CHAPTER IV.

AMONG THE WOODS OF CRAIGIELEA.

WITH the arrival of Captain Herbert and little ’Theena a fresh gleam of sunshine appeared to have fallen athwart our young hero’s pathway in life.

As he sat in his corner that evening thoughtfully gazing on her sweet face, while her father and his uncle kept talking together as old friends and old sailors will, Tommy thought he had never seen anything on earth so lovely before, and albeit he was about half afraid of her he made up his mind to fall in love with her as early as possible. He really was not quite certain yet, however, that he might not be dreaming. Had he fallen asleep again, he wondered, after Uncle Robert had finished his story? and was ’Theena but a vision? She looked so ethereal and so like a fairy child that he could not help giving his own arm a sly pinch to find out whether he really was awake or not. He did feel that pinch, so it must be all right.

Next he wondered if his two big brothers would appropriate ’Theena almost exclusively to themselves while she stayed here. He determined to circumvent them, however. He had a hut and a home in the wild woods not far from the romantic ruin of Craigie Castle, and he felt sure that ’Theena would be delighted with this hermitage of his. She did not look very strong, but she would soon be rosier. He would wander through the woods and wilds and cull posies of wild-flowers, and by the sea-shore and gather shells for her—shells as prettily pink as those delicate ears of hers. What a pity, he thought, that it was still winter! But never mind, spring would come, and he knew where nearly all the song-birds dwelt and built. And O! by the way, ’Theena’s eyes were as blue as the eggs of the accentor or hedge-sparrow. Even deeper, they were more like the blue of the pretty wee germander speedwell that before two months were past would be peeping up through the grass by the hedge-foot. Then further on there would be the wild blue hyacinth and the blue-bells of Scotlands (the hare-bell of English waysides), and the bugloss and milk-wort and succory—all of them more or less like ’Theena’s eyes—and a score of others besides, he could find and fashion into garlands.

’Theena smiled so sweetly when she bade him good-night, and was upon the whole so self-possessed and lady-like, that the boy felt infinitely beneath her in every way. But that did not matter; he would improve day by day, he felt certain enough on this point. So he went off to bed, and dreamed that he and ’Theena were up in a balloon together, sailing through the blue sky, and that down beneath them was spread out just such a romantic land as that of Ecuador, which his uncle had described. It was more like a scene of enchantment than anything else. But lo! even as he gazed in rapture from the car of the balloon, it entered a region of rolling clouds and snow mists; it became darker and darker, the gloom was only lit up by the hurtling fires of terrible volcanoes, while all around the thunders pealed and lightnings flashed. Then the balloon seemed to collapse, and after a period of falling, falling, falling that felt interminable, suddenly the sun shone once more around them—’Theena was still by his side—and they found themselves in a kind of earthly arboreal and floral paradise. Near them stood a tall and handsome young man, dressed, however, like a savage, and armed with bow and arrow.

He advanced, smiling, to the spot where they stood, and extending a hand to each:

“Dear sister and brother,” he said, “do you not know me? Behold I am the long-lost Bernard!”

Then Tommy awoke and found it was daylight, and that the robin was singing on his windowsill expectant of crumbs.

. . . . . . .

Spring came all at one glad bound to the fields and woods of Craigielea this year.

Three weeks had passed away since the night Tommy had dreamt that strange dream. Captain Herbert had gone south. He would sail round the world before he returned to Craigielea to take his “little lass,” as he called ’Theena, away with him again. Meanwhile he knew she would be well cared for, and grow bigger and stronger.

Tommy’s brothers had made no attempt, or very little of an attempt, to win ’Theena over. True, Jack had mounted her once or twice on Glancer; but Glancer, knowing the responsibility of such a charge, could not be induced to break even into a decent trot. So Jack got tired of ’Theena, and told her she might never expect to make a cow-boy.

And Dick could not get the girl to race, or play cricket or hockey, though he tried hard; and she was not even good at climbing trees nor riding on fences, and was positively afraid of Towsie, the white, shorthorn bull, because he had red eyes and tore up the ground with a fore-foot, while he bellowed like distant thunder.

“It’s no good, Jack,” said Dick; “we couldn’t make anything of ’Theena if we tried ever so long.”

“I don’t think so, Dick,” was Jack’s reply. “Besides, what is the use of girls anyhow?”

“Not much. I really want to know what they are put into the world for at all.”

“Well,” said Jack, “we’ll give her up, won’t we? Little Cinderella can have her for a plaything, can’t he?”

“Yes, Jack, she’ll just suit little Cinderella.” This was the name his brothers always called Tommy by, because he always sat by his sister’s knee close to the fire, and looked at it for hours.

“Dick,” said Jack, “there’s nothing like boys, is there?”

“Nothing much.”

“And there’s nobody like you and me. Hurrah! come and give me a leg up to mount Glancer, and just see me clear that farther fence. Besides, I’ve got a new way of making Glancer buck-jump. Hurrah, Dick! Cow-boys for ever!”

As the two went tearing along towards the paddock where Glancer was browsing, they met Tommy and ’Theena on their way to the woods. Tommy had a fishing-basket on his back, ’Theena carried the rod. Tommy had a bow and arrows besides, and ’Theena carried a real Arab spear.

“Hullo, Cinderella!” shouted Dick.

“Hurrah, Cinder!” cried Jack. “Why, where ever are you off to with all that gear?”

“We’re going to the hermitage,” said Tommy proudly. “I’m the Hermit Hunter of the Wilds.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” from both the bigger boys.

“And,” continued Tommy, “we’re going to play at wild man in the woods; and we’re going to gather flowers, and find birds’-nests, and fish in the Craigieburn, and perhaps go for a sail on the sea.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Well, don’t you dare to fall in anywhere and drown your little self,” said Jack; “else you will catch it. Good-bye, Cinder. Take care of baby. Good-bye, Eenie-’Theenie.”

And away went Dick and Jack whooping.

“I don’t love your brothers much,” said ’Theena, almost crying. “What makes them call you Cinder?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, ’Theena; but I don’t mind it if you don’t.”

“I shall call you Tom.”

“Thank you; but really I don’t mind, you know, and if you would prefer—”

“No, no, no. I don’t like Cinderella. You’re not a girl.”

“O, no. I’m a boy, and Uncle Robert says I shall soon be a man. Wouldn’t you like to be a boy, ’Theena?”

“Yes, dearly.”

“It would be so nice if you were. We could have even better fun than we have now, and you would be able to get up trees, and shoot, and do everything I do.”

Talking thus they reached the great pine-wood, and entered among the trees. In this silent forest-land there was not a morsel of undergrowth, only the withered needles that had fallen from the pines and larches and formed a thick soft carpet. And the great tree-stems went towering skywards, brown for the pines, gray for the larches, till they ended far above in a canopy of darkest green that would hardly admit a ray of sunshine without breaking it all up into little patches of gold and silver.

’Theena felt somewhat afraid now, and crept closer to Tom, who took her hand, and thus they wandered on and on. And very small the two of them looked among those giant timber trees.

“You’re not very much afraid, are you?” said Tom. “You needn’t be, you know, for I’m the Hermit Hunter of the Wilds, and could protect you against anything; and Connie here would protect us both.”

Connie was the long-haired collie dog, who followed his master everywhere like his shadow.

“You could shoot straight with your bow and arrow, couldn’t you, Tom, if any wild beast came upon us?”

“O, very straight.”

They were following a tiny beaten path that led them through the pine-wood. But it also led them up and up, and sometimes it was so steep that they had to scramble on their hands and knees.

By and by the pines gave place to silver-stemmed birch-trees, with shimmering, shivering leaves that reflected the sunshine in all directions. The perfume from these trees was delightful in the extreme.

They reached a clearing at last, where the heather grew green all round, and where there were lichen-clad stones to sit upon. Here one or two large and lovely lizards were basking, and a splendid green speckled snake went gliding away at their approach. Tom, being a Highland lad, was not afraid of either snakes or lizards. Neither was ’Theena; for though she was only seven years old she had been in strange countries with her papa, and had seen far bigger snakes and lizards too than any we have in Scotland.

Having rested for a short time, they resumed their upward journey, and soon came to a little table-land about an acre in extent, and near it, in the shelter of a tall gray rock, with drooping birch-trees, and broom, and whins, lo! the hermitage and woodland home of the Hermit Hunter.

What a business the making of this hut had been, nobody ever knew except Tommy himself, Uncle Robert, and the collie dog Connie.

But now that it was made, it looked a very complete dwelling indeed, just such as a Crusoe would have delighted to live in.

’Theena was overjoyed.

“O!” she cried, “I would love to stay here always; a table and cupboard, and real seats, and real plates and things, and a window, and books and all! I can’t read much, can you?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Uncle taught me. He teaches me always up here in summer, and he shall teach you too.”

After ’Theena had admired everything sufficiently long, they commenced to climb again, and soon rose out of the greenery of the woods entirely, high up the hill into the very sky itself; and, wonderful to say, here was a noble castle, though now but little more than a ruin.

“My ancestors,” said Tommy proudly, “once dwelt here, and they were great soldiers and warriors. Dick and Jack don’t care anything about ancestors; but I do, Theena. And do you know what I am going to do?”

“No,” said ’Theena.

“After I grow a big man, I mean.”

“Yes, after you grow a big man.”

“Well, I’m going to make lots of money first, you know. For I shall be a sailor, and sail away to strange countries where the gold lies in heaps in the woods and wilds, watched over by terrible dragons.”

“Yes, Tom, I suppose there would be dragons.”

“Well, I shall kill the dragons, and bring away, O, ever so much gold! Then I will sail home in my ship, and I shall furnish this castle all splendid and new again, with beautiful furniture and pictures, and all sorts of nice things. O, but stop, there is something I am going to do before then.”

“Yes, Tom, something to do before then.”

“I’m going to find your brother Bernard.”

“O, that would be nice!”

“Yes, very. And I’ll bring him home, and we’ll all live happy here in this splendid castle; your father and my father, and mother, and uncle, and Bernard, and Alicia, and Connie and all.”

“Will your brothers be here too?”

“N—no, I think it better not, perhaps. Of course Dugald would be at the farm, and we could see him sometimes, but Dick and Jack better go away and preach and be a cow-boy.”

“And then,” said ’Theena, “they would never call you Cinder any more. But how very nice it will all be. And O, Tom, look at the waves!”

From the window of the room in which they stood the view was grand and imposing. Hills and rocks and woods on one side, the lovely glen on the other, and down yonder, stretching away and away to the illimitable horizon, the blue Atlantic dotted here and there with white sails, with one or two steamers in the far offing, ploughing their way northwards, and leaving their trailing wreaths of smoke and long white wakes.

And up from the woods beneath them came a chorus of bird songs. The mellow fluting of the blackbird, the sweat clear notes of the mavis, and bold bright lilt of chaffinch. Nearer still the linnet perched on the whin-bush, and high, high in air, dimly seen against a white fleecy cloud, but easily heard, was the laverock itself.

And the bright pure sunshine was over everything; glittering on the rippling sea, sparkling on the mountain-tops where the snow still lay, patching the woods with light and shadow, heightening the green of moss and heather, changing the streams into threadlets of silver, spreading out the petals of half-open flowers, the gowans on the lea, goldilocks by the meadow’s brink, awakening the bees, and causing ten thousand, thousand rainbow-coloured insects to join in the song of gladness that rose everywhere on this lovely spring morning, from nature to nature’s God.

Tom and his companion stood long enough at the window to drink in the essence of the glorious scene, but no longer. The day was young, and they were young. There was a moping owl up in the ivy yonder; they would leave the ruined castle to him, while they should go forth and mingle with, and become part and parcel of, all the light and loveliness that made up the day.

“Come, ’Theena, we mustn’t keep the fish waiting. Come, Connie; and you must not go and bathe and splash to-day in the stream where we are fishing. ’Theena, I want to get a basket full to the top with such trout that will make Dick and Jack want to kick themselves with jealousy.”

And off they went, and no one saw either of them again till the sun was going down behind the sea, and changing the waves into billows of blood.

CHAPTER V.

“THE WHOLE WORLD IS FULL OF CHANGES.”

“WELL,” said Uncle Robert one morning some time after this, “if anybody twenty years ago had prophesied that I should become a schoolmaster in my declining years, I should have laughed at him. But come, there is no help for it, and by good luck I’ve got two of the dearest and best little pupils that ever any teacher could desire.”

Perhaps, though, no boy or girl either was ever taught on so delightful a system before. For, every morning after breakfast—well rolled in fear-nothing plaids if it happened to be raining—Uncle Robert, with Tom and ’Theena, took their way towards the pine-wood and the hermitage. If Dick and Jack happened to be about when they started, they were sure to give them a hail.

“Good-bye, Eenie-’Theenie,” Dick would cry.

“Fare thee well, Old Cinder,” Jack would shout.

And Uncle Robert would pretend to growl like an old sea-lion, and shake his stick at the pair of them as they scampered off, looking nearly all legs, like the figures on the old Manx pennies.

Young as Tommy was, he had a very complete knowledge of geography, and even a smattering of navigation; for he had declared his intention of becoming a sailor, and nothing else. But this knowledge of his was not such as you learn in books alone; but from books, and maps, and charts, and the big globe itself. Tommy actually knew and felt he was in the world, and not inside the cover of a book. And if you asked him where any country was he pointed in the direction of it at once, taking his bearings as it were by the sun or stars, and the time of day or night it happened to be at the time the question was put.

Their school was the hermitage in the woods, and here they laboured away most earnestly all the forenoon. Then they laid aside their books, and while uncle and ’Theena went outside to squat on the green-sward, Tom—we shall not call him Tommy any more—got ready the luncheon. A very simple repast it was—cheese and cake, and creamy milk.

Then uncle would light his pipe and perhaps tell a story, and after this they started off in pursuit of pleasure.

Were there not fish in the rivers, and shells by the sea-shore, and wondrous creatures of fur and feather in the woods and on the hills, beautiful insects everywhere, and wild-flowers everywhere?

So passed one summer quickly away; and another summer and another winter after that, and now Tom was thirteen and ’Theena was nine and over. Tom was a man, at least he thought he was; and now, dearly though he loved his old home, an almost irresistible longing took possession of him to go to sea—to sail away and see the world and all that is in it.

For Tom was already a sailor. One might hardly think this possible, until told that for a year and more hardly a fine day dawned that did not see Uncle Robert and him, and as often as not little ’Theena also, afloat in uncle’s little yacht-boat. This saucy wee craft had been a man-o’-war’s cutter, sold as unfit for further service. But Uncle Robert had bought her, and had her brought round to the bay of Craigie, and there turned bottom upwards in old Dem Harrison’s boat-shed. And between the pair of them, aided by Tom and ’Theena, who did the looking-on, they soon made the hull seaworthy.

No flimsy work either. Wherever a plank was in the slightest degree decayed, it was taken out and a light, hard new one put in; the very best of copper nails being used, and nothing else. Then she was painted inside and out. This done, she was “whomeld,” as old Dem called it—that is, turned right side up; and so they proceeded to put a raised deck upon her, and step a nice raking mast with fore-and-aft mainsail and topsail and jibs to match. Fine big jibs they were too; honest spreads of canvas, having no resemblance to either a baby’s blanket or a biscuit sack. The wee yacht had an excellent rudder also, and a false keel that could be raised or lowered at pleasure, or to suit circumstances.

You must understand that the Oceana, as she was called, after ’Theena, had the most darling little saloon it is possible to imagine. To be sure, Uncle Robert looked a bit crowded in it; but when Tom and ’Theena were there by themselves, with only uncle’s legs dangling down the companion as he sat steering, the place seemed just made for them. There was a couch at each side, supported by lockers, and prettily upholstered in crimson. There was a lamp in gimbals to burn at night, a natty little locker containing all sorts of dishes and all kinds of dainties, and brackets in the corners with pockets for flowers, and sconces for coloured candles; besides a rack for arms and fishing-gear; while the white paint, the gilding, and the mirrors completed the picture and made the place double the size it really was.

Just imagine if you can how delicious it was to go sailing away over the summer seas in a fairy-like yacht such as the Oceana—the blue above and the blue below, white-winged gulls tacking and half-tacking in the air around. Perhaps a shoal of porpoises in the offing, and great jelly-fishes floating everywhere in the water like animated parasols.

They were entirely independent of the land when once fairly afloat; for the Oceana was well provisioned, and had over and above all her other stores a tiny library of the most readable books of adventure and poetry.

No, it was little wonder that Tom became a sailor under so pleasant a captain as Uncle Robert, and on board so fairy-like a yacht.

But neither on shore was Tom’s nautical studies neglected; for in a room of uncle’s cottage was situated a huge toy ship, which he had built and rigged himself, and which he and his pupils often dismantled and rigged up again. Full rigged she was, with every spar, bolt, and stay in its proper place—a very model of perfection.

But the most curious thing I have to relate is that ’Theena learned every branch of the seafarer’s craft quite as readily as, and even more quickly than, Tom himself. Born and brought up at sea, she appeared to take to everything intuitively.

Taking it all in all, both Uncle Robert and his pupils enjoyed themselves very much, indeed, both on shore and afloat; but whether most on shore or most afloat, it would have been difficult to say.

“My dear children,” said uncle one day at the hermitage, just as they had finished luncheon and were preparing for a long ramble—“my dear children, I shall miss you very much when you go away. I expect I’ll begin to get old very quickly after that.”

“Dear unky,” said Tom, “you are never going to grow old. Don’t you believe it.”

“And we are never going to grow any older either, unky,” said ’Theena.

Uncle Robert laughed.

“Well,” he said, “I should have no objections to make a bargain of that sort with old Father Time if we could fall in with him. But, my dears, changes will come, you know. The whole world is full of changes, and the whole universe too for that matter. And you, Tom, will be going away to sea, and ’Theena will have to go to school. I might make a sailor of her, but, bother me if I could teach her the piano and dancing and the like of that, unless it were a hornpipe such as the sailors dance on a Saturday night. Yes, my dears, changes must and will come.”

Black Tom came up at this moment and began rubbing his great head against the boy’s arm as he lay on the grass. Black Tom was a cat, and a very wonderful specimen he was; elephantic in size as far as the term could be applied to any grimalkin, with an enormous broad and honest-looking face of his own. He was probably not more than two years of age at this time; but Tom—the boy Tom—had saved his life when he was little more than full-grown. It was quite a little adventure for the young Hermit Hunter of the Wilds. As far as could be known, the cat had attempted the abduction of a young or puppy-fox, but the mother coming home in time a furious battle had ensued. The hermit came up at the very moment the fox had scored victory, and was proceeding to break the cat up, as some day the dogs might break her up. But a well-directed arrow from Tom’s cross-bow sent her yelping to her den, and then the boy picked up the half-dead cat and carried him to the hermitage. He recovered after a few weeks of careful nursing; and since then, wherever the boy went the cat followed, all through the woods and over the hills, and even out to sea in the Oceana yacht. Boy and cat were inseparable, and throughout the length and breadth of the parish they were known to everybody as “the two Toms.” When at peace, Tom the cat was very contented-looking, though no great beauty, his shoulder and head having been terribly scarred in that encounter with the fox; but he could be very fierce when he pleased. He tolerated Connie the collie dog, and even slept in his arms; but if any strange dog came into the hut Tom mounted his back and rode him out, whacking him all the way.

. . . . . . .

Changes must and will come. Yes, and changes came to all about Craigielea before very long. First and foremost Dick went away to Oxford. He had a cousin there who would look after him while at college, and, as Uncle Robert phrased it, put him up to the ropes.

Then an American farmer called at Craigielea and stayed for a week, telling very wonderful stories indeed about life and adventures in the sunny south of the United States, to all of which Jack listened with open-mouthed earnestness. And when this farmer went away he left poor Mrs. Talisker in tears, for her dear boy Jack went away with him.

Dear boy Jack did not himself take on much about the matter, however. Indeed, though he did manage to screw a tear or two out when saying good-bye to his mother and Alicia, there certainly were no tears in his eyes as he parted with Tom.

“Ta, ta, Old Cinder!” he said, shaking his brother’s hand. “Take care of yourself, my Cinder; and if ever you are out our way drop round and see us, and I’ll let you ride a buck-jumper that will toss you half-way to the moon. Ta, ta! Be good.”

The old farm was a deal quieter after Dick and Jack had gone. There was far less whooping, or barking of dogs, or cracking of whips. Uncle Robert said the place was not the same at all.

Then came another change. For Captain Herbert walked into the house one forenoon as quietly and coolly as if he had not been from home for over a week. This caused the greatest change of all, for Tom had to get ready for sea at once. His uncle took him straight away to Glasgow to get his outfit; and when the boy was rigged out in his pilot suit, with gilt buttons and cap with badge and band, very natty and neat he looked. ’Theena was very proud of him now; but at the same time she was very sad, for those brass buttons and that blue pilot-jacket meant separation for many and many a long day.

When Tom awoke one morning and looked out of his window he could see a beautiful black painted barque lying at anchor in the bay, with tall tapering spars shining white in the sunlight, as if they had been formed of satin-wood. Then Tom knew that his time had come.

He was not very elated about it at first. It was so sudden; and I do trust the reader will not think him any the less brave when I confess that he sat down beside the window and indulged in the luxury of a good cry. For remember that the boy was not very old yet. No; and I have known many much older boys than he shed tears at the prospect of leaving home.

He was to sail on the very next morning; and that day he and ’Theena went to take one last look at the hermitage and the old castle, and the woods and wilds generally. And Tom the cat followed them and kept close by his master all the way.

“Poor fellow!” said the boy, stooping down to caress his favourite; “he seems to know we are to be parted.”

“Purr-rrn!” said Tom the cat. That was all he could say, but there was more in it than either the boy or ’Theena understood just then.

“Mind,” said Tom to ’Theena, as they stood together at the window of the old castle overlooking the woods and the sea, “I am going to come back rich and bring your brother with me.”

“I don’t care so much for my brother as for you,” said ’Theena candidly. “You know you are my brother now.”

“Yes,” answered Tom abstractedly.

Then hand in hand they went down the hill and through the woods and forest, and so back home again.

Tom’s mother came to see him to bed this last sad night, and sat long with him in the moonlight giving him good advice—the best of which was that he was to read the little Bible she gave him every night, and never to forget to pray.

The bustle of starting saved everybody next day from making much display of grief, and everybody was thankful accordingly. Only poor little ’Theena was half frantic, and could hardly tear herself away from the only brother she had ever known or loved—that is, as far as she could remember.

But the parting was all over at last; and when the sun sank slowly behind the waves that night the Caledonia was far away on the western waters, ploughing her way southward, with the coast of Ireland a long distance on the weather-bow.

Tom was to be apprentice, and, as he was the only one on board, he messed in the saloon along with Captain Herbert and the first and second mate.

The boy had knocked about too long in his uncle’s little yacht to feel the effects of the ship’s motion in the shape of sea-sickness, so he sat down to supper that evening in very good spirits and with a healthy appetite.

They were just about to commence that meal, when in at the saloon door, with tail erect and something like a smile on his broad face, walked Tom the black cat.

“Purr-rrn!” he said well-pleasedly as he jumped on his master’s knee and rubbed his head against the boy’s chest.

Tom was too much surprised to speak, but the captain and mates laughed heartily.

“A stowaway!” said the former.

“Yes,” said Tom. “I have no idea how he got on board.”

“Well, never mind. I’ll wager a shilling he will bring us good luck.”

Black Tom was henceforth installed as ship’s cat; and the men were all most kind to him, for every sailor of them knew that though black cats will bring good luck to a ship, nevertheless if ill treated or lost overboard, the luck is sure to turn.

CHAPTER VI.

“RUN, RUN!” CRIED TOM; “THE MAN MUST NOT DIE YET!”

Captain Herbert himself superintended the lad’s book-studies, so on the whole he was well off; and it is no wonder, therefore, that before he had been to sea for three years he was able to reef, steer, and do his duty both on deck and below almost as well as Holborn could.

But all this time the Caledonia had never once been back to England.

For Captain Herbert was quite a wandering Jew of a sailor, and the reasons for this are not far to seek. First and foremost, he had never yet given up hopes that he would one day find his lost son, and he certainly left no stone unturned to bring about so wished-for an event. Secondly, he was his own master, the barque he sailed being his own property. And thirdly, it paid him to keep going from country to country, as long as there was no real necessity for docking the ship. Not that he valued riches for his own sake, but for the sake of ’Theena and the son he ne’er again might look upon.

If Tom had felt a man before leaving England, he now almost looked one. Indeed, in size and strength he was a man quite; for whatever some may say, the ocean certainly never stunts a youth’s growth.

He was a good sailor, too, taking the adjective “good” in every sense of the word. Neither his mother’s advice, the second mate’s care, nor Captain Herbert’s kindness had been thrown away on the boy; and on many a dark and stormy night he proved that he was just as good as brave.

Another year of voyaging here and there across the face of the great waters passed away. The Caledonia was lying at San Francisco, and the captain intimated to the officers his intention of bearing up for home. They would double the Horn for the last time; then hurrah for merry England!

There was rejoicing fore and aft at the glad news; for if there is one word in our language that can convey a thrill of happiness to a sailor’s heart, that word is “home.” And every seaman on board a ship carries about with him all over the world affections and ties with the dear ones he has left behind that nothing but death itself can sever.

“In nine months’ time, my lad,” said Captain Herbert cheerily to Tom, who was walking the deck with his constant companion the cat at his heels. “In nine months’ time I hope we’ll be sailing up the Clyde. We shall touch at Ecuador and at Callao, then steer away south.”

It was not the first time since they had sailed from England that the Caledonia had touched at Ecuador, so Tom was not surprised at what the captain now told him; for the grave of his wife was there on that rugged shore, and it was there, too, he had lost his boy.

“I’m getting old, Tom,” he added. “I cannot do now what I could have done ten years ago, and I fear I may never be on this coast again.”

Tom could hardly repress a sigh as he looked at him. He certainly was getting old, and very white in hair and beard; but probably it was his never-ending sorrow that had aged him quite as much as his years.

The Caledonia lay for many days near the spot where the Southern Hope was lost. Captain Herbert seemed to find a difficulty in tearing himself away this time. But when at last the wind began to blow high off the land, sail was set and away southwards once more went the good ship.

The captain was inexpressibly sorrowful as the vessel left the land, and Tom felt he could have given all he possessed in the world to dispel the clouds that hung so heavily over his dear old friend’s heart.

But Tom was too young to let sorrow depress him long, and that night after he had retired—for it would not be his watch on deck till the morning—he lay awake for hours thinking of home. How would every one be on his return, and how would they look?—his dear mother and quiet kindly father, his sister, his brother, and little ’Theena? But she would not be so very little now; and he supposed she would have forgotten him to a great extent, albeit she had written many a dear affectionate child-letter, every one of which Tom had kept under lock and key in his ditty-box. His mother’s letters were there also, and a score of other odds and ends that no one knows the real value of except a sailor. He did not fall asleep until he heard the middle watch called, and Holborn came down below, and with him Tom the cat; for this strange animal evinced quite an affection for the second mate, and frequently kept watch with him even on stormy nights.

But he jumped now into Tom’s bunk with a little fond cry, nestled down in his arms, and the two Toms were soon fast asleep.

The Caledonia had cargo to leave at Callao and some to take on board; so the seamen and officers were busy for a time, almost night and day, as the captain was anxious now that no time should be lost.

At last, however, the vessel was loaded up, and nothing remained to be done except to bid some friends good-bye, and make purchase of a few curios to take to the old folks at home.

Tom and Captain Herbert were on shore, and had dined at one of the best hotels. Leaving his friend for a time Tom went out for a stroll and to enjoy the evening breeze, for the day had been very hot and sultry.

He stayed out longer than he had intended, and was making the best of his way back, when, in a side street through which he was passing by way of taking a short cut, he came suddenly upon a wildly-excited group of men and women, who had rushed pell-mell and fighting from the door of an inn.

Suddenly there was the short, sharp ring of a revolver, then a shrill scream, and next moment the crowd dispersed, running in all directions.

Tom hastened up to where by the dim light of a hanging lamp he could see a man supporting himself on his elbow, groaning and in agony.

“Are you much hurt?” asked Tom, bending over him.

“I’m—dying—O! I’m dying,” was the man’s reply.

In the arms of the landlord of the inn and a single watchman he was borne inside and laid on the floor of a badly-lighted room, and soon a medical man entered. The wounded man, a dark evil-countenanced foreigner, lay so still and white one might have taken him for dead.

“His hours are numbered,” said the surgeon at last. “Send for a priest.”

The doomed wretch opened his eyes now.

“Yes, yes,” he gasped, “a priest. I have that on my mind I dare not die with. Boy,” he continued, looking bewilderingly at Tom, “did I see you with Herbert?”

“Captain Herbert,” replied Tom, “commands my ship.”

“Kneel down beside me then,” continued the man. “Heaven sent you. I may yet be forgiven. Boy, have you heard him speak of the Southern Hope and of his steward Roderigo?”

“Yes, yes, a thousand times. Are you that villain?”

“I am that villain.”

The man had fainted again.

“Quick, quick,” cried Tom, addressing the landlord. “Bring brandy. Run, run. He must not die yet.”

“Who is to pay me for it?” answered the surly fellow. “I’ve had enough trouble for one night.”

Tom thrust money into his hand, and some poisonously-smelling spirit was soon produced.

After a little had trickled over the throat of the dying man he once more looked up.

“Speak slowly now,” said Tom, quietly supporting Roderigo with one arm. “Tell me more about the Southern Hope and the boy Bernard. O, tell me about him, and Captain Herbert will forgive you for anything, everything.”

“Yes, yes. The Southern Hope. We mutinied—we expected treasure—gold and precious stones—we found but insects, beetles, and stuffed birds. We were wild and wanted revenge. I would have fired the ship—but my comrades would not hear of it. The best revenge, they said, would be—was to—but where am I? Who are you?”

“Here, drink a little more. Now, tell me of the boy Bernard. You remember. Yes, you do, I see it in your eye. Speak, if you hope for forgiveness.”

“Yes, I will confess all. But why comes not the priest? The boy Bernard we took away—”

“Does he live, tell me that?”

“He lives.”

“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Tom. “O that Captain Herbert were but here himself! Tell me now, Roderigo, as you hope to be forgiven, where is the son of Captain Herbert? Where did you take him?”

“I—I know not—where he was taken—far into the interior.” The dying man was sinking fast. “I saw a trader lately—Bernard was with the Jivaros” (pronounced Heevaros). “He was well. Pray for me—I am dying.”

What could Tom do but kneel down there beside the poor wretch and pray for his forgiveness through the merits of our Saviour. It was the first prayer he had ever presented before the throne of grace otherwise than in the privacy of his own cabin or in his own thoughts, and he was surprised at his own earnestness.

“I am forgiven—I feel I am.”

These were the last words of the dying Roderigo. Just one last low sobbing sigh and all was over. Tom wept a little now as he stretched the unhappy man’s arms by his side, and closed his eyelids. Then he quietly took his leave.

Captain Herbert’s joy at the news Tom brought him hardly knew any bounds. There was no going on board for either of them that night; and they sat till far into the small hours of the morning, talking of the past and laying schemes for the future. Or rather considering one particular scheme, which was of Tom’s proposing, and ultimately acceded to by Captain Herbert.

It was, in short, a plan of rescuing the boy, or rather young man, Bernard, from the tribe of warlike Indians in which he was a prisoner.

“Fain would I go with you,” said the captain, “for I fear the danger will be great; but I am feeble and far from well. I should but hinder you and clog your every movement.”

“Captain Herbert,” said Tom, “I am young if you are getting old. I am healthy and strong and I am not afraid of anything. I shall go as a hunter—go as my dear uncle went, see all he saw, do all and perhaps more than he did, and return, I doubt not, in company with your son Bernard.”

“May Heaven be with you then,” said the captain.

“I am not superstitious, dear sir,” continued Tom; “but the strange dream I had has never ceased to haunt me, and if I am instrumental in bringing back poor Bernard to his father and sister I shall be happy as long as I live.”

So it was agreed between them that all preparations should be at once made for Tom’s expedition into the wilds of the strange land where Bernard was supposed to live, and in a few days after the burial of Roderigo, whom the captain had easily identified as his old steward, the Caledonia’s head was once more turned back towards the shores of Ecuador.

. . . . . . .

What a sad and eventful history is that of this lovely land of Ecuador! There is romance, too, in every page of it; but a romance, alas! that is all throughout stained with blood. Not the blood spilled in battle and with honour, not the blood of patriots and heroes, but blood spilled in civil wars, in petty strife, and the blood of murder and massacre.

If the purple mists of oblivion could be dispelled and we had a peep of the far bygone past, we should first find this country peopled by a race called Quitus; subjects of a king, but altogether lawless and independent, for the simple reason that communications betwixt tribe and tribe were few and far between, as in many cases were the tribes themselves. If they kept touch with each other it was through traditions, or through the more tangible instrumentality of knife or spear or poisoned dart.

Thus they may have lived and died for thousands of years, then we read of the first invasion. For some peoples dwelling far to the south had advanced further in civilization than the poor Quitus, with the inevitable result—a desire for conquest, bloodshed, and rapine.

They were called Karans, and made their warlike descent upon the coast in armed boats or rafts. These Karans went to work in the usual way with invaders of the past—they slew the men and old of both sexes, enslaving the women and the girls and boys. Having once conquered the country they kept it, just as we Britons would have done, only we use the more refined expression “annexation.”

These Karans had a fine time of it after this. The country was such a wild and glorious one; no need to work or do anything, except hunt and fish and enjoy life. They called their kings “Shyris,” though there certainly was very little shyness about any of them. As these kings waxed richer and richer they grew more and more independent, not to say insolent, till their fame attracted the attention and inflamed the ambition of a great Inca called Tupac Yupanqui. Then war began in earnest, and lasted till the death of this King Tupac. There was a short lull after that; but, the days of his mourning being over, the dead monarch’s son Huayna-Kapak, a still more daring warrior than his father, continued the terrible warfare, and at length in a great battle conquered the Karans and slew their last Shyri. Well, the Karans were conquered; but they did not know it, for they simply made the dear king’s daughter their queen and continued to fight under her.

Huayna-Kapak found he had all his work cut out, and that it would take him an age to kill all these warlike Karans, who were here, there, and everywhere at the same time. So for a time he was nonplussed. But lo! to his tent one day came an emissary from the enemy. He had not come to sue for peace; very far from it—only for a truce during the flood season, and that the dead might be properly interred on both sides.

Perhaps Kapak was a Scotchman, anyhow he was very canny. It would have been easy enough for him to have deprived this emissary of his head, but it would not have been diplomacy. Instead of taking his head or even his scalp he treated him very kindly and asked him as many questions as possible, the emissary in return telling him as many lies as he could think of. But there was one thing on which this Karan was extremely enthusiastic, namely, the beauty and accomplishments of the young queen. She was more lovely and radiant than the most beautiful bird in the forest, and she was as brave as a jaguar. Well, the canny Inca went to bed and dreamt about all the Karan had told him, and he was not any better when he came to breakfast next morning—he was in love. Why should we fight against so charming a queen? It would be easier to conquer the Karans by marrying her. So an interview was arranged and a marriage next, and this bold but love-smitten Inca never went back—another proof, I think, that he must have been of Scotch descent—but dwelt in Quitu or Ecuador and ruled over his people for forty years.

After his death the kingdom became divided into two, for the king left one part of it, namely Cusco, to Huascar, half-brother to Atchualpa, the king’s son by his Shyri queen, the latter falling heir to Quitu proper.

Huascar was a quarrelsome fellow, and finally he declared war on his half-brother, but was defeated and thrown into prison. Poor Atchualpa some time after this fell a victim to treachery, his retainers were brutally massacred and he himself strangled.

After this the government of Ecuador became pretty much of a muddle. A chief called Rumiñagui made himself King of Quitu first, but the Spaniards determined to put him down. He was beaten in battle after battle, and on getting nearer to the capital this reckless and cruel chief massacred the “virgins of the sun” and burned the city. He found time to remove even all his gold and treasure, which he took with him to the wilds, burying them in a mountain, which still bears his own name. Some day a portion of this treasure, which I am told is still concealed at the base of this mighty hill, may be discovered by some adventurous boy who leaves this country with twopence-halfpenny in his pocket, and who will, after killing wild beasts innumerable, return to England and live happy ever after.

The Spaniards now came into possession of the country, and after a deal of additional wars and a great deal of massacre and bloodshed, Ecuador became a republic. This happened about sixty years ago, and ever since it has been as much a prey to rebellions and revolutions as to earthquakes, being probably less happy and contented even now than when it was governed by the easy going kings of the Shyri dynasty. The greater portion of the country east of the Andes is clad in dense forests, and inhabited by wild beasts and still wilder men. And it was into this wilderness our hero Tom was now about to penetrate.

CHAPTER VII.

“HERE HANGS HIS BROTHER’S SCALP.”

It is but little more than a fortnight since Tom was busily engaged getting cargo on board the Caledonia at the noisy and far from romantic seaport of Callao. It is little over a week since he bade adieu to Captain Herbert and his friends in the ship, and started from Guayaquil on his daring journey into the wilds of this veritable land of mountain and flood. It is little over a week, and yet it seems an age, and here he is at Riobamba; a town of strange low houses, few of which can boast more than a single apartment, but standing in their own grounds nevertheless. A town which does not look very imposing from a distance, and certainly does not improve on closer acquaintance; built on a sandy plain, in sight of and surrounded by the highest giants of the Andes.

It is night, and Tom, tired of wandering through the streets, is returning to the outskirts, where his little encampment is stationed. He prefers the company of Indians even, to a sojourn for even a single night in the inexpressibly filthy rooms of the city.

It is quieter, too, here; the silence only broken occasionally by the yelping of half-wild curs quarrelling over their carrion, or the cries of the night-birds. The moon is shining very clearly, and the stars look so near that the snow-capped mountains seem far above them. Yonder is the far-famed Chimborazo; Altur is also in sight, with its precipitous and rugged sides, and Carhuairazo, and mighty Tinguragua.

It is seldom indeed that they can be seen so distinctly as they are to-night; but when the moon rises slowly up into the deep-blue sky, flooding all the scene with its dreamy light, the view on every side is grand in the extreme.

And those everlasting hills, the brilliant moon, and the silvery stars, are to Tom’s mind but steps in a ladder that leads his thoughts to heaven itself. He is so impressed with the solemnity of the whole scene, that before he retires to his tent he must needs kneel down and pray. He has much to pray for; he has not thoughtlessly entered upon the undertaking which has hardly yet commenced. He knew all the dangers to which he would be exposed; and although the very idea of being a lonely wanderer through Ecuador wilds appealed to the romance of his character, he would not willingly have risked his young life had not a greater reward than pleasure only seemed to depend upon the success of his expedition, namely, the realization of his dream, and the finding of lost Bernard Herbert. So he prayed now for a blessing on his endeavours; and for an unseen hand to support him in his journeyings, and to shield him from the dangers in forest, in jungle, and plain.

He rose refreshed in spirit, and soon reached his little toldo. His people had built themselves a hut of branches and grass, to shield them from the sun and rain by day and the dews at night. But three of them were waiting to receive him at his toldo door. This toldo, I may here mention, was a kind of gypsy tent of canvas. It had been Captain Herbert’s last gift to him before they parted, and was made by the sailors on board the Caledonia.

It had not been difficult for Tom to secure servants for his expedition into the interior. He had fifty volunteers at least, and from these he chose five. Most of whom were real Indians, with a little Spanish blood in them. Active, young, and strong fellows every one of them, though certainly far from good-looking. Neither were they tall. Tom towered above them like a giant, or as the great volcanic crater of Cotapaxi towers above the neighbouring mountains. I believe each and all of his servants were just a little proud of their young white master, and just a little afraid as well. Tom, during the long years he had spent at sea, had not only developed immense strength, but something of a quick and imperious temper as well. Not that he was a bad-natured fellow by any means, only he would have things done his own way; he would be obeyed, and he had a pair of eyes that looked a man through and through while he issued an order or asked a question. In brief, Tom was not to be trifled with.

As he now approached his toldo, three Indians who had been squatting in the shade walked forth a few paces to meet him, bowed, and stood silently leaning on their tall spears, waiting for their white chief to speak. In their dark cotton ponchos and trowserets, if I may coin a word, their heads dressed in tall feathers, and a bold, half-defiant look on the face of each, they certainly looked picturesque enough.

They were Indians of different tribes—a Canelo, a Napo, and a Thaparo; but as Tom had them armed and dressed precisely alike, it would have been difficult for a stranger to have seen much difference in them, by moonlight at all events.

“Well, men,” said Tom, stopping in front of them, “what is the news?”

“De news is,” said Tootu, the Canelo, for he was usually spokesman, his English being the best. “De news is dat de Tapir and de Wild Turkey hab eet plenty and go to sleep like pigs, and dat de Debil hab come, señor.”

Oko and Taoh both bowed, as if to confirm the information, startling though it sounded.

Tootu, Taoh, and Oko, signifying wind, fire, and water, were Tom’s principal men at present. The Tapir and the Wild Turkey were savages of a lower cast, and fit only to look after the horses and dogs, of which there were five of the former and three of the latter. “De Debil” himself was the guide par excellence, and for him they had been waiting for two or three days. His name in Indian language was Samaro, and Samaro we must call him in future, though it means much the same.

“Light the lamp in my toldo, Tootu, and we will receive Samaro.”

The lamp was lit, and Tom, somewhat tired of his rambling walk, threw himself on a mat on the ground. On this mat was curled no less a personage than Black Tom, the cat, who responded to Tom’s caress with his usual fond purr—rrn.

An attempt had been made to keep this strange puss on board, but all in vain. He had watched his master’s every movement, and when one of the sailors had attempted to catch him, with the intention of shutting him up, Black Tom had made it very hot indeed for that particular sailor. He had been glad enough to let him go.

And now Samaro entered.

Samaro was a very clever and very remarkable-looking Indian. Almost as tall as Tom himself, though probably double his age, with straight dark hair, and eyes of a piercing black, his face almost white, and singularly handsome. His poncho was of some light-coloured fur, and rather voluminous; while, as he stood with it thrown back over the arm which held his high feather-adorned spear and shield as well, in his girdle could be seen an ugly and business-like knife, and also a huge revolver. On his head was a cap of feathers, and there were toucan’s tails dangling to his girdle at one side, and something very dreadful to behold at the other. This was nothing more nor less than the complete skin of the head and face of an enemy killed in battle, filled out with moss, but shrivelled to the size of a cocoa-nut, the features awfully pinched and contorted, and the whole appearance of the horrible ornament ugly enough to give one the nightmare.

“Señor Samaro?” said Tom.

“De Debil, señor, at your service.”

“We will call you Samaro.”

“Si, señor. Samaro will do.”

“Well, Samaro, I like the looks of you; though I don’t admire that ornament at your belt.”

“I do not admire that ornament at your side, señor.”

“That,” said Tom laughing. “O, that is my pet cat; and he must be your friend as well as mine.”

“That is well. I will love him.”

“Then we won’t quarrel.”

“No, we cannot. I have a reason to respect you. I was guide to a good white man before. It is many, many years ago. Ten years and ten moons, señor.”

“He was kind to you?”

“Ah, yes, he was kind to me. I shall never forget him.”

“His name?”

“Robert—Señor Robert. I think his other name was Sinclair.”

“Samaro!” cried Tom, springing up and clasping