"They're there in their boat among the bushes that grow on the water's edge!" exclaimed Tayoga. "I ought to have thought of it, but I did see a movement among the bushes in time! I cannot see their faces or the boat, either, but I know it is Garay and the slaver."

"I have no weapon," said Robert. "It did not occur to me that I would need one."

"I have a pistol in my tunic. I always carry one when I am in the white man's country. It is wise."

"Under the circumstances, I think we'd better slip away and leave the spy and the slaver to enjoy the river as they please, for to-night at least."

He was about to rise, but Tayoga pulled him down a second time and a report heavier than the first came from the far shore. Another bullet passed over their heads and struck with a sough in the trunk of a big tree beyond them.

"That was from a rifle. The other was from a pistol," said Tayoga. "It is the slaver, of course, who has the rifle, and they mean to make it very warm for us. Perhaps an unexpected chance gives them hope to do here what they expected to achieve later on."

"Meaning a final disposition of me?"

"That was in my mind, Dagaeoga. I think it is you at whom they will shoot and you would better creep away. Lie almost flat and edge along until you come to the trees, which are about twenty yards behind us. There, you will be safe."

"And leave you alone, Tayoga! What have I ever done to make you think I'd do such a thing?"

"It is not Tayoga whom they want. It is Dagaeoga. I cannot go without taking a shot at them, else my pistol would burn me inside my tunic. Be wise as I am, Dagaeoga. Always carry a pistol when you are in the white man's towns. Life is reasonably safe only in the red man's forest."

"It looks as if you were right, Tayoga, but remember that I stay here with you as long as you stay."

"Then keep close to the earth. Roll back a bit and you will be sheltered better by that little rise."

Robert obeyed, and it was well that he did so, as the heavy rifle cracked a second time, and a plowing bullet caused fine particles of earth to fly over him. Tayoga leveled his pistol at the flash and smoke, but did not pull the trigger.

"Why didn't you fire, Tayoga?" asked Robert.

"I could not see well enough. They and their boat are still hidden by the bushes in which they remain, because from there they can command the bank where we lie."

"Then it looks as if each side held the other. If they come out of the bushes you use your pistol on 'em, and if we retreat farther they use their rifle on us. You'll notice, Tayoga, that we're in a little dip, and if we go out of it on our far side in retreat we'll make a target of ourselves. If they leave the bushes on their far side to climb their own bank they come into view. It's checkmate for both."

"It is so, Dagaeoga. It is a difficult position for you, but not for me. We of the red races learn to have patience, because we are not in such a hurry to consume time as you white people are."

"That is true, but it is not a moment for a discussion of the relative merits of white and red."

"We are likely to have plenty of leisure for it, since I think we are doomed to a long wait."

"I think you're happy over it, Tayoga. Your voice has a pleased ring."

"I'm not unhappy. I see a chance to gratify a curiosity that I have long had. I wish to see whether the white race, even in great danger, where it is most needed, has as much patience as the red. Ah, Dagaeoga, you were incautious! Do not raise your head again. You, at least, do not have as much patience as the occasion requires."

The third bullet had passed so near Robert that cold shivers raced over his body and he resolved not to raise his head again a single inch, no matter what the temptation.

"Remember that it is you whom they want," said Tayoga in his precise, book English. "Having the rifle they can afford to try shots at longer range, but with the pistol I must wait until I can see them clearly. Well, Dagaeoga, it is a fine evening, not too cold, we need fresh air after a big supper, and perhaps one could not find a pleasanter place in which to pass the night."

"You mean that we may lie here until day?"

"Dagaeoga speaks as if that would be remarkable. My father waited once three days and three nights beside a run to obtain a deer. He neither ate nor drank during that time, but he went home with the deer. If he could wait so long for something to eat, cannot we wait as long when our lives are at stake?"

"According to the laws of proportion we should be willing to stay here a week, at least. Can you see anything moving in the bushes over there, Tayoga?"

"Not a thing. They too are patient men, the slaver and the spy, and having missed several times with the rifle they will bide a while, hoping that we will expose ourselves."

The Onondaga settled himself comfortably against the earth, his pistol lying on the little rise in front of him, over which his eyes watched the clump of bushes into which the boat had gone. If the slaver and the spy made any attempt to slip forth, whether on the water or up the bank, he would certainly see them, and he would not withhold the pressure of his finger on the trigger.

The full moon still shone down, clothing the world in a beautiful silver light. The stars in myriads danced in a sky of soft, velvety blue. The river flowed in an illuminated, molten mass. A light wind hummed a pleasant song among the brown leaves. Robert had a curious feeling of rest and safety. He was quite sure that neither the slaver nor the spy could hit him while he lay in the dip, and no movement of theirs would escape the observation of Tayoga, the incomparable sentinel. He relaxed, and, for a few moments, his faculties seemed to fall into a dreamy state.

"If I should go to sleep, Tayoga," he said, "wake me up when you need me."

"You will not go to sleep."

"How do you know? I feel a lot like it."

"It is because the worry you felt a little while ago has passed. You believe that in this duel of patience we shall conquer."

"I know that we'll conquer, Tayoga, because you are here."

"Dagaeoga's flattery is not subtle."

"It's not flattery. It's my real belief."

The night wore on. The breeze that rustled the leaves was warm and soothing, and Robert's sleepiness increased. But he fought against it. He used his will and brought his body roughly to task, shaking himself violently. He also told himself over and over again that they were in a position of great danger, that he must be on guard, that he must not leave the duty to the Onondaga alone. Such violent efforts gradually drove sleep away, and raising his head a few inches he looked over the rise.

The whole surface of the river still showed clearly in the moonlight, as it flowed slowly and peacefully on, silver in tint most of the time, but now and then disclosing shades of deep blue. Directly opposite was the clump of bushes in which the slaver and the spy had pushed their boat. An easy shot for a rifle, but a hard one for a pistol.

Robert studied the bushes very closely, trying to discern their enemies among them, but he saw nothing there save a slight movement of the leaves before the wind. It was possible that his foes had slipped away, going up the other bank in some manner unseen. Since he could discover no trace of them he began to believe that it was true, and he raised his head another inch for a better look.

Crack! went the rifle, and the bullet sang so close to his face that at first he thought he was hit. He stared for a moment at the puff of smoke rising from the bushes, his faculties in a daze. Then he came to himself all at once and dropped back abruptly, feeling his head gingerly to see that it was sound everywhere. But he was certain that the slaver and the spy were there.

"Dagaeoga was rash," said the Onondaga.

"I know now I was. Still, I feel much relief because I've settled a problem that was troubling me."

"What was it?"

"I wasn't sure that our enemies were still there. Now I am."

"If you feel like it yet, I think you may go to sleep. Nothing is likely to happen for a long time, and I can awaken you at any moment."

"Thank you, Tayoga, but I've banished the wish. I know I can't do anything without a weapon, but I can give you moral help. They're bound to try something sometime or other, because when the day comes other people may arrive—we're not so far from Albany—and they're guilty, we're not. We don't mind being seen."

"It is so, Dagaeoga. You talk almost like a man. At times you reason well. Finding that we are as patient as they are they will make a movement in an hour or two, though I think we are not likely to see it."

"An hour or two? Then I think I'd better make myself comfortable again."

He settled his body against the brown turf which was soft and soothing, and, in spite of himself, the wish for sleep returned. It was so quiet that one was really invited to go away to slumberland, and then he had eaten much at the big supper. After a long time, he was sinking into a doze when he was dragged back abruptly from it by a report almost at his ear that sounded like the roar of a cannon. He sat up convulsively, and saw Tayoga holding in his hand a smoking pistol.

"Did you hit anything?" he asked.

"I saw a stir in the bushes over there," replied the Onondaga, "and fired into them. I do not think my bullet found its target, but we will wait. I have ammunition in my pocket, and meanwhile I will reload."

He put in the powder and ball, still keeping an eye on the bushes. He waited a full half hour and then he handed the pistol to Robert.

"Watch, and use it if need be," he said, "while I swim over and get the boat."

"Get the boat! What are you talking about, Tayoga? Has the moon struck you with a madness?"

"Not at all, Dagaeoga. The slaver and the spy are gone, leaving behind them the boat which they could not take with them, and we might as well have it."

"Are you sure of what you are saying?"

"Quite sure, Dagaeoga. But for precaution's sake you can watch well with the pistol and cover my approach."

He thrust the weapon into Robert's hand, quickly threw off his clothing and sprang into the water, swimming with strong strokes toward the dense, high bushes that lined the opposite shore. Robert watched the lithe, brown figure cleave the water, disappear in the bushes and then reappear a moment or two later, rowing a boat. All had fallen out as the Onondaga had said, and he quickly came back to the western side.

"It is a good boat," he said, "a trophy of our victory, and we will use it. Take the oars, Dagaeoga, while I put on my clothes again. Our long wait is over."

Robert sprang into the boat, while Tayoga, standing upon the bank, shook himself, making the drops fly from him in a shower.

"Which way did they go?" asked Robert.

"They crept down the stream among the bushes between the water and the cliff. They could force their bodies that way but not the boat. I felt sure they had gone after my pistol shot, because I saw some of the bushes moving a little against the wind farther down the stream. It was proof. Besides, they had to go, knowing that day would soon be here."

He reclothed himself and stepped back into the boat, taking up the second pair of oars.

"Let us return to Albany in triumph by the river," he said.

"You think there is no danger of our being fired upon from ambush?"

"None at all. The slaver and spy will be anxious to get away and escape observation. They would be glad enough to shoot at us, but they would never dare to risk it."

"And so ours has been the triumph. Once more we've been victorious over our enemies, Tayoga."

"But they will strike again, and Dagaeoga must beware."

They rowed into the middle of the river and dropped slowly down the stream. Robert had so much confidence in the Onondaga that he felt quite safe for the present at least. It seemed to his sanguine temperament that as they had escaped every danger in the past so they would escape every one in the future. He was naturally a child of hope, in which he was fortunate.

The gray skies broke away in the east, and the dawn was unrolled, a blaze of rose and gold. The surface of the river glittered in the morning sun. The houses of Albany stood out sharp and clear in the first light of the morning.

"They'll be anxious about us at Mr. Huysman's," said Robert.

"So they will," said Tayoga. "As I have said to you before, Dagaeoga, it will be wise for us to return to the wilderness as soon as we can. The red man's forest still seems to be safer than the white man's town."

They reached Albany, tied up the boat, and walked in the early dawn to the house of Mynheer Jacobus Huysman, where Caterina met them at the door with a cry of joy. Master Jacobus appeared in a few moments, his face showing great relief.

"Where have you lads been?" he exclaimed.

"We have been in much danger," replied Robert soberly, "but we're out of it now, and here we are."

The others, all of whom had lain down fully dressed, came soon, and Robert told the story of the night, beginning with the spy's attempt upon the third drawer in the chest of drawers. Mr. Huysman and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

"That drawer does contain papers of value," said Mr. Huysman, "but I'll see that they're put to-day in a place into which no thief can break."

"And it would perhaps be well for young Mr. Lennox also to keep himself in a safe place," said Mr. Hervey, who had spent the night too in Mr. Huysman's house. "It seems that a most determined effort is being made against him."

"Thank you, sir, for your interest in me," said Robert, "and I'll do my best to be cautious."

He ate a hearty breakfast and then, on the insistence of Master Jacobus, lay down. Declaring that he would not sleep, he fell asleep nevertheless in ten minutes, and did not awake until the afternoon. He learned then that Albany was feeling better. Many of the rumors that Montcalm was advancing had been quieted. Scouts brought word that he was yet at Lake Champlain, and that he had not given any sign of marching upon Albany.

Robert learned also that the council in Mr. Huysman's house had been to take measures of offense as well as defense. Alan Hervey spoke for the leading men of New York and he was to tell Albany for them that they would make a mighty effort. A campaign had been lost, but another would be undertaken at once, and it would be won. They had no doubt that Boston, Baltimore and Charleston were doing the same. The strong men of the Colonies intended to assure England of their staunch support, and the English-speaking race not dreaming perhaps even then that it was to become such a mighty factor in the world, would fight to the bitter end for victory.

"I go back by sloop to New York to-morrow," said Mr. Hardy to him, "and of course Jonathan Pillsbury goes with me. There are important affairs of which I must speak to you some day, Robert, and believe me, my lad, I do not speak of them to you now because the reasons are excellent. I know you've borne yourself bravely in many dangers, and I know you will be as strong of heart in others to come. I'm sorry I have to go away without seeing Willet, but you could not be in safer hands than his."

"And I know, too," said Robert earnestly, "that I could have no better friend than you, Mr. Hardy, nor you, Mr. Pillsbury."

He spoke with the frank sincerity that always made such an appeal to everybody, and Mr. Hardy patted him approvingly on the shoulder.

"And don't forget me, Mr. Lennox," said Mr. Hervey. "I want you to be my guest in New York some day. We live in tremendous times, and so guard yourself well."

They left with a favoring breeze and the swift sloop that bore them was soon out of sight. Robert, Tayoga, Mr. Huysman and Master McLean, who had seen them off, walked slowly back up the hill to Mr. Huysman's house.

"I feel that they brought us new courage," said Master Jacobus. "New York iss a great town, a full equal to Boston, though they are very unlike, and do not forget, Robert, that the merchants and financiers have much to say in a vast war like this which is vexing the world to-day."

"I do not forget it, sir," said Robert. "I have seen New York and its wealth and power. They say that it has nearly twenty thousand inhabitants—and some day I hope to see London too. Lieutenant Grosvenor is coming. Can we stop and speak to him?"

"Of course, my lad, but Master Alexander and I have pressing business and you will pardon us if we go on. If Lieutenant Grosvenor will come to my house as my guest bring him, and tell him to stay as long as he will."

"That I will, sir, and gladly," said Robert, as he and Tayoga turned aside to meet the young Englishman.

The meeting had all the warmth of youth and of real liking. Grosvenor was fully restored now and his intense interest in everything that was happening was undiminished. They strolled on together. Robert and Tayoga did not say anything for the present about their adventure of the preceding night with the slaver and the spy, but Robert delivered the invitation of Master Jacobus.

"If you can get leave come and stay a while with us in the house of Mr. Huysman," he said. "He bids me give you a most hospitable welcome, and when he says a thing he means not only what he says but a good deal more, too. You'll have a fine bed and you may have to eat more than you can well stand."

"It appeals to me," said Grosvenor, "and I'd come, but I'm leaving Albany in a day or two."

"Leaving Albany! I suppose I shouldn't ask where you're going."

"I'll tell you without the asking. I'm going with some other officers to Boston, where we're to await orders. Between you and me, Lennox, I think we shall take a sea voyage from Boston, maybe to Nova Scotia."

"And that, I think, indicates a new expedition from England and a new attack upon Canada and the French, but from another point. It's like the shadow of great events."

"It seems so to me, too. Come with us, Lennox. All your friends have got into the Royal Americans, and I think they too are going east. We could raise enough influence to secure you a lieutenant's commission."

Robert's heart swelled, but he shook his head.

"You tempt me, Grosvenor," he said. "I'd like to go. I think you and the others will be in the thick of great events, but I could never desert Tayoga and Willet. I feel that my business, whatever it is, is here. But we may meet on the front again, though we'll come by different routes."

"If you can't you can't, and that's an end of it, but I'm glad, Lennox, that I've known you and Tayoga and Willet, and that we've shared perils. I'm to meet the Philadelphians and the Virginians at the George Inn again. Will you two come on?"

"Gladly," said Robert.

They found that the others had already arrived, and they were full of jubilation. Colden, Wilton and Carson were leaving their troop with regret, but the Royal Americans raised in the Colonies were a picked regiment ranking with the best of the British regulars. Stuart and Cabell, coming from the south, which was now more remote from the scene of war, were delighted at the thought that they would be in the heart of the conflict. They, too, were insistent that Robert come with them, but again he refused. When he and Tayoga left them and walked back to the house of Mr. Huysman the Onondaga said:

"Dagaeoga was right to stay. His world is centered here."

"That's so. I feel it in every bone of me. Besides, I'm thinking that we'll yet have to deal with Garay and that slaver. I'll be glad though when Willet comes. Then we can decide upon our next step."

Robert was too active to stay quietly at the house of Mr. Huysman. Only their host, Tayoga and he were present at their supper that evening, and, as the man was rather silent, the lads respected his preoccupation, believing that he was concerned with the great affairs in which he was having a part. After supper Tayoga left for the camp on the flats to see an Onondaga runner who had arrived that day, and Mr. Huysman, still immersed in his thoughts, withdrew into the room containing the great chest of drawers.

Robert spent a little while in the chamber that he and Tayoga had used, looking at the old, familiar things, and then he wandered restlessly outside, where he stood, glancing down at the lights of the town. He felt lonely for the moment. Everybody else was doing something, and he liked to be with people. Perhaps some of his friends had come to the George Inn. A light was burning there and he would go and see.

There was a numerous company at the inn, but it included nobody that Robert knew, and contenting himself with a look from the doorway, he turned back. Then the masts and spars in the river, standing up a black tracery against the clear, moonlit sky, interested him, and he walked casually to the bank. Some activity was still visible on the vessels, but tiring of them soon he turned away.

It was dark on the shore, but Robert started violently. If fancy were not playing tricks with him he saw the shadow of Garay once more. The figure had appeared about twenty yards ahead of him and then it was gone. Robert was filled with fierce anger that the man should show such brazen effrontery, and impulsively he pursued. Profiting by his experience with the spy, he now had a pistol in his pocket, and clutching the butt of it he hurried after the elusive shadow.

He caught a second glimpse. It was surely Garay, and he was running along the shore, up the stream.

Robert's anger rose by leaps. The spy's presumption was beyond all endurance, but he would make him pay for it this time. He drew his pistol that he might be ready should Garay turn and attack, though he did not believe that he would do so, and sped after him. But always the shadow flitted on before, and the distance between them did not seem to diminish.

They soon left all houses behind, although Robert, in his excitement, did not notice it, and then he saw that at last he was gaining.

"Stop, Garay! Stop, or I shoot!" he cried.

The spy halted, and Robert, covering him with his pistol, was about to approach when he heard a step behind him. He whirled, but it was too late. A stunning weight crashed down upon his head, and he fell into oblivion.



CHAPTER IV

OUT TO SEA

When Robert came back from the far country in which he had been dwelling, for a little space, he looked into a long face, with eyes set close and a curved nose. He was dimly conscious that it was a familiar countenance, but he could not yet remember where he had seen it before, because he could not concentrate his thoughts. His head was heavy and aching. He knew that he lived, but he did not know much more.

The staring face was distinctly unpleasant and menacing. He gazed into it, trying to recall the owner, but the effort was still too great. Then he became conscious that he was lying upon his back and that he was moving. Trees on his right and trees on his left, some distance away, were filing past. Two men on each side were pulling hard on oars, and then it slowly entered his mind that he was in a boat.

He made another and stronger effort to gather up his wandering faculties and then he realized with a jerk that the face looking into his was that of the slaver. Making a supreme effort he sat up. The slaver laughed.

"So, Peter Smith," he said, "you've decided to come back a second time. I knew that you couldn't stay away always from such a good, kind captain as I am. I saw the light of welcome in your eyes when we met so unexpectedly at the George Inn, and I decided that it was only a question of time until you came into my service again."

Robert stared at him. His mind, which would not work hitherto, recovered its power with great suddenness. All his faculties were keen and alert, and they cooerdinated smoothly and perfectly. He had been trapped. He had been struck from behind, while he pursued Garay with such eagerness. He had been careless, and once more he was in the power of the slaver. And there was the spy, too, in the prow of the boat, with his back to him, but that very back seemed to express insolent triumph. He felt a great sinking of the heart, but in a few moments recalled his courage. His was a spirit that could not be crushed. His head still ached and he was a prisoner, but his courage was invincible, and he put on a light manner.

"Yes, I've come back," he said. "You see, Captain, there are some things concerning you of which I'm not sure, and I couldn't part from you permanently until I learned them."

"I'm glad of it, Peter. You've an inquiring mind, I know, and you'll have plenty of opportunity to learn everything about me. We're likely to be together for quite a while."

Robert looked around. He was in a long boat, and there were four oarsmen, stout fellows, rough of looks and with hangers and pistols in their belts. Garay and the captain completed the party, and both the slaver and the spy were armed heavily. He saw that he had no earthly chance of escape at present, and he resigned himself for the moment. The slaver read his look.

"I'm glad, Peter," he said, "that you've given up the thought of leaving us that was flitting around in your head a minute or two ago. You're in a better state of mind now, and it was not possible anyway. Nor will there be any storm to send you away from me again. A chance like that wouldn't happen once in a hundred times. I suppose you understand where you are."

"I'm in a boat a few miles above Albany, and I think that before long you'll turn and go back down the stream."

"Why, Peter?"

"Because there's nothing for you to go to up the stream. If you kept on you'd arrive in the Indian country, and I doubt whether that's any part of your plan."

"Clever, Peter, clever! and well reasoned. I see that your intellect's as good as ever. You must rise above the place of a common seaman. When you're a little older there's a mate's berth for you."

Garay turned for the first time, and his malignant look of triumph was not veiled at all.

"You and Willet and the Indian thought you were very clever there in the forest when you compelled me to tell where the paper was hid," he said, "but you forgot that I might make repayment. We've taken you out of Albany from the very center of your friends, and you'll never see them again."

"Theatricals! theatricals!" said Robert, preserving his gay manner, though his heart was low within him. "A cat has nine lives, but I have ten. I've been twice a prisoner of the French, and my presence here is proof that I escaped both times. When I tire of your society and that of the captain I'll leave you."

"No quarreling! no quarreling!" said the slaver. "I never allow it among my men. And now, Peter, I must insure your silence for a little while."

Two of the men who were rowing dropped their oars, seized him, bound and gagged him. He struggled at first against the indignity, but, soon realizing its futility, lay inert on the bottom of the boat.

"Good judgment, Peter," said the slaver, looking down at him. "It's never wise to struggle against a certainty. You've the makings of a fine officer in you."

The two resumed their oars, and the boat, turning abruptly, as Robert had surmised it would, went down the stream. The men ceased to talk and the lad on his back looked up at the sky in which but few stars twinkled. Heavy clouds floated past the moon, and the night was darkening rapidly. Once more his heart sank to the uttermost depths, and it had full cause to do so. For some reason he had been pursued with singular malice and cunning, and now it seemed that his enemies were triumphant. Tayoga could trail him anywhere on land, but water left no trail. He was sure that his captors would keep to the river.

The speed of the boat increased with the efforts of the rowers and the favor of the current. Soon it was opposite Albany and then the men rowed directly to a small schooner that lay at anchor, having come up the stream the day before. Robert was lifted on board and carried into the depths of the vessel, where they took out the gag and put him on the floor. The captain held a lantern over him and said:

"Garay is telling you good-bye, Peter. He's sorry he can't go with us, but he'll be having business on the Canadian frontier. He feels that the score is about even with you for that business of the letter in the forest, and that later on he'll attend also to the hunter and the Onondaga."

"And I wish you a pleasant life on the West Indian plantations," said Garay. "They still buy white labor there in both the French and British islands. It does not matter to me to which the captain sells you, for in either case it means a life of hard labor in the sugar cane. Few ever escape, and you never will."

Robert turned quite sick. So this was the plan. To sell him into slavery in the West Indies. Kidnapping was not at all uncommon then in both the Old World and the New, and they seemed to have laid their plans well. As the slaver had said, there was not one chance in a hundred of another storm. Again the captain read his mind.

"You don't like the prospect," he said, "and I'll admit myself that it's not a cheerful one. I've changed my opinion of you, Peter. I thought you'd make a fine sailor and that you might become a mate some day, but I've seen a light. You're not a good sailor at all. The stuff's not in you. But you're strong and hearty and you'll do well in the sugar cane. If the sun's too hot and your back bends too much just reflect that for a white man it's not a long life and your troubles will be over, some day."

Robert's old indomitable spirit flamed up.

"I never expect to see a West Indian plantation, not on this journey, at least," he said. "You and that miserable spy boast that you took me out of the very center of my friends, and I tell you in reply that if I have enemies who follow me I also have friends who are truer in their friendship than you are in your hate, and they'll come for me."

"That's the spirit. I never heard another lad sling words in the noble fashion you do. You'll live a deal longer on the plantations than most of 'em. Now, Garay, I think you can go. It will be the last farewell for you two."

The exulting spy left the close little place, and Robert felt that a breath of hate went with him. His feet disappeared up a narrow little stair, and the slaver cut the cords that bound Robert.

"You'll be locked in here," he said, "and it's not worth while to damage good property by keeping it tied up too long."

"That's so," said Robert, trying to preserve a light manner. "You want to keep me strong and active for the work on the plantations. A white slave like a black one ought to be in good health."

The captain laughed. He was in high humor. Robert knew that he felt intense satisfaction because he was taking revenge for his mortification when he was defeated in the duel with swords before his own men by a mere boy. Evidently that would rankle long with one of the slaver's type.

"I'm glad to see you recognize facts so well, Peter," he said. "I see that you've an ambition to excel on the plantations, perhaps to be the best worker. Now, Garay, telling me of that little adventure of his in the forest with the hunter, the Indian and you, wanted me to be very careful about your rations, to put you on a sparing diet, so to speak. He thought it would be best not to let you have anything to eat for two or three days. His idea rather appealed to me, too, but, on the other hand, I couldn't impair your value, and so I decided against him."

"I'm not hungry," said Robert.

"No, but you will be. You're young and strong, and that wound on your head where I had to hit you with the butt of my pistol doesn't amount to much."

Robert put up his hands, felt of the back of his head, where the ache was, and found that the hair was matted together by congealed blood. But he could tell that the hurt was not deep.

"I'll leave you now," said the slaver in the same satisfied tone, "and I hope you'll enjoy the voyage down the river. There's a good wind blowing and we start in a half hour."

He went out, taking the lantern with him, and bolted the door heavily behind him. Then Robert felt despair for a while. It was much worse to be a prisoner on the ship than in the French camp or in the village of the partisan, Langlade. There he had been treated with consideration and the fresh winds of heaven blew about him, but here he was shut up in a close little hole, and his captors rejoiced in his misery.

It was quite dark in the tiny galley, and the only air that entered came from a small porthole high over a bunk. He stood upon the bank and brought his face level with the opening. It was not more than four inches across, but he was able to inhale a pure and invigorating breeze that blew from the north, and he felt better. The pain in his head was dying down also, and his courage, according to its habit, rose fast. In a character that nature had compounded of optimistic materials hope was always a predominant factor.

He could see nothing through the porthole save a dark blur, but he heard the creaking of cordage and the slatting of sails. He did not doubt that the slaver had told the truth when he said the schooner would soon start, and there was no possibility of escaping before then. Nevertheless, he tried the door, but could not shake it. Then he went back to the porthole for the sake of the air, and, because, if he could not have freedom for himself, he could at least see a little way into the open world.

The creaking of cordage and slatting of sails increased, he felt the schooner heave and roll beneath him, and then he knew that they were leaving Albany. It was the bitterest moment of his life. To be carried away in that ignominious manner, from the very center of his friends, from a town in which he had lived, and that he knew so well was a terrible blow to his pride. For the moment apprehension about the future was drowned in mortification.

He heard heavy footsteps overhead, and the sound of commands, and the schooner began to move. He continued to stand on the bunk, with his eyes at the porthole. He was able to see a dark shore, moving past, slowly at first and then faster. The dim outlines of houses showed and he would have shouted for help, but he knew that it was impossible to make any one hear, and pride restrained.

The blurred outlines of the houses ceased and Albany was gone. Doubtless the schooner had appeared as an innocent trader with the proper licenses, and the slaver, having awaited its arrival, had come on ahead to the town. He was compelled to admit the thoroughness of the plan, and the skill with which it had been carried out, but he wondered anew why so much trouble had been taken in regard to him, a mere lad.

He stood at the porthole a long time, and the wind out of the north rose steadily. He heard its whistle and he also heard the singing of men above him. He knew that the schooner was making great speed down the stream and that Albany and his friends were now far behind. As the wise generally do, he resigned himself to inevitable fate, wasting no strength in impossible struggles, but waiting patiently for a better time. There was a single blanket on the hard bunk, and, lying down on it, he fell asleep.

When he awoke, day shining through the porthole threw a slender bar of light across the floor, which heaved and slanted, telling that the wind out of the north still blew strong and true. An hour later the door was opened and a sailor brought a rude breakfast on a tin plate. While he was eating it, and hunger made everything good, the slaver came in.

"You'll see, Peter, that I did not put you on the diet suggested by Garay," he said. "I'm at least a kind man and you ought to thank me for all I'm doing for you."

"For any kindness of yours to me I'm grateful," said Robert. "We're apt to do unto people as they do unto us."

"Quite a young philosopher, I see. You'll find such a spirit useful on the West India plantations. My heart really warms to you, Peter. I'd let you go on deck as we're running through good scenery now, but it's scarcely prudent. We'll have to wait for that until we pass New York and put out to sea. I hope you don't expect it of me, Peter?"

"No, I don't look for it. But if you don't mind I'd like to have a little more breakfast."

"A fine, healthy young animal, so you are! And you shall have it, too."

He called the sailor who brought a second helping and Robert fell to. He was really very hungry and he was resolved also to put the best possible face on the matter. He knew he would need every ounce of his strength, and he meant to nurse it sedulously.

"When do you expect to reach New York?" he asked.

"To-morrow some time, if the wind holds fair, but we won't stay there long. A few hours only to comply with the port regulations, and then ho! for the West Indies! It's a grand voyage down! And splendid islands! Green mountains that seem to rise straight up out of the sea! While you're working in the cane fields you can enjoy the beautiful scenery, Peter."

Robert was silent. The man's malice filled him with disgust. Undoubtedly the slaver had felt intense chagrin because of his former failure and his defeat in the duel of swords before his own men, but then one should not exult over a foe who was beaten for the time. He felt a bitter and intense hatred of the slaver, and, his breakfast finished, he leaned back, closing his eyes.

"So you do not wish to talk, but would meditate," said the man. "Perhaps you're right, but, at any rate, you'll have plenty of time for it."

When he went out Robert heard the heavy lock of the tiny room shove into place again, and he wasted no further effort in a new attempt upon it. Instead, he lay down on the bunk, closed his eyes and tried to reconcile himself, body and mind, to his present situation. He knew that it was best to keep quiet, to restrain any mental flutterings or physical quivers. Absolute calm, if he could command it, was good for the soul, placed as he was, and the mere act of lying still helped toward that. It was what Tayoga would do if he were in his place, and, spurred by a noble emulation, he resolved that he would not be inferior to the Onondaga.

An hour, two hours passed and he did not stir. His stillness made his hearing more acute. The trampling of feet over his head came to him with great distinctness. He heard the singing of wind at the porthole, and, now and then, the swish of waters as they swept past the schooner. He wondered what Tayoga was doing and what would Willet think when he came back to Albany and found him gone. It gave him a stab of agony. His pride was hurt, too, that he had been trapped so thoroughly. Then his resolution returned to his aid. Making a supreme effort of his will, he dismissed the thought, concentrating his mind on hope. Would Tayoga's Manitou help him? Would Tododaho on his remote star look down upon him with kindness? The Onondaga in his place would put his faith in them, and the Manitou of the Indian after all was but another name for his own Christian God. Resolving to hope he did hope. He refused to believe that the slaver could make him vanish from the face of the earth like a mist before the wind.

The air in the little cabin was dense and heavy already, but after a while he felt it grow thicker and warmer. He was conscious, too, of a certain sultriness in it. The tokens were for a storm. He thought with a leap of the heart of the earlier storm that had rescued him, but that was at sea; this, if it came, would be on a river, and so shrewd a captain as the slaver would not let himself be wrecked in the Hudson.

The heat and sultriness increased. Then he stood on the bunk and looked through the porthole. He caught glimpses of lofty shores, trees at the summit, and stretches of a dark and angry sky. Low thunder muttered, rolling up from the west. Then came flashes of lightning, and the thunder grew louder. By and by the wind blew heavily, making the schooner reel before it, and when it died somewhat rain fell in sheets.

Although he felt it rather than saw it, Robert really enjoyed the storm. It seemed a tonic to him, and the wilder it was the steadier grew his own spirit. The breath of the rain as it entered the porthole was refreshing, and the air in the cabin became clear and cool again. Then followed the dark, and his second night in the schooner.

A sailor brought him his supper, the slaver failing to reappear, and soon afterward he fell asleep. He made no surmise where they were the next morning, as he had no way of gauging their speed during the night, but he was allowed to go about under guard below decks for an hour or two. The slaver came down the ladder and gave him the greetings of the day.

"You will see, Peter," he said, "that I'm a much kinder man than Garay. He would restrict your food, but I not only give you plenty of it, I also allow you exercise, very necessary and refreshing to youth. I'm sorry I'll have to shut you up again soon, but in the afternoon we'll reach New York, and I must keep you away from the temptations of the great town."

Robert would have given much to be allowed upon the deck and to look at the high shores, but he could not sink his pride enough to ask for the privilege, and, when the time came for him to return to his cell of a cabin he made no protest.

He felt the schooner stop late in the afternoon and he was sure that they had reached New York. He heard the dropping of the anchor, and then the sounds became much dimmer. The light in the cabin was suddenly shut off, and he realized that the porthole had been closed from the outside. They were taking no chances of a call for help, and he tried to resign himself.

But will could not control feelings now. To know that he was in New York and yet was absolutely helpless was more than he could bear. He had never really believed that the schooner could pass the port and put out to sea with him a prisoner. It had seemed incredible, one of the things not to be contemplated, but here was the event coming to pass. Mind lost control of the body. He threw himself upon the door, pulled at it, and beat it. It did not move an inch. Then he shouted again and again for help. There was no response.

Gradually his panic passed, and ashamed of it he threw himself once more upon the bunk, where he tried to consider whatever facts were in his favor. It was certain they were not trying to take his life; had they wished they could have done that long ago, and while one lived one was never wholly lost. It was a fact that he would remember through everything and he would pin his faith to it.

He slept, after a while, and he always thought afterwards that the foul, dense air of the cabin added a kind of stupor to sleep. When he came out of it late the next day he was conscious of an immense heaviness in the head and of a dull, apathetic feeling. He sat up slowly and painfully as if he were an old man. Then he noticed that the porthole was open again, but, judging from the quality of the air in the cabin, it had not been open long.

So the slaver had been successful. He had stopped in the port of New York and had then put out to sea. Doubtless he had done so without any trouble. He was having his revenge in measure full and heaped over. Robert was bound to admit it, but he bore in mind that his own life was still in his body. He would never give up, he would never allow himself to be crushed.

He stood upon the bunk and put his eyes to the porthole, catching a view of blue water below and blue sky above, and the sea as it raced past showed that the vessel was moving swiftly. He heard, too, the hum of the strong wind in the rigging and the groaning timbers. It was enough to tell him that they were fast leaving New York behind, and that now the chances of his rescue upon a lone ocean were, in truth, very small. But once more he refused to despair.

He did not believe the slaver would keep him shut up in the cabin, since they were no longer where he could be seen by friends or those who might suspect, and his opinion was soon justified. In a half hour the door was opened by the man himself, who stood upon the threshold, jaunty, assured and triumphant.

"You can come on deck now, Peter," he said. "We've kept you below long enough, and, as I want to deliver you to the plantations strong and hearty, fresh air and exercise will do you good."

"I'll come willingly enough," said Robert, resolved to be jaunty too. "Lead the way."

The captain went up the ladder just outside the door and Robert followed him, standing at first in silence on the swaying deck and content to look at sky and ocean. How beautiful they were! How beautiful the world was to one who had been shut up for days in a close little room! How keen and sweet was the wind! And what a pleasant song the creaking of the ropes and the slatting of the sails made!

It was a brilliant day. The sun shone with dazzling clearness. The sea was the bluest of the blue. The wind blew steady and strong. Far behind them was a low line of land, showing but dimly on the horizon, and before them was the world of waters. Robert balanced himself on the swaying deck, and, for a minute or two, he enjoyed too much the sensation of at least qualified freedom to think of his own plight. While he stood there, breathing deeply, his lungs expanding and his heart leaping, the slaver who had gone away, reappeared, saluting him with much politeness.

"Look back, Peter," he said, "and you can get your last glimpse of your native soil. The black line that just shows under the sky is Sandy Hook. We won't see any more land for days, and you'll have a fine, uninterrupted voyage with me and my crew."

Robert in this desperate crisis of his life resolved at once upon a course of action. He would not show despair, he would not sulk, he would so bear himself and with such cheerfulness and easy good nature that the watch upon him might be relaxed somewhat, and the conditions of his captivity might become less hard. It was perhaps easier for him than for another, with his highly optimistic nature and his disposition to be friendly. He kissed his hand to the black line on the horizon and said:

"I'm going now, but I'll come back. I always come back."

"That's the right spirit, Peter," said the slaver. "Be pleasant. Always be pleasant, say I, and you'll get along much better in the world. Things will just melt away before you."

Robert looked over the schooner. He did not know much about ships, but she seemed to him a trim and strong craft, carrying, as he judged, about thirty men. A long eighteen-pound cannon was mounted in her stern, but that was to be expected in war, and was common in peace also when one sailed into that nest of pirates, the West Indies. The slaver carried pistol and dirk in his belt, and those of the crew whom he could see were sturdy, hardy men. The slaver read his eyes:

"Yes, she's a fine craft," he said. "Able to fight anything of her size we're likely to meet, and fast enough to run away from them that's too big for her. You can see as much of her as you want to. So long as we've no neighbor on the ocean you've the run of the craft. But if you should want to leave you needn't try to tempt any of my men to help you. They wouldn't dare do it, and they wouldn't want to anyhow. All their interests are with me. I'm something of a deity to them."

The slaver went away and Robert walked about the narrow deck, standing at last by the rail, where he remained a long time. No one seemed to pay any attention to him. He was free to come and go as he pleased within the narrow confines of the schooner. But he watched the black line of land behind them until it was gone, and then it seemed to him that he was cut off absolutely from all the life that he had lived. Tayoga, Willet, Master Jacobus, all the good friends of his youth had disappeared over the horizon with the lost land.

It had been so sudden, so complete that it seemed to him it must have been done with a purpose. To what end had he been wrenched away from the war and sent upon the unknown ocean? His wilderness had been that of the woods and not of the waters. He had imbibed much of Tayoga's philosophy and at times, at least, he believed that everything moved forward to an appointed end. What was it now?

He left the low rail at last, and finding a stool sat down upon the deck. The schooner was going almost due south, and she was making great speed. The slaver's boast that she could run away from anything too strong for her was probably true, and Robert judged also that she carried plenty of arms besides the eighteen-pounder. Most of the crew seemed to him to be foreigners, that is, they were chiefly of the races around the Mediterranean. Dark of complexion, short and broad, some of them wore earrings, and, without exception, they carried dirks and now and then both pistols and dirks in their belts. He sought among them for the face of one who might be a friend, but found none. They were all hardened and sinister, and he believed that at the best they were smugglers, at the worst pirates.

A heavy dark fellow whom Robert took to be a Spaniard was mate and directed the task of working the vessel, the captain himself taking no part in the commands, but casting an occasional keen glance at the sailors as he strolled about. Robert judged that he was an expert sailor and a leader of men. In truth, he had never doubted his ability from the first, only his scruples, or, rather, he felt sure that he had none at all.

The policy of ignoring the prisoner, evidently by order, was carried out by the men. For all save the captain he did not exist, apparently, and the slaver himself took no further notice of him for several hours. Then, continuing his old vein, he spoke to him lightly, as if he were a guest rather than a captive.

"I see that you're improving in both mind and body, Peter," he said. "You've a splendid color in your cheeks and you look fine and hearty. The sea air is good for anybody and it's better for you to be here than in a town like Albany."

"Since I'm here," said Robert, "I'll enjoy myself as much as I can. I always try to make the best of everything."

"That's philosophical, and 'tis a surprisingly good policy for one so young."

Robert looked at him closely. His accent was that of an educated man, and he did not speak ungrammatically.

"I've never heard your name, captain," he said, "and as you know mine, I ought to know yours."

"We needn't mind about that now. Three-fourths of my men don't know my name, just calling me 'Captain.' And, at any rate, if I were to give it to you it wouldn't be the right one."

"I suspected as much. People who change their names usually do so for good reasons."

Color came into the man's sun-browned cheeks.

"You're a bold lad, Peter," he said, "but I'll admit you're telling the truth. I rather fancy you in some ways. If I felt sure of you I might take you with me on a voyage that will not be without profit, instead of selling you to a plantation in the Indies. But to go with me I must have your absolute faith, and you must agree to share in all our perils and achievements."

His meaning was quite plain, and might have tempted many another, thinking, in any event, to use it as a plan for escape, but Robert never faltered for a moment. His own instincts were always for the right, and long comradeship with Willet and Tayoga made his will to obey those instincts all the stronger.

"Thank you, Captain," he replied, "but I judge that your cruises are all outside the law, and I cannot go with you on them, at least, not willingly."

The slaver shrugged his shoulder.

"'Tis just as well that you declined," he said. "'Twas but a passing whim of mine, and ten minutes later I'd have been sorry for it had you accepted."

He shrugged his shoulders again, took a turn about the deck and then went down to his cabin. Robert, notified by a sailor, the first man on the schooner outside of the slaver to speak to him, ate supper with him there. The food was good, but the captain was now silent, speaking only a few times, and mostly in monosyllables. Near the end he said:

"You're to sleep in the room you've been occupying. The door will not be bolted on you, but I don't think you'll leave the ship. The nearest land is sixty or seventy miles away, and that's a long swim."

"I won't chance it," said Robert. "Just now I prefer solid timber beneath my feet."

"A wise decision, Peter."

After supper the slaver went about his duties, whatever they were, and Robert, utterly free so far as the schooner was concerned, went on deck. It was quite dark and the wind was blowing strong, but the ship was steady, and her swift keel cut the waters. All around him curved the darkness, and the loneliness of the sea was immense at that moment. It was in very truth a long swim to the land, and just then the thought of escape was far from him. He shivered, and going down to the little cabin that had been a prison, he soon fell asleep.



CHAPTER V

MUSIC IN THE MOONLIGHT

Several days passed and from the standpoint of the schooner the voyage was successful. The wind continued fresh and strong, and it came out of the right quarter. The days were clear, the sea was a dazzling color, shifting as the sky over it shifted. The slaver was in high good humor. His crew seemed to be under perfect control and went about their work mostly in silence. They rarely sang, as sailors sing, but Robert, watching them on spar or mast, although he knew little about ships, knew that they were good sailors. He realized, too, that the crew was very large for a vessel of its size, and he believed that he understood the reason.

As for himself, he felt a vast loneliness. It was incredible, but he was there on the schooner far from all he had known. The forest, in which he had lived and the war that had concerned the whole world had sunk out of sight beyond the horizon. And on the schooner he had made no acquaintance save the slaver. He knew that the mate was called Carlos, but he had not yet spoken to him. He tried his best to be cheerful, but there were times when despair assailed him in spite of all his courage and natural buoyancy.

"Better reconsider," said the slaver one day, catching the look upon his face. "As I've told you, Peter, the life on the plantations is hard and they don't last long, no matter how strong they are. There's peril in the life I lead, I'll admit, but at least there's freedom also. Sport's to be found among the islands, and along the Spanish Main."

"I couldn't think of it," said Robert.

"Well, it's the second time I've made you the offer, and the last. I perceive you're bent on a life in the sugar cane, and you'll have your wish."

Robert, seeing no chance of escape from the ship now, began to hope for rescue from without. It was a time of war and all vessels were more than commonly wary, but one might come at last, and, in some way he would give a signal for help. How he did not know, but the character of the schooner was more than doubtful, and he might be able, in some way, yet unsuggested, to say so to any new ship that came.

But the surface of the sea, so far as their own particular circle of it was concerned, was untroubled by any keel save their own. It was as lone and desolate as if they were the first vessel to come there. They fell into a calm and the schooner rocked in low swells but made no progress. The sun shone down, brassy and hot, and Robert, standing upon the deck, looked at the sails flapping idly above. Although it carried him farther and farther away from all for which he cared, he wished that the wind would rise. Nothing was more tedious than to hang there upon the surface of the languid ocean. The slaver read his face.

"You want us to go on," he said, "and so do I. For once we are in agreement. I'd like to make a port that I know of much sooner than I shall. The war has brought privateersmen into these seas, and there are other craft that any ship can give a wide berth."

"If the privateer should be British, or out of one of our American ports why should you fear her?" asked Robert.

"I'm answering no such questions except to say that in some parts of the world you're safer alone, and this is one of the parts."

The dead calm lasted two days and two nights, and it was like forever to Robert. When the breeze came at last, and the sails began to fill, new life flowed into his own veins, and hope came back. Better any kind of action than none at all, and he drew long breaths of relief when the schooner once more left her trailing wake in the blue sea. The wind blew straight and strong for a day and night, then shifted and a long period of tacking followed. It was very wearisome, but Robert, clinging to his resolution, made the best of it. He even joined in some of the labor, helping to polish the metal work, especially the eighteen-pounder in the stern, a fine bronze gun. The men tolerated him, but when he tried to talk with them he found that most of them had little or no English, and he made scant progress with them in that particular. The big first mate, Carlos, rebuffed him repeatedly, but he persisted, and in time the rebuffs became less brusque. He also noticed a certain softening of the sailors toward him. His own charm of manner was so great that it was hard to resist it when it was continuously exerted, and sailors, like other men, appreciate help when it is given to them continuously. The number of frowns for him decreased visibly.

He still ate at the captain's table, why he knew not, but the man seemed to fancy his company; perhaps there was no other on the schooner who was on a similar intellectual level, and he made the most of the opportunity to talk.

"Peter," he said, "you seem to have ingratiated yourself to a certain extent with my crew. I'm bound to admit that you're a personable young rascal, with the best manners I've met in a long time, but I warn you that you can't go far. You'll never win 'em over to your side, and be able to lead a mutiny which will dethrone me, and put you in command."

"I've no such plan in my mind," said Robert laughing. "I don't know enough about sailing to take command of the ship, and I'd have to leave everything to Carlos, whom I'd trust, on the whole, less than I do you."

"You're justified in that. Carlos is a Spaniard out of Malaga, where he was too handy with the knife, just as he has been elsewhere. Whatever I am, you're safer with me than you would be with Carlos, although he's a fine sailor and loyal to me."

"How long will it be before we make any of the islands?"

"It's all with the wind, but in any event it will be quite a while yet. It's a long run from New York down to the West Indies. Moreover, we may be blown out of our course at any time."

"Are we in the stormy latitudes?"

"We are. Hurricanes appear here with great suddenness. You noticed how hot it was to-day. We're to have another calm, and the still, intense heat is a great breeder of storms. I think one will come soon, but don't put any faith in its helping you, Peter. To be saved that way once is all the luck you can expect. If we were wrecked here you'd surely go down; it's too far from land."

"I'm not expecting another wreck, nor am I hoping for it," said Robert. "I'm thinking the land will be better for me. I'll make good my escape there. I've been uncommonly favored in that way. Once I escaped from you and twice from the French and Indians, so I think my future will hold good."

"Maybe it will, Peter. As resolute an optimist as you ought to succeed. If you escape after I deliver you to the plantation 'twill be no concern to me at all. On the whole I'm inclined to hope you will, for I'm rather beginning to like you, spite of all the trouble you've caused me and that time you beat me with the swords before my own men."

Robert's heart leaped up. Could the man be induced to relent in his plan, whatever it was? But his hope fell the next moment, when the slaver said:

"Though I tell you, Peter, I'm going to stick to my task. You'll be handed over to the plantation, whatever comes. After that, it's for others to watch you, and I rather hope you'll get the better of 'em."

The storm predicted by the slaver arrived within six hours, and it was a fearful thing. It came roaring down upon them, and the wind blew with such frightful violence that Robert did not see how they could live through it, but live they did. Both the captain and mate revealed great seamanship, and the schooner was handled so well and behaved so handsomely that she drove through it without losing a stick.

When the hurricane passed on the sea resumed its usual blue color, and, the dead, heavy heat gone, the air was keen and fresh. Robert, although he did not suffer from seasickness, had been made dizzy by the storm, and he felt intense relief when it was over.

"You'll observe, Peter," said the slaver, "that we're coming into regions of violence both on land and sea. You've heard many a tale of the West Indies. Well, they're all true, whatever they are, earthquakes, hurricanes, smugglers, pirates, wild Englishmen, Frenchmen, Americans, Spaniards, Portuguese, deeds by night that the day won't own, and the prize for the strongest. It's a great life, Peter, for those that can live it."

The close-set eyes flashed, and the nostrils dilated. Despite the apparent liking that the slaver had shown for him, Robert never doubted his character. Here was a man to whom the violent contrasts and violent life of the West Indian seas appealed. He wondered what was the present mission of the schooner, and he thought of the bronze eighteen-pounder, and of the dirks and pistols in the belts of the crew.

"I prefer the north," he said. "It's cooler there and people are more nearly even, in temper and life."

"Your life there has been in peril many times from the Indians."

"That's true, but I understand the Indians. Those who are my friends are my friends, and those who are my enemies are my enemies. I take it that in the West Indies you never know what change is coming."

"Correct, Peter, but it's all a matter of temperament. You like what you like, because you're made that way, and you can't alter it, but the West Indies have seen rare deeds. Did you ever hear of Morgan, the great buccaneer?"

"Who hasn't?"

"There was a man for you! No law but his own! Willing to sack the biggest and strongest cities on the Spanish Main and did it, too! Ah, Peter, 'twould have been a fine thing to have lived in his day and to have done what he did."

"I shouldn't care to be a pirate, no matter how powerful, and no matter how great the reward."

"Again it's just a matter of temperament. I'm not trying to change you, and you couldn't change me."

Came another calm, longer than the first. They hung about for days and nights on a hot sea, and captain and crew alike showed anxiety and impatience. The captain was continually watching the horizon with his glasses, and he talked to Robert less than usual. It was obvious that he felt anxiety.

The calm was broken just before nightfall. Dark had come with the suddenness of the tropic seas. There was a puff of wind, followed by a steady breeze, and the schooner once more sped southward. Robert, anxious to breathe the invigorating air, came upon deck, and standing near the mainmast watched the sea rushing by. The captain paused near him and said to Robert in a satisfied tone:

"It won't be long now, Peter, until we're among the islands, and it may be, too, that we'll see another ship before long. We've been on a lone sea all the way down, but you'll find craft among the islands."

"It might be a hostile vessel, a privateer," said Robert.

"It's not privateers of which I'm thinking."

The light was dim, but Robert plainly saw the questing look in his eyes, the look of a hunter, and he drew back a pace. This man was no mere smuggler. He would not content himself with such a trade. But he said in his best manner:

"I should think, captain, it was a time to avoid company, and that you would be better pleased with a lone sea."

"One never knows what is coming in these waters," said the slaver. "It may be that we shall have to run away, and I must not be caught off my guard."

But the look in the man's eyes did not seem to Robert to be that of one who wished to run away. It was far more the look of the hunter, and when the hulking mate, Carlos, passed near him his face bore a kindred expression. The sailors, too, were eager, attentive, watching the horizon, as if they expected something to appear there.

No attention was paid to Robert, and he remained on the deck, feeling a strong premonition that they were at the edge of a striking event, one that had a great bearing upon his own fate, no matter what its character might be.

The wind rose again, but it did not become a gale. It was merely what a swift vessel would wish, to show her utmost grace and best speed. The moon came out and made a silver sea. The long white wake showed clearly across the waters. The captain never left the deck, but continued to examine the horizon with his powerful glasses.

Robert, quick to deduce, believed that they were in some part of the sea frequented by ships in ordinary times and that the captain must be reckoning on the probability of seeing a vessel in the course of the night. His whole manner showed it, and the lad's own interest became so great that he lost all thought of going down to his cabin. Unless force intervened he would stay there and see what was going to happen, because he felt in every fiber that something would surely occur.

An hour, two hours passed. The schooner went swiftly on toward the south, the wind singing merrily through the ropes and among the sails. The captain walked back and forth in a narrow space, circling the entire horizon with his glasses at intervals seldom more than five minutes apart. It was about ten o'clock at night when he made a sharp, decisive movement, and a look of satisfaction came over his face. He had been gazing into the west and the lad felt sure that he had seen there that for which he was seeking, but his own eyes, without artificial help, were not yet able to tell him what it was.

The captain called the mate, speaking to him briefly and rapidly, and the sullen face of the Spaniard became alive. An order to the steersman and the course of the schooner was shifted more toward the west. It was evident to Robert that they were not running away from whatever it was out there. The slaver for the first time in a long while took notice of Robert.

"There's another craft in the west, Peter," he said, "and we must have a look at her. Curiosity is a good thing at sea, whatever it may be on shore. When you know what is near you you may be able to protect yourself from danger."

His cynical, indifferent air had disappeared. He was gay, anticipatory, as if he were going to something that he liked very much. The close-set eyes were full of light, and the thin lips curved into a smile.

"You don't seem to expect danger," said Robert. "It appears to me that you're thinking of just the opposite."

"It's because I've so much confidence in the schooner. If it's a wicked ship over there we'll just show her the fastest pair of heels in the West Indies."

He did not speak again for a full quarter of an hour, but he used the glasses often, always looking at the same spot on the western horizon. Robert was at last able to see a black dot there with his unassisted eyes, and he knew that it must be a ship.

"She's going almost due south," said the captain, "and in two hours we should overhaul her."

"Why do you wish to overhaul her?" asked Robert.

"She may be a privateer, a Frenchman, or even a pirate, and if so we must give the alarm to other peaceful craft like ourselves in these waters."

He raised the glasses again and did not take them down for a full five minutes. Meantime the strange ship came nearer. It was evident to Robert that the two vessels were going down the sides of a triangle, and if each continued on its course they would meet at the point.

The night was steadily growing brighter. The moon was at its fullest, and troops of new stars were coming out. Robert saw almost as well as by day. He was soon able to distinguish the masts and sails of the stranger, and to turn what had been a black blur into the shape and parts of a ship. He was able, too, to tell that the stranger was keeping steadily on her course, but the schooner, obeying her tiller, was drawing toward her more and more.

"They don't appear to be interested in us," he said to the captain.

"No," replied the man, "but they should be. They show a lack of that curiosity which I told you is necessary at sea, and it is my duty to overtake them and tell them so. We must not have any incautious ships sailing in these strange waters."

Ten minutes later he called the mate and gave a command. Cutlasses and muskets with powder and ball were put at convenient points. Every man carried at least one pistol and a dirk in his belt. The captain himself took two pistols and a cutlass.

"Merely a wise precaution, Peter," he said, "in case our peaceful neighbor, to whom we wish to give a useful warning, should turn out to be a pirate."

Robert in the moonlight saw his eyes gleam and his lips curve once more into a smile. He had seen enough of men in crucial moments to know that the slaver was happy, that he was rejoicing in some great triumph that he expected to achieve. In spite of himself he shivered and looked at the stranger. The tracery of masts and spars was growing clearer and the dim figures of men were visible on her decks.

"Oh, we'll meet later," said the captain exultantly. "Don't deceive yourself about that. There is a swift wind behind us and the speed of both ships is increasing."

Robert looked over the side. The sea was running in white caps and above his head the wind was whistling. The schooner rolled and his footing grew unsteady, but it was only a fine breeze to the sailors, just what they loved. Suddenly the captain burst into a great laugh.

"The fools! the fools!" he exclaimed. "As I live, they're pleasuring here in the most dangerous seas in the world! Music in the moonlight!"

"What do you mean?" asked Robert, astonished.

"Just what I say! A madness hath o'ercome 'em! Take a look through the glasses, Peter, and see a noble sight, but a strange one at such a time."

He clapped the glasses to Robert's eyes. The other ship, suddenly came near to them, and grew fourfold in size. Every detail of her stood out sharp and vivid in the moonlight, a stout craft with all sails set to catch the good wind, a fine merchantman by every token, nearing the end of a profitable voyage. Discipline was not to say somewhat relaxed, but at least kindly, the visible evidence of it an old sailor sitting with his back against the mast playing vigorously upon a violin, while a dozen other men stood around listening.

"Look at 'em, Peter. Look at 'em," laughed the captain. "It's a most noble sight! Watch the old fellow playing the fiddle, and I'll lay my eyes that in a half minute or so you'll have some of the sailormen dancing."

Robert shuddered again. The glee in the slaver's voice was wicked. The cynical jesting tone was gone and in its place was only unholy malice. But Robert was held by the scene upon the deck of the stranger.

"Yes, two of the sailors have begun to dance," he said. "They're young men and clasping each other about the shoulders, they're doing a hornpipe. I can see the others clapping their hands and the old fellow plays harder than ever."

"Ah, idyllic! Most idyllic, I vow!" exclaimed the captain. "Who would have thought, Peter, to have beheld such a sight in these seas! 'Tis a childhood dream come back again! 'Tis like the lads and maids sporting on the village green! Ah, the lambs! the innocents! There is no war for them. It does my soul good, Peter, to behold once more such innocent trust in human nature."

The shudder, more violent than ever, swept over Robert again. He felt that he was in the presence of something unclean, something that exhaled the foul odor of the pit. The man had become wholly evil, and he shrank away.

"Steady, Peter," said the slaver. "Why shouldn't you rejoice with the happy lads on yon ship? Think of your pleasant fortune to witness such a play in the West Indian seas, the merry sailormen dancing to the music in the moonlight, the ship sailing on without care, and we in our schooner bearing down on 'em to secure our rightful share in the festival. Ah, Peter, we must go on board, you and I and Carlos and more stout fellows and sing and dance with 'em!"

Robert drew back again. It may have been partly the effect of the moonlight, and partly the mirror of his own mind through which he looked, but the captain's face had become wholly that of a demon. The close-set eyes seemed to draw closer together than ever, and they were flashing. His hand, sinewy and strong, settled upon the butt of a pistol in his belt, but, in a moment, he raised it again and took the glasses from Robert. After a long look he exclaimed:

"They dream on! They fiddle and dance with their whole souls, Peter, my lad, and such trusting natures shall be rewarded!"

Robert could see very well now without the aid of the glasses. The sailor who sat on a coil of rope with his back against a mast, playing the violin, was an old man, his head bare, his long white hair flying. It was yet too far away for his face to be disclosed, but Robert knew that his expression must be rapt, because his attitude showed that his soul was in his music. The two young sailors, with their arms about the shoulders of each other, were still dancing, and two more had joined them.

The crowd of spectators had thickened. Evidently it was a ship with a numerous crew, perhaps a rich merchantman out of Bristol or Boston. No flag was flying over her. That, however, was not unusual in those seas, and in times of war when a man waited to see the colors of his neighbor before showing his own. But Robert was surprised at the laxity of discipline on the stranger. They should be up and watching, inquiring into the nature of the schooner that was drawing so near.

"And now, Peter," said the captain, more exultant than ever, "you shall see an unveiling! It is not often given to a lad like you, a landsman, to behold such a dramatic act at sea, a scene so powerful and complete that it might have been devised by one of the great Elizabethans! Ho, Carlos, make ready!"

He gave swift commands and the mate repeated them as swiftly to the men. The two ships were rapidly drawing nearer, but to Robert's amazement the festival upon the deck of the stranger did not cease. Above the creaking of the spars the wailing strains of the violin came to him across the waters. If they were conscious there of the presence of the schooner they cared little about it. For the moment it occurred to Robert that it must be the Flying Dutchman, or some other old phantom ship out of the dim and legendary past.

"And now, Carlos!" exclaimed the captain in a full, triumphant voice, "we'll wake 'em up! Break out the flag and show 'em what we are!"

A coiled piece of cloth, dark and menacing, ran up the mainmast of the schooner, reached the top, and then burst out, streaming at full length in the strong wind, dark as death and heavy with threat. Robert looked up and shuddered violently. Over the schooner floated the black flag, exultant and merciless.

The tarpaulin was lifted and the long bronze gun in the stern was uncovered. Beside her stood the gunners, ready for action. The boatswain's whistle blew and the dark crew stood forth, armed to the teeth, eager for action, and spoil. Carlos, a heavy cutlass in hand, awaited his master's orders. The captain laughed aloud.

"So you see, Peter, what we are!" he exclaimed. "And it's not too late for you to seize a cutlass and have your share. Now, my lads, we'll board her and take her in the good old way."

The mate shouted to the steersman, and the schooner yawed. Robert, filled with horror, scarcely knew what he was doing; in truth, he had no conscious will to do anything, and so he ended by doing nothing. But he heard the fierce low words of the pirates, and he saw them leaning forward, as if making ready to leap on the deck of the stranger and cut down every one of her crew.

Then he looked at the other ship. The old man who had been playing the violin suddenly dropped it and snatched up a musket from behind the coil of rope on which he had been sitting. The dancers ceased to dance, sprang away, and returned in an instant with muskets also. Heavy pistols leaped from the shirts and blouses of the spectators, and up from the inside of the ship poured a swarm of men armed to the teeth. A piece of cloth swiftly climbed the mainmast of the stranger also, reached the top, broke out there triumphantly, and the flag of England, over against the black flag, blew out steady and true in the strong breeze.

"God! A sloop of war!" exclaimed the captain. "About, Carlos! Put her about!"

But the sloop yawed quickly, her portholes opened, bronze muzzles appeared, tampions fell away, and a tremendous voice shouted:

"Fire!"

Robert saw a sheet of flame spring from the side of the sloop, there was a terrific crash, a dizzying column of smoke and the schooner seemed fairly to leap from the water, as the broadside swept her decks and tore her timbers. The surly mate was cut squarely in two by a round shot, men screaming in rage and pain went down and the captain staggered, but recovered himself. Then he shouted to the steersman to put the schooner about and rushing among the sailors he ordered them to another task than that of boarding.

"It was a trick, and it trapped us most damnably!" he cried. "A fool I was! Fools we must all have been to have been caught by it! They lured us on! But now, you rascals, to your work, and it's for your lives! We escape together or we hang together!"

The night had darkened much, clouds trailing before the moon and stars, but Robert clearly saw the slaver's face. It was transformed by chagrin and wrath, though it expressed fierce energy, too. Blood was running from his shoulder down his left arm, but drawing his sword he fairly herded the men to the sails; that is, to those that were left. The helmsman put the shattered schooner about and she drove rapidly on a new course. But the sloop of war, tacking, let go her other broadside.

Robert anticipated the second discharge, and by impulse rather than reason threw himself flat upon the deck, where he heard the heavy shot whistling over his head and the cries of those who were struck down. Spars and rigging, too, came clattering to the deck, but the masts stood and the schooner, though hit hard, still made way.

"Steady! Keep her steady, my boys!" shouted the captain. "We've still a clean pair of heels, and with a little luck we'll lose the sloop in the darkness!"

He was a superb seaman and the rising wind helped him. The wounded schooner had gained so much that the third broadside did but little damage and killed only one man. Robert stood up again and looked back at the pursuing vessel, her decks covered with men in uniform, the gunners loading rapidly while over the sloop the flag of England that was then the flag of his own country too, streamed straight out in the wind, proud and defiant.

He felt a throb of intense, overwhelming pride. The black flag had been overmatched by the good flag. In the last resort, those who lived right had proved themselves more than equal to those who lived wrong. Law and order were superior to piracy and chaos. Forgetful of his own safety, he hoped that the sloop would overtake the schooner, and obeying his impulse he uttered a shout of triumph. The captain turned upon him fiercely.

"You cheer the wrong ship," he said. "If they overtake us, you being with us, I'll swear that you were one of the hardiest men in my crew!"

Robert laughed, he could not help it, though the act was more or less hysterical, and replied:

"I'll chance it! But, Captain, didn't you have the surprise of your whole life, and you so cunning, too!"

The man raised his cutlass, but dropped it quickly.

"Don't try me that way again," he said. "It was my impulse to cut you down, and the next time I'd do it. But you're right. It was a surprise, though we'll escape 'em yet, and we'll let 'em know we're not just a hunted rabbit, either!"

The Long Tom in the stern of the schooner opened fire. The first shot splashed to the right of the sloop, and the second to the left, but the third struck on board, and two men were seen to go down. The captain laughed.

"That's a taste of their own medicine," he said.

A big gun on the sloop thundered, and a round shot cut away one of the schooner's spars. Another flashed and a load of grape hissed over the decks. Two men were killed and three more wounded. The captain shouted in anger and made the others crack on all the sail they could. She was a staunch schooner, and though hurt grievously she still made speed. Swifter than the sloop, despite her injuries, she gradually widened the gap between them, while the wind rose fast, and the trailing blackness spread over the sea.

Although still close at hand, the outline of the pursuing sloop became dim. Robert was no longer able to trace the human figures on her deck, but the banner of law and right flying from her topmast yet showed in the dusk. Forgetful as before of his own danger, he began to have a fear that the pirate would escape. Under his breath he entreated the avenging sloop to come on, to sail faster and faster, he begged her gunners to aim aright despite the darkness, to rake the decks of the schooner with grape and to send the heavy round shot into her vitals.

The sloop kept up a continuous fire with her bow guns. The heavy reports crashed through the darkness, the sounds rolling sullenly away, and not every shot went wild. There was a tearing of sails, a splintering of spars, a shattering of wood, and now and then the fall of a man. Under the insistent and continuous urgence of the captain the men on the schooner replied with the Long Tom in her stern, and, when one of the shots swept the deck of the sloop, the fierce, dark sailors shouted in joy. Robert saw with a sinking of the heart that the gap between the two vessels was still widening, while almost the last star was gone from the heavens, and it was now so dark that everything was hidden a few hundred yards away.

"We'll lose her! We'll lose her yet!" cried the captain. "Winds and the night fight for us. See you, Peter, we must be the chosen children of fortune, for this can hardly be chance!"

Robert said nothing, because it seemed for the time at least that the captain's words were true. A sudden and tremendous gust of wind caught the schooner and drove her on, ragged and smashed though she was, at increased speed, while the same narrow belt of wind seemed to miss the sloop. The result was apparent at once. The gap between them became a gulf. The flag flying so proudly on the topmast of the sloop was gone in the dusk. Her spars and sails faded away, she showed only a dim, low hulk on the water from which her guns flashed.

The schooner tacked again. A new bank of blackness poured down over the sea, and the sloop was gone.

"It was a trap and we sailed straight into it," exclaimed the captain, "but it couldn't hold us. We've escaped!"

He spoke the truth. They drove steadily on a long time, and saw no more of the sloop of war.



CHAPTER VI

THE ISLAND

Robert came out of his benumbed state. It had all seemed a fantastic dream, but he had only to look around him to know that it was reality. Three or four battle lanterns were shining and they threw a ghostly light over the deck of the schooner, which was littered with spars and sails, and the bodies of men who had fallen before the fire of the sloop. Streams of blood flowed everywhere. He sickened and shuddered again and again.

The captain, a savage figure, stained with blood, showed ruthless energy. Driving the men who remained unwounded, he compelled them to cut away the wreckage and to throw the dead overboard. Garrulous, possessed by some demon, he boasted to them of many prizes they would yet take, and he pointed to the black flag which still floated overhead, unharmed through all the battle. He boasted of it as a good omen and succeeded in infusing into them some of his own spirit.

Robert was still unnoticed and at first he wandered about his strait territory. Then he lent a helping hand with the wreckage. His own life was at stake as well as theirs, and whether they wished it or not he could not continue to stand by an idler. Circumstance and the sea forced him into comradeship with men of evil, and as long as it lasted he must make the best of it. So he fell to with such a will that it drew the attention of the captain.

"Good boy, Peter!" he cried. "You'll be one of us yet in spite of yourself! Our good fortune is yours, too! You as well as we have escaped a merry hanging! I'll warrant you that the feel of the rope around the neck is not pleasant, and it's well to keep one's head out of the noose, eh, Peter?"

Robert did not answer, but tugged at a rope that two other men were trying to reeve. He knew now that while they had escaped the sloop of war their danger was yet great and imminent. The wind was still rising, and now it was a howling gale. The schooner had been raked heavily. Most of her rigging was gone, huge holes had been smashed in her hull, half of her crew had been killed and half of the rest were wounded, there were not enough men to work her even were she whole and the weather the best. As the crest of every wave passed she wallowed in the trough of the sea, and shipped water steadily. The exultant look passed from the captain's eyes.

"I'm afraid you're a lad of ill omen, Peter," he said to Robert. "I had you on board another ship once and she went to pieces. It looks now as if my good schooner were headed the same way."

A dark sailor standing near heard him, and nodded in approval, but Robert said:

"Blame the sloop of war, not me. You would lay her aboard, and see what has happened!"

The captain frowned and turned away. For a long time he paid no further attention to Robert, all his skill and energy concentrated upon the effort to save his ship. But it became evident even to Robert's inexperienced eye that the schooner was stricken mortally. The guns of the sloop had not raked and slashed her in vain. A pirate she had been, but a pirate she would be no more. She rolled more heavily all the time, and Robert noticed that she was deeper in the water. Beyond a doubt she was leaking fast.

The captain conferred with the second mate, a tall, thin man whom he called Stubbs. Then the two, standing together near the mast, watched the ship for a while and Robert, a little distance away, watched them. He was now keenly alive to his own fate. Young and vital, he did not want to die. He had never known a time when he was more anxious to live. He was not going to be sold into slavery on a West India plantation. Fortune had saved him from that fate, and it might save him from new perils. In a storm on a sinking vessel he was nevertheless instinct with hope. Somewhere beyond the clouds Tayoga's Tododaho on his great star was watching him. The captain spoke to him presently.

"Peter," he said, "I think it will be necessary for us to leave the ship soon. That cursed sloop has done for the staunchest schooner that ever sailed these seas. I left you on board a sinking vessel the other time, but as it seemed to bring you good luck then, I won't do it now. Besides, I'm tempted to keep you with me. You bore yourself bravely during the battle. I will say that for you."

"Thanks for taking me, and for the compliment, too," said Robert. "I've no mind to be left here alone in the middle of the ocean on a sinking ship."

"'Tis no pleasant prospect, nor have we an easy path before us in the boats, either. On the whole, the chances are against us. There's land not far away to starboard, but whether we'll make it in so rough a sea is another matter. Are you handy with an oar?"

"Fairly so. I've had experience on lakes and rivers, but none on the sea."

"'Twill serve. We'll launch three boats. Hooker, the boatswain, takes one, Stubbs has the other, and I command the last. You go with me."

"It would have been my choice."

"I'm flattered, Peter. I may get a chance yet to sell you to one of the plantations."

"I think not, Captain. The stars in their courses have said 'no.'"

"Come! Come! Don't be Biblical here."

"The truth is the truth anywhere. But I'm glad enough to go with you."

One of the boats was launched with great difficulty, and the boatswain, Hooker, and six men, two of whom were wounded, were lowered into it. It capsized almost immediately, and all on board were lost. Those destined for the other two boats hung back a while, but it became increasingly necessary for them to make the trial, no matter what the risk. The schooner rolled and pitched terribly, and a sailor, sent to see, reported that the water was rising in her steadily.

The captain showed himself a true seaman and leader. He had been wounded in the shoulder, but the hurt had been bound up hastily and he saw to everything. Each of the boats contained kegs of water, arms, ammunition and food. A second was launched and Stubbs and his crew were lowered into it. A great wave caught it and carried it upon its crest, and Robert, watching, expected to see it turn over like the first, but the mate and the crew managed to restore the balance, and they disappeared in the darkness, still afloat.

"There, lads," exclaimed the captain, "you see it can be done. Now we'll go too, and the day will soon come when we'll have a new ship, and then, ho! once more for the rover's free and gorgeous life!"

The unwounded men raised a faint cheer. The long boat was launched with infinite care, and Robert lent a hand. The pressure of circumstances made his feeling of comradeship with these men return. For the time at least his life was bound up with theirs. Two wounded sailors were lowered first into the boat.

"Now, Peter, you go," said the captain. "As I told you, I may have a chance yet to sell you to a plantation, and I must preserve my property."

Robert slid down the rope. The captain and the others followed, and they cast loose. They were eight in the boat, three of whom were wounded, though not badly. The lad looked back at the schooner. He saw a dim hulk, with the black flag still floating over it, and then she passed from sight in the darkness and driving storm.