape, shoot them. It is the quickest way of disposing of those sort of people.”
Bertha had lain thus for some time, still grasping the little child, and in spite of his piteous cries, unconscious of his presence, when she was aroused by her mistress’s voice exclaiming—
“Bertha, Bertha! where is my boy?—where is Hernan?”
“Your boy, Hilda! is he not here?” answered Bertha, scarcely yet fully aroused. “Is he not here—here in my arms?”
“Here?—no! Where is he? who has him? Give him to me!” exclaimed Hilda, in a tone which showed the agony of her terror.
“Oh! was it not a dream? Where is he, do you ask? What has happened? Those men—they bore him away,” said Bertha, trying to rouse herself.
“My boy gone? You gave him to them instead of your own,” cried Hilda. “Oh! woman—woman! Did you not know how precious he was to me? And you let them take him! You should have died rather than allow them to tear him from you.”
“You wrong me, dear mistress,” answered Bertha. “They chose yours—they had come on purpose to get him, for they rejected mine. But have they gone? Let us follow them: a mother’s tears may induce them to give him back.”
“And I have lost all this time!” cried Hilda, putting her hand to her brow, and moving from the room.
When the pirates forced their way into the castle, the defenders were separated; Davie Cheyne, with the two serving girls, hurrying off their mistress in one direction, while Lawrence and the men bravely opposed them for some minutes, till they were completely overpowered, and compelled to submit to the enemy.
Having provided for their prisoners, the captain of the pirates and his men set off to engage in the pleasant occupation of ransacking the castle. From room to room they went, injuring nothing, and breaking nothing, except the locks of drawers, cabinets, chests, and cupboards. These, as the keys were not forthcoming, they burst open to examine their contents. They worked away briskly, but in no undue hurry. They knew that the operation in which they were engaged should not be done slowly, in case of interruption; at the same time at present, they had no reason to expect any interference with their performances. They were most of them evidently practised hands, for they were choice in their selections, and took only the more valuable articles. Plate, jewels, and ornaments were quickly transferred to their pockets, or to bags with which they had come prepared; but, with the exception of a few clothes, to which some of them took a fancy, and a collection of eatables from the housekeeper’s store-room, nothing else was carried off.
These matters being arranged, the captain ordered a retreat to be sounded. It was time, for daylight was already coming on, and they could not tell what assistance might be sent to the inhabitants of the castle, as they knew that the sound of their firing must have given notice to the neighbouring population that something unusual was going on. With some derisive expressions, the meaning of which Lawrence alone, of those who heard them, could understand, they left the party in the room, simply turning the key on them, and took their way to their boats. Just as they were shoving off through the twilight, a figure was seen standing on the edge of the cliff, stretching forth her arms, and shrieking out—
“My child—my child! Bring back my boy! Take him not away!”
In vain she cried, and those fierce men, cruel and callous as they were, had not the barbarity to mock her. Without uttering a word, they pulled rapidly from the shore. Giving vent to her feelings in cries, she uttered shriek after shriek, and would have thrown herself into the water, in her eagerness to follow them, had not Davie Cheyne come behind her, and, seizing her in his arms, drawn her back from the edge of the precipice. She broke from him, and was again rushing forward, when Lawrence and a servant, who burst out of the room where they had been locked in, ran forward and surrounded her. When they saw the boats, two of them, who had secured some muskets which the pirates had overlooked, threatened to fire on them; but as they levelled their pieces the captain held up the child, and three or four bullets whizzing above their heads, showed them that they would gain nothing by warlike proceedings. Some of the men—and so did Lawrence—proposed manning Sir Marcus’s barge, and going in pursuit of the enemy; but the proposal was wisely overruled by Davie Cheyne. “How could they expect, with a single boat, and with but few men ill-armed, to capture two boats full of well-armed men, perfectly practised in warfare, and who had already shown their superiority?”
The argument was unanswerable, and the proposal was withdrawn. It was, meantime, with the greatest difficulty that Hilda was held back from the edge of the cliff.
“My child! my child!” she continued crying out. “Oh, bring me back my child!”
The sound of her voice could no longer reach those she addressed. Away pulled the boat towards the schooner in the offing; and as all hope of recovering her soon vanished, she again sunk senseless into the arms of those surrounding her.
When daylight increased, a schooner, which hoisted French colours, was seen standing away to the eastward; but whence she had come, and where she went to, no one connected with Lunnasting was ever able to discover.