Hunston turned savagely upon the detective at this allusion to his crippled state and made an attempt at using his one arm upon him.

But Pike was—to put it vulgarly—all there.

He dexterously dodged the blow, and whirling round secured a hold upon Hunston's collar—that peculiar grip which is the specialty of men who have been in the force.

Hunston struggled desperately to get free. In vain.

Do what he would, he found himself being trotted along to save himself from strangulation.

Not only was it physically painful.

Hunston had an overweening sense of his own importance and dignity, and this being run in just like some paltry pickpocket in a crowd, was galling to his vanity beyond all description.

What could he do?

He was powerless.

The wondering people stared at this singular exhibition, but they parted their ranks as Pike and his prisoner came along, and never offered to interfere.

Now, during this brief but painful business, Hunston's thoughts ran right ahead of the present dilemma.

He endeavoured to realise some of the possible consequences of it.

The arrest was, he felt assured, illegal.

What then?

What could result from such a proceeding?

Would they detain him?

Could they?—that was the question.

The British ambassador might be influenced by people of the rank and position of the Harkaways.

This granted, it was easy enough for his excellency to waive legal forms and ceremonies there, and get Hunston transferred to the safe keeping of the English authorities.

At this point Hunston could not repress a shudder.

And why? He thought of what must necessarily follow.

His fevered fancy flew ahead, and he saw himself in the dock, faced by the stony-faced judge, and put through the torture of cross-examination which laid bare the innermost recesses of his black heart in spite of himself.

He saw further on yet.

He shut his eyes as he went on and heard the tramp of the twelve jurors re-entering the court in the midst of a profound and awesome silence.

He heard the solemn formula; he heard the hollow voice of the foreman give the verdict—

"Guilty!"

All that he heard and saw in his mind's eye, in that brief but unpleasant hustling he had to go through at the hands of the ungenerous and indefatigable officer Daniel Pike.

And Hunston now, being half cowed by his captor, was being driven through the streets like a lamb to the slaughter, when a sudden and startling incident changed the whole spirit of the scene, even in the twinkling of an eye.

A musket, grasped in a strong hand by the barrel, was swung over their heads, and down it came with an awful crack upon poor Pike's head.

Down he dropped like a bullock under the butcher's pole-axe.

And Hunston was free.

For a few seconds he could not realise his release, so sudden and unexpected it had been.

"Come along," said a voice in his ear; "away with you, or we shall get into trouble here."

This aroused him.

He recognised the voice of Tomaso the brigand, and it brought him to his presence of mind.

Off he started at a good brisk run in the direction that his preserver had taken.

And soon was out of danger.

But Tomaso was not so fortunate.

Following Hunston at a more leisurely pace, he had not gone many yards, when a firm grip was placed upon his shoulder.

"Halt!" said a voice.

The brigand turned hastily, and found himself in the firm clutch of the detective.

"I have caught you at last, villain!" exclaimed Pike the detective, as he twisted his hand into the collar of the garment Tomaso wore instead of a shirt.

Then, before the astonished brigand had time either to remonstrate or resist, the Englishman exhibited to him that particular form of wrestling known as the "cross buttock," and stretched him at full length on the ground.

Another moment and a pair of real Bow Street handcuffs snapped on Tomaso's wrists.

"Neatly done; don't you think so?" said Pike.

Tomaso's answer was a tremendous Greek oath.

"You're swearing, I believe. Now that is a bad habit at all times, and very foolish just now, because you see it don't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't understand it," said Pike, who, after a brief, stern survey of his captive, added—

"If you cursed me in English, though, I don't know but what I might be tempted to punch your ugly head."

Tomaso remained silent, and Pike, after pausing some seconds, helped him to his feet.

"Now you are all right, and will come back quietly with me. But how do the bracelets fit? I've got another pair in my pocket."

"You had better release me," observed Tomaso.

"Now that is very ridiculous, my friend. Why should I take the trouble of capturing you, if I let you run again directly?"

"It will be much to your disadvantage to imprison me, Signor Englishman. An injured Greek is always avenged in some way."

"Just so; however, I'll risk that"

Pike's coolness added to the rage of the brigand, whose passion fairly boiled over.

"May all the infernal gods my forefathers worshipped—may the fiend I—"

"Serve," suggested Pike.

"The fiend I would willingly serve, or sell my soul to, for vengeance, visit you with his direst displeasure, and may all the plagues of Egypt blight you!"

"Thank ye, that's a very pleasant speech; something like what I used to hear at the theatre. But, old friend, you made one little blunder."

"You will see if I have blundered."

"One little blunder, when you spoke of selling your soul. Lor' bless you, Old Scratch isn't such a fool as to buy nowadays, whatever he may have done years ago."

Another angry exclamation from Tomaso.

"You see, the old gentleman has gained some experience as a trader, and he knows well enough that if he waits a little time, he'll get you all free-gratis for nothing at all."

"You are a devil, Englishman."

"And you are not exactly an angel. However, if I am a devil, you may consider you are regularly sold to me. So now come along; keep your hands under your cloak, and no one will notice the little decorations on your wrists."

"You are a devil, Signor Englishman; but you will die for this."

"Pshaw! I've collared scores of desperate villains, and they all said something of the same kind, yet here I am,"

"You will die," repeated Tomaso.

"Some clay, of course; but we have a proverb in England; would you like to hear it?"

Tomaso tossed his head with lofty indifference.

"The proverb," continued Pike, "is that 'Threatened men live long.'"

He then took Tomaso by the arm, and led him on.

"But stop," said he, "those pistols in your girdle are very heavy. I'll carry them for you, and the knife as well."



CHAPTER XVII.

THE DECOY—A THROW OF THE DICE—THE EXECUTION.

Before Pike and his captive had gone far on their return journey, Harkaway and Harvey, with two or three of the gendarmes, and a minute after Jefferson, came up.

"You have caught him then. Hurrah!" said Dick Harvey.

"But this is not Hunston," said Harkaway.

"No, sir; he managed to get clean away. But we'll have him yet."

An old goatherd, who had scrambled down near to the place where the captor and prisoner stood, might have been seen to indulge in a contemptuous smile.

We say might, because the fact is that all were so much elated at the capture of Tomaso that the very presence of the old stranger had hitherto remained unnoticed.

Nor did he seem to court attention, but remained behind a bush, in a spot, however, where he could hear all that passed.

"Well, we must take this fellow back to the town, and hand him over to the authorities," said Harvey.

"And then hunt down Master Hunston," remarked old Jack. "I wish we knew where to look for him."

"He took this direction," remarked Pike.

"True."

"And, therefore, it is in this direction that we must look for him."

"Right again," remarked Dick Harvey.

"But as he is associated with some desperate fellows, it would be as well to place this gentleman in the hands of the authorities before we seek him. It is not good to go into action with prisoners on our hands."

As all agreed on this point, they walked back with the prisoner, and had the pleasure of seeing him put into a cell from which, apparently, there was no way of escape, even the fire-place having been bricked up since the attempt of Mathias to gain freedom that way. By the time that was done it was too late to think of starting that day, so our friends retired to hold a council of war.

Pike, however, took no part in the consultation.

That astute detective had formed in his own mind a resolution that, if it were possible, he would capture Hunston single-handed, thus covering himself with glory, and at the same time keeping the Harkaways and Harvey out of danger.

Pike knew that it was a difficult thing to keep them out of danger, and that if they heard any thing about the brigands, they would be the very ones to lead an attack.

Pike walked up and down, smoking and reflecting on the difficulties which surrounded his task.

He had not thoroughly matured his plans when the sun went down and the moon rose.

Few people were abroad.

The audacity the brigands had recently displayed had convinced most people that they were safer indoors than out.

As Pike walked up and down the quiet street, he noticed an old man crouched up in a corner, wrapped in a tattered cloak, and apparently intending to pass the night there.

"Hilloa, my friend, what are you? Are you one of the brigands?"

Pike uttered the words in a jocular manner, but the old man felt deeply offended.

"Sir Englishman, you insult me."

"I apologise. I had no intention of doing so."

"A brigand! Signor, I am here—houseless and penniless in my old age through those accursed villains! May Sathanas fly away with their souls."

"Well, old man, perchance you will be avenged before long."

"It is what I pray for. They burnt my hut, cut down my two fine olive trees, and drove off my little flock of goats."

The old man covered his face, and appeared to sob violently.

"When was this?" asked Pike.

"Scarce three hours since."

"Was there with them a foreigner—one of my country?"

"I know not what country they were of, but besides the Greeks, there were two men who seemed leaders; one was called Signor Toro, the other was named Hunston."

"How many were there in all?"

"Three Greeks besides the two foreigners."

"Do you know any thing of the haunts of these brigands, friend goatherd?"

"Aye, well. But till now I have never dreamt of betraying them, for they never before molested me."

"Lead me to their den."

"You, signer? Why, they are at least five in number, and you are but—"

"But an Englishman! that makes all the difference, friend goatherd, so pray lead on. Here, take a drink from my flask first."

The old man accepted the proffered drink, and then said—

"Well, signor, it is a desperate and dangerous undertaking; but I know you English can do almost any thing, so I will show you the way. And if it comes to a fight, I shall be at your elbow, signor."

"True."

Without mentioning his intentions, or saying a word to any of his friends, the detective passed his arm through that of the goatherd and walked away.

Little conversation passed.

The detective was full of hopeful anxiety about the capture of Hunston; and as for the goatherd, it may be presumed that the loss of his goats afforded him plenty of food for silent reflection.

They passed the place where Tomaso was captured, and then turned aside out of the road into a dense wood which covered the side of a rocky hill.

It appeared as though the old goatherd was "out of condition," as the athletes say; at all events, the scramble up the rough path brought on a loud and distressing cough.

"Be quiet," said Pike; "you will alarm them."

"No fear of that, signor; we are more than a mile from the den of the villains."

So they scrambled and climbed away, till at length they reached a place where Pike found it necessary to use hands as well as feet to make progress.

He had just put up both hands to grasp a boulder over which it was necessary to climb, when, to his intense astonishment, each wrist was grasped by a couple of strong hands, and in another moment he was forcibly dragged up.

"The tables are turned now, Mr. Pike," said a voices "You will remain our prisoner till Tomaso is released."

It was so dark that Pike could not see the speaker, but he had no doubt that it was Hunston.

The impression was confirmed in an instant by the goatherd, who said in a jeering manner—

"Ha, ha, ha! Why don't you capture him? You were so very brave to talk, yet you do nothing."

Pike, by a sudden jerk, wrenched himself from his captors, and dealt the mocking brigand—for he was nothing more—a blow that doubled him up among the rocks.

But before the detective could escape, he was thrown down himself, and bound hand and foot.

Half-a-dozen Greek brigands then raised him and bore him away.

How far he could not tell, but it seemed, as far as he could guess, five or six miles.

At length they reached a little open glade in the forest where at least a score of brigands were assembled,

"You have him, then?" said a huge fellow, who spoke with an Italian accent.

"Yes."

"Tie him to that tree."

It was done.

"Now listen," said Toro—for he it was who had given the command. "If Tomaso is not at liberty and here among us at noon, you shall die."

"I can not set him at liberty."

"You can do a great deal towards it. Unfasten one of his arms—his right arm."

Pike's right arm was then released, and, in obedience to Toro's command, a small table was placed close to him.

On this table were pens, ink and paper.

"Now write to your friend Harkaway, and tell him that unless Tomaso is released by noon, as I have told you, death is your doom."

So Pike wrote—

"I am in the hands of the brigands, and unless Tomaso is released by noon, I shall be killed. But I am not afraid to die; hold your captive fast."

Having signed it, he held it out to Toro, who read it, and then called a messenger, to whom he entrusted it for delivery.

Then the brigands sat down to breakfast, and Pike was left to his contemplations. These, as may be imagined, were not of the most pleasant kind.

Hour after hour passed.

The brigands were some sleeping, some playing cards, and all enjoying themselves in some way, but no one took any notice of the prisoner.

The sun rode high in the heavens, and it was evidently approaching noon, when the messenger returned from the town with a letter.

It was addressed to Pike, but Toro opened it.

It was not from Harkaway, but from the chief of the police, informing the unfortunate detective that the Greek government declined to make any terms or drive any bargain with brigands, but that any ill usage Mr. Pike might suffer would be most effectually avenged.

"You hear this?" said Toro.

"I do."

"Then say what prayers you remember, and make your peace with Heaven, for at noon you die."

"Let me be the executioner," said a brigand who stood by.

"Not so," exclaimed another; "the task is mine by right."

"Peace!" said Toro. "The dice shall decide his fate. The highest thrower shall have the pleasure of shooting him."

The brigands, in obedience to a signal from the chief, gathered round him, a short distance from the prisoner.

Dice were produced and the game began.

"Double four," cried the first thrower.

"That man stands a good chance of being my executioner," thought Pike. "To fancy that I, who have been the terror of evil-doers in England, should be the sport of these dirty brigands. Why, I could well thrash half-a-dozen of them in a fair stand-up fight."

At this moment a loud peal of laughter greeted the second dicer.

"Ace—two."

"My chance is worthless," said the man.

"Worthless!" muttered Pike to himself. "Aye, you are indeed worthless, compared with some of the English villains I have hunted down and fought for life or death. I could die like a man if I only had to die in a fair hand-to-hand fight with such a man as Birmingham Bill, the very first murderer I ever coped with; but I'll show them how an Englishman can die."

"Double six!" shouted one of the brigands, as he threw the dice.

The man was the smallest and ugliest of the lot, but it seemed very probable that he would be Pike's executioner. At all events, he carefully loaded his carbine.

"To be shot by such a villain as that!" thought Pike. "It would have been better if one of the shots fired by that burglar fellow they call the 'Whitechapel, Devil' had taken effect; six times he fired, and then we had a good ten minutes' tussle before I could secure him."

At length all the brigands had thrown with the exception of Toro.

"Double six again!"

As it was a tie between the two, each had another throw. The little ugly brigand threw.

"Two—three."

Toro then took up the dice, shook them well in the box and made his cast.

"Five—four!"

And Toro was hailed the winner.

"Prisoner, I give you two minutes to prepare."

"Brigand, I am prepared. Such sins as I have committed, I have repented of, so do your worst; but rest assured that vengeance will some day overtake you. To Heaven I commend my soul!"

With as much composure as if he had been practising at an inanimate target, Toro raised his gun, and counted—

"One!"

"Two!"

"Three!"

At the word three, he pulled the trigger. The report echoed from rock to rock, and the head and body of poor Pike fell forward, as far as the ropes that secured him to the tree would permit.

He was dead, the bullet having penetrated the brain.

* * * * *

That evening, as Harkaway, Harvey, and Jefferson returned from an unsuccessful attempt to rouse the authorities, they found that two men had left a heavy package at the house.

On opening it, they were horrified to find it a section of a hollow tree, nearly every portion of the wood having crumbled away, leaving the bark intact.

And in the hollow was the body of the poor detective and a brief note.

"The fate of all brigand hunters. Beware!—TORO."

"Vengeance for this, at all events," exclaimed Harkaway.

"Poor Pike! We should be unworthy of the name of Englishmen did we not punish thy murderers."

He wrote a note to the mayor.

"SIR,—In the huge package that accompanies this note, you will find the body of an Englishman, who has this day been murdered by brigands; I call upon you, in the name of Heaven, to rout these murderers out of their dens, and bring them to justice. Should you show any backwardness in so doing, I shall deem it necessary to appeal to the English ambassador.

"Your obedient servant, "J. HARKAWAY."

Having despatched a couple of messengers with the body and letter, they sat down with sorrowful hearts and small appetites to their evening meal.



CHAPTER XVIII.

HUNSTON IN THE CAMP AGAIN—RETROSPECTION—A DEVILISH PLOT—DARK CLOUDS GATHER OVER THE HARKAWAYS.

"Who goes there?"

"A friend."

"The word?"

"Mathias."

"Stand; advance a step, and I fire. Ha! I see you now. I did not recognise your voice, Hunston."

"I thought not; but why all this precaution?"

"Fear has induced us to change the countersign. We believe there is mischief abroad, and so extra precautions are needed."

"Right, Ymeniz," said Hunston, who had been out scouting for a few hours after the execution of Pike, "although it is to be feared that the blindness which prevents your recognition of a friend and comrade may mislead you as to the real character of an enemy, should one dare to penetrate thus far."

The sentry laughed.

"Fear nothing on that score, Hunston," he said.

"Indeed I do."

"My carefulness may turn even friends into enemies, but fear, or over carefulness—"

"It is much the same thing," suggested Hunston.

"Right; but it is not likely to make me take foes for friends."

"I doubt it."

"You have a cunning tongue, friend Hunston," said the sentry, who was just a little bit nettled, "but I don't believe that you could prove that to my satisfaction."

"I might do it to the one or the other," returned Hunston, caustically; "but certainly not to both, the two are so opposed."

This was just a dash too subtle for the sentry, and so Hunston passed on without further remark.

A few steps further on he came to a group formed of the brigands, gathered around Pedro, a brigand who had been of some little assistance in the rescue of Hunston, but who unlike Tomaso, had managed to escape.

He was recounting the late adventures—from his own episode in the tale—of Hunston.

Hunston walked up to the centre of the group.

"Pedro," he said, "you rescued me, and perhaps saved my life; accept my hand, and with it my eternal gratitude." Pedro stepped back. He winced instead of taking the proffered hand, and his countenance fell.

"Pardon me Hunston," he said; "I'm very glad to have been of service to you, to have been able to save a comrade, but—"

He paused.

Hunston frowned.

"But what?"

"Don't be too grateful."

The tone, no less than the nature of the request, sounded just a little bit comical, and it made the bystanders, Hunston included, smile.

"What do you mean by that, my preserver? Why should I not be grateful?"

"Because I have heard it said that your gratitude brought bad luck to anyone who had really befriended you."

Hunston started.

He thought of Robert Emmerson.

That arm did its inventor's work well, indeed.

Not a day passed but Hunston realised the truth of the legend inscribed on the mechanical arm.

Not a day passed, but that he saw how fearfully was the legacy of vengeance bequeathed by the murdered Protean Bob being carried out.

Dropping his glance in some confusion for a moment, he turned sharply upon the brigand after a little reflection.

Pedro could know nothing of the death of Emmerson.

Nay, it was more than probable that the very name was utterly unknown to these men.

"You wish to insult me, Pedro," he said, "and so cancel the obligation I am under to you. But beware of going too far, for you may leave a balance upon the wrong side, and I am as quick to avenge an insult as to—"

Pedro interrupted him with a laugh.

"What did I say? I have only just rendered you a great service—at least, so you say—"

"And mean."

"And mean, perhaps; and yet you are already threatening me. When I said that your gratitude is said to bring bad luck to anyone, I was only repeating an idle saying—as I thought—but it seems like the truth, after all."

Hunston was moving thoughtfully away, when the brigand's words stopped him.

"Forgive me, Pedro," he said, turning round; "I am a bad, ungrateful man, but I'm not utterly wanting in decent feeling. You touch me on a very sore spot."

So saying he walked on, leaving Pedro staring after him.

"That's a queer lot," muttered the brigand to himself, "a very queer lot. I think I would sooner have the murder of a priest on my conscience than be weighted with the deeds that he'll have to answer for."

Pedro was no fool.

His observations were pretty well to the point.

Hunston felt the pangs of remorse.

Daily, hourly, in fact, he looked back and thought of what he was, and what he might have been had not his vicious propensities got the upper hand of him at the critical turn in his career.

And so the demon remorse played havoc with him already.

The mechanical arm was responsible for all. Its mysterious disorganisation had been the direct cause of his forced inactivity.

What gives ugly thoughts such power over one as bodily inactivity?

Nothing.

Robert Emmerson, your vengeance is as terrible as it is unceasing in its action.

* * * * *

Hunston sought the widow of Mathias.

"I have made good progress, Diana," he said, "for I have learnt enough about the enemy to make sure of getting some of them at least into our power."

The listener's eyes glistened at the words.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What do you propose to do, then? Tell me."

"Harkaway has a son—a mere youth."

"I know it."

"Well, this boy is a dare-devil, bold and fearless lad; nothing can daunt him. He is, in fact, what his hated father was when first I knew him, years and years ago."

A faint and half-suppressed sigh escaped him as he uttered this.

"What of this boy?"

"This boy has a companion called Harry Girdwood."

"Well."

"Well, these two boys are to be trapped, if it be gone about carefully —very carefully, mark you."

"That can be done, of course."

"It can—by you."

Diana stared again at this.

"By me?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Listen. They pay a certain respect to us—hold us in some fear, in fact—and the boys, who are regular rovers, like their parents and friends, have only permission to cruise about in their little yacht."

"How did you learn this?"

"From Marietta, the servant of the Harkaways."

"Hah!"

"Now, with care, the boys might be lured, perhaps, away from the part of the coast which they know, and let them once touch the shore out of sight and hearing of their friends—"

"I see, I see," ejaculated the widow of Mathias. "I can entrap them, I believe. But tell me first, what is the object of securing these two boys?"

"The object!" ejaculated Hunston. "Why, surely that is clear enough. Let us once get hold of them, and we can make any terms we like with the father and friends. We shall have to dictate the conditions, and Harkaway will have no choice but to accept them."

"I see, I see," cried Diana, excitedly. "Leave the rest to me; I'll undertake to get them into our power."

"How?"

"No matter how; you have done your share of the business. Be mine the task to secure the rest."

"When?"

"To-morrow."

"Good!" said Hunston, gleefully, "good! I feel a presentiment of luck. I'm not superstitious, but I feel as certain now that we shall succeed —as certain as if the boys were already in our power."

"They shall be," returned the woman, solemnly, "they shall be. I swear it!"



CHAPTER XIX.

JACK AND HARRY GIRDWOOD AFLOAT—THE SQUALL—THE SHIPWRECKED BOY—DEEDS OF HEROISM—THEIR REWARD—A DEADLY PERIL.

"Down with sail, Jack; we shall be over if we are not sprightly," said Harry.

Young Jack laughed.

The thought of danger actually made him merry, and so proved that he was every inch a Harkaway—a thorough chip of the old block.

"There's no fear, old fellow," he said.

A sudden gust of wind caught the sail, and caused the boat to give such a lurch at this very moment that both the boys were sent flying.

They got some hard knocks.

But neither was afraid of a little rough usage, and so they only scrambled to their feet, laughing boisterously, as if there was great fun in barked shins and bruised arms.

"I told you so, Jack," said Harry Girdwood.

"No harm done," retorted Jack, rubbing a damaged part and grinning.

"No, but don't let us be too foolish; we might get into trouble."

Young Jack roared at this.

"Soho-ho!" he cried. "Shipped another passenger, Harry, have you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you've got Captain Funk aboard."

"Not I," returned Harry, "only if we get into any foolish scrape, they won't let us come out for a sail again, and as this is the only jaunt left us, we may as well keep ourselves quiet."

"There's something in that," said young Jack,

So saying, he set about reefing the sail with all possible despatch.

Now it was barely accomplished when a violent gust of wind drove the little craft along at a furious rate.

It was only just in time.

A moment more and the sail would have been shredded, or, what was still worse, the boat would have been capsized for a certainty.

Harry Girdwood lowered the oars and pulled sharply along before the fury of the gale, while young Jack baled out a little water that had been shipped in the first heavy lurch, before the youthful mariners had been fully prepared for such violent treatment, and steered at the same time.

In this way they contrived to elude the violence of the gale for the present, at least.

But the danger was by no means overcome.

They had not got through the worst of their trouble as yet, little as they anticipated any serious danger.

The gale had come on with strange suddenness, and the truth was that they could hardly realize the extent of their danger.

It was great.

There was, perhaps, a special providence in their ignorance of their real peril, for their coolness alone gave them any chance in the present emergency.

They were brave boys both—never were there braver—yet it is no disparagement of them to say that there was very great probability of their losing their sang froid if they had known how very critical their position actually was.

As it happened, they did the very best thing to do under the circumstances.

They kept their boat before the wind, and by vigorous rowing, they contrived to drive along at a rate which was literally tremendous.

And so on they scudded for about ten miles, when the wind dropped a little, and the pace began to tell upon them both.

"Keep her off shore, Jack," cried Harry Girdwood.

"Right."

The wind and rain had half blinded young Jack, and although he had said "Right," he steered decidedly wrong.

He could not see where they were going.

"Look out!"

Harry Girdwood only just spoke in time for young Jack to take heed of the warning, for a minute later and they shot past some sharp, jagged rocks, into which they would inevitably have dashed but for a lucky tug at the rudder at the very last moment.

Now the roar of the wind and waters had just begun to lull a little, when a loud cry for help was heard.

And then, for the first time, they perceived that a boat had just been launched by a boy at not more than thirty yards along the beach, and being carried out to sea by a huge receding wave, had become unmanageable.

They could see with half an eye that the boy had no skill in handling a boat.

"Help, help!" cried the strange lad, waving his hand in distress towards their boat.

"All right," shouted young Jack. "We're there."

Harry Girdwood pulled vigorously towards the venturesome youth.

A few strokes brought them within twenty feet of the imperilled youth, and he would have been got away in safety but for his own folly and imprudence.

"Sit still," shouted young Jack. "Sit still."

"He'll be overboard," ejaculated Harry, glancing over his shoulder.

The words of the latter proved but too prophetic

A cry from young Jack—a piercing shriek from the other boat.

When Harry Girdwood glanced over his shoulder again, he saw the other boat, keel upwards, floating away.

The unfortunate youth, its late occupant, was nowhere to be seen.

"He's gone!"

"He has," cried young Jack, starting up, "and by all that's unlucky, he can't swim. Pull on, pull hard. Pull for mercy's sake."

And young Jack stood up in the boat, tearing off his jacket and waistcoat.

"What are you after?"

"I'm in after him."

"Jack, Jack, you'll never live in this heavy sea."

"Never fear, old boy, I'll try."

"You shall not, I say. You—"

"Here goes," cried young Jack.

And before Harry Girdwood could interfere, over he went, head first, into the boiling waves.

Harry Girdwood held his breath in sheer fright.

He shipped his oars and peered over the boat's side.

Where was he?

Would he never come up?

Oh, Heaven! what a fearful time it seemed that the intrepid boy was under water.

It seemed an age.

In reality it was but a minute, no more, before young Jack struck up to the surface.

He struck out with one hand—the other grasped something.

"Harry."

"Yes, Jack."

"I've got him."

"Hold tight."

"I mean to," responded young Jack, with great coolness, all things considered.

And now Harry could see that Jack's left hand was twined in the black flowing hair of the half senseless boy.

The latter had no sooner reached the air and gulped down a breath or two greedily, than consciousness came partly back, and he threw his arms about his preserver and struggled desperately.

"Leave go," cried young Jack. "Let go, or we shall both go down together."

But it is not easy to reason with a drowning man.

Young Jack found himself now in a desperate strait indeed.

The frantic efforts of the rescued boy impeded his movements, entirely baffling the heroic Jack's best efforts.

Harry Girdwood saw it all, and his terror increased every moment.

Well it might.

The mad struggles of the stranger imperilled both.

"Dive, Jack, dive," cried Harry Girdwood, frantically; "dive with him, or it is all up with both of you."

Jack heard him.

Twisting like an eel in the embrace of the boy he would save, he dived down, dragging the stranger with him.

In the space of a few seconds he reappeared again upon the surface, observing his former tactics.

Striking out with his right arm, while with his left hand he grasped the stranger's long black hair.

"Catch hold of him," gasped young Jack; "never mind me."

Harry Girdwood leant over the boat's side and caught at the stranger by the collar.

"There; hold on like that," said young Jack.

The weight coming all upon one side of the boat, however, threatened to capsize it, and so they had to act with the greatest precaution.

Young Jack, however, struck out and swam round the boat, so that his weight, clinging upon the further side of the boat, served to steady it while Harry Girdwood completed the rescue of the stranger.

"Bravo!" cried young Jack.

"It was a tough job," said Harry.

"And a narrow squeak for all of us."

"Right; but let's look after this poor fellow. He's alive."

"Yes."

"I'm glad of that; it would have been precious hard after all the work, not to mention the risk run, to have let him slip his cable in spite of us."

"Well, it is not his fault that he's alive now."

"Alive." quoth young Jack, "by George! He looks more dead than alive as it is."

"Don't fear for him, Jack; he's as good as twenty dead men so far, but how are you getting on?"

"Hearty. Rather damp outside, nothing more."

"And inside?"

"Damp too. Why, I shipped a bellyful of salt water last drop down; enough to salt a barrel of junk."

Harry turned his attention to the stranger.

"He keeps insensible a very long time," he said to young Jack; "it begins to look serious."

"Move the scat," said young Jack, "and let us lay him flat down upon his back at the bottom of the boat. I have always heard that that is the proper thing to do."

No sooner said than done.

Presently they were rewarded for their pains by detecting a faint breathing.

"How white his neck is," said Harry Girdwood.

"And how small and delicate his hands," said young Jack.

"One would almost take him for a woman."

"He'd pass very well for one if he wore petticoats."

"I'm almost inclined as it is to think that—"

"Ha! He's coming round."

The youth opened his eyes and stared about him.

He looked half scared at first one and then the other.

"You are better now," said young Jack, taking his hand.

He stared.

Jack had spoken in English in his anxiety.

He put the same sentiment into the best Greek he could muster.

"Yes, yes," replied the stranger, "better, better," and then he appeared to grow more and more confused; "but what is this? Have I been ill?"

"Yes."

"Ah!"

"Not very; it is all well now. Don't you remember—"

The rocking of the boat furnished the missing link in the chain of memory, and the rescued boy showed, by a ray of intelligence in his bright face, that it had all come back to him.

A smile of grateful acknowledgment of their services shot over his countenance.

Then suddenly his expression changed.

"Where are we going?" he demanded, with the most extraordinary eagerness.

"Ashore."

"Oh, no, no, no!" he exclaimed; "not ashore here."

"Why not?"

"You must not go ashore here," said the youth, eagerly, "not for worlds."

"Why?"

Jack was questioning the stranger while Harry Girdwood shot the boat into a favourable creek.

Harry jumped out.

"Come along," he said cheerfully.

"Safe on shore."

"And precious glad of it," added young Jack.

The stranger looked upon him in anxious expectation, and finding they were alone, he turned eagerly to his young preservers.

"Put off again," he said; "put out to sea, I tell you."

"Why?"

"You have disarmed me; you have saved my life and shown me tenderness and care—aye, brotherly love. Oh," he added earnestly, "pray go now; at once, while you are free."

"Well," quoth young Jack, with a long whistle, "this is a rum go."

Before another word could be spoken, there was heard a whistle, which sounded like the echo of young Jack's note; an answer came from another direction, and half-a-dozen men sprang forward from no one could see where, and pounced upon our two bold boys, Jack and Harry Girdwood.

"Bravo, Theodora!" cried a familiar voice in English, "you play the part of decoy to perfection. We have got them at last."

Young Jack started.

He turned pale and haggard, looking in a moment to Harry.

"Do you know that voice?"

"I do," replied Harry Girdwood.

"We are sold, undone. It is the villain Hunston."

* * * * *

It was but a little while after young Jack and Harry Girdwood had been entrapped, when a strange scene took place.

Evening was coming on.

Brigand sentinels had been posted at each path by which their haunt could be approached, and one was perched high above on a flat rock, which overlooked everything, without having seen himself except by the very sharpest of eyes.

Hunston, after visiting the outposts and seeing that everything was safe for the night, climbed up to this spot, and seated himself on a large stone.

He felt feverish, and at that elevation he might feel something of the breeze, a thing unknown down below at the bivouac, which was closely surrounded by thick bushes.

Strange dreads and doubts filled Hunston's mind, dread of the future, dread of a lingering illness through his arm, which daily grew worse, dread of death, which he felt convinced must be the end, and doubts whether eventually his enemy Harkaway would not triumph.

For Hunston's hatred of Harkaway knew no abatement; living or dying, the same fierce, unquenchable thirst after vengeance would fill his soul.

But what troubled him most now was his health.

The shoulder to which the mechanical arm was attached was so painful, it could scarcely bear the pressure of the clothing he wore; the blood in his veins, after flowing through that part of the system, seemed to return to his heart heated almost to boiling point, but that heat did not stimulate him to exertion.

On the contrary, he felt languid and scarcely able to do the duties that devolved upon him as Toro's lieutenant.

Nor was his brain so clear as in former days.

Ideas he had in plenty, but they seemed to jostle and confuse each other in their endeavours to settle down into a connected train of thought.

Emmerson's vengeance was working.

As he sat there, the sentinel remained motionless, leaning on his carbine and peering over the edge of the precipice.

Presently Diana, the widow of Mathias, came up the rock, and Hunston rose to greet her.

"Your husband is to a certain extent avenged," said he.

"How?"

"Harkaway's boy is in our power,"

"That is something, at all events. That girl Theodora, the niece of Tomaso, has done her work well. Vengeance has commenced."

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"There is a hitch in the proceedings. The girl is softhearted, and begged hard for their lives."

"She is a fool! By Heaven, I am half inclined to do the deed myself with this dagger."

"In which case Toro would probably do for you."

"What, is he turned craven?"

"No; but he is sweet on Theodora, and for her sake is inclined to spare them."

Hunston knew well enough that all this was false, as, unless certain conditions were promptly complied with, Toro would certainly kill both of them without the slightest hesitation or compunction.

But he did not tell Diana.

"But," he continued, "what is your idea of vengeance?"

"I would wring other hearts as mine has been wrung. I would cause blinding tears to dim the brightness of other eyes besides mine. I would cause the stern judge Death to pass a decree of divorce upon others besides myself and Mathias. When Harkaway is a widower, or his wife a widow, then I shall consider my vengeance partly accomplished."

"Humph! for a woman you are tolerably moderate. I shall not be satisfied till the Harkaways and the Harveys are destroyed root and branch-till the other accursed detective, Nabley, his American friend Jefferson, the negroes, the wooden-legged ass Mole, till every one of the party is swept away out of my path. Harkaway taught me to hate, and I swear by all the eternal powers of earth, heaven, and hell, he shall see how I have profited by the lesson."

Diana was silent for a few moments; then, with something like a sneer, said—

"You are a brave man—in words, Signor Hunston."

"My acts speak for themselves."

"And little have they said for some time past. But listen; I have sworn a deep and deadly revenge."

"Well."

"This evening I depart."

"Good."

"When I return again, you may expect to hear that Harkaway is dead or his wife."

The excited woman glided away, and Hunston, after smoking a cigarette, followed her.

"Good?" chuckled Hunston to himself, "I could not have a better ally than that woman; for she can go where I dare not show myself, and will find opportunities for carrying out her plans unsuspected. Beware, Harkaway! for though I have waited years for revenge, it is now within my grasp."



CHAPTER XX.

THE HARKAWAYS LEARN ALL—MR. MOLE EXPLAINS AND GETS INTO TROUBLE IN CONSEQUENCE.

Words cannot describe the trouble of the Harkaway family at the loss of young Jack and his stout-hearted comrade, Harry Girdwood.

At first their indignation had been so great, that their first impulse was to use violent means to effect the recovery of the boys.

But the first person to oppose this was Jack Harkaway himself.

"If we were to attack them in force," he said, "it would be imprudent upon every hand. In the first place they would have the advantage of us, of course, in a mountain skirmish."

"I don't know that they would get the best of it," said Harvey.

"Nor I," said Jefferson.

"We can do nothing at present as far as I can see," said Harkaway. "Only wait."

"To what end?"

"Their object must be plunder—money—ransom."

"Supposing that they demand a sum?"

"I shall pay it as soon as ever I can rake it up. If it is more than I possess in the world," said Jack Harkaway, seriously, "then I shall borrow of my friends to make it up."

The poor fellow turned away to hide his emotion.

"What guarantee have you that they would give up the boys for the ransom?"

"None. But I should not send the money first. They would have to send the boys here first."

"They might doubt you."

"Why, yes. But Hunston and Toro are with them, and they know that Jack Harkaway's word is his bond, no matter with whom he is dealing, let them be the veriest scum on the face of the earth."

"Which they are."

"Which they are, as you say."

"Very good," said Jefferson. "Now I don't want to play the part of the wet blanket, and to dash your hopes to the ground before they are half formed, but I wish to guard against running away upon a false track."

"In what way?"

"All your hopes of ransoming the boys rest now upon the fact of Hunston and Toro being with the brigands."

"Yes."

"Well," added Jefferson, "how do you know that Hunston and Toro are really in the band? You only suppose that."

"I can answer positively for that," said a voice at the door.

They turned.

There stood Nabley, the detective.

"Nabley!"

"Nabley here!"

"Himself," said the indefatigable officer, coming forward. "Hunston is with the brigands, very much with them, in fact."

"That we know," said Harkaway, who then related the death of Pike, and the supposed abduction of young Jack.

"I have been very ill," said Nabley. "I fainted in the street, and, in falling, severely injured my head. But do you know how that Hunston finds out all about you and your doings?"

"No."

"Well, it is through one of your own household."

"Explain," said Harkaway.

"What do you mean?" asked Harvey.

"I can't talk much; Mr. Mole will tell you perhaps better. Here, Mr. Mole."

Mr. Mole stepped forward, looking just a little sheepish.

"Mr. Mole!"

"Mr. Mole!" exclaimed a dozen voices in chorus.

"Yes, my friends," said the old gentleman, stepping forward with his well-known modesty, "it is even so; your much-wronged Mole."

"Tell us how it occurred," said Harkaway.

"I was down in the dancing garden, seated in a species of small summer house, taking a glass of—I mean a cup of tea—ahem!—when I fell asleep—I dozed, in fact."

"You would," said Harvey. "I've often noticed that you doze after a glass of—I mean a cup of tea."

Mole glared at the speaker.

"The heat of the day quite overcame me."

"It would," said Dick, in the same compassionate manner.

"When I woke up, I heard two persons conversing close by the green arbour where I sat."

"Yes."

"Two familiar voices."

"Ha!" exclaimed Harkaway, eagerly.

"Now guess," said Mole, "who the two familiar voices belonged to?"

"Can't."

"Out with it."

"One of the voices," said Mr. Mole, "was Hunston's, the other was—"

"Toro's?"

"No."

"No! Whose then?"

"Marietta's."

"Marietta—what, the maid here?"

"Yes."

"Impossible."

"Was it, egad? I thought so, but I am not easily mistaken."

"Unless you dreamt."

"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Mole, with ineffable contempt; "fiddlesticks!"

"But did you suppose she was in league with Hunston?" demanded Emily with great eagerness.

"No."

"What then?"

"He was bamboozling her, twisting her round his finger^ as one might say. He had got up a casual chat, persuading her that he was a private friend of yours, so he pumped and pumped her about the boys, where they went, and so forth."

"And did she say any thing that could serve him in his vile purpose?" asked Mrs. Harkaway.

"Plenty to help them, the miscreants, I suppose."

"The girl must be a downright idiot to get into conversation with a strange man after all that has taken place, and after all the danger which she knows they ran."

"Not far short of it," said Jefferson.

"He spoke particularly about the boys not venturing out to the mountains, that they were permitted only to sail about in their boat, and—"

Harkaway broke in here with an exclamation that startled them all.

"That explains all," he said. "All, all, I see it now."

"Do you? Explain."

"They have put out to sea and taken the boys, perhaps by stealth, perhaps by violence."

"Likely enough."

"Poor boys, poor boys!"

"And where did all this take place?" demanded Jefferson; "in one of the public promenades, did you say?"

"Mr. Jefferson," replied old Mole saucily, "you want your nose filed. I said in the dancing garden."

"Oh, de dancing garden, was it, Massa Ikey?" said a voice in his ear, which caused him to palpitate nervously.

It was Mrs. Mole.

When he had spoken of the dancing garden, he had not noticed his better half's presence.

"Yes, my dear," he said timidly, trying to look dignified the while before the company.

"And what was you—doing in such a place as a dancing garding, Mister Mole, sar?" demanded his dusky rib, in a voice which sounded dangerous.

"I went, my dear, to study character," said Mr, Mole timidly....

"What?" thundered Mrs. Mole.

He trembled, and faltered something almost inaudibly.

"Studyin' character," said the lady with great contempt; "losing your character, you silly old pump—"

"My dear," remonstrated the old gentleman.

"Don't 'my dear' me," said Mrs. Mole; "you're gwine off your silly old cokernut, you bald-headed old coon."

"Mrs. Mole!"

"You go to dat dancin' garding for to see dem gals jump about and dance and make fools ob demselves, ignorant critters."

"No such thing, I tell you," said Mole, indignantly.

"Oh, yes, it is," said his better half, "and you's a bushel more indelicate dan dey is, you silly old possum."

This started the company off generally in a noisy fit of laughter, before which poor Mole was forced to beat a retreat, followed by his irate partner.

"Poor Mole," said Jefferson, laughing heartily, "it is an unlucky admission for him. Chloe will give it to him sorely for this, I'm afraid."

* * * * *

They went deeply into the question of ransoming the boys, for they were convinced that they had really fallen into the hands of the brigands.

But do what they would, say what they would, they could only come back to one result.

They must wait.

Patience was difficult under the circumstances, but there was no help for it.

"Wait till to-morrow," said Jefferson; "it is a hard job, I know, but I feel certain that if the boys are with the brigands, to-morrow morning will bring a message from them."

"But can nothing be done meanwhile?" said Emily.

"No."

"Nothing."

"Stay; you may get some papers printed and circulated everywhere, offering a heavy reward for the recovery of the boys."

"To what end?"

"It can do no harm, and may do good. At any rate, it will show the brigands that we are ready to pay the piper for our boys' sake."

"That's true," said Jefferson.

"Let's do it," said Harkaway, who was pacing up and down impatiently; "at any rate, any thing is better than remaining inactive."



CHAPTER XXI.

A HOUSE OF MOURNING—THE LETTER FROM THE ENEMY—A STRANGE CORRESPONDENCE—THE INCIDENT AT THE OPEN WINDOW—HUNSTON'S REVENGE— DESPAIR.

It was as Jefferson had predicted.

The notices were printed and circulated everywhere by well-chosen and energetic agents.

Early next morning, a letter was found fastened to the garden gate.

It was brought to Harkaway, who was already up and busy.

He tore it eagerly open, and found the following written in a disguised handwriting and in English—

"TO Mr. JOHN HARKAWAY:

"If you would save the lives of your son and your protege, his companion, the only way to do it is to bring the sum of five hundred pounds sterling to the stone cross by the old well at two o'clock this afternoon. Those who have the two boys in their keeping will be on the watch. Come along, as you value your happiness and their safety."

"Not very likely," said Jack Harkaway.

Instead of complying with this very shallow request, he wrote an answer in these terms:

"TO HUNSTON AND HIS FELLOW-VILLAINS:

"Send the lads back here. Within half-an-hour of their return, the money shall be sent to where you will and when you will. This I promise, and swear upon my honour. None knows better than yourself that this may be implicitly relied upon.

"HARKAWAY."

This letter he sent by a trusty messenger to the spot appointed for the meeting place, and they waited impatiently for the further result.

It was not long coming.

Before two o'clock, Marietta discovered another letter tied to the garden gate, but how it came there they were unable to decide.

Be that as it may, it was soon discovered to be of the highest importance to them in the present state of affairs.

It was brief and startling, and ran as follows—

"We do not bandy words with you. We offer our conditions. You refuse. Well and good. The consequences be upon your own head. If the money be not paid by four to-day, at six the boys will lose an ear each,"

"The villains!" cried poor Harkaway. "Oh, villains!"

But he was powerless to help them.

He knew well enough that, do what he would, he could not hope to get the boys back without paying, and paying through the nose too.

Nor indeed did he desire to try to achieve this.

The only question was, would they deliver up their prisoners, once they had received the five hundred pounds?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

If not, they would be in as much peril as they were already.

Nay, more.

He guessed shrewdly enough that once they had received such a handsome sum as five hundred pounds, they would think that they had drained him dry, or as nearly so as it was possible to arrive at, and so might make short work of young Jack and Harry Girdwood.

What was to be done?

He could not say.

He would gladly have risked all that he possessed in the world for the chance of having his boys back.

Aye, his boys, for Harry Girdwood was second only in Harkaway's affection to young Jack.

But he did not wish to reward the miscreants for ill-treating the unfortunate lads.

At length he came to the conclusion that he would persist in his resolve to have the boys back before he parted with any money at all.

Accordingly he wrote another note to the brigands.

This he dispatched by the same means as the former note.

"Release the two lads. Restore them to us, and the ransom of a king shall be yours. Fix upon any sum, however great, provided that it be within my means to pay it, and you shall not ask twice. Moreover, I shall do nothing more to molest you or interfere with you in any way. Play false, or harm a hair of my boys' heads, and beware. You may know that Jack Harkaway is not the man to make an enemy of."

The answer to this was not long in coming.

An ugly scrawl upon a dirty piece of paper, and with it was a small parcel.

"We despise your threats, and laugh you to scorn. That you may know how little we are to be trifled with, we send you their ears in proof that we have kept our word. By this hour to-morrow the two boys die, unless you pay down the sum as fixed upon by us, both in manner and in amount."

Jack Harkaway turned faint and sick.

He dared nor open the parcel which accompanied the letter.

He sent for Jefferson and Harvey, and unable to trust himself to speak, he placed the letter in the latter's hands.

"Read, read," he said, with a horror-stricken look.

Harvey glanced down the letter, and his countenance fell as he passed it on to Jefferson.

"What is to be done?"

"I don't know," replied Jefferson; "I am at a loss. This is too horrible."

"What do you say, Dick?"

Harvey hung his head.

"Speak, Dick. Tell me, old, friend, what I ought to do," said Harkaway, imploringly. "I am bewildered—dazed—at my wits' end. What ought I to do?"

"Pay the money."

Accordingly the money, all in gold, was placed in a bag in the spot which they had indicated in the first note addressed by the brigands to Jack Harkaway.

This done, they awaited the result.

It soon came.

Too soon for the latter's peace of mind.

As the family and their friends were seated in moody silence and in sorrow around the dinner-table, so strong was the sense of oppression upon everyone that they only conversed in whispers.

"The heat is really overpowering," said Mrs. Harkaway.

"Shall I open the window?"

"If you please."

He hastened to comply with her request, when at that very instant something shot past him into the room.

It fell with a clatter upon the table, and cannoned off a dish on to Jack Harkaway, striking him a rather sharp blow in the chest.

"What's that?"

"Hullo!"

"A stone."

"Yes, a stone with a paper wrapped round it."

"So it is."

"A letter, I should think," suggested Dick.

"If so," said Harkaway, smiling sadly, "it is evidently meant for me."

"You have a striking proof of that," said Dick.

Harkaway undid the paper and scanned it through.

His countenance fell as he read on.

His pale face grew pallid, and rising from his seat, he ran, or rather staggered, to the window.

"Gone!"

"What is the matter?" demanded Dick, jumping up.

"See after the man who threw this letter in," exclaimed Harkaway. "Come with me—come, come immediately!"

And with this somewhat wild exhortation, he tottered out of the room, followed by Dick.

Everybody arose from the table in confusion.

Dismay, alarm, was depicted in every face.

"What can it be?" ejaculated Mrs. Harkaway. "Oh, Mr. Jefferson, go and see, and bring me the news."

"I will. Calm yourself, my dear Mrs. Harkaway; it is very likely to be good news which thus agitates poor Jack."

Away he went.

"I fear it is the reverse," said Emily, shaking her head.

Jefferson overtook Harkaway and Dick Harvey in the gardens, where an active search was going forward after the man, or individual of either sex, who could have thrown the stone with its strange letter.

"Let me see the letter, Jack."

The latter placed it in his hand, and then, to Jefferson's horror and dismay, he found it contained the following words—

"TO HATED HARKAWAY.

"I have had years and years of patience, and my turn has come at last. As your eyes glance at these lines, your boy is vainly supplicating for mercy. Before you reach the signature at foot, your accursed brat will be dead—mark that—dead! No power on earth can save him. Had you sent the money demanded as his ransom more promptly, you could have saved him. May the knowledge of this wring your heart as you have wrung mine in bygone years.

"HUNSTON."



CHAPTER XXII.

A HOUSE OF MOURNING—HARVEY'S RESOLVE—A TIME OF TROUBLE.

"Horrible!" cried Jefferson; "horrible!"

Dismay and terror were on every face.

The dreadful news paralysed their movements, and rendered them momentarily helpless.

Dick Harvey was the first to break the silence.

He sprang to his feet, and made for the grounds, motioning the others to follow him.

"Let us try and catch the postman," he exclaimed; "if we get hold of him, we may learn something worth knowing."

"Bravo!" responded Jefferson; "a capital idea."

They were flying all over the grounds immediately.

But the result may be guessed in advance.

Not a sign was there of the bearer of this alarming letter.

They gave up the search only when there was not the faintest vestige of a hope left, and crestfallen and disappointed, they returned to the house.

"Come," said Dick to the bold American; "we must move; we must be stirring."

"What for?"

"For several reasons," replied Dick, "but firstly for the purpose of giving Jack something to do. It will never do to let a man in his condition brood."

They sought poor Harkaway again, and led him off to hold a consultation.

"Jack," said Harvey, brusquely, "you must not give way to despondency. I say positively, must not. You will certainly undermine your health."

"Do not fear for me, Dick," returned Harkaway, "I shall be better for a little quiet."

"Indeed you'll not. Besides, it is not just to the boys."

Harkaway's lips quivered, and a big lump rose in his throat.

He swallowed it with considerable difficulty, and silently wrung Dick's hand.

"Don't, don't, old friend," he faltered, in a broken-hearted voice. "I can't bear the mention of their names. Poor boys! poor boys!"

"But you must," insisted Harvey. "I don't mean to leave them in the lurch."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. We must not give up the search."

"Ah, Dick, you would persuade me, if you can't persuade yourself."

"You are wrong," replied Harvey. "I have the deepest conviction on the point."

"To what effect?"

"That they live—both live."

Jack Harkaway looked positively frightened at this reply.

"Dick, Dick," he exclaimed, mournfully, "what are you saying, old friend?"

"What I mean. They yet live," returned Harvey boldly.

"No, no."

"But I say, yes, yes."

"I should rather say that they were murdered long before we received their last message."

"Come, come, Jack," he said; "rouse yourself, man. Whatever can make you believe this to be true?"

"The letter."

Dick laughed at this.

"That is the very first thing to raise my doubts," replied Dick. "Why, we have known Hunston all his life, and never found him any thing but the most notorious liar."

"True; but—"

"He told lies as a boy—lies as a youth—lies as a man. His life has been one long lie, and yet you choose to make yourself wretched and all of us too upon the strength of such a vagabond's word. Bah!"

Harkaway hung his head and sighed.

"That is not all, Dick," he said; "I have the direst presentiment upon me—"

"Presentiment!" ejaculated Dick, interrupting him.

"Well, Jack, I will not quarrel with you about presentiments, since I am urged on to what I am about to say and do by presentiments—only my presentiments are of the most hopeful description."

"Dick," said Harkaway, looking him straight in the face, "you are trying to deceive me."

"I swear I am not," retorted Harvey, with warmth. "And you shall soon see whether or not I am in earnest."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am going to fetch the boys."

"What wildness are you talking, Dick? What is this?"

"Simply that to-morrow at daybreak I shall start off on the search."

"Whither?"

"To the mountains."

Harkaway looked frightened at this.

"Not to trust yourself in the brigands' clutches?"

"I mean to beard the tigers in their lair," echoed Dick firmly; "not a word, Jack," he added, as he saw Harkaway about to interrupt him, "not a word; the worthy Richard Harvey will not go, but his spirit in another skin will go."

"You are never going to trust yourself in a disguise."

"I am."

"Why, Dick, old friend, were you that unhappy man Protean Bob himself, Hunston would penetrate your disguise; the eye of hate—"

"Nonsense. If I were Protean Bob, Hunston would be too glad not to recognise me."

"Perhaps."

"Now, Jack, you must listen to me, and not give advice. My determination is taken; nothing can shake it. Hilda and the family generally must suppose that I have gone to the port to arrange about our departure, since they all appear to be so thoroughly bent upon leaving here."

"But they will never believe a word about it."

"That I can not help, but at all events I leave here to-morrow, at daybreak, and may the shade of one of their victims aid me to throw dust in the eyes of Hunston and the Italian villain Toro."

"Amen," said Harkaway, seriously.

* * * * *

Surely enough, at daybreak, someone set forth from the villa, but although we who are behind the scenes can give a shrewd guess at who it was, the early wanderer looked about as unlike Dick as you could well imagine.

Was it indeed Dick?



CHAPTER XXII.

THE SILK DRESS-MURDER!

The morning after the interview between Hunston and the widow of Mathias, that woman was missing from the camp.

No one doubted that she had gone on her errand of vengeance, for Hunston had told Toro and one or two others of her threats against the Harkaways; but the question was how and when she did so?

No one knew.

The sentinels who all night long had guarded each known path leading to or from the bivouac were questioned, but neither of them had seen her depart.

Toro was rather annoyed at this; not that he had any great objection to her slaughtering the whole of the Harkaway family, although he certainly would prefer to perform that task himself. But he could not help thinking that a secret path might admit foes, as well as permit the exit of friends.

However, we must leave Toro to his reflections, and follow the brigand's widow.

It was between one and two in the morning when she quitted the bivouac without being observed, and walked slowly towards the town where the Harkaways were located.

There was no occasion for hurry.

At that hour of the morning she could not hope to gain admittance to the house where her foes were located.

A day must pass, and evening come again, before any thing could be done.

Diana's brain was in a whirl.

Deep-seated, poignant grief for the loss of one whom she had loved with all the passion her impetuous nature was capable of, made the thought and hope of revenge grow stronger and stronger.

Vengeance! aye, and a terrible one was what her soul craved.

Let once the deadly blow be stricken, and what matter then even if she fell into the hands of the authorities? What matter even if her life was pronounced a forfeit to the law? for life now had little charm for her.

As the sun rose, she sat down a little way out of the road and tried to form some connected plan for carrying out her purpose.

But no! her brain was too confused for deep thought, and after a brief interval she resolved to act upon no plan whatever, but simply do as the course of events might dictate.

At about the hour when she thought the inhabitants of the town would begin to stir, Diana walked into the place.

She knew the residence of the Harkaways well, but scarcely glanced at it as she passed and proceeded to a little house not far from it, where, according to an inscription over the door, one might obtain food, drink and lodging.

Entering this place, Diana made a slender meal, and then, telling the ancient dame who kept the house that she was fatigued, demanded to be shown where she could repose for an hour or two.

The old woman ushered her into a small, meanly-furnished apartment at the front of the house,

"Do not disturb me. I will rest till noon if not later," said Diana.

"You shall not be interrupted," was the response, and Diana was left alone.

She tried to sleep, so that she might be stronger and cooler for the business she had in hand; but the excitement under which she laboured effectually chased away drowsiness.

A little after noon the woman of the house looked in, and finding her lodger awake, entered into conversation, commencing by suggesting some refreshment.

Diana shook her head.

"Ah, my food is very plain and humble," said the old woman. "I can't give you such dainties as the people over yonder eat."

She jerked her thumb in the direction of the Harkaway residence.

"What people are they?" asked Diana, with an assumed indifference she was far from feeling.

"Some English."

"Do they, then, eat and drink the best?"

"The very best; oh, they are rich."

"What do they want here?"

"They have come to destroy the brigands; is it not droll?"

"Ha! have they succeeded?"

"No; but if they are not careful, the brigands will destroy them. They are so careless."

Diana was afraid to exhibit too much interest in the doings of the Harkaways, lest she should arouse suspicion.

So she simply nodded, and listened most anxiously to what the garrulous old woman would say next.

"So very careless; anyone might get into their house by the side door," said the ancient dame.

"Well, it is their own fault if they are robbed."

"True. But it would be little credit to the robber; they think the brigands are afraid to enter the town, so they don't take many precautions."

Diana treasured up every word of this.

Presently the old woman, finding her guest was not conversationally inclined, went out again, and Diana was left alone.

The sun set, and darkness began to gather rapidly when she went out, and after going a little way down the street, returned, and sought the side door of Harkaway's house.

She turned the handle softly and entered.

There was no one in the kitchen where she found herself, but the subdued noise of knives and forks in another apartment convinced her that they were at dinner or some other meal.

Diana, as soon as she had ascertained that fact, glided like a spectre up the stairs, and noiselessly examined various bedchambers.

At length she decided on hiding herself in one which seemed better furnished than the others.

"This must be it," she thought.

And she was right.

It was the apartment of Mrs. Harkaway.

On the dressing-table was a folded paper.

Diana opened it, and found that it was a milliner's bill against Mrs. Harkaway.

"For making a pearl-grey silk dress, etc., etc."

To hide herself was Diana's next move.

Clutching her sharp dagger firmly in her hand, the vengeful woman concealed herself behind some tapestry and waited.

Nor had she long to wait.

A light foot was heard without.

The door was opened, and a second afterwards, a graceful female form was seated before the mirror, with its back towards Diana.

And a female voice said—

"This pearl-grey silk suits my complexion far better than I thought it would. But it fits me badly. These Greek milliners are not to be compared with those of London or Paris."

Then the wearer of the pearl-grey silk heaved a deep sigh, and Diana softly moved the curtain aside a little to get a view of the person who had spoken.

The face was not visible, but from the figure generally, Diana had not the slightest doubt it was Mrs. Harkaway.

"I want some new jewellery sadly," continued "pearl-grey silk;" "but yet, after all, it would be scarcely safe to wear it here, while the brigands are in the neighbourhood. But they will soon be done for."

The widow glided out from her hiding-place as the wearer of the silk dress continued—

"We have one villain safe enough, and another, Mathias, was smothered in a chimney—ha, ha, ha, ha—oh!"

The laugh ended in a deep groan, and never more came the slightest sound from those lips that a moment before had been so merry.

Diana had struck so hard and surely that no second blow was needed, for the first pierced a human heart.

"That laugh was an insult to the memory of my dead husband," she said. "Let none dare scoff at Mathias."

Like a shadow, she glided away, leaving the wearer of the pearl-grey silk sitting motionless before the mirror. Dead!

The silk dress soaked with her heart's blood.

A few minutes later, some one entered Mrs. Harkaway's apartment, and then arose the fearful cry—

"Help! murder!"



CHAPTER XXIII.

YOUNG JACK IN TROUBLE—THE COUNCIL—DOOM OF THE BOYS—A SOLDIER'S GRAVE AT DAYBREAK.

Young Jack and Harry Girdwood, who by their friends are supposed to have been grievously ill-treated, found themselves dragged by rough and brutal hands to a considerable distance from the shore where they had unfortunately landed.

The boy whom young Jack had rescued, and who decoyed them to their ruin, disappeared at once.

"Jack," said Harry Girdwood, when recovered from the first shock, "we are done for."

"No mistake about that," returned young Jack, gloomily.

"Well, well, it is no fault of ours; that is some consolation."

"A precious poor consolation, since here we are."

"Yes."

Here they were interrupted by their captors.

"Move on!"

The voice was Hunston's, and that sufficed for young Jack to show signs of opposition.

Vain obstacle.

The ruffians were only glad of the slightest pretext for further brutality.

"We are quite comfortable where we are," said young Jack.

"Insolent brat!" said Hunston contemptuously. "You shall be birched well for that."

The colour mounted to the boy's face in spite of himself.

"You can threaten in safety, fellow," said young Harkaway, turning and facing their old enemy, "since you have so many backers to protect you."

Hunston grew livid.

"You wretched spawn of a hated race," he ejaculated between his teeth, "do you dare speak to me?"

"There is not much daring required," retorted Jack, boldly.

The words were barely uttered when Hunston dealt the boy a buffet which nearly sent him to the earth; but young Jack was pretty prompt in returning it.

This was a kind of debt which the Harkaways were not long in acquitting.

Quick as lightning recovering himself, he turned and leapt upon Hunston, and taking him unexpectedly, he toppled him over and fell upon him, clutching him by the throat.

"Now I'll show you what it is to lay your dirty ringers on a Harkaway," exclaimed the boy, glaring into the other's face.

"Let go, or—"

"My father trounced you before he was my age" cried the boy excitedly, "and now I'll finish you that you—"

But he was not allowed to complete his threat.

Rough and muscular hands dragged him off.

Else had Hunston fared badly.

It was all momentary, but no sooner had the brigands perceived their comrade to be in danger than they seized hold of the young prisoner and dragged him off.

Hunston sprang to his feet, and knife in hand rushed upon the boy, but the others interfered and placed themselves between the boy and the man.

"Come, Hunston," said one of the men, "let him alone."

"But he has struck me."

"You provoked it."

"What then? Shall I take a blow from such as he?"

"You were wrong to strike a child—a child too that is unarmed."

Hunston hung his head at this way of putting it.

"No matter; he shall die for this."

"Perhaps so; but meanwhile, there is possibility of ransom. The interests of the band can not be allowed to suffer for you."

Hunston was silent.

He sheathed his knife, but his silent resolves were not less murderous for being unuttered.

"Lead the way, Simon," said the brigand who appeared to be chief spokesman.

Simon stepped onward, and behind him young Jack and Harry were forced to march.

They were walking into captivity, but they could not help themselves; and so they wisely obeyed, so as not to give their captors fresh excuse for further barbarity.

The road which Simon led them was a gloomy and narrow defile that wound precipitously up among the hills.

Sometimes the rocks overhung the road, so that the sky was barely visible, and here and there heaven was altogether obscured, for they had to walk through tunnels in the solid rock—too solid apparently to have been worked by the hand of man.

On they walked upon the gloomy track, the silence only broken by the echo of their own footfalls.

Any thing so desolate our boys had never beheld.

A dull settled feeling of loneliness and despair fell upon the two boy prisoners.

After journeying in this way for about two miles they came unexpectedly (to them—for of course Simon the guide knew where he was leading the party) upon a circular opening among the hills, beneath which was what appeared to be a table land of dark earth or peat.

"A swamp," said Harry Girdwood.

"It looks like a bog," said young Jack, "but yet I can see something moving."

"It is water."

"A lake."

"Yes."

"How black—how dismal it looks."

It did, indeed.

Silent and gloomy, like a table of metal, spread the darkling waters of this strange lake.

Wild and desolate was it in the extreme.

On every side it was enclosed by towering heights, bare, treeless and solemn.

Both boys were plainly impressed with the dull solemnity of the scene.

"What does that look like?" said young Jack, in a low voice to his companion.

"I don't know—Lerna, the famous marsh, near Argos."

"No; it was there that Hercules killed the Hydra, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"I should like to think that it was like that," he said, glancing around at the brigands about them.

"And that you or we might emulate the example of Hercules."

"Ah, yes."

"But our enemies are more than hydra-headed."

The other glanced eagerly about him before he spoke.

"It is a question; I should almost sooner run a good deal of risk than be marched quietly off."

Now at this present juncture there was a signal from the topmost hills, and upon a trumpet note being blown in answer by one of the brigands, dark, dusky forms appeared upon every side.

Men sprang up in the rocky hills all round the dark waters of the lake, as promptly as the kilted savages responded to the summons of their chieftain, Rob Roy Macgregor Campbell.

Whatever wild fancies the two boy prisoners might have had in their minds, this startling phenomenon effectually drove them away.

And fortunate it was, too, for them.

Hunston called a halt.

The men were nothing loth.

The road they had traversed was steep and rugged, and it had perhaps told less upon the two boy prisoners than upon any of the party.

The brigands sat and refreshed.

They made a hearty meal of cold meat and coarse bread and herbs, and they drank of their wine from the skins until their swarthy faces flushed purple; and whilst they feasted and made merry, the captives were constrained to look on—in envy perhaps—but not to share the banquet.

Hunger fell upon them.

But the boys guessed that their sufferings would only give pleasure to their captors, and so they kept their troubles in this particular to themselves.

"Tighten your belt," said Harry Girdwood; "squeeze your stomach, Jack, and don't let these wolves see that we are peckish."

"Not me."

Taking the hint, Jack drew in a reef.

The two young comrades were, in reality, not much improved by this movement; but they thought they were, and imagination goes a great way.

But hunger is an intruder whose importunities there is no denying for any length of time, and so it fell out that, in spite of their brave and manful efforts at keeping up each other's pluck and spirit, he gnawed at their vitals in a way which reduced not only their stamina, but their spirits.

"This is to be our prison," said Harry Girdwood gloomily; "I feared it would be."

"It is rather like the Lethe than anything else," said young Jack, pointing to the silent water below. "If we remain here long, we shall forget all that has gone before, you may be sure. This is the place to drive us out of our wits more than any spot we could imagine."

"Rather the Styx than the Lethe," said Harry; "banish all hope who enter here."

It was indeed a spot to evoke gloomy reflections, and the boys were in a frame of mind to indulge in such.

This place, they found, was fixed upon as the camp of the brigands, who had felt it imperative to change their headquarters, since they had positive proof that their old stronghold was known to their enemies.

Here they were not in danger of surprise, for their men commanded every outlet, and it must be a rare chance to take them by surprise.

Within a couple of hours of the arrival there of the two boy prisoners and their captors, the whole of the band sauntered down in twos and threes, until the vast host that they formed fairly amazed young Jack and his companion.

"Let us fix a sum on them," said Toro, "so that their parents and friends may release them if they wish."

This was approved of by one and all of his hearers.

There was only a single dissentient voice.

This was Hunston's.

"If you attempt to temporise," he said, "you will be beaten, for sure."

"Why?"

"Beaten by whom?"

"Harkaway."

"Bah!"

"Such is my experience of him," returned Hunston.

"Nonsense; why shouldn't we make sure of the money if we can?"

"Why not?" said Hunston; "if we can, which I doubt."

"Harkaway is a most affectionate parent, I know well," said Ymeniz; "I have heard it from a dozen different sources. Once let him know that his son and the other boy are in danger, and he will pay any money for their release."

"Well." said Toro, "let us say five hundred pounds."

"Five hundred?"

"Yes."

"Not enough."

"How much is five hundred pounds?" demanded Ymeniz.

"Twelve thousand, five hundred francs," replied Toro.

"Very good, very good; a fair sum."

"Is it not?"

"How shall we claim it?"

This question was put to the assembled council generally, and answered eagerly by Hunston.

"Let me do that?"

"Very good, Hunston; be yours that task."

"But remember our old friend Tomaso is still in the power of these cursed English."

Toro paused, and from all the band arose the unanimous cry—

"Tomaso must be rescued or be avenged!"

Hunston addressed himself to the business with considerable interest.

It is not necessary for me to go through the correspondence which took place, nor to dilate upon the ingenious manner in which the letters were delivered by Hunston or his emissaries.

With his wonted shrewdness, he watched for the result of his last threatening letter himself, and after making the most careful observations, he descended to the appointed spot and fetched the letter containing the money.

The five hundred pounds were there, in five Bank of England notes of one hundred each.

"Five hundred pounds," he said, his vicious eyes glistening as he touched the crisp new notes, "five hundred pounds! Heaven, what a sum!"

He looked about him.

He was alone.

Not a soul in sight.

"Why should I share it?" he said; "why should it not all be mine?"

Why indeed?

Because he feared his lawless companions.

Nothing more.

"I'll take up a hundred, one hundred," he muttered, half aloud, "and this shall serve a double purpose. The four hundred shall remain mine, and the one hundred theirs, But seeing that they can get nothing out of Harkaway, they will be the more easily worked upon, and I shall achieve all I want at one stroke; a noble notion."

Back he went, and then began a comedy which Hunston went through like a veteran actor, a comedy that was destined to have a tragic finale.

"Toro," said Hunston to the Italian, "to you I may speak as the leader of these brave fellows; also to you, comrades in general, I may talk without fear of my motives being in any way misconstrued."

"Speak on."

"Here is the reply of the cold-blooded Englishman Harkaway to my demand for ransom, and you are all my witness that I did not exact a very unreasonable sum."

"No, no."

"What says he?"

"He sends this," returned Hunston, holding up a single hundred pound note: "one hundred pounds—two thousand, five hundred francs—in a word, one-fifth of the sum we demanded, and with it a letter."

A murmur of indignation followed.

"What does the letter say?" they demanded.

"He defies us; he offers this sum, but says that if the boys are not released before sunrise, he will come and fetch them."

"Let him come."

"So say I; but what shall be done with the boys meanwhile ?"

A momentary silence followed; then came the deep stern words—

"Let them die."

This speaker was Toro.

The Italian's words were eagerly caught up.

"Aye, let them die; but when?"

"When you will," said Hunston; "I care not, so that we are lid of them. We see clearly that there is no counting upon these Harkaway people for the ransom set down by us, however reasonable our demands may be."

"True."

"Then, I say, let them die to-day."

"Impossible," said one of the brigands, stepping forth.

"Why?"

"Because the traitor, Lirico, is to die at daybreak; we can't have two executions so near to each other. Let them all die together."

"Lirico," said Hunston, "and why has he to die? I haven't heard in what he has offended."

"A hateful thing," was the reply of his informant; "Lirico has offended against the foundation rule of the band."

"How?"

"He has kept to himself the booty he has gained, and our law is that any member of the band who shall conceal his booty, or any part or fragment of the same, to the prejudice of his comrades and fellows shall die the death of a traitor."

Hunston was silent.

But had anybody been watching him closely then, they would have noticed that he changed colour.

It was an unpleasant topic to tackle the English ruffian upon, after all that had just taken place.

"Why so silent, comrade?" said an old brigand named Boulgaris, staring Hunston full in the face; "do you not approve?"

"Of what?"

"Of the law."

"I—of course."

"Of course you do," said Boulgaris boldly; "why, you would be the first to approve. Who could approve more of such a law than you, honest Hunston?"

"Who, indeed?"

Hunston winced under the cool scrutiny of the Greek.

Did he know aught about what had taken place?

The idea was utterly absurd.

He (Hunston) had taken too much care that he was not observed for any vulgar pryer like Boulgaris to find a corner from which to spy upon his movements.

Still it gave him a qualm.

"Quite right," said Hunston, boldly; "quite right and just; any man who can play false to his fellows deserves to die the death."

"Hear, hear! Let him die."

"And the two boys shall die with him?" asked Boulgaris.

"They shall, at daybreak."

This was put to the assembled throng, and agreed to by all, when suddenly a single dissentient voice was heard.

"They shall not die."

The brigands looked up, and a boy appeared upon the scene, the boy who had lured the luckless lads to their present unlucky pitch.

"Theodora."

"Aye, Theodora," responded the boy—or rather girl—for a girl it was, as you have long since discovered, although in male attire.

"And why shall they not die, Theodora?" asked Hunston.

"Ask rather why they should die?" she said sadly. "What have they done to merit death?"

"Hullo, hullo!" ejaculated Toro.

"Why, whatever is the meaning of this change of tone? I thought that you, like all others, were most eager for revenge."

"Why?"

"Why? Need I already remind you of the ample cause for vengeance which we all have?"

"No," returned Theodora, calmly. "But those boys are innocent of harm."

"Then why did you lure them to their destruction?"

The woman sighed.

"Ah, why indeed?"

"Yes, why?"

"I was wicked, cruel, base, deceptive," she replied; "words cannot paint my wickedness. But I was punished for my badness by peril such as I have never yet known; and when really running a danger which I thought but to affect the better to lure our destined victims to their doom, I was rescued from the grave by them, by the very boys—brave, brave boys—whom I sought to destroy. Now," she added, turning bodily to the assembled brigands, "can you ask me why I have changed my tone?"

A dozen voices were heard at once, and all uttered different sentiments.

"These prisoners are mine by right," said Theodora, "for I have taken them, I have brought them here; it is for me to dispose of them."

Some few of the brigands agreed to this; but the majority, overruled by Toro and Hunston, denied her jurisdiction altogether in the matter.

The girl made a passionate appeal to the assembled brigands. But all in vain.

They were resolved.

It was put to the vote, and the result was easily foreseen.

Death.

Death by a majority of voices as of ten to one.

"Death at the gibbet," exclaimed Hunston, triumphantly.

"Aye, aye."

"Nay," cried the girl, with superhuman energy, "these two poor boys have shown themselves better men than most here present. See how they bear their fate. Be men, then, and if they must die, let them die like soldiers."

An animated discussion ensued on this, and finally it was agreed that the hapless boys should die next morning with the traitor Lirico.



CHAPTER XXIV.

QUALMS—THE EVE OF THE END—A SAD VIGIL

Hunston did not close his eyes throughout the night.

The words of Boulgaris rang in his ear like a knell.

Lirico was to die for concealing a part of the spoil which he had made.

What of the four hundred pounds which he, Hunston, had kept back out of the sum fixed upon for the ransom of the two boys, and which Harkaway had deposited in the spot agreed upon?

He knew the desperate men he had cast his lot with far too well to suppose for a moment that there could be any hope for him did they chance to discover his secret. Would they?

The bare possibility of it made him shudder.

His hand nervously sought the hidden notes, which were concealed in his chest, and the faintest rustle of the crisp new paper caused his cheek to pale.

Once he dozed off, but barely were his eyes closed ere he was troubled by dreams that caused him to toss about and moan as if in great bodily pain, and when he awoke, he, dared not try to sleep again, so he arose and went to look at prisoners.

The two unfortunate boys were awake, and talking to the now disconsolate author of all their troubles, the disguised girl whom they had lost themselves in saving.

"Hullo, madam," exclaimed Hunston, brutally, "what do you do here, talking with the condemned brats."

"I am seeking to comfort them," replied the girl; "to prepare them for the butchers."

"Butchers? Humph!"

"I mean you and those who are persuaded by you."

"No matter; you had better leave them now to themselves."

"At whose command?" demanded the woman, drawing herself up proudly.

"At mine," returned Hunston, who was fast losing his temper.

"What, you dare!" ejaculated the girl, with flashing eyes.

"Dare!" laughed Hunston. "Will you go away and leave the boys alone, or must I carry you away?"

The girl's colour forsook her cheek, and she drew nearer to Hunston, and the latter, startled at her expression, drew back.

"These unhappy boys are doomed to die at daybreak," she said, "but if you stay a moment longer to molest me or annoy them, I will summon the men and tell them that you would insult me and murder them."

"It is false."

"I know it," replied the woman, fiercely, "but do you suppose I would hesitate at that? And what would your life be worth?—what, I ask? Why, they would wait for no explanation; your presence here would be sufficient; they would tear you asunder. Begone, craven blackheart. Go."

Hunston muttered something indistinctly, but he bent his head before the storm of this fierce woman's wrath and slunk away.

She turned to the boys.

"My poor fellows," she said, tenderly, her manner changing as if by magic, "my unfortunate, brave lads, what can I do for you?"