Old Hunter Tom seemed wrapped up in the melody and utterly oblivious to all things around him. With a low plaintive interlude, he continued:

There was an outcry from one of the auditors, that interrupted the melody.

"Hunter Tom! Hunter Tom! Where did you get that song? Where?"

The old man had paused with the bow in midair, and with a vexed look at being interrupted, and then, seeing the flushed countenance and gleaming eyes of his patient, thought the heat was too much for him, and that his head was affected.

"The heat of the sun has affected his head, Hugh. Come let us get him in the shade."

"No! No! Where did you get that melody?" excitedly.

"I told ye that I was going to sing ye some of my own songs. It's my own song, lad," soothingly, "and now, Hugh——"

"Oh! God be thanked! My father! My father!" striving to arise to his feet.

"The poor lad is raving, Hugh," and yet with some pallor in his bronzed features.

"I am not raving! You are my father and I am your son!"

The violin crashed to the ground and was splintered on a projecting rock.

"No, no, you are raving, lad. I have no son. They are all dead, these many years."

"Mr. Ande," said the pilot, striving in vain to calm him. "Mr. Trembath——"

"What!" exclaimed the old man in agitated tones. "Is thy name Trembath? Thy father's name, lad?"

"Major Thomas Trembath."

"Of where?"

The old man asked the question with trembling, faltering lips, eager, yet fearful of mistake.

"Of Cornwall, and Major under——"

"My son—my son!" The cry that went up rent the air and startled even the birds o'erhead. Old Tom was down on his knees, his arms encircling his patient, and with streaming eyes uplifted to the heavens, he murmured fervently, "God, great God, I thank thee! Thou art very good." And then to his new-found son: "But they told me that mother and you were dead. The black sealed letter! Who sent it? It reached me after Proctor and Tecumseh's defeat at the——Ah! I see it all. Another scheme of Lanyan's! A curse upon their race! But no, I must be merciful since God has been merciful to me in restoring to me, in my old age, a son. Thy mother, lad?"

"Is well when I left home and there will be many happy days for her when we return! and as for me, I'm not dead, although the Indians did near finish me."

"And ye were all these years searching for me?"

"No; mother and I thought you were dead, and yet, at times, we would have hope of you still being alive. I was searching mainly for the honour of grandfather and to remove the stain from our name."

"A true son of your race," said the old man warmly and with pride. "Ye are just the same as I was at your age. I might have known ye for my son, and yet the letter of your death and your mother's death took all thought on that subject from my mind."

The pilot with a sense of delicacy, and wondering to himself, had withdrawn from the scene at the start, but was now returning. He saw them seated side by side on the bearskin, and seating himself near them listened with interest to the tales of both father and son.

Before beginning his narrative of his eventful life he turned to the pilot.

"Hugh, this is my son, Andrew Trembath, who with his mother I had long thought dead, and I must introduce myself also, for the Loop and the settlers of Lycamahoning will see me not much longer. Now I know that my wife is living I shall return to the place of my birth. I have long been known by the name of Hunter Tom, and unknown by any other. I am Thomas Trembath, once Major of the 6th Royal Infantry of England, and have been a soldier in three wars, the War of the Colonies against England, the Peninsular War under the great Wellington, and the War of 1812 under Brock and Proctor. The tale of my whole life would be useless, but it is but fair to my son to narrate the last one, and the history of my hunter life here. Ye must know that there was a stain of treason against our house."

Hugh nodded his head.

"I mentioned that to him the first night I spent at his home," interjected Ande.

"Well," continued the Major, "it was mainly for the purpose of removing the stain that I came to this region from Spain. I would have much preferred to fight under the Iron Duke and against the French than against the Americans, but the thought of once more being in the region where my father was shot, and possibly gleaning something of value that would remove the stain of treason, spurred me on. Our regiment was on board the Royal George and landed at Quebec, and from thence to the interior it was a weary march, only part of the time alleviated by canoe trips. At first we were under that worthy imitator of Wellington, Brock, and had he lived I have no doubt but what the war would have terminated differently; but he was slain, and Proctor, a stain on British generalship, was placed in his stead. My life was spent part of the time with my regiment and then, for some months, I was an agent of the government among the Indians of the Ohio. It was my purpose to glean from them, of my own account, news of my father. Possibly some aged chiefs would still remember the capture of my father, and would know something of his being found in French uniform with a French commission as captain in his pocket. Should he be guiltless of any treason against England these savages, being so closely allied with the French of that time, would no doubt know of it. Since they were our allies then and friendly, an affidavit from them might be of some service. An Indian's word is as good as another in a court of law. I overcame the natural repugnance that I had to them, and ingratiated myself with them. An old chief gave me much knowledge of my father's capture, but concerning the rest nothing was to be learned. Then I thought of the second plan. My father had a great knowledge of mining and metals, and, while he was resident with the Indians of the Kittanning region, learned the secret of a mine somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Lycamahoning. I resolved to discover the whereabouts of the mine and possibly solve my father's honour at the same time. I learned much as to its location, but nearly lost my life by my incautious repetition of the Indian legend, for on the way back to Malden I was slightly wounded by an Indian. From that time on we were busy fighting, and due to the conduct of our own generals we lost Michigan and a part of Canada. It was after the fatal battle of the Thames that I received the letter from home that filled my heart with sorrow and made me an exile. It was a cruel letter, stating that my wife and boy were dead. England had no more charms for me. I plunged off into the wilderness of New York and Pennsylvania, and after a few years worked my way into this region. I hunted for many years before I resolved to make it my home. The mine I searched for again and again, but met no success, and I finally gave it up in despair. Then I built the cabin here, and the rest of the tale is known to you both as well as myself. Though I have not discovered the honour of my father, yet I shall return to my old home and take up my former life."

The Major finished his tale.

"Ye have had a wonderful life, Tom," said the pilot, "and I'll be right sorry to see you leave, but I have no doubt that Mr. Ande has a tale to tell?" He gazed questioningly at Ande Trembath.

Ande, thus summoned, related the story of his life. The Helston Grammar School, the smugglers, and that long night with Dick on the waves of the channel, the rescue by an outward bound Brazilian ship, their adventures in Brazil, and their sojourn in Minos Geraes in the Sierra Do Frio district, were all successively dwelt on, but he mentioned not the wealth he had accumulated there.

"Mr. Ande," said the pilot, after he had finished, "do ye ken aught of the metal box I handed up from the old excavation that night?"

"The metal box? Why, it must be still in the pocket of my coat, that I have not worn since that eventful time."

The Major entered the cabin and soon returned with the garment. The box was still there, from the bulging appearance of the exterior.

"Father, take it out and examine it."

The old Major did so.

"Truly, an ancient specimen," said he, and then he started, for there on the one side was the engraved figure of a warrior galloping amidst ocean waves. He turned it over, and on the silver lid, in slightly worn characters, was the following:

CAPTAIN ANDREW TREMBATH

"'Tis the snuff-box of my father!" exclaimed the Major, trembling with excitement. "At last the secret of his latter life may be explained. God be thanked if it can!"

The box was opened and, crowding around it, they examined the contents. A few papers, yellow with age, met their vision. The first was extracted, opened, and spread out.

"A letter from thy grandmother to thy grandfather, son Ande," said the Major, and he read it with an agitated voice. The next, a small book, was taken out, and the Major turning to the fly leaf read, "The Diary of Captain Ande Trembath." The first part was a record of sundry things at home in the palmy days when Captain Ande Trembath was Squire of Trembath Manor, and the Major hurried over it, for he was interested in what was beyond. Toward the middle of the diary he paused, and began to read.

"8th July, 1755. We are not more than twenty miles from Du Quesne, and in a day or so we will see the flag of our country planted on that fortress. So far no attempt has been made to hinder our march. The enemy must be demoralised."

"Ah, Braddock and his soldiers had great confidence," said the Major; "but see here is a great blank of many days." He hurried over the blank pages and again paused and began to read.

"Nov. 30th, 1755. Quite a time has elapsed since writing. The glorious hopes of our army were shattered in a day by a few hundred savages. I was wounded and left on the field for dead. When I came to myself I saw an Indian face bending o'er me. It was Musqueta, a sub-chief under Shingas, and seeing me able to move and alive he promptly took me prisoner, and with a few others I was taken to the chief's headquarters, the Indian town of Kittanning. They told me the whole army was slain. Incredible fact! I was not able to write on account of my bonds. I learned their language and they had some idea of adopting me into their tribe. Indeed, Musqueta had lost a son, and no doubt it was on account of that that he spared me at the defeat, hoping to adopt me into the tribe as his own son. The thing was detestable to me, and I refused all offers of the kind. Then I was forced to run the gauntlet, but it was my salvation, for, seizing a club and leaping through the weakest part of their grinning line, I escaped by my running powers. The swiftest foot of old Cornwall can outstrip the savage."

"He must have been a swift runner," interjected Hugh.

"He was that, but we must see what happened after his escape. All this I knew before by my conversation with the Shawnese under Tecumseh when I was an Indian agent, but nothing more," said the Major, and turning to the diary he again resumed.

"There was a shout and such a yelling when I escaped that it almost unnerved me, but I distanced my pursuers, and utterly left them in the course of a mile or so. My escape was toward the north along the banks of the river, but I had not gone more than a few miles before I encountered a small detachment of French troops. There was no getting by them at first, but at length I succeeded, after having first slain the French captain, their commander, which, since I could not avoid it, I trust God will forgive me. I accidentally met him in the wood, slew him, and since I could better make my escape in a French uniform, the whole region being French, I exchanged clothes. A commission was in his pocket, in which commission I inserted my own name for greater security."

The old Major paused and wiped the tears of joy from his eyes and murmured, "Thank God for that. Ande, my son, our family name may now stand forth as honourable and upright as any in the British Isles. He was no traitor. Here is the proof. We will depart for England and lay this diary before the authorities and get the signatures of Hugh, here, and the other settlers in testimony." The diary was forgotten for a moment, but the pilot was intensely interested in what followed.

"Read on, Tom, and let's see what happened, and how he got to this region," said he.

Major Trembath resumed reading.

"I arrived the same day at the mouth of a small stream coming from the east, where I found a canoe."

"Must have been the mouth of the Lycamahoning," said the pilot.

"Aye," said the Major, and continued:

"Up this stream I journeyed for fully ten miles when the force of the current became swifter, and I perceived that there were rapids ahead, and so once more took to the land, carrying the canoe, since it was a light affair, with me. I was anxious to place as many miles between me and the Kittanning region as possible. I am now fully forty miles from the enemy and deem myself safe for the time at least. Knowing their language, I discovered a secret when among them—the existence of a silver eldorado, and from remarks I surmise it must be nigh my present location.

"Dec. 1st, 1755. I have found the location of the eldorado. I shall remain a time and investigate.

"Dec. 25th, 1755. It is Christmas day, but I cannot keep it in the old style. I have laid in a supply of deer meat for the winter. In the spring I shall endeavour to find my way east to Standing Stone and be once more among the loyal people of the crown. Excavated two feet of the mine. It is either sulphide of lead or silver or both."

The Major ceased reading and ran over in silence a number of short entries, then paused, and then continued reading:

"August 1st, 1756. I shall work for a day or so yet and then taking some of the stuff east with me get it assayed. The hunting parties of Indians are becoming more numerous, and I cannot stay much longer concealed. In a few days I shall start for Standing Stone."

"The last entry," said the Major, as he closed the diary and replaced it in the snuff-box. "The subsequent events are as clear to me as if they were written on paper. The snuff-box, with its contents, was lost in the old excavation some time before my father left the neighbourhood. Later he left the section, and on his overland trip encountered Armstrong's troops, who shot him by mistake. The honour of our name is cleared."

Early the following spring a canoe was seen descending the Big Lycamahoning. Two occupants were in it, Major Thomas Trembath and his son. They were going to shoot the rapids of the Rough Water, and descending the river to Pittsburgh depart thence to the sea coast, and, to use the Major's own expression, "From there, home to Merrie England."

CHAPTER XXVIII

MISFORTUNES

"'Tis a downright shame," said bluff Captain Tom Lanyan, with some warmth, as he flung his grey hair back from the livid scar along his forehead, and stumped once or twice up and down the room in indignation.

"A shame rather to Miss Midget, herself, to refuse the alliance of a house like ours," snapped Mistress Betty.

"Now the old squire is in ill health and the estate is entirely within your power, brother James. I say it's a shame to pester the poor girl to marry Richard, if she doesn't want to," continued the captain.

"Very well," said Sir James with the slightest trace of a scowl on his placid features, "she shall not be pestered any longer, although many a girl would jump at the chance. I have changed my plans."

"Bless you, brother, you are more generous than I thought," and the captain's face actually lighted up with a smile, that was like the sunshine on a beetling, ragged cliff.

"I have changed my plans," continued Sir James, "I have another plan for Richard. Of what benefit is it to us to have an alliance with a fallen family. It would be much better to seek the Godolphin family. There is the daughter of Lady Godolphin, who will fall heir to the inheritance that a prince might envy, and I do not think the earl would oppose my purpose, for the fortunes of the Lanyans are ascending. With the Godolphins back of me, securely tied in alliance, I could demand anything from the government, and obtain it."

"I shall not marry the daughter of Godolphin," said young Mr. Richard, and his thin lips, so like his father's, closed in a narrow, determined line. "I shall marry Mistress Alice Vivian." Sir James's features flashed with anger. Richard Lanyan continued unawed. "The squire is in favour of it, and you were yourself some time ago. It remains only for the girl to be won over."

"Yes, I was in favour of it, but that was when the Vivians were in good circumstances. The old squire proposed it, himself, years ago, but times have altered. There shall be no alliance with the Vivians. Godolphin is friendly and is relying upon me for support in the House of Commons. For the last two weeks things have looked most favourable toward an alliance with the most distinguished and powerful family of Cornwall, and I am not one to slight the opportunities presented." There was determination in Sir James's tones.

"I shall marry Mistress Alice Vivian," said the son.

"You shall not," with a click of the jaws.

"I shall," with an answering, determined click. Richard Lanyan turned on his heel and left the hall.

"It will be so much better, after all," said Mistress Betty, echoing her brother's thoughts. "Our family might rival the Godolphins in time. Miss Midget will be sorry the day she ever refused. I must set myself to win Richard over from his infatuation, and I flatter myself I shall succeed. When did a woman ever fail?" Mistress Betty tilted her heavy eagle nose at an angle, as much as to say, you'll soon see how a woman's superior wisdom will manage it.

The old captain slowly shook his head as if in doubt.

"You may manage it, and I hope you will, but I would as soon attack a battery of artillery as try and turn a man away from the girl of his choice. I hope you will succeed, for the girl doesn't want Richard, and it is a shame to pester her and the poor old squire. I am glad the thing is settled, though, in brother James's mind, for you'll let them stay, brother James?"

"Squire Vivian must pay the mortgage within a week, when it comes due, or leave the premises. I already have a tenant for the Manor should he fail."

"But—Zounds! That's an outrage!" fumed Captain Tom.

"Nothing but a common procedure of law," asserted Sir James, coolly.

"Aye, it all sounds fine enough, and I suppose it must be so," said the captain, angrily shaking his head, and stumping up and down; "but 'tis an outrage all the same. The poor old squire will be driven out without a home."

"Captain Tom, don't be unreasonable. You know that Squire Vivian will not be homeless, for James intends to let him have the Primrose Cottage at a nominal rent," said Mistress Betty, championing Sir James.

"Aye, and the poor widow, Trembath, has already been driven from the Primrose Cottage, and whether she is in the Union Home, or elsewhere, no one knows. Is that just, James?"

"The Trembaths were traitors to the government," said Sir James, wincing a little under Tom's sharp shaft, "and beside I am not responsible for her loss of money by investment. I offered to loan her the money, and took a mortgage. How could I know that the investment would fail?"

"You advised her," said Captain Tom, bluntly.

"It was her own doing," said Sir James, sharply, "and besides it has all turned out favourably to us. We can't all be on top of the heap, Captain Tom; some must be up and some must be down to make room for those who get up. It's a law of nature, the survival of the fittest, and through it all the circumstances of the Lanyans are better now than they have been for a hundred years." So saying, Sir James turned on his heel and wended his way into the library, where he was soon absorbed in his London mail. Captain Tom called for his horse and rode off to Helston, and Mistress Betty retired to her own private apartments.

Such were the scenes that happened two years previous to the discovery of Major Thomas Trembath by his son Ande at the Loop. At Trembath Manor was a far different scene.

"Ally, dear, draw the curtains and let me look out once more on the park," said the querulous voice of the old squire. A tall, young lady, with a sweet, though pallid countenance, arose to do his bidding. The curtains were withdrawn, and the bright afternoon sunshine flooded the sick man's bed chamber, and cast a halo of brightness o'er his features. But what a countenance! Time and sickness had wrought great changes. The old, hale, hearty, rubicund look was replaced by the pale, pained expression of suffering.

"Come hither, dear."

Alice approached the bedside, and the old squire, taking her hand, looked at her earnestly for a moment.

"I have fallen into the hands of a cruel master, my child. He who was my friend is partly responsible for my position. After all I did for him, working for his election to Parliament some years ago; for you must understand, dear, that had it not been for old Squire Vivian and some of his friends, Sir James Lanyan would not now represent our section. And how has he repaid it?" continued the old man bitterly, and angrily.

"Father," laying her cool hand on his throbbing temples, "you know the doctor says you must not excite yourself."

"Aye, I know. I know, Allie, but I can't help speaking of it. He inveigled me into schemes of his own making, purposely, I believe now, to ruin me, and get the estate and the mine into his own hands. A dastard! A selfish villain! And now he is going to foreclose the mortgage, and in a week, my poor Allie, your old sick father and yourself will be without a roof to shelter them. An ungenerous rogue!" said the old man with another burst of anger.

"Never mind, father, you have me, your Allie, left, and I'll take care of you," and she smoothed down his scattered locks and laid her cheek close to his. The action and words seemed to quiet the old squire for a time, and he kissed the pale cheek of his daughter.

"You are a good daughter. Has Mr. Richard Lanyan been here to-day?"

"No, father."

"Has his man—Bob Sloan—as untrustworthy as the villain, Sir James—has he been here?"

"No, father," endeavouring to soothe him.

"Aye, he is giving me time to think; you know his proposition, child," said the old man gently. "I shall not live long, and it distresses me to think of my child homeless when I am gone." He laid his hand, that once stout, brown hand, now pale and thin, upon the bowed head of the girl, who was silently weeping. "It may prolong my life if you accept Richard, and our home will be yours. Long ago, before I knew of the villainy of Sir James, I purposed in my heart your marriage to Richard. Now, though I know the father and his trickery, yet I think I know the son, Richard, and I believe him free from his father's faults. He seems a good young man and talented, and loves you, child, sincerely, and he may make up in kindness to you for the injustice done to me. Years ago, in my strength, I thought it must be so, but now I have learned many things by sickness, and I would not urge you against your will."

"Father," said the girl, raising her tear-stained face, "if it will make you live longer I will not oppose; I will freely and gladly consent. I will do anything to add to your life. Have you not been both a kind, loving father and mother to me?"

"Bless you, my dear Allie," said the squire as he sank back exhausted, and then, in a whisper, "'Tis better than doctor's medicine. Call Stephen Blunt—and write an answer to James Lanyan's letter that you will find in yon desk."

Alice gave the order and sat herself down at the desk to answer as briefly as possibly the epistle of Lanyan. It was soon written, and the next moment Stephen Blunt appeared. He came in looking more bent and decrepit than usual, for the sickness of his master was weighing heavy upon him.

"Stephen," said the squire faintly, "send one of the servants with that to Lanyan Hall and await a reply."

The taciturn, old steward took the missive handed him by Alice, bowed and withdrew. A great load seemed to be removed from the old squire's mind, and he slept peacefully for three hours. By that time the servant had returned with the answer. Alice would have rather read it herself first, but the querulous voice of the squire must not be resisted, and so she passed it unopened to him. He unfolded it with trembling, eager hands, and devoured the few lines written there. His countenance grew paler, and then flushed an angry hue, until the great veins on his brow stood forth like whipcords.

"What! What! It can't be so!" he shrieked. He crushed the letter in his hands with rage and was about to fling it from him, but the motion and passion was too much for him, and with a gasp he fell backward—unconscious. The crushed letter dropped from his relaxed hand and fell to the floor, where it remained unnoticed for the time.

"To the doctor, quick!" said Stephen Blunt to the servant that was in the room. The servant was down and out in a moment. The same horse that carried him to the Lanyans' was near at hand, and he vaulted into the saddle, and went tearing down the carriage drive.

With a shriek of "My father!" Alice fell to the floor in a faint.

"Carry her to her rooms! He is not dead! I will not believe it until the doctor comes," said old Stephen Blunt. The servants carried their young mistress to her apartments, while Stephen, murmuring many things to himself, bathed the squire's forehead until the physician came. In a few minutes there was the sound of clattering hoofs on the gravel of the drive-way, then a rapid step on the stairs, and the physician was in the sick man's room. A look and a touch sufficed.

"He is past help. It is as I feared—a sudden stroke of apoplexy produced by some shock." He picked up the crumpled letter from the floor, opened it, read it with compressed lips, and placed it in his pocket.

The news spread o'er the whole village with the rapidity of wildfire, and by night every man, woman and child knew and sympathised with the bereavement at the Manor, for Squire Vivian was generally liked.

The funeral was held in the parish church, and old Parson Trant preached the sermon. With his eyes wet with the flood of sympathy and sorrow, and his voice unsteady and quivering, he delivered to the hushed multitudes an address upon "How are the mighty fallen." He called to their minds the deeds of the squire and his open, frank, generous life in such a tender manner that many of the audience wept in sorrow as acute as his own. There was possibly one of that audience who felt more keenly than others, and he bowed his head down as if ashamed to meet the gaze of the people around him. It was Captain Tom Lanyan. His sorrow was increased with the thought that it was some action of his brother that caused the squire's death. None of the other Lanyans were present. Sir James had to leave to attend to some business in Plymouth, and, informing his lawyer to foreclose the mortgage on the estate and tin mine and secure a tenant for the Manor, he embarked on the first vessel from Falmouth. Mistress Betty was ill of same fancied ailment, and Richard was, no one knew where.

After the funeral there was much condolence offered to Mistress Alice Vivian, but no personal help, no one being aware that the Manor and even the home furniture had passed out of the hands of the Vivian family. But Alice knew, and with a sickening sense of loneliness and helplessness she passed out of the gates of the Manor on the evening of the same day of the funeral. She had packed up her little personal belongings and had forwarded them that afternoon to Penzance, where she in tended following on the morrow. With a heart full of unuttered grief she wended her way to the old parish church and churchyard to pay a last visit to her father's tomb. The sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, and the pale, glimmering moon flooded hill and dale with ghostly, limpid light, whitening the cornices of the old church tower in the distance, deepening the shadows 'neath the trees, and bringing into gleaming prominence the white monuments of the departed. The gates of the cemetery were passed at length, but there was no fear or terror in her heart. Why should she fear? The dead could not hurt her, and it was less lonely here than in the great, empty Manor house. The church door was not locked, and opening it she passed down the long aisle, the tile work underneath echoing hollowly to her faint tread. Near the altar was the tomb of her father. The moonbeams, penetrating the coloured windows, illuminated it with a soft warm radiance, so clear, that the lettering could be easily discerned. She contemplated the inscription with tearful, stony gaze and then read softly to herself:

Richard Vivian, Esq.
Trembath Manor
"How are the mighty fallen."

It was the text of the funeral sermon that was inscribed below. There was nothing more save the dates of birth and death. Suddenly a keener sense of her loss and loneliness came upon her, and she bowed herself to the floor, giving vent to the first outpouring of grief—a grief that she had restrained until then. Sobs and cries, low, yet full of grief, shook and convulsed her frame.

"Oh, father! father! do you know how lonely I am? I am your daughter, your Allie, and you always wanted me near you. I am here near you, father, and yet I cannot feel your presence, for you are gone and I am alone." A great sob checked her utterance, and for a long time she struggled with her grief, murmuring incoherently, and, then arising, she dried her eyes.

"Perhaps he sees still, and pities my grief and solitude. Parson Trant said that the dead are more alive than the living—'I am the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.'" She quoted the Scripture passage softly to herself, and it seemed to give some comfort. "Yes, he must see and hear." A noise near the distant tower door startled her. She gazed that way, though not in fear. Who could be in these sacred precincts at night beside herself? she asked mentally. The noise was not repeated. It was some owl or bat, or perhaps it was a slight breeze that had moved the slightly opened door, she thought, and then turning to the altar she knelt down in prayer.

"O God, I have now no father, no friend, no helper but Thee. I am friendless, homeless, poor and lonely. Be my helper and give me strength. Be my father, O Thou who art above, and hold me in Thy protecting arms. Thou art the defence of the widow and the fatherless; be Thou the defence of the fatherless now and hold me in the hollow of Thy hand. O God, all Thy waves and Thy billows have gone over my soul. At one blow I lose all. Supported by a father's love, it is taken from me; reared in comfort, I am reduced to bitter poverty; surrounded by friends—yet to-day alone and helpless, and yet,—Thou wilt not forsake me, for Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall. I go a stranger among strangers in a strange land, yet Thou wilt not forsake me. Oh, be a light to my feet, a guide to my way, and a stay in my helplessness."

Some time more she spent at the altar in silent prayer, and then arising and casting a long lingering look at the silent tomb near her, she slowly wended her way down the silent and deserted church, and thence on and out of the cemetery.

Without she walked rapidly along the highway, when the figure of a man emerged from the shadow of the cemetery gate and followed and overtook her.

"Mistress Alice," he said, laying a detaining hand on her arm. She started and would have fled, but he restrained her. "You are out late; let me attend you."

"I asked not your escort, Mr. Richard Lanyan."

"Ah, but I choose to give it," said the young man, in a determined tone, and then added: "Mistress Alice, why will you not listen to reason? You know that you are friendless and poor and I would help you,—yes, lay down my life for you. I——"

"I do not require your aid. Why do you push your attentions upon me when you know they are unwelcome, and especially at this sad time?"

"Ah, but Mistress Alice, my love for you——"

She gave an impatient gesture.

"Have I not often said that it is vain and useless. I do not wish it, and your father——"

"Does not wish it, either," interjected Lanyan with an unpleasant scowl, "but that matters not; I wish it."

"But I do not, and I must not encourage you. I cannot give you what I have bestowed upon another." Her face flushed and then resumed its pallid expression.

Mr. Richard Lanyan was silent, but his facial muscles twitched with emotion, and his dark eyes gleamed with hidden fire.

"I say that no one shall take you from me. My father nor no one else shall stand as a bar in the way."

"I stand in the way, myself. My own heart is the strongest bar."

"If you will neither listen to reason or affection, there are other means," he said, threateningly.

"You are a coward and a miscreant, sir, to use such words to me."

"There are other means and——"

The words were scarcely uttered when she was seized from the rear and a cloak flung o'er her head.

"The coach, Bob," said Richard.

"'Tis coming, sir."

There was the rattle of wheels and a coach stopped near them. The door was wrenched open and as he placed her within he finished the sentence, "There are other means, and he, whoever he is, will never get you, except over the dead body of Richard Lanyan."

The deed was done so quickly that the dazed girl had but time to utter a muffled shriek as the door slammed, and her subsequent cries were drowned by the rattling wheels and trotting horses.

Mr. Richard Lanyan, angry with repeated rejections, had made his master movement.

CHAPTER XXIX

Loud and boisterous came the roaring voices of half-drunken tipplers from behind the green doors of an ale-house in the upper part of Falmouth. At the close of each chorus there was a thumping of tankards and fists upon the tables within that made the midnight hour a perfect babel of sounds.

"That's Tom Puckinharn's voice, I could swear to un," said a tall, well-built man, as he paused on the pavement without. He was talking to himself and evidently referred to one voice louder than the others, leading the chorus. A frown swept over his rugged features.

"Here I be following 'im all the evening from tavern to tavern and just missin' 'im at every place, and he a-spending his 'ard-earned money in drink and his poor wife, Susy, at home a-crying her eyes out. If it wadn't that I had promised Susy to fetch 'im home I'd wash my 'ands and disown 'im."

His thoughts were interrupted by the overturning of a table, the upsetting of chairs, the crash of falling tankards and voices in angry altercation within.

The stimulating effect of the ale he had imbibed had increased Tommy's natural proclivity to wit and repartee in the earlier part of the evening, and some of his shafts of ridicule had been directed at two young Scottish Highlanders, soldiers of Castle Pendennis on leave of absence. The petticoat men, as he had called them, had remembered him, and in the drinking chorus they took umbrage at the trifling mentioning of King George's name. There were angry words and then the ringing of steel.

The sounds stirred the man without to action. Pushing aside the swinging doors, a sight met his vision that tinged his spirit with righteous indignation. Chairs and tables were overturned; tankards were on the floor, with their spilt contents trickling away in sundry streams; Tommy's friends were huddled in fear in one corner, while unfortunate Tommy, in the grasp of the two half-intoxicated Highlanders, was forced to his knees. They had jerked him over the table and, with irate mien and with murder in their bloodshot eyes, had their sword points close to his breast.

With a quick bound and a blow the stranger sent the one Highlander reeling to the floor, and, with a Cornish side-kick on the ankle and a blow of his other fist, Highlander number two fell with a crash among the overturned chairs and spilt liquor.

"Ah! ye call yourselves sodjers and braave men, but thee'rt bubble-'eaded cowards for two of 'ee with swords to attack one unarmed man! Ah! ye drunken buccas! see if I don't report 'ee to your governor."

The two fallen Highlanders were either too inebriated with liquor, or dazed by the sudden attack, or dismayed by the threat of informing the governor of Pendennis Castle, to arise at once, and the stranger, casting a look of supreme contempt on them, grasped Tommy by the collar, jerked him to his feet and led him from the place. As they were going he could not but hear the admiring comments of two or three of the spectators.

"Ah! Dear!—Dear!—Man alive!—Did 'ee see un? 'Ow he knacked the sodjers down! 'Tez Tom Glaze, the Carnish champion!"

"The Carnish champion, the Carnish champion," went from lip to lip. The green doors fell to behind Glaze and Puckinharn and cut off the murmured admir ation. Glaze hurried his nephew down one street and then into another before he suffered himself to speak the anger that was within him. Then giving Tommy a great shake to add to his soberness and intelligence, he began:

"I tell 'ee, Tommy, thee'rt a great chuckle-head and will wend up by being a brocken buddle if 'ee keeps on like this. Here I come to see my nephew, a respectable pilchard seller, and find un spending his time and money in taverns. Thee ought to be ashamed of thyself. Do 'ee call drinking and fighting a good time? Thee wert singing that ale would make 'ee hearty and merry and that sorrow would fail. I tell 'ee that ale brings trouble, and poverty, and sickness and broken health, and would 'ave caused thy funeral if I 'adn't come in when I did, for they sodjers had blood in their eyes. And thy wife at home a-crying her eyes out and without money. I tell 'ee I felt more like giving thee a skevern than I did the sodjers, a great chuckle-head, as 'ee art."

"Ah, Uncle Tom, doan't 'ee go on like that," said the crestfallen Tommy. "My head is almost mazed with the 'eadache; les go down to the kay [quay] and see if I won't feel better."

"Hark 'ee, Tom Puckinharn, let this be the last of thy drinking. Will 'ee promise?"

"Umsh—Yes—I promise."

"A man is always wuss off when he drinks. His money is gone, 'is time is gone, and 'is health is gone, and he winds by going into the Union Poor House. Now here I am,—I, Tom Glaze, champion Cornish wrastler and all round fighter, and I ne'er would be so had I took to drink. There was Jack Trewlan, champion before me, stout and strong, the champion of a dozen battles, and I thrawed 'im in ten minutes. I got an under holt and heaved 'im over my shoulders, and 'e went down like a bullock. Cause why? Cause 'e took to drink."

"'Ark!" said Tommy. "Wasn't that a woman's cry?"

They listened and the cry was repeated.

"'Urry up," said Glaze, "some woman in distress,—upon a foach if thee art drunk, 'ee can run a bit."

Away they went in the direction of the quay from which the shriek came, Tommy's uncle ahead, while he himself lurched along in the rear, like a distressed ship in a storm. They arrived at the entrance of the pier, and saw by the glimmering, flickering light of the lamp, at its head, a woman struggling in the grasp of a burly man. A coach swept by them at this moment and passed around the corner and up market street.

"Bring her along, Bob," cried a voice from a boat at the landing.

Bully Bob, for it was he, seeing the approach of newcomers, redoubled his efforts, when he received a blow that staggered him and he released his grasp. The woman ran screaming to her rescuers and Glaze placed himself in front of her. Bully Bob, recovering from the sudden assault, rushed in wrath at his aggressor, crying fiercely, "I'll eat 'ee up!"

Glaze grasped him with a quick, deft movement, and with a heave, threw him over his shoulder into the deep harbour water beyond. There was a cry of rage, and then a splash, and then the sound of oars in a long, steady pull, rounding the head of the pier.

"The fellow in the boat will pick un up, and I think they won't bother us nor the lady for the present," said Glaze.

"Why, 'tes Mistress Alice Vivian!" exclaimed Tommy Puckinharn, now thoroughly sobered. She had fainted under the excitement and he supported her with his arms. Glaze gazed at the countenance of the unconscious woman.

"'Zackly so; so it is," and he paused in some thought, and then, as though he had reached some conclusion, he relieved Tommy of his burden, and, followed by his nephew, he strode along to the nearest house, a small brown cottage, from the lower window of which gleamed a light. A rap on the door brought an answer, in the shape of a woman's quavering voice, demanding who was there.

"It's me, Tom Glaze, Mrs. Trembath." There was a pause within, then some hurried movement.

"Mrs. Trembath," said Tommy to his uncle, in some surprise. "Is that Ande's mother? How did she get here, and how did 'ee know she lived 'ere, Uncle Tom?"

"When she was turned out by the Lanyans, I got 'er this cottage," said Glaze. Further conversation was interrupted by the rattling of bolts within, the door was opened, and the gleam of candle light shot over all concerned.