"Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I'll go no further."Hamlet.
"Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I'll go no further."Hamlet.
The Earl had been engaged, as we have before stated, on some business connected with the Government that was then in power and the Neapolitan interests; so busily was he engaged in his occupation that his mind was thoroughly abstracted from everything else, and he neither saw nor heard anything that was going on around him. His study was immediately beneath the verandah on which the Countess and his daughter were then sitting. The balcony formed a sort of roof over a tessellated pavement that led to the lawn; up the pillars and trellised work that supported this verandah were twined vines and other creepers: these pillars, with their festoons, extended the whole length of the villa, and opened into a dark avenue of poplar trees. The windows of his room led to this walk, and being in Italian form, opened like a glass door, thus serving the part of window and door at once. They were open at the time we speak of, and the west wind blew lightly into the chamber, bearing on its wings the aromatic perfume of the orange groves. We have purposely been minute in this description, and why the reader will judge best by-and-by. The escritoire, where the Earl pursued his avocation, was placed about a couple of yards from the open window, and he sat with his back to the western hills glowing in the departing beams of the setting sun; perhaps he chose this position lest the beauties of nature should call him from his duties, and tempt him to neglect his important studies. Several law books in English and Italian lay round him, and these he from time to time consulted, as he wrote. Once he thought a shadow, as of a person crossing between him and the sun, passed over the sheet he inscribed—it was perhaps the Countess, or Augusta, so he thought, and without even turning round he again wrote rapidly.
Had there been a third person in the room (for there were two there) he would have seen this intruder noiselessly enter by the inviting window; fearful of disturbing the writer, the figure crept on past him, till it stood exactly opposite, treading as if on velvet, so lightly fell each footstep. The intruder, an Italian maiden thirteen years of age—though the precocity of her climate gave her the appearance of a girl of sixteen at least—was dressed in the picturesque costume of the mountains. She had almost attained her full height, which was above the average, and revelled in all the freshness of a beauty, which, if it might prove short-lived, was radiant as the flower which fades first, owing to its surpassing bloom. The hot sun of her native hills had wooed, but not marred, the soft cheek; all its warmth seemed brightly received into it, as in a mirror! large lustrous eyes, gloriously black, fringed by long lashes, full lips of carmine hue, and a nose so slightly arched as to seem almost, but not altogether Grecian, completed this damsel's charms. Her dress was well calculated to set off without detracting from a face which needed no foil, and a form which required no art to enhance. Her long hair, dark as night, was braided in broad plaits which fell down her back through the folds of a scarlet silk kerchief, that confined her tresses and contrasted well with their raven hue, throwing a warmth of colour over all. A tight boddice of black silk velvet, laced with gold braid, developed the bold outlines of her gently heaving breast. A dark-blue skirt descended nearly to her sandals—but not low enough to hide her well-shaped ankles; a narrow apron of various bright colours in thin stripes, fringed with gold lace at the hem, completed her costume. She wore a few ornaments all of costly workmanship, pendants of gold dropped from her tiny ears, a chain of pearls encircled her neck; from the end of this string hung a black cross set with diamonds of great value, and on her fingers sparkled several rings. Folding her arms across her bosom she watched the Earl, so occupied in his labours he knew not who watched him. The expression of the young girl's face was peculiar, and to have seen how earnestly and lovingly she fixed her gaze on the Earl, a stranger would have thought she knew him and loved him (and yet though she knew him she had never before been in his house), or would have imagined she was more to him than she seemed—in this surmise he would perhaps be nearer the mark.
Lord Wentworth was a true lover of nature, besides possessing a considerable amount of scientific knowledge. Botany was one of his favourite pursuits, and often he was accustomed to take long rides amongst the hills to pursue his attractive study. Whenever he had bent his course to the Val di Bovino he had been met by a young Italian girl, who, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to have the greatest affection for him. Whenever she heard the sound of his horse's feet, as if by instinct she was at his side, and with the sweet manners of southern countries used to proffer a bouquet of the most rare and beautiful wild flowers. He used to talk to her, and often she was his guide to secluded grots, or dark dells where modest flowers sprung. There was something so innocent in this affection, so charming in the young creature who gave it, that she quite won his heart, and far oftener than he would otherwise have done he bent his horse's course to the Val, and experienced a sort of delight in the company of this child of the South. It was not love—it was a nameless, but pure affection—more of the affection of a father to his child. He had never once missed his little mountain maiden. Unable to devise wherefore she had so set her fancy on him, he nevertheless felt all the pleasurable sensations of the feelings he inspired. There was another reason why he felt a peculiar interest in her,—this was the wonderful resemblance she bore to one with whom he had once played so sad a part; she was the image of Juana Ferraras, as he had known her many years since. So struck was he with this similitude that he had used every endeavour to try and induce the little girl to come and visit him, in order that the Countess might see her—but all his endeavours had proved vain; and though he had prevailed on the Countess several times to accompany him to the Val in order to show her his little Leonora—such was the name he knew her by—yet either by a provoking mischance, or well-laid scheme, she was never to be seen excepting when he was quite alone; and the Countess used to twit him about her, declaring she must either be a fairy, or an Egeria of his brain. He had given her some rings, and other slight souvenirs, but she seemed above any pecuniary help—so he had never offered her money; he had vainly striven to find out who she was, and where she lived; after a period of three months' almost daily communication with his mysterious and romantic acquaintance, he had yet failed in every inquiry, and he began almost to fancy she was some being unearthly, and perchance a lingeringdryadof old, who still haunted her woodland dell! We have made this digression, as without it the meeting of the Earl and this maiden, for it was she who stood before him, would seem unaccountable at the least. A breath more deeply drawn than her usual respirations attracted at last the attention of the Earl to his visitor. He gazed up from his letter, and was not a little astonished when he saw his friend there.
"Leonora, my little Egeria—you here? And how did you come, and what brings you here?"
"My Lord, I have been here some time; you were so engrossed you did not see nor hear me enter. I hope I do not intrude."
"Oh! no—such an intrusion does not deserve the name: and what does my Egeria want? Is she come at last to see my lady, and little girl?"
"No, I am come on an important errand—I am a messenger with strange tidings."
"Of good I am sure, such a pretty herald could not bear ill tidings."
"Do not be too confident, my Lord; the bright sunset heralds in black night."
"Well, my love, you must tell me, and if I can do anything for you my help shall not be lacking."
"It is not here, my Lord, I can tell you; it is not me they concern, but yourself,—will you follow me?"
"Follow you—and whither? Really this is quite romantic and the hour well chosen! And what can concern me? Well, I will come if it is not far."
"It is far though; as far as the Val di Bovino."
"On my word, that is a long distance; and it is now getting late,—will not to-morrow do as well?"
"No, Signore,—to-night; it is of the utmost importance; you know not what hangs on your coming."
"But, my love, the Val is not a 'canny place,' as we say in Scotland; it is full of robbers. Now, I fear not for myself, but my life is of value to my family; it would not be safe nor right for me to go."
"You need not fear, Signore; no one will touch you. I have a free pass from Luigi; see here it is (showing a card with some masonic words written on it); you need have no fear with me."
"That alters it certainly. But let me at least tell my wife I am going."
"My Lord, time is precious; lose no more; every minute is of priceless value. Waste no more time, Signore!"
Certainly, thought the Earl, this is a curious predicament, and still there is something so romantic in it; I cannot help going,—and yet I may be doing wrong. But Leonora would not betray me; I am sure of her, safe as steel! But she may be the artless messenger of Luigi, and my life may be in peril. I do not value it at a straw for myself; but Ellen,—no, I ought not to go.
"Leonora, I am not justified in going with you. To-morrow I will meet you at the Val."
A shade of sorrow passed over the young girl's face. "Alas! Signore; then you trust me not; you think I would lead you to peril. Farewell, Signore. I had thought differently of you; I am sadly mistaken. You have no confidence; farewell! You will never see your Leonora more, but you may repent your not following her!"
As she said these words, she mournfully turned away. It was not in mortal to resist any more.
"I wrong you, love, I do!" exclaimed the Earl. "Stay, I will come. I will follow you anywhere. There could not be treachery in such a brow!"
"Ah, you are like yourself again! The fearless, the confiding," said the girl, taking his hand and pressing her lips to it; "you will see you have nought to fear, for every hair of your head is dear to me as my life. But, Signore, make haste; we have kept away too long;—this way; no one must see us;—beneath the verandah, down the poplar avenue, and then away, away!" and the girl clapped her hands with delight.
"But stay, child,—my horse; I must get that; I am not going to walk!"
"Nor need you; but I have got a horse for you all ready; follow me—presto prestissimo!"
The Earl had just time to fling a cloak over his shoulders, and snatch up a hunting cap, ere she was out of sight. He then followed her quickly,—under the portico, down the avenue, and then through a small postern,—and he was outside his gardens, and the Apennines in front. Still his fair guide moved on; she seemed to float rather than walk over the ground, towards a dark myrtle grove. By this time the sunlight had quite forsaken the west; the hills had re-assumed their dusky hue, and the full moon rising in the east began to shed a cold lustre on the dew-bathed landscape. Still in the full vigour of manhood, strong, bounding in health, and with a mind ready for adventure, the Earl saw something delightful in the mystery of his errand; the loveliness of his guide, the hour, the place, the uncertain light of the moon, the originality of the whole—all was charming! But yet here was he, a peer of England, a husband of a fond wife, a father of a loving child, racing at night after a stranger almost, a pretty Italian girl, to a well-known haunt of robbers, to hear some wonderful story, or see some wonderful thing. It was ludicrous as well as romantic. He almost began to laugh at himself as he thought what the Marquis would think of him, and to be angry with himself when he thought what anxiety his freak would give Ellen. He had nearly forty miles to ride there and back, and supposing they did this in four hours' hard riding, allowing a couple of hours for delay and the time taken in revealing the secret, this would not bring him home till eleven at night, and during those six hours his wife would be wretched. But it was too late for regrets now; he was pledged to follow his guide. After all, he thought, I have often been later; she will but think I have gone to a friend's house, or the library.
Excusing himself thus, he followed Leonora still into the myrtle wood. She at last stopped, and, taking a little ivory whistle from her bosom, blew a signal. In less than two minutes a suspicious-looking man, leading two horses, appeared.[E]He was dark and swarthy in appearance, with long hair and beard untrimmed, as well as fierce moustache; wore a pointed hat gaily decked with ribbons, a jacket of crimson velvet embroidered with gold, breeches of dark blue velvet slashed with crimson, buskins of leather, and long spurs on his heels; his bronzed complexion and fierce look argued him a dangerous fellow, perhaps a bandit; but a silken sash round his middle, stuck full of pistols, knives, and stilettos, and a musket slung on his back, proclaimed it too certainly. When the Earl saw this fellow, he began to think he had been over-ready to follow a stranger; however, Leonora looked incapable of treachery, and he still trusted her. He made friends with the man by slipping a gold piece into his hand as he took the bridle of his horse. The bandit grinned as he saw it glitter on his palm, showing a white and regular set of teeth. The Earl then lifted his fair guide into herselle, which was covered with velvet richly embroidered with gold, gave the silken reins into her hand, and then prepared to mount his own steed. The horse he was to ride was a large and powerful Arab, coal black excepting a star of white on its forehead. The saddle and reins were of the finest leather, stamped with elegant designs. His guide's was a pretty jennet of the Andalusian breed, snow-white, with flowing mane and tail. She managed the skittish little animal with great address, and as the Earl followed slowly on his own noble charger, he thought he had never seen a prettier pair than guided him,—a more perfect horsewoman than his guide, a better bred animal than she rode on. The young girl gently walked her steed till beyond the confines of the wood, when she put out its powers more freely along a bye-path. It was not long ere they reached the main road, and then, waving her hand, she set off at a breathless speed and soon reached the grassy plains of the open country. The Earl, an experienced horseman, easily kept up with his guide, and he thought he had seldom pressed a nobler horse than the one that bore him.
When they reached the plain, leaving the road, she dashed forward across the sandy ground; the Earl followed. Their horses drove the numerous herds of cattle that fed on the immense pasturage right and left before them. Lord Wentworth was in high spirits then, and enjoyed the gallop over the great common as every rider must, especially by moonlight. Then there was the romance of the ride, following a beautiful girl to an unknown place, and as his courser's hoofs spurned the sandy soil, he almost shouted the "Tallyho!" of old England in his glee. It was not long ere they reached the hills, that advanced like great barriers; it seemed as if they were inaccessible and not to be pierced; but as they drew nearer the Earl saw the gap of a river through the mountains, and dense woods of acacia, arbor vitæ, and nut-trees became visible, as well as the road they had left.
Entering again on the resumed route, Leonora drew the reins to breathe her panting horse; he followed her example, and side by side they began to walk their horses up the road, gradually becoming steeper as it crossed the chain of hills. The moon was now getting high in the heavens, and shone with silver rays on the brown mountains and woods above and below them. It was dead silence all, save the flow of the river beneath chafing against its rocky sides, or the shrill cry of thecicalas, the rustle of the dried leaves stirred by the passing wind, the tramp of the iron hoof, or the snort of the fiery animals they scarce compelled into a reluctant walk. Neither spoke a word; he was too busy with his own thoughts, the girl too modest to begin a conversation. Slowly they paced upwards; the woods grew denser on either side; the mountains rose darker; the roar of the waters grew louder; but in silence they still rode on.
They had now reached the middle of the pass, and arrived at the scene of the morning's tragedy, of which the Earl as yet knew nothing. The first thing that caught his eye, was the carriage, which stood in lonely desertion in the middle of the road; some fifty paces ahead a little beyond it his eye caught a glimpse of two poles, one on either side of the road, bearing aloft their dread tokens of guilt and murder. The moon shone on the haggard features, and rendered them disgusting and horrid. He shuddered as he saw them; on the road too he perceived numbers of bodies stretched in various groups. It was like a field of battle. As they approached, two or three dark animals rushed away into the woods,—they were wolves come down on their prey.
"What in God's name has occurred here?" said the Earl, as he now passed directly beneath the poles, and with difficulty guided his horse amongst the numerous corpses.
"Some poor travellers whom the Vardarelli robbed and murdered to-day," answered the girl, with asang froidthat seemed totally unlike her.
"My God!" exclaimed the Earl, "it is even so; these are my unhappy guests! It is Mr. Lennox and his wretched son—I know those ghastly heads! Leonora, I can go no further; those death-pale faces will long haunt me!"
"What, Signore, are you come so far, and afraid to go on? True, this is a sad sight—the marks of plunder, rapine, and murder,—but with me you need not fear."
"You understand me not: these are my friends—they have been cruelly butchered."
"I am sorry they were Signore's friends; but by following me you may gain much—even by finding out about them."
"Wretched girl!" exclaimed Lord Wentworth; "is it possible you belong to this fierce gang?—so young, so innocent-looking! Ha!" he continued, looking on her with changed expression, "I see it now. I have been decoyed—duped!—fool that I was to come alone, and unarmed. I shall be set on, and murdered, and my head stuck by those! I will at least give them a chase for it," and he turned his horse's head.
"Hear me," cried the girl, "you wrong me, Signore—you wrong me! I have not deserved this! Follow me still—judge not by appearances, they may be against me: you will live to prove my truth; only have faith in one who would not for worlds injure you."
"By my soul, you take me for a fool! No, no, fair maiden, prevention is better than cure—you shan't get my head without a run for it."
"Once more, listen, my Lord. To return alone, even on that fleet horse, is certain death;—these woods are full of those who never missed their aim; and to go on with me is your only chance; and I vow by the great God—by the blessed Virgin—not a hair of your head shall be injured! Do you believe me?—look at my face and see if truth is not written there. Oh! for your own—my sake—follow on. I am not what I appear!"
The Earl looked at her; the moon shone full on her face—it was the face of a Madonna—no shade of falsehood there.
"I will follow—I will trust you; only remember, Signorina, if you deceive me you break your word, your oath, your honour,—lead on."
The mysterious guide[F]then reining her horse to the left, descended through the woods towards the river. He followed. The descent was difficult, and very steep; the moonlight hardly pierced the trees above.
"This girl," he thought, "is either the strangest and most faithful I ever met, or the worst arch-deceiver I ever was duped by."
After a toilsome descent, in which their horses often stumbled, they approached the river with its limestone cliffs, and emerged on an open green. Here Leonora dismounted, and motioned to the Earl to do the same. She again blew the ivory whistle, a similarly-costumed bandit appeared, received the horses, and decamped as mysteriously as he came.
"Signore," said the girl, "you have promised to trust me; will you submit to be blindfolded, for you must no longer see the path you go?"
"Upon my soul, you are determined to give me cause to place my confidence in you: I suppose you will ask me next if I have any objection to be thrown in yonder river? However, have your way, I submit myself entirely to your honour."
Untying a gay scarf that bound her waist, she bandaged the Earl's eyes; then taking his hand led him forward.
The path down which she led him was rough, stony, and seemed extremely steep. By-and-by he was aware he was crossing a bridge, and heard the river swirl and roar beneath him; it seemed far below, as near as he could judge by his ear. His route then lay upward, and ere long he was aware he had bade adieu to the moonlight and open air. An involuntary shudder ran through him as he perceived he must now be in a cave, from the hollow sound, and the echoes of his clanking strides. His guide felt the thrill, at least he fancied she must have perceived it, from her almost immediately afterwards bidding him not to fear. For more than a hundred yards, as he judged, she led him on through this vault; then he began to distinguish sounds, which soon resolved themselves into voices and laughter: they grew more and more distinct, till he could almost catch the individual words; then a sudden turn in the passage seemed to lead him away from them, and they grew more and more distant, till he lost the power of catching them any more.
He heard a footstep next, approaching, nearer and nearer, till it seemed beside him. His guide stopped, and spoke to the man in a language he did not understand. A gruff voice answered her. Another shudder ran through him as he thought he must now be in a den of robbers, and his life depended on the frail thread of a woman's word. Still he did not fear for himself; and he was determined that if, after all, he had been duped, he would try and sell his life dearly.
The thought of Ellen, too, oppressed him, and he bitterly cursed his folly in trusting himself to such chances. Another turn in the passage, and suddenly, a red glare told him he was again in light. There was something at least reinspiriting in being in light;—the thought of an assassin's dagger in the dark is horrible!
Almost immediately after, he felt his guide's fingers untying the scarf that bound his eyes. She slowly unknotted it, and then, as she left her hold, it dropped on the ground.
The lights dazzled his eyes, long accustomed to the dark, so much, that for an instant he could see nothing. When he recovered his sight, the first thing he looked for was his guide. She was gone!—the scarf lay at his feet, but she was gone! Had she been only a wraith to lead him so far, and then forsake him?
"Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?He saw not—he knew not—but nothing was there!"
"Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?He saw not—he knew not—but nothing was there!"
"He that dies pays all debts."—The Tempest."However deeply stained by sin,He is thy brother yet."
"He that dies pays all debts."—The Tempest.
"However deeply stained by sin,He is thy brother yet."
When the Earl found himself thus mysteriously deserted, his next desire was to find out by what secret passage his guide had departed. He turned round, and saw a narrow passage cut out of the naked rock, which seemed the only outlet from the cavern he was left in; a black curtain, made of skins of animals, hung from the ceiling across this doorway. Having discovered the road by which his guide had conveyed herself away, he then thought of following her; but on second thoughts resolved to await the issue, as he might otherwise come on some very unpleasant sort of fellows. So he began to look about him.
The scene in which his eyes were again opened was sufficiently strange, and kept up the romantic incidents of the evening. He was the sole inmate of a cavern, formed by nature, but enlarged by art; it might be eighteen feet in length by ten in breadth; the roof, which was cut into an arched shape, was not more than eight, or at the most eight and a half feet above the ground; the walls were roughly squared out of the limestone rock, and were hung, like the sides of an armoury, with all kinds of offensive and defensive weapons,—muskets, sabres, rapiers, pikes, spears, pistols, cutlasses, knives, and stilettos of all sizes and shapes! A ledge of rock ran half way round the cavern, about two feet from the ground, which was strewed with rushes; this served as a bench, and was not an uncomfortable one, if we might judge from the numerous wolf skins that covered it. At the extreme end of the room, if we may so call it, was a low bed,—the same on which Luigi had, a few hours since, yielded his soul to Him who gave it.
There was another object, however, which chiefly attracted the Earl's attention; on a low table which stood about the centre of the chamber, or dungeon, or cavern, whichever the reader pleases to dignify it by, stood a most solemn piece of furniture in the shape of a coffin; its ornaments, if it had any, were hidden by a pall of black velvet, with a fringe of silver lace-work, showing great taste in design, which, streaming downwards till it swept the ground, completely shut out any view of the coffin itself, or its occupant, if it had one. At the head, the foot, and the two shoulders were placed four handsome silver candelabra with wax tapers lighted, to a fanciful eye denoting the figure of a cross; this design was further borne out by two swords, which were placed crosswise, but St. Andrew's cross, and not the Cross was shadowed by them.
There is always something solemn, even to a healthy and strong person, in the narrow bed in which at last all must lie down! it seems to remind the living they too must die; it is an object on which few can gaze without feeling a sense of dread! In our hero's situation there was much to increase these sensations, which he would have doubtless had at any time, but which at the present moment came with unusual force on his mind. He stood alone, amid a den of thieves and murderers, to which he had been wiled by a mysterious guide. Why was he there? For what reason had he been brought hither? He looked on that grim reminder of mortality with awe! He thought of the tyrant of Rome,—how Domitian had introduced his guests to a dark room, where they saw their coffins, and where black men armed rushed in to terrify them! Had he been thus brought,—was that narrow box to be his last resting-place? He felt a sickening feeling of horror creep over him. He was a brave man, and had it been in open day would have made a stand against any number; but to be immured in such a place,—so secret no mortal else could penetrate to him, or assist him; to be brutally butchered, perhaps cruelly tortured first; to die alone; his fate to be hid for ever; his body to moulder in these vaults; all was awful!—no wonder he felt terror! He thought too of his home, of his fond wife, his only child, and all his friends,—they would never know how or where he had died! Even now perhaps Ellen was seeking him with tears! alas! she would never find his lurking-place,—she would have no thread to pierce the labyrinth! Oh! the hours,—perhaps years of despairing hope,—years would give no clue! How he cursed the hour he listened to that tale! How he despised himself for his credulity! a kind of giddy feeling came over his brain; a dizzy haze rose before his eyes. The coffin and its black pall, and dim lights were there, but they grew dim, and still dimmer! Was it a dream after all? He pressed his hand over his eyes; he withdrew it again;—no, it was real, horribly true! Again that sickening, sinking feeling crushed him! He looked for a seat; there was the wolf skin covered ledge: he walked towards it, and then sank away. He soon felt better; the giddiness passed away, and he began once more to soliloquise.
"Yes," he said, almost aloud, "there is no doubt of it: Luigi has lured me hither by means of my interest in this pretty Italian,—for what I dare not think! I have been properly cozened,—nicely hoodwinked! On my soul, I seem to deserve my fate as a punishment for my folly! What have I done?—left a fond wife, an only child, friends, home, everything,—all to follow a handsome girl, across a country where robbers are as plentiful as hazel nuts! A wild, hair-brained fool I have been, and am likely to pay the piper for it too! A pretty mess to get into!—left alone in a den of murderers, in the power of the fierce Luigi,—a man without even the mercy of wild wolves, for they kill at once, whilst he leaves me in sickening suspense. I would I knew the worst at once,—anything is better than uncertainty. But then Leonora! could she be so false,—surely all her love for me was not a cheat? I can scarcely think so. Who is she? Perhaps Luigi's daughter. Ha! I have it now: and she is perhaps laughing at my credulity! What is her word to a heretic? She can get absolved from her vow by the next priest! It is a comfortable creed the Roman Catholic: a nice one for robbers, murderers, and cheats. I wonder all wicked men are not Catholics! But why am I here? They will get little from me,—my watch and half a dozen pieces of gold; surely for this I have not been brought here? If they wanted my blood they could have had it a dozen times; the man I met when blindfolded,—a stab in the back would have done the business,—a push off the bridge by my fair guide! After all, matters are not so bad; there may be something behind all this seeming mystery. Leonora may be my friend; I surely wrong her; vice could never assume such a winning guise; falsehood never lurked beneath an open brow like hers! I will 'bide my sugh,' as we say over the Tweed; I may live to laugh over all this yet,—although that coffin is no laughing matter, God knows! I would I had anything else in the room,—it scares one out of his usual coolness! I hope there is not a corpse inside! Old Andrew would say, 'it's no canny.' I declare I will go and have a peep under the cloth,—perhaps there is a friend in it, after all, and I am left to read the riddle; he will think me a slow guesser."
The change of thoughts had so altered his feelings he leaped up quite like himself again, and was about to put his plan into execution, when he heard loud voices and oaths, in Italian, English, and other tongues, alarmingly near.
"Ho!" he said, almost aloud, "after all, first thoughts are true, and Luigi's ruffians come to give me cause to know them; but, by heaven! we will have a fight,—they shall not kill me like a fox run to earth! there are stores of weapons here; I'll sell my life dearly; some of them shall know 'it is ill fashing wi' a desperate man,' as my northern friends say; they'll find what it is to beard a lion at bay!"
Whilst he was uttering all this between his clenched teeth, he caught a sword off the wall, and two pistols; the latter he cocked,—they were ready loaded; he looked at the flints—for percussion had not got to Italy yet—they were dry, so was the priming; holding one in each hand, he placed the sword across the coffin in easy reach, and stood prepared for any odds. His bold spirits rose with the danger; the blood mounted to his cheeks; his eye brightened; he felt his heart beat full,—not with fear, but eager excitement,—the high resolve to die like a hero! It was a perfect picture! With one foot advanced, he stood ready, a pistol in either hand, with their tubes pointed to the ground, the sword within reach, unsheathed. He waited in this attitude nearly two minutes,—the voices had ceased, all was silent.
"He seems determined to try my patience," he thought; "he will have the warmer reception; for, now I think of it, I will have a knife for close work; they at least give one weapons enough for defence."
He stretched to secure a stiletto off the wall, still keeping his gaze on the doorway; he reached one down, and placed it on the pall beside the sword; but in taking it from the nail on which it hung, he accidentally pulled down a couple of cutlasses immediately above; they fell with a loud clanging on the rocky flooring. At the same moment he heard a footstep approaching,—the heavy tramp rang through the arched passage.
"Now for it," he said; "shall I shoot the villain directly he enters, or hear what the scoundrel has to say? The last is best; it is but a single fellow, and, at the worst, I will show him two can play at this game."
The step came nearer, and sounded louder and louder. The Earl waited in breathless expectation; the curtain moved,—it was pushed aside, and a figure entered. A look of surprise passed over the Earl's face: he had expected to see a fine, showily-dressed brigand,—probably Luigi Vardarelli himself; instead of that, he saw in the figure before him an old weather-beaten tar, not in the picturesque garb of the banditti, but in a fisherman's costume. The man had a hangdog look; his features were coarse and repulsive; a ghastly scar seamed his brow; his lank hair was grizzled and matted; his beard and whiskers tangled more grizzly still, and besprinkled with snuff; he wore a rough pilot jacket, and heavy fisherman's boots, which reached up to his hips; his figure short, but broad as a bear; his expression at once gloomy and fierce. His grotesque dress, in such a den,—a man so wholly unexpected, so out of place—was so ridiculous, that the Earl could resist no longer, and throwing his pistols down right and left, regardless of the danger of their exploding, he burst into a merry fit of laughter.
The old man,—none other than Bill Stacy, as the reader must have guessed,—regarded this outburst of jocularity with savage scorn; and when the Earl seemed to have regained his composure,
"The deevil take your daffin and laughin'!" said old Bill, who had not forgotten all his Scotch, "is this a place for your whiggery, think you, and the dead sae near? And what, in the fiend's name, have you loaded yourself with slashers, barkers, and whingers?—what the deevil have you to fear,—can't you trust old Bill?"
"Upon my word, my good man, I was expecting such a totally different guest, your appearance quite upset me! To your questions,—my being here is the best answer to them, and proves I fear you not. Trust you I did not; and being unarmed, and not knowing but that a dozen ruffians would be on me, I armed myself. It seems I had no need, and what I thought would be a tragedy, turns out a comedy. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Stow your ill-timed jesting, or I'll soon teach you, my Lord, where ye be, and all your arms will avail ye but little!"
The brutal manners of this old man proved to the Earl he was not yet out of danger, and he said, "I believe, old man, you are William Stacy. I have heard of you before. I have come many miles, and am in a hurry to be off again, so speed me my errand and let me be gone. I assure you this cave is not the lodging I desire for the night."
"Hark ye," cried Bill, with a terrific oath, "how do you know you will ever leave it? what if it were your lodging for aye? we are alone, what would hinder me from knocking you on the head?"
"If my death is your object, you had better go and call your fellow murderers. I fear you not, old man; I can hold my own against you—come on—I dare you—one at a time—fair play!" said the Earl, reaching the sword with his hand, and taking it off the coffin.
Old Bill looked at him with surprise not unmingled with pleasure.
"Put it down, you need not fear, I was but jesting. Had I wanted your blood, young man, what had hindered me frae taking it this three times?—sit ye down, I have that to tell you will make you open your glimmers."
"I fear not," said the Earl; "delay me however no longer; my wife will be anxious for my return."
"She maun e'en wait," said Bill.
He sat down, relieved at least from his worst apprehensions.
"And now," said the old man, still standing, "d'you ken where ye have got to?"
"Indeed," said the Earl, "I thought it was to Luigi's cave, but your appearance forbids me to think so now."
"Luigi," said Bill, "ay, ay,—his den, and so it is—but sma' harm could he do now, though folk knew what he could do this forenoon!"
"Then you are implicated in the dreadful murder of my friends. I passed the place and saw the horrid relics; there were many bodies there; the fight must have been a sharp one."
"A hard one it was," said the old man, "albeit I didna see it—your friend was betrayed, your own gear plundered! Thecollieshangie[G]was a fearful one our men say. The younger of the gentlemen made a stand—he was soon done for, and then the Vardarelli, d—n 'em, fought for the lassie. Adrian gave Luigi a stab with his knife that did the business for him, and rode away with the wench, devil knows where. Luigi, that's the captain, sughed awa', and he lies in yon box," pointing to the coffin.
"Wretched man! is he gone to his account? He was a true ruffian, and this Adrian has escaped! but whose were all the other bodies?"
"Aweel, I'll tell you—whilst these two fought like game cocks, a fleet of those cussed sbirri hove in sight, and would have overhauled 'em, but the Skipper gave 'em warning—they fought like born fiends, deil a ane of the sbirri cleared away, but the Skipper died!"
"A good riddance I think; but how does this concern me, save that I hear my friends were cruelly murdered, my property plundered, and the miscreant who did it is dead?"
"Lift up yon cloth, and take a look at the dead man," said Bill, with a cruel smile.
The Earl rose: he approached the table, and first lifting the swords off, then pushed aside the pall, disclosing a very handsome coffin elaborately ornamented in inlaid silver, being itself formed of polished black wood, probably ebony. Folding the pall he placed it aside, and then proceeded to raise the lid, which was as yet unscrewed. A man in full brigand dress, or rather what was once a man, lay there—cold, motionless! A white handkerchief was spread over the features. The Earl paused—Luigi was certainly a fine specimen he thought; upwards of six feet in length, and proportionally broad, his tall figure was peculiarly well set off by the dress he wore—the black jacket, with trimmings of silver, the scarlet sash in which still were confined his pistols, and stilettos, black velvet breeches, and black leather buskins; his arms were folded across his breast, and so lifelike did the dead man seem, that the Earl paused a moment, half suspecting that the figure would leap up, and end the play by confronting him, and daring him to single combat. Bill Stacy seeing him pause said—
"Lift the napery, and see if ye ken the face."
The Earl did so. Angel of death! who lay there but John de Vere, his brother? no marvel he started back,—no wonder he turned pale. Life like, but dead, he lay before him. He was little altered since his brother had last seen him. Crime and bloodshed had given a more relentless aspect to his face, hotter suns had burned his complexion still darker, but the eye so fiery scarce closed, and the stillness of death had given an air of rigidity to his wild features. A frown had stiffened on his brow, and the last agony of death had impressed a vengeful scowl on his lips—the invariable effect of sword, or dagger wounds. Yes, that eye was for ever sealed.
"Still, like a clouded gem, from its dull shroudOf lifelessness, its look was high and proud;And, though his brow deep melancholy confest,Oh! yet it lacked the air of perfect rest,As though it wist not where that rest to seek,And felt an anguish that it could not speak."
"Still, like a clouded gem, from its dull shroudOf lifelessness, its look was high and proud;And, though his brow deep melancholy confest,Oh! yet it lacked the air of perfect rest,As though it wist not where that rest to seek,And felt an anguish that it could not speak."
The Earl again approached, and gazed steadfastly on the face of the dead: he then turned away, as if he could endure the sight no more, and in an altered voice asked Bill—
"How came he here? how died he? speak, mysterious man!"
"I told you Adrian—that is Ned L'Estrange—and he fought for the lassie; Ned stuck his knife in him; that's how he came here."
"That was Luigi, but L'Estrange you said—my brain is addled, what is all this?"
"'Tis plain enough," said Bill; "the Captain was Luigi, and Ned L'Estrange was Adrian, and Ned, d—n him, killed the Captain."
"And this king of robbers, this Luigi, was my brother! Good God! I had heard he was not what people thought, little I dreamed who he was! and L'Estrange, Adrian! That man seems born my evil angel: he ran away with my betrothed, escaped from justice, and has now killed my brother! where is he, old man? he dies for my brother."
"Didna I tell ye he gave leg bail, and has given a wide berth to old Bill; he kens better than run foul of him. Cuss him for killing the Cap."
"Luigi my brother! strange, strange," said the Earl, again approaching the corpse. "Alas, John! to what have you fallen?—a brigand, and now perished by the sword you too well used. Alas! alas! Still with all thy vices, thou art my brother yet. Death pays all debts but one, the debt of vengeance, and surely and bloodily thou shalt be avenged! and now," he continued, addressing Bill again, "tell me the mystery of her who brought me here."
"All in good time, my Lord. I have much to tell you yet; old Bill can spin a long yarn."
"I doubt it not, but delay me no more now; let me return home, I will come again and hear all to-morrow—I give you my promise—but not now; I must see about my murdered friends, arrange about the interment of my poor assassinated brother, set the bloodhounds after the miscreant who murdered him, and——"
"Stay, not so fast, you can't steer from here before you know all; when you hear who Ned L'Estrange is you won't be so keen to follow him. You must stay, I command you; sit down, sit down: if I whistled the room were full of those who would make you anchor long enough; the time is come, I have been revenged, the murder must out."
"I see I must stay then. In truth I know not how I could thread my way out—you will tell me then who that girl is."
"Ay, ay, I see you have a misgiving about the little craft; they say in the auld country, 'tis a wise bairn who kens his father, and I say it is a wise father who kens his ain bairn, and ye may een make what you will from that. But it will be a long yarn, and you had as well get something aboard your stomach."
"I can eat nothing," said the Earl; "I pray you begin at once."
"Ha, ha, you had better rouse up first, and weet your whistle, ye'll need it," and so saying the old man called: a bandit in full costume entered with wine and a couple of goblets. When he had retired the old man poured a goblet full, and handed it to the Earl, who felt the need of it too strongly to refuse so good an offer, and drained it off, declaring the wine excellent. Bill, without the formality of pouring it into the tazza, put the bottle to his mouth—it was one of pig's skin—and took a long draught; then dragging a cask from beneath the table he sat down on it; and fixing his eyes on the Earl, who had reseated himself on the skin-covered ledge, commenced his narrative. We must however refer the reader to another chapter, and will also give it in good English, instead of the mixture of Scotch, sea phrases, oaths, and various scraps from many countries, in which it was spun, reserving only a few sea terms, or expressive words.
Alonzo."I longTo hear the story of your life, which mustTake the ear strangely."—Tempest.
Alonzo."I longTo hear the story of your life, which mustTake the ear strangely."—Tempest.
"And this, my comrade, is that very oneWho was an infant then."—Sophocles, translated.
"And this, my comrade, is that very oneWho was an infant then."—Sophocles, translated.
"To begin, then, at the commencement I must sail back many years. I am an old man now, and have had a rough cruise through life. I was then a young lad just ready to be launched out on the sea of life; it is forty years gone by now, but I remember all as if it had happened yesterday. The Earl of Wentworth, your father, was then but just of age, and had been celebrating his majority with great merry-making. On his estates the chief retainer was a man named Hermiston, the bailiff of the Dun Edin farm; he was a stout, well-to-do sort of man, and had one only son and two daughters: that son was me—my name was William Hermiston. My mother had died in giving me birth, and my father and sisters spoiled me,—never contradicting me in anything, and letting me grow up as wild a young scapegrace as was in all the country round. I got into bad company when I was about eighteen; idleness is the mother of all mischief, and so it was with me. I drank, betted, swore, and as I had plenty of the rhino, and was hail fellow well met with every companion that knew me, I grew worse and worse. My old father used often to say a word: he would shake his head and tell me he feared I would come to no good with such companions, but I heeded not what the old man said, and went on the same. In the publics I became acquainted with some horse-racing fellows, and was soon at home in the betting way, and could make a book with any man. I ran into debt—or as we say at sea, outstripped the constable—they were debts of honour, and had to be paid. My father steadily refused to refund me any more; I applied to your father, he helped me out easily, but warned me not to expect any future aid. Again I got head over ears—money must be got, and I became acquainted with a set of wild fellows—smugglers. I had always been fond of the sea, and took to the trade readily. Full of risk and danger, it was exactly what I liked; I rapidly made headway, paid my score, and rose to be one of the leading men.
"By the time I was five-and-twenty, or thereabout, I was captain of a lugger craft, and well known as a desperate fellow. When my old father heard of my evil doings he sternly reprimanded me for the first time in my life. I was not able to brook censure, and told him so; he tried entreaty, all was vain. I left him and brought down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. My voyages were never very far, Holland was the extent of them at that time, and I had a magnet at home which kept me ever coming back; this was a young and pretty girl, who lived near Musselburgh; her name was Agnes Macgregor, and a finer lass I never saw. I had known her for years, and she had long been my sweetheart; she had no father or mother, and her grandmother was an old, decrepit, blind woman of seventy, so the girl was under little restraint. Many's the time I have walked and talked with her for hours in the evenings when I was ashore; she did not care a straw about the illicit course of life I led, nay, I think she thought all the better of me for it. I left her, as I was to go to Flushing first before our marriage, and promised to bring home lace enough to deck her out like a queen. I remember well how she waved her kerchief to me as our craft put off at moonlight. I thought on her all the way over the rough German Ocean—it was winter time, and a bitter nor'-easter blew in our teeth, with driving sleet and hail. I reached Holland; I got the very finest lace for Agnes. I left again with a rich cargo, and landed in the old country. I had been absent some three months, winter had changed and spring set in; more than winter had changed, too—I found woman as variable as the seasons. I went to seek her at the old house—it was empty. I inquired—they had removed to a cottage near the Towers. I followed, I found her out—the hussy would have nought to say to me. In vain I argued, in vain I tried to get back her heart, it was all no go. I tried to find a reason for the change; she only gave one I would not receive—my manner of life, my being a smuggler. I loved that girl as I loved my own life; I offered to give up all, and seek an honest livelihood; all to no purpose, the wench had no more to say to me, and I was miserable.
"My Lord, you may look at my old weather-beaten features, and wonder any woman would look at me, but I was a well-favoured youngster then. I could put the stone, toss the caber, leap, run, and vault against any young fellow in the county. I was not the sour-faced, hard-featured seaman I am now, and I knew the girl once did love me, and dearly, and I resolved to wait and see what the cause of quarrel really was. But I had to put again to sea. I was away from home nearly a year and a half, but when I came home my ears were assailed right and left with the very thing I had feared—the girl I had promised myself for a wife had been deceived by one in the upper ranks of life; she had fallen, unable to resist the temptation of following one rich, handsome, and with a proud name—he was to be preferred as a lover, before William Hermiston as a husband. He gave her money, handsome dresses, jewels, everything but an honest name and fame, but she could well afford to want them if she had all the conceits a girl's head runs on. In a word she was the dupe of a nobleman. I sought the cottage where I had seen her last: the old woman was there, not the granddaughter; from her I learned who her beguiler had been, and where she then lived. My Lord, it was your father, the young Earl of Wentworth; and he had given her well-furnished apartments near Edinburgh. The Earl had been married more than three years, and he had two children, a little girl and a boy about two years: he visited Agnes on the sly, and only occasionally.
"When I learned all this I almost died with passion. I felt a very devil of vengeance enter into my heart. The pride of my soul, the light of my eyes, my love, my destined wife, had been tempted, betrayed, and was now living in guilty splendour. My Lord, see the misery that light loves in high rank bring on the lower class. Your father was rich, powerful, noble by birth and name, possessed of lands, wife, children,—and his evil conduct robbed the poor man of all; surely this was a case of the rich man who took the poor man's lamb—the tale I used to hear of sometimes when I was a boy. And mark the consequences—ah! you great people little think the pretty and innocent girl you pick up, and deck out in finery, is perhaps the only love of some honest, poor man, whose whole life is altered by their crime. Such was the case with me. Owing to your father's choice, I was made a very demon, and the cause of misery untold, not only to the hapless girl herself, but to your own family. Oh! I loved that girl as I once loved heaven. I lost my heaven in her, and lose Heaven by her."
The old man here paused to rub away the unbidden tear with his rough sleeve. The Earl, deeply interested, and feeling a home thrust in the narrative of his father's folly, bent forward, but spoke not.
"When I found out the true reason of her change, I hurried to see her. Your father had rented a cottage a short way from Edinburgh for her home; I went there,—it was a Saturday night, I remember; I watched and saw the Earl's carriage drive from the door. I did no more that night,—her guilt was now sure, and her deceiver too. On Sunday morning, when her servant was at church, I called: she opened the door, and when she saw me would have shut it in my face, but I pressed in. Her room was elegantly furnished; she was splendidly dressed; her dress enhanced her beauty; she never looked more lovely; and when I thought she might have been mine a demon rose in my breast. I know not what I said, save that I called her every vile name I could think of, and she bandied high words too, and bade me begone and leave her to mind herself and her baby. I had not dreamed of that. I turned and saw a cradle, and therein her firstborn child; it was a fair boy, but the devil was in me. The house was lone, every one at church, no human being near. I rushed to the cradle, and seizing the hapless babe, I dashed its infant brains out against the grate."
He paused: the Earl's face grew pale as he exclaimed, "Inhuman monster! you avow such a deed!"
"Ay, my Lord, reproach me, I deserve it; but see what came of stolen affections. I shall never forget the harrowing scream of Agnes, it was the most awful shriek of heartbroken agony I ever heard, it rings in my ears still. She then fell in a senseless swoon on the floor. The foul fiend prompted me—I heard him speak as though he was beside me—I looked for a weapon—the first I saw was a carving-knife on the sideboard. I whetted it against the fender in diabolical rage—I knew not what I did—I rushed on my prostrate victim, and—"
The wretched old sinner paused again, the drops stood on his brow, his face was contorted with evil passions as he thought on the deed.
"You cruelly murdered her, you bloodthirsty villain," said the Earl.
"I did; I nigh severed her head from her body. Ah! that was sweet revenge. When I had done the deed of hell I rushed from the spot as if all the fiends chased me. There was no need—no mortal saw me, and ere the double murder was found out I was miles away. I ran for the Towers, intending to go and tell your father what I had done, and give myself up to the gallows. Life had nothing more endurable. I reached the Towers about three in the afternoon; I asked to see the Earl on important business. He was at church; I said I would stroll about the grounds till he came home. I wandered by the dell at the side of the park, and, sitting down on a fallen log, began to think on my cruel deed, and its inevitable result—the gallows. Presently I heard voices, and saw a servant-girl leading a little boy, of perhaps two years old, by the hand. She came on till she was nearly opposite me, when I heard a whistle, and saw the girl leave the child, and run to speak with a young forester some hundred yards off, who had given the signal. A plan of terrible revenge entered my head. I knew it was the little Viscount, the only son of him who had wrought my misery: it was the work of a second, the thought suggested by the Evil One, and putting it into prompt action, like a boa I rushed on my prey, seized the child up in my arms, choked its cries with my kerchief, and dived into the copse-wood towards the burn, which was then swollen with flood: I then—"
"Hold!" said the Earl, "you were then the murderer of my eldest brother, and despite the consequences, you die for it."
He sprung up as if to wrestle with his foe. The old man moved not a muscle of his face, but exclaimed, "Are you mad? A cry from me brings a score of ruffians. Are you crazed? I didnotmurder your brother, I harmed not a hair of his head."
"Then, in God's name, what did you do?"
"Patience and you shall hear; interrupt me no more."
"I could listen for ever—it rivets me. Go on—I am breathless."
"I then plunged into the burn with my burden, and waded for a hundred paces or so; then I hid in a hollow tree and awaited the result. I heard the nurse cry, and saw her and the youth seek everywhere in vain. They passed and repassed my hiding-place, and then sought down the opposite way. I came forth and again proceeded a quarter of a mile, when I reached an old ruin, where I stayed till gloaming came on, and then hurried to a ken where my smuggling friends lurked. I told them nought of the murder, but said the child was only the son of a nobleman who wished me to get rid of it. That evening I started with the boy, and was taken on board a privateer, then in Leith Roads. My character was well known, and I got a place as master on board. The vessel's name was the 'Black Mail.' We weighed anchor and sailed for America. It was then the time of the French Revolution, and all the countries of Europe were leagued against France. We kept up a half privateering, half smuggling business for some years, in which I gradually rose to become the captain of the 'Black Mail.'
"About that time our country declared war against Spain, and we had a rare time of it. I cared neither for my own life nor the lives of my men; and under the name of Mad Helder—for I changed my name—I gained a bloody notoriety amongst the privateering gentlemen. Our vessel was well named; she was a smart little schooner, with raking masts and heavy ordnance, and exacted black mail on friend and foe for seven years. Then our vessel grew a common nuisance; we were a set of desperadoes. Young Viscount de Vere, under the name of Dick Foundling, grew up amongst such a set a proper young rascal; he lisped oaths ere he could speak plainly; he drank gin when he should have drunk milk. He was the pet of all the crew, had a deal of pluck in him, and learned to use knife and pistol, ere he could have reached the age of eight, as if he had been an old hand! When he was nine, one evening we were running down for Cuba under full sail, a British frigate, the 'Arethusa,' hove in sight, and immediately gave chase. The 'Black Mail,' had the wind continued steady, would have laughed at her, but the breeze failed us, and the 'Arethusa' being a taller rigged vessel, caught it later than we did, and soon bore down on us. She fired a round shot across our bows, and ordered us to show our colours. Up went our black flag, and we gave them a dose of black shot with it; but she was game at that, my Lord; and shot and shell she poured into us till we began to settle down. Knowing we should get no quarter, we stuck out, and determined to die to a man. They boarded us, and a terrible hand-to-hand fight we had of it. I got the slash whose scar you see across my figure head there; it stunned me; I fell as they thought dead, and remember no more till I awoke from my swoon, found myself in the water, struck out, and soon ran foul of a piece of the wreck of the 'Black Mail,' and dragged myself aboard of it. It was a dark night, but I saw the lights of the 'Arethusa' half a league to leeward; they had not seen me, and I had drifted away. There was a strong current there.
"All night I sat on the wreck; it was a warm night, and I took off part of my soaked clothes and spread them to dry. Morning came, the frigate's top-gallants just peeped over the horizon. The sun rose hot; the blood clotted on my brow; I was hungry, faint, parched with thirst. I drank the salt water, it only made me worse. I strained my eyes in vain to catch a sail. I picked up a spar during the day, and had sufficient strength to set it up on the part of the stern on which I was left. I spread my sailor's coat for a sail, and soon began to move! I knew nor cared not where, so I drifted ashore or bore down in sight of a vessel. All that day and the next night I was left without food or water: the thirst was like fire. I began to think all was up, and I should have to give in, and actually thought of drowning myself. I had almost despaired when a vessel appeared; I had just strength to take off my shirt and hang it up as a signal of distress, and attracted their attention. They picked me up in the last extremity of existence. She proved a British ship, a merchantman, bound from Vera Cruz to India. I told a tale of having been a captain of an English ship knocked to pieces by a Spaniard, and was believed. My wound and wants were attended to, and as the master had lately died of Yellow Jack, I got his place, for my knowledge of seamanship was great, and I knew all the currents and pilotage of the West Indian isles well, and this was what they needed then.
"It was an evil day they took me aboard. Wild at the loss of my ship and men, specially of young Dick Foundling, I burned to revenge it on British ships. I could not abide too being under orders, and I soon stirred up the sailors to mutiny. I got nearly the whole crew on my side, and we murdered the captain, officers, and all who would not join us. Some we hung, some we tossed to the sharks, some we made walk the plank, and we pelted the skipper to death with glass bottles! I was unanimously chosen captain. I put in at a French port under French colours, sold the cargo, and in return got aboard guns, cutlasses, and all kinds of warlike gear. Terribly did I revenge my loss. Many a noble vessel went to the bottom. We led a wild life of it for fourteen years, and then all was lost by shipwreck.
"War with America had again broken out, and I was trying to cut off English vessels going up the St. Lawrence. We were chased by a man-of-war, and overtaken in one of those dense fogs. It was near winter, and the icebergs were frequent; the cold was awful! every sea that broke over us turned to ice; the decks were like glass. The man-of-war sheered off, and we were tossed amidst the ice-fields, and wrecked on Labrador. We made a fire of drift-wood, and got what provisions we could from the wreck, but my men were frozen at the fire; a hurricane of wind almost blew away the very embers, and we commenced a march over the frozen plains. The wolves and the frost thinned our numbers, and I and another man only reached civilized country. The devil seemed to uphold me through everything for his own purposes, and my strong frame seemed invincible. We, the sad relics of a crew of two hundred brave fellows, reached Nain, a small settlement, where we stayed out the dreadful winter. There was a small English man-of-war wintering there. One of the sailors happened to have been a lad on board the 'Arethusa:' we got great chums, and amongst other yarns he told me the fight they had had with the 'Black Mail,' little knowing I had been its captain. I did not undeceive him, but I learned what I least expected, and that was the boy, your brother, had been picked up. 'He fought,' he said, 'like a fiend incarnate;' but by-and-by was tamed and kindly treated by our Captain, who took a great fancy to him, and adopted him for his own son, giving him the name of Edward L'Estrange."
"Impossible!" cried the Earl. "Edward L'Estrange my lost brother? I know his history now. Ha! that accounts for the singular resemblance he had to the Captain. Heaven above! this is indeed wonderful. But go on."
"Well," said Bill, "I determined to find the youngster out; for my mate could tell me no more, as he had been drafted to another ship. So I set off as soon as I could to Canada, intending to take a passage home, and find if he still lived. I reached Quebec; several regiments were then wintering there, and I thought perhaps I might learn something about him. There was also another reason I had for going thither. Many years before I had overhauled a Spanish ship; there was on board a rich Don, Ramond, a passenger, and he had an only child with him, Carlotta, a pretty, black-eyed little wench of five years old or so. The old Don, when dying,—for he got mortally wounded,—commended this girl with his dying breath to me, the captain of the enemy that had conquered his ship. I had a liking to the girl, and took her to America when I next sailed there, and left her to be brought up by a sister of mine, who was living there with her husband. I had not seen this girl for twelve years, and I was anxious to see if she had grown up handsome. I was then known by the name of Bill Stacy, or Dare-devil Bill, and the girl had been called Antonia Stacy.
"Part of the Rifle Brigade was then at Quebec, and I heard there was an officer, Lieutenant L'Estrange, there. On inquiries I found out it was the same one I was seeking. He had been educated by the Commodore L'Estrange, who had bought him a commission in the army; and he had already fought in the Peninsula. I found Antonia grown a handsome girl of seventeen; and I thought I should like to bring about a marriage between them. I enlisted in the same regiment, and in two years had risen to be a serjeant. I told L'Estrange so much of my history as to let him know I only was able to give him a clue to his early life, wrapt in mystery; and I introduced him to Antonia. But the two did not cotton together. There was another young man in the same regiment, named George Ravensworth, who greatly admired my protégée. He had picked her out of the St. Lawrence when her boat couped one evening. I told him she was of the very best blood in Spain; and, as I was anxious to get a good husband for her, and the two loved each other so well, I should not have minded their getting spliced. But our battalion was ordered to New Orleans, where we made an unsuccessful attempt to take the place; and there young Ravensworth took Yellow Jack and died. He and L'Estrange were the greatest chums possible; and his death nigh broke two hearts. He begged L'Estrange to carry a few relics to his bereaved family; and he said he would.
"War was then over; peace with America declared; and our men reached Europe in time for the grand final success of Wellington at Waterloo. After the Peace of Paris we came home. I got my discharge and settled near Brighton. I got to my old ways, and Bill Stacy's cabin was as well known as the Pavilion. L'Estrange had exchanged into the 7th Hussars before Waterloo; they were quartered at Edinburgh. He took the sword of George Ravensworth to his sister, a fine girl of sixteen. By-and-by they were engaged to marry; but your Lordship best knows why that marriage never came off! Part of the 7th were at Brighton. Amongst other officers, whom my tobacco, wines, or Antonia magnetized, was John de Vere, who now lies dead beside us. He met me in a row in Brighton, in which Sir Richard Musgrave joined, and used to get wines and tobacco to a great extent from the cabin.
"When L'Estrange found Ellen Ravensworth had jilted him for your Lordship, he was very miserable, and came one night to ask my counsel on his best proceedings. That night Captain de Vere was with me, and I could have laughed in my sleeve to see the brothers sitting so near, and yet not knowing their relationship. They were so like that it was a joke in the regiment; but the Captain was the firmest in character, and soon overcame L'Estrange's scruples, and we made our first plot to prevent your Lordship's union with the present Countess. Our plan was to set Antonia in your way; we knew your weakness for the other sex, and determined to storm you on the salient angle. Your marriage was gall and wormwood to your brother De Vere; and this was his reason for combating it. Antonia was dressed, and taught her part; apartments opposite your house chosen; and the Captain drew your attention to her. You know the rest. Under the name of Juana Ferraras she was imposed on you. It was a double cheat; she was assured she would become a Countess, or would never have submitted; and we hoped your Lordship would take such a fancy to her as to take her with you to Scotland, when we would threaten to prove a Scotch marriage; and we knew you would rather remain unwed than acknowledge it; so that Ellen Ravensworth would be free to return to L'Estrange, and the Captain would have no family to cut him out of the title. We then put a paragraph in the papers, stating your marriage would soon take place with Lady Alice Claremont, the Marquis's sister, thinking it would disgust Miss Ravensworth. The bait took; and she nearly died, as you know; but, unluckily for us, she met the Marchioness abroad, and all the murder came out. Your Lordship, too, grew tired of Juana, and the first plot proved a total failure. But the Captain had more than one string to his bow, and we began a second one."
The old man paused, and again had recourse to the pigskin of wine. The Earl hid his face in his hands to conceal his emotions, at thus finding out what a system of deceit, treachery, espionage had been carried on by those he had loved, and did not even dream capable of such duplicity! The mystery was gradually being cleared up; the complications unravelled; and he saw things in a new light. He felt angry at having been made, as it were, a catspaw; sorry that he had given zest to their wickedness by his own weakness; and a feeling of uncontrollable disgust at the narrator was only veiled by his interest in the story, and his desire to know how all would end. He dared not speak his suspicions, and yet he felt sure they would all be verified; so he determined to listen, but ask no questions.
After a slight pause, as if to rest, the old man resumed his story; but as his yarn is altogether too long for one chapter, we must divide it into two, being well aware, from personal experience, that long chapters weary the reader, whilst the same amount of narrative, subdivided with discretion, is less apt to pall, or become tedious to the peruser.