This order the men felt constrained to obey, although they were surprised that the captain himself had not given it on quitting the boat; their suspicions were further awakened by the active operations going on upon deck. The sounds apprised them of these, for the bulwarks hid everything from view. At length, when they heard the cable slipping through the hawsehole, they could stand it no longer, but sprang up the side in a body. Of course they were met by men well prepared. As they were armed only with cutlasses, the pirates quickly overcame them, and threw them into the sea.

All further attempt at concealment was now abandoned. The man-of-war's boat, when it came up, was received with a shot from Long Tom, which grazed its side, carried away four of the starboard oars, and just missed dashing it to pieces by a mere hair's-breadth. At the same time the sails of the schooner were shaken out and filled by the light breeze, which, for nearly an hour, had been blowing off shore.

As the coming up of the gig and the large boat had occurred on that side of the schooner that was furthest from the Talisman, those on board of the latter vessel could not make out clearly what had occurred. That the schooner was a pirate was now clearly evident; for the red griffin and stripe were suddenly displayed, as well as the blood-red flag; but the first lieutenant did not dare to fire on her while the boats were so near. He slipped the cable, however, and made instant sail on the ship; and when he saw the large boat and the gig drop astern of the schooner, the former in a disabled condition, he commenced firing as fast as he could load; not doubting that his captain was in his own boat.

At such short range the shot flew around the pirate schooner like hail; but she appeared to bear a charmed existence; for, although they whistled between her spars and struck the sea all around her, very few indeed did her serious damage. The shots from Long Tom, on the other hand, were well aimed, and told with terrible effect on the hull and rigging of the frigate. Gascoyne himself pointed the gun, and his bright eye flashed, and a grim smile played on his lips as the shots whistled round his head.

The pirate captain seemed to be possessed by a spirit of fierce and reckless joviality that day. His usual calm, self-possessed demeanor quite forsook him. He issued his orders in a voice of thunder and with an air of what, for want of a better expression, we may term ferocious heartiness. He generally executed these orders himself, hurling the men violently out of his way as if he were indignant at their tardiness, although they sprang to obey as actively as usual; indeed, more so, for they were overawed and somewhat alarmed by this unwonted conduct on the part of their captain.

The fact was, that Gascoyne had for a long time past desired to give up his course of life and amend his ways; but he discovered, as all wicked men discover sooner or later, that, while it is easy to plunge into evil courses, it is by no means easy—on the contrary it is extremely difficult—to give them up. He had formed his resolution and had laid his plans; but all had miscarried. Being a man of high temper, he had been driven almost to desperation, and sought relief to his feelings in physical exertion.

Of all the men in the Avenger, however, no one was so much alarmed by the captain's conduct as the first mate, between whom and Gascoyne there had been a bitter feeling for some time past; and Manton knew (at least he believed) that it would be certain death to him if he should chance to thwart his superior in the mood in which he then was.

"That was a good shot, Manton," said Gascoyne, with a wild laugh, as the fore-topsail yard of the Talisman came rattling down on the deck, having been cut away by a shot from Long Tom.

"It was; but that was a better one," said Manton, pointing to the boom of the schooner's mainsail, which was cut in two by a round shot, just as the captain spoke.

"Good, very good," observed the latter, with an approving nod; "but that alters the game. Down with the helm! steady!"

"Get the wreck of that boom cleared away, Manton; we won't want the mainsail long. Here comes a squall. Look sharp. Close reef topsails."

The boom was swaying to and fro so violently that three of the men who sprang to order were hurled by it into the lee scuppers. Gascoyne darted towards the broken spar and held it fast, while Manton quickly severed the ropes that fastened it to the sail and to the deck, then the former hurled it over the side with as much ease as if it had been an oar.

"Let her away now."

"Why, that will run us right into the Long Shoal!" exclaimed Manton, anxiously, as the squall which had been approaching struck the schooner and laid her almost on her beam ends.

"I know it," replied Gascoyne, curtly, as he thrust aside the man at the wheel and took the spokes in his own hands.

"It's all we can do to find our way through that place in fine weather," remonstrated the mate.

"I know it," said Gascoyne, sternly.

Scraggs, who chanced to be standing by, seemed to be immensely delighted with the alarmed expression on Manton's face. The worthy second mate hated the first mate so cordially, and attached so little value to his own life, that he would willingly have run the schooner on the rocks altogether, just to have the pleasure of laughing contemptuously at the wreck of Manton's hopes.

"It's worth while trying it," suggested Scraggs, with a malicious grin.

"I mean to try it," said Gascoyne, calmly.

"But there's not a spot in the shoal except the Eel's Gate that we've a ghost of a chance of getting through," cried Manton, becoming excited as the schooner dashed towards the breakers like a furious charger rushing on destruction.

"I know it."

"And there's barely water on that to float us over," he added, striding forward, and laying a hand on the wheel.

"Half a foot too little," said Gascoyne, with forced calmness.

Scraggs grinned.

"You shan't run us aground if I can prevent it," cried Manton, fiercely, seizing the wheel with both hands and attempting to move it, in which attempt he utterly failed; and Scraggs grinned broader than ever.

"Remove your hands," said Gascoyne, in a low, calm voice, which surprised the men who were standing near and witnessed these proceedings.

"I won't. Ho, lads! do you wish to be sent to the bottom by a—"

The remainder of this speech was cut short by the sudden descent of Gascoyne's knuckles on the forehead of the mate, who dropped on the deck as if he had been felled with a sledge-hammer. Scraggs laughed outright with satisfaction.

"Remove him," said Gascoyne.

"Overboard?" inquired Scraggs, with a bland smile.

"Below," said the captain; and Scraggs was fain to content himself with carrying the insensible form of his superior officer to his berth; taking pains, however, to bump his head carefully against every spar and corner and otherwise convenient projection on the way down.

In a few minutes more the schooner was rushing through the milk-white foam that covered the dangerous coral reef named the Long Shoal; and the Talisman lay to, not daring to venture into such a place, but pouring shot and shell into her bold little adversary with terrible effect, as the tattered sails and flying cordage showed. The fire was steadily replied to by Long Tom, whose heavy shots came crashing repeatedly through the hull of the man-of-war.

The large boat, meanwhile, had been picked up by the Talisman, after having rescued Mr. Mason and Henry, both of whom were placed in the gig. This light boat was now struggling to make the ship; but, owing to the strength of the squall, her diminished crew were unable to effect this; they therefore ran ashore, to await the issue of the fight and the storm.

For some time the Avenger stood on her wild course unharmed, passing close to huge rocks on either side of her, over which the sea burst in clouds of foam. Gascoyne still stood at the wheel, guiding the vessel with consummate skill and daring, while the men looked on in awe and in breathless expectation, quite regardless of the shot which flew around them, and altogether absorbed by the superior danger by which they were menaced.

The surface of the sea was so universally white, that there was no line of dark water to guide the pirate captain on his bold and desperate course. He was obliged to trust almost entirely to his intimate knowledge of the coast, and to the occasional patches in the surrounding waste where the comparative flatness of the boiling flood indicated less shallow water. As the danger increased, the smile left Gascoyne's lips; but the flashing of his bright eyes and his deepened color showed that the spirit boiled within almost as wildly as the ocean raged around him.

The center of the shoal was gained, and a feeling of hope and exultation began to rise in the breasts of the crew, when a terrific shock caused the little schooner to quiver from stem to stern, while an involuntary cry burst from the men, many of whom were thrown violently on the deck. At the same time a shot from the Talisman came in through the stern bulwarks, struck the wheel, and carried it away, with part of the tackle attached to the tiller.

"Another leap like that, lass, and you're over," cried Gascoyne, with a light smile, as he sprang to the iron tiller, and, seizing it with his strong hands, steered the schooner as if she had been a boat.

"Get new tackle rove, Scraggs," said he cheerfully. "I'll keep her straight for Eel's Gate with this. That was the first bar of the gate; there are only two altogether, and the second won't be so bad."

As the captain spoke, the schooner seemed to recover from the shock, and again rushed forward on her foaming course; but before the men had time to breathe, she struck again,—this time less violently, as had been predicted,—and the next wave lifting her over the shoals, launched her into deep water.

"There, that will do," said Gascoyne, resigning the helm to Scraggs. "You can keep her as she goes: there's plenty of water now, and no fear of that big bully following us. Meanwhile, I will go below, and see to the welfare of our passengers."

Gascoyne was wrong in supposing that the Talisman would not follow. She could not indeed follow in the same course; but the moment that Mulroy observed that the pirate had passed the shoals in safety, he stood inshore, and, without waiting to pick up the gig, traversed the channel by which they had entered the bay. Then, trusting to the lead and to his knowledge of the general appearance of shallows, he steered carefully along until he cleared the reefs, and finally stood out to sea.

In less than half an hour afterwards, the party on shore beheld the two vessels disappear among the black storm-clouds that gathered over the distant horizon.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE GOAT'S PASS—AN ATTACK, A BLOODLESS VICTORY, AND A SERMON.

When Ole Thorwald was landed at the foot of that wild gorge in the cliffs which have been designated the Goat's Pass, he felt himself to be an aggrieved man, and growled accordingly.

"It's too bad o' that fire-eating fellow to fix on me for this particular service," said he to one of the settlers named Hugh Barnes, a cooper, who acted as one of his captains; "and at night, too; just as if a man of my years were a cross between a cat (which everybody knows can see in the dark) and a kangaroo, which is said to be a powerful leaper, though whether in the dark or the light I don't pretend to know, not being informed on the point. Have a care, Hugh. It seems to me you're going to step into a quarry hole, or over a precipice. How my old flesh quakes, to be sure! If it was only a fair, flat field and open day, with any odds you like against me, it would be nothing; but this abominable Goat's—Hah! I knew it! Help! hold on there! murder!"

Ole's sudden alarm was caused by his stumbling in the dark over the root of a shrub which grew on the edge of, and partly concealed, a precipice, over which he was precipitated, and at the foot of which his mangled and lifeless form would soon have reposed had not his warlike forefathers, being impressed with the advantage of wearing strong sword-belts, furnished the sword which Ole wore with such a belt as was not only on all occasions sufficient to support the sword itself, but which, on this particular occasion, was strong enough to support its owner when he was suspended from, and entangled with, the shrubs of the cliff.

A ray of light chanced to break into the dark chasm at the time, and revealed all its dangers to the pendulous Thorwald so powerfully that he positively howled with horror.

The howl brought Hugh and several of his followers to his side, and they with much difficulty, for he was a heavy man, succeeded in dragging him from his dangerous position and placing him on his feet, in which position he remained for some time, speechless and blowing.

"Now, I'll tell you what it is, boys," said he at length, "if ever you catch me going on an expedition of this sort again, flay me alive—that's all; don't spare me. Pull off the cuticle as if it were a glove; and if I roar don't mind—that's what I say."

Having said this, the veteran warrior smiled a ghastly smile, as if the idea of being so excruciatingly treated were rather pleasant than otherwise.

"You're not hurt, I hope?" inquired Hugh.

"Hurt; yes, I am hurt,—hurt in my feelings, not in my body, thanks to my good sword and belt; but my feelings are injured. That villain, that rascal, that pirate—as I verily believe him to be—selected me especially for this service, I am persuaded, just because he knew me to be unfit for it. Bah! but I'll pay him off for it. Come, boys, forward—perhaps, in the circumstances, it would be more appropriate to say upward! We must go through with it now, as our retreat is cut off. Lead the way, Hugh; your eyes are younger and sharper than mine; and if you chance to fall over a cliff, pray give a yell, like a good fellow, so that I may escape your sad fate."

In the course of half an hour's rough scramble, the party gained the crest of the Goat's Pass and descended in rear of the native village. The country over which they had to travel, however, was so broken and so beset with rugged masses of rock as to retard their progress considerably, besides causing them to lose their way more than once. It was thus daybreak before they reached the heights that overlooked the village; and the shot from the Avenger, with the broadside from the frigate, was delivered just as they began to descend the hill.

Ole, therefore, pushed on with enthusiasm to attack the village in rear; but he had not advanced half a mile when the peculiar and to him inexplicable movements of the two vessels, which have been already described, took place, leaving the honest commander of the land forces in a state of great perplexity as to what was meant by his naval allies, and in much doubt as to what he ought to do.

"It seems to me," said he to his chiefs, in a hastily-summoned council of war, "that we are all at sixes and sevens. I don't understand what maneuvers these naval men are up to, and I doubt if they know themselves. This being the case, and the fleet, if I may so name it, having run away, it behooves us, my friends, to show these sailors how we soldiers do our duty. I would advise, therefore, that we should attack at once. But as we are not a strong party, and as we know not how strong the savages may be, I think it my duty, before leading you on, to ask your opinions on the point."

The officers whose opinions were thus asked were Hugh Barnes, already mentioned, Terence Rigg the blacksmith of the settlement, and John Thomson the carpenter. These, being strong of body, powerful of will, and intelligent withal, had been appointed to the command of companies, and when on duty were styled "captain" by their commanding officer, who was, when on duty, styled "general" by them.

Ole Thorwald, be it remarked in passing, was a soldier at heart. Having gone through a moderate amount of military education, and possessing considerable talent in the matter of drill, he took special pride in training the natives and the white men of the settlement to act in concert and according to fixed principles. The consequence was that although his men were poorly armed, he had them in perfect command, and could cause them to act unitedly at any moment.

The captains having been requested to give their opinions, Captain Rigg, being senior, observed that he was for "goin' at 'em at wance, neck or nothing;" to which warlike sentiment he gave a peculiar emphasis by adding, "an' no mistake," in a very decided tone of voice.

"That's wot I says too, General," said Captain Thomson, the carpenter.

Captain Barnes being of the same opinion, General Thorwald said:

"Well, then, gentlemen, we shall attack without delay;" and proceeded to make the necessary arrangements.

When the Talisman fired her broadside of blank cartridge at the native village, there was not a solitary warrior in it—only aged men, women, and children. These, filled with unutterable consternation on hearing the thunderous discharge, sent up one yell of terror and forthwith took to their heels and made for the hills en masse, never once looking behind them, and, therefore, remaining in ignorance of the ulterior proceedings of the ship.

It was some time before they came in sight of Ole Thorwald and his men.

The moment they did so Ole gave the word to charge; and, whirling his sword round his head, set the example. The men followed with a yell. The poor savages turned at once and fled,—such of them at least as were not already exhausted by their run up hill,—and the rest, consisting chiefly of old men and children, fell on their knees and faces and howled for mercy.

As soon as the charging host became aware of the character of the enemy, they came to a sudden halt.

"Sure, it's owld men and women we're about to kill!" cried Captain Rigg, lowering his formidable forehammer, with which, in default of a better weapon, he had armed himself; "but, hooray, Gineral! there may be lots o' the warrior reptiles in among the huts, and them poor craturs have been sent out to deceive us."

"That's true. Forward my lads!" shouted Ole, and again the army charged; nor did they stop short until they had taken possession of the village, when they found that all the fighting men were gone.

This being happily accomplished without bloodshed, Ole Thorwald, like a wise general, took the necessary steps to insure and complete his conquest. He seized all the women and children, and shut them up in a huge temple built of palm trees and roofed with broad leaves. This edifice was devoted to the horrible practise of cutting up human bodies that were intended to be eaten.

Ole had often heard of the cannibalism that is practised by most of the South Sea Islanders, though some tribes are worse than others; but he had never before this day come directly in contact with it. Here, however, there could be no doubt whatever of the fact. Portions of human bodies were strewn about this hideous temple,—some parts in a raw and bloody condition, as if they had just been cut from a lately slain victim; others in a baked state, as if ready to form part of some terrible banquet.

Sick at heart, Ole Thorwald turned from this sight with loathing. Concluding that the natives who practised such things could not be very much distressed by being shut up for a time in a temple dedicated to the gratification of their own disgusting tastes, he barricaded the entrance securely, placed a guard over it, and hurried away to see that two other buildings, in which the remainder of the women and children had been imprisoned, were similarly secured and guarded. Meanwhile the stalwart knight of the forehammer, to whom the duty had been assigned, placed sentries at the various entrances to the village, and disposed his men in such a way as to prevent the possibility of being taken by surprise.

These various arrangements were not made a moment too soon. The savages, as we have said in a former chapter, rushed towards their village from all quarters, on hearing the thunder of the great guns. They were now arriving in scores, and came rushing over the brow of the neighboring hill, and down the slopes that rose immediately in rear of their rude homes.

On finding that the place was occupied by their enemies, they set up a yell of despair, and retired to a neighboring height, where Ole could see, by their wild gesticulations, that they were hotly debating what should be done. It soon became evident that an attack would be made; for, as their comrades came pouring in, the party from the settlement was soon greatly outnumbered.

Seeing this, and knowing that the party under command of Henry Stuart would naturally hasten to his aid as soon as possible, Ole sought to cause delay by sending out a flag of truce.

The natives had been so long acquainted with the customs of the Europeans that they understood the meaning of this, and the chief of the tribe, at once throwing down his club, advanced fearlessly to meet the Christian native sent out with the flag.

The message was to the effect that if they, the enemy, should dare to make an attack, all the women and children then in the hands of the settlers should have their heads chopped off on the spot!

This was a startling announcement, and one so directly in opposition to the known principles of the Christians, that the heathen chief was staggered, and turned pale. He returned to his comrades with the horrifying message, which seemed to them all utterly unaccountable. It was quite natural for themselves to do such a deed, because they held that all sorts of cruelties were just in war. But their constant experience had been that, when a native became a follower of the Christian missionary, from that moment he became merciful, especially towards the weak and helpless. Counting upon this, they were stunned as well as astonished at Thorwald's message; for they believed implicitly that he meant to do what he threatened. They did not know that Ole, although a worthy man, was not so earnest a believer in all of Mr. Mason's principles but that he could practise on their credulity in time of need. Like the missionary, he would rather have died than have sacrificed the life of a woman or child; but, unlike him, he had no objection to deceive in order to gain time.

As it turned out, his threat was unnecessary, for Henry and his men were close at hand; and before the natives could make up their minds what to do, the whole band came pouring over the hill, with Jo Bumpus far ahead of the rest, leaping and howling like a maniac with excitement.

This decided the natives. They were now outnumbered and surrounded. The principal chief, therefore, advanced towards Bumpus with a piece of native cloth tied to the end of his war-club, which he brandished furiously by way of making it plain that his object was not war, but peace!

Naturally enough, the seaman misinterpreted the signal, and there is no doubt that he would have planted his knuckles on the bridge of the nose of the swarthy cannibal had not Henry Stuart made use of his extraordinary powers of speed. He darted forward, overtook Jo, and, grasping him around the neck with both arms, shouted:

"It's a flag of truce, man!"

"You don't say so?—well, who'd ha' thought it? It don't look like one; so it don't."

With this remark, Jo subsided into a peaceable man. Pulling a quid out of his pocket, he thrust it into his cheek, and, crossing his arms on his breast, listened patiently—though not profitably, seeing that he did not understand a word—to the dialogue that followed.

It will be remembered that poor Mr. Mason, after being saved by Henry, was taken into the gig of the Talisman and put ashore. After the two vessels had disappeared, as has been already described, Henry at once led his party towards the native village, knowing that Ole Thorwald would require support, all the more that the ship had failed to fulfil her part in the combined movement.

As the almost heartbroken father had no power to render further aid to his lost child, he suffered himself to be led, in a half-bewildered state, along with the attacking party under his young friend. He was now brought forward to parley with the native chief.

The missionary's manner and aspect at once changed. In the hope of advancing the cause of his Master, he forgot, or at least restrained, his own grief for a time.

"What would the chief say to the Christians?" he began, on being confronted with the savage and some of his warriors who crowded round him.

"That he wishes to have done with war," replied the man.

"That is a good wish; but why did the chief begin war?"

"Keona began it!" said the savage, angrily. "We thought our wars with the Christians were going to stop. But Keona is bad. He put the war spirit into my people."

Mr. Mason knew this to be true.

"Then," said he, "Keona deserves punishment."

"Let him die," answered the chief; and an exclamation of assent broke from the other natives. Keona himself, happening to be there, became pale and looked anxious; but remained where he stood, nevertheless, with his arms crossed on his dark breast. A bandage of native cloth was tied round his wounded arm. Without saying a word he undid this, tore it off, and allowed the blood to ooze from the reopened wound.

It was a silent appeal to the feelings and the sense of justice of his comrades, and created a visible impression in his favor.

"That wound was received by one who would have been a murderer!" said Mr. Mason, observing the effect of this action.

"He struck me!" cried Keona, fiercely.

"He struck you in defending his own home against a cowardly attack," answered the missionary.

At this point Ole Thorwald saw fit to interfere. Seeing that the natives were beginning to argue the case, and knowing that no good could come from such a course, he quietly observed:

"There will be neither wife nor child in this place if I do but hold up my hand."

The missionary and his party did not, of course, understand this allusion, but they understood the result; for the savages at once dropped their tones, and the chief sued earnestly for peace.

"Chiefs and warriors," said Mr. Mason, raising his hand impressively, "I am a man of peace, and I serve the Prince of peace. To stop this war is what I desire most earnestly; and I desire above all things that you and I might henceforth live in friendship, serving the same God and Saviour, whose name is Jesus Christ. But your ways are not like our ways. If I leave you now, I fear you will soon find another occasion to renew the war, as you have often done before. I have you in my power now. If you were to fight with us we could easily beat you, because we are stronger in numbers and well armed. Yes, I have you in my power, and, with the blessing of my God, I will keep you in my power forever."

There was a visible fall in the countenances of the savages who regarded this strange announcement as their death-warrant. Some of them even grasped their clubs, and looked fiercely at their enemies: but a glance from Ole Thorwald quieted these restive spirits.

"Now, chiefs and warrior, I have two intentions in regard to you," continued Mr. Mason. "The one is that you shall take your clubs, spears, and other weapons, and lay them in a pile on this mound, after which I will make you march unarmed before us halfway to our settlement. From that point you shall return to your homes. Thus you shall be deprived of the power of treacherously breaking that peace which you know in your hearts you would break if you could.

"My second intention is that the whole of your tribe—men, women, and children—shall now assemble at the foot of this mound and hear what I have got to say to you. The first part of this plan I shall carry out by force, if need be. But for the second part, I must have your own consent. I may not force you to listen if you are not willing to hear."

At the mention of the women and children being required to assemble along with them, the natives pricked up their ears, and, as a matter of course, they willingly agreed to listen to all that the missionary had to say to them.

This being settled, and the natives knowing, from former experience, that the Christians never broke faith with them, they advanced to the mound pointed out and threw down their arms. A strong guard was placed over these; the troops of the settlement were disposed in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of their being recovered, and then the women and children were set free.

It was a noisy and remarkable meeting that which took place between the men and women of the tribe on this occasion; but soon surprise and expectation began to take the place of all other feelings as the strange intentions of the missionary were spoken of, and in a very short time Mr. Mason had a large and most attentive congregation.

Never before had the missionary secured such an opportunity. His eccentric method of obtaining a hearing had succeeded beyond his expectations. With a heart overflowing with gratitude to God, he stood up and began to preach the gospel.

Mr. Mason was not only eccentric, but able and wise. He made the most of his opportunity. He gave them a very long sermon that day; but he knew that the savages were not used to sermons, and that they would not think it long. His text was a double one,—"The soul that sinneth it shall die," and "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."

He preached that day as a man might who speaks to his hearers for the first and last time, and, in telling of the goodness, the mercy, and the love of God, the bitter grief of his own heart was sensibly abated.

After his discourse was over and prayer had been offered up, the savage warriors were silently formed into a band and marched off in front of the Christians to the spot where Mr. Mason had promised to set them free. They showed no disinclination to go. They believed in the good faith of their captors. The missionary had, indeed, got them into his power that day. Some of them he had secured forever.



CHAPTER XIX.

SORROW AND SYMPATHY—THE WIDOW BECOMES A PLEADER AND HER SON ENGAGES IN A SINGLE COMBAT.

There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable to bear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it,—times when the anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seems enshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine in mockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.

Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to Sandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home, gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well as its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by his lost child.

It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the people of the settlement sympathized so deeply with their beloved pastor's grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed, except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that there were other mourners there that night,—that the recent battle had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in Sandy Cove.

Motionless, hopeless, the missionary stood amid the charred beams and ashes, until the words "Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me," descended on his soul like sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.

While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail. Mr. Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, "There is comfort for you, for where life is there is hope; but here there is death."

Again the word of God came to his memory,—"Weep with them that weep." Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the wounded.

The cause of the pastor's grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow itself was lightened by sympathy; and when he returned, at a late hour, to his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.

The widow's cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it, Henry and his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for their expected guest.

"Tom Armstrong will recover," said the missionary, seating himself opposite the widow, and speaking in a hurried, excited tone. "His wound is a bad one, given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. I wish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended to sooner he might have lived; but so much blood has been already lost that there is now no hope. Alas for his little boy! He will be an orphan soon. Poor Hardy's wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband's body is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to look upon; yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease to embrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will have to be comforted. At present she must be left with God. No human sympathy can avail just now; but she must be comforted when she will permit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, Mrs. Stuart, won't you?"

As this was Mr. Mason's first meeting with the widow since the Sunday morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner showed that he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood this; but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would not allow him to have his way.

"But what of Alice?" she said, earnestly. "You do not mention her. Henry has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself—about Alice?"

"Oh! what can I say?" cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep sob almost choked him.

"Can you not say that she is in the hands of God—of a loving Father?" said Mrs. Stuart, tenderly.

"Yes, I can say that—I have said that; but—but—"

"I know what you would say," interrupted the widow; "you would tell me that she is in the hands of pirates,—ruthless villains who fear neither God nor man, and that, unless a miracle is wrought in her behalf, nothing can save her—"

"Oh! spare me, Mary; why do you harrow my broken heart with such a picture?" cried Mr. Mason, rising and pacing the room with quick, unsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attempt to crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.

"I speak thus," said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and manner that almost startled her hearers, "because I wish to comfort you. Alice, you tell me, is on board the Foam—"

"On board the pirate schooner!" cried Henry, almost fiercely; for the youth, although as much distressed as Mr. Mason, was not so resigned as he, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived so terribly by the pirate.

"She is on board the Foam," repeated the widow, in a tone so stern that her hearers looked at her in surprise, "and is therefore in the hands of Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, Mr. Mason, that she is perfectly safe in the hands of Gascoyne."

"Of the pirate Durward!" said Henry, in a deep, angry voice.

"What ground have you for saying so?" asked the widow, quickly. "You only know him as Gascoyne the sandal-wood trader,—the captain of the Foam. He has been suspected, it is true; but suspicion is not proof. His schooner has been fired into by a war-vessel; he has returned the fire: any passionate man might be tempted to do that. His men have carried off some of our dear ones. That was their doing, not his. He knew nothing of it."

"Mother, mother," cried Henry, entreatingly, "don't stand up in that way for a pirate; I can't bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe the pirate schooner's appearance in this room, and when he was attacked by the Talisman did he not show out in his true colors, thereby proving that he is Durward the pirate?"

The widow's face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, like one who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, "That is not positive proof, Henry, Gascoyne may have had some good reason for deceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may have been a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to prevent Captain Montague from impressing his men."

"And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishing that end, mother?"

"Mary," said Mr. Mason, solemnly, as he seated himself at the table and looked earnestly in the widow's face, "your knowledge of this man and your manner of speaking about him surprise me. I have long thought that you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be so intimate; for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspicious character, to say the best of him; and although I know that you think you are right in encouraging his visits, other people do not know that; they may judge you harshly. I do not wish to pry into secrets; but you have sought to comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in this man? I must ask what knowledge you have of him. How far are you aware of his character and employment? How do you know that he is so trustworthy?"

An expression of deep grief rested on the widow's countenance as she replied, in a sad voice;

"I know that you may trust Gascoyne with your child. He is my oldest friend. I have known him since we were children. He saved my father's life long, long ago, and helped to support my mother in her last years. Would you have me to forget all this because men say that he is a pirate?"

"Why, mother," cried Henry, "if you know so much about him you must know that, whatever he was in time past, he is the pirate Durward now."

"I do not know that he is the pirate Durward!" said the widow, in a voice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorely perplexed; yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would rather die than tell a deliberate falsehood.

The missionary was also comforted; for although his judgment told him that the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, he was impressed by the thoroughly confident tone of the widow, and felt relieved in spite of himself.

Soon after this conversation was concluded, the household retired to rest.

Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of subdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid no attention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some of their native servants were moving about. But presently the sound of his mother's voice induced him to listen more attentively. Then a voice replied, so low that he could with difficulty hear it at all. Its strength increased, however, and at last it broke forth in deep bass tones.

Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged the front door of the opened, and the speakers went out. A few seconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing him; then, seizing a pistol, he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round, he just caught sight of the skirts of a woman's dress as they disappeared through the doorway of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poor native, who had subsisted on the widow's bounty until he died. The door was shut immediately after.

Going swiftly but cautiously round by a back way, Henry approached the hut. Strange and conflicting feelings filled his breast. A blush of deep shame and self-abhorrence mantled on his cheek when it flashed across him that he was about to play the spy on his own mother. But there was no mistaking Gascoyne's voice.

How the supposed pirate had got there, and wherefore he was there, were matters that he did not think of or care about at that moment. There he was; so the young man resolved to secure him and hand him over to justice.

Henry was too honorable to listen secretly to a conversation, whatever it might be, that was not intended for his ears. He resolved merely to peep in at one of the many chinks in the log but for one moment, to satisfy himself that Gascoyne really was there, and to observe his position. But as the latter now thought himself beyond the hearing of any one, he spoke in unguarded tones, and Henry heard a few words in spite of himself.

Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld the stalwart form of the sandal-wood trader standing on the hearth of the hut, which was almost unfurnished,—a stool, a bench, an old chest, a table, and a chair being all that it contained. His mother was seated at the table, with her hands clasped before her, looking up at her companion.

"Oh! why run so great a risk as this?" said she earnestly.

"I was born to run risks, I believe," replied Gascoyne, in a sad, low voice. "It matters not. My being on the island is the result of Manton's villainy; my being here is for poor Henry's sake and your own, as well as for the sake of Alice the missionary's child. You have been upright, Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you. But for that I should have been lost long ago—"

Henry heard no more. These words did indeed whet his curiosity to the utmost; but the shame of acting the part of an "eavesdropper" was so great that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back, and pondered for a moment what he ought to do. The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne's remark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofs that he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heart against him. He argued that the mere fact of a man giving his mother credit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was not sufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised against himself. Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother his opinion of her to her face. And to call him "poor Henry," forsooth! This was not to be endured!

Having thus wrought himself up to a sufficient degree of indignation, the young man went straight to the door, making considerable noise in order to prepare those within for his advent. He had expected to find it locked. In this he was mistaken. It yielded to a push.

Throwing it wide open, Henry strode into the middle of the apartment, and, pointing the pistol at Gascoyne's breast, exclaimed:

"Pirate Durward, I arrest you in the king's name!"

At the first sound of her son's approach, Mrs. Stuart bent forward over the table with a groan, and buried her face in her hands.

Gascoyne received Henry's speech at first with a frown, and then with a smile.

"You have taken a strange time and way to jest, Henry," said he, crossing his arms on his broad chest and gazing boldly into the youth's face.

"You will not throw me off my guard thus," said Henry, sternly. "You are my prisoner. I know you to be a pirate. At any rate you will have to prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a free man. Mother, leave this place, that I may lock the door upon him."

The widow did not move, but Gascoyne made a step towards her son.

"Another step and I will fire. Your blood shall be on your own head, Gascoyne."

As Gascoyne still advanced, Henry pointed the pistol straight at his breast and pulled the trigger, but no report followed; the priming, indeed, flashed in the pan, but that was all!

With a cry of rage and defiance, Henry leaped upon Gascoyne like a young lion. He struck at him with the pistol; but the latter caught the weapon in his powerful hand, wrenched it from the youth's grasp, and flung it to the other end of the apartment.

"You shall not escape me," cried Henry, aiming a tremendous blow with his fist at Gascoyne's face. It was parried, and the next moment the two closed in a deadly struggle.

It was a terrible sight for the widow to witness these two herculean men exerting their great strength to the utmost in a hand-to-hand conflict in that small hut, like two tigers in a cage.

Henry, although nearly six feet in height, and proportionally broad and powerful, was much inferior to his gigantic antagonist; but to the superior size and physical force of the latter he opposed the lithe activity and the fervid energy of youth, so that to an unpractised eye it might have seemed doubtful at first which of the two men had the best chance.

Straining his powers to the utmost, Henry attempted to lift his opponent off the ground and throw him. In this he was nearly successful. Gascoyne staggered, but recovered himself instantly. They did not move much from the center of the room, nor was there much noise created during the conflict. It seemed too close—too full of concentrated energy, of heavy, prolonged straining—for much violent motion. The great veins in Gascoyne's forehead stood out like knotted cords; yet there was no scowl or frown on his face. Henry's brows, on the contrary, were gathered into a dark frown. His teeth were set, and his countenance flushed to deep red by exertion and passion.

Strange to say, the widow made no effort to separate the combatants; neither did she attempt to move from her seat to give any alarm. She sat with her hands on the table clasped tightly together, gazing eagerly, anxiously, like a fascinated creature, at the wild struggle that was going on before her.

Again and again Henry attempted, with all the fire of youth, to throw his adversary by one tremendous effort, but failed. Then he tried to fling him off, so as to have the power of using his fists or making an overwhelming rush. But Gascoyne held him in his strong arms like a vice. Several times he freed his right arm and attempted to plant a blow; but Gascoyne caught the blow in his hand, or seized the wrist and prevented its being delivered. In short, do what he would, Henry Stuart could neither free himself from the embrace of his enemy nor conquer him. Still he struggled on; for, as this fact became more apparent, the youth's blood became hotter from mingled shame and anger.

Both men soon began to show symptoms of fatigue. It was not in the nature of things that two such frames, animated by such spirits, could prolong so exhausting a struggle. It was not doubtful now which of the two would come off victorious. During the whole course of the fight Gascoyne had acted entirely on the defensive. A small knife or stiletto hung at his left side, but he never attempted to use it, and he never once tried to throw his adversary. In fact, it now became evident, even to the widow's perceptions, that the captain was actually playing with her son.

All along, his countenance, though flushed and eager, exhibited no sign of passion. He seemed to act like a good-humored man who had been foolishly assaulted by a headstrong boy, and who meant to keep him in play until he should tire him out.

Just then the tinkling of a bell and other sounds of the people of the establishment beginning to move were heard outside. Henry noticed this.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, in a gasping voice, "I can at least hold you until help comes."

Gascoyne heard the sounds also. He said nothing, but he brought the strife to a swift termination. For the first time he bent his back like a man who exerts himself in earnest, and lifted Henry completely off the ground.

Throwing him on his back, he pressed him down with both arms so as to break from his grasp. No human muscles could resist the force applied. Slowly but surely the iron sinews of Henry's arms straightened out, and the two were soon at arms' length.

But even Gascoyne's strength could not unclasp the grip of the youth's hands, until he placed his knee upon his chest; then, indeed, they were torn away.

Of course, all this was not done without some violence; but it was still plain to the widow that Gascoyne was careful not to hurt his antagonist more than he could help.

"Now, Henry, my lad," said he, holding the youth down by the two arms, "I have given you a good deal of trouble this morning, and I mean to give you a little more. It does not just suit me at present to be tried for a pirate, so I mean to give you a race. You are reputed one of the best runners in the settlement. Well, I'll give you a chance after me. If you overtake me, boy, I'll give myself up to you without a struggle. But I suspect you'll find me rather hard to catch!"

As he uttered the last words he permitted Henry to rise. Ere the youth had quite gained his footing, he gave him a violent push and sent him staggering back against the wall. When Henry recovered his balance, Gascoyne was standing in the open doorway.

"Now, lad, are you ready?" said he, a sort of wild smile lighting up his face.

Henry was so taken aback by this conduct, as well as by the rough handling which he had just received, that he could not collect his thoughts for a few seconds; but, when Gascoyne nodded gravely to his mother, and walked quietly away, saying, "Good-by, Mary," the exasperated youth darted through the doorway like an arrow.

If Henry Stuart's rush may be compared to the flight of an arrow from a bow, not less appropriately may Gascoyne's bound be likened to the leap of the bolt from a cross-bow: The two men sprang over the low fences that surrounded the cottage, leaped the rivulet that brawled down its steep course behind it, and coursed up the hill like mountain hares.

The last that Widow Stuart saw of them, as she gazed eagerly from the doorway of the hut, was, when Gascoyne's figure was clearly defined against the sky as he leaped over a great chasm in the lava high up the mountain-side. Henry followed almost instantly, and then both were hidden from view in the chaos of rocks and gorges that rose above the upper line of vegetation.

It was a long and a severe chase that Henry had undertaken, and ably did his fleet foot sustain the credit which he had already gained. But Gascoyne's foot was fleeter. Over every species of ground did the sandal-wood trader lead the youth that morning. It seemed, in fact, as if a spirit of mischief had taken possession of Gascoyne; for his usually grave face was lighted up with a mingled expression of glee and ferocity. It changed, too, and wore a sad expression at times, even when the man seemed to be running for his life.

At last, after running until he had caused Henry to show symptoms of fatigue, Gascoyne turned suddenly round, and shouting "Good-by, Henry, my lad!" went straight up the mountain, and disappeared over the dividing ridge on the summit.

Henry did not give in. The insult implied in the words renewed his strength. He tightened his belt as he ran, and rushed up the mountain almost as fast as Gascoyne had done; but when he leaped upon the ridge, the fugitive had vanished!

That he had secreted himself in one of the numerous gorges or caves with which the place abounded was quite clear; but it was equally clear that no one could track him out in such a place unless he were possessed of a dog's nose. The youth did indeed attempt it; but, being convinced that he was only searching for what could not by any possibility be found, he soon gave it up, and returned, disconsolate and crestfallen, to the cottage.



CHAPTER XX.

MYSTERIOUS CONSULTATIONS AND PLANS—GASCOYNE ASTONISHES HIS FRIENDS, AND MAKES AN UNEXPECTED CONFESSION.

"A pretty morning's work I have made of it, mother," said Henry, as he flung himself into a chair in the cottage parlor, on his return from the weary and fruitless chase which has just been recorded.

The widow was pale and haggard; but she could not help smiling as she observed the look of extreme disappointment which rested on the countenance of her son.

"True, Henry," she replied, busying herself in preparing breakfast, "you have not been very successful; but you made a noble effort."

"Pshaw! a noble effort, indeed! Why, the man has foiled me in the two things in which I prided myself most,—wrestling and running. I never saw such a greyhound in my life."

"He is a giant, my boy; few men could hope to overcome him."

"True, as regards wrestling, mother; I am not much ashamed of having been beaten by him at that; but running,—that's the sore point. Such a weight he is, and yet he took the north gully like a wildcat; and you know, mother, there are only two of us in Sandy Cove who can go over that gully. Aye, and he went a full yard further than ever I did. I measured the leap as I came down. Really, it is too bad to have been beaten so completely by a man who must be nearly double my age. But, after all, the worst of the whole affair is, that a pirate has escaped me after I actually had him in my arms!—the villain!"

"You do not know that he is a villain," said the widow in a subdued tone.

"You are right, mother," said Henry, looking up from the plate of bacon, to which he had been devoting himself with much assiduity, and gazing earnestly into his mother's face,—"you are right and, do you know, I feel inclined to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt; for, to tell you the truth, I have a sort of liking for him. If it had not been for the way in which he has treated you, and the suspicious character that he bears, I do believe I should have made a friend of him."

A look of evident pleasure crossed the widow's face while her son spoke; but as that son's eyes were once more riveted on the bacon, which his morning exercise rendered peculiarly attractive, he did not observe it.

Just then the door opened, and Mr. Mason entered. His face wore a dreadfully anxious expression.

"Ha! I'm glad to see you, Henry," said he; "of course you have not caught your man. I have been waiting anxiously for you to consult about our future proceedings. It is quite evident that the pirate schooner cannot be far off. Gascoyne must either have swam ashore, or been landed in a boat. In either case the schooner must have been within the reef at the time, and there has been little wind since the squall blew itself out yesterday."

"Quite enough, however, to blow such a light craft pretty far out to sea in a few hours," said Henry, shaking his head.

"No matter," replied Mr. Mason, with a sigh; "something must be done, at any rate. I have borrowed the carpenter's small cutter, which is now being put in order for a voyage. Provisions and water for a few days are already on board, and I have come to ask you to take command of her, as you know something of navigation. I will go, of course, but will not take any management of the little craft, as I know nothing about the working of vessels."

"And where do you mean to go?" asked Henry.

"That remains to be seen. I have some ideas running in my head, of course; but before letting you know them, I wish to hear what you would advise."

"I would advise, in the first place, that you should provide one or two thorough sailors to manage the craft. By the way, that reminds me of Bumpus. What of him? Where is he? In the midst of all this bustle I have not had time for much thought; and it has only just occurred to me that if this schooner is really a pirate, and if Gascoyne turns out to be Durward, it follows that Bumpus is a pirate too, and ought to be dealt with accordingly."

"I have thought of that," said Mr. Mason, with a perplexed look, "and intended to speak to you on the subject; but events have crowded so fast upon each other of late that it has been driven out of my mind. No doubt, if the Foam and the Avenger are one and the same vessel, as seems too evident to leave much room for doubt, then Bumpus is a pirate; for he does not deny that he was one of the crew. But he acts strangely for a pirate. He seems as much at his ease amongst us as if he were the most innocent of men. Moreover, his looks seem to stamp him a thoroughly honest fellow. But, alas! one cannot depend on looks."

"But where is the man?" asked Henry.

"He is asleep in the small closet off the kitchen," said Mrs. Stuart, "where he has been lying ever since you returned from the heathen village. Poor fellow, he sleeps heavily, and looks as if he had been hurt during all this fighting."

"Hurt! say you?" exclaimed Henry, laughing; "it is a miracle that he is now alive after the flight he took over the north cliff into the sea."

"Flight!—over the north cliff!" echoed Mrs. Stuart, in surprise.

"Aye, and a fearful plunge he had." Here Henry detailed poor Jo's misadventure. "And now," said he, when he had finished, "I must lock his door and keep him in. The settlers have forgotten him in all this turmoil; but, depend upon it, if they see him they will string him up for a pirate to the first handy branch of a tree, without giving him the benefit of a trial; and that would not be desirable."

"Yet you would have shot Gascoyne on mere suspicion, without a thought of trial or justice," said Mrs. Stuart.

"True, mother; but that was when I was seizing him, and in hot blood," said Henry, in a subdued voice. "I was hasty there, no doubt. Lucky for us both that the pistol missed fire."

The widow looked as if she were about to reply, but checked herself.

"Yes," said Mr. Mason, recurring to the former subject; "as we shall be away a few days, we must lock Bumpus up to keep him out of harm's way. Meanwhile—"

The missionary was interrupted here by the sudden opening of the door. An exclamation of surprise burst from the whole party as they sprang up, for Gascoyne strode into the room, locked the door, and taking out the key handed it to Henry, who stood staring at him in speechless amazement.

"You are surprised to see me appear thus suddenly," said he; "but the fact is that I came here this morning to fulfil a duty; and although Master Henry there has hindered me somewhat in carrying out my good intentions, I do not intend to allow him to frustrate me altogether."

"I do not mean to make a second attempt, Gascoyne, after what has occurred this morning," said Henry, seating himself doggedly on his chair. "But it would be as well that you should observe that Mr. Mason is a stout man, and, as we have seen, can act vigorously when occasion offers. Remember that we are two to one now."

"There will be no occasion for vigorous action, at least as regards me, if you will agree to forget your suspicions for a few minutes and listen to what I have got to say. Meanwhile, in order to show you how thoroughly in earnest I am, and how regardless of my personal safety, I render myself defenseless—thus."

Gascoyne pulled a brace of small pistols from their place of concealment beneath the breast of his shirt, and drawing the knife that hung at his girdle, hurled them all through the open window into the garden. He then took a chair, planted it in the middle of the room, and sat down. The sadness of his deep voice did not change during the remainder of that interview. The bold look which usually characterized this peculiar man had given place to a grave expression of humility which was occasionally varied by a troubled look.

"Before stating what I have come for," said Gascoyne, "I mean to make a confession. You have been right in your suspicions,—I am Durward the pirate! Nay, do not shrink from me in that way, Mary. I have kept this secret from you long, because I feared to lose the old friendship that has existed between us since we were children. I have deceived you in this thing only. I have taken advantage of your ignorance to make you suppose that I was merely a smuggler, and that, in consequence of being an outlaw, it was necessary for me to conceal my name and my movements. You have kept my secret, Mary, and have tried to win me back to honest ways; but you little knew the strength of the net I had wrapped around me. You did not know that I was a pirate!"

Gascoyne paused, and bent his head as if in thought. The widow sat with clasped hands, gazing at him with a look of despair on her pale face. But she did not move or speak. The three listeners sat in perfect silence, until the pirate chose to continue his confession.

"Yes, I have been a pirate," said he; "but I have not been the villain that men have painted me." He looked steadily in the widow's face as he said these words deliberately.

"Do not try to palliate your conduct, Gascoyne," said Mr. Mason, earnestly. "The blackness of your sin is too great to be deepened or lightened by what men may have said of you. You are a pirate. Every pirate is a murderer."

"I am not a murderer," said Gascoyne, slowly, in reply, but still fixing his gaze on the widow's face, as if he addressed himself solely to her.

"You may not have committed murder with your own hand," said Mr. Mason, "but the man who leads on others to commit the crime is a murderer, in the eye of God's law as well as in that of man."

"I never led on men to commit murder," said Gascoyne, in the same tone, and with the same steadfast gaze. "This hand is free from the stain of human blood. Do you believe me, Mary?"

The widow did not answer. She sat like one bereft of all power of speech or motion.

"I will explain," resumed the pirate captain, drawing a long breath, and directing his looks to Henry now.

"For reasons which it is not necessary that you should know, I resolved some years ago to become a pirate. I had been deceived—shamefully deceived and wronged—by wealthy and powerful men. I had appealed to the law of my country, and the law refused to right me. No, not the law, but those who sat on the judgment-seat to pervert the law. It matters not now; I was driven mad at the time, for the wrong done was not done so much to me as to those whom I loved. I vowed that I should be avenged.

"I soon found men as mad as myself, who only wanted a leader to guide them in order to run full swing to destruction. I seized the Foam, of which schooner I was mate, called her the Avenger, and became a pirate. No blood was shed when I seized the schooner. Before an opportunity occurred of trying my hand at this new profession, my anger had cooled. I repented of what I had done; but I was surrounded by men who were more bent on mischief than I was. I could not draw back, but I modified my plan. I determined to become merely a robber, and use the proceeds of my trade to indemnify those to whom injustice had been done. I thought at the time that there was some justice in this. I called myself, in jest, a tax-gatherer of the sea. I ordered the men aft one day, and explained to them my views. I said that I abhorred the name and the deeds of pirates; that I would only consent to command them if they agreed never to shed human blood except in fair and open fight.

"They liked the idea. There were men among them who had never heartily agreed to the seizing of the schooner, and who would have left her if I would have allowed them; these were much relieved to hear my proposal. It was fixed that we should rob, but not murder. Miserable fool that I was! I thought it was possible to go just so far and no farther into sin. I did not know at that time the strength of the fearful current into which I had plunged.

"But we stuck to our principles. We never did commit murder. And as our appearance was always sufficient to cause the colors of any ship we ever came across to be hauled down at once, there has been no occasion for shedding blood, even in fair and open fight. Do you believe me, Mary?" said Gascoyne, pausing at this point.

The widow was still silent; but a slight inclination of her head satisfied the pirate, who was about to resume, when Mr. Mason said: "Gascoyne, do you call warfare in the cause of robbery by the name of 'fair and open fight?'"

"No, I do not. Yet there have been great generals and admirals in this world who have committed wholesale murder in this same cause, and whose names stand high on the roll of fame!"

A look of scorn rested on the pirate's face as he said this, but it passed away quickly.

"You tell me that there were some of the men in the schooner whom you kept aboard against their will!" said Mr. Mason. "Did it never occur to you, Gascoyne, that you may have been the murderer of the souls of these men?"

The pirate made no reply for some time, and the troubled, anxious look that had more than once crossed his face returned.

"Yes," said he, at length, "I have thought of that. But it is done now, and cannot be undone. I can do no more now than give myself up to justice. You see, I have thrown away my arms and stand here defenseless. But I did not come here to plead for mercy. I came to make to you all the reparation I can for the wrong I have done you. When that last act is completed, you may do with me what you please. I deserve to die, and I care not to live."

"O Gascoyne! speak not thus!" exclaimed the widow, earnestly. "However much and deeply you have sinned against man, if you have not taken life you do not deserve to die. Besides, there is a way of pardon open to the very chief of sinners."

"I know what you mean, Mary, I know what you mean; but—well, well, this is neither the time nor place to talk of such things. Your little girl, Mr. Mason, is in the hands of the pirates."

"I know that," said the missionary, wincing as if he had received a deep wound; "but she is not in your power now."

"More's the pity; she would have been safer with me than with my first mate, who is the greatest villain afloat on the high seas. He does not like our milk-and-water style of robbing. He is an out-and-out pirate in heart, and has long desired to cut my throat. I have to thank him for being here to-night. Some of the crew who are like himself seized me while I was asleep, bound and gagged me, put me into a boat, and rowed me ashore; for we had easily escaped the Talisman in the squall, and, doubling on our course, came back here. The mate was anxious to clear off old scores by cutting my throat at once, and pitching me into the sea. Luckily some of the men, not so bloodthirsty as he, objected to this; so I was landed and cast loose."

"But what of Alice?" cried Mr. Mason, anxiously. "How can we save her?"

"By taking my advice," answered Gascoyne. "You have a small cutter at anchor off the creek at the foot of the hill. Put a few trusty men aboard of her, and I will guide you to the island where the Avenger has been wont to fly when hard pressed."

"But how do you know that Manton will go there?" inquired Henry, eagerly.

"Because he is short of powder, and all our stores are concealed there, besides much of our ill-gotten wealth."

"And how can you expect us to put ourselves so completely in your power?" said Mr. Mason.

"Because you must do so if you would save your child. She is safe now, I know, and will be until the Avenger leaves the island where our stores are concealed. If we do not save her before that happens, she is lost to you forever!"

"That no man can say. She is in the hands of God," cried Mr. Mason, fervently.

"True, true," said Gascoyne, musing. "But God does not work by miracles. We must be up and doing at once. I promise you that I shall be faithful, and that, after the work is done, I will give myself up to justice."

"May we trust him, mother?" said Henry.

"You may trust him, my son," replied the widow, in a tone of decision that satisfied Henry, while it called forth a look of gratitude from the pirate.

The party now proceeded to arrange the details of their plan for the rescue of Alice and her companions. These were speedily settled, and Henry rose to go and put them in train. He turned the key of the door, and was on the point of lifting the latch, when this was done for him by some one on the outside. He had just time to step back, when the door flew open, and he stood face to face with Hugh Barnes the cooper.

"Have you heard the news, Henry?—hallo!"

This abrupt exclamation was caused by the sight of Gascoyne, who rose quietly the moment he heard the door open, and turning his back towards it, walked slowly into a small apartment that opened off the widow's parlor, and shut the door.

"I say, Henry, who's that big fellow?" said the cooper, casting a suspicious glance towards the little room into which he had disappeared.

"He is a friend of mine," replied Mrs. Stuart, rising hastily, and welcoming her visitor.

"Humph! it's well he's a friend," said the man, as he took a chair; "I shouldn't like to have him for an enemy."

"But what is the news you were so anxious to tell us?" inquired Henry.

"That Gascoyne, the pirate captain, has been seen on the island by some of the women, and there's a regular hunt organizing. Will you go with us?"

"I have more important work to do, Hugh," replied Henry; "besides, I want you to go with me on a hunt which I'll tell you about if you'll come with me to the creek."

"By all means. Come along."

Henry and the cooper at once left the cottage. The latter was let into the secret, and prevailed on to form one of the crew of the Wasp, as the little cutter was named. In the course of the afternoon everything was in readiness. Gascoyne waited till the dusk of evening, and then embarked along with Ole Thorwald; that stout individual having insisted on being one of the party, despite the remonstrances of Mr. Mason, who did not like to leave the settlement, even for a brief period, so completely deprived of all its leading men. But Ole entertained a suspicion that Gascoyne intended to give them the slip; and having privately made up his mind to prevent this, he was not to be denied.

The men who formed the crew—twelve in number—were selected from among those natives and settlers who were known never to have seen the pirate captain. They were chosen with a view to their fighting qualities; for Gascoyne and Henry were sufficient for the management of the little craft. There were no large guns on board, but all the men were well armed with cutlasses, muskets, and pistols.

Thus equipped, the Wasp stood out to sea with a light breeze, just as the moon rose on the coral reef and cast a shower of sparkling silver across the bay.



CHAPTER XXI.

A TERRIBLE DOOM FOR AN INNOCENT MAN.

"So, you're to be hanged for a pirate, Jo Bumpus, ye are. That's pleasant to think of, anyhow."

Such was the remark which our stout seaman addressed to himself when he awoke on the second morning after the departure of the Wasp. If the thought was really as pleasant as he asserted it to be, his visage must have been a bad index to the state of his mind; for at that particular moment Joe looked uncommonly miserable.

The wonted good-humored expression of his countenance had given place to a gaze of stereotyped surprise and solemnity. Indeed, Bumpus seemed to have parted with much of his reason, and all of his philosophy; for he could say nothing else during at least half an hour after awaking except the phrase, "So you're going to be hanged for a pirate." His comments on the phrase were, however, a little varied, though always brief; such as, "Wot a sell! Who'd ha' thought it! It's a dream, it is,—an 'orrible dream! I don't believe it; who does? Wot'll your poor mother say?" and the like.

Bumpus had, unfortunately, good ground for making this statement.

After the cutter sailed it was discovered that Bumpus was concealed in Mrs. Stuart's cottage. This discovery had been the result of the seaman's own recklessness and indiscretion; for when he ascertained that he was to be kept a prisoner in the cottage until the return of the Wasp, he at once made up his mind to submit with a good grace to what could not be avoided. In order to prove that he was by no means cast down, as well as to lighten the tedium of his confinement, Jo entertained himself by singing snatches of sea songs; such as, "My tight little craft,"—"A life on the stormy sea,"—"Oh for a draught of the howling blast!" etc.; all of which he delivered in a bass voice so powerful that it caused the rafters of the widow's cottage to ring again.

These melodious, not to say thunderous, sounds also caused the ears of a small native youth to tingle with curiosity. This urchin crept on his brown little knees under the window of Bumpus's apartment, got on his brown and dirty little tip-toes, placed his brown little hands on the sill, hauled his brown and half-naked little body up by sheer force of muscle, and peeped into the room with his large and staring brown eyes, the whites of which were displayed to their full extent.

Jo was in the middle of an enthusiastic "Oh!" when the urchin's head appeared. Instead of expressing his passionate desire for a "draught of the howling blast," he prolonged the "Oh!" into a hideous yell, and thrust his blazing face close to the window so suddenly that the boy let go his hold, fell backwards, and rolled head over heels into a ditch, out of which he scrambled with violent haste, and ran with the utmost possible precipitancy to his native home on the sea-shore.

Here he related what he had seen to his father. The father went and looked in upon Jo's solitude. He happened to have seen Bumpus during the great fight, and knew him to be one of the pirates. The village rose en masse. Some of the worst characters in it stirred up the rest, went to the widow's cottage, and demanded that the person of the pirate should be delivered up.

The widow objected. The settlers insisted. The widow protested. The settlers threatened force. Upon this the widow reasoned with them; besought them to remember that the missionary would be back in a day or two, and that it would be well to have his advice before they did anything, and finally agreed to give up her charge on receiving a promise that he should have a fair trial.

Bumpus was accordingly bound with ropes, led in triumph through the village, and placed in a strong wooden building which was used as the jail of the place.

The trial that followed was a mere mockery. The leading spirits of it were those who had been styled by Mr. Mason, "enemies within the camp." They elected themselves to the offices of prosecutor and judge, as well as taking the trouble to act the part of jurymen and witnesses. Poor John Bumpus's doom was sealed before the trial began. They had prejudged the case, and only went through the form to ease their own consciences and to fulfil their promise to the widow.

It was in vain that Bumpus asserted, with a bold, honest countenance, that he was not a pirate, that he never had been, and never would be a pirate; that he didn't believe the Foam was a pirate—though he was free to confess its crew "wos bad enough for anything a'most;" that he had been hired in South America (where he had been shipwrecked) by Captain Gascoyne, the sandal-wood trader; that he had made the voyage straight from that coast to this island without meeting a single sail; and that he had never seen a shot fired or a cutlass drawn aboard the schooner.

To all this there was but one coarsely-expressed answer,—"It is a lie!" Jo had no proof to give of the truth of what he said, so he was condemned to be hanged by the neck till he should be dead; and as his judges were afraid that the return of the Wasp might interfere with their proceeding, it was arranged that he should be I executed on the following day at noon.

It must not be imagined, that, in a Christian village such as we have described, there was no one who felt that this trial was too hastily gone into, and too violently conducted. But those who were inclined to take a merciful view of the case, and who plead for delay, were chiefly natives, while the violent party was composed of most of the ill-disposed European settlers.

The natives had been so much accustomed to put confidence in the wisdom of the white men since their conversion to Christianity, that they felt unable to cope with them on this occasion; so that Bumpus, after being condemned, was led away to his prison, and left alone to his own reflections.

It chanced that there was one friend left, unintentionally, in the cell with the condemned man. This was none other than our friend Toozle, the mass of ragged door-mat on which Alice doted so fondly. This little dog had, during the course of events which have taken so long to recount, done nothing worthy of being recorded. He had, indeed, been much in every one's way, when no one had had time or inclination to take notice of him. He had, being an affectionate dog, and desirous of much sympathy, courted attention frequently, and had received many kicks and severe rebuffs for his pains; and he had also, being a tender-hearted dog, howled dreadfully when he lost his young mistress; but he had not in any way promoted the interests of humanity, or advanced the ends of justice. Hence our long silence in regard to him.

Recollecting that he had witnessed evidences of a friendly relation subsisting between Alice and Bumpus, Toozle straightway sought to pour the overflowing love and sorrow of his large little heart into the bosom of that supposed pirate. His advances were well received, and from that hour he followed the seaman like his shadow. He shared his prison with him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the widow's cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep in deep humility when he was neglected.

Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him when they were adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woebegone cast of his ragged countenance. But we are anticipating.

It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.

Toozle sat down at his feet, looking up in his face sympathetically.

"No, I don't believe it's possible," said Bumpus, for at least the hundredth time that morning. "It's a joke; that's wot it is. Ain't it, Toozle, my boy?"

Toozle whined, wagged his tail, and said, as plainly as if he had spoken:

"Yes, of course it is,—an uncommonly bad joke, no doubt; but a joke, undoubtedly; so keep up your heart, my man."

"Ah! you're a funny dog," continued Bumpus; "but you don't know what it is to be hanged, my boy. Hanged! why it's agin all laws o' justice, moral an' otherwise, it is. But I'm dreamin'; yes, it's dreamin' I am; but I don't think I ever did dream that I thought I was dreamin' an' yet wasn't quite sure. Really, it's perplexin', to say the least on it. Ain't it, Toozle?"

Toozle wagged his tail.

"Ah, here comes my imaginary jailer to let me out o' this here abominably real-lookin' imaginary lockup. Hang Jo Bumpus!—why, it's—"

Before Jo could find words sufficiently strong to express his opinion of such a murderous intention, the door opened, and a surly-looking man—a European settler—entered with his breakfast. This meal consisted of a baked breadfruit and a can of water.

"Ha! you've come to let me out, have you?" cried Jo, in a tone of forced pleasantry, which was anything but cheerful.

"Have I though!" said the man, setting down the food on a small deal table that stood at the head of the bedstead; "don't think it, my man; your time's up in another two hours. Hallo! where got ye the dog?"

"It came in with me last night,—to keep me company, I fancy, which is more than the human dogs o' this murderin' place had the civility to do."

"If it had know'd you was a murderin' pirate," retorted the jailer, "it would ha' thought twice before it would ha' chose you for a comrade."

"Come, now," said Bumpus, in a remonstrative tone; "you don't really b'lieve I'm a pirate, do you?"

"In coorse I do."

"Well, now, that's 'xtror'nary. Does everybody else think that too?"

"Everybody."

"An' am I really goin' to be hanged?"

"Till you're dead as mutton."

"That's entertainin', ain't it, Toozle?" cried poor Bumpus, with a laugh of desperation; for he found it utterly impossible to persuade himself to believe in the reality of his awful position.

As he said nothing more, the jailer went away, and Bumpus, after heaving two or three very deep sighs, attempted to partake of his meager breakfast. The effort was a vain one. The bite stuck in his throat; so he washed it down with a gulp of water, and, for the first time in his life, made up his mind to go without his breakfast.

A little before twelve o'clock the door again opened, and the surly jailer entered, bearing a halter, and accompanied by six stout men. The irons were now removed from Bumpus's wrists, and his arms pinioned behind his back. Being almost stupefied with amazement at his position, he submitted without a struggle.

"I say, friends," he at last exclaimed, "would any amount of oaths took before a maginstrate convince ye that I'm not a pirate, but a true-blue seaman?"

"If you were to swear from this time till doomsday it would make no difference. You admit that you were one of the Foam's crew. We now know that the Foam and the Avenger are the same schooner. Birds of a feather flock together. A pirate would swear anything save his life. Come,—time's up."

Bumpus bent his head for a minute. The truth forced itself upon him now in all its dread reality. But no unmanly terrors filled his breast at that moment. The fear of man or of violent death was a sensation which the seaman never knew. The feeling of the huge injustice that was about to be done filled him with generous indignation; the blood rushed to his temples, and, with a bound like a tiger, he leaped out of the jailer's grasp, hurling him to the ground in the act.

With the strength almost of a Samson he wrestled with his cords for a few seconds; but they were new and strong. He failed to burst them. In another moment he was overpowered by the six men who guarded him. True to his principles, he did his utmost to escape. Strong in the faith that while there is life there is hope, he did not cease to struggle, like a chained giant, until he was placed under the limb of the fatal tree which had been selected, and round which an immense crowd of natives and white settlers had gathered.

During the previous night the Widow Stuart had striven to save the man whom she knew to be honest; for Gascoyne had explained to her all about his being engaged in his service. But those to whom she appealed, even on her knees, were immovable. They considered the proof of the man's guilt quite conclusive, and regarded the widow's intercession as the mere weakness of a tender-hearted woman.

On the following morning, and again beside the fatal tree itself, the widow plead for the man's life with all her powers of eloquence; but in vain. When all hope appeared to have passed away, she could not stand to witness so horrible a murder, she fled to her cottage, and, throwing herself on her bed, burst into an agony of tears and prayer.

But there were some among the European settlers there who, now that things had come to a point, felt ill at ease, and would fain have washed their hands of the whole affair. Others there were who judged the man from his countenance and his acts, not from circumstances. These remonstrated even to the last, and advised delay. But the half-dozen who were set upon the man's death—not to gratify a thirst for blood, but to execute due justice on a pirate whom they abhorred—were influential and violent men. They silenced all opposition at last, and John Bumpus finally had the noose put round his neck.

"O Susan! Susan!" cried the poor man, in an agony of intense feeling, "it's little ye thought your Jo would come to such an end as this when ye last sot eyes on him—an' sweet blue eyes they wos, too!"

There was something ludicrous as well as pathetic in this cry. It did more for him than the most eloquent pleading could have done. Man in a crowd is an unstable being. At any moment he will veer right round and run in an opposite direction. The idea that the condemned man had a Susan who would mourn over his untimely end touched a chord in the hearts of many among the crowd. The reference to her sweet blue eyes at such a moment raised a smile, and an extremely dismal but opportune howl from poor Toozle raised a laugh.

Bumpus started and looked sternly on the crowd.

"You may think me a pirate," said he; "but I know enough of the feelin's of honest men to expect no mercy from those wot can laugh at a fellow-creetur in such an hour. You had better get the murder over as soon as you can. I am ready—Stay! one moment more. I had almost forgot it. There's a letter here that I want one o' you to take charge of. It's the last I ever got from my Susan; and if I had taken her advice to let alone havin' to do with all sandal-wood traders, I'd never ha' bin in such a fix as I am this day. I want to send it back to her with my blessin' and a lock o' my hair. Is there an honest man among ye who'll take in hand to do this for me?"

As he spoke, a young man, in a costume somewhat resembling that of a sailor, pushed through the crowd, leaped upon the deal table on which Jo stood, and removed the noose from his neck.

An exclamation of anger burst from those who surrounded the table; but a sound something like applause broke from the crowd, and restrained any attempt at violence. The young man at the same time held up his hand, and asked leave to address them.

"Aye! aye! let's hear what he has got to That's it: speak up, Dan!"

The youth, whose dark olive complexion proclaimed him to be a half-caste, and whose language showed that he had received at least the rudiments of education, stretched out his hand and said:

"Friends, I do not stand here to interfere with justice. Those who seek to give a pirate his just reward do well. But there has been doubt in the minds of some that this man may not be a pirate. His own word is of no value; but if I can bring forward anything to show that perhaps his word is true, then we have no right to hang him till we have given him a longer trial."

"Hear! hear!" from the white men in the crowd, and "Ho! ho!" from the natives.

Meanwhile the young man, or Dan, as some one called him, turned to Bumpus and asked for the letter to which he had referred. Being informed that it was in the inside pocket of his jacket, the youth put his hand in and drew it forth.

"May I read it? Your life may depend on what I find here."

"Sartinly,—by all manner of means," replied Jo, not a little surprised at the turn affairs were taking.

Dan opened and perused the epistle for a few minutes, during which intense silence was maintained in the crowd, as if they expected to hear the thoughts of the young man as they passed through his brain.

"Ha! I thought so," exclaimed Dan, looking up and again addressing the crowd. "At the trial yesterday you heard this man say that he was engaged at San Francisco by Gascoyne on the 12th of April last, and that he believed the schooner to be a sandal-wood trader when he shipped."

"Yes, yes,—ho!" from the crowd.

"If this statement of his be true, then he was not a pirate when he shipped, and he has not had much time to become one between that time and this. The letter which I hold in my hand proves the truth of this statement. It is dated San Francisco, 11th April, and is written in a female hand. Listen,—I will read it; and you shall judge for yourselves."

The young man then read the following letter, which, being a peculiar as well as an interesting specimen of a love-letter, we give verbatim et literatim:

"Peelers farm near Sanfransko Aprile 11

"For John bumpuss, aboord the Schooner fome

"my darlin Jo,

"ever sins you towld me yisterday that youd bin an gaged yerself into the fome, my mind has been Onaisy. Ye no, darlint, from the our ye cald me yer own Susan, in clare county, More betoken, iv bin onaisy about ye yer so bowld an Rekles. but this is wurst ov all. iv no noshun o them sandle-wood skooners. the Haf ov thems pirits and The other hafs no better, whats wus is that my owld master was drownded in wan, or out o wan, but shure its All the Saim. down he wint and that wos the Endd.

"now Deer jo dont go to say in that skooner i beseech ye, jo. Ye towld me that ye liked the looks o the cappen and haited the looks o the Krew. Now deer, take warnin think ov me. think ov the words in the coppie book weev writ so often together at owld makmahons skool, eevil cmunishakens Krupt yer maners, i misrember it, but ye no wot id be sayin' to ye.

"o jo Dont go, but cum an see me as soon as iver ye can

"yours til deth. "SUSAN."

"p.s. the piggs is quite livly but ther not so hansum heer as in the owld country, don't forgit to rite to your susan."

No one can conceive the indignation that swelled the broad chest of honest John Bumpus when he listened to the laughter with which some parts of this letter were received.

"Now," said Dan, "could any man want better proof than this that John Bumpus is not a pirate?"

This question was answered by a perfect yell from the crowd.

"Set him free! cut his cords!" cried a voice.

"Stop, friends," cried a big, coarse-looking man, leaping on the table and jostling Dan out of the way. "Not quite so fast. I don't pretend to be a learned feller, and I can't make a speech with a buttery tongue like Dan here. But wot I've got to say is—Justice forever!"

"Hurrah!" from some of the wild spirits of the crowd. "Go on, Burke," from others.

"Yes, wot I say is—Justice forever! Fair play an' no favor: that's wot I say!"

Another cheer greeted the bold assertion of these noble sentiments.

"Now, here it is," continued Burke, becoming much excited, "wot's to hinder that there letter bein' a forgery?—aye, that's the word, a forgery? (Hear! hear!), got up apurpose to bamboozle us chaps that ain't lawyers. D'ye see?"

Burke glanced at Dan, and smote his thigh triumphantly as he said this.

"It does not look like a forgery," said Dan, holding up the letter and pointing to the writing. "I leave it to yourselves to say if it sounds like a forgery—"

"I don't care a farthin' dip for yer looks and sounds," cried Burke, interrupting the other. "No man is goin' for to tell me that anybody can trust to looks and sounds. Why, I've know'd the greatest villain that ever chewed the end of a smuggled cigar look as innocent as the babe unborn. An' is there a man here wot'll tell me he hasn't often an' over again mistook the crack of a big gun for a clap o' thunder?"

This was received with much approval by the crowd, which had evidently more than half-forgotten the terrible purpose for which it had assembled there, and was now much interested in what bade fair to be a keen dispute. When the noise abated, Dan raised his voice and said:

"If Burke had not interrupted me, I was going to have said that another thing which proves the letter to be no forgery is, that the postmark of San Francisco is on the back of it, with the date all right."

This statement delighted the crowd immensely, and caused Burke to look disconcerted for a few seconds; he rallied, however, and returned to the charge.

"Postmarks! wot do I care for postmarks? Can't a man forge a postmark as easy as any other mark?"

"Ah! that's true," from a voice in the crowd.

"No, not so easily as any other mark," retorted Dan; "for it's made with a kind of ink that's not sold in shops. Everything goes to prove that the letter is no forgery. But, Mr. Burke, will you answer me this. If it was a forgery, got up for the purpose of saving this man's life, at what time was it forged? for Bumpus could not know that he would ever need such a letter until yesterday afternoon, and between that time and this there was but little time to forge a letter from San Francisco, postmark and all, and make it soiled and worn at the edges like an old letter. ['Hear!' and sensation.] More than that," cried Dan, waxing eager and earnest, "if it was a forgery, got up for the purpose, why was it not produced at the trial? ['Hear! hear!' and cheers] And, last of all why, if this forgery was so important to him, did John Bumpus forget all about it until he stood on this table; aye, until the rope was round his neck?"

A perfect storm of cheers and applause followed this last sentence, in the midst of which there were cries of "You're floored, Burke! Hurrah for Bumpus! Cut the ropes!"

But although John's life was now safe, his indignation at Susan's letter having been laughed at was not altogether allayed.