Chapter CLXII…

Chapter CLXII

THE CELL OF THE NEOPHYTE.—THE INTERVIEW.—THE UNEXPECTED TURN GIVEN TO THE AFFAIRS AT THE CONVENT OF MARY MAGDALEN.

The morning broke, and the matins were duly performed at St. Mary Magdalen.

This was what happened every day in the week included, for the convent was always alive to the performance of its duties from the dawn of day until sunset and after; but it was their business—a business from the toil of which they rested not on the Sabbath.

But then it happened that there was no labour; it was all easy-going, straight-forward work, and was a mere pastime, that only occupied the lips and ears; for not half of it was understood, and the other half had long since ceased to produce any impression upon the stagnant minds of the mewed-up sisterhood.

However, there was not lack of comfort, especially for those who held any of the good offices in the convent. The holy Father Francis was met at table by the abbess, who was great and gracious to him.

“Will you inform the sisterhood, holy sister, of my stay here, lest it bring any scandal upon your house, the well-being of which is to me of importance.”

“I have already done so. I anticipated your wishes on that point, holy father—in fact, I did it on my own account, too, for we live in evil times—in very evil times.”

“We do, sister.”

“So that being done, you have but to express your wishes; for of course they are the wishes deputed of the pope.”

“Certainly—certainly; it could not be otherwise.”

“I knew,” said the abbess; “and now I wait for your wishes; let me know them, and I will answer for it, that nothing that is desired by his holiness through you shall meet with any other than the most profound attention and willing obedience.”

“You are a worthy superior, and if Heaven please to permit me, I will not fail to let his holiness know of all this devotion and obedience; and, not less, your regularity and religious observances; he will be well pleased, I am sure.”

“Thanks, holy father.”

“Nay, ’tis justice. But I would now see your unworthy guest.”

“The probationist? Yes, she can be seen. She has had her food given her for breakfast, and will be ready to receive you.”

“I am ready, then. In the meantime, what is her name and designation?”

“Her name is Juliet, and of a noble house—that of the famous Di Napotoloni.”

“Indeed! ’tis very strange.”

“She desired to marry against her friends’ wish, who would not hear of the iniquity that was desired to be perpetrated.”

“I will see her, then. I may be able to do some good.”

“You cannot fail.”

“I do not know. The race is not always with the swift, nor the battle with the strong; but I will essay to try.”

“If you will come this way, holy father, you shall be admitted into her cell. Shall I remain, or shall I return?”

“I will be alone, for I will confess her, and bring her mind to a calm state. Then, when I have her confidence, I will begin the object in view, and then we shall find whether there is any probability of that system being successful.”

“Certainly; but if not?”

“Why, we must adopt more energetic means, and these we must continue to pursue until there is an end of hope, or life; for when coercion is once begun we must continue it on without intermission.”

“No doubt—no doubt, holy father.”

“Have you any others who are in a very similar state to this unhappy being?”

“None, holy father, none; but this is her door. She will be sulky, or spiteful, as the humour may be; but, at the same time, she will not spare me, because I have, as you see, thus confined her to this place as a punishment.”

“You have done right, sister, quite right—there is no blame.”

The abbess opened the door, and at the same moment they both entered the dungeon in which the unfortunate young female was thrust by the aid of paternal authority, sanctioned by religious usage, and a presumed right they had over her actions.

“This, holy father,” said the abbess, “is the unfortunate female whose case I told you of as being so desperate, that there is no remedy left but that to which we never resort, save in an extremity, and upon no other occasion whatever.”

“I see, sister—I see; but I hope one so young has not been entirely won over to the enemy. I trust she will not strive against those who strive for her.”

“This holy man,” said the abbess to Juliet; “this holy man has travelled from St. Peter’s, at Rome, and has come to examine, with the sanction of his holiness the Pope, the state of our spiritual existence. See that you give good account of yourself.”

“What the lady abbess has stated to you,” said Father Francis, “is no more than the truth. I am so come, and for such a purpose. Prepare, therefore, to confess, and tell me freely what it is that troublest your soul. Confess, daughter.”

The monk drew a stool towards him, and having sat down, he waved his hand towards the abbess, who stood by, saying,—

“I will hear her confess; we must be alone.”

There was an instant movement on the part of the abbess, and she quitted the cell of the lady, placed the key of the door on the inside, and left them alone.

“Daughter,” said the monk, after awhile, “daughter, what is this I hear of you?”

The unfortunate young woman fixed her eyes upon her questioner, and took them not off him during some minutes; and a shudder seemed to pass through her mind.

“I have spoke to thee,” said the monk.

“You have,” answered Juliet.

“Then answer me.”

“I cannot. I know not what has been said.”

“Could you not guess?”

“I might, holy father; but what can that be to such as you? You must know that I have been put here according to the abbess’s orders.”

“I do know so much, daughter. What more have you to say?”

“Simply, that I know not what I am thus confined here for.”

“Since you know it not, I will tell you. You have disobeyed the abbess’s orders—that is what you are now punished for—’tis a heinous offence.”

“I am not yet one of the order, holy father; and, therefore, the abbess has no right to do this; and if she did not know that my friends were her abettors, she dare not do it; ’tis a grievous injury, and a deep and shameful wrong. Instead of religion being, as it ought to be, the safeguard of the poor and weak against the rich and powerful, it is a means of oppression against those who have no power.”

“These are hard accusations, daughter.”

“They will bear the proof, however, and that fairly. Where have I taken the vows?—where am I the sworn sister?—tell me that, holy father.”

“I have come for another purpose, daughter; you have been undutiful to those whom nature and God gave control over you; and you have desired to live disgracefully; surely, these are things that deserve punishment, for they are great moral crimes.”

“I cannot see any such, holy father.”

“I am afraid your soul is in an unclean state, daughter. There is no hope for you until this is amended; depend upon it, you can never prosper while you set at naught the desires of those who rule you.”

“But they have no right to force me to an alternative that my soul revolts at.”

“You cannot mean you revolt at becoming one of the holy and chaste sisterhood here?—that must be a libel upon your chastity.”

“Holy father, it is not the age, nor under the circumstances, at which such a proposal can be made with any chance of success; for I am quite confident that I am born with better prospects than those which now threaten me. My father and mother had no right to send me here; they led me to believe I should inherit a fortune, and now they desire I should enter a cloister.”

“And you have given them cause to change the original intention they had concerning you; you are disobedient, that is enough.”

“But, holy father, there is a power stronger than a father’s or a mother’s—a power of which the church approves. What would you more?”

“What power?”

“The divine command which says, we shall leave a parent and fly to the arms of him whom we have chosen to become our husband.”

“The devil can quote scripture when he has any object in view. But, Juliet, you are carried away by the strength of your own passion. This is a disgraceful marriage, and one you should not contract—one that would never be sanctioned by them.”

“It might be so—that is, unsanctioned by them; but there is no disgrace in being married to a young officer who loved me.”

“And whom you mean really to marry?”

“Yes.”

“And you would, in fact, marry any one who would offer himself, instead of being a nun?”

“I would sooner die—and I will, by slow starvation—sooner than become one of this or any other order.”

“I see—but who was this young man?”

“Jules di Maestro.”

“How strange—how passing strange!” said the monk, changing his tone from one of severity to one of sadness and sorrow.

“Why, what ails you, holy father? Has anything happened?”

“I know not, my daughter, whether to feel most sorrow or most anger; but your case is one that requires some care. Whether to tell you all, or whether to conceal a part, or—or—in fact, to tell the whole and trust to your goodness.”

“What do you mean—what do you mean? Your manner distresses me. I cannot understand you at all—speak, for the love of Heaven!”

“I can hardly do so, unless, by a solemn vow, you promise secrecy.”

“I swear,” said the hasty and impatient Juliet.

“Then listen.”

“I do—I do. For Heaven’s sake, keep me no longer in suspense!”

“Well, then, Jules di Maestro and I concocted a plan together, which we were to execute with the view of getting you out of this convent, so that you might both quit the kingdom of Naples, and get into some of the free states.”

“Oh, dear Jules! and did he really take so much trouble about me—did he really mean to do so much? I can never be grateful enough to him.”

“Why, you remember his last attempt?”

“I heard of it; but it did not succeed, But it must be two months ago.”

“It was. We both were present.”

“Both! You?”

“Yes; I was present, and wounded in the affray, though not so bad as poor Maestro.”

“Hurt! but he has got over that, else you would not come here from him to plan another escape, which I see you have. I am truly sorry for his hurts; but he is, no doubt, well again.”

“Stay—stay—you are much too sanguine.”

“He has not forgotten me?”

“No; but you must permit me to speak. I am quite sure that had you heard the whole of the affair, you would not speak in this strain; for had I known that I had to tell you unwelcome news, I would not have undertaken this affair, even urged as I have been by him and your beauty.”

“What mean you?”

“Why, that Jules is dead. He died within a few days after the last attempt that he made to rescue you from your captivity.”

“What, do I hear aright! Jules dead! Great God, impossible—quite impossible! Nothing so dreadful can be real.”

“I am sorry to say it is so,” said the monk; “very sorry.”

“But how did it fall out?” asked Juliet, who appeared to be too much stunned to feel anything acutely; “tell me how.”

“When we made our last attempt to get you out, it failed; for we were both compelled to defend ourselves, and to fly before a numerous body of men. I should have got clear of them, but I saw that Jules was made prisoner, so I charged and rescued him from their hands.”

“It was nobly done of you.”

“Then, you see, I got some marks that I could not help; there were too many; but poor Jules got mortally wounded.”

“Heaven be merciful to him!”

“I hope so; but he was not killed immediately. I got him quite away without any one being able to tell who he was, but that was an effort that cost me much. I took him away, as I said, and I sat by his side when he breathed his last breath.”

“And what said Jules?” inquired Juliet, as she shed many bitter tears. “What said he? did he not curse her who had caused him such an end?”

“No, no; Jules did not; he wept when he knew his wounds were mortal, not because he was to die, but because he must leave you here, and you would be for ever ignorant of his fate; that is what most affected him, I assure you.”

“Ah! he was of a noble, generous nature.”

“I, however, promised him that I would see you, and let you know how the matter had stood with him; and he gave you his last blessing, and desired me not to tell your family that he was dead, as it would be a triumph for them; at the same time he wished, if possible, I could supply his place to you in his stead.”

“No, no,” said Juliet; “no, no; that can never be. I loved Jules, and can never love any one else, and will never try. No, no; Jules and Jules only, will I live for!”

“But he is dead.”

“Then for him will I die, too; he died for me, and I will for him.”

“But his last words were to me—‘Go and see Juliet, tell her truly how I died, and what my last wishes were. Those I have formed with the full belief that they are for her benefit. I know how she is placed—without a friend, and in danger.’”

“Yes, yes; now I have no one to help me.”

“You have me, if you choose.”

“Not at the price you spoke of.”

“But you know not how clearly he expressed himself upon the matter; he knew the life you lead then—what it will be by and by—you know the starvation which you will have to feel, and, perhaps, be built up in a wall after all.”

“Oh, God!”

“He said, ‘See, and tell her you have nearly lost your life in serving me, and in serving her; that I am under an obligation to you for saving my life more than once. Thus, Juliet is the last word I pronounced, and the last I thought of—but if I had a legacy to leave you,’ he said, ‘I would leave her, and die happy if I thought you would enable her to escape. Marry her, and keep all the world at defiance—then, indeed, I could be happy—almost as happy as if I lived to be in your happy position.’

“‘I will,’ I replied; ‘I will endeavour to obtain her escape.’

“‘Will you swear?’

“‘I do swear,’ I replied; ‘and at the same time I will risk my life, and lose it, if she will accept of me for a husband; but I cannot for less.’

“‘You have said enough,’ he replied; ‘I am satisfied.’”

“And he died?” said Juliet.

“Yes; he died; but I have been long enough. I will see you again before another day is past, and then I will learn your determination. Do not let my cause be rejected because I have not urged it forward as I could have done; but the truth is, it is an honest one, and it will speak for itself. Farewell for the present; be secret and silent. They think me monk, for I have assumed this disguise, at the peril of my life, which will be taken with cruel tortures if I am discovered.”

There was a pause, when the monk resumed again,—

“If you can consent to become my wife by this time to-morrow, I will endeavour to free you from bondage.”

“Why purchase the motive to a good action?”

“I do not do so. I only purchase a right which, if risk of life, and all that man hold dear, be anything, why, you will not think me a Jew in the bargain. Think, lady, think upon what I have offered you.”

“I do think; but ’tis a hard bargain for me to lose my liberty either way.”

“Nay, you gain it, for you would be my mistress. But, hark! here comes, the abbess. I must bid you adieu.”

“How fares the penitent?” inquired the abbess, entering.

“I cannot gain either a satisfactory or an unsatisfactory answer to your inquiry. I will, however, see her to-morrow again, and if I find she is obdurate, perhaps the shortest way will be an application to the inquisition.”

“Think of that, daughter,” said the abbess, leaving the cell.

“Think of that,” added the monk, “as your means of leaving the cell—of escaping. Farewell, daughter. Benedicite.”

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Chapter CLXIII

THE NUN’S ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM THE CONVENT OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN.—THE PURSUIT AND THE DISCLOSURE.—THE ESCAPE OF THE PRETENDED MONK.

The next day all Naples was alive to the fact that a holy man had been murdered in the wood Del Notti—a holy brother of the order of St. Francis, who was much respected by the good people of Naples.

Jose and Fiametta both attended before the municipal authorities to give the required information they had given the monk gold to remain by the side of the dead man whom Jose had killed.

There was a general terror throughout Naples, for no one was aware of how the matter had fallen out, nor how the enormity would be punished, and who would be the sufferers in the present case.

The officers of the state were in active search after the perpetrator of so wicked a deed—as well as the officers of the inquisition.

• • • • •

The next time Father Francis called at the convent, he went straight to the lady abbess, and said to her with some earnestness,—

“I am sorry to tell you, the more I reflect upon the conversation I had with your neophyte Juliet, I have some strong doubts about the course I originally thought of pursuing towards the young person.”

“In what respect, holy father?”

“I thought of pursuing a mild course towards her.”

“I have done it, and failed.”

“The reason I think is not that she is hardened, but that she simply does not believe we will proceed to the extremity that we have threatened.”

“I think she is hardened, holy father.”

“Time alone will show; but I have altered my plans respecting her.”

“In what respect, holy father?”

“I think I will begin to strike terror into her soul, and at once shew her the reality of my intentions, with respect to what I shall subject her by way of punishment for her resistance to her religious superiors.”

“Very good, holy brother; I think it the plan that will most likely succeed the best; if she be terrified, she will be obedient.”

“And to that end,” said the monk, “I have ordered the alguazils of the inquisition to be here in half an hour’s time, when she will be carried there, and subjected to the first process of torture.”

“You will not hurt her?”

“Not much.”

“Just enough to teach what powers you can exert.”

“Yes, just so. Now, when they come, let me know, and, if she consents to go, all well and good; and, if she do not, we must use force.”

“And how long will you keep her at the inquisition?” inquired the abbess; “because, eventually, the parents will claim her of me.”

“About three weeks, at the farthest; but, if the parents are troublesome, name the inquisition, and say holy brother Francis, from Rome, will come and confess them, and make some inquiries concerning their belief and faith in the church.”

“I will, holy father.”

The monk now returned to the cell where the unfortunate Juliet was confined, and, on opening the door, he found her in tears.

“Juliet,” he said, “I come again.”

“You are here;” she replied, “I see.”

“And I am here with all the means of escape; you have but to say the word, and you are free and at liberty.”

“I cannot—I cannot.”

“You cannot. Do you love life—do you love liberty?”

“I do.”

“And yet you choose the cold, bare walls of a cloister, to a life of happiness and love; to a life that is made for such as you.”

“I cannot love you.”

“I love you; that I have risked my life for you more than once, is true; my persecution is another proof of that.”

“It may be so.”

“Then why not consent? you have no alternative that can interest you more, or that will offer you more happiness.”

“I cannot so soon forget Jules.”

“Nay, we will not quarrel about that; I cannot expect you. I am not unreasonable, because I know so well the circumstances of the case. All is haste and confusion; there is no time for thought or preparation—all lies in self-preservation; say at once you will have me; I will endeavour to gain your love and esteem afterwards; our happiest days, our courting-time will come after our wedding.”

“It cannot come.”

“But will you choose the horrors of the inquisition rather than wed one who would give life and fortune to you?”

“Who speaks of the inquisition?” inquired Juliet, terrified.

“The abbess spoke to me about it when I came here last time, and said she had your father’s commands to deliver you over to them.”

“I’ll not believe it.”

“I entreated her not to do so, but to leave it in my hands, and I would undertake to communicate with the inquisition, and bring their officers here to-day.”

“And have you?”

“I have brought those who will counterfeit them, and carry you off. The plan is matured. Will you leave this place, wed me, and be a happy woman, or remain here to be tortured and disfigured by the tortures of the inquisition—perhaps to die in their hands?”

“Horrible!” said Juliet, with a shudder.

“Think on this and on that.”

At that moment a tremendous uproar occurred in the convent, and a ringing of bells. The pretended monk started, and listened attentively.

“They come,” he muttered—“they come!”

“Have they discovered you?” inquired Juliet.

“I know not—I care not if they have. Will you quit the convent, and leave Naples with me? Will you become my wife? You see what I have risked for you. I wait but your answer; they are coming.”

Before any answer could be given, the door was thrown open, and the abbess, followed by a troop of soldiers, entered the cell, and, among them, the vampire monk saw his late adversary, Jose, and his love, Fiametta.

“There is the murderer,” said Jose, pointing to the monk, whose cowl had fallen off; “and he is the man whom I believed I had killed.”

“Oh, yes, it is the same horrid face!” said Fiametta.

“The murderer of Father Francis?” said the abbess.

“I know not how it was done; but I told Father Francis to watch and pray by the dead body, and see it decently buried, and he said he would do so. I gave him gold, and left him at his watch and his devotions.”

“And he is dead now—his cassock and papers torn from him.”

“Seize him, comrades!” said the officer.

At the sound of the officer’s voice, Juliet looked up, and beheld her lover, Jules di Maestro, whom she was told had been killed. She sprang up, saying,—

“It is all false, then. You are not slain—you are still living—and you did not send this man to marry me?”

“I—who—Oh! Juliet, have I found you?”

“I am here, dear Jules. Take me hence—take me hence!”

“I will not do so now; but I have their majesties’ favour, and will take care you shall be released from this vile durance.”

“And that man——”

“Ay, look to your prisoner,” said the officer.

But there was no prisoner to look to. He had slipped off his cowl and cassock, and left the convent, leaving all present immersed in their own affairs. The abbess was indignant at the imposture, and would not risk Jules’s appeal, on behalf of Juliet, to the king, and at once consented to her release and immediate marriage; and at the same time Fiametta consented to wed Jose, so that all was forgotten, save the murder of the holy Father Francis, and the resurrection of the vampire monk, who was, in reality, no other than Sir Francis Varney, who was no more heard of in Naples, but supposed to roam about the world at large.

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Chapter CLXIV

THE STORM.—A SHIPWRECK AT SEA.—THE HAPLESS FATE OF THE MARINERS.

The morning was ushered in with wind and rain; a tempest was howling over the main; the seas lashed the shores with a fury that made it dangerous for even such vessels as were moored; and great fears were entertained that many wrecks would be seen before the night set in. The roar of the ocean and the bellowing of the wind was almost deafening; and the few fishermen and sailors that now and then showed themselves, as they came towards the shore to ascertain the safety of their little barques, could scarcely make themselves heard.

The sky was too heavy, and the rain too incessant, to permit them to see very clearly or very far; they could not see any ships in the offing.

“Neighbour,” said one, “did you hear the wind in the night?”

“Hear it!” replied the man spoken to; “could I help it? Who is there that could sleep, while such a tempest was blowing great guns. I never heard anything like it in all my life. God help those poor fellows who are at sea such a night as this.”

“So say I, neighbour, so say I; if there be any upon this coast—if any awake with the morning dawn and find themselves upon a lee shore, they will never get off again, depend upon it; they are all lost men.”

“So they are; there’s no hope for them on this shore; every vessel must, indeed, come upon it, and no aid could be rendered to them.”

“You are right, neighbour. I am glad our boats are high and dry; for, if they were not, they would never be on the sea again, except as fragments; every timber in them would be broken to pieces, and scattered about the beach.”

“Ay, ay, ’tis an awful day. I propose, neighbour, we should make an attempt to get our boats still higher on the beach; see, the sea comes now within a few boat-lengths of them; a few more waves heaving one upon the other will at last reach them, and, if so, we are, indeed, poor men, neighbour.”

“With all my heart; we have no time to lose, neighbour—see, the waves have got nearer yet—come on, come on.”

The two fishermen hurried down to the beach; and, with the aid of one or two more, who had hurried onwards with the same object as themselves, that of putting the boats out of danger from the waves, they succeeded; and then they returned, leaving their boats, their only wealth, high above the reach of the most tempestuous sea.

“There, neighbour, I never heard such a sea. I will go and see what can be done in-doors by the fire-side; this is not a day to be out in; you are wet through in about ten minutes, and nothing to do but to look on the black clouds.”

“No, neighbour; though I don’t think in-doors much better, for I expect our roof to come off, or the chimney to fall over; and must consider myself very fortunate if I do not have the whole house blown down.”

“Ay, ay; but I expect to hear of a few accidents. I don’t see any vessel coming in the horizon at all—do you see any?”

“None.”

“Well, I hope there may be none. I’m for the house; too much of this may be hurtful to a fisherman; so, good day.”

“Good day, for the present. I dare say we shall see each other before the day’s out, if anything may happen in the shape of wreck.”

“Safe and sure to be out.”

“If you hear a gun, let me know, if I should not be out; for the wind blows and the sea roars so loudly that I can scarcely hear at all.”

“I’ll be with you; and do you the same for me, if I should happen to miss it; though I can’t tell how that can be, as the wind blows dead in shore.”

“It’s a bargain—I’ll do it.”

The two fishermen parted from each other, and entered their own dwellings to escape the fury of the elements; for there was nothing to keep them outside, but there was everything to induce them to stay in-doors—a warm fire and freedom from the wind and rain, though that howled and roared in the chimneys in a frightful manner.

• • • • •

If the aspect of the affairs was bad on the land, it was much worse at sea; for there a vessel rode out the fury of the storm gallantly enough, and resisted the force of the winds and waves for some time; but she could not resist the impetuosity of the elements, though she strove hard and resisted long.

She strained, and timber after timber started, masts were gone, and the rudder became damaged, and at length no hope was left.

The crew was not a large one, and the pumps had become completely choked and useless; while the vessel was drifted hither and thither without any means of guidance whatever; she was at the mercy of wind and waves.

“We are drifting towards the shore,” said the mate to the master; “we cannot keep her head out to sea at all.”

“I know it,” answered the master, gloomily—“I know it; she has been making land for some time now, and as we have neither rudder, nor sails, nor masts, we may as well make our peace, for the worst must soon come.”

“I expected that some time ago, when I found that the wind was set dead on shore, and the rudder was gone.”

“Surely, we haven’t much time to lose; let the guns be fired, as a signal of distress; it may give warning to those on shore.”

“We cannot expect assistance.”

“Not here, I know.”

“Certainly not; no boat would live for a moment in a sea like this.”

“No, I know it would not; but it may put them upon the look out, and some of our poor fellows may get picked up; for we don’t exactly know how far we may be driven towards the land, and we may be sent right on to the beach, for aught we can tell.”

“So we might.”

“I hope we may.”

“Are the guns ready?”

“Yes, sir, they are loaded; but there is only one barrel of powder dry.”

“Let it be cared for; fire the guns.”

The order was promptly obeyed, for the men had left off pumping, conceiving it useless to continue it any longer; indeed, they could not, for the pumps were no longer serviceable, and they saw the land ahead, and each man made up his mind that the struggle for life was about to commence; while the firing of the guns was a measure of precaution which might, or might not, be of use; and as every one clung to hope to the last, the order was obeyed with alacrity.

The guns were fired in minute intervals, and at length every half minute while the powder lasted, and then they ceased.

There was not more than from fifteen to twenty souls on board; but there were several passengers among them; one in particular was remarkable for his height, and the singular pallid hue of his features.

He was reserved, but of gentlemanly deportment; he was well aware of his danger, but it did not appear to render him incapable of seeing and understanding what was going on; but he was grave and melancholy.

“How long, captain, do you think it will be,” he said, approaching the master, “before the vessel will break up; for I see that we shall be wrecked, that is no secret at all to any of us, and certainly not to me.”

“I don’t know,” replied the captain; “it is impossible to say.”

“Cannot you form an opinion upon the subject?” inquired the stranger.

“I can; but it is only an opinion. I can give you no information,” replied the captain, who did not wish to give an opinion upon such a subject.

“Certainly, I am aware of that. I asked for an opinion; if you have one, perhaps you may be good enough to favour me with it, if it be not too great a favour to expect from you, sir. I thought you had experience enough to enable you to form an opinion, and it was for that reason I asked you.”

“Well, sir, we strike in five minutes, perhaps in twenty; it depends upon wind and waves, our course, and how far we may go ashore.”

“I understand you; if we are forced in upon the shore in a direct line, we may expect the shortest time.”

“We may.”

“And if we should not meet with any obstruction, we may be thrown far on shore.”

“Yes; if we had but the means of guiding the vessel, I could steer her within fifty or a hundred yards of the shore, where she would strike, and a better chance would then be had of some reaching the shore.”

“Which is now rather more than uncertain.”

“It is so,” said the master.

At the moment there was such a shock from the vessel striking upon a sunken rock, that they were all thrown down on the deck, and the sea made a clear breach over her, and swept away several of the crew.

The master contrived for a moment or two to secure himself to a spar, with the hope that he would be able to float off, but this was a vain hope, for a moment after he was lifted up by a sea, and dashed against the stump of the mast, and crushed in a horrible manner, his blood dying the deck for a minute, and then it was washed away, as he himself was by the same wave, and was not seen again.

The master no doubt had been killed, and there was nearly all of the crew swept away; but among those who yet survived, was to be seen the tall stranger, who stood in the storm, and held on by a portion of the vessel; he still braved the fury of the waves as they broke over the deck, clearing all before them.

Each breach of the sea made away with some one of the unhappy mariners who yet clung with hopeless desperation; but yet they feared to quit their last hold, and to throw themselves into the foam that was boiling around them.

In the meantime the vessel heeled about, and every now and then, being in shallow water, a great wave would come and lift her up, and then leave her higher on the rocks, but giving her each time dreadful shocks, and breaking her keel up.

The only hope the unfortunate men had, was that some portion of the wreck upon which they might chance to be, would be floated to the shore before life was extinct; but this was more and more hopeless, for the breakers over which they would have to float would probably be their destruction, for they would be dashed to pieces.

The wind and the waves howled and roared, and drowned all noise—nothing could be heard, and nothing seen, for the waves broke over them so furiously, and raged so high above them, that they neither could do so, nor even see the shore. Nothing but a white sea of foam and spray met their eyes, whenever they cold raise them, and free them from salt water.

At length an immense wave came rolling towards them; the men shrieked as the flood came onwards. In a moment afterwards they were lifted up, vessel and all, and carried a few yards further onwards and then left, with a report that seemed like that of a cannon to them; but they felt the shock, and when the wave left them, the vessel was no more; a mere mass of boards and other matters floated about; she had been utterly and entirely destroyed; no vestige of her was left, and nothing but a confused mass of planks was to be seen, with here and there a human being clinging to them for life. But, alas! their efforts were vain—they sank—they could not sustain the battle with the waves and the breakers; they were dashed to mummies, and every limb broken on the foaming, raging breakers.

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Chapter CLXV

THE FISHERMEN.—THE DESPAIRING CRY OF THE MARINERS.—THE BREAKERS FROM THE SHORE.

On shore the day wore away; the wind blew furiously, and the ocean roared to such an extent, that no other sound was audible; and the fishermen who lived upon the coast kept within doors, knowing that nothing could be done out of doors on such a day; and each one seated by the fire, began to recount some wonderful tale of death and shipwreck, or of happy escapes from the boiling sea, until noon had long since passed, and the turn of the day showed a decided approach towards evening; but no abatement of the tempest.

The principal fisherman on the coast, a man whose poverty was less, rather than his wealth was greater than his fellows, sat by his fireside, with one or two others of his class seated with him.

“I never saw a worse storm,” said one of them.

“I have,” said Massallo, the fisherman.

“You have?” said one of his comrades, in his turn.

“I have, I can promise you—one that blew me upon this coast, where I have ever since remained, and intend to remain.”

“I have heard you say so; but I never heard the particulars of that story; it must have been many years ago, I fancy.”

“Yes, it must have been fifteen years ago,” said Massallo, speaking; “fifteen years ago at the very least, if not more than that.”

“Well, I think it must be quite that time; for my old man has been dead these fourteen years, and he remembered you very well, and used to speak of you; and, as I thought, you must have known him more than a year.”

“Aye, two.”

“Well, it must, then, have been more than sixteen years ago since you came here.”

“I dare say it was; very nearly seventeen years ago, now I come to think of it. The storm, if possible, blew harder, and the waves beat higher than they do now; the rain was heavier than it rains now; and, in addition to all, the thunder and lightning were tremendous, not a sound could be distinguished. The speaking-trumpet was useless—no sound issued from it—all was confusion and danger.”

“It must have been a rare time, certainly.”

“It was a time for devils to be abroad, and not for men; but we were compelled to pump, and cut away the wreck. Why, you see, we had been chased by the Algerines, and we had got nearer to the land than we would have gone, but for the fact that we desired to escape from a superior and formidable enemy, who knew no mercy.

“Yes, the Algerines, if they had spared us, would have made slaves of us for our lives, and there would have been little wisdom in being caught by them, if we could help it.”

“I should imagine no one would ever do it.”

“Well, that was the cause of our being in shore nearer than we ought; but we noticed that the Algerine sheered off at a moment when there was but little chance of our escaping him; but we could not tell the reason; but we concluded that he saw some danger, of which we were at that moment ignorant.

“Well, we had not time to haul out a little before we were surprised by a tremendous clap of thunder and lightning, as vivid as if it had been brought from all quarters of the world, and loosened at one and the same moment.”

“It must have added to your terrors.”

“It was the main thing that wrecked us on this coast.”

“What, the lightning! why, I suppose it struck you, then?”

“Yes; we could have held off, or run the vessel bump ashore—almost dry—but we lost all command over her, when the lighting shivered our mast to atoms and left the stump burning in the vessel; then, more than that, it killed two of our best hands at that moment, and most of us were knocked up and unable to work at the pumps; but it was of no use; we came ashore, crash went the vessel, and we were all in the boiling sea in an instant, and a wave or two more threw me on the beach, without any fatal injury, and I scrambled up out of their reach.”

“And then you remained by us.”

“Yes; I did not find means to return whence I came for some years.”

“Perhaps you had reason.”

“I had; I was a rival for a girl; I was then endeavouring to win money; I had entrusted some money in the vessel—all I had; and with her I lost all, and with that all I lost even hope, and never returned to my native home.”

“Did the girl love you?”

“She liked me well enough to have me, if her relations would consent, but they would not, unless they saw I had more money than I could obtain; and, in default of that, they would marry her to another, who had more money than I; and I only obtained time to get money by the girl’s intercession; but I was balked.”

“Well, that was bad; but I suppose you were well assured that you would be rejected if you had not money.”

“I was, by her family.”

“And herself——”

“That was not so sure; and yet they had great influence upon her; but I could not have the courage to go back and ask her to wed poverty; a man without even the means of purchasing a wedding garment.”

“You did right, neighbour.”

“I did, and I knew it,” replied the fisherman, bitterly.

“But you have prospered since; and you have been happy, if I mistake not.”

“Yes, I have been prosperous, and tolerably happy; it is wonderful how men adapt themselves to the circumstances around them.”

“They do; if they did not, how insupportable would life be.”

“You are right; I should have been miserable for ever; I should never have recovered my feelings, and should never have been what I am now.”

“The storm seems as furious as ever, neighbour,” observed one of the fishermen, after a long pause, for they were meditating upon what they had heard, “and I think we shall have but a very rough night of it.”

“Good; we shall have a night of it.”

“I think,” said another, “I must be getting near my own fireside by this time; they will expect me home, or think some accident has happened.”

“And I will step out to see how the weather looks before it grows dark; there appears no change.”

“Hark! what is that?”

There was a moment’s pause, and in about a minute, in one of the lulls of the wind, they thought they heard a gun; but the storm increased so as to leave them in great doubt of what it was.

“It was a gun, I think,” said the fisherman. “Such sounds as those I have heard before; but ’tis hard to tell them from the sounds of the elements.”

“We can tell when we get outside, I dare say; but the wind sweeps all sounds past so rapidly that it is scarcely possible to tell even there; but there is yet light to see, and as the sun sets in the horizon, we have a chance of seeing a sail if there be one.”

“We have, but not of helping her.”

“True; there is no help for those on board.”

“May Heaven have mercy upon the poor mariners,” said the fisherman’s wife. “It is hard times with them now. Life is dear to all, and they will cling to it. Do what you can for the poor beings.”

“There’s no doing anything,” said the fisherman, gloomily. “Neither boat nor ship can ride through such a sea, on the ocean or at anchor.”

“But they may be cast ashore, and they may not be quite dead, you know; instant aid might avail much, when even they had ceased to feel.”

“We will not fail in that particular. We are going down to the beach now, and shall not neglect any means that are in our power, at all events; more we cannot do, but that much shall be done, and I hope it may be of some service.”

“Hark! the same sound again,” said his companion.

“I did not hear it.”

“Nor I.”

“Come on; we shall now know better in the open air,” said the fisherman, as he wrapped himself up in a large rough coat, and pulled his hat over his eyes. “The rain is as heavy as ever, and I think it will soon fill the sea to overflowing.”

The fishermen left the hut and proceeded towards the beach; at least, they did not go down, for the waves ran so high that they beat a long way inland—more so than they had ever done before.

“What do you think of our storm?”

“It is a complete tempest—furious; and the wind blows the waves towards the shore, and that is the cause why we have the sea so high; and should the wind continue in that quarter for a day or two, even our cottages will be in some danger.”

“I dare say they would; but it would be without example if the winds were to continue in that quarter for so long a time, blowing a complete hurricane without any intermission. I should almost think the world about to end.”

“Do you see any vessel out in the horizon?” inquired one of the fishermen.

“Not I.”

“But I can hear the gun.”

There came booming across the waters the sound of a piece of artillery. There was no mistaking it—it was plain and evident to all that there was a vessel in distress somewhere, but they could not exactly tell where.

Again the sound reached them on the wind, accompanied by the roar of the elements; but it was enough to distinguish it by from the rest of those awful sounds, which spoke plainly to them of the dreadful fate of the unfortunate men who were on board the vessel in distress.

“Can you make them out?” inquired one of the fishermen of his companion. “I cannot see her, though I hear the guns, and can almost imagine her whereabouts.”

“No, I can’t see her,” replied the man spoken to.

“I can though,” replied the first fisherman; “she lies close in shore, not a mile out, nor yet that. I think she’s dismasted.”

“I see her now, myself. I looked about in the horizon, above her there. She labours much, and the sea breaks over her.”

“She has lost her rudder, I have no doubt, and is drifting right in shore. What will become of them, I cannot well think.”

“It is too easy to think.”

“Do you imagine that one man among the whole crew can be saved?”

“Hardly, on such a shore as this, with rocks on all sides; every man that is swept overboard will be dashed to pieces, and disabled, even if lashed to spars.”

“You are right; for if one man survives this wreck, it will be a miracle, and I can hardly believe it to be possible.”

They now watched the course of the vessel. The guns had ceased to fire, and daylight was fast departing; and though she came nearer, yet she became less distinct; but still they could see her, and note her progress well through the surf that rose up around her as it dashed against the labouring vessel’s side.

“She strikes,” cried one of the men; “that shivering action is her first shock.”

“Yes,” said a companion. “Poor wretches, they have but a short time now. She will go to pieces on those rocks as sure as they are there.”

“May she not hold together?”

“No; see, she heaves up again! No; as there are but bare rocks under her, and she will not settle into any place, but continue beating and bumping upon them until she will break and split to shivers, not a timber can hold.”

“Too true—too true,” said his companion.

The fishermen now bent their eyes upon the ocean, where this exciting scene was going on, but they spoke not. It was growing yet darker, and yet they gazed steadfastly, heedless of the beating and overwhelming rain; but they could hardly see the vessel, until at length a loud shriek came to them, borne to them upon the hoarse winds, and heard distinctly above the roaring of the ocean.

The fisherman knit his brows, and compressed his lips, as he heard the sounds, and then, clasping his hands, he said,—

“Heaven have mercy on them! for I fear the sea will have none. It’s all over, and they are dead and dying. Follow me!”

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Chapter CLXVI

THE ONE BODY WASHED ASHORE.—THE FIRST REQUEST.—THE SHIPWRECKED STRANGER.

The fishermen followed down towards the beach, for they had been standing upon some cliffs which commanded the sea below, which now was one dark boiling mass, in which nothing at all was distinguishable; and, therefore, they could not tell what went on below.

They soon arrived at the little bay, in which their fishing-boats used to ride; but they had been drawn up beyond the reach of the sea, though the sea now ran quite up into the land, and they stood watching the waves as they rolled upwards.

“Had we not drawn our boats higher,” said one “they would have been wrecks by this time, and we should have been beggars.”

“Ay; so we should, neighbour.”

“Don’t you see the waves beating over the very spot were they lay?”

“I do; and they ain’t far from them even now, and I am in some fear lest they reach them; but they have been moored as well.”

“They are doubly secured.”

“Do you see anything upon the water yet?” inquired the first fisherman.

“Nothing.”

“Nor I, and I have strained my eyes to their utmost. They are most likely all dashed to pieces, and they are not likely to live through such a sea.”

“No, no; they must be overwhelmed with water. God help them, poor fellows! and if they are not to be saved, may they soon have an end to their tortures, for the strife after life must be dreadful.”

“It is dreadful,” said the other; “but you must know that the sufferings are endured under excitement, and therefore not so much felt as when they have been saved. To have passed the barrier of life, and to become insensible to all, and then to be recalled to life, is an agony not to be described. I have seen men who have been restored to life, and who have solemnly declared that the pangs of death they could encounter, and not those of a return to life.”

The fisherman made no reply, but stood listening to the howlings of the storm, and watching the waves; but this was productive of nothing—they watched for more than two hours, and yet nothing came ashore.

“I don’t see we can do any good here,” said one.

“Nor I. Those who were alive, must now have been dead some time.”

“Yes; the sea don’t wash them this way.”

“Most likely,” added another, “they are washed among the breakers, and dashed against the cliffs, and therefore cannot reach this place, where they can reach the land.”

“It usually happens so.”

“It does; but we may as well return. There is a wreck, no doubt.”

“That is quite settled.”

“Quite, as you say; but there are no signs of it.”

“Save such as you saw.”

“Yes; we have evidence enough of the fact. We saw her go to pieces, and we have heard the death-shriek of the mariners, and more we cannot have seen. When we come down here in the morning, we may indeed see the bodies, and the broken and severed planks of the unfortunate vessel, strewn over the sands.”

“I shall return again after I have had an hour or two’s turn in,” said the fisherman.

“Give me a call,” said his companion, “and I will go with you.”

“And I.”

“Agreed. Then about midnight we will again visit the beach, and see if any of the men are ashore.”

• • • • •

There was no one now by the shore, and nought save the sounds of the turmoil of the elements could be heard. What other sounds can be any possibility be distinguishable at such a time? There was nothing that could be done there that would sound. The loud roar of the breakers was tremendous; the dash of the waves against the cliffs, and the steady bellowing of the wind, which sounded not much unlike a steady and continued report of great guns fired at a distance, were as but one sound and that sound of a strange, awful, and furious character—perfectly dreadful.

There was one body, however thrown up by the waves, as if they would yield that one alone, and no other, or as if that one was the only one they refused to swallow; it floated about for some time, and was thrown hither and thither, now thrown on shore by one wave, and withdrawn by another.

At last a high wave came rolling onwards, and falling upon the shore, it lifted the body up, and carried it further upon the beach and there left it, and no subsequent wave came so far as that, and it was left unmolested.

That body was the carcass of the stranger, who of all the rest had been swept towards the little bay, and deposited there alone.

• • • • •

The fisherman left his hut to call his companions, and having done so, they came towards the beach, while they conversed together.

“Well,” said one, “I did not expect to see the storm abate so soon.”

“I did not,” replied his companion, “though, I dare say, it was much too violent to last much longer; and yet I can scarcely credit my senses that it is really gone, and that the deluging rain has ceased altogether.”

“Yes; and there comes the moon peeping behind that mass of clouds.”

“The wind blows stiffly yet; but it has greatly moderated, and I think it will continue to do so.”

“I hope it may; but the sea does not abate a bit, and will not for many hours, even if the wind was to go down.”

“Oh, dear, no; the waves will keep on in this fashion for some hours; and I dare say it will be useless to get our boats out; we shall not have any more fish for some days to come.”

“Most likely not; but I would not venture to go out while the sea is heaving, after such a storm as this; there would be but little use in doing so, I am quite persuaded; but what is that yonder?”

“Where—I see nothing?”

“There, lying a few yards from the reach of the waves; to me it looks like a human body. It is quite quiet and still—no motion—it is, I fear, dead; there is no motion, and the attitude is that of one who has not moved after he was thrown there—I think not, however; but let us see what it is.”

The fishermen now went down unto the beach, where the body lay, for such it really was; and, when they reached it, at once saw it was a human body, and they all paused before it.

“Bring it higher up on the beach; the waves may come upon you presently—they are high enough. Bring him up higher on the beach, and you will then see what state he is in; for if his limbs are broken, and his body otherwise injured to any extent, you may spare much useless labour.”

The fishermen drew the body up higher; they then carried him to a dry and sheltered spot, and examined him, but found no particular injuries to speak of, but that he was apparently drowned.

“What course to pursue,” said one, “I don’t know; no doubt but he is quite dead; he must have been in the water several hours, besides being knocked about on the breakers, which is enough to destroy life itself.”

“I should imagine so; and yet, we had better take it up to the cottage, and place it under cover; indeed, we cannot tell how long it has been thus; therefore, I say we had better make some attempt to recover him; he may yet come round, though there may be but little hope in it.”

“We will try; stand out of the moonlight—we shall be able to see presently better what he is, than we can now.”

The moon was now freed from the mass of deep heavy clouds that hung over it, like a curtain before that luminary, and which now shed a brilliant light upon the earth. The fishermen stood round gazing upon the body of the stranger.

“Ha! it moves,” said one.

The body did move, and no sooner did the moonlight fall full and fair upon its form, than it slowly raised itself upon its elbow, and gazed around. A deep inspiration took place, almost a groan, and some sea water was vomited.

“He lives—he lives!” exclaimed the fisherman.

“Take him to the hut,” said another.

They all stooped down to aid him, and began to lift him up.

“He lives—he lives!”

“Away with him to the hut,” said several of the fishermen. “Before a warm fire, and with some warm drinks, he will get better.”

“A little more light—a little more light, if you please,” said the stranger, in a bland but broken voice, as he attempted to move his hand.

“He speaks!” exclaimed the fishermen in a breath, and at the same time they removed a pace or two, and looked at each other with amazement, and then again at the stranger, who gradually rose up, and sat upright in the light of the moon.

“Are you any better?” inquired one of the men who had looked on in silent amazement, not unmixed with awe, as they gazed.

“Yes; much better. What a vile thing is sea water,” said the stranger, turning such a ghastly face upon the men that they shrunk in horror, and yet they were not men used to fear or any like passion.

However, they soon approached him, muttering to each other,—

“What manner of man is this?”

They did not long consider what was to be done, for one of their number replied,—

“Poor fellow! he is not used to the rough usage of the waves, and therefore does not improve upon their acquaintance. But let us lend him a hand.”

“With all my heart,” replied his comrades.

“Will you come with me to my cottage?” said the fisherman. “You will benefit more by a good fire than by the cold moonlight, I’ll warrant. I never throve upon night air and wet clothes, and I cannot believe you will.”

“We all know our constitutions best,” said the stranger; “but if you will grant me the accommodation you speak of, it will be welcome.”

“Come, lean upon me; never mind your clothes being wet.”

The stranger rose, and, to the amazement of all, he appeared to walk as well as any of those present; and the only difference was, he was ghastly pale, and he was dripping with sea water, which left a track after him.

“Had you been long on the beach?” inquired one.

“I don’t know,” replied the stranger. “I was insensible.”

“Can you form any idea how long you have been in the water?”

“I really cannot tell even that; for I was insensible immediately after the ship went to pieces, which she did about the close of the day; and I only remember receiving a hard blow by being struck against a rock, or a piece of timber, I cannot say which.”

“You must have been insensible for some hours.”

“I dare say I was.”

“I never heard of such a miraculous preservation.”

“Nor I.”

“To come to life, too, without any aid to recover you, that is what entirely bothers me.”

“Well, they do say, those that are born to be hanged will never be drowned,” added one of the fishermen, in an under tone, to his companion.

They soon arrived at the hut of the fisherman, in which there was a good fire, and the wife and daughter were ready to do all that could be done for the unfortunate stranger.

“You have saved a mariner, then?” said the wife.

“We have picked up one from the wreck, wife; but we cannot call him a mariner. This gentleman was, no doubt, a passenger.”

“Welcome, sir! I did not expect to see any one alive from the wreck, much less in condition to walk an speak.”

The stranger paid them some compliments; but contented himself with sitting by the fire, and being entirely passive in their hands, and eventually retired to rest well wrapped up and warm.

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Chapter CLXVII

THE FISHERMAN’S COTTAGE.—THE FIRESIDE, AND THE TRAVELLER’S BED.

The fisherman’s hut was large and roomy. There was no choice furniture, though there was enough of the homely conveniences that were to be found in such habitations—much more so than is usual. There was a large fire-place, upon which some faggots had been newly laid, and which now blazed away most cheerfully.

“Our home is humble, sir,” said the fisherman; “but such as it is, you are welcome to it, and may it serve you instead of a better.”

“I am much beholden to you,” replied the stranger; “much beholden to you, and cannot thank you enough. This change is most valuable. I do not know in what state I should have been, had you not come forward and offered the shelter of your house to me. I am very cold, indeed, and the warmth of your fire is grateful to me.”

“I am glad of it, sir. You are the only one, I fear, as far as I know, that is saved. Was there many on board?”

“About twenty, I think.”

“Poor fellows! they have met with a watery grave.”

“Yes, they have, I fear. They have had a fearful struggle, for many were lashed to spars, hoping they might be washed, or floated, ashore. I hope I am not disturbing, though I fear I am, your wife and daughter—that is your daughter, I presume, if I may judge from her likeness to yourself.”

“Yes, sir, that is my daughter; she’s a good girl, sir, though I say so, that am her father; and if a secret must be told, in another month she will exchange a father’s for a husband’s control and care, which will I hope, be a happy change.”

“They have long loved each other,” said the mother, “and, to my mind, it is cruel to keep them apart. Times will never be better, and I don’t see but they may begin the world as well as others, with little more than a will to work.”

“You are right,” said the stranger; “you are right; it was never intended that mankind should wait till circumstances were propitious, or it would have made the desire dependent upon circumstances, too.”

“You have hit the right nail, sir—you have spoken the truth; but still we must recommend caution.”

“Very right. I wish them joy and prosperity,” said the stranger.

There was now a bustle in the cottage. Some of those who had accompanied the stranger into the hut, now departed, while the remainder left a few moments after, in company, leaving the fisherman and his family with their guest.

“Well,” said one, “of all the odd looking fish that ever I saw come out of the sea, I think he beats all; not but what I make every allowance, but I cannot make any in such a case, because he has not been drowned.”

“He was quite insensible, and had been so for a long time. Don’t you remember what he said about his becoming insensible immediately after the ship struck.”

“Yes; I heard it all, but hang me if I can understand it. He is as if he had been bled to death, and then came to life.”

“He ain’t got much of a colour.”

“No; but more than that, the dreadful deathly, or ashy paleness is fearful; and then his peculiar features, his long hair, flattened to his head by the water, and the teeth in his head, which appear as if they had been set with the express intention of enabling him to catch otters.”

“That would be no easy task, either; but I must say, as you say, that there have been better looking men than he, at all events.”

• • • • •

In the fisherman’s hut the stranger was willingly attended to by the fisherman and his family, without any invidious attention; and when he had changed his habiliments, he seated himself again by the fire, when some warm drinks and other refreshment were given him.

“I did not think to find any one alive when I went down to the beach,” said the fisherman. “I thought all were lost.”

“And I doubt not but they are all lost, save myself,” said the stranger, blandly; “and though I do not appear much hurt by the occurrence, yet I feel as if the whole mass of my blood was changed, and that I should never again be what I was; that, in fact, I shall always carry about me the appearance, and certainly the feeling, of a man torn from the arms of death, and made to live.”

“It does affect some people strangely,” said the fisherman. “I know what shipwreck is myself, and, therefore, can easily guess what it is to those who are unused to the sea. I was the only one saved out of a whole crew.”

“Indeed! then your case is identical with mine.”

“In that respect it is,” replied the fisherman; “but I was used to the dangers of the sea; and, though that makes no difference when you find yourself in the boiling waters, yet a man who has the fear of wreck constantly before his eyes, can see the danger—take more precaution, and is not so likely to lose that presence of mind which at such times is so valuable.”

“So it is; though I took it very quietly, and stood still until I was thrown down by the first shock of the vessel.”

“She struck more than once?”

“She did; four or five times; she was thrown upon the rocks in shallow water, I believe, as I understand these matters.”

“Yes, it was so,” said the fisherman—“it was so.”

“Well, it was only when the waves left us that we came down with a dreadful crashing shock, which caused the vessel to shiver as if she had been but a leaf. Well, every time a wave swept towards us, it lifted the vessel off the rock, and carried her a few yards further, sometimes scraping and scratching her keel as she went along; at other times, she was lifted clear of the rocks, and then suddenly thrown upon them with great force, and then every timber separated.”

“Just what might be expected.”

“And just as it occurred,” said the stranger.

“And, of course, the crew were carried into the sea, and drowned.”

“Yes; but what became of them—I mean where they were carried to—I cannot tell; but I suppose among the tall rocks that I saw before the wreck. But why was I not carried there and left?”

“It is something that neither you nor I can tell,” said the fisherman.

“Perhaps so; but I am safe, and only so to tell the disaster to others, not for a warning; for it can be none, but I am saved.”

“You are. Perhaps you would like to lie down for an hour or two before daylight comes, and then we will take a walk down to the shore in the morning, and see if there is anything washed ashore.”

“I am tired, and think that it would be of some service, if I can sleep; though I dare say I shall be dreaming of what I have seen and felt, and hardly dare to sleep, so great is the disturbance in my mind.”

“Sit up, and welcome, by the fire,” said the fisherman; “you can do so; it may be as well, perhaps, too—you may be able to sleep that way.”

“No, no, I’ll lie down on the boards—I am not particular upon such an occasion; and, as it has turned out, I shall be too much in need of rest to sit up. The warmth of the fire, too, draws me off, I can find, and I dare say you feel it too.”

“It has that effect, as much as I am used to it,” replied the fisherman; “but do what you please; I shall turn in till daylight, unless you want anything more.”

“Nothing, thank you, my good friend, but a place to lie down on, and then I am quite content for the remainder of the night.”

“There is a settle up in yon corner where you can sleep; it is rough and homely, but we have nothing otherwise here.”

“No apology; I am too thankful for what I have escaped from, and for what I have received, to look hard at the mercies afforded me.”

• • • • •

The stranger said no more, but took the fisherman’s advice and walked to the settle, and then lay down with his face towards the fire.

“Good night,” said the fisherman; “pleasant slumbers.”

“The same to you, my friend; I hope I have not dispossessed any of your family of their means of rest. I have, perhaps, deprived them of their bed.”

“No, no; sleep in peace; we are all provided for. I sleep here,” he said, as he was about to open the door; “and my daughter sleeps there,” he added, pointing to a small door. “So, you see, we have our appointed places, and that on which you now sleep is retained for the use of any strange traveller or friend that may need it.”

“Then good night,” said the stranger, which was returned again by the fisherman, who entered his own room, leaving his guest lying on his bed, and looking around him by the light of the fire, which burned yet for some time.

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Chapter CLXVIII

THE NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN’S HUT.—THE MIDNIGHT FEAST OF BLOOD.—THE CHASE, AND THE GUN-SHOT.

The stranger, as he lay, listened to the sounds that were emitted by, and occasionally opened his eyes to gaze upon, the flames, as they ran upwards; he watched the forked tongues as they played about the faggots, and then turned his eyes towards the various parts of the apartment as it was now and then illuminated with its warm glare.

What might have been his feelings after his escape it is difficult to conjecture, for he appeared not inclined to sleep, but to gaze about him and keep watch over the fire, which every now and then blazed up afresh; and his mind appeared to be intent upon something else than merely thinking of the past—there was too much of inquiry and curiosity about it.

“The time has come round again,” he muttered; “my blood requires renewal, my strength renovation, and no aliment will do that but maiden’s blood.”

A horrible expression of countenance came over him that must have caused a feeling of horror to have crept through the veins of any one who might have been near to see him; but, as it was, he was alone, and there was no one to be terrified.

“Yes, yes; I must have that supply, else, though the sea may give up its dead, and the earth refuse to cover me, yet I may sink into that sleep I would so willingly escape from; then, indeed, I should suffer what I cannot bear to think of.

“Yet how near have I been to that death from which I have believed it impossible to return; but yet the moonbeams have found me, and I have again been re-animated, and the horrible appetite has returned which must have its periodical meal—its terrible and disgusting repast. It must be done, aye, it must be done.”

As he muttered, his lips met, and his long tongue was occasionally thrust out, as if he were anticipating the pleasures of the feast.

“Yes, yes; this very night must renew the life that has been this night restored to me. I must make a fresh attempt. I think he said his daughter lay in yonder chamber; in another hour I will adventure upon this scheme.”

His eyes were fixed upon the door, which he appeared to watch and examine with the utmost care and avidity.

He watched, however, for some time, and the flames appeared to subside, and the embers gave out a dull, red glare, and some warmth.

“Now is the moment,” he muttered, as he rose softly from his bed; “now is the moment—all are asleep, and stillness reigns around me. I will go and ascertain if all be quiet, and then to my midnight orgies—a feast that shall restore me to my life—my former self.”

He crawled out of the bed, and stood upright for a moment, and listened, and then, with a noiseless step, he crept to the door of the fisherman’s bedroom, and then listened for some seconds, and muttered as if he were satisfied,—

“Yes, yes; they sleep sound enough, and will not readily awaken.”

He then took a small cord, and tied the handle of the door to a nail on the post, so as to offer an impediment to egress from the sleeping-room, and then he went towards the other which the fisherman had told him belonged to his daughter. He paused, and listened at the door for a few moments, and then he said,—

“Yes, yes; that is the maiden’s chamber—that is sure to be her chamber—her father said so, and I have no reason to doubt he told the truth, since he had no cause to lie; here, then, is the casket that contains all my treasure—the elixir vitæ of my life—the undefiled blood of a maiden’s veins.”

He tried the door, but it was secured on the inside.

This, for a moment, disconcerted him, and he took a moment or two to consider what best could be done; and at length he saw a small chink in the wall, which he approached; then, peeping in, he saw that if he could enlarge the hole, he might push his hand in, and open the door by undoing the fastenings.

This was effected by means of a chisel which happened to be lying near at hand; then he opened it, and thrust in his hand and withdrew the bolt that held the door, and quietly opened it.

With cat-like caution he approached the bed where the fisherman’s daughter lay. She was a beautiful girl, scarce eighteen, and, by a consent of all, the queen of the place, in respect of beauty.

With greedy eyes the vampyre approached the bed on which lay the form of the sleeping maiden, and gazed upon her fair white neck and bosom—heaving with the sleeper’s breath; and then, as if he could contain himself no longer, he eagerly bent down over her, and then, as her face was turned on one side, his lips and teeth approached the side exposed.

• • • • •

A scream ran through the fisherman’s hut that awoke its inmates in an instant, and which, though it banished sleep, yet it gave not the power of thought.

“Help! help! help!” screamed the maiden.

“’Tis Mary!” said the fisherman; “surely——”

“Hasten, and see what ’tis that ails her. She never would scream so, unless in utmost peril; hasten, and see.”

“Help! help! again screamed the maiden, as she struggled in the arms of the monster, who kept her in his powerful grasp while he sought the life current that crimsoned her veins with horrible desire.

“The door is secured; d——n!” muttered the fisherman. “What does this mean? Give me my gun down, while I force the door.”

The old woman handed down the gun, while the fisherman put his strength to the door, which quickly gave way and flew open.

“Here is your gun. Be quick; but do not be too hasty in its use. See to Mary and the shipwrecked voyager.”

“Who secured my door, dame, but he?”

“The door! Ay, I remember—hasten!”

“Help—help!” again shouted or screamed Mary, but not in so loud a voice as before; she was getting weaker, and just as the fisherman emerged into the large room, the faggots fell together and gave forth a sudden blaze, and in an instant the whole place was lighted up, and the fisherman’s eye sought the couch of the stranger whom he had lodged, but the bed was empty.

“Gone!” he muttered—“gone!”

He turned his head in the direction of his daughter’s bedchamber, and saw the door was open, and he heard a struggle and a sucking noise.

“Ha!” he muttered, and rushed in exclaiming—“What means this noise? Who calls for help?”

The appearance of the fisherman was so opportune and so sudden, and so intent was the vampyre upon the hideous meal, that he did not hear the approach of the fisherman, and it was not until the latter shouted that he turned and saw him.

“Treacherous and ungrateful villain!” said the fisherman, who was almost powerless from terror and astonishment.

The vampyre turned and dropped his victim on the bed, while he endeavoured to pass the fisherman; but the act recalled him to himself, and he made a blow at him with the butt-end of the gun; but the vampyre jumped back, and the blow missed its intended object, and they both closed for a struggle.

The fisherman, however, found that he had one to do with whose strength was even greater than his own, however great that might be; and in a moment more he was thrown down, and the monster rushed across the outer room, oversetting the fisherman’s wife; and forcing open the outer door, he fled.

“I am thrown,” said the fisherman, rising; “but not done for. Mary, are you hurt?”

“Oh, my God—my God!” exclaimed the poor girl. “He had begun to eat me and suck my blood! I have the marks of his teeth in me.”

“I’ll have revenge upon him yet.”

“Nay, father. He is some monster—do not go!”

“No, no,” said his wife—“no, husband, do not attempt it!” Strong he is; he may do you a mischief.”

“I know,” said the fisherman. “He has thrown me, and he has abused my hospitality; he is not fit to live. He has not, however, any means of fighting against the contents of my gun. I have got that loaded, and will punish him. Be he man or devil, I will make the experiment of following him.”

All this took place in less time than it takes to relate it, and the fisherman rushed out of his hut to follow the stranger who had acted so badly.

It was now early dawn; and, though the waves still lashed the shore in angry violence, and kept up a ceaseless roar, yet the sky betrayed none of the signs of yesterday’s storm, but was serene and calm, and not a cloud was to be seen—nothing but a dim, grey night pervaded all space.

There was just light enough to see objects moving about, and when the fisherman got outside the hut, he saw, about a hundred yards or better before him, the form of the stranger, making for the woodland at the height of his speed.

The fisherman hastened to intercept him which, however, was unnecessary, for another, coming from that quarter, turned him, and he fled towards the sea, whither he was followed, and, when upon the cliffs, the fisherman fired, and the vampyre fell over and was supposed to have been drowned.

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Chapter CLXIX

THE ASSASSINS ON THE RIALTO.—THE ATTACK AND DEFEAT.—THE STRANGER.

On the Rialto, one evening, as the sun was sinking in the golden west, a stranger was seen walking to and fro in deep musing, apparently unmindful of what was passing around him, or of the approach of evening, an hour when the remorseless assassin is known to stalk abroad in the streets of Venice, and there the dagger finds its victim.

Several individuals looked hard at the stranger in the cloak, but no one approached him, save those who passed him, and in doing so bestowed a passing gaze upon him, which was not returned, for he heeded no one. But he was not much open to recognition even if he were known, for the cloak with which he had enveloped himself was of such ample dimensions that it completely concealed him from the curiosity of the many; indeed, his face was hardly visible, for the fur collar he wore hid all save the bridge of a prominent nose, and his eyes, which had a peculiar lustre.

The evening still grew darker and later, and the passengers were fewer and fewer, but still the tall stranger walked slowly up and down; but no one ventured to say anything, though more than one had the inclination to speak; but the tallness of the man, and the point of the long rapier which appeared beneath the cloak, checked any inclination to familiarity, and induced a more voluntary courtesy than might at all times have been accorded.

There were, indeed, a small knot of three individuals, who kept near the same place, and whose eyes every now and then directed their glances towards the stranger, as if they regarded him with impatience.

These men were of a suspicious character; they all wore cloaks and slouched hats, but they had all seen some service, and were somewhat the worse for it. They conversed together, and walked away for a short space, but they returned presently, and still found the stranger as before at the same spot.

“Well,” said one of the three, as they again met at a certain spot, “what think you now—is he a spy or not?”

“I don’t know what to think, Rubino. Spy or no spy, he will interfere with our duty to-night. I wonder what is best.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, would it be better to chance his presence, or shall we put him away? He evidently intends remaining there, the devil only knows how long.”

“I believe you; but it appears to me that both plans are objectionable to the last degree, though I confess I can see no alternative whatever.”

“Which do you consider the least objectionable plan?—that is what we have to consider, for there are but two plans, and we cannot fail to do our business; should we do so, we should lose something, and we should never get any more employment.”

“Good. If we attack him, we shall lose our chance with our better customer. We shall lose our man, at the least, if we get clear.”

“He wears a long sword, and is a tall man. If he has any skill, and I dare be sworn he has, he will prove an ugly customer.”

“We are three.”

“That is very true; but an encounter only makes it the worse, and even if he be killed, which, if we are true to ourselves, he must be, we shall be obliged to quit the spot, and our main object defeated.”

“That is most true; but shall we risk the attempt when there are two? It will make it too many odds; we shall not be so sure of success as we ought to be.”

“We have the advantage of striking when we are not seen. A blow is sure when no hand is raised to ward it off.”

“Ay, we should dispose of one before he has made any resistance, and before the other can offer any opposition or attempt any assistance, should the first have life enough to call out. Come, come, let’s have no fear of the result; it is all in our own hands.”

“Shall we not run more danger during the encounter of being taken by others who may come up, attracted by the fray? There is much to be said about making an alarm, because numbers will then be drawn upon us, and you know we have little sympathy among the multitude.”

“No, no; we must make all possible haste, and then we may elude all possible chance. Strike the blow home, and then we may baffle all; for if he cry, he will fall, and those who help him, will raise him, and we shall have time to make our escape.”

“No doubt—no doubt; ’tis a good plan—a very good plan, and one that I think will succeed; at all events, it only wants a good trial to make it succeed; you see, a strong arm, quick eye, and swift foot, is all that are necessary.”

“I see; and one more quality.”

“What is it?”

“Good luck.”

“Granted; but that often comes from the manner in which a thing is done, and sometimes from the want of skill in those who should make it the reverse. Confusion for a moment gives us our luck, and then we are safe.”

“So we are.”

“How goes the time, Rubino?” inquired one of the assassins, for such they were.

“Oh, it yet wants one hour of the time in which we are to meet him.”

“Well, then, we have more than a chance yet of our being undisturbed here, and the stranger may leave for some other part of the city; but our plan is fixed whether or no. Shall we turn into a vintner’s?”

“No; we have no time for that, as yet.”

“No time! What mean you Rubino?”

“That we have no time,” replied Rubino, “to quit this neighbourhood, because you will perceive he may come any time these next two hours, which is a matter of some importance; for if he reach home alive, we have miscarried, and incur great displeasure, if not vengeance.”

“We care but little for the vengeance of another.”

“We may not individually; but you must know, this one knows too much of us and our haunts to be a safe and pleasant enemy; besides, we shall lose a liberal patron—one who has given us some gold and promised us more.”

“Ay, ay; he’s the man to serve, and we will not disoblige him; we’ll deal fairly by him, and he cannot expect more.”

“And he will reward us liberally.”

“Amen, say I. Now we have waited long enough, let us walk down the Rialto, and when we get to the other end, we can plant ourselves in such a position to watch his advance towards us, and then we can walk to him.”

“Had we better not remain somewhere nearer at hand, because we can then start on him unawares, and thus have a blow without alarming him; and, if that be a deadly one, why, then we are safe. No one will know the mischief is done.”

“So much the better; but come, we will continue our walk; it will lull suspicion, and when we come again, one of our number can creep into one of these alcoves, and there wait against his coming.”

“And you will be at hand?”

“Of course; we shall keep upon the look out, so as to be near at the moment you commence the attack.”

“But suppose I should fall?”

“Then you must continue the attack in a sharp and rapid manner, engaging all his attention to defend himself.”

“Ay; and leave me to myself to the attack of that man yonder, should he be at hand at that moment.”

“Oh, no, no. Do not hurt yourself. You need be under no fear of that sort, for you see it will only be man to man, and a fair encounter.”

“It has never yet been fairly done, and will not be with me in this matter, don’t you see. If help arrives, I’m lost; and, if I be lost without help, it will be the worse for you. I’ll take my share of danger and mishap, but I won’t be imposed upon by a comrade, and so you will understand it first.”

“Who was desirous you should? Shall we not be at hand?”

“At your heels, I expect; but don’t you see that, by giving a minute’s time, you endanger all; for, if my first attack fail, he ought not to be allowed rallying time; he ought not to be permitted to recover himself, and attempt defence, indeed, because that gives time, and we may be beat by others coming from whatever quarter we may go.”

“We do not intend it. We only are desirous that one of us should be prepared to make the attack, while we are walking to and fro, and perhaps attracting his attention, and drawing it from you. Then we aid you; but, should you be foiled, why we will hasten as if we were coming to help him.”

“I see; well, let it be so.”

“Good. We can then act effectively, and we are the gainers by this stratagem. Now then, Roberto, do thou hide thyself in yonder alcove.”

“I will. My dagger is sharp, and you know my arm is not usually a weak one, and that I have done some service with it ere now.”

“Thou hast.”

“And it will again do more.”

“Hush! hasten in. I hear footsteps yonder. ’Tis he, I think. We will not go far, but within the reach of your eye; fifty yards, at most, will be the distance. We will take and come towards you the moment we find he has reached you.”

“Good. Begone—he comes.”

The assassin stole into an alcove, and then paused in the deep shade of the place where he had concealed himself, and the other two walked down a short distance—about a hundred and fifty yards or so—and then paused and looked back.

“Do you see anything of them?”

“No; I don’t at this moment. It is getting very dark.”

“We had better return and see what happens. We shall get up in the very nick of time, and be able to take part in the fray.”

“Well, be it so,” replied the other. “I’ll go with you; but we run some risk in encountering the stranger in the rapier and long cloak.”

“Most true; but we shall not have taken any part in the affair; that will clear us of anything that may tend to inculpate us. We are right; and, if we find our comrade hardly pressed, we can aid him, and that at a time when it is unexpected by the other party. Hark! they are at it already.”

“Come on.”

They both hastened towards the scene of combat, towards which they both ran, for they knew their comrade’s voice.

The other villain awaited the coming of the stranger, whom he was waiting to assassinate, as soon as his comrades had left him.

The unconscious stranger walked down the Rialto with a slow and steady gait, humming an air from some opera as he walked along, well pleased in his own mind. He wore his cloak open in front, and his sword dangling at his side, and altogether most unsuspicious of an attack.

Scarcely, however, had he passed the assassin’s hiding-place, than the fellow rushed out and made a desperate blow at him with his dagger, which, however, miscarried, on account of the loose manner in which he wore his cloak; the blow was foiled by the folds of the garment, and the wearer turned round.

“Villain!” he exclaimed, “thou shalt have thy deserts;” and, as he spoke, he drew his sword, and became the assailant in his turn.

[Illustration: The stranger fights back against the assassin.

“Help! help!” shouted the villain, who found himself beset by one who would quickly make him repent his temerity.

At that moment the rest of the assassins came up, and commenced a furious attack upon the single stranger, who, of course, from being almost a victor, was immediately compelled to give ground to the three.

“Help! help!” shouted the stranger, as he was forced on one knee, and that with a wound; but at that moment help was at hand, and the tall stranger stepped up to his side, and casting his cloak on one side, and drawing his rapier, he ran one of the assailants through the body and he fell backwards dead.

A furious combat ensued between the stranger and the other two assassins, who were compelled to fight, so closely were they pressed by the stranger; however, after a few moments, they turned and fled.

The stranger then turned towards the wounded man, who was rising from the ground by the help of the pillar that was supporting the sides of the alcove, and then endeavoured to stanch the wound he had received.

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Chapter CLXX

COUNT POLLIDORI’S PALACE.—SIGNORA ISABELLA, THE COUNT’S DAUGHTER.—THE INTRODUCTION.

The stranger walked up to him and offered his services, saying,—

“Are you hurt, signor?—you bleed!”

“But slightly hurt, signor, thank you for that; you have saved my life. I had been cold meat, indeed—a bloody corpse for all Venice to look upon to-morrow, but for your valour and stout assistance.”

“Name it not, signor; but the rascals have been well paid. There lies one of them—the others have escaped; but permit me, signor, to say, that the sooner you get away from this spot the better, for the knaves may return in greater force than before, or they will wait till you leave; by that time they will have rallied, and dart out upon you as you pass along.”

“I do not fear that, signor, much; but the fact is, I am almost too weak to walk unaided.”

“Permit me to render you the assistance you require. I am a stranger in this place, and therefore unused to your ways; but—”

“Say no more, signor; I will accept of your services if you will accept of a lodging at my poor home. I have that which shall make you welcome—heartily welcome; and the signora, my daughter, shall make you welcome, too.”

“Signor, if I can be of service to you I will do so with pleasure. Lend me your arm, signor; but your wound is not stanched—let me bind it more carefully and securely; you ought not to bleed from such a wound when bandaged.”

“Perhaps, signor, you have had more to do with these matters than I. I am a peaceable Venetian of rank, and neither afraid nor unwilling to draw a sword in a good quarrel, shrinking not from some odds, but I have had no practice in these matters; times and circumstances have not been propitious.”

“It matters not,” replied the stranger; “you shewed what you were when you had nearly defeated one, and afterwards kept at bay three. He must be a man who can behave thus, sir; he must have the heart and conduct of a soldier—you would be one did occasion serve—no man can be more; but I have seen many climes, and have therefore some knowledge in these matters beyond the mere inward power and courage. I have, from sheer necessity, been compelled to mix in melees, and not from inclination.”

“I thank you for your skill as a surgeon, for truly you have stopped the bleeding, which I had not been able to do myself.”

“Lean on my shoulder, signor; it will enable you to walk better. Have you far to go?” inquired the stranger.

“No, signor; but we will take a gondola, it will be the easier travelling, and, moreover, it will land us at my house, where you shall be most heartily welcome. If we turn down here, we shall soon obtain the aid of a gondolier. I had intended walking, but I have enough of that for one night, even if I were able to walk, which I am not.”

“As you please, signor.”

As the stranger spoke he walked towards the place indicated by the wounded man, and in a few moments more they reached the grand canal, and finding a gondolier sleeping in his gondola, the stranger left his wounded companion to wake the sleeper to his duty, by shaking him.

“Hillo!” said the stranger, “will nothing wake you—get up instantly, and about your duty. Do you always sleep here?”

“No, signor,” said the man, sleepily.

“Well, then, are you engaged?”

“Yes, signor, if you engage me.”

“Well, then, I do.”

“Where to, signor?”

“Come with me to bring a wounded gentleman into the gondola, and he will tell you where to. Come, quick—have you not yet awakened?”

“I’m awake, signor, and willing,” said the gondolier, following the stranger to the spot where the wounded man was standing, and, by direction of the stranger, he aided the wounded signor into the gondola.

“Now, signors, I have but to know where you desire to go to.”

“Row on until I tell you where to stop. Follow the course of the grand canal, and you will go right enough.”

There was some time spent in silence, while the gondolier rowed as desired up the grand canal, until they came to a large mansion, which the wounded man gazed upon, and, after a moment’s pause, as if he had a difficulty in speaking, he said, as he pointed to the building,—

“There, row up to yonder steps; there I will land—that is my house.”

The gondolier immediately obeyed the injunction, and pulled for the stairs, and when they reached the place, the gondolier stepped out and secured the gondola.

“Call out some of my people,” said the wounded man, “call them out. I am very stiff, and not able to get out.”

The gondolier obeyed, and in a few minutes more several men, all in livery, ran down the steps to the gondola, and lifted their master out, who appeared to be unable to do so of himself.

The gondolier was rewarded according to his deserts, and the stranger followed the wounded man into his own house, which was a most extensive building, and filled with servants, and furnished in the richest manner, displaying magnificence and wealth to a degree that was scarce to be surpassed in Venice.

They were shown into an apartment replete with every appointment that wealth or luxury could suggest, and the wounded man was placed on a sofa, and his attendants stood round him as if waiting his orders.

“Signor and stranger,” he said, “welcome to my house, as the preserver of my life. All I have here is at your service.”

“I am obliged,” replied the stranger, with a dignified acknowledgement of the courtesy—“I am obliged; but I cannot recognise on my part any such right. If I have done you service—as I will not affect to believe I have not—still you overrate the amount of it. But I will accept of your hospitality for this night; for I am a stranger in Venice, and have little or no knowledge of the best course to pursue.”

“Remain here.”

“But you had better dispatch some one for aid,” interrupted the stranger. “You are in pain, at this very instant; send for some assistance. You require the aid of a leech immediately.”

“I am faint—very faint,” he replied.

“Hasten,” said the stranger—“hasten some of you to fetch a leech, instead of losing your wits in silent astonishment.”

The servants immediately bustled about, and seemed to have awakened from a trance, and were seen running in different directions. The room was soon cleared, and the tall stranger seated himself by his wounded host.

“In me you see the Count Pollidori.”

The stranger bowed.

“I am not a native of this city, though now one of her favoured citizens. I have left the land of my birth because I and my rulers could not agree, and I ran some danger in staying against their will, and I have settled and married here.”

“Our adopted country is that which demands our care and preference,” replied the stranger. “That, at least, is my opinion.”

“No doubt. I am now,” he continued, “a widower.”

“Your lady is dead?”

“Yes; I am sorry to say so. I have, however, one child living at home, and one who is serving his country in her fleets, an honour to our house; but my greatest comfort is the dear image of my lost wife—my daughter.”

“Is she here now?”

“Yes; in this palace. Signora Isabella is devoted to her father, and would not for the world do aught that would give me a moment’s pain; indeed, she would die for me rather than I should feel displeasure.”

“Such a daughter must be a treasure.”

“She is a treasure.”

“And what an inestimable jewel would she be as a wife.”

“She will be when the day comes when she will mate, which I hope will be before I die; for I should be too anxious respecting the worth of the man who was to be her husband, to permit me to die happy, unless I saw and approved of the choice, or chose the individual myself.”

“I see you are more anxious,” said the stranger, mildly, “in providing future happiness for your daughter, rather than in hoarding wealth or titles for her.”

“I am,” said the count.

“And a most laudable ambition, too; an ambition that few parents do not neglect in the pursuit of one of a different character—either some young love, or some one who is endowed largely with worldly goods or titles.”

“My Isabella will have enough of both; and, therefore, she will not need to seek for them; but she will not throw herself away upon any nameless adventurer who may love her fortune better than herself.”

“That would be as cruel a neglect as the other,” replied the stranger; “and, in my opinion, more culpable of the two.”

“So it would.”

At that moment the door opened hastily, and a light step was heard, and before the stranger could turn round, a lovely young female rushed to the side of the count, throwing herself on her knees, saying,—

“Oh, heavens! my dear father, what has happened? Are you hurt? For Heaven’s sake, my dear father, what is the matter?”

“Little or nothing, my dear Isabella.”

“But you are wounded. Ah! there is blood! My God! my God!”

“Hush, Isabella. I am wounded, but not hurt seriously.”

“I pray Heaven it may be so. But what sacrilegious hand could be raised against you? You have wronged no one.”

“I am not aware of having done so, certainly,” said the count; “but that does not always give any security to the wealthy. They will sometimes destroy them from motives apart from individual revenge.”

“The monsters! But have the villains been secured?”

“One has paid the forfeit of his life for his temerity and villainy; the rest fled.”

“Ah! what will these assassins not risk?”

“Well, my dear Isabella, I have answered your inquiries, and now, perhaps, you will see if you be alone with me.”

“Alone with you!” repeated Isabella, not quite comprehending the words; but she looked up, and her eyes encountered those of the stranger, who was gazing earnestly upon her, and she started, as she rose and said,—

“Excuse me, signor, excuse me—I knew not any one was present.”

“Nay,” said the stranger, “filial love and respect need no excuse, signora. Do not think so badly of me as to imagine I can think otherwise than you were actuated by the tenderest impulses.”

“Your kindness, sir——”

“Isabella,” said the count, interrupting her, “but for this gentleman’s timely and efficient aid, I should at this moment have been a corpse in the streets of Venice.”

“You, my father?”

“Yes, my child. This signor came up just as I was wounded and beaten down, and saved me from death. He killed one of my assailants, while he put to flight the other two, who left their dead companion in the streets. Thank him, my child, for he is my preserver, and he deserves thanks for the deed as well as for the bravery with which it was done, for he ran great risks in such odds.”

“He must. Signor, I know not how to thank you or what to say; the greatness of the obligation paralyses me, and I have not words to tell you how grateful I feel for your goodness and courage; but ’tis an obligation that can never be forgotten or ever repaid—it is impossible.”

“My dear signora, permit me to say you rate my services too highly.”

“Nay, that is quite impossible; for my father’s life I prize far before my own—before anybody in the world; and to save that is to lay me under the heaviest obligation it is possible to impose upon me.”

“Say no more, signora; I will not underrate it after what you have said; but you must say as little about it as you will. I am happy, however, to have done any act worthy of your thanks.”

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Chapter CLXXI

THE OPINIONS OF DOCTOR PILLETTO.—THE STRANGER’S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.—THE WELCOME OF THE SIGNORA.

At that moment the door opened, and a servant announced the arrival of a leech, the famous Doctor Pilletto, who forthwith entered the apartment, and advanced towards the couch on which the wounded man lay.

“Oh, doctor, do what you can for my father,” said Signora Isabella.

“I will, signora,” replied the doctor. “I will; but what are his hurts or his disease? for I see he has been taken very badly; but why this paleness? You appear to have lost blood.”

“I have bled, doctor, and I want you to dress my wound. I am hurt in the side here, and but for my friend here I should have been hurt mortally.”

“It was not a duel then?” said the doctor.

“No, no, doctor, no, no; it was an attempt at assassination, and I have escaped the death some one with more enmity than courage had doomed me to; but, at the same time, I am free, and one of his agents has perished.”

“’Tis but just,” said the doctor; “but I must now see the wound; with your good leave, we’ll strip the wounded part and apply bandages to it, so as to secure it; after which something else must be done.”

The wounded Pollidori was stripped, and, after some exertion, the wound was dressed, and all bleeding stopped.

“What is your candid opinion concerning my wound, doctor?” inquired the count, “What do you think will be the result? I would be truly informed of whatever probability of danger there may be, remote or immediate, as the case may be; tell me, I beseech you, doctor?”

“I will, count.”

“I have those things to do which are important, and the execution of them depends upon your answer; so do not mislead me.”

“I will not; I cannot form so clear a judgment of your case as I can in a few days hence, when I may see the progress of the wound towards healing; though at present I see no signs of danger, yet some may come.”

“You do not consider the wound dangerous of itself?” said the stranger.

“No, not of itself; but it is so close to a mortal part that it cannot be considered free from danger; indeed, it may become so. A little more on one side would have made it quickly fatal; but, as it is, if it heal well, there will be no danger. You must keep your couch for some days.”

“That will be a lighter evil than any other,” replied the count.

“You have lost much blood, and that alone will make you very weak, and it will take some time before you will be entirely recovered from your present state, and then your wound will probably be healed.”

“And what you appear to think may be dangerous, is only any possible interruption from the wound itself.”

“It does so happen sometimes from bodily infirmity, it shews itself in healing, and the wound, which now appears healthy, may turn to gangrene, and then the worst may be apprehended.”

“It may,” said the stranger; “but these things are only the worst that may happen in extreme cases.”

“Exactly,” said the leech.

“And you have seen nothing in this case to induce you to anticipate any such result as this—it is only what may happen.”

“That is all. It appears to me that all is well at present.”

“Then I think the count had better be left to himself in quiet, and he may have a good mind upon his recovery.”

“It will be best,” said the doctor.

“I am fatigued and sleepy,” said the count; “I would be alone. Daughter, you must entertain this gentleman as I would do were I able to do so. Signor, the signora will do the office of hostess—excuse so cold a welcome.”

“Name it not,” said the stranger. “I am well cared for. A welcome from such a one is well worth the acceptance of a prince, much less that of a stranger unknown in Venice. I thank you for it.”

“Say no more on that head,” said the count. “I came here almost a refugee, and quite a stranger myself.”

“Will you come this way, signor,” said Signora Isabella; “we will leave my poor father to himself, he will sleep.”

The stranger rose, and Doctor Pilletto also, both following the signora, who led them into a separate, but splendid apartment, and entreated them to sit down, and apologised for her own want of spirits to entertain them suitably.

“For that matter,” said the doctor, “I am by no means surprised; for such a mishap can never be heard of without producing lowness of spirits.”

“And such a misfortune is always productive of grief,” said the stranger. “Signora, say no more, I would not interfere with your grief. I do not wish to stop it, and shall feel myself a bar to your own feelings if you say any more. I am made welcome, and feel myself so.”

“You are, sir—-your kindness deserves no less; but I pray you tell me how this affair occurred, in which you have been of such signal service to my father, in saving his life?”

“To tell you that, signora, I must first tell you who and what I am.”

“I do not wish to be thought unduly curious,” replied signora.

“Not at all. I am bound to acknowledge you have a right to it, for you have no introduction with me which usually supplies the place of an account of who and what we are; therefore I’ll tell you, though I cannot boast of being more than a simple chevalier of now no fortune, having left my country because I raised my voice against the abuses of state; therefore I am but a nameless and fortuneless stranger.”

“Many a worthy gentleman has been in such a plight before now,” observed the doctor. “I have known many such.”

“And I am one. Not that I am without means,” added the stranger; “I have been lucky enough to provide against such a calamity as that which has befallen me, though not to the extent I could have wished.”

“You are fortunate, chevalier.”

“I am so far. I came but this morning to Venice; I landed here, and agreed to meet the captain of the vessel, who promised to meet me on the Rialto, to conduct me to some quiet and respectable change-house where I could lodge.”

“And he met you not?”

“No. While I was waiting for him, I heard a cry for help, and found, upon running up, the Count Pollidori beaten to the earth, beset by three villains, who had already wounded him in the manner you have seen; and I at that time stepped up, and, being unexpected, the men were confused, and one of them fell, mortally wounded; and, after a little further desperate fighting, they all fled.”

“It was fortunate you yourself were not beaten down too with such odds; for these men are usually desperate.”

“True; but, you see, one was gone, and they could not tell how it might be with the count—they did not know how far he might be able to join in the fray again, and if he were to do so, there would immediately be an equality between us, and such men do not seek such a fight.”

“Truly not, chevalier,” replied the signora—“truly not. When they are safe and secure in their deeds of blood, they will perpetrate them; but in fair contest such men never shine—their deeds are of darkness.”

“Most true—most true.”

“But they have a deal of ferocity,” said the stranger; “and, when they can, will pour out blood like water; but what amazes me is, that one like the count, your father, should have been beset by such villains. They must have had some object to accomplish in getting rid of him by such means.”

“Private enmity.”

“Indeed! It must be a bad state of things.”

“It is, chevalier. It is a sign of great degeneracy in the state; but it is so. For gold you can procure the death of any man in Venice.”

“Horrible!” said the stranger. “I have heard of such things; but I deemed them fabulous, or, at least, overrated.”

“No, no—I fear not; and yet, who could have an enmity so deep as only to be healed by blood? and yet, the good and great have as many enemies as the wicked, for they are always opposed to each other.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the doctor; “good and bad are always antagonists.”

“Exactly. What, however, is the worst in these cases is, the bad very often get the better of the good, which is the reverse of what ought to be done; because, you see, if we are to suppose that there is a power above that rules men’s actions, surely we might expect to see goodness manifest in the majority of cases; whereas, we usually see, to a much greater extent, the success of evil.”

“Not always.”

“Not always, certainly,” said the doctor; “but the exception proves the rule. Goodness ought to be the great object of men’s lives; but it is not; yet it ought to rule, and we must endeavour to be ruled by it, despite the way of the world, which is often, as we daily see, the reverse of what it ought to be.”

“But,” added the chevalier, “when ambition rules the minds of men, you will find that all other principles give way.”

“It is so; but why, I cannot see.”

“Because ’tis the master emotion of the mind,” said the stranger.

“And ambition appears to possess the souls of those who govern, whether for good or for evil,” said the signora. “Some are ambitious of being rulers—some of being conquerors, and some of politicians; but they are all moved to it by ambition.”

“Aye,” said the stranger, “the lover is ambitious of the smiles of his mistress, though ill fortune will, now and then, deny him the good luck to win them.”

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Chapter CLXXII

THE COUNT POLLIDORI’S RECOVERY.—THE INTERVIEW WITH THE SIGNORA ISABELLA.—THE CONSENT.

A few days’ confinement placed the count beyond the reach of danger. His wound healed rapidly and favourably, but which was more than anticipated by the cautious leech, who abstained from saying so, but took his daily seat beside his patient’s bed, and, with his prosy and imperturbable gravity, he continued to give his advice.

“Count,” he said, “your wound is healing.”

“I feel it is so,” said the count.

“But you must be cautious. I would not have you be too sanguine, or trust your feelings too much.”

“I do not; but I may take wine?”

“Indeed, I would recommend you not to do so; for wine is inflammatory, and you are likely to suffer for it.”

“And yet I took a bottle last evening.”

“Last evening, count?” said the physician.

“Yes; I speak truly.”

“I doubt it not; but it was very imprudent—very imprudent, indeed; for, though half a bottle may do no hurt to a man in full health, yet a whole can do him no good, even if it do him no harm; but, in your case, it is dangerous.”

“It might be; but surely the danger is past now?”

“If you have taken it over twelve hours—though four-and-twenty would be better.”

“It is over twelve hours.”

“’Tis well; but it was hazardous; you are fast getting well, and, as it happens, you have no fever, or other evil changes about you; therefore, you may continue your wine, but not in such quantities.”

“I will be more cautious; but, Pilletto, what is your opinion of my guest?”

“Your preserver?”

“Yes; the same.”

“He is one of the most learned men I ever met with; even professed scholars have not been found so full of knowledge.”

“That speaks something for his youth.”

“Most undoubtedly.”

“But what think you of him as a man of the world?”

“I think he has a vast fund of information; he has had an enlarged experience of society, and has visited, I think, all the continent of Europe; he understands their languages and manners, too, and has the appearance of a traveller, and a man used to the best and most distinguished society.”

“That is just my opinion of him.”

“I understand he is from France.”

“Yes.”

“A refugee, in point of fact, I suppose, without means.”

“No, he appears to have means, and hopes that times my so alter to permit his return, and the resumption of his former fortune.”

“I understand as much, and he has spoken of people whom I know well in France, that would not associate with any beneath their degree; and he has told me things they would have divulged to none, save their equals and families.”

“It is my opinion of him.”

• • • • •

The doctor took his leave, and the count was again left to himself, and he began evidently to ponder over something in his mind, which appeared to demand his attention, and he, for some time, sat immovable.

“My daughter,” he murmured, “is a rich reward even for such a deed. I do not pit my life against her’s; no, no; she is by far the most valuable; she I love more than life, and would provide for her in a manner that shall procure her future happiness, rather than her immediate approval.

“The dear girl does not well understand these matters; she does not know that present pleasure may be followed by future pain. She knows not that we should forgo the present, to ensure future happiness.”

He paused a moment, and then he continued,—

“But I cannot be mistaken in this man. No, he has done a deed, which, though I value it not at so high a price, yet gratitude impose upon me the necessity of showing the highest consideration. She is fancy free; and I do not see there will be any difficulty in the way whatever.”

At that moment the door opened, and Signora Isabella entered, and advanced towards the couch on which he lay.

“My father!”

“Ah, Isabella, I was but then thinking of you.”

“Of me, father? I come to see how you are. Our good guest and preserver had been telling me he is quite sure you are much better than Doctor Pilletto will admit; for he is slow and cautious to a degree.”

“My dear, he is quite right—I feel it.”

“Oh, how joyful I am!”

“What think you of our guest, Isabella? Do you not think him a man well worthy of our warmest esteem and gratitude?”

“Indeed he is, father—he is noble.”

“I think so—the true nobility of soul can be seen in him; to such a man as the chevalier, would I see my Isabella united; to such a man could I confide my daughter’s happiness, for he would secure it.”

“What mean you, father?”

“That the stranger, of whom you speak so highly, is to be your future husband; the preserver of the father will not act unkindly by the child.”

“My father, I am stunned.”

“Yes, my dear daughter, I have fully settled this matter in my own mind; he has asked your hand—go see him—you have my blessing. I am sure he will be happy. Isabella, you never disobeyed your father; such an act would be the cruelest stab that ever was planted in my bosom.”

“But when,” said Isabella, almost trembling; “but when will this be? When am I to be given away, father, as you would a present of flowers?”

“Isabella, when have I deserved, when have I had such an answer from thee? Let me have no more of this.”

“But when have you fixed as a time upon which I am to be sent away from home to strangers?”

“You will not leave this palace, Isabella; you and your husband will always be here, and I shall have the satisfaction of seeing the happiness I have planned and made. He will be a father to the child, as well as a husband.”

“I do not wish for any such change. I am happy, but shall be otherwise, if I am compelled to wed.”

“Compelled, Isabella, compelled! Do you speak of being forced, when I wish it? Now that I have settled it in my own mind, love and duty to me, and gratitude to this gentleman, all conspire to point out how you should act.”

“But when, father, when?”

“To-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” repeated Isabella, in mournful accents.

“Yes, my child; ’tis better done at once—’twill, at all events, save any of those unnecessary thoughts that might disturb you.”

“My father! my father!” said the young lady, as she sunk upon her knees before him.

“Well, my child?”

“Pardon me for once begging a favour of you.”

“What mean you by such words?”

“I wish a longer interval to be allowed me before I am—I am——”

“Married,” said her father.

“Yes, father; that is the dreadful word.”

“Isabella, mind, my love, what my wishes are.”

“I have heard them, father; but give me a week—indeed, you cannot decently bring this matter to a conclusion before the end of that time. I have had no previous warning from you, or this stranger, that such a thing was in contemplation.”

“If I grant it you, my Isabella, I must be obeyed.”

“You shall be obeyed, father,” said Isabella, with an effort, “if it cost me my life, and it will be near it; but let me keep my room until that period is up, and then do with me what you will.”

“Be it so, Isabella; though it will look ungracious to our guest, yet I will endeavour to excuse you with the best grace I can.”

The Lady Isabella was deathly pale, and, as she rose, she staggered, and could scarce support herself out of the apartment.

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Chapter CLXXIII

THE WEDDING MORNING.—THE NEW ARRIVAL.—THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE VAMPYRE BRIDEGROOM.

The signora retired to her own chamber, and remained there for many hours; but during that time two messengers had left the mansion secretly, and then all was still. The lovely and beautiful Isabella, however, was not to be seen in her usual walks, or at her father’s board, as was her wont. She was only seen within the precincts of her own apartments, pallid, sad, and sorrowful.

“Your daughter, count,” said the stranger, one morning, “does not appear as usual. I trust she is quite well?”

“Yes; quite well.”

“I hope I have given no cause of offence if so, I hope I may be informed of my error, that I may speedily amend it.”

“There is none, chevalier; but my daughter, Isabella, has asked a week’s preparation for the nuptials—which week she will pass in her own apartments secluded, and at the end of which time, she leaves them for your protection, and which will, I trust, be to her happiness.”

“It shall be my business to make her happy, and, for want of good will and hearty endeavour, she shall never lack content and bliss. I have every presage of a most happy and felicitous life in the future. I am sure she will be happy.”

“It is my great hope, chevalier; it is the one object of my life. I would it were settled, and the affair over. I should die unhappy if I thought poor Isabella in the hands of any one who would not use her as she deserved to be. She is of herself a treasure.”

“She is—she is.”

“And when she is once a wife, she will not look for a father’s protection, neither will she need it. My death, when it does happen, will be a great and heavy blow; but it will be less when she has the comfort and consolation of a husband to console her for what would otherwise be irreparable.”

“Yes, it would have the effect of deadening the blow, and of shortening the duration of its intensity, though it will be by no means prevented.”

“I cannot say I should desire it.”

“No, certainly not; and Signora Isabella never could forget such a parent.”

“I have done my duty, I hope.”

“And may congratulate yourself, count; but then, with regard to Isabella, she will meet me as usual here on the day of the ceremonial.”

“Most assuredly.”

“And I am to be denied her company till then?”

“Yes; she will meet you on the morning at the altar.”

“Be it so—but I could have been happy in her society. At any rate I must be so, by reflecting that I shall soon be the favoured, happy husband of Isabella, for with her my happiness will be complete.”

“And my happiness will be complete, in knowing her’s is so.”

“I could have wished that some of those who have known me in France had been here to see my happiness; but that cannot be.”

“Could you not send to them?”

“There would not be time for their return. And, moreover, if there had been, I question whether I ought to hold any communication with them, lest I bring them under the ban of the government, and I may not do that.”

“Truly, you have the same feelings as I used to have; but I have long since ceased to feel any of that kind of interest.”

“Time cures that.”

“It does; and you will find it will heal all those wounds which such a separation from your country causes you.”

“I hope so. My offences there they will never forgive.”

• • • • •

Thus conversed the stranger and the count, and thus six days passed, during which time the Signora Isabella was seen by none save her attendants, who were few, and most of her time was spent in tears and prayers.

She had a heart full of grief, but she dared not disobey her father, he whom she loved so well, and whom she had never thought for one moment as being opposed to her own ideas of propriety and her own wishes. She had always been taught to suppress her own, and submit to his.

Thus it was now, at the eleventh hour, she had no means of fortifying herself in any preconceived liking she may have had.

Submission was all she had learned—a blind and willing submission to a fond and doting parent. She knew no other course of action.

Her heart, however, had other yearnings. She had loved another; but she knew not how to act. She dared not even entertain the thought of throwing herself at her father’s feet, and imploring him to save her from perpetual sorrow—much less did she think of opposing him; but she had done this much.

In the first moment of her terror and anguish, she had written off to her brother, informing him of her danger; but, at the same time, she had advised nothing, and expressed no wish—only told him the fact and her fears.

• • • • •

The wedding morning arrived, and the house of the count gave indications of the festivity; and, with the day, came guests richly dressed, and the bells rang a merry peal upon the occasion, and the count was in high spirits; but the bride was not seen.

“How is Signora Isabella, your daughter?” inquired one of the guests.

“She is as well as maiden modesty will permit.”

“I have not seen her.”

“Nor I.”

“Nor you!” replied the guest, astonished.

“No; she has secluded herself, but will appear presently, when the bell rings for the service. The fact is, she cannot leave her father, even for the arms of a husband, without feeling a grief for the change.”

“I hope she will be happy.”

“I have no doubt of it; the man is worthy of her.”

“And capable of making her happy, I hope.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“Hark! the bell sounds; is that the signal?”

“Yes; follow on. I will bring my daughter forth;” and, as he spoke, he left the guests, who hurried to the chapel, and found the stranger awaiting his bride with some impatience.

He acknowledged the courtesy of those who came to him, and looked towards a small door, which presently opened, and the count and his daughter appeared. She was of marble paleness, and no signs of happiness were seen in her face. She trembled, and her whole soul seemed to be intent on something afar from her presence.

She lifted her eyes and gazed upon the throng; but apparently saw none—or not those whom she wished. Her father spoke to her; she heaved a deep sigh, and appeared to be resigned to her fate.

• • • • •

The ceremony commenced, and Isabella stood; but her eyes occasionally sought the chapel door; and in a few moments more, before the important part was concluded, a bustle took place near the door, and, immediately afterwards, some officers, in the Venetian uniform, entered the chapel, among whom was the young count, Isabella’s brother, and with him a young officer, into whose arms she instantly threw herself, and fainted.

“Father,” said the young count—“father, this must not be.”

“Why not, my son?” said the count.

“Because my sister loves another, and yon man is a monster.”

“What mean you, sir?” said the chevalier. “If you were other than what you are, your words would beget a different answer.”

“You are a vampyre,” replied a young Neapolitan, who stepped forward. “I knew you before. Know you not the holy father whom you murdered?”

“’Tis false. I’ll bring one to prove it.”

As the chevalier spoke, he crossed the chapel, and left the place; but he did not appear again; and, upon inquiry, he had quitted the palace in a gondola, and never reappeared.

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Chapter CLXXIV

THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN.—THE MURDER AT THE GIBBET’S FOOT.—THE RIDE TO THE GOLDEN PIPPIN.

The evening set in a stormy mood; sudden, gusty showers rattled against the traveller; whilst the wind swept over the country, bending the tall trees, and whistling round the peasant’s cot, and making the chimneys appear as if they were the residences of imprisoned spirits, which moaned and groaned most dismally to hear.

The clouds came rapidly across the sky; now darkening the earth, and now they had fled past, leaving the moonbeams pouring a flood of light upon the fields and roadways; but this was soon followed by another darkness, a cold rain, and rushing wind, the night being inclement and very boisterous—not to say a night too bad to permit travelling.

It was late on such a night, when down a lone cross-road a single horseman might be seen to ride slowly and carefully. He was wrapped up in a large cloak, and rode a powerful horse, and appeared to be somewhat tired.

There was much difficulty in travelling over a bad road, that was loose and shifty, with here and there a slough of some magnitude.

In a very wild and desolate spot stood a mound of stones that had been heaped at the foot of a gibbet, and had been collected there in consequence of the unpopularity of the occupant of the instrument of punishment.

On the gibbet, swinging to and fro, was the body of a malefactor, hung in chains—an awful and disgusting spectacle—whose death no one regretted, inasmuch as he was the terror of the whole neighbourhood.

It was the body of a highwayman, or of a robber, who had committed all kinds of depredations, and several murders. He was the son of a person of property, but addicted to vicious courses, and, to support them, he had recourse to robbery and murder.

Several of his former friends were robbed, and at length his own father fell by his hands, when he refused to give up his purse in the road at this spot. His own son shot him through the heart.

This was the last crime he ever committed; for he was taken and tried, when enough was proved that would have hung a hundred men; and there was not one man who could, or who would, speak one word in his favour. He was executed; and so detested was he by all, that every one who came by this spot threw a stone, until it grew, by these means, a goodly heap, which remained a memento of their hate.

It was this spot the stranger was nearing, and to which he appeared to look up with some degree of either curiosity, or interest; but, before he got there, there was another horseman riding along the country lane, and who would arrive there about the same time as the first; but when he came there, it was easy to perceive that he was not alone, but another horseman was in waiting beneath some trees, and hidden from the traveller.

In a few moments more, the traveller reached the spot, and, looking up at the dead body that was swinging to and fro in the night air, the other horseman rode up; upon which the traveller was about to push his horse forward at an increased speed, when he found that there was not space enough.

“Which side do you take?” he inquired of the stranger.

“Stand and deliver!” was the reply.

“That is uncivil,” replied the stranger, “and a request that I do not feel at all disposed to consent to.”

“Deliver your money and a pocket-book, or you are a dead man.”

“Nay,” said the stranger; “I have means of defence, too.”

And, as he spoke, he pulled out a bright, double-barrelled pistol, which he levelled and cocked, saying, as he very leisurely did so,—

“Beware! you are playing with a determined man. I am not disposed to play. Get out of my way, or you are a dead man!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the other, and made way at the same moment, thus bringing himself alongside the traveller, leaving him room to go on. “You are not to be frightened—well, well, go on.”

The traveller put his spurs to his horse, but at the same moment received a bullet from the treacherous highwayman.

“Ha!” cried the traveller, putting his hand to his side, and in a moment more he staggered and fell over the side of the horse on to the ground.

“Ha, ha, ha!” said the highwayman, who immediately dismounted; but before he could search the body, the other horseman came up at a gallop.

“Well, Fred, have you quieted him?”

“I have.”

“Resisted, then?”

“Yes. Have you got your lantern?”

“Yes; but it is not yet lighted. But that is soon done.”

“Then let us have it as quick as you can; for he has fallen down here in a slough, and I should like to get the money without more mire than I am obliged to put up with.”

“Here it is,” said the other, handing the lantern—a small one, which he had lighted by means of some chemical matches.

The highwayman took the lantern, and, after some examination, he secured the pocketbook and the purse, and having done this, he examined the fingers, but saw no rings and no watch, and he said to his companion,—

“Just come here. Did you ever see such a set of features as these? They are truly strange and singular; I could never forget them.”

“Indeed! I must have a look at them,” said his companion, dismounting and bending over the body; and when he looked at them, he said,—

“I saw that man to-day where I dined, and thought he took the other road, and there waited for him.”

“Did you, though?”

“Yes, till I was tired; and then I came across the country in search of you, but did not expect you to have any quarry.”

“Did you ever see such a countenance? it is most strange and ghastly.”

“Yes, it is; but he has died a violent death, you see, and therefore there is much to be done by way of allowance.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that; but the nose, mouth, and teeth——”

“They are not the most agreeable in the world, certainly. Well, well, it don’t matter; you have done all your business with him, have you not?”

“I have got all, I believe,” said the other. “He has no watch or chain—not even a ring has he got on his finger.”

“Perhaps you’ll find enough in his purse and pocket-book to console you; though I must say, Ned, that he dined very sparingly. But no matter the amount; ride on, for you know it is not a good plan to stand longer here than necessary; for we may have other riders down upon us.”

“Not very likely, on this road, and at this hour; but ’tis bad. I’m off, and he will remain behind till found by some frightened peasant or other, who will go to the nearest market town, with a frightful account.”

“Ride away; I hear horses’ feet, I think.”

“I am ready; forward! ho!”

The two highwaymen rode off at a rapid rate, conversing as they went; but yet it was in suppressed tones for some distance; and after some riding, one of them pulled up his horse, partially, saying,—

“Well, I don’t think it wise we should thus wear our steeds out; there is no need of our riding for life; our horses never ought to be put to their mettle, unless there be plenty of occasion, which there is not.”

“No—all is right, to-night.”

“Have you done much lately, Ned?”

“No; I have been rather upon the seek than find; I have been looking out brightly, but have not been successful.”

“I have myself only done moderately; but I have done better than I should have done, because I was fortunate enough to come across a fat grazier who had more money than any three or four persons I have met lately.”

“Your fortune is somewhat like mine.”

“You have met with little good then, Ned.”

“Indeed, I have not; but it is a long lane that has no turning.”

“Yes; indeed, it is.”

“However, I hope this queer-looking customer will reward one for one’s pains; if you can but keep the game a going, you are sure to succeed in the end; ’tis only two years or better since I first began to ride.”

“That is, put a period to other people’s rising.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, then, where do you intend to put up for the night? for I suppose you do not intend to stay out all night any more than myself.”

“No; I think of going on until I come to ‘The Golden Pippin,’ where I intend to stay for the night. The landlord can wink hard at his friends, and not know they are in the house, or he can tell them a thing if they want to know anything at all to their interest.”

“He’s the sort of man; I know him. I was thinking of going there; I don’t know better or snugger quarters than are to be had at his hostel.”

“Then we’ll have a good supper and a bottle at ‘The Golden Pippin.’”

“With all my heart; but you don’t think there’ll be any danger of our being pursued for this matter.”

“Oh, dear, no; the direct road lies another way, and we shall be quite fifteen miles from the spot where the body lies.”

“So far.”

“Yes; we have come over the ground very rapidly, and have gone more than two-thirds of that distance. When we get there we shall be safe, easy, and comfortable; and right good wines are there to be had at ‘The Golden Pippin.’”

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Chapter CLXXV

THE HORRORS OF THE NIGHT.—THE DISCOVERY IN THE ROAD.—CONTENTION BETWEEN MAN AND HORSE.—COMFORTABLE QUARTERS IN THE GOLDEN PIPPIN.

The malefactor’s body swung to and fro on the gibbet, and the chains squeaked and groaned as the wind impelled the body’s motions. The wind itself whistled heedlessly by, and the transient, but heavy shower passed on, heedless of the deed of blood that had been perpetrated beneath its monitory shadow.

Now and then there was a little light, and then the body might be seen heaped up, and lying in the mud and mire, which was all discoloured with the blood of the fallen man—he was motionless. The rain fell on him, but it mattered not—the body felt it not. The wind blew the cloak about, but the body remained quiet, and nothing appeared to spare the body.

There was no one nigh; that was a lonely spot, and that was tenanted by two dismal gypsies. The body of the malefactor swung to and fro while the body of the murdered traveller lay quiet enough.

The clouds travelled across the face of the moon, and intercepted her light from the earth; but yet it was light enough at intervals to enable the traveller to see his way on foot, or on horseback.

About two hours after that in which the traveller had been stopped and murdered, there came another individual riding towards the scene.

This was a countryman—a grazier, who was well-mounted, and came along at a rapid rate, having a stout trotting nag under him.

When he neared the spot where the murder had been committed, he gave a look up at the disagreeable object—the gibbet, and when he had done so, he put the spur to his horse’s side, with the intention of going by at a quickened pace, exclaiming as he did so,—

“This is no pleasant place at nine o’clock at night. I wish I were at the Golden Pippin, instead of here.”

As he spoke, he pushed his horse, as he manifested a design to stop; but the animal, instead of going past, reared up.

“Hilloa! brute. What art after now, eh?”

The spur was again applied, but the animal only became more and more unmanageable, and the rider near losing his seat; but he was, nevertheless, the more anxious to get onward, for the neighbourhood was not pleasant; added to which, it was a wet and dismal night, and late for a cross-road.

“Curse you!” muttered the grazier; “What the deuce is the matter with you?—did you never see the gibbet before? If thee hadn’t, I should not have been surprised at thee shying at the man swinging on the gibbet; but thee hast done so, and now thee art frightened. Whoa! d—n thee.”

He made another attempt to force the horse by, but it was fruitless, and he was at length unseated into the mire.

“D——n!” muttered the man; “the first time I have been thrown these ten years, drunk or sober, and now I am sober.”

This was apparently the first reflection that came to his mind after the first effect of the concussion; he then scratched his head, adjusted his hat, and was getting up, when for a moment his eyes rested on something dark lying in the middle of the road, and at which his horse had in reality shied.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, with a visible alteration in his demeanour; “that’s what Peg shied at, eh? What the devil is it?”

As he muttered these words, his hair began to stand on end; and the more he looked, the greater his apprehension; for he began to think what he wished was further from the fact, though his notions were far from being definite, and he did all he could to dispel the rising terror.

“Why—it ain’t—no, it can’t be—and yet it must be! What makes ’un lay there—he must be dead, surely!”

Thrice he scrambled to his feet, and then walked a little towards the object against which his horse stood smelling and snorting with evident signs of fear.

“Woa, brute! What’s the matter with thee?—confound thee! But I suppose thee wast frightened.”

As the man spoke, he walked up to the animal, and, taking the bridle, he passed it over his arms, and then approached the body.

“Aye, sure enough, he’s insensible—if not dead, poor fellow! What can be done—there’s no one near at hand to lend assistance?”

He paused to consider what was to be done, when it occurred to him as being the most likely thing that could be done was to probe the unfortunate man; he could not say whether he was dead or alive, from his position in the middle of the road.

“If ’un ain’t dead,” he argued, “he would come to no harm; for it wasn’t every horse that cared as much for a man as Peg did; they might get run over, or cause some desperate accident.”

Having made up his mind what to do, he secured Peg, and turned his attention to the body of the stranger, which had been left on its back, with its face upwards, but the wind had blown the cloak over it, and it was not seen by the grazier, who now essayed to move the body.

After some trouble, he succeeded in dragging him there, and propping him up against the bank, upon which grew a stunted hedge, and, when there, he opened the cloak, and looked upon the features of the dead man.

“Well,” he muttered; “I never yet saw such a face! I am sure I can never forget that. Of all the ill-looking thieves, he is the worst! but much, I suppose, must be set off on the fact that he is a dead man, and a murdered one, to boot.”

There was a strange markedness in the style of features in the dead man, that gave no pleasing impression to the mind; it was one that could not easily be forgotten, especially accompanied by all the horrors of their place and circumstances.

“He has been shot, no doubt,” he muttered. “This must be all blood. Aye! in the breast, or thereabouts. Oh! he is dead. Well, I’ll ride to the Golden Pippin, and then I’ll give them notice of it.”

He was just about to turn and mount his horse, when the clouds parted, and the moonbeams, for a few moments, came upon the body, without any hindrance, and the grazier thought he saw a movement.

“It must have been gammon,” he muttered. “I’ll be off—I’m quite cold and shivery here. I’ll go to the Golden Pippin, and get some good cheer, for I’m terribly shaken. Eh! what was that? The devil!”

The latter exclamations were uttered in consequence of the figure turning towards the moon’s rays, and then opening its eyes, which had such an effect upon the unfortunate man, that he staggered back terrified.

“Lord have mercy!” he ejaculated. “What’s—what’s that? He—he’s coming to—hilloa, friend!—how are you?”

The figure turned his large motionless eyes upon the terrified man, and they had such an effect upon him, that, despite all he could do to rally himself, he sprang involuntarily to his horse’s back, and galloped off furiously.

• • • • •

It was scarce an hour before this occurred, when the two highwaymen rode up to the Golden Pippin.

“Hilloa! hilloa! ostler—here!” shouted one of them, and in a few moments more the ostler came out, willing enough.

“Hilloa, Jem! you are sharp to-night. How is it you are not asleep?”

“I was just going to roost, master; but I shall have a job instead, I can see.”

“You will; but not an empty handed affair, this time; take care of the nags, and there’s a crown for you.”

“Thank you, master—you are always generous.”

“When I can, Jem; but what company have you in the house?”

“Little to speak of,” said the ostler; “about three or four people, as lives about here; but nobody that I know—anybody or anything—only people that have to earn their own living; they are in the kitchen.”

“Good fire?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will go there, too,” said the highwayman; “it’s a raw cold night, and one in which a good supper and a good fire will do one good.”

The two highwaymen then entered the house, and walked into the kitchen, which was a large room, with beams across the top, and a variety of utensils proper to the place; but the grand feature was the large fire-place, in which burned brightly some good logs, and threw a glowing warmth and bright light over the whole apartment, in which, however, was one candle, as if to be mocked by the light of the fire. The use of this solitary wick was to enable the smokers to light their pipes without stirring, and also to be taken away at a moment’s notice for any purpose that might be needed.

The three guests turned their attention to the new comers, without, however, exchanging one word, and the landlord himself arose.

“Oh, landlord,” said one of the highwaymen, “I’m glad you have a good fire; ’tis one of the best things, after a cold ride, a man can have met with.”

“Except a good hot supper, and a cup afterwards,” said his companion.

“All these are very good things in their way, gentlemen,” said the landlord, emptying the ashes of his pipe out into the fire-place by tapping the pipe on the toe of his shoe, and thus dropped the ashes out of danger.

“You are right, landlord,” said the other.

“But I always, think, gentlemen,” said the landlord gravely, “that they are always a great deal better when they can be had together—they are better for their company’s sake—the one helps the other.”

“So they do.”

“Well, then, let us have them all, old cock, as soon as you please, for we are both cold, tired, and hungry.”

“And they are the best accompaniments you can have as a preparatory for all that is to follow.”

“Amen! and about it,” said the highwayman.

The two new guests sat themselves down in one quarter of the kitchen, and near to a table facing the fire, where they could enjoy its genial warmth, which they appeared to do with much gusto.

Having opened their coats, and taken off their shawls, removed their hats, and sat down in a comfortable manner, they began to look about them.

“Well, Ned, we have made a good exchange.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, we have exchanged the road to comfortable quarters, which, you will, at least, admit, is all the better.”

“Yes, much better; though I have ridden many a long and weary a night before now, with the runners at my heels.”

“Ay—ay, so have I; but hush—say no more of that there. I have no idea of letting these blacks suspect anything; they are what you call honest men, and men who would give a clue in a moment, if they thought it was wanted.”

“I dare say it is so, Ned; but what are you going to have for supper?”

“I don’t know. Landlord, what can we have for supper—anything hot?”

“Why,” said the landlord, “I can kill a couple of chickens and brander them, or there is some chicken pie, and a cold ham.”

“Well, what do you say, Ned?”

“Can’t you make the chicken pie warm?”

“It is warm now,” said the landlord. “I can’t make it quite hot without doing too much; ’tis uncommon good, and has not long been put by from supper; it was made for supper, but there’s a good half left.”

“Eh? What do you say to chicken pie, Ned?”

“With all my heart; chicken pie let it be, then,” replied Ned.

“Well, then, landlord, put the chicken pie on, flanked by the ham—some of your foaming October, you know.”

“Ay—ay, sir; some with a head on, that would take a blacksmith’s bellows to blow off, it is so strong.”

“Ha—ha—ha! that’s the strike for us.”

The landlord now arose, and set about getting the necessary articles, and spreading them upon a table before the two guests, who were nothing loath to see the expedition that he had made to please them.

“I think,” said the landlord, “you will say you never eat such chickens; they are my hatching, and have been well fed; they have been well killed, cooked, and I hope, will be well eaten.”

“That is our part of the business, landlord; and if they are such as you speak of, why, you may depend upon our doing our duty by them.”

“And the ham is my own breeding and curing.”

“Better and better,—and the October?”

“Why, I am just going to get that. What say you to a tankard?”

“Yes, a foaming tankard.”

“Yes, gentlemen, I will obtain what you want; it is in beautiful condition, and when chilled, will give you a cream as thick as new cheese; and as mild as new milk.

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Chapter CLXXVI

THE GRAZIER’S RELATION, AND HIS FIRST TERRORS.—THE EFFECTS OF GOOD CHEER AND THE SUDDEN INTERRUPTION TO A PLEASANT PARTY.

The landlord was not long gone for the October; he came back with a placid smile and a smacking of his lips, when he shut the door behind him, and then deliberately placing the candlestick down, he said, handing them the tankard,—

“There, gentlemen, if you find any better brewed than that in the three adjoining counties, why, you may take measure for my coffin, for I won’t live after I am told there is any so good anywhere else.”

“We will not take your word, landlord,” said one of the highwaymen, putting the tankard to his lips, which act produced an approving nod from the jolly landlord, who said, with much encouragement,—

“That’s right; never trust nobody; that’s my motto, and I chalks it up over the fire-place, and acts upon it—try for yourself, and then you won’t be deceived. What’s your opinion upon that now, sir?”

“Never drank its equal, even here.”

“I thought you’d say so; it comes out of a particular cask—one as I puts by for myself; but you have ridden hard, and I thought a brew of an extra strike would be an acceptable drink.”

“You are right. It is cold and very wet. I’m as tired as if I had ridden far—the wind has blown me about so.”

“Ah, don’t you hear how it roars in the chimney?”

“So it does. What do you think of the brew, Ned—ain’t it first rate?”

“Indeed it is; I never had any equal to it. I tell you what, landlord, it will make an excellent night-cap, for a man who has taken a glass or two of this, would not be better able to keep his saddle.”

“No; it’s lucky we intend putting up for the night here; you have beds.”

“Yes, good, and well aired.”

“That is capital. Well, your chicken-pie is good, landlord, your ham good, and the October excellent; and now——what’s that?”

At that moment there was a sound of horses’ feet galloping furiously towards the houses; and they had not listened long before they came close to the door, and then there was evidently a sudden pull up.

“Hilloa! what is that?” said his companion.

“I think it is somebody pulled up at the door,” said the landlord; “whoever they are they have come in haste.”

The two highwaymen half rose, but a look at each other caused them to resume their seats, and in another moment there was a loud shouting, and a call for the ostler; but there was no one at hand.

“Where is that Jim got to—I must go and see after him, at all events—he won’t come if I don’t.”

So saying, he walked away whilst the guests remained silent watching the actions of the two highwaymen.

“It is but a single horseman,” said the first.

“No,” said the other; “but still he may be mischievous; and yet I can hardly think he would venture here at such a time; besides, it can’t be known; we are much better here than anywhere else.”

“I think so; we have nothing to fear.”

“Nothing.”

At that moment the landlord retired; and, at the same time, the door was suddenly opened, and the grazier entered the kitchen. He glanced around him, much confused. The fire and light, no doubt, had some share in that; but he stared, and appeared terrified, and all splashed over.

“Where’s the ostler?” he cried out.

“Here I be,” said the worthy behind.

“Look after my horse; he is very hardly ridden. See to him, that’s a good fellow,” said the grazier.

“Yes; I’ll see to ’un,” said Jem, who departed with the animal.

“Landlord—landlord!”

“Yes; here I am, Master Green—here am I!”

“Give me something strong; I’m half dead. I’m cold, and I’m frightened, and that is the truth. Where’s the fire?”

“Why, Master Green, I never saw you in this state before. Give me your hand, Master Green. I’ll show you the fire,” said the landlord, holding out his hand to Green. “Why, you are cold—what has happened?”

“You shall hear—you shall hear,” said the half-terrified Green. “Only give me a toss of brandy, and get me a supper, and then I shall be able to tell you more about it. At present I can say nothing.”

“Well, that is pretty well for a man that can’t speak,” said the landlord. “You are getting better, Mr. Green.”

“I hope I shall; the fire is comfortable.”

“Here’s some good brandy; take a gill, man. It won’t hurt you on such an occasion as this. I have seen you do as much before; but, as for supper, why I can’t say much. These two gentlemen have had the only thing I had in the house, and, save the ham, I doubt much if there will be any left.”

“If the gentlemen will join us, he is welcome to take a share of what we have,” said one of the highwaymen. “Here will be enough for us all, I dare say, sir, if you do not object to our company.”

“Thank you—thank you,” said Green. “I will accept of your offer gladly; for I have had a long ride, and have had much that is uncomfortable to put up with, to see and to fear. Lord have mercy on me say I!”

“Well, what is the matter, Mr. Green?”

“Why,” said Mr. Green, as he, between his words, poked in large mouthfuls of food, and now and then washed it down by the aid of the October. “You all of you know the highwayman’s corner, about fifteen miles from here?”

“Yes,” said the landlord, “I know it well; there’s a chap hanging up in chains there, now, at this present day, that is, if nobody hasn’t run away with it, or it hasn’t been blown down.”

“Exactly. Well, that’s the spot; there’s been another dreadful murder been done there. Oh! it was dreadful.”

“Well, did you see it?”

“Yes; I did.”

“What! the murder!” said both highwaymen at once.

“No; the body—I only saw the body.”

“Where was it lying?”

“Stop, stop a bit—not so fast,” said Mr. Green, who was eating very fast indeed, but paused a moment. “You must not ask too many questions at once, because I have one way of telling a tale, and you’ll spoil it.”

“Well, go on your own way.”

“Well, then, listen. I was coming along at a rattling pace, I can tell you, for I was late, and tired, as it was. When I had reached the gallows, I looked up at the body swinging in the wind, and creaking and screaming on its rusty swivels; but I had scarcely done so, when my horse shyed, and very nearly landed me in the mud, but I contrived to keep my seat, though not without trouble.”

“What! at the dead man?” inquired one of the highwaymen.

“Aye,” replied his companion. “I am sure they ought not to put men up there like scarecrows, to frighten horses with; for my part, I never pass it but my horse snorts and bolts, and I am obliged to be wary.”

“I don’t know much about that. I have come by without my nag being any the worse. At all events, I thought there was something in his shying at the gallows, and I tried to push him by, but he would not go.”

“What did you do?”

“Why, I was obliged to get down,” said the grazier.

“Thrown?”

“No, no.”

“Forced to get down, you mean,” said the highwayman.

“Why, in some sort of way I did feel myself compelled to get down, because the brute wouldn’t go a-head, and I saw something on the ground as the clouds cleared away a little, and showed me that there was something suspicious in the middle of the road, very much like a bundle of clothes.”

“Indeed!” said the landlord, “what was it?”

“I’ll tell you, in course. Now, you see, I saw the animal would not move, so I got off to see what was the matter.”

“Forced off,” added the highwayman.

“D—n it, man, what can it matter; then I got off,” said the grazier, getting into a passion, and then, after a pause, which he employed in taking a long pull at the October, and then wiping his lips, he continued,—

“What is the matter now?” thought I; “so I went to the object, and found it was a man rolled up in a cloak in the middle of the road, dead.”

“Dead?”

“Aye, dead as a door nail.”

“Lor!” said the highwayman. “Why, then he must have been murdered, I suppose?”

“You may take your davy of that,” said the grazier; “but I tried to wake him up, but he was not to be disturbed, so I dragged him to the bank, where I left him.”

“Where was he hurt?”

“Shot right in the side, or stabbed, I don’t know which, but that’s where the blood came from, so I was sure he was dead; but when I removed the cloak from his face, I saw he had as ugly a set of features as a man can desire—a long, peculiar face, large, but thin nose, an awkward set of teeth, with one or two projecting in front, and oh! such eyes, that is when he opened them.”

“Opened them,” said the highwayman; “both?”

“Opened them,” repeated the landlord; “why, did you not tell me he was dead?”

“Aye; but when the moonlight came upon him, he opened his eyes. Oh! what eyes—why, they were like a pair of enormous great fish eyes—cod’s eyes, that had become suddenly lighted up, or the moonlight reflected back from the bottom of a new tin saucepan, and then you have ’em.”

“The devil,” said the highwayman; “and what did you do?”

“Why, I came away as fast as I could. I wasn’t to be done by a dead man. I didn’t wait to see more than that. He turned round and stared at me. He was so horrible, that I got upon my horse the best way I could, and came on here as fast as the animal would come.”

“The body, I dare say, rolled over, and you thought it moved of itself.”

“I know better; besides, it opened its eyes.”

“The moon shone on them, and you thought he looked at you. You was terror-stricken, and that is the truth of it.”

“Then I know better,” said the grazier, doggedly; “it ain’t anything of the kind. I know it ain’t a matter that happens every day, and that’s why you don’t believe it, and don’t understand it, but I know I’m right.”

“House, here, house! ostler!” shouted a loud, authoritative voice without the door of the inn, which caused them all to start and listen for a repetition of the same sounds to prove that they were not illusory.

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Chapter CLXXVII

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER’S ARRIVAL.—THE CONSTERNATION OF THE GUESTS.—THE GRAZIER’S TERRORS, AND POWERS OF IDENTITY.—THE LANDLORD’S DAUGHTER.

“Hilloa! house! house!” shouted the strange voice on the outside, but in a tone that seemed unearthly; whether it were merely a fancy, or reality, yet it had its effect, and the landlord sat staring vacantly with his two hands resting on either knee, leaning forward as if he was staring some imaginary object out of countenance.

“Well,” said one of the highwaymen, “ain’t anybody going to the door.”

No one answered, but Jem the ostler was hastening by another passage to the door, and then they heard some confused speaking, as if the stranger was giving some directions for the care of his horse.

The grazier was fixed in his attention to what was going on, and appeared petrified, and held a morsel on the end of his fork, halfway between his mouth and the plate, with his eyes directed towards the door.

In a few moments more they heard the steps of some one approaching the door, and one of the highwaymen said to his companion,—

“Ned, there are people late on the roads to-night.”

“Yes; it appears so, but it is very uncomfortable travelling; the night is bad, and the roads no better. Who’s this, I wonder?”

“We shall now see,” said the other, but their backs were turned towards the door, and they could not see who entered the door so well as the grazier, who sat in the same attitude, without a motion or movement, even to wink his eye, when the door opened, and in walked a tall man, wrapped in a horseman’s cloak.

The expression of horror in the grazier’s face, and the swelling of his eyes almost out of his head, at once showed them there was something extraordinary, and they both mutually turned round, and to their extreme terror they perceived the very man, or his double, they had left dead upon the spot where the grazier had seen him.

Neither were they alone surprised, for all present were able at once to recognise the same man without any difficulty.

“It’s the same man—I’m d—d!” said the grazier, as if he had made an effort to speak, and when he had so, he couldn’t help himself. “Oh, Lord!—oh Lord! who would have thought it?—it’s—it’s the—the—what do ye call it?”

“The devil,” suggested the landlord.

“No,” said the stranger, “no. I am merely a traveller, somewhat weary and tired—do not disturb yourselves. I am cold—very cold—the fire will do me good; it is a very cold night—the roads are bad very unsafe.”

“Very,” said one of the highwaymen, involuntarily.

“Did you speak?” inquired the stranger, suddenly turning to the highwayman who had spoken with a look of such a peculiar character, that he caused the bold roadster involuntarily to start; but he suddenly recovered himself, and said,—

“I did.”

“What did you say, sir?”

“The same as you,” replied the highwayman.

The stranger made no reply to the highwayman, whose natural effrontery, and the necessity he always had or presence of mind in circumstances of peril, gave him a greater superiority than most men possessed under such circumstances.

“I’m not well,” said the stranger.

“Perhaps you’ve ridden far.”

“I have,” replied the stranger. “Landlord, will you have the goodness to let me have some supper; I am weary.”

“I have only the remains of the chicken-pie and some ham,” said the landlord, looking back at the already referred-to chicken-pie, which, thanks to its being made of great size, had already supped three hungry men,—“and there is but little of that.”

“It is not much that I want—a small matter will suffice—a little ham, and something warm, and then I will to-bed—’tis late.”

“Very well, sir,” said the landlord; “here’s some good October; will you like that? or is there anything else? I have French spirits.”

“Then let me have some brandy.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll fetch my daughter down stairs,” said the landlord; “she’s young, and her hand is steadier than mine. I shall upset the bottle; my—my hand, you see, is always unsteady after I’ve drawn the October; somehow or other I always get out of order.”

“What is the reason of that?” inquired the highwayman.

“Why, it’s so strong; I believe it’s nothing else whatever.”

As the landlord turned to go, he give another look at the guest, and appeared greatly disturbed, and certainly thought him a strange and unaccountable man; for he believed that he was in truth the very man spoken of, who had been left for dead on the bank, near the foot of the gallows.

“Mary,” said the landlord, when he had ascended half a dozen stairs, which led out of the kitchen, “Mary.”

“Yes, father,” was the ready answer, in a clear, pleasing voice.

“I want you, my dear. Bring the brandy down—the French—the sealed bottle; the other’s out; I took the last this morning before breakfast.”

“Ho! ho!” said the highwayman; “hark at our landlord, how early he must begin—no wonder his hand shakes.”

“Ah!” said the landlord, as he came back with a wink; “when you have been a father and an innkeeper as long as I have, you’ll do many things you don’t now dream of; but, no matter, I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

At that moment a very pretty and genteel girl, about eighteen, descended the stairs with a spirit bottle in her hand, and advanced to the table.

“How will you take it, sir?” inquired the landlord.

“Mixed.”

“Make a glass, my dear,” said the landlord.

“Is that your daughter?” inquired the stranger, fixing his eyes upon her,—and they were such leaden eyes, that the girl shrank from him in dismay.

“Yes,” said the landlord.

“Any more?”

“None,” replied the landlord, and then there was a pause of some moments, during which the stranger watched the young girl’s motions with a greedy jealousy, as if he feared to lose one movement, and in a manner that especially annoyed the old landlord, who, however, could say nothing, he having been quite cowed by the stranger’s superiority in station and demeanour; besides which, there was something very strange and peculiar, not to say superhuman, about him that gave weight, and caused a kind of awe to pervade all present, and they looked upon him as something fearful or terrible.

It was not long before the stranger ate his supper—it was soon done; he ate but little, and, when that was done, he turned to the brandy and water; but there appeared an air of compulsion, upon his part, as if everything he took was taken under the feeling that it was absolutely necessary to take something, which did not escape the discerning eyes of all present, especially the landlord, who felt it a slight upon himself and his cheer.

“If I had known you were coming here,” said the landlord, “I would have got something ready for you, but, as it was, I had nothing but ‘pot-luck’ for you.”

“What is that?” inquired the stranger.—“What is that?—I never heard of such a dish before. I am a stranger in these parts.”

“Oh, it only means you could have anything what is in the house.”

“It will do,” said the stranger, quietly.

“Will you have anything more that we have in the house?”

“Nothing. I came by the gibbet, not far from this place; and I met with an accident there that has left me but little stomach.

“By gosh, I should think not,” muttered the grazier; “it would have settled my stomach altogether, and anybody else’s.”

“Well,” muttered one of the highwaymen, “It would have left me no stomach, save what would be in a fair way to become food for the worms.”

“What kind of accident was it, sir?”

“A terrible blow in the side; it seemed to go through me.”

“Well, well, I imagine there would be but little comfort in a man’s bowels after he had anything go through his side.”

“It depends upon the constitution,” said the stranger quietly.

“The what?” inquired one of the highwaymen, incredulously.

“The constitution,” replied the stranger, quietly.

There was a pause for some minutes, during which the strangers exchanged glances at each other, when one of the highwaymen said,—

“Perhaps a bullet put in your side might be no hindrance to your animal economy, and would in the course of nature become digested.”

“Why, I dare say it would not hurt me so much as many; but it would take me some little while to recover the shock, which would be great; but I am unwell, and perhaps had better retire. Will the young female, your daughter, act as my chamber-maid and show me my room?”

“Yes,” said the landlord, mechanically; “here, Mary, show the gentleman into No. 6, and leave the light.”

“Good night,” said the stranger, rising, and walking away erect, but slowly, from the group, who gazed after him with amazement.

“Good night, sir,” said the landlord, which was echoed by those present; and, when the stranger was gone, there was a general release in their conversation from the constraint which the presence of the last comer occasioned.

“Well, what do you think of him, Mr. Green?” inquired the landlord.

“The very same man I saw on the bank at the gallows corner.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

There was a general pause, as if there was something for them all to think over; and their thoughts appeared to be so unsatisfactory, that those who lived close at hand left the house, and those that remained there went to their respective beds, and in half an hour the house was quite silent.

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Chapter CLXXVIII

THE MIDNIGHT CRY OF ALARM.—THE VAMPYRE’S MEAL.—THE CHASE ACROSS THE FIELDS.—THE DEATH OF THE LANDLORD’S DAUGHTER.

The old inn was in a state of repose; its various parts were no longer vexed by the busy tramp of men, the noisy voice of the toper, or the untiring hands of the housewife, who does not spare any part of its edifice from her ablutions. The brush and the broom are sad intruders and disturbers, and yet they are in perpetual requisition. However, the inhabitants were all steeped in slumber.

Among those who lay in that house, there was not one, except one, indeed, who did not lie down to rest, and fall into a deep sleep; but that one exception was the stranger, who appeared to have other views.

He threw himself into a chair, and there appeared to meditate upon the clouds which passed across the sky, in endless variety of shape and form. He sat motionless, and still his large, lustreless eyes were fully opened, and he was gazing earnestly for nearly an hour without motion.

At length, as if his attention was of itself wearying to continue so long, he moved, then sighed deeply, or rather groaned.

“How long is this hated life to last?” he muttered. “When shall I cease to be the loathsome creature I am?”

There was some reflection in this that was very bitter to him. He shuddered, and buried his face in his hands, and remained in that state for some minutes; but then he lifted his head up again, and turned towards the moon’s rays, muttering,—

“But I am faint; I feel the want of my natural slumbers. Blood alone will restore me my strength. There is no resisting the dreadful appetite that goads me on. I must—I must—I will satisfy it.”

He arose suddenly, and drew himself up to his full height, and threw aloft his arms, as he growled out these words with frantic energy; but in a few seconds he became more calm, and said,—

“I saw the maiden enter the room next to mine. I can enter it by the same door, for I have the key, and that will place her at my mercy. Good fortune for once avail me, and then my wants will be satisfied.”

He walked softly to his own door, and undid it stealthily, and listened for some minutes.

“They are all asleep,” he said—“all, save one. I alone walk through the place. All are in peaceful slumbers, while I, like the creatures of prey, seek those whom I may devour. I must on.”

He crept into the passage, and advanced to the door of the young girl, who lay soundly sleeping in innocence and peace, little dreaming of the fate that awaited her—much less did she think that the destroyer was so close at hand.

She might, indeed, have dreamed that there was some one in the house who was scarcely of her nature—one that was loathsome and dreadful—one who, in fact, lived upon the blood of the innocent and fairest.

“She sleeps,” he muttered—“she sleeps!”

He listened again, and then he gently put the key into the door, and found that it was not locked, and then, turning the handle, he found there was some impediment to its opening; but of what character he could not tell.

“’Tis unlucky; but this must be removed.”

He place his hand and foot close to the door, and pressed it gradually and hardly against it, and he found that it gradually gave way, and that the impediment gave by degrees, and that, too, with hardly any noise.

“Fortune favours me,” he muttered; “she does not hear me. I shall win the chamber, and shall, before she can wake up, seize upon the dear life-stream that is no less precious to me than to herself.”

He now had succeeded in effecting an entrance into the room, and found that it was only an easy chair that had been placed against the door, because there was no other means of securing it, the key having unaccountably disappeared, and left her without any other means of securing her door.

“I will lock it,” he muttered; “if I be disturbed, I shall be better able to escape, and I shall be safe. My meal will be undisturbed; at least not before so much has been taken as will revive my strength.”

He now approached the bed, and with eager eyes devoured the fair form of the youthful and innocent sleeper.

“How calm, and how unsuspicious she lies,” he muttered; “’twere a pity, but I must, I must—there is no help.”

He leaned over her. He bent his head till his ear almost touched the lips of the sleeper, as though he were listening to the breathing of the young girl.

Something caused her to start. She opened her eyes, and endeavoured to rise up, but she was immediately thrust back, and the vampire seized her fair flesh with his fanged teeth, and having fleshed them, he was drawing that life current from her which ensanguined them both.

Horror and fright for a moment deprived her of strength, or the power of uttering a sound of any kind; but when she did do so, it was one wild unearthly shriek, that was heard throughout the whole house, and awakened every human being within it in a moment.

“Help! murder, murder!” she shrieked out, as soon as the first scream subsided, and she regained breath.

These cries she uttered rapidly, as well as attempting a desperate resistance to her persecutor; but she was growing gradually more and more faint.

• • • • •

The landlord had just got out of an uncomfortable dream about some strange adventure he was having with some excisemen when he was young, when the heart-piercing shriek of Mary came upon him.

“God bless me,” he muttered, “what’s that? I never heard anything so horrible in all my life. What can it be?”

He sat up in bed, and pulled his night-cap off, while he listened, when he heard the cries of help issuing from his daughter’s room.

“Good God! it’s Mary,” he muttered, “What can be the matter?”

He did not pause a moment, but huddled on his clothes, and then rushed out of his room with a light, to his daughter’s bedroom.

“What is the matter?” inquired one of the highwaymen, who had been disturbed by the dreadful shriek.

“I don’t know; but—but help me.”

“Help you to what?”

“To burst open this door; ’tis my daughter’s room, and the noise comes from that place. Hark!”

“Help, help!” said a faint voice.

“Damnation!” said the highwayman, “something’s wrong there; somebody’s sucking; surely the stranger is not there?”

“Burst the door open.”

“Then lend a hand; it must give,” said Ned; and they all three made a rush at the door, and in it went, for their weight carried it all before them, and they all three went into the apartment without any hindrance, for the frail lock gave immediately, and the other impediment only served to add to the noise.

Though they went in easily, yet they did not do so quickly enough, for they all rolled over each other, and before they could rise they distinctly saw the figure of the stranger start up and rush out of the room with Mary in his arms.

“Help! help! mercy!” she shrieked out.

“’Tis she,” said the landlord.

“Mary——”

“Yes, after her boys—after her; for Heaven’s sake, after her.”

“We will not leave her,” said the highwaymen in concert, and at the same moment all three rushed after her.

“The stranger has made his way down into the kitchen, and I think he has her with him,” said the landlord.

“I will after him,” said Ned; “I saw her in his arms. She was all over blood. Good Heavens! what can he mean? does he want to murder her?”

“Help! help! murder!” shouted the girl, and at that moment they heard the stranger attempting the kitchen door below. In a moment they all three ran down stairs as fast as they could, to seize the villain before he could escape; but they had hardly got into the kitchen before they saw the door swing to after him.

“He’s gone,” said the landlord; “he’s gone.”

“We’ll after them; come on, never mind a chase; she’s in white, and the moon’s up, so we shall have them in sight.”

“Away after them, lads; save my girl—save my Mary!”

Away they went with great speed, but the stranger somehow or other kept ahead of them; his great height gave him an advantage in length of stride; but then he bore the landlord’s daughter in his arms, which was more than enough to balance their powers; for though she was not heavy, comparatively speaking, yet she was heavy to be borne along in this manner; but the stranger appeared to possess superhuman strength, and moved along safely until they lost sight of him among some hay-stacks, for which they made.

“There, he’s gone into Jackson’s rick-yard,” said the landlord; “get up; push on; we may be yet in time to prevent mischief.”

The highwaymen ran hard; they had been out of breath for some time, and could hardly move their feet, but they made a sudden effort, or spirt, and away they ran, and, in less than a minute, came up to the rick-yard.

They rushed into the yard, and then beheld the stranger seated upon some partially cut hay with the helpless maiden on his lap, but his fanged teeth were fleshed in her fair neck, and he was exerting himself in drawing the life stream from her veins.

As soon as he saw the highwaymen he arose, and the unfortunate girl rolled to the earth, and he started up and fled, the highwaymen firing a parting shot after him, with pretty good aim, yet it took no effect. The landlord’s daughter was picked up warm, but lifeless. Whether it was in consequence of her wound and loss of blood, which was doubted, or from sheer fright, is not known, but the latter was considered most probable.

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CLXXIX. THE HOTEL.—THE FASHIONABLE ARRIVAL.—THE YOUNG HEIRESS

Can it be true, and if so, how horribly strange, that a being half belonging to a world of spirits, should thus wander beneath the cold moon and the earth, bringing dismay to the hearts of all upon whom his strange malign influence is cast!

How frightful an existence is that of Varney the Vampyre!

There were some good points about the—man, we were going to say—and yet we can hardly feel justified in bestowing upon him that title,—considering the strange gift of renewable existence which was his. If it were, as, indeed, it seemed to be the case, that bodily decay in him was not the result of death, and that the rays “of the cold chaste moon” were sufficient to revivify him, who shall say when that process is to end? and who shall say that, walking the streets of giant London at this day, there may not be some such existences? Horrible thought that, perhaps seduced by the polished exterior of one who seems a citizen of the world in the most extended signification of the words, we should bring into our domestic circle a vampyre!

But yet it might be so. We have seen, however, that Varney was a man of dignified courtesy and polished manners; that he had the rare and beautiful gift of eloquence; and that, probably, gathering such vast experience from his long intercourse with society—an intercourse which had extended over so many years, he was able to adapt himself to the tastes and the feelings of all persons, and so exercise over them that charm of mind which caused him to have so dangerous a power.

At times, too, it would seem as if he regretted that fatal gift of immortality, as if he would gladly have been more human, and lived and died as those lived and died whom he saw around him. But being compelled to fulfil the order of his being, he never had the courage absolutely to take measures for his own destruction, a destruction which should be final in consequence of depriving himself of all opportunity of resuscitation.

Certainly the ingenuity of such a man might have devised some means of putting such an end to his life, that, in the perishable fragments of his body there should linger not one spark of that vitality which had been so often again and again fanned into existence.

Probably some effort of that kind may yet be his end, and we shall see that Varney the Vampyre will not, like the common run of the world’s inhabitants, be changed into that dust of which is all humanity, but will undergo some violent disruption, and be for ever blotted out from the muster-roll of the living creatures that inhabit the great world.

But to cease speculating on such things, and to come to actual facts, we will now turn over another leaf in the strange eventful history of Varney the Vampyre.

• • • • •

One stormy, inclement evening in November, a travelling carriage, draggled with mud, and dripping with moisture, was driven up to the door of the London Hotel, which was an establishment not of the very first fashion, but of great respectability, situated then in Burlington-street, close to Old Bond-street, then the parade of fashion, and, as some thought, elegance; although we of the present day would look with risibility upon the costumes that were the vogue, although the period were but fifty years ago; but fifty years effect strange mutations and revolutions in dress, manners, and even in modes of thought.

The equipage, if not of the most dashing character, was still of sufficiently aristocratic pretensions to produce a considerable bustle in the hotel; and the landlord, after seeing that there was a coronet upon of the panels of the carriage door, thought it worth his while personally to welcome the guests who had done him the honour of selecting his house.

These guests consisted of an oldish man and woman, a young man of frivolous and foppish exterior, of about twenty-two years of age, and a young lady, who was so covered up in a multitude of shawls, that but little of her face could be seen; but that little was sufficient to stamp her at once as most beautiful.

The whole party evidently paid great court to this young lady, but whether they did so from affection, or from some more interested motive, it would not be proper just now to say, as those facts will come out before we have proceeded far in this little episode.

“Mind how you step, Annette,” said the old gentleman, as the young lady descended the carriage. “Mind how you step, my dear.”

“Oh! yes, yes,” said the old lady, who was not so very old either, although entering upon the shady side of fifty. “Yes. Oh! mind my dear, how you get out.”

The young lady made no reply to all these kind injunctions, but pushing aside the proffered arm of the younger gentleman, she tripped into the hotel unaided.

The old lady instantly followed her.

“Now, Francis,” said the old gentleman to the servant, who got down from the rumble of the travelling carriage. “Now, Francis, you perfectly recollect, I hope, what my brother, Lord Lake, said to you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Francis, but there was not the most respectful intonation in the world in the voice with which he returned the affirmative.

“You remember,” continued the old gentleman; “you remember, Francis, that my brother told you, you were to wait upon us just the same as upon himself, with the carriage.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh, yes! what do you mean by saying ‘oh, yes!’ to me?”

“Do you want me to say, ‘oh, no?’”

“Francis, this won’t do. You are discharged.”

“That for you, and the discharge, too,” said Francis, as he snapped his fingers in the face of the old gentleman. “I never meant to serve you, Mister Lake; I’m Lord Lake’s groom, but I ain’t a going to be turned over to a canting fellow like you, so you have only took the words out of my mouth, for I meant to discharge myself, and so will George. I say, George.”

“Yes,” replied the coachman; “what is it?”

“Are we going to be at the beck and call of Jonathan Lake?”

“See him d—-d first,” was the laconic reply of the coachman.

“Now, Mister Lake,” added Francis, “you knows what we thinks of you. You is a humbug. We only came so far, because we wouldn’t put Miss Annette, our young lady, to the inconvenience of a postchaise, while my lord, her father’s carriage here, was so much more comfortable. We shall take that to the coachmaker’s, where my lord’s other carriages are standing, till he comes to England, and then you won’t see us no more.”

“You rascals!”

“Oh, go on. You’re a humbug; ain’t he, George?”

“Oh, a riglar one—a numbug he is,” aid the coachman; “and what’s more, we don’t believe a word of all what’s been a going on. Lady Annette is Lady Annette, bless her sweet eyes. Come on, Francis, I’m wet.”

“And I’m damp,” said Francis, as he shook himself, and made as much splashing round him as a great Newfoundland dog, who has just had a bath. “I’m ready now, mister, and you knows our minds, and we ain’t the sort of folks to alter ’em. We serves our master; but we doesn’t serve a humbug.”

Some of the waiters at the hotel had come to the door to hear this rather curious colloquy, and not a little surprised were they at it. At all events, whatever other effect it had upon them, it did not increase their respect for the new arrivals, and one of them, named Slop, ran after the carriage, and called out to Francis,—

“I say—I say!”

“Well, what?”

“I say, young fellow, just tell me where you will be staying, and I’ll come and see you, and stand a glass.”

Francis leant over the roof of the carriage, and said,—

“George—George!”

“Here ye air,” said George.

“Here’s one o’ the waiters at the hotel wants to make an acquaintance. It won’t be a bad thing to know him, as you see he can tell us all about Lady Annette, and what the ladies are doing. What do you say to it, George?”

“A good idea, Francis.”

“Very well. Hilloa! what’s your name, old fellow?”

“Slop—Solomon Slop, they calls me.”

“Well, if you come any evening to the King’s Head, in Welbeck-street, you’ll find either me or George; and we always likes good company, and shall be very glad to see you whenever you like. Suppose you say to-morrow?”

“I will,—I will; to-morrow I can come easily at eight o’clock, so you may expect me. Good night.”

“Good night, Slop. Pleasant evening, ain’t it? Drive on, George; I shall be in a ague presently; drive on, good luck to you, and let’s get a change of things, whatever you do. I never was so wet, I do think, in all my life.”

“Nor me, nor me,” said George, who it will be perceived was not very particular about his grammar; but that didn’t matter much. He was paid for a knowledge of horses, not of moods, tenses, and cases.

Leaving the servants, then, of Lord Lake, as they had announced themselves to be, let us return to the hotel, where the family party had by this time got into comfortable enough quarters.

As far as the landlord of that establishment was concerned, Mr. Lake had won him over completely, by ordering the best rooms, a supper, as good as the house could afford, regardless of price; the best wines, and altogether showed a right royal disposition as regarded expenditure.

But the waiters, who had often found by experience that the most extravagant people were not the most liberal to them, did not forget what had passed at the door, and many a whispered surmise passed from one to the other regarding the circumstances that had induced the coachman and groom to treat the family so very cavalierly, and so obstinately to decline serving them.

When Slop returned, he got some of his companions round him in the hall.

“I shall know all about it,” he said; “I’m to go and take a glass with them to-morrow night, at the King’s Head, in Welbeck-street, and you see if they don’t tell me what it’s all about. I wouldn’t miss knowing for a trifle.”

“Nor me—nor me.”

“Well, I’ll of course tell you all when I come back. You may depend upon it it’s something worth knowing. Have you seen the young lady any of you. I caught just a look of one eye, and the end of her nose, and I should say she’s a out-and-outer, and no mistake.”

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Chapter CLXXX

THE SECOND ARRIVAL AT THE LONDON HOTEL.—THE MYSTERIOUS GUEST.

Scarcely had the bustle of the arrival we have noticed subsided at the London Hotel, when another travelling chariot dashed up to the door, and the landlord made a rush out to welcome his new arrival, considering himself quite in luck to have two such customers in one evening.

A gentleman, on whose head was a fur travelling cap, was at one of the windows of this carriage, and he called to the landlord, saying,—

“Are your best rooms occupied?”

“Not the best, sir,” was the reply, “for we have several suites of apartments in all respects equal to each other; but we have a family just arrived in one suite. The Lake family, sir.”

“Well, it don’t matter to me who you have; I will get out if you can accommodate me.”

“Oh, certainly, sir; you will find here accommodation of the very first character, I can assure you, sir. Pray, sir, alight. Allow me, sir, to hold an umbrella over you. It’s a bad night, sir; I’m afraid the winter is setting in very strangely, sir, and prophetically of——”

“Silence. I don’t want your opinion of the matter. If there’s one thing I dislike more than another, it’s a chattering man.”

This rebuff silenced the landlord, who said not another word, although probably he thought the more; and those thoughts were not of a very kindly character as regarded the stranger, who had so very unceremoniously stopped his amiable remarks.

Indeed, when he got into the hall, he consigned the new comer to the care of the head waiter, and retired to his own apartment in great dudgeon.

“I hope everything is quiet here,” said the stranger to the head waiter.

“Oh, dear, yes, sir; the house is as quiet as a lamb, sir, I can assure you. We have only three inmates at present, sir. There’s the Lakes,—highly respectable people, sir. A brother of Lord Lakes, sir, I believe, and the——”

“I don’t want to hear who you have. What the devil is it to me? If there’s anything I dislike more than another, it’s a d—d magpie of a waiter.”

The head waiter was terribly offended, and said not another word, so that the gentleman was left in the sole occupation of his apartments, and then to fling himself upon a couch.

“Ah, ah! God knows how it will all end. Well, well, we shall see, we shall see. They have arrived, and that’s one comfort; I am now, then, I think so well made up, that they will not readily know me. Oh, no, no, I should hardly know myself, now, shaven clean as I am, after being accustomed on the continent, to wear beard and moustache. Well, well, we shall see, how it will all end. Thank the fates, they have not gone somewhere where I could not find them.” He rung the bell.

“Waiter, let me have the best the house affords, will you? and remember my name is Blue.”

“Sir! Bl—Blue, sir?”

“Yes, Diggory Blue.”

“Yes, sir,—yes sir. Certainly. What an odd name,” soliloquised the waiter, as he went down stairs to tell his master. “I say sir, the gent in No. 10 and 11 says his name is Diggory Blue.”

“Blue, Blue,” said the landlord, “it is an odd name for a Christian.”

“Perhaps he ain’t a Christian,” said the very identical Mr. Blue himself, popping his head over the bar in which the little discourse was going on, between the landlord and the waiter. “How do you know he’s a Christian?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, really I—I—a-hem! a thousand pardons sir.”

“Pshaw!”

The strange gentleman went to the door, and gave some directions to the servants belonging to his carriage, which sent them away, and then Mr. Blue started up into his rooms again, without saying another word to the landlord, who was terribly annoyed at being caught canvassing the name of one of his guests, with one of his waiters.

“Confound him,” he muttered, “he has no business to have such a name as Blue and good God! if his surname was Blue, what the devil made his godfathers and godmothers call him Diggory? Sam, Sam!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put down in the book, Diggory Blue.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bless us! why there’s somebody else as I’m a sinner.” The landlord could not have sworn by a better oath.

He ran to the door, and there beheld another travelling carriage, out of which stepped a gentlemanly looking man enveloped in a rich travelling cloak lined with fur.

“Can you accommodate us?” he said.

“Yes, sir, with pleasure.”

“Who have you here, landlord?”

“A family named Lake, sir, and a Mr.—a—a—Blue, sir.”

“Quiet people I dare say, I shall most likely remain with you a week or two. Let me have the best apartments you have unoccupied at present.”

“Yes, sir. This way if you please, sir—this way.”

The last arrival seemed to be in bad health, for he walked very slowly, like a man suffering from great bodily exhaustion, and more than once he paused as he followed the landlord up the principal staircase of the hotel, as if it were absolutely necessary he should do so to recover breath, and moreover the landlord heard him sigh deeply, but whether that was from mental or physical distress he had no means of knowing. His curiosity, however, was much excited by the gentleman, and his sympathies likewise, for he was the reverse of Mr. Blue, and listened with a refined and gentlemanly courtesy to whatever was said to him by any one apparently, although it was evidently an effort to speak, so weak and ill did he seem to be.

“I am sorry, sir,” said the landlord, when he had shewn the gentleman into his rooms, “I am sorry sir, you don’t seem well.

“I am rather an invalid, but I dare say I shall soon be better, thank you—thank you. One candle only, I dislike too much light; charge for as many as you please, but never let me have but one, landlord.”

“As you please, sir, as you please; I hope you will make yourself comfortable here, and I can assure you, sir, that nothing shall be wanting on my part to make you so.”

“I am sure of that, landlord; you are very good, thank you.”

“What name shall I say, sir, in case any gentleman should call to see you, sir?”

“Black.”

“Black, sir!”—“Black.”—“Oh, Mr. Black!—Yes, sir, certainly, why not? Oh, of course. I—only thought it a little odd, you see, sir, because we have a gentleman already in the house called Blue. That was all, sir. Mr. Black, thank you, sir.”

The landlord bowed himself out, and Mr. Black inclined his head with the look of a condescending emperor, so that when the landlord got down stairs, he said to his wife,—

“Now that is a gentleman. He listens to all you have got to say, like a gentleman, and don’t snap you up as that Mr. Blue did. Mr. Black, it is quite clear to me, is a man of the world, and a perfect gentleman. Hilloa, what’s that? Eh? What! why it’s Mr. Black’s bell, and he must have almost broken the wire. Sam, Sam! run up to 8, and see what’s wanted.”

Sam did run up to 8, and when he got there, he found Mr. Black lying upon the floor in a fainting fit, and wholly insensible.

The alarmed waiter ran down stairs to his master with the news, and the nearest medical man was sent for, but with as little parade as possible, for the hotel-keeper did not wish to alarm all his other guests with the news of the fact that there was a sick person in the house, which he knew was not pleasing to many persons, and might induce them to change their quarters.

When the medical man came, he was shown up stairs at once, when Mr. Black had been lifted on to a sofa, where he lay without any signs of consciousness at all, much to the horror of the landlord, who began to think he was dead, and that there would be all the disagreeableness of having a corpse in his house.

The surgeon felt the pulse and the heart, and then he said,—

“He is in a swoon, but he must be in a desperately weak state.”

“He looks it, don’t he, sir?”

“He does indeed. How dreadfully emaciated he is!”

By dint of great exertion and the use of stimulants, the surgeon succeeded in restoring Mr. Black to consciousness, and when he was so restored, he looked around him with that strange vacant expression which a man wears who has newly come out of a trance and whose memory is in a state of abeyance.

“Well, sir, how are you now?” said the surgeon.

He made no reply.

“I should advise that he be put to bed, landlord,” added the medical man, “and something of a warm nourishing quality given to him. I will send him some medicine.”

Mr. Black now made an effort to speak, and his memory seemed to have come back to him as he said,

“I fear I have been a deal of trouble, but the fatigue of travelling fast—it is that has unnerved me—I shall be much better to-morrow. Thank you all.”

“I will call to morrow” said the surgeon, “and see how you get on, if you please.”

“I shall be much obliged; I feel myself quite strong enough to retire for the night without assistance, thank you.”

He made no opposition to the landlord sending him up by Sam some spiced wine, and when it came, he said,—

“I hope no one sleeps near me who will come in late and disturb me, as I require a full and clear night’s repose.”

“Oh no, sir,” said Sam, “it’s a young lady sir, as belongs to the Lake family sleeps in the next room but one to you, that is to say, No. 9. The very next room ain’t occupied at all, sir, to-night, so you will be as quiet as if you was in a church, sir.”

“Thank you, thank you, good night, Samuel.”

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