CHAPTER XXVII.

But the truth of this apothegm was not sustained in the present instance. Her hospitable efforts, even when united with the genial good humour and kindness of her husband were utterly unavailing to dispel the gloom which hung over the inmates of Windsor Hall. Sir William Berkeley was himself dejected and sad, and communicated his own dejection to all around him. Indeed, since his arrival at the Hall, he had found good reason to repent his haste in denouncing the popular and gifted young insurgent. The pledge made by Colonel Temple of the loyalty of the people of Gloucester, had not been redeemed—at least so far as an active support of the Governor was concerned. Berkeley's reception by them was cold and unpromising. The enthusiasm which he had hoped to inspire no where prevailed, and the old man felt himself deserted by those whose zealous co-operation he had been led to anticipate. It was true that they asserted in the strongest terms their professions of loyal devotion, and their willingness to quell the first symptoms of rebellion, but they failed to see anything in the conduct of Bacon to justify the harsh measures of Berkeley towards him and his followers. “Lip-service—lip-service,” said the old Governor, sorrowfully, as their decision was communicated to him, “they draw near to me with their mouth, and honour me with their lips, but their heart is far from me.” But, notwithstanding his disappointment, nothing could shake the proud spirit of Berkeley in his inflexible resolution, to resist any encroachments on his prerogative; and, so providing his few followers with arms from the adjacent fort on York River, he prepared to maintain his power and his dignity by the sword.

Such was the state of things on the evening that Thomas Hansford and his companions arrived at Windsor Hall. The intelligence of their arrival created much excitement, and the inmates of the mansion differed greatly in their opinions as to the intention of the young rebel. Poor Mrs. Temple, in whose mind fear always predominated over every other feeling, felt assured that Hansford had come, attended by another “ruffian,” forcibly to abduct Virginia from her home—and a violent fit of hysterics was the result of her suspicions. Virginia herself, vacillating between hope and fear, trusted, in the simplicity of her young, girlish heart, that her lover had repented of his grievous error, and had come to claim her love, and to sue to the Governor for pardon. Sir William Berkeley saw in the mission of Hansford, a faint hope that the rebels, alarmed by his late proclamation, had determined to return to their allegiance, and that Hansford was the bearer of a proposition to this effect, imploring at the same time the clemency and pardon of the government, against which they had so grievously offended.

“And they shall receive mercy, too, at my hands, “said the old knight, as a tear glistened in his eye. “They have learned to fear the power of the government, and to respect its justice, and they shall now learn to love its merciful clemency. God forbid, that I should chasten my repenting people, except as children, for their good.”

“Not so fast, my honoured Governor,” said Philip Ludwell, who, with the other attendants of Berkeley, had gathered around him in the porch; “you may be mistaken in your opinion. I believe—I know—that your wish is father to the thought in this matter. But look at the resolution and determined bearing of that young man. Is his the face or the bearing of a suppliant?”

Ludwell was right. The noble countenance of Hansford, always expressive, though sufficiently respectful to the presence which he was about to enter, indicated any thing rather than tame submission. His face was very pale, and his lip quivered for a moment as he approached the anxious crowd of loyalists, who remained standing in the porch, but it was at once firmly compressed by the strength of resolution. As he advanced, he raised his hat and profoundly saluted the Governor, and then drawing himself up to his full height, he stood silently awaiting some one to speak. Colonel Temple halted a moment between his natural kindness for his friend and his respect for the presence of Sir William Berkeley. The first feeling prompted him to rush up to Hansford, and greeting him as of old, to give him a cordial welcome to the hall—but the latter feeling prevailed. Without advancing, then, he said in a tone, in which assumed displeasure strove in vain to overcome his native benevolence—

“To what cause am I to attribute this unexpected visit of Mr. Hansford?”

“My business is with Sir William Berkeley,” replied Hansford, respectfully, “and I presume I am not mistaken in supposing that I am now in his presence.”

“And what would you have from me young man,” said Berkeley, coldly; “your late career has estranged you and some of your friends so entirely from their Governor, that I feel much honoured by this evidence of your returning affection.”

“Both I and my friends, as far as I may speak for them,” returned Hansford, in the same calm tone, “have ever been ready and anxious to show our devotion to our country and its rulers, and our present career to which your excellency has been pleased to allude, is in confirmation of the fact. That we have unwittingly fallen under your displeasure, sir, I am painfully aware. To ascertain the cause of that displeasure is my reason for this intrusion.”

“The cause, young man,” said Berkeley, “is to be found in your own conduct, for which, may I hope, you have come for pardon?”

“I regret to say that you are mistaken in your conjecture,” replied Hansford. “As it is impossible that our conduct could have invoked your displeasure, so it is equally impossible that we should sue for pardon for an offence which we have never committed.”

“And, prythee, what then is your worshipful pleasure, fair sir,” said Berkeley, ironically; “perhaps, in the abundance of your mercy, you have come to grant pardon, if you do not desire it. Nay!” he exclaimed, seeing Hansford shake his head; “then, peradventure, you would ask me to abdicate my government in favour of young Cromwell. I beg pardon—young Bacon, I should say—the similarity of their views is so striking, that as my memory is but a poor one, I sometimes confound their names. Well! any thing in reason. Nay, again!—well then, I am at a loss to conjecture, and you must yourself explain the object of your visit.”

“I would fain convey my instructions to Sir William Berkeley's private ear,” said Hansford, unmoved by the irony of the old knight.

“Oh pardon me, fair sir,” said Berkeley; “yet, in this I must crave your pardon, indeed. A sovereign would never wittingly trust himself alone with a rebel, and neither will I, though only an obscure colonial Governor. There are none but loyal ears here, and I trust Mr. Hansford has no tidings which can offend them.”

“I am sure,” said Hansford, in reply, “that Sir William Berkeley does not for a moment suspect that I desired to see him in private from any sinister or treasonable motive.”

“I know, sir,” said Berkeley, angrily, “that you have proved yourself a traitor, and, therefore, I have the best reason for suspecting you of treasonable designs. But I have no time—no disposition to dally with you thus. Tell me, what new treason, that my old ears are yet strangers to, I am yet doomed to hear?”

“My instructions are soon told,” said Hansford, repressing his indignation. “General Nathaniel Bacon, by virtue of your own commission, Commander-in-chief of the forces of Virginia, desires to know, and has directed me to inquire, for what cause you have issued a proclamation declaring both him and his followers traitors to their country and king?”

Berkeley stood the shock much better than Hansford expected. His face flushed for a moment, but only for a moment, as he replied,—

“This is certainly an unusual demand of a rebel; but sir, as I have nothing to fear from an exposure of my reasons, I will reply, that Nathaniel Bacon is now in arms against the government of Virginia.”

“Not unless the government of Virginia be allied with the Indians, against whom he is marching,” said Hansford, calmly.

“Aye, but it is well known,” returned Berkeley, “that he has covert views of his own to attain, under pretext of this expedition against the Indians.”

“Why, then,” replied Hansford, “if they are covert from his own followers, proclaim them traitors with himself; or, if covert from the government, how can you ascertain that they are treasonable? But, above all, if you suspected such traitorous designs, why, by your commission, elevate him to a position in which he may be able to execute them with success?”

“'Fore God, gentlemen, this is the most barefaced insolence that I have ever heard. For yourself, young man, out of your own mouth will I judge you, and convict you of treason; and for your preceptor—whose lessons, I doubt not, you repeat by rote—you may tell him that his commission is null and void, because obtained by force and arms.”

“I had not expected to hear Sir William Berkeley make such an acknowledgment,” returned Hansford, undauntedly. “You yourself declared that the commission was not given from fear of threats; and even if this were not so, the argument would scarce avail—for on what compulsion was it that your signature appears in a letter to his majesty, warmly approving the conduct of General Bacon, and commending him for his zeal, talents and patriotism?”[40]

“Now, by my knighthood,” said Berkeley, stung by this last unanswerable argument, “I will not be bearded thus by an insolent, braggart boy. Seize him!” he cried, turning to Bernard and Ludwell, who stood nearest him. “He is my prisoner, and as an example to his vile confederates, he shall hang in half an hour, until his traitorous tongue has stopped its vile wagging.”

Hansford made no attempt to escape, but, as the two men approached to disarm and bind him, he fixed his fine blue eyes full upon Colonel Temple, and said, mildly,

“Shall this be so? Though Sir William Berkeley should fail to respect my position, as the bearer of a peaceable message from General Bacon, I trust that the rites of hospitality may not be violated, even in my humble person.”

Colonel Temple was much embarrassed. Notwithstanding the recent conduct of Hansford had alienated him to a great degree, he still entertained a strong affection for his boy—nor could he willingly see him suffer a wrong when he had thus so confidingly trusted to his generosity. But, apart from his special interest in Hansford, the old Virginian had a religious regard for the sacred character of a guest, which he could never forget. And yet, his blind reverence for authority—the bigoted loyalty which has always made the English people so cautious in resistance to oppression, and which retarded indeed our own colonial revolution—made him unwilling to oppose his character of host to the authority of the Governor. He looked first at Sir William Berkeley, and his resolution was made; he turned to Hansford, and as he saw his noble boy standing resolutely there, without a friend to aid him, it wavered. The poor old gentleman was sadly perplexed, but, after a brief struggle, his true, generous heart conquered, and he said, turning to Sir William:

“My honoured sir, I trust you will not let this matter proceed any further here. My house, my life, my all, is at the service of the king and of his representative; but I question how far we are warranted in proceeding to extremities with this youth, seeing that although he is rather froward and pert in his manners, he may yet mean well after all.”

“Experience should have taught me,” replied Berkeley, coldly, for his evil genius was now thoroughly aroused, “not to place too much confidence in the loyalty of the people of Gloucester. If Colonel Temple's resolution to aid the crumbling power of the government has wavered at the sight of a malapert and rebellious boy, I had better relieve him of my presence, which must needs have become irksome to him.”

“Nay, Sir William,” returned Temple, reddening at the imputation, “you shall not take my language thus. Let the youth speak for himself; if he breathes a word of treason, his blood be on his own head—my hand nor voice shall be raised to save him. But I am unable to construe any thing which he has yet said as treasonable.” Then turning to Hansford, he added, “speak, Mr. Hansford, plainly and frankly. What was your object in thus coming? Were you sent by General Bacon, or did you come voluntarily?”

“Both,” replied Hansford, with a full appreciation of the old man's unfortunate position. “It was my proposition that some officer of the army should wait upon the Governor, and ascertain the truth of his rumoured proclamation. I volunteered to discharge the duty in person.”

“And in the event of your finding it to be true,” said Berkeley, haughtily, “what course did you then intend to pursue?”

This was a dangerous question; for Hansford knew that to express the design of the insurgents in such an event, would be little less than a confession of treason. But he had a bold heart, and without hesitation, but still maintaining his respectful manner, he replied,—

“I might evade an answer to your question, by saying, that it would then be time enough to consider and determine our course. But I scorn to do so, even when my safety is endangered. I answer candidly then, that in such an event the worst consequences to the country and to yourself would ensue. It was to prevent these consequences, and as far as I could to intercede in restoring peace and quiet to our distracted colony, that I came to implore you to withdraw this proclamation. Otherwise, sir, the sword of the avenger is behind you, and within two days from this time you will be compelled once more to yield to a current that you cannot resist. Comply with my request, and peace and harmony will once more prevail; refuse, and let who will triumph, the unhappy colony will be involved in all the horrors of civil war.”

There was nothing boastful in the manner of Hansford, as he uttered these words. On the contrary, his whole bearing, while it showed inflexible determination, attested his sincerity in the wish that the Governor, for the good of the country, would yield to the suggestion. Nor did Sir William Berkeley, in spite of his indignation, fail to see the force and wisdom of the views presented; but he had too much pride to acknowledge it to an inferior.

“Now, by my troth,” he cried, “if this be not treason, I am at a loss to define the term. I should think this would satisfy even your scepticism, Colonel Temple; for it seems we must consult you in regard to our course while under your roof. You would scarcely consent, I trust, to a self-convicted traitor going at large.”

“Of course you act in the premises, according to your own judgment,” replied Temple, coldly, for he was justly offended at the overbearing manner of the incensed old Governor, “but since you have appealed to me for my opinion, I will e'en make bold to say, that as this young man came in the character of an intercessor, you might well be satisfied with his parole. I will myself be surety for his truth.”

“Parole, forsooth, and do you not think I have had enough of paroles from these rebel scoundrels—zounds, their faith is like an egg-shell, it is made to be broken.”

“With my sincere thanks to my noble friend,” said Hansford, “for his obliging offer, I would not accept it if I could. Unconscious of having done any thing to warrant this detention, I am not willing to acknowledge its justice, by submitting to a qualified imprisonment.”

“It is well,” said Berkeley, haughtily; “we will see whether your pride is proof against an ignominious death. Disarm him and hold him in close custody until my farther pleasure shall be known.”

As he said this, Hansford was disarmed, and led away under a strong guard to the apartment which Colonel Temple reluctantly designated as the place of his confinement.

Meantime Berkenhead had remained at the gate, guarded by two of the soldiers of the Governor; while old Giles, with a light heart, had found his way back to his old stand by the kitchen door, and was detailing to his astonished cronies the unlucky ventures, and the providential deliverance, which he had experienced. But we must forbear entering into a detailed account of the old man's sermon, merely contenting ourselves with announcing, that such was the effect produced, that at the next baptizing day, old Elder Snivel was refreshed by a perfect pentecost of converts, who attributed their “new birf” to the wrestling of “brudder Giles.”

We return to Berkenhead, who, at the command of Col. Ludwell, was escorted, under the guard before mentioned, into the presence of Sir William Berkeley. The dogged and insolent demeanour of the man was even more displeasing to the Governor than the quiet and resolute manner of Hansford, and in a loud, threatening voice, he cried,

“Here comes another hemp-pulling knave. 'Fore God, the colony will have to give up the cultivation of tobacco, and engage in raising hemp, for we are like to have some demand for it. Hark ye, sir knave—do you know the nature of the message which you have aided in bearing from the traitor Bacon to myself?”

“Not I, your honour—no more than my carbine knows whether it is loaded or not. It's little the General takes an old soldier like me into his counsels; but I only know it is my duty to obey, if I were sent to the devil with a message,” and the villain looked archly at the Governor.

“Your language is something of the most insolent,” said Sir William. “But tell me instantly, did you have no conversation with Major Hansford on your way hither, and if so, what was it?”

“Little else than abuse, your honour,” returned Berkenhead, “and a threat that I would be beat over the head if I didn't hold my tongue; and as I didn't care to converse at such a disadvantage, I was e'en content to keep my own counsel for the rest of the way.”

“Do you, or do you not, consider Bacon and his followers to be engaged in rebellion against the government?”

“Rebellion, your honour!” cried the renegade. “Why, was it not your honour's self that sent us after these salvages? An' I thought there was any other design afloat, I would soon show them who was the rebel. It is not the first time that I have done the State some service by betraying treason.”

“Look ye,” said the Governor, eyeing the fellow keenly, “if I mistake not, you are an old acquaintance. Is your name Berkenhead?”

“The same, at your honour's service.”

“And didn't you betray the servile plot of 1662, and get your liberty and a reward for it?”

“Yes, your honour, but I wouldn't have you think that it was for the reward I did it?”

“Oh, never mind your motives. If you are Judas, you are welcome to your thirty pieces of silver,” said the Governor, with a sneer of contempt. “But to make the analogy complete, you should be hanged for your service.”

“No, faith,” said the shrewd villain, quickly. “Judas hanged himself, and it would be long ere ever I sought the apostle's elder tree.[41] And besides, his was the price of innocent blood, and mine was not. Look at my hand, your honour, and you will see what kind of blood I shed.”

Berkeley looked at the fellow's hand, and saw it stained with the crimson life-blood of the young Indian. With a thrill of horror, he cried, “What blood is that, you infernal villain?”

“Only fresh from the veins of one of these painted red-skins,” returned Berkenhead. “And red enough he was when I left him; but, forsooth, he reckons that the paint cost him full dear. He left his mark on Major Hansford, though, before he left.”

“Where did this happen?” said Berkeley, astonished.

“Oh, not far from here. The red devil was a friend at the hall here, too, or as much so as their bloody hearts will let any of them be. Colonel Temple, there, knows him, and I have seen him when I lived in Gloucester. A fine looking fellow, too; and if his skin and his heart had been both white, there would have been few better and braver dare-devils than young Manteo.”

As he pronounced the name, a wild shriek rent the air, and the distracted Mamalis rushed into the porch. Her long hair was all dishevelled and flying loosely over her shoulders, her eye was that of a maniac in his fury, and tossing her bare arms aloft, she shrieked, in a wild, harsh voice,

“And who are you, that dare to spill the blood of kings? Look to it that your own flows not less freely in your veins.”

Berkenhead turned pale with fright, and shrinking from the enraged girl, muttered, “the devil!”—while Temple, in a low voice, whispered to the Governor the necessary explanation, “She is his sister.”

“Yes, his sister!” cried the girl, wildly, for she had overheard the words. “His only sister!—and my blood now flows in no veins but my own. But the stream runs more fiercely as the channel is more narrow. Look to it—look to it!” And, with another wild shriek, the maddened girl rushed again into the house. It required all the tender care of Virginia Temple to pacify the poor creature. She reasoned, she prayed, she endeavoured to console her; but her reasons, her prayers, her sweet words of consolation, were all lost upon the heart of the Indian maiden, who nourished but one fearful, fatal idea—revenge!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Meantime the Governor, with such of his council as had attended him to Windsor Hall, retired to the study of the old Colonel, which had been fitted up both for the chamber of his most distinguished guest and for the deliberations of the council. The subject which now engaged their attention was one of more importance than any that had ever come before them since the commencement of the dissensions in Virginia. The mission of Hansford, while it had failed of producing the effect which he so ardently desired, had, notwithstanding, made a strong impression upon the mind of the Governor. He saw too plainly that it would be vain to resist the attack of Bacon, at the head of five hundred men, among whom were to be ranked the very chivalry of Virginia; while his own force consisted merely of his faithful adherents in the council, and about fifty mercenary troops, whose sympathies with the insurgents were strongly suspected.

“I see,” said the old man, gloomily, as he took his seat at the council-board, “that I must seek some other refuge. I am hunted like a wild beast from place to place, through a country that was once my own, and by those who were once the loving subjects of my king.”

“Remain here!” said the impulsive old Temple. “The people of Gloucester will yet rally around your standard, when they see open treason is contemplated; and should they still refuse, zounds, we may yet offer resistance with my servants and slaves.”

“My dear friend,” said Berkeley, sorrowfully, “if all Virginians were like yourself, there would have been no rebellion—there would have been no difficulty in suppressing one, if attempted. But alas! the loyalty of the people of Gloucester has already been weighed in the balance and found wanting. No, I have acted hastily, foolishly, blindly. I have warmed this serpent into life by my forbearance and indulgence, and must at last be the victim of its venom and my folly. Oh! that I had refused the commission, which armed this traitor with legal power. I have put a sword into the hands of an enemy, and may be the first to fall by it.”

“It is useless to repine over the past,” said Philip Ludwell, kindly; “but the power of these rebels cannot last long. The people who are loyal at heart will fall from their support, and military aid will be received from England ere long. Then the warmed reptile may be crushed.”

“To my mind,” said Ballard, “it were better to repair the evil that has been done by retracing our steps, rather than to proceed further. When a man is over his depth, he had better return to the shore than to attempt to cross the unfathomable stream.”

“Refrain from enigmas, if you please,” said Berkeley, coldly, “and tell me to what you refer.”

“Simply,” replied Ballard, firmly, “that all this evil has resulted from your following the jesuitical counsel of a boy, rather than the prudent caution of your advisers. My honoured sir, forgive me if I say it is now your duty to acquiesce in the request of Major Hansford, and withdraw your proclamation.”

“And succumb to traitors!” cried Berkeley. “Never while God gives me breath to reiterate it. He who would treat with a traitor, is himself but little better than a traitor.”

The flush which mounted to the brow of Ballard attested his indignation at this grave charge; but before he had time to utter the retort which rose to his lips, Berkeley added,

“Forgive me, Ballard, for my haste. But the bare idea of making terms with these audacious rebels roused my very blood. No, no! I can die in defence of my trust, but I cannot, will not yield it.”

“But it is not yielding,” said Ballard.

“Nay—no more of that,” interrupted Berkeley; “let us devise some other means. I have it,” he added, after a pause. “Accomac is still true to my interest, and divided from the mainland by the bay, is difficult of access. There will I pitch my tent, and sound my defiance—and when aid shall come from England, these proud and insolent traitors shall feel the power of my vengeance the more for this insult to my weakness.”

This scheme met with the approbation of all present, with the exception of old Ballard, who shook his head, and muttered, that he hoped it might all be for the best. And so it was determined that early the next morning the loyal refugees should embark on board a vessel then lying off Tindal's Point, and sail for Accomac.

“And we will celebrate our departure by hanging up that young rogue, Hansford, in half an hour,” said Berkeley.

“By what law, may it please your excellency?” asked Ballard, surprised at this threat.

“By martial law.”

“And for what offence?”

“Why zounds, Ballard, you have turned advocate-general for all the rebels in the country,” said Berkeley, petulantly.

“No, Sir William, I am advocating the cause of justice and of my king.”

“Well, sir, what would you advise? To set the rogue at liberty, I suppose, and by our leniency to encourage treason.”

“By no means,” said Ballard. “But either to commit him to custody until he may be fairly tried by a jury of his peers, or to take him with you to Accomac, where, by further developments of this insurrection, you may better judge of the nature of his offence.”

“And a hospitable reception would await me in Accomac, forsooth, if I appeared there with a prisoner of war, whom I did not have the firmness to punish as his crime deserves. No, by heaven! I will not be encumbered with prisoners. His life is forfeit to the law, and as he would prove an apostle of liberty, let him be a martyr to his cause.”

“Let me add my earnest intercession to that of Colonel Ballard,” said Temple, “in behalf of this unhappy man. I surely have some claim upon your benevolence, and I ask his life as a personal boon to me.”

“Oh, assuredly, since you rely upon your hospitable protection to us, you should have your fee,” said Berkeley, with a sneer. “But not in so precious a coin as a rebel's life. If you have suffered by the protection afforded to the deputy of your king, you shall not lack remuneration. But the coin shall be the head of Carolus II.;[42] this rebel's head I claim as my own.”

“Now, by heaven!” returned Temple, thoroughly aroused, “it requires all my loyalty to stomach so foul an insult. My royal master's exchequer could illy remunerate me for the gross language heaped upon me by his deputy. But let this pass. You are my guest, sir; and that I cannot separate the Governor from the man, I am prevented from resenting an insult, which else I could but little brook.”

“As you please, mine host,” replied Berkeley. “But, in truth, I have wronged you, Temple. But think, my friend, of the pang the shepherd must feel, when he finds that he has let a wolf into his fold, which he is unable to resist. Oh, think of this, and bear with me!”

Temple knew the old Governor too well to doubt the sincerity of this retraxit, and with a cordial grasp of the hand, he assured Berkeley of his forgiveness. “And yet,” he added, warmly, “I cannot forget the cause I advocate, for this first rebuff. Believe me, Sir William, you will gain nothing, but lose much, by proceeding harshly against this unhappy young man. In the absence of any evidence of his guilt, you will arouse the indignation of the colonists to such a height, that it will be difficult to pacify them.”

“Pardon me, Sir William Berkeley,” said Bernard, who had joined the party, “but would it not be well to examine this knave, Berkenhead, touching the movements and intentions of the insurgents, and particularly concerning any expressions which may have fallen from this young gentleman? If it shall appear that he is guiltless of the crime imputed to him, then you may safely yield to the solicitations of these gentlemen, and liberate him. But if it shall appear that he is guilty, they, in their turn, cannot object to his meeting the penalty which his treason richly deserves.”

“Now, by heaven, the young man speaks truthfully and wisely,” said Temple, assured, by the former interview with Berkenhead, that he knew of nothing which could convict the prisoner. “Nor do I see, Sir William, what better course you can adopt than to follow his counsel.”

“Truly,” said Berkeley, “the young man has proven himself the very Elihu of counsellors. 'Great men are not always wise, neither do the aged understand judgment. But there is a spirit in man, and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding.' Yet I fear, Colonel Temple, you will scarcely, after my impetuosity just now, deem me a Job for patience, though Alfred may be an Elihu for understanding. Your counsel is good, young man. Let the knave be brought hither to testify, and look ye that the prisoner be introduced to confront him. My friends, Ballard and Temple, are such sticklers for law, that we must not deviate from Magna Charta or the Petition of Right. But stay, we will postpone this matter till the morrow. I had almost forgotten it was the Sabbath. Loyal churchmen should venerate the day, even when treason is abroad in the land. Meantime, let the villain Berkenhead be kept in close custody, lest he should escape.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

“I assure you,” said Bernard, “it is from no impertinent curiosity, but a real desire to befriend you, that I ask the question. The Governor strongly suspects your integrity, and that you are concealing from him more than it suits you to divulge. Now, I would do you a service and advise you how you may reinstate yourself in his favour.”

“Well, that seems kind on the outside,” said the soldier, “seeing as you seems to be one of the blooded gentry, and I am nothing but a plain Dunstable.[43] But rough iron is as soft as polished steel.”

“I believe you,” said Bernard. “Now you have not much reason to waste your love on this Major Hansford. He threatened to beat you, as you say, and a freeborn Englishman does not bear an insult like that with impunity.”

“No, your honour,” replied the man, “and I've known the day when a Plymouth cloak[44] would protect me from insult as well as a frieze coat from cold. But I am too old for that now, and so I had better swallow an insult dry, than butter it with my own marrow.”

“And are there not other modes of revenge than by a blow? Where are your wits, man? What makes the man stronger than the horse that carries him? I tell you, a keen wit is to physical force what your carbine is to the tomahawk of these red-skins. It fires at a distance.”

The old soldier looked up with a gleam of intelligence, and Bernard continued—

“Bethink you, did you hear nothing from Hansford by which you might infer that his ultimate design was to overturn the government?”

“Why I can't exactly say that I did,” returned the fellow. “To be sure they all prate about liberty and the like, but I reckon that is an Englishman's privilege, providing he takes it out in talking. But there may be fire in the bed-straw for all my ignorance.”[45]

“Well, I am sorry for you,” said Bernard, “for if you could only remember any thing to convict this young rebel, I would warrant you a free pardon and a sound neck.”

“Well, now, as I come to think of it,” said the unscrupulous renegade, “there might be some few things he let drop, not much in themselves, but taken together, as might weave a right strong tow; and zounds, I don't think a man can be far wrong to untwist the rope about his own neck by tying it to another. For concerning of life, your honour, while I have no great care to risk it in battle, I don't crave to choke it out with one of these hemp cravats. And so being as I have already done the state some service, I feel it my duty to save her if I can.”

“Now, thanks to that catch-word of the rogue,” muttered Bernard, “I am like to have easy work to-night. Hark ye, Mr. Berkenhead,” he added, aloud, “I think it is likely that the Governor may wish to ask you a question or two touching this matter of which we have been speaking. In the meantime here is something which may help you to get along with these soldiers,” and he placed a sovereign in the fellow's hand.

“Thank your honour,” said Berkenhead, humbly, “and seeing its not in the way of bribe, I suppose I may take it.”

“Oh, no bribe,” replied Bernard, smiling, “but mark me, tell a good story. The stronger your evidence the safer is your head.”

Bernard returned, as we have seen, to the Governor, for the further development of his diabolical designs, and in a short time Berkenhead, under a guard of soldiers, was conducted to his quarters for the night, in a store-house which stood in the yard some distance from the house.

As the house to which the renegade insurgent was consigned was deemed sufficiently secure, and the soldiers wearied with a long march, were again to proceed on their journey on the morrow, it was not considered necessary to place a guard before the door of this temporary cell—the precaution, however, being taken to appoint a sentry at each side of the mansion-house, and at the door of the apartment in which the unhappy Hansford was confined.

CHAPTER XXX.