Through the long and weary day and far into the night Percy and the earl worked hard and unremittingly in the search for the missing ones.

During the afternoon the former ventured down to the shore of the cove, at the point where he had once been in the habit of keeping a boat of his own, and there remained until he had succeeded in attracting the attention of Donald Rodney.

It was a considerable time before the old smuggler could get away from the keen and suspicious watch of Ralph Tryon’s partisans; but his patient endeavors were finally rewarded.

He took a boat and pulled to the shore, ostensibly for the purpose of responding to a signal, which he professed to have received from Margery Maitland.

“In mercy’s name!” he ejaculated, when he met the agonized look of his young friend, “what has happened?”

“Donald, where is Ralph Tryon?”

“I believe he is somewhere in the neighborhood of Burton, and I rather think there is mischief afoot. Leastwise, one of our friends heard Abel Jackman, when he was talking with Gurt Warnell, say something about a lord’s house over there which they intended to visit.”

“Do you really believe he is away from here, Donald?”

“Why shouldn’t I? He certainly sent for those men to go away with him on a job of some kind; and, as I just said, one of our men—it was Tom Bidwell—overheard Jackman talkin’ about Burton. Yes, I think he’s there.”

After a little reflection Percy told to his friend the story of the wonderful disappearance of Lady Cordelia Chester and her maid.

Rodney was deeply affected, but he did not believe Tryon had anything to do with it. If such a thing had been in the wind he was sure he would have detected some signs of it. But one thing the old man promised. He would return to the brig, and he would not rest until he had found out all that could possibly be discovered in that quarter.

“And, my dear boy,” he added, earnestly, “nothing shall prevent me from giving you information as soon as it comes to me. I will either come myself or send Guy to-morrow morning at all events, whether I have news or not.”

It was not very satisfying; but the interview, and the bringing it about, had used up two pain-laden hours, besides giving him something more to think of and look forward to.

He had taken to himself a hope that old Rodney would bring him something of importance in the morning, if not before. It was very slight—very slight indeed; but a ray of light came with it, nevertheless.

Leaving the shore of the cove, our hero made his way to the inn at the village, where he was to have a new direction given to his thoughts—or, rather, an aforetime thought was to be revived.

“Ah, Maitland! the very man I’ve been wishing for,” the host exclaimed, as our hero made his appearance in the tap-room. “That horse has come. Just step around this way with me, and you shall have a look at him.”

Percy knew this to be simply a blind for closing the eyes of the few loungers in the room. He followed the good man out through the bar into a little parlor beyond, where with the doors closed they were safe from intrusion.

“Maitland, you asked me, this noon, about Lord Oakleigh; and I told you I knew nothing about him. Well, I can tell ye more now. Dan Corbett came in half an hour ago and told me he met the young lord over at Saybrook, at Seth Arnold’s inn, last evening.”

“He knows it was Lord Oakleigh?” interrogated the youth, much excited.

“Bless ye, yes! He knows Lord Oakleigh as well as he knows you or me.”

“Last evening?”

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“It must have been somewhere between eight and ten o’clock.”

“Does he know what he was doing there, or anything about what he intended to do?”

“He could make out only this: His lordship was in a great flurry, with his right arm in a sling, Dan said; and seemed to be waiting for somebody—Dan thought his servant—who was to take him away from there; but where he was bound or what he was about, I couldn’t find out.”

Percy asked a few more questions, and then, having thanked the landlord for his kindness, he left the inn and made all possible haste to the castle. He was well armed, and he kept a sharp lookout around as he wended his way through the bit of woods he had to traverse, for he well knew that he had deadly enemies, and there was no telling where nor when they might strike. At the castle he found the earl, pacing to and fro, suffering intensely.

“Percy, dear boy! what have you found?”

“Will you sit down, my lord, and listen to me for a few moments?” The old man did as requested, and the youth went on:

“Lord Allerdale, I am going to surprise you—to wound you; but you must bear it as best you can. When it was first known to me that Lady Cordelia had been taken away—as we know she must have been—my suspicions fell upon—Lord Oakleigh. I believed he was more likely to be the abductor than any other man; and now I am sure of it.”

“Oh, Percy! Don’t say it!”

“My lord, where do you think is his lordship at the present time?”

“He is at Oxford.”

“He was at the Saybrook inn at nine to ten o’clock last evening, my lord. That I know.” And thereupon the young man went on and related all that he had learned from old Rodney, at the Cove, and from Martin Vanyard at the inn. He was sorry to say it, but he was confident that Oakleigh was the offending party.

“My lord,” he pursued, “did Cordelia tell you what Lord Oakleigh said to her on the occasion of their late interview in the garden?”

“She did not tell me all, but I know he was very unkind.”

“Aye,—and he used threats. He bade her beware of him; and—but, my lord, I need not tell you any more.” He had come to the point where his own name had entered into the discussion, and of this he cared not to speak.

However, the earl was satisfied that his young friend might be right, and he finally confessed that his own suspicions had run in that direction, but he had fought them down with all his might.

Half an hour later, our hero, with a trusty servant of the castle in company, was on his way to Saybrook, a small town five miles away toward the south.

He had a smart horse, and a light, easy-going vehicle, and the passage was speedily made. There at the inn, he found the host—Seth Arnold, who, when he knew the messenger had come from the old earl, was ready to give all the information he could; but that was not much, although it was something.

Lord Oakleigh had been at the inn—the Stag and Hounds—on the preceding evening, and had appeared to be in a great hurry, walking nervously about, with his arm in a sling, cursing and swearing to himself. At about ten o’clock his servant had arrived with a light dog-cart, into which he had gone and been driven away; and the landlord had seen nothing more of him.

“Which way did they go?”

“Back toward your way, Allerdale.”

A few more questions, and Percy started on his return to the castle, where he arrived at about nine o’clock in the evening.

The earl, on hearing the report, surrendered his last doubt. He was now convinced that his grandson was the villain. Oh, what would he do?

“Let us not think,” said the younger man. “Let us find them and set the lady free.”

“Heaven send that we may do it!”

Percy went again to the village, where he made further inquiries; but nothing of importance was learned. He had promised the earl that he would spend the night at the castle; so at midnight he returned, finding the old nobleman up waiting for him.

It seemed almost wrong to go to bed and to sleep while the dear one was lost to them, but the demands of nature were not to be denied. The earl read a prayer, the youth prayed fervently from his own heart, and then they sought their rest.

It was near the hour of eight o’clock on the following morning, and our hero had been to the village and back again to the castle, and was on his way to the village once more, when he was met by the boy, Guy Carroll, his face flushed and his blue eyes fairly blazing.

“Guy! What is it?”

They were in the edge of the wood, and free from observation. The boy cast a quick, eager glance around and then—

“Oh, Mr. Maitland! It is Cap’n Tryon after all!”

“What of him? What? What?” Percy exclaimed, catching the boy by the arm, with an anxiety that was torturing.

“It’s he, sir, that has run off with the lady from the castle! Yesterday—late in the afternoon—Bryan Vank and Gurt Warnell—they were two of them that had been sent for by the cap’n—they came aboard the brig and carried away a big basket full of provisions; and late at night Uncle Donald found out all about it. He wouldn’t tell me who told him; but it seems Vank let it leak out while he was waitin’ for the basket to be filled. The provisions were for two women—two young girls—that the cap’n’d got stowed away in one of the caverns on the slope of the Crag.”

Percy started as though he had been shot. It was like the bursting of a thunderbolt over his head from a clear sky. In his wild imaginings he had several times had a picture in mind of his darling shut up in that place; but he had given it no serious thought.

Could it be Ralph Tryon, and not Lord Oakleigh, who had spirited away the two girls? It must be.

He questioned Guy closely, and was, in the end, perfectly assured there could be no mistake. The pirate chief himself had stolen away the dear one, and now had her shut up in the cavern of the Crag.

“Guy, do you know where that cave is?”

“I only know, sir, that it is just about half-way from the shore of the bay to the point where the head of the Crag shoots up steeply. I was never there. But Uncle Donald says there’ll be no use in your attemptin’ to get at ’em in there, for there’s a secret entrance which nobody can find only them as knows it. Uncle knows it, but he can’t tell it. Leastwise I don’t believe he’d want to break such an oath as he’d have to break if he did it. He says you’ll watch till they come out—the cap’n and the lady—and then, p’raps, you’ll be able to catch him. Oh, I hope you will!”

“You are sure Ralph Tryon will be in that cavern this forenoon?”

“Yes, sir. He’s there, now, somewhere. I should think, from what I’ve heard, that it was a big place with lots of odd nooks and corners in it. I heard old Ben Popwell say once, when he didn’t know ’at I was listenin’, ’at it would be a great place for blind-man’s buff.”

The startled, electrified youth waited for no more. He thanked the lad kindly, promising him that he should never seek his good offices in vain; then he said:

“Tell Uncle Donald that the rat is in more of a trap than he dreams of!” And with this he hurried away, keeping on to the village, as he had first intended; but with his purpose changed. His first call was on the chief constable, who there resided, named Allan Tisdale. He was a man of middle age; large and powerful of frame; bold and fearless in the line of his duty, yet kind, affable, and gentlemanly.

He had been intimate with our hero for a long time and esteemed him highly.

“Well, Maitland, have you anything new?”

The visitor was not a great while in telling him. He told all that he had learned from old Donald’s nephew.

“And now, what?” the constable demanded, open-eyed. He was nervous and excited. He could not see his way. “We know where the man is; but how are we to reach him? Ah! and that reminds me; I saw a squad of seamen—a dozen or more—not half an hour ago, landing from a boat at the foot of the rocky slope. In all probability they are to do guard duty up at the cave.”

“How many good, reliable men can you raise at once?” Percy asked.

“I can muster twenty in half an hour, perhaps; if I should call upon the villagers, I might make it thirty.”

“Very well—will you take with you five of your best men—those in whom you have the most confidence, and come with me? I will lead you into that cavern by a way that will astonish you.”

“Ha!—Maitland!” exclaimed the officer, with a quick start and a look of intense eagerness. “Is it at the Old Chapel? Have you found it?”

“Yes, Mr. Tisdale, I have succeeded. You will see a strange place. But speak not a word to another. My soul! it must not leak out until we are ready to strike the blow. You will be circumspect.”

“Trust me. Ah, you’ve found the secret of the ghosts. The haunted chapel is haunted no more, save by spirits in flesh and blood! Good! But this isn’t work. Come with me and give me your help. We’ll very soon have our men ready for duty.”

Everything worked favorably. The men wanted were found without difficulty; and the stout artisans and laborers of the village, when they had been told of the business on hand, were not only willing but eager to join.

In little more than half an hour from the time of their setting forth the work was done. Tisdale had selected the five men who were to accompany him, while his lieutenant—Martin O’Brien—a faithful and reliable officer, at the head of four-and-twenty more, all well armed, was to proceed up the face of the Crag—not to go to the cave—but to stop at a point where they would be sure to intercept any who should attempt to escape from the cave in that direction.

Thus, Percy believed, they would be able to capture the whole party—all of the pirates whom the chief had called to his assistance—and he thought there might be twelve to fifteen of them. When these arrangements had been perfected, and they were sure that O’Brien understood his part exactly, Percy and the constable, with the five helpers—strong, experienced officers, every one—took their way to the castle, where they found the earl anxiously waiting for intelligence.

When the old nobleman had heard the story, when he knew that his darling had been found, or the same as found, and he was assured that he should ere long behold her, when it had all been made clear to him, his joy was beyond his power of language to express it.

“Percy! Percy! My noble boy!” he cried, regarding the youth with loving trustful looks, “you must take the lead. You know all about it. You are the man. I am sure Mr. Tisdale will not be offended.”

“Pooh! pooh! Maitland is the man to lead, my lord. We all understand it.”

“Let me give my humble help, as best I can,” said Percy, not at all discomposed by the encomiums thus passed upon him. “Where I can lead, be sure I will; and when I can follow I will do so with all my heart. And now, my lord, how many of your men are we to take with us?”

“Here is Michael. He will muster them. There should be ten, at least.”

“Twelve, my lord, counting me. Of course you’ll let me go.”

“Yes, you may go. Now hurry and collect the men and get out the arms. Oh, do be expeditious!”

Now was the time and the need when our hero showed the quality that was in him. Under his calm, quiet, prompt guidance, with a power of command natural to him, the force of the castle was mustered, armed, and organized in less than twenty minutes, and in half an hour after the arrival of himself and the constable at the castle the party, twenty in number, counting the earl, was ready to set forth.

The appearance of a man in priestly robes, following behind the pirate chief and his comrades, at first struck Cordelia with a paralyzing horror. The significance of the scene was not to be mistaken. It was the voice of Ralph Tryon that roused her to indignation and gave her strength.

The chief, in his gorgeous raiment of velvet and gold, advanced to the center of the cavernous apartment; his six comrades, in broadcloth and silk, filing in behind him, where they took position in a well-dressed line. Then the pretended priest, with slow, even step, moved to a place on Tryon’s left hand and a little in front.

“Now, fair lady,” said the master of the situation, “I have come to fulfill my promise. I will set you free from this place, but you will go with me as my wife. Do you understand me?”

Something in the man’s voice—something new and strange—gave to our heroine a start of wonder. It had lost much of its huskiness and had put off its roughness; it sounded no more like the voice of the sea. She looked at him sharply, looked long and earnestly, and presently she saw a smile curling about his deep black eyes, a smile so wicked and malevolent and so vengeful that it aroused her beyond her endurance.

“Man! Demon! Fiend! Whatever you call yourself, I tell you, in your teeth, you speak falsehood! You have no power to make me your wife! Lay a hand upon me, and I will kill you if I can! Were this man in sacerdotal robe a true priest, he would know he can not do the wicked deed. It would be but mockery—an empty form. If he be a true man, he will not attempt it.”

“Holy father,” said the chief, turning to the pretended priest, without paying any heed whatever to the hot and angry words of the girl, “you hear what she says. Now what say you?”

“I say, my lord, if the situation is as you have represented it—if such has been the general understanding, and if the lady’s lawful guardian consents, I could marry you, and the bond would be too strong for man to break.”

“Now, Cordelia.” He had put his hand to his head, and appeared to be loosing something behind his ear, when a quick, sharp cry of alarm from one of the men behind him caused him to look toward the entrance.

On his way to the cave, as we might judge from what the constable had that morning seen, Tryon had been accompanied by a strong force of his sworn friends and adherents.

Ten stout men, well armed, he had left at the mouth of the outer cave, and the six who had come in with him he had brought for witnesses, being determined that the ceremony should not lack in that respect.

With regard to danger inside his cavernous retreat, the pirate had not dreamed of such a thing. He would as soon have thought of finding the sunlight streaming into its uttermost recesses.

Hence he had entered the chamber, leaving the others to follow, never once thinking of closing the way behind him.

Now, upon hearing the note of alarm, he looked toward the entrance and there beheld a sight that confounded and bewildered him.

He saw Percy Maitland, and by his side the constable, Allan Tisdale, just entering the place, or rather he saw them leap quickly in, and directly behind them came the old earl, with seemingly a score of men at his back.

“In the king’s name,” shouted the constable, “surrender!”

“Not until I have made my mark here,” the pirate chief replied; and quick as thought he snatched at a pistol in his bosom, and drew it forth, his purpose being to shoot young Maitland.

But two other persons were as quick as he; though they might not have been had not his lame hand bothered him.

Before he could cock the weapon, Cordelia, who had heard and understood his words, struck up his hand, causing him to utter an audible groan of pain; and at the same moment the earl, full sure in the heat and excitement of the moment, that the life of his brave young friend was in peril, raised the pistol in his hand and fired.

The pirate pressed his hand over his bosom and sank back, coming in contact with the pretended priest as he did so. The latter, thinking the wounded man would fall, caught him to uphold him, and in doing so his fingers became entangled in the thick, heavy beard of the face, and—pulled it away.

The chief had cast loose the principal fastening of his disguise while speaking with Cordelia—the speech which had been interrupted by the appearance of the new-comers and the note of alarm from the startled seamen.

Yes, the disguise came away just as the last of the pirate gang had been overcome and secured—the tawny beard and hair—revealing the swart face of Matthew Brandon, Lord Oakleigh!

At first those who beheld refused to believe the evidence of their own senses. It did not seem possible that one and the same man could have filled both characters.

But they were forced to believe in time. And now Percy Maitland knew what it was in the looks of Ralph Tryon that had so puzzled and perplexed him from the first.

The aged earl, when he had come to a realizing sense of the horror of the situation, sank back with a groan of the deepest, bitterest agony, and covered his face with his hands as though to shut from his sight the terrible thing before him.

And then arose the voice of the pirate, coarse, brutal and cruel, even though the hand of death lay heavily upon him.

“Oho! my dear grandpapa! You will have a happy thought—a beautiful, blissful memory—through the remnant of your life. Your own hand took your grandson’s life!”

“Oh, Heaven have mercy!” the stricken old man groaned. “It needed but this to fill the cup of my misery to the brim!”

“Aye,” pursued the wretch, with a withering sneer, “and you killed me to save the beggarly life of a smuggler’s brat! Oho! may the memory give you joy! Oh, I am burning up!”

“Dear, dear grandpa!” Cordelia exclaimed, hastening to her guardian’s side and winding her arms about his neck. “Oh, do not notice him. Look to us who love you, and who—”

“Love one another!” Oakleigh broke in, madly. “Oho! Aha, old man! what did I tell you? A thousand guineas to a pewter sixpence you give your consent yet to the marriage of the baronet’s daughter with the spawn of the—oh, how it burns!”

The priest, a man whom Oakleigh had been able to buy, after confession to him who and what he was, proved to be a handy surgeon, and he at once proceeded to examine the wound. It was in the left side, toward the breast and near the heart, and it was very quickly pronounced fatal, though the clerical leech said the patient might live several hours. If he was to be moved, the sooner it was done the better.

“Let me die at the castle,” said the wounded man. “If I am to live for hours, let my good, kind grandfather be blessed with the sight of his handiwork!”

At this point Percy and Cordelia, who had found opportunity for a word together—she had sprung to him at the very first, in the fullness of her heart, to bless him for having come to save her. “Oh,” she had cried, “I knew you would come!”—these two came to the old man’s aid and led him away.

“The man is mad,” said Maitland. “You shall not suffer the cruel torture more.”

“Come, dear grandpa! Come with us.”

They led him to the entrance, where he promised to go with his darling, after which Percy returned and attended to the arrangements for moving the wounded man; but he finally gave the work into the hands of old Michael, the priest having promised to accompany them to the castle.

Meantime Mr. Tisdale, with two of his men, had gone on to the outer cave, toward the face of the slope, where he was just in season to meet others of his men, who informed him that they had captured ten of the pirate crew outside. And this completed the work. They believed they had taken all who had left the brig.

Under these circumstances, as the constable could not be wanted at the castle, he returned to the cave with a few of his men and took in charge all the prisoners, saving only the wounded chief; and while the servants of the earl conveyed him forth, by way of the old chapel, he and his force would take the others down over the slope of the crag, outside.

On their way through the long and devious subterranean passage Matthew Brandon did not once open his lips; but when they had reached the chapel, and he saw our hero start to move the altar back against the wall, thus uncovering the secret pass, he burst forth, though weakly:

“Oho! So it’s you? Viper! You have found the secret. Oh, may the fiends of—” He stopped, with a shoot of pain in his side, and was forced to hold his tongue for a time.

Cordelia was strongly tempted to tell him that the sight of himself, one stormy evening, entering the chapel, and disappearing beneath the altar, had led to the discovery. But Percy told him the same later, and he confessed that he had come in on that night wearing a monk’s robe.

And then in astonishment Percy looked at what had never before attracted his attention. In profile the face of Lord Oakleigh was an exact pattern of what Hugh Maitland’s face had been.

Sure, it was curious; and yet not at all wonderful that he had not before noticed it. With the full beard of Ralph Tryon on his face, his profile was hidden; while with the face of Matthew Brandon he had not been familiar. On that stormy evening he had not worn his beard nor his wig.

A very good litter had been found in the chamber beneath the chapel, and on this the wounded man was placed and so conveyed to the castle. And there a new surprise awaited them.

Standing in the court in company with old Donald Rodney was Margery Maitland, looking pale and wan—not the Margery of the olden time. In truth she looked like a woman not long for this lower life.

Percy, when he saw her, felt his heart bound with a thrill of regret—almost of remorse.

Had his forsaking her caused this sad change? He could not believe it. She had never loved him deeply enough for that. Yet he hastened to her and put forth his hands.

“Mother! Oh, why are you—”

“Hush, boy! You know not to whom you speak. Where is the other—Ralph Tryon? Where is he?”

“Mother! Oh, did you know? Of course you did. There he is, wounded—dying.”

“Dying! dying, did you say?”

“Yes. He was shot in the flurry of capture.”

“Shot in attempting your life, was he not?”

“You are right. Whoever told you, told the truth.”

“Nobody told me, boy. My own instinct so impressed me. Ah, he is on yonder litter! Oh, this is judgment! This is the vengeance of heaven! Matthew Brandon!” going to the side of the litter, “your hand was not red enough with pirating, but you must steal defenseless girls away from their homes!—Oh, boy! boy—your crimes have found you at length!”

“How now, beldam! What do ye here?” cried the wounded man. Presently, with a fiendish gleam in his eye, he added: “Oh, Margery, give yonder old man joy! His hand it was that shot me down! aye! he shot me to save the life of the smuggler’s spawn! What d’ye think of it?”

“Was it the earl’s hand that did it?”

“Aye, verily.”

“And to save—”

“The smuggler’s brat! the spawn of an outlaw!” the wretch broke in upon her.

“Fool! Fool! How long can he live?” she suddenly asked, turning from the litter to the priest, who stood nearest.

“Not many hours.”

“Then carry him in, and I must go with him. I have that to say which he must hear.”

“Ho! ho! Will ye tell them how ye tried to do the very work they shot me for attempting, Margery?”

“Yes, I’ll tell with all my heart. Don’t think I fear.”

“Don’t let her come! Don’t let her come!” the fallen chieftain howled. And he tried to speak further, but his strength failed him and pain overcame him.

Something in the woman’s look, in her manner, and in the sound of her voice attracted the earl’s attention and interested him, and he determined that she should have her way.

At any rate it should be as Percy said, and so he told her. And she besought her son to suffer her to go in with them, and he could not find it in his heart to refuse her.

They bore the litter to the foot of the steps of the main vestibule, and thence took the wounded man in their arms.

They carried him into the great hall and into the principal drawing-room,—took him in there because there was in the apartment the largest and softest sofa in the castle, and upon that sofa they laid him, and then brought pillows for his head and pillows for his shoulders.

The pseudo-priest, really a surgeon, having found a suitable instrument for a probe, thought to find the location of the bullet, but the pain he caused was so great, with a threatened flow of blood, that he desisted, deciding at once, with perfect assurance, that it could do no good to find the missile and might hasten the fatal end.

“How long do you give me to live?” the patient asked, when he had recovered from the pain that had been given him by the probe.

“You may live an hour; you may live longer, and you may not live so long.”

“Oh! Aha! ha! ha! Where’s the earl? Ha! old man! Don’t forget the joy that is to be yours in the memory of this day’s work! Say—did you love my father?”

“Oh, boy! boy! Why were you not like him?”

“Ha! He was a saint, was he? Well, if I should chance to meet him in the great hereafter—and who shall say what may happen?—I may meet him, you know. If I do, be sure I’ll tell him who shot me. Aye, and I’ll tell him for why his own father shot his boy. It was to prevent him from dealing out justice to a traitor! Ay!” the pirate shouted in a sudden outburst of fury and mad passion, “where is the traitor?—the low-lived, false-hearted spawn of a low-lived, outlawed smuggler. Where is he? Ho! Earl of Allerdale, will ye mate your fair ward with the—”

“Hush!—Poor fool! You know not what you say.” So spake Margery Maitland, advancing to the mad man’s side, and laying her hand over his mouth. She saw that his own weakness would keep him quiet for a time; and she brought a chair and sat near him.

And so she sat for a full minute, and during that time the only sound that broke the air was the stertorous breathing of the wounded man. At length she raised her head and looked around, her eyes presently resting upon our hero.

“Percy,” she said, her voice low and tremulous. “I have but little to say, especially to you. I did—I did, with my own hands attempt your life! I offered you the death which another had prepared—you know him—let us call him Ralph Tryon. No, I’ll call him by his true name—”

At this point the man to whom she had thus alluded offered to interrupt her, as he did several times later; but his weakness and his pain held him quiet.

“Matthew Brandon is his name. He had gained a hold upon me, and he knew it. As you are aware, he made the acquaintance of my husband little more than a year before his death; and he sailed with him in three or four trips to France—sailed thus while they at the castle thought him safely at Oxford at school. You know how, at length, he joined the brig and finally took command, having taken another name, together with a disguise so cunningly contrived that no one could detect or mistrust it. So he came to the command, and he contrived to keep the momentous secret safe. He worked upon me. He sought my confidence. He flattered me. He appeared to be kind to me. You will wonder how it could be. That I will explain by and by.

“Percy, not long ago he came to me and solemnly swore that you had entered into an agreement with the officers of the law to deliver up—to betray—himself and the brig and the whole crew into their hands. At first I refused to believe it, but he swore so solemnly and I saw you coming here, and I knew how your heart was not with us—that finally, I came to accept it as a fact, and then I felt bitter toward you. What would become of me, if the smuggling was stopped? And so, when he brought to me the wine, and bade me to give it to you, swearing that if I did not he would clear out and never look upon me again,—then I yielded.

“Oh, Percy! On that morning when you went away—when you blessed me and left me—then, Percy, my eyes were opened, and I felt in my heart what you had become to me. I felt then all the difference between you and him; and I sat down and wept—wept as I had not wept before since my own Hugh left me. After that I saw Matthew Brandon again, and he had the face to ask me to help him get Lady Cordelia Chester away from the castle, that he might marry her. If he had asked me that six months ago I might have listened; but other feelings had come to me. I told him no; and I told him further, if he persisted in the purpose evil would come of it; but he laughed at me, and went his way. This morning I saw Donald Rodney, and asked him what was being done; and when he knew how I felt—when he had seen the desire of my heart—he told me all; and then I persuaded him to come up here with me, being sure that Brandon would be taken.

“I will say nothing about his piracy, only I assure you that I fought against it as long as I could, feeling sure that it could end but in one way. But he was headstrong, and he conquered. Percy, do you believe me?”

“Yes, mother, with all my heart.”

Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes, but she put them back; and again there was silence, the significant breathing of the sufferer on the sofa becoming more and more weak and labored. By and by she looked up again, this time turning to the earl. She gazed upon him for a few moments, evidently in deep thought, and at length spoke.

“Lord Allerdale, please do not interrupt me. I have a strange story to tell to you—one that I think will interest you. Will you let me tell it in my own way?” She paused for a little time, looking at him curiously, and then glancing toward the sofa, and, anon, toward where Percy and Cordelia sat near together. Finally she went on:

“My lord, you have not forgotten when I was a servant in your family. Ten years—from the age of twelve to two-and-twenty—I was a member of your household. I see that you remember.

“You remember too, that when your son George, then Lord Oakleigh, brought his young and beautiful wife home I was detailed to wait upon her, and I became, after a time, her especial servant. I had no other duties but to wait on her. She was kind; and she was, in her own way, just, but she was proud, and a strict observer of what she deemed the proprieties of life.

“I had served Lady Oakleigh not quite a year when she discovered that I was soon to become a mother. She asked me who was my husband. At first I hesitated, and she misunderstood me; and finally, when I told her that I had been lawfully married to Hugh Maitland, she would not believe me.

“But that was not all. She broke out into a harsh and bitter denunciation of my lover, as she called him. He was a smuggler and an outlaw, liable at any time to be gibbeted; and she would suffer me no longer to remain in her service. She cast me out, coldly, and, I felt, cruelly.

“You, my lord, were away at the time, traveling on the continent. Had you been here I should have appealed to you, and I believe you would have taken pity on me, but there was no pity in the bosom of my lady; and her husband would not have crossed her for his life; for she, too, was about to become a mother.

“And now, my lord, a curious thing happened. When I had been turned away, my lady, being so near to her motherhood, wanted a wet nurse in my place, and she found one; and who do you think it was?

“My own sister!—the only relative of blood I had in the world. She was a widow; her husband dead only a few months; and was living in Burton. Huldah—that was her name—Huldah came; and the mistress liked her. She was plump, and strong, and healthy, with rosy cheeks and bright black eyes.

“She was obedient, and meant to do her duty; but she was indignant at the way in which I had been treated; and, to make the matter worse, Lady Oakleigh so far forgot herself as to denounce me and terribly abuse my husband. It so happened that Hugh was a favorite with Huldah; and when she heard her lady so berate him she was very angry.

“And now, my lord, you may be able to understand what followed. It was evident that her ladyship and I would become mothers at very nearly the same time; and my sister joined me willingly in a plot not only for vengeance, but for placing a child of our blood on the way to rank and station. If the children should happen to be of the same sex there would not be much trouble.

“Do you ask me if I had not a mother’s heart of love for her own offspring? I answer you—by the plan we proposed I should be near my child all my life. Should it be a boy, which I was sure it would be, I should find real joy and pride in seeing him grow up, rich, proud, noble, and honored. But, oh, heavens! what a fall of all my glowing anticipations have I found in the reality!

“My lord, everything happened to help on our plan. The children were born within six hours of each other and were both boys. My child was born in your woodman’s cottage, just in the edge of the walnut grove, at six o’clock in the evening, Lady Oakleigh’s six hours later.

“The old physician left me and went to her. He left the castle at two o’clock; and the only human being who had fairly examined the infant was the nurse, Huldah.

“An hour later, my lord, when the nurse had got rid of the last hanger-on, and her ladyship had gone to sleep under the influence of an opiate, Huldah took the infant in her arms, wrapped snugly in warm blankets, and brought it to me; and she carried my child—the child of Hugh Maitland and Margery his wife—back to the castle, back to the arms of Lady Oakleigh; and the cheat was not discovered—was never mistrusted.

“When the daylight came, those who saw the infant nestling in the nurse’s arms, or resting on her ladyship’s bosom, wondered where it got such black eyes and such black hair; but it was a fine, healthy child, and they were proud of it.

“Ah! my lord, it was a healthier, heavier child than was brought to me; and I verily believe had Lady Oakleigh been permitted to keep her own offspring, she would not have reared it to even early youth.

“The free air of our woodland cottage; the out-of-door sports; the sailing; and the rough-and-tumble; and, above all else, the plain, substantial food, gave health and strength and vigor; and he grew up as pure and beautiful in mind as he was in body.

“I may remind you here that my husband—Hugh Maitland—smuggler though he was, was a Christian gentleman; and from him the boy never received a precept nor an example that was not good, setting aside, of course, the one matter of his profession.

“And now, my lord, do you ask me why I did not love the child—the beautiful boy—with all my heart? I will tell you.

“I was jealous of him! I had robbed him of rank, and wealth, and high, brilliant life, and given, as I had fondly believed, those things to my own son. But look at the result! I looked upon the boy under my roof, and saw him all that Heaven itself could ask a perfect boy to be.

“Then I looked upon the boy to whom I had given every opportunity for high and noble life, for wealth and luxury and power, and what did I see? I looked upon the child of my own blood, in whose greatness I had promised myself so much pride and joy, and what did I find? Alas! my evil deed had recoiled upon myself. I saw my boy, him to whom I had given all the world at the cost of my own soul, going down, down, down, a poor worthless stick! Had I kept him to myself and thrown him at an early age upon his own resources for a livelihood, he might have been different. But I can not complain.

“Percy! Percy!” turning to the half-stupefied youth, with tears starting down her shrunken cheeks. “On that morning when you blessed me—when, after I had raised my hand against your life, and you knew it, you asked God to give me blessing, now and ever more—in that hour, Percy, I resolved that you should be restored to your rights; that, so far as I could effect it, you should, for the time to come, enjoy the rank and wealth that is lawfully your own.

“I can not speak more. Yet—one word—Oh, my lord!—Lord Allerdale! look upon this boy—look into his face—and tell me what you see. Oh, how have you been so blind? He is his own father over again! Do you not see? Ah, your heart has told you! You have loved him, even when you thought him the smuggler’s child.”

“Percy! Oh, I will always call you so! Can you doubt the truth of this?” So asked the old earl, holding the handsome youth by the shoulders and gazing eagerly, through bright tear-drops, into his face.

“My lord,” Percy answered, trembling at every joint, “how can I doubt it? I do certainly believe it true.”

“Doubt!—Believe!” cried Margery, springing to her feet with arm outstretched. “Look at that face—the face on those pillows! Oh, Heaven, have mercy! Is it not my own face made masculine, and hardened and brutalized? Your face, boy, is the face of your father. Had it been your mother’s, I do not think I should have endured you. Forgive me! I will say no more.”

At this point the pirate chief, who had been thus far held in check by the surgeon, started to a sitting posture, with fury in his face and a literal flame in his sunken eyes. He raised his maimed right hand toward Margery, and his lips moved. He gasped, and flecks of foam started out, but he did not speak. Another effort resulted in a low gurgling howl, and he sank back on his pillows—dead.

Margery stood for a time at the sofa side and gazed down upon the swart, dead face. By and by she turned toward the earl.

“Lord Allerdale,” she said, with a steady, earnest look into his watchful eyes, “I will tell you how you can prove to me your undoubting faith in the story I have told you. Give to the men whom I shall send, this body, and allow me to bury it by the side of the grave wherein I laid the mortal remains of his father. Will you do it?”

The earl looked at the stark form on the sofa and shuddered. The sight was a horror to him. Then he turned and looked upon the other—the truly noble, handsome, gallant lad, who had already, against heavy odds, found the way to his heart.

A single moment he gazed upon that face—Oh, so like the face of his dead son—and then he turned back to the woman.

“Yes! yes! Take it, for I know it is yours! And may the Father of us all, in His infinite mercy, give you peace and comfort for the remainder of your life! Heaven bless you, Margery, for the restitution you have this day made!”

“I am glad I have made it. I feel better—I feel less of unhappiness than I have felt for years. The gain is mine as well as yours. Percy could have been never any more to me, while to you he will be a new joy, a new life.”

“And now, my lord, before I leave you, I have an earnest petition to offer. There are, of the brig’s crew, a full score of men—I think two-and-twenty of them—at all events, Percy can give you their names.”

“I know them,” said the young man, as she hesitated and glanced toward him.

“They are men, my lord,” she went on, “who never willingly committed crime. I have to beseech you, that when you come to lift the sword of justice against the pirates, these men may be spared. They—”

“My good Margery,” interrupted the earl, with a benignant, happy look on his aged face, “I am pleased to tell you that the promise you ask I have already given to another. The only consideration on which Percy would at first agree to assist me in capturing the chief of the pirates was that I would give free passage, whithersoever they would go, to the men of whom you have spoken. Rest you easy, for I give you my word, not one of them—not one, in short, who can prove that he possesses your avouchment for his character—shall be molested.”

Margery bowed low as she thanked him; then turned and left the room. Percy followed her out, but she had nothing more to say to him.

“Go back, boy, to those who have a right to your love and your care. Yes, Percy, you are indeed and in truth that old man’s grandson. Go back to him, and let your love make some little return of joy to him for the many, many hours of pain and grief my sin has cost him.”

The youth murmured a fervent blessing upon her, and left her. She found old Donald in the hall, and with him she returned to her cottage.

An hour later four stout men, with a written order from her hand, appeared at the castle for the body of Ralph Maitland. That was the name which the mother had written.

It was delivered to them, and they bore it away; and the whole castle, in every part, and the whole household, seemed brighter and better when it was gone.

With the coming of evening a calm and tranquil joy had settled upon the household of the castle; for there was not a servant on the broad estate who did not heartily rejoice in the knowledge that the brave and handsome youth, whom they had so long esteemed and loved for himself alone, was indeed and in truth their young lord and master.

“Ah,” said the old earl, later in the evening, as he took the hand of his beautiful ward and gave it into the loving grasp of his grandson, “If your parents are permitted to look down from the celestial abode, and can behold the things we do here on earth, I believe, in my deepest heart, they will bless me for that which now I do!”