War had just broken out between England and France, and all the other nations of Europe were in consequence arming, both afloat and on shore, not knowing when they might be drawn into the vortex of strife.

In all the ports of Spain, and at Cadiz especially, not only at the royal, but at the mercantile dockyards, vessels were being fitted out and armed ready to take a part in the contest. People of all descriptions, many who had long been wanderers on the face of the globe, were collected there with the hope of getting employment on board the numerous privateers fitting out, caring nothing which side they espoused, provided an abundance of prize-money was to be obtained. Among these worthies the marquis found several old acquaintances. He did not fail in the course of conversation to make inquiries about other former shipmates. He invited them to his house, and treated them with unexpected liberality. One and all declared that he was well worthy of the exalted rank to which he had attained. He was seated one day alone, not having yet found the description of man of whom he was in search, when a stranger was announced.

"He is a seafaring man," said the servant, "but he declines to give his name, as he says your excellency is not acquainted with it."

"Let him come in—perhaps he may have business with me," said the marquis; and a tall, thin, swarthy personage, with a large pair of moustaches which totally concealed his mouth, entered the room. He probably was about fifty years old, but he had as much the appearance of a soldier as of a sailor about him; he seated himself in a chair, and immediately said: "Your very obedient servant, most noble marquis. I understand that you are in search of a trustworthy man to undertake some work or other for you."

"I—I never said any such thing," exclaimed the marquis, somewhat confused.

"Your excellency may not have said it, but the tenor of your conduct shows me what you require. You would not trouble yourself with the company of all the people you have lately invited to your house unless you required something from them. Come, be frank; I have guessed rightly, have I not?"

"Before I answer that question I must know whom I address," answered the marquis, trying to look very wise.

"As to that, my name is not unknown to fame," replied the stranger in a careless tone. "I am Don Josef Tacon, or Captain Tacon, as I am generally called; we have met before now in the days of our youth; in the West Indies; on the coast of Africa; you remember me, perhaps. You recollect how we boarded the Dutchman, and how we relieved the Mynheers of their cash and cargo, and provisions and water; and you haven't forgotten the English West Indiaman we captured and sent to the bottom with all her crew when they threatened to send one of their cruisers after us. These and other little similar incidents have not escaped your memory, most noble marquis."

Don Anibal winced not a little while the pirate—for such he avowed himself to be—was speaking; but he notwithstanding held out his hand and hailed him as an old shipmate, "My memory is as good as you suppose, my friend," he remarked; "but we will not dwell on those matters. There are some things a man would gladly forget if he could. However, there is an affair in which an intelligent fellow like you would be useful, if you will undertake it."

"Name your price, Don Anibal, and I will tell you if I can undertake it," answered Captain Tacon; "my fortunes are somewhat at a low ebb, and I am ready to engage in any enterprise which promises sufficient remuneration."

"You were always a reasonable man. What do you say to two thousand dollars? It would be worth a little exertion to gain that," observed the marquis.

"Tell me what you require to be done, and I will then give you a direct answer," said the pirate.

The marquis thought for some time before he replied. "I must swear you to secrecy in the first place, and in the next, that you will decide, when I have put before you the outline of the work required, without obliging me to descend to particulars."

"Depend on me, marquis," exclaimed the pirate. "As I see a crucifix at the other end of the room, I will take the oath; and now hasten on with your sketch; I am a man of action, and will speedily decide."

"Listen, then," said Don Anibal. "You can, I doubt not, obtain command of one of the numerous vessels fitting out as privateers; I will use my influence. I can speak to your character for bravery, enterprise, sagacity—you understand me: you must use every exertion to find a craft. I know your talents—you will not fail."

Captain Tacon smiled grimly at the compliments the marquis paid him. "But the enterprise, the work you require of me, most noble marquis?" he said, with a slight gesture of impatience.

"I am coming to that, my friend," was the answer. "It lies in a nutshell: in a northern region there exists a child, of whose person, for certain reasons, unnecessary now to state, I wish to obtain possession. He lives in a mansion capable of defence; you may possibly, therefore, have to use force, but that of course will only make the work more agreeable to you. On your bringing me satisfactory assurance that you have disposed of the child as I may direct, the reward shall be yours. In the meantime, this purse, as soon as you decide, I will present to you. It is but an earnest of my liberal intentions."

The exhibition of the gold was a bright thought of Don Anibal's. As the taste of blood whets the appetite of the wild beast, so did the glittering bait the avarice of the pirate.

"Give me the purse," he exclaimed, eagerly stretching out his hands; "I will take the oath."

"Take the oath, and you shall have the purse," answered the marquis, smiling blandly. "No mental reservations, though; I do not forget your antecedents, my old comrade."

Captain Tacon gave a hoarse laugh, and twirling his moustachios, while his countenance wore the expression of a person about to swallow a nauseous draught, he walked across the room towards the crucifix. The marquis followed, with a self-satisfied look, as if he had achieved a victory. It is not necessary to repeat the oath taken by the pirate, or to describe the final arrangements entered into between the two worthies.

In a few days Captain Tacon again made his appearance, habited in a handsome nautical costume, with a huge cocked hat, and a richly-mounted sword by his side, and announced that he had become the captain of the privateer schooner "San Nicolas."

"Never did you set eyes on a finer craft, most noble marquis," he exclaimed; "she will fly like the wind, and swim like a wild-fowl. She carries eight guns, and an unlimited supply of small arms, with a bold crew of sixty men, villains every one! There is no deed of violence they will not dare or do; and now we are ready to sail when we receive your final orders."

"I knew that I could trust you in the selection of your followers," said the marquis, quietly. "Here are your orders; you will open them when at sea, and see that you carry them out in the spirit as well as in the letter. You will, of course, be well provided with flags. It may be convenient, at times, to sail under some other flag than that of Spain."

Don Tacon smiled. "I have some little experience in those matters," he answered, "trust me."

That evening the "San Nicolas" privateer was seen standing out of the harbour and steering to the northward. It was announced that she had sailed on a cruise, and would before long return.

It must not be supposed that all these arrangements took place with the rapidity with which they have been described. The Spaniards love dearly to do everything with deliberation; the summer had ended, and the winter had come and gone, before the events just narrated took place.

Two or three days after the "San Nicolas" had sailed, it became generally known that Lieutenant Pedro Alvarez, the only surviving officer of the unfortunate "Saint Cecilia," had arrived at Cadiz. Such was the case—Pedro had obtained a passage on board an English man-of-war. When some sixty leagues to the north of Cadiz, she had fallen in with a suspicious-looking craft, which hoisted Spanish colours. An officer was sent to board her, and Lieutenant Alvarez was requested to go as interpreter. The stranger proved to be the privateer schooner "San Nicolas," and in her captain he recognised an old acquaintance. The last time they had met, it had been under somewhat unpleasant circumstances for Captain Tacon, who had almost got his head into a halter, and but narrowly slipped it out again. The worthy lieutenant very naturally suspected, from his knowledge of Don Josef's previous history, that he was not engaged in any very creditable undertaking. He at once suspected that he was not sailing on a simple privateering voyage, but of course he failed to ascertain the truth. The more questions he asked, the more mysterious and important his quondam acquaintance became. The result of his conversation was, that he resolved, as soon as he arrived at Cadiz, to make all the inquiries in his power about Captain Tacon, and the "San Nicolas." Pedro Alvarez was a blunt sailor, but he had a very considerable amount of sagacity. Before long, he discovered that his quondam acquaintance had been known to pay frequent visits to the Marquis de Medea, who was also known to have had some correspondence with the owners of the "San Nicolas." More than this Pedro could not discover; but it was sufficient to make him suspect that the schooner's voyage was in some way connected with the affairs of the marquis himself. He was not however a man to do things by halves, so he continued to work on in the hope that he might at last ferret out the truth. However, he had not much time for this occupation; for having reported himself to the naval authorities, he was forthwith promoted, and appointed to the command of a brig-of-war. His great aim, however, before he sailed, was to place in proper train with the legal authorities the claims of young Hernan Escalante to the title and estates now held by Don Anibal de Villavicencio. He was aware that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and that he must expect to have a very tough battle to fight.

"Never fear for the consequences," said he to his legal adviser. "I have neither wife nor child, nor any one depending on me, and as long as I have a silver piece belonging to me, I will expend it in claiming the rights of that poor child."

Having just given expression to this virtuous resolution as he was leaving the lawyer's door, he found himself standing face to face with Father Mendez.

The priest looked narrowly at the house. He recollected that a well-known lawyer lived there. What could the rough lieutenant want with him? He jumped at a conclusion, which was not far from the truth; still his countenance wore its usual calm and inexpressive look.

"Ha! my old shipmate! I did not expect to see you so soon in our own well-beloved native land," he exclaimed. "These are stirring times, and you did well to return: you will not be long on shore, however, I conclude?"

"Not long enough to lose my sea legs or sea manners," answered Pedro, bluntly.

"Have you another appointment yet, my friend?" asked the priest.

"My superiors think me too useful to allow me to remain long unemployed," replied Pedro.

"That is well: take the advice of a friend, and attend to your own duties," said the priest, in a suppressed tone, sinking at last to a whisper; "you will but burn your fingers if you interfere where you have no concern."

"Thank you for your hint, most astute priest. Then you guess what I am about," thought Pedro, but he did not speak aloud. He only tried to look totally unconscious of what Father Mendez could possibly mean. He did not succeed as well as he wished or fancied that he had done, and the father saw that it would be necessary to watch him very narrowly, to counteract any scheme he might attempt to carry into execution.

The lieutenant, meantime, fancied that he had outwitted the priest, and continued with the greatest energy to prosecute the work he had commenced.

Father Mendez was not long in discovering this, and with fully equal resolution took steps to put a stop to his proceedings. He also prided himself on performing whatever he undertook in the most effectual manner. He saw that Pedro might cause him a great deal of trouble and inconvenience. There were two ways which suggested themselves of disposing of him: he might inform the marquis of his proceedings, who would, without the slightest scruple, probably get him assassinated; but the bravo's dagger was not always sure, and if the marquis knew that he was dead he might be tempted to assume more independence than would be convenient. He had another plan, which could not possibly fail.

Pedro Alvarez, as do most captains, lived on shore while his ship was fitting out. He continued to do so after she was ready for sea, and while he was waiting for orders. He had made every preparation for sailing, and was ready to trip his anchor at a moment's notice. At last his despatches arrived. He was paying his last visit to the shore, when, as he was sitting in the room of his lodging glancing over a few accounts which remained unpaid, a stranger was announced. Captain Alvarez rose to receive him, and requested to know the object of his visit. As he did so, he recognised a person of whom he had caught a glimpse more than once, watching him as he left the house.

"No matter who I am," said the stranger; "I but obey the orders of my superiors, and I am directed to desire you to attend at the office of the Holy Inquisition, there to answer certain accusations which have been brought against you. This, it is hoped, you can at once easily and completely do, and that you will therefore not hesitate to accompany me. A carriage waits for us at the end of the street. You can arrange the matters about which you are now occupied on your return. I am directed to accompany you, and as the council is now sitting there is no time to be lost."

"Do you expect to catch a weasel asleep?" thought Pedro, at least an equivalent Spanish proverb occurred to him. Pedro was conscious that he had at times expressed himself, in coffee-houses and taverns, in a way not over complimentary, either to the priests or the Inquisition itself; and he felt very sure that no explanations he could give would prove satisfactory to the Inquisitional council. The bold determined look he gave the officer was such as that worthy officer was little accustomed to receive from the trembling wretches on whom he served his summonses.

"You have performed your duty, my friend, and now go back to those who sent you, and inform them that you have delivered your message, but that my avocations prevent me from acceding to their demands."

The official looked wonderfully astonished, and, without saying another word, drew a pistol from his bosom, and clapping it to the seaman's head, told him that he must enforce obedience.

"Must you, friend?" exclaimed Pedro, by a sudden movement of his arm striking up the pistol; "then I must resist by force."

The official pulled the trigger, but the weapon had not often been used, and the powder flashed in the pan. He was about to draw another, but Pedro's quick eye saw the man's purpose. His own sword lay on the table. He seized it with one hand, while with the other he grasped the barrel of the pistol about to be turned towards him. At that instant the official's foot slipped, and, as he fell heavily forward, the point of the sword entered his throat and pierced through to the spine. Pedro caught him as he fell, but the wound was mortal, and in another minute he was dead.

Pedro Alvarez was as bold and brave a seaman as ever stepped; but he knew full well that killing an official of the Inquisition in the execution of his duty, would make the country too hot for him. The instinct of self-preservation was as strong with him as with most men. He considered how he could avoid the consequences of his act. There was a large cupboard in the room. He dragged the body in, and locking the door put the key in his pocket. The wound had not bled much, and he was able to get rid of the traces without much difficulty. It just then occurred to him that the owners of the house would get into trouble when the body should be discovered; so he wrote on a piece of paper—"This man attempted to kill me, and in self-defence, I, against my wish, slew him.—Pedro Alvarez;" and, opening the door of the cupboard, pinned it on the stranger's coat. He then put all the papers belonging to him into his pocket, and deliberately walked down to the quays. His boat was waiting for him. His heart beat much more regularly than it had done for the last half hour, as he sprang on board and shoved off. His crew gave way, and he soon stepped the deck of his beautiful little brig, the "Veloz." The next instant the boats were hoisted in, the anchor was weighed, the topsails were let fall and sheeted home, and the brig, with a fine breeze from the southward, stood out of the harbour. Every sail the brig could carry was pressed on her. The officers and crew were delighted with the way she flew through the water. Her captain turned his spyglass very often towards the town: he made out, at last, a boat pulling off rapidly towards the brig, and shortly afterwards his signal midshipman reported that one of the ships-of-war in the harbour was telegraphing to them.

"You must be mistaken, boy; it cannot be intended for us shut up your book, we are beyond signalling distance," he answered. "And so farewell to lovely Spain—for ever, perhaps," he thought to himself. "It will take more years than I am likely to live to make those wretches forget or forgive the death of their official. From henceforth I am a banished man. For myself I care not; but for poor young Hernan—who is to advocate his cause? Well, I fear for this time the spirit of evil and his imps have got the upper hand of honest folk."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A STRANGE SCHOONER APPEARS OFF LUNNASTING—THE CASTLE ATTACKED—THE PIRATES ENTER THE CASTLE—YOUNG HERNAN CARRIED OFF.

The winds whistled round the towers of Lunnasting, and the wild waves, as they were wont, washed the base of the rock on which it stood, and time sped on without any material change taking place among its inhabitants. Hilda spent the greater portion of the day in her turret chamber, gazing out—when not engaged in nursing her child—on the wide-spread ocean, and thinking of him who slept beneath its surface. Her infant, however, was her constant and only source of interest.

The little fatherless infant grew and flourished, and gave every promise of becoming a strong healthy boy. Meantime the health of Bertha Morton became week after week worse and worse, and her mother began to fear, too justly, that her days on earth were numbered. Rolf had been compelled to make a voyage to Greenland, as first mate of a ship; and he came back only in time to have his little boy put into his arms and to receive the last breath of the wife he so fondly loved. At Hilda's special invitation the young Ronald was carried up to castle that his grandmother might have the entire charge of him.

"He will make a good playmate for my little Hernan, dear Bertha," observed Hilda; "so you see he will amply repay me for any advantage he may obtain by the arrangement. I trust the boys may be friends through life. They are of kindred blood, and Morton is a person in manners and conduct far above the position he holds. From his appearance it has more than once occurred to me that he must be of gentle blood. He that is gone, who saw a good deal of him, several times made the same remark."

"He was brought up by a good, kind, Christian man, and it is on that account, rather than on account of his birth, that he possesses the qualities of which you so kindly speak, my dear mistress," answered Bertha.

Hilda made no reply; affliction had not taught her to adopt the principles which guided Bertha's conduct.

The brief daylight hours of the northern winter had once more begun to increase, when Hilda received a letter from her father, announcing his intention of returning to Lunnasting in the early part of the summer, with Edda. He also spoke of her sister's engagement to a Colonel Armytage, remarking that the marriage would soon take place.

It is scarcely possible to describe the varied, but chiefly painful feelings which this information created in Hilda's bosom. Her father had hitherto remained ignorant of her conduct, and she felt that he would be very justly incensed when he heard of it. Still she was too proud and self-willed to meditate for an instant asking his pardon, or seeking for reconciliation, and her whole thoughts were occupied in considering how she could best meet the storm of indignation and anger which she expected to burst on her. For Edda, however, she had as warm an affection as it was in her nature to feel for anybody so totally different as her sister and she were to each other. She could scarcely help despising Edda for her gentleness and her kind and affectionate disposition, as well as for the implicit obedience she yielded to their father's often imperious commands.

"I pray heaven the gentleman our sweet Miss Edda is going to marry is worthy of her—good, and generous, and kind—or it will break her heart," said nurse Bertha, as they were talking over the subject together.

"It takes a good deal to break a Wardhill's heart, or mine would have gone long ago," answered Hilda, with a sigh so deep and sad that it made Bertha's sicken as she heard it.

Lawrence Brindister was as little pleased as any one with the report of Sir Marcus Wardhill's intended return. Poor Lawrence had that instinctive dread of his guardian which a cat or a dog has of the person who takes every occasion of giving them a kick or a buffet when they meet. He felt that he was unjustly and tyrannically treated, yet he had no means of breaking away from his thraldom. Sir Marcus had a very simple plan for keeping him within bounds; he never intrusted him with money; and as poor Lawrence was known to be of unsound mind, nobody was found willing to lend him their gold to supply his wants, as none of it was ever likely to be repaid.

Pending the expected arrival of her father, Hilda was seated as usual at her turret window; now gazing at her infant, who was sleeping on a pile of cushions at her feet; now casting a glance across the ocean, over which the sun, now declining towards the west, was casting a rich glow, when her eye was attracted by the white sails of a vessel which, lighted up by his beams, shone like driven snow. There was a light wind from the south-east, before which the vessel under all sail was standing in towards the land. Hilda, who from having lived all her life near the sea was well acquainted with the rigs of vessels, recognised the one now approaching as a schooner, and from her wide spread of canvas she judged that she was a large one.

On stood the stranger, directly towards Whalsey. At first, from the bold way in which she approached, Hilda thought that she must have a pilot on board, but as she drew in with the channel between the south end of Eastling and the little island known as Grief Skerry, she hauled her wind, and then went about and hove-to, with her head off shore.

"What can possibly be her errand here?" said Hilda to herself. "Can my father be on board her? But no, he would have stood on, and brought the vessel to an anchor."

The family retired to rest at the usual hour of ten o'clock, and probably not long after that were wrapped in sound sleep. Not so poor Hilda. The mistress of the mansion slept far less than any of those who obeyed her orders. She invariably retired long after the household were in bed, rose early, and probably seldom obtained more than an hour's continuous sleep. On this evening her child had been somewhat fretful, and Bertha insisted on carrying the little fellow off to sleep in her room with her grandson, Ronald Morton. Hilda had reluctantly consented to the arrangement, and frequently awoke with a start of terror on missing her little companion from her side. At length she had fallen into a comparatively sound sleep, when she was suddenly awakened by a loud, crashing sound. She started up. The noise brought to her recollection, with painful clearness, the moment when the "Saint Cecilia" struck on the rocks of Ossa Skerry. She thought she must have been dreaming, but again the sound was renewed. She felt confident that it was caused by heavy blows dealt against a small postern gate which led out on the front terrace overhanging the sea. From the noise, Hilda suspected that this had already partly given way, and she feared that the assailants, whoever they were, would already have gained an entrance before she could summon any of the servants to resist them. Besides Lawrence, it was not likely that there were more than five or six men in the house. The bell belonging to her room led only to the chambers of the women, and she feared that when they awoke, they would do little more for the defence of the castle than scream; nor had she much confidence in the valour of old David Cheyne, the butler. Still she herself felt no overwhelming alarm. Throwing some garments round her, she hurried to the hall, where a bell rope communicated with the servants' room. She pulled it violently, and then hastened on to call Lawrence. She had little confidence, however, in the way he might behave; still, she had no reason to doubt his courage, and knew that if he comprehended what was required, he was likely to be of as much value as any other man. He had fire-arms, and so had all the servants, and she hoped, if there was time for them to collect, to give the assailants a warm reception. The door, it was evident, had resisted the first attack made on it, for again there came a succession of thundering blows, which echoed through the castle, and must have aroused the soundest sleepers. Hilda took a turn up and down the hall to relieve her impatience. She felt inclined herself to go to the gate to ascertain how far it had resisted the attacks made on it, but she reflected that this would be folly, because, should she be seized by the enemy, it would make all further resistance useless. Every moment her impatience increased.

"What! are the men turned cowards?" she exclaimed, when she found that no one appeared; "are they skulking in bed, afraid to encounter the unexpected foe? Oh! that I were a man, to be able to fight as brave men do! I thought better things of Lawrence. If they would but come, we might yet drive back these marauders. It shall never be said that the castle of Lunnasting was given up without a desperate struggle."

Again she rang such a peal, that Davie Cheyne must have been aroused, had he been twice as sound asleep as he had ever been before. It produced its effect, and with startled looks, his hair on end, with his night-cap in one hand and his coat in the other, the old butler rushed into the hall, followed by the other serving-men, and some farm labourers who slept in the castle.

"Oh my lady!—oh Miss Hilda! Oh—I beg pardon, Madame Escalante—what is the matter? What is going to happen?"

"That you, lazy-bones, have been snoring in bed, while the castle is being attacked by a band of robbers or privateers; and that, unless you stir yourselves to defend it, you may all be murdered as you deserve. Quick!—get your arms, and try to defend the place. Where is Mr Lawrence? Is he as cowardly as the rest of you?"

"No, cousin Hilda, he is not," said Lawrence, who entered at that moment with a musket in one hand, a sword in the other, and a brace of pistols in his belt. "I have been to take a look at the besiegers. They are taking breath to make a fresh attack, and it's my opinion that we take them on the flank, and if we work our guns well, we shall be able to shoot them down before one of them can return to their boats."

"Excellent, Lawrence," exclaimed Hilda, pleased with his unexpected sagacity and promptness. "Place the men as you think best. What could induce an enemy to attack this place, it is difficult to say, unless from its apparent strength they suppose it contains large stores of plate and jewels. However, I trust to your courage and conduct to disappoint them."

While Hilda was speaking, some of the men were loading their firelocks; others found that they had forgot their ammunition, and ran back to get it; and Davie Cheyne was putting on his coat and arranging his garments in a seemly manner, and stuffing a night-cap into his pouch, he armed himself with a huge blunderbuss, which, with its ammunition pouches, hung over the mantelpiece.

"Give me a musket!" cried Hilda. "Where there are not enough men, women must fight. I would sooner lose my life than allow these marauders to enter the castle."

Hilda was speaking while Davie Cheyne was getting down the fire-arm and handing it to her. Not another moment was then lost, and the party, led by Lawrence, were hastening to the eastern tower which commanded the gate, when several of the women rushed with loud shrieks into the hall, exclaiming that the robbers were breaking into the castle, and that they were all going to be murdered.

"Silence, wenches!" cried Hilda, indignantly. "When I show signs of fear it is time for you to be afraid. Those who have the nerve to load the guns come with me; the rest go and remain with Bertha Eswick and the children. She will shame you, I doubt not, by her coolness."

Two of the damsels alone were influenced by this address, and followed their mistress, while the rest, every now and then giving way to a shriek, ran up stairs as fast as they could go, to the nursery, where, surrounding Bertha, who was sitting up with the children, they said the mistress had sent them, and pulling away at her, entreated her to tell them what was going to happen.

"Girls, girls; it is something very dreadful, I doubt not," she answered, solemnly. "But shrieking and crying will not ward off the danger. Let us rather silently pray to Him who can alone save us, for protection and the safety of those we best love."

The girls were silent for a short time, but Bertha's address did not seem to have much effect on them; and the sound of a volley of musketry, which was soon afterwards heard again, set them off shrieking louder than before.

The effects of the volley did not appear to have much availed the defenders of the castle, for, almost before it had ceased, the thundering blows on the gate were renewed with greater violence than before, and the crashing noise which followed showed that it was yielding to them. There were, as Bertha well knew, two small gates, one within the other. The first had, as she suspected, given way to the attack the assailants had first made, the crushing sound of which had awakened her as it had Hilda. The second gate was the one against which they were now directing their efforts. Lawrence had not been aware of this, and he fancied that it was the outer gate alone which had to be defended. On reaching the first storey of the tower, and on looking from the window which commanded the space before this outer gate, he saw a large group of armed men, apparently prepared for attacking it.

"There are the enemy! Have no parley with them! Fire, boys!" he exclaimed, setting the example by discharging his musket. The rest fired likewise, and apparently several of the enemy were hit; but, instead of taking to flight, they fired in return, and several of the Lunnasting party might have been hit had they not speedily retired from the window. In the chamber below, however, there were several loopholes, and in these they forthwith assembled, and commenced firing away as before. Hilda had not used her musket; but she in no way felt inclined to shrink from the contest, and her presence wonderfully animated the rest. They soon, however, discovered that the first of their defences had been taken, and that they were not in the slightest degree impeding the progress of the attacking party, who, in spite of the repeated volleys with which their comrades were saluted, continued to batter away at the door with an evident determination to succeed. At the same time the door was a very solid one, and resisted all their efforts. Several of those outside had been wounded. One or two had been seen to fall. This encouraged Lawrence and his followers.

"Could you not make a sally and drive them off?" at length exclaimed Hilda, as the blows on the door became louder and more reiterated. "If you rushed out suddenly they would not know how many men were following, and might take to flight."

"They know well enough how many men are inside these walls, or they would not have dared to attack us, my lady," observed Davie Cheyne. "With your permission, my lady, we'll fight on till the powder is gone, with the thick stone between us, but there is no use in venturing our lives against six times our number without some such aid."

The firing on both sides now became very warm till two of the servants were hit, and a bullet passed through the sleeve of Lawrence's coat. On discovering this Hilda despatched one of the girls for bandages, while she endeavoured to staunch the blood of the man who was most hurt with her handkerchief.

"Thank ye, ma'am—thank ye, my lady," said the poor fellow, looking up at her with an expression of gratitude in his countenance; "it will not be much harm done, and if ye will let me I'll be at them again."

The girl was absent nearly a minute, and, as she appeared, in a voice of terror she exclaimed, "the gate is giving way, and they will be into the castle in a moment!"

The courage of Hilda and her two attendants formed a great contrast to the behaviour of the women who had taken refuge with Bertha. The more constant the firing the louder they shrieked; and, as the sound of the blows on the gate reached them they clung to her gown, entreating her to tell them what to do. At last there came a crash louder than any that had preceded it, followed immediately by shouts and cries, and the report of fire-arms, evidently inside the castle, and the cries and shrieks increased, and then there was the heavy tramp of men's feet, some hurrying along the passages, others ascending the stairs.

"Oh, they are coming here—they are coming here!" cried one of the servant girls. "We shall all be murdered, and the castle will be burnt. Oh, Mistress Bertha, where shall we run to?—where shall we hide?"

"Close the doors, girls," said Bertha, calmly. "Perhaps they will not come here."

The sound of the footsteps drew nearer and nearer. One room after the other was entered, and at last that next to the nursery. A moment afterwards the nursery door was violently shaken. Bertha made a sign to the women to keep silence, but in vain: as a heavy blow was struck against the door, one of them shrieked out. Some words in a strange language were spoken by men with gruff voices, and the next instant the door was burst open, and a dozen or more armed men, fierce looking fellows, rushed into the room. The girls fled to the extreme corner, but the pirates—for that they were desperadoes of that description, there seemed no doubt—took at first but little notice of them, turning all their attention to Bertha and the two children. A tall sinewy fellow, with long moustachios, stalked up to her, and, before she was aware of what he was about, snatched one of the children from her, and scrutinising its countenance returned it to her, and then seized the other, which he examined still more minutely. He seemed sorely puzzled, and pulled away furiously at his moustachios, while he talked and gesticulated to his companions.

They then commenced an examination of the children, and were so absorbed in the matter, that the serving girls were able to make their escape from the room, while poor Bertha was left alone with the savage-looking band of strangers. However, the matter was soon decided. The tall man, who seemed to be the captain, attempted to snatch the one he had first seized from poor Bertha's grasp. In vain she struggled, and entreated him to let it go. Both the little fellows shrieked out with terror, as, hugging them in her arms, she endeavoured to escape from him; but, tearing the child from her, he held it up to his companions, and seemed to be asking them certain questions. They nodded in return; and while two of them held back poor Bertha, who was struggling to regain the child, he threw a cloak over it, and, calling to his followers, hurried down stairs. Bertha attempted to follow, in the hopes of regaining the child, but, overcome with terror and agitation, she sunk exhausted on the ground. The marauders took their way to the postern gate, by which they had entered the castle. Near it was a room, at the door of which a number of their companions were standing, guarding the defenders of the castle, whom they had overpowered. Leaving them there, he passed on, and, getting over the terrace parapet wall, he descended the cliff with his burden towards the boat which lay at the foot of it, and to which the men who had been wounded had been already conveyed. The little boy was all the time shrieking out most lustily, and desiring to be taken back to his mamma. Placing the child in the boat, with strict charges to one of the men who were in her not to let it out of his arms, he climbed the cliff again with the agility of a cat, and rejoined his comrades. He addressed them in Spanish.

"My men," he observed, "we have thus far fulfilled our engagement. Now let us recompense ourselves in case the promised reward should not be forthcoming."

His proposal seemed to meet with the warm approval of all the party. It was necessary, however, to leave some of them to guard the prisoners, at which those who were to be left grumbled much. "No matter," he observed; "three of you will do, and if any of the prisoners attempt to escape, shoot them. It is the quickest way of disposing of those sort of people."

Bertha had lain thus for some time, still grasping the little child, and in spite of his piteous cries, unconscious of his presence, when she was aroused by her mistress's voice exclaiming—

"Bertha, Bertha! where is my boy?—where is Hernan?"

"Your boy, Hilda! is he not here?" answered Bertha, scarcely yet fully aroused. "Is he not here—here in my arms?"

"Here?—no! Where is he? who has him? Give him to me!" exclaimed Hilda, in a tone which showed the agony of her terror.

"Oh! was it not a dream? Where is he, do you ask? What has happened? Those men—they bore him away," said Bertha, trying to rouse herself.

"My boy gone? You gave him to them instead of your own," cried Hilda. "Oh! woman—woman! Did you not know how precious he was to me? And you let them take him! You should have died rather than allow them to tear him from you."

"You wrong me, dear mistress," answered Bertha. "They chose yours—they had come on purpose to get him, for they rejected mine. But have they gone? Let us follow them: a mother's tears may induce them to give him back."

"And I have lost all this time!" cried Hilda, putting her hand to her brow, and moving from the room.

When the pirates forced their way into the castle, the defenders were separated; Davie Cheyne, with the two serving girls, hurrying off their mistress in one direction, while Lawrence and the men bravely opposed them for some minutes, till they were completely overpowered, and compelled to submit to the enemy.

Having provided for their prisoners, the captain of the pirates and his men set off to engage in the pleasant occupation of ransacking the castle. From room to room they went, injuring nothing, and breaking nothing, except the locks of drawers, cabinets, chests, and cupboards. These, as the keys were not forthcoming, they burst open to examine their contents. They worked away briskly, but in no undue hurry. They knew that the operation in which they were engaged should not be done slowly, in case of interruption; at the same time at present, they had no reason to expect any interference with their performances. They were most of them evidently practised hands, for they were choice in their selections, and took only the more valuable articles. Plate, jewels, and ornaments were quickly transferred to their pockets, or to bags with which they had come prepared; but, with the exception of a few clothes, to which some of them took a fancy, and a collection of eatables from the housekeeper's store-room, nothing else was carried off.

These matters being arranged, the captain ordered a retreat to be sounded. It was time, for daylight was already coming on, and they could not tell what assistance might be sent to the inhabitants of the castle, as they knew that the sound of their firing must have given notice to the neighbouring population that something unusual was going on. With some derisive expressions, the meaning of which Lawrence alone, of those who heard them, could understand, they left the party in the room, simply turning the key on them, and took their way to their boats. Just as they were shoving off through the twilight, a figure was seen standing on the edge of the cliff, stretching forth her arms, and shrieking out—

"My child—my child! Bring back my boy! Take him not away!"

In vain she cried, and those fierce men, cruel and callous as they were, had not the barbarity to mock her. Without uttering a word, they pulled rapidly from the shore. Giving vent to her feelings in cries, she uttered shriek after shriek, and would have thrown herself into the water, in her eagerness to follow them, had not Davie Cheyne come behind her, and, seizing her in his arms, drawn her back from the edge of the precipice. She broke from him, and was again rushing forward, when Lawrence and a servant, who burst out of the room where they had been locked in, ran forward and surrounded her. When they saw the boats, two of them, who had secured some muskets which the pirates had overlooked, threatened to fire on them; but as they levelled their pieces the captain held up the child, and three or four bullets whizzing above their heads, showed them that they would gain nothing by warlike proceedings. Some of the men—and so did Lawrence—proposed manning Sir Marcus's barge, and going in pursuit of the enemy; but the proposal was wisely overruled by Davie Cheyne. "How could they expect, with a single boat, and with but few men ill-armed, to capture two boats full of well-armed men, perfectly practised in warfare, and who had already shown their superiority?"

The argument was unanswerable, and the proposal was withdrawn. It was, meantime, with the greatest difficulty that Hilda was held back from the edge of the cliff.

"My child! my child!" she continued crying out. "Oh, bring me back my child!"

The sound of her voice could no longer reach those she addressed. Away pulled the boat towards the schooner in the offing; and as all hope of recovering her soon vanished, she again sunk senseless into the arms of those surrounding her.

When daylight increased, a schooner, which hoisted French colours, was seen standing away to the eastward; but whence she had come, and where she went to, no one connected with Lunnasting was ever able to discover.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

ARRIVAL OF SIR MARCUS—HILDA AND HER SISTER—A BRIG OF WAR APPEARS— EDDA'S MARRIAGE—ROLF MORTON SAILS ON A LONG VOYAGE.

For many days after the loss of her child, Hilda remained in a state of such utter prostration, that Bertha, who would allow no one but herself to watch her, often dreaded that her mind would go altogether.

"Perhaps she would be happier thus unconscious of past griefs, or of the dreary future in store for her," Bertha frequently repeated to herself; but Hilda was not thus to be spared the trials and sorrows sent to purify and correct her nature. Not only did she become fully aware of all that had taken place, but she was made fully alive to events daily occurring, and was able to contemplate what the future might bring forth. On what account her son was carried off, she could form no conjecture, but she always cherished the hope of seeing him again. This hope occupied her thoughts by day and her dreams by night, and appeared to be the chief means of her restoration to comparative health. At first she could not bear the sight of her child's playmate, Ronald Morton; but one day she suddenly desired Bertha to bring him to her, and after gazing at him for some moments, she covered him with kisses, and from that moment could scarcely bear him out of her sight. At first the child cried, and evidently regarded her with dread; but Bertha soothed him, and persuaded him to go back to her; and Hilda, by gentle caresses, which seemed totally foreign to her nature, soon won him over completely, so that he quickly learned to look on her as really his mother. His father had sailed, at the commencement of the year, for Greenland, and there was no probability of his returning till the autumn.

In spite of the exciting incidents which had occurred, matters at Lunnasting returned very much to their usual condition. Even poor Lawrence Brindister, who had behaved with courage and a considerable amount of judgment when the castle was attacked, very speedily again became the half-witted creature he generally appeared, and once more resumed his eccentric habits and behaviour.

Sir Marcus had before this again put off the time for his return home; but at length a large cutter—a Leith smack—was seen standing towards the castle. She dropped her anchor at the entrance of Lunnasting Voe, and a boat containing a lady and gentleman immediately put off from her, and pulled for the landing-place. Hilda soon recognised her father and sister. As she saw them, she felt every nerve in her system trembling with agitation. Bertha entreated her to be calm, and at last, by a violent effort, she gained sufficient command over herself to hurry down to the landing-place to meet them. Her father met her with his usual polite, but cold and indifferent manner; but Edda herself, blooming with life and health, looked deeply concerned when she saw her altered appearance, for physical suffering and mental anxiety had made sad havoc with those features. Sir Marcus had now to learn, for the first time, of the piratical attack which had been made on his castle, and of the severe loss he had suffered. Every one was anxious to screen Hilda; and probably, had it not been necessary to account to him for the disappearance of so many articles of property, even that event would not have been told him. Of all others, he was allowed to remain perfectly ignorant.

Thus, strange as it may appear, he heard nothing of the circumstances of the visit of the "Saint Cecilia," of Hilda's marriage with Don Hernan, or of the birth of her child. All he heard was, that a foreign ship-of-war had anchored in the Sound, and that, shortly after, she had been wrecked on the west coast of the mainland; so sure are those who attempt to rule their dependents with severity or injustice, to be deceived or misled by them.

Humbled, softened, and weighed down with grief, Hilda could not long keep her secret from her sister; and Edda heard, with amazement and sorrow, all the strange events which had occurred at Lunnasting during her absence. Once having broken through the ice of reserve which had so long existed, the two sisters were on far more affectionate terms than they had ever before been.

Edda did not utter a word of blame. She well knew how little trained Hilda had ever been to bear it, but she gave her sympathy, and treated her with all the tenderness and affection of a loving sister.

Meantime, Sir Marcus Wardhill, who was not a man to suffer an injury without attempting to obtain redress, was sending memorial after memorial to the government in England, to complain of the attack made on his castle, and was also instituting every inquiry to ascertain to what nation the people belonged who had been guilty of the act. All he could learn with regard to the latter point was, that on the day following that on which it occurred, a pilot boat and several fishing vessels had fallen in with a large schooner of a very rakish appearance, under French colours, steering a course apparently with the intention of running between Shetland and Orkney, into the Atlantic.

In the course, however, of his inquiries, information which he little expected came out, and which could not fail to raise his suspicions as to his daughter's discretion. He was, as has been seen, a man wise in the ways of the world, and not at all liable to give way to sudden bursts of temper, great as might be the provocation. Instead, therefore, of rushing into his daughter's room, and accusing her of her misconduct, he kept his counsel, and said nothing whatever on the subject. It might have occurred to him that he should have been wiser had he remained at home, and looked more narrowly after his establishment. He found that he had been deceived—of that there could be no doubt. Information which he naturally expected would have been given to him had been withheld. He knew that this being the case, he was not likely to force it out of his dependents. He went on, therefore, quietly making inquiries, now of one, now of the other, and though he did not gain the whole truth, he ascertained enough to assure him that it would be wiser not to push his inquiries much further. Had he become aware of the exact state of the case, he would have undoubtedly been far more satisfied than he was; but cunning men are often caught in their own snares, and miss the mark at which they are aiming.

It was remarked that, after a time, he took far more interest in little Ronald Morton than he had at first done, and seemed not at all surprised at finding the child so constantly with his daughter. He even made some attempts to play with it, but they were not very successful, and the little fellow invariably made his escape from him as soon as he could.

The time fixed for Edda's marriage had now arrived, and Colonel Armytage was daily expected. Sir Marcus mentioning this to Hilda, remarked, "You will let that child remain with Bertha Eswick while Armytage is here. I do not object to your petting him, but it is fit that you should pay all the attention in your power to your intended brother-in-law."

There might have been far more order and regularity in the castle after the master's return, but everybody felt an uncomfortable sensation of oppression whenever he was present. The only sun which shed any light through the surrounding atmosphere was his daughter Edda. Full of life and animation, nothing could quell her spirits, and in most cases she had only to appear to dispel the gloom.

Poor Lawrence, even more than any one else, felt the weight of his guardian's presence whenever he was compelled to remain at home; but he had the resource—of which he never failed to avail himself when the weather allowed him—of going out in his boat, of wandering about the island on Neogle, with Surly Grind, or of visiting his cavern. Sir Marcus had gained that influence over him which a man of strong mind usually obtains over one of weak intellect, and he was thus often able to make him say the very things which he purposely intended to keep secret. Still Lawrence did not tell him the whole truth, and often thus misled him more than if he had not said a word on the subject. Often, too, he would startle him as he walked away by breaking out, as if unconsciously, with "The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!"

"What do you mean by that, Lawrence?" exclaimed the baronet, one day, with greater agitation than he usually exhibited.

"The meaning, coz?" said Lawrence, turning round and looking at him hard. "The true meaning is this: that the king of the land will some day come back, and put his own crown of gold on his head, in spite of the rebels and all the cunning men who try to keep him from it."

A very uncomfortable sensation crept round the baronet's heart.

Poor Lawrence went his way, rejoicing under the belief that he had frightened the stern, dignified baronet out of his wits. He little understood the tough materials of which his cousin's mind was composed, or dreamed of the injury the hints he had thrown out would induce him to work against those he might suppose stood in his way. At present it was Sir Marcus's wish to keep everything as smooth and pleasant at Lunnasting, that he might be able to give an agreeable welcome to his intended son-in-law.

Colonel Armytage had written word that he had engaged the same cutter which had carried Sir Marcus and his daughter to Shetland. It was very natural, therefore, that Edda should very frequently have her eye at a large telescope Sir Marcus had brought with him, and which he had placed in Hilda's room at the top of the tower. One day, as she was looking through the glass, she exclaimed suddenly to her sister, "Oh Hilda, Hilda, there is the cutter at last!"

Hilda looked, but her more practised eye told her that it was no cutter, but a square-rigged vessel, which, with a fair breeze, under all sail, was approaching the island. She was sorry to disappoint Edda, and for sometime she did not tell her of her mistake. She herself went several times to the glass, and was convinced, from the squareness of the vessel's yards and the whiteness of her canvas, that she was a man-of-war. Painful feelings crowded to her heart, for the vessel approaching reminded her strongly of the "Saint Cecilia:" she stood on boldly, as if those on board were well acquainted with the coast, and in a short time Hilda ascertained, without doubt, that she was a brig-of-war. Poor Edda, with a sigh, discovered that she had been mistaken.

The brig-of-war stood on towards Lunnasting till she neared the south end of Eastling Island, when, as she hauled her wind to stand up the Sound, Hilda saw with a thrill that the flag of Spain was flying from her peak. She brought to, at the very spot at which the "Saint Cecilia" had anchored. Before her sails were furled a boat was lowered, and pulled towards the castle. Hilda watched it through the telescope, and, as it passed under the walls, she recognised, in the officer who sat in the stern-sheets, the first-lieutenant of the "Saint Cecilia," Pedro Alvarez. Though eager to learn what cause had brought him to Lunnasting, she was afraid of going down to meet him, lest it should excite suspicion in her father's mind. Trembling with agitation, she sat still, waiting for his appearance, with the hope, though it was full of doubt, that he might bring her tidings of her son.

Meantime, Lawrence Brindister had espied him, and hurrying to the landing-place, welcomed him cordially. "But I say, old friend," he continued, holding his finger to his nose, "the cat has come back, and the mice mustn't play any more; you understand—mum's the word; don't talk of anything that has occurred: let old Grimalkin find out what he can; I delight in teasing him."

Although the worthy Pedro did not comprehend all Lawrence said, he understood that he was not to allude to past events in the presence of the lord of the castle. Lawrence hurried him on, talking in his usual rambling way, so that before he had time to make any inquiries, he found himself in the presence of Sir Marcus Wardhill. The baronet received him with all due courtesy, and he was invited to stop and dine at the castle—an invitation he at once accepted. Hilda had no opportunity of seeing him till they met before dinner. It was not even then, without great exertion, that she obtained sufficient self-command to speak to him with ordinary calmness.

During the meal little Ronald Morton toddled into the room, having escaped from the arms of his nurse. Captain Alvarez gave an inquiring glance at the child, and at first looked puzzled, and then well satisfied. Hilda was able to converse with him in Spanish, and with his broken English and French he managed to make himself very agreeable to Sir Marcus and Edda; Sir Marcus, indeed, begged that when he could live on shore that he would make his castle his home; he declined, on the plea that he must sail, probably the next day, for the southward.

The attack on the castle had been spoken of, but not a word had been said of the child having been carried off.

Hitherto Hilda had been unable to talk to the Spanish captain alone; fortunately, at length, Sir Marcus left the room; Ronald was sitting playing on the ground near them.

"He is truly a noble child, though his complexion shows more of his northern than his southern blood," observed the captain.

"That child!—oh, you are mistaken!" exclaimed Hilda, "Have you not heard that my own Hernan was carried off?" And she told him all that had occurred.

"The atrocious scoundrel!" exclaimed Pedro Alvarez; "I feared it would be so, and for your sake, lady, and for that of my late brave captain, I will pursue them round the world, and recover the boy."

Hilda looked at him with an expression of the deepest gratitude:—

"I was certain that you had come either to bring me notice of my lost one, or that you would aid me in discovering him," she exclaimed, taking his hand. "I trust to you, Captain Alvarez, and I am sure that you will not deceive me."

The captain assured her that he would be faithful to his promise, and explained all he knew of the plot which had been formed to carry off her son, to prevent him from inheriting his title and property.

"But cannot we punish the treacherous marquis and kinsman?" she exclaimed. "Cannot we compel him to tell us where my child has been carried to? Has the law no power in your country?"

"None, lady, in this matter," answered Pedro. "I myself am an outlaw; I can never return as a free man to Spain. I have been guilty of a crime so heinous in the eyes of the law, that should the officers of my own ship discover it, they would be compelled to carry me there in chains. My dread, therefore, is lest we should fall in with any Spanish ship, from which they may learn what has occurred." He then briefly told her how he had killed the officer of the Inquisition who had tried to apprehend him.

"But the priest, Father Mendez; surely he can aid us?" said Hilda.

"Unless you can show him that by his aiding you he can advance the object for which alone he lives, he will stir neither hand nor foot in the cause," answered the Spanish captain. "Besides, I am certain that he believes the child still safe in the castle."

"Then, Captain Alvarez, I must place all my hope on you," exclaimed Hilda.

"Place it on the justice of heaven, lady," he replied, solemnly.

Hilda made no reply, but her beautiful features wore an expression of the deepest, the most hopeless distress.

Pedro Alvarez having obtained from Lawrence, and others, every particular about the attack on the castle, as well as a description of the child, and even the appearance of the men who carried him off, returned on board his brig, and the next day sailed for the southward.

His coming had thrown Hilda into a painful state of agitation. She had not recovered from it when the smack with Colonel Armytage on board anchored before the castle. Edda's joyous countenance formed a great contrast to her melancholy look. Sir Marcus met her, as she was preparing to receive her future brother-in-law, and harshly ordered her to appear more cheerful.

"Those lachrymose features of yours will raise suspicions in his mind which may induce him to make disagreeable inquiries," he said, in an angry tone. "I know his disposition, and fully believe that, should he discover anything to displease him, he is capable of breaking off the match altogether. Should he do so, remember, Hilda, you will be answerable for the consequences."

"Can you intrust my sister's happiness with such a man?" asked Hilda.

"I am the best judge on that point," was the answer.

Colonel Armytage soon came on shore, attended by two servants. He was decidedly handsome and gentlemanly, and though at times his manner was somewhat haughty and reserved, he was often so courteous and agreeable, that he quickly regained his place in the good graces of those with whom he associated. Hilda, indeed, soon forgot her father's remarks, and felt perfectly satisfied as to the prospect of her sister's happiness.

Colonel Armytage was accompanied by two friends, brother officers. Their presence made the castle far more lively than it had wont to be for many a long year; but all their sallies could not dispel the melancholy which Hilda could not hide even from them. Sir Marcus very narrowly watched Lawrence, who had become intimate with them; but whether or not he had told them of any of the occurrences which had lately taken place, he could not ascertain. It was a relief to him when, the day of the wedding having arrived, the castle was filled with the families of sufficient distinction to be invited to it. Hilda could not but feel that they generally regarded her with looks of curiosity, and, at the same time, of compassion, excessively annoying to her feelings. Often as she approached a group she found them whispering, and she observed that their manner was constrained, and that they either became silent, or had evidently abruptly commenced a fresh subject of conversation.

Nothing, however, occurred to interrupt the marriage ceremony. How different did it appear to the unhappy Hilda to that by which she had been united to Don Hernan!

It was not till Colonel Armytage was about to take his departure, with his bride, for the south, that on taking his leave of his father-in-law, he showed that he was aware of what had taken place. He drew himself up haughtily as he remarked—

"My love and esteem for your daughter, and a sense of honour, compelled me to fulfil my engagement with her; but I must ever regard with feelings of distrust and contempt the man who would conceal from me matters of which I ought to have been informed. We shall probably seldom, perhaps we shall never, meet again—our doing so can produce little mutual satisfaction."

Sir Marcus looked confused, and could make no answer, and in silence he handed his daughter into the boat which was to convey them on board their vessel. His feelings were not soothed by hearing Lawrence give a loud laugh, and sing—as he hopped and skipped up the causeway—

"The prince will hae his ain again! The prince will hae his ain again!"

The summer passed away, and business compelled Sir Marcus to visit Scotland. During his absence Rolf Morton returned to Shetland. How different was his home to what it had been! Its chief ornament, its only attraction was gone. He frequently came up to the castle to see his child; but he was soon convinced that he could not, as usual, spend the winter at home, and he determined to go to Leith to seek for the command of some ship sailing to southern latitudes.

A few days before he took his departure Sir Marcus returned to Lunnasting. They met, and the baronet eyed him with so sinister an expression that an uncomfortable sensation crept over the heart of the bold seaman, and he felt that he was in the presence of one who would do him an injury if he had the power.

Bidding farewell, however, to Bertha Eswick and his boy, he sailed for Leith, believing that for this time, however, he had escaped the malice of his enemy. He was mistaken. He had not been at Leith many days before he had the offer made him of the command of a fine ship bound round Cape Horn. The preliminary arrangements were soon made, but the usual papers were not yet signed. As he walked through the streets of Leith he more than once observed a man, who, he felt certain, was dodging his steps, and whom he observed watching him as he entered his lodgings. The matter, however, did not make much impression on him. He was on his way to the owner's office to conclude the arrangements for his taking command, when, as he was passing along the quays, he was accosted by the individual he had remarked following him, and who now asked him if his name was Rolf Morton.

"That is my name," he answered.

"Then you are the very man I want to see," was the reply. "Come along under this archway."

Morton unsuspectingly followed his guide, but no sooner had he reached the arch, than a body of seamen rushed out of a door close at hand. He was wondering where they were going, when he found himself surrounded by them, and dragged off to a boat lying at a jetty not far off.

He was in the hands of a press-gang. He had no power of making any resistance. He was forced into the boat, which pulled away to a ship-of-war at anchor in the Forth. He explained that he was virtually master of a merchantman, and that the owners would suffer loss should he be detained. He was ordered to exhibit his protection. He had none. His remonstrances were unheeded. He found that with his will, or against his will, he must serve his Majesty. Many other men had been brought on board in the same way that he had been.

"It matters little, if a man does his duty, in what condition of life he is placed; he may be equally happy in one as the other," he said to himself; "I shall have fewer cares and responsibilities as a man-of-war's man, than as a master of a ship. Why should I sigh and moan thus over my lot? What can't be cured must be endured. Yes, sir, I'll serve his Majesty, and serve him well, I hope," he exclaimed aloud, turning to the officer who was examining the pressed men.

Rolf Morton kept his word. He was soon known as one of the best men in the ship, and he had not been long on board before he was raised to the rank of a first-class petty officer. He saw much service in various parts of the world. Wherever work was to be done he was foremost in doing it. Had he been younger, he would probably have been placed on the quarterdeck: but he was unambitious, and contented with his lot, though he, at last, was made a warrant officer, and ultimately became boatswain of a dashing frigate, under as gallant a captain as ever took a ship into action.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

THE FLEET AT SPITHEAD—ROLF MORTON'S VISIT TO SHETLAND—ROLF TAKES RONALD TO SEA—THE THISBE AND FRENCH FRIGATE—RONALD MORTON'S FIRST BATTLE—THE ENEMY STRIKES.

One of the most beautiful sights on the ocean, to the eye of a sailor, is the spectacle presented by a large fleet, when the signal for weighing is seen flying from the flag-ship. The boatswain's whistle sends its shrill sounds along each deck; the capstan bars are shipped, the merry pipe strikes up, with sturdy tramp round go the men—others of the crew swarm upon the yards, the broad folds of canvas are let fall, and, as if by magic, those vast machines, lately so immovable, now looking like tall pyramids of snow, begin noiselessly to glide over the blue surface of the water.

Such was the sight witnessed by numerous spectators, both on the Isle of Wight shore and that of Portsmouth, when early in the year 1794 one of England's noble fleets sailed from Spithead. A fine breeze from the northward enabled the ships to be well out round Saint Helen's, when hauling their tacks aboard they stood down channel under all sail. In the centre were the heavy line-of-battle ships, exhibiting a dense mass of shining canvas; while scattered around on either side were the lighter frigates, like skirmishers on the field of battle feeling the way for the main body of the army. Among the fastest, the finest, and most dashing of the latter craft, was the thirty-eight gun frigate "Thisbe."

She had only lately been put in commission, and her captain, officers, and crew, were mostly strangers to each other. Captain Courtney, who commanded her, had the reputation of being brave and enterprising, but his present crew had yet to learn what he was made of.

The day was closing; the fleet had made good progress down channel, and the "Thisbe" was one of the southernmost look-out frigates; the crew were enjoying a short relaxation from their duties, which were pretty severe, for when a ship first gets to sea there is much to be done to put her in order, to encounter an enemy or a gale.

The captain and two of his lieutenants walked the weather side of the quarter-deck, while the other gun-room officers and some of the midshipmen, paced the lee side. Captain Courtney's appearance was much in his favour; though his firm mouth and the general expression of his features showed that he was accustomed to command, the pleasant smile occasionally playing over his countenance relieved them from too great sternness.

The first lieutenant, Mr Strickland, looked like his chief, the perfect officer and gentleman, while the second, well known in the service as Tom Calder, was more of the rough-and-ready school.

Tom was broad-shouldered and short, with an open countenance, and a complexion which once had been fair, but was now burnt nearly to a bright copper, but neither winds nor sun had been able to change the rich golden tint of his hair, which clustered in thick curls under his hat, which hat he managed to stick on the very back of his head; whether cocked hat, or tarpaulin, or sou'-wester, he wore it the same; it was a puzzle, though, to say how it kept there. But to see Tom as he was, was to catch him at work, with knife and marlin-spike, secured by rope-yarns round his neck, his hands showing intimate acquaintance with the tar bucket, while not a job was there to be done which he could not show the best way of doing.

Tom Calder, as was said of him, was the man to get work out of a crew, and where he led others were ever ready to follow. Altogether, he was evidently cut out for a good working first lieutenant, and there seemed every prospect of his becoming one. He had entered the service at the hawse-hole, and worked his way up, by his steadiness and gallantry, to the quarterdeck, a position to which he was well calculated to do credit.

On the forecastle the three warrant officers sauntered slowly up and down, stretching their limbs after their day's work was over.

They were accompanied by a fine intelligent-looking boy, apparently of about fifteen, who was attentively listening to their conversation. The likeness which the boy bore to one of them, made it pretty evident that they were father and son.

The boatswain was Rolf Morton. When once pressed into the navy, by the management of Sir Marcus Wardhill, he had, from want of the energy required to take steps to leave it, remained in the service till a warrant had been almost forced on him. Just before the "Thisbe" was commissioned he had paid a visit to Shetland; he had found his boy Ronald grown and improved beyond his most sanguine expectations. The Lady Hilda, as she was still called, had devoted herself to his education, and treated him as her son; and in the more important matters which she unhappily was unable to teach him. Bertha Eswick had afforded him instruction. But Ronald had another instructor, though an eccentric one, in Lawrence Brindister. Not a more daring or expert boatman, a finer swimmer, or a better shot of his age, or much above his age, was to be found in all Shetland.

Poor Hilda had never heard from Pedro Alvarez, nor had she received tidings of her son, though, hopeless as it might seem, she lived on in the expectation of one day recovering him. Both she and Bertha had so earnestly entreated Rolf to leave Ronald in Shetland, that he would have done so, had he not received a warning, not to be neglected, from Lawrence Brindister, to be off and to take his boy with him.

He had often suspected that Sir Marcus Wardhill was his enemy, and now he learned from Lawrence, that he was the enemy of his son also, and would work him ill if he had him in his power.

"Then I will take him out of his power," observed Rolf; and before the next morning he was away to Lerwick. Sir Marcus sent a fast rowing boat after him, but when she reached the capital of Shetland, Rolf and his son had already taken their departure. Sir Marcus Wardhill was reaping where he had sown.

From his younger and best-loved daughter he had long been almost totally estranged. Colonel Armytage had for years held no direct communication with him, while Edda's letters were very brief, and she, having become the mother of a daughter, offered this as an excuse for not paying a visit to the north.

It was not till now that Hilda revealed to him the whole history of her marriage and the loss of her boy. His rage knew no bounds when he discovered that no certificate of this marriage was forthcoming. But one witness, who was forthcoming, survived—Bertha Eswick: she, however, had been in a declining state for some time, and but a few days had passed after Rolf and Ronald had quitted Lunnasting before she expired, leaving Hilda more solitary and miserable than ever.

Ronald Morton had commenced his life at sea with the greatest zest, and although he had a few difficulties to contend with, and not a few older boys to fight, he invariably came off victorious, and was altogether a general favourite. Rolf devotedly loved his son, and though not ambitious for himself, his great desire was to see Ronald on the quarter-deck, and rising in his profession: he certainly looked as if it were more his proper place than was the forecastle where he now was.

"Father," he said, turning his beaming countenance, "I do long to be in a battle. Are we likely soon to fall in with an enemy?"

"No hurry for that, boy," answered the boatswain, who had been in many a desperate fight, and knew what fighting was; "we shall fall in with one before long, depend on that."

"I hope so, indeed," exclaimed Ronald; "those Frenchmen who have cut off their king's head deserve to be thrashed round and round the globe till not a man of them remains alive."

This sentiment was warmly applauded both by the gunner and carpenter.

"I don't say as how I 'zactly hates the Frenchmen," observed Mr Rammage, the gunner; "but it's my opinion that the sea is not big enough for both of us, and the sooner we drives them off it, the sooner we shall be friends again."

Ronald had not long to wait before he saw, though chiefly at a distance, one of the most important of England's naval battles. The "Thisbe" formed one of Lord Howe's fleet, when he gained the glorious victory of the 1st of June which taught the Frenchmen, by a lesson often to be repeated, that they must expect defeat whenever they might venture to contend with England's navy on the ocean.

As the "Thisbe" was employed as a look-out frigate, she took but little part in the action. What she did do, far from damping Ronald's ardour, only made him the more eager to fight again. He had not long to wait. The "Thisbe," with the rest of the fleet, returned to Spithead to receive the marks of honour the sovereign and the nation showered on the heads of the gallant chiefs, who had led their ships to victory; but before long she was again on a cruise down channel. Rounding Ushant, she steered to the southward, boldly standing along the French coast, and making what the French probably considered a very impertinent examination of their forts and harbours.

She approached the place to be examined during the night, and at early dawn the required information having been obtained, she was again standing off shore, under all sail, before any of the enemy's ships could get under weigh to pursue her. She proceeded as far south as Rochelle.

Looking one morning into the harbour of that place, a frigate was discovered in the outer roads, apparently ready for sea.

"She seems about our size; if we could draw her out, we might take her," observed Captain Courtney to his first lieutenant, Mr Strickland.

"No doubt about it, sir," was the answer; "she is, however, I suspect, rather larger, but so much the better. There is little honour in capturing a Frenchman of one's own size. That we are of course expected to do. We should be thankful when we fall in with an antagonist of superior strength."

"You are right, Strickland," exclaimed the captain, warmly. "Back the maintopsail and fire a gun towards her. The signal of defiance will be understood, and if her captain has a spark of courage, he'll come out and meet us."

With colours flying, the British frigate lay-to off the Frenchman's port. While thus defying the enemy a large schooner was seen standing along shore and apparently making for the harbour.

"We'll take her before their very noses, and if that does not rouse them, I do not know what will," observed the captain, as he gave the orders to make sail in chase.

The schooner, little expecting to be snapped up by an enemy in the very sight of port, endeavoured in vain to escape. The "Thisbe," like an eagle towards its prey, flew after her, and in a short time she was a prize.

Taking out the prisoners and putting a prize crew on board, Captain Courtney stood back, with the schooner in tow, towards the mouth of the harbour; then again firing another shot of defiance, he bore away to the westward.

"The Frenchmen will bear a great deal, but they will not bear that," observed Morton to his son. "Before this time tomorrow we shall either be inside that harbour, feeling very much ashamed of ourselves—and I don't think that is likely to happen—or we shall have that frigate in there for our prize, and be standing away with her for old England."

The "Thisbe" had got some eight miles or so away from the land, when the French frigate was seen under sail and standing towards her. Captain Courtney was anxious to draw the enemy as far from the coast as possible, lest, when the hoped-for result of the action should become known, notice might be sent of the event to other ports to the northward, and a superior force despatched to capture him. He accordingly hove-to occasionally, and then stood on to entice the enemy after him.

When the evening closed in, the Frenchman was in sight about two leagues off, coming up astern. The "Thisbe," now casting off the prize, stood towards her. At this time there was no other sail in sight, with the exception of a small boat, apparently a fishing boat, which kept as close as she could to the "Thisbe," possibly to watch what was going to take place.

Captain Courtney's object was, of course, to obtain the weather gauge; and in consequence of having to manoeuvre to obtain it, it was not till past midnight that the two ships got within range of each other's guns. Not a man of the "Thisbe's" crew had turned in. The drum beat to quarters. The men flew to their stations with pistols in their belts and cutlasses by their sides, eager to begin the fight.

The "Thisbe" was on the starboard tack, when the enemy, on the larboard tack, slowly glided past her to windward, looking like some dark phantom stalking over the surface of the deep.

Ronald, who stood on the forecastle with his father, watched her with intense eagerness. Presently a sheet of flame burst from her side, followed by the loud thunder of the guns and the whizzing of shot. A few came near the English frigate, but none struck her.

"Return the compliment, my lads. Give it them!" exclaimed Captain Courtney.

The crew, with a cheer, obeyed the order, the flashes of their guns throwing a ruddy glow on the bulwarks and the figures of the crew, as stern and grim they stood at their quarters.

"Hands about ship!" was the next order issued; and the "Thisbe," tacking in the wake of her opponent, stood after her.

"Father," asked Ronald, as he stood by Morton's side on the forecastle, "will the Frenchman try to escape us?"

"No fear of that, he would not have come out at first if he had intended to play us that trick," was the answer. "He has made one slight mistake, though; he fancies that he is going to take us; and it's my firm belief that we are going to take him."

"I hope so, father," answered Ronald. "I would sooner die than be taken by a Frenchman."

"That is the right spirit, my boy," exclaimed Rolf, warmly. "But little fear of what will happen—our captain is not a man to throw away a chance of victory."

While they were speaking, the "Thisbe" was rapidly coming up with the enemy; and as her guns could be brought to bear they were fired in quick succession—the French frigate returning them with right good will, though as her shot flew high, the "Thisbe's" masts and spars suffered more than her hull, and few of her men had hitherto been hit.

Morton looked anxiously aloft. "It will be a bad job if they go," he muttered to himself. He then sent Ronald aft to ascertain the condition of the main and mizenmast, which he believed had been struck.

His son soon returned with a very bad report. The masts were already badly wounded.

Soon after this the "Thisbe" got within musket-shot of the starboard quarter of her opponent; and the marines opened their fire, while the firing of the great guns became warmer than ever.

Captain Courtney had never, for a moment, taken his eye off the French ship, that he might watch for the least indication of any manoeuvre she might be about to perform. Suddenly he exclaimed, "Up with the helm!— square away the after yards!"

Quickly the manoeuvre was executed, though only just in time to prevent the enemy who wore the instant before, from crossing the "Thisbe's" bows, and pouring in a raking fire. The two frigates now ran on before the wind, closely engaged, broadside to broadside. Fast came the round shot, crashing on board. Splinters from the torn bulwarks were flying about, from aloft some rattling blocks and shattered spars; while showers of bullets were raining down death and wounds in every direction.

Ronald Morton felt his spirits rise to an unnatural pitch as the fight grew hotter and hotter. Not the remotest thought of death, not a shadow of fear crossed his mind. Others were struck down, but those missiles of destruction were not for him. Others might be hit, but he bore a charmed life.

There is something far more terrific and trying to the nerves in a night action than in one fought by day. The dark, mysterious form of the enemy, the flashes of the guns, the irregular glare, the dim light of the fighting lanterns, the cries and groans of the wounded, the uncertainty as to who is hit or what damage has been done, all combine to produce an effect which the most desperate fight by day can scarcely exhibit.

The crew of the "Thisbe" could see that their shot was producing great effect on their antagonist. Her masts still stood, but several of her spars were shot away, and her rigging appeared a mass of wreck. The English frigate was also much injured aloft, but her masts were still standing.

By this time the "Thisbe" had shot ahead of her antagonist. "Starboard the helm!" exclaimed Captain Courtney. "Cease firing, my lads! Be ready to give her a raking broadside as we cross her hawse."

The frigate luffed up into the wind; and, as she did so, her larboard guns were discharged in quick succession into the bows of the Frenchman; but amid the roar of the guns a loud crash was heard, and the mizenmast, unable to bear the additional strain on it, went by the board, but falling to starboard, did not impede the working of the guns. As the crew were running from under it, the tall mainmast was seen to totter, and with all its yards and sails, over it went on the same side. With a groan the boatswain saw what had occurred. He feared, too, that the enemy might escape, as her masts were still standing; but as the "Thisbe's" mainmast went, the French frigate ran stern on to her, on her larboard quarter, her bowsprit passing directly across her deck over the capstan.

"She is our own if we can but keep her," exclaimed the boatswain; and, followed by Ronald, he hurried aft, calling to some of his mates to assist him.

The officers and crew had enough to do at that moment, for the Frenchmen trusting to their number, which appeared to be very great, were swarming on the forecastle, and rushing along the bowsprit with the intention of boarding the "Thisbe."

"Boarders! repel boarders!" shouted the captain, setting the example in attacking the first Frenchmen who presented themselves as they sprang forward.

Now the clash of steel, the sharp report of pistols, intermingled with the roar of the great guns—those on the quarter and main-decks still continuing to pour a destructive fire into the enemy's starboard bow as they could be brought to bear the Frenchmen, from the position in which their ship was placed, being only able to reply with musketry. Their critical position made them rush on and on again with the greatest frenzy, but each time they were driven back with heavy loss, many of them falling overboard from off the bowsprit, or being cut down by the British seamen. Meantime Rolf Morton and his followers were busily engaged in lashing the enemy's bowsprit to their capstan with such ropes as they could lay hands on. Captain Courtney looked round, and saw how they were engaged.

"Admirably done, Mr Morton," he cried out. "Keep her there, and we will give a good account of the Frenchmen in her."

At that moment the enemy, with loud shouts and sacres and other oaths, came rushing forward in greater numbers than before, intending to drop down on the "Thisbe's" deck, and hoping to overwhelm her crew by their numbers. Again they felt the effect of British cutlasses. Desperately as they fought, they were once more driven back with diminished numbers to the ship. In vain the Frenchmen endeavoured to free their ship from the position in which they had placed her. The "Thisbe" stood on, towing them after her. Scarcely one of their guns could be brought to bear, but the marines, however, kept up a hot and destructive fire of musketry on the deck of the frigate, from the tops as well as from some of her quarter-deck guns which had been run in midships fore and aft. Though the darkness prevented their taking good aim, no sooner was it known that the bowsprit was being made fast to the capstan of the English frigate, than the whole of their fire was turned in that direction. The lashings were not yet completed. Showers of bullets fell around the brave men engaged in the work. Several had fallen. The boatswain did not think of himself, but he dreaded lest his son should be hit. He was considering on what message he should send him to another part of the ship, when he felt a sharp blow, his fingers relaxed from the rope he was grasping, and he fell to the deck. He had the feeling that he had received his death wound. Ronald saw what had happened, and in an instant was on his knees supporting his father's head.

What thought he then of the fierce contest raging? What did he care who gained the victory? All his feelings were concentrated on his father. Was he mortally wounded, or would he recover? He entreated some of the men to carry him below, but they were at that moment too much occupied to attend to him. Rolf recovered slightly.

"No, no, boy; let me remain here," he said in a firm voice. "All hands have work enough to do; I am but hit in the leg, and if they would set me on my feet again I could still be of use."

But Ronald did not heed him, and continued imploring the men to carry the boatswain below. Just then the lashings were torn away, and the French frigate floated clear of the "Thisbe." Cries of disappointment escaped from the English crew, but they redoubled their efforts to cripple their opponent, so as once more to get hold of her. Meantime several of the men, being now at liberty, offered to take the boatswain below, but he desired to be left on deck.

"I'll see the fight out, lads," he answered. "Help me up, some of you, and pass this handkerchief round the limb. Cheer up, Ronald, I'm not so badly hurt as you fancy, boy."

"Hurra, lads! here she comes again; we'll have her fast this time," shouted the captain at this juncture.

The "Thisbe," deprived of her after-sail, paid off before the wind, and thus the French frigate ran directly into her, on the starboard quarter, the enemy's bowsprit hanging over the stump of her mainmast. The opportunity of securing the French ship was not lost, though her crew attempted to rush on board, as before, to prevent the operation.

While the captain and most of the superior officers who had escaped wounds or death were engaged in repelling them, Rolf caused himself to be brought nearer to the mainmast, that he might superintend the crew in lashing the bowsprit to it.

This time they took care that it should not again break away; and now the "Thisbe," running directly off before the wind, dragged the Frenchman after her.