"But," observed Robin, "I dread no such peril for you. Even if danger awaits you in England, there are other lands—"

"Ah! but my child—my child! Shall I leave her among strangers, or take her into a world that will rob her of her wealth—innocence?"

"Gold will do much; there are many about the court of Oliver who love the yellow colour and the pleasant chink of coin."

"No, I have other and stronger means of buying mercy. But mercy is not all I want—I sometimes think, that were I to walk up to Whitehall, banned as I am, Cromwell would not touch a hair of my head. I would say, 'God direct me for the best!' only I fear He has no thought of me, except for my girl's sake: and, Robin, touching her, I must again say, that——"

Whatever the Buccaneer would have added, Springall's entrance at the moment prevented. He seemed delighted at meeting Robin, and inquired in the same breath if he had been with his mother. Robin said, "No." Springall then told him she was ill—fancied herself dying, and that, as the old dame seemed so wishful to see Mistress Cecil, saying she had something important to communicate to her, he had gone up to Cecil Place, and found a strange messenger to do his bidding. Robin needed no urging to seek his mother, whom he tenderly loved; and when he had left the room, the Buccaneer could not help observing, that a parent's first thoughts after a journey are with the child, but that a child does not always first fly to the parent: "And yet," pursued Dalton, "the boy loves his mother!"

"Captain o' mine," said the ever-joyous and affectionate sailor, who deserved the attachment bestowed upon him by the skipper—"Captain o' mine, I have news for you. You see, I sailed right for the old port, and just as I was going to steer into harbour, I spied one of the steel-caps lounging about the great gate, and peeping through the bars like a lion that would and couldn't; but I knew he was one who could if he would, and though I had a message for Mistress Cecil, yet I didn't see the good of trusting him; and so I crowded sail to-leeward into the Green Cave, and on under the arch that has openings enough; but no one could I see until I was just by the church at Minster, when, on the look-out, I got a glimpse of a sail, and suspecting it to be something in the privateer line, I hove-to and used my trumpet, and who should it turn out to be but the young Cromwell! and I couldn't for the life of me help hoisting false colours and dealing in the spirit line; so she took me for a ghost when I delivered Mother Hays's message to Mistress Constantia: then she blew out like a nor'-wester, and flouted, and called names; and what else do ye think she did? By Jove, she shouted, 'Below there!—turn out the guard!' and stamped her little foot. Never trust me, if her ankle isn't as neatly turned as the smoothest whistle that ever hung from a boatswain's neck! After a while she said something about jugglery, and I called her a little Roundhead; and, to be sure, how she did stamp! Then presently down tumbled Mistress Maud from the steeple, where, I guess, she had been making observations, and Lady Frances rated the waiting-maid soundly, which I didn't grudge her—the frippery, insolent baggage! It isn't a month since she called me a chip of the jib-boom and an ugly fellow!—Ugly fellow, indeed;" repeated Springall, twitching up his trowsers—"I wonder what she meant by ugly fellow!"

"So do I," said the Skipper, with a sigh; for his mind was still 'harping on his daughter:' "So do I, but women have strange fancies. Let me now ask you what news you have, for I cannot see how this concerns me."

"Let me read my log my own way, or I cannot read it at all—and you know, master, I never spin a long yarn, except when I can't help it."

Dalton smiled, for, of all the youths he had ever known, Springall loved the most to hear himself talk.

"When I had delivered my message, and had the satisfaction of knowing that a rascally Roundhead, and a princess (as they call her,) was employed in doing my bidding," continued the lad, "I tacked about, and loitered along, looking at the queer tackling of the hedges, and the gay colours hoisted by the little flowers, and wondering within myself how any one would like to be confined to the land with its hills and hollows, where it's the same, same thing, over and over again; when I spied two steel caps and a gentleman in black steering along the road to Cecil Place. So I thought it would be only civil to go with them, seeing they were strangers; but I did not care to let them spy me, so I anchored in the hedge till they came up, and then crept along—along, on the other side, like a tortoise, and as slowly too, faith! for the road is so bad they were forced to lead their horses, except the black one, who, I found, was the Protector's own doctor going to cure Sir Robert Cecil! What do you think of that, captain?"

Dalton saw no necessity for reply, and Springall continued:—

"I gathered from their talk that Cromwell himself was on the road, coming bodily to inquire into the murder, (as they supposed,) and to rout out the smugglers; and the rascals were even talking about the prizes, having heard the place was full of riches; and they said they were sure that more than one thing brought his Highness such a journey. At every stumble their horses made, the psalm-singing scoundrels offered up an ejaculation. May I never reef a sail, captain, if they didn't pray more, going that length of road, than you, and I, and all the crew of the Fire-fly put together, have prayed during the last twelve, ay, twice twelve months!—How is Mistress Barbara?"

"What a giddy mind is yours, Springall," said Dalton; "in the same breath you speak of danger, and ask for my peace-loving child."

"More than she would do for me," replied the boy, sulkily, adding, with some of the wisdom of matured manhood, "she must not remain here, though, no, not another night, for who knows what those rascals would be at? I am much inclined to think with the crop-eared fellows, that his Highness (the devil take such highnesses, say I!) would never lay to windward and trust himself on the island, unless he had good reason to think he could kill two, ay, ten birds with one stone; he is too old a man now to go dancing about the country because of a murder, or a wedding—neither of which he cares much about."

"Except when they come home—quite home—and Mistress Constantia is to him like an own child. There's a deal of difference in the colour of our own blood and that of other people. But we must see to it, Springall, and without delay. The Fire-fly is, as you know, tricked out like a Dutch lugger, masts—sails—all! I defy even Robin Hays to know her; and I had a report spread at Sheerness and Queenborough that she had the plague aboard. Tom o' Coventry, and another o' the lads have talked of nothing else at the hostelries; and not an hour ago I sent a message to Jabez Tippet, with a three gallon memorandum of the best Nantz, so that he might prate of it to all who crossed the Ferry. Her cargo is nearly discharged, and there are but four men aboard; they walk the deck by two, as sentries, to keep up the deception; but evil is in the wind when the Protector is stirring. I should have got her out, far out before, had I not been obliged to move her backwards and forwards, owing to the cursed mischances of the times; and, Springall, I am not the man I was."

"Look, captain!" said the boy, energetically; "I would rather set a torch to the powder-chest of that gay ship, than have her turned into a Roundhead. Didn't I with my own eyes see a lubberly rascal take a chisel, or some o' their land tools, and shave every lock of hair off the figure-head of the 'Royal Charles,' and even off the beard, shorten the nose into a stub, and then scrawl under it, 'The blessed change; this regenerated vessel will be known hereafter as the Holy Oliver'? Wasn't that blasphemy? Come, captain, rouse yourself; let's call a council—there's little Robin Hays, he loves her timbers as he loves his life—there's the boatswain, and a lot of honest hands. Let's ship the ballast—the women I mean—and off for the Americees. Let them blow Gull's Nest to the devil, if they like; so our trim ship is safe, what need we care? Ill luck is in the land to any who touch it, save to put off a rich cargo or take in fresh water."

Dalton shook his head, and his heart sank within him; his mind becoming more and more perplexed, when he remembered the two helpless females who depended on him—the one for life, the other for justice—his own desire for pardon, too, struggling with his affection for his vessel.

He paced the room for a few moments, and then, accompanied by the animated and daring young sailor, sallied forth in search of Robin Hays, having first resolved that the preacher Fleetword should be sent to keep watch by the bedside of the dying woman.



CHAPTER VIII.

E'en such is Time; which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have; And pays us nought but age and dust, Which in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

Robin, when he quitted the Buccaneer, proceeded not towards his mother's house, but again entered the chamber in which Barbara lay: he paused, and listened to ascertain if she again slept. He heard no sound, and at length ventured to divide the drapery, and look within. The motion, slight as it was, was noticed by the gentle maid, who beckoned with her finger, and her lover was in an instant by her side.

"I shall be well—soon well again, Robin," she murmured; "and I know you will be glad when I am so."

Robin made no reply, but stood wondering at the exceeding beauty of the beloved object that lay upon that strange, but not ungraceful couch. He had heretofore only seen Barbara in the oddly-fashioned dress, and with the humble bearing of a servant; but now, reclining on piles of skins and velvets, her hair falling in unconstrained and untutored profusion over her white throat, and shrouding her slight figure, she seemed to him the embodying of all he had ever imagined as belonging to the exquisite creatures of other worlds. Sour and sarcastic as he was, there were few in that age who had more frequently dreamed of the pure and holy beings that people the imagination of richly-endowed minds. Solitude is the nurse of all that is good within us. The world stains what it touches; and the more we withdraw from it, the better we become. Robin knew much of its wickedness; but, fortunately, had ever sufficient leisure and sufficient loneliness for reflection. Never tell us, that a man can walk beneath the rainbow's arch, and not think of the power that placed it there! that he can stand on the tall cliff's peak, and not drink in the fullness of God's exceeding glory—that he can hear the small lambs bleat, or inhale the perfume of the hawthorn, without thankfulness to the great Author of all! Devoid of any thing like a settled creed, he still had many vague, yet sublime conceptions of the mightiness and the goodness of a Power that fills the universe with His presence. Many there are with such belief; and many, whose hearts aspire to a more defined and intimate knowledge of the Great Fountain of Life; and for lack of opportunity—for want of proper direction, either plunge amid the pitfalls and quagmires of infidelity, or are lost amid the equally dangerous fallacies of various and contradictory interpretations of the same perfect and beautiful creed. Happy was it for the Ranger that she he so truly loved was religious in its purest and simplest sense—gifted with that gentle and holy wisdom, which instructed her in the honest rule of right, and rendered her unobtrusively impervious to temptation.

"I shall be soon well again," she repeated; "and do not look so sadly on me, Robin; indeed I shall soon be well."

"Thank God for that, Barbara!" he replied. "I bless God that it is so!"

"Robin! Do you really mean that you do thank God: is it your heart, or your lips that speak?"

"As God sees me, I think that both speak, Barbara."

"Then," said the girl, "I bless God more for that than for the saving of my life. I pray daily for those to whom I owe much; but for you and my father I say double prayers."

"Because you think we need them doubly?" inquired the Ranger, smiling.

"Even so; for since I have lain here, not being able to talk much with that kind stranger, who has more than atoned for what she did by her present goodness to me, I have had time for reflection; and—and—I have prayed very much for you, Robin Hays."

"Perhaps," said the Ranger, (his strong and turbulent feelings struggling painfully in his bosom,) "perhaps, Barbara, your prayers are all you mean to give me?"

"Robin," replied the maiden, while a flush passed over her pale cheek, "you are often unjust; but I forgive it: for you are abroad in the world, which, I believe, makes people unkind. And yet I did not mean you were unkind, Robin. Now do not turn away so strangely. I would give the life that has been so lately restored to me, that your faith was as my faith,—that your God was my God."

The Ranger fell on his knees by the side of the couch, and clasping his hands energetically together, replied, not in a loud, but in a low, earnest tone,—

"Barbara, teach me your faith, and I will learn it—learn any thing from your lips: I will cast aside my waywardness—my nature shall be changed—I will become gentle as a babe. And as to your God, I am no heathen, Barbara, but an Englishman, and all so born know there is but One to worship!"

"Ay, but One," replied the gentle and thoughtful girl; "yet a wild, reckless temper like yours is ever verging to idolatry, to the formation of many gods. Do you not worship Mammon when you risk body and soul to procure ill-gotten gold?"

"Reformation is the work of time, and there will be time for it, Barbara, when you are better. I will sit during the whole length of the Sabbath-days, winter and summer all the same, from sunrise to sunset, and listen to the word of God: I will not speak, I will not look except to you, and you shall read to me from the beginning to the end, and explain, and pray: and even on week-days I will hear it for one hour each evening, from Monday till Saturday, week after week, till I understand what you expound. Will not that improve me, Barbara?"

A smile, succeeded by an expression of much anxiety, passed over her innocent countenance, and then she spoke.

"God knows, Robin, that I have much trouble—my father, I see, I feel, loves his ship better than any earthly thing; and though it would anger him to know it, yet I do wish from my heart the vessel would fade from the waters as a shadow from the green hill's side. He will never become a staid man—never set his heart on things above—never either be happy, or make me so, until no plank floats upon ocean that calls him master. Ah me, Robin! Mistress Cecil used to say that age brought wisdom; and, if so, methinks wisdom brings sorrow."

It was some minutes before the Ranger offered any comment on her words. At length he assured her how fully he agreed in believing that Dalton would be much more happy if his ship "faded," as she termed it, "from the waters; and yet," he added, "it would be as the separating of soul and body!"

"A fearful separation that would indeed be, and one I could not bear to think on. Ah, Robin! I felt death in a dream once, and once almost in reality;—and yet my dear father, he is the soul, and the ship the body—the worthless body that ties him to the earth!"

"And has Barbara no little fable of her own to make that come out prettily?"

"Ah, Robin! I think of fables, as you call them, as much as ever, but am not able to speak them now; so, good b'ye, Robin, and let not the promise you have made me be like the flower of the wild rock-rose, which blooms and blights within a single day. When we indeed sit together, and read and pray, remember the pledge you have now given freely to one who will labour to make you happy all the day long."

Robin again pressed his lips upon her hand, and left the chamber with feelings of deep joy and gratitude that mock description. He had, however, to witness a scene of a nature very different.

The last interview between him and his mother was brief, for duties towards those who lived could scarcely yield their influence even to those which the dying claimed at his hands. The kind and affectionate heart of the Ranger was chilled as he entered the small and scantily-furnished chamber in which his mother lay, suffering in body, but still more in mind. Had her son been a ministering angel, she could not have welcomed him with greater joy, although her eyes were dim, and her voice was almost inarticulate as she pressed her shrivelled lips to his cheek.

"Raise me up, Robin—Robin—and move that chest on my right. Gently, gently, Robin; it contains much that will make you rich when I am gone. It would have been hard if the poor widow had not her tithe out of those who came and went. I have sent for Mistress Cecil, but she has not come: she thinks little about the lone widow of the Crag."

"Mother," replied Robin, "her own troubles are many."

"Ah! she knows not what secrets are in the old woman's keeping. She comes not, and I have a story to tell that would be as poison to her—ay, to body and soul! You must hear it, Robin, if no one else will. But, first, hand me a drink of the strong waters. Ah, that will put fresh life into me! Let the preachers preach their fill, nothing rouses one like the strong waters!"

Robin did as she desired, but with evident unwillingness.

"Many years have gone," she continued, "yet, to the aged, many years appear as yesterday. I was sitting by the door of this very cottage, which had just been made public—for your poor father—(honest man that he was, far above your mother in wisdom and goodness)—your poor father, I say, had been drowned the winter before, and I was obliged to do something to keep the children, and so thought of making the cottage a public; well—I sat at the door, and you were in my arms."

The aged woman's mind appeared to wander for a few moments, as if she was calling her thoughts from a long distance.

"It was night, dark, dark night, and many runagades had been about the coast all day trafficking and trading and smuggling, and the gentry helping them, for things were not strict then:—it was pitch dark, with now and then a gleam of light from a bright cloud; and there came towards me a gentleman I knew full well—a gallant, handsome gentleman: he stood upon the rock that hangs over the sea, where the sea is ever wildest. Presently some of the strange-looking men joined him, and they talked and talked, though I heard them not, for the wind was whistling around me, and I was watching you asleep."

The woman again paused, but soon resumed her story.

"Well, as I was saying, they talked; but soon I heard a cry through the storm, and the next minute there was a gleam of light—I saw him struggling; but darkness fell again, and on a sudden, while you would clap your hands, came a scream for help. O God! O God! I hear it now!—now I hear it!—Robin, another drink of the strong waters, that will silence it!"

"Mother," said the Ranger, as he held the cup which her skinny fingers were extended to grasp, while her parched lips clanked against each other impatient of moisture—"Mother, take but little for you have need of prayer; that will stifle the cry far better than this."

"And I will pray," returned the woman, "when my tale is finished. There was but that one loud, loud scream, and a heavy splash in the ocean, and with it the darkness again passed: but, Robin Hays, Robin Hays, the men had passed too, and one of them returned no more! And why did he not? He had broad and fair lands, such as make people cling to their own country, but he came not back. Soon after, I heard the noise of oars, and—mind your mother now, Robin,—another man came to the cliff—to the brow of the same cliff—I saw him look down, and along the waves, and, all of a sudden, a pistol flash from the boat sprang through the darkness, and he who came last stood while you could count ten, and passed away. But mind again, Robin, he came with a weak step, and he went as a strong man."

Robin shuddered; his mother after a brief pause continued.

"Now, who think you, Robin—my child, Robin, who think you was the murdered man—and who think you was he who came last, and saw the murderers departing in peace—who? I will tell it, before my breath is for ever stopped: the one was Robert Cecil, and the other his father's son, the first-born of his own mother!"

"Oh God!" exclaimed Robin, adding in a muttering tone, "I see through it all, the hold that Dalton has over the wretched, wicked man! But could Dalton do this?"

"Did you say any thing of Dalton?" inquired Mother Hays, whose quickness of hearing appeared increased; "it was his ship that was off the coast, though I could not swear he was himself there. Such things, I have heard, were often done in those wild times, and it made a noise then, and Sir Robert seemed like one mad about his brother; though people did whisper, for they were set against one another to the knowledge of all, and of different parties. And in time the lands all fell to him; and the Parliament since, I heard, made out, that Sir Herbert, being a friend to the king, even if he were alive, shouldn't have his own, which was all made over to the present man. But, as sure as there is a God, so sure He is just! Is it not plain? Of all the fine boys his lady bore him, not one is left! And, as to the daughter, look, if she knew as much of Sir Willmott Burrell as I do, she'd make her night-posset with the mermaids before she'd wed him. Well, Robin, Sir Herbert had once a son—an only son, and, as his lady died in childbed, Sir Robert's wife had taken great delight in the boy, and brought him up with her own children; and a pretty boy it was, so fond of the sea! He would sit for an hour together on my knee, and always called me nurse, and used to play with you as if you were his equal, and call Mistress Cecil, that now is, his wife! Sweet lamb that he was! Robin, Robin, he went too; how, I never knew, but I guess: the murderer of the father thought he should be more safe if the boy was away, and he pretended grief, and his poor lady felt it. Now it is of that boy I would have spoken to Mistress Cecil, for my heart misgives me—"

Farther communication was interrupted by the entrance of Constantia's maid, who came to ascertain if the widow Hays were really dying.

"My lady has trouble enough of her own, the Lord knows; but she will leave watching by the bed-side of my poor distraught master, if she can render any aid."

"Robin, raise me up," exclaimed the dying woman, with a gesture of great impatience; "raise me up, Robin, and push the hair from my ears, that I may hear distinctly. Did you mean, young woman[,] that Sir Robert was distraught—mad?"

"Alack! yes," replied the girl; "mad, poor gentleman!"

"It is enough—enough—enough! I knew it would come in some shape; yet madness must be mercy to him!" Having so said, she sank back, while the serving wench stood in astonishment: and at length inquired, "What she meant?"

"She raves," was Robin's reply, drawing the girl out of the chamber: "give my humble duty to your lady, and tell her that the son of Mother Hays is with her, and that she lacks nothing the world can give her now." As the girl departed, Springall came to the door.

"Robin Hays! you must leave even your dying mother—something must be determined on. He is come! Listen to the guns at Sheerness, telling the island who has touched the soil on this side of the ferry."

Robin stood for a moment at the porch, and heard the booming of cannon heavily passing through the air, traversing the low downs, and roaring from crag to crag, as if rejoicing in liberty; the ships that lay out at sea sent forth a reply, and in a moment their flags were waving in the wind.

Robin returned for a moment to his mother's room.

"Mother," he said, "for one hour I must leave you, but I will send some one to watch by your bed-side. Pray to God, a God of mercy, who has but lately opened my heart: pray to Him, and He will answer. I will be with you soon—a hundred lives may rest upon that hour!"

His mother appeared scarcely conscious of what he said, but with her finger pointed to the chest.

A new, but a most unwelcome light had broken in upon the mind of the unhappy Ranger. The father of his beloved Barbara he had long known to be a reckless and a daring man, with the stains of many crimes upon his soul; but he had now the terrible knowledge that the Buccaneer was a cold-blooded and hired assassin, who for gold, for there could have been no other temptation—— The thought was perfect agony, yet the Ranger resolved to face the man he at once loved and dreaded, and boldly charge him with the act his parent in her dying moments had communicated.

"It will all be known," he thought; "there can be no pardon for the murderer—no peace for Barbara—the sinless child of sin!"



CHAPTER IX.

Mainly they all att once about him laid, And sore beset on every side arownd, That nigh he breathless grew: yet nought dismaid He ever to them yielded foot of grownd.

SPENSER.

Robin followed Springall into the room he had so recently left, and stood at the entrance; fixing at the same time his eyes, which, it must be confessed, were of unrivalled brilliancy and blackness, upon the Buccaneer, he said—

"Captain, I would speak a few words with you in private, after which we will talk of the danger that surrounds us."

Dalton and Robin withdrew together, and remained alone for more than twenty minutes, during which Springall and three or four others of the crew, who had crowded, like crows into a rookery in dread of an approaching storm, debated upon and formed plans for the safety of their vessel.

"Were all hands aboard," said Springall, whose youth joyed in perpetual hope—"were we all aboard, I would undertake to pilot that vessel over and under or through any one or any number of ships between Sheerness and Chatham!"

"Through their hulks, do you mean?" inquired Jack Roupall, who had but just joined the party.

"I don't pretend to speak grammar or book-English, Jack," retorted the young sailor, "no more than yourself; but all who have ever sailed in the Fire-fly, as both you and I have done, know her quality, and that anything can be made of her: I tell you, every beam of her timbers has life in it—every spar is a spirit!"

"What sort of spirit?—Is it rum, brandy, or Hollands?" inquired Roupall, who could see no more value in the timbers of the Fire-fly than in those of any other ship that carried a good cargo. Springall's enthusiasm was wasted on him; but it was followed by a reply from the hot-headed lad that would have led to more than words, if another of the party had not interfered.

"For shame, Spring, to be so fiery! Sure you know of old, that Jack will have his joke, and means no harm. Besides, he's only a land-lubber, after all."

"Well, pepper away, brave boys! pepper away! I'll have my revenge on you all yet!" continued the trooper.

"You won't inform, will you?" exclaimed Springall, ever ready for a fray, pushing his beardless face close to the weather-beaten countenance of sturdy Roupall.

"Will you keep your face out of my mouth?" replied the man-mountain, stretching his jaws at the same time, and displaying a double row of the most enormous teeth, and a gulf which really looked as if it could contain the animated countenance of the young sailor, who, as easily moved to mirth as anger, burst into a merry laugh at the prospect before him.

"There, boy," said the Goliath, "take it easy, and talk reason about the ship, and talk the reason reasonably, and I'll join ye; but Spring has a dash o' poetry about him—I think it's called poetry:—verse-making and verse-thinking, that never did anything in the way of ship-building or ship-saving since the world was a world, that I know. Now look, lads; here's a man-a-war, a heavy, sluggish thing, whose guns could take no effect on the Fire-fly, because their shot would go right over her, and only anger the waters. Her long boats, to be sure, could do the business; but she has no more than two and the captain's gig a-board—as I heard this morning at Queenborough. The evening is closing, and neither of the other ships—whose slovenly rigging wants Blake's dressing—hae any guns a-board to signify."

"Ay," said another, "so much for our near neighbours: what say you to our farther ones, at t'other side the island—just at the entrance to the Mersey?"

"Say!" said Springall, "why, that they could be round in less than no time if they knew who's who."

"Which they do by this: what else would bring the steel caps, and the Devil himself amongst us? besides, there's others off the coast, as well as we. Do you think old red-nosed Noll would come here about a drop of blood—a little murder, that could be settled at the 'sizes? There's something brooding in another direction, that 'ill set his hot blood boiling: but as it's purely political, all honest men, who have the free-trade at heart, will keep clear of it. May be he's heard the report that black-browed Charlie's thinking of pushing on this way,—though I don't believe it; it's too good to be true: it would soon make us tune up 'Hey for Cavaliers!' and bring the old days back again."

"But let us," chimed in Springall—"let us keep clear of every thing of the sort till our ship's safe. Why, in half an hour they might split her spars as small as jack-straws!"

"Which they won't, I think; because, if they know who she is, they know her cargo's safe—where Noll himself can't get at it, unless he drags the cellars—and the stomachs too, by this time—of half his prayer-loving subjects along the Kent and Essex coast."

"Stuff, stuff! every enemy destroyed is a shade nearer safety," said Springall; "and Noll knows it."

"That's well said, Spring," replied Jack, winking on his companion; "and I'll tell you what's true, too, shall I?"

"Ay, ay."

"Young geese are the greatest cacklers."

"I'll tell you what," retorted the lad, drawing himself up with some dignity, and reddening to the eyes, "I may be but a boy; but have the goodness to remember, that every oak was a sapling, and every sapling an acorn. If men trample on the acorn, it will never grow to be the oak; for, little as it is, the spirit of the oak is in it.—D'ye read my riddle?"

A good-humoured burst of approbation followed Springall's speech, which was hushed by some one of the party saying,

"Here comes our Captain, and we can form no plan till he is present."

The door accordingly opened after the hand, applied at last to the latch, had evidently wandered over the panel, seeking the fastening which at first it could not discover, and making outside a noise resembling the scratching of a cat.

No race of beings so decidedly differ from every other in the world as sailors: no matter whether they belong to a king's ship, to a smuggler, or a merchantman. Though there may be shades among them, yet the grand distinction between men of the sea and men of the land endures,—it is impossible to confound them together. A seaman is ever so easily amused, so reckless of consequences, so cheerful amid difficulties, so patient under privations. His blue jacket is a symbol of enterprise and good humour. Even his nondescript hat—black, small, and shining as a japanned button, adhering to the back of his head by a kind of supernatural agency, with which landsmen are unacquainted—can never be seen by a true-born Englishman without feelings of gratitude and affection, which, at all events, no other hat in the world can command. Although the crew of the Fire-fly would have been looked upon by your genuine seaman as a set of half-castes, which they really were, yet they had, if possible, more recklessness of character than ever belonged to any number of persons so congregated together; they had so often jested at, and with death, in all its shapes, that it was little more than pastime; and they had in their own persons experienced so many hairbreadth 'scapes that they looked upon Springall's great and very natural anxiety for the fate of the ship he loved, as a species of madness which a little experience would soon cure him of. The elder ones certainly knew that there was little use in their forming plans or projects, as their commander would as usual adopt his own, and adhere to them without their council or approval. It must be confessed that lately they regarded his lying so constantly off so exposed a coast, a proof of want of energy and forethought they had never noticed before; but his prompt punishment of Jeromio had set his character again on a firm footing; for, as Roupall said; "It proved that the Captain was still himself."

When the door of the room in which they were assembled was opened, instead of the Skipper, the long, lanky figure of the Reverend Jonas Fleetword presented itself in the opening; his coat and hose unbrushed, his pinnacle hat standing at its highest, and his basket-hilted sword dangling from the belt carelessly and rudely fastened.

Those of the men who had been sitting, stood up, while others rushed forward. Some laid their hands upon his shoulders, and all demanded whence he came, and what he wanted.

Poor Fleetword had long since arrived at the conclusion that he had unconsciously committed some crime, for which he was doomed to much suffering in the flesh: first imprisoned, and destined to endure starvation at the hands of Sir Willmott Burrell; then fed, but caged like an animal, by one whom he denominated "a man of fearful aspect, yea, of an angry countenance and fierce deportment, yet having consideration for the wants of the flesh;" then, when he had been liberated as he thought, for the express purpose of affording consolation to, and praying with a dying woman, and bound by his sacred word not to leave Gull's Nest, he found himself in the midst of the most unamiable-looking persons he had ever seen assembled; and his pale eye grew still more pale within its orbit from the effects of terror.

"Cut him down!" exclaimed one ruffian, drawing a cutlass, long and strong enough to destroy three at a blow.

"Fill his pinnacle hat with gunpowder, and blow him to the devil!" said another.

"He is a spy and a Roundhead," vociferated a third, "and, wherever there's one, there's sure to be more o' the breed."

"Search his pockets," shouted a fourth; "I'll lay my hand there's villany in them."

"I'm the best at that work," exclaimed Jack Roupall, spinning the long-legged preacher round and into the midst of the men before he had time to utter a syllable of explanation. The change produced on them by this display of Roupall's dexterity was like magic, for, in an instant, they were to a man convulsed with laughter: the poor preacher retained most motley marks of the bruised oranges upon his hinder garments, which were, moreover, rent by various falls, or, as he would designate them, "perilous overthrows;" and there was something so ludicrous in his whole appearance, spinning on one leg, (for he was obliged to keep up the other to maintain his balance,) and looking more like an overgrown insect, called by children "daddy long-legs," than any other creature dwelling upon earth, that the mirthfulness of the sailors might well have been pardoned.

"Children of Satan!" he said at last, recovering his breath during their laughter—"Imps of darkness!" he added, holding out both hands in front, as he would keep them from contaminating him by their touch—"if that ye ever hope for pardon——"

"I told ye he was a Roundhead—a negotiator," shouted one of the rudest; "stop his gab at once—yard-arm him."

"Peace, peace!" interrupted young Springall; "he is part of our skipper's cargo, a harmless mad preacher, and no spy; he'd talk to ye by the hour, and make as rare sport as a mass-service at Lisbon—if ye hadn't something else to think of."

"Hear him, hear him!" exclaimed the thoughtless fellows, who forgot their own and their ship's danger in expectation of some revelry.

"Hear him," repeated Roupall, while occupied in searching his pockets.

"Albeit I was not sent unto ye, ye worthless, blasphemous, and accursed crew—" began Fleetword.

"Above there!" sung out a little one-eyed seaman, squinting up at our friend, and poising a long lath so as to arrest his attention by a smart blow across the knees, which made the poor man elevate first one limb and then the other, in what soldiers term 'double quick time.' "Keep a civil tongue in your head," he added, threatening to renew the salute.

"For shame, Tom o' Coventry," said Springall, who had more generosity in his nature; "if you don't behave, I'll spit ye as neatly as ever top-mast studding sail was spitted on the broken stump of a boom in a smart gale,—d'ye hear that, master officer—that was—but is not?"

This insult could not be received quietly, because it was deserved, and the diminutive sailor applied the weapon to Master Springall's shins, so as to set his hot blood raving for encounter. Fleetword heeded not this, but rejoicing sincerely in any event that gave him opportunity of speech, proceeded to anathematize the whole assembly as confidently as if he had been the pope's legate. Roupall, having finished his investigation of Fleetword's pockets, advanced one step, and, taking Tom o' Coventry by the collar, shook him and Springall apart as if they had been two puppy dogs, while the others bawled loudly for fair play. At this instant the door opened, and Dalton strode into the midst of them with that lordly step and dignified aspect he could so well, not only assume, but preserve; even Fleetword was silenced, when the Skipper, turning to him, demanded how he came there, and if he had forgotten that a dying woman had solicited his aid.

"Of a truth," he replied, "I mistook the apartment: ye cannot suppose, most worthy commander of this enchanted and impish conservatory, that, of my own free will, I would choose such company. Where is the sinner?"—Dalton desired Springall to show him to the room of Mother Hays.

The Buccaneer offered no comment on the fray, for he had often observed that little good arises from lecturing people for their faults at the very time you want their services. He explained to them briefly but fully, and with as much clearness and wisdom as if he had been for hours in deliberation, the danger by which they were encompassed; the more than fear for their ship—that they themselves were in the most perilous situation they had ever experienced, clogged by the land, and not free on the sea: that as the evening was fast closing in, and the moon did not rise until near midnight, their enemies could do little until after the lapse of a few hours—that those who wished, might disperse themselves along the shore, and escape to Sussex, or any other smuggling station, as they best could; sending intimation to their friends as to their movements: and he was the more particular in giving this permission, as to each and every one had been distributed full pay and profits;—that those who loved the Fire-fly, and would risk their lives for her, or with her, were to conceal themselves along the coast, and ere the moon rose, make their way a-board. This they could easily effect under the thick darkness, and in so calm a night. There was not one who could not steer a plank, in quiet water, from Essex to Sheerness; and in default of that, they were all good swimmers.

"And now, my brave fellows," he added, "I may, or I may not, meet you on the deck, where I have so often trod and triumphed. One great account I have to settle with the land before I leave it. I may swing from a gibbet before to-morrow's sun sets; or I may secure—— But if I am not with you," he added, breaking off his sentence abruptly, "before the moon rises, Mathews will take the helm; for I see by his eye that he will not leave the ship he has mated with so much steadiness and good seamanship for so long a time. The long-boat must have a light placed like ours; and false canvass hung round, so as to make a bulk, while the Fire-fly steals silently and darkly on her way. This, if well managed, will give an hour's start—But you understand all that. Make up your minds, among yourselves, who's for the land, who for the sea; and I will join you again in five minutes." As Dalton (who was more agitated than his crew had ever seen him) withdrew, he heard Roupall mutter—

"Confound all she-things! This circumbendibus is all owing to his daughter: 'twould be a precious good job if she had never been born, or being born, was dead in earnest, which I hear she is not—He's not the same skipper he was afore he took to land and sentimentality! Confound all she-things, again say I! they are tiresome and troublesome."

We trust none of our readers will echo the prayer of Jack Roupall, as we draw towards the conclusion of our story.



CHAPTER X.

Vain is the bugle horn, Where trumpets men to manly work invite! That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, We hunters may be hunted hard ere night.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT.

Constantia Cecil watched with much anxiety the progress of the carriages and horsemen which composed the train and body-guard of the Protector, as they passed slowly along the road that led to Cecil Place. A troop, consisting of twenty men, preceded; their bright arms, and caps, and cuirasses, reflecting back the blaze of the setting sun, like so many burnished mirrors. Then came Cromwell's own carriage, drawn by four strong black horses;—they had need of strength, dragging, as they did, a weight of plated iron, of which the cumbrous machine was composed. The windows were remarkably narrow, and formed of the thickest glass, within which was a layer of horn, that, if it were shattered by any rude assault, would prevent the fragments from flying to the inside. Behind this carriage rode four mounted soldiers; it was succeeded by another, and at each side a horseman rode; a third conveyance, the blinds of which were closely drawn, brought up the procession; and behind this was only a single soldier. At some distance, perfectly unattended, and seeming as if unconnected with the party, came the simple vehicle of the Jew Manasseh Ben Israel. However great was Cromwell's partiality for this learned and distinguished man, he was fully aware of the impolicy of permitting one of so despised a race to associate with him publicly, or to travel abroad under his direct protection.

Frances Cromwell joined her friend at the window from whence she looked, and at once congratulated her on the tranquillity Sir Robert had enjoyed during the last two hours.

"The physician has done much," she replied; "yet I can hardly trust myself to cherish any feeling that tells of peace or hope. Dearest Frances! what will be the fate of your poor friend?"

Constantia hid her face on the Lady Cromwell's shoulder, and wept; but her grief appeared of a less feverish kind than heretofore.

"Hope for the best—my father can work marvels when he wills. He may read all right; and as yet you are unwedded."

"He cannot restore the sweet life of one I loved so dearly,—one whose place I can never see filled, and upon whose innocent countenance I can ne'er again look."

"I wonder who is in my father's carriage?—Colonel Jones, I dare say, and a couple more of the same severe cast," observed Lady Frances, trying to divert her friend's attention from the thought of poor Barbara; "not a joyful face amongst a troop of them; the very soldiers look like masses of grey stone, stuck on the horses' backs with iron paste."

"The second carriage," said Constantia, "looks as if it contained a prisoner—see, a soldier rides at each door." She turned still paler as she spoke, and grasped the arm of Lady Frances with all her strength, though support was required but for a moment. The motion was unnoticed by her friend, who added in her usually gay tone—

"A good guess! And who is in the third? some other caged animal; one of my father's pet lions, or leopards, or creatures of that sort: pet or no pet, I would rather see what it contains than all the others put together—so much for woman's curiosity!"

"The guard are entering the great gates," said Constantia, "and whether he bring me weal or woe, friend or foe, I must receive the Protector, so as to show our sense of the more than honour he has done us."

"Constantia!" exclaimed Lady Frances, who still lingered at the window, "there is a fourth carriage, a foreign-looking one, with an overgrown boot, and no attendants—coming behind the train, like the last bit of paper at the tail of a boy's kite. I marvel more than any who that can contain?"

"Will you not come with me to receive your father?" said Constantia, extending her hand to her friend. Lady Frances tripped across the room and took it within hers.

"Constantia, nothing frights you from your propriety!—I am ready."

The sudden, though anticipated visit of the Protector, produced a proportionate degree of embarrassment and confusion among all the inmates of Cecil Place. At any other time, the bare intimation of such an honour would have turned their heads, and inspired their heels with the alacrity of St. Vitus himself; but they had felt too much interest in the events of the past week to experience the full joy to which, at any other time, they would have yielded. As it was, housekeeper, porter, steward, cook, butler, and their subordinates, set about the necessary preparations with the dexterity and alertness of servants who know that their first duty is obedience, not only of their employer's words, but their wishes:—not one but felt the warmest interest in all that concerned their dear master, and still more dear mistress; they would have gladly sacrificed their lives to make her happy: in them was clearly shown the "constant service of the antique world." Solomon Grundy, as usual, having the smallest quantity of brains, was the most noisy, and the least useful, though the creature was affectionate enough in his way, and, as we have stated, marvellously skilful in his calling. He stood with the rest of the servants, about twenty in number, who had assembled to await Cromwell's entrance, and do honour to their young lady by as numerous and well arranged a show as they could collect. They were all dressed in deep and decent mourning, except the women of Lady Frances, who walked behind her to the great entrance, where she and Constantia stood ready to receive his Highness. As he alighted, the advanced-guard formed a semicircle beside the carriage; and when his foot rested on the first step of the entrance-stairs, the two ladies passed the threshold, to meet him with due respect. It was a picturesque sight—the meeting of that rugged and warlike man with two such females;—for Lady Frances, though deficient in what may be termed regular beauty, had an air and fascination about her that was exceedingly captivating; and as she waited, one foot a little in advance, her head thrown back, and the jewels of her clasped stomacher distinctly marking the outline of her full and graceful bust, she formed a considerable, but still a pleasing contrast to the high-souled beauty of her dignified friend. Constantia, at the moment Cromwell alighted, trembled lest the next person should be Sir Willmott Burrell; and the terror she naturally felt, lent an air of embarrassment to her pale, high features, to which they were generally strangers. Her long mourning veil fell, as usual, to her feet; and the folds of her rich velvet robe concealed the change which but a little time had wrought in her exquisitely moulded figure. The arched hall was crowded on either side by her domestics, whose dresses formed a gloomy back-ground, which, nevertheless, accorded well with the hatchment that hung over the entrance,—a memorial of Lady Cecil's recent death. Lady Frances, as she glanced on the sober, but well-arranged party in front, their bright armour and broad swords flashing in the light, the prancing of the brave horses, and the smiling face of her uncle's favourite page—her own cousin, who followed close to his indulgent master—the mixture of carriage and cuirass, of spear and pennon, set out against the green meadows, and still farther off the blue and beautiful sea—all this looked to her cheerful mind as if hope and happiness were about once more to enter Cecil Place. The impression was so strong upon her mind, that she only regretted she could not speak of it to Constantia, who bent her knee to salute the hand of her friend—the Protector of England! while he, gallantly removing his hat, raised her from the ground, and imprinted a grave and respectful kiss upon her brow—then, having saluted his own daughter after the same fatherly fashion, he presented a hand to each of the ladies, and walked, bareheaded, into the hall, returning the salutations of the delighted domestics as he passed, and inquiring in a low, earnest tone, after the health of his worthy host and friend, Sir Robert Cecil. As they entered the apartment, in which a suitable refection had been prepared, Constantia was about to return to receive her other guests.

"Not so," observed the Protector, retaining her hand. "I have taken upon myself for one day and one night the wardenship of Cecil Place, if your excellent parent will so permit it; with the Lord's help we will discharge the trust well and faithfully. Such as I wish to introduce to you will join us soon, and to those who will not I have allotted chambers. Our mutual friend, Major Wellmore," he added, smiling, "has instructed me so perfectly in the bearings of this fine house, that I do not at all feel as a stranger within its walls."

Constantia bowed, and from her heart thanked the Protector for the kindness and delicacy of his thoughts.

"Great and glorious I knew him ever," she said to herself, "but I was unprepared for the tenderness we usually consider the exclusive attribute of our own sex."

Some five or six of the officers and gentlemen of Cromwell's household were, in their turn, presented to her; but Sir Willmott Burrell came not among them. Constantia trembled as often as she turned her head towards the opening door.

During the time occupied in partaking of the abundant repast, upon which the delighted Solomon had expended all due care and anxiety, there were few words spoken, and neither healths nor toasts passed round—the Puritans holding all such observances as profane things; nor was there any allusion made to the unfortunate occurrences of the past days, except as regarded the disappearance of the Preacher Fleetword, a circumstance which weighed heavily on the mind of Constantia.

"I assure your Highness," said Lady Frances, "this is a perfect island of romance; there has been as much mystery, and as many misunderstandings, as would form a Spanish play."

"I am sorry, Mistress Frances," replied Colonel Jones, "to find your thoughts still turning to these follies—follies anathematized in this regenerated land."

A smart reply mounted to the lady's lip, who was annoyed that the plain mistress had taken place of the title so universally ceded to her, but she dared not send it forth in her father's presence.

"I assure Lady Frances," observed her father, rising from the table at the same time, and laying a particular emphasis on the word lady, as if he would reprove Colonel Jones's plainness—"I assure Lady Frances that I am a most excellent unraveller of mysteries,—of all mysteries," he repeated with a stress on the word ALL, that made the blood rush into his daughter's cheek. "And if I may presume on such an accomplishment, I would request the honour of a private interview with Mistress Cecil."

Cromwell conducted the lady from the room with an air that would not have disgraced the descendant of a race of kings.



CHAPTER XI.

If you, my son, should now prevaricate, And, to your own particular lusts, employ So great and catholic a bliss; be sure A curse will follow, yea, and overtake Your subtle and most secret ways.

BEN JONSON.

Whatever passed between Cromwell and the Lady Constantia must remain secret, as neither were of a particularly communicative disposition. Lady Frances, indeed, laboured hard to succeed and comprehend the whole matter, but in vain. She waylaid her friend on her passage from the room of audience, and observed, in a tone and manner that betrayed her anxiety on the subject,

"My father and you have had a long conference!"

"He has indeed honoured me by much condescension and kindness," was Constantia's reply.

"Do you know whom he has closeted up so strangely in Cecil Place? I was going into the oak parlour, when a sentry at the door—(What rough fellows those soldiers are!)—cried 'Stand!' as if I had been a statue. With that I repaired to the small oriel chamber; but there, too, was another 'Stand!' Why, the house is at once a prison and a garrison!"

"Not quite."

"Oh, you take it more gently than I should—to have persons in your own house, and not know who they are."

"Your father, I suppose, knows them; and I may have sufficient confidence in the Protector of England to believe in the wisdom of all he does—nothing doubting."

"My father is very anxious about Sir Robert."

"He is indeed."

"And to search out the destroyer of our poor Barbara."

"He has ever been to justice as its right hand."

How poor Lady Frances longed to ask of Constance if her father had talked about Sir Willmott—if there were any tidings of Walter De Guerre, or where he had been since his disappearance with Major Wellmore! but she could not—she dared not ask another question: indeed, Constantia effectually prevented her so doing, for, taking her hand with that extraordinary combination of frankness and reserve which is ever the characteristic of a great and honest mind, she said—

"My sweet friend, do not question me; I have either answered your father's questionings as I answer every one, truly, in word and spirit, or told him, when he asked what I must not reveal, that I could not tell. I never equivocated in my whole life; equivocation is a subterfuge, mean as well as sinful—the special pleading of a lie."

"My dear Lady Perfection!"

"Do not mock me, sweet Frances: the world will say, and say rightly, you are much nearer perfection than I am; you have far more of the woman—the open, cheerful, confiding woman. But hear me say a few words more,—and apply them as you will. I once saw a young fresh tree—it was an oak—a bright tree and a beautiful! It flourished on the hill-side, and injured nothing; for its shadow was harmless, and served but as a kindly shelter for the modest violet and the pale primrose. The woodcutter looked upon it as he passed it by, and said it would grow to be the pride of the forest;—the village children held their innocent revelry beneath its gay branches:—but, Frances, dear Frances, the storm gathered, and the thunder leaped from cloud to cloud in the angry heavens, and the lightning—the forked lightning, darted among its leaves, and struck it to the heart. The next morning the sun saw that it was blighted; and the sun said, 'My beautiful tree and my brave, that my beams delighted to shine upon, is blasted; but I will throw forth my warmest rays, and my favourite shall revive, and again be glorious!' And the sun came in all its power, and it shone upon the tree; but the more it shone, the more quickly the tree withered—for it fainted beneath the kindness which had the will, but not the gift, of renovation."

Lady Frances turned from her friend with tears, and asked her no more questions. Constantia wept not, but passed towards the servants' hall to give some directions. The evening had quite closed, and the earth slept under the broad grey wings of twilight; as she crossed the corridors, she would have been bewildered by the darkness, had not her feet been acquainted with every winding passage.

As she passed one of the deep and sunken entrances for light, that seemed constructed for the purpose of expelling and not admitting the beams of day, so narrow and complicated was its framework, something struck violently on the glass. She started on perceiving a small figure enveloped in a woman's cloak. Late occurrences had made her cautious; but she was quickly assured of safety on hearing her name pronounced by the voice of Robin Hays. In a low but somewhat confident tone he informed her of his desire to see the Protector upon a matter of life and death.

"Only ask him if he will see me, dear lady!—I would not come openly, because I know he loves mystery in all things, and likes not that the world should be able to prate of his interviews.—But ask quickly, dear lady—quickly, as ye would seek heaven!"

"See you, Robin! The Protector see and counsel with you, Robin?"

"Ay, dear lady—the lion and the mouse—the lion and the mouse—only let it be quickly—quickly."

"Stay, Robin; you of all men are the most likely to know—can you tell me aught concerning one, I believe, we both loved?"

"Ask me not, dear mistress, now; only quickly, quickly to the Protector."

In a few minutes Robin Hays again stood before the great and extraordinary man he both respected and feared.

There was a mingling of kindliness and warmth in Cromwell's manner, as he desired the manikin to come forward, and, having first questioned him about his health, commanded him to tell his business.

"I have intruded on your Highness, which is a mark of great boldness in a creature of such low degree," commenced the Ranger in obedience to the Protector's orders, "and it is on behalf of one to whom I am much bound. Alack! great sir, it is a sad thing when a man of spirit, of power, and of bravery, has no friend to speak for him but one that Nature threw from her as unworthy of the neat finishing she bestows on others:—when our parent discards us, what have we to expect from mankind?"

"Do you speak of the youth called Walter, whose gallant Jubilee waits impatiently till his master is at liberty to boot and saddle? He shall mount him soon."

"With all humility, your Highness, no:—I would speak of Hugh Dalton and the Fire-fly."

"Of his ship, which may be at sea, say you?"

Robin ventured one glance at Cromwell's countenance, doubtless with the intention of ascertaining if he knew the position of the vessel: but there was no expression on those features that could lead to any conclusion, and the Ranger skilfully evaded the question.

"It is indeed of Hugh Dalton I would speak," continued Robin, "and intreat in his behalf, what I need myself, yet ask not for—a pardon."

"Pardon!" repeated Cromwell, "Pardon!—on what grounds?"

"Those of mercy—upon which your Highness has pardoned many; and, please your Highness, if I may make bold to say so, this same man has some reason, however small, to offer. The Jewess Zillah——"

"Ah! what of her?"

"Is in his keeping, and a certain preacher also—a worthy, simple, yet, withal, a keen man, whom Sir Willmott Burrell, as I understand, entrapped and shut up, with famine as his only associate, because he had become possessed of some papers proving Sir Willmott's marriage with the Jewish lady."

"And Dalton——"

"Saved this Fleetword!"

"Ah, Fleetword!" interrupted Cromwell, "I have heard of his disappearance—and he is safe?"

"Perfectly."

"I bless the Lord for his unravelling! But why comes not this man forth from his den? Methinks, if he have rendered such service to the Jew, who is our friend, he has some claim to our consideration, and might hope—perhaps, hope for pardon. But, if I judge rightly, he expected more than pardon,—pardon for his ship also, and farther grace towards himself:—ran it not thus?"

"Please your Highness, yes. The man loves his ship, which is but natural; and then his men——"

"What! the reeving ravenous set who have carried destruction as their flag, and filled the coast with desolation; aided and abetted in plunder, and brought over malcontents from evil lands, and scattered them like flax-seed over the country! Cornwall—Devon—Essex—Kent—Sussex—everywhere;—disturbed ourselves, so that by night as well as day we lack repose; and are forced to be our own watch-dog, to the great discomfort and danger of our body, and the vexation of our soul! Pardon for such as they! Dalton we might pardon, we have reasons for it; but his ship—it shall burn upon the high seas, as an example to all like it; and, as to his crew,—why not a scoundrel could be found robbing a hen-roost who would not declare himself one of Hugh Dalton's gang! To send you, too, as his ambassador!"

"Please your Highness," interrupted Robin, "he did not send me, though he knew of my coming. The man is watching by the side of his child."

"His child, said you—I heard he had but one, and that, through some mystery, the girl was here, and——"

Cromwell would have added, "shot," but he remembered what Robin had suffered at Hampton Court, when Barbara's death was mentioned before him, and, though chafed at the picture he had himself drawn of the ravages of the Buccaneer, yet the kind feelings of his nature prevented his opening the green wound in the Ranger's heart. No matter what distinction rank makes between man and man, Nature has instituted a moral freemasonry, by which all her children understand the signals and symptoms of goodness and greatness in each other's bosoms. Robin blessed him for his forbearance with the fresh warm blessing of an affectionate heart; and the blessing ascended to the Almighty's throne, although breathed into no mortal ear!—it ascended, not on the wings of the wind, for the wind heard it not; yet there it was, and there it remains, registered in the book of life, amongst the few but holy offerings which are paid to the mighty, in secret, by those who look to them for aid,—whose homage is generally of the lip, not the heart.

After a pause, more full of meaning than if it had been crammed with words, Robin said——

"Please your Highness, the girl is not dead, though badly wounded."

"I thank God!—I thank God for every blessing. Have you so said to the Lady Constantia?"

"I did not like to mention it, yet, as I did not know——"

"Right, right," interrupted Cromwell, not permitting him to finish the sentence, "a silent tongue is ever harmless, and with it there is safety. But I must see Fleetword and the Jewess forthwith: say unto Dalton that so I desire it."

"The Skipper has secrets touching this family in his keeping which I have reason to think he will retain, unless——"

Wily as he was, Robin now paused, for he dreaded to rouse the Protector's ire, and Cromwell, seeing his hesitation, exclaimed,

"Speak on—speak out, young man—this fellow would dictate to us—but speak—speak, I say; what are his gracious terms?"

Although the last words were uttered in an ironical tone, Robin did speak, and boldly.

"Pardon for himself, his registered followers, and safety for his ship; I know such to be his feelings, and know he would so say."

The Protector replied calmly—"To the pardon for himself, I say, ay; to the other conditions, no. Once spoken is enough. My words are for eternity, young man; it is much that I pardon even him. Go to—what hinders that I blow not his nest into the sky? what care I for the vultures of his eyrie!

"But the doves, your Highness,—the doves that shelter there!"

"Look ye, sir ambassador," returned Cromwell, "were I to twine a wreath of gunpowder round his nest, think ye he would suffer his child to perish, whatever fate in desperation he might award himself?"

"My Lord, he can look the sun in the face at noon-day; he could weigh with an unquailing eye the bullet that brought him death—he is a man of unspeakable firmness."

"Granted," said the Protector; "but I am a father—so is he; you are not, or you would feel that, were the female a vulture, not a dove, still he could not peril her life. She is his child. I forget, while I now speak, that which I am; for I could not speak thus if I remembered it. I send you to Dalton, to tell him, that in humble, most humble, imitation of the blessed God, whose unworthy servant I am, I say that 'though,' in the eyes of the world, 'his sins be as scarlet, they shall be as wool;' they shall be blotted from my memory, and I will stretch forth my right hand to save and not to punish; so much as regards himself, I will not hint at his misdeeds, provided that——" he stopped abruptly, and fixed his eye upon the timepiece that was set over the chimney—a huge heavy iron machine, that one would fancy even Time found it difficult to deal with. "You see the hour—the hand is on the stroke of nine: provided that, before that same hand rests upon the single figure which heralds in the morning, the Preacher, the Jewess, himself and his daughter are within this room—provided they are here I will seal his pardon: he shall go forth, or remain, a free subject of the Commonwealth. And more than this, my soldiers sleep till midnight, so that men, all men may travel in safety,—in safety by land, I mean; for if the slightest attempt be made to rid the harbour of the pestilential vessel, whose crew keep such careful, or rather such prudent, watch upon her deck, if that the night were dark as blackness itself, there are eyes that see, and hands that avenge! The ship must not remain unpunished; of her, justice shall have its due. Your Buccaneer should think of this, and bless the God that has made us merciful."

"The Fire-fly, to be towed into Chatham and about, and pointed at by the cowardly land-lubbers, as Hugh Dalton's fine vessel! 'Twould kill him, please your Highness, it would kill him. He would not take his life on such terms——"

"Let him lose it, then. Think ye that, though you were honest, there are not many who pant to discover the secrets of that nest? Came I here for pastime? The Lord he is righteous and merciful. The cavern and its wealth is ours. The goodness of the Lord is over all the earth; yet such is the corruption of all things that we have no leisure for repose, much less pastime. Men's passions and evil propensities devour us, and fright comfort and often holy communing from our pillow. Go to, then. We have one who could lead us blindfold through your crag and its chambers. If we find Dalton armed, justice must take its course; even I could not save him then."

"It is little your guide would know what awaited him, if he did conduct the soldiers of your Highness," replied Robin, perhaps in a tone of momentary familiarity, the result of his long conference.

"It is enough," said Cromwell. "Though you have denied that you were directed by him to see us on this matter, yet you will not scruple to do our bidding. I need not repeat—within four hours from this time,—the Jewess, the man of God, Dalton and his daughter—secretly, mark, secretly—within this chamber. During this period my soldiers sleep; but the vessel must not be unmoored. Remember, if its anchor is weighed—or slipped," he added, with that extraordinary penetration which saw every possibility of even equivoque, and guarded against it, "the Buccaneer's life is forfeit."

Robin bowed with great submission, but still lingered.

"Please your Highness, he does so love that vessel!"

"You practise on our humanity, young man, and forget to whom you speak."

Robin bowed again more lowly than before, and retreated down the room. While closing the door, he looked to where the Protector sat; Cromwell, observing the movement, raised his hand, and pointed to the time-piece, whose iron finger was fast travelling round the dial.



CHAPTER XII.

So up he arose upon his stretched sails, Fearless expecting his approaching death; So up he arose, that the air starts and fails, And overpressed sinks his load beneath; So up he arose, as doth a thunder cloud Which all the earth with shadows black doth shroud; So up he arose.

PHINEAS FLETCHER.

"The Lord deliver me! once more, say I," ejaculated Robin Hays, "and the Lord deliver Dalton! He would sooner submit to have his limbs hewed one by one from his body, than permit a single plank of his good ship to be touched: he loves it far more than his own life. I will not speak with him about it. There is no possibility of a hundred of our men, if we could summon them from the different stations, encountering the well-disciplined soldiers now upon the island. Nothing legal or illegal can withstand the power or turn aside the will of that most wonderful man. It is useless to commune more with Dalton; but I will save him, though I perish in the attempt!"

It may be almost said that he flew to the Gull's Nest. When there, he turned with a stealthy step towards the chamber which his mother occupied. There was no living being in the room save one, and she was busied in composing the limbs and features of his dead parent, chanting, in a low monotonous tone, fragments of old songs and snatches of ballads appropriate to the gloomy task.

Robin clung to the door-post. However little he might have respected his mother, he knew she had loved him; and it is sad, in a world where so few affectionate ties are formed, to see the nearest and the dearest severed. He stood for a little watching the slow movements of the old crone, who was so withered and woe-looking that, with but slight effort of imagination, he might have believed the grave had given up one dead to prepare another for the sepulchre. The small lamp sent forth but little light, and the features of his mother, not yet decently arranged, had a scared and frightened look, as if terror, at the oncoming of death, had left her a powerless though unwilling captive.

"Has the spirit long passed!" at length inquired Robin, in a voice so low that the aged woman started, as if the whisper sounded from below the earth.

"Anan, Master Robin, is it you? Ah! I little thought you'd ha' been away; not that I fancy she missed ye much, for she didn't make much struggle—that is, not to say much at the very last—

'And at the last your bed shall be, Ay, near the broad and briny sea!'"

She gave out the rhyme while smoothing back the hair from the haggard features of the corpse; and her trembling treble voice, so weak, so shrill, added a most miserable and desolating effect to the awful scene.

"Do it decently, good dame, decently and gently too, and you shall be rewarded," said Robin, deeply affected,—aware how impossible it was for him to remain and see that every thing was well ordered.

"Ay, ay, I warrant it shall all be done rightly, master, as rightly as if she decked herself, poor soul! which she was well fond of in days long ago."

Robin turned towards the cliff. As he commenced the descent, the wail of the corpse-dresser fell upon his ear with the sighing of the wind that was straying amongst the many hollow crags—the mysterious wind that comes—whence?—we know not; and goes—where?—we cannot tell—yet moves along upon its appointed way—felt, although unseen, on the vast earth and the wide sea—now rejoicing over pleasant fields, and filling the leaves with harmony—kissing in its gentleness the blushing bosom of the rose, and wafting the humble bee on its industrious voyage!—then stirring up oceans by its breath, and shouting to the clouds its mandates!—Thou playfellow of thunder, and mate of the fierce lightning! whether as a hurricane or a zephyr, great source of good and evil, hail to thee on thy way!

Robin stood on the smooth beach at the bottom of the cliffs, and, taking in at one glance all the objects within sight, perceived that the government ships had certainly moved closer to the vessel, whose identity had puzzled even him, keen observer though he was. The night was dark but clear—no haze, no moon—the clouds not heavy nor light, yet few stars made their appearance: now and then, as a shadow passed, one would twinkle for a moment, until obscured by some ambitious vapour soaring from earth to become purified by heaven. The ocean was calm and still, sleeping the sleep of waters in their immensity! Persons unaccustomed to such scenes could hardly have distinguished the vessels in the offing, so much of the same colour did they appear with the waves themselves. Robin then scanned the cliffs as he had done the ocean, and whistled soft, low, but audibly,—a note like that of the frightened plover. It was speedily answered, and in a moment Roupall stood by his side.

"Are any gone off to the ship?—and where is the Skipper?"

"The Skipper's with the women, and, I think, has been looking out for you," replied Roupall.

"Tell him, then,—tell all—that it will not be safe for any of ye to venture off to the Fire-fly till I give ye a signal. The ships have got closer to her, and a boat going off now would be sunk by a shot, for, night as it is, they can see; and, if it continues clear over head, the moon will not be needed to light to mischief—the stars shine bright enough for that. And now, Jack, I'm going to make a confidant of you—a proof that I think ye an honest rascal, at all events. Do not give what I am going to write on this parchment to the Skipper until I have made a signal from the ship. He is too old a sailor not to be on the look out; but you and Springall must be with him. You owe me thus much service for a wrong you once did me. It is meet that I forget and forgive it now."

"As to the wrong, Robin, it is clear out of my memory," replied Roupall. "Gad! you must be a good scholar to write in the dark; but, I say, your signals and book learning could be much clearer, if you would just step in to the Skipper and explain. Here are we, like a parcel of bats and owls, stowing away in the cliffs, waiting to get out to the ship; and I know, from what old Hugh said, he is only watching for some messenger, with some answer or another. I know he is about a negotiation, which I'd never consent to, but fight a thousand troopers, had it not been that as good as eight or ten took his permission, and walked off for the other holdfast—fellows, to be sure, that never cruised with him above once. Let us a-board, and we're safe. Would that the night were darker! for I think, by the movement of the watchers, (to the Devil with them!) that they suspect—ah! now you've finished, pray tell me what the signal will be—a red light?"

"A red light!" repeated Robin musingly, as he rolled up the parchment; "oh, yes! it will be a very red light."

"But, Bob, won't that alarm the ships?"

"Never mind if it does," replied Robin, casting off his boots, and throwing away all the loose portions of his dress, so as to stand only in his shirt and hose; "Give me your belt—it is broader than mine."

Roupall did as he requested, demanding, in his turn, if Robin was mad enough to think of swimming to the Fire-fly.

"Yes," was the Ranger's concise reply. "And now," he added, "Jack, remember, the moment you see my signal, deliver this to the Skipper; but, as you value your life, not before."

He plunged into the ocean as he spoke; and presently, the sound of the dividing waters was lost in the distance.

"Well!" exclaimed Roupall, "that beats all the freaks I ever knew even Robin to be after! Why, the vessel's near a mile off; and, now I think of it, I never asked him what we were to do when he gave the signal; but I suppose his paper tells. Lying about here, in such peril! But it's always the way—the minute a sailor touches land, good-by to his well-doing."

Before the speaker had climbed the topmost cliff, he met the Buccaneer.

"Hast seen Robin Hays?" was his first question.

"Ay, sir; and, if it was day, you might see him too—at least, the best part of him—his head, yonder—making for the Fire-fly."

"How! making for the Fire-fly! What do ye mean. Jack? this is no time for jesting."

"I mean, Captain, that Robin Hays is swimming to the Fire-fly; and that he told me to watch for a signal he would make; and——"

"And what?"

"Why, he is to make a signal—a red light from the ship."

"Red light from the ship!" repeated the Buccaneer, in a voice of astonishment; "He has lost his senses! What can this mean? Left he no message for me?"

"None," replied Roupall; thinking to himself, "a piece of parchment's no message, so that's no lie."

Dalton paced to and fro on the small ledge that had been beaten smooth by the step of many an illegal sentry in days gone by: beneath his feet lay the subterraneous apartments of the Gull's Nest; and before him (although the night had so darkened that it was no longer visible), before him was his own vessel anchored. At any other time he would have felt secure of refuge in the one resource or the other; but circumstances combined to convince him there was now no certain safety by sea or land. At one moment, he thought of manning his boat, and carrying his daughter boldly to the ship. Had he been alone, such would at once have been his determination—but he could not expose much less leave her to peril. With the common blindness of those who argue only on their own side of the question, he could not see why the Protector should object to the preservation of the Fire-fly; and he had hoped for Robin's return with tidings that would have made his child's heart, as well as his own, leap with joy. He knew that Cromwell would make a large sacrifice to secure the Jewess, Zillah; and he had also reasons to believe the Protector suspected there were other secrets within his keeping, the nature of which he would give much to learn. Robin's motive, in thus visiting the Fire-fly, was beyond his comprehension; and he had no alternative but to await the promised signal with all the patience he could command. As he paced the ledge, now with a slow now with a hurried footstep, the darkness increased, and the stars twinkled less frequently:—there was no storm—no fierce blast swept along the heavens, or disturbed the earth, but dense heavy clouds canopied the the ocean as with a pall. Roupall was seated on a huge stone, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the "multitudinous sea," silently, and not less anxiously, watching for the flash which he expected would disturb the dull and sleepy night. Ever and anon, the querulous voice of the woman, keeping watch by the lifeless clay, which she had laid in decent order upon its humble pallet, in the Gull's Nest, floated over the cliffs, and died away on the bosom of the waters. At times, Roupall would growl and fret as a chained mastiff; but the anxiety of the Skipper had so increased, that he ceased moving, and stood on the bold brow of the crag, like a black monument of stone.

Suddenly, a strong light, a fierce blaze, as if the ocean had thrown up one immense pyramid of flame, to dispel the darkness and divide the clouds, sprang into the heavens! and then a peal, loud as the straggling thunder! The cliff shook beneath their feet—the sea-birds started from their nests, and flew, and screamed, and wheeled in the air! From behind the different points and crags along the shore rushed forth the smugglers, who had lain to, watching the time when it would have been prudent for them to put off their boats and join the ship, as Dalton had directed. The old death-dresser forsook the corpse, and standing on the highest crag, her long hair floating backwards on the breeze, her arms tossing from the effects of terror and astonishment, looked like the sibyl whose spells and orgies have distracted nature by some terrible convulsion. The cliffs and strand at the moment formed a picture that Salvator would have gloried in conveying to his canvass—the line of coast now rising boldly from the ocean, each projecting point catching the glaring blaze, and seeming itself on fire—the caverns overhung by creeping plants, revelling in gorgeous colours from every changing light that touched their beauties:—then the wild figures clasping by the rocks, panting with terror and excitement—the sibyl on her pinnacle—the gigantic frame of Roupall, rendered still more gigantic to the eye by the position in which he stood, breathless, with the written parchment in his hand, yet unable to move or direct Dalton's attention to it. The Skipper, still like a monument of stone, but called to animation by astonishment and dismay, while the light played with the grace and brilliancy of lightning on the bright mountings of his pistols. Still the flames towered brightly to the heavens, while each fresh explosion separated their condensed effect, and sent a portion of them higher in the clouds, or hissing over the variegated and sparkling sea, which rolled to the shore in masses of glowing fire.

"Read! read!" at length exclaimed Roupall, thrusting the parchment into the hand of the Buccaneer. "Read! read!" he repeated, for Dalton heeded him not.

"Read what?" said the Skipper, in a voice which entered the heart of all who heard it; "do I not read—do I not read—black, bitter, burning treachery?—It is my own ship—I know every spar that flits like a meteor through the air. My heart was never crushed till now."

"Read—I will read it, if I can," said Springall, who had joined the party. With some difficulty he succeeded in making audible its contents.

"Dalton, you are safe! it may be that I perish: I knew you would never sacrifice your ship for your own life, so I have done it for you. Go with the Jewess, your daughter, and the Preacher, immediately to Cecil Place, to the small passage leading to the purple chamber, and demand admittance. You are pardoned—and all the rest may leave the island, provided they depart before the hour of one."

The Buccaneer apparently heard it not: the communication made no visible impression upon him; he stood in the same position as before. Even Springall spoke no word, although his feeling of attachment to Dalton was rendered sufficiently obvious by his creeping close to his side, and grasping his arm with a gesture which said, "I will not be separated from you."

At this moment a cry arose from the beach, and, though the flames were fading, it could be seen that several of the men had rushed to the water's edge, and assisted a creature to the shore who was unable to struggle longer for himself; soon, however, he contrived to mount the cliff on which Dalton still remained a living statue of despair, and faint, dripping, unable to utter a single word, Robin stood, or rather drooped, by the side of the Buccaneer. He came too soon; Dalton, irritated, maddened by the loss of his ship, was unable to appreciate the risk which the Ranger had run, or the sacrifice he had made. He thought but of what he had lost, not of what he had gained; and saw in Robin only the destroyer of his vessel, not the obtainer of his long sought-for pardon. Urged by uncontrollable frenzy, he seized his preserver with the grasp and determination of a desperate man, and, raising him from the ledge, would have hurled him over the cliff, had not one, weak and gentle, yet with that strength to which the strongest must ever yield, interposed to thwart his horrid purpose. It was Barbara, who clung to her father's arm: feeble as she was, the death-throes of the gallant vessel had frighted her and her companion from their retirement, and she now came, like the angel of mercy, between her parent and his ill-directed vengeance. When the Buccaneer found that his arm was pressed, his impulse was to fling off the hand that did it; but when he saw who it was that stayed him, and gazed upon the bloodless face and imploring eyes of his sweet daughter, he stood a harmless unresisting man, subdued by a look and overpowered by a touch.

Barbara never was a girl of energy, or a seeker after power. She considered obedience as woman's chief duty—duty as a child to the parent—as a wife to the husband; and, perhaps, such was her timidity, had there been time to deliberate, she would have trembled at the bare idea of opposing her father's will, though she would have mourned to the end of her days the result of his madness; but she acted from the impulse of the moment. Nothing could be more touching than the sight of her worn and almost transparent figure, hanging on her father's dark and muscular form, like a frail snow-wreath on some bleak mountain.

Robin, whose resentments were as fierce as his fidelity was strong, felt in all the bitterness of his nature the indignity the Buccaneer had put upon him, and stood panting to avenge the insult and injustice, yet withheld from either word or deed by the presence of Barbara, who remained in the same attitude, clinging to her father, unable, from weakness, either to withdraw or to stand without assistance.

Springall, who did not love her so much as to prevent his being useful, was the first to regain his self-possession; he brought in his cap some water that was trickling down the rock, and threw it on her pallid brow—while Zillah chafed her hands, and endeavoured to separate her from her father. At last she spoke, and, though her voice was feeble as the cry of infancy, the Buccaneer heard it, and withdrew his gaze from the remains of his burning vessel to look on the living features of his child.

"Father! you frighten me by those wild passions—and this wild place! let us go from it, and be at peace; poor Robin is your true friend, father. Be friends with him."

"You speak as a woman, a young weak woman, Barbara," replied the Skipper, evincing his returning interest in present objects by passing his arm round his daughter, so as to support her on his bosom. "Look out, girl, and say what you see."

"Father, huge masses of burning wood, floating over the ocean, and borne to other shores by the rising breeze."

"And know you what that burning wood was scarce a minute since?"

"Father—no."

"Those blazing masses were once the Fire-fly—my own ship—my own ship!"

"And Robin——?"

"Has been the means of its destruction."

"Has he?" Barbara paused after she had so exclaimed, and then, clasping her hands, raised them upwards as she continued, "a blessing, a thousand blessings on him! for what he does is ever good, and full of wisdom. Ah! now I see it all: he destroyed the bad vessel that you, dear father, might no more to sea; but stay on shore with us—with me, I would have said—" she added, hiding, as she spoke, her face on her father's shoulder.

Five or six of the crew had clambered up the cliff, and clustered round their Skipper. Roupall, Springall, and the Jewess were close to Barbara, and Robin stood exactly on the spot where Dalton's rage had left him—one foot on the edge of the crumbling cliff, his long arms enwreathing his chest.

The red glare had faded from the waters, the sea-birds were settling in their nests, but the government-ships were alive with lights, and, suddenly bursting through the night, came the shrill blast of a trumpet from Cecil Place. It called Robin Hays into activity, and, while the men were looking on each other, he advanced and spoke.

"Hugh Dalton, the ship was yours, and yours alone, and to you the parchment which Springall holds accounts for its destruction; that destruction, Captain, ought to prove one thing, and one thing only—that I loved you better than the Fire-fly. Both could not have been preserved. You have treated me as a dog, to whom you would have given a dog's death; and I shall not forget it."

"Robin!" exclaimed a small soft voice.

"I cannot forget it," repeated the Ranger; and then the voice again said, "Robin," in a tone of such sweetness, that all present were moved. After another pause, hardy Jack Roupall put in his word.

"The Skipper was hurt, and no marvel, to see her burning. You mustn't be spiteful, Robin Hays,—only what hindered to get her out?"

"She was known, marked, and watched, as I am well assured of," he replied. "Had you attempted to weigh anchor, every man on board would have been blown to atoms. Not a life would have been spared. The men who had charge of her are safe. I sent them to the Essex side—though they little thought why."

Another trumpet-blast mounted with the breeze, and Robin exclaimed,

"Away, away, lads! It is not yet midnight, and no hindrance will be offered to any who quit the island before the hour of one. Away, away! Ye are foxes, and have earths in plenty. Away, for your lives away!"

"Away!" replied Roupall. "Whither, good Ranger? Heard ye not the trumpet, and know ye not that every outlet will be guarded, every man on the watch after such a sound?"

"Had your safety not been cared for, there need have been no trumpet-blast. I pledge my faith—my life—for your security," exclaimed Robin, energetically. "Only away, and quickly!"

One or two of the men sullenly and quietly dropped down the cliff; but there were others who would not thus part from their captain,—sailors, who had braved danger, disease, and death in his company; these would not leave him now, but, as if in expectation of an attack, they looked to their pistols and jerked their daggers sharply in their sheaths. Dalton still remained, uncertain, perhaps, or careless as to his future course, with Barbara still hanging on his arm, while the Jewess clung closely to her side.

"Springall!" said Robin, "you have influence with him. Use it for his good: his pardon is secured if he complies with the terms I have mentioned."

"Great tidings! glad tidings!" exclaimed a hoarse voice a little above them. "The Philistines will be overthrown, and the men of Judah triumph! I have heard in my solitude, yea in my extremity, tidings of exceeding gladness: and, albeit not of quick hearing, the tramp of Joshua and his army hath come upon mine ear. Oh, ye Canaanites! ye dwellers in the accursed land!"

"Fetch him down!" shouted Roupall.

"For your lives touch him not, but to your earths!" exclaimed Robin impetuously. "The Gull's Nest will be no place of safety now." Then, springing on Dalton, he snatched the pistols from his belt and flung them into the sea.

He had hardly done so, when spears and helmets glittered in the faint starlight on the higher cliff. It was no time for deliberation. Roupall and the others slunk silently and sorrowingly away, and the little group—Dalton, Barbara, the Jewess, Fleetword, and Robin—stood nearly together on the ledge.

Colonel Jones had accompanied the soldiers by direct orders from the Protector, who, from the firing of the ship, imagined for a time that Dalton and Robin had acted with treachery—treachery which, with his usual promptness, he adopted the immediate means to counteract.

Robin advanced to meet the troop, and addressing Colonel Jones respectfully, said,

"You will have the goodness to observe, sir, that Hugh Dalton is not only unarmed, but has assembled round him those whose presence were commanded at Cecil Place before the hour of one."

Colonel Jones vouchsafed no reply to Robin's observation; but it was not the less heeded on that account. He inquired, in a stern voice,

"By what means have ye wrought the destruction of yonder vessel?"

"I will tell hereafter" was the only reply he could elicit from Robin Hays. It was repeated more than once—"I will tell hereafter."

By this time the little party was surrounded. The Buccaneer attempted no resistance. His strength, his spirit, seemed gone; his child lay fainting, weak, and exhausted at his feet. Colonel Jones felt, though he did not then express it, much joy at seeing alive the girl he believed dead. Dalton attempted to raise and carry her with him, but in vain. He staggered under the light load as a drunken man. One of the troopers offered horses to the females. Dalton would not commit her to other guidance than his own, and, mounting, placed her before him.

Robin would have turned to the room that contained his mother's corpse, but Colonel Jones forbade it.

"My mother, sir, lies dead within that hut," expostulated the Ranger.

"That may be," replied the soldier; "but I say, in the words of Scripture, 'Let the dead bury their dead.'"

The party then proceeded towards Cecil Place, Zillah entrenching herself under the protection of the Preacher Fleetword.



CHAPTER XIII.

Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone. Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hidden ends eyes cannot see. Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast: Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to wo: Gentlest fair! mourn, mourn no mo.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

It was with feelings of considerable anxiety that the Protector waited the return of Colonel Jones from the second task assigned him in the Isle of Shepey.

The routing out of a band of lawless smugglers, although commanded by so daring a skipper as Hugh Dalton, was to him a matter of little consideration, compared to the restoration of Zillah Ben Israel, and the positive saving of Constantia Cecil from worse than death: these two motives weighed deeply upon Cromwell's mind, and he would have made any sacrifice to have been assured that his purpose, with regard to both, might be effected before the morning's dawn. When the explosion of the Fire-fly disturbed his solitude in the purple chamber at Cecil Place, he directed immediate inquiry to be instituted as to its origin, and quickly ascertained that it was caused by the destruction of some ship at sea; his suspicions were at once directed to the vessel of the Buccaneer.

There was no time to lose; Colonel Jones, whose courage and coolness were proverbial amongst soldiers more celebrated for these qualities than even British soldiers have ever been before or since, was instantly dispatched to the Gull's Nest. At first the command of the Protector was to "mount silently;" but his pledge to Robin Hays was remembered, and, at the very moment when the glare of the burning ship was illumining the island, he could not bring himself to determine that the little deformed being, with whom he had held commune, had betrayed the confidence reposed in him.

"Let him know who are coming and prepare for it," thought Cromwell, whose caution was really subservient to his enthusiasm, powerful as was at all times this latter quality; and then he gave, in a low, but earnest and energetic tone, the order, "Sound a brief 'to horse!' trust in the Lord, and see that your swords be loose in their scabbards."

The troop, on its return, was met by Cromwell himself at the gate to which we have so frequently alluded. His anxiety had not been often greater than on that occasion, and it was manifested by an impatience of manner that almost terrified the attendants who waited in his presence. He was accompanied by only two officers, and his first question was if "Colonel Jones had secured Dalton and the Jewess?" A reply in the affirmative evidently afforded him great relief and satisfaction; but the feeling was quickly succeeded by one of extreme anger when informed of the total destruction of the Fire-fly, which he had desired to preserve for his own special purpose. Yet, until the prisoners had been conducted into Cecil Place by the private entrance, as he had previously arranged, his displeasure only found vent in occasional exclamations. The house was alive with alarm and curiosity, but its inmates received little information to quiet or to satisfy their eager thirst for intelligence. As the soldiers passed the gates, lights floated through the dwelling, and the windows were crowded with inquisitive countenances; great, therefore, was the disappointment when they observed the party separate, and one portion of it take a private path, leading to the Protector's apartments, while the other proceeded round an angle of the building to the stables. Many of the domestics met them at the stable gates, but could learn nothing from those trusty soldiers, who perfectly understood, and invariably acted upon, their master's favourite motto, "safety in silence;"—still they could not rest, no one went to bed, for all were in expectation of—they knew not what.

The clock struck one; about five minutes afterwards Cromwell had closed the door of his chamber; the half-hour chimed. Constance was looking on her father, sleeping calmly in his chair, in a closet that opened into his favourite library. He had not been in bed for several nights, and, since his afflicting insanity, could seldom be prevailed on to enter his own room. After pausing a few minutes, while her lips appeared to move with the prayer her heart so fervently formed, she undid the bolt, quietly opened the door, then partially closed it, and left her wretched parent alone with his physician.

She could hear within the library, in which she now stood, the heavy breathings of the afflicted man. A large lamp was burning on the massive oak-table: it shed a cheerful light, but it was a light too cheerful for her troubled and feverish spirit—she sank upon a huge carved chair, and passed her small hand twice or thrice over her brow, where heavy drops had gathered; then drew towards her the large Bible that had been her mother's. On the first page, in the hand-writing of that beloved mother, was registered the day of her marriage, and underneath the births of her several children, with a short and thanksgiving prayer affixed to each; a little lower down came a mournful register, the dates and manner of her sons' deaths; but the Christian spirit that had taught her words and prayers of gratitude, had been with her in the time of trouble; the passages were penned in true humility and humble-mindedness, though the blisterings of many tears remained upon the paper.

Constantia turned over the leaves more carelessly than was her custom; but her eye dwelt upon one of the beautiful promises, given with so much natural poetry by the great Psalmist,—"I have been young, and now am old, yet saw I never the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread." "Alas!" she thought, "I can derive only half consolation from such as this. One of my parents was indeed righteous; but, alas! what has the other been?" She bowed her head upon the book, and did not again raise it, until a soft hand touched her shoulder, and a light voice whispered "Constance!"