"But to resume my tale—the title cannot be disposed of as long as Richard lives, but thy brother cannot of course maintain the dignity of his position without the estates to keep it up. He will be glad to relinquish it in thy behalf for a mere pittance, and thou canst have his action ratified by act of Parliament, so thou wilt be safe in any event," and so saying, he put the package into my hands.
It was composed of three papers. The first I laid aside after carelessly glancing at it. 'Twas the common recovery by which Sir Hugh Winchester barred the estate tail, and attached to it the instrument by which he took it back again to hold in fee simple.
The next was a bulky document in which my father solemnly transferred all his estates to Sir Robert Vane in trust. "Nevertheless to hold the same for the benefit and advantage of my second son, now beyond the seas—Thomas Winchester." And below he had scrawled his name.
I folded the document together again—so that homely old saying had come to pass, that "curses like chickens come home to roost." I had never loved my father, he had meant naught to me but a name, but at that moment I pitied him. He had hated me without a cause and his sin had brought its own punishment. And so thinking I opened the third and last paper—it ran thus:
"Richmond Castle,
April 10, 1588."Thomas:—As I lie here to-night, I realize that in a few hours I must pass out to meet that God, whom I have never served or obeyed. I have done little of good in this world; have lived only for self, my own desire and enjoyment my only thought. I know of not one soul whom I have ever helped or assisted during the whole of my miserable life, but on the contrary there are many whom I have wronged and injured, who will rejoice as they hear the news of my death.
"I have wronged thee most of all, for I allowed that villain, Richard, to play upon my dislike of thee, until I did thee that last injury and drove thee from England. I have paid for my sin in agony and torture; my life since thou left has been a living death. There has been no night for months that I have not writhed in anguish, and to add to my sufferings, Richard has done all in his power to be-devil me, thinking that he had the estates safe.
"I have made what little reparation I could, and have disinherited him, and transferred all the property to thy friend Sir Robert Vane, to hold in trust for thee; for something tells me thou art alive, and will yet come to claim thy own. Death, my son, will be a boon to me—it will at last end my agony in this world. I trust that my God will take into consideration my suffering here, in measuring my punishment in the life to come.
"And now I will close forever. I cannot ask thee to forgive me, I have sinned too deeply. I only ask thee to remember that if I have wronged thee I have been repaid; for every drop of suffering that has been wrung from thy brow, I have sweated two—for every groan thou hast uttered, I have groaned thrice. So thou dost see, that even in this world, we are repaid for our sins, for as a man makes his bed so shall he lie.
"Farewell,
"Richmond."
I held the paper in my hand, and from my long dry eyes there fell a tear, as though in tribute to one who had sinned and suffered. I knew he had repented bitterly the injury he had done me, and from the bottom of my heart I forgave him. I looked up at Marsden, who sat opposite, eying me as a cat gazes at a mouse.
"But thou dost forget that I am a fugitive from justice, and if I set foot in England to claim the estate, the Queen will hang me."
He threw up his hands in despair.
"I had forgotten that; thy estates are forfeited to the Crown as those of a traitor, and thy father's disposition of them goes for naught. 'Tis maddening with only that between thee and fortune—fool that I was not to think of it! Shall I have the papers back again?" he said. "They are of no value to thee."
"No," I answered. "Did I give them back to thee, thou wouldst sell them to Richard, and 'tis best that they remain in my hands."
A scowl of fury came over Marsden's pale face at my words, and he glanced about him. But he saw that I was prepared to meet him, so he arose to his feet. Raising my head, I saw that the canoe lay by a little neck of land, and that even now he was preparing to step ashore.
"What doest thou?" I asked in surprise.
"I promised DeNortier to return as soon as I delivered the message," he said; "for the Count needs help to protect Lady Margaret from Dunraven." And resisting all remonstrances, he plunged into the woods, bidding me go by water. "Dunraven might try to escape by the river, and 'tis best to surround him on all sides," he said, and seeing the wisdom of his words, I let him go and resumed my journey.
All night long I paddled steadily, the canoe of Winona behind me, and by morning we were nearing the goal for which I had struggled so long.
Four of the afternoon had arrived, and Winona called to me that just ahead there lay the broad white rock which marked the end of our journey. Yes, there to the left, jutting out into the water, was a broad flat rock, and above it hung a withered oak.
"'Tis the rock," said Winona, and turning our canoes in that direction, we soon approached it.
The girl caught the prow of my boat, and concealing both canoes in the high reeds that fringed the bank, with bow in hand she led the way along the little beaten path into the woods. So this was the beginning of the end I thought, as with my sword loosed in its scabbard, I followed the lithe figure of Winona. With eyes bent upon the path, and step as proud and free as a young fawn, she tripped in front of me.
For some minutes she walked thus, and then with an exclamation she pointed to the trail; for here there was a great place trodden smooth, as though some monarch of the forest had locked horns with an enemy in the death struggle. The earth was torn and furrowed, and a great pool of blood, which looked as though it had been shed only a few minutes before, was in front of us.
"What is it, Winona?" I asked. "Have some bucks locked horns here?"
"No," she answered gravely, as she gazed at the ground; "it is the pale faces—see!" And she pointed to the earth, where bending I could dimly see the print of a shoe.
"Let us go on, Winona!" I cried, alarmed at the sight, and I followed the trail of blood, where it led out again to the path.
"See!" she cried, and she pointed to the stream of blood. "One of the pale ones was struck down, but he sprang up and followed his enemies," and brushing by me, she ran on down the path.
For a few minutes we kept on after the bloody track, then turning from the path, we followed the blood into the woods down a little hillock and up under a great oak, where I could dimly see the figure of a man, as with upturned face he lay quiet and still.
"The wounded man almost caught one of those who struck him!" she cried excitedly, pointing to a deep track, as where one had leaped in terror and then sprang forward in desperation.
I did not answer, but breaking into a run, I rushed by her and up the slope to where that ghastly figure lay beneath the tree. As I stood beside him, he stirred and opened his bloodshot eyes, wearily looking up at me—it was DeNortier, and wounded unto death, it required no leech to see that. Beside him lay the dead body of the apothecary, Marsden, a look of terror awful to behold upon his pale face.
One stiff hand clutched some leaves, the other lay outstretched above his head, as though in despair. He had died like a trapped rat; the ghastly look upon his face was more significant than words, for it showed the agony and despair of the last moment, when the freebooter had struck him down. There still quivered in his lifeless frame the keen blade of a sword, which had been thrust through his body and deep into the ground, pinning him down to writhe and die like a butterfly transfixed by a needle.
The Count DeNortier looked at me a moment with his glassy eyes, and then drew back from me.
"Art come to torment me, pale shade?" he said. "Away! A few moments and I will be even as thou art."
"I am no shade," I answered, "but a man of flesh and blood like thyself."
"Who is it, cloaked and hooded, that stands gray and silent by thy side?" he continued in the same low voice, as though he had not heard me. "It looks even as one whom I have known in the long ago. Speak, dim spectre! Who art thou?"
I looked behind me, there was no one there save the wondering Indian girl.
With a shout that resounded through the forest, he dragged himself to a sitting position, horror stamped upon every feature of his face.
"It is Sir Samuel Morton!" he shouted in an unearthly voice. "Back! I slew thee, but it was in fair fight. Why comest thou here to torment me? Go! I said," and he fell back trembling upon the ground.
"'Tis no one, Count," I said soothingly. "Be calm—It is only the creation of thy fevered brain that thou seest."
But with straight, unseeing eyes, already fixed in death, he stared past me.
"'Tis ever thus," he groaned, "ever I see rise around me the shadowy faces of those whom I have slain. They flock about with leering looks and outstretched fingers, taunting me as I lie thus. If there be a hell, as the lying priests would have us believe, it would be torture enough to listen through countless ages to their gibes, and to see about me their staring faces," and he lay back exhausted, with panting tongue.
"Water," he moaned—"would that I had but one drink of water."
I cast my steel cap towards the motionless girl.
"Bring him some water, Winona," I said.
She bounded away to a little brook that glimmered through the trees near by.
"Dunraven," he screamed, rising again, "thou shalt not have her! I would rather that this Sir Thomas should win than thou; he is at least a man, whilst thou art a creeping serpent. I would rather see the maid cold in death, than to be the bride of such as thou."
"How camest thou thus?" I said, seating myself by him.
"What carest thou?" he answered, seeming to see me again. "What difference can it make to thee, thou who art a shadow, whether I live or die? But listen, if it be of any interest, and thou shalt hear how I came to be in this condition.
"This Dunraven had kept the maid captive for two long months in the cabin yonder, constantly threatening her and menacing her with I know not what, unless she would give her consent to let that imp of hell—the priest Francis—marry her to him. I had landed the day after they did upon the coast; for I knew Dunraven's plans, and that he would come directly here. I learned them from the spy, Marsden, the rogue who lies beside me, who would have played me false. I followed hot on their trail and found them here. Dunraven was furious that I should have tracked him, for he thought to have the maid in his power, and I was ever as a thorn in the flesh to him.
"Often wearied by the long resistance of Lady Margaret, he swore by Heaven and earth to wed her. I took the part of the maiden—partly because I loved her—partly because down in my black heart I pitied her. For if ever woman bore herself nobly, under circumstances that would daunt a heart of iron, that woman is Lady Margaret Carroll.
"Curse it!" he cried. "My throat burns and scorches, and yet I lie here and babble to amuse a pale shade, and thou wilt not give me a drop of water to cool my aching throat."
"Thou shalt have water," I answered; "have patience," and even as I spoke, I heard the step of the girl as she returned.
Taking the cup from her, I bent over the dying man, and lifting him up, held the cool water to his lips, while he gulped it down eagerly and resumed his story, a far-away look in his glassy eyes.
"For the last week Dunraven has been as one possessed, for one of the savages brought him tidings which set him wild, and it was only with the point of my sword I held him in check.
"I strolled down to the great rock this morning, where I had dispatched Marsden to find thee and bring thee here to rescue the lady. My agreement with the traitor was to meet him on his return at the rock. As I gazed upon the water, I heard a sound behind me, and turning I saw Dunraven, with his henchman, the fat priest, and Marsden, together with the Indian whom my lord had ever with him. Fool that I was to suspect nothing from Dunraven's smiling face, as talking and chatting, he rode with me back to the cabins, the others following.
"Anxious I was to know what success Marsden had met with, but I could say naught until I could get him apart from the others. So I came along with them, perhaps a mile, when the priest, leaning behind me, without a word plunged a long knife into my back. I turned on him, but like a flash the whole band were upon me.
"I struggled furiously, and tried to draw my sword, but the Indian had severed the belt with his knife. I fought for my life, unarmed and alone—but what could one man do? They bore me down to the ground, and thrusting their knives in me a last time, pursued their way, leaving me for dead.
"'Have no fear for the Lady Margaret!' Dunraven cried, as with a smile he left me. 'I will care well for her.' I lay there and cursed the fate that had willed that I, a man who had slain a score of gallant gentlemen in fair fight, and held at bay for five long years the strength of Europe, should die in an unknown hole of this great uninhabited country.
"Even as I lay thus, I heard a light step, and the ruffian Marsden came stealing down, knife in hand, fearing that by some mischance I might betray the secret of his perfidy to Dunraven. I waited quietly, with my eyes closed, until he bent over me, then gathering all my strength, even as a lamp flares up into a bright flame before it goes out forever, I sprang at him, and caught him by the throat.
"With a yell of fear, he wrenched himself free and tore down the path, with me at his heels. I drew nearer and nearer to him until, with one last leap, I sprang upon his back and hurled him to the ground. Then with his own sword I slew him. Could I have only cut the throat of that fiend Dunraven, I would die content.
"And now, thou dweller of another sphere, one last thing to soothe thy troubled heart would I do, before I go to join thee. The Lady Margaret loves thee. Would I could have told thee before thou hadst passed out of this mortal globe, but I only discovered it a few brief hours ago. They say that dying men see plainly into the future. I know not if that be true—I only know that something tells me that Margaret Carroll will be the bride of a nobler man than Dunraven."
He was nearing the end now, and with long-drawn breath and wildly groping hands, he fought for breath. Suddenly he looked up at me with vacant gaze.
"Say that thou forgivest me for the share I had in thy detention!" he wildly cried. "As God is my witness, I have rued it oft and deeply. I have other and grievous sins to answer for, and would not go down to death with that blot unforgiven."
"I forgive thee," I gently answered, as I bent over him, "and though 'twas a terrible thing, I bear thee no malice, and would not stand between thee and thy God."
"I have done thee a great favor," he muttered. "Thou wilt discover it sometime."
He babbled on a few moments at random. Of deeds of blood and terror, awful and ghastly; of men murdered in cold blood; of women and children put to death with torture, such as the mind of man could hardly conceive, by the thumbscrew and the stake; of burning ships and murdered crews. Then a look of cunning and avarice came over his ghastly face, and he tried to raise himself, but was too weak. He could only beckon me to draw near.
"Nearer," he whispered, "I will tell thee a secret, that will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams. It will be some recompense for the pain I have caused thee, and thou canst let a small portion be used in Masses for my soul. No one knows where it is concealed, save myself and the dead Herrick."
"Where is it hidden?" I asked listlessly, for in truth I cared little for the golden hoard, since one whom I loved could not share it with me.
"Nearer," he whispered, so low that only bending far over his white face, could I hear his voice. "Those pale ones who bend beside thee shall not hear it; 'tis for thy ear alone. Look upon the Island Eldorado, it is concealed——"
He stiffened himself; even as he did so, I knew that his race was run, for I could feel beside me the presence of that one who had beckoned him, and who with waiting boat was preparing to waft him over the dark stream, and into the dim unknown region from which no traveler returns.
The dying man had lifted himself until he sat erect, his dull, glazed eyes fixed far beyond me. He spoke, and with awe I recognized that his voice had regained all the strength and imperiousness with which it rang when he had reigned supreme, the lord and ruler of the savage crew.
"Some wine, José!" he cried. "The wine of the King of Spain. We will drink one more toast before we go; our time is short—long and weary the journey. Now, men, fill up to the brim, for I give you a toast to-night, such as you have never drunk e'er this, nor will again.
"'Tis a lady, pure, beautiful, divine, such a one as never graced this rough earth before. Had Eve been such as she, 'tis no wonder that Adam lost all, and counted it naught beside the glory of her deep eyes. Had Helen been one-half so fair, I wonder not that Paris for her sake braved all Greece and laughed at their rage. I give thee a lady, my comrades, more lovely than the pale blushing dawn, purer than the driven snow, with eyes whose deep blue outshines the azure sky, one whom England admires and adores—The Lady Margaret Carroll!"
He fell back upon the bank, the same calm smile upon his face. He made no sign or motion; bending forward, I saw that he had died without a struggle.
With the help of Winona I dug a trench and buried the Count. So we left him to keep his last long watch; the snows of winter lie thick upon his grave, the sun and rain of summer beat upon it, but he heeds them not. He was a man with all his faults, and deep above his grave I carved upon a hemlock the simple words "Requiescat in pace."
It was night when the Indian maid and myself resumed our journey. Winona had buried Marsden near DeNortier, and by the light of the moon we made our way down the rocky path and towards the cabins. No sound broke the gloom of the forest, as we strode rapidly on. I had lost precious time with DeNortier; during which perhaps the fox Dunraven had taken the alarm, and fled still further into the vast country beyond the dim mountains of which Manteo had told me.
And now, as we silently turned a bend in the path, the glare of a fire met my eyes, only a few feet ahead, and to the left of where I stood. Cautiously drawing my sword, with Winona, bow in hand, at my heels, I stole forward, until I stood underneath the trees in the shadow. Then quietly I looked out upon those who sat about the fire.
In front and facing me, sat Lord Dunraven upon a huge log, his sheathed sword between his knees. To his right, and several feet away, was another figure, a woman in a white dress. The light from the fire shone upon her white neck and rounded arms, and a gold chain about her throat glistened and sparkled as the glow from the blazing embers fell upon it. One little foot peeped out from the hem of her skirt, and her burnished hair shone in the dim light, as though each strand were gold, mined from the far-off land of the Indies.
A fagot from the dying fire blazed up, and the light fell full upon her face, which was in the shadow. Even before the firelight told me, I knew the maid was Margaret. Paler than it was her wont to be, but radiant with the same marvelous beauty. The last few months had defaced not one trace of loveliness, and even as I gazed upon her from my hiding-place, the same faint perfume floated across to me that I had ever noticed when in her presence.
"And so DeNortier, a plague upon him, has gone out upon a longer journey than it has been his wont to take," Dunraven said, a sneer upon his face. "He will find it, I fear, a rough voyage, and will meet on his arrival a warm greeting," and he looked up at the lady.
"I would have gone to where he lay, and read to him from the Holy Scriptures," she said in a clear voice. "Perhaps it would have soothed his last moments, but thou wouldst not let me do this."
"No," he answered, his sneer deepening into an evil smile. "Curse him! He has thwarted me long enough. Had it not been for him, thou wouldst have been Lady Dunraven long ere this. But the fruit only grows more tempting with the waiting," and he laughed long and loud.
The Lady Margaret had risen, and with tears in her eyes now faced him. "Why dost thou persecute me thus?" she said, as though in despair. "Thou knowest I will never willingly be thy bride; there are many fair ladies in England. Why wilt thou persist in thy mad pursuit of me, when thou knowest I do not love thee?"
My lord kept his seat, the smile still upon his face.
"If thou for any reason dost look into thy mirror, thou needst wonder no further."
"I seek not for compliments," she answered impatiently. "I would know the cause of thy unreasonable conduct."
"Thou seekest for a reason, behold thou hast it. Margaret, I have spent a great treasure; have slain two gallant gentlemen; have left the luxuries and pleasures of my own country to become a wanderer in a strange land; have traversed countless leagues of trackless ocean and boundless forest, my very life at the mercy of these roving savages. Have imperiled all, Margaret—wealth, position, title, reputation, and for what?"
"Yes, for what?" she answered, her head held proudly erect. "It has been worse than wasted."
"'Tis for this," he cried, and he advanced a step nearer to her—"because I love thee."
My lady's face had grown scornful, her eyes flashed, for she came of a noble line, and when once aroused, the Carroll blood could be hot and fierce.
"Thou hadst best save thy breath," she answered contemptuously. "Thou art like a child, that frets and whimpers for the moon."
"Art thou made of stone?" he cried, "that naught can touch thy cold heart? What more wouldst thou have. I have dared all, endured all, for thy sake, and yet thou still dost frown—hast thou no smile?"
"Not for such as thee," she answered calmly, turning her back upon him and looking out into the gloom.
"Perhaps thou thinkest that they be for Sir Thomas Winchester," he said with a scowl. "Fool not thyself, proud lady, thy lover is dead—died with such torture as thy mind knows not, devised with all the ingenuity that the savage Indian can contrive. Thy smile shall never more be for him."
Margaret had grown paler, but her courage did not fail her for an instant.
"If he be dead," she replied piteously, "he was something that in thy whole life thou hast never been, nor conceived of—a brave and gallant gentleman."
"It may be so," he answered, "but I had rather be a live man with the Lady Margaret Carroll, than a dead gentleman, though he be a saint."
"Beast!" she cried, in anger and despair. "I loathe thee! Even the very savages have some mercy on their helpless victims, but thou knowest not what mercy is."
"Not where thou art concerned," he answered steadily. "Cost what it may, thou shalt be mine." And folding his arms upon his chest, he looked at her as though he would imprint every feature of her face indelibly upon his brain.
"Name my ransom," she said. "Any price—though it take every penny of my estate, I will pay it gladly and willingly," and she turned again and faced him imploringly.
"What wouldst thou do here, alone in this wilderness? Thou wouldst lose thyself amid its dark shades; be devoured by some wild beast, or fall into the hands of the Indians, beside which captivity in my hands would be a paradise."
"It matters not," she cried eagerly, her face alight with hope. "Better to die at the stake, than to endure such as this. Name but thy price, and it shall be paid."
"This is my answer," he replied slowly and deliberately, his dark eyes upon hers: "Though each leaf upon every tree in all this vast continent were a golden sovereign, and all that vast treasure mine, should I but set thee free, I would turn my back upon it in scorn and disdain. Not for aught that this great world holds would I forego my power to make thee mine."
Margaret had sunk back again upon the log from which she had risen, her hands over her face. I still lay where I was behind Dunraven. I would wait until the moment arrived when he would attempt to carry his scheme into effect; then at the very instant when he held the cup to his lips, I would dash it to the ground. Defeat would only seem the more bitter because he had been so near to victory.
"So don thy fairest dress and thy brightest smile this evening, for I can wait no longer for the time when thou shalt be mine. With only the light of thine eyes to bask in, with thee to cheer me, this rough land would be an Eden, and we like two children to wander hand in hand beneath the trees. Such a life I have long dreamed of—such at last is at hand for me. The priest will make us one this very night. So prepare thee, for in a few brief moments he will be here."
She raised her head, a look of determination in her blue eyes, which had grown hard and cold as steel.
"I cannot tell what things the future holds in store for me, but this much is certain: Before I would submit to such an indignity I would slay myself with my dagger and so end my misery. I warn thee that I am desperate. Push me not to the wall, or I will do something that perchance thou wilt regret. Be not so sure. At the last moment the cup may be dashed from thy hands." And she arose, courage and desperation upon her face.
"There is no help for it," he answered. "Thou canst do naught, Margaret, but weep and wring thy white hands; there is no one to aid thee. Thou art alone in my power—neither God nor man can help thee now."
"Be not so sure of that, my lord," I answered as I stepped out into the firelight, my sword raised. "Thou knowest not what these dark woods contain."
He wheeled upon me as I spoke. My lady had given one loud cry, whether of joy or fear I knew not, and with clasped hands stood gazing at me.
"So thou dost come at last," he said coolly. "It is well; one of my enemies has stepped out of my path forever to-day. Thou art the second and the last, and thou too shall go to join him. Francis!" he cried, raising his voice into a shout.
An answering call came back from the darkness, and I could see the light as it streamed from the half-open door of a cabin, a few yards away.
"Quick!" he cried. "'Tis that dog, Sir Thomas! Out, and at him!"
A yell, and the rush of approaching feet, as they raced for me; I had sprung forward at the first shout and crossed swords with Dunraven. He wore his steel breastplate, or I would have cut him down in a few seconds, for he lacked much of being my match with the sword; but there was naught for me to do but to make for his head, as my time was too short to pick and choose my point of attack. Another cut at his head, which he parried, and replied by a vicious lunge at my throat, which I met—and then from out of the gloom his men sprang at me.
The priest, a great cutlass in his hands, came down like a wild boar; behind him panted the fat skipper of the "Betsy," his red face aglow, and at his heels an Indian in his paint and feathers. And now four to one, on all sides of me, they cut and thrust; one man, no matter how splendid a fight he made, could not keep all of them at bay.
A low cry from my lady caught my attention. She was swaying to and fro, both hands clutched at her breast—even as I glanced at her, she toppled and fell full length upon the ground. That one brief instant, when I turned my eyes from my assailants, proved my undoing. With a rush all four men were upon me. The priest caught the hilt of my sword and was endeavoring to wrench it from my hands; the others sprang upon my back and were trying to throw me to the ground.
"Drop all swords!" Dunraven cried. "I would not have him hurt—he is reserved for a sweeter fate."
I staggered under their combined weight; my hands were pinned to my sides, for the priest, having wrenched my sword from me with the help of the savage, now gripped my body and arms with a grasp of steel. The two, Miles as Dunraven called the fat skipper, and my lord himself, were upon my back, with the Indian tugging at my knees. With a crash I went down, carrying them with me.
What had become of Winona, I thought as I fell. Had she forsaken me? She was the equal of a man in a fight such as this; but when it came to the pinch, she had doubtless fled.
The priest had loosed me as I fell, and catching up a long knife, he bent over me as I struggled with the others upon the ground. The old dark leer was upon his face.
"And so we square accounts!" he cried triumphantly. "I have gloated over the thought of this moment ever since we last parted. Die, thou carrion! May thy foul soul rot in Hades with my old chief, the Count DeNortier, for a million ages!" And he struck downwards at me.
With a whistle an arrow whizzed towards him, and as I looked I saw its sharp point strike him in the throat, and passing through, project a foot beyond. A shrill, keen, quavering yell vibrated through the forest, as the priest staggered blindly, the knife still clutched in his hand. Then another piercing cry rang out, as a second arrow struck him full in the back, and with a hideous shriek he sprawled out upon the ground.
An answering yell came from the other side of the glade, and the woods rang and re-echoed with the blood-curdling cry. Miles was struggling madly beneath me to rise.
"It is the Indians!" he cried. "Up!—let me go!"
Dunraven sprang to his feet. "It is the Cherokees!" He rushed to where the limp body of Margaret lay, and catching her up in his arms, sword in hand, he dashed out of the grove. "Save yourselves!" he shouted to his men. "As for myself, I must rescue the lady."
The others were still struggling frantically with me, their only thought to escape. With another series of deafening yells, two figures sprang out of the trees and made for us. One of them was Winona, I knew her by her short petticoat, and the other—yes, the firelight shone on his face an instant as he darted by—it was Manteo.
The Indian with whom I fought had broken loose from me, and now dashed forward. I saw him rush upon Manteo. The two grappled together, and fell rolling and struggling on the ground.
Miles, to whom terror had lent the strength of despair, was fighting manfully to free himself. His hand came in contact with the stone tomahawk which the Indian had dropped in his fight with me; his fingers closed over the handle, and raising it with all his strength, he brought it down upon my left arm, where I held him by the hair, while with my right I pinned his body down. My arm fell limp and helpless to the ground. With a plunge he broke loose from me, and springing up he bounded full into the arms of Winona, who caught him around the waist, and with a howl of terror he fought to break away.
I leaped to my feet. Dunraven had disappeared with Margaret. I heard him crashing through the woods a hundred yards away, as he ran at the top of his speed. I dashed away in the direction of the sound, my arm dangling by my side. But I heeded it not, as like a hound at the heels of his quarry, I tore through trees and bushes, bareheaded and disheveled, after Lord Dunraven. It seemed as though I crawled at the speed of an ant, and yet I know now, that I ran as I had never done before.
Now I rushed through level plains, upon which the moonlight cast the shadows of the tall trees in strange fantastic shapes; then I would tear my way through a dense thicket, or splash into the water of some babbling brook and up a little knoll.
At last I caught sight of Dunraven. My eye glimpsed the flutter of Margaret's dress, as with her upon his shoulder, he was running at the top of his speed, below me some fifty yards away. Encumbered by the lady and bleeding from several wounds, he was losing ground at every step, and with a loud curse he shifted the limp body of Margaret to his other shoulder, and halted a moment to shake a clenched fist at me.
In grim silence I ran on—bending every nerve and sinew to overtake him. We were now on a long, level plateau, perhaps three hundred yards in length. I uttered one long, loud cry. Startled by the nearness of the sound, he slackened his pace for an instant, and made as though to turn and meet me. But his heart failed him, and with an exclamation of despair, he cast the lady upon the ground, and abandoning her, rushed on.
Not for aught would I have halted then, for I was too near a final reckoning with this villain who had hounded me so long. To-night we would settle our quarrel for aye, and so swerving aside from Margaret, who lay white and still where she had fallen, I ran on after him. I would overtake him, cost what it might, or die in the attempt. A few more bounds now, and he would be in my grasp.
"Curse thee!" he cried as I drew closer. "I believe 'tis as the priest says, that thou art leagued with the evil one himself."
I made no answer. I was too near him to waste useless breath, for I needed all my wind and strength too in that mad race.
"Thou hast won at every point!" he shouted bitterly; "hast beaten me at every move, and for this I curse thee, now and hereafter. If it be possible I would sell my soul to the devil himself, if I might come back once more to earth to haunt and torment thee. I despise thee with a bitter, unrelenting hatred, such as I have never borne before for man or beast, for thou hast robbed me of her for whom I have plotted and schemed for weary months," and he gave a snarl of rage.
I was upon him now, and with a cry of triumph I gathered myself for one great spring, which would land me upon his back. But even as I drew myself together to leap he threw up both hands and gave a scream of mortal despair as though he were in the grasp of death itself. As it rang out upon the night air he plunged forward, down, and out of sight, his hands clutching and grasping at the earth to save himself; for there, yawning dark and deep before me, was a great precipice, its deep sides falling abruptly away, with no tree or vegetation to check the fall below upon the solid rock.
I dug my feet desperately into the ground to save myself, for if I went down there was no help for it, I would be dashed to pieces. My feet slipped forward over the brink of the precipice, and clutching despairingly at the stone ledge, I caught it with my right hand, and so hung over that yawning abyss by one hand; for my left arm was broken and useless.
No words can describe my horror and despair, as I dangled between heaven and earth. I was too exhausted by my long, hard run to pull myself up in safety. I could only hang thus until my grasp would weaken and give way, and I would fall upon the rocks beneath. Suddenly I heard a dull crash from below, and then silence. Peering cautiously down I saw the figure of Lord Dunraven, crushed and mangled upon the rocks, a hundred feet below me—this was his end. He had sown in blood and crime, and so he also had reaped.
My grasp was weakening fast; my arm seemed as though it would be torn from its socket with the strain. I had given myself up for lost, and was about to loose my hold, and so relieve my aching arm.
A voice came from above me. It was as the sound of sweetest music to my ears.
"Where art thou?" cried Winona, as she leaned over the cliff.
"Be careful," I answered, "there is a great chasm in front of thee, over which I hang by one arm. Quick! or I must let loose and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below."
A slight noise, and then she reached out, and with both hands grasped me by the collar, just as my hand slipped from the ledge, and drawing me slowly up placed me upon the ground. Exhausted and unnerved I lay there, shaking and trembling like a leaf. The strain had been so great, that now I was safe, the reaction was almost more than I could stand in my worn-out condition.
"Where is the lady, Winona?" I asked feebly, as she bent over me.
"She lies below," she answered calmly. "I rushed on up here to find thee."
"And thou didst leave her where she fell?" I cried in amazement.
"Yes," she answered stolidly. "And well for the Eagle that I did, else he had not been here to tell the tale."
With an exclamation I got upon my trembling feet, and back I went through the tall grass, the Indian girl at my heels. Thank God she was still there; I could see the white dress as it gleamed in the moonlight. Reaching her side I bent over her; her eyes opened and she gazed up into mine.
"I knew that thou wouldst come," she murmured. "They told me thou wert dead, but I knew it was false, and I have waited long and patiently, praying that thou wouldst take me from this place."
"Yes," I answered gently, "I have come. Would that it had been sooner, but I have done my best. I grieve that thou shouldst have been subjected to the threats and terror of this man so long, but it is past now forever."
"Yes, gone," she repeated softly. "But take me away from here."
Bending over her, I took her up with my right arm, as though she had been a tired child, and with her head upon my shoulder, I retraced my steps to where I had met Dunraven. Never will I forget that walk with Margaret in my arms; I was weary—yea, exhausted—my left arm broken, but I had forgotten these things—forgotten that my enemies lay cold and still in that silent forest, and would trouble me no more. I only knew that I held in my arms one that was more to me than all else in this great world, that she lay nestled close to my heart, her light breath gently fanning my cheek. For a few brief moments I tasted the ambrosial nectar of the gods, and was content.
With Margaret I could walk on forever through these dark forests, feeling neither hunger, thirst, nor cold. Manteo had joined us, three fresh and bleeding scalps at his belt—one was the Indian's, another the priest's, and the third that of the sailor, Miles. Without a word he led the way down the path to the boats, I following, with Winona, her eyes fixed upon my slightest motion, behind. We had traveled perhaps one-half of the distance when Margaret stirred.
"I have recovered sufficiently to walk," she said. And looking down at her face in the moonlight, I could see the deep blush upon her cheek and neck.
"But canst thou walk?" I answered, loath to loose her. "'Tis but a few steps more to the boat."
"Nay," she replied, "I can walk now." And gently, but firmly, she loosed herself from my arm, and turned to follow Manteo, who strode down the path ahead of me.
"What is wrong with thy arm?" Margaret cried in alarm, for a sudden faintness had seized me, and I staggered blindly as I caught with my sound hand at my left arm from which a stream of blood was spurting.
"'Tis naught," I answered. "Only a sudden weakness which has passed." And I would have gone on had she not stopped me.
"Thinkest thou that I am blind?" she said indignantly. "Stop this moment, sir, and have it dressed." And with a pretty, impetuous gesture she halted.
Manteo glided to my side, and with his knife cut away the deerskin from my arm, and glanced about him.
"If Manteo had someone to hold the Eagle's arm while he cut a splint," he murmured, half to himself.
My lady stepped forward, and despite my protest, caught my arm in both of her hands, and held it in the position which the chief indicated, while Winona darted away for some water from a little brook to wash the wound. Quickly the chief splintered my arm, and putting it in a deerskin sling, said that we were ready to proceed.
"Dost thou not wish Winona to go back for some of thy dresses, Lady Margaret?" I asked, as we were about to start. She hesitated a moment.
"If she would," she said uncertainly, and she looked at the Indian girl who stood a little apart from us. Turning to Winona I bade her go to the hut, and bring back the contents of the chest which my lady described to me. She turned and bounded back down the path out of sight, while we moved on slowly towards the flat rock.
"It is well that thou didst come when thou didst," Margaret said, with a dainty little shudder, "else I know not what I would have done; for the Count DeNortier, who had protected me heretofore from Lord Dunraven, was dead, and I was alone and helpless. Is Lord Dunraven dead?" she asked suddenly, looking up at me.
"Yes," I answered slowly. "Both he and the priest are dead. My lord fell over a deep precipice as I pursued him, and I had a narrow escape from the same fate."
"I am glad," she said in a low voice. "I should have grieved if aught had befallen thee."
"I thank thee," I said quietly, though my pulse bounded and danced at these simple words, which in her kindness she had spoken—and so we came to the boat. I helped her into the largest canoe (Manteo had already broken a great hole in the other with his hatchet, so that it could not be used to pursue us) and stepping in after her, I took my seat.
A few minutes we waited thus in silence, and then Winona, panting and hot, came down the trail, a bundle in her arms which she, without a word, handed to me. She stepped into the canoe and picked up one of the paddles; Manteo took the other, and they pushed out boldly into the stream.
"Manteo," I said, turning to him, as he knelt in the bottom of the canoe, and with powerful strokes urged her through the water, "it was just in time that thou didst arrive."
"Manteo has been delayed long upon the journey," he answered. "Twice he nearly fell into the hands of hostile red men, and he only reached the lodges of the Cherokees a few hours after thou hadst departed. The chief, Windango, told me where thou hadst gone, so Manteo followed hot after the Eagle, and seeing the girl Winona, as I crept near the fire, I recognized her as the daughter of the chief of the Cherokees. In a few words she explained to me the trouble, and we gave the war whoop and rushed at them. Of a truth they acted as if the whole Cherokee nation were at their heels," and something like a smile crossed his dark face.
"It sounded to me as though there must have been at least a hundred savages in the woods," I answered. "My brother Manteo shouted as though he might have been threescore himself," and I laughed at him.
My eyes fell upon Margaret as she shivered in the stern, and catching up the great bearskin from the bottom of the boat, despite her protests, I wrapped it about her.
"The beautiful one is more lovely than the dawn," said Manteo, a look of admiration for a moment upon his face. "I wonder not that the Eagle has traversed all these leagues to carry her back with him to his lodge."
I looked at Margaret.
"Wouldst thou know what the chief has said of thee, Lady Margaret?" I asked, a twinkle in my eye, for the chief had spoken in his own tongue. Although he understood the English language, yet he would never express himself in it, but would always talk to me in his own soft speech.
"What is it?" she asked, a faint smile upon her face as she noticed my glee. "Nothing bad, I hope."
"He says that thou art more lovely than the dawn," I answered, wisely judging that it would be better to suppress the latter part of his remark.
The color deepened in her cheeks.
"Since when hast thou taught the very savages to turn a compliment?" she said. "Truly, sir, thou hast not labored in vain."
"They know no better than to tell the truth," I answered, a smile upon my face. "'Tis from the heart, and not from the lips as in London."
She made no answer, but turning her head looked out upon the dark river, as its waters glistened and sparkled in the moonlight. And I watched her lovely profile as she sat thus.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" she said softly.
"Very beautiful," I answered, as I still gazed at her. I was thinking of her face, and if I but dared to lean over and press my lips to that soft cheek, which so lately had lain against my shoulder.
She stamped her little foot.
"Where are thy wits?" she said. "Thou lookest off as though in a dream, and I venture to say that thou knowest not one word that I have said."
"Margaret," I answered, "I would know one thing. The priest once showed me a paper in thy hand and stamped with thy crest, in which thou didst say that thou lovest Dunraven, and would be his wife. It almost shook my faith in God and man, that thou, whom I believed so pure and noble, shouldst love one so black as he. I had thought to ask thee that night in the prison, but it slipped my mind. Tell me, didst thou write such a note as this?"
"And thou thinkest that I would do such a thing as that?" she answered, with a look of reproach. "For shame, Sir Thomas! Have I ever in my whole life given thee cause to think thus of me?"
"Forgive me," I replied. "But the note was in thy handwriting, upon thy paper, and scented with thy perfume."
"Thou mightst have known better," she answered gravely, and she looked out again upon the river.
"Oh, man," she cried in scorn, "canst thou never believe that a woman cares naught but for wealth and fame; that she plans for naught but rank and position, and that her mind is ever filled with thoughts of conquest?"
"I know of one lady who, I think is all that mortal should be," I answered; "whose pure soul can hold no unworthy thought."
"And who pray may this person be? Fain would I know such a one," and she looked up again at me, smiling faintly.
"Thou knowest her well," I answered quickly; "she is perhaps thy best friend."
"I know not of whom thou speakest," she cried innocently, or was it but a subterfuge—"unless it be the Lady Jane Porter."
"'Tis thyself, Margaret," I answered. "Thou art the one of whom I speak," and I bent forward to look into her face.
But she had drawn herself up, as her eye caught sight of the silent Indian maid behind me, who with keen gaze followed her every movement.
"Enough," she replied coldly. "I did not angle for a compliment," and she turned her head aside as though to end the conversation.
"Thou art tired," I said. "Let me wrap thy robe about thee, and thou shalt rest in the bow of the canoe."
"I am not tired," she replied, "and I would prefer to sit and watch the changing river as we glide along."
But I insisted upon her taking some rest, and she finally consented; for though she would not acknowledge it, she was plainly tired.
Long I sat in the center of the canoe. The Indian girl had relinquished her paddle, and was now slumbering behind me. Only the tireless Manteo urged the boat through the water, his steady strokes unflagging as hour after hour passed. I sat opposite him until after midnight. Then despite his protest I took the paddle from his hands, and bidding him snatch some sleep, I took his post and with my sound arm made shift to paddle the canoe. So I sat until the dawn crept slowly above the trees.
My lady was up early, and with a light song upon her lips, chided me for sitting up till day. She was like a little merry-hearted child this morning, as she ran to and fro upon the boat. I had seen her often and in many moods—as the stately lady of fashion in silks and satins; as the plain simple maid, dimpled with smiles, going for her walk in the city of London; had seen her as she archly tossed her head at some nicely-turned compliment; had seen her in tears, as on the night when she visited me in London—but I had never seen her half so lovely as now.
Even the silent Manteo brightened up under the spell of my lady's good humor—only Winona seemed moody and ill at ease. And so passed long, happy days for me, as we floated down the river. I cared not to return to the world again, for me it meant to lose Margaret, and perhaps my head.
It was hard, Heaven knows, to sit and watch her face; to listen to the sound of her sweet, low voice, and to keep down the great wave of love for her that welled up in my heart; to speak no word of all those tender ones, that it seemed impossible to suppress. But I fought against my love like a man, for she was Bobby's, the finest gentleman I had ever known and my best friend. Moreover she was in my hands, and I would fulfill my trust; I would take no advantage of her position to pour my love into her unwilling ears. She should go back to England and Bobby, and forget me.
Once when I mentioned Bobby's name, I had seen a blush upon her cheek, and I thought her blue eye grew softer; the demon of jealously arose in my breast, and I mentioned his name no more. Turning to her, I said:
"Lady Margaret, wouldst thou grant me one favor?"
"Yes," she replied, and she turned her head away from me. "What is it, Sir Thomas?"
"Wilt thou, when thou raisest thy voice in prayer to God offer up one supplication for a wicked, sinful man, that he may triumph over the tempter, who daily and hourly besets him?"
"Yes," she answered gently, and a tear dropped from her blue eyes. "I will pray for thee, Sir Thomas, that thou mayest fight a brave fight, and win a noble victory over thyself."
And now we had left the canoe, and under the guidance of Manteo plunged again into the forest afoot. To my remonstrances that the lady could not endure the journey, he had turned a deaf ear.
"Better that, than to fall into the hands of the Tuscaroras," he said stolidly. "Here in the woods Manteo can guard better against them than on the water," and so afoot we had gone.
Margaret had made light of my gloomy forebodings.
"Out upon thee, sir!" cried she archly. "One would think that I was some pretty toy, from which the rain would wash the paint, that I cannot keep the trail with thee in the forest."
"Fair lady, perhaps thou wilt remember my warning when thou art footsore from the march," I answered. "But if thou art determined, come!" And I led the way after the Indian, with her at my side.
The long journey was sweet to me, for I walked by her side much of the time. I helped her over some fallen log, or held aside an overhanging limb so that she might pass beneath it. Often I would bring down some wild fowl with the Indian's bow, with which I had become expert, and browning it upon the coals, would bring a choice piece to my lady, where she sat enthroned under some monarch of the forest, and dropping upon one knee, with mock humility would present it to her, while she with stately air, albeit with a merry twinkle in her eye, would accept it right royally.
Both Manteo and I were her willing slaves, for the Indian had fallen under her spell too, and worshiped the very ground upon which she stood. Winona would have naught to do with Margaret, but scornfully and disdainfully held herself aloof, and to all her advances turned a cold shoulder.
We were nearing our journey's end now, and as I sat brooding moodily over the camp fire, my head bent low over my hands, I thought bitterly of the future. I could not return to England and see Margaret become the bride of another. No, I would go back with Manteo into the wilderness after I had seen my lady safely upon her ship, and there I would spend the remainder of my life with the faithful Indian.
But what if White, despairing of my return and finding no trace of the lost colony, had raised anchor and sailed back to England. What, then, would become of Margaret? Manteo had told me on his return, only a few days ago, that the Governor had found no trace of the colonists, and but awaited my arrival to set sail. If he should tire of my long absence, what should I do with my lady? A selfish joy at the thought welled up within me, but I resolutely put it away. A light step interrupted my thoughts, and looking up, I saw before me Winona. The girl had her bow in hand and on her shoulder was strapped a robe, as though ready for a journey.
"What is it, Winona?" I asked, as she stood motionless before me.
"Winona goes back again to the lodges of the Cherokees," she answered. "Long she has traveled from her people, and her heart yearns for the faces of her tribe. The Eagle has flown far, and now he journeys with the beautiful one to the land of his home. Winona cannot travel so far. Her feet would tire, and she would return to where Windango awaits her."
"Winona," I answered, "thou canst not return to the Cherokees; they would slay thee. I am a wanderer upon the face of the earth and can do naught for thee myself, but I will ask the Lady Margaret to take thee with her. She is a great lady and thy lot would be an easy one, with so fair a mistress."
"Nay," she answered, "Winona will remain with her people. Windango is a great chief and I shall be safe with him—besides," and she hung her head.
"What?" I asked kindly. "Speak freely, thou needst fear naught."
She raised her head proudly, her dark eyes looking into mine.
"Why should I fear to tell it?" she cried. "Winona loves the Eagle; she knows that his heart belongs to the beautiful one, and that he will fly far away with her to his wigwam. Shall Winona go to eat out her heart with sorrow at the bliss she cannot share? No, she returns to her own. Thou art near thy journey's end. Two days more and thou wilt stand on the Island of Roanoke—Winona would leave thee now."
"But, Winona," I cried, "I go not back to England with Lady Margaret!"
She looked intently at me.
"Dost love the beautiful one?" she asked fiercely. "Answer me the truth at this last moment."
"Yes," I answered simply, "I love her."
"And thou wouldst ask me to serve her?" she cried. "One whom thou lovest? Wouldst thou have served the chief whom thou didst chase over the precipice, if the beautiful one had loved him?"
"No," I answered. "Thou knowest I would not." I could say no more, so I stood silent and waited.
"Winona will not forget the Eagle," she said in a low voice. "When she grows to be an old woman, she will tell how she once knew and loved the great white chief. Winona knows the Eagle and the beautiful one will be happy."
"Winona," I said sadly, "the Lady Margaret loves another."
"Winona is not blind," she replied, "the beautiful one loves the Eagle. Sharp are the eyes of love to discover love. And now," she said, as I stood staggered by her last words, "Winona would tell the Eagle farewell, for she knows she will see him no more." And catching my hand in hers, she pressed it to her lips. Then turning, she sped lightly away.
"Winona," I cried, "come back! Go not thus!" but only the moaning of the pines answered me—she was gone.
A light step from the other side of the fire, and my lady stood before me, her face wet with tears. One look at her, and I knew she had heard all.
"She has gone!" she cried. "Not back into the woods? Quick! After her, thou mayest yet save her."
"'Tis useless," I answered quietly, "she is far into the depths of the forest by now—besides, why should I bring her back? She is better thus. Thou hast heard what she said, and thou knowest why she left."
"I but rested upon the other side of the fire," she answered hurriedly, "when her voice fell upon my ear. I could not withdraw without being seen by her, so I was forced to play the spy against my will."
"It matters not," I replied; "there was naught said that I would not have thee know. But sit down, Lady Margaret. I have a few words to say to thee, before we part forever." I motioned her to a seat upon a stone in front of me.
"I am about to reopen a painful subject for the last time, but as we part in a day or two, I would wish to speak of it again. I cannot go back to England; it would be sheer madness to return and face the Queen. And after all, England holds naught for me but sorrow and pain. I have passed from the lives of those I once knew, as the dead leaves of last year's trees, and I shall return no more.
"Margaret," I said, "I cannot go back into those great wastes behind me, without telling thee of what my love for thee has been to me. It has been a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night; it has been the sweetest drop in the bitter cup of life. Life would be worth the struggle, had it held naught else for me save this. See," I continued, "I found months ago by the trail, this little miniature of thee. I have kept it ever since where I could feast my eyes upon it. I am a better man because I have known and loved thee."
"Thou art the noblest gentleman I have ever known," she sobbed. "I am unworthy of such love as this."
"No," I answered, "thou art worthy of a finer, truer man, and such a love thou hast. When thou art happy in thy far-away home, wilt thou not think of one who loves thee and wanders in exile in Virginia? The grass is green in old England now, Margaret, and the birds are singing on every hedge; greet the old place for me, and remember me to my old friends, Bobby and Steele, for I shall never see them more."
"I will think of thee often," she answered, the tears still in her azure eyes. "Must thou remain here, alone in this strange land?"
"Yes," I answered, "my place is here. I could not bear to see thee the bride of another."
"Am I to be wedded without my consent, sir?" she said archly, and she broke into a low, sweet laugh.
"But thou dost love Bobby? Thou didst as good as tell me that in the prison yonder in England."
"Thou didst take it for granted," she said shyly. "I was overpowered with sorrow at thy sad plight, and thou didst jump at the conclusion that I loved Sir Robert," and she looked at me, a smile shining through her tears.
"Whom dost thou love, if not Bobby?" I cried in wonder. "Dost love anyone, Margaret?" and I bent low over the golden head.
"Yes," she answered softly, "I love a gentleman, brave, strong, noble, with a heart as true as steel; one who has loved me long."
"Who is it, Margaret?"
She looked up at me, with a smile soft and sweet, at which my heart gave a great bound of joy—it could not be. No, I must be dreaming.
"Must I tell thee, stupid? Are thy wits gone wool-gathering?"
With a great cry of joy I took her in my arms, smiles, blushes, and tears, and held her close to my heart.
"Dear," I cried, "I never dreamed of this. Why didst thou not tell me before now?"
"Because thou didst not ask me. Oh, Thomas, why didst thou not ask me that night in the prison?"
"Margaret," I said, "thou shouldst love one handsome and young like thyself. Thou wilt be ashamed of me, sweet one, when thou seest me by the side of some gay, debonair, young gallant."
But she gently placed one soft white hand over my lips.
"Hush, not one word more, or I will vanish into yonder woods. Thou art more handsome in my eyes than any velvet gallant, for thou hast become a man of deeds, not words. Thou wilt go back with me to England," she whispered, her face close to mine; "together we can face the Queen, and I will have thee pardoned."
"Yes," I answered, "come what will, we go back together."
"When didst thou first love me, Margaret?" I asked, my eyes upon the bright head against my shoulder.
"I do not know," she said. "I only know that as I stood beside thee in the prison cell in London, I knew that thy life was strangely precious to me. But good-night," she said, "I must keep my roses or thou wilt soon tire of me." And slipping from me, she tripped lightly away.
A light hand touched my arm. I turned and saw Manteo.
"The beautiful one will go with the Eagle to his lodge and be his squaw?" he said gravely.
"Yes," I answered, "she will go."
"Manteo is glad," he said simply, "for it is meet that the lady who is lovely beyond all mortal beauty, should go into the lodge with the Eagle, who is a great chief."
"I thank thee, Manteo." And I followed him down by the camp fire, and stretched myself out upon my bearskin.
My mind was in a whirl—I had not dreamed that Margaret loved me. I—gray, penniless; she—young and beautiful beyond compare. And with thoughts such as these, and of the future, I fell asleep.