"Then you have a bullet in your body?"
"I think not, but I have a slight wound. I think I should like a doctor," and, indeed, at that minute my head seemed to whirl most amazingly, and there was a noise in my ears like the sound of many waters.
After that I remember little that took place, at least for a long time; but presently when hours later my senses came back to me, I felt vastly better.
"It was lucky we had a doctor staying in the house," said Hugh Boscawen. "Trevanion, you will have to lie quiet for many days."
"No, my lord," I replied, "that is impossible. I must away. There is much to be done."
"I must ask your forgiveness, Trevanion," said Hugh Boscawen, mistaking my meaning. "I trusted in Killigrew, such is the power of a smooth tongue. I see now that the King hath none more faithful than you. But you have done your part; in fact, methinks you have saved the country. Now you can rest. I have made all arrangements, and my trusty henchmen are scouring the country. When Charles arrives at Veryan to-night we will give him a warm welcome. In a week from now he will be in safe custody. Heard you whether the French will be sending troops with him?"
"I judge not. I gathered that he would come practically alone."
"That is well. Now you may safely rest."
"No, my lord, I cannot"; and thereupon I told him in a few words of my relations with Mistress Nancy Molesworth. Of my love I said not a word, but beyond that I told him everything.
"This shall be looked into when this affair is blown over, Trevanion," he said. "Such a maid as she should not be robbed of her rights through some foolish flaw in our laws. But what would you?"
"I must find out what hath become of her, my lord," I said, for I remembered Otho Killigrew; "moreover, there is a matter which may have escaped your attention."
"What matter?"
"The friends of the Pretender will now know that I have informed you of their plans, and I am sure that Otho Killigrew would not have run away as he did had not some cunning plan entered his fertile brain. Believing that you are aware of what will happen, they will act accordingly."
"But they did not know that you heard their conversation?"
"Perhaps not; but they will suspect, and be prepared."
"Well, what then?"
"I think, my lord," I said, "that they will doubtless have signals whereby they will be able to communicate with the Pretender. If he is to cease being a danger to the country, he must be allowed to land, and then taken prisoner."
"I see; you have a good brain, Trevanion. But that shall be attended to. I will give orders at once."
"Still I cannot rest here, my lord. I must be up and doing. And I feel quite strong. I can go to Restormel; I must go!"
He saw I was determined.
"You shall hear what the doctor saith," was his answer. "Ah! but it was rare good luck that the fellow was staying here."
A minute later the doctor came into the room. He had come from Truro to bleed one of the serving-maids, and had been obliged to stay all night.
"Master Trevanion had better lie still for a week," was his reply to Hugh Boscawen's query. "True, the wound is not deep, and I have bandaged it well, but severe movement will cause it to start bleeding, and then there may be trouble."
"But it will not be dangerous for me to move?" I said. "I feel quite strong."
"I do not use the word dangerous," replied the surgeon, "and you feel strong because by giving you a most potent medicine of my own invention you have had several hours of refreshing sleep. Moreover, my remedy hath had the effect of keeping your blood cool and of energizing your vital powers. It is really a most remarkable cordial, and did I live in London, I should soon become the most famous of living physicians."
"Then if the cordial be so potent," was my reply, "and if the wound is not deep, it will surely be safe for me to travel. For, in truth, it will do me more harm to be imprisoned here than to do what I feel must be done. Had you been an ordinary doctor, and knew not of this cordial, it might have been dangerous, but surely not after I have been under your treatment."
After a long harangue I managed by flattering the doctor's vanity to get away; all the same it was not far from dark when I, with many doubts and many misgivings, rode in the direction of Restormel.
I had barely reached the lodge gates when I saw two men riding towards the house from which I had just come. One was dressed as a squire of the old school, and the other as an ordinary serving-man. I looked steadily into his face as I passed, and, although it was in many respects strange, I thought I recognized it. When he was out of sight, I asked the gate-keeper if he knew who it was.
"He gave his name as Master John Polperro," was the reply.
Now I had never seen the elder John Polperro, but I remembered his son, and as I rode along I thought how unlike the two men were. So unlike were they, indeed, that no one on seeing them together would suspect them to be related. I paid but little attention to this, however, but rather set to wondering why he was going to see Hugh Boscawen. Had news of any sort reached him? Knew he aught of the plots afoot? After this I felt certain I had seen the man somewhere. Some of the features I could not recall; but the eyes and the protruding brows above them were not ordinary. The possessor of those keen gray penetrating orbs was not of the common type of humanity.
"Where have I seen those eyes before?" I thought; and then my side burned and ached fearfully, just as I had felt it immediately after Otho Killigrew had shot at me. My blood also coursed madly through my veins, and I became much excited.
"Uncle Anthony!" I said aloud, and I was sure I was not mistaken.
Presently I cooled down again, and I was able to think calmly. Here then were the facts. He was visiting Hugh Boscawen under the guise of the elder John Polperro. He had, doubtless, become acquainted with the success of Otho's search after me, and had gone to Tregothnan to confer with the master thereof concerning the coming of the Pretender. Moreover, I was sure that he would not go there unless some subtle plan had formed itself in his cunning old brain. I knew that Hugh Boscawen was no match for him, and that unless he were checkmated the King's cause would perchance be ruined.
This being so what ought I to do? My first impulse was to ride back to Tregothnan and inform Hugh Boscawen of my conviction; but I refrained. I remembered the kind of man with whom I had to deal. Uncle Anthony would know of my coming, and would naturally guess that I had penetrated his disguise. This would allow him time to resort to other means in order to carry out his purposes. After this I thought of writing a note to Boscawen, telling him to arrest Uncle Anthony; but this I could not do. I remembered the old man's kindness to Nancy, I thought of the evident love he had for her. No, no—I could not do this, even although I knew him to be the most dangerous plotter in the country. And yet I dared not allow him to have his way with the man who was championing the cause of the reigning king. After much thinking, therefore, I wrote a note in the gatekeeper's lodge and commissioned the man to take it to his master. This is what I wrote:
This note I reflected would frustrate Uncle Anthony's designs, but would not lead Boscawen to arrest the old man or do him any injury. So I mounted my horse again and rode northward. I had no definitely formed plans of my own, except that, despite the danger, I would go to Restormel and seek to find Mistress Nancy. I could not help believing that Otho Killigrew, notwithstanding the critical work he had to do, would still find time to hunt down my love and work her harm. That he knew of her being at Restormel was manifested by what he had said to me, and I was sore afraid. Moreover, I had promised Hugh Boscawen that I would meet his men in the woods, near the only spot a boat could well land, at Veryan Bay. He had, he told me, arranged with his henchmen that they should gather as many as possible of those who had taken up arms for King George at this place, and that they should come as far as possible, stealthily and after dark. His hope was that, though the information I had given him came very late, at least two thousand men would be lying among the woods at eleven o'clock that night.
As I have said, the danger was doubtless great in going to Restormel. If the Killigrews could get hold of me I should fare badly. And yet this very danger might make my entrance possible. They would never think I should venture there that night, and thus they might be unprepared for me. Moreover, I hoped that they would all be away at Veryan Bay, regarding the welfare of a hapless maid as unworthy of their notice.
Anyhow, I made my way towards Restormel, and having fastened the horse I had taken from Otho to a tree some distance from the house, I crept silently towards it. No light shone from the windows, no sound reached my ears. Seemingly the place was deserted.
I strained both ears and eyes without avail; it would seem as though no form of life existed behind the dark walls of the house. Did not this mean that Otho was still ignorant of the whereabouts of Nancy? Might she not be still safe and well in that part of the house, the secrets of which were unknown to the Killigrews. I had reason to know how self-reliant and far-seeing she was, and I knew how faithful and shrewd was Amelia Lanteglos her serving-maid. My heart beat loud with joy at the thought.
Creeping nearer and nearer the road, I determined to try and find the door from which I had come early that morning. It was hidden by evergreens and difficult to find, but I fancied that if I went there and knocked, either she or old Adam Coad would come to me. In any case, I hoped I should hear news concerning her, for, as may be imagined, my heart was torn with many fears, especially when I remembered what Otho had said.
Presently I stopped, for I heard approaching footsteps; they came not from the house, but from the lodge gates. I listened intently, and before long heard the murmur of men's voices.
"You join us not then?" It was Otho Killigrew who spoke.
"No, I am no fighter. I do not see what I should gain now that the affair has gone so far; besides it matters not to me who is king."
I detected young Peter Trevisa's voice, and instantly my mind was on the alert. What had these two worthies been planning? I remembered that Treviscoe was but a few miles from Restormel. Had Otho been visiting the Trevisas? If so, Nancy had been the subject of their discussion.
"But the other matter is settled?"
"Yes."
"Then good-night. I have much to do ere midnight. But I can trust you? And you can trust your men?"
"To be sure. They will do aught that I tell them."
"Mind, if you betray me or fail me——" this was spoken in a threatening voice.
"I will see that my part is done, if you do yours."
"And I will."
The men separated. Their words conveyed but little meaning to me. That together they had concocted some plan concerning Nancy I was sure.
I saw Otho stand still, as if thinking deeply, after young Peter Trevisa had gone; then he made his way towards the shrubbery through which I had come early that morning. Silently I followed. I ill liked the part I was playing, but I thought of my love, and determined that I would do all a man could. For my love grew stronger each hour, even although I had no hope that she I loved cared aught for me. How my heart hungered for some token of a possible affection for me no words of mine can write. Again and again I tried to comfort myself with the thought that did she not care for me more than ordinary she would never have braved the dangers of helping me to escape from Launceston Castle, that she would not have been so anxious for my welfare. But I remembered again how she had told me that what she had done for me she would have done for any one who rendered a service. Nevertheless, I knew that if she could never care for me, I had still given my life to her, and that until my limbs lay cold in death I must seek to serve her. For when a man who is past thirty really loves for the first time, it is love forever. True, I loved my country, and I had espoused the cause of liberty and truth, because I could not help it, but Nancy's welfare was more to me than these.
Thus I could not help following Otho Killigrew, and although my wound pained me, I knew that strength would not fail.
Presently Otho walked down the very path along which I had come, and made his way towards the door which Nancy had thought secret. Evidently he knew the road well, for he hesitated not. Having reached the door, he knocked three times, just as Mistress Nancy had told me to knock. What did this mean? How did any one know of this?
I did not spend much time in surmising concerning the matter, for I knew that Otho would have many ways of finding out things unknown to most men.
The door opened as if by magic. I heard no footsteps nor noise of any sort. Evidently the sound of his knock must have reached some one who knew the secret of the opening thereof.
Without hesitating a second he entered, and immediately the door closed behind him, leaving me outside. At this moment I knew not what to do. I dared not make a sound, for I knew not who might be near. Perhaps a dozen men might be lurking near the house, and if I made a noise they would shoot me down like a rabbit or take me prisoner. And yet I longed to know whither Otho went. I wanted to understand his purpose in entering. I reflected that Nancy must be within. If the Killigrews had not discovered that this was her hiding-place, she would naturally remain there as she had said, and if they had found her out, no place could have served their purpose better. Had she opened the door quickly, thinking it was I who had knocked? Had she been expecting to hear my footsteps? The thought filled me with joy even in spite of my anxiety; and yet I stood among the shrubs powerless and alone.
Presently I heard the sound of voices. I could detect no words, but I knew people talked near me. Their voices became louder and louder, and by and by a cry like that of a woman in pain reached me. This came from within the house, and once I was sure I detected Otho's voice, not soft and gentle-spoken as was generally the case, but harsh and strident.
How I restrained myself I do not know. Indeed I feel sure I should have attempted to break down the door had I not seen it open, seemingly without hands, as it had opened before. A minute later Otho appeared again. He did not look around, but hurried along the crooked path between the shrubs. Now and then I heard him laugh in his low guttural way, as though he had won a victory. He passed close beside me, so close that I could easily have stabbed him to death before he had time to defend himself. Why I did not, I do not know. Since then I have wished that I had. But I have always loathed striking an unprepared man. So I let him go, and shortly after I heard the sound of a horse galloping northward.
When these sounds died away, I made my way to the door, and knocked three times, even as Otho had knocked. But without effect. Although I listened intently no sound of any sort reached me. The noise I made echoed and re-echoed through the house, but no notice was taken. Again I gave the signal agreed upon by Mistress Nancy and myself; but the house might be empty for all the answer I got.
Now this troubled me sorely, for I was afraid lest my love should have suffered some ill at the hands of Otho, and the closed door made it impossible for me to render any help even if it were necessary. But I would not be baulked. Rather than go away in suspense I would break down the door, even though I brought the whole race of the Killigrews to the spot.
I therefore struck the door loudly, and although I thought I detected some sounds of movement within, I still remained outside. So I put my shoulder against the iron-studded barrier and pressed hardly, and although it yielded somewhat the bolts held firmly. My action, however, must have told those within that I was determined to enter, for at this time I heard footsteps coming towards me.
"No, you ca'ant come in," said a voice from within.
"Amelia—Amelia Lanteglos," I said aloud.
"Wait a minnit, Maaster Roger Trevanion," was the reply, spoken as I thought excitedly, almost feverishly. Then a bolt drew back and the door opened.
"Forgive me," said Amelia Lanteglos, "but I thought it was—somebody else. Where did 'ee come from, sur?"
"I can't tell you now, Amelia," I said; "is your Mistress safe?"
"Saafe. Iss, sure; but she've bin purtly frightened."
"Yes."
"Maaster Otho mimicked the knock. Three times ya knaw, and I opened the door. She ded think t'was he knockin' again."
"That is why I was refused admittance?"
"Iss, sur, that's ev et."
"Can you take me to your mistress now?"
"Iss, sur; come this way."
I followed the maid along dark corridors in perfect silence, she muttering and laughing in a strange way; I feverishly excited, my side paining me sorely, yet feeling no weakness.
Presently she stopped, and then knocked timidly at the door of an apartment.
The only response that I heard was a piteous cry and a sob.
Amelia knocked again.
"I do not wish to be seen. I will not open the door. You can force your way in if you dare, but you do not come here again with my consent."
And now there was nothing plaintive in the tones of her voice, it was rather angry—defiant.
"I'll maake sa bould as to oppen the door," whispered Amelia; "she do think tes Maaster Otho," and without further ado she suited the action to the word, I entered the apartment, and Amelia left us together.
A lamp stood on the table, which was in the centre of the room, so that I could see my love plainly. She stood as far away from the door as possible, and her back was turned upon me. I caught sight of one of her hands, and saw that the fist was constantly clenching and unclenching itself. Evidently the poor maid was sore distraught, and the sight of her sorrow rendered me dumb.
"Do you think, Otho Killigrew," she said slowly, still keeping her back towards me, "that you can change my mind? You say I am in your power, and that I have no friend to help me; well, if you had a spark of manhood in you, you would cease to molest me, for you would know that your very presence is loathsome. Now go, and leave me to find what peace I can."
Her words filled my heart with joy and sorrow at the same time. Joy, because it was not I who was loathsome to her; sorrow, because she stood there helpless and alone, and because I felt myself unable to help her. And thus all I could think upon to say, and that in a very husky voice, was:
"Mistress Nancy."
She turned herself round quickly, and I saw her eyes gleam with the fires of hatred and anger. Her face was pale and hard, her whole body was rigid; but as her eyes caught mine, a change came over her as quick as a flash of light. In a second her eyes became soft and humid, her hands became unclenched, her form lost its rigidity, and a rosy flush mantled her face. It was as though a cold cruel night in January had changed to a smiling June morning.
Her lips parted to speak, but she only uttered one word, but that word opened the gates of Heaven to me.
"Roger!"
It was a cry of surprise, of infinite relief, of untold joy.
I opened my arms. I could not help doing so, and I am sure she saw that my eyes burned with the fires of love. I took two steps towards her, my arms still extended.
"Nancy," I said.
Then she came towards me and fell upon my shoulder.
"He told me you were in the power of the Killigrews," she sobbed, "and that to-night you would die."
I held her to my heart a moment, knowing nothing, understanding nothing, save that I was in Heaven. I had never hoped for this. Did such a mad fancy enter my mind, I had dispelled it as something as impossible as Heaven might be to a lost soul. Oh! but I never knew the meaning of life or joy until that moment. She my dear, dear maid, lay with her head pillowed on my shoulder, while her shining hair mingled with my own unkempt locks.
"And did you care?" I said like one in a dream, for truly my joy made me unable to say the words that were wise.
At this she started back, like one ashamed. I saw the tears trickling down her cheeks, and a look which I could not comprehend come into her eyes.
"Oh, it is you, Master Roger Trevanion!" she cried. "Forgive me, I—I did not know. I think I—I am overwrought. You will pay no heed to the foolish words and action of—of one—who—who knew not what she was doing."
But I was eager, fearless, determined now. Knowing my own unworthiness as I did, I could not forget the look in her eyes as she uttered my name.
"Nay, Nancy, my love, turn not away!" I cried.
"But—but—I must—I—I did not know. Oh! what must you think of me?" she sobbed like one ashamed.
"I think you are the best and purest maid God ever sent on earth," I answered. "I—I—O my love, come to me again!"
But she stood still, her hands trembling and her bosom heaving.
"You—you must forget my foolishness, forget it forever," she said wildly. "I was so afraid, I did not know what I was doing!"
"No, I shall never forget it," I replied, "never, never! A man cannot forget Heaven, even though he may have felt it only while he draws one breath. O my dear, dear maid; come to me again. I love you better than name, home, liberty, life. I have never dared to tell you before. I am so unworthy, but I love you, love you!"
"But, but——" she cried piteously.
"No, no," I said, "let there be no buts. I cannot bear that you should turn away from me now. I have loved you for many weary, weary days—hopelessly, hopelessly. I dared not tell you till now—but do not repulse me."
"And do you want me—really want me? That is, you—you do not despise me because——"
"Mistress Nancy—Nancy, my dear one," I said, growing bolder each moment, although I wot not what to say, for truly my love made me as foolish as a child, "all my life is bound up in you; I care for naught but you, and I mind nothing now you are near me. Even my wound hurts me not one whit now."
"Your wound?" she cried. "What wound?"
"Oh, it is nothing," I answered, vexed with myself for being such a fool as to mention it; "my side was only grazed by the pistol-shot."
"What pistol-shot? When? Where?"
"It was only a scratch—this morning—when—when Otho fired at me this morning."
"Then you are hurt, you are wounded?"
"No, not now. O my love, will you not come to me?"
Then she rushed to me. "But, but you are not—that is, you are not——"
She did not finish the sentence, for she lay sobbing on my shoulder again, just as a babe might sob on its mother's breast.
"And do you care?" I said again. "Oh, will you not speak to me once more? Will you not tell me what—what I long to hear?"
"You are safe—that is, you are sure you are not hurt—that is very badly?"
"No, no; I mind nothing. I am quite well. I shall be happier than words can tell if you—you will only tell me you love me."
"I—I am afraid I told you too soon," and this she said with a laugh that had a sob in it, but the sob contained no sorrow, and still I was not satisfied.
"But my love, tell me," I cried, "tell me really, for I shall never be content until I hear the words from your own lips."
"Oh, I cannot, I am so ashamed," she sobbed. "I did not mean you should know until you—had first told me—that is,—O Roger, I am so happy!"
And after that I could doubt no longer, for she lay in my arms contentedly and as if she knew no fear, and then I cared for nothing. The dangers which surrounded me I minded no more than the old knight in armour might mind the threats of children, for although I was homeless and nearly friendless, my heart throbbed with a joy which until then I never believed possible.
"Roger," she said again presently, "I am so ashamed, but I could not help it, and—and I am happy; but—but—tell me again what you told me just now."
How long we remained oblivious to everything save our new-found love I know not, for truly I had entered upon a new life. My dear love had revealed herself to me in a way which made the dark night seem like day. I had known her as one fair beyond words, it is true, and more faithful and courageous than I had believed a woman could be, but distant and often cold and repellant. Even when she had braved many things for my welfare she treated me with distant formality, such as had chilled my heart and made me despair of ever winning her love. But this night she had shown me her heart, and now I knew her not only as noble and pure, but as tender and winsome and loving. Many and many a time did she raise her dear face to mine and bid me tell her again and again that my wound was not dangerous and that I suffered no pain. And because I loved her so, I am afraid I told her what was not true, for the wound ached sorely, although I minded it not one whit. In very truth, one look from her eyes dispelled the thought of pain, and I felt the strength of many men surge within me. To say that I was content would be to play with words, for sitting there with my love nought but joy filled my life.
Presently, however, she bade me tell her of my experiences, and this I did briefly, for I wanted to know what had happened to her, and why Otho Killigrew had visited her and what he had said to her. Besides, it had come to me that I must take her away from Restormel, although for the moment I knew not where. In my happiness, too, I had almost forgotten the promise I had made to Hugh Boscawen, and that it was my duty to make my way to Veryan Bay that night.
"What did Otho tell you, my love?" I asked.
"That you have been taken prisoner by his people, and that you were to be put to death to-night, unless——"
"But that was nothing," I answered. "What was his purpose in coming to you?"
"He had discovered, I know not how, that you were here last night. He had also found out the signal by which I was to admit you."
"How?"
"I know not. He had also divined—oh, Roger! I must be very foolish, but he had divined that—that——"
"What, my dear maid?"
"That I love you," and she hid her face on my shoulder again, as though she were ashamed to show her face.
"How think you so?"
"He told me so, and—and I could not deny it."
"No," said I with a glad laugh, "and then?"
"He tried to trade upon my love. He said you were in his power, and that unless I promised him something you should die this very night."
"What was that?"
"To marry him."
"And you?"
"I was sorely frightened; but I told him that I would rather die than do this. I could not, you know, Roger, even though I did not know you cared aught for me."
"But you must have known I loved you, my dear."
"Sometimes I thought I did, and at others I could only—that is—even were I sure you did, I knew you would rather die than that I should wed him."
"Well, let us hear the rest of this," I said. "Surely Otho must have been attending the performances of some travelling showman, for such plots smack of a fourth-rate playhouse."
"He sorely frightened me, for he threatened to torture you; and you know what a cruel face he has."
"Well, and what was the end of it?" By this time my heart began to grow bitter towards Otho Killigrew, and had he been there at that moment it would have gone hard with him.
"He told me that you had been taken to a place of safety, and then asked me if I would allow him to take me there. He said it was the only condition on which he would show you any mercy."
"And you?"
"I refused him again. And yet I fancy my looks must have consented, for, Roger," and she nestled closer to me again, "I hoped that I might be able to help you."
Now this matter required thought, for I felt sure Otho had some deep-laid purpose in it all.
"He said he would return as soon as his duties allowed him," she added presently.
"Here?"
"Yes."
"You will refuse to admit him?"
"Oh, there will be no need now—you will be here;—that's—no—no—you must not. He seems to have discovered all about the house, and even old Adam Coad obeys him. If he finds you here he will find means to kill you."
"You need not fear," I said; "to-night all the Killigrews will be prisoners, and before long they will be hanged," and I told her what was being done.
"Then he cannot come back here to-night?"
"No, he will not be here. All the same, let every door be bolted. But I must away."
She looked at me piteously. She was so changed, this maid Nancy, during the last hour. All her reserve, all her coldness had gone.
"But I will be back before morning," I said, "and then——" I stopped, for my heart grew cold. In very truth, I seemed helpless. She seemed to divine my thoughts, for she concluded the sentence.
"I shall have no care. And yet," and this she said sadly, "O Roger, I cared naught about this—this story of Trevisa's till to-night. If it is true, I shall be dowerless—nameless. I shall take every thing and give you nothing—that is—nothing but—myself."
The last words came coyly, and yet with a sob, and for the moment I cared nothing, even the loss of my old home weighed no more than thistledown. But only for a moment; my destitution rested heavily on me a minute later.
"It is all well," I cried in a tone of confidence I was far from feeling. "Even although Trevisa's story be true, I shall have—but there is not time to tell you now. Wait for me, my love. No harm can come to you to-night—and I will soon be back. I will not knock this time; you may know me by this cry," and I imitated the hoot of a night bird.
Soon after I rode away with a light heart in spite of my cares, and my many doubts. I knew nothing of Otho's plans, and for aught I could tell he might have spies all around the house; but no one molested me. Indeed although I listened carefully all was silent as death, and I concluded that the Killigrews had mustered all their forces in order to be ready when Charles Stuart landed.
When I reached Veryan Bay all was silent. It was perhaps ten o'clock, only two or three hours before the Pretender was supposed to land, but not a soul was visible. I rode across country in order to avoid coming into contact with any of the friends of the Stuarts: for I knew that were I caught it would mean instant death. Every footstep was, I was sure, beset with danger; for while Hugh Boscawen had given me a passport whereby I should be safe among his followers, I knew not where the enemy might be lurking.
Presently I reached the woods just above Veryan Bay, and with as little noise as possible crept along under the trees. A few seconds later I was surrounded by armed men. They had been lying quietly amidst the brushwood until orders for action came. No sooner was my passport seen than I was conducted to Hugh Boscawen.
"Saw you that old man?" I asked.
"Yes, but not until I had first received your letter."
"Well, what did he say?"
"He seemed weighted with important news at first, but presently he talked of the most senseless matters."
"Ah," I said, and instantly I surmised what it meant. Uncle Anthony had guessed that I had penetrated his disguise, and had sent a message.
"Did you see him immediately on his arrival?"
"No, I had many things to occupy me, and I kept him waiting some time. Your letter prepared me for the foolish things he had to say."
"All your arrangements have been carried out then?"
"Yes; one thousand men lie in this wood and a thousand more on the other side of the valley. It was all I could raise on such short notice. But they are enough. The Pretender's friends have got wind of my prompt action. They have abandoned the idea of coming here. I am sorry, but it does not matter; the craft containing Charles is on its way, and he will be here in a few hours."
He tried to speak coolly, but I could see that he was excited beyond measure. His voice shook, and was fairly husky.
"How do you know that they have abandoned the idea of bringing their forces here?"
"My spies discovered it," he said shortly. "Oh, I have not been idle, young man; my men have had eyes and ears everywhere."
I realized then as I felt when at Tregothnan that he seemed to resent my questions, and I knew that his abilities did not equal his zeal. I could quite believe that the Killigrews had abandoned the idea of meeting the forces which Hugh Boscawen had gathered, but I did not believe that they would submit so meekly as this man seemed to think. As far as I could judge, matters were ill-arranged, and although every one was on the tiptoe of expectation, there seemed to be little definite idea as to the serious issue at stake.
"You see," he went on, "such a number of men could not be got together so secretly as I had hoped. The Pretender's friends found this out, and not a man of theirs is to be found within two miles. Of that I am sure."
"And do you think, my lord, that they will give up so easily?" I asked.
"They cannot help themselves. I tell you the coast is guarded two miles in each direction."
"No more than two miles?"
"Is not that enough, Trevanion! I tell you I saw through the whole business ten minutes after you brought the news. You shall not be forgotten, Trevanion, I can assure you that."
"I suppose neither Sir Richard nor John Rosecorroch are here?"
"No, there was no time to get advisers; besides it would have confused matters. One general is enough."
I felt impatient with the man, loyal and well-meaning as he was. I remembered that he had paid but little heed to me at Tregothnan. Doubtless during the hours I had been lying asleep through the day he had given his orders, and in his own way had made ready. But he did not know the resources of Colman Killigrew or Uncle Anthony, to say nothing of Otho.
"Have you considered, my lord, that they may still signal to Charles Stuart farther up the coast?"
"What mean you, Trevanion?"
"Doubtless the Pretender set sail from the north of France, and is sailing down the Channel. Think you the Killigrews have not prepared for the present state of things? They have been too long plotting not to realize their danger, and they will not allow Charles to walk blindfold into your hands, especially now they know what hath been done. They will either have moved their forces farther up the coast, or if that be impossible they will have warned him not to land."
"I tell you their forces have been disturbed. They have heard of what has happened, and they have lost heart. As for the other, it is a dark murky night, and no signal could be seen from afar."
"But there is danger, my lord," I persisted; "and you would not like Charles to escape you?"
"No, by heaven, no! but what would you suggest?" and here the man revealed the fact that he should have taken counsel in the affair.
"I would suggest this, my lord. Give me a few men. I know the coast well; I will go northward, and if they are seeking to signal, either I will send you word, or, if I am able, take these Killigrews prisoners."
"The plan sounds well, Trevanion. It can do no harm, and it shall be done. Do you ride northward as you suggest."
Now all along I had been a free lance in the business. Lord Falmouth, of whom I have spoken as Hugh Boscawen, because our county people preferred this honoured old name to the title which had first been given to his father—Lord Falmouth, I say, had insisted that I was not in a fit condition to render him active service because of my wound. In truth, as I have before intimated, he urged that I should stay for some time at Tregothnan, and although I had managed to persuade him as to my fitness to travel and to meet him at Veryan Bay, I knew practically nothing of what he had done. That he should have been able to secure such a large number of men at such a short notice was indicative of his influence in the county. As far as that matter goes, there was no man better known or more respected, while the name of Boscawen was held in reverence from Land's End to the banks of the Tamar, and even beyond it. At one time he was believed to have much influence in Parliament, and no small amount of power over King George himself. But I, who am not a politician, cannot speak with authority on such matters. Of his kinsman, the great Admiral Boscawen, and his prowess, all the world knows. But Hugh did not possess the admiral's genius as a commander, and I could not help seeing, ignorant as I was in all matters pertaining to warfare, that the matter seemed sorely bungled, because of a failure to understand how wily Uncle Anthony and the Killigrews were.
However, I rode off with a few men, and found my way with all diligence along the coast. As Boscawen had said, it was a dark, murky night, and it would be difficult to see a signal from afar. I dared not ride very near the coast, as many parts of it were dangerous; indeed it was with difficulty that we made the journey at all. The country was thickly wooded, and pathways were few.
I had gone perhaps four miles beyond the spot where Boscawen's men lay, keeping a sharp lookout on the coast all the way, when I stopped the horses and listened. We had been riding through fields and by the side of hedges, so as to make as little noise as possible, and I had commanded a halt because I thought I saw two or three dark forms not far away. For some minutes we listened in vain, but presently I heard the sound of footsteps coming along a lane near by. Creeping silently to the hedgeside, I could detect the noise of three men coming from a northward direction.
"It's all up," I heard one say.
"Yes, we'd better get as far from these parts as possible."
"I suppose a big fire has been lit up by Chapel Point!"
"Yes, that was the signal agreed on in case of danger."
"Do you think they'll see it? It's a beastly night."
"If they can keep it up long enough."
"Ah, yes; if they can do that the vessel will turn back."
"I suppose so."
The men passed on, and I heard them discussing the situation as they trudged in the direction of St. Austell; but this was all that came to me distinctly. I had heard enough, however, to confirm my suspicions. My plan now was to send two men back with the news, and then to ride on to Chapel Point, a spot some distance farther north.
Half an hour later I was near enough to Chapel Point to see the ruddy glow of a beacon light, and I became sadly afraid lest Hugh Boscawen would not be able to send men in time to extinguish the fire before it was seen by the Pretender. Indeed, so much did my fears possess me that I could not remain inactive, and so, foolishly, I crept nearer and nearer the danger signal. I was drawn on by a kind of fatal fascination, and so excited did I become that I recked nothing of the danger by which I was surrounded.
It soon became plain to me that the spot was well chosen. A huge fire was lit on the slope of a hill, and thus the blaze, while hidden from the neighbourhood of Veryan Bay, could be plainly seen by any who sailed down the Channel. In the ruddy glow, too, I could see many forms; and as I thought how much depended on extinguishing the blaze before it could be seen by the rebels, I had difficulty in restraining myself from rushing thitherward single-handed. Indeed I did, in order to watch their actions more closely, leave the men who accompanied me, and this, as events will show, almost led to my undoing.
I had not been away from my companions more than a few minutes when I was roughly seized, and even before I had time to cry out I was dragged away into the darkness. How far I was hurried on I scarcely know; but presently when I was allowed to stop, I found myself surrounded by a dozen or more men, amongst whom I detected Otho Killigrew and Uncle Anthony. I could plainly see them, for the light from the fire threw a ruddy glare upon us. We stood in a hollow, however, and were partially sheltered.
"Ah, Roger Trevanion," said Otho Killigrew, and his voice was husky with savage joy. "I did not think we should meet again so soon."
"No," I replied as coolly as I was able, "and you would not care to meet me now if you were not surrounded by a dozen of your followers."
"I always like playing a safe game," he replied slowly as was his wont.
"Even although you have to be a coward; this morning you ran away from me like a whipped schoolboy."
"I had matters of more importance to perform than to kill a ruffian," he replied.
"Apparently," I said, with a laugh I little felt, "but you miserably bungled your matters."
My words evidently stung him.
"Have a care, Roger Trevanion," he said. "This morning we both used a well-worn proverb—'he who laughs last laughs best.' I think that applies to me, for in a few minutes you will have gone to that place where there will be little laughter, and where you will be in company with the personage who describes himself as travelling to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it."
"Scarcely," I replied. "You could never be happy without your constant friend and master."
I heard Uncle Anthony chuckle in his quiet way, but Otho went on still in cold, cruel tones:
"I have not yet decided what death you shall die. I think, however, that I shall increase the brilliancy of the light yonder by using you as fuel. It will be excellent preparation for you too."
"That would be just like you," I said; "you are too great a coward to try and kill me in open fight. However, let's have done with it as quickly as possible."
I said this, I must confess, with difficulty; my throat was dry, and even then I could almost feel the fire burning my flesh. At the same time I knew that such words would make him desire to prolong my agony, and, in truth, his devilish desire to taunt me and make me suffer saved my life.
"All in good time, Roger Trevanion," he said coolly. "There is no hurry for a few minutes, and the devil can wait. I have a few things to tell you, too. I have had some slight training for the priesthood, and I wish to give you a few comforting messages before you depart, just as a priest should."
"Go on," I said grimly, but indeed I was sore afraid.
"Of course you expect no mercy from me?" said Otho presently.
"I know you are too good a pupil of your master to dream of such a thing," I replied, and even as I spoke I wondered how long it would take the messenger I had sent to reach Hugh Boscawen, and whether help could arrive before Otho had completed his designs.
"Be careful, Roger Trevanion," he said bitterly.
"Why?" I asked. "I know you will do your worst whatever may happen. Say your say, man, and unless you gag me I shall say mine."
"Yes, I will say my say. Oh, I know what you are thinking. Well, we have sentinels in every direction, and the moment there is a sign of any friends of yours coming, we shall be warned, and that moment you shall die."
My heart sank as he said this. For although I do not think I fear death more than another man, I did dread the cruelty of this man. Besides, I longed for life; never, indeed, had it been so sweet to me as now. Only a few hours before my dear maid Nancy had laid her head on my shoulder and had sobbed out her love to me. I knew, too, that she would have a bitter enemy in Otho, and if I were dead she would be a prey to his many wiles. Still I determined not to betray fear. At any rate, he should not have the comfort of making me plead for mercy.
"Then say on," I said, "your thoughts can give you little comfort; you have been outwitted, beaten all along the line. I can die, but not before I've drawn your teeth."
"Except that Charles will not land."
"If that is any comfort to you, except that."
"We may as well add another thing," he sneered; "but I will refrain, because it refers to a lady."
I was silent.
"Oh yes, I have touched you at last, have I? Well, let me give you a little comfort in that direction. The lady shall be well looked after."
I looked at Uncle Anthony as he spoke, and saw the old man's face twitch. In spite of myself I was comforted. My dear maid was not without one friend.
"Perhaps I will refer to that again presently," he went on; "you will be glad to hear her name in your last minutes. But let me tell you another thing: Roger Trevanion, I hate you."
"Doubtless," I said with a sneer.
"I hate you," he went on, and now he spoke quickly and passionately. "I hate you because again and again you have beaten me, and I never forgive a man who has done that. You have outwitted me—yes, I will admit it—and have made the only woman——" he stopped a second as though his passion had led him to commence a sentence which he did not know how to finish. "God is tired of you," he continued presently, "for you have hindered the true king from coming back to England, and with the true king the true faith. We owe our failure to you."
"Yes, you do," I replied, "you do. You thought to restore the fortunes of your dying name. Religion is little to you. How can it be? But the failure of your plans to bring the Pretender here is the deathblow to your hopes. To succeed you have lied, you have played the spy; you have bartered friendship, and all things good and true. Well, I have beaten you. You can take a paltry revenge by killing me, but you cannot undo the fact that I have beaten you."
I felt a savage joy in saying this, for at that moment I cared for nothing.
"You will not fight as a man should," I went on. "When it comes to open blows you run away like a coward. You prefer plot and intrigue, and lies in the dark."
"It cannot be said that you are guiltless of plot and intrigue, either," remarked Uncle Anthony quietly.
"I have been obliged to use my enemies' weapons," I replied; "but I have betrayed no man, no woman. I have sought to hurt no man. Nay, I have ever tried to befriend rather than to harm."
"I know more about you than you think," remarked Uncle Anthony; "and at one time I should have been sorely disturbed at doing you harm, so much did I believe in you. It is little use deploring the inevitable. I am too old a man to give up because of one failure, or to cry out because God seemeth against me. But why did you interfere, Roger Trevanion? You, the gay spendthrift—you, who have cared but little for aught save your gaming and your revelries. Why did you not live your life, and let others deal with matters of serious import? Religion is naught to you. It is everything to some of us."
"Because the society of a pure woman made me ashamed of myself," I cried; "because she made me remember my name, my race, and my duty to my country and to God."
The old man sighed, while Otho spoke apart with two or three of the men.
"Methinks I had better have killed you this very evening," he said; "my hand was on the trigger of my pistol."
"When we met?"
"Aye."
"And I might have had you arrested," I replied. "I recognized you in spite of your disguise. I wrote a note to Lord Falmouth warning him that no reliance could be placed upon the information you might give. I might have added your name."
"So you might," he said quietly, and he seemed in deep thought. "Then this danger signal would not have been seen," he added.
At that moment we heard the sound of a gun coming from across the waters.
"Ah!" cried voices all around me; "they have seen the danger signal. Now we must leave."
"But not before I have dealt with Roger Trevanion," cried Otho Killigrew; "now, you fellows, do my bidding."
"Not that, by God, no!" cried one of the men, "let him die as man should. I'll have naught to do with roasting."
"But we owe all our failure to him," cried Otho.
"You have your own private grudge, no doubt," said another. "Kill him as a gentleman should be killed. Hot lead, cold steel, or the water, I don't mind which, but not that."
I looked around as well as I could, but Uncle Anthony had gone, and I saw that there was a movement among the men who had waited by the fire.
"Then it shall be cold steel," cried Otho, and he drew his sword from his sheath.
If it be possible to realize a sense of satisfaction at such a moment, I realized it then. At any rate, I was not to suffer the cruel torture which Otho intended. Indeed, I doubt whether my mind could have withstood much longer the strain I was undergoing. For the last few days my life had been one constant excitement. Every nerve was strung to the highest pitch, and although my wound was neither deep nor dangerous, it had pained me much.
"They laugh best who laugh last," said Otho, coming to me grimly, "and I shall laugh last, I warrant you."
"Be quick, then, and do your devil's work!" I cried aloud, for I was sore wrought upon. "I cannot touch you, I am bound, so you are safe. But I would to God I could die at the hands of a man, instead of a revengeful cut-throat."
"No, you shall die by my hand," said Otho, slowly and grimly.
"No, by Heaven he shall not!" cried a voice near; "whatever he is, Trevanion is a brave man, and he can fight. I would I had known you were here sooner. Ah, I love a man who can fight! Cut the ropes, men, and let him die as a man should!"
It was Benet Killigrew who spoke, and I saw his eyes fairly gleam with savage joy.
"Yes, it is I, Roger Trevanion," he cried; "I told you we should meet again; I told you we should fight again. Faith, I almost forgive you for having spoiled all my old dad's plans; I shall have a fight after all, a real fight with a man who knows the use of a sword. Aye, but I love you, Trevanion. I love you!"
"Benet, this is not your affair," said Otho; "it was agreed upon that this fellow should be taken and killed at all hazards, and that I should see it done."
"I care not, Otho. He is a worthy gentleman, and he shall die as becometh one. Oh, you need not fear, I will kill him; but not as a butcher may kill a pig. Cut his cords, men. Nay I will do it myself. There, that's it. Stand up, Roger Trevanion. Ah! they have not taken your sword from you; it is well! Stand around, men; there is plenty of light."
For once Otho Killigrew yielded to his brother. Perhaps he was glad to do so, for while it may be easy to kill another in hot fight, a man must have lost his manhood if he willingly and in cold blood will kill another who is helpless and bound. Besides, Otho knew it to be dangerous to stay there. The king's men might come at any minute.
"Yes, I will leave you to my brother, Roger Trevanion," he said slowly; "I think I am glad he came. He saves me from doing dirty work."
"Very dirty," I replied.
"Aye," he said, "just as a hangman's work is dirty. Still it is necessary, and Benet is better fitted for it than I. And before I go, I will give you a little information. I go to see a lady who is a mutual acquaintance. I will tell her how I left you. She will be much interested. You are about to take a long journey, and the end thereof will be dark. I wish you all the joy you can get out of it. I will tell our lady friend about it, as we caress each other and laugh at you."
"Coward," I cried, unable to control myself, "base, skulking coward. Come back and fight me," but he laughed in his quiet way as he mounted a horse that stood near-by.
"By the way," he continued, "you stole my horse, but Benet will make that all right. You will soon be in congenial company—and so shall I. Good-night!"
"You are right, Trevanion," cried Benet in almost a friendly tone. "Otho is a coward; he hath a way with him which drives me mad. Ah, but I love you. Stand around, men. Now draw, man"; and putting himself in a posture of defense, he made his sword whistle about his head.
"Had we not better get away to a distance?" asked one who stood by. "We can now do no good by staying, and we may be in danger at any minute."
"Nonsense!" cried Benet. "They will have heard the guns as well as we, and they will know what it means. The game is up, I tell you. Besides we can never find a better place than this. Here is green grass to stand on, and a rare light. Now, Trevanion."
I drew my sword and stood before him. Even as I did so I knew to whom I owed his coming. It was Uncle Anthony who had told him how I stood. The old man knew his disposition, knew that fighting was the breath of Benet Killigrew's life, and was sure that it would be untold joy to him to do battle with me again. Perhaps he hoped that in some way I might be able to successfully defend myself. For the hermit felt kindly towards me, even although I had thwarted the hope of his life. Strange as it may seem, however, I had almost forgotten the greater issues at stake. While I had spoken with Otho and Uncle Anthony, and heard the mutterings of bitterness among their companions because their hopes had been frustrated, I felt that I had indeed taken part in a very important business, that, perhaps, I had changed the very life of the country. I had to some extent realized the bitter disappointment they must have felt, as well as their great anger towards me. But now my thoughts were narrowed down to smaller issues, and although just after I drew my sword I heard the dull boom of another gun resounding across the waters, I thought nothing of the rage that the young Pretender must have felt, or of what it might mean to millions of people.
My great thought was to sell my life dearly, for now that I was once more free I felt my own man again. I knew that Benet Killigrew was a great fighter, and although he had not been master in the past, I stood at great disadvantage now. I had been weakened by my wound, and my experiences of the last few days were not of a nature to fit a man to fight with such a swordsman as Benet. All around me stood the dark angry faces of his friends, and I was sure that, even should I master my opponent, they would see to it that I should not escape alive. Still a man at thirty-two years of age is not easily conquered. He has not lost the hot blood of youth, and he has also gained the caution and the judgment necessary to use his strength wisely.
And this I determined to do. Most of the men who had lit the great beacon fire were gone, and I hoped that even in spite of my dark prospects I might still be able to keep my skin whole. I knew the man who stood before me. Passionate, daring, and strong as he might be, he had still the feelings of a gentleman. There was nothing cunning in his nature. He would fight openly, fight for the very joy of fighting. The ferociousness of the savage he doubtless possessed, but he had higher feelings as well.
"It gives me joy to meet you, Benet Killigrew," I said. "If I am to die, I shall be glad to die at the hands of a brave man, rather than to be butchered by one who knows not what a swordsman ought to feel."
"Ah! good!" he replied, "it is not oft I can find a man who is worthy of standing before Benet Killigrew"—this he said with a kind of mountebank bravado peculiar to him—"and it gives joy to my soul to meet a man. I do not know much about who is the true king. I joined the business because there was a chance of a fight. But I am sick of it. No sooner was it discovered that there would be three to one against us than they all showed the white feather, and so I was robbed of a rare bit of fun. But you have turned up, Trevanion, and by my soul I love you for it; and although I must kill you, because I have given my promise, I shall be fair grieved to do it."
"At least we will fight as gentlemen," I replied, "and neither I am sure will take advantage of the other."
"That goes without saying," he cried; "but come let us begin, we are wasting time! Guard!" I must confess that all my own love for a fight was aroused in me at that moment, and I needed no further invitation. At the same time my policy was to act only on the defensive. I knew that Benet would be careful, and would throw away no chances.
I have thought since that the scene must in its way have been impressive. The great "danger fire" still cast its ruddy glow upon the dark faces of the men who formed a ring around us, while in the near distance the waves surged upon the rock-bound coast. It must have been far past midnight, and the winds played among the newly budding leaves which appeared on the trees in the woods nearby. Above the sounds of both wind and waves could be heard the clash of our swords and the sound of Benet's voice as we fought. For there was nothing cool and contained about this man. He could not help but express his feelings, and every time I parried his thrusts he gave a cry of pleasure and admiration.
"It is a joy to fight with you, Trevanion," he would say; "By Heaven, you are a man! Good! Well parried!"
His eyes continued to gleam with a savage joy, and he constantly laughed as though he were enjoying himself vastly.
Presently, however, he grew more serious, for I was very careful. I contented myself with parrying, never offering to return his thrusts, and although he tried hard he could not so much as touch me.
"By Heaven, fight!" he cried at length, but that I would not do. My policy was to tire him out if I could, and then disarm him. This, however, was easier said than done. He fought on with savage pleasure, showing no weakness. His wrists seemed to be made of steel, and his eyes continued to shine with a passionate light.
We had been fighting for some minutes, when I thought it wise to change my tactics. I slowly yielded before him, and he thought my guard grew weaker.
"Ah!" he cried with satisfaction.
Just at that moment I heard a cry among the woods.
"It's the Boscawens!" cried one of the bystanders. "Quick, Killigrew, we shall be in danger soon!"
At this my heart gave a great bound, for hope grew stronger. I might live to see my dear Nancy again, and this thought nerved my arm. I thought of Otho's threat, and I longed to get to Restormel and see if my love was safe.
I still pretended to yield to Benet, and while my guard was still sufficient, I made him believe it was growing weaker.
Another cry came from the woods, sharper and clearer.
"The signal!" cried the bystanders, "the last signal. We must be away."
"No, he yields," cried Benet, "and I promised to kill him, and I will keep my word. Ah!"
"But they will soon be here. Let us settle the business for you."
"No, by Cormoran, no! What! Benet Killigrew call help? I'll fight and kill him by myself though ten thousand Boscawens stand by!"
"But there is danger, man! If we are caught we shall be hanged!"
"Can't you see I am fighting!" roared Benet, still keeping his eyes upon me, and never for a moment thrown off his guard.
All the same, this talk was not to his advantage. It made him somewhat rash, and I knew that my chance had nearly come.
"'Tis they!" one cried presently. "Truscott, give me your pistol!"
"I'll kill the man who interferes," said Benet madly; "I promised that there should be no unfair advantage, and by Heaven there shall not!"
But his speech caused his own undoing. It was impossible for any man to fence well under such circumstances, and so I was able to use the chance I had long been waiting for, and his sword flew from his hand.
At that moment there was the tramp of horses' hoofs and the shout of voices, and I knew that the bystanders became panic-stricken.
"We cannot go without killing him," cried one.
"No; very good, then"; and a bullet whizzed by my head, after which I heard retreating footsteps.
"Fly, Benet Killigrew!" I panted.
"No, by God, no!"
"Yes," I answered; "you had not fair play. Those fellows confused you. We will finish another time. If the Boscawens take you, you will be hanged!"
"Will you fight again?" panted Benet.
"Yes; now begone!"
But it was too late. A dozen horsemen, headed by Hugh Boscawen, rode up to us.
"Safe and unhurt, Trevanion?" he cried.
"Yes, my lord."
"It is well. Have they all gone! No! At least here is one prisoner."
"No, I think not, my lord," I answered; "this gentleman and I have been settling a long-standing affair."
"Aye, but he is a rebel."
"Nay, my lord, let him go free," I said excitedly, for I could not bear the thought of Benet being treated as a rebel. "I will swear to you that this gentleman hath never plotted against the king. He is an honourable man; but for him I should have been dead ere this."
"But you were fighting with him."
"The fight was a private matter, my lord. I ask you for his liberty as a special favour. I will give my word that he will never lift up his hand against the king's true subjects."
"I like not to refuse you anything, Trevanion," said Boscawen, "you rendered such signal service. Well, if the fellow will give his word that he will in no way help the Pretender's cause, I will for your sake set him at liberty."
"Aye, I will promise, gladly," cried Benet; "I hate the whole business."