The slight cavity below was full of dirt and rubbish, and it was not till I had cleared these away that I found it ran partly under the adjoining flagstone. The hole was too small to look into, but I could get in my hand, and after some groping came upon what I wanted.

It was a small leather packet, carefully folded and tied round, not much larger than an envelope, and fastened on either side with a wafer. Slipped under the outer string was a smaller folded paper, on the cover of which I recognised, to my great amazement, my own name.

I thrust both packet and paper into my pocket, and after satisfying myself that the hole contained nothing more, filled it up again, and restored the hinged board to its old position. Then I extinguished and replaced the candle, and a few minutes later was hurrying, with my precious freight, down the rocky corridor towards the cave where I had left my boat.

I was not long in getting into the outer world once more. My boat I left where it was, and scrambled up the rocks to the place from which I had once watched the Arrow as she lay at anchor. Here I flung myself on the turf and waited impatiently for daylight.

It came at last, and at its first glow I took the packet from my pocket. The small outer paper addressed to me was in Tim's hand, and was very brief. "Dear Barry," it said, "I searched as I promised, and have read this letter. Time enough when Ireland's business is done to attend to yours and mine.—Tim." From this I turned with trembling curiosity to the packet itself, and took from it a faded paper, written in a strange, uncultured hand, but signed at the end with my mother's feeble signature, and dated a month after Tim's and my birth.

This is the strange matter it contained:—

"I, Mary Gallagher, being at the point of death,"—that was as she then supposed, but she lived many a year after, as the reader knows—"and as I hope for mercy from God, into whose presence I am summoned, declare that the girl-child who was buried beside my Mistress Gorman was not hers but mine. My twins were the boy who lives and the girl who died. My lady's child is the boy who passes as twin-brother to mine. It was Maurice Gorman led me to this wrong. The night that Terence Gorman, my master, was murdered and my lady died of the news, Maurice persuaded me to change my dead girl for my lady's living boy, threatening that unless I did so he would show that Mike, my husband, was his master's murderer. To save my husband I consented. Had I been sure of him I would have refused; but I feared Mike had a hand in that night's work, though I am sure it was not he who fired the shot. Thus I helped Maurice Gorman to become master of Kilgorman and all his brother's property. But they no more belong to him than the boy belongs to me. And if this be the last word I say on earth, it is all true, as Maurice knows himself, and Biddy the nurse, who writes this from my lips. God forgive me, and send this to the hands of them that will make the wrong right.

(Signed)

"Mary Gallagher."

"N.B.—The above is true, every word, to my knowledge.

(Signed)

"Biddy McQuilkin."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

ON THE BLACK HILL ROAD.

This, then, was the mystery which for eighteen years had hung over Kilgorman. My mother's letter cleared up a part of it, but the rest it plunged into greater mystery still. That Maurice Gorman was a villain and a usurper was evident. But who was the rightful heir my mother, either through negligence or of set purpose, had failed to state. Was it Tim? or I?

I recalled all I could of my mother's words and acts to us both—how she taught us our letters; how she sang to us; how, when need be, she chid us; how, with a hand for each, she took us as children to church; how she kissed us both at nights, and gave us our porridge when we started for the hills in the morning. In all this she never by a sign betrayed that one of us was her son and the other a stranger. Even to the last, on the day she died, the words she spoke to me, I was convinced, she would equally have spoken to Tim, had he, not I, been there to hear them.

Could it be possible that she did not herself know? Any mother who reads this will, I think, scoff at the notion; and yet I think it was so. Weak and ill as she was when it all happened, bewildered and dazed by the murder of her master and the terrible suspicion thrown on her husband, lying for weeks after in a half swoon, and believing herself at the gate of death, I think, in spite of all the mothers in Ireland, that when at last she came back to life, and looked on the two little fellows nestled in the bed at her side, she knew not the one from the other.

My father, I was sure, if he even knew that one of us was not his own boy, neither knew nor concerned himself which was which, so long as he kept his honour in good-humour.

But as regarded Biddy McQuilkin, it was different. She was not ill or blind or in mortal fear when it all happened. If any one could tell, it was she. And she, unless all reports were false, slept in the pit of the guillotine in Paris, beside her last master and mistress. It was not likely that the Republic One and Indivisible, when it swept away the old couple, would overlook their faithful and inseparable attendant.

So, after all, it seemed that mystery was to hang over Tim and me still. I could have been happy had the paper said outright, "Tim is the son of Terence Gorman." But to feel that as much might, with equal probability, be said of me, paralysed my purpose and obscured my path. How was I to set wrong right? As for Tim, it was evident from his brief note, written at a time when he did not know if I had survived the wreck of the Kestrel or not, that the matter concerned him little compared with the rebellious undertaking on which he was just now unhappily embarked.

Tim was, I knew, more of a natural gentleman than I, which might mean gentler blood. On the other hand, I, of the two of us, was less like Mike Gallagher in looks. Who was to decide between us? And meanwhile this Maurice Gorman—

That reminded me with a start of last night's business. This very man, robber of the widow, unnatural brother, and oppressor of the fatherless, was appointed for death that very morning, and might already be on his way to meet it. I confess, as I then felt, I could almost have let him run on his doom; yet when I recalled the vision in the kitchen last night of Paddy Corkill shouldering the borrowed gun, my humanity reasserted itself. How could I stand idle with a human life, however worthless, at stake? As to his being Miss Kit's father, that at the moment did not enter into my calculations; but as soon as it did, it urged my footsteps to a still more rapid stride as I made across the bleak tract for the Black Hill.

The morning was grey and squally, and the mists hung low on the hill- tops, and swept now and then thickly up the valleys. But I knew the way well. Tim and I had often as boys walked there to look at the spot where Terence Gorman fell, and often, in the Knockowen days, I had driven his honour's gig past the spot on the way to Malin.

The road ascends steeply some little way up the hill between high rocks. Half-way up it takes a sharp turn inward, skirting the slope on the level, and so comes out on to the open bog-road beyond. Just at the angle is a high boulder that almost overhangs the road, affording complete cover to any one waiting for a traveller, and commanding a view of him both as he walks his horse up the slope and as he trots forward on the level. It needed not much guessing to decide that it was here that Terence Gorman's murderer had lurked that fatal night, and that here Paddy Corkill would come to find his victim this morning.

As I came to the top of a hill that gave a distant view of the road by which the traveller would approach, my heart leaped to my mouth. For there, not a mile and a half away, appeared, in a break of the mist, a black speck, which I knew well enough to be his honour's gig. In half- an-hour or less it would reach the fatal spot, and I could barely hope to reach it before him. The ground in front of me was littered with boulders, and in places was soft with bog. Rapid progress was impossible. A false step, a slip might lame me, and so stop me altogether. Yet on every moment hung the fate of her father!

It was a wild career I made that morning—down hollows, over rocks, through swamps, and up banks. I soon lost all sight of the road, and knew I should not see it again till I came above the boulder behind which the assassin probably lurked. Once I fancied I heard the clatter of the hoofs very near; and once, on the hill before me, I seemed to catch the gleam of a gun-barrel among the rocks.

A minute more brought me in view of the boulder and the road below. Stretched on the former, with his gun levelled, lay Corkill, waiting the moment when his victim should reach the corner. On the road, still toiling up the hill, came the gig, and to my horror and dismay, not only his honour in it, but Miss Kit herself.

Even in that moment of terror I could not help noticing how beautiful she looked, her face intent on the horse she was driving as she sat, inclined a little forward, gently coaxing him up the hill. His honour, aged and haggard, leaned back in his seat, glancing uneasily now and then at the rocks on either side, and now and then uttering an impatient "tchk" at the panting animal.

I had barely time to whip out my ship's pistol from my belt—luckily already loaded—and level it at the assassin. Almost at the instant of my discharge his gun went off; and in the moment of silence that followed, I heard the horse start at a gallop along the level road.

Paddy lay on his face, hit in the shoulder, but not, as I judged by his kicking, fatally so. I was less concerned about him than about the occupants of the gig. As far as I could see, looking after them, neither was hurt, and the assassin's gun must have gone off harmlessly in the air. The horse, who seemed to know what all this meant as well as any one, raced for his life, and I was expecting to see the gig disappear round the turn, unless it overturned first, when a huge stone rolled down on to the road a few yards ahead, and brought the animal up on his haunches with such suddenness that the two travellers were almost pitched from their seats.

At the same moment two men, armed with clubs, leaped on to the road, one making for the horse's head, the other for the step.

All this took less time to happen than it takes me to tell it, and before the gig actually came to a standstill I was rushing along the road to the spot. My discharged pistol was in my hand, but I had no time to reload. I flung myself at the man on the step just as he raised his club, and sending him sprawling on to the road, levelled my weapon at his head.

"Move, and you're a dead man!" said I.

Then turning to his honour, I thrust the pistol into his shaking hand, and said,—

"Fire if he tries to get up, your honour. Let me get at the other one."

He was easily disposed of, for the terrified horse was jerking him off his feet and dragging him here and there in its efforts to get clear. I soon had him on the road beside his companion, helping him thereto by a crack on the head from his own club; and I then took the horse in hand, and reduced it, after a struggle, to quietness.

Till this was done I had had neither time nor heart to lift my eyes to the occupants of the gig. His honour, very white, kept his eyes on the men on the road and his finger on the trigger of the pistol. But Miss Kit had all her eyes for me. At first her look was one of mere gratitude to a stranger; then it clouded with bewilderment and almost alarm; then suddenly it lit up in a blaze of joyful recognition.

"Barry, it's you after all?" she cried.

And the light on her face glowed brighter with the blush that covered it and the tears that sparkled in her eyes.

At the sound of her voice his honour looked round sharply, and after staring blankly for a moment, recognised me too.

"How came you here?" he exclaimed, as I thought, with as much disappointment as pleasure in his voice.

"I'll tell you that by-and-by, when I've tied up these two scoundrels.— Come, stand up you two, and hands up, if you don't want a taste of cold lead in your heads."

They obeyed in a half-stupid way. One of them I recognised at once as the man who had acted as secretary at last night's meeting. No doubt he and his fellow had had their misgivings as to Paddy Corkill's ability, and had come here to second him in case of failure.

"So, Mr Larry Flanagan," said I, "there'll be grand news for the meeting to-night!"

"Who are you? I don't know you. Who's told you my name?"

"Never mind. The same as told me that Paddy Corkill borrowed your gun for this vile deed. Come, back to back now."

I had already got the tether cord from the boot of the gig, and in a few minutes had the two fastened up back to back as neatly as a sailor can tie knots.

"There," said I, dragging them to the roadside, "you'll do till we send the police to fetch you.—Your honour," said I, "I chanced to hear of this plot against your life last night. Thank Heaven I was in time to help you and the young mistress! Maybe you'll do well to take a brace of police about with you when you travel, and leave the young lady at home. She will be safer there."

"Stay, Gallagher," said his honour, as I saluted and turned to go; "you must not go like this. I have questions to ask you."

"And I," said Miss Kit. "Don't go, Barry."

"The gig will only hold two," said I; "but if his honour gives me leave, I'll be at Knockowen to-morrow."

"Certainly," said Gorman. "And, Barry, say nothing of this. Leave me to deal with it."

"As your honour pleases. Besides these two by the roadside, you'll find a boy on the top of yonder boulder who wants a lift to the lock-up."

"Don't forget to-morrow, Barry," said my lady with her sweetest smile and wave of the hand, as she gathered the reins together.

I stood cap in hand till they had disappeared round the bend, and then took a final look at my captives.

"So you are Barry Gallagher?" snarled the secretary.

"What of that?"

"Just this, that unless you let me go, and say not a word, your brother Tim shall swing for a rebel before a week's out."

It must have been satisfaction to him to see how I was staggered by this. I had never thought that what I had done to-day might recoil on the head of my own brother. However, I affected not to be greatly alarmed at the threat.

"Tim can take care of himself," said I, sitting down to load my pistol; "but since that is your game, I'll save the hangman a job."

And I levelled the weapon at his face.

"Mercy, Mr Gallagher," he cried all in a tremble. "Sure, I was only joking. I wouldn't let out on Captain Tim for the world. Come now, won't you believe me?"

His face was such a picture of terror and panic that I was almost sorry for him. His fellow-prisoner, too, who stood a good chance of the fag- end of my bullet, was equally piteous in his protestations.

"Mark this," said I, lowering the pistol, to their great relief, "there's more eyes on you and your confederates than you think. Murder is no way to help Ireland. Tell on Tim if you dare. My pistol can carry in the dark, and the first of you that has a word to say against him may say his prayers."

And I left them rolling back to back on the roadside. As for Paddy Corkill, when I went to look for him where he had fallen, there was no sign of him but a pool of blood and a track of footsteps, which presently lost themselves in the bog.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

MARTIAL LAW.

I spent the rest of that day in wandering over the familiar haunts on Fanad, in the vain hope of encountering Tim. Towards night, worn-out with weariness and excitement, I abandoned the quest, and dropped back on the tide to Rathmullan.

The place was full of reports of the new orders which had come from Dublin for the disarming of the people, and of the military rigour with which soldiers and magistrates between them were putting their powers into force. Nearly a hundred stands of arms had, it was rumoured, been captured the day before at Milford, and one man who resisted the search had been hung summarily on the nearest tree.

As I sat screened off in a quiet corner of the inn over my supper, a new-comer entered and joined the group who were discussing the news of the day in the public-room.

"Well?" was the greeting of one or two as he entered.

"Whisht, boys! we're done intirely," said the new-comer.

"How done? Did he not pass that road?"

"He did; but never a hair of him was singed."

"I knew Paddy was a botch with the gun," said one; "there should have been better than him for such a job. Was he taken?"

"'Deed, I don't know how it all happened, but you're out about Paddy. He did his best, I'm told, and there were two to second him. But the job had got wind, and Paddy got a shot in the arm before he could let fly. And they tell me the other two are taken."

A cry of consternation went round the audience. "If Flanagan's one of them—"

"The very boy."

"It'll be a bad job for us all, then, for Flanagan will save his skin if twenty others swing for it. Where is he?"

"At Knockowen for the night."

"No news of Tim Gallagher?"

"Not a word. It's a wonder what's keeping him. He's badly wanted."

"'Deed, you may say so. He's the only gineral we have."

"As for Flanagan," said some one else, "I'm thinking he may not have toime to turn king's evidence. They're making quick work of the boys now. Is there no getting him away out of that before he tells?"

"Knockowen's guarded like a fort, with a troop of horse quartered in it."

"Dear, oh! Do the rest of the boys know of it?"

"Ay, and they've scattered. And I'm thinking that is what we'd best do, in case Flanagan names names."

"You're roight," said the chief speaker, rising. "By the powers, there'll be a big reckoning for all this when Tim comes home."

And they trooped out into the road.

All this was disturbing enough, and decided me to be early at my appointment with his honour in the morning.

"Yet," said I to myself, "men who can talk thus above their breath in a public inn are not the sort of men that will turn the land upside down. What would Lord Edward say if he could hear them—or Tim, for the matter of that?"

It was scarcely eight o'clock next morning when I pulled boldly up to his honour's pier and moored my boat.

At the garden entrance stood a trooper on guard, who brought his gun to the port and demanded what I wanted, "I am here to see his honour, at his bidding."

"What is your name?"

"Barry Gallagher."

The soldier gave a whistle, and a comrade from within approached, to whom he spoke a few words.

"Wait there!" said the sentinel to me, closing the gate as if I were a beggar, and resuming his pacing to and fro.

I swallowed my pride as best I could. If I had been fool enough to flatter myself I was to be welcomed with open arms and made much of for yesterday's exploit, this was a short way of undeceiving me. For a quarter of an hour I kicked my heels on the narrow causeway, looking up sometimes at the windows of the house for a chance glimpse of my little lady. How would she meet me after all these years? Would it be mere graciousness to one who had done her a service, or something more? I should soon know.

The sentinel presently opened the gate and beckoned me to approach.

"Pass, Gallagher," said he, motioning me to follow his comrade.

The latter conducted me up the garden, and round the house to the yard, where a strange scene met my eyes.

A soldier stood on guard at each doorway. In the middle of the open space was a table, and at it three chairs, in which sat his honour, another gentleman, and a choleric-looking man in the uniform of a captain of horse. Standing before the table handcuffed, and in the custody of three policemen, stood Flanagan and his comrade, whom I had last left back to back on Black Hill Road.

His honour recognised my arrival with a cold nod, and Flanagan, who was apparently under examination at the moment, scowled viciously. The other prisoner, who seemed as much fool as knave, looked with white face first at his judges, then at the doors, and finally with a listless sigh straight before him.

"How many does your society consist of?" his honour's fellow-magistrate was inquiring of Flanagan as I arrived.

"Och, your honour, there you puzzle me," began the shifty informer; "it might be—"

The officer brought his fist down on the table with a sound which brought all the soldiers about the place to attention, and made the prisoners start.

"Speak out, sir, or you shall swing on that hook on the wall in two minutes."

"Arrah, colonel dear, sure I'm telling you. There's forty-eight sworn men, and that's the truth."

"You are the secretary," said the magistrate. "Give me a list of their names."

"'Deed, sir, my memory is not what it was, and the book—"

"Here 'tis, captain," said a soldier, advancing with a salute, and holding out a small copy-book; "it was found on him."

"That will do," said the magistrate, putting it down without examining it. "Who is your captain or leader?"

"Who's the captain?" repeated the prisoner vaguely.

"You hear what I say," replied the magistrate. "Answer the question at once!"

"The captain? Sure, sir, it's Tim Gallagher, own brother to the man who's standing there."

Here all eyes were turned on me, and I found it difficult to endure the unfriendly scrutiny with composure. Had I walked into a trap after all, and instead of thanks was I to find myself implicated in this plot and suspected as a rebel?

"Tim Gallagher," said the magistrate, turning to his honour. "Do you know him, Gorman?"

"I do," replied Mr Gorman shortly, and evidently uneasy. "His father was once a boatman on my place."

"Ah, and a smuggler too, wasn't he? We used to hear of him at Malin sometimes."

"Likely enough. He was drowned some years ago."

"And his two sons are rebels?"

"One is by all accounts," said his honour; "the other is here, and can speak for himself."

"I am no more a rebel than you," said I hotly, without waiting to be questioned. "I am a servant of the king. His honour here knows if I ever joined with them."

"It is true," said his honour, as I thought rather grudgingly, "this rough-spoken young man was the one who frustrated the attempt on me yesterday. I know of nothing against his loyalty."

"Yet," said the presiding magistrate, who had been turning over the leaves of the secretary's book, "I find Barry Gallagher's name down here as having taken the oath. How's that?"

"It's false!" exclaimed I, betraying more confusion at this sudden announcement than was good for me. "I was once forced, years ago, with a gun at my head, to repeat the words or some of them; but I was never properly sworn!"

"How did you hear of the attempt that was to be made on Mr Gorman?" demanded the officer suspiciously.

"By accident, sir. I overheard the whole plot."

"Where?"

"That doesn't matter. I'm not under arrest?"

At this the officer glared at me, his honour drummed his fingers on the table, and the other magistrate looked sharply up.

"We can remedy that in a moment," said he; "and will do so unless you treat this court with more respect. We require you to say if you know the meeting-place of this gang."

"Sure, your honour, I'm after telling you—" began Flanagan, when he was peremptorily ordered to be silent.

"Answer the question!" thundered the officer, "or—"

Mr Gorman looked up. He had his own good reasons for preventing any revelations as to the secret uses to which Kilgorman had been put in past times.

"Pardon me, captain, would it not be much better to take information like this in a more private manner, if we are to run these villains to earth? At present, what we have to decide is as to the two prisoners; and there seems no question as to their guilt. I identify them both as the men who attacked my car, and whom Gallagher here helped to capture."

The officer growled something about interfering civilians, but the other magistrate adopted his honour's view.

"Perhaps you are right, Gorman; but we must find out their hiding-places for all that later on.—Have you any questions to ask, Captain Lavan?"

"Only how long is this formality going on? It's as clear a case as you could have, and yet here have we been sitting an hour in this draughty yard trying to obscure it," said the soldier gruffly. "I'm sent here to administer martial law, not to kick my heels about in a police-court."

The two magistrates took this rebuke meekly, and the president proceeded to pronounce his sentence.

"Cassidy," said he to the prisoner who had not spoken, and who had evidently refused to answer any question, "you have been caught red- handed in a cowardly attempt to murder an officer of his Majesty, and have admitted your guilt. You have also been proved to be a sworn rebel against the king, and engaged in a conspiracy to overturn his government in Ireland. According to the law, your life is forfeited, and I have no alternative but to hand you over to the military authorities for immediate execution."

"Guards!" cried the captain, rising, "advance! Take the prisoner outside and shoot him. Quick march!"

Cassidy, who heard his sentence without concern or emotion, shouted,—

"Down with the king! Down with informers!" and fell in between his executioners, as they marched from the yard.

"As for you, Flanagan, your guilt is equally clear and heinous; but you have given evidence which entitles you to more lenient treatment. You will be taken to Derry Jail, till arrangements are made to send you out of the country—"

"Faith, I'd start this day!" said Flanagan, on whom the perils of remaining within reach of his late comrades were evidently beginning to dawn.

"Silence! Remove the prisoner!"

At this moment the report of a volley in the paddock without sent a grim shudder through the party. Flanagan, with a livid face, walked off between his guards, and the three magistrates turned to enter the house.

His honour beckoned to me to follow, and took me into his private room.

"I owe you something for yesterday," said he in his ungracious way. "Take a word of advice. Get out of these parts as soon as you can, and warn your brother to do the same."

"Why should I go?" said I. "I've done nothing to be ashamed of."

"Unless you are prepared to tell the authorities everything you know, and assist in hunting down the rebels, you are better away. You are a marked man already among the rebels. Unless you assist our side you will be a marked man among the authorities."

"If it comes to that, your honour," said I, "there is no man more marked in these parts than yourself. The boys could forgive you for being on the English side, but they can't forgive you for having encouraged them once and turned against them now."

His honour turned white at this.

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

"How does every one know it?" replied I. "Your enemies are not likely to let you off with yesterday's attempt."

His honour looked at me as if he would read in my face something more than my words expressed. I was older now than I once was, and I was my own master, so I had no reason to avoid his scrutiny.

"I have given you the advice of a friend," said he coldly; "take it or leave it. Meanwhile, your business here is at an end."

"May I see Miss Kit?" said I, in a milder tone, which his honour at once observed. "She desired to see me when I came to-day."

"Miss Gorman is not at home."

This was a blow to me, and I had not the art to conceal it.

"Will she be back to-day?" I ventured to ask.

"No; she has gone on a visit to friends," replied his honour, who evidently enjoyed my disappointment.

"She expected to be at home when I saw her yesterday."

"And what of that? Pray, what matters it to you?"

"Only this," said I, warming up, "that I would lay down my life any day for Miss Kit; and it is for her sake, and for her alone, that I would be sorry to see harm come to a man to whom I owe nothing but harshness and injury."

I repented as soon as I had said the words, but he gave me no chance of drawing back. He laughed dryly.

"So that's at the bottom of it? The son of a boatman and smuggler aspires to be son-in-law to the owner of Knockowen and Kilgorman—a pretty honour indeed!"

Here I flung all prudence to the winds, and glared in his face as I said,—

"Suppose, instead of the son of a boatman and smuggler, the man who loved your daughter were the son of him whose estates and fortune you have stolen, what then, Mr Gorman?"

He looked at me attentively for a moment, and his face turned so white that I thought him about to swoon. It was a moment or two before he could master his tongue, and meanwhile he kept his eyes on me like a man fascinated.

"Fool!" he gasped at last. "You don't know what you are talking about." Then with a sudden recovery of composure, and in a voice almost conciliatory, he added, "Miss Kit is about to visit her friends in Dublin, and will not be back here for weeks. Take the advice of a friend, Gallagher, and get away from these parts. To give you the chance, you may, if you wish to serve me, ride to Malin instead of Martin, and escort my daughter as far as Derry."

"Miss Kit might prefer some other escort," said I.

"She might. You are not bound to wait upon her. But I can give you a pass if you do."

"When does she leave Malin?"

"To-morrow forenoon."

"And what of Tim if he is caught?" said I.

"Warn him to keep on Fanad. He will be safe there."

"Let the horse and the passport be ready as soon as it is dark to- night," said I. "I will be here."

"Very good. And see here, Gallagher," said he, "what did you mean when you said just now that I had stolen any one's land and fortune?"

"What should I mean?" said I. "It's an old story you've got hold of," said he, "that was disposed of twenty years ago by the clearest proofs. Do you suppose, if you had been what you are foolish enough to imagine, I would have brought you up in my own house, eh? Wouldn't it have been simpler to drop you in the lough? It was only my esteem for your poor mother, Mary Gallagher, that prevented my letting all the world know what you may as well know now, that Mike Gallagher, your father, was the murderer of my brother."

"That is a lie," said I, "and some day I'll prove it."

"Ay, do," said he with a laugh. "It will take a good deal of proof."

"Not more than Biddy McQuilkin can give," said I.

He staggered at this like a man shot.

"Biddy is dead long ago," he exclaimed.

"Are you so sure of that?" said I. "Any way, I'll be here for the horse and the pass at dark. And take my advice, Maurice Gorman, and see that not a hair of Tim's head is hurt. You are safe as long as he is, and no longer."

And not waiting to take food or encounter the other officials, I went down to my boat and cast myself adrift on the dark waters of the Swilly.

My most urgent business was to find or communicate with Tim, and for that purpose I set sail once more for the headlands of Fanad.

As to his honour's curious behaviour, I knew him and distrusted him enough not to think much of it. He was a coward, cursed with a guilty conscience, and would fain have passed himself off as a righteous judge and powerful patron. He was anxious to conciliate me, not so much, I thought, because of my hint about the property, which he was satisfied was incapable of proof, as from a fear I might compromise him with the authorities about his past dealings with the rebels. He was nervously anxious to get me out of the country, and was willing to promise anything, even Tim's safety and Miss Kit's society, to get rid of me.

But it would go hard with Tim if he had no security better than his honour's word; and my dear little mistress, if she was to be won at all, was not to be won as the price of a political bargain.

All the morning and afternoon I searched up and down in vain, meeting not a soul nor any sign of my brother. With heavy misgivings I returned to my boat, and set sail once more towards Knockowen. Half-way down the lough it occurred to me that I would do better to pay a visit first of all to Kilgorman. After the scare of this morning's business the rebels would hardly have the hardihood to meet there to-night; and although there was little chance of finding Tim there, the place contained a spot known to both of us, in which a message could be safely deposited.

So I tacked about, and soon found myself once more in the deep cave. The place was empty and silent, and as I crept along the rocky passage nothing but the echoes of my own feet and of the dull waves without disturbed the gloomy stillness of the place.

The big kitchen, already darkening, was deserted. Everything was as I had left it two nights ago.

I lost no time in lifting the board and depositing in the recess below the hearth my brief message for Tim:—

"Beware, Tim! You are marked down, and there's martial law after you. Informers are at work, and the names are all known. Keep on Fanad. I serve on H.M.S. Diana.—Barry."

This done, and the board replaced, I was about to retire so as to be in time at Knockowen, when, taking a last glance round the gaunt room, my eye was attracted by the flutter of a paper pinned to the woodwork of one of the windows.

It contained a few words roughly scrawled with the end of a charred stick. This is what it said, and as I read my heart gave a great bound within me:—

"She's safe at Malin. The Duchman sails on the flud to-night.—Finn."

This, if it meant anything, meant foul play, and crushing the paper into my pocket, I lost not a moment in regaining my boat and making all sail for Knockowen.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

WHAT I FOUND AT MALIN.

It was nine o'clock when I came alongside his honour's jetty, and once more demanded entrance of the sentry. This time I was received even more suspiciously than in the morning, and was allowed to wait for nearly half-an-hour before it was decided that I might safely be admitted into the premises. For this irritating delay I had probably to thank the impatience with which I met the sentinel's questions; for when at last I found myself at the house, his honour met me with an inquiry why I had delayed my coming to so late an hour.

"It is four long leagues to Malin," said he, "and on such a road you are not likely to be there before midnight, when the inn will be closed. However, get Martin to saddle Tara for you. I wish Miss Kit and her maid to start for Derry at daybreak."

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"At the house of Mr Shannon, the magistrate who is with me here."

"And where is she to be taken in Derry?"

"To the Foyle Inn, where she will find instructions from me as to her journey to Dublin."

"Have you the pass?"

He handed me a paper, which read:—

"The bearer rides on my orders. Pass him, and two ladies.—Monsieur Gorman of Knockowen."

I was turning to the stable when he called me back.

"Remember my advice of this morning. Don't return here if you value your liberty. There are warrants out against all the men named in the list. The authorities are in earnest this time."

The tone in which he said this, coming from a man who had paltered with treason for years, struck me as contemptible; but I had no time just then to let him see what I felt.

"I will take care of myself," said I; "and your honour will do well to remember what I said about Tim. When the reckoning for all this business comes, it will stand you in good stead." And not waiting to hear his reply, I went off to the stables.

Martin, whom the reader will remember, and who, despite his connection with the marauders and his bad odour with the police, continued to retain his place in his honour's service, was nowhere to be found. He had been absent, said the boy, since the afternoon, when he had taken off Tara for exercise.

I was obliged, therefore, to put up with an inferior animal, and to saddle him myself. But I was too impatient to be off to allow of any further delay.

"At what hour is the tide full?" I asked of one of the servants.

"Half-an-hour after midnight," was the reply.

As he spoke, the clock in the hall struck half-past nine.

"In three hours," said I to myself, as I galloped down the avenue, "the Dutchman at Malin weighs anchor."

It was well for me I was no stranger to the rough, mountainous road I had to travel, for the night was pitch dark, and scarcely a soul was afoot at that late hour. I did, indeed, encounter a patrol of troopers near the Black Hill, who ordered me to halt and dismount and give an account of myself. But his honour's passport satisfied them, as it did the sentry who challenged me on entering the little town of Carndonagh. Thence to Malin it is but two leagues; but my wretched beast was so spent that, unless I wished to leave it on the road, I was compelled to take it most of the way at a foot's pace; so that when at last I pulled up before the little inn at Malin, it was on the stroke of midnight.

"Faith, Mr Gorman's fond of sending messengers," said the landlord. "There was another of his here two hours since."

"What!" I exclaimed, springing up from the bench at which I was partaking of a hurried supper.

"Ay; he came with a message for the young lady up yonder at Mr Shannon's."

"What sort of man was he?"

"Much like yourself—a common-looking man, with a shaven face and a nose that turns up."

"Did he ride an iron-grey mare?" said I.

"Faith, a beauty."

"It's Martin!" I exclaimed, confirmed more than ever in my suspicions of foul play. "Show me Mr Shannon's house, like a decent man," said I to mine host.

"There'll be no one stirring there at this hour. His honour's away with Mr Gorman, and the women folks will be a-bed long since."

"Never mind about that," said I; "show me the house."

The landlord grumblingly turned out and walked with me to the Hall, which was some half-mile beyond the village.

"Yonder's the house," said he, stopping short, and pointing to a clump of trees just discernible in the darkness. "You'll not be wanting me further?"

I hastened on, and was presently knocking loudly at the door of the Hall. The house was quite dark, and every one had evidently retired for the night. Nearly ten minutes elapsed before a window opened, and a surly voice called out,—

"Well? Who's there, disturbing decent folk at this hour?"

"A messenger from Mr Gorman. Is the young lady at home? I must see her instantly."

"Young leddy! There's none younger than the mistress, and she sleeps at night like a decent woman."

"Has Miss Gorman gone, then?" I exclaimed.

"Why not, when she was sent for?"

"Who sent for her? When did she go? Where has she gone? Let me in, I say. There's foul play, and I must see your mistress instantly."

My agitation succeeded in convincing the fellow that something was amiss, and he put in his head and presently unbarred the front door.

"Mercy on us! what's the meaning of all this?" said the old man-servant as I stepped into the hall.

"Let me see Mrs Shannon," said I.

"What is it?" said a voice on the stairs before the butler could answer.

I explained my mission, and inquired if it was true that Miss Kit had already departed.

"To be sure," said the lady. "Mr Gorman's groom, Martin, rode over from Knockowen this evening with a message—"

"Written?" I interrupted.

"No; Mr Gorman was too busy to write. It was to say that a passage had been taken for Miss Kit and a maid on a brig that happened to be lying off the Five Fingers; and that, as he found the ship was to sail for Dublin with the flood to-night, he had sent over Martin to see her safely on board. I confess it seemed a little unusual; and Miss Kit was very reluctant to start on such short notice, saying it had been arranged she was to travel overland by way of Derry. But tell me, what's amiss?"

"Foul play; nothing less!" cried I. "That ship is bound, not for Dublin, but for Holland; and this is a vile plot of the rebels to be revenged on Gorman, and decoy away his daughter as a hostage. Where did Martin say the ship lay?"

"At Five Fingers, west of the headland; two leagues from here."

"When did they start from here?"

"Ten o'clock."

"On foot?"

"No. They rode; and will have been there an hour ago."

"Can you lend me a horse? Mine at the inn is spent."

"There's the cart-horse," said the butler.

"That wall do. Mrs Shannon, I beg you will send over a man at once to Knockowen and let his honour know how matters stand. I will ride to Five Fingers and see if anything is to be done or learned. What sort of girl is the maid?"

"A soft creature enough. She and this Martin have been courting a year past."

With a groan of despair I followed the butler to the yard, and bridled the unwieldy beast I found there.

"It's a fool's errand you are on," said the old retainer; "but maybe you'll have the luck to come within arm's-length of that blackguard Martin. I always doubted him. Are you armed?"

"I have a pistol."

"Take yonder old sword," said he, pointing to a rusty weapon suspended on the stable wall. "It has seen service before now."

Thus mounted and accoutred, I dug my heels into the flanks of the great horse, and, in the breaking dawn, made along the rocky track which the butler had pointed out as leading to Five Fingers.

"If nothing can be done," said I, as I left, "I will return here."

"Dear send we shall see you no more then," said the old man.

Along the road which led from Malin village to the promontory rapid progress was impossible, and but that I hoped to have better use for my horse later on, I could almost have gone as well on foot.

As the early May dawn lifted, I could get glimpses of the sea lying calm on my left, with a light breeze off the land stirring its surface.

"That is in favour of the Dutchman," groaned I.

Not a human being, scarcely a wayside hut, did I see during that tedious ride, as my lumbering beast stumbled over the loose stones and plashed his way, fetlock deep, through the bog. At length I came to the place which the butler had described as the spot where I was to turn off the road and make by a grass track for the sea-level.

A short way down this latter path brought me to a corner which opened a sudden view of the sea to northward. Gazing eagerly in that direction, the first sight which met my eyes was a brig, with all sails set, standing out to sea before the wind, about a mile or two from the shore.

Too late! I had expected nothing else, but the certainty of it now drove me into a frenzy of wrath. I flung myself from the horse and strode, pistol in hand, towards the deserted shore. There, except for hoof-marks, which convinced me three horses had passed that way, there was no sign of living being. By the tracks I could almost fix the spot at which the party had put off, doubtless in one of the brig's boats. Of the return track of the horses I could find nothing, and judged that they had been taken off either at the edge of the water, which the tide had subsequently covered, or up one of the hard rocky tracks towards the foreland.

Along one of these, which seemed the most likely, I went for some distance. It brought me out on to the cliff-top, but disclosed no trace of what I sought.

I took my red scarf, and fixing it on the end of the sword, waved it defiantly at the receding ship. Whether it was seen or not, or whether, if seen, it was understood by those who alone would be likely to understand it, I could not say.

I was about to return to Malin when a thin curl of smoke from behind a rock advised me that there was at least one human habitation within reach, where it might be possible to get information. It was a wretched mud hovel backing on to the rock—its roof of sods being held at the corners by stones—and boasting no window, only the door out of which the smoke was pouring.

An old man, with the stump of a clay pipe in his lips, was turning his pig out to grass as I approached. He looked at me suspiciously, and went on without replying to my salutation.

"Good-morrow, father," said I. "You've had a ship in overnight, I see."

"Like enough," replied he in Irish. "Thrt—thrt!" and he gave the pig a switch.

"Was she English?" I asked.

"'Deed I know nothing of her," said he with a cunning look which convinced me he was lying.

"What does she carry?" I continued, playing with the butt of the pistol in my belt.

He was quick enough to notice this gentle hint.

"Bad luck to the ship!" said he; "she's no concern of mine. What are you looking for? The trade brings me no good."

"Hark here," said I, pulling the weapon from my belt and balancing it on my fingers. "I'm no custom-house runner. Your cabin may be full, as it probably is, of rum or bitters for all I care," here he gave a wince of relief. "I want to know what yonder brig carried off, not what she left ashore."

"Sure, I thought your honour was from the police," said the man with a leer.

"Tell me," said I, "who went off in the ship's boat early this morning."

"Three just—a man and two females."

"Did you know any of them?"

"Maybe I did, maybe no. One of the ladies was maid to Mistress Shannon, away at Malin."

"And the man?"

"He's the boy that's courting that same maid, and comes from Knockowen."

"And the other lady?"

"I never saw her before; but I'm thinking she was a rale lady."

"Who rowed them out to the ship?"

"Some of the crew, by the lingo they talked."

"Did they leave the horses?"

"They did. It was me took them and turned them back over the hill. They'll find their ways home."

"What is the ship's name?"

"That I can't say, except that she was Dutch."

"How long had she been lying off here?"

"Since yesterday morning just."

"What was her cargo?"

"Sure, your honour said that was no matter at all."

"Was it Dutch goods?"

"It was; and if you'll wait here I'll fetch a drop of it to you," said he nervously.

"Stay where you are," said I. "Tell me, who is there can say what the ship's name is and where bound?"

"No one, unless it's Hugh Henry at the inn below."

"Did the young lady say anything as they took her on the boat?"

"Sure, she asked to see the captain, and to know when they were to reach Dublin, and seemed to mislike the voyage altogether. But I heard Martin say it was her father's orders, and that he would be in Dublin to meet her."

This was all the news I could gather, but it was enough to confirm my worst suspicions. Leaving the old man still in doubt as to the motive for my questions, I returned as rapidly as I could to Malin, and presented myself at the inn.

"Sure, I thought you were away," said the host, who came down half- dressed to admit me.

"I want to know something about the Dutch ship that was in here overnight," said I. "Not," I added, as I noticed the conscious fall of his face, "that I care what she carried. No doubt she was a smuggler, and that you and she had your business together—"

"'Deed, sir," he began, "may the—"

"Whisht!" said I, "that will do later. Just now I must know her name, and whither bound. The young lady at the Hall has been decoyed away in her, and must be found."

His amazement convinced me that at least he had been no party to the abduction, which had probably, and wisely so, been confided to no one beyond Martin and the officials of the secret society.

"The young leddy, Mr Gorman's daughter, carried off!" and he indulged in a long whistle. "I always said his honour would get into trouble with a kittle girl like that."

"Hold your tongue, you scoundrel," shouted I, "unless you want it crammed down your throat, and tell me the ship's name and her port."

"No offence, sir," said the honest landlord, taken aback by my anger, and by the gleam of the pistol which I set down on the table—"no offence, sir. She was the brig Scheldt from Rotterdam, a well-found craft that's been this way before with messages from the Irish in Holland to those at home."

With this I made once more for the Hall, where I found the household up, and in a state of anxious expectation. When they heard my story, great was the distress of the lady of the house to discover how she, in whose charge Miss Kit had been left, had been imposed upon. She implored me to wait till Mr Shannon returned from Knockowen; but as it was doubtful when that would be, such delay seemed useless.

Before I left I wrote a letter to Mr Gorman giving him all the particulars I could. He would no doubt receive an official notice from the rebels, naming their conditions for restoring their hostage. But so cowardly and shambling a creature had this father become, that I doubted very much whether he would risk much even to recover his child.

I then returned once more to the inn, where already the news of the night's adventure had attracted a group of gossips. The landlord seeing me, took me aside and handed me a paper.

"Here's a song of another tune," said he. "It was left by the Dutch skipper, and may be news to some of you."

I read it. It was a proclamation to the people of Ireland, couched in bombastic language, and stating that the hour of deliverance was at hand. A foreign fleet was about to descend on our northern coasts. Any day now the signal might be given for Ireland to rise. All was ready, and trusty leaders would accompany the friendly fleet. A strong blow well struck would end Ireland's ills for ever. And so on.

"What do I want with this?" said I, giving back the paper. "Give it to those who want it. I've had enough of the Dutch for one night."

And saddling my horse I started, in what sort of humour my readers may imagine, towards Derry.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

Save to turn my back on a region which had now become full of gloomy associations, I had no very definite purpose in view in that morning's ride. There was nothing to be done. The mischief to her I loved was beyond recall. Even those who had made themselves the agents of this vile conspiracy had placed themselves out of reach. Tim, my own brother, was nominal chief to the hated band, and though he was absent, and would, I knew, have had no hand in this business, to denounce the whole company would be only to strike at him. From Maurice Gorman, coward and time-server, there was nothing to be hoped. Not a friend was there on whom I could count, not an enemy on whom I could have the sorry satisfaction of being revenged.

As, however, the gallop through the bracing morning air produced its natural effect, it occurred to me to offer my services, during the remainder of my leave of absence, to Captain Swift, or, should he desire it, join the Diana forthwith, and try to forget my trouble in hard work.

His honour's passport took me safely past the numerous patrols which beset my way between Malin and Derry, and which spoke much for the rigour with which the new regime of martial law was being enforced. Once or twice I was questioned as to the two ladies named in the pass, to which I replied that I was to foregather with them presently—which I devoutly wished might be true.

At Derry more than usual ceremony awaited a stranger at the gates. I was conducted to the guard-room, and there detained under a kind of friendly arrest for half-an-hour or so, until it suited the pleasure of the officer on guard to inspect me.

When this gentleman made his appearance, I recognised, not altogether with delight, my old acquaintance and supposed rival, Captain Lestrange. He failed to recognise me at first, but when I reminded him of our last meeting in Paris, he took in who I was.

"Those were hard times," said he. "How I ever got the ladies out of that terrible city I scarcely know to this day. I see you travel on Mr Gorman's business, and escort two ladies. Where are they?"

"I wish I knew," said I, and gave him a full account of my ride to Malin and all that happened there.

He heard my story with growing attention and consternation.

"Decoyed!" he exclaimed vehemently. "The dogs shall pay for this! I remember that scoundrel Martin."

"Shall you go to Rotterdam?" said I.

"I?" said he, looking at me in surprise. "I am no man of leisure just now."

"But report says you have a particular interest in Miss Gorman's welfare."

"Rumour commits many impertinences," replied he with an angry frown. "For all that, I am not master of my own movements just now. I am here to hunt down rebels; and among them, unless I mistake, a brother of yours holds a prominent place."

I winced.

"At least," said I, "he never had hand either in murder, or pillage, or meanness to a woman. He is an honest soldier, though, alas! on the wrong side."

Captain Lestrange laughed.

"It is the fashion of these rebels," said he, "to dignify themselves as soldiers and claim the honours of war. But when we get hold of them they will learn that there is a difference between felony and warfare. Can you not persuade your brother out of it? I hear he is a fine fellow."

"I have tried," said I, mollified by this compliment; "but it is useless, and at present he is not to be found."

"That's the best place for him. As to Miss Gorman, I will go over to Knockowen and see if anything can be done to intercept the Dutchman. Meanwhile what of you?"

"I go to join my ship."

"Good. We may meet again, Gallagher. Our paths have met strangely before now. Heaven grant they may bring us out into fair weather at last."

I left him on the whole in good cheer. There was a blunt frankness about him which led me to believe that were I ever to be called upon to meet Captain Lestrange as an enemy, it would be as an honest and generous one. His affected indolence had already been disproved by the service he had rendered to the ladies in Paris. His regrets as to Tim showed that he was a man in whom the kindlier instincts were not all wanting. What, however, comforted me most was his tone with regard to Miss Kit. There was nothing of the lover about the words, and too little of the actor about the man to lead me to suppose he was deluding me. Why should he? He was my superior in birth and rank. He had claims of kinship and property which pointed him out as the natural squire for the heiress of Kilgorman. The idea of my being a rival had probably never entered his head; and if it had, would have done so only to raise a smile of incredulous pity. But that a lover could receive the news I brought as he did seemed quite impossible. So I went on my way, if not cheered, at least with a less heavy weight on my mind than before.

I found Captain Swift in bed with an attack of jaundice, and in a state of high excitement.

"How did you know I wanted you?" he said when I presented myself.

"I did not, sir," said I. "Have you any orders for me?"

"A despatch has come from the Admiralty," said he, "cancelling all leave of absence. The Diana being still under repair, I am appointed to the Zebra, now off Dublin, and ordered to sail on Saturday to join the fleet watching the Dutch off the Texel."

I hope he put down to zeal for the service the whole of the satisfaction with which I received this announcement. No work just then could fit in better with my humour than watching the Dutchmen.

"Be ready to start by to-night's coach," said he. "I shall follow to- morrow, with or without my doctor's leave. Here is a letter I wish you to deliver at the Admiralty. Then report yourself on board. I hear she's an ill-found craft, and no one knows what sort of crew they will rake up for us. I wish the Diana hands were within call," he added to himself.

Next day I was in Dublin, and duly left my captain's letter at the Admiralty. I was instructed to report myself on board the Zebra before sundown, as there was much work to be done getting crew and stores in order ready for our immediate departure.

Having an hour or two at my disposal, I took a walk through the streets. Dublin, to all outward appearance, was in an orderly and peaceable state, and gave few signs of being, what it actually was at that time, the hotbed of a dangerous rebellion. It was only when I dived into some of the lower streets near the river, and saw the mysterious and ominous groups which hung about at the corners, and noticed the menacing looks with which they greeted any chance passer-by who was known to be a servant of the government, that I realised that I walked, as it were, on the edge of a volcano. How soon I was to experience for myself the terrors of that coming explosion the reader will hear.

I had got beyond the streets and into the Park, attracted thither by strains of martial music, when, in a retired path, I encountered a gentleman dressed in a close-fitting, semi-military coat, with a green scarf round his neck, and switching a cane to and fro as he paced moodily along. I recognised him as Lord Edward.

He looked up as I approached and at once recognised me.

"Ah, Gallagher, what news from Donegal? How is the charming fair one?" said he.

"The charming fair one," said I, with a bitterness that startled him, "is a victim in the hands of your lordship's followers. She has been decoyed away and carried off to Holland as an act of reprisal against her father."

"What?" said he. "Tell me what you mean."

And I told him my story. He listened, switching his cane against his leg, and watching my face with keen interest.

"It is part of the fortune of war," said he, "that the innocent suffer for the guilty. But this must be seen to at once. The Scheldt will probably make for Holland by the north route. If so, she will not arrive at Rotterdam for a week or two. By that time I will communicate with some one I know near there, and see she is taken care of. Hang the fools!" muttered he. "What good can come to any one by such an act?"

"Indeed, my lord," said I, "if I may venture to say so; Ireland has little to look for from her professed friends in Donegal, where private spite and greed are the main support of your confederacy."

"You are not the first who has told me that," said he gloomily. "No doubt you are glad to see our weakness in this quarter."

"I should be but that my brother, although absent, is the nominal head there, and it's little credit to him."

"Tim Gallagher is too good a man to be wasted."

"Do you know where he is?" I inquired.

"Abroad on his country's service," said Lord Edward. "You must be content with that. Here our ways part. Good-bye, my lad." And he gave me a friendly nod.

"Your lordship will pardon me one question. Have you any objection to tell me the address of the friend in Holland to whose care you propose to commend Miss Gorman?"

"She is an old retainer in a kinswoman's family, one Biddy McQuilkin. She keeps a little inn on the outskirts of the Hague, called the 'White Angel.'"

"Biddy McQuilkin!" exclaimed I with excitement. "Why, she was servant to the Lestranges in Paris, who perished in 'the terror.'"

"The same. This Biddy was overlooked, and finally escaped, and by the interest of Madame Sillery got to Holland, and set up at this small inn, frequented by English and Irish visitors."

It was difficult to disguise the joy which this unexpected discovery afforded me. I bade adieu to his lordship with a grateful salute, and then betook myself in a state of wonder and jubilation to the harbour.

In Biddy McQuilkin were centred any hopes I entertained of righting the wrong which had been done at Kilgorman, and so of carrying out my mother's sacred bequest. Moreover, the thought that Miss Kit would find so stalwart a protector at the end of her unhappy voyage lifted a heavy weight from my mind.

And all this relief I owed to the man whom, of all others, I, as a loyal subject of his Majesty, was bound to consider as my country's most dangerous enemy! Alack! I was not born to be a good hater. For as I strode that evening through the streets of Dublin I counted this Lord Edward as one of the few men for whom I would gladly have given my life.

When in due time I procured a boat to row me out to the Zebra, I found that Captain Swift's forebodings as to the state of the ship were only too well founded. The Zebra was a second-rate frigate, which for some years had been out of regular commission, doing duty on coast-guard service, or cruising under letters of marque. She was not an ill- looking craft; though, to judge by her looks as she rode at anchor, her lines were better adapted to fast sailing than hard knocks.

When I reported myself on board, however, I was better able to understand my captain's misgivings. The first lieutenant in charge was a coarse, brutal-looking fellow, who, if he spared me some of the abuse which he measured out to the ordinary seamen, did so because he looked to me to take some labour off his hands.

"It's high time you came," said he; "and unless you can lick a pack of wolves into shape, you may as well swing yourself up at the yard-arm at once. They seem to have emptied all the jails in Dublin to find us men; and as for stores—well, the less said about these the better."

I was not long in discovering that he had good reasons for his gloomy opinions. The hands, whom presently I piped on deck, were as ill- assorted and ill-conditioned a lot as boatswain ever was called upon to overhaul. Many were raw hands, who did not know one end of a mast from the other. Others, who knew better, appeared to be the refuse of crews which had rejected their worst men. And the few old salts of the right kind were evidently demoralised and dissatisfied, both at their enforced association with their present messmates and with the abrupt termination of their leave ashore.

As to the officers, with the exception of the first lieutenant and a few of the petty officers who took their cue from him, they seemed a decent and fairly smart set, although few of them had been tried in active service, and fewer still, I fancy, had had charge of so ill-found a ship as the Zebra.

One of the first complaints I was called upon to hear and report to my officers was as to the ship's food, which was truly as scurvy and unsavoury a provision as I ever saw. Biscuits and grog and pork were such as the lowest slop-shop in Letterkenny would have been ashamed to sell.

"It's good enough for hounds like them," was all I could get out of the lieutenant. "They can take it or leave it."

The next complaint I made was on my own account, and referred to the ship's stores. We had barely our complement of anchors and cables, still less any to come and go on. For reserve spars and sails and other tackle we were almost as badly off; while the ammunition and arms were certainly not enough for a service involving any considerable action.

The officer in charge received all these representations with the utmost indifference.

"Get better if you can," said he; "it's all of a piece, and quite proper for a service that's gone to the dogs. Hark at those demons now! The rum seems good enough, anyhow."

And indeed all that night the Zebra was more like a madhouse than one of his Majesty's ships. What authority there was was maintained at the end of the cat-o'-nine-tails. As for the enthusiasm and patriotic ardour which are usually supposed to hail the prospect of close-quarters with the enemy, one would have had to listen long and hard for any sign of either below decks that night.

"The best that can happen to us," said I to myself, as I turned in at last, "is a hurricane up Channel, and the Dutch fleet at the end of it. These may hold us together; nothing else will."

When Captain Swift came on board next evening things mended a little, for our gallant officer was a man whose name and manner both commanded respect. At the last moment some few additional stores were brought off; and the little speech he made to the crew, reminding them of their honourable profession, and holding out a prospect of distinction and prize-money in the near future, was listened to with more respect than I feared it would meet. The men, through one of their number, made a formal complaint of their grievances, which Captain Swift received on his part without resentment. The order was then given to weigh anchor, and half-an-hour later the Zebra was standing out to sea on as ill- starred a voyage as vessel ever made.

Had Captain Swift's health been equal to his gallantry and tact all might even yet have gone well. But he came on board ill, and two days after we sailed he was confined to his berth with a dangerous relapse, and the fate of the Zebra was left in the hands of the worst possible man for the duty—Mr Adrian, the first lieutenant.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

MUTINY.

A week of light and fickle winds brought us through the Channel and well on our way to Yarmouth Roads, off which we understood Admiral Duncan was lying. As we passed the Downs, strange and ugly rumours of trouble ahead met us. One night, as we lay anchored waiting for our wind, I was on deck at my watch when I caught the sound of oars approaching the Zebra. Shortly after several missives were pitched on deck, one of which alighted just at my feet.

I examined it with some curiosity. It was a bundle of printed papers addressed to the sailors of England, calling upon them to insist on the redress of grievances, and to stand by their brethren who at that moment were in a state of mutiny at the Nore. Other papers described the success which had attended a similar mutiny at Spithead a week or so previously. Another was a flaring proclamation, signed "Parker, President," on board H.M.S. Sandwich at the Nore, announcing that the fleet was in the hands of the men; that all the obnoxious officers were under arrest; that the Thames was under strict blockade; that conditions had been offered to the Admiralty; and that, if these were not accepted within a given time, it was the intention of the leaders of the mutiny to put to sea and hand the ships in their possession to the enemy. Further, it was stated that the fleet at the Nore was being daily recruited by deserters from the North Sea squadron and elsewhere; that arms and supplies were abundant; and that England was at the mercy of those whom up till now she had treated as veritable slaves. And so on.

All this greatly troubled me; for, from what I knew of the crew of the Zebra, such seditious stuff furnished just the fuel required to set the spirit of the men in a blaze. The other missives thrown on board, no doubt containing the same or similar matter, had pretty certainly fallen into the hands of those who would read the call to mutiny with different eyes from mine. If so, the mischief was already far gone.

I hastened with my papers to Lieutenant Adrian, who glanced over them contemptuously.

"All bunkum and wind," said he, pitching them into a corner. "We have heard this sort of thing before."

"If it is true, sir," I ventured to say, "that the ships at the Nore have mutinied, we had better give them a wide berth, for it's a catching thing."

"Pooh! there's no more in it than the cat and a noose or two at the yard-arms can cure," said he. "However, keep your eyes open, Mr Gallagher, and report the first sign of mutiny. There's nothing like nipping it in the bud."

For all the lieutenant's assumed indifference, further consultation with the captain and the other officers resulted in some needful precautions being taken. The watches were increased, the ammunition was placed under extra guard, and picked men were told off to man the helm. As the south-easterly breeze was rising, too, orders were given to weigh anchor at once and put to sea.

The men obeyed the orders to set sail in a sullen, mechanical way, which did not grow more hearty as they saw that every officer carried his pistol in his belt, and watched the execution of every command with suspicious keenness.

It was only when the order to turn in gave them the opportunity of congregating in larger numbers and discussing the proclamation that they took heart, and arrived at something like a united policy. Had I had my own way that night, convinced as I was of the inevitable outcome of delay, I would have clapped down the hatches and left them there to deliberate till doomsday, or such time as they chose to beg for release on the captain's terms. As it was, there was nothing to do but to speculate moodily on what the morrow would bring forth, and meanwhile make what use we could of the favouring breeze to put as many leagues as possible between ourselves and the treasonable neighbourhood of the Nore.

The worst of it was that the honest grievances of the seamen were so patent, and the injustice they suffered at the hands of officers like Lieutenant Adrian so flagrant, that had they been fairly stated and fairly met nothing but good could have come of it. But put forward as they were likely to be by a crew like ours, and encouraged and fomented by agitators such as those who had drawn up the proclamation, what issue was probable but one of desperate struggle and probably bloodshed?

It was plainly seen, when hands were piped next morning, that the temper of the men had changed for the worse. As they strolled indolently up on deck, and glanced up at the well-set sails, and saw the bows pointing due north, and as their eyes fell on the bright pistols and side-arms at the officers' belts, it was evident they were in some doubt as to what course to pursue.

They talked together in surly groups, arguing probably that on the high sea, away from support, and in the presence of a forewarned and forearmed body of officers, their chances of seizing the ship were not promising; and one or two were bold enough audibly to regret their folly for not having struck their blow and hoisted the red flag while the Zebra lay in friendly company in the Downs.

Finally, as I supposed, it was decided to wait till we reached Yarmouth Roads, and claim the support of the mutineers there. Meanwhile orders were obeyed with ominous silence; and worse still, the few loyal men on whom the officers had counted to stand by them were got at and drawn into consultation with their messmates, and some of them were seduced into taking part with the malcontents.

Next afternoon we sighted sails to northward; but as just then the breeze fell dead, we were unable before nightfall to ascertain whether they were ships of Admiral Duncan's squadron or not. While Lieutenant Adrian was deliberating with the other officers as to whether we should put off a boat to get word of them, the men came aft in a body and demanded a conference.

Their spokesman was an Irishman whom I recognised as one of the new hands brought on board at the last moment off Dublin. He was a glib, noisy fellow, clever most likely at anything but seamanship, of which he knew nothing, and very little acquainted with the seamen's grievances of which he elected himself to speak.

Lieutenant Adrian, who was in an ill-enough temper at the time, ordered him to take himself and the dogs at his heels to the place they came from, unless he wanted to taste the lash.

The men, who had expected some such reception, stood their ground, and ordered Callan, for that was the leader's name, to say on.

"It's not yourself we need to speak to," said Callan, "it's the captain. Let us see him."

"My lads," said the ship's surgeon, who was one of the officers present, "you are like enough to see your captain in his shroud before morning, for he is this moment at death's door."

"So much the worse," replied Callan. "There was hope of justice out of Captain Swift; there's none at all out of the lieutenant."

"There's precious good hope of a rope's end," retorted the enraged lieutenant hotly.—"Mr Gallagher, see that the fool is put in irons at once, and any one else that joins with him. We'll soon put an end to this, even should a man dangle at every yard-arm for it!"

The only reply to this was a cheer from the men, and, what was quite unexpected, a sudden click of pistols as they drew up in two lines across the deck.

"Look'ee here, Mr Adrian," said Callan, "we're not the fools you take us for. While you have been drinking, we have not been idle. The powder-magazine is ours, and the forward guns are loaded and primed and turned this way.—Stand aside, lads, and let them see for themselves."

The ranks opened, and sure enough in the forecastle we could see the muzzles of two twenty-four pounders pointed at the quarter-deck, and manned by some of the very men of whose loyalty until yesterday there had been least question.

Lieutenant Adrian, although a bully and a brute, was not lacking in animal courage, and betrayed no sign of dismay at this discovery.

"If you think we are to be frightened, hang you," said he, "you are much mistaken. What is it you want?"

A coarse laugh greeted this tame ending to his speech. One old tar put himself forward before Callan could reply.

"It's like this," said he, with a salute. "We mean no disrespect to the captain or the service, but—"

"Hold your tongue," said Callan, pushing him aside.—"What do we want? That's easy told."

And he took a paper from his pocket and read:—

"First. The first lieutenant, the third lieutenant, the master, the master's mate, the boatswain, and Midshipmen Gamble and Brock, to leave the ship and be put ashore.

"Second. The ship to be taken to the Nore, and placed under the orders of Admiral Parker.

"Third. The remaining officers either to take the oath or be placed under arrest.

"Fourth. Two delegates, chosen by the men, to attend the admiral's council, and act and vote on behalf of the ship."

Lieutenant Adrian listened with an ill-concealed smile, in which, I confess, he was by no means alone.

"And what if we reject your precious first, second, third, and fourth piece of infernal impudence?"

"Then we shall take what we want without asking," replied Callan with cool effrontery. "You may take an hour to decide.—Come, boys."

The men gave another cheer, and retired singing "Rule, Britannia." They left, however, a strongly-armed picket to cut off access from the quarter-deck to the rest of the ship.

The night was still dead calm, and the Zebra lay like a log in the sea, her sails drooping, and her head swinging idly with the tide.

"Well?" inquired one or two, looking at Lieutenant Adrian.

"Well?" retorted that officer. "If you want to know what I intend to do, I mean to drink a bottle of port below. There is but one answer to give, and nothing to discuss. So you may fetch me in an hour."

"Shall we tell the captain?" asked Mr Felton, the second lieutenant, who, if he had only been superior to Mr Adrian, would have seen us through the crisis with more credit than we were likely to get.

"Certainly not," said the doctor authoritatively. "The consultation in his cabin yesterday was a fatal mistake as far as he is concerned. Let him at least die in peace now."

"How many loyal men do we muster, Mr Gallagher?" said Mr Felton.

"Twenty-five, all told, sir," replied I. "We cannot count on any of the men for certain, though one or two may join us if it comes to a fight."

"It will certainly come to that," said Mr Felton quietly. And no one entertained the least question on that score.

"We have one ally more," observed the master, who had for some time been sniffing the night air. "Unless I mistake, there's a sou'-wester coming up in a jiffy."

"I think you are right, master," said Mr Felton. "That will put us over to the Dutch side, anyhow."

"And there's another ally yet, sir," said I. "They've got possession of the two casks of rum that were last shipped at Dublin."

"In that case," said the second lieutenant, laughing, "we may count on a full hour before we are disturbed. If we are to make a fight of it, let it be a good one. Gentlemen," said he, addressing the company, "the quarter-deck is still ours; twenty-five loyal men are a match for two hundred and fifty scoundrels any day. Bring the stern-guns into position, and throw up a barricade here. Look to your pistols and swords, and don't waste bullets or powder. The worst they can do is to blow the ship up, and that they won't do.—Master, you were right about the breeze. Bring her round as soon as she moves.—And some of you young gentlemen," said he to the midshipmen, "be ready to bear a hand aloft with the sails.—Mr Gallagher, watch your chance of getting round to the forecastle and doctoring the guns there. You are not a new hand, I hear, at such a job.—Now, gentlemen all, we can but die once; let us do it well while we are about it."

This spirited address had a great effect, and whatever sense of helplessness had been caused by the disparity of our numbers and the strong position of the mutineers, gave way to a desperate resolve to give a good account of ourselves before we yielded up the ship.

I could not help believing that some of the older and more experienced hands, though now borne down by the general feeling of insubordination, would side with us if only we could show a strong hand. If so, there would not be seamanship enough in the rest to set a topsail or read a chart; and every moment the breeze was freshening and promising us a lively morning.

The Zebra still hung listlessly in the water, but any moment now she might get under way. There was no time therefore to be lost in getting unobserved at the forward guns, which I was convinced was only to be done by dropping overboard and swimming round to the stem, where there was sufficient hanging tackle to help oneself on board with.

I secured the services of the master's mate in this perilous venture—a tough sea-dog who was ready for anything, provided it was out of the commonplace. This business, I promised him, would at least be that.

The quartermaster had charge of the helm.

"Look alive, my lads," said he, as we prepared to let ourselves overboard; "her head may go round any moment. As she lies you can drop on to it easy. Take a line with you, and pay out as you go, as you'll need it to come back by. Over you go."

We secured our pistols as best we could against the water, and then one after the other dropped over the stern and struck out for the peak. The ship was already beginning to sway on the breeze, and once or twice as we kept close under her side we were in peril of being sucked under or else crushed down by her lurches. However, we managed to reach the hanging tackle below the bowsprit without misadventure; and making fast the end of the line we carried, so that it hung close on the water-line from stem to stern, we began to haul ourselves, with our knives between our teeth, up into the shrouds.

While we were doing so the ship swung round into the wind, and began to move through the water.

As soon as we got our heads level with the gunwale we could dimly see the forecastle deck before us, and the breeches of the two twenty-four pounders, pointed astern. There was a man in charge of each. The two sat on the deck, with a can of liquor between them, playing dice in a quarrelsome, half-tipsy way. The rest of the company were assembled on the middle deck, and, to judge by the sounds, were deep in the discussion of their rum and their grievances.

I gave my comrade a signal, and next moment we sprang noiselessly on board, and had the two gunners overpowered, gagged, and made fast before they could utter a sound or reach for their arms.

Then without losing a moment we drove our nails into the touch-holes of the guns, trusting to the noise of the revellers and the dash of the water at the bows to drown the sound of the hammer. This done we dropped overboard, each with a prisoner, as quietly as we had come, and with the aid of the line reached the stern in safety, and found ourselves once more on the sanctuary of the quarter-deck.

Scarcely had we done so when we became aware of a movement among the enemy. So busily occupied had they been in their debauch that they had not noticed the change in the weather, or the advantage which had been taken of it to put the ship under way. As it was, they might have even allowed that to pass, supposing it only brought them nearer to Yarmouth Roads, when one of the old salts in their number pronounced that the new wind was from another quarter, and that instead of closing in with the admiral's fleet off Yarmouth the Zebra was running for the open sea with a strong south-wester astern.

Finding themselves thus hoodwinked, and already excited by drink, the leaders, and as many of the men as could be enticed from the liquor, came once more aft and demanded another interview.

The quarter-deck, except for the sentries, the watch, and the men at the guns, was comparatively deserted, the officers having retired below until the hour allowed by the enemy had expired.

The senior officer present was Mr Felton.

"Quartermaster," said he, as he stepped up to the helmsman, "how does she sail?"

"Nor'-east by east, sir. Making ten knots an hour."

"Keep her so.—Mr Gamble," said he, turning to a midshipman, "have the goodness to go to my cabin at once and fetch the magnet you will find lying in the drawer of my desk."

In a minute Mr Gamble had performed his errand. Mr Felton meanwhile had lifted the cover of the compass-box, into which he now inserted the small magnet, so that it pulled the needle a quarter of the circle round, and made it appear that our course was due north.

"That should give us time," said he as he replaced the cover. "The land-lubbers will know no better.—Use your pocket-compass, quartermaster, and keep her as she is.—Now, my man," said he, addressing one of the loyal marines who had been standing sentry, "what is it?"

"If you plaze, sir, the hounds beyant there want a word with yez."

"Tell them the hour is not yet up, and that Mr Adrian is below."

"Sure I told them so, and Callan, he's their talking man, says he must see yourself, or there'll be mischief."

"Very good," said Mr Felton. "Pass the word below for all hands on deck; and let every man go quietly to his place.—Marine, allow Callan on the quarter-deck."

But Mr Callan was not tipsy enough to fall into such a trap, and insisted on the honours of war and the word of a gentleman that he and three of his followers should be allowed safe-conduct, hinting at the same time that the forward guns were still in position, and that any attempt to break parole would be visited with ugly consequences.

Lieutenant Felton gravely gave the necessary assurance, whereupon, ordering their followers to wait below, Callan and three comrades, as tipsy as himself, staggered up the ladder.

"Now, sir, what is the matter?" demanded Mr Felton.

"Matter? The ship's on the wrong tack. You're sailing her out to sea; and if she's not put round at once, we'll put her about for you."

Mr Felton laughed.

"Not so easy to sail out to sea in this wind as you think, my lad. I wonder, now, if you really know what direction we are going in."

One of the four replied, "Nor'-east," unless he was mistaken.

"Bless me," said the officer, "and these are the men who pretend to speak in the name of the British seaman! I should prefer to take the word of the compass against yours in a cap of wind, my fine fellow, any day. Nor'-east, indeed!"

"The compass will say the same as us; or maybe we're a point more to eastward."

"You can satisfy yourself as to that if you please," said Mr Felton dryly.—"Mr Gallagher, take these men and show them the compass. It will be a lesson to them in navigation."

The laughter of the company succeeded in effectually damping the confidence of our amateur seamen as they slowly followed me abaft.

"Steer gingerly round these guns," said I, as we passed the two guns which had been brought to bear on the forecastle; "they're loaded. Gently now; it's not so steady walking on a deck as round the Newgate exercise-yard. Come away now.—Quartermaster, show a light on the compass here for these gentlemen. They have come to give us a lesson in seamanship."

"Compass!" said the quartermaster with a chuckle. "Ain't the stars good enough for you? Who but a landlubber ever needed to look at a compass to see which way the wind blew? However, look away; and if it's a point out of due north call me a Dutchman."

The men peered stupidly over the compass.

"It's north, sure enough," growled the only man of the party who was at all weatherwise. "I could have sworn it was nor'-east or more."

To encourage him I tapped the glass.

"We could make it nor'-east for you by putting a spring on the needle, if that's what you want," said I with a laugh.

Callan and the others looked wisely at the mendacious instrument, and then began to sheer off with the best grace they could.

"We should be in Yarmouth Roads at this rate by daybreak," said he, "provided they play us no tricks."

"We'll see to that," said the old salt. "Now we know she's sailing north we'll see she keeps so, or there'll be the mischief in it."

"Come away now," said I, "your friends will be missing you; and what will become of your first, second, third, and fourth without you?"

It did not tend to raise the spirits of the four noble mariners as they passed round the guns to hear the laughter and cries of "nor'-east by east it is, sir," which greeted their passage. Nor did they quite recover till they returned to the arms of their comrades, who bore them off with the glorious news that a fresh cask of rum had been broached, and that the lights of Yarmouth were already visible on the horizon.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

"BATTLE AND MURDER AND SUDDEN DEATH."

It was past midnight, and in two hours the summer night would be past. After that, further mystification as to our course would be impossible; but could we hold on till then, with half a gale of wind behind us, we should be well over to the Dutch side, and clear at any rate of the mutinous atmosphere which infected Yarmouth Roads and the Nore.

The men, having, as I supposed, satisfied themselves that the Zebra was being sailed according to their own directions, decided to wait till daylight, by which time they counted on the encouragement and company of the Yarmouth mutineers, before they finally hoisted the red flag and took possession of the ship. Meanwhile they applied themselves assiduously to the liquor, an indulgence which, in the case of a good many of the land-lubbers of their company, must have been seriously spoiled by the rolling of the ship and their first acquaintance since we left Dublin with really dirty weather.

I reckoned that we were some twelve leagues from the Dutch coast, with the wind shifting westerly and sending heavy seas over our counter, when the grey dawn lifted and showed us a waste of water, with nothing visible but a single speck on the eastern horizon.

After close scrutiny we concluded this to be one or more sail beating up against the gale; but whether they were Dutch or English, it was too soon to say.

"Keep her as she is," said Mr Adrian; "and, Mr Gallagher, pipe all hands. The sooner we come to an understanding with these fiends the better."

I obeyed. A few of the old tars instinctively turned up to the call, but seeing all decks but the quarter-deck deserted, they remembered themselves and went off to look for their comrades.

Presently an uneasy group assembled on the forecastle, many of them showing traces of the mingled drunkenness and sea-sickness of the night. We could see them scanning the horizon with their glasses, and slowly awaking to the discovery that instead of being in the arms of the confederacy of "the Republic afloat" (as one of the proclamations had called it), the Zebra was scudding over the high seas.

There was an angry consultation, and shouts to those below to turn up. About half the number obeyed, though many of these were fit only to lie helplessly about the deck. A more miserable crew you never beheld.

"Hands aloft! Take in the main-topgallant sail!" cried Mr Adrian, and the order was shouted forward.

Not a man moved, except Callan, who came to the forecastle rail, and holding up a pistol, shouted back,—

"Surrender the ship, or we fire!"

Mr Adrian's reply was to repeat the order just given, and draw his pistol.

One of the mutineers, sent forward by the leaders, advanced to the mainmast with a red flag in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to the flag-lines and to hoist, bringing down the Union flag as he did so.

Mr Adrian levelled his pistol. There was a sharp, clear ring above the noise of the gale; the man flung up his arms, uttered a yell, and rolled over on the deck.

"Stand clear!" cried Callan, waving his men on either side of the forecastle guns. "Fire, my lads!"

There was a silence. No one on the quarter-deck stirred. Those on the forecastle who had stood with their faces our way, expecting to see the effect of the volley, looked round impatiently to see why the guns were mute.

Then came a cry of "Spiked!" followed by a howl of dismay as the contents of one of our quarter-deck guns crashed with a dull, savage roar on to the forecastle.

When the smoke cleared we saw a ghastly sight. Men lay in all directions—some blown to pieces, some groaning in pools of blood, some dragging themselves with livid faces to a place of shelter.

For my own part, I dreaded to hear Mr Adrian give the order to fire the second gun. The only thing which prevented it was the sudden clearing of the forecastle. All who could rushed to the main-deck, where at least they were below the range of the deadly grape.

Here Callan, who had escaped unhurt, called on his men to form, which they did in three straggling lines across the deck, howling execrations and flourishing their knives in our direction.

Before they could advance—before, indeed, those of them who carried pistols could fire—Mr Adrian, who had ranged us up behind the barricade, gave the signal to present arms and fire.

It was a volley almost as deadly as the first. Callan sprang a foot or two in the air, and fell back shot through the heart. The front rank of the mutineers went down like ninepins, and those behind fell back a pace in consternation, "Reload! Mark your men!" cried Mr Adrian, whose face was savage and as hard as a flint.

The wretches gathered themselves together after a moment's hesitation, and stepping over the fallen bodies of their comrades, advanced with a half-hearted rush for the quarter-deck.

"Present! fire!" cried Mr Adrian.

Once more man after man went down dead or wounded, and the deck was strewn with bodies. A heavy sea at the moment broke over the quarter, sweeping the deck and clashing living and dead in a heap into the lee- scuppers. A few stood still, eyeing dubiously first one another, then the quarter-deck, then the waves as they broke across the waist.

"Reload! Mark your men!" cried Mr Adrian again, with a curl of his lips.

The mutineers heard the command, and dropping their weapons, retreated in a panic to the hatchways.

"Fire!" said Mr Adrian; "and after them, some of you, and make fast the hatches."

The first order was not obeyed. It had been bad enough, in defence of the ship, to fire on one's own shipmates, but to fire on their backs was too much; and Lieutenant Adrian probably understood as much when he saw that we all preferred his second order to his first.

It was a short business making good the hatchways, after first driving below the few stragglers who lingered above board. Then we had leisure to take stock of the execution our volleys had effected. Eleven men, including Callan and two of his fellow ringleaders, were dead. Eight more were mortally wounded, and thirty-eight lay hurt, some badly, some slightly. We lost no time in throwing the dead overboard, and carrying those most in need of succour out of the reach of the waves. Tarpaulins were spread for the rest till a place could be found for them in some of the after-cabins.

The doctor (who reported that Captain Swift had breathed his last while the engagement was at its height) did what he could to dress the wounds of the sufferers, and impressed the services of one or two of the handiest of the men present as assistants.

Just then, however, with the gale threatening every moment to snap the masts, it was even more important to get hands aloft to shorten sail. The midshipmen and officers gallantly undertook this difficult task, but not in time to save the main-topgallant mast, which fell with a crash, carrying away the purser and the boatswain's mate, and fouling the rigging below with its wreck. No sooner was this cleared, and the top courses taken in, than the man who had been for some moments conning the strange sails on the horizon reported,—