CLXIII. THE ZINGAREES…

CLXIII. THE ZINGAREES

The old farmer had offered to convey Richard to Hounslow in his own spring-cart, or to provide him with a guide to conduct him thither; but our hero felt so confident of being enabled to find his way back to the town, that he declined both offers.

He walked on, across the fields, pondering upon various subjects,—Isabella, his brother, Katherine, Reginald Tracy's crimes, and the frightful suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—and with his mind so intent upon these topics, that some time elapsed ere he perceived that he had fallen into a wrong path.

He looked around; but not an object of which he had taken notice in the morning, when proceeding to the farm, could he now discover.

Thus he had lost the only means which could assist his memory in regaining the road.

As he stood upon a little eminence, gazing around to find some clue towards the proper direction which he should follow, a light blue wreath of smoke, rising from behind a hill at a short distance, met his eyes.

"There must be a dwelling yonder," he said to himself; "I will proceed thither, and ask my way; or, if possible, obtain a guide."

Towards the light blue cloud which curled upwards, Markham directed his steps; but when he reached the brow of the hill, from the opposite side of which the smoke at first met his eye, he perceived, instead of a cottage as he expected, an encampment of gipsies.

A covered van stood near the spot where two men, two women, and a boy were partaking of a meal, the steam of which impregnated the air with a powerful odour of onions.

The caldron, whence the mess was served up in earthenware vessels, was suspended by means of stakes over a cheerful wood-fire.

We need attempt no description of the persons of those who were partaking of the repast: it will be sufficient to inform the reader that they consisted of King Zingary, Queen Aischa, Morcar, Eva, and this latter couple's son.

They were, however, totally unknown to Richard: but the moment he saw they were of the gipsy tribe, he determined to glean from them any thing which they might know and might choose to reveal concerning the Resurrection Man.

He therefore accosted them in a civil manner, and, stating that he had lost his way, inquired which was the nearest path to Hounslow.

"It would be difficult to direct you, young gentleman, by mere explanation," answered Zingary, stroking his long white beard in order to impress Richard with a sense of veneration; "but my grandson here shall show you the way with pleasure."

"That I will, sir," exclaimed the boy, starting from the ground, and preparing to set off.

"But perhaps the gentleman will rest himself, and partake of some refreshment," observed Morcar.

"If you will permit me," said Markham, whose purpose this invitation just suited, "I will warm myself for a short space by your cheerful fire; for the evening is chilly. But you must not consider me rude if I decline your kind hospitality in respect to food."

"The gentleman is cold, Morcar," said Zingary: "produce the rum, and hand a snicker."

The King's son hastened to the van to fetch the bottle of spirits; and Markham could not help observing his fine, tall, well-knit frame, to which his dark Roman countenance gave an additional air of manliness—even of heroism.

Richard partook of the spirits, in order to ingratiate himself with the gipsies; and King Zingary then called for his "broseley."

"You appear to lead a happy life," observed Richard, by way of encouraging a conversation.

"We are our own masters, young gentleman," answered Zingary; "and where there is freedom, there is happiness."

"Is it true that your race is governed by a King?" asked Markham.

"I am the King of the united races of Bohemians and Egyptians," said Zingary, in a stately manner. "This is my beloved Queen, Aischa: that is my son, Morcar; here is my daughter-in-law, Eva; and that lad is my grandson."

Richard started when these names fell upon his ears; for they had been mentioned to him by Skilligalee in the Palace of the Holy Land. He also remembered to have been informed that it was in consequence of something which the Resurrection Man told Aischa, when she was attending to his wound, that the gipsies took him with them when they removed from the Palace to the encampment near the Penitentiary at Pentonville.

"I feel highly honoured by the hospitality which your Majesty has afforded me," said Richard, with a bow—an act of courtesy which greatly pleased King Zingary. "On one occasion I was indebted to some of your subjects for a night's lodging at your establishment in St. Giles's."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the King; and now all the gipsies surveyed Richard with some interest.

"Yes," continued our hero; "and I may as well state to you frankly and candidly under what circumstances I became your guest—for you were all inmates of the house at the time I entered it."

"Speak, young gentleman," said Zingary: "we will listen with attention to all you may please to tell us; but we do not seek your confidence of our own accord, as curiosity is forbidden to our race."

"I must inform you," resumed Richard, "that I have sustained great and signal injuries at the hands of a miscreant, whom I one night traced to your dwelling in St. Giles's."

"Call it the Palace, young gentleman," said Zingary, smoking his pipe, and listening with great complacency.

"On that night, the man to whom I allude was desperately wounded——"

"Ah!" ejaculated the gipsies, as it were in a breath.

"And you removed him with you, away from the Palace during the night—or rather very early in the morning."

"Then you, young gentleman," said the King, "were the stranger whom the porter locked in the room to which you were shown, and who escaped from the Palace by some means or other? The matter was duly reported to us by letter."

"It is perfectly true that I liberated myself from the room in which I was imprisoned," said Markham. "But, answer me—I implore you—one question; did that vile man die of the wound which he received?"

"Before I reply to you," observed Zingary, "you will have the goodness to inform me why you left the Palace by stealth on that occasion, and whether you saw or heard any thing remarkable after we had taken our departure?"

"I will answer you frankly," returned Markham. "I left my room on that occasion, because I wished to discover whether Anthony Tidkins, to whom I have alluded, was in the house——"

"The Palace," said Zingary.

"I beg your Majesty's pardon—the Palace," continued Richard; "and I thank God that I was more or less instrumental in releasing from a horrible dungeon a poor woman——"

"We know whom you mean," interrupted Zingary, sternly. "Did you see a tall young man——"

"Who called himself by the strange name of Skilligalee?" added Markham, concluding the King's question for him. "I did;—I helped him to release that woman he named Margaret."

"And whom the laws of the Zingarees had condemned to the penalty from which you freed her," said the King. "Was it right, young man, thus to step between the culprit and the decree of justice?"

"I acted in accordance with the dictates of humanity," replied Richard firmly; "and under such circumstances I should act in a similar way again."

"The young gentleman speaks well," said Morcar, who admired the resolution evinced in our hero's tone and manner.

"And he showed a good heart," observed Eva, now speaking for the first time since Richard's arrival, and displaying her brilliant teeth.

"Well—well," exclaimed Zingary: "I will not upbraid the young man more, since even my pretty Eva takes his part. You see," he continued, addressing himself especially to the gipsies, "it is as we thought. Skilligalee deserted us in order to liberate Margaret Flathers. I always believed that such was the case, from the moment we received the account of her escape. But I have one more question to ask our guest. Let him satisfy us how he traced Anthony Tidkins to the Palace, and how he learnt that Anthony Tidkins was wounded in the Palace."

"On that head I must remain silent," said Richard. "I will not invent a falsehood, and I cannot reveal the truth. Be you, however, well assured that I never betrayed the secrets and mysteries of your establishment in Saint Giles's."

"Our guest is an honourable man," observed Morcar. "We ought to be satisfied with what he says."

"I am satisfied," exclaimed the King. "Aischa, answer you the questions which it is now the young man's turn to put to us."

"I wish to know whether Anthony Tidkins died of the wound which he received?" said Richard.

"It was my lot to attend to his wound," began Aischa. "When he was so far recovered as to be able to speak—which was about half an hour after the blood was stanched—he implored me to have him removed from the Palace. He told me a long and pathetic story of persecutions and sufferings which he had undergone; and he offered to enrich our treasury if we would take him beyond the reach of the person who had wounded him. His anxiety to get away was extreme; and it was in consequence of his representations and promises that I prevailed upon the King to issue orders to those who were to leave London with us, to hurry the departure as much as possible. That accounts for the abrupt manner in which we left at such an hour, and for the removal of the wounded man with us. In answer to your direct question, I must inform you that he did not die of the wound which he received."

"He did not die!" repeated Markham. "Then he is still alive—and doubtless as active as ever in purposes of evil."

"Is he such a bad man?" asked Aischa.

"He belongs to the atrocious gang called Burkers," answered Richard emphatically.

"Merciful heavens!" cried Eva, with a shudder. "To think that we should have harboured such a wretch!"

"And to think that I should have devoted my skill to resuscitate such a demon!" exclaimed Aischa.

"The vengeance of the Zingarees will yet overtake him," said the King calmly.

"Wherever I meet him, there will I punish him with the stoutest cudgel that I can find ready to hand," cried Morcar, with a fierce air.

"Have you then cause to complain against him?" asked Richard.

"The wretch, sir," answered Morcar, "remained nearly a month in our company, until his wound was completely healed by the skill of my mother. We treated him with as much kindness as if he had been our near and dear relative. One morning, when he was totally recovered, he disappeared, carrying away my father's gold with him."

"The ungrateful villain!" ejaculated Richard. "And he was indebted to your kindness for his life?"

"He was," returned Morcar." Fortunately there was but little in the treasury at the time—very little;—nevertheless, it was all we had—and he took our all."

"And you have no trace of him?" said Richard, eagerly.

"Not yet," replied Morcar. "But we have adopted measures to discover him. The King my father has sent a description of his person and the history of his treachery to every chief of our race in the kingdom; and thousands of sharp eyes are on the look-out for him through the length and breadth of the land."

"Heaven be thanked!" exclaimed Markham. "But when you discover him, hand him over to the grasp of justice, and instantly acquaint me with the fact."

"The Zingarees recognise no justice save their own," said the King, in a dignified manner. "But this much I promise you, that the moment we obtain a trace of his whereabouts, we will communicate it to you, and you may act as seemeth good to yourself. We have no sympathy in common with a cowardly murderer."

"None," added Morcar, emphatically.

"I thank you for this promise," said Richard, addressing himself to the King. "Here is my card; and remember that as anxious as I am to bring a miscreant to justice, so ready shall I be to reward those who are instrumental in his capture."

"You may rely upon us, young gentleman," said Zingary. "We will not shield a man who belongs to the miscreant gang of Burkers. To-morrow morning I will issue fresh instructions to the various district chiefs, but especially to our friends in London."

"And is it possible that, with no compulsory means to enforce obedience, you can dispose of thousands individuals at will?" exclaimed Markham.

"Listen, young man," said the King, stroking his beard. "When the great Ottoman monarch, the Sultan Selim, invaded Egypt at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and put to death the Mameluke sovereign Toumanbai,—when the chivalry of Egypt was subdued by the overwhelming multitudes of warriors who fought beneath the banner of Selim and his great Vizier Sinan-Pacha,—then did a certain Egyptian chief place himself at the head of a chosen body of Mamelukes, and proclaim death and destruction to the Ottomans. This chief was Zingarai. For some time he successfully resisted the troops of Selim; but at length he was compelled to yield to numbers; and Selim put him to death. His followers were proscribed; and those who did not fall into the hands of the Turkish conquerors escaped into Europe. They settled first in Bohemia, where their wandering mode of life, their simple manners, their happy and contented dispositions, and their handsome persons soon attracted notice. Then was it that the Bohemian maidens were proud to bestow their hands upon the fugitive followers of Zingarai; and many Bohemian men sought admittance into the fraternity. Hence the mixed Egyptian and Bohemian origin of the gipsy race. In a short time various members of this truly patriarchal society migrated to other climes; and in 1534 our ancestors first settled in England. Now the gipsy race may be met with all over the globe: in every part of Asia, in the interior of Africa, and in both the Americas, you may encounter our brethren, as in Europe. The Asiatics call us Egyptians, the Germans Ziguener, the Italians Cingani, the Spaniards Gitanos, the French Bohemians, the Russians Saracens, the Swedes and Danes Tartars, and the English Gipsies. We most usually denominate ourselves the united races of Zingarees. And Time, young gentleman, has left us comparatively unchanged; we preserve the primitive simplicity of our manners; our countenances denote our origin; and, though deeply calumniated—vilely maligned, we endeavour to live in peace and tranquillity to the utmost of our power. We have resisted persecution—we have outlived oppression. All Europe has promulgated laws against us; and no sovereigns aimed more strenuously to extirpate our race in their dominions than Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth of England. But as the world grows more enlightened, the prejudice against us loses its virulence; and we now enjoy our liberties and privileges without molestation, in all civilised states."

"I thank you for this most interesting account of your origin," said Richard.

"Henceforth you will know how to recognise the real truth amongst all the wild, fanciful, and ridiculous tales which you may hear or read concerning our race," proceeded Zingary. "From the two or three hundred souls who fled from Egypt and took refuge in Bohemia, as I have ere now explained to you, has sprung a large family, which has increased with each generation; and at the present moment we estimate our total number, scattered over all parts of the earth, at one million and a half."

"I was not aware that you were so numerous," said Richard, much interested by these details. "Permit me to ask whether the members in every country have one sovereign or chief, as those in England?"

"There is a King of the Zingarees in Spain; another in France; a third in Italy; and a fourth in Bohemia. In the northern provinces of European Turkey, in Hungary, and in Transylvania, there is a prince with the title of a Waiewode: the Zingarees of Northern Europe are governed by a Grand, or Great Lord."

Richard now rose to take leave of the hospitable and entertaining family in whose society he had thus passed an hour; and, as it was growing dark, Morcar himself offered to conduct our hero as far as Hounslow.

This proposal was gladly accepted; and Markham, having taken leave of the King, Aischa, and Eva, set out with Morcar.

In the course of three-quarters of an hour they reached the precincts of the town.

Richard forced a handsome remuneration upon the gipsy, and reminded him of the promise made by his father concerning the Resurrection Man.

"You may rely upon us," said Morcar: "it cannot be very long before you will hear from us, for there are many on the alert to discover the haunt of the villain."

The gipsy then turned to retrace his steps towards the encampment; and Richard proceeded to the inn, where he obtained a conveyance for London.

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CLXIV. THE EXECUTIONER'S HISTORY

On the following evening Smithers presented himself, according to appointment, at Markham Place.

Richard received him in the library, and treated him altogether with a condescension and a degree of kindness which made a deep impression on the mind of the executioner.

Our hero then proceeded to acquaint him with the good fortune of Katharine, and the arrangement which had been made to supply him with the means to establish him in business.

"But do not imagine that this is all which you are to expect at Katherine's hands," said Richard. "As time progresses, and I find that you are determined not only to persevere in a respectable course of life, but also to make amends, by your altered manner, for the harshness which you have exhibited towards your son on so many occasions,—it will be my pleasing duty to recommend Katherine's trustee, who is disposed to place implicit confidence in me, to grant you such occasional pecuniary succour as may enable you to extend the business, whatever it may be, in which you intend to embark."

"I cannot find words to express my gratitude to you, sir," said Smithers; "and I hope that when you see Kate again, you will ask her forgiveness in my name for all the unkindness I have shown her at different times."

"You shall see her yourself—she wishes you and your son to call upon her," answered Richard; "and Mr. Bennet, to whom I communicated every thing, has sent you both an invitation to pass an entire day at his farm so soon as you can find leisure to avail yourself of the offer."

"Then that shall be to-morrow, sir," exclaimed Smithers; "for now that Katherine has such good prospects, I may as well communicate something to her which she probably will not regret to hear."

And for a few moments Smithers appeared to be absorbed in deep thought.

"And I don't know why I should keep any secret away from you, sir," he continued, suddenly breaking silence; "you have done so much for Kate, and you have produced so great a change in my mind, that I ought to conceal nothing from you. In one word, then, sir—Katherine Wilmot is no more my niece than she is yours."

"Not your niece!" ejaculated Richard.

"No relation whatever in the world to me," replied Smithers. "I never had either brother or sister; neither had my wife: and thus you see, sir, Kate cannot be my niece."

"But she believes herself to be so related to you," said Markham, who was not altogether displeased to learn that the young female for whom he experienced a fraternal interest, was not even a connexion of the Public Executioner.

"The story is somewhat a long one—and to me a melancholy subject," continued Smithers; "but if you will have patience to listen to it, I shall have nerve to relate it."

"Proceed," said Markham. "I feel deeply interested in the topic which now occupies us."

"You will then excuse me, sir, if I begin by telling you something about myself," resumed Smithers; "because it is more or less connected with Kate's early history."

Smithers settled himself in a comfortable position in his chair, and then related the following history:—

"My father was a grocer, in a large way of business, at Southampton. He was a widower; and I was his only son. I was considered to be a steady, exemplary young man; and I can safely say that I attended studiously to my father's business. I never frequented public-houses, but went to church regularly of a Sunday, and was fond of reading good books. Next door to us there lived a corn-dealer of the name of Wilmot;—he also was a widower, and had one child. This was a beautiful girl, about a year or two younger than myself, and whose name was Harriet. The two families had been acquainted for a long, long time; and Harriet and myself were playmates in our infancy. We were therefore very intimate together; and the friendship of childhood ripened into love as we grew up. And, oh! how I did adore that girl! From amidst all the coarse, worldly, and abominable ideas which have of late years crowded in my brain, I have ever singled out that one bright—pure—and holy sentiment as a star that points to a blissful episode in my life. And she loved me in return! Our parents were pleased when they saw our attachment; and it was understood that our marriage should take place on the day that I attained my one-and-twentieth year. It only wanted seven or eight months to that period, when an event occurred which quite changed the prospect of affairs. The local bank failed, and old Wilmot was ruined."

Smithers paused for a moment, heaved a deep sigh, and then continued thus:—

"Wilmot immediately came to my father and addressed him in these words: 'The failure of the bank will throw me into the Gazette, if I cannot raise twelve or fifteen hundred pounds within a week to sustain my credit. That difficulty being overcome, I have no doubt of retrieving myself altogether.' My father expressed his great delight at hearing this latter announcement, but instinctively buttoned up his breeches-pockets. Wilmot proceeded to state that he could raise the sum he required if my father would guarantee its repayment. My father was a money-making, close man; and this proposal astounded him. He refused it point blank: Wilmot begged and implored him to save him from ruin;—but all in vain. In the course of ten days the name of Joseph Wilmot, corn-dealer, figured in the list of Bankrupts."

Again Smithers paused for a few moments.

"I must tell you, sir," he continued, "that I did all I could to persuade my father to help Wilmot in this business; but my prayers and entreaties had been poured forth entirely without effect. I, however, took an opportunity of seeing Harriet, and assuring her that my affection was based upon no selfish motive, but that her father's misfortunes endeared her more than ever to me. My father viewed matters in quite a different light, and spoke to me openly of the impossibility of my marrying a girl without a penny. I remonstrated with him on the cruelty, injustice, and dishonour of such conduct; but he cut me very short by observing that 'his money was his own—he had made it by his industry—he could leave it to whom he chose—and that if I insisted upon marrying Harriet Wilmot I need not darken his threshold afterwards.' I replied that I was resolved to consult my own inclinations, and also to do honour to my vows and promises towards Harriet."

"You acted in a generous manner," observed Markham; "although you opposed the wishes of your own father."

"I had no secrets from Harriet," said Smithers; "and I assured her that if she would espouse a man who had nothing but his honest name and exertions to depend upon, I was ready to make her mine. She answered me, with tears in her eyes, that she could never consent to be the cause of marring all my prospects in life, and that, much as she loved me, she would release me from my vows. I wept in concert with her;—for I was not then hard-hearted, sir,—nor had my countenance become impressed with that brutal severity which I know—I feel, it has long, long worn."

"As the countenance is more or less the index of the soul," said Markham, "so will yours resume all its former serenity of expression."

"Well—well, sir: let me hope so! I do not wish to die with the word 'EXECUTIONER' traced upon my features. But I will continue my story. Harriet seemed firm in her generous purpose not to be the cause of my ruin: I however implored her to reflect upon the misery into which her decision would plunge me. I then left her. The next morning I heard that Wilmot and his daughter had departed from their house, and had gone—no one knew whither. Malignant people said that the old man was afraid to face his creditors in the local Bankruptcy-court: I thought otherwise. I felt persuaded that Harriet had prevailed upon her father, by some means or another, to leave;—and I now considered her lost to me for ever. My sorrow was great; but I redoubled my attention to business in order to distract my mind from contemplating the misfortune that had befallen me. Weeks and months passed away; and the wound in my heart was closed, but it was still painful. One day, during a temporary indisposition which confined my father to his room, I was turning over some papers in his desk, seeking for an invoice which I required, when I perceived a letter addressed to my father and signed Joseph Wilmot. The date especially attracted my attention, because I remembered that this letter must have been written on the very day that I had the last interview with Harriet. I hesitated not a moment to read it; and its contents revealed to me the cause of that precipitate departure which has so distressed me. Indeed, the letter was in answer to one which Wilmot acknowledged to have just before received from my father. It appears that my father had written to offer old Wilmot two hundred pounds if he would quit the town, with his daughters, and that Wilmot should give a note of hand for this amount, which security my father engaged himself not to enforce so long as Wilmot remained away and left me in ignorance of his future place of residence. Wilmot consented to this arrangement: he was a ruined man without a shilling; and he gladly availed himself of the means of embarking in business elsewhere. This stratagem on the part of my father I discovered through Wilmot's letter. I said nothing about the letter to my father: I concluded that he had merely acted under the impression that he was consulting my welfare; and moreover the injury appeared to be irrevocable. Well, sir—six months passed away after the departure of Wilmot and his daughter, and my father, who was usually so cautious and prudent, was induced to embark some money in the purchase of smuggled goods. The excise officers discovered the transaction; and a fine was imposed which swept away every farthing of the sum which my father had been accumulating by the industry and toil of years. It broke his heart: he died, and left me a ruined business, instead of a decent competence. I struggled on for a year, just keeping my head above water, but dreadfully crippled for want of capital. At length I learnt, from a friend, that I had found favour in the sight of a wealthy neighbour's daughter, who was some six or seven years older than myself. I made the best of this circumstance; and, to save myself from total ruin, in a short time married the female alluded to. The fruit of this union was a son—the poor deformed creature whom you have seen. He was not, however, so afflicted at his birth: how he come to be so, I will presently tell you."

Smithers uttered these words in a tone of deep feeling.

"I had married for money, sir," he continued; "and I married unhappily. My wife was of a temper befitting a demon. Then she was addicted to drink; and in her cups she was outrageous. My home grew miserable: and I began to neglect the business; and, to avoid my wife in her drunken humours, I went to the public-house. Then also my temper was so sorely tried that it gave way under the accumulated weight of domestic wretchedness. I grew harsh and uncourteous to my customers; I retaliated against my wife in her own fashion of ill-treatment—by means of stormy words and heavy blows; and, when I was weary of all that, I rushed to the public-house, where I endeavoured to drown my cares in strong drink. In a word, three years after my marriage, I was compelled to abandon my business in Southampton; and, with about a hundred pounds in my pocket—the wrecks of all that my wife had brought me—I removed, with her and the child, to London. On our arrival, I took a small tobacconist's shop in High Street, St. Giles's, and exerted myself to the utmost to obtain an honest livelihood; and for some time my wife seemed inclined to second me. The ruin which our disputes and evil courses had entailed upon us appeared to have made a deep impression upon her mind. She carefully avoided strong drink, and declared her resolution never to take any thing stronger than beer. But one day she was prevailed upon by a female friend to accept a little spirits; and a relapse immediately followed. She came home intoxicated; we had fresh quarrels—renewed disputes; and I myself went in an evil hour to the nearest public-house. From that moment we pursued pretty well the same courses that had ruined us in Southampton; and this conduct led to similar results. I was forced to give up the snuff and cigar shop; and we moved into that identical house in St. Giles's which I now inhabit, and where you first saw me."

Smithers passed his hand over his forehead, as if to alleviate the acuteness of painful recollections.

He then pursued his narrative in the following manner:—

"Our sole hope and only resource now consisted in being able to let the greater portion of the house; and as we had managed to save our little furniture from the wreck of the business in High Street, we had still a decent prospect before us. My wife again promised reformation; and, as I never took to drink except when driven to it by her conduct, I was by no means unwilling to second her in her resolutions of economy. We soon let our lodgings, and I did a little business by selling groceries on commission for a wholesale house to which I managed to obtain an introduction. In this way we got on pretty well for a time; and now I come to the most important part of my story."

Richard drew his chair, by a mechanical movement as it were, closer to that of the executioner, and prepared to listen with redoubled attention, if possible.

"It was twelve years ago last January," continued Smithers, "that I returned home one evening, after a hard day's application to business, when the first thing my wife told me was that our back room on the second floor, which had long been to let, was at length taken. She added that our new lodger was a female of about eight-and-twenty or thirty, and had a little girl of four years old. My wife also stated that she was afraid the poor creature was in a dreadful state of health, and was not very comfortably off, as all her own and her child's things were contained in a small bundle which she brought with her. When my wife asked for a reference she evaded the inquiry by paying a week's rent in advance; and this pittance was taken from a purse containing a very slender stock of money. I inquired if the new lodger had given any name; but my wife replied that she had not asked her for it. The next day I was taken unwell, and was compelled to stay at home; but my wife went out with our boy, who was then six years old, to pass a few hours with a friend. I was sitting in the little parlour all alone, and thinking of the past, when I heard a gentle knock at the door. I opened it, and saw a nice little girl, about four years old, standing in the passage. She asked me to let my wife step up to her mother, who was very ill. I took the child in my arms, and went up to my new lodger's room, to say that my wife was out, but that if I could render any assistance I should be most happy to do so. I knocked at the door; it opened—but the female who appeared uttered a piercing scream, and fell back senseless on the floor. She had recognised me; and I, too, had recognised her,—recognised her in spite of her altered appearance and her faded beauty. It was Harriet Wilmot!"

The executioner paused, averted his head for a moment, and wiped away a tear.

He then continued his narrative.

"I instantly did my best to recover her. I fetched vinegar, and bathed her forehead; and in a few minutes she opened her eyes. I laid her upon the bed; and she motioned me to give her the child. This I did; and she pressed it rapturously to her bosom. I stood gazing upon the affecting scene, with tears in my eyes; but I said nothing. She extended her hand towards me, and murmured in a faint tone, 'Is it then in your home that I am come to breathe my last?'—I implored her to compose herself, and assured her that she should meet with every attention. She glanced tenderly upon her child, and large tears rolled down her faded cheeks. Oh! she was so altered that it was no wonder if my wife, who had known her years before at Southampton, had not recognized her! I asked her if I should procure medical attendance. She could not answer me: a dreadful faintness seemed to come over her. I told her that I would return immediately; and I hurried for a doctor. The medical man came with me; and we found the poor creature speechless, but still sensible. He shook his head with significant hopelessness at me: I understood him—she was dying! The surgeon hastened back home, and speedily returned with various drugs and medicines. But all was of no avail; the poor creature was on the threshold of the grave. The doctor told me what to do, and then took his leave, promising to return in a couple of hours. I seated myself by the side of the bed, and anxiously watched the patient, who had gradually sunk into a deep slumber. I also amused myself with, and pacified the little girl. In this way hour after hour passed; and at length my wife came home. But in what a state did she return? Her friend—the same, as I afterwards learnt, who had before seduced her away from the paths of temperance—had accomplished this feat a second time. My wife was in a disgusting state of intoxication. Not finding me in our sitting-room, she came up stairs to search for me. The moment I heard her, I stepped out of Harriet's chamber to meet her, and request her assistance in behalf of the dying woman—for as yet I knew not the state in which my wife had returned. But when she saw me come from that room, she rushed upon me like a tigress: her jealousy was suddenly excited to an ungovernable fit of passion. She tore my face with her nails, and dragged out my hair by handfuls. I implored her to hear me; she raved—she stormed—she declared she would have the life of the woman in whose chamber I had been. Then my own anger was fearfully roused: I caught her by the throat, and I do believe that I should have strangled her, had not John—our boy—at that instant caught hold of my legs and begun to kick and pinch me with all his might—for he always took his mother's part. I was now rendered as infuriate as a goaded bull: I hurled my wife away from me, and with one savage blow—may God forgive me!—I knocked the child backwards down the stairs."

Here Smithers covered his face with his hands, and the tears trickled through his fingers.

"The lodgers rushed up to the floor where this horrible scene took place," he continued, after a long pause; "and I, in that moment of my excited and bewildered senses, justified my conduct by declaring that the woman who lay dying in the next room was my own sister. My wife was insensible, and could not contradict me; and thus the tale was believed. The lodgers removed my wife and my child to their bed-room; and the same surgeon who had attended upon Harriet was instantly sent for. Alas! his skill was all in vain. My wife never rallied again, save to give way to dreadful hysterical fits: in a few weeks, during which she lingered in that manner, she breathed her last;—and my son became deformed, as you have seen him!"

Again the miserable man paused, and gave way to his emotions.

Several minutes elapsed ere he continued his narrative; and Markham also remained wrapped in a profound silence.

At length the executioner proceeded thus:—

"The condition into which my rage had thrown my wife and child on that memorable day, did not prevent me from watching by the death-bed of Harriet Wilmot. I even attended to her little girl as if she had been my own. I felt my heart yearn towards that poor woman whom I had once known so beautiful and had loved so tenderly. She slept on,—slept throughout that long and weary night; and there I remained, watching by her bed-side. In the morning the doctor came: Harriet awoke, and smiled when she saw me. Then she made signs that she wished to write. Her powers of speech had deserted her. The medical man addressed her in a kind tone, and said that if she had any thing to communicate she had better do so, as she was very, very ill. She thanked him with a glance for his candour, and for the delicate manner in which he bade her prepare for death. I placed writing materials before her; and she wrote a few lines, which were, however, so blotted by tears——"

"I have already been made acquainted with the contents of the only legible portion which still remains of that letter," interrupted our hero.

"And you are, then, aware, sir, that allusion is made to a certain Mr. Markham?" said Smithers.

"Perfectly," replied Richard. "The late Mr. Reginald Tracy communicated that fact to me."

"The poor creature breathed her last ere she could terminate that letter," continued the executioner. "She suddenly dropped her pen, turned one agonising glance upon her child, fell back, and expired. I buried her as decently as my means would permit; and I determined to take care of Katherine. I repeated my original statement that the little girl was my niece; and, in order not to throw shame upon the memory of her mother, I represented her as having been a widow when she came to my house. I have before said that my wife never sufficiently recovered her senses to contradict this story; and my son John was too young at the time to be aware that it was a fiction."

"And did you never institute any inquiries into the meaning of that allusion to Mr. Markham in the letter?" inquired Richard.

"I obtained various Directories and Guides, and found that there were thirty or forty persons of that name residing in London, and whose addresses were given in those books. I called upon several; but none knew any thing of the business which took me to them. Then I abandoned the task as hopeless: for I reflected that there might be others of the same name who were not to be found in the Directories; and I was not even assured that the Mr. Markham alluded to dwelt in London."

"Thus you never obtained any farther clue to Katharine's parentage?"

"Never," answered Smithers. "The little child herself, when questioned by me soon after her mother's death, did not recollect having ever seen any one whom she called Papa; and from all I could learn from the orphan girl, her mother must have been living for some time in London before she came to my house. But where this residence was, I could not ascertain. One thing, however, I discovered, which seemed to proclaim the illegitimacy of Katherine's birth: she said that her mamma's name was Wilmot. That was her maiden name!"

"Poor Katherine!" said Richard.

"And now I have told you all, sir, that concerns her early history—at least all that I know. Some time after my wife's death, evil reports got abroad concerning me. It was said that my brutality had produced her death; and my son was a living reproach against me. No one would employ me—no one would lodge in my house. It was then that I accepted the office of Public Executioner,—to save myself from starving, and to give bread to my own son and the little orphan girl. By degrees my temper, already ruined by the conduct of my wife, became confirmed in its ferocity and cruel callousness. I grew brutal—savage—inhuman. I felt the degradation of my calling—I saw that I was shunned by all the world. I was looked upon as a monster who had murdered his wife and made his son deformed;—but the provocation and the circumstances were never mentioned to palliate the enormity of that double crime. At length I heard all the reproaches, and did not take the trouble to state facts in order to justify myself. But all this was enough to brutalize me,—especially when added to the duties of my new calling. In time I even began to ill-treat that poor orphan girl whom I had at first looked upon as my own child. But, bad as I have been towards her when I thought that she encouraged my son to thwart my will,—shamefully as I used her at times, I never would have abandoned her;—for when she thought that I turned her out of my house the day she went to Mr. Tracy's, it was only my brutal way of letting her go to a place which I knew would be creditable to her, and which, by what she told me, I saw she wished to take. Then I thought within myself, 'Yes, even she will now gladly leave me;'—and, in order to conceal what I felt at that idea—and I did feel deeply—I took refuge in my own brutalized temper. But I sent her round all her things in the evening—not forgetting her work-box, which I knew contained the fragment that her poor mother wrote upon her death-bed. Moreover, when she came to see me, I received her with no constrained kindness; for I always liked her—even when I ill-used her;—and I was sorry to have parted with her."

"The world, my good friend, has not altogether read your heart correctly," said Richard.

"Thank you, sir,—thank you for that assurance," exclaimed Smithers; "and when you good friend me, sir—you, who are so noble-hearted, so generous, so truly grand in your humanity—I could burst into tears."

"If my example please you," said Markham, kindly, "you will make me happy by profiting by it. Oh! you shall yet live long to convince the world that the human heart never can be so deadened to all good feelings as to be beyond redemption!"

"I do not think I shall live to an old age, sir," observed Smithers, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper: "I have already had one warning!"

"One warning!" repeated Richard, surprised at this strange announcement.

"Yes, Mr. Markham. One night I was lying in bed;—the candle was flickering in the fire-place;—I happened to turn my eyes towards that puppet which hangs in the loft where I used to sleep until within the last few days,—and I saw another face looking over its shoulder at me."

"Another face!" ejaculated Markham: "what do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, that Harriet Wilmot's countenance appeared above the shoulder of the figure!" answered Smithers, with a shudder.

"My good friend," said Markham, "your imagination was disordered at the moment. The days of spectres and apparitions are gone by. The Almighty does not address himself to man by means of terrors which nurses use to frighten children. I will show you, by a simple process of reasoning, that it is impossible to see a ghost—even if such a thing should exist. You do not see with the eye precisely in the way in which you may imagine. Strictly speaking, the eye does not see at all. The effect is this: substantial objects are reflected in the retina of the eye as in a mirror; and the impression is conveyed from the retina into the brain, where it assumes a proper and suitable shape in the imagination or conception. But in order that objects should so strike the retina of the eye, they must be substantial: they must have length, breadth, and thickness;—they must displace so much air as to leave the void filled up by their own forms. Now, even if the spirits of the departed be allowed to revisit this earth, no mortal eye can see them, because they are unsubstantial, and they cannot be reflected in the retina of the eye. I have only entered into this explanation to convince you that an unsettled mind or a disordered imagination—arising from either moral or physical causes—can alone conjure up phantoms."

"Well, sir, we will not talk any more upon this subject, if you please," said Smithers. "I understand what you say; and I thank you for your goodness in explaining the matter to me. I now wish to ask you whether you would rather that I should communicate all I have told you to Katherine; or whether you will yourself?"

"My good friend," said Richard, "you acted so noble a part towards her mother that this duty will better become you. Katherine will thank you for your goodness towards her parent—especially as that goodness arose from no interested motives; and you will rejoice in the grateful outpourings of the heart of that orphan whom you reared, and to whom you gave a home. To-morrow you and your son can visit her: the day after to-morrow, in the evening, I wish both of you—yourself and your son—to call upon me."

Smithers promised to obey our hero's desires in all respects, and then took his leave,—wondering how any human being could possess such influence over the heart, to humanize and reclaim it, as Richard Markham.

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CLXV. THE TRACE

In order to avoid unnecessary details we shall now concisely state that Smithers and his son paid the visit agreed upon to Katherine Wilmot.

Smithers communicated to her, when they were alone together for half an hour, so much of his own history as involved all the particulars with which he was acquainted concerning her parentage.

The grateful girl expressed a deeper sense of obligation than she had ever yet experienced towards the individual who had supported her for so many years, although she had no claims of relationship upon him.

After one of the most agreeable days which the late executioner and his son had ever passed in their lives, they took leave of Katherine and the worthy people of the farm, and returned to London.

Poor Katherine Wilmot! she had that day learnt more concerning her parentage than she had ever known before; but she would have been happier, perhaps, had her original impressions on that subject never been disturbed!

Still Markham had conceived it to be a duty which was owing to the young maiden, to permit Smithers thus to reveal to her those circumstances which seemed to fix her with the stigma of illegitimacy.

That night her pillow was moistened with abundant tears, as she lay and reflected upon her lamented mother!

On the appointed evening Smithers and his son called at Markham Place.

They were conducted by Whittingham to a parlour, where the table was spread with a handsome collation, places being arranged for three persons.

"Sit down, my friends," said Richard Markham, who received them with a warmth far more encouraging than mere courtesy: "after supper we will transact the business for which I have requested your presence here."

"What, sir!" ejaculated Smithers; "can you condescend to have me at your table?"

"Not as you lately were," answered Richard: "I receive you as a regenerated man."

John Smithers (for we shall suppress his nickname of Gibbet, as his father had already done so) cast a glance of profound gratitude upon our hero, in acknowledgment of a behaviour that could not do otherwise than confirm his father in his anxious endeavours to adopt a course of mental improvement.

Smithers' confidence increased, when he had imbibed a glass or two of generous wine; and he related to Markham the particulars of his interview with Katharine.

Then was it for the first time the hump-back learnt that Katherine was not his cousin.

He said nothing; but, as he drank in all that fell from his father's lips, two large tears rolled down his cheeks.

When the supper was over, Richard addressed Smithers in the following manner:—

"The narrative which you revealed to me the day before yesterday materially alters the position in which Katherine stands with respect to you. When I first proposed that she should advance you at once a small sum, I believed her to be your near relative. But as she is in no way akin to you, it results that you have for years supported one who had no claim upon you. Accident has made her rich; and it is but fair and just that you should be adequately rewarded for your generosity. I have communicated with Katherine's trustee upon the subject; and we have agreed to furnish you with five hundred pounds at once, to enable you to embark in a respectable and substantial line of business. This pocket-book," proceeded Markham, "contains that sum. Take it, my worthy friend—it is your due; and, should you succeed in the career that you are now about to enter upon, you can with satisfaction trace your prosperity to the humanity which you showed to a friendless orphan."

After some hesitation, Smithers received the pocket-book. He and his son then took leave of Richard Markham, with the most sincerely felt expressions of gratitude, and with a promise from the father to write to him soon to state where and how they had settled themselves.

Scarcely had those two individuals, now both made happy, taken their departure, when Whittingham informed his master that a person with a dark complexion, and who gave the name of Morcar, requested to speak to him.

Richard ordered the gipsy to be instantly admitted to his presence.

Morcar was accordingly shown into the parlour.

The moment he found himself alone with Markham, he said in a low and somewhat solemn tone, "We have traced him!"

"I expected as much, the moment your name was announced," said Richard. "Where is he?"

"He has taken refuge in a barge on the river," answered Morcar. "That is all I have been able to learn; but I am confident he is there."

"And do you know where the barge is moored?" asked Richard.

"Close by Rotherhithe. But there are several other barges off the same wharf; and I cannot single out which he is in. I, however, know that he is concealed in one of them."

"It is important to discover which," said Markham. "Were we to make our appearance in that vicinity with a body of police, he might escape us altogether."

"And therefore it will be better to take him by means of stratagem," observed Morcar.

"What can have induced him to seek refuge there?" said Richard, in a musing tone. "Some new crime, perhaps?"

"Or else some fresh scheme of villany," returned Morcar. "But perhaps you are not aware, sir, that river piracy still flourishes to some extent?"

"I certainly imagined that with our system of Thames police, that species of depredation was completely ruined."

"No such thing, sir!" exclaimed Morcar. "The man who gave me the information about Tidkins, told me more than ever I knew before on that subject."

"You may as well acquaint me with those particulars, Morcar," said our hero. "They may assist me in devising some scheme to entrap the Resurrection Man, and enable justice to receive its due."

"River piracy, sir," continued Morcar, "is carried on by a set of vagabonds who for the most part have been sailors, or in some shape or another engaged amongst barges and lighters. They are all leagued with the marine-store dealers and people that keep old iron and junk shops on both sides of the river below London bridge. The river pirates usually possess a barge or lighter, which every now and then makes a trip up and down the river between Greenwich and Putney, but with no other freight than bales of sawdust, old rags, or even dung. This they do to keep up appearances and avoid suspicion. But all day long they maintain a good look out in the pool, and take notice of particular ships which they think can be easily robbed. For instance, sometimes a steamer is left with only a boy on board to take care of it; or else a lighter has only one man to look after it. Then these pirates go on board in the night, master the boy or the man, and plunder the steamer or lighter of any thing worth carrying away."

"I begin to understand how these villains may reap a profitable harvest in this manner," observed Richard.

"Oh! you don't know half their pranks, yet," said Morcar. "Sometimes two or three of the gang will go and hire themselves as bargemen or lightermen; and then they easily arrange with their pals how to plunder the vessels thus entrusted to them, while the owners never suspect that their own men are at the bottom of the robbery. When times are bad, and these fellows are driven to desperation, they think nothing of cutting away great pieces of ships' cables, or even weighing the anchors of small craft; and with these heavy materials they will get clean off in their boats to their own barge; and next morning they convey them as coolly as possible to the marine store dealers. Sometimes they cut lighters adrift, when the tide is running out, and follow them in their boat; then, under pretence of helping those on board, they cut away bales of cotton or any other goods that are easily thrown into their boats in dark nights."

"The villain Tidkins has no doubt transferred his operations from the land to the river," observed Markham; "seeing that, by means of a little address and a great deal of courage, such depredations can be effected."

"These river-pirates are of several kinds," continued Morcar. "There's the light-horsemen, or men who board the unprotected vessels in the night. Then there's the heavy-horsemen, who wear an under-dress, called a jemmy, which is covered by their smocks: these fellows obtain employment as lumpers,—that is, to load or discharge ships in the pool, during which they contrive to stow away every thing portable in the large pouches or pockets of their under-dress. Afterwards, the heavy-horsemen, give information to their pals, and put them on the scent which ships to rob at night. Next there's the mud-larks, who get on board stranded lighters at low water, and carry off what they can when the vessels are unprotected, or ask some question to lull suspicion if they find any one on board. This mode of river-piracy is very profitable, because numbers of lighters and barges are often left for hours alongside the banks, without a soul on board. Game lightermen are those pirates that are in league with dishonest mates and sailors belonging to vessels that come up the river to discharge: and they receive at night from their pals on board, through the port-holes or over the quarter, any thing that's easy to move away in this manner. Last of all there's the scuffle-hunters, who put on smocks, and obtain work as porters on the wharfs where a ship is loading: then, if they can't contrive to steal any thing by those means, they can at all events carry some useful information to their pals—so that the ship is generally robbed in one way or another."

"With so well organised a fraternity and such means of operation," said Markham, who had listened with interest and astonishment to these details, "Tidkins is capable of amassing a fortune in a very short time. But we must stop him in his criminal career. At the same time, let us do nothing without mature consideration. Are you willing to assist? Your reward shall be liberal."

"The Zingaree may not of his own accord deliver up any one to justice," answered Morcar; "but he is allowed to serve an employer who pays him. Moreover," he added, as if ashamed of that sophistical compromise with the rules of his fraternity, "I shall gladly help to punish the miscreant who treated us with such base ingratitude."

"Then you consent to serve me?" said Richard.

"I do, sir," was the reply.

"To-morrow, at mid-day, I will meet you somewhere in the eastern part of London," continued Richard. "I have already a project in my head; but I must consider it more maturely."

"Where shall we meet, sir?" asked Morcar.

Markham reflected for a moment, and then said, "On the Tower wharf."

"I will be punctual, sir," answered the gipsy; and he took his departure.

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CLXVI. THE THAMES PIRATES

Moored at a wharf at the Rotherhithe side of the river Thames, nearly opposite Execution Dock, were several lighters and barges, all lying together.

Along the upper part of the buildings belonging to the wharf were painted, in rude but gigantic letters, the following words:—"MOSSOP'S WHARF, WHERE GOODS ARE RECEIVED, HOUSED, OR CARTED."

Mr. Mossop, the sole proprietor of this wharf, was by no means particular what goods he thus received, whence they came when he housed them, or whither they were going when he carted them. He asked no questions, so long as his commission and charges were duly paid.

For the convenience of his numerous customers, he kept his office constantly open; and either himself or his son Ben Mossop was in constant attendance.

Indeed, Mr. Mossop did more business by night than by day. He was, however, a close man: he never put impertinent questions to any one who called to patronise him; and thus his way of doing business was vastly convenient for all those who used his wharf or his store-houses.

If a lighter arrived at that wharf, ostensibly with a freight of hay, but in reality with divers bales of cotton or other goods concealed beneath the dried grass, Mr. Mossop did not seem to think that there was any thing at all strange in this; and if next day he happened to hear that a barge at a neighbouring wharf had been robbed of divers bales of cotton during the night, Mr. Mossop was too much of a gentleman to question the integrity of his customers. Even if every wall in Rotherhithe, Horselydown, and Bermondsey, were covered with placards announcing the loss of the bales, describing them to a nicety, and offering a reward for their recovery, Mr. Mossop never stopped to read one of them.

On two or three occasions, when a police-officer called at his wharf and politely requested him just to honour the nearest magistrate with a visit, and enter into an explanation how certain goods happened to be found in his store-rooms, the said goods having been lost by other parties in an unpleasant manner, Mr. Mossop would put an enormous pair of spectacles upon his nose and a good face on the matter at the same time; and it invariably happened that he managed to convince the bench of his integrity, but without in any way compromising those persons who might be in custody on account of the said goods.

His son Ben was equally prudent and reserved; and thus father and son were mighty favourites with all the river pirates who patronised them.

Moreover, Mossop's Wharf was most conveniently situate: the front looked, of course, upon the river; the back opened into Rotherhithe Wall; and Mossop's carts were noted for the celerity with which they would convey goods away from the warehouse to the receivers in Blue Anchor Road or in the neighbourhood of Halfpenny Hatch.

The father and son were also famous for the regularity and dispatch with which they executed business on pressing occasions. Thus, while Mossop senior would superintend the landing of goods upon the wharf, Mossop junior was stationed at the back gate, where it was his pleasing duty to see the bales speedily carted as they were brought through the warehouses by the lumpers employed.

Mossop senior was also reputed to be a humane man; for if any of his best customers got into trouble (which was sometimes the case) and were short of funds, a five pound note in a blank envelop would reach them in prison to enable them to employ counsel in their defence; and this sum invariably appeared as "money lent" in Mossop's next account against them when they were free once more, and enabled to land another cargo at the wharf.

But to continue our narrative.

It was the evening after the one on which Morcar had called at Markham Place; consequently the evening of that day when the gipsy was to meet our hero on the Tower wharf.

Over the particulars of that meeting we, however, pass; as the plans then arranged will presently develop themselves.

It was now about nine o'clock.

The evening was beautiful and moonlight.

Myriads of stars were rocked to and fro in the cradle of the river's restless tide; and the profiles of the banks were marked with thousands of lights, glancing through dense forests of masts belonging to the shipping that were crowded along those shores.

At intervals those subdued murmurs which denoted that the river was as busy and active as the great city itself, were absorbed in the noise of some steamer ploughing its rapid way amidst the mazes of vessels that to the inexperienced eye appear to be inextricably entangled together.

Then would arise those shouts of warning to the smaller craft,—those rapid commands to regulate the movements of the engines,—and those orders to the helmsman, which, emanating from the lips of the captain posted on the paddle-box, proclaim the progress of the steamer winding its way up the pool.

A wondrous and deeply interesting spectacle, though only dimly seen, is that portion of the Thames on a moonlight night.

Then indeed is it that even the most callous mind is compelled to contemplate with mingled astonishment and awe, one of the grandest features of the sovereign city and world's emporium of trade.

The gurgling water, and the countless masts,—the vibration of mighty engines on the stream, and the myriads of twinkling lights along the shores,—the cheering voices of the mariners, and the dense volumes of smoke which moving colossal chimneys vomit forth,—the metallic grating of windlasses, and the glittering of the spray beneath revolving wheels,—the flapping of heavy canvass, and the glare from the oval windows of steamers,—the cries of the rowers in endangered boats, and the flood of silver lustre which the moon pours upon the river's bosom,—these form a wondrous complication of elements of interest for both ear and eye.

The barge that was farthest off from Mossop's wharf, of all the lighters moored there, and that could consequently get into the stream quicker than any other near it, was one to which we must particularly direct our readers' attention.

It was called the Fairy, and was large, decently painted, and kept in pretty good order. It had a spacious cabin abaft, and a smaller one, termed a cuddy, forward. The mast, with its large brown sail that seemed as if it had been tanned, was so fitted as to be lowered at pleasure, to enable the vessel to pass under the bridges at high water. The rudder was of enormous size; and the tiller was as thick and long as the pole of a carriage.

The waist, or uncovered part of the lighter in the middle, was now empty; but it was very capacious, and adapted to contain an immense quantity of goods.

On the evening in question two men were sitting on the windlass, smoking their pipes, and pretty frequently applying themselves to a can of grog which stood upon the deck near them.

One was the Resurrection Man: the other was John Wicks, better known as the Buffer.

"Well, Jack," said the Resurrection Man, "this is precious slow work. For the last four days we've done nothing."

"What did I tell you, when you fust come to me and proposed to take to the river?" exclaimed the Buffer. "Didn't I say that one ought to be bred to the business to do much good in it?"

"Oh! that be hanged!" cried the Resurrection Man. "I can soon learn any business that's to make money. Besides, the land was too hot to hold me till certain little things had blown over. There's that fellow Markham who ran against me one night;—then there's Crankey Jem. The first saw that I was still hanging about London; and the other may have learnt, by some means or another, that I didn't die of the wound he gave me. Then again, there's those gipsies whose money I walked off with one fine day. All these things made the land unsafe; and so I thought it best to embark the gold that I took from old King Zingary, in this barge, which was to be had so cheap."

"I suppose we shall do better in time, Tony," said the Buffer, "when we get more acquainted with them light and heavy horsemen that we must employ, and them lumpers that gives the information."

"Of course. When you set up in a new business, you can't expect to succeed directly," returned the Resurrection Man. "The regular pirates won't have confidence in us at first; and as yet we don't know a single captain or mate that will trust us with the job of robbing their ship. How do they know but what we should peach, if we got into trouble, and tell their employers that it was all done with their connivance? But old Mossop begins to grow more friendly; and that, I'm sure, is a good sign that he thinks that we shall succeed."

"So it is," said the Buffer. "Besides, this barge is so good a blind, that business must come. What should you say to getting into the skiff presently, and taking a look out amongst the shipping for ourselves?"

"Well, I've no objection," answered Tidkins. "But we've already a connexion with several lumpers; and they have put us on to all that we have done up to the present time. P'rhaps we should do better to wait for the information that they can give us. They begin to see that we pay well; and so they'll only be too anxious to put things in our way."

"True enough," observed the Buffer.

At this period of the conversation, a woman's head appeared above the cabin hatchway.

"Supper's ready," she said.

"We're coming, Moll," returned the Buffer.

The two villains then descended into the cabin, where a well-spread table awaited them.

Scarcely had the trio concluded their repast, when a man, who had come from the wharf and had walked across the barges until he reached the Fairy, called to Tidkins, by the appellation of "Captain," from the hatchway.

"Come below," answered the Resurrection Man.

The person thus invited was the foreman in Mr. Mossop's employment. He was short, stout, and strongly built, with a tremendous rubicundity of visage, small piercing grey eyes, no whiskers, and a very apoplectic neck. His age might be about fifty; and he was dressed in a light garb befitting the nature of his calling.

"Well, Mr. Swot," said the Resurrection Man, as the little fat foreman descended the ladder; "this is really an unusual thing to have the honour of your company. Sit down; and you, Moll, put the lush and the pipes upon the table."

"That's right, Captain," returned Mr. Swot, as he seated himself. "I came on purpose to drink a social glass and have a chat with you. In fact, my present visit is not altogether without an object."

"I'm glad of that," said the Resurrection Man. "We want something to do. It was only just now that I and my mate were complaining how slack business was."

"You know that Mossop never has any thing to do with any schemes in which chaps of your business choose to embark," continued Mr. Swot: "he receives your goods, and either keeps them in warehouse or carts them for you as you like; but he never knows where they come from."

"Perfectly true," observed the Resurrection Man.

"But all that's no reason why I should be equally partickler," proceeded Swot.

"Of course not," said the Resurrection Man.

"Well, then—we are all friends here?" asked Swot, glancing around him.

"All," replied Tidkins. "This is my mate's wife; she answers to the name of Moll, and is stanch to the back-bone."

"Well and good," said Swot. "Now I've as pretty a little idea in my head as ever was born there; but it requires two or three daring—I may say desperate fellers to carry it out."

"You couldn't come to a better shop for them kind of chaps," remarked the Buffer.

"And if it's necessary, I'll deuced soon dress myself up like a lighterman and help you," added Moll.

"I am very much pleased with your pluck, ma'am," said Mr. Swot; "and I drink to your excellent health—and our better acquaintance."

Mr. Swot emptied his mug at a draught, lighted a pipe, and then continued thus:—

"But now, my fine fellers, s'pose I was to start some scheme which is about as dangerous as walking slap into a house on fire to get the iron safe that's full of gold and silver?"

"Well—we're the men to do it," said Tidkins.

"That is," observed the Buffer, "if so be the inducement is equal to the risk."

"Of course," returned Mr. Swot. "Now one more question:—would you sleep in the same room with a man who had the cholera or the small-pox, for instance—supposing you got a thousand pounds each to do it?"

"I would in a minute," answered the Resurrection Man. "Nothing dare, nothing have."

"So I say," added the Buffer.

"And you wouldn't find me flinch!" cried Moll.

"Now, then, we shall soon understand each other," resumed Swot, helping himself to another supply of grog. "Please to listen to me for a few minutes. A very fine schooner, the Lady Anne of London, trades to the Gold and Slave Coasts of Guinea. She takes out woollens, cottons, linen, arms, and gunpowder, which she exchanges for gold dust, ivory, gums, and hides. A few days since, as she was beating up the Channel, homeward bound with a fine cargo, something occurs that makes it necessary for her to run for the Medway, instead of coming direct up to London. But the night before last it blew great guns, as you may recollect; and as she was but indifferently manned, she got out in her reckoning—for it was as dark as pitch—and ran ashore between the mouth of the Medway and Gravesend. Now, there she lies—and there she's likely to lie. She got stranded during spring-tide; and she does not float now even at high water. The gold dust would be very acceptable; the gums, ivory, hides, and such like matters, may stay where they are."

"Then the fact is the owners haven't yet moved out the cargo?" said the Resurrection Man, interrogatively.

"No—nor don't intend to, neither—for the present," answered Swot. "And what's more, there's a police-boat pulling about in that part of the river all day and all night; but I can assure you that it gives the schooner a precious wide berth."

"Well, I can't understand it yet," said the Buffer.

"The fact is," continued Swot, "the Lady Anne was on its way to Standgate Creek in the Medway, when it got ashore on the bank of the Thames. Do you begin to take?"

"Can't say I do," answered the Resurrection Man. "Is the crew on board still?"

"The crew consisted this morning, when I heard about it last, of three men and a boy," returned Swot; "and one of them men is a surgeon. But the Lady Anne has got the yellow flag flying;—and now do you comprehend me?"

"The plague!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man and the Buffer in the same breath.

"The plague!" repeated Moll Wicks, with a shudder.

"Neither more or less," said Swot, coolly emptying his second mug of grog.

There was a dead silence for some moments.

It seemed as if the spirits of those who had listened with deep attention to the foreman's narrative, were suddenly damped by the explanation that closed it.

"Well—are you afraid?" asked Swot, at length breaking silence.

"No," returned the Resurrection Man, throwing off the depression which had fallen upon him. "But there is something awful in boarding a plague-ship."

"Are you sure the gold dust is on board?" demanded the Buffer.

"Certain. My information is quite correct. Besides, you may get the newspapers and read all about it for yourselves."

"The thing is tempting," said Moll.

"Then, by God, if a woman will dare it, we mustn't show the white feather, Jack," exclaimed the Resurrection Man.

"That's speaking to the point," observed the foreman. "You see there's a guard on land, to prevent any one from going near the vessel on that side; and the police-boat rows about on the river. The plan would be, to get down to Gravesend to-morrow, then to-morrow night, to drop down with the tide close under the bank, and get alongside the vessel."

"All that can be done easy enough," said the Resurrection Man. "But we want more hands. Of course you'll go with us?"

"Yes—I'll risk it," answered Mr. Swot. "It's too good a thing to let slip between one's fingers. If you'll leave it to me I'll get two or three more hands; because we must be prepared to master all that we may meet on the deck of the schooner, the very moment we board it, so as not to give 'em time even to cry out, or they'd alarm the police-boat."

"Well and good," said the Resurrection Man. "But you don't mean to go in the lighter?"

"No—no: we must have a good boat with two sculls," answered Swot. "Leave that also to me. At day-break every thing shall be ready for you; and I shall join you in the evening at Gravesend."

"Agreed!" cried Tidkins.

Mr. Swot then took his departure; and the three persons whom he left behind in the lighter, continued their carouse.

In this way the Resurrection Man, the Buffer, and Moll Wicks amused themselves until nearly eleven o'clock, when, just as they were thinking of retiring for the night,—Tidkins to his bed in the after cabin where they were then seated, and the other two to their berth in the cuddy forward,—the lighter was suddenly shaken from one end to the other by some heavy object which bumped violently against it.

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CLXVII. AN ARRIVAL AT THE WHARF

The collision was so powerful that the Buffer's wife was thrown from her seat; and every plank in the Fairy oscillated with a crashing sound.

The Buffer and the Resurrection Man rushed upon the deck.

A single glance enabled them to ascertain the cause of the sudden alarm.

A lighter, nearly as large as the Fairy, and heavily laden, had been so clumsily brought in against the barges moored off the wharf, that it came with the whole weight of its broad-side upon the Fairy.

"Now then, stupids!" ejaculated the Buffer, applying this complimentary epithet to the two men who were on the deck of the lighter which was putting in.

"Hope we haven't hurt you, friends," exclaimed one of the individuals thus addressed.

"More harm might have been done," answered the Buffer. "Who are you?"

"The Blossom," was the reply.

"Where d'ye come from?" demanded Wicks.

"Oh! up above bridge," cried the man, speaking in a surly and evasive manner. "Here—just catch hold of this rope, will you—and let us lay alongside of you."

"No—no," shouted the Buffer. "You'd better drop astern of us, and moor alongside that chalk barge."

"Well, so we will," said the man.

While the Blossom was executing this manœuvre, which it did in a most clumsy manner, as if the two men that worked her had never been entrusted with the care of a lighter before, the Buffer turned towards the Resurrection Man, and said in a whisper, "We must remain outside all the barges, 'cause of having room to run our boat alongside the Fairy and get the things on board easy, when we come back from the expedition down to the Lady Anne."

"To be sure," answered the Resurrection Man. "You did quite right to make those lubbers get lower down. I'm pleased with you, Jack; and now I see that I can let you be spokesman on all such occasions without any fear that you'll commit yourself."

"Why, if you want to keep in the back-ground as much as possible, Tony," replied the Buffer, "it's much better to trust these little things to me. But, I say—I think there's something queer about them chaps that have just put in here."

"So do I, Jack," said Tidkins. "They certainly know no more about managing a lighter than you and I did when we first took to it."

"Yes—but we had a regular man to help us at the beginning," observed the Buffer.

"So we had. And I precious soon sent him about his business when he had taught us our own."

"Well—p'rhaps them fellows have got a reg'lar man too," said Wicks. "But let 'em be what and who they will, my idea is, that they've taken to the same line as ourselves."

"We must find that out, Jack," observed the Resurrection Man. "If they're what you think, they will of course be respected: if they don't belong to the same class, we must ascertain what they've got on board, and then make up our minds whether any of their cargo will suit us."

"Well said," returned the Buffer.

"But in any case you must be the person to learn all this," continued the Resurrection Man. "You see, I'm so well known to a lot of different people that would show me no mercy if they got hold of me, that I'm compelled to keep myself as quiet as possible. There's Markham—there's Crankey Jem—there's the gipsies—and there's the Rattlesnake: why—if I was only to be twigged by one of them I should have to make myself scarce in a minute."

"I know all this, Tony," cried the Buffer, impatiently; "and therefore the less you're seen about, the better. In the day time always keep below, as you have been doing; but at night, when one can't distinguish particular faces, you can take the air;—or on such occasions as to-morrow will be, for instance,—when we run down the river, and get away from London——"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Tidkins: "don't think that I shall throw away a chance. Those lubbers have managed to make their lighter fast to the chalk barge now: just step across and try and find out what you can about them."

The Buffer immediately proceeded to obey this order. He walked across the barges, which, as we before stated, were so closely moored together that they formed one vast floating pier; and approaching as close as possible to the Blossom, without setting foot upon it, he said, "Holloa, friend, there! You mustn't think that we meant any thing by telling you not to lay alongside of us: 'twas only 'cause we expect to be off to-morrow or next day."

"No offence is taken where none's intended," answered the man who had before spoken.

The Buffer now perceived that the other individual on board the Blossom, and who had charge of the helm, was a Black, of tall form, and dressed in the rough garb of a sailor.

"You seem well laden," said the Buffer, after a pause.

"Yes—pretty deep," answered the first speaker.

"Do you discharge here, at Mossop's?"

"Don't know yet," was the laconic reply.

"And what may be your freight?"

"Bales of cotton," returned the man.

"Then I suppose you're the master of that lighter?" continued the Buffer.

"Yes," was the brief answer.

"Well, it's a pleasant life," observed Wicks. "Have you been at it long?"

"I've only just begun it," replied the master.

"And that sable gentleman there," said the Buffer, with a laugh,—"I should think he's not a Johnny Raw on the water?"

"Not quite," returned the master. "Poor fellow! he's deaf and dumb!"

"Deaf and dumb, eh?" repeated the Buffer. "Well,—p'rhaps that's convenient in more ways than one."

"I believe you," said the master, significantly.

"Ah! I thought so," cried Wicks, who now felt convinced that the Blossom was not a whit better than the Fairy. "Ain't there no one on board but you and Blackee?"

"What the devil should we want any more hands for?" said the master, gruffly.

"Oh! I understand," observed the Buffer. "Capital! you're the master—to do as you like; Blackee's deaf and dumb, and can't blab; and you and him are alone on board. I've hit it, you see."

"You're uncommon sharp, my fine feller," said the master. "Step on board and wash your mouth out."

The Buffer did not hesitate to accept this invitation. The Black had lighted his pipe, and was lounging on the deck over the after cabin. The master disappeared down the hatchway of the small cabin, or cuddy, forward; and in a few moments he returned with a bottle and two tin pannikins.

"What's the name of your craft?" he said, as he poured out the liquor, which exhaled the strong and saccharine flavour of rum.

"The Fairy," replied the Buffer.

"Then here's a health to the Fairy."

"And here's to the Blossom."

The master and the Buffer each took draughts of the raw spirit.

"Now let us drink to our better acquaintance," said the master. "You seem an honest, open-hearted kind of a feller——"

"And to be trusted, too," interrupted Wicks.

"Well—I'm inclined to think you are," said the master, speaking deliberately, as if he were meditating upon some particular idea which then occupied his mind; "and it's very probable—it may be, I mean—that I shall want a little of your advice; for which, remember, I should be happy to pay you well."

"You couldn't apply to a better man," returned the Buffer.

"And here's to you," said the master. "What sort of a fellow is Mossop, that keeps this wharf?"

"He has no eyes, no ears, and no tongue for things that don't consarn him," answered Wicks.

"Just the kind of agent I want," returned the master. "But I shall also require two or three good fellers in a few days,—chaps that ain't over partickler, you understand, how they earn a ten-pound note, so long as it's sure."

"And you want two or three chaps of that kind?" asked the Buffer.

"Yes. I've a good thing in hand," returned the master. "But I shan't say too much now."

"Well, you may reckon on me at any moment—to-morrow excepted," said Wicks; "and my pal in the Fairy will also be glad to row in the same boat."

"What sort of a man is your pal?" demanded the master: "one of the right kind?"

"If he wasn't, him and I shouldn't long hold together," answered the Buffer. "But when do you think you'll want our services?"

"Very soon. You say you're both engaged for to-morrow?"

"Yes—both of us."

"The day after to-morrow, in the evening, you and your friend can come and smoke your pipes with me; and we'll talk the matter over," said the master.

"And if any thing should prevent us coming the day after to-morrow, the evening after that will do p'rhaps?" remarked the Buffer, interrogatively.

"Well—we must make that do, then," answered the master. "Good night."

"Good night," said Wicks; and he then returned to the Fairy.

"What can you make of them, Jack?" demanded the Resurrection Man, who was smoking his pipe on the after deck.

"They're of the right sort, Tony," was the reply. "The master seems a good kind of a feller: the only other man on board with him is a Black; and he's deaf and dumb. The master sounded me about Mossop; and that shows that he knows what's what. Besides, he hinted that he'd a good thing in view, but wanted more hands, and so he made an appointment for you and me to smoke a pipe with him in the course of two or three evenings, to talk over the matter."

"You didn't say much about me?" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, hastily.

"Not more than was proper. It's all right—I could tell that with half an eye."

"Well, business seems dropping in upon us," observed the Resurrection Man; "but we must be very cautious what we do. And now let's turn in, for we have to get up early, recollect."

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CLXVIII. THE PLAGUE SHIP

It wanted half-an-hour to day-break, when the splash of oars alongside met their ears; and in a few moments Swot, the foreman, made his appearance.

"I've got all ready for you, my boys," said that individual; "a good boat, and two stout chaps to help."

"Have they got their barkers?" demanded the Resurrection Man, thereby meaning pistols.

"A brace each," replied the foreman. "But they must only be used in case of desperation. There's a false bottom to the boat; and there I've stowed away five cutlasses."

"All right!" cried the Buffer. "Now, Moll, you make yourself comfortable till we get back again."

"You're a fool, Jack, not to let me go along with you," observed the woman.

"Nonsense," answered her husband. "Some one must stay on board to take care of the lighter."

"Well, don't say that I'm a coward—that's all," exclaimed Moll.

"We won't accuse you of that," said the Resurrection Man. "But now let's be off. Where shall we meet you at Gravesend?"

"You know the windmill about a mile below the town," returned Swot, to whom this question was addressed. "Well, close by is the Lobster Tavern, and there's a little jetty where the boat can be fastened. Meet me at that tavern at ten o'clock this evening."

"Agreed," answered Tidkins.

The three men then ascended to the deck.

The dawn was at that moment breaking in the east; and every moment mast after mast on the stream, and roof after roof on the shore, appeared more palpably in the increasing light of the young day.

On board of the Blossom, the Black was busily employed in washing the deck, and seemed to take no notice of any thing that was passing elsewhere.

"The tide will be with us for nearly three hours," said Tidkins. "Come—we won't lose a moment."

The foreman retraced his steps across the barges to the wharf; while the Resurrection Man and the Buffer, each armed with a pair of pistols, leapt into the boat, that lay alongside the lighter.

Two stout fellows, dressed like watermen, and who were already seated in the boat, instantly plied their sculls.

The skiff shot rapidly away from the vicinity of the barges, and was soon running down the middle of the river with a strong tide.

The morning was beautiful and bright: a gentle breeze swept the bosom of the stream:—and when the sun burst forth in all its effulgent glory, a few fleecy clouds alone appeared on the mighty arch of blue above.

Here and there the mariners on board the outward-bound vessels were busy in heaving up their anchors—a task which they performed with the usual cheering and simultaneous cry,—or in loosening the canvass that immediately became swollen with the breeze.

At distant intervals some steamer, bound to a native or foreign port, walked, as it were, with gigantic strides along the water, raising with its mighty Briarean arms, a swell on either side, which made the smaller craft toss and pitch as if in a miniature whirlpool.

Alas! how many souls have found a resting-place in the depths of those waters; and the spray of the billow seems the tears which old Father Thames sheds as a tribute to their graves! Then, at dark midnight, when the wind moans over the bosom of the river, the plaintive murmurs sound as a lament for those that are gone!

Vain are thy tears, O River! But if they must be shed, let them flow for the living, whose crimes or whose miseries may, with Orphic spell, awaken the sympathy of even inanimate things.

The boat shot rapidly along, the sun gilding its broad pathway.

What evidence of commercial prosperity appears on either side! The clang of mighty hammers denote the progress of new vessels in the various building-yards; and in the numerous docks the shipwright is busy in repairing the effects of past voyages, and rendering the gallant barks fit to dare the perils of the ocean once more!

The river-pirates, whose course we are following, pursued their way: the old Dreadnought, stripped of the cannon that once bristled on its lofty sides, and now resembling the worn-out lion that has lost its fangs, was passed;—the domes of Greenwich greeted the eye;—and now the boat merged upon the wide expanse which seems to terminate with Blackwall.

But, no! the stream sweeps to the right; and onward floats the skiff—skirting the Kentish shore.

At length the gloomy and sombre-looking hulks off Woolwich are reached: the boat shoots in between the shipping; and there the pirates landed.

At Woolwich they repaired to a low public-house with which they were acquainted; and, as the fresh air of the river had sharpened their appetites, they called into request every article of food which was to be found in the larder. Liquors in due proportion were ordered; the Resurrection Man paid the score for all; and in this manner the four pirates contrived to while away the time until the tide turned once more in their favour in the afternoon.

At three o'clock they retraced their steps to the boat; and in a few minutes were again gliding rapidly along on the bosom of the river.

"Now," said the Resurrection Man, "as we have drunk a glass and smoked a pipe together, we are better acquainted with each other."

These words were especially addressed to the two men whom the foreman at Mossop's wharf had provided.

"Of course," continued the Resurrection Man, "I needn't ask you if you know the exact nature of the business which we have in hand. I didn't think it prudent to talk about it when we were at the crib in Woolwich just now, because walls have ears; but I took it for granted, from certain words which you two chaps said, that it's all right."

"Yes, yes, master," returned one, who was called Long Bob, in consequence of his height: "Swot put us up to the whole thing."

"We know the risk, and we know what's to be got by it," added the other, who delighted in the name of the Lully Prig,[1] from the circumstance of his having formerly exercised the calling with which, in flash language, the name is associated, before he became a river-pirate.

"Then we understand each other," said the Resurrection Man, "without any farther wagging of the tollibon."[2]

"We cut the same lock that you do,[3] old feller," answered the Lully Prig; "and as long as we snack the bit[4] in a reg'lar manner, we're stanch to the back-bone."

"So far, so good," said the Resurrection Man. "But you're also aware that the swag must be taken up the river and put on board the Fairy, where it must stay some time till Swot can find a safe customer for it, because it's sure to be chanted on the leer."[5]

"We're fly to all that," said Long Bob. "But Swot promised us ten neds[6] each, if the thing succeeds to-night; so that we shan't object to waiting for the rest of our reg'lars till the swag is dinged."[7]

"Who knows that we shan't find some gobsticks,[8] clinks,[9] or other things of the same kind?" exclaimed the Lully Prig; "and, if so, they can soon be walked off to the melting-pot fence,[10] and the glanthem will be dropped[11] in no time."

"That's understood, my boys," exclaimed the Resurrection Man. "Now, give way with a will, and don't let's delay."

On went the boat with increased rapidity, the Lully Prig and Long Bob plying the oars with strength and skill. Then, when they were wearied, the Resurrection Man and the Buffer took their turns. Occasionally Tidkins handed round his flask, which he had taken good care to have replenished with rum at Woolwich; and at intervals the Buffer or the Lully Prig cheered their labours with a song.

In this manner Erith was reached and passed:—Greenhithe and Ingress Abbey, the front of which splendid mansion is built with the stones of old London Bridge, were in due course left behind;—and soon the antique windmill and the tall tower of Gravesend greeted the eyes of the river-pirates.

At the two piers of the town were numerous steam-packets;—there were large merchant-vessels riding at anchor in the middle of the river;—and, on the opposite side, Tilbury Fort commanded the expanse of water with its cannon.

"Since we're to meet Swot at the Lobster Tavern," said the Resurrection Man, "we may as well run down to that place at once."

"So we will," returned the Buffer.

The boat continued its course; and in a short time it was made fast to the little jetty which affords a convenient means of landing at the point mentioned.

The Lobster Tavern is a small isolated place of entertainment, upon the bank of the Thames, and is chiefly frequented by those good folks who, in fine weather, indulge in a trip on Sundays from London to Gravesend.

There are sheds, with seats, built in front of the tavern; and on a calm summer's evening, the site and view are pleasant enough.

The four pirates entered the establishment, and called for refreshments.

They thus passed away the time until ten o'clock, when Mossop's foreman joined them.

In another half-hour they were all five seated in the boat; and, in the darkness of the night, they bent their way towards the plague-ship.

They kept close along the Kentish shore; and when Swot imagined that they must be within half-a-mile of the place where the Lady Anne was stranded, the oars were muffled.

The sky was covered with dense black clouds: no moon and not a star appeared.

The water seemed as dark as ink.

But the foreman knew every inlet and every jutting point which marked the course of the Thames; and, with the tiller in his hand, he navigated the boat with consummate skill.

Not a word was spoken; and the faint murmurs of the oars were drowned in the whistling of the breeze which now swept over the river.

At length the foreman said in a low whisper, "There is the light of the police-boat."

At a distance of about a quarter of a mile that light appeared, like a solitary star upon the waters.

Sometimes it moved—then stopped, as the quarantine officers rowed, or rested on their oars.

"We must now be within a few yards of the Lady Anne," whispered Swot, after another long pause: "take to your arms."

The Buffer cautiously raised a plank at the bottom of the boat, and drew forth, one after another, five cutlasses.

These the pirates silently fastened to their waists.

The boat moved slowly along; and in another minute it was by the side of the plague ship.

The Resurrection Man stretched out his arm, and his hand swept its slimy hull.

There was not a soul upon the deck of the Lady Anne; and, as if to serve the purposes of the river-pirates, the wind blew in strong gusts, and the waves splashed against the bank and the vessel itself, with a sound sufficient to drown the noise of their movements.

The bow of the Lady Anne lay high upon the bank: the stern was consequently low in the water.

As cautiously as possible the boat was made fast to a rope which hung over the schooner's quarter; and then the five pirates, one after the other, sprang on board.

"Holloa!" cried a boy, suddenly thrusting his head above the hatchway of the after cabin.

Long Bob's right hand instantly grasped the boy's collar, while his left was pressed forcibly upon his mouth; and in another moment the lad was dragged on the deck, where he was immediately gagged and bound hand and foot.

But this process had not been effected without some struggling on the part of the boy, and trampling of feet on that of the pirates.

Some one below was evidently alarmed, for a voice called the boy from the cabin.

Long Bob led the way; and the pirates rushed down into the cabin, with their drawn cutlasses in their hands.

There was a light below; and a man, pale and fearfully emaciated, started from his bed, and advanced to meet the intruders.

"Not a word—or you're a dead man," cried Long Bob, drawing forth a pistol.

"Rascal! what do you mean?" ejaculated the other; "I am the surgeon, and in command of this vessel. Who are you? what do you require? Do you know that the pestilence is here?"

"We know all about it, sir," answered Long Bob.

Then, dropping his weapons, he sprang upon the surgeon, whom he threw upon the floor, and whose mouth he instantly closed with his iron hand.

The pirates then secured the surgeon in the same way as they had the boy above.

"Let's go forward now," cried Swot. "So far, all's well. One of you must stay down here to mind this chap."

The Lully Prig volunteered this service; and the other pirates repaired to the cabin forward.

They well knew that the plague-stricken invalids must be there; and when they reached the hatchway, there was a sudden hesitation—a simultaneous pause.

The idea of the pestilence was horrible.

"Well," said the foreman, "are we afraid?"

"No—not I, by God!" ejaculated the Resurrection Man; and he sprang down the ladder.

The others immediately followed him.

But there was no need of cutlass, pistol, or violence there. By the light of the lamp suspended to a beam, the pirates perceived two wretched creatures, each in his hammock,—their cadaverous countenances covered with large sores, their hair matted, their eyes open but glazed and dim, and their wasted hands lying like those of the dead outside the coverlids, as if all the nervous energy were defunct.

Still they were alive; but they were too weak and wretched to experience any emotion at the appearance of armed men in their cabin.

The atmosphere which they breathed was heated and nauseous with the pestilential vapours of their breath and their perspiration.

"These poor devils can do no harm," said the Resurrection Man, with a visible shudder.

The pirates were only too glad to emerge from that narrow abode of the plague; and never did air seem more pure than that which they breathed when they had gained the deck.

"Now then to work," cried Swot. "Wait till we raise this hatch," he continued, stopping at that which covered the compartment of the ship where the freight was stowed away; "and we'll light the darkey when we get down below. You see, that as they hadn't a light hung out before, it would be dangerous to have one above: we might alarm the police-boat or the guard ashore."

The hatch was raised without much difficulty: a rope was then made fast to a spar and lowered into the waist of the schooner; and Long Bob slid down.

In a few moments he lighted his dark lantern; and the other three descended one after the other, the Lully Prig, be it remembered, having remained in the after cabin.

And now to work they went. The goods, with which the schooner was laden, were removed, unpacked, and ransacked.

There were gums, and hides, and various other articles which the western coast of Africa produces; but the object of the pirates' enterprise and avarice was the gold-dust, which was contained in two heavy cases. These were, however, at the bottom of all the other goods; and nearly an hour passed before they were reached.

"Here is the treasure—at last!" cried Swot, when every thing was cleared away from above the cases of precious metal. "Come, Tony—don't waste time with the brandy flask now."

"I've such a precious nasty taste in my mouth," answered the Resurrection Man, as he took a long sup of the spirit. "I suppose it was the horrid air in the fore-cabin."

"Most likely," said the foreman: "come—bear a hand, and let's get these cases ready to raise. Then Long Bob and me will go above and reeve a rope and a pulley to haul 'em up."

The four men bent forward to the task; and as they worked by the dim light of the lantern, in the depths of the vessel, they seemed to be four demons in the profundities of their own infernal abode.

Suddenly the Resurrection Man staggered, and, supporting himself against the side of the vessel, said in a thick tone, "My God! what a sudden headache I've got come on!"

"Oh! it's nothing, my dear feller," cried Swot.

"And now I'm all cold and shivering," said Tidkins, seating himself on a bale of goods; "and my legs seem as if they'd break under me."

The Buffer, the foreman, and Long Bob were suddenly and simultaneously inspired with the same idea; and they cast on their companion looks of mingled apprehension and horror.

"No—it can't be!" ejaculated Swot.

"And yet—how odd that he should turn so," said Bob, with a shudder.

"The plague!" returned the Buffer, in a tone of indescribable terror.

"You're a fool, Jack!" exclaimed the Resurrection Man, glaring wildly upon his comrades, and endeavouring to rise from his seat.

But he fell back, exhausted and powerless.

"Damnation!" he muttered in a low but ferocious tone; and he gnashed his teeth with rage.

"The plague!" repeated the Buffer, now unable to contain his fears.

Then he hastily clambered from the hold of the schooner.

"The coward!" cried Swot: "such a prize as this is worth any risk."

But as he yet spoke, Long Bob, influenced by panic fear, sprang after the Buffer, as if Death itself were at his heels, clad in all the horrors of the plague.

"My God! don't leave me here," cried the Resurrection Man, his voice losing its thickness and assuming the piercing tone of despair.

"Every man for himself, it seems," returned Swot, whom the panic had now robbed of all his courage; and in another moment he also had disappeared.

"The cowards—the villains!" said Tidkins, clenching his fists with rage.

Then, by an extraordinary and almost superhuman effort, he raised himself upon his legs: but they seemed to bend under him.

He, however managed to climb upon the packages of goods; and, aided by the rope, lifted himself up to the hatchway. But the effort was too great for his failing strength: his hands could not retain a firm grasp of the cord; and he fell violently to the bottom of the hold, rolling over the bales of merchandize in his descent.

"It's all over!" he mattered to himself; and then he became rapidly insensible.

Meantime the Lully Prig, who was mounting sentry upon the surgeon in the after cabin, was suddenly alarmed by hearing the trampling of hasty steps over head. He rushed on deck, and demanded the cause of this abrupt movement.

"The plague!" cried the Buffer, as he leapt over the ship's quarter into the boat.

The Lully Prig precipitated himself after his comrade; and the other two pirates immediately followed.

"But we are only four!" said the Lully Prig, as the boat was pushed away from the vessel.

"Tidkins has got the plague," answered the Buffer, his teeth chattering with horror and affright.

Fortunately the police-boat was at a distance; and the pirates succeeded in getting safely away from that dangerous vicinity.

But the Resurrection Man remained behind in the plague-ship!

-----

Footnote 1:

A thief who steals damp linen off the hedges in the country.

Footnote 2:

Talking—palaver. "Tollibon" is the tongue.

Footnote 3:

Get our living in the same way.

Footnote 4:

Share the money.

Footnote 5:

Advertised in the newspapers.

Footnote 6:

Sovereigns.

Footnote 7:

Sent to the receiver.

Footnote 8:

Silver spoons.

Footnote 9:

Silver milk jugs or sugar basins.

Footnote 10:

Persons who receive and melt down stolen metal.

Footnote 11:

Money will be obtained.

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CLXIX. THE PURSUIT

We must now return to the Blossom—the lighter which had only arrived at Mossop's wharf the night before the incidents of the last chapter occurred.

When the boat which conveyed the pirates to Gravesend had pushed away from the Fairy at day-break, as already described, the Black, who was cleaning the deck of the Blossom, cast from beneath his brows a rapid and scrutinising glance at the countenances of the four men who were seated in that skiff.

As soon as the boat was out of sight, the Black hastened down into the after-cabin of the Blossom, where a person was lying fast asleep in bed.

The Black shook this person violently by the shoulder, and awoke him.

"I have found him, sir,—I have found him!" cried the Black.

"Indeed!" cried Markham, starting up, and rubbing his eyes. "Where? where?"

"He has just gone with three other men in a boat, down the river," answered Morcar; "and one of these men is him that spoke to Benstead last night."

"Then they both belong to the Fairy?" exclaimed Richard.

"Both," replied Morcar; "at least they both came from it just now."

"Go and rouse Benstead," said Markham; "and in the meantime I will get up."

The gipsy, who had so well disguised himself as a man of colour, hastened to the cuddy where Benstead was wrapped in the arms of Morpheus.

The police-officer was delighted, when awakened and made acquainted with Morcar's discovery, to find that the Resurrection Man had been thus recognised; and he lost no time in dressing himself.

The gipsy and Benstead afterwards proceeded to Richard's cabin, where they found our hero just completing his hasty toilet.

"Thus far our aims are accomplished," said Markham, when they were all three assembled. "It has turned out exactly as I anticipated. Morcar, by aid of his disguised appearance, was enabled to keep a sharp look out on all the vessels; while the report which you circulated that he was deaf and dumb prevented him from being questioned. Had Tidkins himself seen Morcar as closely as we are to him now, he would not have known him."

"My suspicions, too, are fully confirmed," observed Benstead. "The moment I saw that feller hanging about us last night, I suspected he was up to no good. But how I managed to pump him, when he doubtless thought that I was the soft-pated one! By my short, evasive, or mysterious answers, I allowed him to think that the Blossom was no better than she should be; and then I saw by his manners and language at once, that he was a pirate. But when I dropped a hint about wanting two or three hands for a good thing which I had in view, how eager the chap was to enlist himself and his pal in the business!"

"And to-morrow night they are coming to talk over the matter with you?" said Richard, half interrogatively.

"To-morrow night, or the night after," returned Benstead. "The pal that the man spoke of is sure to be Tidkins, since our friend Morcar saw the villains leave the Fairy together."

"But there were two other men in the boat," observed the gipsy.

"You say that they sculled the boat round to the Fairy, from some place higher up the river?" said Richard.

"Yes. But I could not see where they came from, as it was nearly dark when they got alongside the Fairy."

"Well," exclaimed Benstead, "it is very clear that those two men who came in the boat, don't belong to the Fairy; but that Tidkins and the person who spoke to me last night do. I should think there's no doubt about Tidkins being the pal that the man alluded to."

"Not the slightest," said Markham. "And yet, to make assurance doubly sure, we will not alter the plan which we laid down yesterday afternoon when we first came on board the lighter. You, Benstead, must remain spokesman—the master, in fact, of the Blossom; you, Morcar, will continue a deaf and dumb Black," continued Richard, with a smile; "and I must keep close in this cabin until the moment of action arrives. If, to-morrow night or the night after, that man should bring Tidkins with him, our object is accomplished at once: if he bring a stranger, our precautions must be strictly preserved, and we must devise a means of seizing the miscreant on board the Fairy or any other lighter to which we can trace him."

This advice was agreed to by Benstead and Morcar; and while Richard remained below, the others took their turns in watching upon the deck.

But all that day passed; and the pirates did not come back to the Fairy—they being occupied in the manner related in the last chapter.

Morcar undertook to keep watch during the night; but hour after hour stole away,—another day dawned, and still the Fairy was occupied only by the woman whom the pirates had left behind.

That day also passed; and it was not until midnight that Morcar's attention was attracted towards the Fairy. Then a boat rowed alongside of the pirate-barge.

The night was pitch dark—so dark that Morcar could not see what was going on in the direction of the Fairy: but his ears were all attention.

He was enabled to discover, by means of those organs, that the boat transferred one or more of its living freight (but he could not tell how many) to the Fairy: then a brief conversation was carried on in low whispers, but not a distinct word of which reached the gipsy. At length the boat pushed off, and rowed away up the river.

Morcar stood upon the deck of the Blossom for a few minutes, attentively listening to catch a sound of any thing that might be passing on board the pirate lighter: but all continued silent in that quarter.

Then Morcar descended to the cabin, where Richard and the policeman were waiting.

To them he communicated the few particulars just narrated.

"It is clear that the pirates have returned from their expedition, whatever it might be," said our hero; "and most probably Tidkins and his friend have just been put on board their lighter. We must contrive to watch their motions; and should they keep their appointment with you, Benstead, to-morrow night, our enterprise will speedily be brought to a conclusion."

"I will keep my watch now on deck till three o'clock," said the policeman; "and Morcar may turn in."

This was done; Richard also retired to rest; and the night passed away without any further adventure.

But at day-break Morcar, who had again resumed the watch, observed some activity on board the Fairy. The Buffer and his wife were in fact making evident preparations for departure. They raised the mast by means of the windlass; they shook out the sail; fixed the tiller in the rudder, and performed the various preliminaries in a most business-like manner.

Morcar speedily communicated these circumstances to Benstead and Markham; and these three held a rapid consultation in the after-cabin of the Blossom.

"You are certain you saw no one but that man who first spoke to Benstead, and the woman?" asked Markham.

"Not a soul," answered Morcar. "But that is no reason why Tidkins should not be below."

"Certainly not. He has numerous reasons to conceal himself."

"But what is to be done?" said Morcar.

"Benstead must go and speak to the man," observed Richard, after a pause.

The policeman immediately left the cabin.

He crossed the barges and approached the Fairy, which was just ready to put off.

"Holloa! my friend," cried Benstead: "you seem busy this morning?"

"Yes—we're going up above bridge a short way," answered the Buffer: "the tide is just turning in our favour now, and we haven't a moment to spare."

"And the appointment with me?"

"Oh! that must stand over for a day or two. How long do you mean to remain here?"

"Till I get a couple of good hands to help me in the matter I alluded to the night before last," answered Benstead.

"Well, I don't like to disappoint a good feller—and that you seem to be," said the Buffer, "but I really can't say whether I shall be able to do any thing with you, or not. I've something else on hand now—and I think I shall leave the river altogether."

"You speak openly at all events," said Benstead. "It's very annoying, though; for I relied upon you. Can't your pal—the man that you spoke of, you know—have a hand in this matter with me?"

"No," answered the Buffer shortly. "But I'll tell you who'll put you up to getting the assistance you want:—and that's Mossop's foreman. He's a cautious man, and won't meet you half way in your conversation; but you can make a confidant of him, and if he can't help you, he's sure not to sell you. So now good bye, old feller; and good luck to you."

With these words the Buffer loosened the rope that held the Fairy alongside the barge next to it; and then by means of a boat-hook he pushed the lighter off.

"Good bye," exclaimed Benstead; and he hastened back to the Blossom.

"Now what must be done?" asked Morcar, when these particulars were communicated to him and Richard.

"It seems clear to me that these men have endangered themselves by something they have just been doing," observed Benstead; "and so they're sheering off as fast as they can."

"And most likely the Resurrection Man is concealed on board the Fairy," added Markham. "We must follow them—we must follow them, at any rate!"

"If we take our skiff and pursue them, they will immediately entertain some suspicion," said Benstead; "and if you go, sir, the Resurrection Man will recognise you the moment he catches a glimpse of you."

"We have no alternative, my good friends," observed Richard. "Let us all three follow them in our skiff: we will dog them—we will watch them; and if they attempt to land, we will board them."

"Be it so," said Benstead.

This plan was immediately put into operation.

The skiff was lowered: Markham, the policeman, and the gipsy leapt into it; the two latter pulled the oars; and our hero, muffled in a pilot coat, with the collar of which he concealed his countenance as much as possible, sate in the stern.

"Just keep the lighter in view—and that's all," said Richard. "So long as it does not show signs of touching at any place on shore, we had better content ourselves with following it, till we are assured that Tidkins is actually on board."

"Certainly, sir," answered Benstead. "We might only get ourselves into trouble by forcibly entering the Fairy, unless we knew that we should catch the game we're in search of."

The rowers had therefore little more to do than just play with their oars, as the tide bore the skiff along with even a greater rapidity than the lighter, although the latter proceeded with tolerable speed, in consequence of being empty, and having a fair breeze with it. Thus, when the boat drew too near the barge, the rowers backed their oars; and by this manœuvring they maintained a convenient distance.

On board the lighter, the Buffer and his wife were too busy with the management of their vessel—a task to which they were not altogether equal—to notice the watch and pursuit instituted by the little boat.

In the manner described, the two parties pursued their way up the narrow space left by the crowds of shipping for the passage of vessels.

The Tower was passed—that gloomy fortalice which has known sighs as full of anguish and hearts as oppressed with bitter woe as ever did the prisons of the Inquisition, or the dungeons of the Bastille.

Then the Custom House was slowly left behind; and Billingsgate, world-renowned for its slang, was passed by the pursued and the pursuer.

To avoid the arch of London Bridge the Buffer lowered his mast; and then midway between that and Southwark Bridge, his intentions became apparent.

He was about to put in at a wharf on the Surrey side, where a large board on the building announced that lighters were bought or sold.

"Pull alongside the Fairy," cried Markham: "we must board her before she touches the wharf, or our prey may escape."

Benstead and Morcar plied the oars with a vigour which soon brought the boat within a few yards of the Fairy. The Buffer's attention was now attracted to it for the first time; but he did not immediately recognise the two rowers, because they had their backs turned towards the lighter.

"I should know that man!" suddenly exclaimed Richard, as he contemplated the Buffer, who was standing at the tiller, and who had his eyes fixed with some anxiety upon the boat, which was evidently pulling towards him.

"Who?" asked Benstead.

"That man on board the lighter," was the reply.

Benstead cast a glance behind him, and said, "He's the man that spoke to me."

"I remember him—the villain!—I recollect him now!" cried Richard. "Yes—he is a companion in iniquity of Anthony Tidkins: it was he who brought me that false message concerning my brother, which nearly cost me my life at Twig Folly!"

These words Richard spoke aloud; but they were unintelligible to his two companions, who were unacquainted with the incident referred to.

They had no time to question him, nor had he leisure to explain his meaning to them; for at that moment the boat shot alongside of the lighter.

"Markham!" cried the Buffer, in alarm, as he recognised our hero who immediately sprang upon the deck.

"You know me?" said Richard: "and I have ample reason to remember you. But my present business regards another; and if you offer no resistance, I will not harm you."

"Who do you want?" asked the Buffer, somewhat reassured by these words.

"Your companion," replied Richard.

"What! my wife?" ejaculated the Buffer, with a hoarse laugh. "Do you know this gen'leman, Moll?"

"Cease this jesting," cried Richard sternly; "and remain where you are. Benstead, take care that he does not move from the deck: Morcar, come you with me."

The Buffer cast looks of surprise and curiosity upon Richard's companions, who, having made the boat fast to the lighter, had leapt upon the deck.

"What! you, my fine feller?" cried Wicks, addressing himself to Benstead. "I suppose, then, this is all a reg'lar plant;—and you're——"

"I am a police officer," answered Benstead coolly. "But, as far as I know, we have no business with either you or your wife—since you say that this woman is your wife."

"Well—so much the better," remarked the Buffer. "And I also suppose your negro is about as deaf and dumb as I am?"

"About," replied Benstead, unable to suppress a smile. "Keep quiet, and no harm will happen to you."

"But who is it that you do want?" asked the Buffer.

"Your friend Tidkins—better known as the Resurrection Man."

"Then you won't find him here."

In the meantime, Richard and the gipsy had descended into the after-cabin; and they now re-appeared upon the deck, their search having been fruitless.

"He is not there," said Richard. "Let us look forward."

He and Morcar visited the cuddy; but the Resurrection Man was evidently not in the lighter.

They returned to the after deck; and questioned the Buffer.

"I don't know where Tidkins is," was the reply of that individual, who did not dare reveal the truth relative to the expedition to the plague ship, and its result; "and even if I did, it is not likely that I should blab any thing that would get us both into a scrape, since I see that the whole thing with you is a trap, and that man there," he added, pointing to Benstead, "is a policeman."

"Now, listen," exclaimed Richard. "It is in my power to have you arrested this moment for being concerned in a plot against my life—you know how and when; but I pledge you my honour that if you will satisfy me relative to Anthony Tidkins, we will depart, and leave you unmolested. I scorn treachery, even among men of your description; and I will not offer you a bribe. But I require to know how he came to separate from you—for I am convinced that he was with you a day or two ago."

"Well, sir," said the Buffer, who had found time, while Richard thus spoke, to collect his ideas and invent a tale, "Tidkins, me, and some other pals went on a little excursion the night afore last—you don't want me to get myself into a scrape by saying what the business was; but we fell in with a Thames police boat some way down the river; and Tidkins had a swim for it."

"Did he escape?" demanded Richard.

"Yes," answered the Buffer, boldly. "I saw him get safe on land; and then of course he took to his heels."

"This looks like the truth, sir," said Benstead aside to our hero. "These fellows have been baulked in some scheme—the river-police have got scent of 'em—and that's the reason why this man gets off so quick with his lighter."

"And as I do not wish to punish this man for the injury he has done me," said Richard, glancing towards the Buffer,—"as I can afford to forgive him,—our expedition seems to have arrived at its close."

"Without success, too, sir," added Morcar.

"We shall now leave you," continued Richard, turning towards the Buffer; "but rest well assured that, though we forbear from molesting you, justice will some day overtake you in your evil and wayward courses."

"That's my look out," cried the Buffer, brutally.

Markham turned away in disgust, and descended to the boat, followed by Morcar and Benstead.

"We will now proceed to the wharf where I hired the Blossom," said Richard, when they had pushed off from the Fairy; "and, my good friends, there I shall dispense with your further services. The owner of the lighter can send his men to Rotherhithe to bring it up, and thus save us a task which is somewhat beyond our skill."

"It is a great pity we have failed to capture the miscreant," observed Morcar.

"But your reward has not been the less fairly and honestly earned," replied Richard; "as I will prove to you when we land."

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CLXX. THE BLACK VEIL

Return we now to one whom we have long left, but whom the reader cannot have forgotten.

In a sumptuously furnished room at the house of Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon of Lower Holloway, Diana Arlington was reclining upon a sofa.

She was dressed in an elegant manner; but a large black lace veil, doubled so as to render it more impervious to the eye of a beholder, was thrown over her head. The folds were also so arranged that the elaborately worked border completely concealed her countenance.

She was alone.

An open piano, a harp, and piles of music, together with a choice selection of volumes on the shelves of a book-case, denoted the nature of her amusements during her residence of several weeks at the surgeon's abode.

It was mid-day.

The damask curtains at the windows were drawn in such a manner as to reduce the light of the effulgent sun to a mellow and soft lustre within that apartment.

Beautiful nosegays of flowers imparted a delicious fragrance to the atmosphere.

The bounty of the Earl of Warrington had furnished the room in a style of luxury which could scarcely be surpassed.

But was Diana happy?

Were those sighs which agitated her heaving bosom,—was that restlessness which she now manifested,—was that frequent listening as the sounds of wheels passed along the road,—were all these signs of sorrow or of suspense?

Patience, gentle reader.

The time-piece on the mantel had chimed mid-day.

"He is not punctual," murmured Diana.

Ten minutes elapsed.

"He does not come!" she said aloud.

And her restlessness redoubled.

At length a carriage drove rapidly up to the door; and a long double knock reverberated through the house.

"'Tis he!" cried Diana.

In a few moments the Earl of Warrington entered the room.

"Diana—dearest Diana!" exclaimed the nobleman, starting back when he beheld her countenance covered with that ominous dark veil: "is it indeed thus——"

"Thus that we meet after so long an absence?" added the Enchantress. "Yes, my lord: Mr. Wentworth must have told you as much."

"No, Diana," answered the Earl, seating himself upon the sofa by her side, and taking her hand: "you know not by what a strange idiosyncrasy my conduct has been influenced. I entrusted you to Mr. Wentworth's care: I enjoined him to spare no money that might procure the best advice—the most efficient means of cure. Then I resigned myself to a suspense from which I might at any moment have relieved my mind by an inquiry;—but at the bottom of that suspense was a fond, a burning hope which made the feeling tolerable—nay, even vested the excitement with a peculiar charm of its own. I took it for granted that you would be cured—that your countenance would be restored to that beauty which had originally attracted me towards you;—and now, may I not say—without detriment to my own firm character as a man, and without indelicacy towards your feelings,—may I not say that I am disappointed?"

"And is this my fault?" asked Diana, in a soft plaintive tone. "Does your lordship suppose that I have not also suffered—that I do not at present suffer?"

"Oh! yes—you have—you do," answered the nobleman, pressing her hand with warm affection. "When we were happy in each other's society, Diana," he continued, "I never spoke to you of love: indeed, I experienced for you nothing more than a fervent friendship and profound admiration. But since I have ceased to see you—during the interval of our separation—I found that you were necessary to me,—that I could not be altogether happy without you,—that your conversation had charms which delighted me,—and that your attachment was something on which I could ponder with infinite pleasure. My feelings have warmed towards you; and I—I, the Earl of Warrington—experience for you a feeling which, if not so romantic and enthusiastic as my first affection, is not the less honourable and sincere."

"Ah! my lord," said Diana, in a tremulous tone, "why raise the cup of happiness to my lips, when a stern fatality must dash it so cruelly away?"

"No, Diana—it shall not be thus dashed away," answered the Earl, emphatically. "I am rich—I am my own master: not a living soul has a right to control or question my conduct. The joy which I anticipated at this meeting shall not be altogether destroyed. Here, Diana—here I offer you my hand; and on your brow—scarred, blemished by an accident though it be—that hand shall place a coronet!"

"My lord, this honour—this goodness is too much," said Diana, in a tone of deep emotion. "Remember that I am no longer possessed of those charms which once attracted you; and now that they are gone—gone for ever—I may speak of what they were without vanity! Remember, I say, that you will ever have before you a countenance seared as with a red-hot iron,—a countenance on which you will scarcely be able to look without loathing in spite of all the love which your generous heart may entertain for me! Remember that when I deck myself in the garments befitting the rank to which you seek to elevate me, that splendour would be a hideous mockery—like the fairest flowers twining round the revolting countenance of a corpse on which the hand of decay has already placed its mark! Remember, in a word, that you will be ashamed of her whom, in a moment of generous enthusiasm, you offer to reward for so much suffering—suffering which originated in no fault of yours:—remember all this, my lord—and pause—reflect—I implore you to consider well the step you are taking!"

"Diana, I am not a child that I do not know my own mind," answered the Earl: "moreover, I have the character of firmness: and I shall never repent the proposal I now make you—provided you yourself do not give me cause by your conduct."

"And on that head——"

"I have every confidence—the deepest conviction, Diana," interrupted the Earl, warmly.

"Your wishes, then, are my commands—and I obey," returned Diana, her voice thrilling with tones expressive of ineffable joy. "But shall we not ratify our engagement with one kiss?"

And as she spoke she slowly drew the black veil from her countenance.

The nobleman's heart palpitated, as she did so, with emotions of the most painful suspense—even of alarm: he felt like a man who in another instant must know the worst.

The veil dropped.

"Heavens! Diana," exclaimed the Earl, starting with surprise and indescribable delight.

For instead of a countenance seared and marked, he beheld a pure and spotless face glowing with a beauty which, even in her loveliest moments, had never seemed to invest her before.

Not a scar—not a trace of the accident was visible.

Her pouting lips were like the rose moistened with dew: her high, pale forehead was pure as marble; and her cheeks were suffused in blushes which seemed to be born beneath the clustering ringlets of her dark brown hair.

"Ah! Diana," exclaimed the Earl, as he drew her to his breast, "how can I punish thee for this cheat!"

"You will pardon me," she murmured, as she clasped her warm white arms around his neck, and imprinted a delicious kiss upon his lips, while her eyes were filled with a voluptuous languor,—"you will pardon me when you know my motives. But can you not divine them?"

"You wished to put my affection to the test, Diana," said the Earl. "Yes—I must forgive you—for you are beautiful—you are adorable—and I love you!"

"And if the sincerest and most devoted attachment on my part can reward you for all your past goodness, and for the honours which you now propose to shower upon me, then shall I not fail to testify my gratitude," exclaimed Diana.

These vows were sealed with innumerable kisses.

At length the Earl rose to depart.

"Three days hence," he said, "my carriage will be sent to fetch you to the church where our hands shall be united."

"And our hearts—for ever," returned Diana.

The nobleman embraced her once more, and took his leave.

But he did not immediately quit the house: he had business with Mr. Wentworth to transact.

We know not the precise sum that this generous peer presented to the surgeon: this, however, we can assure our readers, that he kept his word to the very letter—for Mr. Wentworth became rich in one day.

"If you succeed in restoring her to me," had the Earl said, when he first entrusted Diana to the surgeon's care, "in that perfection of beauty which invested her when I took leave of her yesterday—without a mark, without a scar,—your fortune shall be my care, and you will have no need to entertain anxiety relative to the future, with the Earl of Warrington as your patron."

Such were the nobleman's words upon that occasion; and, on the present, he amply fulfilled his promise.

Three days after, Diana became the Countess of Warrington.

The happy news were thus communicated by the bride to her sincerest and best friend:—

"Grosvenor Square, "March 22nd, 1840.

TO HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE GRAND DUCHESS OF CASTELCICALA.

"I steal a few minutes from a busy day, my dearest Eliza,—for by that dear and familiar name you permit me to call you,—to inform you that I have this morning united my destinies with those of the Earl of Warrington. In a former letter I acquainted you with the dreadful accident which menaced me with horrible scars and marks for life:—you will be pleased to know that the skill and unwearied attention of my medical attendant have succeeded in completely restoring me to my former appearance—so that not a trace of the injury remains upon my person. The Earl of Warrington has elevated me to the proud position of his wife: the remainder of my existence shall be devoted to the study of his happiness.

"I regret to perceive by your letters, dearest Eliza, that you are not altogether happy. You say that the Grand Duke loves you; but his temper is arbitrary—his disposition despotic. And yet he is amiable and gentle in his bearing towards you. Study to solace yourself with this conviction. He has elevated you to a rank amongst the reigning princesses of Europe; and as you have embraced the honours, so must you endure some few of the political alarms and annoyances which are invariably attached to so proud a position. You tremble lest the conduct of the Grand Duke, in alienating from him those who are considered his best friends, should endanger his crown. Are you convinced that those persons are indeed his friends! Of course I know not—I cannot determine: I would only counsel you, my dearest friend, not to form hasty conclusions relative to the policy of his Serene Highness.

"I perceive by the English newspapers, that there are numerous Castelcicalan refugees in this country. Amongst them are General Grachia and Colonel Morosino, both of whom, I believe, occupied high offices in their native land. They, however, appear, so far as I can learn, to be dwelling tranquilly in London—no doubt awaiting the happy moment when it shall please your illustrious husband to recall them from exile.

"His Highness Alberto of Castelcicala—(for you are aware that the Earl of Warrington communicated to me some time ago the real rank and name of Count Alteroni)—continues to reside at his villa near Richmond. This much I glean from the public journals; but doubtless you are well acquainted with all these facts, inasmuch as your government has a representative at the English court.

"Adieu for the present, dearest Eliza:—I knew not, when I sate down, that I should have been enabled to write so long a letter. But I must now change my dress; for the carriage will be here shortly to convey me to Warrington Park, where we are to pass the honeymoon.

"Ever your sincere friend, "DIANA."

Such are the strange phases which this world presents to our view! That same Fortune, who, in a moment of caprice, had raised an obscure English lady to a ducal throne, placed, when in a similar mood, a coronet upon the brow of another who had long filled a most equivocal position in society.

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CLXXI. MR. GREENWOOD'S DINNER-PARTY

Some few days after the events just related, Mr. G. M. Greenwood, M.P., entertained several gentlemen at dinner at his residence in Spring Gardens.

The banquet was served up at seven precisely:—Mr. Greenwood had gradually made his dinner hour later as he had risen in the world; and he was determined that if ever he became a baronet, he would never have that repast put on table till half-past eight o'clock.

On the present occasion, as we ere now observed, the guests were conducted to the dining-room at seven.

The thick curtains were drawn over the windows: the apartment was a blaze of light.

The table groaned beneath the massive plate: the banquet was choice and luxurious in the highest degree.

On Mr. Greenwood's right sate the Marquis of Holmesford—a nobleman of sixty-three years of age, of immense wealth, and notorious for the unbounded licentiousness of his mode of life. His conversation, when his heart was somewhat warmed with wine, bore ample testimony to the profligacy of his morals: seductions were his boast; and he frequently indulged in obscene anecdotes or expressions which even called a blush to the cheeks of his least fastidious male acquaintances.

On Mr. Greenwood's left was Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem, Bart., M.P., and Whipper-in to the Tory party.

Next to the two guests already described, sate Sir Cherry Bounce, Bart., and the Honourable Major Smilax Dapper—the latter of whom had recently acquired a grade in the service by purchase.

Mr. James Tomlinson, Mr. Sheriff Popkins, Mr. Alderman Sniff, Mr. Bubble, Mr. Chouse, and Mr. Twitchem (a solicitor) completed the party.

Now this company, the reader will perceive, was somewhat a mixed one: the aristocracy of the West End, the civic authority, and the members of the financial and legal spheres, were assembled on the present occasion.

The fact is, gentle reader, that this was a "business dinner;" and that you may be no longer kept in suspense, we will at once inform you that when the cloth was drawn, Mr. Greenwood, in a brief speech, proposed "Success to the Algiers, Oran, and Morocco Railway."

The toast was drunk with great applause.

"With your permission, my lord and gentlemen," said Mr. Twitchem, the solicitor, "I will read the Prospectus."

"Yeth, wead the pwothpeckthuth, by all meanth," exclaimed Sir Cherry Bounce.

"Strike me—but I'm anxious to hear that," cried the Honourable Major Dapper.

The solicitor then drew a bundle of papers from his pocket, and in a business-like manner read the contents of one which he extracted from the parcel:—

"ALGIERS, ORAN, AND MOROCCO GREAT DESERT RAILWAY.

"(Provisionally Registered Pursuant to Act.) "Capital £1,600,000, in 80,000 shares, of £20 each. "Deposit £3 2_s._ per Share.

"COMMITTEE OF DIRECTION.

"THE MOST HONOURABLE THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD, G. C. B., Chairman.

"GEORGE M. GREENWOOD, Esq., M.P., Deputy Chairman.

"Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem, Bart., M.P. "James Tomlinson, Esq. "Sylvester Popkins, Esq., Sheriff of London. "Percival Peter Sniff, Esq., Alderman. "Sir Cherry Bounce, Bart. "The Honourable Major Smilax Dapper. "Charles Cecil Bubble, Esq. "Robert James Baring Chouse, Esq.

"This Railway is intended to connect the great cities of Algiers and Morocco, passing close to the populous and flourishing town of Oran. It will thus be the means of transit for passengers and traffic over a most important section of the Great Desert, which, though placed in maps in a more southernly latitude, nevertheless extends to the District through which this Line is to pass.

"The French government has willingly accorded its countenance to the proposed scheme; and the Governor-General of Algeria has expressed his sincere wish that it may be carried into effect.

"The Morocco government (one of the most enlightened in Africa) has also assented to the enterprise; and the Emperor, the better to manifest the favour with which he views the project, ordered his Prime Minister to be soundly bastinadoed for daring to question its practicability. This proof of the imperial wisdom has filled the Committee and friends of the enterprise with the most sanguine hopes.

"The support of the principal tribes, and other influential parties in Algeria and Morocco, has been secured.

"The Emperor of Morocco, on one side, and his Excellency the Governor-General of Algeria, on the other, have signified their readiness to grant a strong armed force to protect the engineers and operatives, when laying down the rails, from being devoured by wild beasts, or molested by predatory tribes.

"The ex-Emir of Mascara, Abd-el-Kadir, has entered into a bond not to interfere with the works while in progress, nor to molest those who may travel by the Line when it shall be opened; and, in order to secure this important concession on the part of the ex-Emir, the Committee have agreed to make that Prince an annual present of clothes, linen, tobacco, and ardent spirit.

"It is with the greatest satisfaction that the Committee of Direction is enabled to announce these brilliant prospects; and the Committee beg to state that application for the allotment of Shares must be made without delay to James Tomlinson, Esq., Stockbroker, Tokenhouse Yard.

"By order of the Board, "SHARPLY TWITCHEM, Secretary."

"On my thoul, there never wath any thing better—conthith, bwief, ekthplithit, and attwactive!" cried Sir Cherry.

"Sure to take—as certain as I'm in Her Majesty's service—strike me!" exclaimed Major Dapper.

"I think you ought to have thrown in something about African beauties," observed the Marquis: "they are particularly stout, you know, being all fed on a preparation of rice called couscousou. I really think I must pay a visit to those parts next spring."

"I will undertake to get one of the members of the government to introduce a favourable mention of the project into his speech to-morrow night, in the House," said Sir T. M. B. Muzzlehem: "but you must send him a hundred shares the first thing in the morning."

"That shall be done," answered Mr. Twitchem.

"Well, my lord and gentlemen," observed Mr. Greenwood, "I think that this little business looks uncommonly well. The project is no doubt feasible—I mean, the shares are certain to go off well. Mr. Bubble and Mr. Chouse will undertake to raise them in public estimation, by the reports they will circulate in Capel Court. Of course, my lord and gentlemen, when they are at a good premium, we shall all sell; and if we do not realise twenty or thirty thousand pounds each—each, mark me—then shall you be at liberty to say that the free and independent electors of Rottenborough have chosen as their representative a dolt and an idiot in the person of your humble servant."

"Whatever Mr. Greenwood undertakes is certain to turn to gold," observed Mr. Bubble.

"Can't be otherwise," said Mr. Chouse.

"Mr. Greenwood's name stands so well in the City," added Mr. Sheriff Popkins.

"And his lordship's countenance to the enterprise is a tower of strength," exclaimed Mr. Alderman Sniff.

"I have already had many inquiries concerning the project," said Mr. Tomlinson.

"Yes—Chouse and I took care to circulate reports in the City that such a scheme was in contemplation," observed Bubble.

"Gentlemen, I think that all difficulties have been provided against in this Prospectus," cried Mr. Twitchem:—"the predatory tribes, Abd-el-Kadir, and the wild beasts."

"Nothing could be better," answered Mr. Greenwood. "Take care that the Prospectus be sent as an advertisement to every London journal, and the leading provincial ones. You know that I am a shareholder in one of the London newspapers; and I can promise you that it will not fail to cry up our enterprise. In fact, my lord and gentlemen," added Mr. Greenwood, "I have at this moment in my pocket a copy of a leading article—that will appear in that paper, the day after to-morrow."

"My gwathioth!—do read it, Greenwood," cried Sir Cherry Bounce.

"Yes: I'd give the world to hear it—smite me!" ejaculated Major Dapper.

Mr. Greenwood glanced complacently around, and then drew forth a printed slip, the contents of which were as follow:—

"In our opposition to those multifarious railway projects which are starting up on all sides, as if some Cadmus had been sowing bubbles in our financial soil, we have only been swayed by our fears lest such a number of schemes, which never can obtain the sanction of Parliament, should injure the credit, and impair the monetary prosperity of the country. It must not, however, be supposed that we are inimical to those undertakings which are based upon fair, intelligible, and reasonable grounds. There are many talented, honourable, and wealthy individuals engaged in speculations of this nature; and, their motives being beyond suspicion, no one of common sense can for a moment suppose that we include their projects amongst the airy nothings against which we are compelled to put the public on their guard. The extension of railways is internally connected with the progress of civilisation; and when we behold the principle applied to distant and semi-barbarian countries—as in the case, for instance, of that truly grand and promising enterprise, the Algiers, Oran, and Morocco Great Desert Railway—we feel proud that England should have the honour of taking the initiative in thus propagating beyond its own limits the elements of civilisation, and the germs of humanising influences. At the same time we shall continue our strenuous opposition to all railway schemes which we consider to be mere bubbles blown from the pipes of intriguants and adventurers; and we shall never pause until in those pipes we put an effectual stopper."

"Thuper-ekthellent—glowiouth—majethtic—athtounding!" ejaculated Sir Cherry, quite in raptures.

"You perceive how beautifully—how delicately the puff is insinuated," said Mr. Greenwood. "That article will have an astonishing effect."

"No doubt of it," observed the Marquis. "You might have contrived to introduce something relative to the Emperor of Morocco's ladies. Why not state that the Moorish terminus will command a view of the gardens of the imperial harem, where those divine creatures—each of seventeen stone weight—are wont to ramble in a voluptuous undress?"

"No—no, my lord; that would never do!" cried Greenwood, with a smile. "And now, my lord and gentlemen, we perfectly understand each other. Each takes as many shares as he pleases. When they reach a high premium, each may sell as he thinks fit. Then, when we have realized our profits, we will inform the shareholders that insuperable difficulties prevent the carrying out of the project,—that Abd-el-Kadir, for instance, has violated his agreement and declared against the scheme,—that the Committee of Direction will therefore retain a sum sufficient to defray the expenses already incurred, and that the remaining capital paid up shall be returned to the shareholders."

"That is exactly what, I believe, we all understand," observed Mr. Twitchem.

"For my part," said Lord Holmesford, "I only embark in the enterprise to oblige my friend Greenwood; and therefore I am agreeable to any thing that he proposes."

Matters being thus amicably arranged, the company passed the remainder of the evening in the conviviality of the table.

At eleven o'clock the guests all retired, with the exception of the Marquis of Holmesford.

"Now, friend Greenwood," said this nobleman, "you will keep your engagement with me?"

"Yes, my lord: I am prepared to accompany you."

"Let us depart at once, then," added the Marquis, rising from his chair: "my carriage has been waiting some time; and I long to introduce you to the voluptuous mysteries of Holmesford House."

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CLXXII. THE MYSTERIES OF HOLMESFORD HOUSE

The Marquis and Mr. Greenwood alighted at the door of Holmesford House—one of the most splendid palaces of the aristocracy at the West End.

The Marquis conducted his visitor into a large ante-room at the right hand of the spacious hall.

The table in the middle of the apartment was covered with the most luxurious fruits, nosegays of flowers, preserves, sweetmeats, and delicious wines.

From this room three doors afforded communication elsewhere. One opened into the hall, and had afforded them ingress: the other, on the opposite side, belonged to a corridor, with which were connected the baths; and the third, at the bottom, communicated with a vast saloon, of which we shall have more to say very shortly.

The Marquis said to the servant who conducted him and Mr. Greenwood to the ante-room, "You may retire; and let them ring the bell when all is ready."

The domestic withdrew.

The Marquis motioned Greenwood to seat himself at the table; and, filling two coloured glasses with real Johannisberg, he said, "We must endeavour to while away half an hour; and then I can promise you a pleasing entertainment."

The nobleman and the member of Parliament quaffed the delicious wine, and indulged in discourse upon the most voluptuous subjects.

"For my part," said the Marquis, "I study how to enjoy life. I possess an immense fortune, and do not scruple to spend it upon all the pleasures I can fancy, or which suggest themselves to me. I am not such an idiot as to imagine that I possess the vigour or natural warmth which characterised my youth; and therefore I have become an Epicurean in my recreations. I invent and devise the means of inflaming my passions; and then—then I am young once more. You will presently behold something truly oriental in the refinements on voluptuousness which I have conceived to produce an artificial effect on the temperament when nature is languid and weak.

"Your lordship is right to fan the flame that burns dimly," observed Greenwood, who, unprincipled as he was, could not, however, avoid a feeling of disgust when he heard that old voluptuary, with one foot in the grave, thus shamelessly express himself.

"Wine and women, my dear Greenwood," continued the Marquis, "are the only earthly enjoyments worth living for. I hope to die, with my head pillowed on the naked—heaving bosom of beauty, and with a glass of sparkling champagne in my hand."

"Your lordship would then even defy the pangs of the grim monster who spares no one," said Greenwood.

"I have lived a joyous life, my dear friend; and when death comes, I can say that no mortal man—not even Solomon, with his thousand wives and concubines—nor any eastern Sultan, who had congregated the fairest flowers of Georgia, Circassia, and Armenia in his harem,—had more deeply drunk than I of the pleasures of love."

Just as the aged voluptuary uttered these words, a silver bell that hung in the apartment was agitated gently by a wire which communicated with the adjoining saloon.

"Now all is in readiness!" exclaimed the Marquis: "follow me."

The nobleman opened the door leading into the saloon, which he entered, accompanied by Greenwood.

He then closed the door behind him.

The saloon was involved in total obscurity; the blackest darkness reigned there, unbroken by a ray.

"Give me your hand," said the Marquis.

Greenwood complied; and the nobleman led him to a sofa at a short distance from the door by which they had entered.

They both seated themselves on the voluptuous cushions.

For some moments a solemn silence prevailed.

At length that almost painful stillness was broken by the soft notes of a delicious melody, which, coming from the farther end of the apartment, stole, with a species of enchanting influence, upon the ear.

Gentle and low was that sweet music when it began; but by degrees it grew louder—though still soft and ravishing in the extreme.

Then a chorus of charming female voices suddenly burst forth; and the union of that vocal and instrumental perfection produced an effect thrilling—intoxicating—joyous, beyond description.

The melody created in the mind of Greenwood an anxious desire to behold those unseen choristers whose voices were so harmonious, so delightful.

The dulcet, metallic sounds agitated the senses with feelings of pleasure, and made the heart beat with vague hopes and expectations.

For nearly twenty minutes did that delicious concert last. Love was the subject of the song,—Love, not considered as an infant boy, nor as a merciless tyrant,—but Love depicted as the personification of every thing voluptuous, blissful, and enchanting,—Love, the representative of all the joys which earth in reality possesses, or which the warmest imagination could possibly conceive,—Love apart from the refinements of sentiment, and contemplated only as the paradise of sensualities.

And never did sweeter voices warble the fervid language of passion through the medium of a more enchanting poesy!

Twenty minutes, we said, passed with wonderful rapidity while that inspiring concert lasted.

But even then the melody did not cease suddenly. It gradually grew fainter and fainter—dying away, as it were, in expiring sounds of silver harmony, as if yielding to the voluptuous enhancement of its own magic influence.

And now, just as the last murmur floated to the ears of the raptured listeners, a bell tinkled at a distance; and in an instant—as if by magic—the spacious saloon was lighted up with a brilliancy which produced a sensation like an electric shock.

At the same time, the music struck up in thrilling sounds once more; and a bevy of lovely creatures, whom the glare suddenly revealed upon a stage at the farther end of the apartment, became all life and activity in a voluptuous dance.

Three chandeliers of transparent crystal had suddenly vomited forth jets of flame; and round the walls the illumination had sprung into existence, with simultaneous suddenness, from innumerable silver sconces.

A glance around showed Greenwood that he was in a vast and lofty apartment, furnished with luxurious ottomans in the oriental style; and with tables groaning beneath immense vases filled with the choicest flowers.

The walls were covered with magnificent pictures, representing the most voluptuous scenes of the heathen mythology and of ancient history.

The figures in those paintings were as large as life; and no prudery had restrained the artist's pencil in the delineation of the luxuriant subjects which he had chosen.

There was Lucretia, struggling—vainly struggling with the ardent Tarquin,—her drapery torn by his rude hands away from her lovely form, which the brutal violence of his mad passion had rendered weak, supple, and yielding.

There was Helen, reclining in more than semi-nudity on the couch to which her languishing and wanton looks invited the enamoured Phrygian youth, who was hastily laying aside his armour after a combat with the Greeks.

There was Messalina—that imperial harlot, whose passions were so insatiable and whose crimes were so enormous,—issuing from a bath to join her lover, who impatiently awaited her beneath a canopy in a recess, and which was surmounted by the Roman diadem.

Then there were pictures representing the various amours of Jupiter,—Leda, Latona, Semele, and Europa—the mistresses of the god—all drawn in the most exciting attitudes, and endowed with the most luscious beauties.

But if those creations of art were sufficient to inflame the passions of even that age when the blood seems frozen in the veins, how powerful must have been the effect produced by those living, breathing, moving houris who were now engaged in a rapid and exciting dance to the most ravishing music.

They wore six in number, and all dressed alike, in a drapery so light and gauzy that it was all but transparent, and so scanty that it afforded no scope for the sweet romancing of fancy, and left but little need for guesses.

But if their attire were thus uniform, their style of beauty was altogether different.

We must, however, permit the Marquis to describe them to Greenwood—which he did in whispers.

"That fair girl on the right," he said, "with the brilliant complexion, auburn hair, and red cherry lips, is from the north—a charming specimen of Scotch beauty. Mark how taper is her waist, and yet how ample her bust! She is only nineteen, and has been in my house for the last three years. Her voice is charming; and she sings some of her native airs with exquisite taste. The one next to her, with the brown hair, and who is somewhat stout in form, though, as you perceive, not the less active on that account, is an English girl—a beauty of Lancashire. She is twenty-two, and appeared four years ago on the stage. From thence she passed into the keeping of a bishop, who took lodgings for her in great Russell Street, Bloomsbury. The Right Reverend Prelate one evening invited me to sup there; and three days afterwards she removed to my house."

"Not with the consent of the bishop, I should imagine?" observed Greenwood, laughing.

"Oh! no—no," returned the Marquis, chuckling and coughing at the same time. "The one who is next to her—the third from the left, I mean—is an Irish girl. Look how beautifully she is made. What vigorous, strong, and yet elegantly formed limbs! And what elasticity—what airy lightness in the dance! Did you observe that pirouette? How the drapery spread out from her waist like a circular fan! Is she not a charming creature?"

"She is, indeed!" exclaimed Greenwood. "Tall, elegant, and graceful."

"And her tongue is just tipped with enough of the Irish accent—I cannot call it brogue in so sweet a being—to render her conversation peculiarly interesting. And now mark her smile! Oh! the coquette—what a roguish look! Has she not wickedness in those sparkling black eyes?"

"She seems an especial favourite, methinks," whispered Greenwood.

"Yes—I have a sneaking preference for her, I must admit," answered the Marquis. "But I also like my little French girl, who is dancing next to Kathleen. Mademoiselle Anna is an exquisite creature—and such a wanton! What passion is denoted by her burning glances! How graceful are her movements: survey her now—she beats them all in that soft abandonment of limb which she just displayed. Her mother was a widow, and sold the lovely Anna to a French Field-Marshal, when she was only fifteen. The Field-Marshal, who was also a duke and enormously rich, placed her in a magnificent mansion in the Chausseé d'Antin, and settled a handsome sum upon her. But, at his death, she ran through it all, became involved in debt, and was glad to accept my offers two years ago."

"She is very captivating," said Greenwood. "How gracefully she rounds her dazzling white arms!"

"And how well she throws herself into the most voluptuous attitudes—and all, too, as if unstudied!" returned the Marquis. "The beauty next to her is a Spaniard. The white drapery, in my opinion, sets off her clear, transparent, olive skin, to the utmost advantage. The blood seems to boil in her veins: she is all fire—all passion. How brilliant are her large black eyes! Behold the glossy magnificence of her raven hair! Tall—straight as an arrow—how commanding, and yet how graceful is her form! And when she smiles—now—you can perceive the dazzling whiteness of her teeth. Last of all I must direct your attention to my Georgian—"

"A real Georgian?" exclaimed Greenwood.

"A real Georgian," answered the Marquis; "and, as Byron describes his Katinka, 'white and red.' Her large melting blue eyes are full of voluptuous, lazy, indolent, but not the less impassioned love. Her dark brown hair is braided in a manner to display its luxuriance, and yet leave the entire face clear for you to admire its beauty. Look at that fine oval countenance: how pure is the red—how delicate the white! Nature has no artificial auxiliaries there! And now when she casts down her eyes, mark how the long, silken black lashes, slightly curling, repose upon the white skin beneath the eyes. Is not that a charming creature? The symmetry of her form is perfect. Her limbs are stout and plump; but how slender are her ankles, and how exquisitely turned her wrists! Then look at her hand. What beautiful, long taper fingers! How sweet are her movements—light, yet languishing at the same time!"

"What is the name of that beauty?" asked Greenwood.

"Malkhatoun," replied the Marquis; "which means The Full Moon. That was the name of the wife of Osman, the founder of the Ottoman empire."

"And how did you procure such a lovely creature?" inquired Greenwood, enraptured with the beauty of the oriental girl.

"Six months ago I visited Constantinople," answered the Marquis of Holmesford; "and in the Slave-Market I beheld that divinity. Christians are not allowed to purchase slaves; but a convenient native merchant was found, who bought her for me. I brought her to England; and she is well contented to be here. Her own apartment is fitted up in an oriental style; she has her Koran, and worships Alla at her leisure; and when I make love to her, she swears by the Prophet Mahommed that she is happy here. The romance of the thing is quite charming."

"Of course she cannot speak English?" said Greenwood interrogatively.

"I beg your pardon," answered the Marquis. "She has an English master, who is well acquainted with Persian, which she speaks admirably; and I can assure you that she is a most willing pupil. But of that you shall judge for yourself presently."

During this conversion, the dance proceeded.

Nothing could be more voluptuous than that spectacle of six charming creatures, representing the loveliness of as many different countries, engaged in a pas de six in which each studied how to set off the graces of her form to the utmost advantage.

The genial warmth of the apartment—the delicious perfume of the flowers—the brilliancy of the light—the exciting nature of the pictures—and the enchantment of that dance in which six beings of the rarest beauty were engaged,—filled the mind of Greenwood with an ecstatic delirium.

Not the rich and luscious loveliness of Diana Arlington, whom circumstances had made his own,—not the matured and exuberant charms of Eliza Sydney, who had escaped his snares,—not the bewitching beauty of Ellen Monroe, from whose brow he had plucked the diadem of purity,—nor the licentious fascinations of Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sold herself to him for his gold,—not all these had so stirred his heart, so inflamed his ardent imagination, as the spectacle which he now beheld.

At length the dance terminated.

The Marquis then advanced towards the stage, accompanied by Greenwood, and said, "Many thanks, young ladies, for this entertainment. Allow me to present an intimate friend of mine—a gentleman whom I am anxious to initiate in the mysteries of Holmesford House."

Greenwood bowed; the six beauties returned his salutation; and the Marquis then proposed to adjourn to the ante-room, where supper was served up.

The ladies descended from the platform by a flight of steps on one side.

"I shall give my arm to Kathleen," said the Marquis. "Do you escort whomever you fancy. There are no jealousies here."

Without hesitation Greenwood advanced towards the charming Malkhatoun, who took the arm which he presented to her, with a sweet smile—as if of gratitude for the preference.

As Greenwood thus stepped forward to meet her, he now for the first time observed the orchestra, which was situated in a large recess on the right of the stage, and had consequently been unseen by him from the place which he had originally occupied at the other end of the saloon.

The party now proceeded to the ante-room before mentioned.

There a magnificent repast was served up.

They all seated themselves at table, Kathleen next to the Marquis, and Malkhatoun by the side of Greenwood.

At first the conversation languished somewhat, the ladies being abashed and reserved in the presence of a stranger; but as they grew warmed by degrees with the generous wine, their tongues were unlocked; and in half an hour they rattled and chatted away as if they had never known restraint.

They laughed and displayed their beautiful teeth: their eyes flashed fire, or became voluptuously melting: and their cheeks were animated with the hues of the rose.

Even the fair Mohammedan did not refuse the sparkling champagne which effervesced so deliciously over the brim of the crystal glass.

The Scotch and Irish girls warbled the sweetest snatches of song which Greenwood had ever heard; and then the French damsel rose and gave admirable imitations of Taglioni's, Ellsler's, and Duvernay's respective styles of dancing—throwing, however, into her movements and attitudes a wantonness which even the most exciting efforts of those artistes never displayed.

It was now nearly two in the morning; and Greenwood intimated to the Marquis his wish to retire.

"Just as you please," replied the old voluptuary, who had drawn Kathleen upon his knee, and was toying with her as if they were unobserved: "but if you like to accept of a bed here, there is one at your service—and," he added, in a whisper, "you need not be separated from Malkhatoun."

"Is your lordship in earnest?" asked Greenwood, also in a low tone, while joy flashed from his eyes.

"Certainly I am," replied the Marquis. "Do you think that I brought you hither merely to tantalize you?"

Greenwood smiled, and then redoubled his attentions towards the charming Georgian, who returned his smiles, and seemed to consider herself honoured by his caresses.

On a signal from the Marquis, the Scotch, English, French, and Spanish girls withdrew.

"One glass of wine in honour of those houris who have just left us!" cried the nobleman, who was already heated with frequent potations, and inflamed by the contiguity of his Hibernian mistress.

"With pleasure," responded Greenwood.

The toast was drunk; and then the Marquis whispered something to Greenwood, pointing at the same time to the door which opened into the bathing rooms.

The member of Parliament nodded an enraptured assent.

"There is a constant supply of hot water, kept ready for use," observed the nobleman. "Each room is provided with a marble bath; and vases of eau-de-cologne afford the means of cooling the water and imparting to it a delicious perfume at the same time. You will also find wines, fruits, and all species of delicate refreshments there; and adjoining each bath-room is a bed-chamber. With Malkhatoun as your companion, you may imagine yourself a Sultan in the privacy of his harem; and, remember, that no soul will intrude upon you in that joyous retreat."

Greenwood presented his hand to Malkhatoun, and led her away in obedience to the nobleman's suggestion.

The door by which they left the ante-room admitted them into a passage dimly lighted with a single lamp, and where several doors opened into the bathing apartments.

Into one of those rooms Greenwood and the beautiful Georgian passed.

Shortly afterwards the Marquis and Kathleen entered another.

Here we must pause: we dare not penetrate farther into the mysteries of Holmesford House.

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CLXXIII. THE ADIEUX

Our narrative must now take a leap of several months.

It was the middle of October.

Once more in the vicinity of Count Alteroni's mansion near Richmond, a handsome young man and a beautiful dark-eyed maiden were walking together.

Need we say that they were Richard and the charming Isabella?

The countenances of both wore an expression of melancholy; but that indication of feeling was commingled with the traces of other emotions.

Richard's eyes beamed with ardour, and his lips denoted stern resolution: Isabella's bewitching features showed that her generous soul entertained warm and profound hope, even though the cloud sate upon her brow.

"Yes, my adored one," said Richard, gazing tenderly upon her, "it is decided! To-morrow I embark on this expedition. But I could not quit England without seeing you once more, dearest Isabella; and for two or three days have I vainly wandered in this neighbourhood with the hope of meeting you—alone."

"Oh! Richard, had I for one moment divined that you were so near, I should have come to you," answered the Princess; "and this you know well! If I have hitherto discouraged clandestine meetings and secret correspondence—save on one or two occasions—it was simply because you should not have reason to think lightly of me;—but you are well aware, Richard, that my heart is thine—unchangeably thine,—and that my happiest moments are those I pass with thee!"

"I cannot chide you, dearest, for that fine feeling which has made you discourage clandestine meetings and secret correspondence," said Richard, gazing with mingled admiration and rapture upon the angelic countenance of Isabella; "but now that circumstances are about to change,—now that I shall be far away from thee, beloved girl,—that restriction must in some degree be removed, and you will permit me to write to you from time to time."

"It would be an absurd affectation and a ridiculous prudery, were I to refuse you," replied Isabella. "Yes, dear Richard—write to me;—and write often," she added, tears starting into her eyes.

"A thousand thanks, Isabella, for this kind permission—this proof of your love. And, oh! to whatever perils I am about to oppose myself face to face,—in whatever dangers I may be involved,—whatever miseries or privations I may be destined to endure,—the thought of you, my own adored Isabella, will make all seem light! But I do not anticipate much difficulty in the attainment of our grand object. General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and the other chiefs of this enterprise, have so well, so prudently, so cautiously digested all the measures necessary to ensure success, that failure is scarcely possible. The tyranny of the Grand Duke and of his shameless Ministry has reduced the Castelcicalans to despair. We have three fine vessels; and twelve hundred devoted patriots will form the expedition. The moment we land, we shall be welcomed with enthusiasm. And if an opportunity should serve for me to show myself worthy of the confidence that General Grachia and his colleagues have placed in me,—if," continued Richard, his handsome countenance now lighted up with a glow of heroic enthusiasm,—"if the aid of my feeble efforts can in any way demonstrate my zeal in favour of the constitutional cause, be well assured, dearest Isabella, that it is not an idle boaster, nor a braggart coward who now assures thee that he will not dishonour the service in which he has embarked."

"Of that I feel convinced, Richard," exclaimed the Italian lady, whose soul caught the enthusiasm which animated her lover. "But you know not the wild hopes—the exalted visions which have at times filled my imagination, since I heard a few weeks ago that you were one of the chiefs of this enterprise, the preparations for which were communicated to my father. For you are doubtless aware that General Grachia has made my father acquainted with his intentions and projects——"

"Which the Prince discountenances," added Richard, with a sigh. "Nevertheless, he is perhaps right: but if we succeed, Isabella—oh! if we succeed, your father becomes the sovereign of a great and enlightened people! Then—what hope will remain for me?"

"Providence will not desert us, Richard," answered Isabella. "Said I not ere now that the wildest hopes—the most exalted visions have dazzled my imagination? I will not describe them to you, Richard; but need I confess that they are connected with yourself? The dying words of our poor friend Mary Anne have made an impression upon me which I can never forget."

"I can well divine all the hopes and aspirations which her prophetic language was calculated to excite," returned Markham; "for there have been moments when I was weak enough to yield to the same influence myself. But the future is with the Almighty; and He must ordain our happiness or our misery! I must now leave you, my beloved Isabella:—when I am away thou wilt think of me often?"

"Oh! Richard, will you really depart? will you venture on this expedition, so fraught with danger?" cried Isabella, now giving way to her grief as the moment of separation drew nigh. "I told you to hope—I wished to console you; but it is I who require consolation when about to say farewell to you! Oh! Richard, if you knew what anguish now fills my heart, you would be enabled to estimate all my love for you!"

"I do—I do, adored Isabella!" ejaculated Markham, pressing her to his breast. "How devotedly—how faithfully you have loved me, I never can forget! When spurned from your father's house—overwhelmed with the most cruel suspicions, your love remained unchanged; and in many a bitter, bitter hour, have I derived sweet solace from the conviction that thy heart was mine! Oh! Isabella, God in his mercy grant that I may return from this enterprise with some honour to myself! It is not that I am influenced by motives of selfish ambition;—it is that I may remove at least one of the hundred obstacles which oppose our union. And now adieu, my angel—my dearly-beloved Isabella: adieu—adieu!"

"Farewell, Richard—farewell, dearest one—my first and only love," murmured Isabella, as she wept bitterly upon his breast.

Then they embraced each other with that passionate ardour—with that lingering unwillingness to separate—with that profound dread to tear themselves asunder, which lovers in the moment of parting alone can know.

"Let us be firm, Isabella," said Richard: "who can tell what happiness my share in this enterprise may create for us?"

"Yes—something tells me that it will be so," answered Isabella; "and that hope sustains me!"

Another embrace—and they parted.

Yes—they parted,—that handsome young man and that charming Italian maiden!

And soon they waved their handkerchiefs for the last time;—then, in a few moments, they were lost to each other's view.

Richard returned home to his house at Lower Holloway.

He had visited the farm near Hounslow a few days previously, and had taken leave of Katherine. The young maiden had wept when her benefactor communicated to her his intended absence from England for some time; but, as he did not acquaint her with the nature of the business which took him way from his native country, she was not aware of the perils he was about to encounter.

He had now to say farewell to the inmates of his own dwelling. But towards Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and the faithful Whittingham he was less reserved than he had been to Katherine.

Vainly had the old butler implored "Master Richard not to indemnify himself with other people's business;"—vainly had Mr. Monroe endeavoured to persuade him to refrain from risking his life in the political dissensions of a foreign country; vainly had the beautiful and generous-hearted Ellen, with a sisterly warmth, argued on the same side. Richard was determined:—they deemed him obstinate—foolish—almost mad; but they knew not of his love for Isabella!

"I must now make you acquainted with a certain portion of my affairs," said our hero, addressing Mr. Monroe, "in order that you may manage them for me until my return. I have embarked as much of my capital as I could well spare in the enterprise on which I am about to set out: you will find in my strong-box, of which I leave you the key, a sufficient sum of money to answer the expenses of the establishment until January. Should I not return by that time, you will find papers in the same place, which will instruct you relative to the moneys that will then be due to me from the two respectable individuals who are my tenants. Moreover," added Richard,—and here his voice faltered,—"my will is in the strong-box; and should I perish in this undertaking, you will find, my dear friend,—and you too, my faithful Whittingham,—that I have not left you without resources."

"Richard, this is too generous!" exclaimed Mr. Monroe, tears of gratitude trickling down his cheeks.

Whittingham also wept; and Ellen's sobs were convulsive—for she regarded Richard in the light of a dear brother.

"Render not our parting moments more painful than they naturally are, my dear friends," said Markham. "You cannot understand—but, if I live, you shall some day know—the motives which influence me in joining this expedition. Mr. Monroe—Ellen—Whittingham, I have one last request to make. You are all aware that on the 10th of July, 1843, a solemn appointment exists between my brother and myself. If I should perish in a far-off clime,—or if a prison, or any accident prevent my return,—let one of you represent me on that occasion. Should it be so, tell my brother how much I have loved him—how anxiously I have ever looked forward to that day,—how sincerely I have prayed for his welfare and his success! Tell him," continued Richard, while the tears rolled down his cheeks, large and fast,—"tell him that I have cherished his memory as no brother ever before was known to do; and if he be poor—or unhappy—or suffering—or unfortunate, receive him into this house, which will then be your own—console, comfort him! If he be criminal, do not spurn him:—remember, he is my brother!"

Ellen sobbed as if her heart would break as Richard uttered these words.

There was something fearfully poignant and convulsive in that young lady's grief.

But suddenly rousing herself, she rushed from the room; and, returning in a few moments with her child, she presented it to Markham, saying "Embrace him, Richard, before you depart;—embrace him—for he bears your Christian name!"

Our hero received the innocent infant in his arms, and kissed it tenderly.

No pen can depict the expression of pleasure—of radiant joy,—joy shining out from amidst her tears,—with which Ellen contemplated that proof of affection towards her babe.

"Thank you, Richard—thank you, my brother," she exclaimed, as she received back her child.

The old butler and Mr. Monroe were not callous to the touching nature of that scene.

"I have now no more to say," observed Richard. "I am about to retire to the library for a short time. At five o'clock the post-chaise will be here. Whittingham, my faithful friend, you will see that all my necessaries be carefully packed."

Markham then withdrew to his study.

There he wrote a few letters upon matters of business.

At length Whittingham made his appearance.

"Morcar is arrived, Master Richard," said the old man, "and it is close upon five."

"I shall soon be ready, Whittingham," answered Richard.

The old butler withdrew.

Then Richard took from his strong-box the mysterious packet which had been left to him by Thomas Armstrong; and that sacred trust he secured about his person.

"Now," he said, "I am about to quit the home of my forefathers."

And tears trickled down his cheeks.

"This is foolish!" he exclaimed, after a pause: "I must not yield to my emotions, when on the eve of such a grand and glorious undertaking."

He then returned to the drawing-room.

At that moment the post-chaise arrived at the front door of the mansion.

We will not detail the affecting nature of the farewell scene: suffice it to say that Richard departed with the fervent prayers and the sincerest wishes of those whom he left behind.

Morcar, the gipsy, accompanied him.

"Which road, sir?" asked the postillion.

"Canterbury—Deal," replied Richard.

And the post-chaise whirled him away from the home of his forefathers!

* * * * *

By a special messenger, on the same day when the above-mentioned incidents took place, the following letter was despatched from London:—

"TO HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE GRAND DUCHESS OF CASTELCICALA.

"I have the honour to inform your Serene Highness that the measures which I adopted (and which your Highness condemned in the last letter your Highness deigned to address to me) have enabled me to ascertain the intentions of the conspirators. The three vessels purchased by them are now completely equipped and manned. One has already arrived in the Downs, where the Chiefs of the rebels are to join her. A second sailed from Hull four days ago: and the third left Waterford about the same time. They will all three meet at Cadiz, where they are to take in stores and water. Twelve hundred exiled Castelcicalans are on board these three ships, which are ostensibly fitted out as emigrant vessels for North America. So well have General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and Mr. Markham planned their schemes, that I question whether even the English government is acquainted with the real destination of those ships, and the object of their crews.

"Beware, then, noble lady! The last meeting of the Chiefs of the expedition was held last evening; and I was present in my presumed capacity of a stanch adherent to the cause of the conspirators. The reasons which I adduced for not proceeding with them on the enterprise, and for remaining in London, were completely satisfactory; and no one for a moment suspected my integrity. Indeed, the confidence which Mr. Markham has placed in me from the beginning, in consequence of the share which I had in saving his life (an incident to which I have alluded in preceding letters to your Highness) on a certain occasion, annihilated all suspicion as to the sincerity of my motives.

"At the meeting of which I have just spoken, it was resolved that the descent upon Castelcicala shall be made in the neighbourhood of Ossore, which, I need scarcely inform your Serene Highness, is a small sea-port about thirty-five miles to the south of Montoni.

"And now I have discharged what I consider to be a faithful duty. If I have fallen in your Highness's good opinion by betraying those with whom I affected to act, I fondly hope that the importance of the information which I have thereby been enabled to give you, will restore me to your Highness's favour.

"But remember, my lady—remember the prayer which I offered up to your Highness when first I wrote concerning this conspiracy,—remember the earnest supplication which I then made and now renew,—that not a hair of Richard Markham's head must be injured!

"I have the honour to subscribe myself your Serene Highness's most faithful and devoted servant,

"FILIPPO DORSENNI. Oct. 16th, 1840."

Thus was it that Mr. Greenwood's Italian valet provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safety of Richard Markham, in case those whom he improperly denominated "conspirators" should fall into the hands of the Castelcicalan authorities.

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CLXXIV. CASTELCICALA

The Grand-Duchy of Castelcicala is bounded on the north by the Roman States, on the south by the kingdom of Naples, on the east by the Apennine Mountains, and on the west by the Mediterranean Sea.

It is the most beautiful, the best cultivated, and the finest portion of the Italian Peninsula. The inhabitants are brave, enlightened, and industrious.

Castelcicala is divided into seven districts, or provinces, the capitals of which are Montoni (which is also the metropolis of the Grand Duchy), Abrantani, Veronezzi, Pinalla, Estella, Terano, and Montecuculi. Each province is governed by a Captain-General (the chief military authority), and a Political Prefect, (the chief civil authority).

The principal city, Montoni, stands at the mouth of the Ferretti, and contains a hundred thousand inhabitants. It is built on both sides of the river, has a fine harbour, spacious dockyards, and extensive arsenals, and is one of the principal trading-ports of Italy. It is strongly fortified on the system of Vauban.

The entire population of the Grand-Duchy of Castelcicala is two millions. Its revenues are three millions sterling; and the annual income of the sovereign is two hundred thousand pounds.

From these details the reader will perceive that Castelcicala is by no means an unimportant country in the map of Europe.

We shall now continue our narrative.

It was the middle of November, 1840, and at an early hour in the morning, before sunrise, when three vessels (two large brigs and a schooner) ran in as close as the depth of water would permit them with safety, on the Castelcicalan coast a few miles below Ossore.

The boats of these vessels were immediately lowered; and by the time the sun dawned on the scene, nearly twelve hundred armed men were landed without molestation.

This force was divided into two columns: one of seven hundred strong was commanded by General Grachia; the other of five hundred was led by Colonel Morosino. Richard Markham, as Secretary-General of the Constitutional Chiefs, and attended by Morcar, accompanied General Grachia. The chiefs and their staff were all provided with horses.

The army presented a somewhat motley aspect, the officers alone appearing in uniforms. The entire force was, however, well provided with weapons; and every heart beat high with hope and patriotism.

The banners were unfurled; an excellent brass band struck up an enlivening national air; and the two columns marched in the direction of Ossore.

It was deemed most important to possess this sea-port without delay; as its harbour would afford a safe refuge for the three ships to which the Constitutionalists (as the invaders termed themselves) could alone look for the means of retreat, in case of the failure of their enterprise.

But of such a result they entertained not the slightest apprehension.

And now the peasants in the farm-houses and hamlets near which they passed, were suddenly alarmed by the sounds of martial music: but the rumour of the real object of the invaders spread like wild-fire; and they had not marched three or four miles, before they were already joined by nearly a hundred volunteer-recruits.

The hearts of the Constitutionalists were enlivened by this success; for while the male inhabitants of the district through which they passed hastened to join them, the women put up audible prayers to heaven to prosper their glorious enterprise.

Ossore was in the province of Abrantani, which had for nearly a year groaned under the tyranny of the Captain-General, who governed his district by martial law, the jurisdiction of the civil tribunals having been superseded by the odious despotism of military courts. The Constitutionalists, therefore, entertained the strongest hopes that Ossore would pronounce in their favour the moment they appeared beneath its walls.

The Constitutionalists were now only three miles from Ossore, which was hidden from their view by a high hill, up the acclivity of which the two columns were marching, when the quick ear of General Grachia suddenly caught the sound of horses' feet on the opposite side of the eminence.

Turning to one of his aides-de-camp, he said, "Hasten to Colonel Morosino—tell him to take that road to the left and possess himself of yonder grove. Our landing is known—a body of cavalry is approaching."

These words were delivered in a rapid but firm tone. The aide-de-camp galloped away to execute the order; and General Grachia proceeded to address a few brief but impressive words to the patriots of his division, telling them that the moment to strike a blow was now at hand.

"Markham," said the General, when he had concluded his harangue, "we shall have hot work in a few minutes."

Scarcely were these words uttered, when a large body of cavalry made its appearance on the summit of the hill. A general officer, surrounded by a brilliant staff, was at their head.

"That is Count Santa-Croce, the Captain-General of Abrantani!" exclaimed Grachia, drawing his sword. "Parley with him were vain—he is devoted to the Grand Duke. My friends, before us lies death or victory!"

The Constitutionalists gave a deafening cheer in answer to the words of their commander.

Then, like an avalanche bursting from its rest on the Alpine height, and rolling with dread and deafening din in its precipitate path, the ducal cavalry thundered down the hill.

But they were well received; and a terrific contest ensued.

The ear was deafened with the report of musketry and the clang of weapons. Bullets whistled through the air; and as the serried ranks on either side poured forth volumes of smoke,—the Constitutionalists with their muskets, and the cavalry with their carbines,—the shouts of the combatants and the groans of the dying announced the desperate nature of the conflict.

But, alas! the Constitutionalists were doomed to experience a sad blow!

General Grachia,—a patriot whose memory demands our admiration and respect,—was slain at the commencement of the battle. He died, fighting gallantly at the head of his troops; and not before the enemy had felt the weight of his valiant arm.

Almost at the same moment the ensign who bore the Constitutional banner was struck to the earth; and an officer of the ducal cavalry seized the standard.

But scarcely had he grasped it, when Richard Markham, who had vainly endeavoured to protect his chief and friend from the weapons of the enemy, spurred his steed with irresistible fury against the officer, hurled him from his seat, and snatched the banner from his grasp.

Then, waving the flag above his head with his left hand, and wielding his sword in the right, Richard plunged into the thickest of the fight, exclaiming, "Vengeance for the death of our general!"

The moment that Grachia fell, a sudden panic seized upon the Constitutionalists of his division; and they were already retreating, when that gallant exploit on the part of Markham rallied them with galvanic effect.

"Vengeance for the death of our general!" was the cry; and our hero was instantly backed by his faithful Morcar and a whole host of Constitutionalists.

The conflict was desperate—both sides fighting as if all idea of quarter were out of the question, and victory or death were the only alternatives.

Fired by the loss of General Grachia,—conscious of the desperate position in which defeat would place the invaders,—and inspired by the image of Isabella, Richard fought with the fury of the Destroying Angel.

He who had only been looked upon as possessing an able head in administrative matters, now suddenly appeared in a new light,—a gallant warrior, who by his bravery had succeeded in rallying a panic-struck army.

Already were the ducal cavalry retreating;—already had the Captain-General, who surveyed the conflict from the summit of the hill, disappeared with his staff-officers on the opposite side;—already were the Constitutionalists of Richard's division shouting "Victory,"—when Colonel Morosino's corps, which had been engaged by another body of cavalry, was observed to be in full retreat—dispersing in disorder—flying before its triumphant foes.

The rumour that Colonel Morosino himself was slain, and that a strong body of infantry, provided with cannon, was already advancing from the opposite side of the hill, now spread like wild-fire through the ranks of Richard's division.

Vainly did Markham endeavour by his example to inspire the troops with courage. A panic seized upon them: they exclaimed that some villain had betrayed them; and the disorder became general.

The ducal cavalry which were so lately in full retreat, rallied again: their charge was irresistible; they literally swept the slope of the hill down which they rushed.

Backed by a small but gallant band that scorned to retreat, and well seconded by Morcar, Richard fought with a desperation which was truly marvellous in one who had never wielded a hostile brand until that day. But a pistol-bullet disabled his right arm; and he was taken prisoner, together with Morcar and several others.

The Constitutionalists were completely defeated; five hundred fell upon the field of battle; the remainder were dispersed or captured. But scarcely three hundred succeeded in saving themselves by flight.

And almost at the same moment when this unfortunate expedition was thus overwhelmed with ruin, a Castelcicalan frigate, which had put out from Ossore harbour, shortly after the landing of the Constitutionalists, captured the three vessels which were the last hope of those patriots who had escaped from captivity or carnage.

From the summit of the hill, whither he was conducted into the presence of the Captain-General of Abrantani, Richard beheld the three vessels strike their colours to the Castelcicalan man-of-war.

"Treachery has been at work here," he said within himself; "or else how arose these preparations to receive us?"

He was not, however, permitted much time for reflection—either in respect to his own desperate condition, or that of the unfortunate fugitives whose last hope was thus cut off by the seizure of the ships; for the Captain-General—an old man, with white hair, but a stern and forbidding countenance,—addressed him in a haughty and savage tone.

"Know you the penalty that awaits your crime, young man?" he exclaimed; "for in you I doubtless behold one of the chiefs of this monstrous invasion."

"I know how to die," answered Richard, fearlessly.

"Ah!" ejaculated the Captain-General. "What traitor have we here? Some foreign mercenary perhaps. He is not a Castelcicalan, by the accent with which he speaks our native tongue."

"I am an Englishman, my lord," said Markham, returning the proud glance of defiance and scorn which Count Santa-Croce threw upon him.

"An Englishman!" thundered the Captain-General. "Then is a military death too good for you! What brings a wretched foreigner like you amongst us with a hostile sword? You have not even the miserable subterfuge of patriotism as a palliation for your crime. Away with him! Hang him to yonder tree!"

"I have one favour to implore of your lordship," said Markham, his voice faltering not, although his cheek grew somewhat pale: "I am prepared for death—but let me not perish like a dog. Plant your soldiers at a distance of a dozen paces—let them level their muskets at me—and I promise you I shall not die a coward."

"No—you are a foreigner!" returned the Captain-General ferociously. "Away with him!"

Markham was instantly surrounded by soldiers, and dragged to the foot of a tree at a little distance.

An aide-de-camp of the Count was ordered to superintend the sad ceremony.

"Have you any thing which you desire to be communicated to your friends in your native country?" asked the officer, who was a generous-minded young man, and who, having beheld Richard's bravery in the conflict, could not help respecting him.

"I thank you sincerely for the kindness which prompts this question," replied our hero; "and all I have now to hope is that those who know me—in my native land—may not think that cowardice or dishonour closed the career of Richard Markham."

"Richard Markham!" ejaculated the officer. "Tell me—is that your name?"

"It is," answered our hero.

"Then there is hope for you yet, brave Englishman!" cried the officer; and without uttering another word, he hastened back to the spot where the Captain-General of Abrantani was standing.

Were we to say that Richard was now otherwise than a prey to the most profound suspense, we should be exaggerating the moral strength of human nature.

We have no wish to make of our hero a demigod: we allow him to be nothing more than mortal after all!

It was, therefore, with no little anxiety that Markham saw the officer approach the Captain-General of Abrantani, and discourse with him for some moments in a low tone. The aide-de-camp appeared to urge some point which he was anxious to carry: Count Santa-Croce shook his head ominously.

"Beloved Isabella," murmured Richard to himself: "shall I never see thee more?"

His eyes were still fixed upon those two men who appeared to be arguing his life or death.

At length the Captain-General took a paper from the breast of his profusely-laced blue uniform coat, and cast his eyes over it.

Richard watched him with breathless anxiety.

This state of suspense did not last long. Count Santa-Croce folded the paper, replaced it where he had taken it from, and then gave a brief command to the officer.

The latter hurried back to the spot where Markham was hovering as it were between life and death.

"You are saved, sir!" cried the Castelcicalan his countenance expressing the most unfeigned joy.

"Generous friend!" exclaimed Richard: "by what strange influence have you worked this miracle?"

"That must remain a secret," answered the aide-de-camp. "At the same time I can take but little merit to myself in the transaction—beyond a mere effort of memory. You have powerful friends, sir, in Castelcicala: otherwise his lordship the Captain-General," he added in a whisper, "was not the man to spare you."

"To you I proffer my most heart-felt thanks, generous Italian!" cried Richard; "for to you I am clearly indebted for my life. Let me know the name of my saviour?"

"Mario Bazzano—junior aide-de-camp to Count Santa-Croce, the Captain-General of Abrantani," was the answer. "But we have no time to parley," he continued rapidly: "the good news which I have already imparted to you in respect to your life, must be somewhat counterbalanced by the commands which I have received regarding your liberty."

"Speak, Signor Bazzano," said Markham. "You saw that I did not flinch from death: it is scarcely probable that I shall tremble at any less severe sentence which may have been passed upon me."

"My orders are to conduct you to Montoni, where you will be placed at the disposal of a higher authority than even the Captain-General of Abrantani," returned the aide-de-camp. "But, in the first place, my lord's surgeon shall look to your wound."

Then once more did the generous-hearted Castelcicalan hasten away; and in a few minutes he returned, accompanied by the Count's own medical attendant.

Richard's arm was examined; and it was discovered that a bullet had passed through the fleshy part between the elbow and the shoulder. The wound was painful, though by no means dangerous; and the surgeon bandaged it with care and skill.

"Now, Signor Markham," said Bazzano, "it is my duty to conduct you to Montoni. I do not wish to drag you thither like a felon—because you are a brave man: at the same time I am answerable to the Count and to another who is higher than the Count, for your person. Gallant warriors are usually honourable men: pledge me your honour that you will not attempt to escape; and we will proceed to Montoni alone together."

"I pledge you my honour," answered Richard, "that so long as I am in your custody, I will not attempt to escape. But the moment you are released from your charge of my person, my vow ceases."

"Agreed, signor," said Bazzano.

The aide-de-camp then ordered his own and another horse (for Richard's steed had been sorely wounded in the conflict) to be brought to the spot where this conversation took place.

"Signor Bazzano," said Richard, "you have behaved to me in so noble and generous a manner that I am emboldened to ask another favour of you. A young man accompanied me as my attendant in this unfortunate enterprise: he has a wife and child in his native land; his parents are also living. Should aught happen to him, four others would thereby be plunged into the depths of misery."

"Where is this person to whom you allude?" inquired Bazzano.

"He is a prisoner yonder. There—he is seated on the ground, with his face buried in his hands!"

And Richard pointed in the direction where the poor gipsy was plunged into a painful and profound reverie at a little distance.

For the third time the aide-de-camp,—who was a tall, active, handsome, dark-eyed young man,—hurried away. Count Santa-Croce had mounted his horse and repaired, with his staff, to view more closely the spot where the conflict had taken place, and to issue orders relative to the interment of the killed and the disposal of the prisoners. Mario Bazzano did not therefore dread the eagle glance of his superior, as he hastened to perform another generous deed and confer another favour on Richard Markham.

"Young man," he said, addressing himself to Morcar, "rise and follow me. You are to accompany your master. My good friend," he added, speaking to the sentinel who stood near, "I will be answerable for my conduct in this instance to his lordship the Captain-General."

The sentinel was satisfied; and Morcar followed the officer to the spot where Richard and the Castelcicalan soldiers who had charge of him, were standing.

A third horse was procured; and in a few minutes the aide-de-camp, our hero, and Morcar rode rapidly away from the scene of carnage, towards Ossore.

It were a vain task to attempt to describe the joy which succeeded Morcar's grief and apprehension, when he discovered that his own and his master's lives were beyond danger, and that Mario Bazzano was evidently so well inclined to befriend them.

"As I do not wish to keep you in an unpleasant state of suspense, signor," said the aide-de-camp to Richard, "I must inform you that you have little to dread at Montoni. You have powerful friends there. A short imprisonment—or some punishment of a slight nature, will be all the penalty you will both have to pay for your mad freak—or else I am much mistaken. But more I dare not—cannot say."

"Whatever be our fate," exclaimed Richard, "my heart will cherish until death the remembrance—the grateful remembrance of your noble conduct. But tell me, my generous friend—what will become of those unfortunate prisoners?"

"The chiefs of the enterprise have fallen in the conflict," answered Mario; "else the fate of traitors would have been in store for them. As for the mistaken men whom they have led to these shores, imprisonment—a long imprisonment in the citadels of Abrantani, Pinalla, and Estella, will doubtless be the penalty of their treason."

The severe terms in which the young aide-de-camp, who was evidently devoted to the Grand Duke's cause, spoke of the Constitutionalists, pierced like a dagger to the heart of our hero; but delicacy and gratitude towards one from whom he had received such signal obligations, prevented him from making any comment.

In a short time the little party reached Ossore, at which town they proceeded to an hotel, where they obtained refreshments. There, also, plain clothes were procured for Markham, in order that his uniform (which was different from that of the Castelcicalan officer) might not create unpleasant notice on his arrival at Montoni. Morcar had no uniform to change.

When the repast was terminated, Lieutenant Bazzano ordered a post-chaise and four; and in a short time the little party was whirling rapidly along the high road to the capital.

During the journey Richard and the aide-de-camp rose higher in each other's esteem, the more they conversed together; and by the time they reached their destination, a sort of friendship, which circumstances had tended to invest with unusual interest, already existed between them.

Bazzano assured our hero that the contemplated invasion of the Constitutionalists had been communicated some time previously to the Captain-General of Abrantani; but whence that information had emanated the young officer was unable to state. Preparations had, however, been in existence for at least a fortnight to receive the invaders when they set foot on the Castelcicalan territory. These assurances confirmed Richard in the opinion which he had already formed, that treachery had existed somewhere on the side of the patriots.

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