Six years, lacking only the weeks from the 1st of September to the middle of November, have passed since we stood by the death-bed of Sir William Chester. The changes in that time have been many. The death of the earl’s only son, Lord Oakleigh, is already known to us. The rest of our friends are still living.

The good old earl, now at the full age of three score and ten, is as hale and hearty as ever, and appears to be not a whit nearer to the end of his endurance. Moreover, the six years last past have been, on the whole, to him years of happiness. His grandson has given him trouble—has often caused his heart to ache; but the bright angel of the household—his ward Cordelia—has given him joy and gladness enough to make up for all the pain from other sources.

A day that had been fair and bright, of the first week of September, was drawing to a close as Percy Maitland pulled his light, handsome skiff from the waters of the bay up into the river. He kept on until he had reached a point where, on the other side, toward the stone cottage, a small bay or inlet made up into the shore. Into this he turned his boat and shortly after landed. And as he now stands, his broad full breast thrown well out as he drinks in the pure air, we can examine him critically.

We need only say, however, that not a promise of his early youth remained unfulfilled. He had grown tall—almost six feet—and muscular in proportion; the symmetry of his form perfect. His hair, worn quite long, floated about his head in wavy, shimmering masses—not curling but coming very near to it. Its color had deepened to a golden brown—some might have called it auburn; but whatever it was called none might dispute its poetic beauty. His eyes of the same sapphire blue as formerly, and become brighter and more eloquent—bright with intellect and eloquent with lofty thought and noble aspiration. The whole face, in taking on the stamp of manhood, had increased in beauty as it had grown in strength and intelligence.

His garb was peculiar to himself. He had given his measurements and directions to a friend whom he could trust, and his garments had, for several years, been made to order in France. A loose, easy frock of purple velvet, trimmed lightly with narrow gold lace, so fitting as to show his perfect form; beneath this a vest of amber-colored silk, with silver buttons; then tights of knitted blue silk, revealing every thew and sinew of his muscular lower limbs; and on his feet a pair of light calf-skin boots, with tops of red morocco. His head was protected by a light blue velvet cap, or bonnet, on the left side of which was an eagle’s feather, secured in place by a brooch of gold.

Could the youth afford this style of dress? it may be asked. We will only say in reply, his father had left him a goodly amount of gold which could not be taken from him, and a few of the old smugglers would occasionally force upon him goodly sums, not only for favors received, but in remembrance of the old times, when they had loved him as a boy. And they had never ceased to love him.

Having secured his boat, the young man stepped back and took from the stern-sheets a willow basket, in which were a dozen fine fish; and then, with the basket on his arm, he took the path that led toward the castle. The fish were intended for that place, he having promised the old steward that he should have them before dark, provided, of course, that he should have the good fortune to catch them.

For the distance of a quarter of a mile the path lay through a thick wood and flanked the westerly side of Allerdale park. Half-way through this wood the young fisherman had gone, when he saw, coming toward him from the direction of the castle, a man whom he would he have avoided if the thing had been possible. As it was, he made a movement as though he would step aside from the path, but the man had seen him, and was already upon the point of hailing him. “Oho! Maitland, you are the man I was after. I’ve been searching for you this half hour.”

“Ralph Tryon! What do you want of me?”

The man whom Percy had thus named was not quite so tall as was our hero, though he appeared the heavier and more stocky of frame. His age would be a difficult matter for a stranger to determine. He might have been thirty, he might have been more; but, in all probability he was considerably younger. His face was more than half covered by a full, thick, coarse, yellow beard; his hair, long and matted, was tawny, like a lion’s mane; while two eyes, small and sunken but bright and fiery, were decidedly black in color. His garb was of the sea, and, take him all in all, he was not a pleasant man to look upon.

Such was the man, who, for two years and a little more, had held the office which Hugh Maitland had once filled—chief of the Smugglers of King’s Cove.

“You are wanted to pilot in the Staghound,” was Tryon’s answer to Percy’s demand.

“Pilot in the Staghound!” repeated the youth in blank surprise. “Why don’t you do it yourself?”

“Because I must go another way. I have business that I can not put aside.”

“Donald Rodney is on board, is he not?”

“Yes, but he can not run her in safely. I would not trust him, and he dare not trust himself. No, no, you must do it.”

“But, you have no right to ask it of me. I wish to have nothing more to do with the brig, in any way or shape.”

“Have a care, young man! Do you forget your promise to your dying father?”

“No,” said Percy quickly. “I do not forget it. For five years and ten months I kept it; and then it was at an end. I promised him that, until I reached the age of twenty-one, I would perform that task whenever called upon to do so. The one-and-twentieth anniversary of my birthday is past and gone; and I am free.”

A fierce oath burst from the smuggler’s lips, and he was evidently upon the point of launching forth into threats, but common sense came to his aid. He was situated peculiarly. The brig must be brought safely into her haven, for she had beneath her hatches one of the most valuable cargoes she had ever carried and he could not do it without making a change in his plans which he would not make if he could possibly avoid it.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, when he saw the other backing away from the oath which he had, in his hot anger, flung at him, “don’t be a fool. Allow a man to spit out his feelings when he’s in a tight place, can’t ye? I didn’t mean that oath for you, Percy. I was swearing at my own hard luck. Look ye, it will be a dead loss to me of more than £500 if I can’t be in Bathgate to-morrow. The brig will be outside in the early morning, and the chances are that a king’s ship—sloop of war—will be at her heels. If it was to be a flood tide we might trust Rodney to run her in: but it will be on the ebb, and he is shaky. Come, come, Percy, say you’ll do it, that’s a good fellow!!”

“Tryon, I don’t like it. I thought my poor share of that business was ended.”

The tawny chieftain was evidently struggling with all his might. He could have put a pistol bullet through young Maitland’s head with keen relish or a knife into his bosom; but that would not answer his purpose. Also, he could have cursed and sworn, with real enjoyment; but that would have been equally worse than useless.

“Percy, old Donald will be looking for you. Will you disappoint him? And think of the other friends you have on board the Staghound. Would you like to have them nabbed by the king’s officers? Oh! if I could go I would; but I can not. It would ruin me. Donald was sure you would come. And others were as sure as he.”

“Where did you leave the brig?” Percy asked.

“At the old place—Betty’s Cove—in the Ribble. A few articles were to be landed there.”

“What about the sloop of war? Has she been seen?”

“Bless you, yes. We ran away from her, just at dark night before last. Donald will run the brig out to-night, and make his way here under cover of darkness. We know the corvette is off the coast, and keeping a sharp lookout for us.”

Percy stood for a few moments in thought. For the man before him he would not have gone from the promise he had made himself—a promise that he would never again have any part with the smugglers.

Had the crew remained as his father had left it—had Donald Rodney been the chief, as he should have been—and, had they confined their trade to the simple, straightforward course which had been pursued in other years, under such circumstances he might not have refused his aid in a time of need; but it was different now.

There was an atmosphere about Frank Tryon which he did not like; something was there that aroused within him dark and painful suspicions. But—for this once—should he leave his father’s old friends in the lurch?

“Tryon,” said he at length, looking up and speaking shortly and crisply, “do you believe Rodney will ever learn to find the channel to the Cove?”

“Never, in the ebb tide. It isn’t in him. He is a good sailor, but he could never be a navigator, nor a safe pilot.”

“Have you any one on board the brig who could learn?”

“Yes I have just the man.”

“Very well. If I will bring the vessel in this time, will you promise not to ask me to do it again?”

The man hesitated. Evidently he did not like to give up his hold on the young man; but a little reflection told him he must do so; so he did it as gracefully as possible.

“All right,” he said. “I will set about teaching my new pilot at once; and you shall not be again asked to do this work, at least, not by me.”

Percy promised that he would run out on the next morning and look for the brig, and if he should find her, he would bring her in and then, with a simple nod, he picked up his basket, which he had set upon a wayside stone while he had been talking, and passed on.

The smuggler gazed after him with a dark look in his eyes—a look which, had the youth seen it, would have made him shudder.

Once Percy looked back and saw Tryon just starting away from the spot where he left him, but not by the path. No, instead of that he struck squarely off into the wood, his face toward the stone cottage.

“He is going to see my mother,” said our hero, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. “He is there oftener than I like.” For a time he stood where he had stopped, with his gaze fixed upon the spot where the form of the smuggler had last appeared. At length he burst forth, at the same time smiting his free hand upon his bosom:

“Oh! where—where have I seen that man? Somewhere—somewhere—when he was not what he is now! My father knew him, and would not tell me who he was. I wonder if my mother knows. Of course she does. And Rodney must know. I shall find out somehow. The mystery puzzles me. Aye, it frets me. There is something uncanny about the fellow. There is a piratical look about him that chills me to the very core. But, let him go. There are pleasanter things in the world than Ralph Tryon.”

And with this the youth set forth once more on his way to the castle. A few minutes saw him clear of the wood, and in fifteen minutes more he was at the steward’s door.

Allerdale Castle was a grand old pile. In fact it was both old and new. A portion of it, the main walls and the donjon, together with a portion of the outbuildings, were of the time of the Plantagenets; there was a later structure of the time of Elizabeth, and a wing of goodly dimensions—a fair-sized dwelling of itself—was of modern build, having been constructed by the grandfather of the present earl and finished by his father.

“Ah, Percy! It’s good for one’s eyes to see ye! What’s in the basket? I hope ye haven’t come empty handed, for his lordship has made up his mouth for a fish breakfast—O-o-oh! Bless and save us! Where did ye take ’em?”

It was the fat old steward, Michael Dillon, who had thus hailed the young man, and who had thus exclaimed when he had looked into the basket and espied the silvery treasures that filled it almost to the brim.

“I took them at the mouth of the Cove channel, Michael, the only spot I know where those mongrel salmon can be found. If the earl don’t find them as toothsome as anything he ever eat in the shape of fish, then the fault will lie at the door of your cook.”

“Ho! Lord Oakleigh has been out I don’t know how many times to try for those same fish, and he has never caught one yet.”

“Is Lord Oakleigh still at the castle?”

“Yes. He has gone over to Dayton—he went yesterday—to stop till to-morrow.”

“When will he return to Oxford?”

“I don’t know. Ha! but here comes somebody that does.”

Percy turned, and his heart bounded with an impulse that shook him from head to foot. It was Cordelia Chester who had come upon the scene, the child whom we last saw with her bowed head upon the pillow of her dying father.

The promises of her childhood, so far as beauty was concerned, had, if such a thing could be possible, been more than fulfilled. The brown hair had grown darker and richer, and the eyes, gray like opals, had taken to themselves a depth of brilliancy wonderful to behold.

They were, in truth, marvelous eyes; as frank and unswerving as eyes could be, and as true as heaven. It is a strong expression, but it is true. If ever there was truth and purity on earth, the quality was mirrored in the opalistic depths of Cordelia Chester’s eyes.

She was not tall; scarcely up to the ordinary stature of woman; but she was plump and ruddy, and healthful and strong, with a native capacity for fun and frolic, yet full of practical common sense, and a wonderful faculty for business.

The earl had promised Sir William that he would take care of his daughter’s estate and look carefully after the returns of her agent, and this he had done for three or four years; but the time had come when Cordelia was able not only to look after her own business affairs, but to keep the accounts of her guardian as well. Yes, she was the business head of the castle. And who had taught her? We are to discover that immediately.

“Oh, Percy! I am glad you have come. I have got myself into a tangle from which you must help me out.”

“A tangle, dear lady? What may be its nature?”

“It is a note which the earl holds against the lessee of his coal mine in Bentland. There have been three payments made on it: but there was a considerable sum of interest due on the amount paid, which interest was not paid. So, you see, there has been interest on interest, and—Oh! it is a mixed up mess in every way. Come; we shall have time to fix it before dark, if we go at it directly. Oh! I am so glad you are here!”

“If the mistress commands, I suppose the slave must obey,” said Percy, a pleasant smile rippling over his handsome face, as he made a movement as though to follow her.

Ordinarily the sparkling, quick-witted girl would have made a joking, laughing rejoinder to his sally, but it was not so now.

“Oh! Percy,” she returned, the look she gave him full of grateful emotion. “I do not feel like a mistress in this dire strait. I must acknowledge you the master. But,” she added, as they started on their way, “I will be mistress to-morrow, when I shall expect you to obey me very punctually.”

“You have but to command me, lady.”

“We shall see.”

Cordelia led the way to a prettily furnished boudoir on the second floor of the modern wing, where were found the books and papers she had been overhauling for her grandfather. So she always called him, and she could not feel that he had been anything else to her.

The note was produced, with half a dozen scrawling, blotted indorsements on its back, three of which were not dated.

“Paid on the within—£500,” one of them read with no date.

“Paid £700,” read another, also without date.

However, the earl’s cash book was at hand, and here the entries were found with dates, as they should be; and with this help the young man went at the work. When he had made the matter of dates correct—entered them on the note—he turned to the work of computing interest. “Now, my lady, I think you would like to understand this business; because, do you know you will not have me here always to help you.”

The girl started as though word of some dire calamity had been suddenly whispered in her ear; but Percy had turned his eyes upon his work, and did not see; and before he looked at her again she had recovered from the shock, or she had at least overcome all outward signs.

She gave her attention as closely as she could, while her companion computed the interest, at the same time explaining to her the various steps as he progressed.

“There you have it, dear lady; and I will warrant it correct. You can see how important is interest on interest. The earl might have lost more than £200 if that had been left unreckoned.”

But the girl was not in the mood, at that particular time, for the further study of interest, either simple or compound. She had planned an excursion to the Witch’s Crag for the morrow, and she wanted Percy for guide and protector. So, having thanked him, with all her heart, for the kindness just received at his hands, she broached the other matter. There were beautiful autumnal flowers blooming amid the wild fastnesses of the crag, and she determined to find them if she could. He, however knew just where to look for them.

“Will it answer,” asked the young man after a little thought, “if I come after noon?”

“Yes I don’t care to start before noon. Mary will go with us to carry the basket.”

Percy promised that he would be with her in time for the excursion and then took his leave. She watched him as he departed—watched him until an intervening angle of a wall had hidden him from view. Then with her hand pressed over her heart, she bent her head in thought.

“What did he mean, I wonder, by saying that he wouldn’t be here to help me? Oh! if I dared to ask him! I will! He must not go away. He shall not. I would rather have—”

And there she stopped. Whatever she thought further was hidden in her own bosom. But we have heard enough to tell us that her heart was turning towards her kind and handsome Mentor.

On the morning following his meeting with the smuggler chief in the wood our hero was up with the sun, if not a little before it. But, early as it was, his mother was up still earlier. He had told her on the previous evening of his promise to Captain Tryon, and she had arisen to get him a bite of breakfast, as there was no telling at what hour he would board the brig.

Margery Maitland had changed but very little since her husband’s death. There were a few lines of silver in the raven blackness of her hair which had not been there before. Old lines had deepened on her face while new ones had been added.

She was still a handsome woman, notwithstanding a certain sharpening of her features and an atmosphere of coldness, almost of misanthropy, that enveloped her. She was seldom seen to smile and in the presence of her son she smiled never.

Sometimes, when the old lieutenant, Donald Rodney, with a few of his chosen mates was spending an evening in the cottage, and the bottle and punch-bowl circulated freely, then, under the influence of jest and story, and hearty laughter, she might join them so far as to smile, with occasionally a hard metallic laugh.

“Mother,” said the youth, after he had taken his seat at the table, on which she had spread a breakfast that should have pleased an epicure. “I have a question to ask you; and it is in relation to a matter which has puzzled me exceedingly. Who and what is this man who has taken my father’s place on board the brig?”

The woman caught her breath and turned quickly to the fire. With the tongs she lifted a couple of fallen brands into place by which time she had regained her wonted composure, and was ready to face her son, which she did, with a look that she meant to be one of surprise.

“Do you ask me who and what Captain Ralph Tryon is?”

“Exactly, mother. Will you tell me?”

“Well! upon my word! Here he’s been, off and on, for the matter of eight years and more; and now you ask me that!”

“Yes, mother, I do ask you; for I am sure you know more of him than I do.”

“Why should you think so?”

“Don’t do that!” the youth pleaded, beseechingly. “I pray you do not deny a self-evident fact.”

“Boy!”

“Stop! Let me finish. Mother, I never spoke a word with Captain Tryon that I was not forced to speak—so forced by circumstances beyond my control. I never held with him a social confab; nor have I ever conversed with any of my old crew about him. I did, once, ask old Rodney the same question I have now asked you.”

“Ha! You did! And what was his answer?”

“His answer left me more puzzled than I was before; for he plainly showed to me that he was not at liberty to talk about his commander. In short, he wouldn’t say a word, only of refusal.”

“And you’ll get the same answer from me! So, now, go and eat your breakfast.”

Percy knew his mother well enough to know that if she had so willed, that must be the end. He was disappointed, and he felt hurt; but there was no help for it that he could see and he turned his attention to his meal.

And that would have been the end had Margery been content to leave the matter as it was; evidently, she was not satisfied. As she moved noiselessly about the small living-room she cast, ever and anon, inquiring glances upon her son, as though she had something to ask. And so she had. As is proved afterward, she was anxious to know what Percy had discovered or how much, if anything, he suspected with regard to her relations with the new smuggler chief.

At length she stepped close to his side and after a little further thought she said:

“Percy, what did you mean by the question you asked me? How could you suppose that I could know anything of Captain Tryon?”

The youth marked the anxiety in his mother’s voice and it gave him new cause for distrust. Had all been clear and above board she could not have felt thus.

“Mother,” he answered, calmly and kindly, but firmly, at the same time looking her straight in the eye. “I will only tell you what I know. I know that Ralph Tryon is a frequent visitor here and that you give him warm welcome. I know that he has more than once come to you for advice and assistance—”

“Advice, in what?” broke in the woman, eagerly. “In what has he ever asked me to advise him?”

“Ah! That I do not know. I only know what I have told you, and I know further that you have—” He stopped abruptly and paused. A moment later he added, with more feeling than he had before shown, “Mother, I have said enough in that strain. I have never watched you, never spied upon you, and never will. Heaven knows I seek only your good. Surely, you can not wonder that I, when I have seen a man so familiar and so warmly welcomed beneath this roof as is Ralph Tryon, should be anxious to know who and what he is. That, you know, I am convinced. What objections have you to telling me?”

“My dear boy, you see him commander of the Staghound and chief of the King’s Cove smugglers. Is not this enough? What reason have you for thinking anything else of him?”

“Mother!” replied the youth, quickly and sternly, with his gaze fixed sharply on her face, “listen to me. I know that Ralph Tryon is all that you said. I know, also, that he is more. Somewhere, at some time, I have seen him under other circumstances, if not under another name.”

Margery Maitland was startled—she was frightened. If not so, then her looks belied her.

“Percy! What do you say? You have seen him elsewhere—in another guise? Where? Where was it?”

The youth shook his head.

“Ah! that is the very thing that puzzles me,” he said, dubiously. “I can not tell where I have seen him, nor when. I only know that it is so.”

Margery had recovered herself, though traces of her recent fright were still visible.

“Pshaw!” she cried, trying to simulate contempt. “It’s all in your imagination, boy. Just think of it; here he has been these seven or eight years, out and in before you, and now, when he is known of all men for what he is, and for nothing else, you begin to fancy that he is somebody else! It is ridiculous! You ought to be ashamed of such petty trifling.”

“All right,” returned Percy, getting up from the table as he spoke. “Let it pass. Only, my dear mother, I would like to correct you in one thing. I am not just beginning to fancy the thing I have mentioned. No, no: far from it. I can well remember the first time I ever set eyes on him and heard him speak—it was on board the brig—the same belief or impression possessed me. Yes, even then I could have sworn that he had been known to me in a totally different guise, and the impression has gone on gaining strength from that time. But I shall know one of these days. Something tells me it will be revealed to me. I can wait.”

Again the woman started; and the look she darted upon her son was not pleasant to see; but his back was turned toward her, and he did not catch it.

Without further remark, our hero set about his preparations for departure. The garb he now wore was a neat, well-fitting seaman’s dress, of fine blue cloth, with an ordinary Scotch cap on his head.

Having donned his cap, and put a flask of wine in his pocket, he threw a serviceable peacoat over his left arm, and was ready to set forth.

He asked his mother if she had any errand to send to Rodney, or any other of the crew. She had none. And then, as was his custom, he bade her a pleasant “good-morning,” by way of adieu, and departed.

If Percy could have looked back upon his mother, as he walked swiftly away he would have seen that she was watching him with an expression of countenance far from pleasant or satisfactory.

If the words she spoke to herself could have reached his ears, he would have heard her mutter with marked anxiety:

“Mercy! He must be warned! I must put him on guard at once. If Percy is bent upon discovering his secret, who shall say that he may not do it? He is sharp; and he can be stubborn. Heavens and earth! If he should discover! But he must not! Ralph must look to himself. There can be no danger if we are both careful. I know I can be so; and I think he will be.”

But the youth heard not; and it may have been well that ignorance in that direction was his portion. He was bound for the landing where we saw him step from his skiff to the shore on the previous afternoon.

It was distant half a mile from the cottage, the path lying through a deep wood most of the way.

The sun was just rising above the hills beyond the park when he reached it. He was in ample time.

He made quick work of getting his boat into the stream and his oars out, and he was not long in pulling to the lake.

Once there, where he could make use of the wind, he let drop the center board; then stepped the mast, and very soon thereafter the light craft was shooting away under a broad leg-of-mutton sail, like a race horse, that is, supposing that a race horse could travel like a duck.

The distance from the inner shore of the bay to the outer headlands was not far from two miles. The brig was to come from the south, so our pilot put his boat’s head in that direction, running it over Dead Man’s Reef, the great black rocks of which he could plainly see as he passed above them.

They were, in truth, terrible looking things and the man who would have proposed to run a large vessel, anything deeper than a common sailboat, through the territory they occupied might well have been deemed insane or mad.

Percy ran out between the southern headland of the bay, called South Head and Hood’s Island, and scarcely had he gained the open sea when he saw the brig three miles away or more, coming up with the wind on her larboard beam and every rag of canvas spread that she could carry. What did it mean? he asked himself.

Ha! Ere long he saw. Having run a little further out, so that his eye could sweep the southern horizon to the coast, he espied a heavy ship, also spanking along under all the sail she could spread. He kept a small telescope in the close locker in the stern-sheets, and, through this, standing erect against the mast, he viewed the stranger.

“Oho! The sloop-of-war, as I live!” He made sure there could be no mistake, then he put away the glass and resumed his place at the helm.

The corvette was, as nearly as he could judge, three miles distant from the brig and she appeared to be gaining. At first Percy was surprised. He had not thought there was a ship in the British navy that could sail with the Staghound; but he very soon solved the mystery. The latter’s lee scuppers were under water. She was loaded as he had never seen her loaded before. Only a reckless, unreliable man could have done such a thing.

In a heavy seaway, or in the teeth of a respectable storm, she would have foundered, in spite of all that could have been done to save her. Of course, the throwing overboard of a portion of the cargo might have saved her; but, if they would have cast it over in a storm, why had they not done it to enable them to run way from the king’s ship?

With the brig and the boat approaching one another rapidly, the three miles were quickly covered. Percy had taken in his sail, and unstepped his mast just in season to catch a line thrown to him from the brig’s lee quarter; and in a few moments more he was on her deck, with his boat towing astern.

The brig was a Yankee-built vessel; originally, as lettering in her cabin proved, hailing from Baltimore. She had a capacity of two hundred and fifty tons; was sharp forward; with a clean, pretty run; spars lofty and very nearly perpendicular, depending for support more on the strength of stays and shrouds than on bulk and weight of timber, with a spread of canvas that completely overshadowed her.

The first man to greet the youth as he sprang over the quarter-rail, was the old lieutenant, Donald Rodney, a man past his first half century of life; a stout, rugged, pleasant-faced English seaman.

He was a true friend and he meant to do as nearly right as he knew how; or, such had been his aim in other years, but he had of late fallen under new influences, and Percy, as he gazed upon him, and found his eye faltering, feared that he had been going wrong.

In short, he feared that all hands—that everything on board, had been going wrong for a considerable time.

However, that was no time for moralizing. He had come to save the brig, and he would do it if he could. He cast his eyes over the taffrail, and saw the ship not a fathom more than a mile and a half away. She was nearer than he had thought.

“Donald, why haven’t you cast overboard a part of your cargo! Mercy on us! If the corvette had a single mile more of running space she would be very apt to—”

The speech was cut short by the flash of a gun at the ship’s weather bridle port and at the same instant a crashing aloft. A few moments later the brig’s main top-gallant mast came tearing down over the lee rail.

“Cut away! Cut everything clear!” shouted our hero. He paused here, and looked around upon the men who came crowding upon the quarter-deck.

The brig’s crew numbered five-and-fifty men, only thirty of whom had been with the old commander, Captain Maitland. The five-and-twenty new men had been added by Tryon, and they were a dark-visaged, evil-eyed looking set. The only thing that Percy could think of when he looked at them, was five-and-twenty pirates! He was well aware that of the old crew there were a number—perhaps the majority of them—who would have readily departed upon an evil course under the influence of an evil leader. He looked over the crew as they came aft, and asked them:

“Will you give the command to me? Quick with your answer!”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Then cut away the wreck of the mast and take your stations, Rodney!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Put two of the very best men you have at the wheel.”

“I guess I’d better be one of ’em, sir.”

“No. I want you in the waist. I must take my place on the heel of the bowsprit, when the pinch comes.”

Two good men of the crew, both of whom our hero knew well, took the wheel, and the brig was soon on her course, with the wreck of the topgallant mast floating astern. The corvette let fly one more shot, but without effect, and she seemed inclined to fire no more. She had found herself gaining so fast that further firing would be worse than useless. Not only would it be a waste of ammunition, but they would be making a wreck of their own prize.

Aye, the officers of the king’s ship were as sure of the brig as they were of the coming of noontime. They knew there was a bay somewhere ahead into which the chase would probably run; but they could run in as well and capture the bold contrabandists at their leisure.

The brig was now within a few minutes’ run of the southern headland of Raven Bay, and between that headland and Hood’s Island was a broad, fair opening to the inlet beyond; but close behind it, lurking in the hidden depths like hungry beasts of prey were the sunken rocks of Dead Man’s Reef. The reef stretched the whole distance, on a line between the headland and the island; and never yet within the knowledge of man had a vessel larger than a common pleasure-boat dared to attempt the passage. No fisherman of that region was reckless enough to risk his smack over that death-trap. The true channel, the proper and safe entrance to the bay, was a mile further to the northward, between the upper headland and Old Man’s Island.

“I tell ye,” cried a man of the brig’s crew, looking back upon the corvette and then ahead upon the point beyond Old Man’s Island, “we can never reach it in the world!”

“Silence!” shouted the youthful pilot, in a voice that reached every ear, and caused every man to start. “I said I would save you. Obey me to the letter and I will do it. Stand by, all hands! Clew up the mainsail! Lay the yards square! Up helm! Easily! So!”

The men were thunderstruck. They did not refuse to obey, yet they were sure they were going to wreck and ruin. Aye—for they were heading fair and square upon Dead Man’s Reef! What in the world did it mean?

“Percy! Percy! You can never do it—never!” groaned old Rodney in an agony of terror.

“I’ll do it, Donald, if you are sharp enough to follow me—to see that the helm answers my orders.”

“I’ll do the best I can, dear boy. But—Oh, can ye do it?”

“Wait and see.”

The youth then spoke to the men a word of cheer, assuring them that he could take the brig safely through the reef, and then took his station forward, with Donald in the waist to pass his orders aft, in case there should be need. He had already given to the helmsmen general instructions, so they knew how to steer till the need should come for a change. And pretty soon it came. The brig had passed into the mouth of the bay, with South Head on her starboard quarter, and Hood’s Island on her larboard; and now the long stretch of Dead Man’s Reef was under her forefoot, and she had almost an eighth of a mile to run in the midst of the terrible rocks!

The young hero never blanched, never quivered, though every other man on board shook from top to toe.

“Helm, there!—starboard!—steady!—so! Starboard again! Easy!—hold! Now! port—so!”

And so he went on through the trying time. The men hung over the sides, looking down upon the ugly rocks, some of which were within two or three feet of the surface—looking down, and holding their breaths—wondering if the thing could be possible. It seemed a long, long time; though it was not many minutes before the glad shout went up.

“There we are!” exclaimed Percy, as he stepped down from his perch forward and went aft. “The reef is behind us, and all with us is well. How is it with the ship, I wonder?”

Aye, how was it? The commander of the corvette, seeing the heavily laden brig slip in so readily to the fair looking opening, between the headland and the island, determined that he would follow. If the brig could go his ship could go. But alas and alack for the ship! The last the smugglers saw of her, as they were about to pass from the sight of their expectant, prize-loving crew, she was hard and fast on the rocks.

We may add: Her boats were sufficient to save all the human life within her, but for herself, she was to lie there until the winds and waves, with the assistance of the sunken rocks, had beaten her in pieces.

While the unfortunate sloop-of-war lay jammed in between two jagged sunken rocks of the terrible reef, with rocks ahead of her, and rocks astern and rocks on every hand; and while her boats were busy in getting the men of her crew safely to the shore, the smuggler brig was at anchor in King’s Cove, as effectually hidden from the prying eyes of her enemies as though she had been at the bottom of the sea.

Never mind about the wild plaudits of the outlaws as they gathered around their youthful pilot and preserver. But for him they would have been either prisoners or dead—every man of them; and they knew it.

Percy could not prevent them from being grateful, nor could he entirely hush their loud and boisterous acclaims; the most he could do was to persuade them to cut it as short as possible and, soon as he could find opportunity, to get away into the cabin with Donald Rodney.

Next to his father, old Donald had been the one man of the old crew whom Percy had loved and esteemed. He could not remember the time when he had not loved “Uncle Rodney” as he had called him in his boyhood.

The first crew organized by Hugh Maitland had acknowledged Donald Rodney as second in command, and from that time he had followed the career then commenced.

And the youth still retained his love for the dear old friend of his boyhood: and, further, he had accepted a great many favors from the old man’s hand.

Thus loving, and thus respecting, the veteran, our hero had determined to hold with him a serious conversation. He was bound, if possible, to know the present character of the brig; together with something more of the character of the man who now commanded her.

Rodney, as soon as his young friend had taken a seat, produced a bottle, and two glasses.

“Only one bottle, my dear boy; for I know its the wine you’ll like. Just taste it, and say if you ever tasted finer.”

Percy filled a glass and sipped a little of it, and the old man had not exaggerated. He had certainly never tasted a finer wine, and he said so. He drank the contents of his glass slowly, and then leaned back in his chair.

He saw very plainly that the old man was nervous and uneasy—that he would rather have been almost anywhere else than in that cabin with the son of his old commander looking him in the eye. But the youth intended to deal gently with him, though squarely.

“Donald, I have called you down here because I have a few questions to ask—questions which I hope and trust you will answer. But, first, let me give you my solemn promise that anything you may say to me—any information you may give me—shall be held sacred and secret in my own bosom. I will never use information from your lips to the injury of any living being. Surely that ought to lead you to trust me.”

“Heave ahead, Percy!” the smuggler replied, frankly. Presently he added with a smile, but not a happy one, “I can imagine pretty nearly what ye want, and I tell ye, fair and honest, if ye lay too close I shall sheer off.”

“All right, old friend. Take your own course. In the first place, will you tell me what your present cargo consists of? Remember, I have this day saved it—saved not only the cargo and brig, but every man on board. Where would you be at this moment, Rodney, but for me?”

“Either shot, or in irons on board a king’s ship,” answered the old man promptly.

“When I boarded the brig this morning,” pursued Percy, “her main-hatch was off.”

“Yes, I’d ordered it off, thinkin’ we might have to throw overboard some of the cargo; and some of it would have gone if the captain’s men hadn’t stuck out so against it.”

“You mean the new men, who came in with Tryon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Rodney, as I cast my eyes down into the hold I caught sight of two or three boxes, iron-bound, bearing the name and marks we sometimes see on boxes of merchandise brought over by American vessels. What are they doing in the Staghound’s hold? What are they? Will you tell me?”

The old man was terribly perplexed. His two hard, brown hands were clasped on his knees, and his head was bent.

“Donald, can’t you look me in the face, as of old?”

Upon that the poor man broke down. He could contain himself no longer.

“No, Percy! I can’t!”

“Poor old Donald! What is it? How much have you—suffered them to lead you into doing?”

“Percy! I swear to you—I swear, on my Bible oath, that I’ve never lifted a hand to help in any of their mean, dirty work! The most I’ve done has been to let others do it, and wink at it. And yet, if we’d been taken to day by the king’s ship I should have been strung up with the rest of ’em! I tell you truly, dear boy, I never thought how dreadful it would be till it was all over.

“Oh! when we were honest smugglers, only bringing over the goods honestly bought in France, or Holland, or Germany, payin’ hard gold for everything we took, and simply runnin’ it in without stoppin’ to ask the king’s permission, and sellin’ it to them as would buy—why, then, my boy, I could look an honest man in the face anywhere. Then, Percy, some o’ the first men in the land were our friends. Bless ye, boy, your father had friends everywhere. There was scarcely a lord or a lady anywhere along the coast that didn’t bid him welcome. Ah! it’s different now.”

“In short, Donald, the Staghound has become a pirate?”

“Ye-e-es! You’ve hit it. I won’t try to deny it.”

“And Ralph Tryon is responsible for it?”

“Take care, Percy! Don’t ask too much about him!”

“You can answer that. Is not he the chief power in this business? Was it not through his influence that the wicked trade was entered upon?”

“Through his and the rest of the gang.”

“But he was the chief?”

“Yes, I s’pose he was.”

“Now, Donald, how far has this thing gone? Have you taken human life?”

“For the love of heaven!” groaned the suffering old man, with his clasped hands extended, “don’t ask me any more. Let the one thing I’m goin’ to tell ye of my own free will satisfy ye. And, mind this, ye’ll keep what I now say a secret. Will ye promise that?”

The youth promised, and the other went on, speaking in low, whispered tones, and ever and anon casting a quick, furtive glance around.

“There’s two-and-twenty of us—all the old crew but eight—have sworn to one another by a solemn oath that we’ll leave the brig after this. There’s a good deal of property aboard—honestly got—that belongs to us, and we want it; but, as soon as we get the business squared, we will clear out. And, really, I doubt if we are wanted. At all events, I aint. They don’t trust me.”

“Good! good! And you will let me give you a bit of advice. Get clear of the brig as soon as you can. Your doings have made a noise in London, and very soon a strong effort will be made to find the offending vessel.”

Donald assured his young friend that he and his mates would get clear as soon as they possibly could; and upon this a silence fell, which lasted while they both took another sip of wine, and a few seconds beyond. Percy broke it.

“Donald, I come now to a question which I am very anxious you should answer, and, before asking it, I will renew the pledge of secrecy which I gave you before. Will you tell me what you know of Ralph Tryon? Who—What—! Can a simple question startle you like that? Has the man such power over old Donald Rodney that he dare not speak?”

“No! no! Percy, you don’t understand. We’re all bound by a terrible oath—one of the most terrible ye can imagine—that we won’t speak in answer to any such question as you have asked. I’d rather lose a hand than answer ye!”

“For how long a time have you been bound by that oath, Rodney?”

“For a long, long time. But don’t ask me. I mustn’t answer to anything of the kind.”

“Well, look ye, old friend—my old ‘uncle,’ who loved me once, and who—”

“Loves you more than ever before,” broke in the old man, feelingly.

“I believe you, Donald; and I hope you will feel like answering my next question. Tell me, haven’t I known, or haven’t I seen Ralph Tryon in another character—a character widely different from that in which he now appears?”

Rodney had started with the old fright as the youth began to speak, but a moment later he had taken on a new look—one of quick, keen inquiry.

“Percy,” he said in a hoarse whisper, scarcely audible, at the same time laying his hand on his companion’s knee. “What have ye got in your mind? Where d’ye think ye’ve seen him?”

“There is the trouble, Donald. For the life of me I cannot tell, and yet I am as sure of it as I am that you now sit before me. Will you help me?”

Every line and lineament of the old man’s face was wrought upon by an agony of physical torture. After a little pause he started to his feet and laid a hand on the youth’s head, and his voice when he spoke was full of earnest, prayerful supplication.

“Percy! Percy! If you love me, don’t ask me any more! It’s more than my life is worth to answer you as you wish to be answered. I can’t! I can’t! Oh! you will give over, won’t you? You won’t torture me any more? Ask me anything else in the world—anything—and I’ll answer, if I know how; but not that—Oh! not that!”

“All right; I won’t press you further, Donald. I am only sorry that the wretch has gained such power over you; but I am glad you have resolved to break the chain.”

“Yes, yes, dear boy, I’ll break that, be sure; but, you’ll remember, my oath will last while I live. You will never ask me that question again, will you?”

Percy gave the promise, and thus failed his last chance, his last solid hope of solving the mystery that had so perplexed him and that was perplexing him still; aye, and that must continue to perplex him until he could discover that which was so strangely, yet so effectually, hidden from him.

“By the way,” he said, after they had both arisen and were ready for returning to the deck—the thought had at that moment occurred to him—“there is one thing you can tell me. I have often wondered that Captain Tryon never offered nor asked to remain beneath the roof of our cottage through a night. Why is this? Where does he spend his time when on shore?”

The old man scratched his head, and then gave his trousers a hoist; then he scratched his head again. Finally, with a burst, he answered:

“’Pon my word, Percy, I can’t tell you. One thing I will say—yes, two of ’em—and them’s the only two I’ll speak, if ’twas to save my life! First, then, the captain, when he is ashore, spends a part of his time in another place, where he’s got friends. It isn’t anywhere about these parts. Second, I haven’t the least bit of doubt that he’s got a secret hidin’ place somewhere near the Cove, or, anyhow, not a great ways off; but, as I’m a livin’ man, I don’t know where it is. I aint one of them that he trusts with that kind of a secret.”

“A hiding-place near—”

“Hush! Be careful, for heaven’s sake! Don’t say any more. Let that be the last.”

“So be it, Donald, and for what you have told me I thank you.”

“Say!—Percy!” catching the young man by the arm as he was about to lift his foot to the first step of the ladder, “you won’t lisp a word to your mother of what I’ve told ye—not a word!”

“Have no fear, Donald. I will speak of it to nobody, and never as having come from you.”

“Bless ye for that, my boy.”

And then they went on deck, where they found the men of the crew variously employed. Half of them had gone on shore, while the remainder were at work putting matters to rights.

Old Donald’s first care after his pilot had left him was to attend to the replacing of the lost topgallant-mast, for which they had plenty of spar timber aboard.

A dozen or more of the crew gathered around our hero as he stood on the quarterdeck, all eager to take him by the hand and speak a parting word. He read in their faces the feeling that they might never see him again. The information Donald had given him enabled him to do this. And his words of good will and blessing in response appeared to be accepted by them as though they were aware of his knowledge. They probably thought their old mate had told him of their plans for the future. He gave them, each and all, a hearty grasp of the hand and a soul-sent God’s blessing, and so he left them.

Old Donald went with him to the shore; and the last friendly look exchanged between them was through brimming tears.

Percy was saved the trouble of telling to his mother the story of his adventure on board the brig. He found two of the old crew at the cottage before him—two men who had been true to his father, and who, he had no doubt, were of the number banded together for the purpose of seeking new employment.

But they would make no remark in relation thereto in the widow’s hearing. The smugglers all knew that she was friendly to their chief; and they believed she would support and defend him against the rest together.

They wondered at it, as her son had wondered. What she could have found in the man to respect or esteem they—the true men of the old crew—could not imagine. It was a puzzle in every way.

There were times when it appeared to our hero that his mother was warmly attached to Tryon, that she served and obeyed him because of her liking for the man. There were other times, however, when it appeared as though she was afraid of the man, that she held him in fear, if not in absolute terror.

Yes, it was a puzzle, a puzzle to Percy Maitland of the most perplexing and even painful character. And he thought of it now more painfully than ever before, now that the revelation or confession of old Rodney had opened up the full blackness of the villain’s character. He had always believed Ralph Tryon to be a villain and now he knew it, knew him to be guilty of one of the gravest crimes known to the law of man. Did his mother know this? How could she help knowing it? She must have known it from the first.

Aye—as he reflected—as he called to mind certain scenes of the past, he remembered words spoken between the two—between his mother and Ralph Tryon—which had reference to this very business.

Once, very nearly a year before, when he had come suddenly and unexpectedly upon them while they were in close conversation, he had heard these words from Tryon’s lips: “Ho! ’twould be a quick hanging, and no mercy, if he were once caught!”

And there had been other things as significant as that. Yes; his mother had been knowing to the man’s true character from the first. And that had been—how long? He had forgotten to ask Donald the question, but he could judge nearly.

It had been little more than a year ago. At the time he had overheard that remark about a quick hanging the work of piracy had just been entered upon. It had been only a little while previous to that time that he, Tryon, had been given full and undisputed command.

But where was the use? The conversation in the brig’s cabin had aroused his feelings to a high pitch of excitement, and it took a considerable time to quiet them; but he did it at length. He turned his thoughts to a pleasanter theme.

It was near noon when he arrived at the cottage, and he had found his mother at work setting out a repast for her two visitors. He went up to his chamber and made a radical change in his garb, appearing, when it was complete, very nearly as we found him on the previous day, save that in place of the high-topped boots he had put on a pair of light, but firm-soled, walking shoes, such as would be easy and safe in climbing the craggy eminence he had in view.

The meal had been prepared on his return to the room below, and a plate had been set for him, so he took his place at the board and made a hearty meal with the two seamen.

They were his friends, and while they ate together more than one glance passed between them signifying that they were in possession of a common secret; and once they came so near to letting it out by an unguarded remark that Margery was startled.

“What is that?” she asked, turning quickly upon the man who had spoken—an old seaman and a good one—named Stephen Harley. “What did you say, Stephen? That you wouldn’t sail in the brig again?”

“Bless your dear soul! no,” the poor fellow replied, trembling like an aspen. And a happy thought struck him in his moment of need. “I was sayin’ to Master Percy—God bless him!—’at we shouldn’t none of us been likely to’ve sailed in the dear old brig again—never again—if that king’s ship had overhauled us. And she’d ’a’ done it, ma’am, if it hadn’t been for your boy here. My soul! I wish you could ’ave seen her on the rocks. Hi! I wonder ’f they’ve got any more ships that want to dance over Dead Man’s Reef.”

The woman took the answer seriously, never suspecting a hidden meaning. The men, both of them, knew her too well, knew too surely where her sympathies lay, to speak in her hearing of their plans for the future.

Had she but suspected an intent on the part of any of the crew to forsake their chief, she would be sure to give him warning.

Percy finished his meal, and having bidden his two friends an affectionate adieu, he left the cottage, feeling freer and lighter of heart when he was clear of it. It was his home—had been his home since his birth, and his mother presided at the hearthstone, yet he could not love it.

Since his father’s death its atmosphere had not been congenial to him. There were times when this feeling was so strong within him that it seemed impossible that he could remain there longer; but his promise to his dying father held him.

Not, however, beyond his majority. Now that he had reached the age of one-and-twenty, he was free to go where he pleased. What should hold him after that? Ah! he was on his way to the attraction at that very moment. The bond that held him was not at the cottage.