Two days passed after our hero’s removal to the inn, and not a sign from old Donald. Percy had visited the castle and reported progress to the earl. He told how the pirate chief had been arrested, and how he had made his escape with two bullets in his arm.

“He must have had help,” said the old nobleman, “or the officers who took him did not wish to keep him. The story sounds to me like a fable of his own invention. You say he is trying to make his men your enemies?”

“Yes, my lord. He is leaving no stone unturned that can work to my injury.”

“Then, depend upon it, the story of the arrest is all a sham, and so are his wounds. I know our Headlandshire constables better than that. But wait till we have him in sight.”

“It can not be long, my lord.”

“I pray it may not be.”

Late on the evening of this second day, so late that Percy had retired to his chamber at the inn for the night, as he sat by his small table reading, he was disturbed by a rap on his door, and upon bidding the applicant to enter, the door was opened by the rosy-faced host, who ushered into the room Donald Rodney.

“My dear old friend!” as soon as the landlord had gone and closed the door, “what now? You know I am glad to see you under any circumstances, but something unusual must have happened to bring you hither at such an hour.”

“Something unusual has happened, Percy, and I thought you’d like to know. This evenin’, along about eight, or just when it was fairly dark, a boat from the landing came alongside with Abel Jackman in it. He, ye know, is Cap’n Tryon’s servant. He came aboard with orders for three men—Gurt Warnell, Bryan Vank, and Jack Dormer—to come with him and join the cap’n on shore. P’raps ye know, and p’raps ye don’t, them is three of the very worst—the bloodiest villains of the lot. Well, they went ashore with Jackman, but where they’ve gone or what it all means I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon. All is, I made an excuse that I’d got business ashore that couldn’t be put off, and here I am.”

“You don’t know whether Tryon is here in town or not?”

“No, I’m not sure anything about it; but the fancy kind o’ strikes me that he is. Something that Abel Jackman said give me the idea that he couldn’t be a great way off.”

“And you know nothing more about him?”

“Not a thing, my dear boy. If anything comes to my knowledge, you shall hear of it.”

Percy called for a bowl of punch, which the old seaman preferred to wine, and after a social chat on various matters, but chiefly on the subject of the pirate chief, and his possible intentions for the future, the visitor took his leave.

Our hero, when left alone, paced to and fro in his chamber, far from satisfied with the appearance which matters connected with Ralph Tryon had assumed. He did not like it at all. Why had the villain thus come back under cover of night? And why had he sent off his servant to the brig, instead of going himself? And, further still, what did he want with those three men? He remembered them very well. They were comparatively young men, young in years, but evidently old in crime.

They were strong, muscular, brutish fellows, in all probability from the slums of the metropolis. These were the men whom the chief had called to his aid. Once more, what did he want with them?

For a full hour the young man remained up, a prey to various and conflicting emotions, and not until he had become too worn and weary to think further did he seek his pillow.

On the morning of the following day he was up with the sun, and he asked of the landlord that he might have an early breakfast.

He had promised Cordelia that he would come up to the Castle, and go with her to the river if the day was fair. He had run his best boat up to the Park landing, as it had been their intention to enjoy a sail. He feared now, however, that they might have to postpone it. The news he had received of the presence in the neighborhood of Ralph Tryon made a difference.

He did not feel that he ought, for any length of time, to be beyond easy reach of Donald Rodney. But he would go to the castle, as he had promised, and explain the situation; and he had no doubt that the proposed sail would be given up cheerfully.

After that he would see the earl, and inform him what had happened; and then he might return to the village and await further intelligence from his friends of the brig. About this, however, he could not decide until he had seen Cordelia and the earl.

Good Martin had his young guest’s breakfast ready for him about as soon as he was ready to sit down; and, as a matter of sociality, ate with him. But he found not a very entertaining companion. There was too much in the youth’s mind—too much that was perplexing and harrowing—to admit the introduction of new topics to his thoughts.

The old publican understood, and gave him full sympathy; so the meal passed off very cheerfully after all.

And then, away for the castle. He went on foot; but many horses would have gone more slowly. He covered the ground as does one who walks for a wager, or on whose speed depends momentous results. In fact, he was very anxious; and there was no particular reason, known to him, why he should be.

He knew very well that his darling would not complain at the loss of her sail, when she came to know the cause of its postponement. Yet he was anxious.

It was not eight o’clock when he reached the castle. His watch said, ten minutes of it.

“Ho, Master Percy! the young lady and her maid have been gone this half-hour. Her ladyship said we were to tell you that they’d be found at the landing, where your boat is, or so near by that you can’t miss ’em.”

So said old Michael, the steward, who was the first person our hero saw on his arrival.

“You are sure she said to the landing, Michael?”

“Of course I am. I put up the luncheon for ’em; and she told me how she was going when I gave it to Mary.”

“She knows which landing it was that I left my boat at?”

“She said the Park landing, and there is but one that I know of by that name.”

“That is so,” the young man nodded, and then, without stopping for further remark, he turned about and started toward the river.

His course was in a northerly direction, and the distance to the landing three-quarters of a mile. Not quite two-thirds of the way was down the gentle slope of the open, velvety park, and beyond was a belt of woods, but entirely free from wildwood or the tangle of underbrush.

The trees, however, were of the old forest growth, standing near together, forming a solitude grand and imposing. The woods extended to the river’s bank, and the path which Percy was following led directly to the landing.

He began to look for his darling and to call her by name as soon as he had entered the strip of forest, but he saw nothing nor did he receive any answer.

Pretty soon he was at the landing—a platform of chestnut plank, built out to deep water, so that vessels of goodly draught could lie alongside it.

His boat was there as he had left it, but empty.

He looked up the bank and down, and he called aloud, in the end shouting with all his might—and his voice was powerful—but no response did he receive.

At length he thought of looking for the girls’ footsteps, and he found them very soon. At only a short distance from the river was a place where a bed of fine yellow sand had been spread entirely across the path, and here, as plain and distinct as could be, were the footprints of the two girls, and freshly made. He compared them with the prints which his own feet had made on the previous day, when he had brought up his boat, and then with those which he had made on this present crossing. The result convinced him that the girls had crossed only a short time before.

And they had not gone back! No; they had gone down toward the river, as their footprints showed, but there was no sign of their feet going in the other direction.

Where could they have gone? He went back to the landing, and there shouted once more. Then he started upon a swift run up the stream. On the way he happened to think that there were spots where tracks would be found if they had gone in that direction. He looked, and found none.

Then he went down the shore, and with the same result. Not anywhere could he find a sign beyond the landing. The girls had certainly made their way to that point. Aye, he found their tracks close to its inner edge. He stood upon the outer edge of the platform, looking about him, when his eye chanced to droop, and suddenly he caught sight of a white object like a bit of fine lace or linen fluttering upon one of the posts below.

He got down to it as quickly as possible and brought it up. It was a fine, lace-bordered handkerchief with the monogram worked with crimson silk in one corner—“C. C.”

Merciful heaven! What did it mean? Had she fallen into the flood? Had one of them fallen in, and the other nobly followed to save her companion? Again he searched in the new direction.

The current in the river was not rapid. He could row his boat against it without great labor. Yet it was sufficient to sweep a human body away if its owner could not swim.

The anxious, half-frenzied man now cast free his boat, and floated down the stream until he knew there could be no use in his going further, and he had seen no sign either in the water or on the bank.

Slowly he pulled back and made his boat fast again. What could he now do better than to return to the castle? Perhaps he would find them there. Something might have frightened them and sent them back; or Cordelia might have felt unwell and gone home for that cause.

If he did not find them he could give the alarm and set the servants of the household upon the search. And the sooner that was done the better.

So back to the castle he went. It was near ten o’clock when he arrived. Had Lady Cordelia come home? was his first question. The old steward looked at him in wonder. How did he expect her to come home, when she had gone away on purpose to sail with him in his boat? No. She hadn’t come.

While they were speaking—they were in the main hall—the earl joined them. He had heard, and recognized, young Maitland’s voice, and he was anxious to know what had brought him back so soon, and, he was sure, alone. The story was quickly told.

The old man was in agony. That some direful calamity had befallen he was sure.

“Oh, Percy! Percy! We must find her! You will not forsake me in this great need?”

“Forsake you, my lord; I would give my life at this moment, were she in danger, to rescue her from it! My hand and my heart are yours until she shall be found. We shall find her, sir. I am sure we shall find her—though it may take time. Oh, no one could harm her! Who could have the heart?”

“Oh, Percy, those dreadful pirates! They know that I have been ordered to put forth my hand against them; and this may be a means they have adopted for gaining a powerful hold upon me!” And from that moment the earl seemed to look upon the smuggler’s son as his one stay and support.

Percy’s thoughts took a different direction from those of the earl. He was inclined to regard Lord Oakleigh as the villain whose hand had thus been laid upon them.

Look at it in what way he might, he could not put away the belief. Not only the young lord’s character—his heartlessness, his recklessness, and his desire to possess the lady—pointed him out as the probable culprit; but he had made threats—he had sworn to the girl herself, with a horrible oath—that he would make her his own very soon.

Yes. Percy believed Lord Oakleigh to be the man; but he would not say so yet. Time should show. First, however, they must gain some sign—some token of the whereabouts of the missing ones.

The servants had collected and a general interchange of opinions had taken place—as weak and aimless as such interchanges usually are—when the earl, after a time of painful thought, looked toward the smuggler’s son, and finally went up to him and laid his trembling hand on his shoulder.

“Percy Maitland, find my darling! I am old; I am shaken. I am not what once I was. Oh, find her! find her!” And he then turned to the servants and instructed them that to Maitland they were to look for direction, and he charged them to obey him in every particular. And so the search commenced, the earl himself going with them. He could not lead, nor could he remain behind.

Meantime where were Cordelia and Mary Seymour?

On that morning Cordelia arose with the sun. Percy had promised her, if the weather should be propitious, that he would have his boat at the Park landing, and take her, with Mary, to sail on the river.

She arose and looked forth; and never had she beheld the promise of a more beautiful day. She called her maid, and bade her go to the steward and have a basket filled with a proper lunch for three persons, after which she repaired to the apartment of the cook and asked for breakfast.

She wanted it at once—for herself and Mary—because she was going away. She was not particular about much cooking. She had eaten cold victuals before, and could do it again.

Everything went to please her, and by the time the sun was two hours high she was ready to set forth. She went in to kiss her grandpa, but he had not arisen; so she left word for him where she was going and with whom. The hands of the old clock in the hall were pointing to quarter-past seven as the two girls passed through, and ere long they were beyond the castle walls, tripping merrily along one of the graveled walks of the park, but the fresh, cool breeze of night had prevented the fall of dew, so they took the velvety sward when the fancy struck them. Percy had said on the previous evening that he would come to the castle for them; but she was confident he would come by way of the river bank and the landing, so it could make no difference, only in this, they would gain so much more time for the sail. If he had not reached the landing on their arrival at that point they would wait there for him.

They had crossed the open slope of the park and entered the woodland path when they heard voices away upon their left—the voices of men, as in ordinary conversation. They stopped for a time and listened. Mary suggested that they should turn back; but her mistress bade her to wait and listen. They stood thus for several minutes, hearing not another sound.

“Ho!” cried Cordelia, in her brave confidence, “what should harm us here? Why! this is a part of the park.”

“But there were men, certainly,” said the maid; “and of course they must have been strangers.”

“Honest men, you foolish girl, who have been out thus early to catch a few fish for breakfast.”

“Then they must be poachers, my lady; and I’m sure they are not honest men.”

Cordelia laughed merrily at her companion’s witty retort, and shortly afterward they started on again toward the river. They reached the landing, where they found the boat in waiting, but no boatman.

“Percy is not here!”

“You did not expect to find him here, did you, lady?”

“Why, no; but I thought we should surely meet him. However, he will soon be here. It is past the time he set.”

“For meeting us at the castle, lady, not here.”

“Pshaw! What do you take me up so quickly for, Mary? You make me quite nervous.”

“Dear lady, pray do not pay any attention to what I say. I suppose I am a little timid. At all events, I can not help wishing we had not come here alone.”

“Well, to tell the plain truth, Mary, I begin to wish so myself. But it is too late to cry now. He will not be long after this. Ah! What’s that? A man! A stranger!”

Yes, as the last words addressed to her companion fell from her lips she was startled by a quick footfall behind her; and on looking around she beheld a man advancing rapidly toward her, and presently she saw that he was not alone.

There was another, and another; aye, and still another, four of them in all; and a more rough and villainous set she had never seen.

In fact, the foremost man—he who seemed to be the leader of the others—was the very worst-looking, the most wicked and cruel looking human being she had ever set eyes upon.

He was a man tall and stout, dressed in the garb of the sea, though the material was rich and costly.

The velvet was of the finest; the silk and satin seemingly of the softest; a massive gold chain around his neck was attached to his watch, while a large diamond of purest water sparkled in the silken kerchief loosely knotted at his throat.

His face reminded her of a wild beast, and nothing else. His full beard, long, thick and shaggy, and the mass of hair that covered his head, were like the mane of a lion in color and character. His eyes, gleaming beneath the overhanging brows, were bright like fire and black as coals.

In an instant Cordelia thought of Ralph Tryon, the pirate chief. Percy had described him to her minutely, and here he certainly was.

With a low, faint cry, and with her two hands clasped over her bosom, she started back, but she could not move far in that direction, as the edge of the platform was directly behind her.

“Sweet lady,” the man said, his voice hoarse, as voices are apt to be that have been long used to rising above the roar of the tempest, “I trust you are not afraid of me.”

He bowed as he spoke, and looked at her with an expression which she could not translate, though it appeared to her one of cruel malevolence.

She noticed now that he carried his right hand pushed inside the bosom of his vest, and she remembered what she had heard of his being wounded in that arm.

“Lady!” he pursued, after a lengthy pause, “have you no word for me? May I not be permitted to hear the sweet music of your voice?”

“Sir!” our heroine returned, struggling with all her might to speak calmly, or at least coherently—“who are you? Why have you thus placed yourself in my way? What would you with me?”

At this point, and before the chief could reply to the lady’s demand, one of those behind—a dark-visaged, low-browed, villainous-looking man—came to his side and whispered something in his ear. His words Cordelia could not distinguish, but she had no difficulty in distinguishing the response.

“Aye, Gurt, you’re right,” the tawny chief said. “The sooner we haul our wind out o’ this the better it may be for us. Bryan! Jack! This way, and lend a hand. Mind now, no roughness! Handle them as lightly as you can.”

And the three men, thus commanded, moved forward.

As our heroine heard the address of the chief to his comrades, and then saw the latter move toward her, she looked to see a possible way of escape, but there was none. There was but one hope, and that was in help. She whispered to Mary, who was clinging closely to her side:

“Scream!”

And a scream—two of them—that seemed to split the welkin, broke upon the startled air. With a fierce oath the chief himself sprang upon Cordelia, throwing his left arm around her shoulders, at the same time pressing his right hand over her mouth. The maid was likewise secured and her mouth stopped.

Cordelia was both brave and strong. With all her might she struggled, and quickly succeeded in freeing her right hand, which she instantly raised and clasped upon the wrist of the hand over her mouth, wrenching it away and at the same time sending forth another scream for help.

But her cry was not more startling nor more frantic than was the howl of pain and agony that burst from Ralph Tryon’s lips—for we know him by this time—when the grasp of the girl was laid upon his wrist, and the furious wrench given it.

“Gurt! Gurt!—she’s broken my arm again! Seize her and stop her noise!”

By this time the maid had been so far secured that one man could care for her, which left two of the ruffians to care for the mistress, the chief having moved aside to nurse his aching limb.

Cordelia’s hands were quickly bound behind her, and a thick large bandanna was bound over her mouth for a gag, effectually preventing any more calling for help.

After this the chief, whom the lady now knew was none other than Ralph Tryon, started on ahead, directing his men to follow as rapidly as possible.

He took his course down the river’s bank, keeping close to the water, and at the distance of a hundred yards and a little more they came to a small cove wherein lay a boat.

The two captives had been led at a pace that forced them more than once to break from a walk into a run, but they had not been used roughly.

Into the boat they were lifted without ceremony, and carried aft to the stern-sheets, where they were caused to sit on one of the sides; and presently the chief came aft and sat down directly opposite.

Then the head-fast was cast off, and the last man sprang in and came to the tiller, the other two taking the oars, and very soon the boat, which appeared to be a common long-boat, such as is carried by coasting vessels, shot out into the stream, with her head toward the sea, and sped rapidly on. The oarsmen were strong and skillful, and they had the current in their favor.

The distance from the park landing, where the capture had been made, to the bay was little more than two miles, and to the village not more than a mile and a half.

Cordelia knew that the smuggler—now the pirate—brig lay in King’s Cove, and she wondered if she was to be taken there. She hardly thought it.

Too many of the crew would be opposed to it; and, again, those strange men would sympathize with her, and, if they dared, seek to help her. No, she was not to be taken there. Where then?

But another thing began to claim her attention. Her breathing was becoming labored and painful. And so it was with the maid. They looked at each other, and then looked across at the man opposite. He saw plainly the torture they were suffering.

“Ah, my dear lady!” he said, with a curious look at our heroine, “you appear to be suffering a slight discomfort just now, but it can’t be much like the twinge you gave me a little while ago. Upon my word, if you’d been a man I think I should have shot you where you stood. I thought you’d broken the bone again, which the surgeon at Burton set for me; but you hadn’t, so I’ll forgive you. And now, say, if I’ll take off that gag will you give me your word not to cry out for help?”

She hesitated. She knew if she should give her word that she would not break it. No matter what opportunity might present itself, she could not take advantage of it, should she give such a promise.

“It makes not a particle of difference to me,” the chief added, after a considerable pause, finding that the lady did not speak. “If you are comfortable as you are, keep on the bandanna by all means, though I must confess it is not very becoming to you, nor does it look like a thing that I should take particular comfort in. Exercise your own pleasure, my lady.”

This added cruelty of sarcasm almost caused the girl to put up with her suffering rather than accept a favor at the wretch’s hands; but the torture was becoming insupportable. She could not endure it; and, by and by, she signified that he had her promise.

“You promise, mind you—if I remove this gag from your mouth that you won’t offer to cry out, nor make any disturbance of any kind?” She silently promised; and Mary did the same.

“Well, my lady,” after looking her straight in the eye for full ten seconds—a look which she returned without flinching—“Who do you think I am?”

“I know who you are, sir,” she replied promptly. He started; but quickly recovered himself.

“Well, who am I?”

“You are Captain Tryon of the brig Staghound.”

“Upon my word! Your gallant knight must have given you a pretty sharp description of me.”

Cordelia’s first impulse was one of anger at this slur; but she thought how foolish it would be, and straightway resolved that nothing his tongue could frame should cause her to betray or forget herself.

She looked at him steadily for a moment, and then, with a tinge in her tone which paid him back in full, she said:

“Captain Tryon, if you will look into a mirror when you next see one I think you will discover a face not likely to be forgotten when once seen, and not at all difficult to describe.”

“Will you tell me how you would describe it?”

“No, sir. I will not.”

“Why not?”

“You would be angry.”

“Oho! Am I so ugly?”

“I prefer not to tell you what you are.”

“Well I’m sorry for that. Do you know, dear lady, I had almost made up my mind to ask you to be my wife.”

She did not start; the speech did not frighten her, for she had not the least thought that he meant anything more than simple badinage. So it was for a little time; by and by, as the man continued to eye her sharply, she asked herself—why had he done this thing?

Merciful heaven! Was it possible that he had seen her, and that he had conceived a passion to possess her for his own? The thought came to her like a bolt of thunder from a clear sky.

“Captain Tryon, for what purpose have you laid ruffianly hands upon me and dragged me away with yourself in this manner?”

“Wait for a little time, dear lady. I will explain by and by. We must land here.”

They had gone down to a point near to the village, but shut away from it by intervening woods, where, on the side of the stream opposite to that from which they had set forth, was another small inlet, into which the boat had been steered.

There was an easy, natural landing, on a bit of bold shore, where a table of rock came out into the water, against the edge of which the boat lay without difficulty.

The girls were here helped out, and conducted a short distance up into the woods. Cordelia knew that the sloping foot of Witch’s Crag was not a great way off, and a few moments later, when they had stopped, and Tryon told them they must be blindfolded, she was able to give a pretty close guess as to their destination.

“Why should you wish to blind us?” she asked. “Have you a secret which you are afraid we might discover?”

“Never mind my reason. I choose that you shall be hoodwinked. It will not hurt you; and I promise you no indignity shall be offered while you are in that situation.”

For one brief moment our heroine’s thoughts were deep and rapid; the result was she submitted without opposition and without further remark.

The kerchiefs which had been before bound over their mouths were now bound tightly over their eyes, after which they moved on; and ere long, as she had anticipated, they emerged from the wood upon the rough and ragged slope of the crag.

They found a very good path, however, and were able to proceed without difficulty. Up—up—up, the gradual slope, Cordelia judged, very nearly half a mile—and then they stopped; and from the change in the feeling of the air she was confident they had entered one of the caves, which she had several times visited in company with Percy Maitland.

She wondered could it be that into which she and her friends had looked a few days before from the end of the subterranean passage they had explored. If it should so prove, then she might be taken into a place not unknown to her. She was destined, however, to a disappointment of which she had not dreamed.

She heard words spoken between her captors, and presently she heard a sound as of the very slight creaking of a heavy door on its hinges.

She knew that a passage had been opened before her by the sudden sweeping of a current of air on her face; and a few moments afterward, she was again led forward, being caused to stoop as she advanced.

If she could have whispered, unheard by others, to Mary, she would have said: “We are passing through an aperture in the wall where we stopped on our recent voyage of discovery. This is the very wall in which we found the crevice through which we looked into the outer cave.”

When they had all passed through she distinctly heard the way closed behind them; and shortly thereafter they moved on again, Cordelia smelling the fumes of a burning candle or lamp.

She was confident—she felt that she knew—that they were now in a place which she had visited once before; yet, ere long, she met with something that confounded her.

They had gone perhaps a hundred yards beyond the point where she had stooped in passing, when they came to a halt, and pretty soon she heard on the left hand another sound, like the swinging of a ponderous mass on hinges or on a pivot, and there was, moreover, a peculiar grating sound as though one surface of stone had come in contact with another in motion.

“Now, my lady, this way. You will have to stoop a little.” They had turned squarely to the left, and, as he spoke, Tryon placed his hand on Cordelia’s head, causing her to stoop considerably lower than before. She made no resistance whatever, but kept her ears open and every sense she could use keenly alert.

She heard the closing of the way behind her, and when she next stood erect she felt that she was treading on something like a carpet.

At all events it was not the bare rock. She was conducted a short distance further, then caused to sit, and the hoodwink was removed from her eyes.

The light of two or three small waxen tapers was not sufficient to dazzle her sight; but sufficient to reveal to her what manner of place she was in.

It was a cavern, very nearly square in form; the walls seamed and uneven, but not ragged; the roof very high and quaintly arched, that is, it was a one-sided arch, like the half of a ship-roofed house.

The floor, which appeared to be comparatively level and smooth, was covered with a sort of Turkish matting, very soft and easy to the feet. Moreover, there was considerable furniture in the place, several chairs, a chest of drawers, a large oaken cabinet and a good sized table. In one corner was a fireplace, and on looking at the roof the observer could detect an aperture where smoke might escape.

Another thing Cordelia saw: an opening into another cave, a chamber beyond this. Tryon saw that she had discovered it, and he bade her to come with him and look.

He did not offer to lay a hand upon her. She followed him, and soon entered another apartment, not so large as the first, but much like it. Here was more furniture, and here was a bed, seemingly clean and freshly made.

“My dear lady, here you will tarry until to-morrow. You will here be safe. No harm can possibly come to you. You shall have plenty to eat; yonder bed is sweet and clean; and you may rest in it without dread.”

“Ralph Tryon! What is your intention toward me? Why have you done this cruel, wicked thing? What end have you in view?”

“Lady, you shall be fully informed on the morrow, and when you have heard all I shall have to say you may not be so greatly surprised that I have done what you are pleased to call a cruel, wicked thing. Wait, wait, my dear girl, and you shall know everything. It would not be well that you should know my purpose without knowing, at the same time, the causes that have moved me, and those I must keep from you a little longer. Have patience. The morrow will soon be here.”

“Oh, Captain Tryon!” She had sprung forward and sank upon her knees before him with her clasped hands upraised.

He stopped her with an oath, and lifted her bodily to her feet and set her back in her chair.

“Lady Cordelia Chester, were all the wealth of all the world at your command, and you could offer it to me for mine own, for it all I would not suffer you to put one of your feet beyond the outer door of yonder cavern until I am ready to take you out on my own terms. Is that plain to you?”

A moment she gazed into his face, a great horror—a nameless, shapeless dread—weighing her down like an incubus, and then she sank back and covered her face with her hands. When she next looked up she was alone with Mary Seymour.

“Where is he?”

“He has gone, dear lady. Oh, this is dreadful! What shall we do? Dear mistress, what does he mean?”

“Sh! Are they not in the other cavern?”

“I think not. I will look.” And the brave girl took a candle and looked out into the larger apartment—that which they had first entered—and found it empty.

“Oh, dear mistress! Who is that man? What—”

“Hush! Let me think. Or—let us look around, Mary, and determine where we are.”

By a little effort the stricken lady collected her mental and physical forces, and started, with her companion, on a tour of investigation.

She went around the larger cave, examining every part; but the point of entrance claimed her special care. She was able to detect the section of stone that was movable.

The distance she had been forced to stoop aided her in determining this; and, further, the instruction she gained from Percy, during their exploration of, she firmly believed, a cavernous passage of which this was a branch.

“Mary,” she said, when she had seen all there was to be seen, “you remember the wall which stopped our further progress on the day when we came with Percy to the Old Chapel—the wall in which we found a crevice through which we looked forth into another cave beyond?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Well, this is a branch of that passage. Did you notice how we ascended the slope of the crag, and how we were led into the first cave; and then how we came to a wall, where we stooped in passing through? That was the same wall, only we had approached it from the other side.”

“I have thought the very same, lady. Of course we must have passed the entrance to this place on that day.”

“Certainly; but having had no intimation of its existence Percy did not think of looking for it. I venture to say, with the information which we now possess, Mr. Maitland would find it without much trouble. At any rate he would find it.”

They talked longer on the same subject, and made further examination; and the more they considered the stronger became their faith in the fact that they were in a place separated only by the thickness of a wall from the passage they had traversed under the guidance of Percy Maitland.

Cordelia had worn her watch, and by and by she thought of it.

Twelve o’clock! Noon! Where was Percy? Where the earl? Where were they looking? What did they think? Oh, could Percy in any possible way discover where they were? If he could, they would be delivered!

An hour passed—and another. Mary found a box in which were plenty of wax tapers. So they would not be left in the dark.

It was toward the latter part of the afternoon when a noise beyond the outer wall arrested their attention, and presently a section of it—the very stone Cordelia had selected—swung slowly inward, revealing an aperture about four feet wide, and the same in height.

Into the cave came two of the men who had been with Tryon in the morning. They brought between them a large basket, in which, they said, were food and drink sufficient for a small garrison.

The men looked so repulsive, so hard and brutish and cruel, that neither of the girls cared to ask them a question; and they would have been likely to receive no answer had they done so.

“There, my beauties,” said the biggest and most piratical looking of the twain, after they had set the basket down and looked around, “I guess ye’ll be all right now. Rather cosy quarters, aint they? One thing ye ken be sure on—nobody can’t break in, an’ rob ye! Ho! ho! ho!”

The two men laughed and then departed. No attempt was made to conceal from the captives the locality of the entrance, as the knowledge, in all probability, could be of no help to them.

The day passed, and the evening. Together the two girls sat, not yet quite hopeless, though how help was to reach them they could not imagine.

At length, when weariness had so far overpowered them that they could keep awake no longer, they ventured to trust themselves in the bed. It was, as their captor had said, clean and sweet, or freshly aired, and it was soft and grateful to lie upon. They prayed in unison, and very soon thereafter slept.

Once during the night Mary awoke, and her movement awoke her mistress. The former got out of bed and lighted two fresh tapers, and from that they slept soundly until morning. They found plenty of water, and having washed and dressed, they set out the food and drink for breakfast.

It was then, by Cordelia’s watch, seven o’clock. Two hours had passed when she consulted the watch again. Oh, what should come next?

Half an hour later, perhaps more—they could not surely judge—the sound of the moving stone once more fell upon their ears.

Slowly it swung inward—further and further—until the way was open wide. And then entered the pirate chief, Ralph Tryon, dressed in the rich and costly garb of an English nobleman! And behind him, coming two abreast, followed six men of his crew dressed in holiday attire.

But that was not all. Last—was it real or but a wild fancy of her overwrought brain?—last came a man in the somber robes and bearing in his hands the missal of a Catholic priest!

What did it mean?