[39]Awell, in the language of those seas, denotes one of the whirlpools, or circular eddies, which wheel and boil with astonishing strength, and are very dangerous. Hence the distinction, in old English, betwixtwellsandwaves, the latter signifying the direct onward course of the tide, and the former the smooth, glassy, oily-looking whirlpools, whose strength seems to the eye almost irresistible.
[39]Awell, in the language of those seas, denotes one of the whirlpools, or circular eddies, which wheel and boil with astonishing strength, and are very dangerous. Hence the distinction, in old English, betwixtwellsandwaves, the latter signifying the direct onward course of the tide, and the former the smooth, glassy, oily-looking whirlpools, whose strength seems to the eye almost irresistible.
[40]Note VII.—The Standing Stones of Stennis.
[40]Note VII.—The Standing Stones of Stennis.
Now, Emma, now the last reflection make,What thou wouldst follow, what thou must forsakeBy our ill-omen’d stars and adverse Heaven,No middle object to thy choice is given.Henry and Emma.
The sun was high in heaven; the boats were busily fetching off from the shore the promised supply of provisions and water, which, as many fishing skiffs were employed in the service, were got on board with unexpected speed, and stowed away by the crew of the sloop, with equal dispatch. All worked with good will; for all, save Cleveland himself, were weary of a coast, where every moment increased their danger, and where, which they esteemed a worse misfortune, there was no booty to be won. Bunce and Derrick took the immediate direction of this duty, while Cleveland, walking the deck alone, and in silence, only interfered from time to time, to give some order which circumstances required, and then relapsed into his own sad reflections.
There are two sorts of men whom situations of guilt, terror, and commotion, bring forward as prominent agents. The first are spirits so naturally moulded and fitted for deeds of horror, that they stalk forth from their lurking-places like actual demons, to work in their native element, as the hideous apparition of the Bearded Man came forthat Versailles, on the memorable 5th October, 1789, the delighted executioner of the victims delivered up to him by a bloodthirsty rabble. But Cleveland belonged to the second class of these unfortunate beings, who are involved in evil rather by the concurrence of external circumstances than by natural inclination, being, indeed, one in whom his first engaging in this lawless mode of life, as the follower of his father, nay, perhaps, even his pursuing it as his father’s avenger, carried with it something of mitigation and apology;—one also who often considered his guilty situation with horror, and had made repeated, though ineffectual efforts, to escape from it.
Such thoughts of remorse were now rolling in his mind, and he may be forgiven, if recollections of Minna mingled with and aided them. He looked around, too, on his mates, and, profligate and hardened as he knew them to be, he could not think of their paying the penalty of his obstinacy. “We shall be ready to sail with the ebb tide,” he said to himself—“why should I endanger these men, by detaining them till the hour of danger, predicted by that singular woman, shall arrive? Her intelligence, howsoever acquired, has been always strangely accurate; and her warning was as solemn as if a mother were to apprize an erring son of his crimes, and of his approaching punishment. Besides, what chance is there that I can again see Minna? She is at Kirkwall, doubtless, and to hold my course thither would be to steer right upon the rocks. No, I will not endanger these poor fellows—I will sail with the ebb tide. On the desolate Hebrides, or on the north-west coast of Ireland, I will leave the vessel, and return hither in some disguise—yetwhy should I return, since it will perhaps be only to see Minna the bride of Mordaunt? No—let the vessel sail with this ebb tide without me. I will abide and take my fate.”
His meditations were here interrupted by Jack Bunce, who, hailing him noble Captain, said they were ready to sail when he pleased.
“Whenyouplease, Bunce; for I shall leave the command with you, and go ashore at Stromness,” said Cleveland.
“You shall do no such matter, by Heaven!” answered Bunce. “The command with me, truly! and how the devil am I to get the crew to obeyme? Why, even Dick Fletcher rides rusty on me now and then. You know well enough that, without you, we shall be all at each other’s throats in half an hour; and, if you desert us, what a rope’s end does it signify whether we are destroyed by the king’s cruisers, or by each other? Come, come, noble Captain, there are black-eyed girls enough in the world, but where will you find so tight a sea-boat as the little Favourite here, manned as she is with a set of tearing lads,
‘Fit to disturb the peace of all the world,And rule it when ’tis wildest?’”
“You are a precious fool, Jack Bunce,” said Cleveland, half angry, and, in despite of himself, half diverted, by the false tones and exaggerated gesture of the stage-struck pirate.
“It may be so, noble Captain,” answered Bunce, “and it may be that I have my comrades in my folly. Here are you, now, going to play All for Love, and the World well Lost, and yet you cannot bear aharmless bounce in blank verse—Well, I can talk prose for the matter, for I have news enough to tell—and strange news, too—ay, and stirring news to boot.”
“Well, prithee deliver them (to speak thy own cant) like a man of this world.”
“The Stromness fishers will accept nothing for their provisions and trouble,” said Bunce—“there is a wonder for you!”
“And for what reason, I pray?” said Cleveland; “it is the first time I have ever heard of cash being refused at a seaport.”
“True—they commonly lay the charges on as thick as if they were caulking. But here is the matter. The owner of the brig yonder, the father of your fair Imoinda, stands paymaster, by way of thanks for the civility with which we treated his daughters, and that we may not meet our due, as he calls it, on these shores.”
“It is like the frank-hearted old Udaller!” said Cleveland; “but is he at Stromness? I thought he was to have crossed the island for Kirkwall.”
“He did so purpose,” said Bunce; “but more folks than King Duncan change the course of their voyage. He was no sooner ashore than he was met with by a meddling old witch of these parts, who has her finger in every man’s pie, and by her counsel he changed his purpose of going to Kirkwall, and lies at anchor for the present in yonder white house, that you may see with your glass up the lake yonder. I am told the old woman clubbed also to pay for the sloop’s stores. Why she should shell out the boards I cannot conceive an idea, except that she is said to be a witch, and may befriend us as so many devils.”
“But who told you all this?” said Cleveland, without using his spy-glass, or seeming so much interested in the news as his comrade had expected.
“Why,” replied Bunce, “I made a trip ashore this morning to the village, and had a can with an old acquaintance, who had been sent by Master Troil to look after matters, and I fished it all out of him, and more, too, than I am desirous of telling you, noble Captain.”
“And who is your intelligencer?” said Cleveland; “has he got no name?”
“Why, he is an old, fiddling, foppish acquaintance of mine, called Halcro, if you must know,” said Bunce.
“Halcro!” echoed Cleveland, his eyes sparkling with surprise—“Claud Halcro?—why, he went ashore at Inganess with Minna and her sister—Where are they?”
“Why, that is just what I did not want to tell you,” replied the confidant—“yet hang me if I can help it, for I cannot baulk a fine situation.—That start had a fine effect—O ay, and the spy-glass is turned on the House of Stennisnow!—Well, yonder they are, it must be confessed—indifferently well guarded, too. Some of the old witch’s people are come over from that mountain of an island—Hoy, as they call it; and the old gentleman has got some fellows under arms himself. But what of all that, noble Captain!—give you but the word, and we snap up the wenches to-night—clap them under hatches—man the capstern by daybreak—up topsails—and sail with the morning tide.”
“You sicken me with your villainy,” said Cleveland, turning away from him.
“Umph!—villainy, and sicken you!” said Bunce—“Now, pray, what have I said but what has been done a thousand times by gentlemen of fortune like ourselves?”
“Mention it not again,” said Cleveland; then took a turn along the deck, in deep meditation, and, coming back to Bunce, took him by the hand, and said, “Jack, I will see her once more.”
“With all my heart,” said Bunce, sullenly.
“Once more will I see her, and it may be to abjure at her feet this cursed trade, and expiate my offences”——
“At the gallows!” said Bunce, completing the sentence—“With all my heart!—confess and be hanged is a most reverend proverb.”
“Nay—but, dear Jack!” said Cleveland.
“Dear Jack!” answered Bunce, in the same sullen tone—“a dear sight you have been to dear Jack. But hold your own course—I have done with caring for you for ever—I should but sicken you with my villainous counsels.”
“Now, must I soothe this silly fellow as if he were a spoiled child,” said Cleveland, speaking at Bunce, but not to him; “and yet he has sense enough, and bravery enough, too; and, one would think, kindness enough to know that men don’t pick their words during a gale of wind.”
“Why, that’s true, Clement,” said Bunce, “and there is my hand upon it—And, now I think upon’t, you shall have your last interview, for it’s out of my line to prevent a parting scene; and what signifies a tide—we can sail by to-morrow’s ebb as well as by this.”
Cleveland sighed, for Norna’s prediction rushed on his mind; but the opportunity of a last meetingwith Minna was too tempting to be resigned either for presentiment or prediction.
“I will go presently ashore to the place where they all are,” said Bunce; “and the payment of these stores shall serve me for a pretext; and I will carry any letters or message from you to Minna with the dexterity of a valet de chambre.”
“But they have armed men—you may be in danger,” said Cleveland.
“Not a whit—not a whit,” replied Bunce. “I protected the wenches when they were in my power; I warrant their father will neither wrong me, nor see me wronged.”
“You say true,” said Cleveland, “it is not in his nature. I will instantly write a note to Minna.” And he ran down to the cabin for that purpose, where he wasted much paper, ere, with a trembling hand, and throbbing heart, he achieved such a letter as he hoped might prevail on Minna to permit him a farewell meeting on the succeeding morning.
His adherent, Bunce, in the meanwhile, sought out Fletcher, of whose support to second any motion whatever, he accounted himself perfectly sure; and, followed by this trusty satellite, he intruded himself on the awful presence of Hawkins the boatswain, and Derrick the quarter-master, who were regaling themselves with a can of rumbo, after the fatiguing duty of the day.
“Here comes he can tell us,” said Derrick.—“So, Master Lieutenant, for so we must call you now, I think, let us have a peep into your counsels—When will the anchor be a-trip?”
“When it pleases heaven, Master Quarter-master,” answered Bunce, “for I know no more than the stern-post.”
“Why, d—n my buttons,” said Derrick, “do we not weigh this tide?”
“Or to-morrow’s tide, at farthest?” said the Boatswain—“Why, what have we been slaving the whole company for, to get all these stores aboard?”
“Gentlemen,” said Bunce, “you are to know that Cupid has laid our Captain on board, carried the vessel, and nailed down his wits under hatches.”
“What sort of play-stuff is all this?” said the Boatswain, gruffly. “If you have any thing to tell us, say it in a word, like a man.”
“Howsomdever,” said Fletcher, “I always think Jack Bunce speaks like a man, and acts like a man too—and so, d’ye see”——
“Hold your peace, dear Dick, best of bullybacks, be silent,” said Bunce—“Gentlemen, in one word, the Captain is in love.”
“Why, now, only think of that!” said the Boatswain; “not but that I have been in love as often as any man, when the ship was laid up.”
“Well, but,” continued Bunce, “Captain Cleveland is in love—Yes—Prince Volscius is in love; and, though that’s the cue for laughing on the stage, it is no laughing matter here. He expects to meet the girl to-morrow, for the last time; and that, we all know, leads to another meeting, and another, and so on till the Halcyon is down on us, and then we may look for more kicks than halfpence.”
“By —,” said the Boatswain, with a sounding oath, “we’ll have a mutiny, and not allow him to go ashore,—eh, Derrick?”
“And the best way, too,” said Derrick.
“What d’ye think of it, Jack Bunce?” said Fletcher, in whose ears this counsel sounded verysagely, but who still bent a wistful look upon his companion.
“Why, look ye, gentlemen,” said Bunce, “I will mutiny none, and stap my vitals if any of you shall!”
“Why, then I won’t, for one,” said Fletcher; “but what are we to do, since howsomdever”——
“Stopper your jaw, Dick, will you?” said Bunce.—“Now, Boatswain, I am partly of your mind, that the Captain must be brought to reason by a little wholesome force. But you all know he has the spirit of a lion, and will do nothing unless he is allowed to hold on his own course. Well, I’ll go ashore and make this appointment. The girl comes to the rendezvous in the morning, and the Captain goes ashore—we take a good boat’s crew with us, to row against tide and current, and we will be ready at the signal, to jump ashore and bring off the Captain and the girl, whether they will or no. The pet-child will not quarrel with us, since we bring off his whirligig along with him; and if he is still fractious, why, we will weigh anchor without his orders, and let him come to his senses at leisure, and know his friends another time.”
“Why, this has a face with it, Master Derrick,” said Hawkins.
“Jack Bunce is always right,” said Fletcher; “howsomdever, the Captain will shoot some of us, that is certain.”
“Hold your jaw, Dick,” said Bunce; “pray, who the devil cares, do you think, whether you are shot or hanged?”
“Why, it don’t much argufy for the matter of that,” replied Dick; “howsomdever”——
“Be quiet, I tell you,” said his inexorable patron, “and hear me out.—We will take him at unawares,so that he shall neither have time to use cutlass nor pops; and I myself, for the dear love I bear him, will be the first to lay him on his back. There is a nice tight-going bit of a pinnace, that is a consort of this chase of the Captain’s,—if I have an opportunity, I’ll snap her up on my own account.”
“Yes, yes,” said Derrick, “let you alone for keeping on the look-out for your own comforts.”
“Faith, nay,” said Bunce, “I only snatch at them when they come fairly in my way, or are purchased by dint of my own wit; and none of you could have fallen on such a plan as this. We shall have the Captain with us, head, hand, and heart and all, besides making a scene fit to finish a comedy. So I will go ashore to make the appointment, and do you possess some of the gentlemen who are still sober, and fit to be trusted, with the knowledge of our intentions.”
Bunce, with his friend Fletcher, departed accordingly, and the two veteran pirates remained looking at each other in silence, until the Boatswain spoke at last. “Blow me, Derrick, if I like these two daffadandilly young fellows; they are not the true breed. Why, they are no more like the rovers I have known, than this sloop is to a first-rate. Why, there was old Sharpe that read prayers to his ship’s company every Sunday, what would he have said to have heard it proposed to bring two wenches on board?”
“And what would tough old Black Beard have said,” answered his companion, “if they had expected to keep them to themselves? They deserve to be made to walk the plank for their impudence; or to be tied back to back and set a-diving, and I care not how soon.”
“Ay, but who is to command the ship, then?” said Hawkins.
“Why, what ails you at old Goffe?” answered Derrick.
“Why, he has sucked the monkey so long and so often,” said the Boatswain, “that the best of him is buffed. He is little better than an old woman when he is sober, and he is roaring mad when he is drunk—we have had enough of Goffe.”
“Why, then, what d’ye say to yourself, or to me, Boatswain?” demanded the Quarter-master. “I am content to toss up for it.”
“Rot it, no,” answered the Boatswain, after a moment’s consideration; “if we were within reach of the trade-winds, we might either of us make a shift; but it will take all Cleveland’s navigation to get us there; and so, I think, there is nothing like Bunce’s project for the present. Hark, he calls for the boat—I must go on deck and have her lowered for his honour, d—n his eyes.”
The boat was lowered accordingly, made its voyage up the lake with safety, and landed Bunce within a few hundred yards of the old mansion-house of Stennis. Upon arriving in front of the house, he found that hasty measures had been taken to put it in a state of defence, the lower windows being barricaded, with places left for use of musketry, and a ship-gun being placed so as to command the entrance, which was besides guarded by two sentinels. Bunce demanded admission at the gate, which was briefly and unceremoniously refused, with an exhortation to him, at the same time, to be gone about his business before worse came of it. As he continued, however, importunately to insist on seeing some one of the family, and stated hisbusiness to be of the most urgent nature, Claud Halcro at length appeared, and, with more peevishness than belonged to his usual manner, that admirer of glorious John expostulated with his old acquaintance upon his pertinacious folly.
“You are,” he said, “like foolish moths fluttering about a candle, which is sure at last to consume you.”
“And you,” said Bunce, “are a set of stingless drones, whom we can smoke out of your defences at our pleasure, with half-a-dozen of hand-grenades.”
“Smoke a fool’s head!” said Halcro; “take my advice, and mind your own matters, or there will be those upon you will smoke you to purpose. Either begone, or tell me in two words what you want; for you are like to receive no welcome here save from a blunderbuss. We are men enough of ourselves; and here is young Mordaunt Mertoun come from Hoy, whom your Captain so nearly murdered.”
“Tush, man,” said Bunce, “he did but let out a little malapert blood.”
“We want no such phlebotomy here,” said Claud Halcro; “and, besides, your patient turns out to be nearer allied to us than either you or we thought of; so you may think how little welcome the Captain or any of his crew are like to be here.”
“Well; but what if I bring money for the stores sent on board?”
“Keep it till it is asked of you,” said Halcro. “There are two bad paymasters—he that pays too soon, and he that does not pay at all.”
“Well, then, let me at least give our thanks to the donor,” said Bunce.
“Keep them, too, till they are asked for,” answered the poet.
“So this is all the welcome I have of you for old acquaintance’ sake?” said Bunce.
“Why, what can I do for you, Master Altamont?” said Halcro, somewhat moved.—“If young Mordaunt had had his own will, he would have welcomed you with ‘the red Burgundy, Number a thousand.’ For God’s sake begone, else the stage direction will be, Enter guard, and seize Altamont.”
“I will not give you the trouble,” said Bunce, “but will make my exit instantly.—Stay a moment—I had almost forgot that I have a slip of paper for the tallest of your girls there—Minna, ay, Minna is her name. It is a farewell from Captain Cleveland—you cannot refuse to give it her?”
“Ah, poor fellow!” said Halcro—“I comprehend—I comprehend—Farewell, fair Armida—
‘’Mid pikes and ’mid bullets, ’mid tempests and fire,The danger is less than in hopeless desire!’
Tell me but this—is there poetry in it?”
“Chokeful to the seal, with song, sonnet, and elegy,” answered Bunce; “but let her have it cautiously and secretly.”
“Tush, man!—teach me to deliver a billet-doux!—me, who have been in the Wits’ Coffee-house, and have seen all the toasts of the Kit-Cat Club!—Minna shall have it, then, for old acquaintance’ sake, Mr. Altamont, and for your Captain’s sake, too, who has less of the core of devil about him than his trade requires. There can be no harm in a farewell letter.”
“Farewell, then, old boy, for ever and a day!” said Bunce; and seizing the poet’s hand, gave it so hearty a gripe, that he left him roaring, and shakinghis fist, like a dog when a hot cinder has fallen on his foot.
Leaving the rover to return on board the vessel, we remain with the family of Magnus Troil, assembled at their kinsman’s mansion of Stennis, where they maintained a constant and careful watch against surprise.
Mordaunt Mertoun had been received with much kindness by Magnus Troil, when he came to his assistance, with a small party of Norna’s dependants, placed by her under his command. The Udaller was easily satisfied that the reports instilled into his ears by the Jagger, zealous to augment his favour towards his more profitable customer Cleveland, by diminishing that of Mertoun, were without foundation. They had, indeed, been confirmed by the good Lady Glowrowrum, and by common fame, both of whom were pleased to represent Mordaunt Mertoun as an arrogant pretender to the favour of the sisters of Burgh-Westra, who only hesitated, sultan-like, on whom he should bestow the handkerchief. But common fame, Magnus considered, was a common liar, and he was sometimes disposed (where scandal was concerned) to regard the good Lady Glowrowrum as rather an uncommon specimen of the same genus. He therefore received Mordaunt once more into full favour, listened with much surprise to the claim which Norna laid to the young man’s duty, and with no less interest to her intention of surrendering to him the considerable property which she had inherited from her father. Nay, it is even probable that, though he gave no immediate answer to her hints concerning an union betwixt his eldest daughter and her heir, he might think such an alliancerecommended, as well by the young man’s personal merits, as by the chance it gave of reuniting the very large estate which had been divided betwixt his own father and that of Norna. At all events, the Udaller received his young friend with much kindness, and he and the proprietor of the mansion joined in intrusting to him, as the youngest and most active of the party, the charge of commanding the night-watch, and relieving the sentinels around the House of Stennis.
Of an outlawe, this is the lawe—That men him take and bind,Without pitie hang’d to be,And waive with the wind.The Ballad of the Nut Brown Maid.
Mordaunt had caused the sentinels who had been on duty since midnight to be relieved ere the peep of day, and having given directions that the guard should be again changed at sunrise, he had retired to a small parlour, and, placing his arms beside him, was slumbering in an easy-chair, when he felt himself pulled by the watch-cloak in which he was enveloped.
“Is it sunrise,” said he, “already?” as, starting up, he discovered the first beams lying level upon the horizon.
“Mordaunt!” said a voice, every note of which thrilled to his heart.
He turned his eyes on the speaker, and Brenda Troil, to his joyful astonishment, stood before him. As he was about to address her eagerly, he was checked by observing the signs of sorrow and discomposure in her pale cheeks, trembling lips, and brimful eyes.
“Mordaunt,” she said, “you must do Minna and me a favour—you must allow us to leave the house quietly, and without alarming any one, in order to go as far as the Standing Stones of Stennis.”
“What freak can this be, dearest Brenda?” said Mordaunt, much amazed at the request—“some Orcadian observance of superstition, perhaps; but the time is too dangerous, and my charge from your father too strict, that I should permit you to pass without his consent. Consider, dearest Brenda, I am a soldier on duty, and must obey orders.”
“Mordaunt,” said Brenda, “this is no jesting matter—Minna’s reason, nay, Minna’s life, depends on your giving us this permission.”
“And for what purpose?” said Mordaunt; “let me at least know that.”
“For a wild and a desperate purpose,” replied Brenda—“It is that she may meet Cleveland.”
“Cleveland!” said Mordaunt—“Should the villain come ashore, he shall be welcomed with a shower of rifle-balls. Let me within a hundred yards of him,” he added, grasping his piece, “and all the mischief he has done me shall be balanced with an ounce bullet!”
“His death will drive Minna frantic,” said Brenda; “and him who injures Minna, Brenda will never again look upon.”
“This is madness—raving madness!” said Mordaunt—“Consider your honour—consider your duty.”
“I can consider nothing but Minna’s danger,” said Brenda, breaking into a flood of tears; “her former illness was nothing to the state she has been in all night. She holds in her hand his letter, written in characters of fire, rather than of ink, imploring her to see him, for a last farewell, as she would save a mortal body, and an immortal soul; pledging himself for her safety; and declaring nopower shall force him from the coast till he has seen her.—Youmustlet us pass.”
“It is impossible!” replied Mordaunt, in great perplexity—“This ruffian has imprecations enough, doubtless, at his fingers’ ends—but what better pledge has he to offer?—I cannot permit Minna to go.”
“I suppose,” said Brenda, somewhat reproachfully, while she dried her tears, yet still continued sobbing, “that there is something in what Norna spoke of betwixt Minna and you; and that you are too jealous of this poor wretch, to allow him even to speak with her an instant before his departure.”
“You are unjust,” said Mordaunt, hurt, and yet somewhat flattered by her suspicions,—“you are as unjust as you are imprudent. You know—you cannot but know—that Minna is chiefly dear to me asyoursister. Tell me, Brenda—and tell me truly—if I aid you in this folly, have you no suspicion of the Pirate’s faith!”
“No, none,” said Brenda; “if I had any, do you think I would urge you thus? He is wild and unhappy, but I think we may in this trust him.”
“Is the appointed place the Standing Stones, and the time daybreak?” again demanded Mordaunt.
“It is, and the time is come,” said Brenda,—“for Heaven’s sake let us depart!”
“I will myself,” said Mordaunt, “relieve the sentinel at the front door for a few minutes, and suffer you to pass.—You will not protract this interview, so full of danger?”
“We will not,” said Brenda; “and you, on your part, will not avail yourself of this unhappy man’s venturing hither, to harm or to seize him?”
“Rely on my honour,” said Mordaunt—“He shall have no harm, unless he offers any.”
“Then I go to call my sister,” said Brenda, and quickly left the apartment.
Mordaunt considered the matter for an instant, and then going to the sentinel at the front door, he desired him to run instantly to the main-guard, and order the whole to turn out with their arms—to see the order obeyed, and to return when they were in readiness. Meantime, he himself, he said, would remain upon the post.
During the interval of the sentinel’s absence, the front door was slowly opened, and Minna and Brenda appeared, muffled in their mantles. The former leaned on her sister, and kept her face bent on the ground, as one who felt ashamed of the step she was about to take. Brenda also passed her lover in silence, but threw back upon him a look of gratitude and affection, which doubled, if possible, his anxiety for their safety.
The sisters, in the meanwhile, passed out of sight of the house; when Minna, whose step, till that time, had been faint and feeble, began to erect her person, and to walk with a pace so firm and so swift, that Brenda, who had some difficulty to keep up with her, could not forbear remonstrating on the imprudence of hurrying her spirits, and exhausting her force, by such unnecessary haste.
“Fear not, my dearest sister,” said Minna; “the spirit which I now feel will, and must, sustain me through the dreadful interview. I could not but move with a drooping head, and dejected pace, while I was in view of one who must necessarily deem me deserving of his pity, or his scorn. But you know, my dearest Brenda, and Mordaunt shall also know,that the love I bore to that unhappy man, was as pure as the rays of that sun, that is now reflected on the waves. And I dare attest that glorious sun, and yonder blue heaven, to bear me witness, that, but to urge him to change his unhappy course of life, I had not, for all the temptations this round world holds, ever consented to see him more.”
As she spoke thus, in a tone which afforded much confidence to Brenda, the sisters attained the summit of a rising ground, whence they commanded a full view of the Orcadian Stonehenge, consisting of a huge circle and semicircle of the Standing Stones, as they are called, which already glimmered a greyish white in the rising sun, and projected far to the westward their long gigantic shadows. At another time, the scene would have operated powerfully on the imaginative mind of Minna, and interested the curiosity at least of her less sensitive sister. But, at this moment, neither was at leisure to receive the impressions which this stupendous monument of antiquity is so well calculated to impress on the feelings of those who behold it; for they saw, in the lower lake, beneath what is termed the Bridge of Broisgar, a boat well manned and armed, which had disembarked one of its crew, who advanced alone, and wrapped in a naval cloak, towards that monumental circle which they themselves were about to reach from another quarter.
“They are many, and they are armed,” said the startled Brenda, in a whisper to her sister.
“It is for precaution’s sake,” answered Minna, “which, alas, their condition renders but too necessary. Fear no treachery from him—that, at least, is not his vice.”
As she spoke, or shortly afterwards, she attainedthe centre of the circle, on which, in the midst of the tall erect pillars of rude stone that are raised around, lies one flat and prostrate, supported by short stone pillars, of which some relics are still visible, that had once served, perhaps, the purpose of an altar.
“Here,” she said, “in heathen times (if we may believe legends, which have cost me but too dear) our ancestors offered sacrifices to heathen deities—and here will I, from my soul, renounce, abjure, and offer up to a better and a more merciful God than was known to them, the vain ideas with which my youthful imagination has been seduced.”
She stood by the prostrate table of stone, and saw Cleveland advance towards her, with a timid pace, and a downcast look, as different from his usual character and bearing, as Minna’s high air and lofty demeanour, and calm contemplative posture, were distant from those of the love-lorn and broken-hearted maiden, whose weight had almost borne down the support of her sister as she left the House of Stennis. If the belief of those is true, who assign these singular monuments exclusively to the Druids, Minna might have seemed the Haxa, or high priestess of the order, from whom some champion of the tribe expected inauguration. Or, if we hold the circles of Gothic and Scandinavian origin, she might have seemed a descended Vision of Freya, the spouse of the Thundering Deity, before whom some bold Sea-King or champion bent with an awe, which no mere mortal terror could have inflicted upon him. Brenda, overwhelmed with inexpressible fear and doubt, remained a pace or two behind, anxiously observing the motions of Cleveland, and attending to nothing around, save to him and to her sister.
Cleveland approached within two yards of Minna, and bent his head to the ground. There was a dead pause, until Minna said, in a firm but melancholy tone, “Unhappy man, why didst thou seek this aggravation of our woe? Depart in peace, and may Heaven direct thee to a better course than that which thy life has yet held!”
“Heaven will not aid me,” said Cleveland, “excepting by your voice. I came hither rude and wild, scarce knowing that my trade, my desperate trade, was more criminal in the sight of man or of Heaven, than that of those privateers whom your law acknowledges. I was bred in it, and, but for the wishes you have encouraged me to form, I should have perhaps died in it, desperate and impenitent. O, do not throw me from you! let me do something to redeem what I have done amiss, and do not leave your own work half-finished!”
“Cleveland,” said Minna, “I will not reproach you with abusing my inexperience, or with availing yourself of those delusions which the credulity of early youth had flung around me, and which led me to confound your fatal course of life with the deeds of our ancient heroes. Alas, when I saw your followers, that illusion was no more!—but I do not upbraid you with its having existed. Go, Cleveland; detach yourself from those miserable wretches with whom you are associated, and believe me, that if Heaven yet grants you the means of distinguishing your name by one good or glorious action, there are eyes left in those lonely islands, that will weep as much for joy, as—as—they must now do for sorrow.”
“And is this all?” said Cleveland; “and may I not hope, that if I extricate myself from my present associates—if I can gain my pardon by beingas bold in the right, as I have been too often in the wrong cause—if, after a term, I care not how long—but still a term which may have an end, I can boast of having redeemed my fame—may I not—may I not hope that Minna may forgive what my God and my country shall have pardoned?”
“Never, Cleveland, never!” said Minna, with the utmost firmness; “on this spot we part, and part for ever, and part without longer indulgence. Think of me as of one dead, if you continue as you now are; but if, which may Heaven grant, you change your fatal course, think of me then as one, whose morning and evening prayers will be for your happiness, though she has lost her own.—Farewell, Cleveland!”
He kneeled, overpowered by his own bitter feelings, to take the hand which she held out to him, and in that instant, his confidant Bunce, starting from behind one of the large upright pillars, his eyes wet with tears, exclaimed—
“Never saw such a parting scene on any stage! But I’ll be d—d if you make your exit as you expect!”
And so saying, ere Cleveland could employ either remonstrance or resistance, and indeed before he could get upon his feet, he easily secured him by pulling him down on his back, so that two or three of the boat’s crew seized him by the arms and legs, and began to hurry him towards the lake. Minna and Brenda shrieked, and attempted to fly; but Derrick snatched up the former with as much ease as a falcon pounces on a pigeon, while Bunce, with an oath or two which were intended to be of a consolatory nature, seized on Brenda; and the whole party, with two or three of the other pirates, who,stealing from the water-side, had accompanied them on the ambuscade, began hastily to run towards the boat, which was left in charge of two of their number. Their course, however, was unexpectedly interrupted, and their criminal purpose entirely frustrated.
When Mordaunt Mertoun had turned out his guard in arms, it was with the natural purpose of watching over the safety of the two sisters. They had accordingly closely observed the motions of the pirates, and when they saw so many of them leave the boat and steal towards the place of rendezvous assigned to Cleveland, they naturally suspected treachery, and by cover of an old hollow way or trench, which perhaps had anciently been connected with the monumental circle, they had thrown themselves unperceived between the pirates and their boat. At the cries of the sisters, they started up and placed themselves in the way of the ruffians, presenting their pieces, which, notwithstanding, they dared not fire, for fear of hurting the young ladies, secured as they were in the rude grasp of the marauders. Mordaunt, however, advanced with the speed of a wild deer on Bunce, who, loath to quit his prey, yet unable to defend himself otherwise, turned to this side and that alternately, exposing Brenda to the blows which Mordaunt offered at him. This defence, however, proved in vain against a youth, possessed of the lightest foot and most active hand ever known in Zetland, and after a feint or two, Mordaunt brought the pirate to the ground with a stroke from the but of the carabine, which he dared not use otherwise. At the same time fire-arms were discharged on either side by those who were liable to no such cause of forbearance, and the pirates who had hold of Cleveland, dropped him, naturally enough, to provide for their own defence or retreat. But they only added to the numbers of their enemies; for Cleveland, perceiving Minna in the arms of Derrick, snatched her from the ruffian with one hand, and with the other shot him dead on the spot. Two or three more of the pirates fell or were taken, the rest fled to their boat, pushed off, then turned their broadside to the shore, and fired repeatedly on the Orcadian party, which they returned, with little injury on either side. Meanwhile Mordaunt, having first seen that the sisters were at liberty and in full flight towards the house, advanced on Cleveland with his cutlass drawn. The pirate presented a pistol, and calling out at the same time,—“Mordaunt, I never missed my aim,” he fired into the air, and threw it into the lake; then drew his cutlass, brandished it round his head, and flung that also as far as his arm could send it, in the same direction. Yet such was the universal belief of his personal strength and resources, that Mordaunt still used precaution, as, advancing on Cleveland, he asked if he surrendered.
“I surrender to no man,” said the Pirate-captain; “but you may see I have thrown away my weapons.”
He was immediately seized by some of the Orcadians without his offering any resistance; but the instant interference of Mordaunt prevented his being roughly treated, or bound. The victors conducted him to a well-secured upper apartment in the House of Stennis, and placed a sentinel at the door. Bunce and Fletcher, both of whom had been stretched on the field during the skirmish, were lodged in the same chamber; and two prisoners,who appeared of lower rank, were confined in a vault belonging to the mansion.
Without pretending to describe the joy of Magnus Troil, who, when awakened by the noise and firing, found his daughters safe, and his enemy a prisoner, we shall only say, it was so great, that he forgot, for the time at least, to enquire what circumstances were those which had placed them in danger; that he hugged Mordaunt to his breast a thousand times, as their preserver; and swore as often by the bones of his sainted namesake, that if he had a thousand daughters, so tight a lad, and so true a friend, should have the choice of them, let Lady Glowrowrum say what she would.
A very different scene was passing in the prison-chamber of the unfortunate Cleveland and his associates. The Captain sat by the window, his eyes bent on the prospect of the sea which it presented, and was seemingly so intent on it, as to be insensible of the presence of the others. Jack Bunce stood meditating some ends of verse, in order to make his advances towards a reconciliation with Cleveland; for he began to be sensible, from the consequences, that the part he had played towards his Captain, however well intended, was neither lucky in its issue, nor likely to be well taken. His admirer and adherent Fletcher lay half asleep, as it seemed, on a truckle-bed in the room, without the least attempt to interfere in the conversation which ensued.
“Nay, but speak to me, Clement,” said the penitent Lieutenant, “if it be but to swear at me for my stupidity!
‘What! not an oath?—Nay, then the world goes hard,If Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.’”
“I prithee peace, and be gone!” said Cleveland; “I have one bosom friend left yet, and you will make me bestow its contents on you, or on myself.”
“I have it!” said Bunce, “I have it!” and on he went in the vein of Jaffier—
“‘Then, by the hell I merit, I’ll not leave thee,Till to thyself at least thou’rt reconciled,However thy resentment deal with me!’”
“I pray you once more to be silent,” said Cleveland—“Is it not enough that you have undone me with your treachery, but you must stun me with your silly buffoonery?—I would not have believedyouwould have lifted a finger against me, Jack, of any man or devil in yonder unhappy ship.”
“Who, I?” exclaimed Bunce, “I lift a finger against you!—and if I did, it was in pure love, and to make you the happiest fellow that ever trode a deck, with your mistress beside you, and fifty fine fellows at your command. Here is Dick Fletcher can bear witness I did all for the best, if he would but speak, instead of lolloping there like a Dutch dogger laid up to be careened.—Get up, Dick, and speak for me, won’t you?”
“Why, yes, Jack Bunce,” answered Fletcher, raising himself with difficulty, and speaking feebly, “I will if I can—and I always knew you spoke and did for the best—but howsomdever, d’ye see, it has turned out for the worst for me this time, for I am bleeding to death, I think.”
“You cannot be such an ass!” said Jack Bunce, springing to his assistance, as did Cleveland. But human aid came too late—he sunk back on the bed, and, turning on his face, expired without a groan.
“I always thought him a d—d fool,” said Bunce, as he wiped a tear from his eye, “but never such a consummate idiot as to hop the perch so sillily. I have lost the best follower”—and he again wiped his eye.
Cleveland looked on the dead body, the rugged features of which had remained unaltered by the death-pang—“A bull-dog,” he said, “of the true British breed, and, with a better counsellor, would have been a better man.”
“You may say that of some other folks, too, Captain, if you are minded to do them justice,” said Bunce.
“I may indeed, and especially of yourself,” said Cleveland, in reply.
“Why then, say,Jack, I forgive you,” said Bunce; “it’s but a short word, and soon spoken.”
“I forgive you from all my soul, Jack,” said Cleveland, who had resumed his situation at the window; “and the rather that your folly is of little consequence—the morning is come that must bring ruin on us all.”
“What! you are thinking of the old woman’s prophecy you spoke of?” said Bunce.
“It will soon be accomplished,” answered Cleveland. “Come hither; what do you take yon large square-rigged vessel for, that you see doubling the headland on the east, and opening the Bay of Stromness?”
“Why, I can’t make her well out,” said Bunce, “but yonder is old Goffe, takes her for a West Indiaman loaded with rum and sugar, I suppose, for d—n me if he does not slip cable, and stand out to her!”
“Instead of running into the shoal-water, whichwas his only safety,” said Cleveland—“The fool! the dotard! the drivelling, drunken idiot!—he will get his flip hot enough; for yon is the Halcyon—See, she hoists her colours and fires a broadside! and there will soon be an end of the Fortune’s Favourite! I only hope they will fight her to the last plank. The Boatswain used to be stanch enough, and so is Goffe, though an incarnate demon.—Now she shoots away, with all the sail she can spread, and that shows some sense.”
“Up goes the Jolly Hodge, the old black flag, with the death’s head and hour-glass, and that shows some spunk,” added his comrade.
“The hour-glass is turned for us, Jack, for this bout—our sand is running fast.—Fire away yet, my roving lads! The deep sea or the blue sky, rather than a rope and a yard-arm!”
There was a moment of anxious and dead silence; the sloop, though hard pressed, maintaining still a running fight, and the frigate continuing in full chase, but scarce returning a shot. At length the vessels neared each other, so as to show that the man-of-war intended to board the sloop, instead of sinking her, probably to secure the plunder which might be in the pirate vessel.
“Now, Goffe—now, Boatswain!” exclaimed Cleveland, in an ecstasy of impatience, and as if they could have heard his commands, “stand by sheets and tacks—rake her with a broadside, when you are under her bows, then about ship, and go off on the other tack like a wild-goose. The sails shiver—the helm’s a-lee—Ah!—deep-sea sink the lubbers!—they miss stays, and the frigate runs them aboard!”
Accordingly, the various manœuvres of the chasehad brought them so near, that Cleveland, with his spy-glass, could see the man-of-war’s-men boarding by the yards and bowsprit, in irresistible numbers, their naked cutlasses flashing in the sun, when, at that critical moment, both ships were enveloped in a cloud of thick black smoke, which suddenly arose on board the captured pirate.
“Exeunt omnes!” said Bunce, with clasped hands.
“There went the Fortune’s Favourite, ship and crew!” said Cleveland, at the same instant.
But the smoke immediately clearing away, showed that the damage had only been partial, and that, from want of a sufficient quantity of powder, the pirates had failed in their desperate attempt to blow up their vessel with the Halcyon.
Shortly after the action was over, Captain Weatherport of the Halcyon sent an officer and a party of marines to the House of Stennis, to demand from the little garrison the pirate seamen who were their prisoners, and, in particular, Cleveland and Bunce, who acted as Captain and Lieutenant of the gang.
This was a demand which was not to be resisted, though Magnus Troil could have wished sincerely that the roof under which he lived had been allowed as an asylum at least to Cleveland. But the officer’s orders were peremptory; and he added, it was Captain Weatherport’s intention to land the other prisoners, and send the whole, with a sufficient escort, across the island to Kirkwall, in order to undergo an examination there before the civil authorities, previous to their being sent off to London for trial at the High Court of Admiralty. Magnus could therefore only intercede for good usage to Cleveland, and that he might not be stripped or plundered, which the officer, struck by his good mien, andcompassionating his situation, readily promised. The honest Udaller would have said something in the way of comfort to Cleveland himself, but he could not find words to express it, and only shook his head.
“Old friend,” said Cleveland, “you may have much to complain of—yet you pity instead of exulting over me—for the sake of you and yours, I will never harm human being more. Take this from me—my last hope, but my last temptation also”—he drew from his bosom a pocket-pistol, and gave it to Magnus Troil. “Remember me to—But no—let every one forget me.—I am your prisoner, sir,” said he to the officer.
“And I also,” said poor Bunce; and putting on a theatrical countenance, he ranted, with no very perceptible faltering in his tone, the words of Pierre:
“‘Captain, you should be a gentleman of honour:Keep off the rabble, that I may have roomTo entertain my fate, and die with decency.’”
Joy, joy, in London now!Southey.
The news of the capture of the Rover reached Kirkwall, about an hour before noon, and filled all men with wonder and with joy. Little business was that day done at the Fair, whilst people of all ages and occupations streamed from the place to see the prisoners as they were marched towards Kirkwall, and to triumph in the different appearance which they now bore, from that which they had formerly exhibited when ranting, swaggering, and bullying in the streets of that town. The bayonets of the marines were soon seen to glisten in the sun, and then came on the melancholy troop of captives, handcuffed two and two together. Their finery had been partly torn from them by their captors, partly hung in rags about them; many were wounded and covered with blood, many blackened and scorched with the explosion, by which a few of the most desperate had in vain striven to blow up the vessel. Most of them seemed sullen and impenitent, some were more becomingly affected with their condition, and a few braved it out, and sung the same ribald songs to which they had made the streets of Kirkwall ring when they were in their frolics.
The Boatswain and Goffe, coupled together, exhausted themselves in threats and imprecationsagainst each other; the former charging Goffe with want of seamanship, and the latter alleging that the Boatswain had prevented him from firing the powder that was stowed forward, and so sending them all to the other world together. Last came Cleveland and Bunce, who were permitted to walk unshackled; the decent melancholy, yet resolved manner of the former, contrasting strongly with the stage strut and swagger which poor Jack thought it fitting to assume, in order to conceal some less dignified emotions. The former was looked upon with compassion, the latter with a mixture of scorn and pity; while most of the others inspired horror, and even fear, by their looks and their language.
There was one individual in Kirkwall, who was so far from hastening to see the sight which attracted all eyes, that he was not even aware of the event which agitated the town. This was the elder Mertoun, whose residence Kirkwall had been for two or three days, part of which had been spent in attending to some judicial proceedings, undertaken at the instance of the Procurator Fiscal, against that grave professor, Bryce Snailsfoot. In consequence of an inquisition into the proceedings of this worthy trader, Cleveland’s chest, with his papers and other matters therein contained, had been restored to Mertoun, as the lawful custodier thereof, until the right owner should be in a situation to establish his right to them. Mertoun was at first desirous to throw back upon Justice the charge which she was disposed to intrust him with; but, on perusing one or two of the papers, he hastily changed his mind—in broken words, requested the Magistrate to let the chest be sent to his lodgings, and, hastening homeward, bolted himself into the room, to considerand digest the singular information which chance had thus conveyed to him, and which increased, in a tenfold degree, his impatience for an interview with the mysterious Norna of the Fitful-head.
It may be remembered that she had required of him, when they met in the Churchyard of Saint Ninian, to attend in the outer isle of the Cathedral of Saint Magnus, at the hour of noon, on the fifth day of the Fair of Saint Olla, there to meet a person by whom the fate of Mordaunt would be explained to him.—“It must be herself,” he said; “and that I should see her at this moment is indispensable. How to find her sooner, I know not; and better lose a few hours even in this exigence, than offend her by a premature attempt to force myself on her presence.”
Long, therefore, before noon—long before the town of Kirkwall was agitated by the news of the events on the other side of the island, the elder Mertoun was pacing the deserted aisle of the Cathedral, awaiting, with agonizing eagerness, the expected communication from Norna. The bell tolled twelve—no door opened—no one was seen to enter the Cathedral; but the last sounds had not ceased to reverberate through the vaulted roof, when, gliding from one of the interior side-aisles, Norna stood before him. Mertoun, indifferent to the apparent mystery of her sudden approach, (with the secret of which the reader is acquainted,) went up to her at once, with the earnest ejaculation—“Ulla—Ulla Troil—aid me to save our unhappy boy!”
“To Ulla Troil,” said Norna, “I answer not—I gave that name to the winds, on the night that cost me a father!”
“Speak not of that night of horror,” said Mertoun; “we have need of our reason—let us not think on recollections which may destroy it; but aid me, if thou canst, to save our unfortunate child!”
“Vaughan,” answered Norna, “he is already saved—long since saved; think you a mother’s hand—and that of such a mother as I am—would await your crawling, tardy, ineffectual assistance? No, Vaughan—I make myself known to you, but to show my triumph over you—it is the only revenge which the powerful Norna permits herself to take for the wrongs of Ulla Troil.”
“Have you indeed saved him—saved him from the murderous crew?” said Mertoun, or Vaughan—“speak!—and speak truth!—I will believe every thing—all you would require me to assent to!—prove to me only he is escaped and safe!”
“Escaped and safe, by my means,” said Norna—“safe, and in assurance of an honoured and happy alliance. Yes, great unbeliever!—yes, wise and self-opinioned infidel!—these were the works of Norna! I knew you many a year since; but never had I made myself known to you, save with the triumphant consciousness of having controlled the destiny that threatened my son. All combined against him—planets which threatened drowning—combinations which menaced blood—but my skill was superior to all.—I arranged—I combined—I found means—I made them—each disaster has been averted;—and what infidel on earth, or stubborn demon beyond the bounds of earth, shall hereafter deny my power?”
The wild ecstasy with which she spoke, so much resembled triumphant insanity, that Mertoun answered—“Were your pretensions less lofty, and your speech more plain, I should be better assured of my son’s safety.”
“Doubt on, vain sceptic!” said Norna—“And yet know, that not only is our son safe, but vengeance is mine, though I sought it not—vengeance on the powerful implement of the darker Influences by whom my schemes were so often thwarted, and even the life of my son endangered.—Yes, take it as a guarantee of the truth of my speech, that Cleveland—the pirate Cleveland—even now enters Kirkwall as a prisoner, and will soon expiate with his life the having shed blood which is of kin to Norna’s.”
“Who didst thou say was prisoner?” exclaimed Mertoun, with a voice of thunder—“Who, woman, didst thou say should expiate his crimes with his life?”
“Cleveland—the pirate Cleveland!” answered Norna; “and by me, whose counsel he scorned, he has been permitted to meet his fate.”
“Thou most wretched of women!” said Mertoun, speaking from between his clenched teeth,—“thou hast slain thy son, as well as thy father!”
“My son!—what son?—what mean you?—Mordaunt is your son—your only son!” exclaimed Norna—“is he not?—tell me quickly—is he not?”
“Mordaunt is indeedmyson,” said Mertoun—“the laws, at least, gave him to me as such—But, O unhappy Ulla! Cleveland is your son as well as mine—blood of our blood, bone of our bone; and if you have given him to death, I will end my wretched life along with him!”
“Stay—hold—stop, Vaughan!” said Norna; “I am not yet overcome—prove but to me the truthof what you say, I would find help, if I should evoke hell!—But prove your words, else believe them I cannot.”
“Thouhelp! wretched, overweening woman!—in what have thy combinations and thy stratagems—the legerdemain of lunacy—the mere quackery of insanity—in what have these involved thee?—and yet I will speak to thee as reasonable—nay, I will admit thee as powerful—Hear, then, Ulla, the proofs which you demand, and find a remedy, if thou canst:—
“When I fled from Orkney,” he continued, after a pause—“it is now five-and-twenty years since—I bore with me the unhappy offspring to whom you had given light. It was sent to me by one of your kinswomen, with an account of your illness, which was soon followed by a generally received belief of your death. It avails not to tell in what misery I left Europe. I found refuge in Hispaniola, wherein a fair young Spaniard undertook the task of comforter. I married her—she became mother of the youth called Mordaunt Mertoun.”
“You married her!” said Norna, in a tone of deep reproach.
“I did, Ulla,” answered Mertoun; “but you were avenged. She proved faithless, and her infidelity left me in doubts whether the child she bore had a right to call me father—But I also was avenged.”
“You murdered her!” said Norna, with a dreadful shriek.
“I did that,” said Mertoun, without a more direct reply, “which made an instant flight from Hispaniola necessary. Your son I carried with me to Tortuga, where we had a small settlement. Mordaunt Vaughan, my son by marriage, about threeor four years younger, was residing in Port-Royal, for the advantages of an English education. I resolved never to see him again, but I continued to support him. Our settlement was plundered by the Spaniards, when Clement was but fifteen—Want came to aid despair and a troubled conscience. I became a corsair, and involved Clement in the same desperate trade. His skill and bravery, though then a mere boy, gained him a separate command; and after a lapse of two or three years, while we were on different cruises, my crew rose on me, and left me for dead on the beach of one of the Bermudas. I recovered, however, and my first enquiries, after a tedious illness, were after Clement. He, I heard, had been also marooned by a rebellious crew, and put ashore on a desert islet, to perish with want—I believed he had so perished.”
“And what assures you that he did not?” said Ulla; “or how comes this Cleveland to be identified with Vaughan?”
“To change a name is common with such adventurers,” answered Mertoun, “and Clement had apparently found that of Vaughan had become too notorious—and this change, in his case, prevented me from hearing any tidings of him. It was then that remorse seized me, and that, detesting all nature, but especially the sex to which Louisa belonged, I resolved to do penance in the wild islands of Zetland for the rest of my life. To subject myself to fasts and to the scourge, was the advice of the holy Catholic priests, whom I consulted. But I devised a nobler penance—I determined to bring with me the unhappy boy Mordaunt, and to keep always before me the living memorial of my misery and my guilt. I have done so, and I have thoughtover both, till reason has often trembled on her throne. And now, to drive me to utter madness, my Clement—my own, my undoubted son, revives from the dead to be consigned to an infamous death, by the machinations of his own mother!”
“Away, away!” said Norna, with a laugh, when she had heard the story to an end, “this is a legend framed by the old corsair, to interest my aid in favour of a guilty comrade. How could I mistake Mordaunt for my son, their ages being so different?”
“The dark complexion and manly stature may have done much,” said Basil Mertoun; “strong imagination must have done the rest.”
“But, give me proofs—give me proofs that this Cleveland is my son, and, believe me, this sun shall sooner sink in the east, than they shall have power to harm a hair of his head.”
“These papers, these journals,” said Mertoun, offering the pocket-book.
“I cannot read them,” she said, after an effort, “my brain is dizzy.”
“Clement has also tokens which you may remember, but they must have become the booty of his captors. He had a silver box with a Runic inscription, with which in far other days you presented me—a golden chaplet.”
“A box!” said Norna, hastily; “Cleveland gave me one but a day since—I have never looked at it till now.”
Eagerly she pulled it out—eagerly examined the legend around the lid, and as eagerly exclaimed—“They may now indeed call me Reimkennar, for by this rhyme I know myself murderess of my son, as well as of my father!”
The conviction of the strong delusion underwhich she had laboured, was so overwhelming, that she sunk down at the foot of one of the pillars—Mertoun shouted for help, though in despair of receiving any; the sexton, however, entered, and, hopeless of all assistance from Norna, the distracted father rushed out, to learn, if possible, the fate of his son.