I hesitated; she was mad doubtless, but I was in no hurry. I had naught to engage my mind; perhaps she might amuse me. It might be that this was but a trick of DeNortier's to lure me into this hut and then put me out of the way; for that was a scheme worthy of his master mind.
The old crone stood in the doorway, looking at me.
"Ah! the Señor fears," she croaked. "Afraid of an old woman, alone and unarmed," and she cackled in glee.
My mind was made up; stepping upon the threshold, I pushed the door wide open and entered. The old woman closed the door, and I was in total darkness. She moved about in the dark, until presently she struck two hard stones together, and going to where three great torches of light-wood were fastened in the wall, she lit them.
Immediately the room became brightly illuminated, and I looked around. There was nothing in the hut; only a rough pile of leaves in the corner, which served as a bed, and a rough stone bench in the center of the room, together with a little wooden chest.
Going to the chest, she raised the lid, calling as she did so to me, "Let the Señor seat himself upon the bench."
I did so, and watched her movements, until finally she drew an article from the chest, and turning, held it out to me. I took it in my hands, and glanced down to see what she had given me. It was a polished disk of silver, perhaps a foot in diameter, curved and embossed with strange and barbarous shapes. I had seen naught like it in all my travels.
"How camest thou by this?" I asked sternly.
The old woman, her back to me, was groping again in the box. "Let not the Señor be troubled," she said dryly, "for the mirror was handed down to me from my fathers, who dwelt here in the days of yore. It is mine; be not uneasy on that score."
And then from the box she drew a little stone image of a man, grotesquely shaped, with great staring eyes, and with a cold, sinister expression upon his carved face. She set it on the floor in front of me; as I looked at it, the face reminded me of someone whom I had seen. Yes, the same hard, cold look and hawk nose of Lord Dunraven; I was struck by the resemblance, for rough, uncouth as the image was, it resembled my lord.
The old crone had sprinkled a yellow powder in front of the idol, and had lit it, and now she was kneeling in front of the image, crooning a low savage song, her eyes, keen and piercing through the smoke, fixed upon me. I rose in disgust. Was I a fool, to sit through such mummery as this?
She called to me even as I stirred, "Let not the Señor arise; but a moment, and he will behold a sight upon the mirror such as he has never seen before. Let him wait but a moment, and gaze upon the disk."
There was something in that look, eager, commanding, fixed upon me, that I could not resist. I resumed my seat.
"I will remain but a moment," I said. "Quick with thy foolery, I am wearied and would go."
"Look upon the glass!" she shrieked. "Look!"
I looked down carelessly at the mirror in my hand. Unaccountably, marvelously, there was something dim, misty, and hazy, growing upon the polished disk; more and more distinct it became, until wonder of wonders, I looked into the violet eyes of Lady Margaret Carroll!—there, lovely, beautiful, divine, she gazed at me, gowned for some ball, a flower in her hair, the soft curved neck encircled by a chain of precious stones, her lovely dimpled chin, and little mouth curved as though laughing at its own red beauty. For a moment I looked at her, and then I was gazing at the vacant glass in my hand.
I sprang to my feet. "Hag!" I cried, "what trick is this? Beware how thou triflest with me."
The voice of the crone floated across to me through the smoke.
"No trick," she mumbled; "'tis but the magic of the great white spirit. Would my lord behold his rival? Look!"
And there upon the silver disk, with his brave, true eyes upon me, shone the face of Bobby Vane.
"'Tis false!" I cried. "False! He would not act thus."
"Wonder not," replied the crone. "Stranger things than this have happened; men would betray all for love of such a maid;" and she muttered something to herself. "Wouldst behold how thy friend conducts himself in thy absence with thy lady-love? Behold!"
And there upon the glass I saw my lady and Bobby. They were at some dance or merry-making, for I could see dimly the moving forms around them. Suddenly they turned and passed out into a moonlit garden, and seated themselves in the shadow of some thick trees. I saw Bobby lean forward nearer that beautiful face; saw him whisper something into that little shell-like ear; saw the smile upon her face; and then, reaching out his hand, he took one of Margaret's in his own, and bent down as though to kiss her, looking into her beautiful blue eyes all the while.
It was more than flesh and blood could stand. With an oath, I cast the mirror far from me, and throwing the cowering crone a coin, strode out from the miserable hut into the free air of heaven.
March, 1588, was here; I had been restrained of my liberty since the sixteenth day of September, 1586, Oliver and myself had made many schemes for our deliverance, but they had all come to naught. We could not cross the mighty sea without a vessel; there was nothing but frail canoes here—light, fragile, they would suffice for a brief sail, but they could never live through the thousands of miles of water that rolled between us and England.
I had spent a great deal of my time in fencing and shooting with the lad, until now I felt that I could hold my own against DeNortier himself. My wrist was of steel, and my strength had grown enormously with my exercise in the open air; I could hit a small coin at thirty yards with a musketoon. Oliver, who knew nothing of a sword when he landed, had become a fairly good swordsman under my training, and was getting so that he could bring down the wild fowl on the wing with the gun.
Returning from a long stroll one evening and going up to my room, I found Oliver engaged in holding up to the light a splendid new doublet of light gray silk. It was a beautiful garment, and he was so occupied in admiring it that he did not hear me come into the door.
"What hast thou there, lad?" I asked. "Thou must have at thy disposal the shops of London, that thou shouldst have such a doublet as that. Faith, not but thou dost need one! That thou hast on now is almost in rags."
The boy turned to me, his face aglow.
"Ah, Sir Thomas! thou mayest laugh, but it is full time that we had some new garments. I have mended the one that thou hast on, until I fear that not a piece of the original cloth remains," and he broke into a merry, ringing laugh. "But the doublet that thou jeerest at is for thee. I have a new lilac one," and turning, he lifted it from a chair and held it up for my inspection.
"What means such prodigality?" I asked in astonishment. "What scheme is on foot?"
"The men hold high revelry to-night," he answered. "Pepin, who came up only a few moments ago, brought us each an entire outfit of new clothing, and told me that the Count sails to-morrow with all his men; that on his return he would resign command to one of his crew, and depart for the great region from whence he came, to return here no more. I asked him whether we were to go with the Count on his cruise to-morrow, and he replied yes, that only the natives would remain behind. He told me also that the Count DeNortier bade us dress in these new garments, and be at the board to-night to join in the feast."
The candles had been lit. Slowly, with the lad's help, I dressed myself in the silks and laces; it had been long since I had been garbed as fitting my birth and station. The clothes brought back to me my old, useless, happy life in far-away London, and the thought of the gayety and pleasure of days gone by, when I had softly spoken into the dainty ears of fair ladies the little useless whispers that went to make up their lives; had moved among the gay throng, the petted plaything of society. It had been sweet while it lasted, but it had passed from me.
Oliver had buckled on my gold-hilted sword, and given me a last touch.
"Thou art prepared, Sir Thomas," he cried, with a grand air and a sweeping bow. "And though thou mayest jeer at me if thou choosest, I will say to thy face, that thou art a goodly sight. Would that the fair ladies of London might see thee to-night; it would create a sensation, I can tell thee."
"Nonsense, boy!" I replied. "I have grown too old and rough to be a pleasant sight for a lady. She would want some fawning tailor's model, sweet-scented and delicate, and not a rude man such as I am."
But, nevertheless, pleased by his light flattery, I stepped forward to where one of the great mirrors hung and glanced at myself. Was this the silent, rough man, clad in his faded doublet, his sword in hand, ready at a moment's notice to defend himself from the foes who sought his life?
There looked back at me from the mirror the figure of a man, clad in splendid silks, a rich collar of lace about his neck, elegantly and richly dressed; his hair, in which the gray threads were beginning to shine, was combed back and fell upon his shoulders. The little pointed beard which he wore, was flecked with gray here and there; and his face, tanned and brown, was one which seemed created to command. The deep lines of suffering had purified and ennobled the face never handsome; the youth and gayety were gone from it, never to return, but 'twas stronger, deeper, better than it had been in the old days. The light hazel eyes, with that look of understanding that only sorrow brings, were more sympathetic and kinder than they had been of yore.
Yet as I looked at myself in the glass, and saw the gray threads in my hair and beard, I felt to-night as though I had reached the summit of the hill of life, and was beginning the long descent down the other side. Yes, to-night I realized that I was beginning to be an old man, with the best in life behind me.
I knew not what the night or morrow held in store for me, but the struggle and toil and suffering of the last year had taught me patience; the fire of youth had burned out, and I would wait, and the morrow would tell.
Oliver had already dressed himself; young and comely he stood there, and I, for the moment, envied him his youth and buoyancy.
Together we descended the stairs, and passed into the great dining hall; both of the large sliding doors between the dining and front room had been thrown back, and now there was but one immense room.
The candlelight that night streamed down on a strange and motley crew. Down the great room there ran three long tables; around them there sat the entire crew of the ship, clad in the silks and satins of the nobles of Europe; with fine collars of lace and gold about their bronzed throats; their long hair perfumed and scented; their faces those of every nationality. It was a scene such as I have never witnessed before or since.
At a small table placed at the head of the room sat DeNortier, stroking his black beard. He arose as we entered.
"Welcome!" he cried. "Welcome to the last revel! Gentlemen, to-morrow we sail for the Spanish Main; who knows how many of us will ever return? Come, be seated here with me," and he motioned us to seats at his table.
There was only one vacant chair left; he noticed my glance at it.
"An old friend, detained by important business; he will not be here to-night. I am sure that thou must regret it," and he grinned at me.
"It is perhaps best that he did not come," I answered. "The night air possibly would not agree with him;" for I guessed that he referred to Dunraven.
He did not answer me, but beat upon his table for silence. The hubbub and noise ceased, and he arose to his feet, goblet in hand.
"My men," he said, "we go on a voyage long and perilous; I know not how many will meet with us again. When we return, I leave thee forever; Davis shall take my place, and be thy chief. I shall return to the Old World and dwell in peace. But before we drink to our voyage, I have one toast that I will give thee in honor of our guest, the Englishman. I give thee the Virgin Queen, Elizabeth of England!—may her years be full of glory and happiness!"
The men had arisen to their feet, glasses in hand; many of them were Englishmen, and, degraded and besotten as they were, they still felt a love for old England and a pride in the achievements of her Queen, whose name and fame rang around the world. As DeNortier ceased, there arose a shout that made the very candles upon the wall flicker in their sockets; once, twice, thrice it rose and fell, like the deep beat of the surf upon the beach—then it died out.
I arose to my feet, cup in hand.
"My men," I said, "I thank thee in the name of the Queen for thy courtesy, and would give thee in return—King Philip of Spain!"
The Spaniards drank it with a cheer, but it was nothing like the shout that had greeted the name of Elizabeth.
Then there were toasts of every sort and kind; the noise at the long tables arose to an uproar as some toast was drank of more than usual interest.
I glanced down the tables where the men sat, for we took no part in their merriment, but sat at our own table, quiet and composed. There were the spoils of many a galleon upon the board; goblets and drinking cups of gold and silver; candlesticks and vessels from the monasteries; richly embroidered altar cloths spread the long tables; and the heavy carved chairs of the priests seated the pirates at their revel. Behind the tables the natives, soft-footed and silent, filled the glasses as oft as they were emptied.
Without the night, quiet and silent, brooded; within the lights, the laughter, the song—revelry held high carnival. To-morrow they would sail, and who knew how many would return? They would feast to-night; what mattered the morrow, which might hold for them the halter? But to-night—ah, yes!—to-night was theirs, and the night was young yet; fill up again.
A tall fellow, his face flushed with the wine he had drunk, was roaring out a wanton love song, his fellows keeping time to the tune with their glasses upon the board. He finished amidst a storm of cheers and applause. Far down the table one of the men had already fallen forward upon the board, overcome by the wine that he had poured down.
A feeling of anxiety came over me; what were not the rogues capable of, when later in the night they should be crazed by the liquor that they had drunk, with nothing to hold them in check except the fear of their chief, and he was but one man, no matter how resolute and determined? What could he do against two hundred and fifty drunken, crazed wretches, hardened to every scene of misery and woe, who feared neither God nor man? Would they not, when they had reached the pitch of frenzy, turn upon Oliver and myself, and vent their fury upon us? For myself, I cared not, but I feared for the boy.
DeNortier must have seen the thought upon my face as I turned to him, for he spoke immediately.
"Have no fear," he said. "I have often had such revels before, and no harm came of it; my men know my hand too well to attempt to anger me."
"For myself, I fear not," I answered. "My only fear was for the boy; I would not have him harmed." And I turned my head to look at Oliver, who with wide eyes was surveying the scene before him.
"Thou needst not worry," he replied; "he is as safe as though he were in his father's house."
"Where is the priest?" I asked. "It is strange that he is not here. I would have thought that he would be the first to come."
The Count smiled. "I looked to see him here too," he answered, "but perhaps he would not come for fear that thou wouldst kill him. He fears thee as though thou wert the foul fiend himself," and he finished with a laugh.
"He has good cause to," I said grimly. "If I had but given him his deserts, he would have been now where no revelry could disturb him."
"He is a strange fellow," DeNortier said musingly, as though half to himself, stroking his pointed black beard. "I picked him up in London, five years ago; he had been expelled from the monastery for drunkenness, and was adrift without chart or compass, when I discovered him. But he has well requited me for my trouble, for he is a useful fellow, and true as steel to me."
I looked at him; it might be that I could win him to my side, or if I could but make him distrust Dunraven, it would be a good night's work.
"Be not so sure of that," I answered.
He started and peered at me, a look of suspicion upon his face.
"Why dost thou say that?" he cried. "Dost know aught of what thou speakest?"
I leaned back in my chair, and regarded him with a cold smile.
"Am I a child, that I speak of what I know not of?" I said.
The look of suspicion deepened upon his face; then there came another, a look of anger.
He spoke: "Show me some proof of that which thou sayest, Sir Thomas; not that I doubt thy word, but this is a matter of importance that thou talkest of, and not to be lightly decided."
"And of what advantage will this be to me?" I asked. "Why should I go to the trouble, if it is to be of no benefit to me?"
He answered me, speaking slowly:
"It is of more importance than thou mayest think; thou art held here by my power; did I but say the word thou shouldst go scot-free. Would that be of advantage to thee? Could I think that the fat rogue played me false, I would soon settle his fate. But why should he do that? It would not be to his advantage, and he knows too well where his bread lies to cut his own throat. His hopes are all based upon me; take me away, and they fall to the ground. No, thou art mistaken, it could not be so."
"Thou hast forgotten that Dunraven is rich and powerful; that he has gold in abundance to reward his servants and tools. He wishes to keep an eye upon thee, as well as myself. Perhaps he thinks that thou mightst become a dangerous rival to him, or mightst be tempted to play him false. What better spy could he choose on us both than Father Francis?" I gazed at him, a smile of triumph upon my face.
He brought down his fist upon the table with a blow that made the glasses ring.
"Show me the proof!" he cried—"but the proof, and then I shall know how to act."
"Oliver," I said, turning to the boy, "go up into my room; move that heavy chest which stands next the wall, and bring down to me the bundle of papers that thou findest behind it."
He arose, and ran lightly from the room. I sat quietly in my seat, and gazed at the Spaniard.
"What effect will this have upon my detention?" I asked. "Wilt thou free me?"
"I shall know better how to answer when I see the papers," he replied hoarsely.
The noise at the tables had redoubled. One of the seamen had brought out a couple of flutes and was urging a short, squat sailor to give them the sword dance. After much pressing by his friends, and after drinking off a couple of glasses of wine, "only to steady his nerves a bit," as he informed them, he announced that he was ready to begin.
A space was cleared in the middle of the room, and in it a dozen swords were fastened, blades upward. The man had taken off his shoes, and stood in his stocking feet, his eyes covered with a cloth.
The flute struck up a wild, barbarous air, and springing into the midst of the swords he began to dance, while the men crowded eagerly around him. Up he went, turning, twisting, whirling, all the while chanting a low savage tune, now leaping to the right, now to the left, but always alighting in the space, perhaps four inches in width, that lay between each sword. Now advancing, now retreating, always evading the perilous blades with a skill that was marvelous to me, when I thought of the cloth over his eyes.
A loud burst of music; he had finished, and was untying the bandage from about his face, midst the cries, "Well done!" of his companions.
And now the outer door opened, and from the darkness outside an Indian appeared, leading by a rope a tame bear. Often had I seen the animal about the native settlement. He was a huge, clumsy, good-natured brute, and as he stood in the middle of the room sniffing the air, his little eyes blinking in the light, his head rolling from side to side, he looked anything but dangerous. His master had taught him to wrestle, and as the animal stood erect on the floor, I saw one of the seamen stripping off his doublet to struggle with him.
The Indian untied the rope from about the brute's head.
"The Señor had best treat him gently to-night," he said in his native tongue to the sailor as he advanced, "for he has been in an ugly humor all day, and it has been only within the last few moments that I have been able to approach him."
I remonstrated with DeNortier.
"The man had best not wrestle with the bear to-night," I said. "The Indian says that he is in an ugly humor, and he might do the sailor a harm."
The Count shrugged his shoulders.
"The brute does not look dangerous," he answered. "I have seen him around here for more than a year, and never have I known him to do any mischief."
I looked at the beast again; truly he did not look dangerous. To-night he seemed the same good-humored giant that he had ever been; only he was a little restless, perhaps the light and the unaccustomed crowd made him so. He was a tremendous fellow, standing six feet or more on his hind legs, and with his long curved paws, he could tear a man to pieces as if he were a leaf, should he become infuriated.
The sailor was ready, and advanced to meet the bear. He was as fine a specimen of mankind as the brute was of the animal creation—tall, broad-shouldered, with big corded arms, upon which the great muscles stood out like the ivy upon some gigantic oak. He might well have stood for a statue representing the brute strength of man.
The beast did not seem disposed to meet his antagonist, and it was only by repeated blows with his stick that his master could persuade him to advance toward the seaman, and then he did so very unwillingly.
The sailor threw his arms around the unresisting animal, and bore down his great weight upon him; with a crash they went down, the man upon the bear. The pirate arose lightly in an instant, but the beast lay still, as if stunned by the fall. Angered by the easy overthrow of his pet, the native brought down his heavy stick with a dull thud upon the bear. With a hoarse growl, he sprang to his feet, his little eyes flashing fire, his tongue protruding from his teeth.
"Do not approach him!" I cried out to the sailor.
But he, flushed with his easy victory and by the wine he had drunk, and goaded on by the cheers of his fellows, would not listen to me. With an oath he sprang forward, wrapped his arms about the brute again, and now followed a terrible struggle.
The bear had wound his paws around the assailant's body, and to and fro they moved, each endeavoring to throw the other. Twice, incredible as it may seem, the man had put forth all of his bull strength, and the bear had tottered—had almost fallen—but each time he had recovered himself, and had borne the man back again. Both times the men had raised a cheer as the bear had staggered, and each time silence had fallen upon them as the brute had hurled back their favorite.
And now they were both becoming exhausted by the fury of the struggle. The great drops of sweat stood out upon the head and arms of the man, his shoulders heaved with the effort—but he was game; the little eyes of the brute had grown dull and glassy, he was plainly tired. It was time for the thing to stop. I had already opened my mouth to DeNortier, to ask him to put a stop to this, when the end came.
The brute had almost ceased to struggle, and his victorious antagonist was bending him backwards, when suddenly the bear stepped upon one of the swords, which still lay edge upwards upon the floor, where the dancer had left them. With a grunt of anger he straightened himself, his eyes flashed fire; plainly his brute mind in some way connected his assailant with the pain. In an instant he tightened his grasp about the man's body, tighter, tighter, tighter; and even as a score sprang forward to drag him from his prey, there was a dull crunch, and the man bent double, fell limp and lifeless to the floor, crushed to death in the terrible paws of his foe.
For an instant the beast stood there erect, his eyes upon the man as he lay at his feet; then a dozen blades leaped from their sheaths, and the seamen were upon him. The light flashed upon their swords for an instant—then the beast fell, pierced in a dozen places, and a convulsion passed over him.
The Indian, in a torrent of tears, threw himself upon his body. "Pepin!" he moaned, "they have killed thee—Pepin, speak to me."
The dying beast opened his eyes, as though called back to life by the voice of one whom he loved; a low grunt of pleasure came from him as he recognized his master. Raising his muzzle, he rubbed it against the Indian's face; then the head fell back upon the floor, a low whine, and he lay still.
The seamen had gathered around the body of their companion, who lay upon the floor where he had fallen. One of their number, who possessed some knowledge of medicine, knelt beside him; rising, he shook his head sadly. "He is dead," he said in a low voice.
DeNortier had arisen, and following him, I passed down to where the sailor lay. The face of the man was stern and set, as he had looked when he was wrestling with the animal. He had had no time for preparation; as he lived, so had he also died. We looked at him for a moment. Only a few brief minutes before he had been among us, in the prime of his magnificent manhood; now he lay there cold and stiff, fit food for the worms and foul reptiles of the earth.
Turning to the pirates, the Count ordered them to remove both the man and the beast, and he made his way back to his seat without so much as another glance. I lingered a moment where the Indian lay upon the body of the animal, his arm locked about its rough head. Here was love, deep and deathless.
The rough sailors were removing the body of one whom they had eaten and caroused with, one who had faced death with them many a time, a comrade and friend, and yet they knew no such love as this. True they stepped softly and spoke in low voices, but that was out of their awe for the unknown; of that cold hand which had beckoned to one with whom they had feasted to leave the board, and he could but obey.
But the poor untaught savage loved the wild beast whom he had trained and fed. His love was something higher, finer, nobler than they could know; and treading softly, I stood by his side with uncovered head and dropped a coin beside him. But he did not move, and quietly I passed back to where DeNortier sat.
Some wise man hath said truly that "in the midst of life we are in death." He was one who knew of the secrets of the soul, had drank deep of the wine of understanding, and who realized how uncertain is our brief hour.
They had carried out both the sailor and the bear, together with the Indian, who had refused to leave his pet, when the door opened and Oliver appeared, the package in his hand.
"I would have returned sooner," he panted, as he extended it towards me, "but the chest was heavy, and I had much work to move it; for the package had slipped under the bottom, and it was some time before I could discover where it lay."
"Why didst thou not call for aid?" I asked, as I cut the cord with which it was secured.
"It was not necessary," he answered, his eye upon me; plainly he thought that I had some reason for remaining behind.
"Here is the proof," I said, as I turned to the Count and laid the bundle of papers upon the table.
It contained the diary and all the notes, save that of my lady, which had lain next my heart ever since I had discovered it. He took the package, and opening it, began methodically to read the papers.
Oliver and myself had resumed our seats, to await the result of DeNortier's investigation. I glanced down the long tables; the men had taken their seats, but, hardened as they were, the tragedy had cast a gloom over their spirits, and they sat in silence, drinking deeply of the wine, only speaking softly among themselves. Their silence, deep and unbroken, was a strange contrast to the mirth and turmoil that only a few minutes before had rung through the room.
There is something in silence that oppresses the mind; we can bear the noise and roar with a good grace, but silence is a quality that strikes dismay within the breast of man. To-night, as I gazed upon these silent men, I felt a thrill of something pass over me—'twas not fear, it was more like dread, that foe I had seldom experienced since I came to man's estate. They were dangerous thus; in the feasting and revelry they had not had time to plot, but now they were silent and had the opportunity.
I was now aroused by Oliver, who caught my sleeve.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Why have the men grown so silent?"
I whispered to him what had happened.
"Awful," he murmured, as he covered his face with his hands, "I am glad that I missed the sight."
The pirate had spoken not a word since he had taken the papers. Slowly, carefully, he glanced over them one by one, but now he had finished. With an oath, he threw them from the table.
"Thou didst speak truth, Sir Thomas," he said. "He is false!—false as hell! And I trusted him, and believed him devoted to me. All the while he played spy upon me, and reported every motion to his master, Lord Dunraven. He shall pay dear for this," he continued, his voice rising, "for I will hang him as high as Haman. "Thou art free," he said, looking at me, "both thou and the lad. We will join forces against my lord, fool that he is to think he could deceive me thus; but I will settle with him, once and for all. Come," he continued, "this is to be thy last night here. Thou art free—free as the wind. To-morrow we will talk of plans to outwit Dunraven, and to punish this dog, the priest—but to-night we will drink. Fill up thy glass, both thou and the lad. Here is confusion to Lord Dunraven, and success to all his foes!"
"I drink that toast with a good grace," I said, and I drained the brimming goblet, as did Oliver also.
And now the men had resumed their revelry. They had drunk deep, several of them had fallen under the table, and their fellows, flagons in hand, were now roaring out right lustily the chorus of a drinking song. Many of the glasses had been overturned, and the wine ran in little rivulets over the costly covering of the table; but with their faces lit up with mirth, they heeded it not. Their voices rose to a yell that deafened my ears; then died out—they had finished the song.
DeNortier was drinking deep; fooled in his most trusty man, and chagrined and vexed, to hide his anger he had poured down goblet after goblet of the wine. It was in vain I tried to check him; he was deaf to all my words of warning, and heard me unmoved, as without a moment's hesitation he kept up his debauchery. Although his head was as marble, it would have been more than human if the wine had not begun to tell on him. He said nothing, but silently drank again and again, as though he were an automaton.
I had sipped my wine sparingly, as had also Oliver; for I knew not how the drunken debauchery would end. I could not withdraw as yet, but as soon as DeNortier lost consciousness, as he was sure to do in a few moments if he kept up his mad course, I had determined to take Oliver, and barricade ourselves in our room, where we would be safe until the men became sober and the Count was himself.
And now a whisper circulated among the pirates, who, keyed up to a drunken frenzy by the wine they had drunk, were but looking for someone to vent their insane rage upon, and were ripe for any mischief. I had heard the whispered word: "What do these Englishmen as the guests of our captain? Let us bind them, and string them up to the nearest tree. They are intermeddlers, and have no business in our midst." I heard a burly ruffian whisper this to his neighbor, and saw him pass it on, until now it had gone around the table, and all eyes were turned to me.
They had seen me practice with the sword, and shoot with the musketoon; plainly they hesitated before attacking so formidable a foe. But all they needed was a few more glasses to nerve them up to the work; then, careless of consequences, they would rush upon Oliver and myself and overpower us by sheer force of numbers.
The time had come for me to retire; for DeNortier was asleep, and could take no offense when he found out later what I had done. Bending over, I whispered to the lad to rise and leave the room.
The Count stirred at the sound of my low tones; his head had fallen upon the table and he was wrapped in a drunken sleep, but even as we moved to rise, he staggered to his feet, his eyes red and bloodshot.
"Up, every man!" he cried to his crew. "Up and drink one last toast with me! Fill high the goblets! It is the last that we shall drink together, and the best."
Habit is near akin to nature; and the habit of obedience brought every one of these drunken brutes to his feet, cups in hand. There, lurching and tipsy, they stood.
The Count had filled his goblet high, and as he did so his eye fell upon us where we sat.
"Up, my noble ally!" he cried. "I give a toast that thou canst not refuse. Why sittest thou silent? Up, I say!"
Whispering to Oliver to rise, I stood up, cup in hand. We would leave when we had drunk this toast, as it would take only a few minutes, and I did not care to offend the Count.
He waited, swaying to and fro, until we had arisen, and then, steadying himself against the table, he looked around.
It was a wild and ungodly sight. One of the great tables had fallen with a crash, and the wine ran down the room in a stream, and over the pirates, as they lay in sodden slumber upon the floor. Some of the candles had burned down to the sockets and gone out; the blood was clotted upon the floor where the man and bear had fallen and died. The chairs lay strewn all about the floor; and the ruffian crew laughed in drunken glee as they swayed, goblet in hand. DeNortier, drunken and solemn, gazed at me, as he reeled opposite. Oliver and myself were the only sober men in the room.
"I give thee a toast," he repeated, a strange smile upon his face. "A lady, the fairest and loveliest upon the earth! My bride—for I am soon to wed," he continued, not noticing the drunken exclamations of surprise which came from the men, "and the lady is the most beautiful in England. Drink! Drink to the noble bride!—drink to the Lady Margaret Carroll!"
I leaned forward, and before he could stir, I gave him a blow with my fist, which sent him sprawling backwards upon the floor. A loud cry from Oliver, and turning quickly, my eyes fell upon the priest, Father Francis, who had entered, and stood by one of the great tables in the room.
Even as I turned, he caught up one of the heavy gold drinking cups and hurled it full at me. I attempted to dodge it—but too late; with a crash, it struck me upon the forehead, and I went down, as though cuffed by the very hand of Hercules himself.
The cold morning light shone through the windows and lit up the room about me. It fell upon the walls, all spotted and stained with wine; upon the overturned tables and the golden goblets, which lay here and there upon the floor; upon the figures of the pirates, as they snored where they had fallen among the chairs in last night's bout.
I was lying flat upon the floor where I had been struck down by the goblet thrown by the priest. Putting my hand to my head, I felt a great bruise upon my forehead, which was clotted with blood. Sitting up upon the floor, I gazed around me; the Count was nowhere to be seen, nor was Oliver.
A sound at the door caught my ear, and I looked toward it—ye gods, did my mind wander? There standing sword in hand, looking into the room, his men behind him, stood my old acquaintance and sometime friend, Sir Francis Drake.
"Francis!" I joyfully cried, "Francis!—thou here?"
He started, a look of surprise upon his face.
"I could swear that I had heard that voice before," he muttered to himself, his eyes glancing down upon the fantastic scene upon the floor until it fell upon me, as I sat up among the slumbering pirates, still weak and faint from the blow that the sneaking priest had dealt me.
He looked at my face a moment—that gayly dressed gallant, with the bloodstained ruff and sober face, where had he seen him before?
A look of recognition came into his eyes.
"'Fore God!" he shouted in sudden joy, "it is Sir Thomas Winchester!" Then throwing up his hands sorrowfully, he cried: "Then it is true! Would to God I had not seen it!" and he turned his face away, as though to shut me from his sight.
"What's true?" I exclaimed, disappointed and alarmed at the change in his countenance, and painfully I staggered to my feet and faced him.
"That thou hast joined these pirates," he answered. "The report was circulated in London after thy disappearance, but thy friends would not credit such a tale. Never would I have believed it, had I not seen thee with mine own eyes," and he finished with a groan.
"Art thou so easily persuaded to think ill of one whom thou didst once believe in and trust?" I answered coldly, for in truth I was grieved and wounded that he should so readily think this of me. "Shame on thee, Sir Francis! Is it the part of a man to convict on such slight testimony and without a hearing? A few idle words of an empty brain, and thou wouldst turn thy back forever upon me, and tarnish the good name of a man of noble family, and one whom thou didst once love," and I looked at him indignantly.
"Slight testimony," he replied bitterly. "What wouldst thou call overwhelming then, if this is but slight? Lo! I look into the hall where the ruffians held their drunken feast last night, and I find thee here on the floor with them. Yes, by the saints, thou hast on the very sword of Sir Samuel Morton, who sailed away two years ago to search for gold on the coast of Peru, and who never returned. It was rumored that he was slain by the hand of Count DeNortier. I cannot be mistaken, for oft have I seen the sword in London. It is of a curious design, and thou couldst search the world over and find no other like unto it," and he pointed to the gold-hilted sword that lay at my side.
A young gallant had entered the room behind Drake, and now stood regarding me with a supercilious air.
"He even wears the gray silk doublet of Sir Samuel!" he lisped breathlessly. "Thou didst see it at the Queen's palace, Sir Francis, when Sir Samuel appeared in it that night for the first time, and how the doublet was praised for the beauty of the cloth and the shape of the garment. As for the sword, there are a dozen gentlemen here who can swear to it."
He was a dainty creature, this gentleman who had spoken, slender, wiry, with a colorless face, and little black beard; his doublet and hose all of the latest cut, and made of the finest material. He might have just stepped out of some London coffee-house instead of a ship commanded by the rough soldier Drake.
I turned my face towards Drake with a bitter look of scorn.
"If thou believest not the word of a gentleman, ask some of these men," I said. "Even they, besotted as they are, have left in them some sparks of justice; they will tell thee that I was held a prisoner here against my will and had naught to do with their adventures," and I seated myself in one of the carved chairs.
"A likely story indeed for one to believe!" the gallant behind Drake cried out shrilly.
"Peace, Sir James Mortimer!" said Sir Francis. "Prick one of yonder snoring rogues with thy sword, and see what he will say about the man. In truth I am loath to believe ill of one, who, when I knew him, ever bore himself gallantly and nobly. But we will see," and he seated himself, with a sigh.
His men were moving about the room, picking up the weapons from the floor and binding the prostrate pirates hand and foot.
Suddenly I remembered I had not seen DeNortier nor Oliver. Where were they; had harm befallen the lad?
"Sir Francis," I said, "there is a lad here, who has been a fellow captive with me. I should grieve if aught had befallen him, and I do not see him here. Hast thou seen a tall, fair, smooth-faced lad, with golden hair?"
"Aye," he answered, "we caught him outside with drawn sword, after the fat priest who guided us here. Faith! It is well that we came when we did. A moment—and then the bulky rogue had been in paradise, for the lad had caught and was about to slay him."
So it was Francis who had betrayed the pirates; this would account for his long absence. He was probably dickering then with Drake to deliver his comrades into the Englishmen's hands, and what better time could he choose than when they drank and caroused? 'Twas an idea worthy of such a rogue, and even as I thought of it the door opened and Father Francis glided in.
He leered at me in the old way.
"How is the noble sir this fine morning?" he cried. "Ah, he will sail no more the blue seas to scuttle the rich galleons! 'Tis a pity, but all good things must cease," and he heaved a mock sigh, with a rueful countenance.
"Priest," said Drake, "listen, and answer me truly. What part did Sir Thomas Winchester take in these enterprises of which thou dost speak?"
I interrupted him.
"It is useless to question this rogue, for I have no more bitter enemy than he is. Why, he even tried to murder me as I slept."
The priest still looked at me, a smile upon his face, the look of a cat as he plays with a mouse in his paws. Here was a triumph, golden and pleasant, surpassing all his dreams—and revenge was sweet. He had long waited for such a moment as this; had lain awake at night to plot how he would achieve it, and now the time had come.
He spoke deliberately, the words coming slowly from his lips:
"Ah, Sir Francis! the gentleman does not like me. Oft have I remonstrated with him at his deeds of blood, but he turned ever a deaf ear to me. I implored him, when in cold blood he slew Sir Samuel Morton, to spare his life, but he would not. I saved from his foul clutches a beautiful Spanish maid that he had marked out for his prey, and since then he has hated me with the fury of a demon. Have I not many a time prayed for him until morning? Prayed that the light might break into his darkened soul, and that he, even then, would return again into the bosom of Mother Church; but he would have none of it. I forgive thee freely for all the threats and curses that thou hast heaped upon this weak head of mine, and would fain refrain from testifying against thee, but duty, Sir Thomas—my duty will not allow me to shrink from this painful task," and he groaned piously. "Ah! how I have longed to stop thee in thy career of blood and crime, and now, through my prayers, I have been made the humble instrument of thy overthrowal. Sir Thomas, I have implored, but thou didst drive me from thee. Truly the wicked have fallen into the pit that they digged," and he cast up his eyes with a look of patient suffering, beautiful to behold, upon his features.
"Peace, thou ruffian!" I cried, "or as I live, I will beat out thy brains with the hilt of my sword," and I made as though to rise.
With a loud yell he rushed through the door.
A group of gentlemen had entered, and now stood around Sir Francis as he sat at the small table, his fingers idly drumming upon it, and his eyes upon my face. As they gathered around him, I saw several that I knew. There was Sir William Stone, old and bald; Henry DeGarner, with his disdainful air; Captain Martin Lane in his armor; the little coxcomb, Sir James Mortimer; Peter Graham, and some six or eight other gentlemen—men whom I did not know—who looked at me coldly, and whispered among themselves.
The pirates had been dragged to their feet; their hands were tied behind them, and they now stood in a long line against the wall.
Sir Francis turned to them.
"What of the Englishman, Sir Thomas Winchester?" he inquired. "Did he engage in the expeditions with thee, or did he remain here as a captive?"
They raised a loud shout.
"He is the ringleader," they cried as though with one voice. "Did he not slay Sir Samuel Morton?" one cried, midst the approval of his fellows. "He wears his doublet now!" another shouted. "And his sword!" roared another. "He knew no mercy!" screamed a burly villain in a green doublet. "He would have taken the Spanish maid had not the priest dissuaded him," said another.
Drake turned to me; his face had hardened.
"What more couldst thou ask, Sir Thomas? They corroborate the priest in every detail with one accord. Here is evidence enough to hang an angel of light."
Then turning to old Sir William Stone.
"Take them out, Sir William," he cried; "stand them up against the wall, and shoot them down. As for thee, Sir Thomas, thou shalt go back with me to England, and let the Queen pass upon thy fate."
"One word," I said, "there is among them the lad Oliver Gates; he is but a boy, fresh and innocent, and has had naught to do with these deeds of which the ruffians speak. I would not that he should suffer harm."
"He is safe," he answered, "and shall go back to England with thee. Hast thou the lad secured outside, Sir William?"
"Aye," rejoined the grim old soldier. "And now right about, you rogues." And he marched them outside, surrounded by his men.
We sat in silence a few minutes—a volley of shots, and they had passed into eternity, the lie fresh upon their lips.
This was the priest's work that the men should testify against me. Dunraven had doubtless planned the scheme, and had through Francis paid these men to swear against me, telling them, not indeed that they would fall into the hands of Drake, but had arranged so that whatever happened they would swear away my life.
They had seen the priest in favor, their promise had come back to their minds, and they thought—or perhaps he had promised beforehand—that at all events he would save their lives; and so they had spoken as he had commanded them. The end had come, before they could retreat.
Drake glanced up as the sound of the musketoons died away.
"Hast thou aught to say for thyself?" he asked.
"Simply that I am innocent," I answered. "I have been a captive here for months, and have had naught to do with the forays of these men. The priest is my enemy; these men swore as they did by his command. If thou dost not believe me, ask the boy Oliver Gates."
I said naught of Dunraven, for I knew that if I did it would simply make my tale seem the more incredible; and, too, I said naught of my adventures, for I saw that he would not believe me. I would save that for the ear of the Queen herself.
Sir James Mortimer leaned over to Drake, and murmured:
"Thou dost remember that the priest warned us of the lad, that he was a sworn henchman of this man.
"True, Sir James," Drake answered; then turning to me, "Thou surely dost not expect me to believe this, Sir Thomas?"
I arose and bowed.
"In that event, I wait only to be shown the room in which I am to be confined," I said.
Unbuckling my sword, I laid it sheathed upon the table.
"Can I leave it in thy hands until I claim it again?" I asked. "I have endeavored to keep the blade bright and spotless since I have worn it. Some day, when I have cleared myself from this false charge, I will ask it back from thee."
He bowed his head gravely.
"When thou askest for it again, it shall be thine. I pray God that thou mayst be innocent of this charge, but——" and he shook his head gloomily.
And so between two men I passed up the great stairs and into the room which I had left last night; the star of the pirates had waned and set for aye, and the isle was now in the power of the English. Events had transpired quickly, but still I was a prisoner. The door closed, and I heard the key turn in the lock.
Someone ran forward from the corner of the room—it was Oliver, his face radiant with delight.
"It is thou!" he cried. "I had not thought to see thee again," and he almost embraced me in his joy.
I put forward my rough hand and stroked his yellow curls, as though he were a babe and I his mother.
"Ah, lad, we are still prisoners," I said mournfully.
"Yes," he replied, "but we are both alive, and that is more than I had hoped for at one time. When the priest felled thee with the cup, I whipped out my sword and ran at him. He turned and fled out of the door with me at his heels; catching his foot on a stone, he tripped and fell. I was upon him before he could arise. Another moment—and it would all have been over. When lo! these men arose from the ground around us, where they had been lying, and overpowered me. Tying my hands, they took my sword away, and bringing me up to this room, guided by the priest, they unbound and left me. I did not know what had become of thee, and was almost mad with anxiety when thou, too, wert brought in."
"What of DeNortier?" I asked. "He was not below when Drake took the hall."
The lad grinned at me.
"I left him on the floor, where thy buffet had sprawled him, for he was as though dead when I ran after the priest."
"He must have recovered himself and escaped," I said. "He is as slippery and cunning as a fox, and doubtless he lies hidden in some of his secret caves about here."
"What was the volley that I heard but a minute ago?" he asked.
I seated myself upon a chair, and crossed my legs comfortably.
"'Twas the death of the pirates. Drake sent them out and put an end to them in short order."
"And then we will both be set free!" he cried. "Why do they keep us here?"
"The fates fight against us," I answered. "The priest has sworn, and the men, bought by him, have corroborated his statement, that I was the ringleader of the pirates; that I slew Sir Samuel Morton, and I know not what else. To bear them out, it seems that the clothes I have on and the sword that I wore belonged to Morton. They all recognize them, and have persuaded Drake that I am guilty," and I arose and began to pace the floor.
"Infamous!" the boy cried indignantly. "But I will tell them the truth," and he arose.
"It is useless," I replied sadly. "The priest has told them that thou art a boon companion of mine, and they will believe naught that thou wouldst say. In truth it begins to look like the halter. I care not for myself, for I have run my race, but thou art young and thy life lies before thee. I would mourn should harm befall thee. It may be that Drake will free thee, and I will see what can be done."
The lad had risen, and stood facing me, his eyes flashing fire.
"And dost thou think that I would take my own life, when thou dost lose thine? I owe mine to thee—dost think that I would leave thee?"
The moisture stood in my eyes as I looked at him. When all others had deserted me, he had stood faithful and true; there was left some drop of balm in existence while it held such souls as this, few though they be.
"I shall not drive thee away," I said smilingly, "for I am but too glad to have thee with me."
An hour—two—and then the door opened, and Stone entered.
"Sir Francis wishes to see both of you," he said.
We followed him down into the room where Drake sat alone. He motioned us to chairs.
"Sir Thomas," he said, "dost thou, on the honor of a gentleman, know where the plunder of DeNortier is hidden? If either of you will but tell me, you shall have a liberal share, and so can perhaps buy your liberty from the Queen."
"Sir Francis," I answered, "I know naught of it; none but the Count knew where it was concealed."
"And he has escaped," he muttered. "I regret that I must leave without finding the gold, but time is precious. It may be that this fellow will bring a swarm about our ears, did I but linger here a day. The Spaniards would be but too glad of an excuse to repay me for the blows that I have struck them before now, and we have but one ship. No, we must go," and he arose.
"And now, gentlemen, give me but your word, that you will not attempt to escape, and you shall be free to come and go without a guard."
"Thou hast it," I answered; "that is if Oliver assents," and I looked at the boy.
"Aye," he said, "if Sir Thomas gives the word, so will I."
Drake walked over to the window and looked out, his back towards us.
The lad plucked my sleeve.
"Look," he whispered, "everything of value has been taken by these vandals."
I glanced around me; it was true. The gold and silver goblets, the candlesticks of precious metal, the draperies and statues, the paintings and ornaments, even the very skins and rugs upon the floor were gone. Naught but the heavy furniture remained. I doubted not that they would take that, did they but have a way to carry it on the ship. I glanced through the open door, it was the same in the other room; even as I looked, I saw the men descending the stairs, bringing the booty from above and stripping the hall as they passed through.
Drake had made a clean job of it, yet even now he mourned because he could not discover the treasure of DeNortier. He turned from the window.
"'Tis a pity that thou dost not know where the treasure is hidden," he said. "The gold would have more weight with Elizabeth in freeing thee, than would the innocence of Saint George himself," and with these words he waited silently a moment to see what effect they would have upon me.
But I stood cold and unmoved, and growling out indistinctly a word or two, which I could not understand, he picked up his hat and strode away.
I felt a touch upon my arm; looking around, I saw Father Francis behind me.
"Dog!" I shouted, "and dost thou think to slink here thus to taunt me, and after thou hast sworn away my life?" and with a threatening look, I lifted my clenched fist.
"Hush!" he whispered, drawing nearer to me, his face grave and serious. "I have something of importance for thy ear alone. Come but into the next room. What! And when thy very life hangs in my hands, and I can save thee at a word? I offer to say that word even now for thee, and set thee and the lad free." And he pointed to Oliver, who upon seeing the priest had turned his back, and was gazing intently out of the window.
"Thy life is thine own, to throw away as thou choosest," he continued, "but the boy, so young and innocent—wouldst thou send him to his death? His blood would be upon thy head."
I hesitated, it would take but a moment after all, and I would save Oliver if I could.
"I will listen to thee," I finally replied, "but look thee—beware how thou dost trifle with me. Thou shalt pay dearly for it, if thou doest so," and I looked at him threateningly.
"I do not seek to trifle," he answered. "I talk but business for thee alone. Come!" and he crossed into the next room.
Hesitating I followed, and seated myself in a chair opposite him, which the plunderers had left.
"Out with it!" I cried impatiently. "Say quickly what thou wouldst and waste no time about it!"
"A moment," he mumbled, "only a moment. Dost know this handwriting?" And running his hand into the folds of his robe he brought out a paper and held it out to me.
Did I know it? Would I know my own heart beats, as they throbbed within my breast? I knew that delicate flowing hand. Did not there lie next my heart at that moment a yellow paper in the same writing?
I took it in my hand, and looking at its address a moment, broke the seal and opened it. It was addressed to Lord Dunraven, and ran as follows:
London, England.
Nov. 15, 1587.Lord Dunraven,
London, England.My Dear Lord:
I received thy note only a few moments ago and make haste to answer it. I have thought over thy flattering offer, in which with vows of eternal love thou askest me to be thy wife. Thou dost not know how much this means to a woman. Man has much else; love in his life plays but a little part, and if he should be disappointed, he has his estate, his business, and his friends. He can sail the wide seas, and with his sword carve out for himself a name and fortune. But a woman, if she mistakes the tinsel for pure gold—ah! hers is a wrecked and miserable existence; there is naught but sorrow left for her. I wonder if thou dost realize this, James? That I am putting into thy hands, trustingly and unafraid, my life, my love, my all? Dost thou appreciate the gravity of this step that I am taking? I am afraid that thou dost not, but I will hope, and try to believe that thou wilt come to a future realization of all that this must mean to me, and that thy love will ever be all that thou sayest it is. And so my answer is—yes. Good-night,
Margaret.
I looked at the paper in my hands; from it there floated that subtle odor that so often heralded the approach of my lady. I could not mistake that delicate perfume, nor the paper, for there were the dainty initials intertwined at the top of the sheet—M. C. Yes, it was in her handwriting—it was hers! Every letter seemed branded into my brain with a hand of fire. My head swam. So this was the last blow; cast off and spurned by my family; kidnaped and detained in captivity; my life in hourly danger—so that when I lay down at night I knew not whether I would awake again—scorned and distrusted by my friends; condemned to die as a pirate, alone, friendless—my sun about to set in disgrace and despair.
Yet I could bear all these things, sustained by my love and trust for her when all else failed. She was to me as the North Star to the storm-tossed mariner, ever calm, serene, lovely—what though she gleamed far away and distant, I could yet see her in memory and guide by her my tempest-tossed bark.
When that light failed, then indeed I was adrift without chart and compass, at the mercy of the winds and waves. This was the last drop that filled my cup to overflowing. There was naught left for me—all was lost! Night, black and inpenetrable, seemed to rise before my tortured eyes; the roll of the ocean beat and moaned in my ears; something within me seemed to snap and break; my breath choked and ceased; I dropped upon the floor, and all else was a blank to me.
Someone was sprinkling water upon my face, and looking up, I saw bending anxiously over me the priest, a look of concern upon his red face.
"Leave me," I moaned. "Canst thou not let me rest in peace? Go! Go!"
"I tell thee I cannot," he said. "Dost thou not remember that I had a proposition for thy ear alone?"
"I care not for thy proposition!" I answered. "Let me die in peace! I would not turn my finger for life or death—go!"
"Remember the lad then," he replied. "If thou dost care not for thyself, remember him. He has a life that even I, besotted as thou dost think me, would grieve to see lost. Would thou cast it from thee, when by one word thou couldst save him? One good deed thou wilt not regret."
"Help me to a chair then," I replied, "and I will hear what thou hast to say."
Bending over me he put his fat arms around my body, and lifting me as though I had been a child, he bore me to a chair. I felt as some careworn man, bending beneath his years, and tottering with feebleness and age; all my strength and energy had left me. Even the fat priest, hardened and bloodstained as he was, seemed to feel some sparks of pity as he looked down upon me.
"Had I known that the paper would affect thee thus, I would not have shown it to thee," he muttered.
"It matters little," I replied lifelessly. "What is thy offer?"
He hesitated—then spoke:
"Several days ago the Count showed thee a paper in which thou didst purport to formally renounce all claims that thou mightest have to the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll. Not that thou hast any interest after that paper," he chuckled, "but this matters not for the present. He told thee if thou wouldst but sign that document, thou shouldst be free, with a purse of gold. I offer thee this additional proposition besides what has already been offered—that is thy life, and the boy's (which are as good as gone) to deal with as thou choosest. Not only this, but I will increase the five hundred pounds to one thousand pounds. It is a noble offer. What sayest thou?" and he tapped the floor nervously with his foot.
"My reply now is as it was then. Not though thou offerest me the wealth of the Incas, the lives of a thousand men, though I suffered a dozen deaths by all the tortures that human ingenuity could devise, and my body rotted in the ground, would I sign the paper. Thy master has the lady. What more can he wish? Go back, and tell him once for all what I have said—begone!"
An ugly light had come into the priest's eye as he had listened to me; his bloated face was purple with baffled rage. With a snarl he sprang towards me, drawing his hand from behind his back, and I saw a dagger flash in the light.
"Then die!" he shrieked, and he raised the gleaming weapon above his head and brought it down.
At that moment there was a rush, and a blade flashed under the descending dagger and caught it—'twas Oliver's. Father Francis with a yell dropped the dagger, and rushing to the open window, sprang out of it. The lad, who was close behind him, lunged at him even as he went through—with an exclamation he held up his sword, it was streaming with blood.
"'Tis only a scratch; would that it had been through his breast. What ails thee?" he asked in alarm, as he saw my face. "What is it, that thou dost look as though thou hadst seen thy end?"
"Yes, my end, lad," I repeated, "it is in yonder paper."
He picked it up from the floor and read it through.
"'Tis false!" he cried, the red blood of indignation dyeing his cheeks. "It is only some trick of that fiend Dunraven."
"No," I answered, "'tis her paper, her crest, her handwriting, even the very perfume that she uses hangs about it. It must be true—I would not have believed it had I not seen the paper with mine own eyes. I loved her with a love that knew no distrust, faithfully, devotedly. The night, calm and silent, was not purer or more innocent than her soul; the stars as they peeped out from the distant sky, were no brighter than her eyes, azure, deep, serene; the gold of the sunset was like the glimmer of her hair; the fleecy clouds, white and snowy, were not lovelier than her neck and throat, and yet—yet—she weds Dunraven. Why hast thou forsaken me?—Margaret! Oh, Margaret!"
The lad looked at me, the great tears of pity running down his cheeks.
"Come," he sobbed, "come, we must go," and he led me by the hand from the room.
My mind, numbed by this last great shock, refused to serve me, and I was as one in a trance. Dimly I saw the room, heard the babble of Oliver's voice, my feet moved mechanically under me, but it was as though I were in a dream—a hideous and frightful phantom of the night that in a moment would pass away, and I would wake and find it false.
Oliver chatted on:
"I did but go out into the yard to look at the vessel, and lingered longer than I thought, when remembering that I had left thee with the priest, I hastened back just in time to save thee."
"Yes," I answered, "in time to save me."
He looked at me anxiously.
"What ails thee, Sir Thomas?" he said. "Shall I have a leech attend thee? Perhaps thou hast fever and wouldst feel better for his attendance."
"'Tis useless—he cannot mend a broken heart, lad," I replied, rousing myself from the spell which hung over my senses. "If he is able to do that, thou canst call him."
We had passed down the path to the landing where Drake's vessel lay, and the men were coming and going as they loaded her with the spoils of the mansion. The last party was preparing to leave the house, as we passed from its portals. They were all ready and had gathered in front of the great white mansion.
At Oliver's request I listlessly turned to look at them, and could see Drake's golden beard as he strode among his crew arranging them into rank. The black flag with the ghastly skull and cross-bones still floated over the roof of the house, but even as we looked there arose a shout from the men which was echoed on board the ship. A single culverin boomed out, then slowly, as though reluctant to descend from where she had so long floated, supreme and invincible—the mistress of the isle—the flag lowered until it touched the roof. She had finished her course; her day here was done.