Opening…

Chapter I

THE MERRY PARTY AT THE “BLACK BULL”—THE STRANGE HORSEMAN AND RAMBLING BOB.

The incidents of this strange and exciting story occurred more than a hundred years ago.

* * * * *

It was in the month of December, and all the country was covered with snow to the depth of more than a foot.

The moon shone brightly over the pure white landscape, and, as far as the eye could range, nought was to be seen but leafless trees, which bowed and shook in a stiff north-west breeze, and their melancholy flutterings seemed to be like gentle moans and sighings at the white death-like pall which covered nature far and wide.

The pretty and picturesque village of Darlington was near the sea, and not more than fifty or sixty miles from London, and was situated in a pleasant valley on the main road, through which mail coaches were wont to pass both night and day.

The inhabitants had been long a-bed, for the chimes of the village church had tolled the solemn hour of midnight, and not a light could be seen anywhere save at the “Black Bull,” for on that memorable night some few of the villagers were celebrating the Christmas holidays at the comfortable inn with a merry country dance among themselves.

The sounds of fiddles and a flute, and the skipping of feet, could be heard, both in the parlours and tap-room.

Merry laughter and boisterous jollity resounded on all sides, and the light-hearted shouts of both men and maidens were caught up and echoed by the passing breeze.

The night, though clear and bright, was bitter, bitter cold, and every door and window of the “Black Bull” was firmly closed, and many fires were crackling within.

On a bench outside the tavern, and in part concealed by the deep shadows of its old, overhanging thatch-covered eaves, sat a powerful-looking youth with stick and bundle.

He sat there listening to the music inside, and more than once heaved a deep sigh.

It was almost impossible to see his features, but what little could be discerned showed that he was a handsome-looking and powerfully built rustic youth of about eighteen years of age.

He seemed desirous of remaining concealed in the deep shadows of the house, for he crouched close under the shadow of the overhanging roof.

If any one had been close enough to observe him they would have perceived that this country-looking youth not only frequently sighed but that more than once he hastily, and in an angry manner, dashed away from his eye a stray tell-tale tear-drop that trickled down his sun-burnt cheek.

He listened to the merriment within, and more than once a faint sickly smile lit up his handsome features.

The noise of loud laughter continued within, but all at once a labourer’s voice was heard, who shouted out, in stentorian tones—

“Come, lads and lasses, I’ll give ye all a toast! Fill up yer glasses to the brim, and do justice to it.”

“Hear! hear!”

“What is it, Mr. Chairman?” said one and another.

“Let’s have it, Hodge.”

“Well,” said Hodge, rising in his chair, glass in hand, whose shadow the young stranger could see reflected on the parlour blind; “well, lads and lasses all, here’s long life and good luck to our good, kind old master, Farmer Bertram! his health with three times three.”

The toast was responded to with a boisterous “three times three,” which shook the glasses on the table till they jingled, and made the windows tremble again.

The young man, when he heard this toast proposed, rose from his seat, and, picking up his bundle and stick, walked hastily away, with downcast head.

He had not gone far along the beaten snow track in the middle of the road ere he turned his head, and saw the figure of a single horseman approaching at a hard gallop!

The horseman rode a splendid coal-black mare, which seemed to fly over the ground with wonderful grace and ease.

The rider, himself, was elegantly dressed, and muffled up to the chin in a stylish great-coat, while his three-cornered hat was drawn over his eyes, and shaded his features so much that no one could scarce see his face distinctly.

When he approached the “Black Bull,” he stopped for a minute, as if undecided whether he would dismount or not.

After a time, however, he put spurs to his horse once more, and soon overtook the youth with his stick and bundle, who was slowly and thoughtfully walking along.

“Bitter cold night, friend,” said the horseman, checking his steed into a slow walk.

“Yes, it is,” was the sullen answer of the youth.

“Why are you not at the ‘Black Bull’ to-night?” said the rider, with a hoarse laugh. “Some of the lads seem to be enjoying themselves there in fine style. What made you leave so early?”

“Wasn’t there at all, if you must know.”

“Not invited, I suppose?”

“No; nor didn’t want to be.”

“Why not? Are you not fond of singing and dancing?”

“Yes; as much as any one; but still I wouldn’t go there to-night for any money.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re keeping up Farmer Bertram’s birthday.”

“Oh, indeed,” said the strange, young-looking horseman. “You don’t like Farmer Bertram, then, I suppose?”

“Yes I do. But he hates me though, I do believe,” said the youth, with a sigh.

“He discharged you from the farm, I suppose. What was it for? getting drunk, or poaching?”

“Neither. I wasn’t discharged at all. I left on my own account. If I wanted to work about these parts, I could get plenty to do from Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall, that white house yonder on the hill, among that cluster of old oak trees.”

“You know Sir Richard Warbeck, then?”

“Aye, and have done this many a year; his adopted sons, too—Charley, as is now in London, and Wildfire Ned, as we call the brave lad, as lives up the Hall. I know ’em both, well.”

“You seem to know all about the people living around Darlington, I perceive.”

“I do. Who should know ’em better than me?”

“Who are you, then, my friend?” said the horseman, with a quick glance.

“They call me Rambling Bob, but Bob Bertram is my real name.”

“Bob Bertram?” said the stranger, with a glittering eye. “What, the only son of Farmer Bertram of Four Ash Farm?”

“Right, sir. Do ye know him?”

“Me? Bless the man, no!” said the horseman. “I don’t know any one hereabouts. I am on my way to a neighbouring village on urgent business.”

“More’s the pity then,” said Bob. “You might travel a long way afore you’d find a nicer or kinder old gentleman than Sir Richard Warbeck, at Darlington Hall.”

“So I’ve heard; and he’s very rich also, I am told.”

“There’s no mistake about that, sir. He’s a magistrate in the city of London, and is director of one of the best banks there. He adopted two orphan boys, and brought ’em up as his own sons. One’s in the London bank; but young Wildfire Ned, as we call him, won’t do nothing but go to sea. If they only mind themselves they are sure to fall into all Sir Richard’s money. If they don’t, though, and should go astray, they will have the door slammed in their face, as I had to-day.”

“You? by your father, Farmer Bertram?”

“Yes; and all because some time ago I picked up with a poor village lass as I loved as dearly as I love my life, and promised for to marry.”

“And did your father turn you out of house and home on that account?”

“He didn’t turn me out ’zactly,” said Bob. “I left, and went to sea for a few months. I was wrecked on the coast here a week back, without money or anything ’cept what I stand up in, and these leggings were given me this very day by Sir Richard’s gamekeeper as knows me, so I should go up to the farm and see the old man decent like.”

“And what did Farmer Bertram say to you?”

“Why, cause I had made up my mind to marry the lass I loved best, and father the child sleeping at her breast, he slammed the door in my face, and refused to give me a shilling.”

“That’s rather hard for a father to do,” said the horseman, with a cunning glance. “And what do you intend to do with yourself to-night? You can’t sleep in the open air, it would freeze you alive. Why don’t you try to get a situation of some kind?”

“That’s what I want to do; but my clothes are so shabby I don’t like to call on any one I knows. I shall creep into the old man’s house, and sleep there to-night, somehow, when all is quiet; but for an hour or two I shall stay in yonder old barn beside the road.”

“Oh! it’s a very hard case,” said the stranger; “particularly when you are the only son, and the old man is rich.”

“Ha, stranger; but better times are coming, I hope.”

“I’m glad you think so. Well, good night. Here’s a piece of silver to help you along,” said the horseman, offering money to the seedy and needy farmer’s son.

“No thank you,” said Rambling Bob, with a look of offended pride. “I’m not come to begging yet. I am strong enough to work for my daily bread without charity from strangers.”

“What! so poor, and refuse money? Ha! ha! quite a stoic, I perceive. Well, Mr. Bertram, if you will not take money, I’ve another offer to make. I have taken a fancy to that heavy, knobby stick you carry. Will you sell it?”

“I don’t mind that,” said Bob.

A bargain was soon concluded; the bludgeon changed hands for a guinea, and the stranger went his way.

That pleasant-speaking young horseman, muffled up to the eyes, was a deep designing villain!

He knew well all about Farmer Bertram’s affairs, and his son’s also.

Had Rambling Bob only known him at the moment, and fathomed his deep, dark designs, he would have been spared much misery in after life, and others also.

But of this young stranger we shall quickly hear more.

Let us follow him.

He rode direct to see Farmer Bertram at Four Ash Farm.

As he approached the old farm-house, standing some distance from the road, he stepped under a cluster of trees.

In a very mysterious manner he pulled out of his belt a pair of pistols and examined them.

“They are all right,” he said, with a bitter smile. “It is best to be prepared, I may want to use them.”

Having done this, he rode up a lane and in a few moments stood rapping at the farm-house door with his riding-whip.

“House ho!” he shouted, in a hoarse and unnatural voice.

In a second the door was opened by an aged woman.

The horseman dismounted, and entered the house.

As he did so, the watch dogs began to howl in a most horrible and hideous manner!

The stranger heard it.

His face turned to an ashy paleness, as he thought——

“That dismal howling, I have been told, is always looked upon by superstitious country people as an omen of death!”

It was an omen of death!

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter II

FARMER BERTRAM RECEIVES A VISIT FROM BOLTON—BOLTON’S TREACHERY.

Farmer Bertram was in bed when the stranger entered, having had a fall from his horse while hunting.

The horseman said his business was of such pressing importance that he must see the farmer at once.

Bertram recognized the name, and directed his old servant to admit the stranger to his chamber at once.

“From Mr. Redgill, I believe?” said the farmer. “Are you his son? Excuse me not rising to receive you, but I am unwell. I intended to go to London in a day or two, and settle with Mr. Redgill at once, for I have collected all my rents, and sold my crops to advantage, so that I have got a good bit of ready money by me, much more than will pay off the last instalment of the mortgage he holds against me. Let me see,” said the farmer, opening a writing-desk near his bedside, “Let me see, here are the receipts; yes, one signed for £300, a second for £200, and a third for £1,000, and now I owe him £2,000 more. What a striking likeness there is between you and Mr. Redgill, though; now I come to look at you in a clear light, I would have sworn that you were his son.”

“Indeed!” laughed the young stranger, in an uneasy manner. “You have detected a likeness; most people say the same; but I am not his son, and, what is more, no relation either. You have heard of young Bolton, Mr. Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk? Well, I am he.”

“And is Redgill in such a hurry for his money that he has sent you to collect it? Why, he expressly told me to use my own time, and call myself with it whenever I liked. I’m sure I have always been punctual with him.”

“I do not come for the money by any means,” said Bolton; “Mr. Redgill would not so insult you as to distrust your well-known honesty.”

“Because, if even you did call for the money, I should not have given it to you,” said the old man, smiling, “£2,000 can’t be trusted in everybody’s hands, you know, and although you may be as you say, Mr. Bolton, Redgill’s travelling and collecting clerk, I am not to know that; I have never seen you before, as I know of.”

“True,” said the stranger, smiling blandly; “I commend your prudence, Farmer Bertram; but the truth is, I was travelling to Portsmouth on business for Mr. Redgill, and stopped to bait my horse at the ‘Black Bull,’ and found some of your labourers enjoying themselves.”

“Yes, I gave them a treat to-night as it’s my birthday. I would have gone among them myself, only I felt very much upset by the wild behaviour of my only son Robert.”

“Exactly, and it’s about him that I have come so far out of my way, in order to inform you of him, and to warn you.”

“Warn me!” said the farmer, suddenly changing colour, and with looks of distrust at the stranger’s uneasiness of voice and manner.

“You have had a quarrel with him to-day, and slammed the door in his face.”

“I did. Who told you?” the old man asked. “No one but him and I were present.”

“I overheard him say as much to another in a whispered conversation.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; he knows that you have a large sum of money in the house, and is determined to rob you of it, and then run off with the slut he calls his sweetheart.”

“Rob me! his own father!”

“It is as true as gospel. That I am correct is plain, or how could I have learned so much of his and your affairs unless I overheard him?”

“Mr. Bolton, I’m sure you are right, and very kind to come here and warn me!”

“Oh, no thanks; it is a duty we owe one to another as men and Christians,” said Bolton, with a very pious air. “I was well armed myself, and though I am much pressed for time, I thought I would call and see you; fore-warned is fore-armed.”

“True, sir, true; and what would you have me do?”

“Do? that depends. Have you any servants about you that you can arm?”

“Not one, save an old woman I keep as housekeeper, more out of charity than anything else; all the rest are at the ‘Black Bull,’ having a dance and supper.”

“I see, I see,” said Bolton, biting his lip. “Well, you don’t want your son’s guilt exposed before the whole village, do you?”

“No! true, sir, true; he is my son, and, with all his faults, I don’t want to heap more shame on his head and mine.”

“Then I’ll tell you what to do.”

“What?”

“Send your old servant down to the two village constables with a private message, telling them all about the intended robbery; they will then come up and remain with you all night, and all will be well.”

“But the village is two miles or more by the road, and the old servant would take an hour or two to go and return. Bob might come in the meantime, find me all alone, and rob me of every penny I have in the world.”

“But he doesn’t know where you keep it, surely?” said Bolton, with a dry, cunning smile.

“Yes, he does; he knows I always keep my gold in that chest yonder by the window; but no one, save my friend Redgill, has any idea where I keep my bank notes,” said the farmer, with a sickly smile.

The stranger did.

He had heard Mr. Redgill speak of it as a capital joke that Farmer Bertram always concealed his bank notes in the inner lining of his boots!

But of this he said not a word.

“Ah! it’s a sad case,” said Bolton. “I am very sorry I cannot remain with you until the constables come, but business of pressing importance calls me away.”

Betty, the old servant, was instantly summoned, and toddled off to the village in all haste, much amazed at the message she had to tell to the constables.

Despite all the old farmer’s entreaties Mr. Bolton would not stay, but left at the same moment old Betsy did.

Both of them went down the lane together.

When they reached the high road Bolton said to the servant,

“If the constables should ask who gave this information, you know my name, old woman?”

“No, I don’t, kind gentleman,” was the croaking reply.

“You do not think I am Bob Bertram, then?” said the stranger.

“That I cannot say,” answered the old woman, “for you keep your hat so far over your face.”

“Well, tell them one Mr. Smith, of Portsmouth, called and told Farmer Bertram all about it.”

“I will, kind gentleman.”

“Make haste. Good night.”

Betsy went towards the village, and Bolton turned his horse’s head in a contrary direction and galloped away.

He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when a bend in the road hid him from Betsy’s view.

Instead of riding onward, however, he spurred his horse, and leaped hedge after hedge, until he returned to the farm again in less than ten minutes.

He tied his horse to a tree in the orchard, and quietly approached the back door of the farm-house again.

All was darkness save a ray of light which issued from the farmer’s chamber.

Not a sound was heard except the mournful sighing of keen December night winds among the leafless trees.

Now and then, ’tis true, watch dogs shook their chains, and howled most dolefully and dismally, in tones unnatural, ominous and death-like.

Silently and softly did Bolton approach the house.

“He is alone,” he thought, “and too weak to leave his chamber. Now is my time, while all are away. His treasure must be mine!”

He tried the back door.

It was locked!

“It was not locked when I left,” the villain thought.

He tried it again.

The door chain rattled!

A window above was suddenly and violently slammed too, as if by the wind.

This startled Bolton.

He crawled round to the parlour window.

It was open!

He got in, and pulled off his boots.

He softly opened the door, and found himself in the large, dark entrance hall.

The slow and solemn ticking of the old hall clock seemed to strike his heart with pangs of remorse and horror.

He held his breath, and cold sweat oozed from his brow.

He could distinctly hear the loud pulsation and wild, excited beatings of his own vile heart as there he stood with wild eyes peering up the broad dark staircase.

“All is still,” he said, and prepared to ascend to the sick man’s room.

Each step was taken cautiously, and with cat-like softness.

But the stairs were old, and creaked with a warning sound.

He had reached the first landing, and stood in a dark recess to recover his breath.

Onward he went.

He could see the light streaming through the keyhole of the old man’s bed-room.

There remained now but one more flight of stairs.

The first step he took was arrested by an ominous click, which sounded like the cocking of a gun!

Bolton’s eyes now glared like two burning coals in the darkness around him.

His hand upon the bannister trembled, and a cold sweat flowed from every pore.

A sense of deadly horror seized him, but he knew not why.

He felt as if some unnatural and hideous being was watching him, and dogging his noiseless footsteps.

What could it be?

He knew not.

Some dreadful fear compelled him to crouch down low upon the landing from sheer exhaustion.

Bang! bang! suddenly burst out upon his astonished ears, and awoke loud echoes in the old farm-house.

A double-barrelled gun had been discharged at him, loaded with buck-shot, and by some one concealed at the head of the stairs.

A loud groan followed the flashes and report.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter III

THE MURDER OF FARMER BERTRAM—THE LEGLESS BODY—SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF THE SKELETON CREW.

“Black-hearted scoundrel!” said a voice, not far off. “Black-hearted scoundrel! I knew by the wicked twinkle of his eye that he meant me ill. Cunning as he was I have outwitted him. He is dead! He came here to rob and murder me! I will go and get a light, and view the body. Heaven knows, I did it in self-defence. What could an old man like I do with such a villain as that lying dead on the stairs, if he had once got into my chamber and found me in bed? Oh! Bolton, you lie a cold and bloody helpless carcase now, and you deserved it. The story of my son was a cruel trick, but you have paid dearly for it. I will go and get a light; I saw him in the orchard, and watched him.”

So saying, the old man walked across the landing into a chamber near his own where the lamp was.

At that instant Bolton rose quickly and bolt upright.

He was untouched!

The shot had in both instances missed him, for he had lain flat on the staircase.

He had groaned, it is true.

But this was in order to deceive old Bertram.

In a second he ascended the stairs, looked to his pistols, and, with Bob’s bludgeon in hand, stood beside the farmer’s chamber door.

He peeped in.

Bertram stood with his back towards the door trimming a lamp.

Bolton creeped up behind him.

In a moment the heavy bludgeon was raised, and descended with frightful force on the old man’s head!

A fearful crash it was.

In a second afterwards Farmer Bertram lay groaning on the floor.

“Murderer! my footsteps shall follow you wherever you go. When least you expect me I will appear to you! on land or sea; in your gay moments, in your sad moments; when alone, or when surrounded by friends; sleeping or waking, I, Bertram, your murdered victim, will stand by your side in the most horrid form, and follow you wherever you go!”

While thus cursing, Bertram rose, and, in his death grasp, took hold of Bolton’s throat, but Bolton, with a loud shriek, dashed the murdered man from him, and hurried into the next chamber to search for his gold.

He found several bags of money in an old oak chest.

The sight of the glittering coin ravished his eyes, dancing as they were with fiendish triumph.

“’Tis well,” said Bolton, “the old man is richer than I thought. Now for the notes; he has them concealed in the lining of his boots.”

Emptying the gold into his many large capacious pockets he unsheathed his dirk.

“I will cut his boots open, and secure the notes,” said he.

Lantern in hand, he re-entered the room where the lifeless body lay.

His eyes almost darted from their sockets at the sight he then saw.

Each hair on his head stood on end; he trembled in every limb.

His very marrow was frozen at the awful spectacle before him.

The body was legless!

Each leg had been disjointed just above the knee!

The limbs were gone!

“How could this happen?” mused the guilty man, trembling from head to foot.

Just at that moment he heard loud laughter outside in the garden—laughter not like that of men, but of demons.

He rushed to the window, and saw below the hideous forms of a dozen skeleton men, dancing and shouting in wild delight.

“Some of the Skeleton Crew!” he gasped, placing his hands before his face to shut out the horrid sight.

On the instant they vanished in the darkness, with loud shouts of mockery, like things of air!

Almost struck dumb with astonishment, he stood there, as if transfixed to the spot.

A gust of wind blew out his lamp.

In the dreadful darkness he heard the heavy footfalls of a man descending the stairs with slow and solemn step, while a voice, exactly like Farmer Bertram’s, was heard repeating in sepulchral tones in the hall below—

“My footsteps shall follow you, Phillip Redgill, for ever!”

“Phillip Redgill,” gasped the murderer, “that is my name! Oh, God! it is the farmer’s voice, and yet he is here, lifeless and legless! Hark, what steps are those I hear? who could have limbed him thus?”

While Bolton (or Phillip Redgill, as the spirit voice now properly called him) stood trembling thus, the ghostly voice said loudly again—

“Phillip Redgill, beware! my footsteps shall follow you for ever!”

Dropping the blood-stained bludgeon beside the body, Phillip Redgill rushed from the room, dashed down stairs, opened the back door, and ran towards the orchard.

He mounted his horse, and was about to start off at a furious gallop, when he gave a sharp, horror-stricken shout at something he saw.

The gory legs of the farmer stood bolt upright in the snow beside him!

“Phillip Redgill, I follow you.”

The murderer plunged spurs into his steed, and dashed from the spot with the swiftness of the wind.

He perceived Bob Bertram at some distance, who was approaching his father’s house.

It was as much as he could do to control his feelings; but he said to Bob,

“I have soon returned, you see.”

“Yes, ye haven’t been long.”

“No, and I have been so successful that I wish to be generous to all I meet to-night, and, if you are not too proud, I’ll begin with you.”

“How so, sir?” said Bob.

“You complained when last we spoke that you wanted good clothes in order to make a respectable appearance?”

“I did. What of that?”

“Why, I am a rich man and you poor. I’ll exchange clothes with you, and give you a purse full of money to start you a-fresh in life. What say you? I have taken a particular fancy to you, and like you.”

“I have not any objections,” said Bob, much amused at the horseman’s strange freak. “But where can we change?”

“Oh, this old barn will do, but we must be quick,” said the stranger, dismounting.

Bob soon exchanged clothes with the horseman; but he couldn’t help but remark that his companion had a very large amount of gold coin about him.

The stranger told him he had been out collecting for a very large London firm.

“There,” said Phillip, surveying Bob, “those clothes will make a man of you.”

“Mine alter your looks very much,” said Bob, laughing.

“Never mind that, my boy. I can afford to play such queer pranks, for I am rich. It will take my father quite by surprise to see me dressed in this manner.”

“And so it will mine when I go again.”

“Why not go to-night? Come, cheer up; put this purse in your pocket, and have a pull at my brandy flask; it will cheer you up. Go to him at once; he can’t be always angry with you.”

The stranger’s words were so kind and encouraging that, after he had galloped off, Bob determined to go boldly to his father’s house, and demand a lodging for the night.

The stranger’s brandy had aroused him, and made him feel rather flattered with his altered and gentlemanly appearance.

Thinking thus, he walked across the fields towards Four Ash Farm; but as he approached the dwelling he felt a sense of deep depression from some unknown cause—a feeling of chilliness and fear took possession of him.

He walked boldly up to the back door, however, and found it wide open.

Instead of the dogs joyfully yelping when he approached them, they rushed at him to the full length of their chains, howling most dismally.

He entered the house.

All was unearthly quiet.

“I will not disturb any one,” thought the prodigal son, “but creep into the parlour, and sleep on the sofa until morning.”

This he did on tiptoe, for fear of being heard, and was soon fast asleep.

In less than half-an-hour Betty returned, and with her two village constables.

They went upstairs to the farmer’s bed-room, conducted by old Betty.

She knocked at her master’s bed-room door three times.

There was no answer.

No light was burning.

She opened the door, and peeped in.

No one was there.

She next looked into Master Robert’s old bed-room.

Next moment she screamed aloud, and fell staggering to the floor.

“Murdered! murdered!” she cried.

The two officers went in, and turned deadly pale, as they beheld the lifeless body lying ghastly and gory before them.

“Murdered! murdered!” screamed the servant, again and again, in piercing tones.

The dreadful sounds aroused Robert.

He leaped from the sofa, and rushed upstairs.

“Oh, here is Mr. Bolton; kind good gentleman; oh, tell us who did this?” said Betty, weeping.

“It is not Mr. Bolton,” said one of the officers; “it is Bob Bertram.”

“What means this?” gasped Bob, pushing by the officers into his own old bed-room. “What means all this screaming when my father lies sick in bed?”

“It means murder, Bob,” said one of the men.

“What! murder?”

“Yes; and you did it,” said the other, “if I’m not much mistaken.”

“Me?”

“Aye you, Bob; look at your fine clothes stained with blood!”

And so they were. They had been wiped, but the stains were there upon them still.

“Oh! heavens! have mercy on me!” said Bob, turning white as a sheet, and fell into an arm chair, stricken to the heart with surprise and sorrow.

“We did not think you would do such a horrid thing as this is, Bob,” said the officers; “but we were warned of your threats, and your coming here to rob your father, and came to prevent it.”

“Me? Rob my father? Come here to murder? Warned of it beforehand?” gasped Bob, with staring eyes, “What means this? Is it all a terrible, horrible dream, or what?”

“No; it is an awful reality, and we must take you in custody, on the charge of murder.”

In an instant the two officers handcuffed him.

He did not utter a word or move a muscle.

He was pale, and looked wildly about him as if in a dream.

“Poor Nance!” he sighed, thinking of his pretty persecuted sweetheart and intended wife. “Poor Nance, this news will break thy young heart!”

Bob hung his head.

The constables were sorrowful and silent.

Betty looked like a crazy woman, as she sat on the floor, sobbing.

Not a word was spoken.

All was still.

The silence was at last broken by the slow, measured tread of some one coming upstairs.

The footsteps crossed the landing.

All turned anxiously towards the door.

Judge of their looks and shouts of fright and horror!

The bodiless legs walked slowly into the room!

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter IV

SIR RICHARD WARBECK AND WILDFIRE NED—THE ONE-LEGGED SAILOR’S NARRATIVE.

Darlington Hall, the country residence of Sir Richard Warbeck, was an immense old building, high, strongly built, containing many galleries, vaults, and mysterious ins and outs, with numerous towers, effigies of men in armour on landings, corridors, and rooms, the old baronial edifice covered with ivy for the most part, and stood in a spacious, well-wooded park, not many miles from the sea.

The knight, from some unknown cause, though immensely wealthy, had never married, but consoled himself with adopting two friendless orphan youths, Charles and Edward, or Wildfire Ned, who, in his honour, took the name of Warbeck.

Charles, the elder of the two, was in London.

“Wildfire Ned,” as he had been christened by the country people, on account of his mad freaks, loved to live at the Hall, so that he might have ample opportunities for indulging in shooting, fishing, hunting, swimming, and particularly sailing in a small bay near by, a sport of which he was so passionately fond that old salts always called him “Ned, the Sailor Boy.”

His adopted uncle loved Ned, perhaps more so than Charles, for he was a handsome, brave, and adventurous youth of about fifteen years old, the ladies’ pet, and the envy of all young men for miles around.

The old knight had long tried to curb his roving and seafaring propensities, but all to no purpose.

On the cold December night on which the story opens—the night after old Bertram’s murder—the knight sat by a huge log fire in his library, reading.

Ned was pouring over some favourite “tale of the sea,” and sighing for a chance to distinguish himself against the many bloodthirsty pirates and buccaneers that then infested the neighbouring seas.

“Oh! isn’t that jolly?” said Ned, striking the table with his fist. “Oh! I wish I had been there.”

“Where?” said the knight, looking up in surprise.

“Why, in the ship I’m reading about. Didn’t they give the pirates and smugglers something, that’s all! Why, uncle, a small English sloop of war with six guns, fought a whole fleet of buccaneers. Wasn’t that jolly, eh?”

“Still thinking of the sea, eh, Ned?”

“Yes, uncle (for both he and Charles always so called him), and why not? Our sailors are the bravest and finest fellows in the world. Wouldn’t I like to be a middy in the king’s navy, that’s all? I’d lay my life I should be an admiral before I was twenty.”

Sir Richard did not reply; but walked to the window thoughtfully, and looked out upon the cold, snow-covered landscape, and as the winds sighed mournfully down the chimney, he tapped Ned affectionately on the head, as he said,

“Ah, my lad, your brother Charles will make the best man of the two yet; see, he is not much older than you are, and yet he stands well in the East Indian house, and will be a rich man one of these days if he’s industrious and behaves himself.”

“Perhaps so,” said Ned, biting his lip; “but I never did like pen and ink and figures; that sort of work is too slow for me.”

“I know it. You would rather go hunting and boating; but, believe me, there are more hardships at sea than boys like you ever dreamed of, Ned.”

“I shouldn’t mind ’em.”

“And danger, too.”

“That’s just what I should like,” said curly-headed Ned, laughing. “I wouldn’t give a dump for an English boy without he liked adventures and danger, and could well beat any foreigner he came across.”

While he spoke the lodge bell rang.

“Who is that?” asked the knight of a footman who entered.

“Tim, the groom boy, sir, as he rode home, picked up a poor one-legged sailor, for he was afraid, he said, to pass the gibbets on the wild heath alone.”

“Who, the sailor or Tim?”

“The groom, sir.”

“I thought it wasn’t the sailor,” said Ned. “An English sailor without legs at all is more than a match for any foreigner with two, and as to being afraid to pass the gibbets, ha! ha! British tars ain’t afraid of men dangling in chains.”

“Silence, Ned. What of this poor sailor?”

“Tim said, sir, as how Master Edward were fond of sailors.”

“So I am; Tim was right.”

“He brought him to the Hall to pass the night.”

“Good boy, Tim,” said Ned. “I owe him a shilling for that. Won’t we pump all the yarns out of him before he goes to-morrow, that’s all?”

“Where is this cripple, then?”

“Tim is stuffing him in the kitchen, sir.”

“Well, when he has done eating, show him up here. Stir up the fire; put more logs on; that will do. And now, Edward, since you are so fond of reading trash about the sea, we will hear what this poor cripple has got to say. I have no doubt when you hear his story of real life, it will help to cure you of your wild and foolish notions about the navy. If you want to go to sea for a time, take a trip in a merchant ship.”

“That is not like the king’s navy, no more than a militia-man at home is like one of the royal guard who has fought against the French, uncle.”

“If you wished to take a trip, my old friend Redgill has half a dozen ships, and will be glad to oblige me.”

“I don’t like the name of Redgill, or his ships either,” said Ned, with a scornful curl of his lip.

“What is that you say, sir?”

“I can’t help it, uncle; I don’t like any of the Redgills; as to Phillip, I hate him.”

“Remember, Edward, they are relations of mine, which you are not.”

“I know it, uncle,” said Ned, with a sigh. “Charley and I depend upon you for everything. We are poor, friendless orphans.”

“And perhaps may remain friendless and moneyless, too, if you do not do my bidding, young sir; remember that.”

“I know it, uncle; but I hope to gain my own living ere many months have passed over my head. But whether I am rich or poor, I shall hate Phil Redgill all the same.”

“Why, sir?”

“He is a rank coward. I despise him.”

“Coward!—despise him! What mean you? Do you know he may one day inherit my fortune?”

“I do. I don’t hate him for that; but he is a coward and a cunning knave into the bargain. He is much older than I am; but I could thrash the very life out of him in ten minutes, if he’d only stand up like a man. I have told him that more than once, uncle, and have shoved my fist in his face often and often; he is a sly thief and a liar, uncle,” said Wildfire Ned, getting red and very passionate. “Tim and I know what he has done before now. Charley and he are very thick, I hear, in London; but, if brother took my advice, he would shun Phil Redgill like a snake in the grass. If he don’t come to the gallows in time, why, then, he must have more lives than a cat, that’s all.”

The knight was astounded at this; but while he stood staring at Ned, the door opened, and in walked the footman and Tim the boy groom, leading in the one-legged sailor.

Timothy, the groom, or Tiny Tim, as he was called, on account of his small stature, looked pale and frightened.

His staring eyes, and hair standing on end, told plainly that he had been frightened by something or somebody on the road from Portsmouth.

“What’s the matter, Tim?” Ned asked, laughing. “Why, you look as if you had seen a dozen ghosts on the road.”

“So I have, Master Edward, more than a dozen.”

“More than a dozen ghosts, lad?” asked the knight, laughing. “Did you bring the letters safe?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tim; “here they are, sir; but I had to ride for my dear life like the devil.”

“What does the lad mean?” the knight asked. “Surely he is not crazy? Sit down and compose yourself.”

“Well, sir,” said Tim, “directly I got the letters I started back home again; but as I was trotting along I saw a man on horseback waiting for me; he looked like a highway robber, so I turns my horse down another road to get out of his way.”

“Well, what then?”

“I hadn’t gone far, sir, and was just passing the Red Man’s gibbet, as they calls it, at the cross roads, when the wind began to howl and cry like so many living voices.”

“You were not afraid of all that, I hope?”

“No, sir, but the vultures were flying about the gibbet, and their eyes sparkled in the moonlight like so many coals of fire.”

“Well?”

“I didn’t care much about that, but when I got fairly under the gibbet, and was about to pass by, I looked up, and I saw the Red Man’s eyes glaring on me, and he seemed to shake himself, for his chains rattled awfully.”

“Nonsense! he has been dead this many a-year; it was all fancy, Tim,” said Wildfire Ned, chuckling.

“No, it wasn’t, sir, all due respect to you, sir; he was alive.”

“Alive?”

“Aye, gentlemen, alive; I could swear it as sure as I live.”

“You were timorous, that is all, and fancied so.”

“No, Sir Richard, I never was so brave in all my life, although I felt my blood run cold. It spoke to me.”

“Spoke to you?”

“Yes sir.”

“What did it say?”

“‘Halt!’ it shouted, and on the instant my horse stopped, and would not budge an inch. ‘Halt!’ it said, in awful tones, glaring down on me with its fiery eyes. ‘I am one of the Skeleton Crew,’ it said; ‘go, tell your master that Farmer Bertram is murdered!’”

“Dead?” “Murdered?” said several in surprise.

“When did this foul deed take place?” asked the old knight.

“‘Murdered last night,’ said the Red Man from the gibbet, ‘as the Darlington village clock tolled the hour of one! Ha! ha! the Skeleton Crew still lives, and rules the seas, and will long defy the power of man. Fly from this spot, or become one of the dead!’”

“This is a most horrible revelation,” said the old knight.

“I did not stop to hear more, for I shouted with fright, and galloped madly away, feeling as if frozen to the very marrow, for I had spoken with the dead!”

Tiny Tim looked exhausted, and shivered in every limb.

He could not proceed with his story very quickly, for his teeth chattered again.

“Give the lad a stiff glass of brandy, Ned,” said the kind-hearted knight.

Ned did so; a very “stiff” one indeed, it was, which made the groom’s eyes twinkle again.

The one-legged sailor was treated in like manner, when Tim continued—

“I galloped along till I reached the edge of the wild and barren heath, but then I felt faint, for I perceived another horrid sight in the distance! I was compelled to cross the heath, for it was my only way here to the Hall. Unable to guide my horse, I sat still shivering in the cold, knowing not what to do, when all of a sudden the one-legged sailor seemed to spring out of the earth close beside me.

“The next moment I found him sitting on the horse beside me!

“He took the reins, and the mare dashed onwards like lightning, as if neither of us were heavier than two straws.

“All I remember is that as we galloped along we came up to three fires on the roadside which burned with a dark blue flame, and around them were, shrieking and dancing—the Skeleton Crew!

“I fainted. When I came to my senses again we were at the Lodge gate.”

Sir Richard, Ned, the footman, and other members of the household, who had now gathered around, listened to Tim’s story with bated breath.

The footman looked terror-stricken, and trembled so, that, during the groom’s story, his pig-tail (the fashion in those days) gradually rose, until at last it stood stiff and erect above his head, a powdered pillar of horror.

“Is the lad dreaming, or is he turned crazy?” said Sir Richard.

“No; the lad is right, sir,” said the one-legged sailor, making bold to speak. “My name is Ralph Spray, your honour, late of the king’s navy; and, if so be as how I’m not intruding, I will tell you all about it. This ’ere good-natur’d lad, the groom, is almost turned grey wi’ only havin’ a peep at some on ’em, but how must it be wi’ me, who has fought with the Skeleton Crew?”

“Is it true, then, that there is such a crew?” asked the knight, in surprise.

“Aye, true, sir, as I sits here, for I lost my other leg among ’em. I ought not to forget ’em, for they have given me plenty o’ reason to remember ’em by.”

“Do you say, then, that you believe there is such a thing as a Skeleton Crew?” asked the knight, very slowly, and looking very hard at Ned’s interested face.

“Do I? why, in course I do,” said the one-legged stranger, in a huffish manner, “for I’m one on ’em my——”

“What!” gasped every one, rising to their feet.

“I’m one on ’em myself—as suffered by ’em.”

“O-h-h-h!” said one and all, very much relieved, for they thought that the cripple was going to say that he was one of the Skeleton Crew.

“Well, as I were about to say, gentlemen,” Ralph Spray continued, “I served as an able seaman on board His Majesty’s sloop of war ‘Dolphin,’ and we lay in the Sound. We hadn’t been there long afore the news reached us about the wild doings of the Skeleton Crew. At first we didn’t believe any o’ the strange tales, but at last we were ordered off to cruise after the Phantom Ship and Skeleton Crew.”

“And did you ever overhaul them?” asked Ned, impatiently.

“Lor’ bless yer simple heart! overhaul them? No, not us; but they very soon overhauled us, my lad!”

“Is it possible? Overhaul one of the king’s ships?”

“Ha, my God; and massacred every soul on board, save one!”

“And who was he?”

“I myself; Ralph Spray.”

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“Why, how can that be? You must have had at least 150 men on board the ‘Dolphin,’” said the knight.

“’Zactly; and the Skeleton Crew couldn’t muster half as many, I suppose you mean?”

“Just so.”

“Aye, sir, but we on board the ‘Dolphin’ were men.”

“Brave men, too, no doubt.”

“Yes; but them on board the Phantom Ship weren’t men at all.”

“What, then, in heaven’s name?”

“Why, devils!”

The footman, nay, every one of Ralph’s audience, were listening open-mouthed and with staring eyes.

“Devils?” asked Ned.

“Yes, devils, young man.”

A pause took place, and every one took a long breath, and creeped closer to the fire as Ralph continued—

“We caught sight of the Phantom Ship once. It was painted red. We gave chase, and came within two miles of it, when it changed its colour to blue! We wasn’t going to be taken in, so we fired a broadside right into her, and——”

“Sunk her,” asked Ned.

“Not a bit on it, it vanished into mist.”

Several of the servants and members of the household whom the kind knight had allowed to listen to the cripple’s tale, now wished themselves in their bed-rooms, or in the servants’ hall.

They were unable to leave their seats, however, for they felt fastened down to them, and in some manner fascinated by the charmed eye of the speaker.

The footman’s pig-tail worked to and fro like the pendulum of a clock, and, at certain passages, stood bolt upright as its owner inwardly and sometimes audibly groaned at what he heard.

“Vanished into mist, eh? How extraordinary!” said the knight. “Then it must be a charmed ship, and a charmed crew.”

“’Zactly, sir, and I’ll tell yer how I proves it. The ‘Dolphin’ often gave chase to this Phantom Ship, but could never catch it, although sometimes we caught more than we liked.”

“Indeed! what was that then?”

“Why, a well-aimed broadside.”

“From the Phantom Ship?”

“’Zactly, and a devil of a mess they left us in more nor once, and we were glad to sheer off.”

“Extraordinary! it sounds like a dream.”

“But it ain’t, though, for one foggy night, when the ‘Dolphin’ lay anchored in the Sound, me and Tom Robinson were keeping watch on deck, and never thinking of any harm, for all the crew were snug in their hammocks, when it almost turned me grey to see three score of the Skeleton Crew clamber over the ship’s side like shadows, and begin to cut and hack us about awful. The deck was cleared in a second.”

“Did you not alarm the ship, and beat to quarters?”

“What was the use? I rushed to go below, but only put one leg down the hatchway ladder when it was cut off clean as a whistle.”

“Didn’t the crew rush up to assist you?”

“How could they, they were all dead!”

“Dead?”

“Yes, dead as door nails. The only ones to rush up was a gang o’ the Skeleton Crew who had been below quietly murdering the men in their hammocks.”

“Horrible!”

“Astounding!”

“But there’s worse to come,” said Ralph.

The footman, with his pig-tail standing on end, made a move towards the door.

The old housekeeper was almost fainting.

Tim’s hair was like the quills of a porcupine as he listened with open mouth and distended eyes.

“Well, as soon as they got possession of the ‘Dolphin’ these skeleton devils weighed anchor in a jiffey and made sail away.

“They pitched the dead overboard, every mother’s son of the crew, mind ye; but, as well as I could, I bound up my leg tight to keep it from bleeding, and crawled into an old cask.

“There I stayed for two days and two nights as quiet as a mouse a watching of these skeleton devils, and I heard and saw as much as would have killed any ordinary man.”

“Learn any of their secrets, do you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What were they?”

“Why, I learned that they never would and never could be conquered by all the king’s navy, for every one on ’em, ships and all, had charmed lives; but, as far as I could understand, they all trembled when they heard the name of a boy who had been born to destroy ’em.”

“A boy born to conquer and destroy that horrible band?”

“Aye, just so, sir; for they admitted among themselves that he was charmed more than they were, and would be sent to scourge them from the sea.”

“Wonderful!”

“I wish I were that boy,” said Ned, with a flushed cheek.

“Do you?” said the cripple.

“Yes, I do,” said Wildfire Ned, proudly. “I don’t believe in charms or spells, but I do believe if I had a good crew I should soon annihilate the whole of them.”

“Perhaps you are boasting, young man?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you say, then, you could, and that you would, face the whole Skeleton Crew single-handed?”

“Yes; and trust to heaven for strength to destroy them.”

“You never have seen any of them yet?”

“No; but I much desire to do so.”

“Then behold!” said the one-legged sailor, stamping his foot on the floor, and pointing towards the window.

In an instant a crash of glass was heard.

Every one, save Ned, screamed aloud at the ghastly sight before them.

There, with his head and half of his body visible at the window and protruding through it, stood a horrible form!

It was one of the Skeleton Crew!

In an instant Wildfire Ned pulled out a pistol and fired.

The ghastly form moved not!

He thought he heard the ball rattle among the bones of the Skeleton.

He fired again.

With a loud laugh of derision and triumph the Skeleton waved his plumed hat and vanished.

When Ned turned towards the crippled sailor—

He had disappeared!

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

V. CONSTERNATION AT DARLINGTON HALL

The consternation that ensued among all assembled at this unlooked-for conclusion of the mariner’s tale was evidently great.

The old knight jumped to his feet in amazement, and with trembling limbs.

He tried to speak, but could not.

Tim’s eyes rolled in wild excitement, while the footman fell upon his knees, and began to mumble out his prayers in a very rapid manner, for he had come to the humble conclusion, in his own mind, that for once in his life he had been in company with some demon of darkness.

He groaned aloud, and pulled very comical faces, while others made a sudden rush towards the door!

Among them all there was one who looked on the matter with lightness and good humour.

That one was Wildfire Ned.

Pistol in hand he dashed towards the window as bold and fearless as a young lion.

“If ye be mortal, die!” he said, firing his weapon after the retiring skeleton figure.

With the agility of a cat he jumped on to the window-sill, and looked out into the darkness.

The ghastly apparition had vanished!

Whither or how had it gone?

“Strange,” muttered Ned, angrily, as he returned to his seat. “Where’s the cripple?”

All looked around.

He also had vanished.

“There is some strange horrible mystery in all this,” said Ned, “and I will perish before I give up the search without unravelling it.”

“It all seems to me like a dream,” the knight said at last, with a great effort. “Some strange and horrible nightmare.”

“I wasn’t frightened, sir,” said Tim, plucking up his courage. “Nothing could frighten me now, seeing as how I rode home with one on ’em.”

“It’s all a trick, I know,” said the footman. “Some of the villagers have got it up for a lark, seeing as how it’s Christmas time.”

“Perhaps so, Roger,” the knight replied, with a smile; “but I noticed you soon fell on your knees, and began to say your prayers.”

“And so did Tim,” Ned laughed; “but now it’s all over, you may retire,” he said to the servants who were there, “you may retire. Uncle and I wish to be alone.”

Tim was the first to go to the door, and he opened it with a shaking hand.

In order to reach the servants’ hall, they had to traverse several long dark galleries, and descend the main staircase.

Tim wanted his fellow servants to look upon him as a very bold youth, but he took great care not to be the first to go out into the dark gallery.

In this way, also, the chief footman thought, but didn’t like to say so.

“Why don’t you go on?” said he to Tim.

“Why don’t you?”

“You were the first at the door.”

“Suppose I was, that don’t matter.”

“You’re afraid?”

“No I ain’t.”

“Yes you are, Tim.”

“If you think so, then follow me,” said the young groom, plucking up all his spare courage, and flourishing his riding-whip.

The domestics left the room, and proceeded cautiously and slowly down the stairs towards the servants’ hall, creeping along, one after the other, in the dark.

They had all got as far as the large, old oak baronial dining-room, on the ground floor, and were creeping along through the spacious entrance hall, towards the head of the kitchen stairs, when every one stopped.

For a moment they stood in the darkness, breathing very hard, when their ears were startled by the sudden clanking of chains!

The sound proceeded from the baronial hall, where for centuries had stood wooden figures, clothed in armour!

The clanking noise sounded so horrible, that they all rushed down the kitchen stairs, one on top of another, in wild confusion.

Roger, the footman, was the first to make the descent, which he did six stairs at a time.

But directly he and the rest got to the bottom in breathless haste, they were still more horrified at the sight that confronted them.

For there stood at the foot of the stairs a skeleton form, sword in hand!

“Ha! ha!” he gruffly laughed, as he flourished his weapon.

The footman shouted in terror, and turned on his heel to flee upstairs again.

The rest followed him, bellowing and screaming at the top of their voices.

Upstairs they flew in wild dismay, tearing their clothes, and knocking each other about in the darkness, making all haste to leave far behind them the dreadful form they had seen below.

No man, or woman either, ever mounted flights of stairs with such expedition as did the servants on this memorable occasion.

Coat tails were torn off, wigs were lost, trousers were torn behind in very unpleasant and uncomfortable places, and more than one received hard thumps in the ribs from some one they knew not.

But this was nothing, so that they could escape with their lives.

Once in the entrance hall again they ran towards the great drawing-room.

The door was unexpectedly and very hastily opened for them by a skeleton!

With a cry of agony and surprise they turned towards the baronial hall as a place of safety.

They reached the doorway almost fainting with fatigue and fright.

A man in armour strode forth to meet them, lance in hand!

More than one fainted on the spot.

Roger, the footman, like a brave man, trusted to his legs once more, followed by as many of his fellow servants as had any strength left in them; he vanished up the great staircase at lightning speed.

It seemed to be a race for life or death with all of them.

Round and round the staircase they manfully ascended, never casting a single look behind.

They had gained the long, wide corridor which led to Sir Richard’s library, and all felt safe.

Roger, as may be imagined, was first, and opened the door.

His foot caught in the carpet on the threshold, and down he went on his face, swelling his nose to the size of a cucumber.

The others, in wild confusion, rushed after him and tumbled, men and women, head over heels on the prostrate footman, nearly smothering him with their combined weight.

“What mean all this uproar and fright?” said the old knight, rising in great anger. “Are ye all turned mad, ye noisy, raving knaves? Explain, I say, explain!”

But none of the servants could explain anything, for they were all out of breath, and as pale as death.

After a time, when Roger was dragged out with his nose bleeding, he looked about him with a wild and frightened gaze, as he stammered out,

“O-h-h-h, s-i-r! we-e-’ve s-e-e-n him!”

“Seen him! Seen who, knave? Speak quickly! or, by my honour, I’ll whip my sword through your trembling carcase!” said old Sir Richard, getting red in the face. “Speak, some of you!” he continued, looking daggers at his alarmed domestics.

“Oh! m-e-r-cy! master, m-e-r-cy!” croaked out Roger, falling on his knees.

“Speak, rascal! Who have ye seen?”

“The skeleton! ghastly, ghostly, all bones, and sword in hand, grinning like an angry demon.”

“A skeleton!”

“Aye, sir; two on ’em.”

“Two, do you say?”

“Yes, Sir Richard; one at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, and t’other opened the drawing-room door! H-o-o! ask ’em all if it ain’t true, good master!” continued the footman, rolling his eyes and moaning.

“And another grim rascal in armour rushed at us lance in hand at the dining-hall door?” whined Tim, the valiant groom. “Oh, lor, the whole place is full on ’em, I do believe.”

For some moments Sir Richard did not know what to do.

All around him knelt his frightened domestics, groaning and shaking.

“Why, but just now, knave, you said it was all a lark, perhaps, got up by some of the silly villagers to frighten us. Ghosts and living skeletons indeed! There, go down and get your suppers at once, and let’s have no more of such silly nonsense.”

“Nay, good master, we dare not.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Ned, laughing; “how can you be geese enough to believe in such old women’s tales. Get up off your knees at once, I say, and don’t stick there shivering like leaves. I have lived in the Hall this many a year, and have never seen anything of the kind. I only wish I could come across the rascals who are playing such tricks, that’s all; I’d soon find out whether they were ghosts or not.”

“Would you? Ha! ha!” said suddenly a voice.

“What was that? Who spoke?” said Ned, colouring with anger.

“Would you? Ha! ha! then you shall soon have a chance, bold youth,” said the voice again.

“Who or what is that?” said old Sir Richard, starting.

“That’s him, master; that’s him! the ghosts! ho-o-o!” said Roger, with chattering teeth.

“This is strange,” thought Wildfire Ned, “there cannot be any doubt but that there is some mystery hanging about the old Hall. I have long been persuaded of it, but it will not do to let my uncle or his people know what I think of this mystery.”

“What is that you are saying, Edward?” asked Sir Richard.

“Nothing, uncle,” he replied. “I was only smiling at the foolish fears of these tremblers here.”

“Come, rouse up all of you,” said old Sir Richard; “and follow me!”

“That’s just what I was about to propose, uncle,” said Ned. “We’ll soon get to the bottom of this strange affair.”

Arming himself with a sword, Wildfire Ned led the way, lamp in hand. “I’ll lead the way,” said he; “follow me! Uncle you can remain behind; there is nothing to fear. I care not for a hundred skeletons, or ghosts either; follow me.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter VI

THE SKELETON CREW AT DARLINGTON HALL—THE CONFLICT BETWEEN THE SERVANTS—DEFEAT OF THE SKELETON CREW BY WILDFIRE NED.

Every one knew what a brave, bold, adventurous boy Wildfire Ned was, and directly he said “follow me,” each one regained his courage, and prepared to follow him.

They were all unarmed save Ned; but Roger, very cunning, stole a short poker from the fire-grate without being perceived, and stuffed it under his coat.

“I don’t so much fear now,” he thought. “I’ve got the poker, and if any of ’em come near me I’ll try and smash their ugly skulls in quick time; that is, if they will let me.”

Bold as a lion, and with an eye like a night hawk, young Wildfire Ned led the way, followed by the male servants.

They searched in every place that could be imagined, but neither ghosts nor skeletons could be found.

The rest of the servants were summoned and closely questioned by Wildfire Ned.

No such thing as ghost or skeleton had been seen in other parts of the old Hall, and the bare mention of the armed man in armour, who rushed out upon them, caused great merriment among the majority of the servants, who laughed outright, and called Roger and Tim “two old women.”

So there was every prospect of a quarrel among the servants on this great question.

Roger was very indignant, and when he pulled out the short poker from under his clothes, he flourished it about in great wrath, threatening to massacre the coachman, butler, and every one, indeed, who did not believe him.

Order, however, was soon restored among them, and when the supper bell rang all repaired in great haste to the servants’ hall to hear the various odds and ends of the footman’s strange adventure.

They were all seated round the table, playing sad havoc with rounds of beef and good old ale, when all at once the lamps went out!

Roger would have fled on the instant, but he was afraid of being afterwards branded as a coward, and, therefore, remained in his seat, but felt very uneasy.

The French cook, at the head of the table, left his chair to go for other lamps.

At the moment that lights reappeared the whole assembly were struck dumb at what they then saw.

Behind the chair of each there stood one of the Skeleton Crew!

They would have shouted out loudly, but one of the Skeletons, who appeared to be chief of the party, said, sternly, and in a sepulchral tone, to a gigantic Skeleton,

“The first one that stirs—the first one that speaks above his breath, despatch him!”

Roger groaned inwardly, and felt more dead than alive.

Tim wriggled on his chair like a half-skinned eel.

The chief cook’s eyes were wildly dancing, and his long working cap rose up to a prodigious height, while, with open mouth, he stood shivering and shaking.

The others were in a state of collapse, and almost slipped off their seats, while they looked about in trembling fear.

The chief of the Skeleton Crew made a sign to some of his grim attendants to listen to all he had to say.

Turning to the chief cook, butler, and pantryman he said, in a sharp, hissing tone,

“Wine—the best—quick!”

Roger and Tim rose from their seats like a shot, but were each slapped on the head by a hard bony hand, which made their jaws rattle again.

Three grim skeleton guards followed the cook, butler, and pantryman, to see that their captain’s orders were carefully obeyed.

The wine was soon produced.

“Where are the silver goblets?” the chief asked, sternly.

These were soon found.

Each skeleton filled his goblet to the brim, and raised it aloft.

“Here’s to the Skeleton Crew of the Phantom Ship!” he said; “confusion to our enemies.”

In a moment the wine was quaffed.

The terrified servants did not know what was coming next, and looked on gasping like so many stranded fish.

“Remove the table,” said the chief; “let us have plenty of room, we have much business to do.”

“They are going to murder every mother’s son of us,” groaned Roger.

Tim began to think seriously of saying some short prayer.

But they had to swallow their own feelings and fears, nor did any of them dare speak, for behind each stood a skeleton, dagger in hand.

The table was removed to one corner of the inner servants’ hall.

The domestics were now sitting in a circle, face to face.

“The rope,” said the Skeleton Chief, hoarsely.

In an instant each of his crew produced a long stout rope, about two inches round, and flourished it before the eyes of their captain with a savage grin.

“I thought so,” groaned Roger. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“All U.P. now,” Tim groaned.

“They wouldn’t believe me,” said the footman.

“Good-bye everybody,” said Tim.

Roger and Tim had another sound thwack on the jaws from their skeleton guardians, which shook every tooth in their heads.

“Sling your ropes,” said the grim Skeleton Chief, quaffing more wine.

In a moment each threw one end of his rope up in the air over the numerous beams and rafters of the servants’ hall.

“Make each his noose; mind they fit their necks nicely.”

“Oh, the cold-blooded rascals!”

“The merciless villains!”

“Mercy!”

“Have pity on us,” gasped the servants, as the Skeletons were making the noose in each rope.

“If they speak again despatch them with your daggers,” said the chief.

“Hanging is better than that,” sighed Roger, “so I’ll keep quiet. I hope my turn will come last, though,” he piously prayed.

“Give the rascals five minutes to say their prayers,” said the chief, with a gruff laugh.

“It won’t do them any good, great chief,” said one of the Skeletons; “they are sure to go to the devil.”

“Yes, oh, yes,” gasped Roger, “five minutes—say ten, only make it ten, or a quarter of an hour, and it will do us a world of—h-o-o! ha! ho-oh!”

A knife glittered before the footman’s eyes ere he had finished his sentence, and he sank upon his knees very humbly and meekly.

If any lot of poor wretches ever prayed fervently they did so on this occasion.

Roger, who seldom had said a prayer in all his life before, fired away very rapidly.

Each one was endeavouring to pray more than the other, and the most wicked among them were loudest.

“Be quick,” said the chief, sternly, “be quick with your praying; the hanging must commence at once. We will begin with the men.”

Many of the servants called down more hearty curses on the Skeleton Band than they did blessings on their own heads during their prayers; but it was useless to offer resistance, for each was in the power of a grim, gaunt enemy.

“Rise!” said the Skeleton Chief.

All the servants did so, except Roger.

“Rise,” said the Skeleton. “Don’t you know we are in a hurry?”

“I haven’t finished my prayers yet,” piously gasped the suddenly converted footman.

“How long does it take you?” asked one of the Skeletons, chuckling.

“All night sometimes,” said Roger, with a sigh.

“Oh, then, you are pious?”

“Yes, I always was.”

“Then as you are so much, the better prepared than the rest, we’ll hang you first.”

Roger groaned and rose up like a shot.

“You have heard of the Skeleton Crew, I know,” said the chief aloud, “and that they neither fear man nor devil?”

“We have,” said several; “quite true.”

“I wish the devil had him, though,” groaned poor Tim.

“And,” continued he, “you have heard that the chief is cruel, and has no mercy to his enemies.”

“I wish I only had the luck to be one of his best friends at this particular moment,” sighed Roger, trembling.

“But you see,” said the chief, “I am not cruel, or I would have hanged you all without giving a moment’s warning.”

“Cursed perlite!” said Tim, under his breath.

“And, to show you that I am not as bad as people say I am, I’ll give you all a chance as to who dies first, provided——”

“What?” gasped several, eagerly.

“You will answer me one question.”

“What is it, oh, most mighty and merciful skeleton?” sighed Roger. “What is it?”

“Who considers himself to be the greatest rogue among you all?” asked the chief. “Be careful how you answer.”

A long, solemn and awful pause followed this ominous and all-important question.

The grim chief need not have warned them to be careful.

They were very careful indeed, and took a long, long time to consider.

“It won’t do for me to answer,” thought the trembling servants, “for they will be sure to commence hanging the biggest rogues first.”

“So there is no rogue at all among you, I find, eh? Ha! ha! Well, then, who thinks himself the most pious among you? Tell me that.”

Roger was about to reply, but the words stuck fast in his throat, as he thought,

“If I answer, they will do for me first as the best prepared to die; no, no, he don’t entrap me with his puzzling questions.”

So thought the rest.

“No goodness among ye all, then, eh?” said the chief. “Why, a moment ago ye were all praying like so many saints. Come, answer me this, the third time, then I’ll give some of you another chance. Who considers himself to be brave among you, and don’t fear death? Answer me!”

No one did so, however.

“How artful this bloodthirsty monster is!” each thought; “for those who don’t fear death are sure to be hung first!”

“Well, no one answers, I find,” said the chief, laughing. “I’ll give you a last chance, poor devils; mark me, the only one you’ll have. Who is the greatest coward among you, and fears most to die?”

“I do.”

“I am.”

“That’s me.”

“Oh, spare us!”

Such were the unanimous answers of all, and in one breath.

“Ha! ha! you have answered at last, eh? Well, then, since there are no good nor brave men, but plenty of cowards, we’ll hang you altogether, for none of you deserve to live.”

Groans were now heard on all sides, and many repented not having answered before.

“If there had been only a few brave men among you I would have spared——”

“I’m brave! I’m brave!”

“I’ll do any mortal thing.”

“A lion’s courage is nothing to mine!”

“Only just try me—a tiger is nothing compared to me!”

“I’d face the devil, I would!”

Thus gasped out many when they found that brave men only were to be spared.

“Oh, that’s it, eh?” said the Skeleton Chief. “I now find that all of you are brave.”

“I’m the bravest,” said Roger, very meekly; “on my word, I am!”

“You are, eh?”

“No, he isn’t,” said the coachman; “I am.”

“Oh, you are; then this footman must be a liar.”

“So he is,” said the coachman, “an awful liar; the biggest as ever lived!”

“Then we will begin with you two first, and give you a trial,” said the chief. “How do you best like to fight, with swords, or what? Daggers are the quickest to do the work with!”

“I’d prefer fists,” said the burly coachman.

“And what do you prefer my brave fellow?” asked the chief of Roger.

Roger much preferred to escape out of the mess altogether, but it could not be.

“Strip,” said the chief, “you’ve got a fair chance to settle; the one who gives in first shall be hung, and the conqueror shall have the choice of poison or a bullet if he refuses to join my crew. We only have well-tried men alive or dead on board the Phantom Ship.”

Neither Roger nor the coachman saw any very great choice in the terms offered, but ere many minutes they were pounding each other’s ribs in gallant style till the sounds of their own blows reached through the immense hall.

Both combatants fought for ten minutes fiercely and fast, and went at it like two blacksmiths.

At last, however, Roger began to blow like a grampus, and with a well-directed smack on the nose the burly coachman knocked him down.

“I give in,” gasped Roger.

“Bring the rope,” said the chief, calmly.

“No, I don’t; stop a bit,” said the footman. “D—n it! I’ll have a few more rounds; anything’s better than being scragged like a cat.”

At it they went again hammer and tongs, pounding each other, and puffing at a great rate.

But while this was going on several other “brave” individuals were engaged, with swords, proving their valour, one against the other.

The doors were all locked, the windows were closed, and the servants’ hall being so far away from the knight’s apartments the noise was not heard.

Curses, not loud but deep, were heard on every side, and the Skeleton Crew looked on with delight, as they saw the blood flowing an all sides, while their chief sat on a high seat, quaffing wine, and delighted with the bloodthirsty, fiendish work going on around him.

It was a terrible feast of blood!

The Skeleton Band hideously grinned and chuckled at the sight of blood around them.

Shouts of pain and death groans were like music in their demon ears; the writhings of several victims, as they hung from the beams above, thrilled them with joy, as, with bony hands, they pointed to them twisting and dangling in the air.

This horrible carnival had lasted long.

The best looking of the females were then carried off by several of the Skeleton Band to some rendezvous near by, with limbs bound and their mouths gagged; but those left behind were hung to the rafters quickly, and without mercy.

* * * * *

This was an annual gory banquet, which the chief of the Skeleton Crew kept up to celebrate his career as the famous Scourge of the Sea!

He and most of his crew had come with the firm resolve to massacre every one in Darlington Hall.

This was but the commencement of their horrible sport.

Well might the Skeleton Crew and their charmed Phantom Ship have long been the terror and fright of all the coasts and seas around.

Many a family had been slaughtered in cold blood on shore, and many a good ship’s company mangled and their vessels plundered and sunk by these aptly termed Demons of the Deep.

But they had not come to Darlington Hall solely to satisfy their thirst for blood.

It was the villain and murderer, Redgill, they assisted.

He hated Wildfire Ned with bitter animosity because he could not supplant the brave youth in the affections of young Alice, the wealthy daughter of Countess Bluefield, sister to Sir Richard, whose estates were hard by.

But hitherto Redgill had been successful in his knavery.

Alice had suddenly disappeared.

She had been kidnapped from her home.

And while from home her parents had been slaughtered and the mansion sacked by the Skeleton Crew.

It was now the aim of these fiends to murder all in Darlington Hall, and for Redgill to forge a will in his own favour, and to claim the estate.

But the cleverest villains are caught in traps of their own making, as will be seen in succeeding chapters of this story.

Suffice it to say that on this occasion the Skeleton Crew were carrying out their plans to murder all the servants first and the owners afterwards.

* * * * *

For an hour or more did these demons revel in this horrid spectacle of cruelty and blood.

Those who did not kill each other were ruthlessly murdered by the Skeleton Crew, so that the servants’ hall presented a sickly and revolting sight, with the dead and dying lying around in all directions.

While the barbarous chief and his demon band were rejoicing at this human slaughter they drank deep of wine, and were roused up to a fiery pitch with the bloody work around them.

“Hurrah for the Skeleton Crew! the Scourge of the Seas!” said the chief, tossing off more wine. “In another hour old Sir Richard, and his braggart lad, Wildfire Ned, as he is called, will be no more. The old hag at the gibbet says the boy has a charmed life, but we shall quickly see. Ha! ha! there is no charm against cold steel, my lads!”

While thus he drank and laughed aloud in mocking tones he suddenly rose to his feet in alarm.

He drew his ponderous sword, and with fiery eyes listened!

A loud noise was now heard without.

The heavy doors were forced open with a crash!

With a loud and ringing cheer, there dashed in upon them fifty bold British tars, pistol and sword in hand, led on by Lieutenant Garnet and Wildfire Ned!

Death-wing (for such the Skeleton Chief was called), with a sudden bound, leaped from his high seat, sword in hand.

“Treachery!” he cried, and dashed upon Wildfire Ned, with bitter curses on his lips.

The conflict on all sides was dreadful.

Lieut. Garnet and his men did all that men could do, and performed prodigies of valour.

But their weapons did not seem to make any impression upon the Skeleton Crew.

Guns and pistols were fired at them, but all in vain.

The clash of swords and the gleam of daggers was heard and seen on every hand.

More than one of the gallant sailors was struck down by their ghostly foes.

“Death to them all, and spare not!” shouted Death-wing, the Skeleton Chief, with a loud laugh of triumph.

His ponderous sword swept through the air like a lightning flash.

On all sides he cut with unerring aim; but though he assailed Wildfire Ned with the fury of a demon, he could not slay him.

In rage and disappointment he growled, “This brat must have a charmed life; on to him, men, on to him, cut him limb from limb!”

With a shout of defiance Wildfire Ned met the onslaught of more of the Skeleton Crew.

But he handled his sword with such quickness and precision that he gallantly beat them back.

The tide of battle ebbed and flowed.

Success for a moment attended the Skeleton Crew, and they drove the sailors to the wall.

In an instant, however, and as if by magic, Wildfire Ned dashed again to the front.

“They are beaten!” he cried; “they give ground! Down with the demons! scatter their ghastly bones! Follow me!”

It was quite true.

The Skeleton Band did give way.

They had never met with such a fierce resistance before in all their lives.

They retreated in dumb terror before Wildfire Ned.

That brave youth rushed here, there and everywhere among his bloodthirsty foes, as if he courted death itself.

But no harm came to him.

His life was charmed, but he knew it not.

As if he had the strength of a young lion he fought his way to where Death-wing was, hand to hand with Garnet.

The lieutenant was struck to the ground, and in a moment would have been despatched.

Ned rushed to the rescue.

He stood over the body of the fallen sailor.

He confronted Death-wing face to face.

The Skeleton Chief retreated a step or two in fear from Wildfire Ned.

“I have tried to avoid you, but cannot,” he gasped; “wherever I go you are in my way. Retire, boy, or I’ll cleave ye in twain.”

“From you! Never!” said Ned, “never, while I have health left in my body or strength to wield a sword!”

With these words he rushed at the grim chief, and again their weapons clashed in deadly conflict.

Sparks flew from their flashing blades.

Ned was getting weaker and weaker.

His legs trembled violently.

He made a last blow at his fierce antagonist and fell prostrate over Garnet.

Death-wing, with a laugh of triumph, raised his sword high in the air on the point of cutting Ned in two, when, with a wild shout, he rushed from the spot!

His sword was knocked from his firm grip!

He and his band looked with terror at the sight which then appeared.

A man in armour, glittering from head to foot in polished steel, rose out of the stone flooring as if by magic.

With shield and sword he was ready for the fray!

Sir Richard and the sailors were struck dumb at the strange apparition, and fell back in awe.

Death-wing and his Skeleton Crew hastened from the spot like shadows.

Before Sir Richard and his friends could recover from their astonishment the spectre of the armed knight in dazzling armour had vanished.

They were now alone.

With wondering eyes they looked at one another in mute astonishment.

“Is this all a dream?” gasped Sir Richard, breathing with great difficulty.

No one replied.

At that instant, however, all could hear the heavy tread of a mailed warrior as he clanked across the stone floor.

They looked about in surprise, for now all was darkness.

Their torches had been lost and extinguished in the heat and fury of battle.

Again they heard the heavy clanking footsteps, and the jingle of spurs cross the stone floor, but could see nothing.

They turned towards the door, through which they had found their way.

There stood the spectre knight glittering in steel, and with vizor down.

A long blue plume waved from his helmet.

His shield was of dazzling brightness.

Over his armour he wore a white tunic with a large red cross on his breast.

He raised his gauntlet-covered hand on high, and pointed to the adjacent stone corridor, as he said,

“Cut the victims down! Succour the wounded! Bury the dead!”

And vanished!

But long after these solemn words were uttered, and before any one could recover from surprise, they heard the heavy, distant footfalls of the Spectre Knight.

Darlington Hall was haunted!

Cold perspiration oozed from their brows.

They trembled with awe, as, turning to the window, they saw a strange-like Will-o’-the-Wisp light dancing in the distant gloom.

Another moment, and the casement was dashed open.

Then a sound as of the clanking of chains and bones was heard, and a hollow voice saying,

“Behold, I am the Red Man of the Gibbet!”

The Will-o’-the-Wisp light still danced round about, and in the centre stood the skeleton of the Red Man.

“What art thou?” said Sir Richard, fear, like an electric shot, passing through his frame.

The figure remained silent.

“Speak,” said Wildfire Ned, “or my sword shall find out if you are man or devil!”

Saying so, Ned advanced towards the horrid shape at the casement.

“Back!” said the Skeleton form, stretching out his finger at Ned. “Your time has not yet come; but know, boy, I am your fate. Yes. Ha! ha! your fate!”

Ned, for a moment, felt slightly awed at the strange words spoken by the mysterious figure, who, with the light still playing about his head, stood regarding all with a terrible look.

“You lie!” replied Ned. “My fate is not in your hands, and I defy you. The Skeleton Crew shall find I have not gained my name of Wildfire Ned without being able to keep it.”

“The Red Man,” said the voice, “in the name of the Skeleton Crew, accept your challenge, and I now throw down my gage in token of defiance.”

So saying, the figure threw down a hard substance on the floor.

Wildfire Ned picked it up.

It was a glove, and inside a SKELETON HAND!

“Ha! ha! now follow me if you dare!” shouted the Red Man, clanking his chains.

“I do dare, and will,” said Ned, breaking from his uncle’s hold, and dashing through the window after the Skeleton.

“Follow, follow quickly!” cried Sir Richard.

At the same moment they all fell back in fear as a shriek of mortal agony was borne along the wind and resounded throughout the old building.

“Oh, God!” cried the old man, “I fear the brave boy is slain.”

NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

REMEMBER!—a most valuable present is in preparation, and will be presented to all our regular Subscribers with an early Number. Full particulars will be announced in Number 6.

Sword in hand Wildfire Ned dashed after the dreadful apparition, and well nigh overtook him as he ran along with wild fantastic leaps towards a densely-wooded copse.

It was at this moment, when, finding himself pursued, that the Red Man of the Gibbet gave that wild cry which so much alarmed Sir Richard Warbeck and his servants.

It was a terrible shriek, truly; more like that of a fiend than anything else.

What now followed was more horrible still, and caused Wildfire Ned to pause from sheer astonishment.

As the shriek came from the skeleton there suddenly sprang forward more than a dozen forms, and dashed in between the Red Man of the Gibbet and his pursuer.

With wild shrieks and yells the Skeleton Crew formed a circle round the Red Man, and in a second seemed to vanish into air!

Astounded at what he had seen, Wildfire Ned stood gazing like one just recovering from a trance, and observed not the approach of Sir Richard and his friends, who now rushed upon the scene, fearful for Ned’s fate.

“Return, lad, return!” said Sir Richard, with a tremulous voice. “This night has been one of horrors; I fear for your safety. Whether they be men or devils, it matters not; but of this rest assured, they are bent on your destruction.”

A grim smile played upon Ned’s features as he was reluctantly led back to the hall by Sir Richard and a large troop of friends.

When left alone to his own thoughts, and in the silence of his chamber, Wildfire Ned began to ponder on all that he had seen and heard.

“This is a terrible state of things; but I will not sleep this night until I learn more of this strange horrible mystery, if it costs me my life.”

When all was silent in the Hall, Ned buckled on his sword, and slowly left his chamber.

He traversed the lonely galleries of the Hall like a spirit, with noiseless step.

He quietly went towards the stables to saddle his favourite horse.

As he approached the stable door he was confronted by Tim, who looked more dead than alive.

“I could not sleep, master,” said the groom, “the horrid sights as I have seen this ere night is enough to turn one grey.”

“Nonsense,” said Ned, with a light laugh, “nonsense, lad, you see it hasn’t turned me grey.”

“No, sir, truly; but then you ain’t made like common folks; they say Wildfire Ned is all cast iron.”

“Nonsense, Tim; it’s all a delusion to think that this Red Man of the Gibbet could leave his chains and go prowling about when he likes.”

“No it ain’t, sir, all respect to you, sir. I’ve heard people say that at some seasons of the year he does leave his chains. If he could talk to me, as I rode home, he can do anything; that’s my humble opinion.”

“It can’t be true,” said Ned. “And, to prove it, I’ll wager a hundred gold pieces that if we ride over to the Lonely Heath this very night we shall find the gibbet tenanted as it always is.”

“Ride over to the gibbet, master?” said Tim, in horror. “Surely, you can’t think of doing anything so rash, and to-night, too, when we know that all the country around is alive with that demon gang called the Skeleton Crew?”

“Yes; but I do though, Tim. I shall mount my brave mare, Starlight, and go at once.”

“Oh! master, pray don’t,” pleaded Tim; “I’m sure that some harm will befal you.”

“And I’m equally sure none will. Prepare Starlight at once. Saddle the brown cob also.”

“The brown cob, sir? You surely don’t want two horses?”

“Yes I do, Tim.”

“What, the brown cob for the Red Man of the Gibbet,” said Tim, aghast. “You surely ain’t going to take a moonlight ride with such a horrible devil as he is.”

“True, Tim, I am not,” said Ned, laughing; “the brown cob is for yourself.”

“For me?” said Tim, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, you. Come, be quick. Let us start off at once.”

With many groans, Tim prepared the horses, and ere many minutes had elapsed, both master and servant were on their way to the heath.

Tim sadly tried to lag behind, but Wildfire Ned would not allow him to do so.

“Here, Tim,” said Ned, producing a brandy-flask; “take a good suck at this; it will drive all the blue-devils out of you. Have courage, lad, no harm can possibly befal you.”

Tim liked the brandy, but did not much relish his young master’s stubborn resolution.

Nevertheless he had not got far upon the journey when his spirits began to rise rapidly, and his head became light and giddy.

He pulled out his sword in a very valorous manner, and made vicious cuts and slashes at the trees as he passed them, like a man valiantly fighting imaginary foes.

Ned perceived the effects the brandy had upon his servant, and gave him some more.

This had the desired effect of fortifying Master Tim with false courage.

Ere long he began to curse and swear at the Skeleton Crew and the Red Man of the Gibbet, in very loud tones.

After some time they approached the edge of the heath.

As they did so, the gibbet gradually came into view.

Tim’s courage now began to ooze out of his toes, and he rode very close to his brave young master, but somewhat behind him.

“There it is, Tim,” said Ned, pointing to the gibbet in the distance. “Can’t you hear the creaking sound of its rusty iron as it sways to and fro?”

“Y-e-e-s,” answered Tim, and his teeth began to chatter. “Y-e-e-s, young master, I do; but if you haven’t any objection, I’ll stay where I am until you return.”

“But I have objections, Tim, and very grave ones. Haven’t you promised to go to sea with me, and brave all the dangers and perils of the ocean?”

“True, sir but I didn’t bargain to go and confront living devils though,” groaned Tim.

“Very well, then, it is in order to make you accustomed to strange sights and strengthen your nerves, that I brought you with me to-night.”

“Very kind of you, sir,” said Tim; “very indeed; but I thinks as how I’ve seen enough of strange sights to-night to strengthen my nerves for ever, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

It was all to no purpose, Ned would not allow Tim to remain behind on any consideration, but smiled, as he cast a sidelong glance at his servant’s long, pale face.

They had now approached within a few yards of the gibbet, and stopped to gaze at it.

“I told you how it was,” said Ned, laughing. “It must have been all a trick, or delusion. Why here is the Red Man safe and sound in his iron gibbet; he couldn’t be in two places at once.”

For some time the two horsemen remained motionless, intently gazing at the horrid gibbet, as it creaked and swayed in the moonlight.

The skeleton’s bones were of unearthly whiteness and stood erect in their iron cage.

The winds sighed mournfully through the trees.

A feeling of awe took possession of the horsemen as they stood and gazed at the ghastly object.

Their steeds even trembled with excitement, and snorted and shied at the gallows and the shadow of its skeleton tenant.

“What are you trembling about?” said Ned. “Be more of a man, Tim; I don’t see anything very strange.”

“No, sir; but I do. Look! look! see the red eyes are rolling about. I told you it were alive. See! see! Oh, horrors!” said Tim, shivering.

He would have backed his horse away, but Ned seized Tim’s rein with his right hand firmly.

True enough, however, the skeleton in the gibbet did move.

Its eyes, which before were invisible in their deep-sunk sockets, now turned a deep, dark, fiery red colour, and rolled about most alarmingly.

Ned’s horse reared and danced about, and he sat looking on in mute astonishment, but with bold, firm-set features.

“It is alive! it is alive, master! Let us get away! it is—it must be the devil himself!”

“Hold thy peace,” said Ned, in a petulant whisper.

And, then aloud, he addressed the ghastly, hideous form.

“Be ye devil or mortal, speak!” said Ned, fiercely. “Who and what art thou?”

The Red Man raised his skeleton arm, and suddenly thrust it through the grating of his prison-house, as he pointed his long, lean fingers, and said,

“Edward Warbeck, I am thine enemy! Beware!”[1]

“Mine enemy?” said Ned, with a grim smile.

“Aye, the same you saw this very night. At certain times and seasons I walk the earth; beware, I say, of the Red Man of the Gibbet and the Skeleton Crew. I am thy fate! When we meet again thou wilt tremble at my presence. Until we meet again, adieu!”

The long arm descended again by his grim, bony sides.

His red eyes lost their fiery lustre.

His marrowless bones shook in their iron cage.

All was still, quiet and solitary as the grave.

Nought was heard—nothing was seen but a stray vulture as it circled in the air near by and pounced on the gibbet.

Wildfire Ned was astonished, but not dismayed.

He laughed aloud in wild derision, as he said,

“Tremble at thy presence? Never!”

The Red Man echoed the laugh in sepulchral tones.

Ned turned his head to look around.

Tim had left him, and was then madly galloping away.

Ned was alone at that awful spot!

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

VII. PHILIP REDGILL’S ENCOUNTER WITH WILDFIRE NED

It was a lucky moment for some of the servants that old Sir Richard and his party of sailors did so suddenly burst upon the scene, and thus put an end to the bloody ordeal that was then taking place.

They had hung several to the beam, and some of the maid servants had been carried off.

Roger and the coachman lay upon the floor, thoroughly exhausted, bleeding from all parts of the body.

Tim, the groom, like a lively monkey, managed to climb up the rafters unseen, and hid himself behind a great beam.

But the sudden inroad of Wildfire Ned so exasperated the Skeleton Crew, that they gave no heed to the domestics, but turned all their attention to Lieut. Garnet and his sailors.

In the meantime the unfortunate servants stopped the deadly duels among themselves, and crawled out of the way of further harm.

Tim, however, directly Wildfire Ned appeared upon the scene, gave a wild shout, which almost cost him his life.

One of the Skeleton Crew perceived that he had got out of the way among the beams and rafters of the ceiling, and fired at him.

The bullet just grazed his cheek.

An inch more and he would have tumbled down dead.

As it was he merely screened himself safely again.

When he saw a good chance he whipped out his knife, and cut several of the ropes with which some of the servants had been hung.

They fell to the ground heavily.

But the shock seemed to revive the almost extinct life of several.

Tim then slipped down from his lofty perch, picked up a sword, and rushed to the side of Wildfire Ned, and capered about, and was such a thin, wiry young rascal, that the Skeletons always missed their aim.

Tim seemed to them to be made of india-rubber.

They couldn’t touch him, do what they might, for, although his clothes were tattered, he escaped with a whole skin, much to his delight.

* * * * *

Several days after the stirring events we have just narrated, the wounded men were all provided for, and the dead buried.

This strange visit of the Skeleton Crew to Darlington, and the frightful scenes in the old immense servants’ hall was the talk of the country far and wide.

It filled every one with amazement, and people began to think that, perhaps, after all, the mysterious murder of Farmer Bertram might be traced to the same source, particularly since poor Bob, the farmer’s son, protested his innocence so loudly and boldly.

But appearances were strongly against the farmer’s son.

His own thick walking-stick was found beside the murdered man.

The old farmer’s purse, one he had but a week before bought in the village, was found in the pocket of his accused son.

These evidences of guilt were too strong to allow of any doubt but that the unhappy son had, in a moment of anger and revenge, murdered his own father.

There was one, however, who did believe in poor Bob’s innocence.

That was Wildfire Ned.

He visited Bob in prison, and spent several hours with him.

When he came away he told old Sir Richard that the prisoner was an innocent man, and was sure he had been duped by some cunning villain.

“Bob must not suffer,” said Ned; “he shall not suffer, while I’ve got a hand to help him.”

“Shall not!” said Sir Richard, in amazement; “Who’s to prevent it, if he’s found guilty?”

“Who? why, I will,” said Wildfire Ned, colouring to the temples.

“You?”

“Yes, me, uncle. No rope shall ever go round Bob’s neck while there is a sword in the village to prevent it.”

“Silly boy,” said the knight, with a smile, “I know that you are brave, no one can doubt that; but what could you do against so many?”

“Let them dare attempt to hang him in Darlington, and you would soon see what Wildfire Ned would do.”

“But they will not hang him here in the village. Most likely they will take him to the nearest large town, perhaps to London, for all I know.”

“I wish they would take him to London,” said Ned, with a smile.

“Indeed! And what then, pray?”

“Why, I would arm and lead on a party of gallant youths. We would soon beat back the soldiers.”

While they were speaking thus, a servant announced that a stranger had arrived at the Hall.

“His name?”

“Mr. Phillip Redgill, sir.”

“Show him up; he is no stranger; he is a relation. Show him up.”

The knight seemed pleased at the unexpected coming of his nephew.

Phillip soon entered.

He was most elegantly attired, and carried a sword.

His face was rather handsome, but he had a dark, wicked-looking eye.

There was an uneasy twitch about his mouth, and when he smiled he showed a set of large teeth.

When he entered the room, he cast a quick, vicious look towards Ned.

Immediately after, however, he wore a forced smile, and shook Sir Richard very cordially with his ungloved hand.

He turned towards Wildfire Ned, and extended his hand towards him also, in a cold, formal way.

“It is not necessary,” said Ned, with a proud toss of his head; “your hand is cold and clammy; it gives me the shivers; its feel is fishy, Phillip Redgill.”

Saying this, he left the room with a flashing eye and proud step.

“Queer youth that, Sir Richard,” said Phillip, with a bitter smile.

“At the same time,” he thought, “I’d give a thousand pounds to know he was dead; he seems thrown in my path to thwart me.”

“But he is a brave youth,” said Sir Richard, in flattering tones.

“Is he,” laughed Redgill; “I have often thought he was a very rash one.”

“His best friends say the same; but it will all wear off with age and experience.”

“Perhaps so, Sir Richard; but it strikes me very forcibly he will never live to be any very great age,” said Redgill, very slowly and with great emphasis.

“Why not?” said the old knight, quickly.

“He is too passionate. Had it not been for my own good temper, and the respect I have for you, I should have publicly horsewhipped him for his rudeness to me on more than one occasion.”

“But you are older than he is, Phillip,” sternly said Sir Richard; “you must remember that.”

“True; but no more of that. I have come from London expressly to inform you that my father, through his influence with the king’s government, has managed to get a midshipman’s commission for Ned, this great favourite of yours. If you like to consent, he can join his ship at once; it lies at Portsmouth, ready to sail.”

“It was very kind of your father, truly; but I have not made up my mind about it.”

“Not made up your mind? Why, when last I was down here, you said it would be the very best thing that could be done for him.”

“True; but I have altered my mind since then. I should be very sorry to part with young Ned, and if any harm were to happen to him, I think it would kill me, for the more I see of him the more I like the lad.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Phillip; “there is no fear of that; the ship he would join will never sail more than ten miles out of port, so there’s no fear that your intended heir to the Darlington estates will come to harm.”

“The intended heir to my estates, Phillip Redgill!” said the old man. “Ned and his brother are poor orphans, and have no real claim on me.”

At this moment Ned entered the room quietly and heard all that had been said.

“I was only joking,” Phillip replied, with a dry laugh.

When his eye caught sight of Ned he changed countenance on the instant.

Ned gazed at him fixedly with a look of proud contempt.

“Phillip Redgill,” said Ned, defiantly, “I have by mere accident overheard all you have said.”

“What! an eavesdropper in the hall!” said Redgill, with a sneer.

“If you say so, you lie!” said Ned, fiercely; “and, to show you how little I think of you, how much I despise you, take that!” he said, slapping Redgill in the face, “and, if you dare, resent it.”

In an instant the colour rose to Redgill’s face.

He drew his sword and darted towards Wildfire Ned.

“Come on,” said Ned, whipping up the old knight’s sword that lay on the table.

“Put down your swords,” the old man cried, getting between them. “What is the meaning of all this?”

Redgill looked for a second at the firm, handsome features of Wildfire Ned, and the eagle-like glance of the brave lad cowed his own craven heart.

He could not look him in the face.

“Come on,” said Ned. “Nay, turn not so deadly pale, coward.”

“Put up your weapons, I say,” the old man said, sternly.

Redgill did so, and bit his lips until they became bloodless and white.

“Why carry a sword if afraid to use it?” said Ned, scornfully turning on his heel.

After a pause Wildfire Ned said, calmly and slowly—

“Redgill, you are not a man; you are a coward, a snake in the grass; you leave a poisonous slime wherever you go. Bloody deeds follow in your wake wherever you tread! There is no love lost between us, ’tis true; but you are a mischief-maker; a deceiver; I could say more perhaps.”

“Say on,” said Redgill, turning pale.

“Murderer is marked on your face, Phillip Redgill,” said Ned, sternly. “Nay, do not tremble, for I know nought of what you have done; but I suspect and despise you, leaving it in the hands of heaven one day to disclose what you are. You need not fear that I shall stand in your path to wealth or fame. Trust me, I have too much heart and spirit to eat the bread of charity longer at Sir Richard’s table; but, ere I leave, remember these my words, Redgill,” he said, after a solemn pause, “you will one day grace a gibbet; rogue, vagabond, and murderer is deeply written on your countenance. You cannot, you dare not look an honest lad openly in the face. Your own cowardly heart tells you I speak the truth; and, were it not for the disgrace to good Sir Richard, I could slay you as you sit, and think, aye, know that I had done right in the sight of man and heaven. Sir Richard, I now leave the Hall, my everlasting love is yours. Upon the wide world I go to seek my fortune; but beware of that man’s evil eye. Sir Richard, shun him like a snake. Phillip Redgill, we shall meet again.”

“We will,” was the bitter answer.

In an instant Wildfire Ned left the room.

The village clock tolled the hour of midnight.

He left Darlington Hall, and perhaps for ever!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Illustration in No. 2.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter VIII

RELEASE OF BOB—CAPTAIN JACK’S BAND—THE UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL—THE QUARREL—THIRTEEN DEATH WARRANTS—FLIGHT OF THE THIEF-TAKERS.

Bob the outcast, as we have seen, was thrown into prison, and safely guarded by the village authorities.

As may be supposed, poor Bob was almost turned crazy by the terrible event, and walked up and down his prison cell looking pale, thoughtful, and miserable.

He protested his innocence on all occasions.

Many believed that the murderers or murderer would in time be traced to the far-famed Skeleton Crew, who prowled around the neighbouring coasts.

The keeper of the village prison was a timid old man, and much feared that the red-hot zeal on the part of some of Bob’s sympathisers might lead them on to attack the gaol, perhaps attempt a rescue.

This so weighed upon the chief constable’s mind that he wrote off to London, begging of the authorities there to take the case in hand.

In accordance with the wishes of the village authorities a party of men were sent down to Darlington for the purpose of conducting Rambling Bob to London.

The party consisted of seven mounted men, all armed to the teeth, who arrived in the village one evening, several days after the commission of the murder.

They pulled up their horses, and alighted at the “Red Lion” public-house.

With many loud words, a great deal of bombastic talk and swearing, they clattered about the inn yard, shouting to the ostlers and servants in such a grand style that old Hornblower, the publican, began to think that perhaps his visitors were none other than royal personages, or nobles, at least.

Old Horn (the “blower” always being left out in common discourse) was very much mistaken; the new arrivals were none other than six thief-takers, and as big rogues and rascals as ever straddled horses, or swaggered about with swords at their heels.

They were dressed in their best, however, and seemed very flush of money; how they got it will be seen hereafter.

They rang the bells loudly, shouted and swore right and left until old Horn and his servants were almost driven mad.

“Who be they?” asked the ostler.

“Don’t know, lad; but suppose they’re very great folks.”

“They ride good nags, anyhow.”

“And kick up a darned big fuss, too. Can’t ye hear ’em?”

“They be Londoners,” said the housemaid; “I can tell by their talk, and they allers do make a noise when they goes in the country.”

“What do they want down here, I wonder?”

“Can’t tell; but they ask for the best beds in the inn, and the best wine in the cellar, so they mun have plenty of money.”

While the servants were thus talking among themselves the old landlord and his kitchen domestics were busy in providing supper for the hungry travellers.

“Boots” was nearly run off his legs, and didn’t know what to do first.

He became confused, and forgot half of what he was told.

“Here, lad,” said one, “bring me some brandy. Quick. Hot, mind!”

“Brandy, sir, yes, sir. Hot sir? With or without? Just so, sir. Brandy hot without, sir? Thank’ee, sir.”

And off he shot.

But before he had fairly closed the door,

“Here! hi! waiter! quick!” said another. “Mulled port for me. Quick, for your life! I’m almost frozen to death!”

“Port, sir? Yes, sir. Mulled, sir? Thank’ee, sir.”

Off he went; but the bell was rung violently again.

“Here! hi! waiter!”

“Come here, lad!”

“I want you, do you hear?”

“Serve me first.”

“No; I gave my order first.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Spiced ale.”

“Bring me a chop in less than five minutes, or I’ll cut your head off!”

“My brandy and water, you idiot!”

“If my hot spiced ale doesn’t appear in three minutes by the clock, I’ll blow the rascal’s brains out.”

“Will you never let me have my brandy and water, you villain?”

“Cut the rascal’s ear off.”

“How’s my horse getting on?”

“Let my bed be warmed.”

“Not mine, stupid; his, mind.”

“Where’s the landlord?”

“Brandy!” “Ale!” “Rum!” “Bottle of wine!” “Beefsteaks!” “A chop for me!” “Clean my boots!” “See to my horse!” “Long pipes!” “Stir up this fire!” “Put more coals on!” “How long’s supper going to be?”

These and such-like orders rung in the bewildered ears of Nat the boots.

He rushed hither and thither like a wild man all of a sweat.

He forgot half his orders, and so mixed up the others that he was kicked and cuffed about like a foot-ball by the noisy and by no means polite strangers.

Take them altogether this half-dozen were as ugly and as villanous-looking a lot as could be well met with anywhere.

They all had the marks of rogues and cut-throats engraven on their countenances.

Some were decorated with black patches across the forehead, over the eye, or on their high cheek bones.

One or two were minus an eye.

One individual’s nose was almost level with his face.

Several had part of their front teeth knocked out; but each had big thick fists, with which from time to time they struck the table until they made the glasses dance and ring again.

Loud and coarse was their laughter, and when they smiled at any passing joke or observation, their countenances were more like those of hyenas just about feeding time than human beings.

The recognised leader of this desperate half-dozen was called Captain Jack, an individual of great strength, who delighted in much swearing and obscene conversation. Jack what, no one knew for certain, not even those who employed him.

When at last supper was provided for this very select and genteel party they set to work vigorously with knives and forks, and soon demolished a huge amount of meat and vegetables, more than would have sufficed for any ordinary supper party of twenty individuals.

They feasted, and swore, and laughed, and bolted their food in a heathenish style, as if all of them had been fasting for a month.

Long, copious draughts of various beverages washed the grog down their capacious throats, and they occasionally enlivened the proceedings by throwing potatoes at Nat the waiter, and hitting him in the eye, on the nose, &c., until “Boots’s” face was bumped and swollen.

When the repast was over these six elegant individuals and their captain stretched themselves on chairs, and puffed clouds from long pipes, as if they were the first gentlemen the land instead of the greatest rascals unhung.

“As I was saying, lads,” Capt. Jack observed, after drinking some brandy and water, “as I was saying I shouldn’t have taken this pretty job in hand, you know, only it gave us all a chance to do a little business on the road on our private account.”

“True,” growled Tom Bates, an oldish, ugly-looking person, with one eye and a broken nose, “true, captain, and when yer did want anybody, in course you knowed where to find ’em. Ah! we’ve had some r-a-r-e old times together, haven’t we, cap’n?” said Bates, with a long-drawn sigh, which he further suppressed with a flood of spiced ale down his throat.

“True, Tom; but the idea of the ‘Baker’s Dozen,’ as we are called, was yours.”

“In course it were,” said Bates. “But I arn’t at all proud; it were only a lucky thought. When you got your fust job from the justices what could a-been a neater idea than to have a company o’ twelve or thirteen good trusty lads about ye, when times were busy, all sworn to secrecy and fair shares o’ booty?”

[It must be here explained, for the reader’s information, that Captain Jack had been such a noted thief and rascal in his time that he had often been, and was now regularly, employed as thief-taker.]

But this position only gave him opportunities of becoming a still greater scoundrel. With this view, he and Tom Bates formed the idea of having a band of twelve or thirteen men, who should act under the captain’s orders, and, under cover of being the thief-taker’s occasional assistants, would thus have an ample chance of “turning a dishonest penny to their own account.”

This was agreed upon, and the band formed; the name under which they were known was the “Baker’s Dozen.”

Each man had a particular talent, one for house-breaking, a second for counterfeiting, a third for horse-stealing, and so on.

The authorities never dreamed that such a banded company existed, and placed all faith in Captain Jack, although he was the greatest rogue in England, as will be seen in this exciting narrative.

“We’ve often heard the whole story before, Tom,” said Faulkner, another of the company, “so cut it for the present; it’s been many a good year in existence, and I warrant ye hadn’t as many grog blossoms on your nose afore it started as ye have now.”

“Stow that, Faulkey,” said Bates. “I’ve got corns as well as grog blossoms, mind, and you wouldn’t a-been one o’ the dozen at all ’cept for me—no, that yer wouldn’t; but I know what yer would a been.”

“What?”

“Why, meat for vultures and night carrion birds, as pay their respects to the gibbets.”

This remark made all laugh, for it was well-known among them that Faulkner would have been hung on the charge of robbery had not Bates induced Captain Jack to swear that he was innocent.

“Well, enough of charf,” said Captain Jack; “let’s to business. Is that door shut?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let one of ye go and stand outside to give the office if any one comes in.”

This was done.

They all clustered round the table, and dived their hands down into their capacious pockets.

One produced a purse, another some finger and car-rings; two others had a bundle of bank-notes, watches, snuff-boxes, the diamond hilts of broken swords, jewelled shoe and dress buckles; and other things of value were displayed.

“You haven’t been idle on the road, I see,” said Captain Jack, with a grin. “This makes up for our unpleasant journey down here for that silly bumpkin.”

While they were dividing the booty Captain Jack was deep in figures, and so was Tom Bates, that the entire swag might be apportioned so as to give themselves the greatest share.

While thus engaged, Bates raised his eyes towards the parlour window.

“Dam’me if there ain’t some one peeping through the round hole in the shutter!” he stammered.

In an instant he pulled out his pistol, and fired!

The ball smashed the glass, and went right through the hole.

Some one was heard to fall outside.

Tom Bates rushed to the window, and flung the shutter open.

No one was there!

“Well, if I didn’t hit him, I must have shaved him closely,” said Bates, and closed the window again.

The moment Captain Jack had divided the spoil, a horseman was heard to halt at the inn door.

“A traveller, and at this late hour. Who can it be?” said the select party in the parlour. “Who can it be?”

“Here, waiter” said one and another, “don’t let the place be over-crowded, there are seven of our party here already; you can’t accommodate any more.”

“I swear I’ll have no half bed to-night.”

“Nor I either.”

“Tell him to seek lodgings elsewhere in the village, landlord!”

“He shan’t sleep with me,” growled Bates, “whoever he is.”

“You needn’t put yourself out of temper, friend,” said the stranger, entering in a free and easy manner. “You needn’t put yourself into any flurry, for I wouldn’t have such an ugly-looking bed-fellow for all the gold in England.”

As he said this he cut Bates across the shoulders with his riding-whip.

“Hillo, what means this?” said Bates, spluttering with rage, “I say, my fine, dandy gentleman, do you know who you’re cutting about the shoulders with your riding-whip? Take no such liberties, young man, or you may repent of it.”

“Tut, tut, man, you don’t know how to stand a joke.”

“That’s no joke, as you’ll quickly find, if you’re not very civil,” growled Bates, puffing his pipe.

“This parlour is engaged,” said Captain Jack.

“I see it is,” the stranger said, coolly.

“The beds are all engaged.”

“You had better go elsewhere.”

“We don’t wish to be disturbed; we are all friends here.”

“So I perceive,” said the stranger, coolly; “and I’m the last man in the wide world to make you enemies.”

He was cloaked, and wore his hat over his eyes. A strongly-built, elegant-looking gentleman he was, with pale face, fine eyes, and a dashing moustache.

His hands were remarkably white, but he seemed to have the strength of a vice in them.

He took a chair, and drew up to the fire.

“That chair belongs to one of our party, sir,” said Faulkner.

“Then let him get another,” said the new arrival, very coolly. “Waiter, bring me a bottle of wine, and call the landlord. I wish to speak to him.”

Nat brought the wine.

The stranger sipped it, threw a sovereign to the waiter in a careless manner, saying—

“Keep the change. Here, landlord, I want my horse looked after, give him the best stall in the stable.”

“There is not a stall vacant, sir.”

“Then turn some horse out, and put mine in. I want a bed also, the best bed in the inn.”

“All my beds are occupied.”

“It matters not; do as I tell you, or you’ll repent it.”

“You are a werry rude bragadocia fellow to speak thus in the presence of gentlemen,” said Tom Bates to the stranger.

“What do you say, old bilberry nose? Mind your own business.”

“I say, sir, that in the presence of gentlemen—”

“Gentlemen, ha! ha!—that’s good, hang me if it isn’t—you look very much like a gentleman, certainly; if that large wart was off the tip of your nose it would much improve your appearance.”

“Sir-r-r!” growled Bates, rising in anger. “What do you mean? Do you know who I am?” said he, slapping his sword hilt.

“Oh, sit down and take it coolly,” the stranger replied, laughing. “Don’t stand there gaping like a half-stuck pig. Know you, of course I know you.”

“Then, sir, if you do, you know me to be a gentleman—an administrator of justice.”

“I know you to be a d—d old thief, the biggest liar, and, at a pinch, the biggest coward in all London,” the stranger replied.

“Thief! liar! coward!” gasped Bates, whipping out his sword. “If you are a man, defend yourself.”

“If you are not a fool, sit down; you can’t frighten me. I’m too old a bird for that.”

This quarrel had now thoroughly aroused Captain Jack’s party, who were noisy and boisterous; but they did not interfere, for they imagined that Bates was more than a match for the stranger.

“Draw, I say!” growled Bates, “or I’ll slay ye like a dog! Clear the way, there, comrades; leave this impudent rascal to me.”

“Sit down, or I’ll knock your head off!” was the cool reply.

Bates, all furious and maddened at the stranger’s calmness, made a fierce lunge at him.

The instant he did so, however, the stranger fired a pistol, and knocked the large wart from the tip of Bates’s nose, and next instant gave him such a smack on the jaw as laid that hero sprawling on the floor.

Tom Bates was thunderstruck, and sat upon the floor looking at the stranger with eyes of wonderment.

His friends were equally astonished, and for a moment it looked as if the whole party were intent on slaying the new comer.

“Stand back,” said he, waving them off; “put up your sword. I fear ye not, vagabonds, but listen to me; if one dare approach nearer I’ll scalp him.”

There was so much of determination, and an air of superiority about him, that all stood still and looked at him as if transfixed to the spot.

“Listen to me, knaves,” said he, eyeing every one of them with a keen look. “How many chief high roads are there leading out of London?”

“Thirteen,” Captain Jack answered, after a moment’s thought. “But what has that got to do with us?”

“Much more than you imagine. Since you left London, a new gibbet has been erected on each of those thirteen highways, just where they branch off at the cross roads.”

“Well!” said all in a breath, “and what of that? I don’t understand what all of this means.”

“But I do! It means this: those gibbets have been raised at the sole expense of a particular friend of yours.”

“For whom?”

“For each of you.”

“And who is this very particular, very dear, friend of ourn?” growled Faulkner.

“I am he!” said the stranger.

The rascals were tongue-tied at the stranger’s boldness as he went on.

“You came to conduct Bob Bertram to London?”

“We did! who could have told you?”

“Who told me that each of you went plundering on the way, and divided the booty just now?”

“Ha!” said Captain Jack; “watched, betrayed!”

“Silence,” said the stranger; “if you do not wish to be gibbeted before your time. This youth is accused of murder, but he did it not. He is not in Darlington gaol.”

“Not in gaol?”

“No; he has escaped.”

“How know you this?”

“I just came from the village. All is in an uproar. Wildfire Ned, Sir Richard Warbeck’s adopted nephew, is the hero who released him.”

The thievish thief-takers were amazed at what they heard.

“And now,” said the stranger; “since your mission here is ended, return to town; do you hear me? Return this very hour and carry this strange news to the proper authorities. And mark me, Captain Jack, every one of you remember that if you do not track and discover the real murderer of Farmer Bertram in less than two months, I’ll report you to the king; your death-warrants are now in my pocket. See them,” said the stranger, exhibiting a bundle of printed forms. “Here is one for Captain Jack, another for this red-nosed ass on the floor—Bates, I mean—a third for Faulkner there; in fine, I have been kind enough to provide each of you with a passport into the other world. As you may observe, they only require my signature.”

“And who the devil are you?” gasped out one and all.

“I’ll let you see—but I had better write it on one of these death-warrants, say yours, Captain Jack, it will save me trouble afterwards. Landlord, pen and ink.”

“Do you know that name?” said the stranger, after writing it.

All the rascals looked at it in astonishment.

“The devil!” said Captain Jack.

“Not the devil, exactly,” said the stranger coolly; “but your very humble servant, Colonel Blood! a gentleman, I can assure you, who will feel great pleasure in introducing each of you to the common hangman, unless you produce in two months the real murderer of Farmer Bertram, and serve me at all times.”

The stranger was in truth no other than Colonel Blood, but what brought him so far from London was a mystery which we shall have to clear up shortly.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter IX

THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER—COLONEL BLOOD FALLS INTO ROUGH HANDS—THE MURDER ON THE BRIDGE.

The reason that Colonel Blood was so far from London is easily explained by what took place in Darlington the second night of his visit.

The miller of the village, Hugh Harmer, had a very pretty daughter named Ellen, who was the pride and the toast of the surrounding country.

Like a hawk poised in the air, gazing on his intended prey below, did Colonel Blood hover around Hugh Harmer’s house close by the bubbling and splashing mill-stream.

He had espied Ellen by chance, and in her saw not the virtuous village maiden, but a beautiful object for his master, the Merry Monarch, who, Blood knew, would pay any price to gratify his beastial passions.

Captain Jack and his rough party had left the inn but half-an-hour, when a card was brought to Blood by some one old Horn had never seen before.

“Admit the stranger, landlord,” said Blood.

A sorrowful-looking fellow walked in, hat in hand. He was very wet from head to foot, and his clothes were in rags around him.

“Have you seen her?”

“Her answer is here,” said the stranger, producing a small note out of his breast pocket.

Blood tore it open, and read it.

His eye sparkled with fire, and his handsome features twitched as he perused its contents, which ran as follows:—

“SIR,—Our first meeting, I fear, has caused much uneasiness and unhappiness to both.

“But, notwithstanding your constant letters and frequent visits to Darlington, I fear that your intentions cannot be so disinterested towards me as your eloquent notes would have me believe.

“This thought has often occurred to my mind since I first imprudently met you, and is more and more confirmed by the fact that you impress upon me the necessity of keeping our correspondence a secret from my dear old father, which no person, having honourable intentions, would ever propose to a simple country girl.

“As a last favour I beg that you will no more insult me with your proposals of eloping from my father’s roof, or ever again presume to throw yourself purposely in my path to pour poisonous councils into my ears.

“In fine, sir, I fear I have too long been the dupe of your designs, and until, as a virtuous girl, I can sign my name on the marriage register of the village church, I will never leave my father’s home, even should I love the man ever so much who bade me act otherwise.

“Your humble servant, “ELLEN HARMER.”

“Clever as she’s pretty; but quick and sharp as a needle,” thought Blood. “So much the better for King Charles.”

“Did you miss the old man as usual?” asked Blood.

“No, sir; for once he caught me,” said the servant, with a very rueful face.

“Then you had an adventure. What said he to you?”

“‘Oh! it’s you, is it? Here again, eh, and always when I’m out,’ says he, flourishing his walking, stick, and then he shouted to the dogs, ‘On to him Rover! give it him, Spot! hold tight, Jip!’ and all the while he was laying on to me with his thick stick without mercy.

“Quite a pleasant affair,” said Blood, with a smile.

“Yes, sir, to think about; but not very agreeable if you have to go through it.”

“Well, well, I don’t wonder why old Harmer takes so much care of her, for she’s one of the daintiest little maidens that ever trod the earth,” said Blood. “No matter, if he had her locked up in a castle it would be all the same, she must be the king’s. To-night is the last time she’ll sleep under her father’s roof. Come, Jonas,” for such was his shivering servant’s name; “go change your clothes, and have a stiff glass of brandy, I shall want you about midnight to go to the miller’s house with me.”

“Again to-night, sir?” gasped Jonas. “Why, only you look here,” and as he turned round he exhibited to his master the seat of his trousers, his cloak, and other parts of his attire all in ribands.

“Never mind, Jonas, you always had a reputation for courage; here’s a guinea for you. Go, prepare yourself.”

Midnight was passed, and at an appointed time Jonas met his master, and both proceeded towards the miller’s.

Colonel Blood sauntered along in the silence of the night towards Harmer’s house, as handsome, bold, and cool-handed a knave as ever lived.

He had just reached the narrow mill bridge, when he perceived the dark figure of a young man leaning over the hand-rail, and gazing in the shining water. Directly he heard the approach of footsteps, he turned, and his eyes sparkled with fierce delight.

“’Tis he!” said the young man, “I cannot be mistaken. I have long desired this meeting. I came to bury myself beneath these shining waters, but ere I do, let me crush the skull of this villain, who has ruined me and blasted all my happiness; for, before his accursed shadow darkened our village, I was happy: but now, alas! Ellen Harmer’s heart is another’s.”

Colonel Blood approached, and had reached the centre of the bridge, when the youth suddenly confronted him with boldness and flashing eyes.

“What, Andrew Gamble!” said Blood, starting back a step or two in surprise.

“Aye!” said Andrew, with a quivering lip. “Does that name startle your wicked heart?”

“Startle me, knave!” said Blood, with an air of great contempt. “Make way, there! why do you cross my path again?”

“Because you’ve crossed mine, and shall die,” said Andrew, advancing.

“Make way, there, I say!” said Blood, drawing his sword. “Let me pass, I like not your looks—there is murder in your eyes. Make way, I tell ye, before I cleave ye to the ground.”

NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

REMEMBER!—A most valuable present is in preparation, and will be presented to all our regular Subscribers with an early Number. Full particulars will be announced in No. 6.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Andrew, “you can flourish your toasting-fork, I see, just as cleverly as I can my father’s flail; but you don’t frighten me, for all that, fine gentleman as you are.”

“Once, for all, make, way fellow! or I’ll cleave your skull,” said Blood. “I cannot afford to waste valuable time in parleying with a country clown.”

He had scarcely spoken the word, when Andrew Gamble rushed suddenly upon his enemy and disarmed him in an instant.

Colonel Blood was thunderstruck.

The action had been so sudden, and the weapon so cleverly wrenched from his grasp, that he stood gaping in surprise.

“Make way there,” said Andrew, flourishing the sword in a malicious manner, much as a rustic would a stout oak cudgel.

Colonel Blood retired a pace or two in evident fear of his brawny antagonist.

“Villain! you quail,” said Andrew, with a savage laugh; “you quail and turn pale before the very man you just now threatened; but fear not, I will not, as you would have done, raise my weapon against a defenceless man. I could take thy life; for, until the unlucky day your shadow darkened our village, I was happy. Happy! aye, as happy as a king. I loved, and was loved in return, but your hellish schemes and flattery have torn her from me; you have poured poison into my loved one’s ear, you have taught her to despise the one who would willingly have laid down his life for her. Listen, villain, your rascality has long been known to me, but chance has never thrown me in your way until now, and here upon the mill bridge, in the stillness of the night, let me tell you that one or both of us must die!”

These words were uttered by Andrew Gamble with a great effort.

His manly breast heaved, and his voice became tremulous as, in a few words, he disclosed the secret, and the cause of his enmity to the stranger.

“Die!” said Blood, calmly, but with a trembling lip.

He seemed charmed and fixed to the spot by the fierce brilliancy of Andrew’s eyes.

“Die!” he muttered again, half aloud.

“Yes, die!” said young Gamble, with a fiery pride. “Think you I care to live and see Ellen Harmer given to another? Could I, can I live, now that the only charm life had for me is snatched away?”

“I never harmed you,” said Blood, coolly and collectedly.

“’Tis false, villain!” the youth replied. “Have you not had spies around her? have you not dazzled her with your dishonest words and manner? have you not written dozens of letters to her inviting her to run from her father’s home, and become a lady in London? Why not show your face at her father’s house like any honest man? Why traduce me? Am I not as good as you? If you are a man so am I; we are equal; the tinsel and ribbons of your court-cut coat makes you no better gentleman than Andrew Gamble, the farmer’s son. Nay, curl not your lip, but hear me. This meeting: it is our first and last. You see this sword,” said Andrew, passionately; “there is but one between us, we will divide it.”

So saying, he placed the weapon across his knee, and snapped it in twain.

“Choose,” said Andrew, “the hilt or point, whiche’er you will.”

“You are bent upon bloodshed,” said the colonel; “you are rash, wild, and know not what you do; neither do you know me, if you did you would tremble at such an encounter. I am the best swordsman in all England.”

“And I the worst,” said Andrew; “it matters not, come on.”

Colonel Blood took the point half of the broken sword and wrapped his handkerchief round the thick end for a handle.

Andrew had the thick half.

The two blades met.

Blood was as cool as ice.

There was upon his handsome face a smile of confidence and contempt for his rustic rival.

Andrew, on the contrary, was all on fire, and trembled with haste and excitement.

In an encounter between two such swordsmen the result could not for a moment be doubtful.

Andrew made a lunge that was prettily stopped by Colonel Blood.

His next attempt, however, was more successful.

Andrew rushed to closer distance, and pricked the arm, from which blood flowed copiously.

“Damnation!” swore the infuriated swordsman. “To be beaten by this country clown is a lasting disgrace; nevertheless, he shan’t live to boast of it!”

He gathered himself together for a final stroke, which would have proved fatal to the brave rustic, but Andrew turned the colonel’s point.

A desperate struggle now ensued on the narrow bridge.

They seized each other by the throat.

Their weapons were in dead lock.

A single moment would decide all.

The strength of each was about equal, and giant-like were their struggles.

But a trick saved Blood.

He quickly placed one foot behind Andrew’s leg and back-heeled him.

This was fatal to Andrew.

He fell.

In the act of falling Colonel Blood stabbed him.

The brave rustic threw up his hands with a sharp cry of pain, and rolled into the shining river.

“Fool!” said Colonel Blood, with a contemptuous oath, as he looked into the bright waters beneath him, rippling and eddying in the moonlight. “Fool! How dare the village dolt to cross my path; so be it with all who dare cross the path of Colonel Blood.”

He threw the red blade into the small narrow river stream, and bound up his arm with his handkerchief.

“Now for the pretty wench,” said he. “If I succeed in carrying her forth, my fortune is made. Stop! what was that sound?”

He stood and listened.

“Help! help!” cried a distant voice. “Murder! Help! help!”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

X. JONAS MEETS WITH A STRANGE ADVENTURE

When Jonas left his master to go to their rendezvous he little dreamt of what was in store for him.

The horses and carriage were drawn up at the appointed spot, and Jonas, thinking of the large reward which the colonel had often promised him, was on the bright look out for the pre-arranged signal.

Now, as we have seen, Miller Harmer had been informed of this mysterious stranger in Darlington, and had watched him and his servant, and even heard the pre-arranged signal.

He had long sighed for an opportunity of confronting the bold stranger, who so slyly had crept into the good graces of his daughter, but whose name, rank, and intentions he knew not.

The first thing to do was to procure assistance.

He went straightway to the lock-up, and informed the authorities of his suspicions.

“It may be one of them chaps as came in masks t’other night and rescued Bob Bertram,” said a burly officer, indignant at the idea of the disgrace which had thus been cast upon them.

For it must be explained here that Wildfire Ned and his groom had effected Bob’s rescue in the manner described about one o’clock in the morning, when all the village was wrapped in sleep, and the two constables on guard were half tipsy.

“If it only be one o’ them chaps,” said the chief officer, “I’d give a hundred gold pieces, that I would, for I shall never rest content till I have cracked one o’ their skulls; the mean devils, to come when no one expected on ’em, and fight their way in and out of the lock-up.”

This thought was alike echoed by all.

They felt great annoyance that two youths should have possessed the nerve and courage to fall upon the lock-up guard, and thrash them as Wildfire Ned and Tim the groom had done.

If Ned had sent warning that he was coming to rescue Bob, the constables, of course, would have been there a dozen strong to oppose him, and this they considered would have been “fair play.”

But now that Miller Harmer brought information that there was more than one suspicious stranger in the village, the constable made sure that they were the identical two they so much desired to capture.

From the bustle and preparations made by the half dozen constables one would suppose that the valiant guardians of the public peace were bent upon storming some castle or stronghold.

With lanterns and staves and clubs they sallied forth.

“Lead on, Mr. Miller,” said the chief, buttoning up his doublet. “Lead on, sir, we’ll give the two rascals such a dressing as they never had before in all their lives.”

Old Harmer conducted the constables to his mill.

He unlocked the huge doors and admitted them.

They hid themselves behind a lowering pile of corn and flour sacks, and darkened their lanterns.

“Stand firm, my merry men,” said the chief of the party. “Stand firm; and when the signal is given arrest the rascal as he enters.”

Miller Harmer now went to the half-opened door.

He gave three shrill whistles, each after an interval of about half a minute.

“Here the villain comes,” said Harmer, hiding himself.

Jonas at that moment was observed approaching in a stealthy, cat-like manner, crawling along under the shadow of the trees and cottages of the village.

He was seen to stop once or twice, and look furtively around him.

He did not know why, but a feeling of suspicion assured him that in some way his master’s scheme for abducting Ellen Harmer would involve heavy blows, if not broken sconces.

He had armed himself, therefore, with a stout, short club of oak, which he concealed under his cloak.

As he approached the mill door he was half-inclined to run away again.

“Courage, Jonas, courage,” said he to himself, half aloud. “Remember the rich reward in store for you. The colonel, my master, is a bold, brave devil, and I must be so likewise. So I am,” said Jonas, slapping his chest. “Who knows but what I may be a gentleman one of these fine days, if all goes on well? Won’t that be grand? Courage, then, Jonas; none but the brave deserve the fair. Onward! rewards and honour await you! That whistle, though, didn’t much sound like master’s,” he thought, “and yet it must be. There it is again. All is right; the girl is secured. Onward, Jonas; teach these rustic villagers what brave stuff Londoners are made of.”

He crept towards the mill slowly and very carefully, and it must be confessed that his legs trembled violently under him, and his teeth chattered.

“He comes,” said the miller, in a half-whisper. “Make ready to receive him.”

Jonas crawled up to the half-opened mill-door, and peered into the darkness before him.

“That you, master?” he whispered.

“Y-e-e-s,” was the soft answer.

“Have you got the maiden safe and sound?”

“Y-e-e-s.”

“Won’t the old miller be surprised in the morning when he finds she’s gone, ha! ha!” chuckled Jonas.

He passed the threshold, and was much astonished to see the door shut behind him.

Before he had time to breathe freely a long staff was aimed at his head.

The stroke was well intended, and a powerful one also; but it missed the right object, and fell with a hard crack on the head of a constable by mistake in the darkness.

A loud groan and a curse followed the fall of the oaken staff.

In an instant Jonas comprehended all.

He was entrapped, and escape impossible.

“Oh! the bloodthirsty scoundrels!” he groaned. “That blow was meant for me.”

He produced his own small cudgel, and laid about him right and left in the darkness.

He then fell upon his hands and knees, and crawled from the midst of his enemies.

Total darkness prevented the officers from seeing what they were doing or ought to do.

But they hit right and left among themselves, and some of them were tripped up by Jonas.

“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” roared the chief constable. “He tried to crawl through my legs, but couldn’t.”

“Give it to him, then!” said another.

And sure enough the chief constable did give it to him.

But he had the wrong man between his legs, and was pounding away on the back of an unlucky prostrate comrade, like as if he were thumping a big drum.

Shouts, oaths, and groans were now heard on all sides.

Jonas, as nimble as a monkey, climbed on to the sacks of flour piled up right and left.

His own weight toppled them over.

They fell among the combatants, and knocked several of them over.

Old Harmer, surprised at the change in the state of things, and, fearful that Jonas should escape, rushed to a long rope, and pulled the mill bell, which hung in an old tower.

He tugged away, and alarmed the whole village.

In less than five minutes the male portion of the villagers rushed forth from their houses, half dressed.

Dogs barked, men shouted, women screamed, and children cried.

All was now a scene of great excitement and confusion.

Some armed with pokers, tongs, old rusty swords, pitchforks, and oaken clubs, rushed along the village green.

“To the mill! To the mill!” roared some.

“’Tis the Skeleton Crew!” shrieked others.

“They have murdered the miller, and run off with Ellen!”

“The constables are half murdered!”

“On, lads, on!”

These and similar shouts were now heard on every hand.

The rustics looked pale and startled at the bare mention of the Skeleton Crew, for they had long known what a savage, remorseless band they were.

Many, at the bare mention of the Skeleton Crew, ran into their cottages again, and barred their doors.

Not a few fell on their knees, and began to mumble out their prayers in a very rapid manner.

Some dozen or more stout-hearted, broad-backed fellows, however, boldly ran towards the mill, and dashed in.

They asked no questions, but commenced to hit right and left in the darkness, and it was some time ere they discovered their mistake.

When they did, however, they began to swear at each other in a very violent manner; nor did they heed the sighs and groans of the chief constable and his unlucky followers, who were half smothered under the sacks of flour.

They searched the mill in every direction, but, for full half-an-hour, were unable to discover Master Jonas.

That worthy youth had clambered over the sacks, and made his way up to the third story of the mill.

He looked in every direction for some means to escape, but found none.

The infuriated rustics, led on by old Harmer himself, now ascended the stairs in single file, and instituted a vigorous search.

They brought with them several dogs to assist in the affair.

One of these, more diligent in his search than others, scented out Master Jonas, who was concealed behind a flour-bin.

He might have long remained there, unknown to the searchers, but the miller’s dog gave Jonas such a quiet nip in the leg, as made that worthy howl aloud with pain.

“He’s here!”

“We’ve got him!”

“No you haven’t,” said Jonas.

With a sudden bound he rushed from his hiding place, and dashed towards the two trap-doors through which the sacks were raised from below.

They stood open; and in front of him dangled a long rope almost to the ground.

This he seized, and began to slide down with the skill of an acrobat.

But an accident happened to him that he least expected.

The crane was pushed out from the wall, and, to Jonas’s horror, he found himself dangling right over the mill-dam!

“Oh, the murdering villains! What must I do now?” thought the luckless servant. “They have shoved out the crane, and here am I dancing between the sky and a deep mill-dam.”

“Cut the rope! cut the rope!”

“Drown the rascal!”

“He can’t escape!”

“Lower the rope!”

“No, cut it—cut it!” roared old Harmer. “D—n the rope, so we capture the villain.”

With right good-will, several began to cut and hack the rope.

Jonas felt the rope’s vibration, and shut his eyes.

“It’s all over, now,” he said. “D—n the colonel, and all Darlington put together. I wish I was safe in London again. If this is the grand reward the colonel promised me, confusion to him.”

Jonas had a passing desire to say his prayers, but he was such a thoughtless knave that he had forgotten them long ago.

“That’s it, that’s it,” cried many voices.

“Help! murder! thieves! cut-throats! help—help!” shouted a dozen voices.

This was the confusion and noise which Colonel Blood had heard when he took the last glance at Andrew Gamble, who was carried away by the stream.

But he never for a moment dreamed that all this distant hubbub was occasioned by the tight rope performance of his man, Jonas.

With a vigorous cut, the rope was at last severed!

Amid the shouts and cheers of the bystanders, Jonas fell from a height of twenty feet right into the deep mill-dam, with a loud splash!

“Fish him out, fish him out, lads; we musn’t let the rogue escape us now. He is one of those who rescued Bob Bertram.”

Poor Jonas rose to the surface, and in desperate despair clung to the branch of an overhanging tree, some distance from the edge of the dam.

In a moment the villagers were very busy with pitchforks, rakes, and the like, “fishing him out.”

One fellow, with more vigour than judgment, took aim with his long fork, but missed his distance, and gave Jonas a painful thrust in his seat of honour, instead of hooking his clothes, as intended.

“Five gold pieces to any one who secures the villain,” roared the chief constable, who now rushed upon the scene, puffing and blowing.

The promised reward caused a very great deal of excitement in those present.

A rope was now procured.

With great dexterity some one present made a noose in it, and very cleverly threw it over Jonas’s head.

“Pull away, lads,” said the rope-thrower. “Now, then, all together!”

“You’ll choke the varlet,” some one said.

“Small odds,” said the rope-thrower, “small odds, so we get him dead or alive.”

“Now, then,” said another, “altogether; a strong pull, and a long pull, mind.”

So vigorously did they haul away at the rope that in less than a minute Jonas was dragged to the bank, half-strangled and half-drowned.

“Light ho! lights here!” cried a dozen voices, and lamps were immediately brought to the spot.

“That’s him! that’s one on ’em!” said the chief constable. “I could tell him out of a hundred; that’s him as has been prowling about Darlington, and rescued Bob Bertram.”

“He looks a villain every inch of him,” said old Harmer. “I’m sorry we haven’t got t’other; he’s the worst of the two; and the rascals ain’t satisfied with what they’ve already done, but must concoct a scheme for running off with my daughter Ellen.”

“Horrible!”

“Aw-ful!” chimed in one and another.

“Undo the rope,” said the chief constable, “at least, loosen it a bit; we don’t want to hang him yet.”

“No; that fun has to come,” said another, with a loud laugh.

“Bring him along, lads; I’ll lead the way with the light!” said the chief constable.

And poor Jonas was dragged forth to prison with a long halter around his neck.

He was dripping wet, and soaked to the marrow.

His thighs were bruised and wounded by cuffs, the fork-prongs, and dog-bites.

His legs trembled from under him.

Dogs barked at him, men jeered, and women clapped their hands.

He was cast into gaol by the chief constable with looks of professional pride and triumph.

“Got one of the scoundrels, any how!” said he.

Wet and exhausted as he was, and presenting a very sorry sight, Master Jonas was thrust into a cell.

The villagers crowded around him and gazed through the prison bars, with gaping mouths, as if they were looking at some strange, half-tamed animal in a travelling menagerie.

But what has become of his master, Colonel Blood?

The next chapter will show.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XI

THE ABDUCTION—THE SKELETON DANCE—THE PURSUIT—HORRIBLE DOINGS IN THE VILLAGE.

The sounds which Colonel Blood had heard for a moment aroused his bold spirit, and as he crossed the mill bridge, slowly and calmly, he resolved upon arriving at some explanation concerning it.

But the very hubbub and confusion which reigned were of infinite use to him in regard to his projected scheme with the pretty Ellen Harmer.

Her father, the miller, and the whole of the villagers, as we have seen, were thoroughly aroused and greatly incensed at the behaviour of Jonas.

Some began to talk of hanging the unlucky servant on the morrow, and, dark as it was, they gathered together in groups, discussing the subject with great animation and many angry gestures.

But this very confusion assisted the bold, conscienceless colonel.

He walked up to the miller’s house, and found it deserted.

Not a soul was in the dwelling, save Ellen herself.

Half stupefied with the strange stories she had heard, Ellen remained in her own chamber, trembling that the Skeleton Crew were in the village.

A single lamp burned dimly in the miller’s parlour.

Colonel Blood, as he crept towards the house, felt satisfied that she was alone.

“Now is my time,” said he; “none but the brave deserve the fair; now or never.”

He walked boldly into the house, opened the parlour door hastily, and entered the apartment.

Ellen had been on her knees praying, and her face was deadly pale.

She started suddenly as she saw the handsome stranger enter.

“Fly! fly for your life, fair maid,” said Blood, in accents of alarm.

“What means this intrusion, sir?” said Ellen, drawing herself up to her full height, and with a proud look. “What means this strange intrusion?”

“It means this, Miss Harmer, that the village has been set upon by that desperate gang called the Skeleton Crew, and that they are intent upon murdering all who oppose them. Fly! I beg of you, do not delay a single instant, or all may be lost!”

“Sir!” cried Ellen, half aloud, distrustful of her own senses, and yet knowing not whether to believe or disbelieve the colonel’s words.

“Nay, stop not to parley, dear Ellen,” said Blood, taking her by the hand; “there is not a single moment to be lost in explanation. Feel satisfied that what I say is true. Your father has sent me; he begged of me to conduct you to a place of safety until such times as the horrible Skeleton Band should have departed again.”

“Sir, all this may be true, but how am I to know it for a certainty?”

“Nay; do not hesitate: Your very life may depend upon it.”

“And my honour also, sir,” said Ellen, with a proud look. “Honour to me is dearer than life.”

“Great Patience!” said Blood, in a petulant manner. “Would you not save your father’s life?”

“My father’s life?” said Ellen, suddenly changing colour. “Is he in danger, then?”

“He is. He is now in the power of the Skeleton Crew, and if you are found here five minutes longer you will surely be dragged off a captive by Death-wing, their chief.”

“Whither, then, would you lead me?”

“To Darlington Hall. Sir Richard and his servants are out and armed against this famous band. It is by old Sir Richard’s desire, coupled with your father’s, that I now come here.”

“Then you are known to Sir Richard?”

“Yes, fair one. I am a nephew of his. I have used deception with you up to the present; but the time is now past for all that. I am Sir Richard’s nephew. Come, fly with me to the Hall, ’tis the only place of safety. Remember the dreadful scenes which have been enacted round the coast by this horrible band, and flee on the instant.”

Ellen seemed stupefied by all she heard, and mechanically threw a light wrapper round her shoulders.

In a few moments she left her father’s house, misled and deceived by the oily tongue of as great and fearless a scoundrel as ever lived.

“This way!—this way!” said Blood, blandly. “Haste, fair one, haste!”

He placed a rough, strong arm round the maiden’s waist, and helped her along.

“This way is the nearest,” he said, with a grim smile of satisfaction, as they both hurriedly approached the mill bridge.

When they were about to cross, several of the planks being old, loose, and rotten, began to creak ominously, and the winds sighed dolefully.

Ellen stopped for a moment.

Her eyes enlarged to twice their ordinary size.

She saw something on the bridge that startled her.

“What is that?” she said, half-gasping, pointing to something on the planks which looked red.

“Oh! nothing, nothing, fair one,” said Blood, grimly smiling.

“But it is something,” said Ellen, turning pale, and gazing intently. “Look! see here—and here—and here—they are large clots of gore!”

“Impossible!” said Blood, coolly.

“Yes, they are; and here,” she said, “is part of a broken sword. How came all this? Nay, do not hurry me onward. I tremble—my feet refuse to walk, for I fear something horrible may obstruct my path.”

“Nonsense! nonsense, fair creature!” said Blood. “If anything has happened it is all the doings of that horrible band of Skeletons. Nothing more. If you wish to escape yourself, follow my advice at once.”

“I will, I will,” said Ellen Harmer, trembling in every limb.

She and the colonel had crossed half of the bridge when both suddenly stopped.

“What was that?” said the miller’s daughter, looking pale as death. “What voice was that?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, fair one; ’twas only the murmuring of the wind among the oziers on the river bank, or perhaps the babbling waters. Come, quickly, I say!”

“Oh, help! murder!” sighed a voice near by among the ozier bushes.

“D—nation!” growled Blood, half to himself, “that lout is still alive! Would for a thousand crowns he were dead! Come, lassie, think no more of it; it was your imagination only, nothing else, I assure you.”

“Oh, help!” sighed the voice again, faintly. “Ellen Harmer, I am dying! Beware of the courtly villain! Help!”

“’Tis my name that he calls,” said Ellen, turning red. “Unhand me, sir; and if you are a man help me to discover who and what this poor creature is!”

“Help!” faintly sighed the voice from among the trees.

“’Tis the voice of Andrew,” said Ellen. “Some foul villany has been here at work; this blood upon the planks is his!”

“Help!”

“’Tis Andrew Gamble’s voice.”

“D—nation!” growled Blood, and, then, in a persuasive voice, “Come, fair one, come; ’tis all imagination, believe me! Hark! do you hear the loud shouts of the villagers? Come, let’s haste away; the Skeleton Crew are butchering all they fall across. Come, haste!”

Blood put his strong arm round Ellen’s waist, and half by persuasion, half by force, bore her away, pale, trembling, and more dead than alive.

“Egad! ’twas well I used mild force with the pretty wench,” said he, “or she would have discovered all. I must return, if possible, and give that rustic a finishing touch; it will never do to let him recover and go babbling over the village, or we may be traced to London, and then all fun would end. ’Twas lucky she didn’t look in the right direction as I did, or she would have seen Master Andrew washed by the river among the bull-rushes on the bank. I just caught sight of his face in the fitful moonlight; how white and horrible it looked!”

He was so impatient to bear off Ellen Harmer to his carriage that he actually took her up in his arms.

This he explained to the struggling maid by saying that they were pursued.

Faint, weak, pale, and unresisting as she was, Ellen Harmer was so terrified at all she had heard, that it took but little to convince her that what all Blood had said was true.

With the soft tongue of a deceiver, then, he consoled her; while, with the strength of a young ox, he tore off his fair prize with the greatest ease.

“This is a good night’s work,” thought he, as he hurried forward; “his majesty will amply reward me for all this trouble, and, who knows, may raise me to the peerage, for many a man has had that reward for doing less than I have.”

Thus he mused as he went on his way.

Ere long he approached the spot where Jonas had agreed to place his carriage and horses.

His own saddle horse was there, truly, but not the carriage.

“How is this?” growled Blood. “Surely that fool, Jonas, could not have misunderstood me? I told him near this spot.”

He was now approaching the church, and resolved to wait near an old archway close beside the village green, with its May-pole, until such time as Jonas should appear with the carriage.

He remained close under the shadow of the old archway, but all was still.

The village green, with its May-pole, was deserted.

Not a soul was visible.

He threw his cloak around the miller’s daughter, and tried to comfort her.

All at once, he was astonished at the sight he saw.

His own carriage dashed up, and passed him at a furious rate.

The driver was a skeleton!

Behind the carriage stood, in grim outlines, two skeleton footmen, cocked-hats and all.

Inside, Colonel Blood could see four or five skeletons, who grinned and laughed hideously as they looked out of the window and shook their bony hands in triumph.

In the midst of the inside passengers, Colonel Blood saw two prisoners.

One was the Colonel’s coachman, the other was the fellow-footman of poor Jonas!

This unearthly and ghastly apparition was not seen by Ellen Harmer, for Blood’s cloak had been adroitly thrown over her head and face the moment the strange and horrible coachman appeared in sight.

It must be confessed that this coach-load of grim skeletons filled the colonel with wonder, if not with fear.

“I should never have believed it had I not seen it,” mused the bold colonel.

At that moment his horror even increased tenfold, as was that of the fair Ellen.

Loud laughter was heard proceeding from the village green.

It sounded not like that of mortal.

He hastily turned his head, as also did Ellen.

They both looked through the old archway towards the May-pole.

The sight they then beheld was appalling.

Round the May-pole danced a circle of skeletons!

On top of it there sat perched a grim-looking skeleton, playing ear-piercing, diabolical music from some sort of flute made out of human bones.

One of the dancers had a tambourine, with jingling bells.

As they danced and capered about in most fantastic styles, they shook their bony hands in a dismal manner, which made Colonel Blood’s flesh to creep again.

Directly Ellen Harmer caught sight of this dreadful exhibition, she fell back into Blood’s arms.

She now fully believed all that the colonel had told her, and relied upon his protection as a man of honour.

She was too much frightened to speak, and trembled violently as the colonel supported her.

But Blood seemed fastened to the spot.

He looked, and looked again at the terrible dance of the skeletons.

He had never dreamed of ever seeing anything so hideous or horrible.

“Who and what are they?” said Blood, half aloud; “are they men or devils?”

“Devils!” said a chorus of unseen voices. “Who stabbed Andrew Gamble? Ha, ha! Who wants to run away with the pretty daughter of Harmer the miller, eh? Go, tell your master what you have seen—go, tell him; he may one day expect us. Away, Colonel Blood, away!”

These words were uttered in such fierce tones, and with such a hissing sound, that they grated on Blood’s ears.

“I fear not man nor devil,” he growled savagely in return.

But the continual sight of the strange, wild, skeleton dance seemed to discompose him.

He seized Ellen Harmer round the waist, and with the greatest ease vaulted into his saddle.

“These devils have seized my carriage and servants,” said he, “but ’tis lucky they did not discover my horse here under the gateway, or all would have been lost.”

While in the act of mounting his splendid animal, the colonel did not perceive that the skeleton dancers had approached him.

When he looked to the right and left he found himself surrounded by the grim disciples of Death-wing, the grim skeleton chief.

With a shout, and an oath of surprise and annoyance, he raised his riding-whip and cut his way from the midst of those around him.

He put spurs to his horse, and plunged forward on the road towards London, with Ellen Harmer on the saddle before him.

He had not gone two miles when he turned round to ascertain the cause of a distant rumbling noise.

Not far behind him, he could perceive his own carriage, driven by a skeleton coachman, in full pursuit!

Skeleton heads were protruding from windows on each side of the coach, who waved their long arms and shook them in gestures of savage revenge.

“Pursued!” thought Blood; “and by this terrible band.”

He dug his spurs deeply into the flanks of his gallant steed, and fled like the wind.

But the Skeleton Band was slowly and surely gaining on him.

It was now a race for life or death!

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XII

WILDFIRE NED, TIM, AND RAMBLING BOB SET OUT UPON THEIR TRAVELS—STRANGE AND EXCITING ADVENTURES.

The first thing which Wildfire Ned did, when he left his uncle’s presence, and had publicly insulted Redgill, was to proceed to the stables, and saddle his own gallant mare “Starlight.”

“What, off again, Master Ned?” said Tim, rubbing his eyes. “Why, surely you ain’t going anywhere this time of night?”

“Yes, I am, Tim. I am going to leave Darlington altogether.”

“Leave it altogether, sir! Why, you must be joking.”

“No I’m not, Tim. Come, saddle my mare at once. I must leave this place within half-an-hour. Will you come with me?”

“Why in course I will,” said Tim. “But it did appear to me all so very strange like. I can’t understand it. What! you leave the Hall, and all for nothing?” said Tim, in great surprise.

“Never mind being surprised at all about it,” said Wildfire Ned, biting his lips. “I’m going to leave, so that’s quite sufficient explanation. I’ve got a good sum of money of my own in my pocket, so have resolved to go to sea, and chase those Skeleton Pirates we have heard so much of. Will you come, Tim?”

“Yes, young master, in course I will. I’d go to the devil with you, thee knows. (But, for all that, thought Tim, I don’t much care about facing them terrible skeletons led on by that awful wretch called Death-wing.)”

Few words were passed by Ned. He mounted his famous mare “Starlight,” and, followed by Tim, galloped away towards the village of Darlington.

“Tim, are you brave?” said Wildfire Ned, grinning, as they rode along side by side.

“Brave, master Ned, why of course I am. I’d face the very devil if I had any one to back me. I always feel safe when I’m with you.”

“Well, do you know what I’m going to do?”

“No, master.”

“You know Bob Bertram?”

“The old farmer’s son, sir? Yes, sir; and a fine good-hearted young fellow he is as ever was born.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Tim; and glad also, to think you like him so much, for he, also, is coming with us.”

“Him, master?” said Tim, in surprise. “Why, how can that be? He’s in the round-house, and accused of murdering his old father. But he didn’t do it, I’ll swear,” said Tim to himself. “He couldn’t do it. Bob Bertram’s heart is too good for any such bloody work as that, or else I’m no judge of human nature.”

“Right, Tim; you are right, my lad,” said Ned, who had overheard his servant mumbling to himself. “And I feel proud to think your opinion about that murder is the same as mine; but, then, you know, he’ll never suffer; he’s going to escape to-night.”

“Escape, master! Why, I have heard that he’s guarded night and day. It were even whispered that some officers of the crown were coming down to take him down to London.”

“I have heard all that, also,” said Ned, laughing; “but when they do come, the bird will have flown. Do you see these, Tim?” said Ned, displaying a pair of pistols, “Do you see these?”

“Yes, master.”

“Well, we call these things ‘barking irons,’ and if the two officers won’t behave themselves, and act civilly towards us when we call, why then you must blow the brains out of one, while I do the same to the other.”

Ned said this very coolly, but Tim’s eyes rolled in fright at the bare idea of bloodshed.

He did not give utterance to his fears, however, but jogged along by his young master’s side.

Ere long they approached the village, and Wildfire Ned leaped from his mare.

Tim did likewise, and both nags were tethered to a roadside post.

“Come along, Tim, we must do the rest on foot. You know the ‘Red Lion?’ Well, go there, and tell the landlord I want a horse for a few hours; when you come back I shall be here at this post waiting for you. Be quick, mind, and see that he lends you a good steed, for we have a long way to gallop.”

Tim went off on foot towards the “Red Lion.”

Wildfire Ned walked rapidly towards that part of the village where the lock-up or round-house was situated.

All was darkness and profound quietness in the village.

“This is just the time to do the trick,” thought Wildfire Ned.

Saying this, he put on a black velvet mask, and walked up to the prison door.

It was open.

He walked in quietly.

Two officers lay on benches before the fire, snoring loudly.

They did not hear his footsteps.

Ned looked around quickly to ascertain in which of the several cells Bob Bertram was confined.

He knew not which.

Presently, however, he saw two eyes peering between the iron bars, and from the hard breathing of the prisoner he felt sure it was Bob.

Ned made a sign which Bob understood, and then approached the prisoner.

“Those are the keys hanging up behind the door,” said Bob, in a soft whisper; “but be careful, Ned, or you will awake them.”

On tiptoe Wildfire Ned took down the keys, and approached Bob’s cell.

He passed them through to Bob, and while he was turning the bolt of the lock Wildfire Ned stood over the two sleeping officers, pistol in hand.

“If they should wake up while Bob is getting out, these two little bulldogs will keep them quiet,” thought Ned.

He had not thus stood guard over the two slumberers many minutes ere Bob Bertram was free.

“Fly,” said Ned, “towards the Hall; you’ll find the horses waiting for us on the roadside near the finger posts.”

Young Bertram had scarcely quitted the prison ere the two officers awoke.

They opened their eyes very slowly, but when they discovered the young man in the mask standing over them, pistol in hand, they rolled their eyes, and gaped in astonishment and wonder.

“Oh, lors!”

“Who are you?”

“Put down them pistols.”

“What do you want?”

“Did you not expect some officers from London?”

“We did; but, for the lor’s sake, don’t put the muzzle of that pistol so near my head, it might go off.”

“I am one of them,” said Ned, scarcely able to keep from laughing, “and have a very disagreeable duty to perform.”

“What is it?”

“My comrades called here, and found you asleep. We took the prisoner in our own charge, and my duty here is to lock both of you up.”

“Lock us up?”

“Yes, both of you, and to feed you on bread and water for a month, for not attending to your duty.”

“It warn’t my fault; it were his watch,” said one.

“No quarrelling,” said Ned, grinning under his mask; “rise, both of you; Bob Bertram’s cell is now open and empty; go into it, both of ye, and this instant, knaves, or I’ll drive holes into each of you.”

Ned’s manner was so firm, cool, and determined, that the two astonished officers were compelled to obey him.

Reluctantly they rose, and hobbled after each other into the cell.

Ned turned the key upon them, and there left them alone in their glory.

“If either of you make any noise for the next half-hour I’ll clip your ears off,” said Ned, as he walked coolly away.

He had not gone many yards ere both of the officers began to bawl at the top of their voices.

Ned returned to them, and just placed the muzzle of his pistol between the bars, when the two officers fell upon their knees and sued for mercy in a very humble manner.

“I only asked you to remain quiet for half-an-hour before,” said he, “but now listen to me; if either of you make the slightest noise for the next twelve hours I will blow your brains out. Remember, and rest assured if you do not obey me this time both of you are dead men.”

Ned left them a second time, but did not forget to bolt and bar and lock every door, so that it was a matter almost of impossibility for either of them to escape or even be heard by any one passing outside.

In less than half-an-hour Wildfire Ned, Bob Bertram and Tim were on their way to the sea-coast.

But ere they reached their journey’s end a strange adventure happened to Wildfire Ned.

Each of them were well mounted, and they galloped along the road at a merry pace.

Bob Bertram was in ecstacies at his unlooked-for liberation, and swore eternal friendship and fidelity to Wildfire Ned.

He told Ned all, or at least as much as he knew, about his father’s murder, and what had happened to him on that eventful night.

He also described the stranger who had exchanged clothes with him so minutely that Ned could not, or at least did not, for a moment hesitate to say that Redgill was the man, for he knew that from the garments Bob was then wearing.

He did not say much to Bob concerning it, however, but bit his lip, and vowed to have revenge on Redgill the first opportunity that offered.

The three riders stopped at a roadside inn, and knocked up the landlord.

The old man opened his door with a trembling hand, and in the course of conversation informed his guests that they must beware of the Skeleton Crew, for a party of that terrible band had called there that very night, ransacked and robbed the place of all it had, and were well-nigh murdering everybody.

“Was Death-wing, their chief, along with them?” asked Ned.

“He was,” said the old publican, shaking; “but oh! young man, don’t smile, for if you had been as close to, and seen as much on ’em as I have to-night, you would tremble in your shoes.”

“I?” said Wildfire Ned, laughing boisterously. “Not I, landlord, you are much mistaken. Nothing in the world would give me greater pleasure than to meet this same Death-wing to-night.”

“You?” said the publican, aghast. “Rash youth, beware!”

“Nay; you need have no fears for me. It is my resolve to beard the lion in his very den this very night. Think you they are on the heath?”

“Without doubt, young master, they are; but take an old man’s advice, do not go near them. When you catch but a glimpse of their horrid forms, flee for your lives.”

“Never mind, friend, never mind this Skeleton Crew. Bring us a bottle or two of your best wine,” said Ned. “If I do not unearth the hobgoblin devils to-night, my name is not Ned Warbeck.”

“Warbeck?” said the old man, in surprise, “Warbeck?”

“Yes, Warbeck. What makes you look so surprised?”

“They were speaking of you,” said the old man, turning pale.

“Well, what of that?”

“They drank to your death.”

“To my death?” said Ned. “What else, old man?”

* * * * *

NOTICE TO OUR READERS.

REMEMBER!—A most valuable present is in preparation, and will be presented to all our regular Subscribers with an early Number. Full particulars will be announced in No. 6.

“They vowed to hunt you down and slay you.”

“Ah!” said Ned, “and why? What have I done more than any one else to deserve such kind consideration?”

“I know not, young man. All I heard them say was, that, at the moment of your birth, some infernal power told them that you were sent to be their deadliest enemy on land and sea.”

“So be it, then,” said Ned. “If I have any strength or power or will, I will use it all against these demons, and never rest until I have exterminated every one of them.”

While Ned spoke thus, the old landlord, who was about to leave the room, hastily returned.

“What makes you so pale, old man?” asked Ned.

The publican did not reply. He seemed struck dumb with astonishment.

At the door stood two of the Skeleton Crew. They walked slowly into the room, and looked at Wildfire Ned with a long, steadfast gaze.

Ned jumped to his feet, and, quick as thought, fired both pistols at them.

The balls could be heard rattling through their bones.

But they stirred not.

With a laugh, loud and mocking, they seized Tim by his arms, and would have borne him away.

Tim, almost in a jelly with fear, wriggled and writhed like an eel.

The skeletons swung Tim to and fro for a second or two, and then threw him with great violence into a corner near the coal cellar, and there he lay very humbly and meekly, and did not dare stir an inch.

“Are such the men, young Warbeck,” said the two skeletons, “you would gather round ye to slaughter the Death-wing’s band?”

“No, foul fiends,” said Ned, rising and brandishing his sword, “such are not the men; but here are two. I and young Bertram here defy all your power.”

“Foolish boy!” said one, in tones of mock compassion. “I would not harm ye. Yet, when you have arrived at man’s estate, I might meet you on equal terms.”

“Nay, let not that be your vain excuse,” said Ned; “old or young I defy you, and in token of my eternal hatred take that,” said he, at the same moment throwing his glove at the skeleton face.

“Impudent varlet!” was the angry rejoinder. “It seems as if your footsteps were purposely directed across my path. I know, I feel, that eternal, unquenchable hatred exists between us, and yet not now would I cross swords with ye. But think not, bold youth, that I reject your gauge of battle. No, I accept it. Beneath the old oak, on the moor, meet me in an hour.”

“I will; and with greater pleasure than e’er I did aught in all my life.”

“Until the hour, then, adieu! You will, of course, come alone?”

“I will.”

These few angry words were quickly spoken, and before any one could well realize the fact, the two grim skeletons disappeared.

They mounted two horses that stood outside the inn door, and vanished like the wind.

“Thank heavens, they are gone!” the publican gasped.

“Amen!” groaned Tim.

“But you surely will not keep your promise with the grim rascals?” said Bob.

“I most surely shall,” said Ned.

“But they mean you mischief,” said the publican, “you will never return alive.”

“You need not fear.”

“But, brave youth, I do fear; you know not so much of these awful creatures as I do.”

“Perhaps not, but I shall very shortly,” said Ned, laughing.

“Why, that old oak tree on the heath is the favourite spot of Death-wing, their chief.”

“So much the better, the sooner I shall make his acquaintance, then; that’s all.”

“But there are, at least, a dozen dead men hanging on the leafless branches; all have fallen victims to Death-wing’s sword, and now hang rotting in the sun.”

“So I have heard! Will you be kind enough to show me the way thither, landlord?” asked Ned, smiling.

“Me! lord bless the lad, I wouldn’t go near that tree for all the gold in England; no one ever comes back alive from that spot.”

“Then I will go alone.”

“Nay, stay!”

“You must not go, Ned,” said Bob. “Why throw yourself in the way of those bloodthirsty scoundrels? If you do go, I must accompany you, and so will your groom, eh Tim?”

“Y-e-e-s!” groaned Tim, who was rubbing his sore bones with a very rueful face. “I don’t mind if I go to the devil, for I’m going there very fast it seems to me.”

With a face flushed with excitement, and eyes sparkling with delight at the prospect of encountering some one of the Skeleton Crew in mortal combat, Wildfire Ned rose from his seat and paced the room.

Before he was perceived Ned left the apartment in a free and easy manner, as if merely going into the back yard.

Bob Bertram never imagined that Ned had any intentions of going forth alone.

The old landlord saw him mount his horse, and turned pale as he thought of the great danger into which the bold, rash youth was about to plunge.

“For heaven’s sake!” said old Boniface, approaching Ned, “for heaven’s sake, give up this wild freak. How can you, a mere lad, think of conquering any one of that desperate gang when so many valiant men have fallen in the attempt? Take my advice, Ned Warbeck, steer clear of that murdering crew.”

“Look here, landlord,” said Ned, gaily, “there is one favour I have to ask of you, and that is, keep a still tongue in your head. I shall only be absent an hour or two at most. Do not tell my comrades which way I have gone should they ask, but say you think I have gone towards the Hall for something I have left behind. Do this, and I shall well repay you in times to come.”

So speaking, Wildfire Ned dashed away into a neighbouring thicket, and was soon lost to view.

In a few moments he emerged again into the open country.

Over bridge and ditch he gaily rode, humming a tune. The moon came out, and shone with unusual splendour.

Ere long he approached the borders of the lonely heath, which, like a white expanse of silvered scenery, lay open before him.

His brave mare Starlight had carried him nobly, but from pure instinct began to snort and slacken her pace as she approached the wilderness-like plain.

In the far distance Wildfire Ned saw ravenous night birds circling in the sky, and alighting on a huge oak tree.

As he approached still nearer his mare stood still, and cocked her ears.

Ned now had a full view of the famous old oak tree, and on its wide spreading branches he distinctly saw dark rows of dead men hanging against the bright sky.

The sight filled him with horror, but not with fear.

“What inhuman scoundrels!” he sighed. “They must be fiends ever to act in this manner.”

Nothing daunted, he dismounted from his mare, and tied her to a stump.

As he did so he heard a voice, which said, slowly and solemnly—

“Edward Warbeck, beware! Retrace your steps; no one approaches the blasted oak and lives!”

“Lying fiends!” said Wildfire Ned, “lying fiends! wherever you be, I fear not your crazy croakings!”

As he spoke fire flashed from his eyes, and he boldly advanced.

Dry leaves rustled in the wind, the breezes sighed, and as he looked up at that fearful gibbet with its many human forms dangling in the air a sudden tremor thrilled his whole frame.

The face of each hapless victim was turned downwards towards him, and they seemed to smile grimly and savagely at his upturned face.

Beyond this, however, nothing was visible.

“The sight is indeed horrible,” said Ned, half aloud; “but where is the much-vaunted Skeleton Crew? Where are these savages hidden? and whence came that voice of warning?”

Wildfire Ned’s position, as must be confessed, was a critical one.

Here was a bold youth, alone and single handed, gazing on the dead, and standing, as it were, on enchanted ground.

“Come forth, grim demons of the land and deep,” said Ned, with a ringing defiant tone. “Death-wing, come forth and encounter me!”

He turned his head suddenly.

There stood before him a gaunt, ghastly member of the Skeleton Band, sword in hand.

“Who calls so bravely on the Skeleton Crew, and defies them?” said a sepulchral voice, in mocking tones. “Is Death-wing’s band to be laughed and scoffed at by a babbling boy?”

“Boy!” said Ned, indignantly.

“Yes, brat, if that will suit your pride the better; get you gone from this awful place.”

“I came by appointment. Death-wing and I are to try conclusions to a deadly issue here,” said Ned, bravely.

“You face Death-wing?” said the skeleton guard, with a mocking laugh. “He who has braved the land and sea this many a year, ha! ha! Look above ye, and see there dangling the lifeless bodies of more than a dozen who have dared intrude upon this deadly spot.”

“Bombastic liar!” said Ned, in tones of scorn. “Death-wing fears me. But, at all events, I will not be disappointed; these rows of bodies shall no longer grace these oak branches as tokens of your prowess. Have at ye! man or fiend, my good battle-axe shall prove to all what ye are.”

With a desperate rush Wildfire Ned dashed to the fray.

The skeleton guardian of the gibbet, however, was not taken unawares.

He also was armed, and parried Ned’s desperate blows.

The combat was a fearful one.

Sparks flew from their weapons.

Wildfire Ned, with the courage and endurance of a dozen men, stood his ground.

His blows fell thick and fast upon his grim opponent, and the clash of marrowless bones resounded upon the night air.

For a moment Wildfire Ned paused in the combat and looked upon his opponent with wonder.

“He must be a devil,” thought Ned, “or my last blow would have cleaved him to the earth.”

“Ha! ha!” growled the skeleton, as he rushed at his enemy again, “one more victim for our gibbet!”

“Never!” said Ned, aloud, and with an angry oath.

The fight was again renewed, and now with still greater bitterness and fury.

Ned was getting weaker and weaker.

His rival, however, danced around him as nimbly as ever, and every limb seemed to be acting on springs.

He struck at Ned repeatedly, but could not do more than draw blood.

It seemed impossible to hit Ned Warbeck in any vital part, for he was so well guarded with his weapon.

He bled, however, as we have said, and the sight of gore seemed to act like electricity on the skeleton guard, who shrieked aloud with joy.

He made a terrific dash, a last and final attempt upon Ned, and shouted aloud,

“Edward Warbeck, die! Down, down! die!”

“Never!” said Ned, as with a well-aimed and powerful blow he struck his opponent fair on the head, and felled him to the earth.

“Conquered, conquered!” shouted Ned, aloud, in wild triumph.

He turned to look for his smitten foe.

He was nowhere to be seen!

Astonished as he was at this strange occurrence he was much more astounded at what he then heard.

While looking about in search of some trace of his grim, gaunt opponent, the sounds of pistol shots and loud shouts reached his ears!

He listened.

Again and again he could distinctly discern quick, successive reports of fire-arms.

“Help! help!” faintly sighed the breeze.

“What is all this? What new wonder is to happen on this eventful night?” thought Ned.

At that moment his good mare Starlight neighed and became restive.

“Hillo! what means this? The mare would not neigh without cause. There is some one in danger; the mare recognizes some old stable companion. I will away, and quickly return.”

“Help! help!” was borne upon the breeze.

In a moment Wildfire Ned vaulted into the saddle and dashed forward to the scene of strife and danger.

The report of fire-arms to Wildfire Ned was like the sounds of most delightful music.

His heart leaped within him as he mounted his brave mare, Starlight.

“Heaven grant it may turn out to be some more of these skeleton devils,” he said, with a merry laugh.

Over hedge and ditch he galloped in the clear moonlight, and soon reached the high road.

In the far distance he could perceive a carriage and four, which had been stopped by a party of roadsmen.

“Egad!” said Ned, “this is another adventure to-night. I must not let poor travellers be waylaid and robbed by rascally highwayman if I can help it.”

He rode straight towards the crowd, and as he approached, perceived the carriage to be that of his uncle.

Old Sir Richard Warbeck, it would seem, had started out after Wildfire Ned, in hopes of bringing him back to Darlington Hall.

Phillip Redgill, who had professed much friendship “for the wayward lad, Ned,” volunteered to accompany Sir Richard to town. But they had not progressed far when the carriage was attacked by Captain Jack’s party of horsemen, who had resolved not to leave the neighbourhood of Darlington without spoil of some kind.

Hence, when they sneaked off from the inn in which Colonel Blood was, they were so enraged at being thus made fools of, that they determined to have revenge on some of the landed gentry thereabout.

The first person to fall across them was Sir Richard Warbeck and Phillip Redgill.

Captain Jack’s men masked themselves, and counted upon an easy conquest.

But they were much mistaken.

Old Sir Richard, the moment he was attacked by the ruffians, fired his pistols through the coach windows, and wounded one or two of the rascals, old Bates among the number.

Jumping out of the coach, sword in hand, he kept his assailants at bay, manfully and bravely.

Phillip Redgill, however, slipped out of the coach by the opposite door, and soon made his escape unharmed.

As he was fleeing, Captain Jack overtook him.

“A thousand gold guineas if you slay the alderman,” said Redgill, in a confidential whisper.

“Done!” said Captain Jack.

Redgill gave the robber chief a large purse, and promised the rest at a certain time and place in London.

In a few moments Redgill mounted one of the robbers’ horses, and galloped away unperceived by old Sir Richard, who thought Phillip had been killed or desperately wounded.

“No quarter, lads; no quarter,” said Captain Jack; “the old baronet fights like a fiend. He has wounded several already. No quarter, lads; no quarter.”

It was at this moment, when surrounded by Captain Jack’s desperate men, and each moment in expectation of being killed, that Wildfire Ned darted upon the spot full speed.

Bang! bang! went his pistols right and left as he approached.

Whipping out his sword, he spurred Starlight into a maddening gallop, and actually rode down all before him.

Captain Jack was unhorsed in an instant, and rolled into the ditch with a loud curse.

Old Sir Richard was astonished at the dash and valour of the youth before him; but from the mask which Ned wore it was impossible for him to detect his nephew.

Wildfire Ned was too busy with those around him to pass any compliments or exchange recognition.

The fight now was between the highwaymen on the one side, and Sir Richard and Wildfire Ned on the other.

Sir Richard, however, was on foot, and could not do so much as Ned, who pranced and danced around on Starlight, cutting and slashing in gallant style.

Perceiving that several of the highwaymen were disabled, and had left the spot, the coachman and footman emerged from their hiding-place under the hedge, whither they had at first fled.

With thick clubs in hand, they now joined the fight, and laid about them with such right good-will, so that Captain Jack and his party were only too glad to escape with their lives.

As soon as the fight was over, and Sir Richard could gain sufficient strength, he tottered up to Wildfire Ned, and said—

“Gallant youth, whoever you are, how can I sufficiently thank you for your timely aid? I had a fellow traveller with me, a noble young man of unstained honour, but I fear he has fallen a victim to these scoundrels who attacked me. Your name, I beg, young man; your name, that I may recount your noble deeds this night to the king.”

“Sir Richard Warbeck,” Ned replied, with a forced utterance and a feigned voice, “no thanks are needed, I have simply done my duty. My name you cannot—must not—at the present know, for I have not made a name for fame as yet. When I have done so, however, you will hear of me at Darlington Hall.”

With a low bow to Sir Richard, Wildfire Ned galloped from the spot, in pursuit of the fleeing highwaymen.

“Lor’ a mercy me, master,” gasped the coachman, “didn’t thee know ’un? I do.”

“Ah! Sir Richard, it be Wildfire Ned,” said the footman. “He were disguised, but I could swear to it when I seed him ride.”

“There’s not another lad in all England as can straddle a saddle like Ned, Sir Richard,” the coachman remarked.

“What! am I blind?” Sir Richard said. “Could that brave lad have been no other than my own Ned? Am I dreaming? and yet all along through the fight my heart told me so. Brave boy!” he sighed.

And as he spoke true tears trickled down the old man’s cheeks, for he dearly loved Ned.

“Harness the horses quick,” he said. “If that be Ned, I must overtake him. Quick, I say, and harness the horses. Drive for your very lives. I must, I will, overtake the gallant youth!”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us