"You have earned our gratitude," returned Harry Girdwood, "by the whipping you gave that cur."

"Indeed you have," chimed in young Jack, with warmth.

"How like a beaten hound he looked," said the woman. "But how can I ever hope to be forgiven by you?"

"We have nothing to forgive."

"Aye, but you have; you have saved my life and I take yours."

"Not you."

"I am the cause of it indirectly."

"Perhaps; but at any rate the innocent cause."

The girl's distress at this was painful to witness.

She had conceived a great affection for the two boys, her youthful preservers, and she could not tell them how far she was guilty.

She dare not avow that she had started out upon that risky trip to sea with the intention of simulating the peril which afterwards became too real, and so decoying the two boys as she had done.

No; she dare not avow this.

She had soon repented of her share in that black business.

Soon—aye, but that soon was all too late.

Too late!

The thought wrung her heart, and she bent her head and wept.

"This is very painful," said young Jack.

"It is, Jack," said his comrade, in a broken voice. "I don't like to see a boy crying."

They were still ignorant of their friend's real sex.

* * * * *

"What is that?"

"What?"

"Don't you hear?"

"I do; it sounds like some heavy instrument beating the earth close at hand."

"Yes, like digging."

The three started at the word.

No sooner was it uttered than the meaning of it struck them all three, and sent a chill to their very hearts.

Digging at that fatal hour, so short a time before daybreak, could have but one significance.

Grave-making; and if the two hapless boys quailed at that awful sound, can we accuse them of cowardice?

No.

Assuredly not.

Who amongst the bravest could listen to such a sound unmoved?

To have been callous to such a thing would have shown them mere senseless logs, nothing more.

"You know what that is?" she said, in a faint voice.

"We do," responded Harry Girdwood.

"And you?"

This was to young Jack.

"Yes."

The reply of both was given in a grave voice, befitting such a solemn occasion.

Yet their voices never trembled, never faltered.

She understood them well, and her expression showed clearly as words the admiration she felt for their courage.

"I am glad that you know the worst," she said, in a low but impressive tone, "for the unpleasant task of telling you is not left for me. Have you any thing to say before—"

"No."

"All that I would say," remarked young Jack, "that since they mean assassinating us, I hope that they will do their work cleanly, and not put us to the torture."

"At the worst," added his companion, "we shall not give them the satisfaction of seeing us beg and pray for mercy."

"It would be useless."

"We know it."

"And so shall not give them the chance of saying that two Englishmen showed the white feather."

"Bravely spoken," said the girl, "but the night is growing old, and so listen to what I have to say."

And then she made a communication which considerably startled them.

At first they listened as though in a dream, for they could not believe in the reality of what she said, but they were not sorry to believe in its truth.

The nature of this communication will appear later on.

"And now," she said solemnly, "the time is short. I must insist upon your sleeping. Rest, and I will watch by your side. A friendly voice at least shall call you for the last dreadful trial of all."



CHAPTER XXV.

THE TRIPLE EXECUTION—A SOLDIER'S GRAVE—TORO'S LUCK.

Morning dawned.

The eastern sky was only just tinged with the light of the rising sun when the bugle call summoned the firing party.

The party in question was composed of six men commanded by Hunston.

He had insisted upon having this post, one that none of the brigands envied him—so that he might gloat over his victims at the last hour.

The two boys were aroused with some difficulty, for strange though it may appear, they were sleeping soundly when the fatal moment approached.

"Come," said the girl, in a hollow voice. "Lirico is already on the ground."

"We mustn't be behindhand then."

"No," added Harry Girdwood; "they must see how Englishmen can face death."

And then, led by the girl who had, to her sorrow, brought them to this dire pass, they came to the spot where the tragedy was to take place.

Lirico, the traitor, was already pinioned, and he stood with his eyes bandaged upon the edge of the grave which was shortly to receive his lifeless body.

Upon either side of this was a newly-dug trench or grave.

One of these was for young Jack.

The other was for his stout-hearted comrade.

They needed no telling what to do now; but each went through his part in the horrible ceremony as though it had been previously rehearsed.

Not a word was spoken.

The only signs of emotion which the boys exhibited were when they silently wrung each other's hands before taking their places before their graves.

The girl passed before each of the unhappy victims and shook them by the hand one after the other. "Courage," she said, in a low but firm voice, "courage, brave hearts."

"Bandage their eyes," said Hunston.

"No; let us look upon our fate," said young Jack.

"The old Harkaway brag to the very last," said Hunston, with a sneer.

"You don't like to look a Harkaway in the face, assassin!" retorted the boy.

"Fool!" exclaimed Hunston, "since you want it, you shall have it. Fire at the middle first. They can have an opportunity of seeing a real man die before their eyes. It may give them a relish for their own share to follow."

The word was given.

"Ready! Present! Fire!"

The six rifles flashed simultaneously.

Then, as the wounded Lirico was struck, he bounded into the air and fell back into the grave—stone dead!

Hunston stood smiling grimly, even while the very men turned sick at the butchery they were forced to enact.

He, with fiend-like satisfaction, noticed the sickly pallor of the two boys' faces, and it gladdened his black heart.

"They aren't quite so happy now," he muttered. "Now it is they suffer. Oh, if Harkaway were here too. It would make me drunk with joy."

The girl turned to young Jack.

"Courage," she whispered, "courage; be bold."

And then turning to the firing party, she said—

"Come, do not delay. It is needless to prolong the sufferings which these poor boys feel already."

"Silence, and begone!" exclaimed Hunston fiercely. "You have no right to speak to the men."

"I have every right," returned the woman, boldly. "Silence yourself, I say, and know your place!"

Her voice and manner half-awed Hunston, who fell back a pace or two.

"My poor comrades," she went on, addressing the firing party, "this work is not to your taste. I'll load for you."

So saying, she set to work to reload the rifles, which were piled now.

And she observed the very greatest care in this task.

"Not a shot must miss," she said to the men of the firing party, earnestly. "Every bullet must have its billet. We have to murder, but even then not to torture, these unhappy boys."

Hunston smiled sardonically.

"How very tender-hearted you have become," he said, with a sneer of contempt.

"Silence!" said the girl, turning fiercely upon him, so that he actually quailed before her indignant gaze. "Silence, I tell you, bully—butcher—villain—silence!"

Hunston would have retorted at this, but prudence bade him be silent.

For the girl was a great favourite with all the men, and he feared that they might take up the cudgels for her in a way which might be unpleasant for him.

"So, young Harkaway," he said, jeeringly, "you wish to see it all go before you. It prolongs your pleasure, and so I can't complain. This one next."

He pointed with his sword to Harry Girdwood.

The latter looked deadly pale but resolute.

"Ready! Present! Fire!"

Young Jack turned half round, and saw his brave comrade clap his hand to his breast, totter and fall.

A cry rose to his lips.

But he stifled it ere Hunston should have this small gratification.

Hunston looked round at young Jack, and he positively bit his lips with sheer vexation to find that he was unable to make the boy betray the least sign of fear.

"You keep it up well, boy," said Hunston, "but I know well that you are ready to sink through the ground with fear, nevertheless."

"Liar!"

Hunston flushed purple.

But he kept down his rage.

"As you are going to die, boy, I may let you off the birching which your impertinence merits. You have all the old brag of your father."

Jack was silent.

"All his deceit; all his sham and falseness—"

The boy said nothing.

"All his craven-hearted, black-hearted villany." But young Jack saw through the other's game clearly enough.

He held his peace.

He knew well enough that the real way to enrage the ruffian was to appear unmoved at his taunts.

So when Hunston had exhausted his expletives and was about to give the word to the firing party, young Jack spoke.

"One moment."

Hunston made the men a sign to ground arms.

The boy was about to beg for mercy.

Here, then, there was one chance of wreaking his spite upon the lad.

Now he should be able to feast his ears with the unhappy boy's piteous appeals, for he well judged that, once he began to plead for pity, all his fortitude would go.

"Before they fire," said young Jack, pale but resolute, as his comrade Harry had just shown himself, "one word."

"Go on."

"I can speak as one on the brink of the grave," said the boy, "and so my words may be prophetic. Before many weeks are over, you shall kneel and sue for mercy to my father, and it will be denied you. You will grovel in the dirt, and crawl and cringe in abject misery; but it will be hopeless, and in the bitterness of your despair you will think of this moment, and curse the hour you ever molested one of my race, or anyone in whom we are interested."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Hunston, in a boisterous and forced manner; "quite a sermon. Preaching is a new quality in the Harkaways. It is unfortunate that you are to be cut off in your early youth. You would soon bloom into an odd mixture of Puritan and bully."

But he could not provoke his victim.

Having said all he had to say, young Jack coolly folded his arms and waited the end of the tragedy, apparently not hearing what Hunston was saying.

* * * * *

"Make ready! Present! Fire!"

As the word was spoken, the volley was fired.

The unhappy boy—the last of the three victims—threw up his arms, and fell back into the new-made grave yawning to receive him.

Poor young Jack!

The body did not even quiver after it had fallen into the grave.

Apparently death had been instantaneous.

"Fill in the graves and cover up the carrion," said Hunston; "and then let us get away and make merry."

The girl stepped up and interposed herself.

"Begone and leave the rest to me,"

"To you?"

"Aye."

"What for?"

"It was so agreed," said one of the men.

"Let us pray for them now," said the girl. "Surely, having destroyed their bodies, you do not wish them any further harm."

She waited for no reply, but falling upon her knees, was soon lost in holy meditation, her hands clasped fervently, her head bent upon her breast.

The men doffed their hats reverently and glided noiselessly away.

Hunston feared to shock their superstitious susceptibilities, and so he followed them in silence.

* * * * *

For several hours she was left to her meditations.

And when, some hours later in the day, Hunston returned to the spot, the three graves were filled in.

Over those of the two unhappy lads some pious hands had raised a rough wooden cross.

"The first to taste our vengeance," muttered Hunston.

"May the others soon follow," said a voice at his elbow.

He started.

It was Toro.

"This is the turn of our luck," said the Italian, exultingly.

"I hope so."

"I feel it so. The rest of the hated race will soon follow, if we have the least good fortune."



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE BRIGAND'S RECRUIT—HUNSTON'S PERIL—DELICATE GROUND.

"Who is it?"

"Where?"

"Below; down that crevasse. Look again."

"I see; it is Ymeniz."

"It is, it is."

The speakers were two of the brigands who were plying their lawless trade; and passing along a mountain ridge, a short time after the execution, they suddenly espied the body of a man lying flat upon his back.

Upon his breast was something white, which they could not quite distinguish.

The form and features, however, they had no particular difficulty in recognising.

It was their comrade Ymeniz, they could see well.

"He has fallen down there," said one to the other.

"It looks so."

Now, strange to relate, that although they said this to each other, they both had misgivings.

The body lay in such a strange attitude.

However, they soon proceeded to solve the problem, and set all doubts at rest.

Passing down to a lower ridge by a circuitous path well known to them both, they reached the bottom of the crevasse.

"He is dead—murdered!"

"Hah!"

"And here, by all the powers of evil!" exclaimed the brigand, "here is the confession of the murderer."

"A confession!" exclaimed the brigand.

"Yes. Take it," said the other, lifting the paper from the blood- stained breast of the slain Ymeniz, "take it and read for yourself."

"Nay, you know I am no scholar; do you read it out to me."

In a sonorous voice the brigand read the following document—

"I, Jack Harkaway, proclaim war to the knife against the murderers of my boys. The villains Hunston and Toro will tell you all that I never threatened in vain. One of your number shall die daily until I have exterminated you root and branch. No amount of precaution upon your part can avert your doom. You claimed a ransom of five hundred pounds for my son. I have paid the sum demanded, and you have played me false; therefore, you die. To the last man you shall perish. You shall learn to look forward to your fate in fear and trembling; and day by day the survivors, anticipating their turn, shall learn to curse the hour that they were led to murder my two innocent boys. Beware!"

The two brigands looked at each other half scared.

"What of that, do you think?"

The other looked nervously around him before replying.

"It is grave."

"Very."

"Poor Ymeniz! he has been stabbed in the back."

"No; here is the death wound below the heart."

"Then he has not been taken by surprise."

"Evidently."

The two men made their way with all despatch to their camp, carrying the paper with them.

The sensation it caused is indescribable when Boulgaris read it aloud to the assembled brigands.

"Death to the Englishman Harkaway!" exclaimed one of the brigands, impetuously.

The cry was caught eagerly up by all—save one.

This one was Hunston.

It was not that he hated Harkaway less intensely than his comrades that he remained silent.

It was simply that in his fierce denunciation of the brigands, Harkaway had told about the money.

Lirico was barely cold in his grave for an offence which, beside that of Hunston's, was a mere paltry pilfering.

The secret was in great danger now.

If they should believe Harkaway, then his (Hunston's) position was indeed critical. What should he do? What would be better than to cast doubt and derision upon Harkaway's dark menaces.

"The man is a charlatan, a humbug," he said, curling his lip; "and his purpose is more than accomplished could he but know it, which he does not, I am glad to say. He would laugh rarely could he but know what an alarm you have taken at this message."

But they would not let this pass unchallenged.

"It is no joke, Hunston," said Boulgaris, seriously.

"How do you know?" demanded Hunston, quickly.

"The death of Ymeniz is proof enough. That is no joke."

"True!"

"Moreover, I for one feel sure that this Englishman Harkaway speaks truly."

"How?"

"In saying that he gave the ransom."

"In full?"

"In full."

"Why, where, then, do you think it is?" demanded Hunston, with an assumption of boldness, yet trembling as he waited the reply.

Boulgaris answered with a single word—

"Stolen."

A murmur ran round the assembled throng.

"What!" cried one of the brigands, stepping forward; "is it possible that we have more thieves and traitors amongst us?"

"Never!"

"Death to all traitors, say I!"

"And I."

"And I."

And so the cry went round from mouth to mouth.

Hunston trembled for his very life.

"Who can have stolen the money?" demanded one of the men, fiercely.

"Who but he who was charged to fetch the money from the old well, the spot appointed—who but the comrade that fetched the money?"

"Why," exclaimed Toro, turning to Hunston, "then it was—"

He paused.

Hunston turned heartsick as every eye was directed towards him.

"Never!" exclaimed Hunston, fiercely.

This was a critical moment for the latter.

For awhile his life hung upon a very slender thread.

Hunston, to begin with, was no favourite.

But he was a lucky villain.

At the very moment that matters were looking so very unpleasant, their attention was called off in another direction.

"Do you hear that? The sentry is giving the alarm."

They were all accustomed to danger, and were on the qui vive ere the alarm was fairly sounded.

Pistols, knives, and blunderbusses were called into requisition.

And all was ready to give an intruder a warm reception.

Toro climbed up a crag and peered over.

Then turning to the men, he motioned them to silence.

"Hush! He comes this way. Back!"

And then, at a sign from him, every man glided quickly, silently off, and concealed himself behind a rock, or bush, or wherever a favourable place was to be discovered.

Then a stumbling noise was heard, and a man crept through a gap and hobbled on to the scene.

He was a strange, wild-looking fellow, with long fair hair and eyebrows almost as light as an albino's.

His cheeks were fair, but much sunburnt, and almost destitute of beard.

He progressed with difficulty, and leant heavily upon a staff cut roughly from a tree, and from its green bark and slovenly-stripped branches only recently cut, too.

He was apparently a young man, and if he progressed with so much difficulty, the natural inference was that fatigue and perhaps illness was the cause of it.

He was dressed in a very tattered outlandish costume.

He carried a long knife stuck in his waistband, but he had no arms beyond this.

His arms were bare to the elbow, and the left one was bleeding from a flesh wound that did not look many hours' old.

Evidently he was no milksop, for although the wound was pretty severe, the only care he had taken was to tie it loosely up with a strip of white rag.

Perhaps he had lost blood and began to feel it, for, as he drew into the open, he dropped heavily down upon a rocky seat and gave a sigh or grunt of relief.

"I'm not sorry to come to an anchor."

He spoke in English.

But if he thought to rest here in peace, he was destined to be disappointed.

Barely had he stretched out his legs, when he was startled by a sound at his side, and glancing up, he found a huge, black-muzzled fellow towering above him and covering him with a long-barrelled horse pistol.

"Hullo!"

Out came his long knife instanter.

"Move or speak, and I pull the trigger," said the brigand.

"Thank you for nothing," said the stranger.

"Who are you?" demanded the brigand.

"Just what I was about to ask you," returned the stranger, lightly.

"Whence come you?"

"Precisely the question I was going to put."

The brigand's colour came and he grew vicious.

"If you are wise, you'll not try to fool me," he said.

"If you have any wit," retorted the new-comer, "you'll not come pestering me with questions; I'm not in the humour, and when I am put out, I'm dangerous. Good-morning."

The brigand, finding he could get nothing out of the eccentric stranger, fell back a pace or two, and the latter thought that he was to be molested no further.

He was mistaken.

Nor was he long in making this discovery.

The withdrawal of the brigand was a signal for a regular mob of the lawless men to make their appearance.

Every nook and cranny about the opening was guarded by armed men; and now, when the cool stranger glanced up-wards, he found a dozen rifles, pistols or blunderbusses pointed at him.

Still he did not appear disconcerted.

He only glanced about him with a coolness that was remarkable, and muttered—

"Dear, dear, how very attentive these dear boys are."

Before he could speak to them, however, they stepped out from their hiding places, and with their firearms still making him their target, they advanced to close in upon him.

When he saw the object of this manoeuvre, he jumped up and plucked out his knife.

"So, so," he cried, "sold, eh? Come on, all of you."

"What does he say?" demanded one of the Greeks, turning to Toro.

"He challenges us all at once to fight him."

"Why, the fellow's mad or an Englishman."

"Yes," said Hunston, "an Englishman. That makes him feel he is a match for a mob of Greeks, and I don't know that it is all madness."

Suddenly the stranger appeared to liven up.

"What, you are not the police, then?" he ejaculated.

"Police!" said Hunston, contemptuously turning round to the speaker.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, I took you for the police in pursuit of me."

"What have you been doing?"

"Am I among friends?"

"We are brigands, but you can speak freely."

"Well, then, I am an unlucky wretch who has been forced to bolt away from his master and his living—and all for nothing."

"What do you call nothing?" said Toro.

"A trifling peccadillo, sir; nothing more, I assure you—merely a few pounds and a paltry bit of jewellery belonging to an Englishwoman of the name of Harkaway."

They all pricked up their ears at this name.

"Hullo, hullo!" exclaimed Toro; "what is this? Stand forward, man. Do you know Harkaway?"

"I do—to my sorrow," replied the man; "he was my master."

The brigands all pricked up their ears at this.

"Harkaway's servant, were you?" said Hunston, eagerly.

"I was, sir."

"And what may be your object in coming here?"

"To join you."

"Do you know—"

"Who you are? Yes, of course; at least I can guess it—I'm uncommon good at guessing."

And he chuckled again.

"The fellow's an idiot," said Hunston.

"Do you bring any information to us?"

This question was put by the Italian bully and brigand, and to him the stranger turned with an elaborate bow.

"What do you want?"

"To get hold of Harkaway himself," cried Toro.

"Then I can help you to do this."

"You can—then money shall be yours," said Toro.

"I hope so; why, I've got that already from them."

"You have!—much?"

"A pretty lump. Look."

It was a bag of money composed of pieces of copper, silver and gold.

It was a good round sum, and it looked considerably more than it was.

"Is that all?"

"I have these few nicknacks," added the stranger, producing a bundle tied in his pocket-handkerchief.

They tore open the bundle eagerly and it was found to contain various articles of plate, a silver candlestick, and some jewels.

"Those," he said, pointing to the latter, "belonged to Mrs. Harkaway, and I believe she set some store by them—they were wedding presents."

"So much the better," exclaimed Toro, exultingly.

"So say I," added Hunston.

"Is all this a fair amount for a fellow to bring as his entrance fee?" demanded the stranger.

"What say you, comrades?" demanded Toro of the bystanders. "You are the best judges. Shall we admit this man in as a brother and a comrade?"

"We will," shouted the brigands.

"Agreed on all hands?" said the Italian chief.

"Agreed."

It was answered as if with a single voice.

"Good," said Toro; "do you, Boulgaris, prescribe the oath."

The oath, which was administered in Greek, was not at all understood by the novice, but he subscribed to it cheerfully.

"You swear to devote your life to the destruction of your enemies," said Hunston.

"I do," responded the new brigand, with fervour.

"Enough. What is your name?"

"Geoffrey Martin."

"Geoffrey Martin," repeated Toro; "the name has a ring about it that I like. Now understand, the end of the Harkaways draws near; one has already paid the forfeit."

"Who?" cried the stranger.

"Two!" said a voice.

The brigands turned and beheld Diana, the widow of Mathias.

"Two have already fallen, for I myself struck the wife of this hated Harkaway to the heart with my dagger," cried the fierce woman.

And she then recounted (as we have done in a previous chapter) how she gained admittance to the Harkaway mansion, concealed herself in Mrs. Harkaway's chamber, and dealt her the fatal blow.

To all this the brigands' new recruit listened calmly enough.

When, with an air of triumph, Diana concluded her narration, the brigands cheered loudly.

"Another of our hated foes dead. Three cheers for the brave Diana!"

"Certainly," said Geoffrey Martin politely.

And his voice was heard in the general shout.

"Now, gentlemen," said he, when silence was once more restored, "allow me to correct one very slight error in the statement of this good and valorous lady."

"What is that?" demanded Toro.

"Her narrative is quite correct, with this little exception—it was not Mrs. Harkaway who was killed."

Diana turned pale, and uttering a wail of disappointment, sat down.

Hunston, after venting a few fearful imprecations, said—

"Then I hope and trust it may have been the wife of that confounded Harvey."

"It was not, and to tell you the truth, I am rather glad of it, for, do you know I have almost fallen in love with her?"

"Cheek!" muttered Hunston. "Well, who was it, then?"

"You must know I was waiting on them at the dinner table, when Mrs. Harkaway expressed a wish that her fan, which she had forgotten, might be brought.

"I was going to call some of the female servants, but Harkaway himself went and before he had been gone a minute, we heard him scream out—

"Help! Murder!"

Away rushed Harvey and that long American fellow, Jefferson, while Mrs. Harkaway fainted.

But in a few minutes the three came back with the news that Mrs. Harkaway's maid—Marietta by name—had been killed.

"No fault of yours, madam, for the girl had been dressing herself in some of Mrs. Harkaway's clothes, and no doubt she looked as much a lady as her mistress."

"What then?" demanded Diana.

"The police took the matter in hand, and are now searching everywhere for the murderer."

"Let them search," said Diana, with a scornful laugh.

There was silence for a time; then Diana asked—

"Did you hear anything of Tomaso?"

"Yes. He is condemned to die."

"When?" demanded Toro.

"The date is kept secret, so that you may have less chance of rescuing him."

Toro growled an oath and departed.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE RECRUIT WORKS BRAVELY—HARKAWAY's VENGEANCE—"HE NEVER FORGETS A DEBT."

The brigands soon found that they had made an invaluable acquisition in their new recruit.

The day following his admission into their honorable fraternity, he brought in an addition to his already handsome booty.

This was in the shape of a lady's reticule, containing a rich prize in money, and more jewels.

"I came across my late mistress," said Geoffery Martin in explanation; "she had ventured out of the town with her new maid, and so I fleeced them royally. I did not leave them a stiver; moreover I secured this."

So saying, he spread out before them a newly-printed placard, which, translated, ran as nearly as possible in this wise—

"FIVE THOUSAND FRANCS REWARD

"Will be paid to the police or to any private person, who will secure, or give such information as may lead to the capture of, one Geoffrey Martin, lately a valet in the service of Mr. John Harkaway."

Then followed a description of his person, walk, and mode of speech.

"The said Geoffrey Martin having absconded with a large sum of money, besides property of great value, it is the duty of every man to aid in bringing him to justice."

He chose a good moment for bringing this paper in. There was a large muster of the brigands in camp.

"Five thousand francs reward," he said to his newly-made comrades generally; "you have only to turn me over to the Harkaways, and you can make a small fortune."

"You'll only find good men and true here," said Hunston.

Geoffrey Martin turned upon the latter.

"All?"

There was a hidden significance in his tone which thrilled Hunston.

"I am glad that they are all safe, friend; by the way, what is your name? I haven't heard it yet."

"My name is Hunston, and I'm not ashamed of it."

"No, of course you wouldn't be; so you are Hunston?" he added reflectively.

"Did you know my name?"

"Yes."

"Indeed. Heard your master speak of me, I suppose?"

"Yes; Harkaway and his friend Harvey."

"Harvey," cried Hunston contemptuously; "a paltry, frivolous fool."

"Yes; wasn't he? You should hear him speak of you."

"There was never any love lost between us," said Hunston moodily; "we hated each other most cordially from boyhood."

"Known him so long?" said Martin.

"We were at school together, and at college together," said Hunston.

"College—phew! then you must have been a swell."

"Well," he said haughtily, "and what of that?"

"Oh, nothing; I was only thinking."

"What were you thinking?"

"Why, if I had half your chance of getting on in life, you would never have found me here."

"What do you mean? Are you ashamed of your comrades?"

"No, no, not me," said Martin; "but I should be if I was you. You're a swell, and it's an awful drop for you. I'm only a poor devil—a nobody, and it's a rise in life for me to join your honorable company; give us your hand."

And then, before he could say yea or nay, the new recruit seized Hunston by the hand and wrung it with real or affected warmth.

Hunston strode moodily away, hanging his head.

This singular individual, Geoffrey Martin, appeared greatly interested in the fate of the unfortunate boys, young Jack and Harry Girdwood, and he got Boulgaris to take him to the spot where the crosses had been erected over the graves by the pious hand of Theodora, the girl who had unwittingly lured them to the fatal trap.

"So here you have buried them?" said Geoffrey Martin.

"Yes, poor boys," said Boulgaris.

"Poor boys," echoed Martin in surprise, "poor boys."

"Yes, I see no reason for butchering two children, for they were little more."

The new brigand eyed the speaker rather curiously.

"Have you any pity to spare for Harkaway's boy?"

"And why not?" said Boulgaris. "True, Harkaway's our enemy, and I hate him; I'd like to get the upper hand of him; but we don't want to fight boys. Besides, Harkaway is a good sort of enemy; a bold, daring fellow, not a sneak."

"No, that he isn't," said Geoffrey Martin, with warmth.

"I am sure he'd never murder a boy because the boy's father had wronged him."

"True."

"Besides, there is something in this Hunston I don't like. We are bad enough in all conscience, but this brutal butchery will, perhaps be the ruin of our band."

"Why?"

"Well, we were not loved before; but this brutal deed will make us execrated by the whole country. The government scarcely dare to molest us; they are satisfied at keeping up a show of doing something. But Harkaway is rich and powerful, I am told; English money and English influence will force the government to pursue us, and all for what? Why, for murdering two helpless children, who had done us no wrong; who fell into a trap while saving the life of one of us."

Geoffrey Martin opened his eyes in astonishment.

"Is that true?"

"Yes. Didn't you know the story?"

"No."

"It was the daughter of one of our old comrades, that the boys saved while sailing. Poor girl! If prayers and tears could move men's hearts, hers should have saved the boys."

Geoffrey Martin coughed and blew his nose loudly.

"Ahem!" he said, staring at Boulgaris. "You are a soft-hearted fellow for a brigand."

"Not exactly that either," replied Boulgaris, grinning. "I feel incensed at this deed for its brutality, and for exposing all the band to risks and dangers for the sole purpose of gratifying their revenge."

"Theirs; you mean Hunston's?"

"No; for Toro was interested also in it."

"Toro, Toro," muttered Martin; "why, the name sounds, familiar to me. Of course. They knew this Toro in Italy, I remember. He was one of a band that Harkaway and his friend Harvey exterminated."

"It is true, then, about that band?" said Boulgaris, his eyes flashing eagerly.

"Of course."

"You see, then, from that, what cause we have to dread arousing the enmity of such a man as this Harkaway."

"He is an awkward customer, and that's the fact of it; and I have heard, my brave Boulgaris, that if Harkaway once says he will have revenge, he never fails. Now, let's return."

Back they went together, and as they neared the brigands' camp, they perceived signs of some great commotion,

"What is the matter now?" asked Boulgaris.

"Come with us," replied the first man, "and I will show you."

They silently followed.

Down one of the slopes and then through a narrow pass, and within five minutes' run of the brigands' stronghold, they came upon a number of their men gathered around a long figure stretched upon the ground and covered with a cloak.

The brigand who had brought them there silently drew back the cloak, and showed that the figure was the corpse of one of their comrades who had been on guard there.

"Look, another of our men killed. His death, like the first, has been sudden."

A sure, swift hand had pinned him through the body with a long dagger.

It had pierced his heart, and the point of the blade actually protruded near his shoulder-blade.

"Look there," cried one of the brigands,

"Where?"

"At the handle."

Fastened to the haft of the dagger was a slip of paper, upon which were these words—

"Remember Harkaway never forgets an injury."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE VILLA AGAIN—A MESSAGE FROM THE ENEMY'S CAMP—HOW A SNARE WAS LAID.

Harvey carried his project into execution, and went off, leaving Mrs. Harvey and Mrs. Harkaway under the impression that he was going about the vessel, and making preparations generally for their departure.

They were one and all anxious to be gone from the place, which was for evermore associated in their minds with the mishaps of the last few days.

When Harvey had been absent forty-eight hours, they grew anxious.

But on the morning of the third day, Nabley the detective came with a message from Dick.

He had met him by appointment and brought news.

There was something in Nabley's face which made Harkaway anxious to see him alone.

"Now tell me, Nabley," he said, eagerly, "tell me all. How is Harvey? What does he say of the boys? What is he doing? Has he any plan of action decided?"

"Gently, Mr. Harkaway, gently," said the detective; "you overpower me."

"Oh, Nabley, I say—"

"There, there! don't be impatient. I'll give it all out as fast as ever I can."

"I don't want all," interrupted Jack Harkaway, passionately. "How are my boys? Answer that. Are they safe? No, no! I read it in your face."

And then he dropped heavily into a chair, looking the picture of misery and despair.

Nabley had scarcely a word to say for himself.

The sight of the brave Harkaway so utterly collapsed was more than he could endure.

Jack rallied a little and turned again to Nabley.

"Well, quick, tell me the news."

And then, as Nabley still stammered, he went on—

"I know; save your breath. I knew it; poor boys! poor Harry and my poor brave boy Jack."

"Dirk Harvey bids you keep your courage up," said Nabley; "not to be downcast. It is quite time enough to be down upon our luck when we find out that the worst is true. The boys may yet live."

"No, no," cried Jack; "I fear my poor boys are no more."

"Let us hope they still live, but meanwhile, Mr. Harvey has treated the brigands as though the worst was true."

"How?"

Nabley made a significant gesture with his right arm as though stabbing violently at some unseen enemy.

"What, the brave Dick seeking and taking revenge?" exclaimed Jack.

"Yes. Two of the Greek brigands have fallen by his hand. The rest will follow, be sure of that; and, moreover, they never suspect whose hand has dealt the blow."

"Not suspect!"

"No, his game has been and will continue to be picking them off in single file. He meets one of them alone, and Harvey makes sure of him by his own strong right arm."

"Oh, brave Harvey," said Jack.

"Yes," said Nabley, "it is revenge. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; and I for one should like to see the whole gang food for kites and wolves."

"You have suffered in losing your old comrade," said Harkaway; "judge, then, if you so keenly feel the loss of a friend, what must I feel for my boy—my own flesh and blood."

"Yes," said Nabley; "I have suffered, but I will yet have a bitter revenge on my poor pal's murderers. He was to me a brave and true friend. Poor Pike! he was foully assassinated."

"Yes, Nabley; he was cowardly shot by the villain Toro. But do the brigands know who is now taking revenge on them?"

"Yes; it is told them in black and white. A paper fixed to each carrion carcase tells that this is another proof of Harkaway's vengeance."

Jack's face flushed crimson at these words.

"Well done, Dick; well done, brave old boy," he muttered; "well done!".

"And he tells me that they are in a rare state about it in the camp. It has thrown all the lot of them into the greatest consternation. Hunston has grown very unpopular. It needs very little upon Harvey's part to make sure of him."

"That's brave."

"Now he's growing ambitious. One at a time no longer satisfies him, so he has a scheme for bagging half-a-dozen of the brigands at once."

"How?"

"You know the spot that the boys christened the fig-tree grove."

"I do."

"He pretends to have intercepted a letter (when he "stole" the money and jewels I took him by way of keeping up appearances), which informs him that one of your party—a Mr. Hardy, or Harpy, he pretended—would be passing through the fig-tree grove this evening, with money, on a journey of some importance. As this Hardy or Harpy is a dangerous person, the brigands, on Harvey's advice, are to send six of their best men on the business."

Harkaway's eyes twinkled again at this.

"Now," said Nabley, "we must bait the trap well. I'll be the bait."

"You?"

"Yes."

"But why should you have so dangerous a post?"

"I prefer it," said Nabley, quietly; "besides, although alone, I shall have some staunch and valuable friends with me."

"You speak in paradoxes, Mr. Nabley."

The detective's reply to this was to draw his two hands from his coat- pockets, and in each hand there was a six-shooter.

"Here are twelve lives," said the detective, "and I've six more in here," tapping his breast.

"You're a regular arsenal," said Harkaway, smiling. "But supposing, when you raise your hands, they close upon you and ransack your pockets."

"I have no need to withdraw my hands to use them. I fire through the pockets."

They must have been made with something of this intention, for they were cut in the side seams of the coat which were exceedingly roomy.

"Well, well," said Harkaway, jumping up, "when do we get to work?"

"Now."

"Now?"

"There are no preparations to make, Let Mr. Jefferson be sent for. Both of you get your arms ready, and follow me."

"Good. What arms?"

"Short axe, in case of close work, and rifle each. You'll be more than a match for six Greeks. Besides," he added, with a significant smile, "I shall not be idle."

"Well, well; away with you," cried Jack; "I am all eagerness to be at work. I shall be quite another man when I have had a brush with these beasts."

"Right, sir," cried the detective; "they will find a powerful foe in you."

"Yes, Nabley," cried Jack, "my arm is nerved for this fight, and it shall go hard with me, but I will have my revenge on those Greek devils for the murder of my poor boys."

The door opened and Jefferson entered.

"The very man!" exclaimed Harkaway.

"What, Nabley!" said Jefferson. "What news of Harvey?"

"Mr. Harkaway will tell you all," answered the detective; "my time's up. Follow me as quickly as you can."

"Off with you," said Harkaway, growing quite excited at the prospect of a brush with the enemy.

"The fig-tree grove," said Nabley.

"Understood."

And off went the detective.

"Jefferson," said Jack, "I am now about seeking my foes, and fear not but I will render a good account of my actions, for against the brigands I feel the strength of a giant."



CHAPTER XXIX.

WHEREIN MR. MOLE PHILOSOPHISES AND HAS AN ADVENTURE—THE SCENT OF BATTLE—MOLE THE TERROR OF THE BRIGANDS—ISAAC THE ANNIHILATOR— MOLE'S PRISONER.

It must not be supposed that Isaac Mole was idle all this time.

He heard of the bold doings of his friends Harkaway, Harvey and Jefferson, not to speak of the valuable aid of Nabley the detective, and, figuratively speaking, his very soul panted for glory.

"I feel I could conquer by my single hand half-a-dozen brigands," said Mole to himself; "but still I should prefer to come across a sleeping brigand. But ah, me!" there he sighed deeply, "brigands are as rarely caught asleep as weasels."

Poor old Mole's desire to distinguish himself in this matter was very great.

The plain truth was that poor Isaac was at times badly henpecked.

On these occasions he would assume his most dignified deportment and point to his wooden legs.

"There are proofs, Mrs. Mole," he would say, "that Isaac Mole never shunned the foe in his life."

"Yah, yah!" his spouse would gracefully smile in reply, "dat no fault ob yours, Ikey Mole; de ignorant critters took off your legs because you so often lost your legs before."

"Lost them before?"

"Yes."

"Before they were amputated, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"Why, Mrs. Mole," and he would draw himself up to his full height, "you have been surely indulging in strong waters."

"No, sar; no, Ikey Mole, not dis gal, sar. You lose your legs continual and your head too, sar, with strong waters—sperrits, sar, sperrits."

Poor Mole, he was no match for her, and could only turn for consolation to where he had ever thought to drown dull care.

The bottle.

Mrs. Mole one day surprised him at a sly tipple in the grounds of the villa, and he knew it to his sorrow.

Suddenly popping round the corner, Chloe emptied the contents of a pail over his luckless head.

"Thar, you teetottler! you banderhoper, you good templar! Take a leetle tiddy drop of water with your rum; makes lubly grog well mixed, yah, yah!"

And then the amiable partner of his joys and sorrows bore off her empty pail, leaving her husband to dry and shiver.

"Philosophy, my dear Mole," said the worthy Isaac to himself, "philosophy is your physic; think of Socrates and be at ease—ugh! It's precious damp—too much water. I must have an extra drop to keep the cold out."

And up went that inexhaustible bottle again.

"Ha! Massa Ikey!" said a terrible voice close at hand, "you want some more water to mix with it, do you?"

Mole clutched his bottle, jumped up, and rushed wildly to the house, with his loving spouse after him with another pail of water.

* * * * *

From that time Mole scarcely dared have a suck at his bottle within half a mile of the house.

One afternoon, having dined early, Mole went for a walk in the suburbs of the town, and selecting a favourable spot, he reclined gracefully and dropped off into a gentle slumber.

How long he slept he never knew until this hour.

All he knew was that he dreamt that he was the hero of some gallant adventures, wherein the Greek brigands fell before his sword like corn before the reaper's sickle; yea, as the phantom miscreants succumbed to the onslaught of Don Quixote.

Now, while he slept, a man crawled out of the thicket upon all fours and looked eagerly about him.

The singular part of this incident was that, although the sleeping Mole was within six feet of the spot, he did not perceive him.

Mole was partly hidden by the thickly-grown bushes.

The man dragged himself painfully on; he was badly hurt.

One of his legs was broken, and he carried no less than three pistol bullets in his body; in short, it was little less than marvellous that he was able to crawl at all.

The history of this miserable wretch is soon told.

He had been shot down by the unerring aim of Nabley the detective, and feeling himself badly hurt, he had sought safety in flight while there was yet time.

Dragging his wounded body into the thickly-grown copse, he had lain hidden from sight, baffling the keenest search; and here he had presently lost consciousness.

Loss of blood and anguish had rendered the hapless wretch powerless to help himself, and knowing well what little mercy he had to expect from the Englishmen did they come upon him, had lain there in fear and trembling at every sound until hunger was added to his other torments.

He was nearly blinded with a blow he had received on the face, and now his only hope was to be able to crawl along until he came up with some of his comrades, who would help him to regain their stronghold in the mountains.

"Oh!" he groaned, "a blight upon the hand that struck me down. Oh!"

And the violence of his pains made him give a deep groan.

Mole moved.

Then opened his eyes; and waking, his glance fell upon a ghastly looking object, pale and bloody, dragging itself along.

Coming towards him.

Mole gasped.

This was real, he knew at once; there was no doubt about that.

It was one of the Greek brigands, who had seen him asleep, no doubt, and was about to do for him.

Poor Mole.

Cold beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.

A channel of sweat trickled down the small of his back.

His very wig stood up on his scalp with terror.

What should he do?

Alas! it would soon be all over with him.

The ghastly object crawled on.

A minute more and the wretched man would be up with him.

Now, poor old Mole had on occasions been what is called pot-valiant.

He sought his black bottle for Dutch courage; but before he could raise it to his bloodless lips, the wounded man perceived him, and he gave a cry of terror.

"Keep off!" cried Mole, his teeth rattling like a box of dominoes.

The wounded man, half blind as he was and frightened out of what little sense remained to him, took the black bottle for another revolver such as Nabley had carried; and having a wholesome dread of that terrible weapon, he cowered down, hiding his face on the ground.

"Don't be violent," exclaimed the wretched Mole.

"Mercy, mercy!" implored the brigand.

"Have pity on me," said Mole, in abject terror.

"Do as you please with me," whined the brigand, "only for mercy's sake don't fire again at such a poor wretch as I am."

"Think of my helpless condition," said Mole.

"I am done to death," said the brigand.

"I have two wooden legs," gasped Mole.

"Do what you will with me," cried the brigand, in despair, "only give me water—a drop for mercy's sake."

And he prostrated himself in abject submission before the half dead Mole.

Now the latter could not well misunderstand this attitude; but yet he could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.

"What's his game?" thought Mole; "he is trying the artful dodge on; and he's going to jump up and give me one for myself—not for Isaac. By jingo! What a topper I could give him as he lays there, what a—"

He stopped short.

"My eye! what a hole he has got in his head already."

And then by degrees, in spite of his fears, he was forced to see that this piteous object was not dangerous.

As Mole rose up to look at the brigand, the latter made still more signs of submission, and now he could no longer misunderstand.

It is difficult to say which feeling filled Mole most completely, surprise or satisfaction.

"Oh, oh," cried Mole; "I feel that my heart tells me I have great courage. Yes, I will capture this desperate brigand with my own brave hands."

Here was a slice of luck.

"I'll just drive him home," said the crafty Isaac to himself, "and then see if Chloe will dare to cheek me as she has done of late. I rather flatter myself I shall take it out of Harkaway and Jefferson themselves."

First, though, he meant to have one more suck at the black bottle.

But now again, to his intense surprise, at the sight of the bottle, the wounded man cowered and shrank back in terror.

"Mercy, mercy, great captain," he implored; "as you are strong, be merciful."

"What does he mean?" muttered the astonished Mole.

"Don't fire again," cried the wounded man feebly; "I never hurt one of your friends. I am not responsible for the two boys' death. It was done without my will, for I don't war with boys or women; ah, how I suffer."

"Don't fire! Why, what—ah, I see it; he takes the bottle for a pistol.

"March on then," he said in a terrible voice; "on with you, or I'll fire."

"Don't, don't! mercy!"

"March on then, or I'll blow you to atoms," and he presented the black bottle again.

The Greek held up his hands in supplication and moved on.

"Go on!" thundered Mole.

"I'll be your slave, your abject slave," groaned the brigand; "but oh, great warrior, captain, spare my life."

"I'll eat you alive," hissed the cannibal Mole in his ear, "if you don't walk faster."

"I will, I will."

"Faster still, or you die."

"Pity, pity."

"Bah!" said the fierce Isaac, contemptuously, "why should I have pity on you after killing a score of your fellows with my own hand? Answer me that."

The other was silent.

In this way, the valiant Mole drove the miserable wretch to the villa.

When, after a long and wearisome journey, they got within a stone's throw of the grounds of the house, Mr. Mole was suddenly startled to hear a loud, shrill cry of alarm, and who should appear before them but Mrs. Mole herself?

"Whateber hab you there, Ikey?" she demanded.

"A prisoner, my dear," responded Mole.

"A what?" she exclaimed; "whose prisoner?"

"Mine."

"Yourn?"

"Pardon me, my dear—yours, not yourn. Yes, my prisoner," he added modestly; "I have captured him."

"Where?"

"In the wood."

"What you doing there, Ikey?"

"I was on the hunt. I came across them—five, and a little warm work went forward. The other four," he added significantly, "I have left on their backs, with a pretty decent sign of my handiwork upon all of them."

Chloe gasped.

"You're a drefful man," said Chloe; "and I'll run for Massa Harkaway."

And she dashed down the garden, crying out for Harkaway and Jefferson, and goodness knows who besides.

They were ever upon the qui vive for danger, so down they came with a rush.

"Why, Mr. Mole," exclaimed Jefferson, "you have indeed got a prize."

"However did you manage it?" asked Harkaway, not a whit less startled.

Mole coughed.

"I felt that something was required of me," he answered, with touching dignity and modesty combined, "and so I went on the hunt myself, and I fell foul of a few of the Greek vampires."

"A few," echoed Jefferson, elevating his eyebrows; "a few, you said."

"Yes," replied Mr. Mole, "only five."

"Not more?" said Jefferson, laughing; "then you must have felt rather bad in the inside."

"Never, sir," said Mole, getting more and more dignified; "but I left the enemy rather unhappy, in the inside and the outside."

"Indeed!"

"This is the only survivor out of five; question him closely."

Mole had carefully ascertained that the wounded Greek didn't speak a solitary word of English.

"Ask him, I say, what I did for his comrades; how I larded them—how I peppered them, and made them cry peccavi. Damme, Jefferson, old boy, you should have seen me in action; gad, sir, I'm like an old war-horse at the first sniff of powder. Down they went, first one, then the other. Hang me! if I didn't play at skittles with' em, and I was in that humour, Harkaway, when you can't miss. I'd just cheek the corner pin and make a royal every go. What do you think of that, Harkaway?"

Old Jack smiled.

"I'm not proficient enough in skittles to appreciate the feat," he answered.

"And so you tackled all this lot single-handed?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Ten."

"I thought you said five."

"Ten, sir, ten in all; five came up at first, but in as many moments they were all on their backs; and then up came another five of them, each heavily armed. I never forget; hang it! I couldn't forget such a job as that very easily. Five of the second lot fell at my first fire; I toppled over three more, and the other one—"

What Mr. Mole might in his ardour have been tempted to draw for upon his glowing fancy, it is impossible to say, for just as he reached this point in his fanciful narration, up came Nabley.

"Hullo!" he said, as he caught sight of the wounded brigand; "here's the missing man."

"This," cried the rest of the people present as if with one voice.

"Yes, this is the man I shot down at my first fire; he must have crawled away to hide; why, where is Mr. Mole running to?"

The imaginative old gentleman suddenly vanished from the scene.

He did not relish the presence of such a witness as this.

"This is Mr. Mole's prisoner," said Jefferson, laughing; "you see he has brought in one, after all."

"I bring you something better even then prisoners," said the detective.

"What is that?"

"Good news."

"Speak; what is it?"

"The brigands have given up Hunston."

Harkaway started at the words.

"That is news, indeed," he said; "and now justice demands that the villain shall speedily hang."



CHAPTER XXX

THE FIG-TREE GROVE—A DOUBLE AMBUSCADE—THE LEECH-FISHER—HOW THE TRAP WAS BAITED, AND HOW IT TOOK—SOMETHING LIKE THE OLD FORM— TRIUMPHANT MARCH OF HARKAWAY AND CO.

Within an hour—nay, less—of the foregoing conversation you might have seen an aged man wending his weary way along the high road from Athens towards the mountains.

Thickly-grown fig trees leant over the road, and their well-garnished branches formed a roof of foliage through which no ray of sunlight could penetrate.

He seemed an aged man.

His steps tottered.

It was strange that he did not seek the aid of a stout staff, or walking stick at least.

But no, he preferred to keep his hands in his coat pockets.

Now the coat he wore was a full-skirted frock, much resembling in shape the garment which was worn by our grandfathers, or their fathers, when George the Third was king, with huge pockets in the skirts and lappets.

And into these big pockets the old wanderer's arms were buried up to the elbows.

Perhaps it was because he felt somewhat chilly.

There was a gentle breeze blowing through the trees.

As he went along, he shot sly glances from time to time about him, almost as if he were expecting someone; but he had got nearly over a third of the distance down the fig-tree grove before there were the faintest signs of life about him, and there, apparently overcome by the fatigue of his walk, he dropped down upon a moss-grown bank to rest.

He looked up at the leafy canopy overhead, and sniffed down the sweet odours that floated along on the gentlest of zephyrs.

"Not such bad quarters," he muttered to himself (it was in English that he spoke); "not at all bad. There is only one thing required to make this the happiest day of my life; only one thing, and that is, success in my present undertaking—"

He paused.

"Hark!"

What was it?

He heard a faint rustling in the foliage hard by.

This part of the country was reported to be infested with thieves, the regular hunting grounds of the brigands.

A faint smile lurked round the corners of the old man's mouth, and there was a twinkle in his eye.

"At last," he muttered to himself, "at last!"

Just then there was a noise as of branches being pushed aside and dry twigs being crushed; and forth stepped a stalwart peasant, all in rags and tatters, and placed himself, hat in hand, before the old man.

"Hullo!" exclaimed the latter, "why, where did you come from?"

And yet his surprise looked more assumed than real.

"Charity!" replied the beggar.

"Charity!" echoed the old man, fumbling in his pockets, "by all means; take this, my honest fellow."

So saying, he dropped a piece of money into his open palm.

"Gold! Yes, a golden piece, by all the saints in the calendar."

The beggar's eyes glistened greedily at the piece.

"Heaven bless you!" he exclaimed; "may you live for ever."

"Don't wish me that," responded the old man; "that is no blessing."

"Not with your riches?" said the mendicant

"No."

"You are not easily satisfied then."

And then came forth from the beggar a strange sound.

Was it a signal?

It almost appeared to be the result of a preconcerted arrangement, for while the sound of his laughter echoed down the leafy grove, there was a crashing of branches and general breaking of the dried twigs and undergrowth, and out swarmed a group of men numbering perhaps ten or a dozen.

A villanous-looking mob they were too.

They surrounded the old man and were about to attack him, when the first man who had already profited by the old man's charity warned them off.

"There is no need for violence here," said he, hurriedly, and speaking in their native language; "he will give us up all he has got without so much as dirtying a knife over him."

The old man laughed.

A dry, cynical laugh it was too, and almost calculated to make one believe that he had understood what they said.

"Who are these people?" he asked of the first beggar.

"Poor men worthy of your pious charity, like myself," was the reply.

"Then they shall have it," replied the old man; "more than they expect."

He looked around him rather anxiously, as if expecting some more people to arrive.

Now that glance was observed by more than one of the men, and it was no very difficult matter to excite suspicion in their minds.

"He expects someone," said the foremost man of the party; "he is a spy."

"See how he's looking about him," observed another. "What shall we do?"

"Kill him at once."

"Yes, kill him."

"On to him."

And the speaker himself was the first to act upon his own counsel.

He stepped forward to catch the old man by the coat, but the latter, retreating a couple of paces, appeared startled.

"Keep your distance, my masters," he said; "keep your distance, because I am a very dangerous fellow."

They laughed at this.

"Dangerous, you are?" cried one of them, "oh, oh! what is your name?"

"Why, they call me the leech-fisher."

"The leech-fisher!"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Because I am my own trap and bait and all,"

They looked puzzled.

"He's mad."

"Daft as he can be."

"Poor old fool. But let us get his money if he has any, without killing him."

"Money!" echoed the self-styled leech-fisher. "Here's plenty."

And with these words he threw a pile of gold pieces upon the ground, making all the lawless ruffians' eyes glisten greedily.

"You don't seem yet to understand the parable of the leech-fisher," said the singular old man. "You are dense blockheads."

"Ha, ha, ha! hear him," cried the first beggar. "He is quite a treat."

"What I meant was that I am a trap for you. I have set myself to catch you; I am the bait; the leech fishers are their own bait, I am my own. So now come on, my merry men, my unbelieving pagans."

One of the men here laid a rough hand upon his shoulder, when there was a loud explosion.

A flash and smoke issued from the old man's square coat pocket, and the brigand staggered back.

The rest of the party looked utterly amazed.

What was it?

"An ambuscade," ejaculated one of them.

"No, no; it came from the old man's coat skirt. See, it is smoking."

There was a small round hole in the cloth, and it was singed and smelt of gunpowder.

"Death to the spy!" cried the Greeks.

Two of the brigands fell upon him, one on each side, when lo! there was a double explosion, and with loud cries of pain, each fell back dead.

The rest of the brigands now began to recover from the state of stupefaction into which this sudden and unexpected attack had thrown them, and accustomed to rapid action upon emergencies such as the present, they prepared to fall simultaneously upon this ancient Tartar.

"Oh, oh! What, you think to capture me, do you?" he cried.

In an instant all his feebleness had dropped, and lo! he appeared a very nimble man.

Springing back about six feet, he drew both hands from those capacious pockets to which we recently drew the reader's attention, and then the mystery was revealed.

Each had held a six-barrelled revolver.

"How like you my music, you ruffians?" cried the strange man. "Oh, what would I give if my poor friend Pike was with me now!"

Bang!

Another shot, and another hors de combat.

The foremost of the brigands rolled over, stone dead.

This was warm work.

But as if it had not grown hot enough, there suddenly appeared upon the scene two men armed with rifles and revolvers.

These two men were crack shots, unluckily for the brigands, and they speedily gave proof of their skill.

Two of the mountaineers bit the dust before they could dream of helping themselves.

Not three minutes had elapsed since the firing of the first shot, and already six men were down.

"Surrender!" said one of the new-comers, in a loud, authoritative voice.

But instead of responding, one of the Greeks drew a pistol and levelled it at the towering figure of Harkaway, for of course he was one of the marksmen, but before he could pull the trigger, bang went another chamber of the old man's revolver, and the pistol fell to the ground.

The hand which had held it was helpless, the arm shattered at the elbow.

There was in truth something dreadful in this carnage.

But neither Harkaway nor Jefferson thought any thing of this.

Indeed, horrible as it may sound, they killed a brigand with as little compunction as they would have slaughtered a wolf.

"Surrender!" cried Harkaway, for the second time. "Yield now, or by Heaven, you shall all die on the field."

The Greeks looked around for assistance.

They were five.

The enemy only three.

As a rule, these ruffians were not deficient in bulldog courage and ferocity, but this desperate fighting had surprised and frightened them.

"Yield, ruffians, to better men than yourselves."

They paused.

"To pause is death," cried Jack Harkaway, in a loud voice.

As the last word was spoken, up went the two rifles.

"Nabley," cried the American.

"All right," answered the disguised old man.

"Look after that outside brigand on your left."

"I will, and his neighbour, too?"

"If you can."

"I am thinking of my murdered friend, Pike, and I feel I can take twenty such vagabonds!" echoed the detective, fiercely.

"I'll take that big fellow, Jeff," said Harkaway. "You pot the other."

"Good."

"Now, then, you villains, when I count three, look out," said the detective, with a mild expletive.

Not mild enough for repetition here, by the way.

"One, two—"

The brigands, having held a hurried consultation, here threw down their arms.

Just in the very nick of time.

Two seconds more and they would have had no chance.

"Now," cried Harkaway, still with the gun ready for use, "forward! march!"

The brigands looked mischievous for a moment.

So did the rifles.

So did the revolver.

These two weapons were great persuaders.

With slow, unwilling steps the five men marched onward into captivity.

"I'll see to the wounded," said the detective.

Four of the brigands had been killed outright.

Others were writhing on the ground and using bad language.

"Two and four make six," muttered Mr. Nabley; "six and four are ten. Why, I could have sworn that there were eleven. Yes, certainly there was another. Where the deuce could he have got to?"

The most diligent search, that is, the most diligent search possible under the circumstances, failed to find the faintest trace of the missing man.

"That's the one I gave that smack in the face," said Nabley to himself. "Well, I know I gave it to him pretty warm besides that. He hasn't got far. He has crawled somewhere to die, I suppose. Well, well, I can't deny him that little luxury."

And then, by dint of threatening the wounded with instant death, he persuaded them to crawl after the rest.

* * * * * And when our three adventurers marched into the town with their prisoners between them, there was a loud outcry.

Cheers, bravos, huzzahs, at every step of the way.

"That's the Englishman Harkaway," said one of the bystanders, as they marched onward towards the prison, "and that is the American Jefferson."

"Dreadful men those to make enemies of. I have heard that Harkaway has destroyed hundreds of brigands and pirates."

"Yes, I have heard so," answered the other. "It was an evil moment for those villains of brigands when they shot the poor young Harkaways. They will lose many a life for those two."

"Ah, that they will."

"Who is that driving the two wounded men before him?"

"That is an English secret police officer. He is even more dangerous than the others. He has killed four men with his own hands in this skirmish. I believe an old friend of his has been murdered by the brigands, and he has sworn to have revenge."

"It is taking the law into their own hands with a vengeance."

"All honour to them for their bravery."

"Three cheers for Harkaway!"



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE SECRET WORK GOES ON—WHO IS THE TRAITOR?—THE FALL OF A FAVOURITE—THE RECRUIT'S MUSINGS—A STRANGE REVELATION.

It was true.

Hunston had been given up by the brigands.

They knew but little of Harkaway, but that little told them that he was not the man to make a false assertion.

They felt sure that Hunston had received more money for the ransom of the boys than he had acknowledged, and so they voted his doom.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have been shot.

As it was, they had learnt so terribly to respect Harkaway that they gave up his enemy in preference to taking the law in their own hands.

Not a day passed but one or more of the brigands suffered at the hands of the enemy whose revenge they had so unwisely provoked.

Let them go armed, with a support of armed men within easy call and on the watch, it could not avail them.

They were picked off, slowly, surely, quietly, mysteriously.

And this was the chief reason that they sought to negotiate with the Harkaway party by giving up their enemy Hunston.

But still the work went on.

There was only one man in the whole band who had the courage to lay the facts before them.

"We must move away from this part of the country," he said. "Once let us see how matters turn out with our comrades who have fallen into the hands of these English people, and then we must be gone."

But while they waited more fell.

Several got taken prisoners, and the band presented a very thin appearance.

The day of trial approached for the brigands, of whom Hunston was one.

And the verdict was universally foreseen.

They were condemned to death for the murder of the two boys, Harry Girdwood and young Jack.

In five days they were to be executed.

In the court there was one person who heard the sentence with the greatest possible terror.

This was Theodora.

Why should it so affect her?

It was surely not that she could have any sympathy with such rogues and murdering villains.

Justice was swift in the execution of its decrees here, and the condemned brigands were doomed to death within five days.

"Five days!" Theodora repeated to herself again and again, as she left the court. "Five days! So short. Well, then I must my do duty come what may. To-morrow may yet be in time—or the next day."

Still she was sorely perplexed.

"If I avow all, I shall incur the undying enmity of the band," she reasoned; "and if I keep silent, I shall be the murderess of those men —men with whom I have grown up and been taught to look upon as brothers."

She had some strange secret upon her mind which troubled her sorely.

In her dire perplexity she went to the camp, and did her best to excite the men to an effort on behalf of their imperilled comrades.

Pedro listened to all she had to say.

Then he gave his opinion.

"We are clearly bound to make an effort to save our friends," he said; "we can not let our comrades perish without attempting to save them."

"No, no!" answered the brigands, with one voice.

But perhaps the most demonstrative of all was the last recruit who had joined the brigands—the Englishman, known amongst his new comrades as Geoffrey, the discharged servant of Harkaway.

"When shall the attempt be made?" said Pedro; "that is the next question."

"At once," said Toro.

He looked around for some supporters; but he looked in vain.

Toro was no longer in good odour.

His connection with Hunston had rendered him exceedingly unpopular.

He was too daring a spirit for them to break out into open murmurs, but quietly he was deposed; and then Pedro was admitted as leader.

When the question of giving up Hunston to the enemy was first mooted, Toro had violently opposed it; but his was the one solitary voice that was lifted for his old comrade.

"The only chance of success," suggested Pedro, "is to wait and attack the procession on the way to execution. The prison itself is too well defended for us to hope for success."

"That's true," said Geoffrey; "and failure would ruin them."

"Surely."

It was arranged consequently that the attempt should be made upon the day appointed for the execution.

The utmost secrecy should be kept as to their plans.

"Let not a word be breathed of our resolves anywhere," said Pedro, "unless we are all together in council assembled, for I fear that we have had a traitor in our camp."

"A traitor!"

"Aye."

"One or more?"

"One, at least, would not surprise me after all that has occurred."

"Nor me either," said Geoffrey.

Saying which, he glanced significantly over his shoulder in the direction of Toro.

The latter, on the rejection of his plan, had stalked moodily away, and was walking up and down buried in bitter reflections.

"Hah!"

"If I could believe that possible," exclaimed one of the brigands, "it would be a speedy end of his rule here."

Saying which he drew his long dagger significantly.

"Well, well," said Geoffrey, who acted cautiously, and was satisfied at having unsettled their minds with regard to the Italian bravo, "let us seek the traitor, and when found—." He left the rest unsaid; but they knew well what was meant.

The only person quitting the camp was Lerna.

So that no traitor could well carry the news to the enemy this time.

"Let no precaution be neglected," said Pedro; "we must choose trusty sentinels. I'll take the watch at the gap myself."

"Good."

"Geoffrey."

"Present, captain."

Toro gave a start at that reply, which clearly gave the death-knell to his own command.

"Do you mount guard at the cross roads below."

"Leading to the fountain avenue, do you mean, captain?"

"Yes."

"Good."

And shouldering his musket, he gave a stiff salute and marched off.

"Perhaps you would not have far to look for traitors," said Toro, as Geoffrey disappeared, "did not your prejudices blind you."

"Do you allude to Geoffrey?" asked Pedro, coldly.

"Judge for yourself."

"Speak out boldly."

"I have been bold enough for you," said Toro, passionately,

"Speak in the presence of him you would accuse."

"I fear no man here" cried Toro.

"Nor does any man fear you."

"Then by thunder, he shall!" and out came his sword.

At this unmistakable demonstration several of the brigands made signs of cutting in, and the Italian saw that it was a desperate game he was venturing on.

He saw it just in time, for the brigands were ready, one and all, to fall upon him with dagger and sword.

Gradually he fell back and left them, but the seed was sown.

The few words which Geoffrey had spoken had done their duty well.

"So, so" muttered Geoffrey, as he went; "Hunston is done for, and Toro shall soon follow. Thirty-two men have been 'dropped' for our dear boys—thirty-two. Gad! but it is a goodly number. They will learn to respect the name of Jack Harkaway in this miserable land—and to rue the day that they molested anyone of us. Thirty-two—aye, and the rest shall follow, as sure as my name is—Who goes there! Speak! By Heaven, stop! Nabley—just in time, but silence."



CHAPTER XXXII.

THEODORA'S ERRAND—FATAL NEWS—THE MYSTERY DEEPENS—HER RESOLVE—TO THE VILLA—INTERVIEW WITH HARKAWAY—THE VOICE FROM THE GRAVE—A HEART OF GOLD.

Theodora now made her way with all speed to the waterside prison, to which allusion has been previously made.

The head gaoler of this prison had a daughter of the same age as Theodora.

His wife had nursed them both as babes, and Theodora looked upon them as her parents, and on the girl as her sister.

To them she was wont to appeal at any time of trouble, and now she came to tell them her cares.

She asked for her foster sister, and called her aside.

"What is it now, Theodora dear?" asked the gaoler's daughter, anxiously. "You look quite pale and haggard."

Theodora shook her head sadly.

"I have got involved in a matter in which I am responsible."

"But the evil is over?"

"No."

"As far as you are concerned, is it, dear?"

"No; I say no. Are not our men to be executed for the murder of the two boys?"

"And richly they deserve it," exclaimed Mariana.

"No, no. They can not deserve it for what they are innocent of."

"It is no fault of theirs," retorted the gaoler's daughter; "They are guilty in intention, at least."

"Well, well, Mariana. I am not so base that I could see them suffer death, knowing what I know—what we know, in fact."

"But you would not betray me?" exclaimed the gaoler's daughter, anxiously.

"No, darling. The necessity for danger to you—to us, I may say—is entirely done away with."

"What do you mean?"

"The gallant men will rescue their comrades on Thursday on the way to the execution."

"What!" said Mariana; "Thursday!"

"Yes."

"Then you don't know," she exclaimed, with a wild scared look.

"Know what?"

"That it has been changed. They are to be executed in the morning."

Theodora gave a cry of terror and staggered back.

"No, no, Mariana," she said, wildly; "it is impossible."

"It is true"

"When was this made known?"

"Just now."

"Why was it altered?"

"Because they have discovered that an attack was meditated by the brigands upon the way to execution on Thursday."

"Impossible!" cried Theodora, starting up. "Why, it was only just agreed upon. I have left them not two hours ago, and it was then that they came to this resolution."

"It is already known here. A messenger from the great Mr. Harkaway sought the governor with the news, and as Mr. Harkaway is all-powerful here, the execution takes place to-morrow morning at daybreak. It is said that he has his own spies in the camp of the brigands."

Theodora clapped her hands to her head, and paced wildly up and down.

"There is no way out of it, dear Mariana," she cried. "No way, no way, but one."

"What is that?"

"I will see this Mr. Harkaway, and tell him all."

"But you will ruin us all."

"No. He will be overjoyed with the news I bring, and will do as I wish —all I ask to repay me for the words of comfort which I have for him."

"I doubt it."

"I know him well," retorted Theodora. "I know his boys too well to believe the father so bad and merciless as you suppose him. All his enmity would be forgotten could he but believe the glad tidings which I have for him."

"Then the knowledge of this will risk all our lives."

"No; I am convinced that all will be well."

"Theodora!"

"Delay me not. My duty points clearly to that."

And before she could offer to interfere further with her resolve, Theodora was gone.

She fled like a deer.

Nor did she pause for breath until she was at the villa.

* * * * *

"Mr. Harkaway will not see anyone," said the servant.

She eyed the panting girl with suspicion, as Theodora leant for support by the door, while her left hand clasped her beating heart.

The tragic events of the past few weeks, and the murder of Marietta in Mrs. Harkaway's bedchamber, had led them to distrust every body and every thing.

"I must see him," gasped Theodora.

"Impossible," returned the girl curtly; "call to-morrow in the afternoon."

"Afternoon," returned Theodora. "After six in the morning will be too late. It is life and death, I tell you. Go and tell him."

"Obstinate girl, I tell you Mr. Harkaway has serious business on at daybreak, and has gone to rest, giving the strictest orders that he is not to be disturbed."

"Call him," returned Theodora, with forced calmness, "and he will have no need to go on this business at daybreak."

"Hah!"

"Do you hear?"

The girl retreated backwards, never moving her eyes from Theodora.

"This is some hired assassin." she thought. "They can't tackle my master, and knowing how wary he is, they have hired a girl to do the deed."

She was about to thrust to the door, when Theodora, in sheer despair, burst in, and cried at the top of her voice to Harkaway—

"Mr. Harkaway! Mr. Harkaway; come, come and hear news of your poor boys, I say."

At this wild outcry in the middle of his house, Jack stepped out of his room.

"Keep back, sir; keep back," screamed the servant "She's an assassin."

At these words Harkaway slipped back into his room, and reappeared armed with a pair of pistols.

"Now, what is it you require, my girl?" he demanded of Theodora.

"A few words with you."

"Don't trust her," shrieked the servant; "I saw a knife in her girdle. Don't trust her."

Theodora smiled faintly.

"I am alone, unarmed," she said; "the great Mr. Harkaway, the hero of the day here, is surely not afraid of me."

"I am afraid of no one," returned Jack; "but I warn you, my girl, that if any treachery be meditated, each of these pistols carries a man's life."

"It can not affect me," returned Theodora, calmly. "I come to bring you news which will gladden your heart, and have no fear of your enmity."

Her words and her manner thrilled Harkaway strangely. He lowered the pistols.

He had her shown into a room, and followed her in.

"Sit down there, my girl, and tell me all," he said, trying to appear composed, while he was in reality singularly moved.

"I come, Mr. Harkaway," said Theodora, who had now regained all her calmness, "to bring you the most welcome news that ever gladdened your ear—that ever sent balm and comfort to your bruised heart."

Jack turned pale; he thought he had heard her speak of his boys before leaving his room.

"Speak on," he said, his voice faltering.

"Tell me, sir, what could I say that would restore happiness to you—to your wife—to your friends and home? What could I say to lift the veil of mourning from your house and hearts?—to restore the former gaiety to this tomb-like place."

Jack Harkaway listened as one in a dream.

"Girl," he said, in a voice that was almost inaudible, "you know not what you say."

"I am perfectly cognisant of all," she replied.

"Then your errand here is to torture me?"

"You wrong me."

Harkaway looked her sternly in the face.

And Theodora bore his glance without flinching.

"Your manner tells me," he said, "that you know better than any one what alone could restore happiness here."

"You are right."

And she gravely inclined her head as she answered.

"And you know it is impossible," he said.

"It is not."

"Not impossible!" ejaculated Harkaway. "Know you what you say?"

"Perfectly."

"Girl, girl," cried Harkaway, passionately, "the grave can not give back its dead."

"It does—it has."

Harkaway gasped for breath.

She was about to speak on, when the ghastly pallor of his countenance and its wild, haggard expression frightened her.

"Girl, go on, tell me," he cried excitedly; "do not play with me."

"Calm yourself, Mr. Harkaway, pray—"

"Go on, go on."

"You alarm me."

"Speak, in mercy's sake," implored Harkaway; "this suspense is ten thousand times worse than all the good or bad news which you could bring me—are you fooling me?" he added springing up and seizing his pistols.

"No."

"Speak on then."

"Your son Jack—"

"Yes, yes; my boy—my own darling brave lad—what of him?"

The girl suddenly turned pale. "Hark," she said, "I think I hear footsteps outside; quick! to the window; I think we are watched," and the girl sank in terror at Jack's feet.

Harkaway, with one bound, sprang to the window, pistol in hand, ready for use.

But it was a false alarm; and, having satisfied himself that there were no eavesdroppers, Harkaway returned to his seat, and the girl resumed—

"Are you able to bear good news?"

"Yes," he said, with a sickly smile; "the novelty would perhaps affect me—speak then—you said my boy—"

"Lives," answered the girl.

"Impossible," he faltered; "why, Harvey saw their grave."

"And I too saw them in their grave."

"In their grave!" echoed Harkaway; "and yet you say they live."

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

"Close at hand; but I wish to ask you in return—"

"All you will—anything, everything—only bring me back my boys."

"I only ask to save the lives of the men unjustly accused of the murder, and who have been doomed to die to-morrow."

"Granted—why, it was granted unasked," said Harkaway.

"Enough," said the girl; "I see that I may count upon you. Will you come with me to your son and his friend?"

"Yes."

He sprang up with the greatest alacrity, but a sudden fancy crossed him, and he seized the girl by the shoulder.

"You are not playing me false?" said Jack.

"Look in my face and be assured."

He gazed long and earnestly at her, and she bore his fixed look unflinchingly.

"Yes, yes," he said, more to himself than to her; "you are truthful—I am sure of that—but I'll not neglect any precaution; for my head is so sorely perplexed by all you have told me that I scarcely know if I am asleep or waking."

He pressed his brow with his open hands, and then looking carefully to the priming of his revolvers, he started out with the girl; and as they issued from the grounds of the villa, he spoke his last words of mistrust before giving her his whole confidence.

"You see, Theodora," he said, for she had told him her name, "I don't hang back. I freely confide in you."

"You do well."

"I believe so—see that my confidence is not misplaced, and you shall have no cause to repent it."

"Your words would imply a promise of reward for me; but I seek none."

"I am willing to believe it, but still my fixed resolve—"

"Your fixed resolve could not make me take it," said the girl, proudly. "I have told you my object in my present mission; I have no other."

Harkaway was greatly surprised at this, but as he stole a sidelong glance at her, surprise was not the only expression in his face.

Admiration was strongly mixed with it.

"Tell me where we are going?" he asked presently, as they got clear of the town.

"To the prison by the water."

"What for?"

"They are there."

"But in prison—how came they there? In prison! Why, then, without knowing it, I have been probably twenty times within earshot of both."

"Yes."

"How came they there?—no half measures now. Surely this is the time for revealing all?"

"And now, Mr. Harkaway, I will tell you all as we walk on. The seeming mystery shall remain so no longer."

So saying, Theodora began the brief but startling narrative which follows—and which may fairly be entitled—

THE DEAD ALIVE.

"Your dear son Jack and his friend Harry Girdwood saved my life when I was in danger of drowning at sea. They brought me safely ashore, only to fall into the hands of my remorseless companions, the mountaineers. Ah, I see you would call them by something less gentle in sound. Well, it was a planned thing. I was the decoy, but alas! I thought but little then how soon I was to repent of my share in that evil work."

"Go on."

"I will, to the end, even though you should learn to loathe me. Well, a price was put on their heads."

"Which I paid."

"You paid one-fifth."

"No, no; I paid all, as demanded."

"Hunston returned to the camp with only one hundred pounds, and they voted the death of the two boys. Poor boys! both brave boys. The bravest veteran on the battlefield never faced death with the heroic calmness of those two young heroes, sir."

"Bless you for those words, my girl," exclaimed the gratified Harkaway. "I am proud of my dear boy."

"I demanded their release—I implored—I begged—I prayed in the most abject terms. But they had felt the weight of your hand too often. They and theirs had suffered so much that I was powerless. I could only obtain one small concession."

"Say on, say on!" exclaimed Harkaway. "What was that? I burn with eagerness to know more of my dear boys."

"I was to do the last sad honours to the noble dead. Three were to be executed; one of themselves, a traitor called Lirico. By dissimulating to Hunston—the viper! how I tremble with horror at the very name—I obtained one concession—Lirico was the first to suffer, the boys were to follow."

"Oh, Hunston! villain!" groaned Harkaway, "villain!"

"The execution took place at daybreak. I waited on the firing party. When the wretched Lirico was dealt upon, I passed round and gave the men to drink from a spirit keg which I had specially provided. Then, while they feasted upon the drugged spirit, I passed round and reloaded the muskets for what they thought the final butchery."

"Well, well, do not torture me, girl. Quick, tell me the end."

"Can you not guess?"

"No, no. Quick, tell me all."

"In loading the muskets I forgot the bullets."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed old Jack, half-hysterically. "I see it all now, brave girl."

"The rest was no easy task. As the men fired, they fell back in the grave and simulated death, as I had instructed them overnight; and now you can understand how I saw them in the grave and yet can prove that they live."

"I do. Girl, you are brave and good; I know not how to thank you for the lives of my poor boys."

"The night before their great trial, I exacted a solemn promise from them that they would follow me to a hiding place without the least offer of resistance."

"I begin to see. But how did you contrive—"

"To get them secreted in the great prison?"

"Yes."

"You shall hear. My foster-sister is the daughter of the head gaoler. Her lover is completely at her mercy, and he holds a superior post in the prison. It was the only condition upon which I could spare the brave boys' lives, and so they were forced to yield."

"And all this time we might have been spared the bitterest agony."

She hung her head.

"I know it, but I dared not speak sooner, for I feared to betray my friends."

"You may trust me," said Jack.

"I know it, for I have saved your boys."

* * * * *

They reached the prison.

"Sebastian," said Theodora, presenting Harkaway to her foster-sister and the latter's lover, "this is Mr. Harkaway."

The Greek official bowed with an air of constraint.

"Theodora has told you all, sir?"

"Yes, you have risked much to save my boys' lives."

"Since I can count upon your forbearance," said Sebastian, "I will say no more. Follow me to the presence of the boys."

So saying, Sebastian led the way through the stone-paved passages to the tower overhanging the sea, in which the cell of the two boys was situated.

At the base of the tower were jagged, sea-beaten rocks.

Beside the tower, at about half the height of the tower, reckoning from the level of the sea, was a gravel terrace, covered with a waterproof canopy, so as to form a sort of shed.

And looking out of the tower windows as they passed up its steep inner staircase, Harkaway inquired what this place was.

"That is used as the prison mortuary."

"Those black, ugly outlines there are—"

"Bodies."

"Ugh!"

"They are put into those black bags in lieu of winding sheets, then placed into those rough wooden shells, which are lowered to the prison cemetery below by that crane you see to the right"

"A very poor look-out."

But away with such dull thoughts. Here he was on the threshold of new joy—new life.

"Your boys are here," said Sebastian, pausing before a huge barred door.

He undid the fastenings, and pushing open the door, made way for Harkaway to pass in.

"Enter, sir," he said.

Harkaway's heart beat high.

He pushed open the door—entered.

"Where are they?"

"There."

A momentary pause.

"There's no one there," said Harkaway, in a tone indicative of powerfully-suppressed emotion.

Dire apprehensions of evil stole over both Sebastian and Theodora as they followed Harkaway into the cell.

"Theodora," gasped Sebastian, staggering back, "they are gone."

"Where? How?"

"They must have escaped."

"Liar!" yelled Harkaway, suddenly springing back and drawing his six- shooter; "this is some plot. Thieves! murderers! You think to fool me; but you shall pay the penalty for your villainy. You are in an injured father's grasp. Die, brigands!"



CHAPTER XXXIII.

YOUNG JACK AND HIS COMRADE HARRY GIRDWOOD—DEAD OR ALIVE—THE RIDDLE UNRAVELLED—THE PLAN IN CYPHER—A RELIC OF THE PAST—EUREKA!— THE CYPHER UNRAVELLED.

Now for young Jack.

Once more let us see the bold young Harkaway and Harry, his brave comrade.

Too long have we been absent from them.

Too long have we been forced by the exigencies of our history to leave, not only the Harkaway family and party generally, under the cruel impression that the two boys had been foully murdered, but the reader likewise.

They lived.

Aye, it was every word true that Theodora had said.

Sebastian was not a wit less truthful.

When he opened the door of the cell in the tower, he fully expected to find the two boys there.

Where were they?

By what jugglery had they contrived to get out of such a formidable fortress as that place?

This the present chapter is to relate.

To give it clearly, however briefly, we must go back to the day of their entrance into their gloomy prison home.

Jack and Harry were alone.

"This is a rum go, Jack," said Harry Girdwood. "What do you think of it?"

"Precious dull, old boy," grumbled young Harkaway.

"Better than a grave on the mountain side."

"It is just that," said young Jack. "But it wouldn't be quite so good if this sort of thing was meant to be permanent."

"Growler, growler," said Harry Girdwood. "Why, I call these famous diggings, after that hole they meant us to rest in while the worms made meat of us. Besides, we must get away."

"How?"

"Escape."

Young Jack looked up at the word, and his heart beat a little quicker.

But he said nothing.

Frowning walls on every side.

The cell was fully eighteen feet high, and the window was close up by the ceiling.

"If we want to get out of this," said young Jack, "we must begin operations from this moment."

"Good."

"Do you know, Harry, what is to be the first step?"

"No."

"To get at that window."

"But it is about eighteen feet high."

"Well, we must reach it," said young Jack.

Both boys were expert gymnasts.

The greasiest of greasy poles were vanquished by either with the greatest of ease.

In the stormiest weather they could mount into the topmost parts of the rigging on board ship.

And the consequence was that the morning after their entrance into their prison found young Jack perched up at the window, looking down at his comrade and fellow-prisoner, and giving graphic descriptions of all he saw there.

"What's on the other side, Jack?"

"The sea, the open sea, old fellow," cried Jack.

"And below?"

"The sea, again, old fellow."

"To the right?"

"The sea, the sea—the open sea, old fellow. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. At least it would be an awful drop to get at it."

"Can you see any thing to the right?"

"Water only."

"Is that all?"

"Yes—hallo!"

Some thing fell.

A roll of some thing white and soft dropped at Harry Girdwood's feet, and he hastened to pick it up.

Some thing white, we said.

Well, it had once been white, but now it had got very considerably discoloured with age and dust, which seemed to indicate that it had been a long while up on the shelf in its hiding place.

Yes, its hiding place.

They opened the bundle, and found it to be composed of three slips of cotton, upon which were written, in red ink, curious things which they could not make much of.

Upon one of these pieces of cotton were certain cabalistic signs, such as figures, algebraical marks, and geometrical figures.

Upon another was traced a plan of some building.

A third was a sectional view, drawn roughly, but upon architectural principles, and marked with initial letters of reference.

"This is a rum go," said Harry Girdwood, laughing.

Young Jack had dropped from his perch and joined his fellow-prisoner on terra firma, and together they poured over these singular rags.