The Jew had received intimation that the noted and well-known commander of the Fire-fly had been lying off St. Vallery, and making many inquiries relative to his daughter, who had at length been traced on board his cruiser by her continental friends. "Doubtless," thought the Rabbi, "I may be enabled to draw forth, or bribe forth, from this his associate, whatever knowledge he may possess of the views and objects which they contemplate as regards my most wretched daughter." In pursuance of this plan he commenced a series of examinations as they journeyed towards Hampton Court; which Robin, with all his dexterity, would have found it difficult to parry, if he had had any intention or desire so to do. Suddenly it occurred to the Ranger that the pretended dumb boy was no other than Ben Israel's daughter, and he frankly mentioned his suspicions.

The old man at first shrank from the supposition with extreme horror. "It was impossible," he said, "that his child should so far forget her birth and station, as to degrade herself by assuming male attire;" but Robin reminded him that when a woman loves, as she must have done, and has once sacrificed her duty, perhaps her honour, all obstacles become as nought. The Jew groaned heavily, and remained long silent; she was his only, and his beloved one; and, though the Jewish laws were strict, even unto death, against any who wedded with strangers, yet he loved her despite her disobedience, and the more he thought, the more resolved he became to punish the betrayer of her innocence and faith.

Robin was also greatly distressed; the fear of some evil occurring to Barbara took forcible possession of his mind. Why should this girl, if indeed Jeromio's charge was actually a girl, why should she menace Barbara? What had Barbara to do with the foul transaction? Could it be possible, that, from her being tricked out with so much finery, the stranger mistook the maid for the mistress; and with impotent rage, was warning or threatening her, in an unknown tongue, against a marriage with Burrell! He could not comprehend the matter; and the more he was at fault, the more anxious he became. He, in his own mind, reproached even the Buccaneer for imparting to him only half measures.

"Had I known," thought Robin, "the true particulars about Sir Willmott's affairs, of which I am convinced, from many circumstances, Dalton was in full possession, I could have assisted in all things, and prevented results that may hereafter happen." There was another idea that had lately mingled much with the Ranger's harassed feelings—Constantia's intended marriage. Robin was satisfied that a strong regard, if not a deeply-rooted affection, existed between Walter De Guerre and Barbara's kind mistress; and he thought that Hugh Dalton's manifesting so little interest on the subject was not at all in keeping with his usually chivalrous feelings towards woman-kind, or his professed esteem and affection for his young friend. He knew that the Buccaneer's heart was set upon attaining a free pardon; and he also knew that he had some powerful claim upon the interest of Sir Robert Cecil; he knew, moreover, Dalton's principal motive for bringing over the Cavalier; but with all his sagacity, he could not discover why he did not, at once and for ever, set all things right, by exhibiting Sir Willmott Burrell in his true colours. Robin had repeatedly urged the Buccaneer on this subject, but his constant reply was,—

"I have no business with other people's children; I must look to my own. If they have been kind to Barbara, they have had good reason for it. It will be a fine punishment, hereafter, to Sir Willmott; one that may come, or may not come, as he behaves; but it will be a punishment in reserve, should he, in the end, discover that Mistress Cecil may be no heiress." In fact, the only time that the Buccaneer felt any strong inclination to prevent the sacrifice Constantia was about to make, was when he found that she knew her father's crime, but was willing to give herself to misery as the price of secrecy; then, indeed, had his own pardon been secured, he would have stated to the Protector's face the deep villany of the Master of Burrell. Until his return on board the Fire-fly, and his suppression of the mutiny excited by Sir Willmott and the treachery of Jeromio, he had no idea that Burrell, base as he knew him to be, would have aimed against his life.

The Buccaneer was a brave, bold, intrepid, careless man; more skilled in the tricks of war than in tracing the secret workings of the human mind, or in watching the shades and modifications of the human character. His very love for his daughter had more of the protecting and proud care of the eagle about it, than the fostering gentleness with which the tender parent guards its young; he was proud of her, and he was resolved to use every possible means to make her proud of him. He had boasted to Sir Robert Cecil that it was his suspicions made him commit "forged documents to the flames," at the time when the baronet imagined that all proofs of his crimes had been destroyed; but, in truth, Dalton had mislaid the letters, and, eager to end all arrangements then pending, he burned some papers, which he had hastily framed for the purpose, to satisfy Sir Robert Cecil. When in after years it occurred to him that, if he obtained those papers he could wind Sir Robert to his purpose, he searched every corner of the Gull's Nest Crag until they were discovered; so that, in fact, he owed their possession to chance, and not to skilfulness. Even the boy Springall had seen through the Italian's character; but Dalton had been so accustomed to find his bravery overwhelmingly successful, and consequently to trust to it almost implicitly, that his fine intellect was suffered to lie dormant, where it would have often saved him from much that he endured. If he had thought deeply, he would have seen the impropriety of trusting the Fire-fly at any time to Jeromio's command, because, as he had found him guilty of so many acts of treachery towards others, he should have known, that it only needed sufficient bribery, or inducement of any other kind, to turn that treachery upon himself.

His last interview with Sir Robert Cecil had made him aware that the baronet had really lost the greater part of the influence he once maintained at Whitehall; and since he had been so much off and on the English coast, he had heard enough to convince him that Cromwell granted few favours to those who had not much usefulness to bestow in return. Sir Robert was broken in intellect and constitution: he had no son to whom the Protector could look for support in case of broil or disturbance, and the Buccaneer was ignorant of the strong and friendly ties that had united the families for so long a series of years. He had fancied that fear would compel Sir Willmott Burrell to press his suit; but the atrocious attempt upon his life assured him that there was nothing to expect from him but the blackest villany. When, therefore, he despatched, with all the ferocity of a true Buccaneer, the head of Jeromio as a wedding-present to Sir Willmott, he at the same time transmitted to the Protector, by a trusty messenger, the Master of Burrell's own directions touching the destruction of the Jewish Zillah, and stated that if his Highness would grant him a free pardon, which he had certain weighty reasons for desiring, he believed it was in his power to produce the Rabbi's daughter. His communication concluded by entreating that his Highness would prevent the marriage of the Master of Burrell, at all events until the following week.

His envoy had particular orders neither to eat, drink, nor sleep, until he had found means of placing the packet in the hands of the Protector. Dalton having so far eased his mind, bitterly cursed his folly that he had not in the first instance, instead of proceeding to St. Vallery in search of the Jewess, informed Ben Israel of the transaction, who would at once have obtained his pardon, as the price of his daughter's restoration and Burrell's punishment.

It will be easily conceived that on the night which Burrell expected to be the last of the Buccaneer's existence he neither slumbered nor slept. The earliest break of morning found him on the cliffs at no great distance from the Gull's Nest Crag, waiting for the signal that had been agreed upon between Jeromio and himself, as announcing the success of their plan. There was no speck upon the blue waves between him and the distant coast of Essex, which, from the point on which he stood, looked like a dark line upon the waters; neither was there, more ocean-ward, a single vessel to be seen. He remained upon the cliff for a considerable time. As the dawn brightened into day, the little skiffs of the fishermen residing on the Isle of Shepey put off, sometimes in company, sometimes singly, from their several anchorings. Then a sail divided the horizon, then another, and another; but still no signal told him that treachery had prospered. At length the sun had fully risen. He then resolved upon hastening to the Gull's Nest, with the faint hope that some message from Jeromio might have been forwarded thither. Time was to him, upon that eventful morning, of far higher value than gold; yet above an hour had been spent in fruitless efforts to learn the result of an attempt on which he knew that much of his future fate depended. He had not proceeded far upon his course, when he was literally seized upon by the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, who ever appeared to the troubled and plotting Sir Willmott in the character of an evil genius.

"I have sought thee as a friend," observed the simple-minded man,—"as a petitioner, I had almost said, so earnest was the lady about it—from the Lady Frances Cromwell, to beg that the bridal, which even now, according to thy directions, he of the Episcopalian faith was preparing to solemnise, might be delayed until evening, in consequence of Mistress Cecil being somewhat ill at ease, either in body or in mind, or, it may be the Lord's will, in both;—very ill of a surety she is."

"This is trifling," exclaimed Burrell in anger. "She asked delay, and I granted till this morning. I can brook no such vain excuse."

"Of a verity," quoth Fleetword, "thy reply is, as I deem it, given in a most unchristian spirit. Thy bride elect is ill; and instead of a shower (which is emblematic of tears) cometh a storm, which (in poetic language) signifieth anger!"

"Forgive me, sir," replied Burrell, who perceived that the delay, under such circumstances, however dangerous, must be granted; "but it is natural for a bridegroom to feel disappointed when there arises any postponement to his long looked-for happiness, particularly when there be reasons strong as mine against it."

Fleetword little comprehended the meaning of this last sentence; but drawing forth a pocket Bible, which on more than one occasion had given much trouble to Sir Willmott Burrell, he told him he had considered that admirable portion of the Scripture touching the duty of husband and wife, so well set forth therein, and that he had composed a discourse thereon, which he meant to deliver unto them after the holy ceremony, but that he would now expound much upon the subject, as they journeyed homeward.

"I am not going direct to Cecil Place," was Burrell's excuse; "I am looking after one Robin Hays, who dwells somewhere near, or at, a place called the Gull's Nest Crag: he was once my servant, and I desire to see him."

"It is even one with me," replied Fleetword; "I know the lad Robin, too; so I will go with thee, and read the while. I covet a holy exercise; and for it every time, yea, and every place, is fitting."

Most cordially did Burrell wish the good preacher—no matter where; but his wishes availed nought, for he remained close to his side, holding forth, without intermission, in the same monotonous tone, that sounded like the ding-dong, ding-dong of a curfew-bell to the knight's bewildered ear.

Yet this was not the only source of embarrassment Sir Willmott was that morning doomed to encounter. We have elsewhere had occasion to mention an old tower that supported Gull's Nest, in which Barbara Iverk found shelter the evening she did her lady's errand to the Crag: as Burrell and his companion turned the corner by this tower, Zillah Ben Israel, still habited as a boy, but wearing a tunic of cloth that reached below her knee, stood before him!

Had a spectre sprung from the earth, Sir Willmott could not have regarded it with greater astonishment or dismay. He would have passed, but she still stood in his path, her head uncovered, and her black luxuriant hair braided around it, displaying to full advantage her strikingly beautiful but strongly marked Jewish features: her eyes, black and penetrating, discovered little of gentle or feminine expression, but sparkled and fired restlessly in their sockets: her lips curled and quivered as she sought words, for some time in vain, in which to address the false, base knight.

Fleetword was the first to speak.

"In the name of the Lord, I charge thee, avoid our path, young maniac! for, of a truth, there is little sobriety, little steadiness, in thy look, which savoureth neither of peace nor contentment. What wouldst thou with my friend?—This is his bridal-day, and he has no leisure for such as thee."

"The devil take thee with him, thou everlasting pestilence!" exclaimed Burrell to the preacher, fiercely, forgetting all moderation in the excess of his passion; for at the word "bridal" a change as awful as can be imagined to shadow the face of woman rested on the countenance of Zillah. "Avoid me, both of ye!" he continued; "and you, young sir, who so eagerly rush upon your own destruction, avoid me especially: the time for trifling is past!"

During this burst of rage, the Jewess kept her eyes steadily fixed upon Burrell, and held her hand within the bosom of her vest. When he paused, she addressed him at first in broken English, and then finding that she could not proceed with the eagerness and fluency her case required, she spoke in French.

She first appealed to her seducer's honour; referred to his marriage with her; called to mind his protestations of affection, and used all the entreaties which a woman's heart so naturally suggests, to arouse his better feelings on her behalf. All was in vain; for Burrell parried it all, managing to recover his self-possession while she exhausted herself with words. She then vowed that, if he failed to render her justice, she would, as she had threatened at a former time, throw herself, and the proofs she possessed of his villany, at the Protector's feet, and be his ruin. Sir Willmott then sought to temporise, assured her that it was necessity obliged him to forsake her; and would have persuaded her to meet him or go with him into the house, where, he assured her, he could perhaps arrange—perhaps——

"No," she replied, in the less strong, but more poetic language of France, "I will go under no roof with you, I will exchange no token, no pledge with you. I believe you would follow me to the death; and if you fail to do me justice, I will pursue you to the same, and not you alone. No woman but myself shall ever rest upon your bosom. I swear by the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, that I will have vengeance, though my nation should spill out my blood as a sacrifice before the Lord for my iniquities, the next hour!" She shook back her head as she pronounced the vow, and her hair, loosened from its confinement, cloaked her slight figure with a robe of darkness.

"Acknowledge your marriage with me before this holy man," she continued: "although he is a Christian, I have heard that he is honest—and I will leave you for a time."

"Peace, Zillah!" interrupted Burrell; "there was no marriage. It is a fable of your own invention—you have no proof."

"Have I not?" she replied, and, with woman's luckless imprudence, she drew forth a small packet and held it for an instant towards him. That instant was enough: he snatched the documents from her hand, and held them before her with the exultation of a demon. His triumph, however, was but short-lived, for Fleetword, who comprehended what had passed, was sufficiently alive to its importance to seize the papers from the Master of Burrell before he had the least idea that the preacher would have dared such an act. Sir Willmott stood amazed at his presumption: but instantly Fleetword drew forth the basket-hilted sword we have before noticed, and with more real intellect, and excellent feeling, than a cavalier would have believed he possessed, exclaimed,—

"Sir Willmott Burrell! When Solomon sat in judgment in Israel, he despised not the cause even of the worst. It hath been given me to understand the tongues of many lands—not by the intervention of the Holy Spirit, but by the industry and labour of my poor brain, aided, as all just and fitting things are, by the blessing of the Lord! If what this person says is true, it would be most unseemly for you to become the husband of Mistress Constantia Cecil; if it is not true, why the person must fall by its (for of a truth I cannot determine the sex)—its own falsehood! But keep off, Master of Burrell! Jonas Fleetword can fight for the truth by strength of hand as well as of voice; the documents shall be heard of at the seat of judgment in our New Jerusalem."

Sir Willmott, thus run down on all sides, had now recourse to stratagem. After a brief pause, during which both Zillah and the preacher, as if having come to the same determination, kept silence, he said,—

"Well; perhaps it is best. Will you, Zillah, go with me to Cecil Place?"

"No!" was her reply. "I will meet you there; but I frankly tell you, I will not trust myself in your company under any roof, unless it be with many persons."

"Then come there at seven o' the clock this evening—and I swear——"

"I have no faith in your oaths—but I will trust to this man; and if he assures me that the accursed marriage shall not take place until I hold commune with the woman you would wed—safe, and undisturbed commune—I will leave you until night."

"Then I assure you of it," replied Fleetword; "and let this convince you of my truth, that I love the sweet lady, Constance Cecil, too well, to see her shadowed even by such dishonour as your words treat of.—Sir Willmott, Sir Willmott! you have shown the cloven foot!"

"Look out on the waters, Sir Willmott Burrell," shouted the Jewess, in her wild voice: "look out on the waters, and see the sail and the signal of the brave Buccaneer!"

Burrell looked anxiously, and earnestly; but he could perceive nothing of which she spoke. When he turned towards the spot where Zillah had stood—she was gone!

"All this is of the evil one," said Fleetword, after peering among the old walls, and approaching his nose so closely to the larger stones, that it might be imagined he was smelling, not looking at them.—"Whither has the creature escaped?"

"Verily, I know not," was Burrell's reply. "Best come with me into the Gull's Nest; I would speak with Robin."

The unsuspicious preacher did as he was desired.

Sir Willmott inquired for the Ranger. His mother said, truly, "He was gone a journey."

"For Hugh Dalton?"

"He had joined his ship."

He then managed privately to ask for the secret key of a place called "the Cage," where contraband goods, not wanted for ready sale, were generally deposited. It had no communication with any of the private chambers, except by a narrow passage, which, leading to no other place, was seldom traversed. Into this cage he managed to get Fleetword, saying, "It was one of the ways out;" and while the preacher was looking round with much curiosity, he turned the key, placed it safely in his vest, and, without saying a word to Mother Hays, who, at such an early hour was just beginning to be very busy, left the Gull's Nest with much self-congratulation.

"Stay safely there but till another morning, poor meddling fool!" he murmured; "and then, for your sweet Constantia's sake, you'll keep my secret, and resign these cursed papers."

It is not to be imagined that Sir Willmott Burrell would, upon any account, have suffered Zillah to make her appearance at Cecil Place. His existence seemed now to hang upon her destruction; but instruments were wanting: Roupall had been sent out of the way by Hugh Dalton, and tidings were in vain expected of or from Jeromio. The slight relief afforded by the imprisonment of Fleetword was speedily succeeded by a state of mind bordering on madness.

Stopping for a few moments at the lodge of Cecil Place, he warned the old porter not to admit, but to detain, any person, man or woman, who might inquire for him, no matter under what pretext entrance might be demanded; for he assured the old man there was a deranged youth, who pretended to have known him abroad, and who, he was informed, had used unaccountable threats against him. Sir Willmott, moreover, enforced his instructions by a handsome present, and was proceeding to the house, when the gate-bell rang, and a man, habited as a travelling merchant, presented a parcel, directed "For Sir Willmott Burrell. These——"

Burrell commanded the messenger into the lodge room; the stranger, after some hesitation, entered. Sir Willmott briefly dismissed the old porter, and undid the packet; when, lo! the matted and gory head of the Italian, Jeromio, rolled at his feet. There it lay, in all the hideous deformity of sudden and violent death! the severed throat, thickened with gouts of blood! the dimmed spectral eyes starting from their sockets! the lips shrinking from the teeth of glaring whiteness—there it lay, looking up, as it were, into the face of the base but horrified associate. His utterance was impeded, and a thick mist came over him, as he sank into the old porter's chair.

"What does this mean?" he said at length to the man, whom he now recognised as one of the sailors of the Fire-fly.—"What means it?"

"A wedding present from Hugh Dalton, is all I heard about the matter," returned the fellow, quietly turning a morsel of tobacco in his mouth, and eyeing the knight with ineffable contempt.

"You must give information of this most horrible murder—you witnessed it—it will make your fortune," continued Sir Willmott, springing from the seat, and, like a drowning man, seizing even at a straw. "I can take your deposition—this most foul murder may make your fortune—think of that.—What ho!" he would have called the porter, but the man prevented him, and then burst into a laugh, wild as a wild sea-wave.

"Lodge informations! You a law-maker! May I never spin another yarn, but ye are precious timber! Shiver and blazes! haven't ye with your palaver and devilry worked harm enou' aboard our ship, but ye want me to be pickled up, or swing from the yard-arm! No, no, master; I'll keep off such a lee-shore. I've no objections in life to a—any thing—but ye'r informations. Ah! ah! ah! what sinnifies a hundred such as that," and he kicked at the bloody head, "or such as you," pointing to Sir Willmott, "in comparison to the bold Buccaneer! Look here, master—whatever ye'r name be—they say the law and the pirates often sail under false colours; and blow me but I believe it now, when sich as you have to do with one of 'em. Bah! I'd cry for the figure-head of our ship, if she had sich a bridegroom."

"You shall not escape me, villain!" exclaimed Sir Willmott, rendered desperate by his adverse fortunes, and springing towards the seaman.—"But stay," he added, drawing back, "you," hesitatingly, "you are honest to your captain: well, there is something you could do for me, that——" He paused—and the sailor took advantage of the pause to say,—

"A farewell and foul weather to ye, master! Look, if you could make ye'r whole head into one great diamond, and lay it at my feet, as that carrion lies at yours, may I die on a sandbank like a dry herring, if I'd take it to do one of the dirty jobs ye're for ever plotting!"

Oh, what a degrading thing it is to be scoffed at by our superiors! How prone we are to resent it when our equals meet us with a sneer! But when the offscouring of society, the reptiles that we could have trodden under foot, may rail at and scorn us with impunity, how doubly bitter, how perfectly insupportable must it be! The very ministers of evil scouted him, and sin and misery thought him too contemptible to deal with! Burrell gnashed his teeth and struck his temples with his clenched fist—the room turned round—the bloody head of Jeromio uplifted itself to his imaginings, and gibbered, and cursed, and muttered, and laughed at him in fiendish merriment! If Zillah could have seen Burrell at that moment, she would have pitied and prayed for him: the strong man trembled as a weak girl in the shiverings of a mortal fever—his heart shuddered within his bosom—he lost all power of reasoning, and it was not until huge drops of perspiration had forced their way along his burning brow, that he at all recovered his faculties. He gazed around the small apartment; but the man was gone. The lodge window that looked on the road was open, and the knight's first effort was to reach it. The pure air of heaven, breathing so sweetly upon his pale and agonised countenance, revived him for the moment, and his energetic mind in a short space was restrung and wound up to fresh exertion. He resolved to set some of his own people to watch about the grounds, in case Zillah should attempt to obtain entrance; and though he felt assured they would do but little for him, yet he knew they would do much for gold, and that he resolved they should have in abundance. The marriage once over, he fancied himself safe—safe from all but the Buccaneer. Hope is strong at all times, but never more so than when we are roused from despair. He turned from the window, and his eye fell on the bloody head of the traitor Jeromio. He knew that, if the porter saw it, there would be an outcry and an investigation, which it was absolutely necessary, under existing circumstances, to avoid; for old Saul was one of those honest creatures who hold it a duty to tell all truth, and nothing but truth, to their employers. He therefore wrapped it carefully in the napkin in which it had been originally enveloped, and then covered it over with his own kerchief. After another moment of deliberation, he summoned the old man, and directed him to bear it to the house.

"But where is the stranger, sir?" inquired Saul.

"Oh, he passed from the window, to save you the trouble of unclosing the gate."

It was fortunate for Sir Willmott Burrell that age had deprived Saul of more faculties than one.



CHAPTER XI.

Where though prison'd, he doth finde, Hee's still free, that's free in minde; And in trouble, no defence Is so firm as innocence.

WITHER.

When the poor preacher found that Burrell was really gone, and had left him a prisoner, without the remotest prospect of escape, he felt (to use his own expression) "rather mazed," and forthwith applied his hand to the lock, with the vain hope of extricating himself as speedily as possible: he found, however, the entrance closed firm and fast, and, moreover, of so solid a construction, that, with all his effort, he was unable to move it in the slightest degree. He would have welcomed the idea that the Master of Burrell did but jest; yet there had been that about his demeanour which excluded all thought of merriment, and Fleetword felt his limbs tremble beneath him when he reflected on the desperate character of the man with whom he had to deal. "The Lord can make a way for safety even from this den," he muttered, "yea, even from this fastness, which, of a truth, is most curiously fashioned, and of evil intention, doubtless." The little light that was admitted into the cell came through an aperture in the cliff at so great a height from the floor that it could hardly be observed, even if it had been left unprotected by a ledge of stone that projected a considerable distance under the opening, which was scarcely large enough to permit the entrance of a sufficient quantity of air. The atmosphere was therefore dense and heavy, and the preacher drew his breath with difficulty. The chamber, we should observe, was directly over that in which we have heretofore encountered the Buccaneer; for the interior of the cliff was excavated in various parts, so as more nearly to resemble the formation of a bee-hive than any other structure. It was filled, as we have stated, with a variety of matters, for which either there was no immediate demand, or that time had rendered useless. Of these, Fleetword piled a quantity one over the other, and standing tiptoe on the topmost parcel, succeeded in peeping through the aperture, but could perceive nothing except the broad sea stretching away in the distance until it was bounded by the horizon. As he was about to descend, one of the packages rolled from under the rest, and the hapless preacher came to the ground amidst a multitude of bales of cloth, logs of ebony, cramps, and spoiled martin-skins, and found himself half in and half out of a box of mildewed oranges, into which he had plumped, and which repaid the intrusion by splashing him all over with their pulpy and unpleasant remains. It was some time before he could extricate himself from this disagreeable mass, and still longer before he could cleanse off the filthy fragments from his garments. When he had done so, however, his next care was to bestow the papers he had rescued from Burrell into some safe place. "The Lord," he thought, "hath, at his own good pleasure, given Satan or his high priest dominion over me, and it may be that I shall be offered up upon the altar of Baal or Dagon as a sacrifice; but it shall be one of sweet-smelling savour, untainted by falsehood or dissimulation. Verily, he may destroy my body—and I will leave these documents, which by an almost miraculous interposition of Providence have been committed to my charge, so that one time or other they may be found of those by whom they may be needed."

He carefully sought and ransacked every parcel he could find in search of pencil, ink, or any thing by which he could direct a letter; but in vain. He discovered, however, some parchments, whereon the words "Oliver Lord Protector" were frequently inscribed: he cut off a slip containing this sentence, and having encased the papers he had seized, in many folds, pinned it upon the parcel, so that it might serve as a direction. He then corded it so firmly that it would require both industry and patience to dissever the several knots and twistings. Having performed so much of his task, he set himself to consider what possible means he could devise to secure its safe delivery. He had previously shouted and called with all his strength; but when he remembered the length of the passage he had traversed with his subtle guide, and the little appearance there was of any apartment near the one in which he was confined, he desisted, wisely determining not to waste, in such useless efforts, the breath that, perhaps, he would be suffered to retain only for a few short hours. Greatly he lamented his want of caution in accompanying Burrell; and bitterly wept at the fate that awaited his favourite, Constantia. At length, after much deliberation, he determined on building a more secure standing-place, mounting once again to the window, fastening the longest string he could find to the parcel, and merely confining it to the inside of the cave in so slight a manner, that it might be detached by the least pull. He would have thrown it down at once, trusting that some one on the beach would find it; but he was aware that the tide at high water washed up the cliffs, so that there was but small chance of its not being borne away upon the waters. He also remembered that there were sundry little pathways winding up the chalky rocks, where he had seen people walk; and that, by God's good blessing, the packet might be found by some one wandering there. Having accomplished this object, he took his seat on a pile of moth-eaten clothes, and drawing forth his little pocket Bible, set himself to read the Holy Scripture, with as much diligence as if he had never before opened the blessed and consoling volume.

Two classes of persons peruse the Sacred Book; one from pure love of, and entire dependence on, the words and precepts contained therein; the other from habit—"their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers did so before them—always on a Sunday—and sometimes (when they had time) during the week—and God forbid that they should ever be worse than their ancestors!" The Reverend Jonas Fleetword belonged partly to the one class, partly to the other: his progenitors, for upwards of a century, had been foremost in forwarding the religion of the Gospel; they had fought for it both with carnal and spiritual weapons, and he had followed in their footsteps without swerving either to the right hand or the left; but, to do him justice, he was stimulated to activity in his vocation by a better motive than that which arises either from custom or an estimate of hereditary right—he was at heart, as well as in word, a Christian, and the promises contained in, together with the prospects held out by, the book he perused so eagerly, had been, from the moment when reason dawned, the ruling principle by which his life was governed. We pause not to inquire whether he had duly weighed or correctly interpreted all its precepts—whether the hastiness of his nature was not at times opposed to the meek and unupbraiding example of his Divine Master—whether he did not now and then mistake bitterness for sincerity, and persecution for zeal; such errors were but too common to the age in which he lived, and with the church of which he was a member. Never did Gospel hope and Gospel consolation visit him with greater welcome than at the moment of which we write. He entertained little doubt but that his enemy meditated towards him some evil that placed his life in danger: such, however, was not the case; Burrell had agreed to defer the marriage until six of the clock that evening; and, after the ceremony had been concluded, he entertained no doubt that the preacher would retain the secret now in his possession for Constantia's sake.

At Cecil Place all was confusion, for the mind of its afflicted mistress was scarcely able to bear up against the weight of misery that pressed upon it; and Lady Frances Cromwell felt happy and relieved when, about eight in the morning, she fell into an apparently sound sleep. The preparations for the wedding devolved entirely upon her; but, like most persons of an exalted rank, although she knew when things were properly done, she was ignorant how to do them: she, therefore, contented herself with directing her women to make all matters in order; while they, proud and pleased at the commission, gave every body as much trouble as possible. Sir Robert wandered about the house like a troubled spirit, anxious, yet dreading, to see his child; while Sir Willmott, after using every precaution within his power against Zillah's appearance, endeavoured to find occupation by inspecting the carriages that were to convey them to his aunt's house in Surrey, where he had previously determined that they should pass many of the succeeding days—an object not only of convenience, but of necessity, inasmuch as he could thus gain time to arrange with his servants and tenantry at his own dwelling.

Mrs. Claypole had written to Lady Frances, stating that the Protector did not wish his daughter to accompany her friend to the abode of Sir Willmott's aunt, and would, therefore, send a suitable escort to conduct her to Whitehall immediately after the ceremony was concluded. Mrs. Claypole also added that she had left Hampton Court for the purpose of meeting her dear sister Frances in London, as her mother had been indisposed, and could not conveniently do so. The letter prayed for many blessings on the head of their sweet friend Constantia, adding that, from what she heard of her decision on the subject, she could hardly believe contradictory reports—as to her heart being given elsewhere, inasmuch as she must know it to be less evil to break a contract made in youth, with which the mind and feelings had no connection, than to register a solemn pledge of affection and faithfulness before the Lord, where in fact there could be no affection, and faithfulness must be a plant of forced and not of natural growth.

"Yet would they all wax marvellously wroth," said Lady Frances, "if I were to draw my own conclusions from this opinion, and act thereupon. I wonder, does my being the daughter of his Highness the Lord Protector make it less necessary for me to be true and upright? and can a woman be either, yet pledge her hand and faith to one for whom she cares not?—— Yet—" She paused, for she had perused the letter within the chamber, and beside the couch on which Constance was still sleeping, and as her eyes fell upon her friend, she could pronounce no harsh judgment upon an act performed by one she loved so dearly, and of whose truth and uprightness there could be no doubt.

While the note was yet open before her, the door opened, and Sir Robert Cecil entered. Lady Frances motioned him that Miss Cecil slept, and the old man stooped over her bed with clasped hands, scarcely breathing, lest he should disturb her rest.

"Has she slept thus all the night?" he whispered.—"Has she slept thus soundly all the night, Lady Frances?"

"No, sir," was the reply; and it was delivered in a tone of unusual sternness; for it must be remembered that she entertained much anger against Sir Robert, for permitting the marriage to take place so manifestly against the inclination of his daughter. "No, sir, it is many nights since she has slept soundly."

"But, lady, see how sweet, how gentle her repose! Surely, she could not sleep thus with a heavy heart?"

"Sir Robert," replied Lady Frances, "the heart's heaviness will make heavy the eyelids; nay, with greater certainty, when they are swollen with weeping."

The baronet stooped down, as if to ascertain the correctness of what the lady had said, and at the instant a tear forced its way through the long fringes that rested on his daughter's pallid cheek. He groaned audibly, and left the apartment with the stealthy step and subdued deportment of a proclaimed criminal.

"They are all mystery, one and all, mystery from beginning to end," thought Lady Frances, as with a heavy heart she went in search of her women to ascertain how they were fulfilling her directions.

In one of the passages she met Barbara weeping bitterly.

"Tears, tears! nothing but tears!" said the Protector's daughter, kindly. "What ails thee now, girl? Surely there is some new cause for grief, or you would not weep thus?"

"My lady, I hardly know what is come over me, but I can scarcely stanch my tears: every thing goes ill. I sent two of the serving maidens to gather flowers, to help to dress up the old chapel, that looks more like a sepulchre than any thing else. And what do you think, my lady, they brought me? Why, rue, and rosemary, and willow boughs; and I chid them, and sent them for white and red roses, lilies and the early pinks, which the stupid gipsies brought at last, and I commenced nailing up the boughs of some gay evergreens amongst the clustering ivy, that has climbed over the north window—the lower one I mean; and just as I had finished, and was about to twist in a garland of such sweet blush roses, an adder, a living adder, trailing its length all up the fretted window, stared with its dusky and malignant eyes full in my face, and pranked out its forked tongue dyed in the blackest poison. Oh, madam! how I screamed—and I know the creature was bent on my destruction, for, when I jumped down, it uncoiled, and fell upon the earth, coming towards me as I retreated, when Crisp (only think, my lady, of the wisdom of that poor dog!)—little Crisp seized it, somewhere by the neck, and in a moment it was dead!"

"You should smile at that, not weep," observed Lady Frances, patting her cheek as she would that of a petted child.

"Oh, but," said Barbara, "it was so horrid, and I was almost sorry Crisp killed it! for it is an awful thing to destroy life, yet it was wickedly venomous."

"Ah, my poor maid! you will have worse troubles soon than that which bids you mourn over an adder's death."

"Do not say so, sweet lady," interrupted Barbara: "ah! do not say so: for I feel, I can hardly tell how, so very, very sad. My poor lady, and my poor self! and you going away, madam—you, who keep up the life of every thing; and, though your waiting maids seem so rejoiced to get back to the court! I don't know what I shall do, not I. I only wish——" She paused abruptly.

"Tell me what you wish, my pretty Barbara—a new cap, kirtle, hood, or farthingale? What, none of these!"

"I was only wishing that Robin Hays was come back, because he would understand my troubles."

"You pay a poor compliment to my understanding, Barbara," observed Lady Frances, with whom Barbara was at all times an especial favourite.

The simple maid courtesied respectfully, while she replied, "My lady, it would ill become me to make free with such as you, but I have many small causes of trouble, which, even if you did hear, you could not comprehend. The brown wren would not go for counsel to the gay parrot, however wise and great the parrot might be, but seek advice from another brown wren, because it would understand and feel exactly the cares and troubles of its own kind."

"What a little fabulist thou art, pretty Barbara! But, if you had been at court, you would not have likened a lady to a parrot."

"Not to a parrot!" repeated Barbara; "such a beautiful bird! that looks so handsome and talks so well!"

"No: but here is a parting present for you, my fair maid; a chain of gold. Stay, I will clasp it on your slender neck myself; and listen to me, Barbara. The daughters of the Protector of England would be ill worthy their father's name or their father's honours, did they not seek to protect the women of their country, and to keep them in virtue and innocence, as he protects the men, and guides them to war and victory, or to peace and honour! Would to God, fair girl, that, notwithstanding your simplicity, the maidens of Britain were all as right-minded and gentle as yourself! As a proof how highly I value your faithful and true affection, I bestow upon you an ornament I have long worn, not to feed your vanity (for we are all vain, more or less,) but to strengthen your principles. If ever you should encounter real sorrow, and I can aid you, send me the clasp of this chain, and I will attend to your request, be it what it may." Lady Frances turned from her with more gravity of aspect and more dignity of demeanour than was her custom, and proceeded to look after the arrangements for her friend's nuptials.

Barbara stood for some time after the lady's departure, holding the gift upon the palm of her small and beautifully formed hand, which no rough labour had hardened or sullied. Her eye brightened as she gazed upon the rich gift; but, in a moment, her thoughts reverted to those with whom were the best feelings of her happy and innocent heart.

"Oh, that Robin had but been here!" she said, "to have heard it all. To think of her who is as great as a princess! What was it? 'faithful and true,' and, oh! how proud—no, I must not be proud—how grateful I am! If my father, my father, too, had heard it; but I can show this to them both. I will not again think of that horrid adder." And with this resolution she crept softly into the chamber of her still sleeping lady.



CHAPTER XII.

Poor fool! she thought herself in wondrous price With God, as if in Paradise she were; But, were she not in a fool's paradise, She might have seen more reason to despair, And, therefore, as that wretch hew'd out his cell Under the bowels, in the heart of hell! So she, above the moon, amid the stars would dwell.

GILES FLETCHER.

We must leave Cecil Place for a while—suffer Manasseh Ben Israel to pursue his journey to Hampton Court—offer no intrusion upon the solitude of the preacher Fleetword—take no note of aught concerning Walter De Guerre or Major Wellmore—nor heed, for a time, whether the Buccaneer steered his course by land or water: attend to nothing, in fact, for the present, except the motives and actions of Zillah Ben Israel.

The Jewish females were brought up, at the period of which we treat, with the utmost strictness, and kept in great seclusion, scarcely ever associating but with their own people, and enduring many privations in consequence of never mixing in general society. It is true they had companions of their own nation, and amusements befitting (according to the notions of the Elders) their state and age; but, nevertheless, they were held under much and injudicious restraint, the result of which was evil. It is seldom that the young can be held back by a tight and galling rein, without either biting the bit, or breaking the bridle. Zillah was the only child of her father, and nothing could exceed the expense or the care lavished upon her. Had Manasseh himself superintended her education, it is but fair to infer that his wisdom and judgment would have curbed the headstrong and stubborn nature of her mind and temper; but, deprived in her infancy of a mother's watchfulness, and Ben Israel's duty and business calling him continually from one country to another, she was necessarily intrusted to the care of certain relatives of his own, Polish Jews; who, though excellent friends in their way, and well versed in all the rites and ceremonies of the Mosaic law, were totally ignorant of the proper course to be pursued with a wild, high-spirited girl, fully aware of the importance of her father's wealth and influence, and panting for the time when she should share in both. The people with whom she resided perceived her wilfulness; but, instead of combating it with reason, they sought to overcome it by force—and the best of all force, according to their ideas, was that which a staid and sober husband might exercise. The person upon whom they fixed was a Jew diamond-dealer, who had numbered about as many years as her father, but was greatly his inferior both in sagacity and power; indeed, there were very few who could compete with the learned Rabbi, Manasseh Ben Israel, in either of these qualities. Cromwell thought most highly of his talents, and bestowed upon him a degree of confidence he reposed in few, treating him with a respect and attention which all classes of Christians thought he carried much too far; for, at that time, Toleration was only in its infancy, and true peace-loving Religion suffered much from the persecutions with which the successful party never failed to visit those over whom they had triumphed. Catholic against Protestant—Protestant against Catholic—Sectarian against both—both against Sectarian—all against Jew—and the defamed and despised Israelite obliged, in self-defence, to act by subtlety (for his strength had departed from him) against all! Cromwell took advantage of this state of things, and with much policy, but it is to be hoped also with much sincerity, exerted himself continually to render England a place of security and happiness to the wandering children of Israel. To quote his own words, his opinion was, "Since there was a promise that they should be converted, means ought to be used to that end; and the most likely way was, the preaching of the Gospel in truth and sincerity, as it was then in Britain—devoid of all Popish idolatry, which had rendered the Christian religion odious to them." But the design was so violently and so generally opposed, that it came to nothing. Many scrupled not to affirm, that the Protector had secured a conditional bribe, to an enormous amount, in case he procured for them equal toleration with English subjects; while others, with more show of truth, declared, that when Cromwell "understood what dealers the Jews were every where in that trade which depends on news, the advancing money upon high or low interest, in proportion to the risk they ran, or the gain to be made as affairs might turn up, and in the buying and selling of the actions of money so advanced, he, more upon that account, than with a view to tolerate their principles, brought a company of them over, and gave them leave to build a synagogue." It is certain that they were sure and trusty spies for him, especially with relation to Spain and Portugal, and that they never betrayed his confidence.—Is it not, however, most extraordinary, in these our own times, when the spirit of liberty is bestriding the whole earth "like a Colossus," that a people so faithful, so influential, and so peaceable, should be deprived of so many privileges?—privileges, which we are labouring with mind, pen, and purse, to procure for tribes of ignorant and uncivilised savages, who as yet are utterly unable to comprehend the nature of the freedom we seek to thrust upon them, but who are too often ready and eager to bite the hand that would bestow it? God forbid that we should desire it to be withholden from a single human being, whether black or white, who bears the impress of his Maker. But reason, policy, and humanity, may alike teach us that the blessing should first be shared by those who have done most to deserve it—who know best how it should be used—and who have the most powerful hereditary claims upon the sympathy and consideration of Christians. The time is surely at hand, when the badge of ignominy shall be removed from them—at least in Britain—where, but for the exception to which we refer, Freedom is the birthright of every native of the soil. Cromwell knew their value to a state; and had he lived a few years longer, the Jew would have been at liberty to cultivate his own lands, and manure them (if it so pleased him) with his own gold, any where within the sea-girt isle of England.

We must no longer digress, although upon a most important and most interesting topic, but proceed to inform our readers what they must already have anticipated, that Zillah had little inclination towards the husband procured for her by her injudicious friends. The Rabbi thought it altogether a suitable match, particularly as Ichabod could trace his descent from the tribe of Levi, and was of undoubted wealth, and, according to belief, unspotted reputation; but Zillah cared little for reputation, she knew not its value—little for wealth, for the finest and rarest jewels of the world sparkled in gorgeous variety upon her person, so that she moved more like a rainbow than a living woman—little, very little for the tribe of Levi, and less than all for Ichabod. His black eyes she likened to burnt cinders; she saw no beauty in a beard striped and mottled with grey, although it was perfumed with the sweets of Araby, and oiled with as pure and undefiled an unction as that which flowed from the horn of the ancient Samuel upon the head of the youthful David. His stateliness provoked her mirth—his deafness her impatience; and when she compared him with the joyous cavaliers, the brilliant and captivating men who graced the court of the gay and luxurious Louis, for whose gallant plumes and glittering armour she so often watched through her half-closed lattice, she turned from the husband they would have given with a disgust that was utterly insupportable.

Her father had prevailed upon the family with whom she lived to remove to Paris during his residence in England, which had been prolonged from day to day, in compliance with the desire of the Protector. He was anxious that his child should be instructed in such elegant arts as those in which the ladies of France and England excelled—not remembering that, in a young, forward, and ill-educated woman, the dangerous desire of display succeeds the acquirement of accomplishments as surely and as regularly as day follows night.

Thus, shut up in one of the most gloomy hotels in Paris—conveyed in a close carriage once or twice a week to the Bois de Boulogne, or the gardens of Versailles—fearing to express delight, lest she should be reproved for levity—or desire for any thing, lest it should be the very thing she would not be permitted to possess—the proud, warm, frank-hearted Jewess became gradually metamorphosed into the cunning, passionate, deceptive intriguante, only waiting for an opportunity to deceive her guardians, and obtain that which, from being so strictly forbidden, she concluded must be the greatest possible enjoyment—freedom of word and action. Alas! if we may use a homely phrase, many are the victims to strait-lacing, both of stays and conscience!

But if the old, grey-bearded Ichabod had been an object of dislike to the youthful and self-willed Jewess before she saw Sir Willmott Burrell, how did she regard him afterwards!

Manasseh Ben Israel had, as we have intimated, intrusted some packages for his daughter to the charge of the treacherous knight; and how he abused the trust has been already shown. But the poor Jewess found to her cost, that though she loved him with all the warmth and ardour of her own nature, he regarded her only as an object of pastime and pleasure; the idea of in reality marrying a Jewess never once entered into his calculation, though he was obliged to submit to something like the ceremony, before he could overcome scruples that are implanted with much care in the heart of every Jewish maiden. Although she deceived her guardians and her antiquated lover with great dexterity, it never occurred to her that Sir Willmott could be so base as to deceive her. She was new to the world and its ways; and the full torrent of her anger, jealousy, and disappointment burst upon him, when she found that the charms of a fair-haired lady had superseded her own, and that Burrell was already treating her with coldness. Of all the passions inherent in the heart of a woman, that of jealousy is the most dangerous to herself and others: it is fierce and restless in its nature; when infuriated, nothing can oppose its progress; and although most powerful in the most feeble-minded, it frequently assumes the semblance of intellectual strength. Zillah's jealousy kept pace with her headlong love, and in one of its most violent paroxysms she made the attempt on the life of Burrell, which, it is easy to believe, he never forgave. Subsequently, and during the remainder of his stay in Paris, he humoured her fancy, and led her to imagine that he had sufficient influence with Cromwell to prevail on him to interest her father on her behalf, and do what no Israelite of the time had ever done—recognise a Christian son-in-law. After Burrell's departure, however, she soon saw how little reliance was to be placed upon his promises, and therefore resolved to act for herself. Suspicion and jealousy divided her entire soul between them; and she determined not to trust Dalton to bring her over to England, because Burrell had recommended her to do so. Jeromio was known to the person at whose house she lodged at St. Vallery, and, hearing that she wanted to get to England, and would dispense much largess to secure a passage, he thought he could make something by secreting her on board, and then passing her off to his captain as a dumb boy. To this plan Zillah readily agreed, for her imagination was at all times far stronger than her reason. She had cast her life upon a die, and cared not by what means her object was to be secured.

It is one of the most extraordinary anomalies in the female character, that, having once outstepped the boundaries that are never even thought upon but with danger, it plunges deeper and deeper still into irretrievable ruin. Perhaps it is because women must feel most acutely that society never permits them to retrieve, or, what is much the same, takes no cognisance of their repentance, be it ever so sincere: their station once lost is never to be regained; it would seem as if Dante's inscription on the gates of Hell were to be for ever their motto—"All hope abandon." Man may err, and err, and be forgiven; but poor woman, with all his temptations and but half his strength, is placed beyond the pale of earthly salvation if she be but once tempted into crime! It is a hard, even though it may be a salutary law.

It must be borne in mind that Zillah had committed as great an iniquity in the eyes of her people by marrying as by intriguing; nor could she expect pardon for either one or the other, except by some wonderful and powerful interposition, such as Burrell held out. It was astonishing to witness the fortitude with which the fragile and delicate Jewess, who had been clothed in purple and fine linen, fed on the most costly viands, and slept on the most downy couch, encountered the illness, terrors, and miseries attendant on a sea voyage in the vessel of a Buccaneer. The Fire-fly certainly deserved every encomium bestowed upon her by her captain; yet was she not the most pleasing residence for a delicately-nurtured female. No murmur escaped her sealed lips, nor, in fact, did she perceive the inconveniences by which she was surrounded; her mind was wholly bent upon the prevention of Sir Willmott Burrell's marriage, of which she had heard from undoubted authority; and it would appear that she had no feelings, no ideas to bestow upon, or power to think of, other things.

Jeromio's plotting but weak mind, never satisfied with the present, eager for the future, and anxious to make it better by foul means, had contrived to bring into use an abandoned excavation under the old tower we have so frequently mentioned, which had been forsaken by Hugh Dalton's party from its extreme dampness. They had filled the entrance with fragments of rock and large stones; but it was known to Jeromio, who, thinking that during his occasional visits to Gull's Nest he might manage to smuggle a little on his own account, assisted by two other Italians as evil-minded as himself, arranged the stones so as to permit one person at a time to creep into the wretched hole, where he stowed away such parts of the cargo of the Fire-fly as he could purloin from his too-confiding commander. He admitted Zillah to a knowledge of this cave, as a place in which she might shelter. He knew her to be a female of wealth and consequence; yet had no idea of her connection with the Master of Burrell, whom he had rarely seen; and though of necessity she occasionally mixed with the people of the Gull's Nest, yet she expressed so strong a desire for some place of privacy in the neighbourhood of Cecil Place, and paid so liberally for it withal, that he confided to her the secret of this cave—the entrance to which was nearly under the window of the tower in which Barbara Iverk had been concealed on the night when, by her lady's direction, she sought to communicate to Robin Hays the perilous situation of the young Cavalier. At that time, also, the Jewess saw Sir Willmott for the first time in England. She had been on the watch ever since her landing, but terror for her own wretched life had prevented her addressing him openly. The tones of his well-known voice had reached her miserable cavern, and roused her from a troubled slumber. She understood too little of his language to comprehend the nature of his communication to Roupall, and her first impulse was to strike a dagger to his heart; but this, her womanly affection prevented, and she suddenly withdrew. Subsequently, she wrote to Mrs. Constantia, and trusted much to her generosity and truth of character, of which she had heard in France; but poor Constance, through the cowardice of Jeromio, never received her packet, and, enraged and maddened by the reports of his immediate marriage, she resolved on seeing Mistress Cecil, and accomplished her purpose, as she thought, when in fact she only saw Barbara. Her jealousy and violence defeated her purpose at that time; but still her determination remained fixed to prevent the union, if her life were to be the forfeit. After meeting with the knight, she retreated into the earth, from which she had so suddenly appeared, much to the Master of Burrell's astonishment, who had no knowledge whatever of the cave, though he doubted not it was of Dalton's preparing. After securing the preacher, he examined every portion of the ruins most attentively, but without success, for she had learned to be as wily as a fox, and had carefully secured the aperture, through which even her delicate form passed with difficulty.

It would have touched a heart, retaining any degree of feeling, to see that young and beautiful woman within that damp and noisome excavation—so damp that cold and slimy reptiles clung to, and crept over, its floor and walls, while the blind worm nestled in the old apertures formed to admit a little air; and the foul toad, and still more disgusting eft, looked upon her, as they would say, "Thou art our sister."

"And here," thought she, "must the only child of Manasseh Ben Israel array herself, to meet the gaze of the proud beauty who would not deign to notice the letter or the supplication of the despised Jewess; to meet the gaze of the cold stern English, and of the cruel man who points the finger of scorn against her he has destroyed. Yet I seek but justice, but to be acknowledged as his wife, in the open day and before an assembled people, and then he shall hear and see no more of the Rabbi's daughter! I will hide myself from the world, and look upon all mankind as I do upon him—with a bitter hatred!—Yet I was not always thus," she continued, as she clasped a jewel on her arm: "The bracelet is too wide for the shrunk flesh! Out, out upon thee, bauble! O that I could thus—and thus—and thus—trample into this black and slimy earth, every vestige of what I was, and have no more the power to think of what I am! Is this the happiness I looked for? Are these the feelings of my girlhood? My heart seems cold within me, cold to every thought but vengeance! Even the burden I carry—it is part of him, and with the groans that come in woman's travail I will mingle curses, deep and blasting, on its head. O that I could cast it from me! And yet—and yet it will be my own child!" And the feelings of the mother triumphed; for, at that thought, the Jewess wept, and tears are as balm to an overwrought mind, at once a relief and a consolation. Zillah wept, and was humanised. After a little time, she arrayed herself in befitting garments, but placed pistols within her bosom. Long before the appointed hour, and despite the watchfulness of Sir Willmott's spies, she was secreted near the ruined chapel adjoining Cecil Place.



CHAPTER XIII.

Hither, th' oppressed shall henceforth resort, Justice to crave and succour at your court, And then your Highness, not for ours alone, But for the world's Protector shall be known.

WALLER to the Protector.

It was past midnight when Manasseh Ben Israel, accompanied by Robin Hays, as his own servant, and disguised as we have seen him, arrived at Hampton Court. The night was murky, and the numerous turrets of the great monument of Wolsey's grandeur and ambition were seen but dimly through the thickened air, although looked upon with feelings of no ordinary interest by both Jew and servitor.

The carriage was stopped at the outer court by the sentries on guard, and some little delay occurred, apparently to ascertain if the Rabbi could be admitted at so late an hour.

Robin looked from the carriage-window and saw, what appeared to him, scores of mailed and armed warriors reclining on the stone benches of a spacious but low guard-room, while others crowded over a large fire, which the chilliness of the night rendered, at least, desirable. The glaring of the flames showed brightly on their polished armour, and their firm immovable features looked of a piece with the iron itself. Nothing could be more imposing, or afford a more correct idea of Cromwell's perseverance and judgment, than his well-trained soldiery. Obedience, inflexible obedience to their commander, seemed the leading, almost the only principle upon which they acted: not that slavish obedience which is the effect of fear, but the obedience which is the result of confidence. "God and the Protector" was their faith, and they knew no other. As the Jew gazed upon those invincible men, he shrouded himself still more closely within his furred cloak, and shuddered. Robin's eye, on the contrary, brightened, for he was born of England, and proud of her greatness. Ah! Englishmen in those days had a right to be proud.

There was another difference in the conduct of the Protector's troops from those of every other time and every other nation: they had none of the reckless wildness, none of the careless bravery which is supposed necessarily to belong to the profession of arms. Their habits were staid and sober; and if any Cavaliers did enter in among them, they were forced to behave themselves according to the fashion of their associates, which habit, in a little time, tamed their heedlessness into propriety. There was no singing of profane songs in the guard-room, no filthy jesting or foolish talking; no drinking; their very breathing seemed subdued, and nothing frighted the tranquillity which rested on the turrets at Hampton, and pervaded its courts, save the striking of some iron heel on the ringing pavement, or the neighing of some gallant steed in the not distant stables.

Once, indeed, a psalm wailed through the casement from one of the inner courts: it was sung at first in a troubled tone, and in a low key, but afterwards the sound was increased by other voices; and it swelled upon the ear in long and loud continuance.

"He has departed, then!" observed one of the sentries, to an armed man who stood near the carriage.

"I suppose so, and, I trust, in the Lord," was the reply.

"Doubtless—yet the heart was strong for life. His Highness will be sorrowful."

"He will; but grace abounded greatly; he was one of the Lord's best soldiers, and fought well in the good cause."

"Would that my time was passed! I would fain uplift my voice with theirs."

"I will go there forthwith," replied he in armour; and Robin heard the echo of his step die in the distance. Ere the messenger, despatched by the officer of the guard, had returned, a sort of rambling drowsy conversation was carried on by the soldiers within, which only reached the quick ear of the Ranger at intervals.

"His Highness has been tormented to-night; methinks the length of a summer day ought to satisfy those who want to see him."

The sun had set a good hour or more, when Sir Christopher Packe, the worshipful Lord Mayor, passed in.

"His Highness," replied the stern gruff voice of an old soldier, "is of the people; and he knows that his duty—next to awaiting the Lord always—is to wait on them."

"His time is not an easy one, then," thought Robin; and as he so thought, the messenger returned with an order that the Rabbi should be immediately admitted. The lumbering carriage passed under one archway, and traversed a small court—then under another—then across the next—then stopped, and one of the principal servants opened the door, and requested Manasseh to descend.

"Her Highness," he said, "had been indisposed; the Lord Protector, therefore, hoped the worthy Israelite would not object to walk across the next court, as her chamber was nearly over the entrance."

The Jew leaned upon Robin for support, as they mounted the flight of steps leading to the grand entrance hall. He paused once or twice; they were many in number, and hard to climb for one bent with age, and now bowed down by trouble. When they arrived at the great door, he perceived that, instead of two, there were four sentries, who stood, two on each side, like fixed statues, and the torch their conductor carried glittered on the bright points of their swords that rested on the ground. The stair was faintly illumined by one large massive iron lamp, hanging from the ceiling, and flickering, so as to show the outline, not the minutiae of the objects.

When they had fairly entered the great hall, Robin truly and sincerely wished himself safely out again; the more particularly when he saw, mingled with the pages and servants in waiting, some tried and trusty soldiers, by whom, if his disguise were penetrated, he would be better known than trusted. It was one thing to steal and pry about a place, and another to be only separated by a single plank of oak from Cromwell—the all-powerful, all-seeing Protector of England—liable to be called at once into his presence; for the Jew might mention—doubtless would mention—that one who had served Sir Willmott Burrell, and knew much of his doings, was in attendance.

This magnificent room, though used as a hall of audience on state occasions, was generally occupied by the guards, retainers, and petitioners of the Protectorate. There was a long table of rude workmanship near the door at which they entered—above was a lamp, similar in size and construction to that which swung outside:—many assembled round, or sat close to, this table, while others walked up and down—not passing, however, the centre of the hall, which was crossed by a silk cord of crimson, fastened in the middle to two brass poles, standing sufficiently apart to permit one person at a time to enter; and also guarded by a single sentinel, who walked so as to pass and repass the opening every half minute. Manasseh paced slowly towards the soldier, still leaning on Robin. His conductor kept a little in advance, bowing on either side, while a conciliating smile lingered on his lip, until he came to the silken line.

"Only one may pass!" was the soldier's brief notice; and the Rabbi, grasping his staff more firmly, walked to the door opposite the great entrance, which was guarded also by another sentinel.

"You can find a seat—that is, if you choose to sit," said the servitor sneeringly, to Robin, pointing at the same time to an empty corner of the hall.

"Or would it please you I descend to the apartments of the lower servants?" inquired the Ranger, remembering the meekness befitting the character of a Jew.

"None leave this hall, after entering it by his Highness's permission, till they receive orders to that effect," he replied, turning from Robin, who slunk to the place assigned him, in no very agreeable mood.

If his imaginings were of an unpleasant description, still more so were the observations made aloud by the pages, flippant both by nature and usage, and the sarcastic and cool jests, given forth at his expense by the more sober persons of the assembly.

"Wouldst like any refreshment, friend?" inquired a youth in a sad-coloured tunic and blue vest, over which fell a plain collar of the finest Valenciennes' lace, so as to cover his shoulders. "And yet," continued the malapert, "methinks there is nothing to offer thee but some ham, or preserved pigs' tongues, which, of course, thou tastest not of."

"No, I humbly thank ye, young sir," replied Robin; "I do not need the pigs' tongues, having tasted of thine."

"What mean you by that, Jew dog!" said the boy fiercely, laying his hand on his sword.

"Nothing, fair gentleman, except it be that thine, though well preserved, would fain take up the business of thy white teeth."

"How, knave?"

"Become biting," replied Robin, bowing.

"Ah, Morrison! the Jew is too much for ye," said another youth, who was just roused from a half slumber in a high-backed chair.—"Where got ye yer wit?"

"Where you did not get yours, under favour," was Robin's ready reply.

"And where was that?"

"From nature; too common a person for so gay a young gentleman to be beholden to," he retorted, bowing again with even a greater show of humility than before.

At this reply, Sir John Berkstead, formerly a goldsmith in the Strand, but gradually raised to the dignity of chief steward of Oliver's household, approached Robin with his usual shuffling gait, and said,—

"Hey! young gentlemen—hey! young gentlemen, what foolish jesting is this? what mean ye? It is his Highness's pleasure to receive the master, and what for do ye treat the man with indignity? My worthy Samuel," he looked closer—"but it is not Samuel," he continued, peering curiously at Robin, "it is not Samuel. What ho! Gracious Meanwell! did this man enter with the learned Manasseh Ben Israel?"

"Yes, please ye, Sir John," replied the page, humbly.

"Indeed!" he exclaimed, surveying Robin attentively. "But where is the Rabbi's usual attendant, whom I have before seen?"

"He is sick even unto death, unless it please the God of Abraham to work a miracle in his favour," replied Robin: thinking to himself, "he remembers enough, at least, of his old trade to know all is not gold that glitters."

Sir John Berkstead withdrew, only observing to the page, who stood back, boy-like, longing for any frolic likely to relieve the monotony of so dull a court, especially at midnight, "See ye do not treat him uncourteously. The Rabbi has always been permitted to bring his attendant, almost to the anteroom: a favour seldom granted—but his Highness is gracious in remembering that his bodily infirmities need support. So see that he is treated with all courtesy, for his Highness is wishful that Christian toleration be exercised towards this and all other Jews."

More than one Roundhead looked at another during this declaration; and all but the two youngsters appeared more than usually intent upon whatever they were employed about before the Rabbi's entrance. Youth is a bad courtier, ever preferring frolic and amusement to sobriety and attention. They had been at once piqued and pleased by Robin's smartness, and resolved to whet their own wit upon so well-tempered a steel.

"Wert ever at court before?" inquired the younger.

"No, sir, an' please ye."

"And what think ye of it?"

"Nothing as yet, sir."

"Nothing! how is that?"

"Because I have not had time; and, if the small things of life require thoughtfulness, how much more must the great things of a court!"

"Shouldst like to turn Christian and live at court?"

"Heaven forbid! All I should be turned to would be ridicule, and that is a wonderful lowerer of the consequence of even a serving man——"

"Hush!" said the elder page—"there goes Colonel John Jones."

As the brother-in-law of the Protector approached, the several persons in the hall rose and saluted him with considerable respect. His aspect was stern and rigid: his whole person firm and erect; and whatever his faults might have been, he gave one the idea of a person who, doing wrong, thought it right. His eyes were generally upturned, and there was a good deal of enthusiasm in the expression of the upper portion of his countenance, while the firm-set mouth and broad muscular chin betokened the most inflexible resolution. He proceeded towards the cord we have before mentioned, exchanged a few words with the sentry, and then returned to the door whereby he had entered. While unclosing it, he perceived Robin, and, struck by his Jewish appearance, altered his course and approached him.

The Ranger bent most lowlily to the ground, for he well knew the veneration this man excited both amongst soldiers and Puritans.

"One of the cast-aways within the sanctuary!" he said in a stern reproving voice. "How is it?"

"Sir, his master, the Rabbi, tarrieth with his Highness," replied the elder page.

"It is evil, and of evil," returned Colonel Jones, with still more severity, "The clean and the unclean, the believer and the unbeliever, the offscouring of the earth with the chosen of the Lord! Why is he not cast forth, yea into outer darkness? Why should the filthy vulture make his nest with the eagles? Dog of a Jew, out, into the highway!"

"May it please ye," interrupted Gracious Meanwell, "his Highness has just issued express orders that this man be carefully tended, and kept within."

The Colonel cast a look full of displeasure at the messenger, and without trusting himself to utter another word, strode from the hall.

"You see where we would send Jews," observed one of the lads.

"Even where they would rather be."

"How, where?"

"Far from ye."

"And deem ye it not an honour to be admitted within these walls?"

"Ay, sir, such honour as a poor merlin would feel at being caged with honourable and right honourable eagles. But would ye unravel me, kind young gentlemen, if Colonel Jones is often seen without his Patients?"

"Oh! you mean the preacher, do ye? Why, yes, frequently now-a-days."

"Ah! what a blessing that must be!"

"As how? master Jew."

"Because others can have their soles mended."

The jest upon the miserable fanatic Patients, who had been a stocking-footer in London, was not lost upon the lads, though they dared not countenance it by a very boisterous laugh: they resolved, however, to become more intimately acquainted with the facetious Jew.

"You ought not to laugh so loud, Morrison," said the elder page. "You know you are a sort of nephew to his Highness, now that your uncle, Doctor Wilkins, is married to the Lady French, his Highness's sister."

"And here is my uncle," returned the other. "He said he had permission to call for me. Ah! he is never angry at a little jest, so long as it is innocent. I heard a gentleman say last night that 'he was by nature witty, by industry learned, by grace godly.' What think ye of that for a character?"

As the subject of this panegyric drew near, Robin thought he had never seen a more sweet or gracious countenance: he looked "peace on earth and good will towards men." His entire expression was that of pure benevolence; and though the eye was something wild and dreamy, yet it was gentle withal, and of marvellous intelligence. He seemed like one, and such he truly was, to whom the future as well as the present would be deeply indebted. The use he made of his alliance with the Cromwell family must ever be regarded as most noble; instead of aggrandising himself and his friends, he rendered it only subservient to the great wish of his heart—the promotion of learning, which, it cannot be denied, was at that time in danger of being overthrown by bigotry and fanaticism: for this reason it was that he opportunely interposed to shelter Oxford from the moroseness of Owen and Godwin. Well might his eye look dreamy. How could that of the author of a "Discovery of a New World" look otherwise? He openly maintained that, not only was the moon habitable, but that it was possible for a man to go there. His reply to the Duchess of Newcastle, herself a visionary, when she jested a little at his theory, although sufficiently known, is still worthy of repetition.

"Where am I to find a place for baiting at, in my way up to that planet?" she inquired of the Doctor.

"Madam," replied he, "of all the people in the world, I never expected that question from you, who have built so many castles in the air, that you may lie every night at one of your own."

As he conducted his nephew to the door, he turned back to look on Robin: "You have not teased the poor Jew, I hope?" he said to the page.

"No; but he has worried us, uncle; you know not what a wit-snapper it is."

"Indeed! art thou a Solomon, friend?"

"An' please ye, sir, the wisdom, as well as the glory, has departed from our people," said Robin.

"I care little for the glory," observed the Doctor, who was Warden of Wadham College; "I care very little for any earthly glory: but canst tell me where the wisdom is gone—the wisdom, Jew, the wisdom! Where is that to be found?"

"Usually at the College of Wadham," replied the crafty Robin, bowing respectfully, "though sometimes it wanders abroad to enlighten England."

"Go to; you are a most cunning Isaac," said Doctor Wilkins, laughing; and at the same time throwing Robin a piece of silver, which he caught, with much dexterity, ere it touched the ground.

"This is the only unwise thing your worship ever did," continued Robin, depositing the silver safely in his leathern purse.

"How so, most cunning Jew?"

"Bestowing money—when there can be no interest thereupon."

"You have never heard, I fear," said Doctor Wilkins, who, with true Christian spirit, was ever ready to speak a word in season—"you have never heard of laying up treasures in a place where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, and where thieves cannot break through and steal?"

"I have heard some Christians speak of such a place," replied Robin, "though I did not think they believed in its existence."

"Why so?"

"Because they seemed so little inclined to trust their property in that same storehouse."

"You say but too truly; yet it is written 'that charity covereth a multitude of sins.'"

"Then that is reason why so many sins are roaming abroad 'naked but not ashamed.' Ah, sir! it is a marvellously scarce commodity that same charity; when Christians spit upon and rail at the poor Jew, they lack charity; when they taunt me with my deformity, they lack charity; when they destroy the web of the spider, that toileth for its bread, and useth what the God of Moses gave it to catch food, they lack charity. Sir, I have walked by the way-side, and I have seen a man tread into the smallest atoms the hill of the industrious ant, and say, it stole the peasant's corn; and yet I have known that same man make long prayers and devour widows' houses. I have watched the small singing-bird, trolling its sweet song on the bough of some wild cherry-tree, and a man, whose hair was combed over his brow, whose step was slow, whose eyes appeared to seek commune with Heaven, killed that bird, and then devoured all the cherries. A little of that red fruit would have served the singing-bird for the length of a long summer's day, and it could have sung to its mate till, when the night came, they sheltered in each other's bosom; yet he, the man with the smooth hair and the holy eye, killed the small bird; but mark ye, sir, he ate the cherries, all, every one. Though I am as one lacking sense, and only a serving Jew, I trow he lacked charity!"

"Uncle," whispered the page, creeping up to his ear, "can this man be indeed a Jew? He hath a blue eye and an English tongue; and surely not an Israelitish heart; see that he deceive us not."

"My dear boy, peace," said the simple yet learned Doctor; "let the wisdom of this poor child of Israel teach thee to be more humble-minded; for, look ye, who might not profit by his words?"

The excellent man would have spoken much more to our friend Robin, who might not inaptly be likened to a dark-lantern, within which is much light, though it is only occasionally given forth; but on the instant Gracious Meanwell summoned him to appear before the Protector.

"The Lord deliver me! the Lord deliver me!" muttered Robin, as he followed his conductor past the silken barrier—"The Lord deliver me! for, of a truth, my head is now fairly in the lion's mouth."

The room into which he was ushered thus abruptly was hung with ancient tapestry, and furnished after the strangest fashion. Robin had little inclination to examine either its proportions or arrangements, but tremblingly followed until his guide paused with him opposite a long narrow table, at the further end of which, his hand resting upon a pile of books, stood the Protector—Oliver Cromwell.

It was impossible to look upon him without feeling that he was a man born to command and to overthrow. His countenance, though swollen and reddish, was marked and powerful, and his presence as lofty and majestic as if he had of right inherited the throne of England. However his enemies might have jested upon his personal appearance, and mocked the ruddiness of his countenance, and the unseemly wart that disfigured his broad, lofty, and projecting brow, they must have all trembled under the thunder of his frown: it was terrific, dark, and scowling, lighted up occasionally by the flashing of his fierce grey eye, but only so as to show its power still the more. His dress consisted of a doublet and vest of black velvet, carefully put on, and of a handsome fashion; a deep collar of the finest linen, embroidered and edged with lace, turned over his vest, and displayed to great advantage his firm and remarkably muscular throat. His hair, which seemed by that light as dark and luxuriant as it had been in his younger age, fell at either side, but was completely combed or pushed off his massive forehead. He looked, in very truth, a most strong man—strong in mind, strong in body, strong in battle, strong in council. There was no weakness about him, except that engendered by a warm imagination acting in concert with the deepest veneration, and which rendered him ever and unhappily prone to superstitious dreamings.