"What news?" I asked.
"Bad," he answered. "I saw the Queen and told her of the defeat of the Armada, at which she was of course greatly pleased. Seeing that, I thought it a good opportunity to broach the subject of thyself, and putting into her hands the report Drake had made in thy favor, I begged that she would read that, and afterwards hear me. She did so, and then looking up at me, her eyes flashing, asked what I had to say. I knew not what to make of her face, and was going on to relate thy gallant conduct in the fight with the Spaniards, and to beg that she would free so valiant a gentleman, when she interrupted me.
"'Sir William!' she cried, 'had it not been for this noble fight for England, and that thou hast grown old in our service, and even now bring news of great joy, I would hang thee with him. What does Drake mean to send me such stuff as this? He shall answer for it when he returns;' and she tore the paper in pieces.
"'After this ruffian DeNortier has murdered my people and sacked my ships for five long years, then thou dost ask me to spare the life of his stanchest captain, who personally murdered one of my bravest gentlemen, Sir Samuel Morton, and who led these expeditions of blood and crime? Shame upon thee! He shall hang, though he were of royal blood! Get ye back to him, and say that on the day after to-morrow, he shall hang by the neck until he is dead. To-morrow is his to make his peace with God. Get thee out of my presence,' and I hurried away as fast I could, for in truth she is too much like her royal father, for it to be pleasant to be around when she is angry," and he groaned.
"It is but what I expected," I answered. "But I thank thee for the effort that thou hast made for me—from the bottom of my heart I thank thee." And I arose and gave him my hand.
He caught it and wrung it with both of his own.
"I would that I could have saved thee," he said hoarsely, "and I wish thee to know that I now believe that thy tale is true. It seems strange, incredible, but thou art a gentleman, and I believe thee. 'The truth is often stranger than fiction.'"
I was pleased at this sign of his trust in me.
"I thank thee, Sir William," I said, "and say again that I spoke only the truth. Should we not meet each other again upon this earth, I hope we shall meet in another sphere."
"God grant it, Sir Thomas!" he cried. "It is but a few more short years for me now, and the time is still shorter with thee. Somewhere beyond this world we will meet again, that I feel sure of—until then, farewell!" and the old soldier opened the door and passed out, locking it behind him.
Throwing myself upon the bed, I closed my eyes, and only awoke when the gray light of the morning was streaming into the rough cell. A man brought my breakfast, coarse though bountiful, and after eating, I walked to the window and looked out. Only the narrow court-yard met my view. I could see nothing beyond it. To-morrow morning at this time I would be standing upon the scaffold, preparing to make the last long journey into the beyond. A little more and the journey would be over.
The door opened again.
"A gentleman to see thee, sir," said the man who waited upon me.
I turned eagerly, perhaps it was Bobby Vane, or—no, only the crafty features of my brother Richard met my view as he limped into the cell.
"Get out!" I cried angrily. "Quick! Or I will dash thee against the wall. Art deaf?" and I moved toward him.
The jailer had already locked the door and left us.
"Listen, Thomas," he answered. "I have come to save thee, if thou wilt but listen to me a moment."
"Dost thou expect me to believe that?" I said. "Out with thee! Wouldst thou come in to annoy a dying man, and to distract his thoughts from his devotions? This is my last day—wouldst thou spoil it for me?"
"I would save thee," he replied, "if thou wilt but listen to me."
"Be quick then," I answered, "my time is short." And I seated myself opposite him, and leaning my elbow on the table, waited to hear what he would say.
"Our father is dead," he said, clearing his throat and speaking in a low voice.
"Is that so? Well, thou couldst not expect me to shed many tears over him, the way he has treated me. Thy news, while interesting, is not of sufficient moment to disturb me at this late hour."
"Wait a moment!" he cried. "He left me the estates and title, but thou art my brother, I cannot forget that, and I would deal generously by thee. Though thou hast no legal claim to the estate, if thou wilt but sign this paper, renouncing all right which thou mayst have to the estate, and also another trifling matter here, thou shalt have the Devonshire lands with the house, and I will see that thou dost go free," and his watery eyes glistened as he looked at me.
"Thou art promising too much," I replied. "Art promising what thou canst not perform, and——"
"Not so," he broke in eagerly. "I swear to thee that if I but say the word thou shalt go scot free."
"And what is the other trifling condition in the paper that thou speakest of?" I asked.
"That thou dost renounce all right and pretension that thou mayest have to the hand of the Lady Margaret Carroll," he said.
I laughed scornfully.
"Thou hadst best save thy breath," I said.
"Thou hast no claim—no hope," he rejoined, rising to his feet. "The lady is about to become the bride of the Lord Dunraven. What difference can it make to thee if thou signest away the right to something that thou hast not, if by doing so, thou canst save thy life?"
"Why dost thou wish me to sign the paper, then?" I asked. "If the estates and title are already thine, and the lady Dunraven's?"
He hesitated a moment.
"There are reasons," he finally said. "Reasons that I cannot explain to thee, but sufficiently weighty for us to give thee thy life, if thou wilt sign this document. More than this I durst not say."
"Us," I repeated. "Why not say Dunraven and thyself? It would sound better thus."
"Well," he replied defiantly, "if thou dost wish it thus, have it thine own way. This much is certain: sign this paper and thou art free, a competency in thy hands sufficient to support thee in comfort—refuse, and thy head will pay the penalty," and he stood, his back to the door, leering at me.
"Get out of my sight!" I replied. "Or I will forget myself and do thee an injury," and I advanced on him.
With a yell, he turned and beat fiercely on the door with the hilt of his sword.
"Open!" he cried, "quick!"
The door opened so suddenly that he fell out into the hall at full length and sprawled upon the floor. The door was shut and fastened, and I heard his voice as he shrilly cursed the jailer for his carelessness. The voice died away, and I knew that he was gone.
The dull day dragged away. It was noon, the last I would spend on earth, and I lay upon the bed and wished for the morn. I was weary, and the slow hours wore upon me until finally I arose and began to walk the floor. They had all deserted me, left me like a rat in a trap to die. Of the many who had fawned upon me, there was not one to approach me with a kind word.
London was doubtless amusing herself with talk of me at this moment. The wine was going around the table, and the small talk, as light and frothy as their empty pates, was beginning to be heard; they would doubtless discuss me from the beginning to the end. "Poor Winchester! he used to be a right amusing fellow before he ran away to join the pirates. I wonder how he looks now?"
The little world of fashion—how I had grown to despise it! What cared I for its painted smile or frown; whether the fashion was silver buckles or bronze; whether they talked of me or not? I cared as little for it as I did for the chatter of the sparrows that hopped about the court-yard below.
Did the Lady Margaret Carroll think of one who had known and loved her? Did one sigh of pity come from her heart and darken those azure eyes; or had she serenely forgotten my very existence? And Bobby—this was the most unkind cut of all. Bobby, whom I loved as I did a brother, and whose heart I thought was as true as steel; he, too, had turned his back and left me to my fate. Such was the way of the world.
Nine o'clock, and the dusk was beginning to fall, the long July day was ending. As I lay there I heard someone pause at my door, and then it swung open. I still lay there, my eyes fixed on the dingy ceiling. It was the jailer probably bringing my supper, for it was about time for him.
"Well, my friend," I said, "this is the last supper that thou wilt bring for me. To-morrow I will be where they do not eat, or at least not such stuff as this that thou dost bring."
"Sir Thomas!" a voice cried. "Is it thou?"
And springing to a sitting posture, whom should I see but Steele, whom I had last left on board the ship with the Spanish maid.
"Steele!" I cried, "Steele!" And leaping to my feet, I almost hugged him in my delight. "Then there is still one friend left to me."
He was as glad to see me as I was to see him; the great tears of joy rolled down his face as he answered:
"Yes, one friend who will stay with thee to the last. I have been out of London to my country place in Hampshire, and only returned to-day. As soon as I arrived I heard the news and came immediately, without stopping to change my clothes," and he pointed to the mud upon his boots.
"Sit down," I said, "and tell me about thyself. But first, what has become of the Spanish maid?"
He colored deeply beneath his ruddy skin. With a smile he answered:
"She is now Mistress Steele."
"Is it possible!" I cried in surprise. "Let me congratulate thee. She is a lovely girl, and I have no doubt is as amiable as she is beautiful. Dame Fortune has indeed smiled upon thee," and I shook his hand heartily.
"Thank thee," he replied. "We were thrown together a great deal during the voyage, and I grew to know and love her for her courage and beauty. We came a short distance in the pirate ship, and then they transferred us to a Spanish merchant vessel in which we went to Cadiz. I found there that I had lost something of value—my heart—and that a Spanish maiden was the finder. What could I do but ask her to give me back hers in exchange? She consented, and we were married there, and then we came on to England. She had a good deal of property, and with it we have bought a splendid home in the country, where we live most of the time, and I am as happy as a king.
"Often have we talked of thee, and have wondered whether thou wert still alive or not. Twice have I set sail to find thy whereabouts, and each time have been driven back. Once by shipwreck, in which I narrowly escaped with my life; the second time we sailed out into the west for two months, but finally we had to give up the search and come back, as I had no idea where thou wert."
"And where is Mistress Steele?" I said. "Is she in London?"
"No," he replied. "She is in Hampshire. I grieve that she is not here, for I know that she would wish to see thee."
"And didst thou give my message to the Lady Margaret Carroll?" I asked. "And if so, what did she say?"
"Yes," he replied, his face brightening. "I gave it into the hands of the fair lady herself. She blushed as prettily as the dawn, and wept when I told her the situation in which I had left thee; and her eye kindled as I related how thou hadst given thy life into the hands of the Count DeNortier that an unknown Spanish maid might go free. When I had finished, she said no word, only sat in silence for a moment, and then she raised her head, and I saw her bonny blue eyes were full of tears. 'He is the knightliest gentleman that I have ever known,' she said softly, and then she gave me this trinket." He took from the pocket of his doublet a little gold pin and held it out to me.
"I would ask a favor of thee," I said, as I took the little ornament in my hands. "Once thou didst think thyself under some little obligation to me. Wouldst thou cancel the debt?"
"If I could," he replied. "Ask anything in my power and I will do it."
"Tis a simple thing," I said. "I would only ask thee for this pin."
"It is thine," he replied. "I saved it for thee, should I ever see thee again, for I guessed that thou wouldst wish for it. The lady loves thee," he said, his eyes upon my face.
"Nay"—as I would have interrupted him, "do not raise thy hand. I have seen maidens before now. Did I not watch her as I told my story, and see the soft color come and go in her cheeks, and the tears in her beautiful eyes? A lady looks not thus but for one man, and that him whom she loves. Believe me, I have seen many damsels. This one loves thee," and he looked at me sagely.
I laughed bitterly.
"It may be so, Steele, and yet if she does she has a passing strange way of showing it. Why, even now, man, the rumor is that she weds Lord Dunraven! How dost thou account for that?"
He bent his head as though in thought for a moment.
"I know not," he said with a sigh. "Many strange things have I seen in my journey through this life, but the strangest of all, I think, my friend, is a maid. One mind to-day; another to-morrow. I had as lieve try to account for the storm, as to say what a lady would do to-day or to-morrow. I cannot say what the maiden will do—perhaps she will marry Dunraven, but this much I repeat, deep down in her heart she loves thee."
I mused a moment, my head upon my hands. Could it be possible?—but no; Steele was mistaken. The lady was interested in the fate of a friend; was perhaps touched that I still thought of her—that was all. And then I thought of a question that I had pondered on so often since Steele left me, and had determined to ask if I should ever see him again.
"What became of the women and children that were taken prisoners when DeNortier captured the galleon with the Spanish maid? I never saw them again, and have often wondered at their fate."
His face darkened with a frown as he replied:
"They went with us on board the ship, and when we had almost gotten to our destination, just before the lady and myself were transferred, we were hailed one day by an English merchant vessel, and the women and children were put aboard—to be sold as slaves to the Barbary pirates, a sailor afterwards told me."
"Didst thou catch the name of the ship?" I asked. "This should be put a stop to, once and for all."
"Yes," he replied, "'twas the 'Betsy' of London."
"It was the very same ship on which we were carried to the pirate's vessel," I said.
"The ruffian!" he answered indignantly, "he should be drawn and quartered. I sought high and low for some trace of the ship when I returned to England, but though I inquired in every city, nowhere could I hear of such a vessel. They told me there was no such ship. The name was probably a disguise."
At that moment there came a knock upon the door, and the rough jailer thrust in his head.
"Closing time, sir," he growled. "Thou must go."
Steele arose to his feet, and we clasped hands in one last, long grasp. The honest fellow was almost overcome by his emotion.
"God bless thee!" he said huskily. "I shall never forget thee, and what thou hast done for me and mine."
A great lump came into my throat. When all others had deserted me, there still remained one friend, who was with me to the last.
"I am glad that in my life I have been able to be of service to thee," I replied. "'Twill perhaps balance that long list of errors and harm that I have brought to many. The memory of it will be sweet to me at the last. Give my best wishes and regards to thy wife, and tell her that she has chosen well. Farewell!"
Stepping closer to me he looked around him; the jailer stood in the hall, fumbling impatiently with his keys.
"Do not despair," he whispered in my ear hurriedly. "Thy friends will not see thee die. Be watchful." And with this he hurried from the room; a wave of the hand to me, and then the great door creaked on its hinges, and I was alone.
I threw myself upon my bed. What did Steele mean when he said that my friends would not see me die? Perhaps they would make one more attempt to persuade the Queen to pardon me. They did not know her as I did, if they had the courage to try again. Her mind when once made up was as adamant, and they might probably go to the gallows for their pains; for Elizabeth was of an imperious temper, and brooked no restraint. He could only mean to use persuasion; they could do nothing by force, even though he could raise a band who were so reckless as to attack the Tower. Its walls were high and strong, and were garrisoned by hardy veterans commanded by a warworn general, who had only to hold them at bay for a few moments, until reënforcements arrived from the city. Perhaps he only meant to cheer my spirits, and to arouse me from the gloom into which I had fallen.
An hour passed; a man knocked at the door, but he bore only a message from old Sir Henry, saying that a priest waited below to pray with me, should I desire it.
"No," I answered, "tell him that I shall have no sniveling priest around me. If I die, it shall be like a man, undaunted and unafraid." And I turned my face to the wall.
Below in the courtyard I could hear the sound of hammer and saw, as they reared the gallows on which to-morrow I would take my last leap. The workmen with jest and laughter were discussing the execution. "He will meet it like a man," I heard one say, "for old Giles told me that he fought the Dons like a demon."
It availed me little now, I thought as I lay there; my life's book was about to be finished and closed, and they would forget that I had fought for my land, and risked my life in her cause.
Would that I might see the Lady Margaret Carroll once more, ere I closed my eyes forever. What though she had promised to be the bride of a ruffian and knave. If I could catch one more glimpse of her face, pure and sweet, but one sight of her dainty head, I would die content. It was too much to be in England, alone and forsaken, my life to-morrow to be forfeited, in the same city with her, to see the same sky and breathe the same air, and yet not be able to see her; and at the thought I arose and began to pace the floor in agony, the damp sweat of anguish upon my brow. My God! was I to go down into the grave and not catch one last glimpse of her face?
I could appreciate in that bitter moment the story that I had heard years ago from the lips of my old nurse—poor old Alice, she had been dust these many years!—of how the Son of God, alone and forsaken, in anguish and agony sweated great drops of blood, and at the last moment of pain cried out those heartrending words—"My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
The nails had torn the flesh of my hands, as I writhed in sufferings, and the blood from the bruises was dripping from my fingers upon the floor, as I paced to and fro in that accursed cell; my tongue, hot and dry, almost cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My very soul cried out in rebellion, that I should drink the cup of bitterness and anguish to the very dregs.
It seemed to me that I had felt the sting of all else, and this was the last and bitterest; earth could hold nothing more of torture for me. The morrow was as naught beside it. I could imagine how the damned must feel, as they writhe in agony in the burning flames of hell, and realize that they must suffer for countless ages; that there has gone from them all hope—that shining star that guides our groping feet through life's scenes of bitterest woe, and remains our brightest blessing from the cradle to the grave. When hope has fled, there is nothing left.
I must have walked thus for hours, for it was eleven o'clock of the night, when worn out and exhausted, I threw myself again upon the bed. I had reached the point where my tortured soul could suffer no more, and I was now comparatively resigned. The storm and struggle had left me weak and worn, but I had spent myself with its fury and now lay quiet and composed.
Another tap upon the door, and I heard it softly open. Perhaps it was old Sir Henry coming to cheer my drooping spirits. I did not turn my face from the wall; the candle was burning low upon the table, and cast its flickering light throughout the room. I lay there a moment, no sound came from the intruder; and then I became conscious of some faint, familiar perfume. Delicate and subtle, it penetrated my nostrils as though some far-famed wine, buoyant and life-giving.
I sprang to my feet in an instant; there was only one who used such perfume as this. There, standing by the table, wrapped in a dark cloak that concealed her face, one little jeweled hand resting upon the table, stood a lady. I could not see her face; but that radiant hair that sparkled like gold in the light, that proud bend of the head, the little foot that peeped out from the folds of her dress, they belonged only to one of earth's creatures, and she—Margaret Carroll.
"Margaret!" I cried. "Is it thou?" And I would have caught her in my arms in my delight.
But she drew back from me, the cloak falling from her as she did so, and raised her hand.
"Stop, sir," she said hurriedly. "Thou must think me bold and unmaidenly."
"Say rather divine!" I cried. "Like some ministering angel, to bless poor mortals," and I took a step nearer where she stood.
The faint color had deepened on her rose cheeks at my words.
"Stop," she said. "Thou dost misinterpret my visit, as I feared thou wouldst; but I knew not what else to do. There was no one I could trust, so I persuaded Sir Robert Vane to bring me. He awaits outside," and she turned as though to call him in.
"A moment, Lady Margaret," I said—"a moment before thou dost call him in. I have something of importance for thy ear alone. Wilt thou not hear me, before thou callest Sir Robert?"
She looked at me a moment doubtfully.
"No," she murmured. "Thou canst have naught for my ears that Sir Robert should not hear." And she turned again and took a step towards the door.
"Margaret!" I cried, "hast thou no pity for me? To-night is my last on earth, and thou wilt not hear me one moment. Is that all that thou dost think of one who knew and admired thee in the old days? To-morrow thou canst hear others, but if thou hear me not to-night, thou never wilt. I would tell thee of my strange adventures since I left London," I finished artfully, with an imploring look.
She turned, and then coming back towards me, seated herself upon one of the rough chairs near the table.
"I will hear thy tale," she said, a smile upon her lips. "But list to me, sir, the moment that thou dost digress from that I am gone, and thou mayst depend upon it.
"And what is this marvelous tale of thine?" she continued gently, her azure eyes upon my face. "Sir Robert, who was out of town, only returned this evening, and I immediately sent for him, and told him that thou wast here, condemned to die. He waited not a moment, but came at once with me here, and a time we had getting in I can tell thee," and she laughed, a little ringing laugh.
I said nothing, I was feasting my eyes upon her as she sat opposite; as the starving beggar looks with eager gaze upon the shop windows, filled with dainties, so I feasted my soul upon her and watched the light come and go upon her lovely face. She was more beautiful if possible, than when I had seen her last. There was an air of maturity, of the ripened fruit, that she had wanted in the days gone by. She was dressed for some ball or rout, in a clinging gown of shimmering pale blue stuff that set off her marvelous beauty to perfection. Around her white throat was clasped a sparkling necklace of diamonds, and the low cut of her gown revealed the soft beauty of her lovely neck. She looked as though she were a creature of some other world—too fair to be one of Mother Earth's daughters.
"Art dumb," she said, "that thou dost sit silent and gaze at me as though I were a ghost? Thou wert better company in the old days," and she looked up at me archly.
"In truth, my lady," I answered, "I did but marvel at thy wondrous beauty and——"
Up she arose in an instant.
"Did I not say that at the first hint of this I would go?" she cried. "I am as good as my word," and she would have gone.
"Margaret!" I cried in dismay, "I most humbly crave thy pardon. I did not mean to offend again."
"I do not trust thee," she answered with a frown. "Remember, sir, I shall not say a word, but at the first intimation of this again—out I go. Thou art changed," she said, and she hesitated.
"Thou meanest older, Margaret," I replied. "Yes, older—much older. I have been through much since thou didst see me last, and my sufferings have, I believe, made me a better man."
"I am glad," she said softly, tears in her eyes.
"Margaret," I said, "didst thou learn who was responsible for my captivity?"
"How long has it been Margaret?" she cried impatiently, tapping her little foot. "'Twas not Margaret when I saw thee last, and though I would not be hard upon thee, still I have overlooked it several times," and she looked up at me imperiously.
"I crave thy pardon," I said, coloring to my ears, for I had not been conscious until she spoke that I had called her by her given name. In my joy at seeing her again I had forgotten all else. "I did but call thee, in the confusion of the moment, as I had thought of thee so often. Habit, thou knowest, Lady Margaret, becomes a part of one," and I looked boldly at her.
The imperious look faded from her face; she met my admiring gaze, and dropping her eyes, she hid them behind her long lashes, and a deep blush mounted her cheeks.
"I see thou hast lost none of thy old boldness," she murmured, "and still art as persistent to gain thy point as ever."
"What I am about to say may seem strange to thee," I said—"incredible. But I have always told the truth to thee—have I not?"
"Yes," she answered gravely, raising her eyes, "I believe whatever thou mayest say."
"It was Dunraven who kidnaped me," I answered quietly.
She started, and I thought her face grew paler.
"Impossible!" she cried, her eyes wide open with astonishment.
"I stand too near death's door to lie to thee now, Margaret," I said, "did I wish to."
"Forgive me," she answered quickly. "I was astonished, though I never doubted what thou didst say. But Lord Dunraven—what motive could he have for so black a deed?"
"Margaret!" I cried, "look at me."
She raised her eyes to mine bravely, but the tell-tale color was in her cheeks.
"And thou dost ask me that?" I cried. "Thou knowest as well as I why Dunraven did this."
She did not reply, but bent her head over the table, so that I could not see her face.
"To-morrow," I said, "will end my career, and I——"
She interrupted me eagerly.
"Thou wilt not die to-morrow; thy friends will save thee."
"My friends can do nothing," I replied slowly. "I am beyond man's help now. I would ask thee one question and only one. Wilt answer me?"
"I will try," she replied, without raising her bent head. One little hand lay on the table near me, and I had hard work to keep myself from striding forward and closing my own over it.
"I would not wish thee to marry one unworthy of thee," I said. "Thou art too sweet and beautiful to be tied to such a man as this; he would be a blight upon thy young life, that would grow and deepen as the years go by. Such a soul as thine should be mated with one congenial, a man that thou couldst love and trust."
No answer; only silence, the beautiful head bent low over the table. She looked so young and helpless, as I looked at her, that my great love surged over all barriers, and swept everything before it, as the angry ocean beats down its puny bulwarks and breaks upon the land.
"I have a story to tell thee," I said, in a low voice—"one that I have treasured long."
"No!" she cried, lifting her head, and I could see her wet eyes and the tear stains upon her cheeks. "Spare me now—it is useless," she said hurriedly.
"I know it is, Margaret," I said sadly. "But it is because it is so useless that I wish thee to know it, it can harm no one. To-morrow I will have passed from thy life forever; will be as last summer's flowers faded and gone, and yet I wish thee to know of what thou hast been to me. How when I was tempted sorely, and ready to yield, thy pure, sweet face would rise before me, and I, strengthened, would overcome the temptation. How often in the watches of the night, when all was quiet, with none but the silent stars to keep me company, I would think of thee, glad that the same sky hung over both, that we breathed the same air, and that the same sun shone above us. Wilt thou not hear me?"
"How can I help myself," she moaned, "if thou wilt force me to hear thee. But I warn thee beforehand that it is useless."
"I had never been a lady's man in my youth," I said, rising and beginning to pace the floor. "I was ever too rough, too shy, to please little lasses. They laughed at me and mocked my uncouth ways. Even when I was a mere lad, when I would bring the small maid whom I admired my little presents, and offer them to her, I felt a great admiration for her that bound my tongue, and I could only hold them out awkwardly. She would take my gifts from me, and then would turn and mock my awkwardness among her playmates, until they shouted with glee. This taught me my first lesson of woman; that she would use thee while she could, and then cast thee aside like a worn-out garment.
"When I had grown larger I went to college, and finishing there, went out into Ireland, and stayed there a year or two in a brief campaign. When I returned to London I had not seen a woman of my own rank for years, but I plunged at once into the gay whirl of London society, and soon knew all the ladies of fashion. There I learned all the tricks of the men of fashion; learned how to play the flirt; how to regard woman as without heart or soul, her mind occupied only with the latest gown from Paris, or the last ball or rout; cold, heartless, only angling to entrap some gentleman, and after entangling him in her net, to calmly show him to the door when he clamored for something more than friendship. If she, to obtain rank or fortune, should finally marry him, it would be only a cold, matter-of-fact trade, a simple transaction of business—her beauty for his title or gold.
"I had seen these newly-wedded husbands remain at home for a few weeks, and then frequent the taverns more assiduously than ever; had heard them tell in their cups of the vixenish temper of Mary, or the nagging tongue of Jane. What wonder that I soon regarded all women as flirts and coquettes, bent only on enjoying themselves, no matter at what expense, and then away to some other flower to sip the honey. For ten years did I linger among them, the gayest of the gay, the petted and humored of the bright dames of fashion. I could cast the most languishing glances, whisper the most burning words into soft ears that bent to listen, and yet it was only Winchester—he was a witty fellow, but he meant nothing and was harmless.
"And then one day I met a maiden, beautiful, lovely; she lured me on by her very beauty, I grew to know her better from day to day; the admiration deepened as I saw her—pure, innocent, and true, never deceiving, never trifling with men's love, always noble, unselfish, and unaffected, never seeming conscious of her great beauty which turned the heads of men. As I knew her better I admired her more, until one day I awoke and found my admiration had ripened into love. Shall I tell thee what it meant to me?—how it brightened life's pathway; how if I could but see one bright face my heart was full to overflowing; how if one was absent from the room it was deserted for me, and how when I was by her side earth was heaven enough for me; how I watched the streets day and night to see her pass, and counted that day well spent when I had seen her face? I treasured her smile as the miser does his gold, and at night counted them over one by one.
"One morning as I arose early, I saw her out for a morning stroll with a companion, and watched her as she tossed a coin to a beggar upon the corner. I bought that coin from her, and now wear it next my heart," and I pulled a little gold chain from around my neck, and laid it upon the table.
No sound from the silent figure with her head upon the table.
"Margaret!" I cried, "I love thee. I know not how to express my love, I can only sing like the bird, only one song by night and day—I love thee."
"Don't," she said, "I am not worthy of such love as this."
"Not worthy!" I cried. "Why, a king upon his throne would step down gladly for thy love," and I bent toward her.
"No, no," she murmured, her shoulders rising and falling with her sobs.
"Margaret," I said, "dost thou love another?"
No sound save that of her low sobs.
At that moment I remembered the mirror in the crone's hut in that far-away island, and what I had seen in it. It was possible that it might be true after all. Bobby was by her side here in London, was constantly thrown in her company; would it be strange if he had grown to love her?
"Is it Sir Robert Vane?" I asked.
She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing through her tears.
"How darest thou?" she cried. "How darest thou ask me such a question as that? Who gave thee the right, sir?" and she gazed at me a moment in her anger, as though she would strike me down, and then, sinking into her chair, she cried as though her heart would break. "I hate thee," she wailed.
"Forgive me," I said gently. "I would not have asked thee, had I known. He is a gentleman, brave and true, and will make thee a kind and upright husband. Thou wilt be happy in the days to come, together. I trust thou wilt believe me, when I say that for thee I wish all good blessings. May thy future pathway be strewn with flowers, and may not a shadow fall athwart it to darken its happiness. Sometimes when thou art happy, leaning upon the strong arm of him whom thou dost love, wilt thou not give one thought to one who once knew and loved thee? And now—good-by!"
Bending my knee, I pressed that little white hand to my lips, and taking her arm I walked with her to the door and opened it—there, pacing the hall, was Bobby.
"I Pressed that Little White Hand to My Lips"
He turned when he saw me, and running forward, caught my hand.
"Thomas!" he cried, "I never thought to see thee alive again."
I returned his cordial grasp.
"Bobby," I said, "take Lady Margaret home, and then come back again, for I have something to say to thee. Care for her tenderly," I said to him, as with the weeping lady upon his arm he turned to go. "Thou hast won the loveliest and fairest woman that I have ever known. It is a priceless jewel, Bobby—guard it well. May God watch over both of you now and in the days to come!" And turning I opened the door of my cell, and passing inside, closed it behind me.
It was near midnight when my door opened again. I was still in the chair by the table, where I had seated myself when I had left them outside, staring vacantly at the place opposite, where she had sat so lately. Only a few brief minutes before her dress had pressed yonder chair; her elbow had touched the table; it was still wet with her tears.
"Bobby," I said, arising as he entered, "I need not say that I am glad to see thee; it seems like ages since we roamed London together."
He seated himself opposite and looked at me. I saw no change in him since we had been together twenty-two months before, save perhaps a few wrinkles about his forehead, otherwise he was still the same frank, sincere friend.
"Thou hast changed," he said at length.
"I know it," I replied, "but thou hast heard of my adventures."
"Yes," he answered, with a ringing laugh. "The Lady Margaret told me of them. I marvel not that the Queen did not believe thee—it is almost beyond belief."
"Bobby," I said, "often have I thought of thee in the long nights and wished to see thy face. I had not thought sometimes to see it again."
He looked up at me, his eyes moist.
"I have searched far and wide for thee, everywhere that I could think of, but it was as though thou hadst been caught up in the clouds; nowhere could I find a trace of thy whereabouts. I had almost given up hope."
"Dunraven was at the bottom of it," I said. "He thought that, with me out of the way, he could win Margaret, but I thank Heaven that his plans have miscarried, and that she has bestowed her love upon a noble gentleman of worth and merit. Old friend, this is no time for concealment or coldness between us—from the bottom of my heart I congratulate thee, and wish thee joy!" and I held out my hand to him.
He took it, and squeezed it between both of his own.
"Thank thee, old man," he said huskily. "None but a heart of true steel such as thine could bear this grief so nobly. But I fear that thou art mistaken, for never has the lady given me any cause to think that she regarded me as more than a friend; thou hast misinterpreted her words."
"No," I answered, "she loves thee; she as good as told me that. What didst thou expect—that the lady would propose to thee?" I smiled at him. "Pluck up courage, good sir, make one brave charge, and the field is thine."
"I would I thought so," he said doubtfully.
"But," I said, "'faint heart ne'er won fair lady.' Put on a bold front, I have never found thee timid; corner her and force her to listen to thee."
He looked at me, his face flushed and happy.
"And thou dost think of me with thyself at death's door!" he cried, "while I sit here like a mummy. Listen—old Sir Henry DeGray thinks much of thee, as thou dost know, and he has consented to aid us in thy escape. The plan is this. After I have left, dost thou wait about fifteen minutes, then beat upon the door. The man who will open it is drunk. Knock him down, take his keys away from him, and put him in thy place; then don his cloak and walk boldly out into the hall. Sir Henry awaits thee there. Say nothing, but follow him to the door. I shall be outside and will guide thee to where Governor White lies at anchor in the Thames, ready to set sail for the golden Virginia. Once over there thou art safe, and canst remain until the coast is clear here; then thou canst return to England."
"'Tis a bold scheme, Bobby, and I thank thee. But why should I go? Life holds naught so precious for me, that I should cling to it so strongly. There is nothing for me beyond the seas, in that strange and barbarous land, with its painted savages and fierce beasts of prey. What could I do, should I reach it alive? No, leave me to my fate—and go!"
"Thomas!" he cried, "if thou carest not for thyself, think of thy friends. Spare me this last blow—spare me, or I shall go mad! Think of Margaret, and for her sake go," and he stretched out his hands imploringly to me.
Silence reigned in the little room. I was thinking of her; what would she care? Why should I go out into a strange and unknown land to begin life anew, with no one besides me save only the Indians and wild beasts; to drag out a few miserable years of pain and sorrow. A life such as this was not worth the effort—no, the game was not worth the candle.
"Thou dost not know what thou askest of me," I replied finally. "What would a life such as this mean? It would be a living death. Better one quick leap and then forgetfulness and oblivion. As for Margaret, why should she care?"
"Thou art mad," he replied, "that thou talkest thus. It will be only for a few months among new scenes and men; 'twill be a diversion for thy mind. As for my lady, thou hast no right to speak thus. Thou dost not know how much she cares; in truth, as I led her home she wept as though her heart would break, and she implored me to save thee as I left her."
"And so thou dost beseech me to leave England, so that I may be out of the way," I answered bitterly.
"Thomas!" he cried reproachfully, "I have not deserved this at thy hands—as God is my witness, I have not. I have ever loved thee as a brother, and there has been no time when I would not have given my life to have saved thee, and yet thou reproachest me thus. Truly those we love most are the first to turn their backs upon us."
"Forgive me, Bobby!" I cried penitently. "My grief has almost turned my brain, and I know not what I say. I did not mean to offend thee, and would beg thy pardon."
"Then go," he answered, pacing the floor in his excitement. "A few more minutes and the watch will be changed, and 'twill be too late. Come! for my sake if thou lovest me; for Margaret's sake; for the sake of thy old friends, whom thou didst once know and cherish." And he turned to me with a look of entreaty upon his face.
"If thou dost put it thus," I said, "I will go. It matters little where I drag out the few remaining years left to me. For thy sake I will go."
"Good!" he cried joyfully. "Remember what I have told thee. I will wait for thee on the outside. I pray that our plans may not miscarry. Be brave, and fear naught. I must hurry," and he opened the door and left me.
I could hear the sound of his feet upon the floor as he walked rapidly down the hall. I waited in silence a few minutes, then with both fists I pounded upon the door, and kicked upon it with my heels.
An unsteady voice answered me from the outside:
"What-cher-want? Can't-yer-be-quiet?" and then a hiccough.
"Open!" I cried. "I have a sovereign for thee if thou wilt do an errand for me."
I heard him fumbling with the lock, and then opening the door, he thrust his head inside, and gazed carefully around the room from the ceiling to the floor, until finally his eyes fell upon me, as I stood within three feet of him.
"What-yer-want?" he muttered again. "Can't-yer-lemme-sleep?" And a threatening look came over his drunken face.
"I have a dozen bright gold pieces for thee," I said. "Come inside and thou shalt have them," and I thrust my hand into my pocket, as though to draw them out.
He lurched inside and towards me, his hand outstretched. "Lemme-have-em," he cried in tipsy glee.
With a bound I caught him by the throat and threw him upon the floor. With his own doublet and some of the bedding I swiftly and quietly bound him hand and foot and gagged him. Then picking up his helpless body in my arms, I threw it upon the bed as though he were a bundle of goods.
"Listen," I said in a low voice, my face within a foot of his own; "make but one sound or attempt to escape, and I will kill thee, for I am just outside."
Unbuckling the belt around his waist, in which hung a long dagger, I fastened it around my own, and picking up his dark cloak and steel cap, which had fallen upon the floor when I sprang upon him, I prepared to take my departure.
One last look at the bound man upon the bed—yes, he was secure. A sudden thought struck me: where were the keys? There were only a few in his doublet, but they were small ones, evidently to the doors of the cells. Nowhere could I find those which belonged to the great front door, nor to the doors which led into each corridor. Well I must trust to chance for my salvation; I would make the attempt, I could do no more.
Crossing over to the door which stood slightly ajar, the key still in the lock, I pushed it open and stood in the corridor, which was deserted. I turned the key in the lock, thrust it into my pocket, and with the cloak around my face, strode down the hall. The long passage seemed to re-echo my footsteps as though I trod with feet of mail. It seemed to me that all must know a prisoner was escaping. The very walls seemed to cry "Stop!—stop!" to me as I trod by; my heart beat as though it would burst. The jailer must hear its muffled beat—but no sound greeted my ears, as I kept steadily on my way and stood at the first heavy door that barred my passage.
My feeling of terror had left me, and I felt a strange exultation. If I should escape from this black hole, I would be the first for many a year. Of the many who entered its gloomy portals, few ever left them alive again. They were doomed to pass their days in some dark dungeon within its recesses, shut off from the world and all it contained.
I beat with the hilt of my dagger upon the iron-studded panel.
"Open!" I cried.
The growl of old Sir Henry answered me.
"Is it thee, Jack? Thou scoundrel! Thou shouldst have been here an hour ago. What kept thee so long, thou dog? I will lash that lazy hide of thine," and grumbling to himself he unlocked the door. "Why stand like a struck boar?" he shouted at me. "Thou fool! hast thou all night to stand there?"
And with a curse he locked the door again, and strode away with me at his heels, leaving the man who had stood by him during his brief monologue staring after us as we left him. He walked at a rapid gait, I at his heels, down the long passage, speaking never a word. We passed several guards lounging in the hall, who straightened up, all attention, as we neared them. Evidently the old soldier kept his men under strict discipline.
As we neared a little knot of guards, he cried out:
"Come on, thou fool, I will teach thee to sleep at thy post again! I will tear the very flesh from thy bones!" And with that he unlocked the door which barred our passage, and passing the man who stood beside it, he kept on down the hall. I could hear the men on the other side mutter to themselves as it swung to, but what they said I could not catch.
We were alone now in the hall, no one was in sight of us. Peering around him the old warrior halted a moment, and turning to me, one eye closed, he winked; then with a growl, he resumed his journey. Several more doors we unlocked and passed through, meeting a dozen little groups of men in the hall, but Sir Henry said not a word, only as we neared them, he would curse me for my tardiness and laziness, and swear to tear me limb from limb.
With my cap pulled down over my face and wrapped in the great dark cloak, I followed him, my head bowed as though in dejection and fear; and so we traversed the great building, until finally we stood at the huge door that led out into the open air, where he halted. There was no one there, and unbolting it, he motioned for me to walk out.
"Forget not to deliver the message that I gave thee to Lord Pendleton," he said, in a loud tone of voice, for the benefit of any who might chance to see us, "thou dog, and waste no time about it, or I will trounce thee well with my stirrup—begone!" And with a kindly look upon his old face, he pushed the door to, and I heard the chain rattle as he secured it.
I stood alone in the low courtyard of the prison, the cold night air blowing against my face. Carefully I picked my way over the uneven stones, with which the yard was paved, until I reached the gate which led into the street. It was unlocked, and opening it, I stood once more upon the street of London—free.
A man started from the shadow of the wall, and came toward me, his head muffled in his cloak; as he neared me, I saw that it was Bobby.
"I had almost given thee up," he whispered. "But come, we have no time to lose. It will be only a few hours at the most until they discover thy escape, and they will search all England thoroughly for thee." And catching me by the arm, he hurried me down the street.
"Where art thou going?" I asked in a low tone of voice.
"To the river," he answered. "I have a fleet boat there, and we will row down to where Governor White lays. He has consented to conceal thee for a day or two, until he gets out of England, and then thou canst reveal thyself, for it will not matter then. He is under great obligations to Raleigh, and I persuaded Sir Walter to ask this of him; it was the only way we could save thee, and White would cut off his right hand for Walter."
Down the dark streets we hurried; I could hear Bobby panting as he rushed along. This was violent exercise for one who had lived an idle life for years. Every moment I expected the dark tower behind us to twinkle with lights and ring with shouts, as they discovered my flight and made haste to pursue me. But no sound came from its black depths; it lay still and gloomy. We passed only a few belated nighthawks and wayfarers, as they staggered home after a night of revelry, and they endeavored to give us a wide berth, for we were two able-bodied men, and they cared not to tackle us.
Finally, turning into a dark lane, we stood by the river's brink. Bobby, putting his fingers to his lips, gave a shrill whistle; an answer floated back from the dark water, and I heard the sound of oars as a boat came forward to us.
"It is manned by four tenants from my estate near London," he whispered. "True as steel they are; rather would they be cut to pieces, than to say one word of to-night's work."
The boat swept up to the dark wharf where we stood.
"Careful," he muttered, "watch where thou dost step. Do thou go first," and he motioned towards the boat.
I stepped down into it and he followed. Without a sound the men pushed off, and bent to their work with a will; the little boat hummed through the water. I could not see the faces around me, only four dark forms, pulling with all their strength upon the oars. They rowed on in silence, uttering no sound as we passed through the twinkling lights where the vessels lay at anchor, rising and falling with the tide.
Behind us stretched the city; before us the silent river, and I knew not what beyond that. God only knew when I would see England again; an exile, with only one true friend beside me, I was hurrying from London like a thief, from the land where I had been born and reared. Engaged with such thoughts as these, I sat silent and moody; beside me Bobby, his face upon his hand, sat as preoccupied as myself. We had left the ships now, and were pulling down the river, with no glimmer of light in sight.
"Where art thou going, Bobby?" I asked. "Thou hast left all of the ships behind thee, and art making down the river."
He roused himself and looked around him.
"Where art thou going, Bill?" he cried. "This is not where the vessel lies," and he bent forward to peer at the silent figure near him. As he did so he sprang to his feet, his sword in hand. "What have we here?" he shouted in alarm. "This is not my boat!"
I was just about to rise beside him, dagger in hand, when from the stern of the boat, among some oilskins and packages, a man arose. At the first sound of his voice I was up, for I knew the curt, ironical tones.
"My dear gentlemen, pray be seated," he said. "You are my guests, and I beg that you be not alarmed; I will watch over you well." With a mocking smile upon his face, stood Lord Dunraven.
The men had dropped their oars and sprang up to overpower us. As one hardy mariner caught my left arm with both hands, I raised my dagger and plunged it full into his brawny breast; with a groan he rolled down at my feet, knocking down his companion in his fall. Bobby was struggling in the grasp of the other two men behind me; Dunraven was coming at me with drawn sword—there was no time to be lost. The seaman who had been knocked down struggled to his knees. I raised my foot, and kicked him full in the face, with all my might. With a cry of pain he fell back, and I, losing my balance, sprawled over him as he went down.
I heard Dunraven's sword whistle over my head as I fell; it would have caught me full in the throat had I not done so. He stumbled for an instant as, carried away by the force of his blow, he sought to recover himself. Leaning forward I caught him by both knees, and rising to my feet, I swung him high over my head a moment, and then cast him far out into the water, as though he had been a log.
The two men had Bobby down in the bottom of the boat, and were tying him securely with ropes, he struggling to release himself. Catching up a cutlass, I sprang forward, and cut at the head of one of them who had turned to meet me. The blade caught him full on the neck, and almost severed his head from his body. He stood erect for an instant, the blood spurting from his throat, and then with an awful yell he went down, both hands clutching blindly at the bottom of the boat in his agony. The other rogue waited for no more, but in an instant was over the side of the boat, and I heard him as with vigorous strokes he swam down the stream.
"Thomas, for Heaven's sake, untie these cords from my arms!" Bobby cried, at my feet. "These rogues have bound me as though they thought I would fall asunder; the cords cut into my flesh like a sword."
Bending over him, I cut the rope with my bloody cutlass, and helped him to his feet.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"God only knows," he answered, "I do not. We will miss the ship!" he cried, wringing his hands. "What a fool I was, not to be sure that I had gotten on board the right boat. Dunraven must have caught wind of my scheme somewhere, and laid this trap into which I walked like an idiot."
"Thou couldst not know it," I answered. "Do not blame thyself. Yonder goes an oar!" And one of the oars, loosed from the socket by the struggle, floated out into the stream. I jumped forward and caught another as it was about to follow suit. "Catch yonder one, Bobby! I shouted, and quickly he did so. Only two remained out of four; one of the others had floated away, probably when the seamen had loosened it.
"Where dost thou say we are?" I asked. "We had best turn back upstream, and make for the ship."
He was standing up, and peered around him.
"I know yonder house," he said finally, pointing out to where a great many-gabled house gleamed far away in the darkness. "'Tis Sir John Norton's house, and it is five miles from where Governor White lies, and the tide is against us; we shall never make it before morning," and he groaned hopelessly.
"Do not despair," I said cheerfully. "Take one of the oars and we will have a try at it. We will go under if we must, but first we will make a game fight," and seating myself, I began to tug at one of the oars.
Years ago I could row, but I had grown older now, and rowing was more difficult to me. Slowly we turned, and began to pull against the tide; it was about three o'clock in the morning, and we had only two hours at the most to make the ship, for she sailed at five o'clock, as Bobby informed me. He, tugging opposite, cursed his luck, as with a groan he bent to his task. Of Dunraven and the sailor we heard nothing. They had disappeared, and the dark river told no secrets.
I shall never forget that night's work, as with aching back I pulled for my life, and not only mine, but for Bobby's as well; for to my repeated offers to put him on shore, and let him strike through the country for his estates, he turned a deaf ear.
"Leave thee to thy death?" he cried indignantly. "No, I have not sunk so low as that. Thou couldst never make the ship alone, and to remain in England is but to invite certain discovery. They will scour all England to find thee, and there is no place that thou couldst remain in safety. No—we will both sink or swim together."
My hands, unaccustomed to the hard work, had blistered, and every stroke gave me pain. The sweat stood in large drops upon my forehead, and ran down my face; my back seemed as though it would break, as I bent to the work; my breath came in quick gasps. Two miles gone—and it was four o'clock. I stopped for an instant, and tearing off the sleeves of my doublet, I handed one in silence to Bobby, and wrapping the other about the handle of my oar, resumed my task.
It was only a question of a few moments with me; we were crawling slowly upstream, the tide beating against us as though in league with Dunraven, and eager to hold us back. It seemed to me that I had rowed always; that I had done naught from my birth but tug with bleeding hands at some heavy oar against the belated tide.
My mind was a blank; I had forgotten all else, save that we must pull three miles in one short hour, or Bobby was lost. In all broad England there was no spot where he could safely lay his head, for the Queen would punish with iron hand one who dared to beard her in her palace, and to pluck from the very gallows a felon whom she had doomed to die.
And so I pulled as though an empire hung upon my efforts. How much longer would this last? Half-past four, and we had pulled a little over a mile, and must rest. Fastening my oar, I threw myself flat upon the bottom of the boat. Bobby fell beside me, and with throbbing hearts we lay there.
Every breath that I drew gave me pain; a mist came before my eyes; the world seemed to whirl and circle in a mad dance about me; the river sucking at the boat seemed to my fevered brain to be a thing of life; the dark trees upon the banks seemed to beckon to me, as though a company of cloaked monks.
Afar down the east, a light streak was beginning to broaden, the sun was about to rise. Aboard the vessel all was bustle and hurry; they were preparing to hoist sail, and at the thought I tottered to my feet, and bent once more to the oar. By hard work we made another mile; it was five o'clock now, and we were still some distance from the ship. There was no use to work longer.
"Bobby," I muttered weakly, "the ship must have gone—let us rest."
"No," he answered, "pull! It will wait for us a moment—pull, man! we may yet reach it," and he redoubled his efforts.
I bent again to the oar, though it seemed as though my exhausted arms would wrench from their sockets at each stroke. Around me danced the river; the roar of the ocean was in my ears; little specks of fire glimmered in front of my very eyes. How long was a mile?—a mile—a mile—I had forgotten why we rowed so madly, I only knew that something terrible would befall us did we not reach a place, I knew not where, by five o'clock.
Bobby was speaking:
"It is past five o'clock now, and we are nearly there."
"Yes, nearly there," I repeated vacantly; "nearly there." Where was "there"?
The sun was rising like a ball of flame; red and angry, he was preparing for another day, and he scowled down upon us with threatening look, as though we had wronged him, and he but waited to avenge himself. We turned a curve in the river—there, nearly a quarter of a mile away, by the side of a dock lay a great vessel, her decks alive with men. She was about to spread her white sails, and fly out into the trackless ocean; even as we looked, she came slowly around, and, the wind filling her great sheets of canvass, began to move slowly through the water.
Bobby dropped the oar and sprang to his feet.
"It is our ship!" he cried.
And then he raised his voice and shouted with all his might, I joining him, but in vain; we were too weak from our long efforts, and our voices could not reach the ship. I waved my doublet above my head, and Bobby, putting his cap upon his oar, moved it backward and forward, hoping to attract their attention. But no sound came from the vessel, steadily she kept on her way to join her two consorts at the mouth of the river.
The vessel lay below the city, at an old deserted wharf, probably waiting for us, and her going attracted little attention; only a small crowd of people stood upon the wharf, idlers and friends of the adventurers, who had come to say good-by. My companion had thrown himself upon his face on the bottom of the boat and was sobbing like a child. I listlessly kept up my efforts to attract the attention of the vessel, for, though I had despaired of succeeding, I would not desist until it had passed out of sight.
The great ship keeled as she came round to the wind, and lay motionless. A culverin boomed, and lo! a boat put out from her and made for us where we lay. I gave a shout of joy—we were saved.
Vane looked up at my cry of astonishment.
"What is it?" he asked wonderingly. "Art thou mad?"
"We are saved, Bobby!" I cried, and I caught him in my arms and hugged him in delight. "Saved!"
He had arisen, calm again.
"We had best toss these rogues overboard," he said; "their bodies might excite suspicion. We can get into their boat, and turn this adrift; perhaps it will serve to throw our pursuers off the track."
And with my help, he tossed the dead bodies into the river. Two of them were dead, cold, and stiff; the third, whom I had kicked in the face, lay as though dead. We had no time to examine him; alive or dead he must go into the stream, for it would mean certain death to Sir Robert to leave this fellow behind, to tell of his share in my escape. So we cast him overboard.
The boat had neared us; a spare, gaunt man, wrapped in a dark cloak, with a worn, patient face, stood erect in the stern, and as he came in speaking distance, shouted to Bobby.
"What means this, Captain? I expected thy brother an hour ago, and have lost time waiting for you."
"I could not help it, Governor," he answered. "We were set upon by robbers down the river, our men were murdered, and it was only after a hard fight that we saved our lives. We rowed for two hours and more against the stream, as though the furies were at our heels, to catch thy ship."
He said nothing as the boat reached us, and we clambered aboard.
"It is Governor White," Bobby whispered in my ear.
"What wouldst thou have me do with thy boat?" White asked, eying us closely.
"Turn it adrift," I answered. "It has done its work." And leaving it, we pulled towards the spot where the ship lay awaiting us.
"You must have had a time of it," he said. "Your faces are dripping with sweat, and the blood is all over your doublets."
"Such a fight as I have never made before," Bobby replied. "I had given up hope several times, but still we kept on. How camest thou to wait for us?"
"I suspected something of the sort," he answered quietly, "and so we waited for a while. But I had given you up in despair and was about to sail, when one of the sailors spied your boat, and called my attention to it. I knew at once who it was, and so came back to pick you up. But pull, men!" he cried—"pull! We are much delayed as it is."
He was plainly worried, and I did not blame him. All London doubtless knew of my escape by now, and they were scouring the country high and low for me; at any moment we might come upon a party of the searchers, and then good-by for White and his voyage. It was light now, and we could be plainly seen from the banks of the river; the bustle and hum of the city came dimly to our ears. They would probably search the ship before they would let it sail—no wonder White's cheeks were pale.
A few moments, and we neared the ship; a crowd of eager faces peered down at us, sailors and adventurers, men of all sorts and conditions, they jostled and pushed each other, and the hum of their voices reached my ears, as, assisted by two sailors, I stumbled up the ladder, and down into the cabin, followed by Vane. Concealment now was useless, our only safety was in flight. Should our ship be stopped, all on board knew of our arrival, and discovery was inevitable.
White closed the door behind him.
"I am risking much for Walter Raleigh," he said. "We must take to our heels now, and evade them as best we can. Do you both stay below, until I send for you. I will set Sir Robert off at some point further down the river, where he can reach his place without suspicion," and with that he hurried out of the room.
The wind had freshened, and with all her sails set, the vessel flew through the water. We were passing among the shipping docks now, for I could see the sides of the vessels from the little open window where I stood.
A hoarse shout struck my ears—"Stop! in the name of the Queen, I command thee!"
"What is it?" I could hear White answer. "We are delayed, and are making all speed to join our consorts—we cannot stop."
"Thou dost go on at thy peril!" the voice roared. "A prisoner doomed to die has escaped from the Tower, and we are to search each vessel. It will take but a moment, and my orders are to fire on every ship that disobeys. Wait but a moment."
White shouted back: "I will go on a little further down the river, and stop at yonder wharf."
"No!" shouted the man, his voice becoming fainter, for the ship was staggering through the water with the speed of a race horse. "Stop! or I shall fire on thee."
White did not answer, only I heard him urge the men to put on more sail. A moment—then a dull roar, and the culverins crashed, as somewhere behind us they fired. A scornful laugh from the deck. Evidently we were out of range now. Then I heard a cry from above: "The man-of-war is making sail for us!" And there was the sound of hurried steps, as the men ran to and fro upon the deck in fear. If we could only keep this up but for a few minutes, we would soon be upon the high seas. The wind was blowing a very gale, as with every stitch of sail set, the vessel plunged through the water. It was broad daylight now, and every moment was golden to us; at any instant a vessel might block our way, and all would be lost.