"Look, you fool!" said the admiral, roughly, furious with rage at being balked in this way, though, in spite of himself, his heart exulted in the nobility of the man. "Look, you beggarly Irishman!" he exclaimed, turning the surprised young man about before he could recover himself,--"look on the picture of her whom you reject! Gaze upon it! If you love her, say whether or no your high-flown sentiments of honor can stand against that prospect." It was his final appeal, win or lose; he had staked all upon the throw.
There in the great frame stood the most beautiful picture that the eyes of either man had ever seen. Elizabeth was standing. One tiny hand clutched tightly her heaving bosom; the other arm was stretched out with upraised palm like a goddess in command. The light of the flickering candles cast subtle shadows upon her face. The dusk of the room intensified the illusion and spiritualized her beauty. O'Neill looked at her with all his life in his gaze; so glorious, so splendid, so perfect a creature would shake the very soul of honor itself!
The admiral had played his last card; this was the end of his resource, and he watched the Irishman with all the intensity of a tiger about to spring on its prey. The moments fled. He knew that he had lost. Elizabeth had risen in the stress of her anxiety, the strain had been too much for her; she had been about to intervene between them, when the glances of the two men arrested her step. She waited, one little foot outstretched, her body leaning forward slightly, a picture of triumph, her eyes as two lambent flames playing upon her lover. He watched her in awestruck silence, sank on his knees, stretched out his arms, murmuring softly,--
"Thou knowest that I love thee. I have dreamed sometimes that in happier days thou mightest have given me thy heart, but I could not take it with a bar sinister of shame between us! No--" Was she moving! Was that some trick of the wavering light!
"Good heavens!" cried O'Neill, fearfully, rising. "See--is it a spirit? She shakes her head! Look you, my Lord, she is alive; the picture fell last night, you remember-- 'Tis herself! Elizabeth, Elizabeth, you have heard and seen--have I not decided well?"
"How dare you, my Lord!" exclaimed the girl, coming down from the dais and stepping swiftly toward the astonished admiral, who shrank back from her,--"how dare you make my hand the reward of treachery; my person the bait for dishonor? And by what right do you dispose of me without consulting me? Am I a slave, that you force me upon this gentleman? My word is given to your son; you yourself insisted upon it. You would play the traitor double, and would fain make him do the same. And for what? To compass the death of one poor man to whom I owe life and honor, who is only fighting for what he calls his freedom! Shame upon your gray hairs, sir! Oh, the insult to my modesty--to be thus bandied about between two men-- And you, sir!" she cried, in tempestuous passion, turning to O'Neill,--"you do me the honor to refuse me--to reject me--me--me--Elizabeth Howard--look at me--you would have none of me--"
"My honor--" cried O'Neill, amazed at her sudden change and inconsistency.
"Your honor--have I any honor, sir? Would you have left me a shadow of it between you? Stand back, sir! My Lord, is it thus you discharge the trust committed to you by my mother? To give this gentleman opportunity to return to France, and say that he has refused my hand?"
"He shall not go back to France, Lady Elizabeth," said the admiral, sternly.
"Why not, pray?" asked Elizabeth, faltering, her passionate anger checked by the admiral's word and look.
"Because he shall be tried and hanged to-morrow as an American spy or a captured traitor, whichever he may elect."
She stood as if petrified at these cruel words.
"It is right, sir," said O'Neill. "I submit; and if you would make me die happy, say that the hideous proposition I have had from you was but the test of my honor."
"Oh, sir!" cried Elizabeth, in agony, throwing herself upon her knees before the admiral, "forgive me for my wild, intemperate speech; I know not what I say. You have been a father to me from the beginning, and I have ever loved you as one; I have turned to you for everything. Unsay your cruel words! Retract this order! You cannot condemn this honest gentleman. Dispose of me as you will. I love him--I love him--ay, let the truth be heard--even for his rejection of me! Nay, had he not done so, I would have hated him. Spare his life--I will marry Edward, do anything you wish--grant me this boon!"
"I cannot," said the admiral, slowly; "I pity you, from my soul I do, and him as well, but I dare not. There is but one thing that would excuse my clemency to his Majesty--there is the alternative he has nobly rejected: die he must, or give up his captain!"
"A thousand deaths rather than that!" answered O'Neill. "Rise, Lady Elizabeth; your appeal is vain. Rejoicing in your approval of my action, thankful to God that I have heard you say, 'I love you,' I shall die happy."
"No, no!" said the girl, spreading her arms protectingly before him, and then throwing herself upon his breast, "you cannot die--you shall not die! Oh, my love, my love, I knew not until I heard you speak what this feeling was. I cannot let you go! Surely, you would never be so cruel as to part us now?" she cried brokenly, looking back at the impassive old man; his hands were steady enough now,--they never trembled but from shame. "What has he done? He came here to see me,--me alone,--to take me in his arms as he holds me now; and you condemn him to death for that! Did you never love when you were young? They whispered that it was my mother who had your heart. They told me that she was unhappy because they forced you apart. 'Twas to you she confided me. Have pity, in her name, have mercy!"
"Enough!" said the admiral; "it is not that I will not, but I cannot. He has chosen; he must die."
"Then may death come to me," said Elizabeth; "because, for all eternity, I love him!"
"And this," broke in the cold, stern voice of Major Coventry, who had entered the room at that moment, "is the welcome I receive from my bride of to-morrow, and this is the reward of the efforts I have made to secure the release of the Marquis de Richemont, my friend! May God have pity on me,--my sweetheart and my friend!"
"Sir!" said O'Neill, brokenly, "I crave your forgiveness. I knew that she was yours--I do not understand how we got into this position," passing his hand over his forehead in bewilderment; "but this I know,--I am to die! There is no choice. She will yet be yours."
"Never--never!" cried Elizabeth, turning to him. "Edward, if you have truly loved me,--if I have rightly estimated you, your nobility of soul, your generosity of heart,--you will plead for us with your father. You will give me up; you are too proud to take an unwilling bride, and one who in spite of herself--for I have fought against it for your sake--confesses that she loves another. You will intercede with your father--I will bless you all the days of my life. Edward, Edward, the companion of my childhood's hours--my friend--my brother--my only hope is in you! Speak!" She fell at his feet and clasped his hand, which she covered with kisses. There was another silence. Coventry covered his face with his other hand; the sweat of agony bedewed his brow.
"Rise, Elizabeth, you shall not put your trust in me in vain," he cried hoarsely, at last. "Father, can nothing be done? I will not stand in the way."
"My son--Lady Elizabeth--Lieutenant O'Neill--there is nothing that can be done. My duty is perfectly clear. The only possible salvation of the prisoner would be in the action which he has refused even to consider; and, sir, if it were my duty to effect, if possible, the capture of your captain and his ship through you, I can only say that I am glad that I have failed. I apologize to you; you are a man of honor, indeed, sir. I know few who would have resisted such a plea as this. Say no more, Elizabeth, it is not that I will not--I cannot! Edward, here is my seal. Make out the warrant for an order for a court-martial to-morrow morning; it is a necessary form, of course. The execution of Lieutenant O'Neill will follow at once." Elizabeth did not faint,--no, not yet; there would be time for that later. She clung to O'Neill and listened.
"What shall be the manner of my death, sir?" queried the latter.
"Hanging, sir. 'Tis the penalty prescribed by the law."
"It is a poor death for a man, my Lord, but 'twill serve. A last request, sir. I am a sailor--may I be hanged upon a ship?" he asked again, pressing the trembling woman to his breast.
"I grant that--would that I could grant more! Major Coventry, you will direct Captain Pearson of the Serapis to execute the sentence of the court, which will meet on his ship, the prisoner to be confined there meanwhile. You will find the papers in the library; here is my seal; hasten, and get the painful matter over." Coventry left the room at once, in obedience to his orders.
"And at what time, sir, will the sentence be carried out?" asked O'Neill, Elizabeth still clinging to him, covering him with incoherent caresses, and fighting against despair.
"To-morrow evening at half after six o'clock."
"Very well, my Lord."
At this moment the old sergeant entered the room and saluted the admiral.
"A French officer, wich he says he's from the American Continental squadron, has come ashore in a small cutter, under a flag of truce, an' desires to speak with your Lordship. He asks for a safe-conduct."
"Tell him he shall return as freely as he came, on the word of a British officer, and admit him."
A slender, dapper little man, in the brilliant uniform of a French marine officer, his head covered with a powdered wig, entered the room a moment later, and bowed profoundly. Elizabeth started violently as she beheld him.
"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" asked the admiral.
"The Vicomte de Chamillard, a colonel of marines in the navy of France, serving as a volunteer in the American squadron," was the reply.
"And you come on behalf of--"
"Captain John Paul Jones, to protest against your unlawful detention of another French officer, the Marquis de Richemont, my Lord."
"He is a spy, caught in the very act: he has admitted it; and if that were not enough, I find he is an attainted traitor. A court is ordered for to-morrow morning on the Serapis; his execution, which will be inevitable, is set for half after six o'clock in the evening; he shall hang from one of the frigate's yard-arms."
"De Chamillard," said O'Neill, "you can do nothing."
"The laws of war--" persisted the Frenchman.
"It is in accordance with those laws that I do what I do," replied the admiral, shortly; "and you may say to your captain that if I catch him he shall swing from the first yard-arm that comes in the harbor."
"I am answered, then. Very good; I shall remember your courteous words, my Lord; and now I enter my formal protest against this unwarranted action on your part concerning the Marquis de Richemont. The King of France will have something to say about it. I bid you farewell."
"Farewell, sir," said the admiral, indifferently turning away.
"De Richemont, good-bye; embrace me." As the two men came together, the Frenchman whispered, "This woman--is she your friend?"
"Yes," replied O'Neill, quickly.
"Mademoiselle," said De Chamillard, turning to Elizabeth with a keen look in his eyes. Recognizing him at last, she stretched out her hand to him. He murmured as he bent low over it, "Delay the execution for at least six hours, and I will save him." Elizabeth sank down in her chair, a gleam of hope in her heart.
"I salute you," he said, turning away.
"Sergeant," cried the admiral, "attend the Vicomte de Chamillard and see him safely bestowed on his vessel."
As the Frenchman turned toward the door, he came face to face with Major Coventry returning with the orders he had prepared.
"Paul Jones, by Heaven!" shouted the latter.
"At your service," said the supposed Frenchman, promptly tearing off his wig and laying his hand on his sword.
"Ha!" cried the admiral. "Have you dared to come here! I have you now! Call the guard! Sergeant, arrest this rebel--this traitor--this pirate--disarm him! You shall never leave this castle but for the ship, sir. The yard-arm is there."
"Stop, my Lord!" answered Jones, calmly, as the men crowded toward him; "stand back, sergeant, back, men! You cannot touch me; I have that which will protect me wherever flies the English flag."
"And that is--" said the admiral, smiling contemptuously.
"Your word, sir,--the word of an English officer."
The old man bit his lip in chagrined silence. He struggled with himself, looking at the easy, insouciant Scotsman before him.
"In seventy years it has not been broken," he said at last. "Well for you that you secured it. Go! You are free! You are a bold man, sir, but, I warn you, do not cross my path again."
"I am proud to have met so true a gentleman. Will you honor me?" said Paul Jones, presenting his snuffbox to the admiral. The old man hesitated, laughed in spite of himself, and finally helped himself to a pinch.
"The d----d insolence of the man!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to have met you in my young days, yard-arm to yard-arm."
"I would have endeavored to occupy you, sir," said Jones, coolly; "and now I bid you farewell."
He shot one meaning glance at Elizabeth, and his lips seemed to form the words "six hours," as he departed from the room.
"Here is the warrant, sir," said Coventry. "Again I ask, and this time I ask my father, can nothing be done?"
"Nothing, sir, less as a father than in any other capacity. Sergeant, take your prisoner. Major Coventry, you will conduct him on the Serapis, and remain there as my representative until the execution is over. Sir, you have borne yourself well this day; I would shake you by the hand. Good-bye."
O'Neill clasped the proffered hand warmly, and then looked from Coventry, standing erect, immovable, white-faced, to Elizabeth, who was still sitting with bowed head, a world of entreaty in his glance. Coventry nodded and turned away. O'Neill stepped quickly to the girl's side, took her hand in his, bowed low over it, pressed a long kiss upon it.
"May you be happy!" he said. "Farewell!" She looked at him in dazed silence.
"Sir," he continued, turning back to Coventry, and saluting him, "I am ready. Lead on."
"Forward, march, sergeant!" commanded the officer, hoarsely, and with no backward look the little cortége moved from the room. The girl rose to her feet as if to start after them, but the old man restrained her.
"O'Neill--O'Neill--" rang through the hall--a wild, despairing cry--and then Lady Elizabeth sank down white and still at the feet of the admiral.
"And this is love!" he murmured, shaking his old head; "I had forgotten it."
It was morning when Elizabeth came again to the terrace above the water battery overlooking the harbor. She had passed a night of sleepless agony, and her pallid face, with its haggard expression, the great black circles under the eyes,--for her grief had been too deep for tears,--gave outward evidence of her breaking heart. She had besought the admiral again and again to stay the execution of her lover, urging every plea that the most desperate mind could suggest; she had implored his mercy and pity upon every ground, and upon his inexorable refusal had begged that he might be reprieved for a few hours, and that she might at least be allowed to see him before he died. Touched by her sorrow, at first the old man had been inclined to grant this petition, and had scribbled a line on his official paper, giving the desired permission; but before he signed and sealed it, he changed his mind, and deemed it best to refuse,--more merciful to her, in fact.
It really wrung his heart to be unable to extend clemency to this young man. He repented him of the temptation he had thrown in his way. The nobility with which O'Neill had refused and rejected the chance of life which had been offered him, the simplicity with which he had given up everything for honor, impressed him more than ever. He was sick at heart at the grief of his ward, whom he truly loved, and the broken, despairing face of his son, since he had learned that Elizabeth loved O'Neill, haunted him. He wished that the Irishman had never come across his path, though he could not but admire his honor, his grace, and his courage. He was bitterly sorry that he had ever attempted to influence the man; he had an uncomfortable and growing suspicion that his plans had brought nothing but trouble to every one. Breaking away from the presence of Elizabeth, whose anguished face was a living reproach to him, he finally secluded himself in his office and refused to see her again.
So the day, like yesterday, wore away; but, oh, how differently! The girl never knew how she passed the hours. She wandered restlessly up and down the terrace, her eyes strained upon the sea. The garrison, who idolized her to a man, had been apprised by the sergeant of what had happened, and, to a man, they were upon her side. The men would never forget the picture she made, as they watched her pacing to and fro, ceaselessly gazing at the white ship in the harbor,--her lover's prison, his scaffold even.
The sense of impotent helplessness with which she was compelled to face the situation, the knowledge that O'Neill was doomed absolutely, that there was nothing that she could do or say which would alter the decision, was terrible. She had been accustomed to have her will, and like most women loved it. Now she had to stand by in the bright sunlight with all the strength of life and youth and love in her veins and in his, and see her lover choked to death--hanged like a dog--at the black yard-arm of that great ship yonder.
And for what? Womanlike, she put aside every thought of him but that he had dared death itself only to see her, to be in her presence again! Oh, how splendid, how handsome, how noble he had been in the great hall, when he had refused her rather than to take her as the reward of treachery! and now he was to become a lifeless lump of clay, alive to her only as a memory, a recollection--how cruel! She could not, she would not, stand it. She racked her brain over and over. Was there nothing? No--
It was late in the afternoon. Her maid had not been able to drag her from the terrace whence she had a view of the ship on which her lover was to be executed,--murdered, she said. As she gazed upon it, she noticed two men climbing nimbly up the black shrouds about the foremast. When they reached the foreyard, they ran out on the yard-arm. One of them carried something. A rope was dragging from it. In obedience to an imperious command, her maid ran and fetched her a glass. One look through it showed her--she was a sailor's ward--that they were rigging a whip on the yard-arm, they were securing there a girt-line block through which a rope was rove, leading to the top and thence to the deck. She divined at once its hideous purpose. The hour! The hour! Had it grown so late? Was it so near, so near? Was there a God in that blue heaven bending above her head? Could such things be?
A sick feeling came over her heart, and she would have fainted but for a sudden inspiration. Again she seized the telescope,--an unusually strong one, by the way,--and raising it to her eyes with unsteady hand, eagerly swept the sea off in the direction of Flamborough Head, rising faintly down to the southward, a long distance away. For a long time her nervous, trembling hands could not get that part of the horizon in focus. She finally knelt down and rested the tube upon the parapet, breathing a prayer as she did so, and looked again.
Ah! At last she had it, and there swept into the field of vision three gleams of white on the skyline, proclaiming, even to her unpractised eye, the sails of ships! What had that indomitable man said to her last night in the hall?
"Delay the execution for at least six hours, and I will save him!" He was not one to promise lightly. She would try again. The telescope fell with a crash at her feet.
She would make one more appeal to the admiral; it was late, but there might yet be time. On the instant she turned, leaving the startled maid, and ran like a fleet-footed fawn along the terrace, down the stone steps through the water battery, through the bailey, into the inner court, down the long passage, and into the great hall of the night before, where the admiral was usually to be found at this hour. She dashed impetuously into the room, crying,--
"The admiral, quick! where is he?"
"Ships has been reported down at Bridlin'ton Bay,--furrin ships, yer Leddyship," replied the old sergeant, who happened to be there alone, "an' his Ludship took horse about half-past twelve o'clock to go down there."
Failure! Her last hope gone! She sank down into the chair. Reaction had come; she was fainting, helpless, dying. It was over! The sergeant started toward her, his face full of pity. She was sitting in the admiral's chair, by the great table. Her glance fell listlessly upon it. At the moment another idea flashed into her mind. Desperate, foolish, nevertheless, she would try it--try anything; this, at least, was action. She started to her feet again on the instant, instinct with life.
"Leave me at once, and see that no one interrupts me; I wish to be alone," she said imperiously to the astonished sergeant, who bowed respectfully and withdrew. A half an hour later she came hurriedly out of the room, white-faced, drawn, nerved up to desperate endeavor.
How he got through the night, O'Neill never knew. The court-martial in the morning had taken little time; its sentence, a foregone conclusion, promptly approved by the admiral, had been death by hanging at half after six o'clock that night. He had refused to give any further parole, in the faint hope that something might enable him to escape, and consequently had been heavily ironed and placed in confinement in the space between two of the great guns on the lower gun-deck--the Serapis was a double-banked frigate--on the starboard side. The forethought of Coventry, who had attended him with the solicitude and kindness of a brother, and had pleaded for him unavailingly before the court, had caused a canvas screen to be provided, which enclosed two of the guns, and allowed him to pass his hours undisturbed by the curious gaze of the English seamen. An armed marine stood always as sentry before the screen.
Captain Pearson, a gallant officer, had been kindness itself in all his arrangements, but his orders, which were peremptory, left him no discretion whatever. O'Neill passed his time sitting by the open port, leaning on a gun, gazing out over the water at the gray old castle where he had found his love and met his fate. Many tragedies had been enacted within its walls during long centuries of history--none sadder than his own.
It would have been foolish to say that he had no regrets. No one could think of the possibilities of happiness presented by such a love as that which he was now assured Elizabeth felt for him, without a sense of despair coming over the mind in the knowledge they were not to be enjoyed; but he was a sailor, and generations of heroic ancestors had accustomed him to look death in the face, and smile undaunted at its harsh, forbidding appearance.
"Fortune, Infortune, Fortune" had been the motto of his branch of the red-handed O'Neills; at least that was the punning Latin translation of a Celtic original which meant, "Fortune and misfortune are alike to the strong."
When his friends and acquaintances at the French court, those knights and ladies with whom he had ruffled it so bravely, the young king, his master, his old comrades, the hard fighters on the Richard, her dauntless captain, that brave old man, his father, heard how he died, they would learn that he had met the last grim enemy with the wonted intrepidity of his race. Noblesse oblige! and then having made his peace with God as best he could alone,--he was of a different faith from that of the chaplain of the ship,--he gave himself over to mournful dreams of Elizabeth Howard.
Late in the afternoon his meditations were interrupted by the arrival of Coventry. The poignant unhappiness of the young Englishman was, if anything, greater than that of O'Neill. His engagement to Elizabeth Howard, with whom he had grown up, had been at first more or less a matter of convenience, and he had never entirely realized the hold she had taken upon his heart, until he heard her--in the arms of O'Neill--make that frantic avowal of her overwhelming passion. Men frequently do not know the value of what they have--until they lose it.
Coventry's heart had been surcharged with love and devotion to this woman, and because his life had glided on evenly he had not known how full of love it was until he had been so shaken that it had overflowed. He would, he thought, cheerfully have taken the other's place, sentence of death and all, could he hear but once before he died the ringing accents of such a sublime confession--and for himself. His love for the woman of his choice was of the most exalted character, and might well, were merit or fitness alone to be considered in such a case, have claimed her own deepest feelings in return.
When Elizabeth had appealed to him to intervene, with a magnanimity as rare as it was noble, he had subordinated his happiness to her own, and had endeavored to procure a mitigation of the punishment imposed upon his rival, though he knew his success would throw his promised wife into the arms of O'Neill. He had not done this without a terrible struggle,--it was a gray-faced, broken man who looked upon the world of to-day, in place of the smiling youth of the night before,--but he had done it. He felt that the sacrifice would cost him his life, and for that he was truly glad, yet he had offered it freely, generously, and nobly. He had not hesitated to do so, for with him the happiness of Elizabeth Howard was the paramount passion.
If she did not love him, he could at least show her what love truly meant in its highest sense; give her a lesson in love like to the lesson in honor that other man had exhibited last night. For her he stood ready to give up everything; his own future he did not allow to weigh a moment in the balance beside hers.
There was something grandly sublime in this utter abnegation of self, so simply done for another's happiness. Coventry had been a Christian after a rather better fashion, perhaps, than most young men of his time; his associations with the sweet, pure girl he loved had kept him so. All his people for generations had been Churchmen; this seemed to him to be the right thing to do, the thing demanded of a gentleman; the greatest Gentleman of them all, who had shown His breeding on a Cross, had set the example of self-sacrifice. A sentence quoted by the chaplain in the service a few days before, which had struck his fancy, ran in his head; he had a good memory.
"I will very gladly spend and be spent for you; though the more abundantly I love you, the less I be loved."
Yes, that was it.
At the first moment, when he found last night that his pleadings were of no avail, and that O'Neill was doomed to die, his heart had leaped in his breast at the thought that his rival would be removed; but he had crushed the thought as unworthy a gentleman of his high ideals; and there had come to him, in addition, a consciousness that to a love like Elizabeth Howard's the death of a beloved would make no change. Such passions come but once in a lifetime, and when they arrive they are as eternal as the stars. He had given her up, and she belonged, in life or death, to another. A glance at his own anguished heart enabled him to feel for her. Time would not soften a blow to a nature like to hers.
In the execution of O'Neill, Coventry saw the death-warrant of Elizabeth. He had passed the day racking his brain and thinking of some way to delay the execution, but without avail. He would have stopped at nothing to save them both. In despair he had come to consult with his rival.
"I am glad to see you, my friend," said O'Neill, smiling at him in a melancholy way.
"Would God that I could see you in any place but this!" answered the young Englishman.
"Ah, yes!" replied O'Neill, his eyes brightening; "then we might fight it out, man to man, sword to sword, and--"
"Not so," mournfully replied Coventry. "The battle has been fought, and you have won again. Whether you live or die, Elizabeth Howard is not for me."
"My poor friend, may the day upon which I crossed your paths be accursed! I have brought to each of you nothing but sorrow," replied the young sailor, sadly, touched at the other's surrender.
"It was fate, O'Neill. Do not reproach yourself with that. All day long I have been striving to think of some means to delay this accursed execution, until I could communicate with the king. An appeal to his clemency might--but no--I see no way, nothing, unless--you know--" he hesitated and hung his head, blushing painfully.
"No more of that, if you love me, Coventry," said O'Neill, gravely "Put yourself in my place! Could you do it? Ah, you shake your head, you see! Neither could I, not even to purchase heaven." There was a long pause between them.
"O'Neill," said the Englishman at last, "would that I could take your place!"
"But you cannot, Major Coventry," replied the other, gratefully. "You honor me in the thought; but if you could, I should refuse to allow it. You are the better man; all my life I have been a gay, reckless, pleasure-seeking soldier of fortune, with never a serious purpose until now, and now it is too late! You are the worthy one, and you must live to watch over, to care for her whom we both love. Perhaps--surely--in days to come she will forget; time, absence, you know--she will reward your devotion, she must--you will be happy--" His voice broke, and he turned away his face and looked out of the open port. Coventry shook his head.
"You know her not, sir. She is not for me, nor would I take her loving you; my love is too deep for that--nor would she come. She will never forget you." O'Neill's heart leaped at this assurance.
The ship's bell on the deck above them struck four times; it was six o'clock! There was a little silence within the screen.
"The hour approaches," said O'Neill, softly, at last. "I would be alone for a few moments before--you understand?"
"Yes," said the other, rising and pressing his hand. "Have you nothing to say, no message to send to--" he asked magnanimously.
"Nothing--nothing--'tis best so. You will come for me at the time?"
"Yes, and I will stand by you to the end, like a soldier."
"You do me great honor," replied the other, thankfully. Coventry looked at him a moment, shook his head, and turned away.
In the prayers of the young Irishman the face of the girl he loved would obtrude itself. It seemed but a moment before he heard the tramp of armed men coming along the deck. They stopped before the screen. It was opened, and Coventry, pale as death, presented himself at the opening; the screen was promptly folded back; there were marines fully armed before it, the chaplain, too, in the white robes of his office.
"I am ready, gentlemen," said O'Neill, calmly. "May I not go to my death unbound?" he asked.
At a nod from Coventry, the master-at-arms unlocked the fetters about his feet and hands. The prisoner took his place in the midst of the little squad of men, and ascended to the spar-deck. The ship's company of marines was drawn up aft on the quarter-deck. Most of the seamen of the crew were arranged in orderly ranks in the starboard gangway. Forward a grating had been rigged on the bulwarks under the port fore-yard-arm. A new rope led from the grating, up through the block in the yard-arm, came inboard to another block under the top, and thence through a block fixed to the deck. Some sixty or seventy men chosen by lot from the ship's company had hold of the rope which was led aft along the port gangway. In front of the marines stood Captain Pearson and his officers in full uniform. The prisoner was halted before him.
"Are you aware, sir," said the captain, gravely, "that the hour for the carrying out of the sentence of the court approaches?"
"Yes, sir," answered O'Neill, courteously.
"Have you anything to say before that time?"
"I have to thank you all for your kindness to me, nothing else, sir."
"Allow me, sir," said the captain, "to assure you of the great personal distaste and regret I feel at being compelled to take this action."
"Your feelings do you honor, sir," replied O'Neill, gravely; "but it is a matter of duty. Pray, proceed."
"Captain Pearson," said Coventry, in great agitation, "can nothing be done to delay this execution a few hours? There are considerations, sir, in my possession, which I feel sure would incline his Majesty, could he be communicated with, to extend clemency to this gentleman,--circumstances which--"
"Are these circumstances within the knowledge of Lord Westbrooke, Major Coventry?" answered the captain, surprised at the unusual nature of the interruption.
"They are, sir."
"Have you mentioned them to him? Have you called his attention specifically to them, I mean?"
"Yes, sir, I have," answered the soldier, reluctantly.
"And they have evidently not influenced him, you see. Therefore I fail to see how I can permit them to weigh with me."
"But a delay, sir, of a day, of an hour even, until I can communicate with the admiral again! For God's sake, sir, do not hang this gentleman like--"
"Major Coventry, you are a soldier, and should not make such an appeal. I have my orders. You have shown me no cause to disregard them; I cannot take it upon myself to do so. I dare not!"
"But an hour, sir, until I--"
"Not a moment! At five bells they must be carried out," said the captain, inflexibly. "No more, sir," he added, as Coventry made an impetuous step forward. "I have indulged you too long already. Mr. Pascoe, take the prisoner forward."
"It is useless, Coventry. Why prolong this agony longer? You have done what you could. I thank you and bless you," said O'Neill, as they walked along the deck to the place of the grating.
"Will you please to step up here, sir?" said Pascoe, the first lieutenant of the Serapis, who had the matter in charge, pointing to the grating on the rail as they came abreast of it.
"It is a fair and easy place from which to step to heaven, sir, or to the other place as well," said the Irishman, smiling, as he stepped on the rail. "I pray you to tell your men to start me on my way with a quick pull and a swift run." Pascoe nodded in comprehension. This would be a case in which speed would be merciful.
A boatswain's mate now stepped up beside the prisoner, and bound his feet and hands with a lashing. A hangman's knot had been made by expert fingers in the rope leading from the yard-arm, and the running noose was quickly cast about O'Neill's neck.
"The collar of an ancient order, this," observed O'Neill, still smiling. "And now one last request, sir," he added, turning to the lieutenant.
"And that is?"
"Throw away that black cap, sir. Let me go with my eyes open." The lieutenant hesitated a moment. The whole ship's company was filled with admiration for the intrepid and gallant Irishman.
"Do it, for God's sake, Pascoe!" whispered Coventry, springing up alongside O'Neill and the sailor, who, to avoid him, stepped back and stood on the rail by the fore shrouds.
"What are you doing there, Major Coventry?" answered Pascoe.
"Nothing. I promised to stand by him to the last," replied Coventry. The officer hesitated a moment, and then threw the cap into the water.
"I thank you," said O'Neill, huskily. "How much time is there?"
"About two minutes, I think," said the lieutenant, nervously.
"You will run away with the fall at the first or last stroke of the bell?"
"The last, sir."
"No more," said O'Neill to Coventry, turning his face in the direction of the shore. The deep voice of the white-robed priest alone broke the silence,--
"'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not Thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, Thou most worthy Judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee.'"
Out on the water a white-sailed little boat was speeding swiftly toward them. There was a woman in it. The eyes of love, even in the presence of death, are keen, perhaps even keener then than ever. It was Elizabeth Howard. O'Neill recognized her at once. Good heavens! Why had she come here? She would arrive in time to see him swinging lifeless from the yard-arm,--a hideous sight for any woman. He could not take his eyes from her.
"See!" he whispered to Coventry, "that boat yonder; she is there."
"My God!" said the officer. "What shall we do?"
"Nothing; 'tis too late."
"She has something in her hand," cried Coventry. "What can it be?"
"Forward, there!" cried the captain, watch in hand. "Strike the bell five!"
The mellow tones of the first couplet of the ship's bell rang out in obedience to the command. The hour was come! It was his death signal, but O'Neill never turned his head from the approaching boat. The old quartermaster struck the bell deliberately, lingering over it reluctantly; a little shiver ran through the men.
"Stand by!" shouted the lieutenant, in a voice he strove in vain to make firm. "Make a quick jerk and a lively run, lads, for God's sake!"
The men grasped the rope more firmly, sprang into position for the jump. The next couplet was struck on the bell. The boat was nearer now. Coventry saw that the woman waved something that looked like a paper in her hand. The last stroke of the bell rang out on the breathless, silent ship.
"Set taut!" cried the lieutenant, hoarsely. The men leaped forward instantly to the shrill piping of the boatswain and his mate. "Sway away!" he cried.
The tightened rope caught the Irishman by the throat. A lightning flash seemed to cleave the skies: he saw, as in a vision, a great hall hung with arras, a picture frame, a woman radiant, beautiful, her eyes shining; an upraised hand; like silver bells a voice murmured, "I love him, I love him." She moved--ah, a gigantic hand caught him by the throat; he strove to cry out; it clutched him tighter and tighter; blackness like a pall fell before him, shutting out the smiling face--death--agony--he saw no more--he swung into the air and was nothing.
The quick eye of Major Coventry had detected, at last, what the girl was waving.
"That paper," he cried frantically, as the last bell struck. "It must be a reprieve; the admiral has relented."
Was it too late? Quick as thought he snatched the sheath knife from the belt of the sailor near him. It was too late to stop the men on the rope, even had he possessed the power; but as O'Neill rose in the air, he caught him around the waist, and with one rapid blow severed the straining rope above his head. Assisted at once by the sailor alongside of him, they lowered the bound, unconscious man upon the deck beneath them. It was all done in the twinkling of an eye. The men on the ship broke out in ringing cheers.
The rope, being relieved of the weight of the body, of course ran rapidly through the block, and the men hauling it pitched pell-mell over themselves upon the deck. There was a moment of intense excitement. The seamen on the other side of the deck, cheering wildly, started eagerly forward; the officers, sword in hand, sprang in front of them, driving them back. The marine officer aft brought his men at once to attention with a sharp word or two, and every piece was made ready in case of disturbance. Pearson, white with rage at the interruption, leaped forward.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "Who has dared to interfere in this manner?"
"I, sir," replied Coventry, fearlessly, looking up from his place by the unconscious man.
"And by what right, sir?" cried the enraged captain. "Though you be the son of the admiral, you shall dearly rue this unwarranted assumption of authority. What excuse have you to offer for interrupting the sentence of a court-martial? What reason can you urge for your presumption?"
"Boat ahoy!" cried a seaman stationed at the port gangway.
"Sir," said Coventry, quietly meeting the eye of the thoroughly infuriated captain, "if I mistake not, you will find my excuse in that boat."
"Well for you, sir, if it be there! Never, in my twenty years of service, have I been so braved, and on my own ship, too. See what boat it is," said the captain, turning to one of his midshipmen, "and find out what is wanted." The lad came running back presently, and saluted.
"'Tis a lady, sir,--the governor's ward,--Lady Elizabeth Howard; she wishes to come on board," he said.
"Lady Elizabeth Howard! This is no place for women; this man is still to be hanged. What can she wish?" exclaimed the captain, frowning.
"Receive her at once, sir, I beg," said Coventry. "She has a paper,--my excuse, sir," he added, smiling.
"Show her on board," said the captain, shortly, to the midshipman. Then he looked down on the still, unconscious form of O'Neill. "Send a surgeon here at once, sir," he continued; and as the latter presented himself, "Is the man dead?" he asked.
"No, sir," said the surgeon, examining him hastily, and making ready to apply some necessary restoratives, for which he despatched an assistant to the sick-bay.
"Get him in shape, then, and quickly, for another attempt; for hang he shall, if he has to be held up for it," ordered the captain, sternly.
At this moment the midshipman, followed by Lady Elizabeth, pale as death, a blue boat cloak, which belonged to her guardian, which she had caught up in the castle, fluttering in the breeze, her hat gone, her hair dishevelled, her hand clutching a paper, broke through the little group.
"Captain Pearson, where is he?" she cried nervously; then, as her eyes fell on the prostrate form of O'Neill, she dropped the paper to the deck, covered her face with her hands, and rocked to and fro in agony. "Oh, my love, my love! Too late! too late!" she wailed, faltering.
"Not so, madam," said the captain, turning toward her. "The man still lives, the surgeon assures me. He has but fainted. Have you a warrant to stop the execution? If not, it must go on, and it shall go hard with Major Coventry as well."
"The prisoner is reprieved, sir; here is the paper," said Elizabeth, life coming back to her, "sealed and signed by the admiral himself. Oh, I had it a moment since--where has it gone?"
"Here it is, your Ladyship," said one of the officers, lifting it from the deck and handing it to her.
"There!" she said, presenting it to the captain. He opened it deliberately and glanced over the brief contents. She watched him with a nervousness she vainly attempted to conceal. Meanwhile the doctor had succeeded in rousing O'Neill. The first glance of his eye fell on Elizabeth, and nothing else he saw.
"Heaven and the angels!" he murmured faintly, not yet comprehending the position.
"It seems to be made out properly and duly signed and sealed," said the captain, slowly,--"a reprieve for the prisoner until further notice, and permission for the bearer to see him alone," he added suspiciously. There was a little pause. He turned the paper over in his hand, and looked sharply at the girl.
"The admiral chooses a strange messenger," he added. "I cannot say if this be regular or no. His handwriting is unfamiliar to me. I do not recognize this; you say you had it from him, madam?"
Elizabeth could not trust herself to speak; she only bowed. There was evidently something very suspicious to the captain in the whole proceeding. The signature did not seem just right.
"Ah! I have it--Major Coventry!" he cried suddenly.
That miserable young man, sick at heart, had shrunk into the background since Elizabeth had come aboard, and the girl had not seen him before. He had felt that his work was done when she appeared; but, no, he was to find out that his troubles had but just begun.
"Oh!" she cried, as he stepped forward, clutching him wildly by the arm, a look of terror in her eyes, as she added, in a whisper, "not you--I had forgotten you--we are lost!" In the bitter knowledge that she had forgotten him, he overlooked the clue to her action furnished by her last words.
"Here is a reprieve from the admiral," said the captain. "It seems to be correct, and yet--will you look over it and give me your opinion? you are familiar with his writing, at any rate. My Lady, forgive the questioning, but the matter is most serious, and I must be absolutely assured."
"Here is the paper, Edward," said Elizabeth, desperately, taking it from the captain's outstretched hand. "Is not that the writing of the admiral?" she added entreatingly, and then clasping her hands, she looked at him with all her soul in her eyes and waited, full of apprehension. A word, and he hanged her lover, and incidentally, but surely, killed her; a word, and he set them free! What the consequences to himself of his decision might be, with the sublime egotism of love for another, she neither knew nor questioned. Coventry gave a brief glance at the document; he saw what was expected of him; his life or her happiness trembled in the balance; true to his determination, he did not hesitate a moment. In that glance of a single second he realized the truth, which he had more than suspected before.
"It is," he replied briefly and indifferently aloud. A little prayer to God for forgiveness leaped within his heart at the falsehood. He had connived at her deceit, failed in his soldierly duty, broken his honor--for this woman. The reputation of a lifetime of loyal service to his king, the honorable record of years of devotion to duty had been thrown away in a moment for her. He had sacrificed more than life itself for his love--and she loved another! He turned the paper over in his hand and then quietly returned it to the captain. He said no other word, he scarcely even looked at Elizabeth. He could not trust his own gaze. There might be reproach in it. And he would fain make the sacrifice like a gentleman at least.
"Thank God--thank God--" whispered Elizabeth, under her breath; and the look of gratitude she flashed at him would have gone far to repay even a greater sacrifice--perhaps.
The keen captain was not yet satisfied, however.
"You wished to release him yourself, I remember," he said uncertainly. "I am by no means persuaded that--but it is impossible for me to proceed now until I have seen the admiral. Take the prisoner below," he said to the guard, "and allow Lady Elizabeth to see him alone. Mr. Pascoe, tell the boatswain to pipe down, and call the watch."