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THE 
 BUCCANEER. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRES.°S: C. HALL. 
 
 Stay ! methinks I see 
 A person in yond cave. Who should that bee ? 
 I know her ensignes now —’tis Chivalrie 
 Possess’d with sleepe, dead as a lethargie ; 
 If any charme will wake her, ’tis the name 
 Of our Meliadus! I’ll use his Fame. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 REVISED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET: 
 
 BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH ; 
 J. CUMMING, DUBLIN. 
 
 1840. 
 

 
72> 
 H1464 
 
 }%40 
 
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 S 
 
 ' 
 
 ; THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 © 
 
 Y CHAPTER I. 
 
 With roomy decks, her guns of mighty strength, 
 
 Whose low-laid mouths each mounting billow laves, 
 i Deep in her draught, and warlike in her length, 
 sh She seems a sea wasp flying on the waves. Drypen. 
 ~ 
 
 Ww was between the hours of ten and twelve on a fine night of 
 3 ebruary, in the year sixteen hundred and fifty-six, that three 
 Ss men moored a light skiff in a small bay, overshadowed by the 
 eavy and sombre rocks that distinguish the Isle of Shepey 
 mq from other parts along the coast of Kent, the white cliffs of 
 '- which present an aspect at once so cheerful and so peculiar to 
 the shores of Britain. The quiet sea seemed, in the’ murky 
 light, like a dense and motionless mass, save when the gather- 
 = Ing clouds passed from the brow of the waning moon, and 
 —+ permitted its beams to repose in silver lines on its undulating 
 = bosom. 
 
 It was difficult to account for the motive that could have 
 —sinduced any mariner to land upon so’ unpropitious a spot, 
 - hemmed in as it was on every side, and apparently affording 
 
 © no outlet but that by which they had entered — the trackless 
 *~ and illimitable ocean. Without a moment’s deliberation, how- 
 — eyer, the steersman, who had guided his boat into the creek, 
 ~. sprang lightly to the shore: another followed ; while the third, 
 “ folding himself in the capacious cloak his leader had thrown 
 ~yoff, resumed his place, as if resolved to take his rest, at least 
 ~ for a time. 
 ~_ “Little doubt of our having foul weather, master,” ob- 
 ~seryed the younger of the two, in a half querulous, half positive 
 ~ tone, as standing on a huge bank of sea-weed, he regarded first 
 ~the heavens, and then the earth, with the scrutinising gaze of 
 -:0ne accustomed to pry into their mysteries. His companion 
 B 
 
 ) 
 
4 THE BUCGCANEER. 
 
 made no answer, but commenced unrolling a rich silk scarf, 
 that had enveloped his throat, and twisting it into loose folds, 
 passed it several times around his waist — having previously 
 withdrawn from a wide leathern belt that intervened between 
 his jacket and trousers a brace of curiously-fashioned pistols, 
 which he now handed to the young sailor, while he elevated 
 the hilt of his dagger, so that, without removing or disturbing 
 the silken sash, he could use it in an instant. Having fully 
 ascertained this point, by drawing the weapon more than once 
 from its sheath, he again deposited the pistols in his belt, and 
 buttoned his vest nearly to the throat ; then drew the ends of 
 his sash still more tightly, and placing a hand on either side, 
 turned towards the cliffs, measuring their altitude with an eye, 
 which, though deficient in dignity, was acute, and peculiarly 
 fierce in expression. 
 
 The seaman, for such was his calling, was about five feet 
 eight or nine inches in height. His hair, as it appeared from 
 beneath a cap singularly at variance with the fashion of the 
 time, curled darkly round a face, the marked features of which 
 were sufficiently prominent, even in that uncertain light, to 
 denote a person of no ordinary mind or character. His figure 
 was firm and well-proportioned, and, though he might have 
 numbered fifty years, it had lost neither strength nor elasticity. 
 His whole bearing was that of a man whom nothing could have 
 turned from a cherished purpose, were it for good or evil: 
 though his eye was, as we have described it, fierce and acute, 
 it was also restless and impatient as the waves upon which he 
 had toiled from his earliest years. 
 
 Again he surveyed the cliff, and, stepping close to its base, 
 applied the point of a boat-spear to remove the sea-weed that 
 spring and high tides had heaped against it; he then sum- 
 moned the youth to his assistance: after a few moments’ 
 search, the lad exclaimed,— 
 
 ** Here it is, master— here is one —here another — but, 
 my eyes! are we to trust our necks to such footing as this? 
 I’d rather mount the top-gallant of the good ship Providence 
 in the fiercest Nor-wester that ever blow’d, than follow such a 
 lubberly tack.” , 
 
 “‘Then go back to the boat, sir,” replied the elder, as he 
 began, with cautious yet steady daring, to ascend — a course 
 attended with evident danger, ‘‘Go back to the boat, sir — 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 3 
 
 and, here, Jeromio! you have not been taught your duty on 
 board the Providence, and, I presume, have no scruples, like 
 our friend Oba Springall, Jeromio! I say, hither and up 
 with me!” 
 
 ' “T am ready, sir,”’ replied the youth, whose momentary 
 dread had been dispelled by this attempt to promote a rival to 
 the post of honour ; “I am ready, sir: ” muttering, however, 
 soon afterwards to himself, as the difficulties of the way in- 
 creased, ‘‘ He thinks no more of his life than if he were a 
 sprat or a spawn.” No other word was breathed by either of 
 the adventurers, as they threaded the giddy path, until about 
 midway, when the elder paused and exclaimed, “ A-hoy there, 
 boy! there are two steps wanting ; you had better indeed go 
 back. To me, the track has been long familiar ; not so to 
 you,” 
 
 The youth thought of his master’s taunt, and Jeromio, 
 and resolved to take his chance. ‘‘ Ay, ay, sir, no danger 
 when I follow you.” But the peril was, in truth, appalling, 
 though its duration was brief. Below, the sea that was now 
 rapidly covering the small creek, rudely agitated and opposed 
 by a rising breeze, dashed and foamed against the rocks. To 
 fall from such a height was inevitable destruction. There was 
 scarcely sufficient light to mark the inequality of the ascending 
 cliffs ; and a spectator, gazing on the scene, must have ima- 
 gined that those who clung to such a spot were supported by 
 supernatural agency. The Skipper, nothing daunted, struck 
 the spear, that had served as a climbing-stick, firmly into the 
 surface of mingled clay and stone, and then, by a violent effort, 
 flung himself upwards, catching with his left hand at a slight 
 projection that was hardly visible; thus, hanging between 
 earth and heaven, he coolly disengaged the staff, and placed 
 it under the extended arm, so as to form another prop ; and 
 feeling, as it were, his way, he burrowed with his foot a rest- 
 ing in the cliff, from which he sprang on a narrow ledge, and 
 was in safety. He then turned to look for his young com- 
 panion, to whom he extended the boat-spear that had been of 
 such service. Animated by his master’s success and example, 
 Springall’s self-possession was confirmed ; and both soon stood 
 on the brow of the precipice. 
 
 “Sharp sailing that, boy,” observed the elder, as the youth 
 panted at his side. 
 
 ? 
 
 B 2 
 
4 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “ Ay, ay, sir,” replied Springall, wiping his face with the 
 sleeve of his jacket. ‘“‘ Take a drop, master,’ he continued, 
 drawing a tin bottle from his bosom, ‘ ’twill warm ye after 
 such a cursed cruise.” 
 
 The Skipper nodded as he accepted the flask. “* I hope you 
 are as well armed on all points as on this ; but don’t take in 
 too great a reef, or it will make you a heavy sailor before your 
 time: drop anchor now, and keep watch here till further 
 orders.”’ 
 
 “Keep watch here, sir!” said Springall, in a mournful 
 tone. ‘* And did ye bring me ashore, and up that devil’s 
 rope-ladder, to leave me to watch here ? ” 
 
 The Captain looked upon him angrily fora moment. “ I 
 am rightly served for taking man or boy out of the canting 
 hulks that lag on the water. Did ye ever chance to hear such 
 a sound on board the ship Providence as ‘ Silence, and obey 
 orders?’ Let not your walk, youngster, extend beyond that 
 point, from which, at daybreak, you can catch a view of the 
 court tree, where, if ancient habits are not all put off, there 
 will be revelries ere long: the old church at Minster will be 
 also within your sight, while the sea between us and the Essex 
 coast, and for miles along the Northern ocean, can scarcely 
 bear a sail that your young eyes will not distinguish. Watch 
 as if your life—as if a thousand lives hung upon the caution 
 of a moment ; and remember, while the blue light revolves, 
 which you now see in the vessel’s bow, all things abroad go on 
 well. You also know the pass-word for our friends, and the 
 reception for our enemies. If you should be at all afraid, 
 three loud notes on your whistle will summon Jeromio, and a 
 single flash of your pistol will bring the long-boat off, and 
 into the creek in five minutes. You can then tumble down 
 the devil’s rope-ladder, as you call it, and send the less timid 
 Italian to keep watch till my return— you understand me.” 
 So saying he strode onwards, leaving the youth, who had not 
 yet passed eighteen summers, to his discontented solitude and 
 ill-temper. ; 
 
 “Understand you! I wonder who does, ever did, or ever 
 will ; perched up here like asea-mew, and not having touched 
 land for five weeks! ‘ Beyond that point!’ I’ll be even with 
 him, for I wo’n’t walk to that point: I’ll just stay in the one 
 spot.” With this resolution, he flung himself upon a bank of 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 5 
 
 early wild thyme, that filled the air with its refreshing odour. 
 Long after his master was out of sight, he continued pulling 
 up tufts of the perfumed herb, and flinging them over the 
 cliff. 
 
 ““Now, by my faith,” he mentally exclaimed, “I have a 
 mind to pelt that Jeromio with some of these clay lumps: he 
 is enjoying a sound nap down there, like an overgrown seal, 
 as he is; and J am everlastingly taunted with Jeromio! 
 Jeromio! Jeromio! at every hand’s turn, Here goes, to 
 rouse his slumbers.’”’ He drew himself gradually forward, 
 and raised his hand to fling a fragment of stone at his fellow- 
 seaman: the arm was seized in its uplifted position, by a 
 figure enveloped in a dark cloak, that, muffled closely round 
 the face, and surmounted by aslouched hat, worn at the time 
 by both Cavalier and Roundhead, effectually concealed the 
 person from recognition. He held the youth in so iron a 
 grasp, that motion was almost impossible ; and while the moon 
 came forth and shone upon them in all her majesty, the two 
 who contended beneath her light might have been aptly com- 
 pared, in their strength and weakness, to the mighty eagle 
 overcoming the feeble leveret. 
 
 The stranger was the first to speak, as motioning with his 
 disengaged hand towards the revolving light that hung in the 
 vessel’s bow, he inquired,— 
 
 “What colours does that ship carry ? ” 
 
 “* Her master’s, I suppose.” 
 
 «« And who is her master ?”’ 
 
 ‘© The man she belongs to.” 
 
 ‘* She’s a free-trader then ?”’ 
 
 ‘** The sea is as free to a free ship, as the land to a free man, 
 I take it.” ‘ 
 
 “Reptile! dare you barter words with me? — Your com- 
 mander’s name ? ” 
 
 The boy made no answer. 
 
 “Dost hear me? Your commander’s name?” and as the 
 question was repeated, the mailed glove of the interrogator 
 pressed painfully into Springall’s flesh, without, however, 
 eliciting a reply. 
 
 “ He has a name, I suppose P ” 
 
 “That you, or any cowardly night-walker, would as soon 
 not hear; for it is the name of a brave man,” replied the 
 
 B 3 
 
6 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 youth at last, struggling violently, but ineffectually, to reach 
 the whistle that was suspended round his neck. 
 
 “Fool!” exclaimed the stranger, ‘ dost bandy strength as 
 well as words? Learn that in an instant I could drop thee 
 into the rolling ocean, like the egg of the unwise bird.” He 
 raised the youth from the earth, and held him over the preci- 
 pice, whose base was now buried in the wild waste of waters, 
 that foamed and howled, as if demanding from the unyielding 
 rock a tribute or a sacrifice. 
 
 “* Tell me thy master’s name.’ 
 
 The heroic boy, though with certain death before him, made 
 no reply. The man held him for about the space of a minute 
 and a half in the same position: at first he struggled fiercely 
 and silently, as a young wolf caught in the hunter’s toils; yet 
 fear gradually palsied the body of the unconquered mind, and 
 his efforts became so feeble, that the stranger placed him on 
 his feet, saying, — 
 
 “I wish not to hurt thee, child! ’’ adding, in a low and 
 broken voice, “‘ Would that the Lord had given unto me sons 
 endowed with the same spirit! Wilt tell me thy own name ? ” 
 
 “No! If you are a friend, you know our pass-word ; if a 
 foe, you shall not know it from me. You can go down the 
 cliff, and ask our commander’s name from yon sleepy Orson ; 
 his tongue goes fast enough at all seasons.” 
 
 The stranger entirely withdrew his hold from Springall, 
 while he moved towards the summit of the rock. Quick as 
 lightning, the whistle was applied to the youth’s mouth, and 
 three rapid, distinct notes cut through the night air, and were 
 echoed by the surrounding caverns. 
 
 “I thank thee, boy,” said the mysterious being, calmly ; 
 “¢ that tells of Hugh Dalton and the Fire-fly.” 
 
 And he disappeared so instantaneously from the spot, that 
 Springall rubbed first his eyes, and then his arm, to be assured 
 whether the events of the last few minutes were not the effects 
 of a distempered imagination. He had, however, more certain 
 proof of its reality: for, upon peering closely through the 
 darkness into the thick wood that skirted the east, he distinctly 
 noted the glitter of steel in two or three points at the same 
 moment ; and apprehensive that their landing must have been 
 witnessed by more than one person — the hostile intentions of 
 whom he could scarcely doubt—he examined the priming of 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 7 
 
 his pistols, called to Jeromio to look out, for that danger was 
 at hand, and resumed his watch, fearful, not for his own 
 safety, but for that of his absent commander. 
 
 In the mean time, the Skipper, who was known in the Isle 
 of Shepey, and upon other parts of the coast, by the name of 
 Hugh Dalton, proceeded uninterruptedly on his way, up and 
 down the small luxuriant hills, and along the fair valleys of as 
 fertile and beautiful a district as any of which our England 
 can boast, until a sudden turn brought him close upon a dwell- 
 ing of large proportions and disjointed architecture, that evi- 
 dently belonged to two distinct eras. The portion of the house 
 fronting the place on which he stood was built of red brick, 
 and regularly elevated to three stories in height ; the windows 
 were long and narrow ; and the entire of that division was in 
 strict accordance with the taste of the times, as patronised and 
 adopted by the rulers of the Commonwealth. Behind, rose 
 several square turrets, and straggling buildings, the carved and 
 many-paned windows of which were of very remote date, and 
 evidently formed from the relics of some monastery or religious 
 house. Here and there, the fancy or interest of the owner,had 
 induced him to remodel the structure ; and an ill-designed_ and 
 ungraceful mixture of the modern with the ancient gave to 
 the whole somewhat of a grotesque appearance, that was 
 heightened by the noble trees, which had once towered in ma- 
 jesty and beauty, being in many places lopped and docked, as 
 if even the exuberance of nature was a crime in the eyes of the 
 present lord of the mansion. 
 
 “Sir Robert,’ muttered Dalton, ‘‘ may well change the 
 name of his dwelling from Cecil Abbey to Cecil Place. Why, 
 the very trees are manufactured into Roundheads. But there 
 is something more than ordinary a-foot, for the lights are float- 
 ing through the house as if it were haunted. The sooner I 
 make harbour, the better.” 
 
 He paced rapidly forward, and stood before a small building 
 that was then called a porter’s lodge, but which had formerly 
 been designated the Abbey Gate, and which, perhaps in con- 
 sideration of its simple, but singular, beauty, had been spared 
 all modern alteration, The ivy that clustered and climbed to 
 its loftiest pinnacles added a wild and peculiar interest to this 
 remnant of ancient architecture. It contained a high carriage 
 archway, and a lateral passage beneath it, both decorated with 
 
 B 4 
 
8 "THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 numerous ornamental mouldings and columns, flanked at the 
 angles by octagonal turrets of surpassing elegance. An apart- 
 ment over the arch, which, during the reign of monastic 
 power, had been used as a small oratory, for the celebration of - 
 early mass to the servants and labourers of the convent, was 
 now appropriated to the accommodation of the porter and his 
 family. 
 
 The Skipper applied his hand to the bell, and rang long and 
 loudly. For some time no answer was returned. Again he 
 rang, and after much delay, an old man was seen approaching 
 from the house, bearing a torch, which he carefully shaded 
 from the night wind. 
 
 “My good friend,” inquired the sailor in no gentle tone, 
 “is it Sir Robert’s wish that those who come on business 
 should be thus kept waiting ? ” 
 
 ** You know little of the affliction with which it has pleased 
 the Lord to visit Sir Robert, or you would not have rung so 
 loudly : our good lady is dying!” and the old man’s voice 
 faltered as he spoke the tidings. 
 
 “Indeed !’’ was the only reply of Dalton, as he passed 
 under the archway ; but the word was spoken in a tone that 
 evinced strong feeling. The porter requested him to walk into 
 the lodge. 
 
 “* The place is in confusion ; and as to seeing my master, it 
 is a clear impossibility ; he has not left our lady’s bedside 
 these three days, and the doctor says she will be gathered to 
 her kindred before morning.” 
 
 ‘* He will leave even her to attend to me; and therefore, my 
 friend, on your own head be the responsibility if you fail to 
 deliver to him this token. I tell you,” added Dalton, ‘‘ death 
 could hardly keep him from me!” 
 
 The porter took the offered signet in silence, and only 
 shook his head in reply, as they passed together towards the 
 house. 
 
 “* You can tell me, I suppose, if Master Roland is still with 
 his Highness’s army ? ” 
 
 ** Alack and well-a-day! God is just and merciful ; but, I 
 take it, the death of that noble boy has gone nigher to break 
 my lady’s heart than any other sorrow: the flesh will war 
 against the spirit. Had he died in honourable combat at 
 Marston or at Naseby, when first it was given him to raise 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 9 
 
 his arm in the Lord’s cause !—but to fall in a drunken frolic, 
 not befitting a holy Christian to engage in—it was far more 
 than my poor lady could bear.” 
 
 **Oliver’promised to be a fine fellow.” , 
 
 ** Do not talk of him, do not talk of him, I entreat you,” 
 replied the domestic, placing his hand on his face to conceal 
 his emotion ; “ he was, indeed, my heart’s darling. Long bee 
 fore Sir Robert succeeded to his brother’s property, and when 
 we lived with my lady’s father, I was the old gentleman's 
 huntsman, and that dear child was ever at my heels. The 
 Lord be praised! the Lord be praised! but I little thought 
 the blue waves would be his bier before he had seen his twen- 
 tieth year. They are all gone, sir: five such boys! — the 
 girl, the lamb of the flock, only left. You do not know her, 
 do ye?” inquired the old man, peering with much curiosity 
 into the Skipper’s face, as if recognising it as one he had seen 
 in former days. 
 
 The sailor made no answer. 
 
 They had now entered a small postern-door, which led to 
 the hall by a narrow passage ; and the porter proceeded until 
 they stood in one of those vaulted entrances that usually convey 
 an idea of the wealth and power of the possessor. 
 
 “You can sit here till I return,” observed the guide, again 
 casting an inquiring look upon the form and features of the 
 guest. 
 
 “J sit in no man’s hall,’’ was the stern reply. 
 
 The porter withdrew, and the seaman, folding his arms, 
 paced up and down the paved vestibule, which showed evident 
 tokens of the confusion that sickness and death never fail to 
 create. He paused occasionally before the huge and gaping 
 chimney, and extended his sinewy hands over the flickering 
 embers of the expiring fire: the lurid glare of the departing 
 flames only rendered the darkness of the farthermost portion 
 of the hall more deep and fearful. The clock chimed eleven : 
 it was, as ever, the voice of Time giving warning of eternity ! 
 
 A light gleamed at the most distant end of the apartment, 
 and a slight but graceful girl approached the stranger. She 
 was habited in a close vest of grey cloth: her head covered 
 with a linen cap, devoid of any ornament; from under the 
 plain border of which, a stream of hair appeared, tightly drawn 
 across a forehead of beautiful colour and proportions. 
 
10 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “* Will you please to follow, sir, to my master’s study ? ” 
 
 Dalton turned suddenly round; the entire expression of his 
 countenance softened, and his firm-set lips opened, as if a word 
 laboured to come forth, and was retained only by an effort. 
 
 “Will you not follow, good sir?” repeated the girl, 
 anxiously but mildly. ‘‘ My master is ill at ease, and wishes 
 to return to my lady’s room: it may be 
 
 The sentence remained unfinished, and tears streamed afresh 
 down cheeks already swollen with weeping. 
 
 “Your name, girl? ”’ inquired the stranger, eagerly. 
 
 ‘* Barbara Iverk,” she replied, evidently astonished at the 
 question. He seized her arm, and, while gazing earnestly in 
 her face, murmured in a tone of positive tenderness, — 
 
 «¢ Are you happy?” 
 
 “‘I praise the Lord for his goodness! ever since I have 
 been here, I have been most happy ; but my dear lady, who 
 was so kind to me Again her tears returned. 
 
 * You do not know me? — But you could not.” Hugh 
 Dalton gradually relaxed his hold, and pulled from his bosom 
 a purse heavy with Spanish pieces — he presented it to the 
 girl, but she drew back her hand and shook her head. 
 
 ‘“‘ Take it, child, and buy thee a riding-hood, or a farthin- 
 gale, or some such trumpery, which thy vain sex delight in.” 
 
 ‘“I lack nothing, good sir, I thank ye; and, as to the 
 coined silver, it is only a tempter to the destruction of body 
 and soul.” 
 
 ““As it may be used —as it may be used,” repeated the 
 sailor quickly ; “‘ one so young would not abuse it.” 
 
 “Wisdom might be needed in the expenditure ; and I have 
 heard that want of knowledge is the forerunner of sin. Be- 
 sides, I ask your pardon, good sir, but strangers do not give 
 to strangers, unless for charity ; and I lack nothing.” 
 
 She dropped so modest a courtesy, and looked so perfectly 
 and purely innocent, that moisture, as unusual as it might be 
 unwelcome, dimmed the eyes of the stern man of ocean; and 
 as he replaced the dollars, he muttered something that sounded 
 like, ‘‘ I thank God she is uncontaminated!” He then fol- 
 lowed the gentle girl through many passages, and up and 
 down more than one flight of stairs: they both at length 
 stopped before a door that was thickly plated with iron. 
 
 ** You need not wait,” said Dalton, laying his hand on the 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 11 
 
 latch. Barbara paused a moment, to look on the wild being, 
 so different from the staid persons she was in the daily habit 
 of seeing at the hall ; and then her light, even step, faded on 
 the sailor’s ear. 
 
 Sir Robert Cecil was standing, or rather leaning, with 
 folded arms, against a column of the dark marble chimney- 
 piece, which, enriched by various carvings and mouldings, rose 
 nearly to the ceiling. The Baronet’s hair, of mingled grey 
 and black, had been cropped according to the approved fashion 
 of the time; so that his features had not the advantage of 
 either shadow or relief from the most beautiful of nature’s or- 
 naments. He might have been a few years older or younger 
 than the sailor who had just entered ; but his figure seemed 
 weak and bending as a willow-wand, as he moved slowly 
 round to receive his visiter. The usually polite expression of 
 his countenance deepened into the insidious, and a faint smile 
 rested for a moment on his lip. This outward show of wel- 
 come contrasted strangely with the visible tremor that agitated 
 his frame: he did not speak ; either from inability to coin an 
 appropriate sentence, or the more subtle motive of waiting un- 
 til the communication of the stranger was first made. 
 
 After a lengthened pause, during which Dalton slowly ad- 
 vanced, so as to stand opposite Sir Robert Cecil, he commenced 
 the conversation, without any of that show of courtesy, which 
 the consciousness of their relative situations might have called 
 for : even his cap was unremoved. 
 
 “I am sorry, Sir Robert, to have come at such a time ; 
 nor would I now remain, were it not that my business 1 
 
 “I am not aware,” interrupted the Baronet, “ of any mat- 
 ters of ‘business’ pending between us. I imagine, on re- 
 flection, you will find that all such have been long since 
 concluded. If there is any way, indeed, in which I can 
 oblige you, for the sake of an old servant ‘ 
 
 * Servant !”’ in his turn interrupted Dalton, with emphasis, 
 ** we have been companions, Sir Robert — companions in more 
 than one act ; and, by the dark heavens above us, will be so in 
 another — if necessary.” 
 
 The haughty Baronet writhed under this familiarity; yet 
 was there an expression of triumphant quietude in his eye, as 
 if he despised the insinuation of the seaman. “I think, con- 
 sidering all things, you have been pretty well paid for such 
 
 
 
 
 
12 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 acts, Master Dalton; I have never taken any man’s labour for 
 nothing.” 
 
 “‘ Labour!” again echoed the sailor, “labour may be paid 
 for ; but what can stand in lieu of innocence, purity of heart, 
 and rectitude of conduct ? ” 
 
 “Gold — which you have had, in all its gorgeous and 
 glowing abundance.” 
 
 “’Two'n’t do,” retorted the other, in a painfully subdue 
 tone ; ‘ there is much it cannot purchase. Am I not at this 
 moment a banned and a blighted man — scouted alike from the 
 board of the profligate Cavalier, and the psalm-singing Puritan 
 of this most change-loving country ? And one day or another 
 I may be hung up at the yard-arm of a Commonwealth — 
 Heaven bless the mark !— a Commonwealth cruiser ! — or 
 scare crows from a gibbet off Sheerness or Queenborough, or be 
 made an example of for some act of piracy committed on the 
 high seas!” 
 
 “* But why commit such acts? You have wherewithal to 
 live respectably — quietly.” 
 
 “* Quietly!” repeated the Skipper; “ look ye, Master — 
 I crave your pardon — Sir Robert Cecil ; as soon could one of 
 Mother Carey’s chickens mount a hen-roost, or bring up a 
 brood of lubberly turkies, as I, Hugh Dalton, master and 
 owner of the good brigantine, that sits the waters like a 
 swan, and cuts them like an arrow —live quietly, quietly, 
 on shore! Santa Maria! have I not panted under the hot sun 
 off the Caribbees? Have I not closed my ears to the cry of 
 mercy? Have I not sacked, and sunk, and burnt without ac- 
 knowledging claim or country? Has not the mother clasped 
 her child more closely to her bosom at the mention of my 
 name? In one word, for years have I not been a BuccaANEER? 
 And yet you talk to me of quietness !— Sir, sir, the soul so 
 steeped in sin has but two resources — madness, or the grave; the 
 last even I shrink from ; so give me war, war, and its insanity.” 
 
 “* Cannot you learn to fear the Lord, and trade as an honest 
 man?” 
 
 Dalton cast a look of such mingled scorn and contempt on his 
 companion, that a deep red colour mounted to his cheek as he 
 repeated, “ Yes! I ask, cannot you trade as an honest man? ” 
 
 ‘“ No! a curse on trade: and I’m not honest,” he replied 
 fiercely. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 3 
 
 “* May I beg you briefly to explain the object of your visit ?” 
 said the Baronet at last, after a perplexing pause, during which 
 the arms of the Buccaneer were folded on his breast, and his 
 restless and vigilant eyes wandered round the apartment, flashing 
 with an indefinable expression, when they encountered the 
 blue retreating orbs of Sir Robert. 
 
 “* This, then: JI require a free pardon from Old Noll, not 
 not only for myself, but for my crew. The brave men, who 
 would have died, shall live, with me. As a return for his 
 Highness’s civility, I will give up all free trade, and take the 
 command of a frigate, if it so please him.” 
 
 «¢ Or a revenue cutter, I presume,’ observed the Baronet, 
 sarcastically. 
 
 “ Curse me if I do!” replied Dalton, contemptuously — 
 «the sharks! No, no, I’m not come to that yet; nor would 
 I ever think of hoisting any flag but mine own, were it not for 
 the sake of a small craft, as belonging to—— no matter what.” 
 
 ** You have seen but little of the girl.” 
 
 “Too little: and why? Because I was ashamed to see 
 her — but now —not ten minutes ago— I was glad she did 
 not know me. Sir Robert, when your own daughter hangs upon 
 your arm, or looks with her innocent eyes into your face, 
 how do you feel ? ”’ 
 
 Sir Robert Cecil had been too well schooled in Puritanism 
 to suffer the emotions of his mind to affect his features. He 
 did not reply to the question, but skilfully turning the convers- 
 ation, brought the intruder back to his old subject. 
 
 “ How do you purpose procuring this free pardon?” 
 
 «1! I know not how to procure it; I only wish it pro- 
 cured : the means are in your power, not mine.” 
 
 “Tn mine!” ejaculated the Baronet with well-feigned asto- 
 nishment ; you mistake, good Dalton, I have no interest at 
 Whitehall ; I would not ask a favour for myself.” 
 
 ‘¢ That is likely ; but you must ask one for me.” 
 
 «“ Must!” repeated Sir Robert, ‘is a strange word to use 
 to me, Dalton.” 
 
 « ]’m not scholar enough to find a better,” replied the other 
 insolently. 
 
 “ J cannot if I would,” persisted the Baronet. 
 
 ** One word more, then. The Protector’s plans render it 
 impracticable for me to continue, as I have done, on the seas: 
 
14 THE BUCCANEER,. 
 
 I know that I am a marked man, and unless something be de- 
 termined on, and speedily, I shall be exposed to that ignominy 
 which, for my child’s sake, I would avoid. Don’t talk to me 
 of impossibilities ; you can obtain the pardon I cm and, 
 in one word, Sir Robert Cecil, you must !” 
 
 Sir Robert shook his head. 
 
 ** At your pleasure, then, at your pleasure; but at your 
 peril also. Mark me! I am not one to be thrown overboard, 
 and make no struggle — I am not a baby to be strangled with- 
 out crying! If I perish, facts shall arise from my grave — 
 ay, if I were sunk a thousand fathoms in my own blue sea— 
 facts that would You may well tremble and turn pale! The 
 secret is stillin our keeping ; only remember, I fall not singly ! ” 
 
 ** Insulting villain!” said Sir Robert, regaining his self- 
 command ; ‘ you have now no facts, no proofs ; the evidence 
 is destroyed.”’ 
 
 “Tt is not destroyed, Robert Cecil,” observed Dalton, calmly 
 pulling a bundle of papers from his vest: ‘ look here — and 
 here — and here — do you not know your own hand-writing ? 
 you practised me first in deception: I had not forgotten your 
 kind lessons, when in your presence I committed forged letters 
 to the flames !” 
 
 The man laughed the laugh of contempt and bitter scorn 
 as he held forward the documents. For a few moments Sir 
 Robert seemed petrified ; hiseyes glared on the papers, as if 
 their frozen lids had not the power of shutting out the horrid 
 proofs of his iniquity. Suddenly he made a desperate effort to 
 secure them; but the steady eye and muscular arm of the 
 smuggler prevented it. 
 
 «¢ Hands off !”’ he exclaimed, whirling the Baronet from him, 
 as if he had been a thing of straw ; “ you know my power, and 
 you know my terms: there needs no more palaver about it.” 
 
 «< Will not gold serve your purpose ?” 
 
 *“ No, I have enough of that: I want distinction and fame, 
 a free pardon, and the command of one of your registered and 
 acknowledged plunderers ; or, mayhap, baptism for my own 
 bright little Fire-fly, as the ‘ Babe of Grace ;’ or —But, hang 
 it, no—I’d sink the vessel first, and let her die, as she has 
 lived, free, free, free! “I belong to a civilised set of beings, 
 and must therefore be a slave, a slave to something or some one. 
 Noll knows my talents well, knows that I am as good a com- 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 15 
 
 mander, ay, and for the matter of that, would be as honest a one 
 as the best.” 
 
 He paused : the Baronet groaned audibly. 
 
 “© We have one or two little jobs upon the coasts here of 
 Kent and Essex, trifles that must, nevertheless, be attended to ; 
 but this day month, Sir Robert Cecil, we meet again. I will 
 not longer keep you from your wife. Gracious Heaven ! where 
 was I when mine expired! But farewell! I would not detain 
 you for her sweet and gentle sake: she will be rewarded for 
 her goodness to my child! Remember,” he added, closing the 
 
 {” 
 
 door, remember — one month, and Hugh Dalton ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Death! be not proud, though some have called thee 
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 
 
 For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow, 
 Die not, poor poy 
 
 
 
 — 
 
 * 
 at Why swell’ a thou, nen ? 
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally’; 
 And Death shall be no more: — Death! ‘thou shalt die. 
 Dr. Donne. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Wuen Sir Robert Cecil returned to his wife’s chamber, all 
 within was silent as the grave. He approached the bed ; his 
 daughter rose from the seat she had oceupied by its side, and 
 motioned him to be still, pointing at the same time to her 
 mother, and intimating that she slept. “ Thank God for 
 that!” he murmured, and drew his hand across his brow, 
 while his chest heaved as if a heavy weight had been re- 
 moved from it. The attendants had left the room to obtain 
 some necessary refreshment and repose, and father and daugh- 
 ter were alone with the sleeper in the chamber of death. The 
 brow of Lady Cecil was calm, smooth, and unclouded, white 
 as alabaster, and rendered still more beautiful by the few 
 tresses of pale auburn hair that escaped from under the head- 
 tire. The features were of a noble yet softened character, 
 although painfully emaciated ; and not a shadow of colour 
 tinged her upturned lip. Her sleep, though occasionally sound, 
 was restless, and the long shadowy fingers, that lay on the 
 
16 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 embroidered coverlet, were now and then stirred, as if by 
 bodily or mental suffering. There was an atmosphere of 
 silence, not of repose, within the apartment, at once awful 
 and oppressive ; and Sir Robert breathed as if his breathings 
 were but a continuation of suppressed sobs. 
 
 Constance Cecil, never in earlier life, never in after years, 
 gracious and beautiful as she ever was, appeared half so in- 
 teresting to her unhappy father as at that moment. There was 
 at all times about her a majesty of mind and feeling that lent 
 to her simplest word and action a dignity and power, which, 
 though universally felt, it would have been impossible to 
 define. If one could have procured for her a kingdom to 
 reign over, or have chosen from the galaxy of heaven a region 
 worthy her command, it must have been that pale and holy 
 star, which, splendid and alone in the firmament, heralds the 
 approach of day; so unfitted might she have been deemed to 
 mingle with a world less pure, so completely placed by nature 
 above all the littleness of ordinary life. Her noble and ma- 
 jestic form was the casket of a rich and holy treasure, and her 
 father’s conscience had often quailed, when contemplating the 
 severity of her youthful virtue. Dearly as he loved his wife, 
 he respected his daughter more, and the bare idea that certain 
 occurrences of former years might be known to her was asa 
 poisoned dagger in his heart. He had been a daring, and was 
 still an ambitious man — successful in all that men aim to 
 succeed in ; wealthy, honoured, and powerful, and—what is 
 frequently more ardently sought -for than all—feared; yet 
 would he rather have sacrificed every advantage he had gained 
 —every desire for which he had unhesitatingly bartered his 
 own self-esteem — every distinction he had considered cheaply 
 purchased at the price of conscience, than have lost the good 
 opinion, the confiding love of his only child. Even now he 
 looked upon her with mingled feelings of dread and affection, 
 though her bearing was subdued and her lofty spirit bowed by 
 sorrow, as she stood before him, the thick folds of her dressing- 
 gown falling with classic elegance to her feet, her fine hair 
 pushed back from her forehead and carelessly twisted round 
 her head, and her countenance deepened into an expression of 
 the most intense anxiety: while, assured that the invalid slept 
 on, she whispered into his ear words of consolation, if not of 
 
 hope. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 17 
 
 Lady Cecil had existed for some days in a state of frightful 
 delirium, and, during that time, her ravings had been so loud 
 and continued, that her present repose was elysium to those 
 who loved her. Constance bent her knees, and prayed in 
 silence, long and fervently, for support. Sir Robert, leaning 
 back in the richly-cushioned chair, covered his face with his 
 hands, withdrawing them only when the sleeper groaned or 
 breathed more heavily. At length both felt as if death had 
 indeed entered the chamber, so motionless lay the object of 
 their love: they continued gazing from each other to the 
 couch, until the misty light of morning streamed coldly through 
 the open shutters. Another hour of sad watching passed, and, 
 with a long and deeply drawn sigh, the sufferer opened her 
 eyes: they were no longer wild and wandering, but rested 
 with calm intelligence on her husband and her child. | 
 
 “It is long since I have seen you, except in strange dreams,” 
 she said, or rather murmured ; “and now I shall be with you 
 but for a very little time !”’ 
 
 Constance put to her lips a silver cup containing some re- 
 freshment, while Sir Robert supported her head on his arm. 
 
 “Call no one in. Constance—Cecil— my moments” now 
 are numbered :—draw back the curtains, that I may once 
 more look upon the light of morning!” Constance obeyed ; 
 and the full beams of day entered the room. ‘“ How beau- 
 tiful! how glorious !’’ repeated the dying woman, as her sight 
 drank in the reviving light ; “it heralds me to immortality — 
 where there is no darkness—no disappointment—no evil! 
 How pale are the rays of that lamp, Cecil! How feeble 
 man’s inventions, contrasted with the works of the Almighty!” 
 Constance rose to extinguish it. ‘+ Let it be,” she continued, 
 feebly ; “‘let it be, dearest; it has illumined my last night, 
 and we will expire together.” The affectionate daughter, 
 turned away to hide her tears ; but when did the emotion of 
 a beloved child escape a mother’s notice P—< Alas! my noble 
 Constance weeping! I thought she, at all events, could have 
 spared me this trial: leave us for a few moments; let me 
 not see you weep, Constance—let me not see it—tears 
 enough have fallen in these halls ; — do not mourn, my child, 
 that your mother will find rest at last.” 
 
 How often did Constantia remember these words! How 
 often, when the heart that dictated such gentle chiding, had 
 
 c 
 
18 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ceased to beat, did Constantia Cecil, gazing into the depths of 
 the blue and mysterious sky, think upon her mother in 
 heaven ! 
 
 Lady Cecil had much to say to her husband during the 
 remaining moments of her existence; but her breathing be- 
 came so feeble, that he was obliged to lean over the couch to 
 catch her words. 
 
 ** We part, my own, and only beloved husband, for ever in 
 this world ; — fain would I linger yet a little, to recount how 
 much I have loved you — in our more humble state — in*this 
 —oh! how falsely termed our prosperity. My heart has 
 shared your feelings. In our late bitter trials, more than half 
 my grief was, that you should suffer. Oh, Robert! Robert ! 
 now, when I am about to leave you and all, for ever — how 
 my heart clings — J fear, sinfully clings — to the remembrance 
 of our earlier and purer happiness! My father’s house! The 
 noble oak, where the ring-doves built, and under whose shadow 
 we first met! The stream — where you and Herbert — wild, 
 
 but affectionate brother! —Oh! Robert, do not blame me, 
 nor start so at his name ;——his only fault was his devotion to 
 a most kind master ! — but who, that lived under the gentle 
 
 influence of Charles Stuart’s virtues, could have been aught 
 but devoted Pp— And yet what deadly feuds came forth from 
 this affection! Alas! his rich heritage has brought no bless- 
 ing with it. I never could look upon these broad lands as 
 ours — Would that his child had lived —and then — But 
 they are all gone now—all gone !— Alas! what had we to do 
 with courts, or courts with us ? — Our domestic comforts have 
 been blighted — our hearth left desolate — the children for 
 whom you toiled, and hoped, and planned, have been removed 
 from us —nipped in the bud, or the first blossoming ! — And 
 oh, Cecil! take the words of a dying woman to heart, when she 
 tells you, that you will go down childless to your grave, if you 
 do not absolve our beloved Constance from her promise to him 
 whom she can neither respect nor love. She will complete 
 the contract, though it should be her death-warrant, rather 
 than let it be said a daughter of the house of Cecil acted dis- 
 honourably — she will complete it, Robert — she will complete 
 it — and then die! ”’ 
 
 Lady Cecil, overcome by emotion and exertion, fell back 
 fainting and exhausted on her pillow. Recovering herself, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. | 19 
 
 however, after a brief pause she added, in a broken whispering 
 voice, ‘ Forgive me, my dear, dear husband ; — my mind is 
 wandering — my thoughts are unconnected — but my affection 
 for you — for Constance — is strong in death. I mean not 
 to pain you, but to warn — for the sake of our only child — 
 of the only thing that remains to tell you of your wife. My 
 breath trembles on my lips — there is a mist before mine eyes 
 — call her in, that my spirit may depart — may ascend heaven- 
 ward on the wings of prayer ! — 
 
 Sir Robert was moving towards the door, when her hand 
 motioned him back. 
 
 ‘* Promise — promise that you will never foree her to wed 
 that man ! — more — that you yourself will break the con- 
 tract ! ” 
 
 “Truly, and solemnly do I swear, that I will never force 
 her to fulfil — nay, that I will never even urge her to its ful- 
 tilment.” 
 
 The dying lady looked unsatisfied, and some unpronounced 
 words agitated her lips, as Constance entered unbidden, but 
 most welcome. She knelt by her mother’s side, and took the 
 hand so feebly but affectionately extended towards her. The 
 fearful change that had occurred during her short absence was 
 but too visible. The breath that touched her cheek was cold 
 as the morning mist. The sufferer would have folded her 
 hands in prayer, but the strength had departed before the 
 spirit was gone. Constance, seeing that the fine expression of 
 life with which her upturned eyes had glittered was gradually 
 passing away, clasped her mother’s hands within ber own: 
 suddenly they struggled for freedom, and as her eye followed 
 the pointing of her parent’s finger, she saw the lamp’s last 
 beam flicker for a moment, and then expire ! — Her mother, 
 too, was dead! 
 
 It is ill to break upon the solitude of the dying, though it 
 is good to enter into the solemn temple of death ; it is a sad 
 but a useful lesson to lift the pall; to raise the coffin-lid; to 
 gaze upon all we loved, upon all that was bright, and pure, 
 and beautiful, changing with a slow but certain change to de- 
 cay and corruption. The most careless cannot move along the 
 chamber of death without being affected by the awful presence 
 of the King of Terrors. The holy quiet that ought to cha- 
 
 c 2 
 
20 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 racterise a funeral procession is too frequently destroyed by 
 the empty pomp and heartlessness which attend it ; but in the 
 death-chamber there is nothing of this; the very atmosphere 
 seems impregnated with the stillness of the time when there 
 was no life in the broad earth, and when only ‘ God moved 
 on the face of the waters.’ Our breath comes slowly and 
 heavily to our lips, and we murmur forth our words as if the 
 spirit watched to record them in the unchanging book of im- 
 mortality. 
 
 In due time, the funeral train of Lady Cecil prepared to 
 escort the corpse to its final home. Sir Robert was too ill, and 
 too deeply afflicted to be present at the ceremony ; and as he 
 had no near relative, Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell, the 
 knight to whom his daughter’s hand was plighted, was ex- 
 pected to take his station as chief mourner. The people 
 waited for some hours with untiring patience ; the old steward 
 paced backwards and forwards from the great gate, and at last 
 took his stand there, looking out from between its bars, hoping 
 that, wild and reckless as Burrell really was, he would not put 
 so great an affront upon the Cecil family, as to suffer its late 
 mistress to go thus unhonoured to the grave. 
 
 The day advanced, and as neither the gentleman, nor any 
 one to show cause for his absence, appeared, strange whisper- 
 ings and surmises arose amongst the crowd, which had assem- 
 bled from all the villages on the island, as to the probable 
 motive of this most ill-advised delay. More than one messenger 
 was despatched to the top of Minster Church to look out and 
 see if any person like Sir Willmott was crossing the King’s 
 Ferry, the only outlet in general use from the island to the 
 main land: but though the passage-boat, conducted (as it was 
 termed) by Jabez Tippet, was evidently employed as much as 
 usual, there was no token to justify farther waiting. The 
 Rev. Jonas Fleetword, one of the soundest of Puritan divines, 
 stood like a statue of cast iron in the doorway, his arms folded 
 on his breast, and his brow contracting into a narrow and 
 fretted arch, as the minute-hand moved round and round the 
 dial of the old clock. At length assuming to himself the 
 command, which in those times was as willingly ceded to the 
 Reformed minister as it had formerly been to the not more 
 arbitrary Catholic priest, he ordered the procession ‘“‘ to tarry 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 21 
 
 no longer the coming of him whose feet were shod with 
 heaviness, but to depart forthwith in the name of the Lord.” 
 
 The place of interment was at East Church, a distance of 
 about four miles from Cecil Place; and as they paced it 
 but slowly, the increasing chill of the gathering clouds gave 
 intimation that the prime of day was sinking into the even- 
 tide before the spire was in sight. As they at length ascended 
 the hill, upon the summit of which was the vault of the Cecils, 
 a young gentleman, mounted on a grey and noble charger, met 
 the funeral train so suddenly, that those who preceded halted, 
 and for a moment it was rumoured, that Sir Willmott Burrell, 
 though late and last, had taken the lower road from King’s 
 Ferry, and so arrived in time to behold the remains of her who 
 was to have been his mother, deposited in the tomb. 
 
 When the people observed, however, that the salutation of 
 respect made by the youth to the Rev. Jonas Fleetword was 
 followed by no sign of recognition, they moved silently onward, 
 marvelling amongst themselves at the young gentleman’s keep- 
 ing a little in advance of the clergyman, so as to take the 
 exact station which belonged to the chief mourner. He was 
 habited in a suit of the deepest black ; and though the cloak 
 which fell in ample folds from his throat concealed his figure, 
 yet his movements indicated that it was slight and graceful. 
 His broad hat completely shaded his face, but the luxuriant 
 curls of light air, which, moistened by the misty atmosphere, 
 fell negligently beneath its brim, intimated that he was more 
 akin to the Cavalier than the Roundhead. 
 
 By the time the ceremony was concluded, and the divine 
 had finished one of those energetic and powerful appeals to the 
 feelings which so effectually roused or subdued, as it pleased 
 him to desire, darkness had nearly shrouded the surrounding 
 landscape ; and the multitude, whom respect or curiosity had 
 assembled, retired from the churchyard, and wended to their 
 homes, The year was in its third month, and the weather, 
 which, when Hugh Dalton landed, had been clear and fine, 
 was now foggy and cold : — 
 
 * The dewy night had with her frosty shade 
 Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground 
 Sparkled in ice ——’’ 
 Yet the steed of the youth, who had so unceremoniously joined 
 Lady Cecil’s funeral, was cropping the withered grass from the 
 c 8 
 
22 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 churchyard graves, while his master, apparently unconscious of 
 the deepening night, leaned against one of the richly orna- 
 mented stone slabs that marked the entrance to the vault. 
 
 Suddenly the clatter of horses’ hoofs sounded on the crisp 
 road, the cavalier involuntarily placed his hand on his sword, 
 and his horse lifted his head from the earth, bent back his 
 ears, and whinnied in the low and peculiar tone that serves to 
 intimate the approach of strangers. The travellers (for there 
 were two) halted at the churchyard gate. 
 
 “* What ho there!” exclaimed the foremost — “ you, sir, who 
 are pondering in graveyards at this hour, canst tell me if Lady 
 Cecil’s funeral took place this morning?” 
 
 “* Her ladyship was buried this evening,” replied the other, 
 at the same time fairly drawing his sword out of its scabbard, 
 though the movement was concealed by his cloak. 
 
 “« They waited then?” 
 
 *‘ They did, for one whose presence was not needed.” 
 
 ** And pray, how know you that? or knowing, think you it 
 wisdom, Sir Dolorous, to give forth such knowledge, when it 
 might be him they tarried for who questioneth ? ” 
 
 ‘It is because I know you, Sir Willmott Burrell, that I am 
 so free of speech,” replied the youth, vaulting into his saddle ; 
 ‘‘and I repeat it, your presence was not needed. ‘The lady, 
 as you truly know, loved you not while living ; it was well, 
 therefore, that you profaned not her burial by a show of false 
 grief.” 
 
 “ Here’s a ruffler!” exclaimed the other, turning to his 
 follower. ‘ And pray who are you? ” 
 
 “You shall know that, good sir, when you least desire it,” 
 answered he of the black cloak, reining up his horse, that 
 pawed and pranced impatiently: he then loosened the bridle, 
 and would have crossed Burrell to pass into the highway ; 
 but the other shouted to his associate, ‘* Hold, stop him, 
 Robin ! stop him in the name of the Lord! ’tis doubtless one 
 of the fellows who have assailed his Highness’s life — a level- 
 ler—a leveller! a friend of Miles Syndercomb, or some such 
 ruffian, who is tarrying in this remote part of the island for 
 some opportunity of escape. If you are an innocent man, you 
 will remain ; if guilty, this shall be my warrant.” 
 
 He attempted to pull forth a pistol from his belt, but, before 
 his purpose could be accomplished, the point of his adversary’s 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 23 
 
 rapier rested on his throat, which, at the same instant, was 
 grasped with more strength than so slight a person could be 
 supposed to possess. Burrell cried to his comrade for help, but 
 he was already out of hearing, having set spurs to his horse the 
 moment he had seen the assault ; he then entreated for quarter 
 in an altered and humbled tone. 
 
 “J am neither a robber nor a murderer,” replied the youth; 
 “but, not having pistols, I hold my own safety of too much 
 value to relax my grasp, till you pledge your honour not to 
 attack me but with the same weapon I can use in my de- 
 fence.” 
 
 Burrell pledged his word ‘‘as a Christian and a soldier : ’ 
 the stranger withdrew his sword. 
 
 ** And now,” said he, fixing himself firmly in his seat, and 
 rolling his cloak around his left arm, ‘‘if you wish for honour- 
 able combat, I am at your service ; if not, sir, I take my way, 
 and you can proceed on yours.” He drew up to his full 
 height, and awaited Burrell’s answer, who sat as if unde- 
 termined what course to pursue. He did not long hesitate ; 
 the villain’s ready friend—treachery——was at his elbow; in 
 an instant the pistol was presented to the head of his confiding 
 antagonist, who, though unprepared for such an act, bent for- 
 ward previous to the effort of raising himself in the saddle to 
 give more strength to his good steel. At the very instant that 
 he bowed himself the ruffian fired! The ball passed over 
 him—he swayed in his saddle ; the next moment, reining up 
 his horse, he prepared to punish such dastardly conduct as it 
 deserved ; but, as worthless purposes are sometimes accom- 
 plished by worthy instruments, the fleet steed that Burrell 
 rode was far on its way towards Minster, its track marked by 
 fire-sparks, which glittered in the thickening darkness. 
 
 The youth remained on the same spot until the sound of the 
 horse's hoofs were lost in the distance, and then, setting spurs 
 to his own gallant grey, proceeded on his course. 
 
 ? 
 
oA THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ** Now is the time when rakes their revels keep ; 
 Kindlers of riot, enemies of sleep.’’ AY. 
 
 ‘© A brewer may be like a fox or a cub, 
 And teach a lecture out of a tub, 
 And give the wicked world a rub, 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 A brewer may be as bold as Hector, 
 
 When he had drunk his cup of nectar; 
 
 And a brewer may be a Lord Protector, 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 But here remains the strangest thing, 
 How this brewer about his liquor did bring 
 To be an Emperor or King, 
 
 Which nobody can deny. 
 
 Then push the brewer’s liquor about, 
 And loudly let each true man shout — 
 Shout —” 
 
 “¢ Shout not, I pray you, but rather keep silence,” exclaimed 
 an old woman, cautiously opening the door of a room in which 
 the revellers were assembled, and thus interrupting their rude, 
 but animated harmony ; ‘* shout not: you may hear a horse’s 
 tramp without ; and Crisp grumbles so hard, that sure I am ’tis 
 no friend’s footstep.” 
 
 “Why, mother,” cried one of the company, winking on the 
 rest, “ you say it was a horse you heard? ”’ 
 
 “ Well! and I say so still, good Master Roupall.” 
 
 *« Sure you do not make friends of horses ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Better make them of horses than of asses,” replied the 
 crone, bitterly; and the laugh was raised against Roupall, 
 who, as with all jesters, could ill brook the jest that was at his 
 own expense. 
 
 “¢ T hear no tramp, and see no reason why you should inter- 
 rupt us thus with your hooting, you ill-favoured owl,’ he 
 exclaimed fiercely. 
 
 “ Hush!” she replied, placing her finger on her lip, while 
 the little terrier that stood at her feet, as if comprehending the 
 signal, crept stealthily to the door, and laying his nose on the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 25 
 
 floor, drew in his breath; and then erecting his ears, and 
 stiffening his short tail, uttered a low determined growl. 
 
 “* There are strangers, and near us too,’’ observed an older 
 man, who had hitherto remained silent ; ‘* there is little doubt 
 of their being unfriendly: we had therefore better, seeing it 
 would be imprudent to fight, retreat.” 
 
 “ Retreat! and why, I wonder?” inquired Roupall, the 
 most reckless and daring of the set; and whose efforts were 
 invariably directed towards meriting the soubriquet of “* Jack 
 the Rover,” by which he was usually designated among his 
 associates ; “‘ what care we, whether they be friends or foes! 
 let them enter. Old Noll has too much to do abroad, to heed 
 a few noisy troopers in an obscure hostelry in the Isle of 
 Shepey.” 
 
 * You are always heedless,’”’ observed the other; “ and 
 would sell your soul for an hour’s mirth.” 
 
 *“ My soul thanks you for the compliment, truly, Master 
 Grimstone, and my body would repay you for it, if there was 
 time, which, I take it, there lacks just now, for it is past 
 eleven. Observe, gentlemen, Jack Roupall retreats not — he 
 only retires.” As he spoke, he pushed from a corner of the 
 apartment, a huge settle of black oak, that apparently required 
 the strength of six men to displace, but which the trooper 
 handled as easily as if it had been a child’s cradle. He then 
 slid aside a panel, that fitted most accurately into the wall, of 
 which it appeared a part; and in a few moments the party, 
 consisting of some five or six, had entered the aperture, carry- 
 ing with them the remnants of their feast, at the particular 
 request of the old woman, who exhibited great alarm lest any 
 symptom of revelling should remain. The last had hardly 
 made good his retreat, when a loud knock at the door confirmed 
 the dame in her apprehensions. 
 
 ‘In the devil’s name!” she growled, “ how am I to shove 
 this mountain into its place? One of you must remain here ; 
 I might as well attempt to throw Blackburn cliff into the sea.” 
 
 “ V’'ll stay then, if you’ll wait a minute,” replied Roupall ; 
 ** I defy the devil and all his works ; and old Noll himself, the 
 worst of them : — so here goes.” 
 
 Another and a louder noise testified the traveller's im- 
 patience ; but the summons was repeated a third time before 
 the settle was replaced, and the room restored to its usually 
 
26 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 desolate and inhospitable appearance. Roupall ascended a 
 narrow ladder, that led to the loft of the cottage-like dwelling, 
 carrying with him a pack resembling those used by itinerant 
 venders of goods ; and Mother Hays (for such was her cog- 
 nomen) holding the flickering candle in one hand, unfastened 
 the door with the other, while Crisp crouched and snarled at 
 her feet. 
 
 *“ You could not have been all asleep, dame,” said the 
 
 stranger, as he threw off his horseman’s cloak, and hung his 
 rapier on the back of the nearest seat, ‘* for I distinctly saw 
 lights. Is your son within ? ”’ 
 + No, marry, good sir; he is far away, in London, with 
 his master, Sir Willmott Burrell, who was looked for home to- 
 day, but came not, as I hear from some neighbours, belonging 
 to East Church and Warden, who were at Lady Cecil's 
 funeral.”’ 
 
 “* Do you expect me to believe there is no one in the house 
 but yourself ? ” 
 
 “© One other kind gentleman, a pedlar-man, a simple body, 
 who lies above ; he’s weary travelling, and sleeps soundly.” 
 
 The stranger took off his hat ; and as he shook his head, 
 throwing completely back the hair that had in some degree 
 overshadowed his face, the old woman started, and an unde- 
 fined expression of astonishment and doubt burst from her lips. 
 The gentleman either did not, or appeared not to notice the 
 effect he produced ; but carefully drew from his bosom a small 
 book or tablet, and read in it for some minutes with much at- 
 tention, turning over and over the one or two leaves upon 
 which his eyes were fixed. 
 
 «© And are you sure, good woman, that no other persons are 
 in your house save this same pedlar?” he inquired, now 
 fixing his gaze steadily on the withered countenance of Mother 
 Hays. 
 
 « Alack! yes, sir, few travellers come to the lone widow’s 
 door, and it’s an out 0’ the way place: wouldn’t your honour 
 like some supper, or a stoop of wine, or, mayhap, a glass of 
 brandy ? —it is useful these raw nights; or a rasher and 
 eggs 2” 
 
 ** Are you quite certain there is no other in the house, and 
 that your son is really not returned?” he again inquired, 
 heedless of her invitation. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 27 
 
 | ** Why should I deceive your honour ? — am [I not old, and 
 ~ would you that I should so sin against the Lord?” 
 
 “You were not always thus piously given,” replied the 
 youth, smiling. ‘‘ Know you aught of this token?” and he 
 united his hands after a particular fashion: ‘“‘ heard you never 
 the words —” and he whispered a short sentence into her ear : 
 upon which she dropped a reverential courtesy, and, without 
 reply, ascended, as quickly as her age and infirmities per- 
 mitted, the ladder that led to Roupall’s place of retreat. Ere 
 she returned, however, accompanied by the trooper, another 
 person had entered the dwelling. It was no other than her 
 son Robin, for whom the gentleman had first inquired, and 
 they were both engaged in such deep and earnest conversation, 
 that neither noticed the addition to the party, until the old 
 woman had thrown her arms around her son’s neck, so as 
 almost to stifle him with her caresses, seeming to lose all sense 
 of the stranger’s presence in the fulness of joy at the youth’s 
 return. 
 
 ‘** There, mother, that will do; why, you forget I have been 
 in London lately, and ’tis not the court fashion to rejoice and 
 be glad. Besides, I have seen his Highness, and his High- 
 ness's daughters, and his Highness’s sons, and drank, in mo- 
 deration, with his Highness’s servants: so, stand off, good 
 mother, stand off !—‘ honour to whom honour.’”’ And Robin 
 laid his finger on his nose, while a remarkable expression of 
 cunning and shrewdness passed along his sharp and peculiar 
 features. 
 
 As he busied himself with preparations for the guest’s sup- 
 per, it was impossible to avoid observing his quick and energetic 
 movements, spare body, dwarfish stature, and long apish arms, 
 that appeared in greater disproportion when viewed beside the 
 now sedate and elevated carriage, the muscular and finely- 
 developed form of the bulky trooper. And, in good sooth, it 
 seemed that Roupall little relished the extraordinary civility 
 shown to the new comer, both by mother and son. Had the 
 stranger been disposed to hold any converse with him, matters 
 might have been different ; but he neither asked nor required 
 information — sitting, after his return from the shed in which 
 he had seen his horse sheltered, with his legs stretched out in 
 front of the warm fire, his arms folded on his bosom, and his 
 eyes fixed on the blazing wood that lent a brilliant light to the 
 
28 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 surrounding objects—giving a simple, though not uncourteous 
 reply of “ Yea,” or “‘ Nay,” to the leading questions occasion- 
 ally put to him by his rough, yet inquisitive companion. At 
 length, when the rashers were dressed and deposited on the 
 table, flanked on either side with a flagon of Canary and of 
 Gascoigne, and the traveller had done ample justice to his 
 cheer, he, with a conciliating smile and bow, wished the widow 
 and Roupall “ Good night,” and followed Robin up the ladder, 
 observing that his rest must be very brief, as he had occasion to 
 start early next morning, and begging the good widow and her 
 friend to finish the draught of her own excellent wine, to which 
 he feared to render farther justice. Some time elapsed ere 
 Robin returned ; and when he did, he perceived that Roupall 
 was in no gentle humour. 
 
 “* Have you warmed the chicken’s nest, and taken good and 
 tender care of the gentle bird, according to orders, Robin? 
 Gadzooks! I see so many cocks with hens’ feathers now-a- 
 days — sweet-scented Cavaliers, who could no more draw a 
 trigger than they could mount the moon, that I think Hugh 
 Dalton must line the Fire-fly with miniver to bring them safely 
 over. A murrain take such fellows! say I — close-mouthed, 
 long-eared scoundrels. D—n it! I love a frank heart iY 
 
 ** And a bloody hand, Master Roupall.” 
 
 ** Stuff! stuff! Robin ; few of either party can show clean 
 hands these times ; but does yon gallant come from over sea?” 
 
 “It might be that he dropped from the sky, for that is over 
 the sea, you know.” 
 
 ** Faugh! you are as snappish as a cur whelp. I mean, 
 what is he about?” 
 
 “Sleeping. Zooks! I’m sure he sleeps.” 
 
 “Is he of good credit ? ”’ 
 
 ** Faith, Roupall, I know not his banker.” 
 
 ** Good again, Master Robin; upon what grinding-stone 
 were your wits sharpened ? ” 
 
 ** Right loyally, good trooper ; even upon King Log,” re- 
 plied Robin, grinning maliciously ; and then, as if fearful that 
 the gathering .storm would forthwith burst, he continued : 
 “* Come, let’s have a carouse, and wake the sleepers in that 
 snug nest between walls; let’s welcome in the morning, like 
 gay gallants, while I tell you the court news, and exhibit the 
 last court fashion, as it graces my own beautiful form!” 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 29 
 
 The man looked at him and smiled, soothed into something 
 resembling good-nature by the odd humour and appearance of 
 his old companion, who was tricked out, with ‘much precision, 
 in a blue doublet and yellow hose, while a large bow of sad- 
 coloured riband, with fringed ends, dangled from either knee. 
 He then glanced a look of complacency on his own proper 
 person, and replied, — 
 
 ** No, let them sleep, Robin; they are better off than I. 
 That maidenlike friend of yours has taken possession of my 
 bed, after your mother’s routing me up as if I had been a 
 stoat or a dormouse. Of course he is a Cavalier: I suppose 
 he has a name ; but is that, too, a secret ?”’ 
 
 ** Master Roupall,” replied the other, with a look of great 
 sagacity, “as to the person, it’s hard to say who’s who, these 
 times ; and as to the name, why, as you say, I suppose he has 
 a name, and doubtless a good one, though I cannot exactly 
 now call to mind what it is; for at court + 
 
 * D—n court!” interrupted the other — “ you're all court- 
 smitten, I'm thinking. In plain English, I want to know who 
 this youngster is? When Hugh is in one of his romances, he 
 cares not who or what he sends us, either here, or, what is of 
 more consequence, on the main-land —and we are to receive 
 them and ’tend them, and all the time, mayhap, are hazarding 
 our own heads; for I’d bet an even wager that one of the 
 ferrymen is a spy in the pay of old red-nose ; and it's little 
 we get for such hazards — it’s many a day since even a keg of 
 brandy has been run ashore.” 
 
 * You have sworn an oath, for which I should exact, I 
 think, the sum of three shillings and four-pence, Jack the Rover ; 
 but, I fear me, thou hast not wherewithal to satisfy the law, 
 eyen in a small thing, until thou offerest thy neck unto the 
 ' halter as a sacrifice. But did Hugh Dalton ever bring you, or 
 any man, into trouble yet? ”’ continued Robin, composing his 
 comic features into a grave and quiet character. 
 
 ‘I can’t say that he did.” 
 
 *« T am sure he has had opportunities enough.” 
 
 “I’m not going to deny that Hugh’s a fine fellow, Robin ; 
 but I remember, long ago, ay, thirteen or fourteen years past, 
 before he entered on the regular buccaneering trade, there 
 wasn't a firmer Cavalier amongst the whole of us Kentish men. 
 Blazes ! how he fought at Marston! Buta few years’ sunning 
 
 
 
30 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 off the hot Havannah either scorches the spirit out of a man, 
 or burns it in.” 
 
 «* And what reason have you to think that Hugh is not now 
 a good Cavalier ? ” 
 
 «“ Pshaw! he grows cld, and it’s no good trying to pull 
 Oliver down. He's charmed. Ay, you may laugh; but no 
 one of us could have escaped the bullet of Miles Syndercomb, 
 to say nothing of dark John Talbot: —I tell ye, he is spell- 
 guarded. Hugh isa knowing one, and has some plan a-foot, 
 or he wouldn’t keep beating about this coast as he does, after 
 being so long from it, and using every county but Sussex and 
 Kent. I wonder, too, what placed you, Master Robin, in 
 Burrell of Burrell’s service: I thought you were a man of 
 taste till then.” 
 
 Robin again grinned; and, as his wide mouth literally ex-~ 
 tended from ear to ear, his face looked, as it were, divided by 
 some accident ; so separate did the chin appear from the upper 
 portion of the countenance. 
 
 ** If you won't talk,’ growled out the trooper, ‘‘ I hope you 
 will pay those who do so for your amusement.” 
 
 “Thou wouldst have me believe, then, thou art no genuine 
 disinterested talker. Ah! Roupall, Roupall ! acquaintance with 
 courts has taught me, that nature in the first place, and society 
 in the second, have imposed upon us mortals two most disa- 
 greeable necessities : the one is that of eating; the other, that 
 of talking. Now nature is a tyrant, and society is a tyrant ; 
 and I, being a tyrant-hater . 
 
 “‘ ’Slife, man — or mongrel—— or whatever you choose to 
 call your twisted carcass,” interrupted Roupall, angrily, “hold 
 your jibber. I wonder Joan Cromwell did not seize upon 
 you, and keep you as her chief ape, while you were making 
 your courtly acquaintance. A pretty figure for courts, truly ! ° 
 —ah! ah! ah!” As he laughed, he pointed his finger 
 scornfully towards Robin Hays, who, however little he might 
 care to jest upon his own deformity, was but ill inclined to 
 tolerate those who even hinted at his defects. As the trooper 
 persevered, his victim grew pale and trembled with suppressed 
 rage. ‘The man perceived the effect his, cruel mockery pro- 
 duced, and continued to revile and take to pieces the mis-shapen 
 portions of his body with most merciless anatomy. Robin 
 offered, in return, neither observation nor reproach ; — at first 
 
 
 
° THE BUCCANEER. 31 
 
 trembling and change of colour were the only indications of 
 his feelings — then he moved restlessly on his seat, and his 
 bright and deeply sunken eyes gleamed with untamable ma- 
 lignity ; but, as Roupall followed one jeer more brutal than 
 the rest, with a still more boisterous laugh, and, in the very 
 rapture of his success, threw himself back in his chair, the 
 tiger spirit of Robin burst forth to its full extent: he sprang 
 upon the trooper so suddenly, that the Goliath was perfectly 
 conquered, and lay upon the floor helpless as an overgrown and 
 overfed Newfoundland dog, upon whose throat a sharp and 
 bitter terrier has fastened. At length, after much exertion, he 
 succeeded in standing erect against the wall of the apartment, 
 though still unable to disengage Robin’s long arms and bony 
 fingers from his throat, where he hung like a mill-stone: it 
 was some minutes ere the gigantic man had power to throw 
 from him the attenuated being whom, on ordinary occasions, 
 he could have lifted between his finger and thumb. 
 
 Robin gathered himself up on the spot to which Roupall 
 had flung him ; his chin resting on his knees, round which 
 his arms were clasped ; his narrow chest and shoulders heaving 
 with the exertion of the conflict ; his eyes wild and glittering, 
 yet fixed upon his adversary, like those of some fierce animal 
 eager to dart upon its prey. The trooper shook himself, and 
 passed his hand once or twice over his throat, as if to ascer- 
 tain whether or not he were really strangled; then returning 
 Robin’s gaze as steadily, though with a far different expres- 
 sion, he said, — 
 
 ** Upon my soul, you are as strong a hand at a grapple as I 
 would care to meet; nor would I believe, did I not know 
 it, that Roupall the Rover, who has borne more blows upon 
 his thick head than there are days in February, and rises six 
 feet two without boots, could be half choked by little Robin 
 the Ranger, who stands forty inches in his shoes ; — but I 
 beg pardon for offending a man of your mettle. I warrant 
 you safe from any future jests of mine ; I like not quarrelling 
 with old friends — when there is nothing to be got by it. 
 Tut, man! leave off your moping, and shake hands, like a 
 Christian. You wo’n't! why you are not going to convert 
 your body into a nursery for bad blood, are you? What 
 would pretty Barbara Iverk say to that? ”’ 
 
 Robin laughed a laugh so loud, so shrill, so unearthly, that 
 
32 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 it echoed like a death-howl along the walls; then stretched 
 out and looked on his ill-formed limbs, extended his long and 
 grappling fingers, and muttered bitterly, ‘‘ Curse ! — curse! 
 — curses on myself! I am a dainty morsel for a fair girl’s 
 love! Ah! ah! ah! a dainty morsel!” he repeated, and 
 covered his face with his broad palms. Thus, shutting out 
 the sight of his own deformities, and rocking himself back- 
 wards and forwards, moaning and jibbering like one dis- 
 traught, he remained for several minutes. At length poor 
 Crisp, who had been a most anxious spectator of the scene, 
 ran timidly to his master, and, standing on his hind legs, 
 began licking his fingers with an affectionate earnestness, 
 more soothing to his agitated feelings than all the sincere- 
 apologies of the trooper, whose rough good-nature was really 
 moved at what had taken place. Slowly uncovering his face, 
 Robin pressed the little animal to his bosom, bending his head 
 over it, and muttering in a tone the dog seemed fully to un- 
 derstand, by the low whine with which he returned the caress. 
 After a time his eyes met those of Roupall’s, but their meaning 
 was totally changed: they no longer sparkled with fury, but 
 were as quiet and subdued as if nothing had occurred. 
 
 “You'll shake hands now,” exclaimed the trooper, “ and 
 make the child’s bargain.” 
 
 Robin, rising, extended his hand ; and it was cordially 
 taken by his adversary, who soon after removed the settle, 
 and entered the concealed room to join his slumbering com- 
 panions. 
 
 Whatever were Robin’s plans, reflections, or feelings, time 
 alone can develope ; for, laying himself before the yet burning 
 embers of the fire, he appropriated the stranger’s cloak as a 
 coverlet, in which to enshroud himself and Crisp ; and, if 
 oral demonstrations are to be credited, was soon in a profound 
 sleep. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 33 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ‘Yet not the more 
 Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
 Smit with the love of sacred song. 
 * * * 
 
 Great things, and full of wonder, in our ears, 
 Far differing from the world, thou hast revealed, ; 
 Divine Interpreter. MILToN. 
 
 Tue morning that followed was rife with the sweet and 
 balmy air and the gay sunshine, so duly prized in our variable 
 climate, because of the rarity of their occurrence ; more espe- 
 cially when the year is yet too young to assist with vigour 
 the energies of all-industrious nature. The trees, in their 
 faint greenery, looked cheerful as the face of childhood: the 
 merry birds were busied after their own gentle fashion forming 
 their dwellings in the covert and solitude of the wooded slopes 
 which effectually sheltered Cecil Place from the chill blast of 
 the neighbouring sea. The freshened breeze came so kindly 
 through the thick underwood, as to be scarcely felt by the 
 early wanderers of the upland hill or valley green. Even the 
 rough trooper, Roupall, yielded to the salutary influence of 
 the morn ; and as he toiled in his pedlar’s guise across the 
 downs, which were mottled with many hundred sheep, and 
 pointed the pathway to King’s Ferry, his heart softened 
 within him. Visions of his once happy home in Cumberland 
 —of the aged parents who fostered his infaney — of the 
 companions of his youth, before he had lived in sin, or dwelt 
 with sorrow — of the innocent girl, who had loved, though 
 she had forsaken him — all passed before him ; the retro- 
 spect became the present ; and his heart swelled painfully 
 within him ; for he thought on what he had been, and on 
 what he was, until, drawing his coarse hand across his brows, 
 he gave forth a dissolute song, seeking, like many who ought 
 to be wiser, to stifle conscience by tumultuous noise. 
 
 About the same hour, our friend Robin Hays was more 
 than usually active in his mother’s house, which we have al- 
 ready described, and which was known by the name of the 
 * Gull’s Nest.” The old woman had experienced continued 
 kindness from the few families of rank and wealth who at that 
 
 D 
 
SA THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 time resided in Shepey. With a good deal of tact, she ma- 
 naged outwardly to steer clear of all party feuds ; though people 
 said she was by no means so simple as she pretended ; but 
 the universal sympathy of her neighbours was excited by her 
 widowed and almost childless state — three fine sons having 
 been slain during the civil wars—and the fourth, our ac- 
 quaintance Robin, being singularly undervalued, on the ordi- 
 nary principle, we may presume, that ‘a prophet hath no 
 honour in his own country.” This feeling of depreciation 
 Robin certainly returned with interest, indulging a most bitter, 
 and, occasionally, biting contempt for all the high and low in 
 his vicinity, the family at Cecil Place forming the only excep- 
 tion. Despite his defects natural and acquired, he had, how- 
 ever, managed to gain the good opinion of Burrell of Burrell, 
 who, though, frequently on the island, possessed only a small 
 portion of land within its boundary. Into his service he en- 
 tered for the purpose of accompanying the knight to London 
 as travelling-groom ; and he had rendered himself so useful 
 while sojourning in the metropolis, that Burrell would fain 
 have retained him in his employ —a project, however, to 
 which Robin strenuously objected, the moment it was commu- 
 nicated to him. “* Nature,” he said, “had doubtless made him 
 a bond-slave ; but he liked her fetters so little, that he never 
 would be slave to any one or any thing beside.’’ He therefore 
 returned to the ** Gull’s Nest”’ on the night his late master ar- 
 rived at Cecil Place, from which his mother’s home was distant 
 about three miles. 
 
 Never was there a dwelling more appropriately named than 
 the cottage of Mother Hays. It stood on either a real or arti- 
 ficial eminence between Sheerness and Warden, facing what 
 is called ‘‘ The Cant,” and very near the small village of East 
 Church. The clay and shingle of which it was composed 
 would have ill encountered the whirlwind that in tempestuous 
 weather fiercely yelled around the cliffs, had it not been for the 
 firm support afforded to it by the remains of an ancient watch- 
 tower, against which the “ Gull’s Nest’ leaned. Perched on 
 this remarkable spot, and nestling close to the mouldering but 
 still sturdy walls, the very stones of which disputed with the 
 blast, the hut formed no inappropriate dwelling for withered 
 age, and, if we may be allowed the term, picturesque defor-~ 
 mity. Robin could run up and down every cliff in the neigh- 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 395 
 bourhood like a monkey — could lie on the waters, and sport 
 amid the breakers, with the activity of a cub-seal —dive like 
 an otter; and, as nature generally makes up in some way or 
 other for defects similar to those so conspicuous in the widow’s 
 son, she had gifted him with so sweet a voice, that the fisher- 
 men frequently rested on their oars beneath ‘“Gull’s Nest” crag, 
 to listen to Robin’s wild and mournful ballads, which full often 
 mingled with the murmur of the small waves as they rippled 
 on the strand. But the manikin, Robin, had higher and better 
 qualities than those we have endeavoured to describe — quali- 
 ties which Hugh Dalton, with the ready wisdom that discovers 
 at once what is excellent, and then moulds that excellence to its 
 own purpose, had assiduously cultivated. Many years before 
 the period of which we treat, Robin had accompanied the Buc- 
 caneer on one or two piratical cruises ; and though it cannot 
 be denied that Hugh was a better sailor than scholar, yet he 
 generously sought to secure for little Robin the advantages he 
 did not himself possess ; Robin, accordingly, received daily 
 instruction in penmanship from a run-away merchant's clerk, 
 the clerk and bookkeeper, the lubber and idler of the crew. 
 
 Robin laboured to reward this kindness by unshaken fidelity, 
 unceasing watchfulness, and a wild enthusiasm which endeared 
 him to the rude captain, as if he were something that belonged 
 exclusively to himself. The Buccaneer knew that secrets, 
 where life and property were at stake, were safe in his keeping; 
 and as the renowned Dalton had often worked in the service of 
 both Cavaliers and Roundheads, a person of ready wit and true 
 heart was most invaluable as an auxiliary on the coast. 
 
 If the Buccaneer entertained any political creed, it was cer.- 
 tainly in favour of the exiled Charles: a bold and intrepid 
 spirit like his felt something most galling and repulsive in the 
 stern and unyielding government of the Protector. <A ruler 
 who not only framed acts, but saw those acts enforced, whether 
 they regarded a “ Declaration for a day of Publique Thanks- 
 giving,” or “‘A Licence for transporting Fish in Foreign 
 Bottoms,” was not likely to be much after the taste of one who 
 had the essence of lawgiving only within himself, and who per- 
 ceived clearly enough that the royal but thoughtless Stuarts 
 would be more easily managed — more prone, if not from feel- 
 ing, at all events from indolence, to overlook the peccadilloes 
 of such as Dalton, than the unflinching Oliver, who felt that 
 
 D2 
 
36 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 every evil he redressed was a fresh jewel in his sceptre. 
 Nevertheless, as we have seen, the Buccaneer had decided on 
 offering his services to the Commonwealth: he believed that 
 Cromwell knew his talents and valued his courage ; but he also 
 knew that the Protector piqued himself upon consistency, and 
 that, consequently, there would be vast difficulties to over- 
 ‘come, as a price had more than once been set upon his head. 
 
 We must, however, conduct our readers back into the fresh 
 morning we have instanced as one of the favourites of spring. 
 Leaving Robin to his preparations for the stranger’s breakfast, 
 and premising that he had previously dismissed the midnight 
 revellers on their respective errands, we will roam for a while 
 amid the sheltered walks of Cecil Place. 
 
 It was situated on the slope of the hill, leading to the old 
 monastery of Minster. Although nothing now exists except the 
 church, a few broken walls, and a modernised house, formed 
 out of one of the principal entrances to what was once an ex- 
 tensive range of monastic buildings; yet at the time of which 
 we treat, the ruins of the nunnery, founded by Sexburga, the 
 widow of Ereombert, King of Kent, extended down the rising 
 ground, presenting many picturesque points of view from the 
 small but highly-cultivated pleasure grounds of Cecil Place. 
 Nothing could be more beautiful than the prospect from a 
 rude terrace which had been the favourite walk of Lady Cecil. 
 The small luxuriant hills, folding one over the other, and 
 terminating in the most exquisite valleys and bosky glades the 
 imagination can conceive—the rich mixture of pasture and 
 meadow land —the Downs, stretching to King’s Ferry, 
 whitened by thousands of sheep, whose bleatings and whose 
 bells made the isle musical— while, beyond, the narrow 
 Swale, widening into the open sea, shone like a silver girdle in 
 the rays of the glorious sun — were objects,-indeed, delicious 
 to gaze upon. 
 
 Although, during the Protectorate, some pains had been 
 taken te render Sheerness, then a very inconsiderable village, a 
 place of strength and safety, and the ancient castle of Queen- 
 borough had been pulled down by the Parliamentarians, as 
 deficient in strength and utility, no one visiting only the south- 
 ern and western parts of the island could for a moment imagine 
 that the interior contained spots of such positive and cultivated 
 beauty. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. aT 
 
 It was yet early, when Constantia Cecil, accompanied by a 
 female friend, entered her favourite flower-garden by a private 
 door, and strolled towards a small Gothic temple overshadowed 
 by wide-spreading oaks, which, sheltered by thesurrounding hills, 
 had numbered more than a century of unscathed and undimi- 
 nished beauty, and had as yet escaped the rude pruning of the 
 woodman’s axe. The morning habit of the noble Constance 
 fitted tightly to the throat, where it was terminated by a full 
 ruff of starched muslin, and the waist was encircled by a wide 
 band of black crape, from which the drapery descended in 
 massive folds to her feet. She pressed the soft green turf with 
 a more measured step than was her wont, as if the body shared 
 the mind’s sad heaviness. Her head was uncovered, save that, 
 as she passed into the garden, she had carelessly thrown on a 
 veil of black muslin, through which her bright hair shone with 
 the lustre and richness of the finest satin : her throat and fore- 
 head appeared most dazzlingly white in contrast with her 
 sable dress. 
 
 The lady by whom she was accompanied was not so tall, 
 and of a much slighter form; her limbs delicately moulded, 
 and her features more attractive than beautiful. There was 
 that about her whole demeanour which is expressively termed 
 coquetry, not the coquetry of action, but of feeling: her eyes 
 were dark and brilliant, her mouth full and pouting; and 
 the nose was only saved from vulgarity by that turn, to 
 describe which we are compelled to use a foreign term — it 
 was un peu retroussé: her complexion was of a clear olive, 
 through which the blood glowed warmly whenever called to her 
 cheek by any particular emotion. The dress she wore, without be- 
 ing gay, was costly: the full skirt of crimson grogram descended 
 not so low as to prevent her small and beautifully-turned ankle 
 from being distinctly seen, and the cardinal of wrought purple 
 velvet, which had been hastily flung over her shoulders, was 
 lined and bordered with the finest ermine. Nor did the con- 
 trast between the ladies end here: the full and rich-toned 
 voice of Constance Cecil was the perfection of harmony, while 
 the light and gay speech of her companion might be called 
 melody —the sweet playful melody of an untaught bird. 
 
 ‘You must not mourn so unceasingly, my dear Constance,” 
 she said, looking kindly into the sorrowing face of her friend ; 
 
 dD 3 
 
388 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “I could give you counsel—but counsel to the distressed is 
 like chains thrown upon troubled waters.” 
 
 ‘Say not so, Frances ; rather like oil upon a stormy sea is 
 the sweet counsel of a friend; and truly none but a friend. 
 would have turned from the crowded and joyous court to so- 
 journ in this lonely isle ; and, above all, in the house of 
 mourning.” 
 
 *“T do not deny te you, Constance, that I love the gaiety, 
 the pomp, and the homage of our courts ; that both Hampton 
 and Whitehall have many charms for me ; but there are some 
 things— some things I love far more. I loved your mother,” 
 she continued, in a tone of deeper feeling than was usual with 
 so gay a spirit; “and I love the friend who, while she re- 
 proves my follies, can estimate my virtues: for even my som- 
 bre sister Elizabeth, your grave god-mother, admits that I 
 have virtues, though she denies them to be of an exalted 
 nature.” 
 
 «« Were the Lady Claypole to judge of others according to 
 the standard of her own exceeding excellence, Frances, we 
 should, indeed, fall far below what we are disposed to believe 
 is our real value ; but, like the rose, instead of robbing less 
 worthy flowers of their fragrance, she imparts to them a por- 
 tion of her own.” 
 
 *¢ Now should I like to call that a most courtly compliment, 
 but for my life I cannot — it is so true.” 
 
 «You pronounce a severe satire on your father’s court, my 
 friend ; and one that I hope it merits not.” 
 
 “Merits! Perhaps not— for, though the youngest and least 
 rational of my father’s children, I can perceive there are some 
 about him who hit upon truth occasionally, either by chance 
 or intention. There’s that rugged bear, Sir Thomas Pride, 
 whom, I have heard say, my father knighted with a mopstick 
 —he, I do believe, speaks truth, and of a truth follows one 
 scriptural virtue, being no respecter of persons. As to General 
 George Monk, my father trusts him — and so— yet have I 
 observed, at any mention of Charles Stuart’s name, a cunning 
 twinkling of the eye that may yet kindle into loyalty. —I 
 would as soon believe in his honesty as in his lady’s gentleness. 
 Did you hear, by the way, what Jerry, my poor disgraced 
 beau, Jerry White, said of her? Why, that if her husband 
 could raise and command a regiment endowed with his wife’s 
 
YHE BUCCANEER: 39 
 
 spirit, he might storm the stronghold of sin, and make Satan 
 a state prisoner. Then our Irish Lord Chancellor — we call 
 him the true Steele ; and, indeed, any one who ventures to tell 
 my father he errs, deserves credit. Yes, Sir William Steele 
 may certainly be called a truth-teller. Not so our last court 
 novelty, Griffeth Williams of Carnarvon, Esq., who though he 
 affects to despise all modern titles, and boasts of his blood-ties 
 with the Princes of Wales, Kings of France, Arragon, Castile, 
 and Man, with the sovereigns of Englefield and Provence to 
 boot, yet moves every secret engine he can find to gain a paltry 
 baronetcy !_ Even you, dear Constance, would have smiled to 
 see the grave and courtly salutations that passed between him 
 and the Earl of Warwick —the haughty Earl, who refused to 
 sit in the same house with Pride and Hewson—a circum- 
 stance, by the way, that caused Jerry White to say, ‘he had 
 too much Pride to attend to the mending of his soul.’ The 
 jest is lost unless you remember that Hewson had been a 
 cobbler. As to John Milton es 
 
 “Touch him not,” interrupted Constance ; “let not your 
 thoughtless mirth light upon John Milton ; there is that about 
 the poet, which made me feel the very first time I saw him, 
 that — 
 
 
 
 * Something holy lodges in that breast.’ 
 
 I remember the day well, now more than three years ago, 
 while staying at Hampton Court, (whither your gracious 
 mother had commanded me,) and reading to the Lady Clay- 
 pole, near the small window of her dressing-room, which 
 opened into the conservatory, one sultry July evening, when 
 the last rays of the golden sun disturbed the sober and 
 to me more touching beauty of the silver night—at last I 
 could no longer see, and closed the volume; your sister, in 
 sweet and gentle voice, stayed me to repeat some passages 
 from the ‘ Masque of Comus.’ How accurately I can call to 
 mind her every tone, as it mingled with the perfume of the 
 myrtle and orange trees, impregnating the air at once with har- 
 mony and fragrance. 
 
 * So dear to Heaven is saintly chastity, 
 That, when a soul is found sincerely so, 
 A thousand liveried angels lackey her, 
 Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt ; 
 And in clear dream and solemn vision 
 Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, 
 
 D 4 
 
40 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
 Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape, 
 The unpolluted temple of the mind, 
 
 And turns it by degrees to the soul’s essence, 
 Till all be made immortal.’ 
 
 I was so absorbed by the beauty of the poetry, and the exqui- 
 site grace and feeling with which it was repeated, that my eyes 
 were riveted on your sister; nor could I withdraw them, even 
 when she ceased to speak. Thus abstracted, I was perfectly 
 unconscious that a gentleman was standing close to the great 
 orange-tree, so that the rays of the full moon rested on his 
 uncovered head : his hair was parted in the centre, and fell on 
 his shoulders at either side, and his deportment was of min- 
 gled dignity and sweetness. ‘John Milton!’ exclaimed Lady 
 Clay pole, rising ; ‘I knew not,’ she continued, ‘ that you had 
 been so near us. — ‘The temptation was great, indeed, 
 madam: a poet never feels that he has true fame, until lips 
 such as yours give utterance to his lines.’ He bowed low, and 
 I thought coldly, over Lady Claypole’s extended hand. She 
 walked into the conservatory, and called on me to follow. How 
 my heart throbbed! how I trembled! I felt in the almost 
 divine presence of one whose genius I had worshipped with a 
 devotion which, enthusiastic as it was, I am not even now 
 ashamed of. I longed to fall at his feet, and implore his 
 blessing ; to kiss the hem of his garment; and thought, in 
 my foolishness, that inspiration might be communicated by his 
 touch. I pushed back my hair, so that 1 might not lose a 
 word he uttered, or the least look he gave. ‘ His sight was so 
 impaired,’ he said, ‘ that the light of day occasioned him much 
 pain ; and of late he had been so useless to his Highness, that 
 he feared to intrude too often into his presence.’ Lady Clay- 
 pole made some remark, which in truth I little heeded, for I 
 longed again to hear the poet speak ; nor did I remain ungra- 
 tified. In answer to some observation, he stated, ‘ he was well 
 aware that much of what he had written would not meet with 
 the indulgence she had graciously bestowed upon his verse ; 
 for, though they both valued freedom, they widely differed as 
 to the mode of its attainment.’ To this the Lady Claypole 
 made no reply ; and presently we had issued from the conser- 
 vatory, and stood for a few moments on the terrace. ‘ How 
 beautiful!’ said your sister, as she raised her eyes to the 
 glorious heavens, sparkling with countless stars, whose bril- 
 liancy was showered on the now sleeping earth.— ‘ Yes, beau- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 41 
 
 tiful!’ repeated Milton ; and his voice, so musical, yet melan- 
 choly, thrilled to my inmost soul: ‘ Beautiful!’ he said again, 
 as if the word was pleasant in his ears ; ‘ and yet the time is 
 coming fast when I shall behold that beauty no more — when 
 I shall be more humbled than the poor insects upon which I 
 may now heedlessly tread — they creep, but see ; I shall be a 
 thing of darkness in the midst of light — irrevocably dark ! — 
 total eclipse !— without the hope of day! Your pardon, 
 Lady ; but is it not strange, that life’s chiefest blessing should 
 be enthroned in such a tender ball, when feeling is diffused all 
 over us ?’—* The Maker must be the best judge,’ replied your 
 sister.—‘ ’Tis true,’ he said ; ‘and the same hand that wounds 
 ean heal. I will not sorrow, if I can refrain from grief, though 
 it is hard to bear ; yet often, when I look upon my daughters, 
 I think how sad ’twill be when I no more can trace their 
 change of form and feature. And this deep affliction comes 
 upon me in my manhood’s prime : — life in captivity — all 
 around me grows darker each fair day I live. A bunch 
 of violets was given me this morning; their fragance was 
 delicious, yet I could not discern the little yellow germ that I 
 knew dwelt within their dark blue petals, and I put them from 
 me because I could not see as well as smell : — ’twas foolish, 
 but ‘twas natural. The moon at this very moment looks so 
 sallow — pale — and you,’ he bowed to us as he spoke, ‘ and 
 you, even you, ladies, appear both dim and cold!’ I thought 
 he laid more emphasis on the word cold than on the other 
 words, perhaps in allusion to the political differences between 
 Lady Claypole and himself: your sister thought so too. — 
 ‘ You do us wrong,’ she observed warmly ; ‘never, never cold 
 to John Milton! never, indeed never! This sad affliction, if 
 it should continue, (which the Almighty in his mercy forbid ! ) 
 will create for you new worlds; when all its treasures are de- 
 stroyed, you will but close your eyes on earth that you may 
 look through heaven.’ What would I not have given for such 
 a rewarding smile as played upon without disturbing his fea- 
 tures! Your sister, surprised into an enthusiasm that was not 
 in keeping with her usually subdued deportment, turned aside, 
 and taking me by the hand, presented me to him, saying, 
 * Here, sir, is a little girl, who, though she has only numbered. 
 sixteen summers, has learned to value Milton!’ What do you 
 think I said, Frances? Nothing: —that might have passed 
 
42 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 — but what do you think I did? I fell on my knees, aud 
 kissed his hand! I am almost ashamed to repeat such fro- 
 wardness, though done in all the purity of truth ; — not that 
 I think he was displeased.” 
 
 ** Displeased !”’ interrupted the Lady Frances, who had kept 
 silence marvellously long; “‘oh! no, it is not in man to be 
 displeased with the devotedness, the love of woman ne 
 
 ‘1 prithee, peace,” interrupted Constance in her turn ; for 
 the word ‘love’ had called the fiush into her ‘pale cheek ; 
 “‘ thou art ever placing earth on a level with heaven.’ 
 
 ** And thou, my saintly friend, wouldst bring heaven down 
 to earth. I remember my sister Claypole treating of this be- 
 fore, saying that Milton laid his fingers on thy forehead, and 
 that thou didst clip off the particular ringlet pressed by them, 
 and enshrine it in a jewelled cross.” 
 
 “TI confess ss 
 
 *« To the folly of despoiling thy tresses ?”’ 
 
 “* Dearest Frances, you are cruel in your gaiety. How I 
 watched his retreating footsteps as he passed under the arch- 
 way, after bidding us good night! His gait was measured, 
 but, though his sight was so impaired, I observed that his head 
 was thrown upward, and that he walked as one having no 
 fear.” 
 
 * Well, give me Milton in the morn, but the gay Lovelace 
 when the twilight shades come down. I know a fair gentle- 
 man who sings his ballads most sweetly. You, too, had you 
 heard him, would have listened a second tune : — 
 
 * True, a new mistress now J chase, 
 The first foe in the field, 
 And with a stronger faith embrace 
 A sword —a horse —a shield. 
 
 
 
 
 
 * Yet this inconstancy is such 
 As you, too, shall adore — 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
 Loved I not honour more !’ 
 
 But I forget, the theme is a forbidden one; and I see, Con- 
 stance, you do not like my poet, and I have a mind not to ad- 
 mire yours! Ah! poor Lovelace! he might have been my 
 laureate.” 
 
 mal thought the Lady Frances sighed no longer for a thorny 
 crown.’ 
 
 “J may surely love the poetry of a Cavalier without wish- 
 ing to be the bride of Prince Charlie. My father’s fiat has 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 43 
 
 gone forth against my royal lover’s offer, and so J shall be the 
 wife of some staid sober Covenanter, I suppose ; that is, if I 
 follow my father’s wishes, and marry Will Dulton.” 
 
 ‘* Better than be the wedded mistress of a dissolute man,” 
 said Constance, firmly. ‘‘ Believe me, Charles Stuart has all 
 his father’s weakness without his father’s virtues.” 
 
 ‘Well, be it so,” replied Frances Cromwell: ‘I did not 
 care ; but methinks I should have liked the garniture of a 
 crown and the grasp of a sceptre. You should have been my 
 first maid of honour. — But your pardon, lady fair — you will 
 be the first married, if I can judge from Sir Willmott Burrell’s 
 earnestness of late.” As she spoke, Constance Cecil grew 
 deadly pale ; and, to conceal her emotion, sat upon the step of 
 the Gothic temple before which they had been standing for 
 some minutes. Frances did not observe the change, but heed- 
 lessly continued: —‘‘ Ah! it is happy for those who can 
 marry as they will, and him they love; to whom the odious 
 sound of ‘state necessity ’ is utterly unknown.” 
 
 “ And think you,” said Constance, in a voice struggling for 
 composure, “‘ think you so poorly of me, that I can will to 
 marry such as Burrell, of my own free choice! Oh! Frances, 
 Frances ! would to Heaven the same grave had closed over me 
 that closed over my mother!” She clasped her hands with an 
 earnestness amounting to agony, and there came an expression 
 over her features which forbade all trifling. Frances Cromwell 
 was a warm, cheerful, and affectionate girl ; but to her it was 
 not given to understand the depth or the refinement of minds 
 such as that of her friend. Her own home was not a peaceful 
 one, for party spirit, that hydra of disunion, raged and ravaged 
 there, without regard to years or sex. The Protector’s most 
 beloved child was known to be faithfully attached to the Stuart 
 cause ; while his eldest daughter was so staunch a republican, 
 that she only blamed her father for accepting power bordering 
 so closely upon royalty. This difference occasioned sad and 
 terrible domestic trouble ; and the man, feared, honoured, 
 courted by the whole world, ruling the dynasties of kingdoms, 
 could not insure an hour’s tranquillity within his own palace 
 walls! Frances, the youngest, interfered the least in their 
 most grievous feuds. She had so many flirtations, both ro- 
 mantic and anti-romantic, to attend to, that, like all women 
 who flirt much, she thought little. The perfect misery so 
 
44 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 fearfully, yet so strongly painted upon the countenance of 
 Constance, was to her utterly incomprehensible. Had it been 
 the overboiling of passion, the suppressed but determined rage, 
 or the murmuring of discontent, Frances could have under- 
 stood it, because it would have resembled what she had full 
 often witnessed ; but she had never before beheld the struggles 
 of a firm and elevated mind against a cruel and oppressive des- 
 tiny. Frances Cromwell looked upon her friend for some 
 moments, uncertain what course to pursue. She knelt down 
 and took her hands within her own ; they were cold as death, 
 rigid as marble. She bent over her ! — 
 
 “‘ Constance! Constance! speak! Merciful Providence !” 
 she exclaimed aloud, “ What can I do? what shall I do? 
 Barbara! Alas! alas! she hears me not — Dear Constance ! 
 This is worse than faintness,” she continued, as exertions to 
 restore her proved ineffectual ; for Constantia, exhausted by 
 her efforts to appear tranquil, and to chime in with the temper 
 of her guest, until tortured at the very mention of Burrell’s 
 name, remained still insensible. 
 
 “I must leave her and seek assistance from within,” re- 
 peated Frances, rapidly unclasping her jewelled mantle, throw- 
 ing it over her friend, and flying, rather than running, along 
 the shaven path they had so recently paced in gentle converse. 
 No very long time elapsed before the lady returned, followed 
 by Barbara Iverk and another faithful attendant. 
 
 «* Thank God!” exclaimed Frances, ‘‘ she must be reco- 
 vered, for her position is changed.” And so it was — the veil 
 of black had entirely fallen off, and her unconfined hair 
 reposed in rich shadowy masses on her bosom and shoulders : 
 one arm rested on her knee, while the extended hand supported 
 her head ; the other was open on her Jap, and upon its small 
 and transparent palm lay a large locket of peculiar workman- 
 ship, set round with brilliants.’ On this her eyes were fixed; 
 and when her bower-maid, Barbara, endeavoured to rouse her 
 mistress’s attention, the first symptom of returning conscious- 
 ness she gave, was to hide the jewel within her bosom. She 
 appeared like one waking from a long dream. Frances spoke 
 to her in a tone of gentle cheerfulness, — 
 
 “* Come, dearest, it is cold ; we will in: you must be better 
 presently. One moment; let me bind up this hair; it keeps 
 back the cloak from covering your throat, and you shiver like 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 45 
 
 an aspen.’ Frances was gathering the large tresses eagerly in 
 her hand, when she stopped, and letting them suddenly fall, 
 exclaimed,— 
 
 «‘ What's here to do! One of the finest of your lady’s 
 braids severed more than mid-way, and by no scissors, truly ; 
 absolutely butchered! Do but look, Barbara ; I am sare ’twas 
 not so this morning ! ” 
 
 The young tire-woman lifted up her hands in horror and 
 amazement; for she very properly regarded her mistress’s 
 beautiful hair as under her own especial control, and was about 
 to make some inquiry touching the mysterious incident, when 
 Constance drew the cardinal completely over her head, and, 
 leaning her arm on Barbara’s shoulder, proceeded towards the 
 house. 
 
 Notwithstanding the great anxiety of Lady Frances on the 
 score of her friend’s indisposition, and it is but justice to admit 
 she loved her with all the constancy of which her volatile 
 nature was capable, her affection was nearly overpowered by 
 her curiosity — curiosity to discover how Constance obtained 
 the locket, and how she lost her most admired tress. Yet, to 
 neither of these perplexities had she the slightest clue. Inti- 
 mate as they had been from childhood; superior as was her 
 rank to that of Sir Robert Cecil’s daughter ; yet was there no 
 one of her acquaintance with whom she would not sooner have 
 taken a liberty than with Constance Cecil. In the course of 
 the day she tried every little art that female ingenuity could 
 devise, short of saying, ‘‘ How came you by that locket? ” to 
 induce her to talk on the subject —and in vain. Constance 
 made no assertion — offered no explanation; but, when Frances 
 appeared to come too near the subject, she silenced all farther 
 approach to confidential communication, simply by raising her 
 clear, calm, and holy eye, letting it fall upon the animated, 
 restless face of her companion, and then shading its glory by 
 the Jong silken lashes that almost rested on the exquisitely 
 moulded cheek. It was this peculiar look that made her lively 
 friend usually designate her ‘‘ the awful beauty.” 
 
 Still curiosity, that most busy and feminine sprite, tortured 
 the Lady Frances with extraordinary perseverance ; and, in 
 the end, it suddenly occurred to her that Barbara might know 
 or conjecture something about the matter: accordingly, at night, 
 she dismissed her own women, under some pretext or other, to 
 
46 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 their chambers, and summoned the pretty Puritan to wait at 
 her toilet. Poor Barbara was as neat and as docile a maid as 
 any country gentlewoman could desire ; but, as she had never 
 accompanied her ladies to court, to which, because of Lady 
 Cecil’s illness, they had been rare visiters of late, she felt 
 somewhat nervous on being called into active duty by so great 
 a personage as the Lady Frances Cromwell. With trembling 
 hands she unlaced the velvet bodice, released the tiny feet from 
 their thraldom, set loose the diamond clasps of the sparkling 
 stomacher ; and, after arraying the lady in a wrapping robe of 
 fringed linen, with point-lace collar, commenced the disen- 
 tangling of her raven hair: this was a task that required skill 
 and patience. Nature had been so bountiful to her own fair 
 mistress, that her hair needed no art to increase either its 
 quality or quantity: the simple Barbara consequently stood 
 aghast when a vast portion of the fabric fell to the ground the 
 moment a little dark band had been separated from the pretty 
 head of the more courtly maiden. Frances laughed as the 
 girl’s astonished features were reflected in the polished mirror 
 before which she sat: so evident was her dismay, as she held 
 it forth, exclaiming, ‘‘ I did not pull it off, my lady ¥ 
 
 «* Ah, wicked wench! so you would rob my head as well as 
 your lady’s. Now, Barbara, tell me truly, what didst do with 
 that same lock I missed this morning ?” 
 
 “ T, my lady?” 
 
 “Yes, you. No one else, I suppose, dresses your lady’s 
 hair.’ 
 
 «‘ That may be ; but I assure your ladyship I never cut off 
 that curl : — it is quite wonderful !”’ 
 
 “© So it is, as you say, like a very sensible girl, ‘ quite won- 
 derful ;’ but, Barbara, do you think you could find out who 
 did cut it off P” | 
 
 « Not unless my lady would tell me.” 
 
 « But is there no way ? ” 
 
 “* Only by asking my lady, and that I could not presume 
 to do.” 
 
 _ © Nor I either,” thought Lady Frances: “ but, barbara, 
 you might think — or — or — see perhaps * 
 
 «* Please you, my lady, I do think a great deal, and the 
 
 Rey. Mr. Fleetword said to me only this morning, that 1 grew 
 
 
 
 
 
 Le —— 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 4,7 
 
 in grace as much as in stature. And, as to seeing, please your 
 ladyship 
 
 *« Pshaw, child! it is not that] mean. Could you not dis- 
 cover? Besides — the locket! did you ever see that locket in 
 your lady’s possession till this morning ? ” 
 
 *¢ No, madam.” 
 
 ** Perhaps,” continued Frances, blushing and stammering at 
 her curiosity, ‘‘ it might be well to ascertain something about 
 both mysteries, for your lady’s good.” 
 
 ** IT am sure, my lady, I can’t tell ; but my mistress is very 
 wise, and if she wished me to know any thing of such like, 
 would direct me herself. Shall I put any of this ambergris in 
 your ladyship’s hair, or do you better like the musk-rose ? ” — 
 How perplexing to the cunning is straightforward simplicity ! 
 *« Now,” thought Lady Frances, *‘ one of the court waiting- 
 maids would have comprehended my meaning in a moment ; 
 and this wench, with ten times their zeal and real sense, thinks 
 it downright wicked to pry into her lady’s secrets. I wonder 
 my women have not taught her the court fashions. — You may 
 go to bed, Barbara ; light my night lamp, and give me a book; 
 I do not feel at all sleepy.” 
 
 Barbara, with great naiveté, presented to Lady Frances a 
 small Bible that lay on the dressing-table : — something re- 
 sembling a smile passed over the lady’s face as she took the 
 volume, but she only observed, ‘‘ Give me also that book with 
 the golden clasps; I would fain peruse my cousin Waller’s 
 last hymn. — What an utterly useless thing is that which is 
 called simplicity!” she said, half aloud, as Barbara closed the 
 door. ‘* And yet I would sooner trust my life in the hands 
 of that country damsel, than with the fine ones, who, though 
 arrayed in plain gowns, flatter Soeni Bs fancies at Whitehall or 
 Hampton!” 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 By holy Mary! Butts, there’s knavery. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Havine consigned the Lady Frances Cromwell to her per- 
 fumed couch, and the companionship of Waller’s sweet and 
 sonorous strains, we leave her to determine whether the high 
 
48 & THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 and mighty Lady Dorothea Sidney, the Poet’s Saccharissa, or 
 the gentle Lady Sophia Murray, the beauteous Amoret of his 
 idolatry, were most worthy the affection he so generously 
 bestowed on both. Waller, the most specious flatterer of 
 flattering courts— the early worshipper of Charles the First 
 — the pusillanimous betrayer of his friends — the adulator of 
 Cromwell — the wit and the jester of the second Charles — 
 the devotional whiner of the bigot James — had not, how- 
 ever, sufficient power to keep the lady from her slumbers 
 long. She was soon in the refreshing sleep, known only to the 
 light-hearted. 
 
 Constance Cecil was more wakeful. After Barbara’s dis- 
 missal from the presence of Lady Frances, she crept with slow 
 and stealthy space to the chamber of her dear mistress, and 
 softly turning the bolt, displaced the curtains of silver damask 
 with so light a touch, that her entrance was unnoticed. The 
 girl perceived at once that her lady was not asleep. She had 
 evidently been reading, for the holy volume was still open, and 
 one hand rested amid its leaves: but even Barbara was asto- 
 nished when she saw that her attention was spell-bound to the 
 mysterious locket she held in the other hand. The excellent 
 servant, with that true honesty of mind which no education 
 can teach, knowing that her lady had not heard her enter, and 
 feeling, rather than reasoning upon, the indelicacy of prying 
 into what she believed was secret, purposely let fall a chalice, 
 which effectually roused Constance, who, placing the trinket 
 under the pillow, called upon her attendant for her night drink, 
 and then pointed out a particular psalm she wished her to read 
 aloud. Jt was a holy and a beautiful sight in that quiet 
 chamber: the young and high born maiden, her head resting 
 on pillows of the finest cambric ; her arms crossed meekly on 
 her bosom, whose gentle breathings moved, without disturbing 
 the folds of her night-tire; her eyes elevated ; her lips suf- 
 ficiently apart to show the small, pearly teeth, glittering in 
 whiteness within their coral nest ;—— then, as promises of hope 
 and happiness beyond the control of mortality, found voice 
 from Barbara’s mouth, a tear would steal down her cheek, un- 
 bidden and unnoticed, but not unregistered by that God who 
 knows our griefs, and whose balm is ever for the heavy at 
 heart. 
 
 Barbara sat on a writing stool by the bed-side, supporting 
 
f 
 
 THE BUCCANEER. — 49 
 
 the Bible on her knees, while the beams of a golden lamp, 
 placed on a lofty tripod near the foot of the bed, fell directly 
 on the book: the light, however, was not sufficiently powerful 
 to illume the farthermore parts of the chamber, whose walls 
 were hung with figured tapestry, the gloom of which con- 
 trasted strongly with the bright blue and silver that canopied 
 Constantia’s bed. 
 
 The next chamber was occupied by her father: it was lofty, 
 but not spacious. The inside of the door was guarded by many 
 bolts ; and at the moment his daughter was seeking commune 
 with, and counsel from, the Almighty, he was employed in 
 examining and securing them with evident anxiety. First 
 one, and then another, was pushed to its rest ; then he turned 
 the key in the lock—once, twice. Having shaken, or rather 
 attempted to shake, the massive door, to determine if it were 
 really secure, Sir Robert Cecil proceeded to inspect the window 
 fastenings ; and being convinced they were in their places, he 
 turned to the table where the light burnt brightly, examined a 
 brace of pistols, which he placed under his pillow, and then 
 took down a huge heavy sword from a shelf where it lay con- 
 cealed, pulled it forth from its seabbard, and applied his thumb 
 along the edge, to be satisfied of its sharpness. Having laid 
 the weapon by his bed-side, he commenced, unaided, to un- 
 dress. ‘his did not occupy him long, though he stopped oc- 
 casionally, his eye glancing round the apartment, his ear bent, 
 as if some unhallowed noise had struck upon it suddenly. As 
 he moved to his lonely couch, he passed before an immense 
 glass, in a heavy oaken frame: his own reflection met his eye; 
 he started as if a spectre had crossed his path—his cheek 
 blanched — his knees smote one against the other — his respiration 
 was impeded. At last, waving his hand, as if to dispel the 
 phantom his imagination had conjured up, he sprang into the 
 bed, and buried his head under its pillows. 
 
 At the end of the corridor which led to the sleeping-cham- 
 bers, was the apartment appropriated to Burrell of Burrell, 
 whenever he was a guest at Cecil Place; his visits, however, 
 were not so frequent, or of such long duration, as might have 
 been expected in the lover of Lady Constance Cecil. He was 
 fast approaching the meridian of life, and his youth had been 
 spent chiefly at court: — at both courts, in fact, for he had 
 been a partisan of the unhappy Charles, and afterwards, at 
 
 Ku 
 
50 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 heart, as complete a regicide as any who took a more active 
 part in the terrible transactions of the times. He joined the 
 army of the Parliament, nevertheless, but for a short time, 
 pleading, as an excuse, the necessity there was for remaining 
 amongst his own tenants and thralls to keep them in subjection. 
 Sir Willmott Burrell may well be designated a man of two 
 characters—one for public, one for private life. His manners 
 to his superiors, and generally to his equals, were bland and 
 insinuating ; to his inferiors he was overbearing, haughty, and 
 severe, except when he had some particular point to carry, and 
 then he could cringe to and fawn upon the vilest. He had a 
 peculiar method of entering into men’s hearts, and worming 
 from each whatever best suited his purpose ; but the principle 
 upon which he invariably acted, was, to extract the honey from 
 the rose, and then scatter its leaves to the whirlwind and the 
 blast. Devoid of every thing like moral or religions feeling, 
 he used Puritanism as a cloak for selfishness and sin ; and 
 though he had often cursed his good character when it stood 
 in the way of his pleasures, yet it was too needful to be cast 
 off as a worthless garment. A plotting mind united to a 
 graceful exterior, is as dangerous to the interests of society as 
 a secret mine to a besieged city, inasmuch as it is impossible to 
 calculate upon the evils that may suddenly arise either from 
 the one or the other. 
 
 Sir Willmott Burrell, of Burrell, had managed to make 
 himself acquainted with many of Sir Robert Cecil’s secrets ; 
 and even those he had not heard, he guessed at, with that na- 
 turally acute knowledge which is rarely in the wrong. He 
 was too great a sensualist to be indifferent to the beauty of 
 Constance, which, like all sensualists, he considered the sole 
 excellence of woman ; but he arraigned the wisdom of Nature 
 in endowing aught so fair with mind, or enriching it with 
 soul; and the dignity and purity of his destined bride, instead 
 of making him proud, made him angry and abashed. 
 
 Constance heard of Burrell’s grace, of Burrell’s wit, and 
 sometimes — though even amongst ladies it was a disputed 
 point — of his beauty, without ever being able to discover any 
 thing approaching to these qualities in her future husband ; 
 and certainiy he never appeared to so little advantage as when 
 in her presence: her eye kept him under a subjection, the 
 force of which he was ashamed to acknowledge ; and although 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 51 
 
 there could be no question that his chief desire for the ap- 
 proaching alliance proceeded from a cherished affection for the 
 broad acres and dark woods of the heiress of Cecil, yet he bit- 
 terly regretted that the only feeling the lady manifested to- 
 wards him was one of decided coldness — he almost feared of 
 contempt. The day after her mother’s funeral, she had refused 
 to see him, although he knew that she had been abroad with 
 Lady Frances in the gardens of the Place; and though Sir 
 Robert urged indisposition as the cause, yet his pride was 
 deeply mortified. A weighty communication from France, 
 where he had been a resident for some months, as an attaché 
 to the English embassy, appeared to have increased the dis- 
 content of his already ruffled temper. He retired early to his 
 chamber, and his moody and disturbed countenance looked 
 angered and mysterious by the light of an untrimmed lamp, as 
 he inspected various documents and papers that lay scattered 
 before him on a table of carved oak, inlaid with silver. One 
 letter, which he read and re-read with much attention, seemed 
 to excite him more than all the rest: he turned it over and 
 over — examined the seal — laid it down — took it up — put 
 it aside again — folded his arms over his chest, and, with his 
 eyes fixed on the ceiling, appeared for a time absorbed in the 
 remembrance of past events. Finally, he committed the letter 
 to the flames, and then paced up and down the room with un- 
 equal steps, his head bent forward, and his arms folded, as 
 before, over his bosom. He was evidently ill at ease with 
 himself, and there gleamed ‘a lurking devil in his eye,” that 
 augured peril to some one, and bespoke a man who was neither 
 ‘infirm of purpose,” nor slow in the execution of whatever 
 mischief was designed. He did not retire to his bed until the 
 lamp gave token that its oil was expended, when, flinging 
 himself on the coverlet without removing any portion of his 
 dress, he sought rest. 
 
 Nor were Sir Willmott’s slumbers of long duration ; before 
 the sun had risen, he was up and a-foot. Having let himself 
 down from his window and out at the postern-gate, he took 
 the path that led in the direction of Gull’s Nest Crag. 
 
 The night had been wild and stormy; the freshness and 
 freedom of the air now compensated for the turmoil that had 
 passed; but the ocean’s wrathfulness was still unappeased, and 
 Burrell listened to its roarings while it lashed the beach with 
 
 E 2 
 
 ~ | Li i tye 
 Ze ai 4 L. oid lla 
 
 ww 
 
52 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 its receding waves, like a war-horse pawing and foaming when 
 the battle din has sunk into the silence that succeeds the shout 
 of victory, as if eager again to meet the shock of death. 
 
 Suddenly he struck out of the usual track, across a portion 
 of waste land, the utmost verge of which skirted the top- 
 pling cliffs; and making for himself a way through tangled 
 fern, long grass, and prickly furze, he strode on in a more direct 
 line towards the dwelling of Robin Hays, pursuing his course, 
 heedless of the petty annoyances he encountered, although his 
 feet were frequently entangled among the stunts and stubs 
 that opposed his progress, with the air of one whose mind was 
 evidently bent on the fulfilment of some hazardous but im- 
 portant purpose. It was so early that not a shepherd had 
 unpenned his fold, nor a girl gone forth to the milking: such 
 cattle as remained at liberty during the night, still slumbered 
 on the sward ; and the wily fox roamed with less caution than 
 was his wont, under the knowledge that no enemy was by 
 to watch his progress. 
 
 “‘ I may reach Gull’s Nest, and return,” thought Burrell, 
 “and that before any in the house are astir.” But, at the 
 moment, a tall, lank figure, moving with measured pace, yet 
 nevertheless approaching rapidly, from the very point towards 
 which his steps were bent, arrested his attention ; and as it 
 came nearer and nearer, he was much disconcerted at the 
 discovery that no other than the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, 
 from whom he anticipated a sharp rebuke for his absence from 
 Lady Cecil’s funeral, was about to cross his path. He would 
 have gladly hailed the approach of Birnam wood, so it could 
 have settled down between him and the reverend Jonas; but 
 as no place of refuge was at hand, he bethought himself of the 
 shield of patience, drew his cloak as closely as if he were about 
 to encounter a fierce north wind, and finally returned with much 
 courtesy the salutation of the preacher, whose apt and ready 
 eloquence had obtained for him the significant appellation of 
 Fleetword. The locks of the divine, according to the ap- 
 proved fashion, had been cropped closely round his head, and 
 his thin sharp visage looked of most vinegar-like tinge and 
 character, peering, as it now did, from beneath a steeple- 
 crowned hat of formal cut. He wore a black cloth cloak and 
 doublet, his Flemish breeches and hose were of the same 
 sombre hue, and his square-toed shoes were surmounted by 
 
THE BUUCCANEER, 53 
 
 large crape roses. Contrary, as it would seem, to the custom 
 of a disciple of the peace-loving Saviour, he also wore a 
 basket-handled sword, girded round his loins by a broad strap 
 of black leather. In truth, face, figure, and all included, he 
 was as harsh and ill-favoured a person as could have been 
 encountered even at that day, one whose lips would have 
 seemed to taint the blessing to which he might have given 
 utterance ; and graceless as Burrell undoubtedly was, there 
 was excuse for the impatience he felt at such an unlucky 
 rencontre. J 
 
 *“ It augurs well to see one whom the Lord hath blessed 
 with all the creature-comforts of life, thus early aroused from 
 sluggish sloth, and abroad, doubtless, on business of the faith- 
 ful-minded ? ” 
 
 Burrell made the best reply he could, without confirming or 
 denying the inference drawn from his early rising. 
 
 “Why tarried ye from the gathering of God’s people on 
 account of the Lady Cecil’s funeral? I pray that the fleshpots 
 of Egypt may not lure ye to perdition ; or fine gold from 
 Ophir, or the vain glories of sinful men, pilot ye unto de- 
 struction ! ”” 
 
 * It was business connected with the state—— commands 
 from his Highness’s own lips, that detained me.” 
 
 ** All praise to the Providence that has given his chosen 
 people into such keeping as the Lord Oliver’s ! Truly may he 
 be likened to the chariots and horsemen of Israel—to the 
 blessed Zerubbabel, who restored the true worship, which the 
 Jews in their blindness had cast from them; to Joshua, 
 whom the Lord appointed as a scourge to the wicked Ca- 
 naanites ; to Moses, who gave both spiritual help and carnal 
 food to those that needed ; to Gideon; to Elijah; to David ; 
 to Hezekiah ; to the most wise Solomon ; to all the holy of 
 the earth!” and, exhausted by the rapidity with which he 
 had uttered the names of the kings and prophets of old, the 
 worthy Jonas made a full stop; not with any intention of 
 concluding his harangue, but to take breath for its continua- 
 tion. As time, however, was exceedingly precious to Burrell, 
 he endeavoured to give such a turn to the conversation, as 
 would enable him to escape from the preacher’s companion- 
 ship ; and therefore expresged a very deep regret that he had 
 not been edified by the discourse which Mr. Fleetword so ably 
 
 E 3 
 
54 THE BUCCANEER: 
 
 delivered, and inquired when and where it was likely he would 
 next give his holy lessons, so that he might be comforted by 
 the oil and honey that flowed from his lips. 
 
 “Thou sayest truly,” replied the energetic preacher ; 
 * truly sayest thou: oil and honey for the faithful, the holy, 
 the just, in our New Jerusalem! But what, what for the 
 unbelievers ? — what for the wise in their own conceit? — 
 what for the dwellers in Kedar? Even this —to them, my 
 words signify bitterness, a scourge, a pestilence, an uprooting, 
 and a scattering by the four winds of heaven! on them shall 
 the seventh phial be poured out; for verily the Lord is weary 
 of showing mercy to the backsliders from the congregation : 
 they shall all perish — their limbs shall be broken asunder — 
 yea, I will smite the uncircumcised Philistines — yea, I will 
 smite a 
 
 “ Even as did Sampson of old,” interrupted Burrell — 
 “even as Sampson of old smote them — with the jawbone of 
 an ass.” 
 
 “« Even so,” replied Jonas, who, with all his bitterness, 
 was nothing worse than a simple-minded enthusiast, and never 
 imagined that Sir Willmott’s words could convey aught than 
 approbation of his zeal, and the right spirit that dwelt within 
 him ; — “‘even so; and it rejoiceth me to find thee apt and 
 prompt in scriptural passages. Verily, I am glad of thy com- 
 pany ; and as thou regrettest that the world’s business pre- 
 vented thy attendance on the lamented dead, I care not if I 
 bestow this my present leisure unto thy edification, and repeat, 
 nay, even enlarge upon, the words I then delivered ; which 
 exercise will be finished before mid-day — it is right that we 
 labour unceasingly in the vineyard.” So saying he drew 
 from his bosom a clasped Bible, and, to Burrell’s dismay, 
 actually gave out the text, before he could resolve upon any 
 plan to rid himself of the intruder, whom he heartily wished 
 at Tophet, if not farther. 
 
 ** My worthy friend, I would postpone the instruction you 
 would give until a more convenient season; I have’ urgent 
 business to attend, and must hasten its performance.” 
 
 “ Then will I gird up my loins, and accompany thee unto 
 the very threshold of the house where thou wouldst enter ; 
 and as we walk, I can still conyey the precious ointment of 
 grace unto thy soul.” 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 55 
 
 “ The merciless old scoundrel!” muttered Burrell between 
 his teeth ; then adding aloud, ‘‘ Not so; your words are too 
 costly to be given unto the winds; and I cannot tarry so as 
 to drink in the full draught of satisfaction ; let be, I pray you, 
 and come down to Cecil Place to-night, or on the morrow, 
 and then many can worship with thee.” 
 
 Fleetword paused, still holding the volume in his hand : — 
 ** Besides,” continued Burrell, “ what I have to accomplish 
 is the Lord’ s work.” 
 
 * The Lord’s work — the Lord’s work ! 1 repeated Fleet- 
 word, — “then go forth ; why didst thou not confirm me 
 that before ? and I would have hastened, not retarded thee ; 
 for, of a verity, my outward man warreth with the inward, 
 and these supporters of the flesh,” pointing with his fore- 
 finger to the thin and meagre limbs that scarcely merited the 
 compliment, ‘‘ grow weary in well doing.” 
 
 Burrell needed not a second hint to hasten, but proceeded 
 on his way, after receiving Fleetword’s benediction with all 
 due humility. 
 
 The preacher remained some time on the spot, and his 
 thin upright figure, seen from a distance, its outline so 
 strongly marked against the cold grey morning sky, had a 
 singular effect. Burrell had plunged into a dell or hollow, so 
 that he was no longer visible. 
 
 The bleak and unclothed landscape, from which the mist 
 was slowly rolling ; the few giant trees, that dwelling by the 
 sea-side, and grown wise by experience, ventured not to put 
 forth their leaves till the sun had chased the north wind to his 
 caves ; but, above all, the booming of the untranquillised 
 ocean, might have chilled a heart within the warmest bosom ; 
 
 ‘© Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
 With dauntless words and high,” 
 and looked as if he deemed the rolling clouds his listeners. 
 It was by no means unusual for the preachers in those days to 
 exercise their voices over the hills and heaths of their native 
 land: valuing, as they did, power and strength far more than 
 melody and grace, they endeavoured to acquire them by every 
 possible means — nor were they without hope that, (to use 
 their own language,) “ the Almighty might bless the seed thus 
 sown, seeing that it was hard to know who might not be within 
 hearing of the precious word.” 
 E 4 
 
56 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Burrell soon gained the sea-shore, though he was still a con- 
 siderable distance from Gull’s Nest Crag. On arriving at a 
 point that commanded an unbroken prospect of the far-spread 
 sea, he shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked long and 
 earnestly along the waste of waters. Apparently the scrutiny 
 was unsuccessful, for he drew a telescope from beneath his 
 cloak and gazed through it for some minutes, directing it 
 towards several points. At length, with an impatience of 
 manner in which, when with his inferiors or alone, he fre- 
 quently indulged, he descended the cliff and pursued his way 
 along the beach. As he drew near the little public-house, his 
 ears were greeted by the sound of one of Waller’s most 
 popular songs, warbled in a voice so sweet, so pipe-like, that 
 he paused, and looked round to ascertain from whence it 
 proceeded. It ceased. Not even his keen eye could rest on 
 aught resembling human form. He hallooed, but received no 
 answer: yet had he not continued three steps on his way 
 when the song was renewed, as he thought, directly over his 
 head ; notwithstanding the roaring of the waves, he even 
 heard the words distinctly — 
 
 ** Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired.” 
 Again he shouted, and aloud and elfin laugh, that danced 
 with the echoes from crag to crag and billow to billow, was 
 sent forth in reply. 
 
 «© Mermaid — Merman — or Demon! where be ye! ” cried 
 Burrell, loudly. 
 
 « Even here, master mine,” answered Robin Hays, shaking 
 his large head, over a midway and partly detached portion of 
 the cliff. 
 
 “ Come down, do, you will-o’-the-wisp! In Heaven’s name 
 what takes you into such breakneck places ?” 
 
 ‘“The same matter that brings you here, sir,’’ replied 
 Robin, skipping and crawling alternately, suiting his motions 
 to the inequality of the place: “ the very same matter that 
 brings you here—a woman.” 
 
 *‘ How know you that, master prate-a-pace? At allevents, 
 you have no woman there.” 
 
 «Why, master, seeing you were born under the planet 
 Venus, your whole trouble must be of her making; and, as 
 to there being no woman up here, that matters nothing, for 
 
 ? 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 57 
 
 woman’s fancy mounts higher than e’er a cliff in England ; 
 and to gain their favours we must humour their fancy. <A 
 certain damsel that I know, had a curiosity to see a peewit’s 
 eggs; so I thought I’d find her some, and here they are.” 
 From a pouch made of untanned leather, which hung in front 
 like an apron, he took two small eggs of a greenish hue, 
 spotted with black. 
 
 ‘* What a fool you are,” exclaimed Burrell, ‘‘ to risk your 
 neck for such trumpery! It would be long ere you would 
 risk it for your master.” 
 
 “I have known many hazard theirs for a less cause —and, 
 to say the truth, there’s a deal to be learned from the wild sea- 
 birds,” replied Robin, asif he had not heard the latter portion 
 of the sentence ; “ I have a regard for the creeturs, which are 
 like kings in the air. Many an hour have I sat up yonder, 
 listening to the noises of earth and the noises of heaven, 
 while the shrill note of the gull, the chatter of the guillemot, 
 the heron’s bitter scream, the hoarse croaking of the cormo- 
 rant, have been all around me: and, indeed, the birds know 
 me well enough. There’s a pair of old gulls se 
 
 *“Robin!”” I came not here to talk of cormorants and 
 gulls; I want to ask you a question, and I expect an honest 
 answer.” 
 
 Robin made the nearest approach to a bow he was ever 
 guilty of. 
 
 “* Honesty, Robin, is a most valuable quality.” 
 
 ** So it is, sir— and, like all valuables, ought to fetch a good 
 price.” 
 
 ** You should be a disciple of Manasseh Ben Israel! Why, 
 you have hardly left my service two days, and then I had a 
 right to your honesty. You are as bad asa Jew.” 
 
 “If so, I have surely a right to extort money from a Chris- 
 tian.” 
 
 “A truce to your jests, you ill-favoured loon: I want no 
 man’s labour for nothing —there are some broad pieces to stop 
 your mouth ; and now, when saw you Hugh Dalton?” 
 
 ** Not since I had the honour to wait upon you, sir, to 
 London.” 
 
 * But he is off the coast.” 
 
 ** Under favour, sir, that accounts for my not seeing him 
 on it.” 
 
 
 
58 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “* Scoundrel!” exclaimed Burrell fiercely ; “ no such mum- 
 mery with me, or I’ll soon put you upon salt-water rations. 
 Dalton, I say, is off the coast; I would speak with him, I 
 must speak with him ; and as I have good reason to know you 
 telegraph each other, manage so that he meet me under the 
 cavern: —do you understand, you sprat-spawn? Under the 
 cavern ; to-morrow night, at eleven ; we can serve each other.” 
 Burrell, when he had retraced his steps about five yards, 
 turned round and added, ‘‘ You owe me amends for your 
 base desertion the night before last, which I have not for- 
 gotten.” 
 
 Robin, cap in hand, watched his receding footsteps with an 
 underlook ; and then, attended by his faithful Crisp, repaired 
 to the cottage, where a cannikin of porridge, seasoned by the 
 hand of his mother with good spicery, and more than half 
 composed of double-dub, awaited his arrival. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 By the*pricking of my thumbs, 
 Something wicked this way comes. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 THERE is nothing in England so variable as its climate. Be- 
 fore the succeeding night, the very remembrance of the storm 
 seemed to have passed away from the placid waters, which now 
 slept in the moonbeams as tranquilly as a cradled child; the 
 sea-bird’s scream no longer whistled through the air, and the 
 small waves murmured their gentle music along the strand. 
 Nature was hushed and happy ; but the tranquillity of external 
 objects had little effect upon the mind of Burrell, as he strode 
 to his trysting with the bold Buccaneer. Yet were there no 
 outward tokens that he apprehended aught from the meeting ; 
 for, excepting the sword, usually borne by persons of all ranks 
 and professions during the dynasty of Oliver, he was completely 
 unarmed. The place appointed was appropriately described as 
 ** Under the Cavern.” It was known to Dalton’s more inti- 
 mate associates, and the Cavaliers, who had from time to time 
 obtained security therein ; but, if its bare, bleak walls had been 
 gifted with speech, they might have rehearsed such tales of 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 59 
 
 rapine and plunder as few writers would venture to record. 
 The cavern appeared, to those who might wander along the 
 sea-shore, to be but a deep and natural excavation into a huge 
 rock, the western extremity of which ran out into the ocean, 
 and therefore compelled the traveller to ascend a kind of arti- 
 ficial steps, in order to pass to the other side: the beach was, 
 consequently, but little frequented, as leading to no necessary 
 point, and as the inhabitants of the adjoining cottage, with 
 which our readers are already familiar, had taken especial care 
 to form several paths in various directions from its door, but 
 none leading dewn to this part of the neighbouring cliffs, it was 
 but rarely that the whiteness of the rocks was defaced by any 
 foot save that of the daring bird from whom it received its 
 name, and by whom it was regarded as his own natural and 
 undisputed property. 
 
 Whether the cavern into which we are about to enter was 
 originally framed by some freak of Nature, or was the invention 
 and subsequent accomplishment of art, we are unable to deter- 
 mine. Like many a structure better formed to endure for 
 ages, it has been long swept away by the encroachments of the 
 sea, which, since the pericd we write of, has been gradually 
 gaining upon the land. Even at the present moment, there 
 are old men dwelling in the neighbourhood who can re- 
 member houses and corn-fields where now a proud ship may 
 ride at anchor. From time to time, without the slightest warn- 
 ing, some immense rock falls, and mingles with the ocean, 
 which soon dashes aside every trace of its existence, leaving 
 merely a new surface, to vanish in its turn under the influence 
 of a power, silent and patient, but inevitable and unconquerable. 
 
 Immediately as the moonlight was left behind, the cavern 
 became high and arched, as if either Nature, or some skilful 
 workman under her superintendence, had foreseen to what im- 
 portant purposes it might be applied. Huge masses of flint, 
 and still larger fragments of granite, were scattered about as if 
 by giant hands, yet without any seeming attention to order or 
 regularity. The initiated, however, well knew that such was 
 not the case. Burrell, immediately on entering, proceeded to 
 the farther extremity, and kneeling, placed his mouth to the 
 ground, and gave a loud sharp whistle: he then stood erect, at 
 a little distance from the spot on which he had knelt. Presently 
 what appeared a lump of grey stone, moved upwards, then 
 
60 THE BUCCANEER; 
 
 aside, and the head and shoulders of a man from beneath sprang 
 into its place so suddenly as: to have appeared the work of ma- 
 gic. He leaned a little on ‘one side, to permit Burrell to de- 
 scend ; and-the next minute the’cavern seemed as if no human 
 step had ever disturbed its solitudes Six or eight rugged stairs 
 brought the knight into a low but spacious apartment, from 
 which there was no apparent exit except by.an arched door- 
 way, where the commencement of a spiral’ ascent was visible, 
 leading almost perpendicularly into the secret room of the 
 widow Hays’ small hostelry; in which our acquaintance Jack 
 Roupall and his friends had been concealed, and which, it may 
 be here stated, served other purposes than to afford comfort 
 and entertainment to the wayfarer. 
 
 It may also be observed, that, if at any time the widow's 
 house was suspected of harbouring dangerous or outlawed per- 
 sons, and consequent search was made under its roof, those to 
 whom concealment was either convenient or necessary had a 
 ready sanctuary in the cavern beneath, where they might either 
 tarry until assured of safety, or whence they could easily escape 
 on board one of the free traders which rarely passed a week 
 without a call of inquiry at some point along the:coast. The 
 cavern was, therefore, known to many, for many were they to 
 whom it had been a shelter and a'safeguard. »; Not:so the inner 
 temple (if we may so apply the term), “to which Burrell now 
 sought admission through a door with the nature.of which only 
 some half a dozen were acquainted. To them the secret had 
 necessarily been confided, but under the most awful: oaths of 
 secrecy, and a terrible pledge that the life of him who might re- 
 veal it, was to be at all times, and in all places, at the disposal 
 of any one of those who shared with him a knowledge so 
 fearful. 5 
 
 The door before which Burrell paused, was, in its way, a 
 masterpiece of art : it consisted of a mass of clay and flint, so 
 skilfully put together that the most acute searcher, even though 
 he possessed the certainty of its existence somewhere, must 
 have failed to discover it from among the natural lining of the 
 rude but extensive cave. A low and gentle whistle was an- 
 swered by a like signal, and the door was drawn gradually in- 
 wards, until sufficient space was afforded to permit Burrell to 
 pass into a large space, but less raw and wild than that from 
 which he had just entered. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 61 
 
 In one corner of this singular hall, rose a motley pile of 
 musketry, rifles, hand-grenades, basket and cross-hilted swords, 
 steel cuirasses, which, from their rude and sullied condition, 
 appeared to have suffered much and hard service; buff and 
 other coloured doublets, breast-plates, shoulder-belts with gilt 
 and plain buckles; manacles, some rusty, others of glittering 
 brightness: the muzzle of a small brass swivel projected from 
 beneath a number of flags and emblems of various nations, 
 rolled together with a degree of amity to which their former 
 owners had long been strangers. Over these again were heaped 
 cloaks, caps, feathers, and trappings, enough to form the stock 
 wardrobe of a theatre. Nor were there wanting thumb-screws 
 and other instruments of torture, often unsparingly exercised 
 upon those who hid their treasure or retained secrets they were 
 desired to betray. Near to this miscellaneous assemblage rose 
 another heap, the base of which appeared to consist of some 
 half score of elephants’ teeth, rough hemp, fragments of huge 
 cable, cable-yarn, and all manner of cordage ; rolls of lewxerns’, 
 martrons’, and leopard-skins; wolf-skins, ‘‘tawed and untawed ;” 
 girdles of silk, velvet, and leather ; and on pegs, immediately 
 over, hung half a dozen mantles of miniver, and some wide 
 robings of the pure spotted ermine. Upon a huge sea-chest 
 were heaped bales of costly Brabant, Overyssels, and other rare 
 linens, mingled with French and Italian lawns of the finest 
 texture ; Turkish camlets, satins of China and Luca, plain and 
 wrought, and many other expensive and highly-taxed articles. 
 Delicious odours were diffused through the chamber from va- 
 rious cases of perfume, musk, ambergris, and the costly attar ; 
 while along the north wall were ranged different sized casks of 
 Nantz brandy, Hollands, and Jamaica rum; giving to the 
 whole the appearance of a vast storehouse. An enormous.chaf- 
 ing-dish, filled with burning charcoal, stood near the centre, 
 aud in a deep iron pan was placed a keg of oil, a hole having 
 been driven into its head, through which a sort of hempen wick 
 had been introduced ; it flared and blazed like an overgrown 
 flambeau, throwing a warm and glowing light over the entire 
 of the wild yet well-filled apartment. 
 
 But the most singular portion of the garniture of this most 
 singular cave consisted of a number of “ Oliver’s Acts,” pinned 
 or nailed against the walls. If Dalton had been Lord Chief 
 Justice, he could not have displayed a more minute attention 
 
62 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 to the products of legal sittings than distinguished his private 
 chamber: here was set forth on goodly parchment, “ An Act 
 for the Security of his Highness the Lord Protector, his Person, 
 and Continuance of the Nation in Peace and Safety ;” there, 
 ** An Act for Renouncing and Disannulling the pretended Title 
 of Charles Stuart, &c. at the Parliament begun at Westminster 
 the 17th day of September, anno Domini 1656,” with the 
 names ‘‘ Henry Hills” and “ John Field, Printers to his High- 
 ness the Lord Protector,” in large letters at the bottom, together 
 with divers others, chiefly however relating to the excise. 
 Hugh Dalton rose from his seat, and laid his enormous pipe 
 on a pile of ebony logs that answered the purpose of a table, 
 when Sir Willmott Burrell saluted him with more civility than 
 he usually bestowed upon inferiors: but, despite his outlawry, 
 and the wild course his life had taken, there was a firm, bold, 
 and manly bearing about the Buccaneer which might have 
 overawed far stouter hearts than the heart of the master of 
 Burrell. His vest was open, and his shirt-collar thrown back, 
 so as to display to advantage the fine proportions of his chest 
 and neck. His strongly-marked features had at all times an 
 expression of fierceness which was barely redeemed from utter 
 ferocity by a pleasant smile that usually played around a well- 
 formed mouth; but when anger was uppermost, or passion 
 was subdued by contempt, those who came within reach of his 
 influence, more dreaded the rapid motion or the sarcastic curl 
 of his lip, than the terrible flashing of eyes that were proverbial, 
 even among the reckless and desperate men of whom he was 
 the chief, in name, in courage, and in skill. His forehead was 
 unusually broad: thick and bushy brows overhung the long 
 lashes of his deeply-set eyes, around which there was a dark 
 line, apparently less the effect of nature than of climate. The 
 swarthy hue of his countenance was relieved by a red tinge on 
 either cheek ; but a second glance might have served to con- 
 vince the gazer that it was the consequence of unchecked dis- 
 sipation, not a token of ruddy health. Indeed, notwithstanding 
 the fine and manly character of his form and countenance, both 
 conveyed an idea of a mind ill at ease, of a conscience smitten 
 by the past and apprehensive of the future, yet seeking con- 
 solation in the knowledge of good that had been effected, and 
 of more that remained to be done. Years of crime had not 
 altogether obliterated a natural kindness of heart; he appeared 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 63 
 
 as one who had outraged society and its customs in a thousand 
 forms, yet who knew there was that within him by which he 
 was entitled to ask and expect a shelter within her sanctuary ; 
 and when a deep flush would pass over his features, and his 
 blood grow chill at the recollection of atrocities at which the 
 sufferers in a score of lands had shuddered as they talked, he 
 endeavoured to still the voice that reproached him, by placing 
 to the credit of his fearful account some matters to which we 
 may hereafter more distinctly refer. 
 
 It was before such a man that Burrell of Burrell now stood, 
 and by whom he was addressed. 
 
 ** My piping-bird, good sir, told me you wanted me; and 
 though somewhat inconvenient at this present time, here | am. 
 Won't you sit? ‘This is no lady’s lounging-room ; yet we can 
 find seats, and costly ones too,” he added, pushing a chest of 
 spices towards his visitor. 
 
 “ Then, you were not at sea, Captain?” observed Burrell, 
 seating himself, and unclasping his cloak. 
 
 “« I did not say so,” replied the other, bringing his bushy 
 brows more closely over his eyes, and glancing suspiciously 
 upon the questioner. 
 
 ** Oh, no; I only imagined it.” 
 
 «© Well, sir, I was not at sea, and I care not who knows it.” 
 
 ** But, my worthy friend, we have been acquainted too long 
 for you to fear my ’peaching aught concerning you or your 
 doings.” 
 
 ** And did I talk of fear ?” inquired the Buccaneer, with a 
 droll and yet bitter expression. “ Well, if I did, I only follow, 
 as Robin would say, the exampie of my betters, by talking 
 about what I don’t understand.” 
 
 ** Vastly good, and true ! — true as the x 
 
 “* Needle to the pole; the finest simile in nature, Sir Will- 
 mott Burrell: you were fishing for a holy one, I saw, which 
 is what these walls don’t often hear, for we’ve no laggers nor 
 warpes among us.” 
 
 ** You ve enlarged this room, and improved it much, Cap- 
 tain, since I last saw it.” 
 
 “ Humph! ay, that was, I remember, when his High- 
 ness % 
 
 “ Hush!” interrupted Burrell, changing colour, and looking 
 
 
 
 
 
64, THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 round the room cautiously ; ‘ you must be very careful, Dalton, 
 how you say any thing about i 
 
 “ Ha! ha! ha! So you look for a troop of old Noll’s 
 Ironsides to bounce from under these packages in this good 
 Isle of Shepey ; or, Taayhap, expect to see him start forth 
 from behind his own Acts, which you perceive garnish my 
 walls — the walls of my secret palace. so splendidly ; but I 
 may talk about his Highness, ay, and about the prisoners you 
 escorted here, despite the loyal men of Kent, for me to ship to 
 the . But no matter, no matter; Noll knew 
 I did it, for he knows every thing. Well, sir, you seem so 
 alarmed, that I’m dumb asa sand-bank; only this, his Highness 
 is far enough off to-night, and you need fear no other Olivers, 
 for England will never see but one.” 
 
 “« True, true — good Dalton ! — but tell me, are you often 
 on the French coast now ?” 
 
 “ Yes, I’m grown old, and, though my little Fire-fly is 
 still bright and beautiful, and her ivories as biting, her guns, 
 sir, as musical as ever, yet I’m done with the Colonies; they 
 ruin a man’s morals and his health; but I do a little, just by 
 way of amusement, or practice, with Flanders and France, and 
 a run now and then to Lisbon.” 
 
 “* How long is it since youve been to St. Vallery ?” 
 
 ‘© Some time now; I was at Dieppe last month, and that is 
 very near.” 
 
 ** Dalton, you must make St. Vallery before this moon is 
 out, and execute a little commission for me.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Very good, sir; we have never disputed about terms. 
 What is it? any thing in the way of silks, or ' 
 
 “ It is flesh, human flesh, Dalton.” 
 
 «* Ah!” exclaimed the Buccaneer, rising and recoiling from 
 the knight. ‘‘ I’ve had enough of that, and Ill have no more. 
 Sir Willmott Burrell, you must seek out another man.” 
 
 “Now, Dalton,” said Burrell, in his most insinuating tone, 
 ‘‘you have not yet heard me, and I take it very unhandsome 
 of an old friend like you to start off in such a manner without 
 knowing why or wherefore. The matter is simply this —a 
 girl, a silly girl, somehow or other got attached to me while I 
 was in France. I have received letter upon letter, talking of 
 her situation, and so forth, and threatening various things ; 
 amongst others, to come over here, unless — the idiot ! — I 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
* 
 THE BUCCANEER. 65 
 
 acknowledge her as my wife. Now, you know, or perhaps 
 you do not know, that I am betrothed to the daughter of Sir 
 Robert Cecil ; and, if I must enter into the holy state, why 
 she is a maiden to be proud of. I have arranged it thus — 
 written to my fair Zillah to get to St. Vallery by a particular 
 day, the date of which I will give you, and told her that a 
 vessel waits to convey her to England. You, Dalton, must 
 guide that vessel, and but you understand me; words 
 between friends are needless.” 
 
 “< The cargo for exportation ; Barbadoes perhaps 
 
 le ” And Burrell pointed with his finger downwards, 
 though, when he raised his eye to encounter that of the Buc- 
 caneer, it was quickly withdrawn. 
 
 *¢ God, Burrell !” exclaimed Dalton, in a tone of abhorrence, 
 *“ you are a greater villain than I took you for! Why can’t 
 you pay off the girl — send her somewhere — gild the crime ?”’ 
 
 ** Gold is no object with her ; she desires honour.” 
 
 The sympathetic chord of the Buccaneer’s heart was touched, 
 for the sentiment echoed his own. 
 
 “ Then who is she ?”” he demanded ; “ I'll not stir in it un- 
 ess I know all.” 
 
 Burrell paused for a moment, and then said — 
 
 “© You have heard of Manasseh Ben Israel, a rabbi, whom 
 it hath pleased a great personage to distinguish with much 
 kindness: nay, his mercy has gone so far as to contemplate 
 receiving that unholy people into commune with us, giving 
 them the right-hand of fellowship, and suffering them to taste 
 of the waters ” 
 
 ‘* Spritsail and rigging !” interrupted the Buccaneer, whose 
 enraged spirit sought some outlet, ‘‘ No conventicle lingo here 
 — you forget your company, Sir Willmott. What of the 
 Jew?” 
 
 “You know his highness has strangely favoured this man, 
 and that he is much thought of. It is now more than six 
 months since I was entrusted with a commission to Paris, and 
 Ben Israel requested I would take charge of some packages he 
 desired to forward to his daughter. She resided with a family 
 whom I knew to be Polish Jews, but who conformed to the 
 Catholic faith, and quieted the conscience of a certain cardinal 
 by liberal offerings of silver and of gold. I discharged the 
 commission in person, and must confess that the little black~ 
 
 F 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
‘66 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 eyed maid, seated as I first saw her, on crimson cushions of 
 rich Genoa velvet, and nearly enveloped in a veil starred with 
 precious gems, looked more like a houri than a woman. She 
 pleased me mightily ; and, as I had a good deal of time on my 
 hands, | trifled it with her. This might have done well ; we 
 might have gone on pleasantly enough ; but the creature was as 
 jealous as a she-tiger, and as revengeful too. I made ac- 
 quaintance with a blue-eyed Dane at the court, and — can you 
 believe it P —she tracked my footsteps in disguise, and would 
 have stabbed me to the heart, had I not wrenched the dagger 
 from her little hand. She pretended to be sorry for it; and, 
 though I never trusted her, our intimacy was renewed, until I 
 was recalled. Particular necessities for money pressing upon 
 me, I saw that no time was to be lost in fulfilling my contract 
 with Sir Robert Cecil’s daughter. My Jewess, however, 
 thinks otherwise ; declares she will follow me here ; that if I 
 do her not justice she will brave her father’s anger, avow her 
 intimacy with a Christian (which I believe they invariably 
 punish by death), and forward, what she calls, proofs of my 
 guilt to the Lord Protector. You perceive, Dalton, the crea- 
 ture is dangerous.” 
 
 “‘ But what can she forward to Oliver ?” 
 
 “Why, she was starch, and — you comprehend me —I 
 was obliged to submit to a species of marriage ceremony ; and 
 there was a certificate and some letters. In short, Captain, 
 knowing his highness’s strictness — knowing his wish to con- 
 ciliate this Ben Israel, and feeling the expediency of my im- 
 mediate marriage — I tell you it would be certain destruction 
 to suffer her to appear now.” 
 
 “Then I must ship her off, so that she may never re- 
 turn,’ observed the Buccaneer, with a fierce knitting of his 
 brows. 
 
 “Dalton, you know not what a devil she is: were she gen- 
 tle, or a fond idiot, she could be managed ; but she has the 
 spirit, the foresight of a thousand women. Besides, I swore, 
 when her hand was lifted against my life, that I would be re- 
 venged, and I never yet swore in vain.” 
 
 Dalton looked upon Burrell’s really handsome features, 
 contracted and withered by the pestilence of a demoniac spirit, 
 and loathed him from his very soul. 
 
 “JT can’t, Sir Willmott, I can’t; flesh and blood must rise 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 67 
 
 against the destruction of a loving woman. I won’t, so help 
 me God ! and that’s enough.” 
 
 *“ Very well — very well — but I'll have blood for blood, 
 breach for breach, master; the Ironsides, Cromwell’s tender 
 pets, would have nice picking here. The Protector has already 
 a scent of your whereabouts ; he is one who neither slumbers 
 nor sleeps. Let the bold Buccaneer look to it, and I'll straight 
 seek some less honest man to do my bidding.” 
 
 ** Heave over such jargon,” replied Dalton, upon whom 
 Burrell’s threats seemed to have made no impression. ‘Suppose 
 you did betray me, how many days’ purchase would your life 
 be worth? ‘Think ye there are no true hearts and brave, who 
 would sacrifice their own lives to avenge the loss of mine? 
 Avast, Master of Burrell! you are old enough to know bet- 
 ter.” 
 
 ‘And you ought to know better than to sail against the 
 wind. Why, man, the little Jewess is freighted with jewels ; 
 a very queen of diamonds. And I care not for them: you 
 may keep them all —so——” The villain’s lip faltered; he 
 feared to speak of the deed his heart had planned. Dalton 
 made no reply, but covered his face with his hand, leaning his 
 elbow on the table. Burrell took advantage of his silence to 
 urge the riches of the rabbi’s daughter, the presents he him- 
 self would give, and wound up the discourse with protests loud 
 and earnest of everlasting gratitude. Dalton let him speak on, 
 but still maintained an inflexible silence. 
 
 “<’Sdeath, man !” exclaimed Burrell, hastily, after a pause 
 of some minutes; “art asleep, or stupid ?” 
 
 ‘“‘ Neither,” replied the Buccaneer. ‘‘ But I will do your 
 bidding. Now, write your directions, — here are pens, ink, 
 paper, all that you require, — and my reward ; write, sir, and 
 then good night.” Burrell did so, while Dalton paced up and 
 down his den, as if meditating and arranging some action of 
 importance. All matters being agreed upon, apparently to the 
 satisfaction of both, they were about to separate, when Burrell 
 inquired — 
 
 “Did you land any Cavaliers lately ?”’ 
 
 “Not I; they are but a bad freight ; broad pieces are a 
 scarce commodity with Charlie’s friends.” 
 
 “Very strange. I met a braggart the other night, but I 
 
 F 2 
 
68 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 dare say he was one of the Syndercomb gang. His highness 
 imagines you conveyed some of them to their head-quarters.’ 
 
 *“ Does he? ” 
 
 “‘ Master Dalton, you are close.” 
 
 ‘* Master Burrell, I have agreed to do your business.” 
 
 “Well!” 
 
 “IT mean it to be well. Consequently, I have not agreed to 
 tell you mine.” . 
 
 Burrell looked daggers for a moment, and then turned off 
 with a hasty step and a forced laugh. 
 
 “ Blasted be my hand for touching his in the way of amity !” 
 exclaimed the Buccaneer, striking the table with a violence 
 that echoed through the room. ‘* The cold-blooded, remorse- 
 ess villain! She is too good for such a sacrifice — I must be 
 at work. And so, one infamy at a time is not enough for the 
 sin-dealing land lubber ; he wanted to worm out of me 
 Robin! ahoy ! Robin !” 
 
 Dalton stepped to the outside of the still open door; and on 
 the instant descended from the communicating stair leading to 
 the Gull’s Nest, not Robin, but him of the grey steed and 
 black cloak, who was so near falling a victim to Burrell’s 
 treachery on a recent occasion. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 For guilty states do ever bear 
 
 The plagues about them which they have deserved ; 
 
 And, till those plagues do get above 
 
 The mountain of our faults, and there do sit, 
 
 We see them not. Thus, still we love 
 
 The evil we do, until we suffer it. BEN JONSON. 
 
 Tue Buccaneer welcomed the young man with greater warmth 
 than is usually displayed, except to near and dear connections. 
 It must be remembered, also, he had arrived at that period of 
 life when feelings of affection and friendship stagnate some- 
 what in the veins, and curdle into apathy. Few are there 
 who have numbered fifty winters without wondering what 
 could have set their blood boiling and their hearts beating so 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 69 
 
 warmly some few years before. A benison upon a smiling lip, 
 a kindly eye, and a cheerful voice !—whether they belong to 
 the young or to the old— may all such true graces be long 
 preserved from the blight called “ knowledge of the world !” 
 which, while bestowing information with the one hand, takes 
 away innocence and hope with the other. — But to the story. 
 
 The young Cavalier greeted his associate more as a friend 
 than a companion: there was evidently between them that 
 good understanding which, arising from acquaintance with the 
 better points of character, produces mutual esteem ; and al- 
 though there was a degree of deference paid to Hugh Dalton 
 by the youth, it seemed a compliment to his age and expe- 
 rience, gracefully and naturally rendered, and kindly and 
 thankfully received. It was obvious that Dalton so considered 
 it; receiving attention far less as his due, than as a voluntary 
 offering for which he desired to show his gratitude. 
 
 There was, nevertheless, something of pity mingled with 
 regard, which the youth manifested towards his chafed com- 
 panion, as he took the seat that had been occupied by Burrell, 
 and, laying his hand upon the powerful arm of the Buccaneer, 
 inquired, in a touching and anxious tone, if aught had parti- 
 cularly disturbed him. 
 
 ‘“* Walter, no— nothing very particular ; for knavery and 
 villany are seldom rare, and I have been long accustomed to 
 treat with both ; only it’s too bad to have more unclean spirits 
 than one’s own harpying and haunting aman! God! I can 
 breathe better now that fellow ’s gone. Ah, Master Walter! 
 there be two sorts of villains in the world: one with a broad, 
 bronzed face, a bold loud voice, a drinking look, and an un- 
 sheathed dagger—and him men avoid and point at, and 
 children cling to their mother’s skirts as he passes by : — the 
 other is masked from top to toe ; — his step is slow, his voice 
 harmonised, his eye vigilant, but well-trained ; he wears his 
 dagger in his bosom, and crosses his hands thereon as if in 
 piety, but it is, in truth, that his hold may be firm and his 
 stab sure; yet the world know not that, and they trust him, 
 and he is singled out as a pattern-man for youth to follow ; and 
 so — but we all play parts —all, all! And now for a stave 
 of asong: Hurrah for the free trade !—a shout for the brave 
 Buccaneers ! — a pottle of sack ! — and now, sir, I am myself 
 again! The brimstone smell of that dark ruffian nearly over- 
 
 F 3 
 
70 THE BUCCANEER. ° 
 
 powered me!” So saying, he passed his hand frequently over 
 his brows, attempting at the same time to laugh away his 
 visible emotion. 
 
 “It will not do!” said the young man, whom Dalton had 
 addressed by the name of Walter ; “‘ something has disturbed 
 you: surely, Captain, I may ask what it is P ” 
 
 “ Some forty years ago I had a father,” replied the Buccaneer, 
 looking earnestly in the youth’s face ; ‘‘ he was an aged man 
 then, for he did not marry until he was old, and my mother 
 was beautiful, and quitted his side: but that does not matter ; 
 only it shows how, as my poor father had nothing else to love, 
 he loved me with the full tenderness of a most affectionate 
 nature. He was a clergyman too, and a firm royalist ; one of 
 those devoted royalists, as regarded both God and king, who 
 would submit, for their sakes, to the stake or the block with 
 rapture at being thought worthy to make the sacrifice. Well, 
 I was wild and wilful, and even then would rather steal a thing 
 than gain it by lawful means: not that I would have stolen 
 aught to keep it, for I was generous enough ; but I loved the 
 danger and excitement of theft, and, on the occasion I speak 
 of, I had taken some apples from a neighbouring tree belong- 
 ing to a poor woman. It was evening when I took this 
 unlucky fruit ; and not knowing a safe place in which to 
 deposit it, I was restless and disturbed all night. The next 
 day, from a cause I could not guess at, my father would not 
 suffer me to go out, and was perpetually, on some pretext or 
 other, going to and from the cupboard where my treasure had 
 been placed. I was in agony; and as night again closed in, the 
 agitation and anxiety I had suffered made me ill and pale. 
 My dear father drew near him the little oak table that was set 
 apart for the Bible, and, opening it, said that he had that day 
 composed a sermon for my especial case. I dreaded that my 
 apple-stealing had been discovered ; and I was right, though he 
 did not say so. He enlarged in sweet and simple language 
 upon his text: it was this —— ‘There is no peace, saith my 
 God, to the wicked.” Walter! Walter! the old man has been 
 many years in his grave, and I have been as many a reckless 
 wanderer over the face of the wild earth and still wilder sea ; 
 but I have never done a deed of blood and plunder, that those 
 words have not echoed — echoed in my ears, struck upon my 
 heart like the fiend’s curse. Yet,’ he added in a subdued ac- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. yh 
 
 cent, ‘it was no cursing lips pronounced them: I have been the 
 curse to the holy words, not they to me.” 
 
 ** T never before heard you speak of your father,” observed 
 the youth. 
 
 ** I do not like to speak of him; I ran off to sea when I 
 was about ten years old, and when I came back he was dead. 
 There was war enough in England at that time to occupy my 
 active nature: I first joined the King’s party, and had my 
 share of wounds and glory at Gainsborough, where I fought 
 with and saw poor Cavendish killed by that devil Cromwell. 
 It was at that same battle his successes began : he had a brave 
 horse-regiment there of his countrymen, most of them free- 
 holders and freeholders’ sons, who upon matter of conscience 
 engaged in this quarrel under him. It was there he ousted 
 us with his canting. Gadsooks! they went as regularly to 
 their psalm-singing as they had been in a conventicle ; and 
 thus, d’ye see, being armed after their own fanatical fashion 
 within, and without by the best iron armour, they stood as 
 one man, firmly, and charged as one man, desperately. — But 
 we have other things to talk of than him or me; so sit down, 
 young gentleman, and let’s hear the news ; —or, stay, Robin 
 must first bring us some wine — my warehouse is full of it ; 
 I must wash down the poison that fellow has crammed into 
 my throat. Ah! ah! ah! what chafes me is, that, from my 
 cursed reputation, greater villains than myself thrust me for- 
 ward to do their work, and think they have a right to storm 
 and stare if I have conscience in any thing. But Ill be even 
 with them all yet — with one in particular. That villain !— 
 shall that far greater villain have peace? ‘ There is no peace, 
 saith my God, to the wicked.’ ”’ 
 
 He summoned Robin, who placed on the table some meat 
 and wine, and other matters that supplied a pretty substantial 
 supper: a ceremony, the rendering justice to which affords us 
 sufficient leisure to examine the form and features of the young 
 Cavalier, who, having laid aside his enormous cloak, reclined 
 on some piles of foreign cloths with an ease and grace that be- 
 longs only to those of gentle blood. Amid the bustle and 
 occupation of life, it is a simple matter for peuple of ordinary 
 rank to assume the bearing of the well-bred ; but repose is the 
 true criterion of a gentleman or lady, inasmuch as there is 
 then no motion to take off from an ungraceful attitude or an 
 
 F 4 
 
7 THE BUCCANEER,. 
 
 awkward mien. The features of the Cavalier were almost too 
 high for beauty ; and had it not been for a playful smile that 
 frequently flitted across his countenance, elongating his mous- 
 tache, softening and blending the hard lines that even at four- 
 and-twenty had deepened into furrows, he would have been 
 pronounced of severe aspect. Bright golden hair clustered in 
 rich curls over his forehead, and fell a little on either cheek, 
 giving a picturesque character to the form of the head. His 
 eyes appeared of a dark grey; but they were so much sunk, so 
 overshadowed by his forehead, as to leave one in doubt as to 
 their exact colour. His figure was unusually tall and well- 
 formed, and his whole bearing was more that of an accom- 
 plished gentleman than of a cut-and-slash cavalier: his manner 
 was neither reckless nor daring, but it was firm and collected. 
 His dress was composed of the finest black cloth, with a black 
 velvet doublet ; and his sword-hilt glittered with diamonds. 
 
 Robin did not attempt to place himself at the same table, 
 but sat back on a lower seat and at a little distance, sharing 
 his repast with Crisp, who had scrambled down the stairs after 
 his master, and looked ugly enough to be, what he certainly 
 was, an extraordinary canine genius. 
 
 Dalton and Walter laboured under no restraint because of- 
 the presence of Robin ; on the contrary, he occasionally shared 
 in the conversation, and his opinion upon various topics was 
 frequently asked ; indeed, he was fond of bestowing it gra- 
 tuitously, and seemed highly pleased when called upon to 
 express it. 
 
 « Didst hear, Robin, when Blake was expected off Sheerness 
 with the Spanish prizes ?” 
 
 “In a few days, it is said, he will either bring or send 
 them ; but my own thought is, that it will be about a week, 
 neither more nor less, before any ship arrives.” 
 
 “« I must get off for the French coast in a day or two,” said 
 Dalton ; “ and I do not care to return until Blake with his 
 train go up the river a bit; for it’s foul sailing athwart 
 the brave old boy: he’s the only man living I’d strike 
 flag to.” 
 
 “¢ And who has the care of the Firefly now you ’re ashore?” 
 inquired the Cavalier. 
 
 «Why, Jeromio.” 
 
 “IT don't like him,”’ said Robin bluntly: “ foreigners are 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 73 
 
 good slaves, but bad masters to us English: I’d rather trust 
 the ship to little Spring.” 
 
 ‘* He is a mere boy, and too bad a sailor; besides, he is 
 grown so superstitious, swears the devil came to him one night 
 I placed him a watch on yon cliff. I must leave him ashore 
 with you, Robin, and tell you what to do with the scapegrace, 
 if I am not back by a particular day. I must also give you a 
 letter to take to Sir Robert Cecil, postponing an appointment I 
 had made with him.” 
 
 * You had better give the letter to that gentleman,” ex- 
 claimed Robin, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder to 
 where the Cavalier sat; “‘he would do an errand to Cecil 
 Place, especially if it were to the Lady Constance, right 
 gladly.” 
 
 “‘ Indeed!” exclaimed Dalton, fixing his quick eye on the 
 youth’s countenance, that betrayed uneasiness but not dis- 
 pleasure. ‘‘ Sits the wind in that quarter? But tell us, 
 Robin, how was it ?” 
 
 “There is nothing to tell, Captain,’ interrupted Walter, 
 “except that Robin accompanied me to the Place, as it is 
 called, to show me some alterations, and point out the excel- 
 lent order in which the trees are kept ; and in the grounds we 
 encountered Mistress Cecil, and, as I am informed, the Lady 
 Cromwell.” 
 
 “I wish you would keep close here though, 
 Dalton ; “ you'll be meeting the;villain Burrell before 
 
 ** J would fain encounter Sir Willmott Burrell once again, 
 and make him pay the traitor’s forfeit.” 
 
 ** Peace — peace! give Burrell rope enough to hang him- 
 self. Hell swing as high as Haman ere long. Robin told me 
 of the coward’s treachery.’ 
 
 ** I wish Robin had not accompanied him to London,” ex- 
 claimed Walter ; “ I hate people to carry two faces. But my 
 wonder is that Burrell would trust him.” 
 
 *« Just because he could not help himself,” retorted Robin. 
 ** He wanted a clever lad who had understanding. His own 
 valet was in France on some business or another mighty 
 mysterious ; and a gentleman like him, who has a good cha- 
 racter and a foul conscience, a good head and a bad heart, has 
 need of a man of talent, not a loon, about his person. Todo 
 full justice, however, to his discretion, he treated me to as few 
 
 ? 
 
 2? 
 
 muttered 
 
 92 
 
 
 
TA THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 of his secrets as he could, and I endeavoured to save him 
 trouble by finding them all out.” 
 
 The Buccaneer laughed aloud, but the high-souled Cavalier 
 looked serious. 
 
 “ Ah! ah!” said Dalton, “ you never did relish machin- 
 ations, and it is well you are not left to yourself in this 
 plan of mine: honour is not the coin to take to a villain’s 
 market.” | 
 
 “Tis the only coin I will ever deal in, Captain ; and I 
 told you before I left Cologne, that on no other condition 
 would I accompany you to England, except that of being held 
 clear of every act unbefitting a gentleman or a soldier.” 
 
 “Young sir,” replied Dalton, “when you were indeed 
 young, and long before you took your degree in morality at 
 the rambling court of the second Charles, did I ever counsel 
 you to do aught that your — that, in short, you might not do 
 with perfect honour? I know too well what it is to sacrifice 
 honour to interest ever to wish you to make the trial. As for 
 me, I am low enough in character x 
 
 *“‘My kind preserver! my brave friend interrupted 
 Walter, touched at his change of manner. ‘“ Forgive such 
 unworthy, such unmerited suspicion. This is not the first 
 time I have had to learn your kindly care for me. But for 
 you 9? 
 
 * Well, there, there boy—TI love to call you boy still; I 
 can bear my own shame, but I could never bear yours.” 
 
 Dalton paused, apparently with a view to change the sub- 
 ject: the Cavalier observed — 
 
 “You quarrel with our young king’s morality ?” 
 
 ** T’faith, I do! — though you will say it’s ill coming from 
 me to fault any man’s conduct; but I hate your little vices as 
 much as your little virtues: sickly, puny goods and evils, that 
 are too weak for sun to ripen, too low for blast to break, but 
 which endure, the same withered, sapless things, to the death- 
 day —Augh! a bold villain, or a real downright good man, 
 for my money. How the devil can Charles Stuart do any 
 thing great, or think of any thing great, with his mistresses 
 and his dogs, his gaming and Why, it is hardly a year 
 since I took off from Dover that poor Lucy Barton and her 
 brat, after the poor thing suffering imprisonment in the Tower 
 for his sake!” 
 
 
 
 1 >? 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. vie 
 
 *,The child’s a noble child,” said Walter ; “ but the mother’s 
 a sad reprobate, swears and drinks like a trooper.” 
 
 *“My mother is a woman,” exclaimed little Robin, with 
 great gravity, poising a mutton-bone between his fingers, to 
 arrive at which Crisp was making extraordinary efforts, — 
 *““and I can’t deny that I’ve a sort of love, though it be a love 
 without hope, for a very pretty girl, a woman also: now this 
 being the case, I’m not fond of hearing women reflected on ; 
 for when they’re young, they’re the delight of our eyes; and 
 when they’re old, they’re useful, though a trifle crabbed, but 
 still useful ; and a house without a woman would be like — 
 like i 
 
 “Robin at fault!” said Dalton: “ you’ve given me many 
 a comparison, and now [’ll lend you one — a bell without a 
 clapper ; won’t that do, Robin?” Robin shook his head. 
 — “Ay, Robin! Robin! you’re right, after all. If it were 
 not for a woman, I’d never set foot on shore again: but I’m 
 proud of my little Barbara; and all the fine things you tell 
 me of her, Robin, make me still prouder ; — her mother all 
 over. I often think how happy I shall be to call her daugh- 
 ter, when she won’t be ashamed to own me: God help me!”’ 
 — and be it noted that Dalton crossed himself as he spoke — 
 “God help me! I often think that if ever I gain salvation, 
 it will be through the prayers of that girl, Would that she 
 had been brought up in her mother’s way !” 
 
 “What would old Noll say to that papistical sign, master ?”’ 
 inquired Robin. 
 
 “A plague on you and old Noll too! I never get a bit up 
 towards heaven, that something doesn’t pull me back again.” 
 
 “T’ll send you up in a moment,” said Robin, in a kind 
 voice. ‘* Your daughter, Barbara i 
 
 “ Ay, that it is, that it is,” muttered the Buccaneer ; “my 
 own, own child !— the child of one who, I bless God, never 
 lived to know that she wedded (for I wedded her in holy 
 church, at Dominica) a wild and wicked rover. Our love 
 was sudden and hot, as the sun under which we lived ; and I 
 never left her but once from the time we became one, I had 
 arranged all, given up my ship and cargo, — and it was indeed 
 a cargo of crimes — at least, I thought so then. It was be- 
 fore the civil wars; or I had again returned to England, or 
 traded, no matter how. I flew to her dwelling, with a light 
 
 
 
 
 
76 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 heart and a light step. What there? My wife, —she who 
 had hung so fondly round my neck and implored me not to 
 leave her, — was stretched on a low bamboo bed — dead, sir — 
 dead! I might have known it before 1 entered, had I but 
 remembered that she knew my step on the smooth walk, fell it 
 ever so lightly, and would have met me — but for death ! 
 And there too sat a black she-devil, stuffing my infant’s mouth 
 with their vile food. I believe the hag thought I was mad ; 
 for I caught the child in my arms, held it to my heart while I 
 bent over my wife’s body, and kissed her cold, unreturning — 
 for the first time unreturning — lips; then flung myself out 
 of the accursed place, ran with my burden to the shipowners, 
 who had parted with me most grudgingly, — and was scudding 
 before the wind in less than twelve hours, more at war with 
 my own species than ever, and panting for something to wreak 
 my hatred on. At first I wished the infant dead, for I saw 
 her pining away; but at last, when she came to know me, and 
 lift up her innocent hands to my face — I may confess it here 
 — many and many a night have I sat in my cabin looking on 
 that sleeping child, till my eyes swam in a more bitter brine 
 than was ever brewed in the Atlantic. Particular circum- 
 stances obliged me to part with her, and I have never regretted 
 her being with poor Lady Cecil —only I should have liked 
 her to pray as her mother did. Not that I suppose it will 
 make any difference at the wind-up, — if,” he added, doubt- 
 ingly, “‘ there be indeed any wind-up. Hugh Dalton will 
 never be really himself till he can look that angel girl straight 
 in the face, and ask her to pray for him, as her mother used.” 
 Dalton was too much affected to continue, and both his audi- 
 tors respected his feelings too much to speak. At length he 
 said, “ But this gloom will never do. Come, Robin, give us 
 a song, and let it not be one of your sad ones.” 
 Robin sung, — 
 
 “ Now, while the night-wind loud and chill 
 Unheeded raves around the door, 
 Let us the wine-cup drain and fill, 
 And welcome social joys once more — 
 The joys that still remain to cheer 
 The gloomiest month of all the year, 
 By our own fire side. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. Ut 
 
 *« What need we care for frost and snow ? 
 Thus meeting — what have we to fear 
 From frost and snow, or winds that blow ? 
 Such guests can find no entrance here. 
 No coldness of the heart or air — 
 Our little world of twelve feet square, 
 And our own fire-side. 
 
 « T drink this pledge to thee and thine — 
 I fill this cup to thine and thee — 
 How long the summer sun might shine, 
 Nor fill our souls with half the glee 
 A merry winter’s night can bring, 
 To warm our hearts, while thus we sing 
 By our own fire-side.” 
 
 The song, however, produced a contrary effect to that the 
 Ranger had intended. It pictured a fancied scene — one to 
 which both Walter and the Buccaneer had long been strangers ; 
 and a lengthened and painful pause succeeded to the brief 
 moment of forced merriment. It was broken by the Cavalier, 
 who inquired— 
 
 ** How long will it be before you return from this new trip ? 
 for remember, my good friend, that suspense is a e 
 
 * Hell!” interrupted Dalton, in his usual intemperate man- 
 ner: *‘ but I cannot help it. It is not wise to pluck unripe 
 fruit — do you understand me ?” 
 
 “< Perfectly — and I dare say you are right; but tell me, 
 Dalton, how is it that, till lately, you so completely abandoned 
 this island, and kept to the Devon and Cornwall coasts? I 
 should have thought this the most convenient; your store- 
 * house here is so well arranged.” 
 
 “Ay, ay, sir; but this is over-near London, though it 
 used to be a safe place enough; but now that Sir Michael 
 Livesay — regicide that he is ! — abides so continually at Little 
 Shurland, what chance is there for any good to such as I? I 
 tell ye, Cromwell’s nose is ever on the scent.” 
 
 “* A great advantage to him, and a disadvantage to his foes,” 
 said Robin: “he has only to put the said nose to the touch- 
 hole of the biggest cannon, and off it goes ; it never costs the 
 army a farthing for matches when he’s with it.” 
 
 * Pshaw, Robin! but is he indeed so red-nosed?” You 
 have often seen him, Captain.” 
 
 * Ay, dressed in a plain cloth suit, made by an ill country 
 
 
 
78 THE BUCCANEER. © 
 
 tailor ; his linen coarse and unclean ; his band unfashionable, 
 and often spotted with blood; his hat without a band; his 
 sword close to his side; his countenance swollen and reddish ; 
 and, as to his nose, it looked to me more purple than aught 
 else. But, sir, to see Cromwell, see him in battle—he is a 
 right noble horseman ; and the beast (a black one especially he 
 was once so fond of) seemed to have been tutored by the evil 
 one: its eye was as vigilant as its rider’s. Cromwell sits his 
 saddle not gracefully, but firmly, just as if he were part and 
 portion of the animal; then, with a sword in his right hand, 
 and a pistol in his left Sir, it was unlike any thing I 
 ever saw! He must have managed the horse by the pressure 
 of his heel ; for I never could make out, such was the decision 
 yet rapidity of his movements, whether he held reins or not : 
 now here, now there — firing — preaching — shouting — pray- 
 ing — conquering — yet everything done inits right place and 
 time, never suffering the excitement of the moment to bear 
 down one of his resolves. Had he been born a king a 
 
 “* He would never have been what he is,” said the Cavalier ; 
 ** for contention is the school of greatness.”’ 
 
 “It’s mighty fine to see you two sit there,’ exclaimed 
 Robin, ‘praising up that manin the high place: pretty Cava- 
 liers indeed! Well, my opinion is, that— but indeed it is 
 rude to give an opinion unasked, so I’ll keep mine to myself. 
 You were talking of the conveniences of this place; why, 
 bless you, sir, it’s nothing to fifty others along St. George's 
 Channel. °Twould do your heart good to see those our cap- 
 tain has among the Cornish rocks ; such comfortable dwell- 
 ings, where you could stow away twenty people, never to 
 chirrup to the sun again; such hiding-holes, with neat little 
 trains of gunpowder, winding like snakes in summer, so that, 
 to prevent discovery, one crack of a good flint would send the 
 caverns and the cliffs high into the air, to tell stories to the 
 stars of the power of man’s skill to destroy the most sublime 
 as well as the most beautiful works of nature.” 
 
 ** Robin, you ought to have been a preacher.” 
 
 “No,” said Robin mournfully, and shaking his head, as was 
 his custom, “ for I know nothing of your book-holiness ; only 
 I can’t bear anything moulded and made by the hand of God 
 to be ruined by that of man.” 
 
 “What ails ye, lad?” inquired the Buccaneer; “ I 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 79 
 
 thought ye had got over all your shadows, as ye used to call 
 them.” 
 
 ** Not all of them; only they do not come upon me ’as 
 often as they used,” he replied gravely ; for poor Robin had 
 one time been subject to periodical fits that bordered on insa- 
 nity, and during such afflictions wandered about the country, 
 without seeking repose or speaking word to any one. Con- 
 stance Cecil, with her usual kindness, had him frequently 
 taken care of at Cecil Place ; and Barbara’s kind attention to 
 him during such fearful trials was the source of as strong, as 
 unvarying, and devoted an attachment as ever human being 
 manifested towards another. 
 
 By degrees the conversation sunk into low confidential 
 whispers, as if caution, even there, was necessary. It was 
 near four o'clock in the morning before the Buccaneer de- 
 parted for his ship, and then Robin escorted the Cavalier to 
 his usual chamber in the Gull’s Nest. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
 When healths and draughts go free, 
 Fishes that tipple in the deep 
 Know no such liberty. LovELACceE. 
 
 “* A BLESSING and a salutation, reverend sir! and may the 
 sun, moon, and stars be sanctified unto you!” 
 
 ** Ah! Solomon Grundy, would that the Lord had given 
 thee sense to understand, as he hath bestowed upon thee 
 talent to speak according to thy understanding! As it is, 
 Solomon, I lament that thou art a fool, Solomon, a very fool, 
 except in what regardeth the creature-comforts; and, of a 
 verity, thou art worthy to send up a dinner even unto Hugh 
 Peters, after he hath delivered a soul-converting oration before 
 the chosen from among God’s people.” 
 
 “Which refection he would in nowise condemn,” ob- 
 served the cook of Cecil Place, whose closely-cropped head of 
 foxy hair seemed to throw a proportionate quantity of glowing 
 
80 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 colour upon his rubicund countenance. He had all the out- 
 ward marks that indicate a bon vivant, and words of piety came 
 as awkwardly from his lips as sighs from the mouth of a seal or 
 asalmon. His little grey eyes twinkled with affection for the 
 said ‘ creature-comforts ;”’ and the leathern pouch he now 
 carried over his shoulder was stocked with sundry good things 
 appropriated from the larder for his own especial diet. He 
 had received permission from Mistress Cecil to accompany 
 some of his neighbours to see the grand company from Lon- 
 don visit a first-rate man-of-war that had just arrived off 
 Sheerness, bringing in a train of prizes which the veteran 
 Blake had taken and sent home, himself proceeding to Vera 
 Cruz, and which it was rumoured the Lord Oliver was about 
 to inspect in person. This intelligence set the country in a 
 ferment, and persons of all classes hastened to the island to 
 witness the sight. For the English were, as they now are, a 
 sight-loving people, who find pleasure in pageants ; and then, 
 as at present, they demanded economy; but when economy 
 came, they designated it meanness. 
 
 The staunch Roundheads exulted at the idea of Cromwell’s 
 exhibiting. himself thus openly after the upsetting of the 
 Syndercomb plot; and the Royalists, depressed and disap- 
 pointed, were content to let matters take their course, at least 
 until they saw some prospect of a change; while the Level- 
 lers, the party most dreaded by the Protector, and which had 
 been most fatal to the Stuarts, remained in that dangerous 
 state of repose that is but the preparative for renewed activity. 
 
 The Reverend Jonas Fleetwood had set forth from the sole 
 desire of “ beholding him who was anointed with the oil of 
 the Spirit, and whose name among the nations was wonder- 
 ful.” Solomon Grundy, and such other of the servants of 
 Cecil Place as could be spared, were impelled forward by the 
 wish of hearing or of seeing something new ; intelligence not 
 travelling upon wings of steam in the seventeenth century, and 
 newspapers being but rare visiters at Shepey. Occasionally, 
 indeed, there did descend from the breakfast-rcom of Sir 
 Robert, unto the servants’ hall, a stray number or two of 
 the ‘* Mercurius Politicus,” the ‘* Perfect Diurnal,” or the 
 ** Parliament Scout ;” the contents of which were eagerly de- 
 voured by the several auditors, while one, more gifted than 
 his fellows, drawled forth, amid ejaculations and thanks unto 
 
5 
 THE BUCCANEER. 81 
 
 the Lord, the doings of the Commonwealth, and especially of 
 him who was a master in the new Israel. But the informa- 
 tion of the underlings of the house was generally gathered 
 from the pious pedlars, who sought entrance at the gate, well 
 stocked with wares of every possible description, and with 
 *¢ gifts” of which they were always abundantly lavish to those 
 who hungered or were athirst. 
 
 The ladies of the family remained at home; the Lady 
 Frances feeling assured that her father would not be present, 
 as she had received no intimation to such effect from White- 
 hall. Constance, however, had heard too many tales of Oliver’s 
 sudden movements to feel satisfied as to the certainty of any 
 matter in which he was concerned. It was no secret either 
 that he had been displeased with his daughter for her obstinate 
 attachment to Mr. Rich; and that he desired her, for the 
 present, to remain in retirement and away from court. 
 
 We have said that Solomon Grundy had received permis- 
 sion to view the sight; and for a time he proceeded on his 
 way, accompanied by the other domestics; but, under some 
 sly pretext, he lingered behind them. The worthy preacher 
 had not left Cecil Place so early, but, notwithstanding the 
 ambling pace of his favourite jennet, he soon came up to 
 Solomon, who, seated under a spreading elm by the wayside, 
 was rapidly demolishing the contents of his wallet, freshened 
 by frequent draughts from a black bottle of vast rotundity. 
 
 - Master Solomon Grundy,” he observed, reining up his 
 steed, *‘ could not your stomach tarry, even for a short while ? 
 Ah! worthy cook, you have a most professional longing after 
 the flesh-pots.” 
 
 Solomon grinned, and applied himself with renewed dili- 
 gence to his viands when the preacher had passed. He was 
 now surrounded by a motley party, who had crossed from the 
 main land, all bearing towards the same point. Puritans, 
 whose cloaks were of the most formal cut, and whose hats 
 emulated the steeple of St. Paul’s; Levellers, with firm steps, 
 wrinkled and over-hanging brows, and hard unchanging 
 features, all denoting inflexibility of purpose and decision of 
 character ; Cavaliers, whose jaunty gait was sobered, and 
 whose fashionable attire was curtailed in consideration that 
 such brayery would be noticed and reproved by the powers 
 that were; women attired in dark hoods and sad-coloured 
 
 G 
 
82 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 kirtles ; some of demure aspect, others with laughing eyes and 
 dimpled cheeks, who exchanged glances, and sometimes words, 
 with youths of serious apparel but joyous countenances ; while 
 here and there might be recognised divines, whose iron phy- 
 siognomies disdained to be affected by any of the usual feelings 
 that flesh is heir to ; and ladies on horseback, or in the lum- 
 bering heavy carriages, progressing from the horse ferry, *‘ with 
 stealthy pace and slow,” towards the centre of attraction. 
 
 The English even now make a business of enjoyment ; but 
 in those days, what we designate pleasure, was known by no 
 such unholy term ; it was called “ recreation,’ “ the refresh- 
 ment of the creature,” ‘‘ the repose of the flesh,’ — by any 
 name, in fact, except the true one. But in the particular in- 
 stance to which we refer, it was considered a sacred duty to 
 uphold and applaud the Lord Protector whenever there oc- 
 curred an opportunity for so doing ; and sound-hearted Puri- 
 tans would make a pilgrimage for the purpose with as much 
 zeal as ever Roman Catholics evinced in visiting the shrine of 
 some holy saint. The ships rode proudly in the harbour, and 
 groups of the gentry were occasionally conveyed on board by 
 boats, that waited for the purpose both at Queenborough and 
 Sheerness. It was an animated scene, but the soul of all was 
 wanting, for neither Cromwell, nor any portion of the court, 
 made their appearance. When it was noon, the people hoped 
 he would arrive ere evening ; but, as the evening advanced, 
 and he failed to enter upon the scene, there was a general 
 manifestation of disappointment throughout the crowd, al- 
 though some few rejoiced at the occurrence, holding it a sign 
 of fear on his part, as if he dreaded to be seen among them. 
 
 A party, consisting of ten or twelve persons, at Queen- 
 borough, had gathered round the trunk of a withered and 
 hollow oak, growing in front of a public-house, that displayed 
 the head of the Lord Protector —a political lure, that was 
 certain to attract all Commonwealth people to the receipt of 
 custom. The noble tree had been one of magnificent growth, 
 but age or accident had severed the trunk, and within its heart 
 decay had long been revelling. It was now perfectly hollow, 
 and afforded a free passage; two enormous props had been 
 found necessary, to prevent its making a last resting-place of 
 the earth it had for ages triumphantly protected. The cavity 
 that time had created was sufficiently extensive to afford 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 83 
 
 shelter during a storm to three or four persons ; and it was 
 not unfrequently resorted to by the people of the inn, as a 
 storehouse for fuel, or farming utensils, when a plentiful har- 
 vest rewarded the toil of the husbandman. Its branches, which 
 had so often sheltered the wayfarer alike from the tempest and 
 the hot summer’s sun, had been hewn away, to serve the pur- 
 poses of strife in the shape of spear-handles, or to the doom of 
 the winter fire; one solitary arm of the blighted tree alone 
 remained, extending its scraggy and shattered remnants to a 
 considerable distance over the greensward which had _ been, 
 from time immemorial, trodden by the merry morrice dancers, 
 and broken by the curvetting of the hobby-horse and the 
 Dragon of Wantley, sports it was now deemed sinful but to 
 name. From a fragment of this dilapidated branch, hung the 
 sign of mine host of the Oliver’s Head ; and right glad would 
 he have been, if rumour had lied with each returning morn, so 
 that the lie could but fill his dwelling with so many profitable 
 guests. Thrice had the party, by whom had been appropriated 
 the seat beneath the oak, emptied the black jack of its double- 
 dub ale; and the call for a fourth replenishing was speedily 
 answered, as the sun was setting over the ocean, and tinging 
 the sails and masts of the distant vessels with hues that might 
 have shamed the ruby and the sapphire. 
 
 “To have our day go for nothing, after a trudge of some 
 twenty miles, to this out-of-the-way place, — Adad, sirs, it’s 
 no joke!’’ exclaimed a sturdy, bluff-looking man, to our friend 
 little Robin Hays, who sat upon the corner of the bench, one 
 leg tucked under (doubtless for the purpose of enabling him 
 to sit higher than nature had intended,) while the other swung 
 methodically backward and forward: ‘‘ Adad, sir, it’s no joke!” 
 he repeated. 
 
 ** No more it isn’t, Master Grimstone; I never heard you 
 joke yet,” said Robin. 
 
 «* And I aver it is an open and avowed doubting of God’s 
 providence,” chimed in the cook. 
 
 “ What! what!” exclaimed six or eight voices: “ what do 
 you mean by such blasphemy, Solomon Grundy? A forfeit 
 and a fine!” 
 
 ** Peace, silly brawlers!” returned he of the kitchen, who 
 had discussed the good things thereof, until he had no room 
 
 G 2 
 
84 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 for more, and who had also quaffed largely of the forbidden 
 beverage called ‘ strong waters ;’—‘‘ I say peace, silly brawl- 
 ers! I repeat it is an open and avowed doubting of Providence, 
 that we should come thus far, and see nothing but a parcel of 
 people — parcel of sky — parcel of water — parcel of ships — 
 parcel iH 
 
 “ Of fools!” grinned little Robin, pointing at the same time 
 towards the oratorical cook, who so little relished the compli- 
 ment, as to elevate the polished remnant of a mutton shoulder- 
 blade, and aim a well-directed blow at the manikin, which he 
 avoided only by springing with great agility through the aper- 
 ture in the tree, so as to alight at some distance on the other 
 side of the hollow trunk. This harlequinade excited much 
 boisterous laughter among the crowd ; and no one joined in it 
 more mirthfully than young Springall, who, for some reason 
 known best to Hugh Dalton, yet sanctioned by Sir Robert 
 Cecil, had spent the Jast few days in the kitchens and buttery 
 of Cecil Place. There was another youth of the same party, 
 who perchance enjoyed the merriment, but who looked as if 
 he could have still more enjoyed melancholy. He was seated 
 next to Springall, on the rude bench; and the boy-sailor treated 
 him with such marks of attention, as manifested that he re- 
 garded him more in the light of a superior, than as an equal. 
 The stranger, however, remained with his hat so much 
 slouched over his face, that his features were in complete 
 shadow, while his cloak was muffled over the lower part of his 
 countenance. 
 
 ** I say, Robin,” exclaimed Springall, “come out of your 
 shell; you have remained there long enough to tell over a 
 dozen creeds or paters, were they in fashion — Come out, are 
 you bewitched? Robin the Ranger, I say, come forth, and 
 give us a taste of your calling — a melody —a melody! But 
 you should hear our Jeromio sing his lingo songs some night 
 astern: and though I do hate that cunning rascal, yet, my 
 eyes! how he does sing!” 
 
 ** Singing,” observed Solomon Grundy, whose potations had 
 wonderfully increased his piety, ‘‘ singing is an invention of the 
 beast’s, yea, of the horned beast’s, of him who knoweth not a 
 turtle from a turtle-dove, but would incontinently stew them 
 in the same caldron, over brimstone and pitch; therefore 
 shall my voice bubble and boil over against such iniquities — 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 85 
 
 yea, and my tongue shall be uplifted against them, even in the 
 land of Ham !” 
 
 ** Go to sleep, Solomon, and you, youngster, give us a song 
 yourself,”’ growled Grimstone, who had all the outward bearing 
 of a savage; “ the evening is nigh closing, and the birds are 
 gone to their nests. Nevertheless, the song must be right 
 proper: so tune up, tune up, my boy!” 
 
 Springall, with due modesty, replied, “I could sing you sea 
 songs, and land songs, but these I leave to Robin Hays, who 
 beats me hollow. The clerk of our ship has translated one of 
 Jeromio’s lilts, so I’ll tip you a bit of sentiment. 
 
 ** O’er the clear quiet waters 
 My gondola glides, 
 And gently it wakens 
 The slumbering tides. 
 All nature is smiling, 
 Beneath and above; 
 While earth and while heaven 
 Are breathing of love! 
 
 *¢ In vain are they breathing 
 Earth, heaven — to me, 
 Though their beauty and calmness 
 Are whispers of thee: 
 For the bright sky must darken, 
 The earth must be grey, 
 Ere the deep gloom that saddens 
 My soul, pass away. 
 
 * But see, the last day-beam 
 Grows pale, ere it die ; 
 And the dark clouds are passing 
 All over the sky. 
 I hear thy light footstep, 
 Thy fair form I see; 
 Ah! the twilight has told thee 
 Who watches for thee.” 
 
 Towards the latter part of the ditty, which was but little 
 relished by the company, it was evident that Solomon had 
 followed Grimstone’s advice, for his snoring formed a loud and _ 
 most inharmonious bass to the sweet boy-like melody of Spring- 
 all’s ballad. 
 
 Robin had rejoined the party, but his face and lips were of 
 a livid paleness, and he seemed labouring under evident dis- 
 tress. 
 
 * Art hurt, Robin?” inquired the stranger, who is known 
 to us by the name of Walter, now speaking for the first time. 
 Robin shook his matted head in reply. 
 
 “Something ails thee, man; something must ail thee — 
 speak, good Robin.” - 
 
 G3 
 
86 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “‘ I’m neither sick, sad, nor sorry,” he answered, affecting 
 his usual easy manner; “ so here’s a long pull, a strong pull, 
 and a pull altogether at the black jack, to the health— But 
 pardon, I had forgotten the wickedness of such profane cus- 
 toms.” Yet Robin evidently did not holdit profane to “ swill 
 the brown bowl”? so eagerly, that but the lees remained at the 
 bottom, ashe laid it down, refreshed and strengthened. 
 
 ** So you won’t give us a toast, Master Robin,” said Spring- 
 all; ‘ well, Ill not only give ye a toast, but IJ’ll stand the 
 price of a fresh jack of double-dub for you all to drink it in ; 
 and J’ll fight any man that says it nay, besides.” 
 
 ‘< Hold your profaneness !”’ exclaimed Robin, with a solem- 
 nity so opposed to his actual character as to be absolutely ludi- 
 crous: ‘* Springall, thou hast had too much already ; let us 
 depart in peace.” 
 
 « A curse on me if I do —peace me no peace.” 
 
 “ J tell you what,” interrupted Robin, with resolute spite- 
 fulness, “ if you swear, I'll lodge information against you.” 
 
 “Ah! ah! ah!” shouted several of the party, “ Robin 
 Hays turned preacher! Old Noll has sent the breath of holi- 
 ness before him to supply his place, and made a sudden con- 
 vert of the Ranger !” 
 
 ** T entreat you most meekly to be silent; if not for my 
 sake, for yourown. My brethren, you know not Ks 
 
 “‘ That here comes the black jack,” interrupted Springall ; 
 ‘* and here’s to the health— But Cavaliers ‘ 
 
 “ We are not Cavaliers,’ interrupted Robin, in his turn ; 
 “< as I hope for mercy, we are not Cavaliers : —hard— honest 
 —pains-taking Commonwealth citizens are we ; but not, I say 
 not,” and he elevated his voice to its highest pitch, ‘ not 
 Cavaliers.” 
 
 “The devil’s in the cards, and knaves are trumps,” ex~ 
 claimed Springall ; “‘ nevertheless I’ll have my toast, and here 
 it is.—-Come, up standing, —‘ The fairest maid vin Shepey, 
 Barbara Iverk ! and may she soon be a wife’ 
 
 “ To whom?” inquired Robin bitterly. 
 
 “To whoever can win and wear her,’ replied Springall. 
 “* Come, come, Master Bob, you’re mazed by some devilry or 
 other ; the wind’s in your teeth ; you’ve been sailing against a 
 norwester, or have met with a witch on a broomstick the other 
 side of this old oak: Serves an oak right to wither up—why 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 87 
 
 wasn’t it made into a ship? But here’s to Barbara Iverk, the 
 fair maid of Shepey !” 
 
 ** The fair maid of Shepey!” repeated Grimstone, after 
 drinking the toast. ‘ That title ought to be given to the mis- 
 tress, not the maid; and I care not if I wind up the evening 
 with a cup of Canary to the health of Lady Constance a 
 
 ‘* Peace, sir!” exclaimed the stranger, who had _ heretofore 
 taken no note of their rioting: ‘ I shall offer chastisement to 
 any man who profanes that Lady’s name at a vulgar revel.” 
 
 * Adad! and adad, young sir, ye’re a game one! What’s 
 in any woman, that aman can’t name her? Flesh is flesh! and 
 as to distinctions we are all members of a Commonwealth ! 
 so I say astoup of Canary to the Lady i 
 
 “* By holy Paul! if that Lady’s name passes your unworthy 
 lips, my good rapier shall pass straight through your unhallowed 
 earcase !”’ exclaimed the Cavalier fiercely, at the same time 
 throwing back his cloak, and drawing his sword more than half 
 out of his scabbard. 
 
 ** Hey ho! two can play at that: I never eat my words ; 
 so, the sword in one hand, and the Canary in the other— to 
 the health of ic 
 
 His mouth was stopped by the application of the palm of 
 Robin’s broad hand to his unclosed lips; while he whispered 
 some words into his ear, that had the magical effect of restoring 
 the weapon to its sheath, and of inducing the braggart to re- 
 sume the seat he had so hastily abandoned, grumbling, in an 
 under tone, words that fell indistinctly upon the ear of his op- 
 poser. 
 
 “* Let us home; it is a long and a dreary road to Cecil 
 Place, and the night is upon us already! so up, good Solomon. 
 Here, landlord! this fatted calf is unable to move: give him 
 house-room till to-morrow ; and mind you put him on his way 
 in time for the dinner-hour,” was Robin’s parting speech. He 
 then exchanged rough, but kindly salutations, with his boon 
 companions ; and soon the trio— Walter, Springall, and Robin 
 had taken a by-path, leading to the part of the island in which 
 Cecil Place was situated. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
88. THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 His rude assault, and rugged handéling 
 
 Straunge seemed to the knight, that aye with foe 
 In faire defence, and goodly menaging 
 
 Of arms, was wont to fight. — The Faerie Queene, 
 
 Tue three young men pursued their way; at first laughing 
 and chatting merrily upon the events of the morning; but 
 gradually becoming more and more silent, as persons usually 
 do when the first flush of revelling is over. The taller of the 
 three, who has of course been recognised as the mysterious 
 visiter at Lady Cecil’s funeral and in the cave of the Bucca- 
 neer, although he bore himself towards them with all the cour- 
 tesy of a true-born gentleman, received the deference of his 
 more humble associates only as his due, and in a manner that 
 showed he had been accustomed to more than merely respectful 
 treatment. After traversing much low and marshy ground, 
 they suddenly reached a spot where the road divided, the one 
 path leading to Cecil Place, the other to Gull’s Nest crag. 
 
 “©Come with me, Robin ; unless, indeed, the master wishes 
 your company. I ask his pardon for not thinking of that 
 afore,’ said Springall. 
 
 “Not I, good Springall,” replied the gentleman. “TI 
 think you need a guide, for you walk the quarter-deck better 
 than the dry land ; and, if I mistake not, there are sundry 
 pit-falls in the way to your present home. I know my path ; 
 and, besides, am a regular land-lubber.” 
 
 ‘‘ Save and bless your honour!” exclaimed the young sailor, 
 holding all land-lubbers in thorough contempt: “ that ye’re 
 not: land-lubber, indeed! Ill be at the Nest to-morrow 
 early —i < 
 
 ‘‘ Hush !” said the more careful Robin, ‘‘ never speak words 
 of secret, openly — See ye yonder ?” 
 
 “Yes,” replied Springall, ““two horsemen on the other 
 road ; too far off to hear my words, unless they had the ears 
 of a hare.” 
 
 “‘T had better go with you, sir,” observed Robin earnestly : 
 “1 will go with you, that’s the truth of it. Good night, 
 Spring — steer to the left till you come to the red gap ; after 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 89 
 
 that, along the stone fence, on the right; it will lead you to 
 the orchard, then you know your way.” 
 
 “Why did you not go with him?” inquired the Cavalier, 
 kindly ; “it is a dark night, poor boy, he has small skill in 
 land-steering.” 
 
 “* He must learn, sir, as I do,” answered Robin ; “ and my 
 duty calls me to attend on you, particularly when strange 
 people are a-stir.” 
 
 ** You are to be my champion, Robin P”’ 
 
 ** Your servant, sir. A servant who learned his duty before 
 it was the fashion for servants to forget what they owe their 
 masters. Alack! alack! service now, like liberty, is but a 
 name, and servants do as they please.” 
 
 “ Did you so with the Master of Burrell ?” 
 
 “* But indifferently, sir; I fled, ina very servant-like man- 
 ner, as you know, when he was in danger. But I had my 
 reasons for it, as well as for going with him to London ; only 
 I'd rather not talk of that to-night, sir. It is a mortal pity 
 that such a sweet lady as Mistress Constance should be forced 
 to marry such a brute; for my part, I never could discover 
 any wisdom in those contracts, as they call them. Ah, little 
 Barbara is a discreet girl, But I have heard some one say, 
 that, for all her fine lands, poor lady, her heart is breaking, 
 and chipping away bit by bit. ’*Tis very fine to be rich, but, 
 being rich, very hard to be happy, because the troubles we 
 make ourselves are less easy to be borne, than those that come 
 upon us in the course of nature. If I had my wish, it is not 
 gold I’d ask for.” 
 
 “Indeed! What then, Robin ?” 
 
 “« Just enough of beauty to win one woman’s heart ; I think 
 I have wit enough to keep it.” 
 
 “ Pshaw, Robin! though you may not be very comely, 
 there are many worse.” 
 
 ** Ay, sir, apes and baboons ; but they are like their kind— 
 while I am a poor withered creature, that Nature, in spite, 
 threw from her, coarse and unfinished,” 
 
 “J wonder a person of your sense, Robin, should fret at 
 such trifle. Remember, beauty is as summer fruits, easy to 
 corrupt, and quick to perish.” 
 
 * But for all that we look for them in summer, sir, just as 
 youth seeks out beauty.” 
 
 % 
 
90 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 The stranger turned towards Robin, but made no reply; it 
 is sometimes given to the simple to disconcert the wise, and 
 that alone by their simplicity. 
 
 A long silence followed ; each ruminating on his own pro- 
 spects and projects: it was at length broken by Walter, who 
 abruptly asked if Robin was sure he had taken the right path. 
 
 * Mercy, sir, am I sure of the sight of my eyes! Behind 
 that tree runs the road we must cross, and then on to Stony 
 Gap! Ah, many’s the signal I’ve hung out for the Fire-fly 
 from that same spot; but, if perilous times are past, and we 
 live in days — as Master Fleetword hath it — of peace, poor 
 Hugh’s trade will be soon over. I wish he were back — the 
 coast looks lonesome without him.” 
 
 “So it does, Robin; but canst tell me what it was that 
 made you look so dull, and astonishingly religious after the 
 hop, step, and jump you took through the hollow oak ?” 
 
 «* Ah, master !” 
 
 “ Well, Robin hi 
 
 ‘“ Why, you see, when I sprang through, ‘thinking of no- 
 thing at all,’ as the song says, I found myself on the opposite 
 side of the tree, close — as close as I am to you, or nearly so 
 — to ” As Robin had proceeded thus far with his 
 recital, a sudden turn brought them to the high road, which 
 led into a kind of hollow, flanked on either side by close brush- 
 wood. About a hundred yards from where they stood, three 
 men were engaged in violent feud. The scene, at such a mo- 
 ment, and in such a place, seemed produced by the wave of a 
 magician’s wand. The Cavalier rubbed his eyes, as if to be 
 assured of its reality ; while Robin stood aghast, bewildered, 
 and uncertain how to act: — the moon was shining in all its 
 brightness, so that they could see as clearly as at noon-day. 
 
 “« By heaven, ’tis two to one!” exclaimed the youth, casting 
 off his cloak, and unsheathing his rapier with the rapidity of 
 lightning. 
 
 “So it is!” gasped Robin; “ but two tosuchaone! Save 
 us, sir! you're not going to draw sword for him —?” But 
 ere the sentence was concluded, his companion was in the thick 
 of the fray. ‘ Oh!” exclaimed Robin, as in agony, “that I 
 should live to see true blood stirred in such a cause ! — How 
 he lays about him! Poor boy, he little knows who's who! 
 What a noble thrust! hand to hand —how their swords 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 91 
 
 glitter !—- A murrain on my shrivelled carcase! they would 
 but laugh to see me among them! O that I could be even 
 with Nature, and hate her as she has hated me! Yet, to be 
 thus without a weapon ! — Ah! one murderer’s down, and the 
 arch-fiend with him — now are they entwined as with the coil 
 of deadly serpents. Treacherous dog! the other would take 
 advantage ; but, ah! well done, gallant young gentleman ! — 
 he holds him back with most wonderful strength — And now 
 — see, see — the combatants are separated — one stands over 
 the other! Oh God! oh God! how he stabs !— hold! hold! 
 Now, could the moon show through those deadly wounds, 
 twenty at the least count ; and only one such would let the life 
 from out Goliath, or the strongest man in Gath. — But see, 
 the other shows a fleet foot ; and that silly boy flies after him ! 
 Alack! that he will not learn discretion! There they go, 
 across the fields, and not towards the ferry.” 
 
 When Robin arrived at this point in his comments, the man 
 whose life had most probably been saved by the young Cava- 
 lier’s interposition, called to him to come forward, — a sum- 
 mons the manikin obeyed at first but slowly: a second call, 
 however, urged his alacrity ; and he stood before one of whom 
 he was evidently in much dread, with a bent head and a tre- 
 mulous frame. 
 
 * Canst tell aught of that vile clay, whom the Lord hath 
 delivered into my hand?” he said, pointing to the lifeless 
 corpse, while his chest still heaved from the violence of the 
 exertion he had undergone, although in other respects he ap- 
 peared as composed as if he had gone forth only to enjoy the 
 sweet breath of evening, and a ruder breeze than he anticipated 
 had passed across his brow. Robin stooped to examine the 
 distorted features of the dead, smeared as they were by the 
 warm blood that issued from more than one mortal wound. 
 
 “* He was one of thy party but three hours past,” continued 
 the stranger, speaking with energy and rapidity, “and thou 
 knew’st him; heard I not his words beneath the oak? Ay, 
 and if it had been left unto thee, verily I might have been 
 given over to the destroyer, even as Hoshea was given unto 
 Shalmaneser. Speak, thou deformity, lest, finding thy mind 
 as base as its casket, I let it forth from its vile dwelling, even 
 as a thing of nought.” 
 
 **'Tis poor Grimstone,” exclaimed Robin, rising from his 
 
92 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 » scrutiny, and evidently affected by the loss of his boon com- 
 panion on more occasions than one; “he was ever after some 
 devilry — but his attack upon such as you——” 
 
 “ Silence, sir. Did I not before intimate my wishes ?” 
 
 “ Well, then,” muttered Robin, “ his attack must have 
 been purely a matter of plunder. Grim. was never ambitious 
 — never looked beyond a purse of broad pieces ;’’ adding in 
 a lower tone, “ he was always a fool.” 
 
 *‘ The carrion hath fallen in a pleasant place — so let the 
 next comer look to it, and do thou fetch hither my horse. 
 Had it not been that my saddle-girth gave way, I could have 
 mastered twenty such footpads.” 
 
 This was said in the tone of one who, however grateful for 
 assistance, would have been much better pleased to have 
 found it needless, and to have worked out the victory by his 
 own hands, 
 
 Robin hurried to secure the animal, a well-trained war- 
 horse, which had stood quietly in the centre of the road, calmly 
 awaiting the issue of the combat: he observed that the saddle 
 was turned completely round, and hung under the belly. The 
 horseman adjusted his cloak, wiped his sword with the square 
 cape, and had just replaced it in the scabbard, when the Cava- 
 lier returned from his fruitless chase. As he advanced towards 
 the person to whom he had rendered such signal service, he 
 noted that he was a hale, stout man, probably past the meridian 
 of life, of a stern and awe-striking presence ; and an involun- 
 tary feeling of respect made him lift his hat from his head, 
 and even remain uncovered while expressing hopes “ that he 
 had received no injury from the cowards who had thus beset his 
 path.” The other gave no reply to the inquiry, but fixed a 
 shrewd and penetrating gaze upon the young man’s counte- 
 nance. Apparently the scrutiny pleased him, for he extended 
 his hand, and seizing that of his preserver, held it firmly 
 within his palm for about the space of a minute, then pressed 
 it within his mailed grasp so strenuously, that the youth felt 
 the blood tingle to his finger-ends. 
 
 “I owe thanks and gratitude, and would fain know to 
 whom: your name, young sir?” 
 
 The Cavalier paused for a moment, and then said, — 
 
 “¢ You may call me De Guerre — Walter De Guerre.” 
 
 “Walter De Guerre !—-an English christian wedded to a 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 93 
 
 French surname ! —’tis strange, but let it pass, let it pass: 
 you have been an instrument in the gracious preserving of one 
 who, though unworthy, is of some account ; and instruments 
 in the Lord’s hand must be regarded. My companions had 
 business in this neighbourhood, and had left me but a little 
 time, when I was set upon by these cowards ; but God is mer- 
 ciful, and inspired you with valour. And now, sir, whither 
 wend ye? To Cecil Place?” 
 
 “No, sir,” replied De Guerre, pondering what he should 
 answer, or how he should designate his present abode. 
 
 ** To the worshipful sheriff, Sir Michael Livesey, at Little 
 Shurland? He must look to his ferry-warden and boatmen to 
 prevent such villainies as have now occurred.” 
 
 ** To none of these, sir,” replied Walter; “ in fact, I am 
 a humble traveller, lodging at a humble hostelry not far from 
 hence.” 
 
 During this dialogue, Robin had adjusted the saddle-girth, 
 and led the horse to its master, who took the bridle from his 
 hand, and held it, examining the girth as he spoke. Robin 
 glided imperceptibly round to De Guerre’s side, and standing 
 behind him, pulled his sleeve, and whispered, — 
 
 ** Don’t tell him where.” 
 
 The intimation was, perhaps, not heard, certainly not heeded, 
 for the young man added, — 
 
 «* At the widow Hays’.”’ 
 
 ** I bethink me; the house near East Church. It is called 
 Nest — Nest — Nest — ay, Gull’s Nest. °Tis but a poor 
 abod2 for one who bears a diamond-hilted sword, and bears it 
 bravely too. An every-day person, Master De Guerre, would 
 sell the diamonds and get a gayer lodging.” 
 
 *¢ Persons differ in this and all other matters, more or less,”’ 
 replied the young man somewhat haughtily: “I wish you 
 good night, sir.” 
 
 ** Hot!” said the stranger, at the same time laying his 
 hand upon the arm of De Guerre: “ Hot and high! Well, it 
 is an ill tree that needs no pruning ; but the preserver and the 
 preserved must not part thus. Come with me to Cecil Place, 
 and though I have it not to offer golden recompense, yet I can 
 assure to you a glad welcome; for my friends all love each 
 other.” 
 
94 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 * © Go with him, go with him ; never say him nay: why 
 should you not go when he desires it? ’? whispered Robin. 
 
 *«< But you are mounted, and well too, and I a-foot, and cannot 
 pace it with you,” replied De Guerre, hesitatingly. 
 
 ** And your grey steed is too far away — even for that 
 nimble squire to bring in good time,’ retorted the other, a 
 kind of smile distending the rugged and untrimmed moustache 
 that garnished his upper lip. | 
 
 “* My grey steed!” repeated Walter in astonishment. 
 
 “ Yes, and a stout beast it is. But I will rein in my 
 horse, and the Place is not so distant but we may keep 
 together.” 
 
 ** Thanks for your proffered hospitality,’ said De Guerre ; 
 *‘ but must we not do something with the fellow you have 
 slain? His companion was too swift o’foot for me.” 
 
 ‘* Let the tree lie even where it fell,” replied the other, 
 looking on the body for an instant, and then mounting his 
 horse with the greatest composure ; “‘ some one will cover it 
 with decent earth in the morning: let us forward, my young 
 friend.” 
 
 De Guerre signified his consent, and walked, closely followed 
 by Robin, at the stranger’s side. 
 
 “* And so,” observed the horseman, turning to the Ranger, 
 ‘* you are accompanying us, uninvited, on our way. Wert 
 thou ever engaged in any of the mummeries of Satan, deno- 
 minated stage plays? Of all the tricks learned at courts, that 
 of tumbling is the most dangerous ; and as thy master, Sir 
 Willmott Burrell, has not practised it yet, 1 am at a loss to 
 understand how thou couldst be so perfect.” 
 
 “‘T have served many masters, sir, and am now out of 
 employ,” replied Robin, whose ready wit jappeared to have 
 deserted him, and who kept as near as possible to De Guerre. 
 
 “Thou sayest truly ; and lest one of them may have a 
 demand upon thee ere morning, what say ye to wending 
 onward to that unholy resort of cavaliers and smugglers, called 
 the Gull’s Nest, and leaving us to pursue our course unattended 
 to Sir Robert Cecil ?” 
 
 Robin bowed as respectfully as he could, and was about to 
 whisper some words to De Guerre, when the stranger added, 
 in a stern voice, — 
 
 “On, on! no whispering.” 
 
 3 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 95 
 
 Robin held up his hands, as if he would have said, “* How 
 can I help it?” and sprang over the adjoining fence with his 
 usual agility. 
 
 They proceeded some little time without speaking, De 
 Guerre, discontented with himself at the power his extra- 
 ordinary companion so strangely possessed over him, yet 
 yielding to an influence against which he felt it impossible to 
 contend. 
 
 ** And pray, sir,’ at length inquired the elder, ‘‘ what news 
 may be now stirring in France? You have, I presume, but 
 recently arrived from thence ?” 
 
 “« T have been in France, but not lately.” 
 
 ** In the Netherlands, then ? for I take it you are given to 
 the carnal follies of the times, and have been cherished in the 
 heresies, religious and political, propagated by a person or 
 persons assuming a particular rank, which the Almighty saw 
 fitting to wrest from them now many days past.” 
 
 “* T have not, as I think, been brought up in any heresy,” 
 replied the youth, gently but firmly, “‘ and I should be sorry 
 so brave a gentleman and so expert a swordsman thought so: 
 though I do not feel myself bound to give you any information 
 touching my private opinions, which I hold to be as distinctly 
 my own property as my hat or sword 4 
 
 ** And which,” said the stranger, “is, perhaps, the only 
 property you are possessed of.” 
 
 «© Exactly so, sir; but persons of a lower estate than mine 
 have lately risen to high places, —ay, and carry themselves as 
 loftily as if they were born to lord it over not only empire, but 
 empires.” 
 
 * Ah! true: then, I suppose, you would fain seek service ; 
 and if so, I think my poor word would be of use. I am some- 
 what esteemed by the Protector and other props of this great 
 Commonwealth, and would gladly tender my aid to you, to 
 whom I am already strongly bound.” 
 
 ** 1 thank you for your bounty, sir; but at present I feel 
 inclined to sheathe, not draw my swoad.”’ 
 
 «But why? A youth like you, gifted with courage, skill, 
 and health, — the state demands some activity at your hands ; 
 tis ill to be a laggard,” 
 
 “Nor am I one. Frankly, I like not innovation, and this 
 
 
 
96 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 state has been experimentalising lately: —in a word, I like 
 it not.” 
 
 “ That is a candid confession, more candid than your former 
 words would have led me to expect. But, young gentleman, 
 it is not safe to trust such sentiments into a stranger's keep- 
 ing: the Lord Protector has, it is said, his spies in every 
 house ; nay, it is reported the highways grow them as rife as 
 blackberries.” 3 
 
 «© And you may be one, for aught I know or care,” said the 
 youth bluntly. ‘ But what of that >—they say Old Noll likes 
 in others what he hath not yet practised himself —a thing 
 called honesty ; and at worst, he could but take my life, which, 
 after all, is little worth in comparison to those he has already 
 taken.”’ 
 
 A long silence followed this intemperate speech, which at 
 last was broken by the mounted traveller. 
 
 ** You spoke of innovations, and I also believe it is ill to try 
 experiments in states, unless the need be urgent, and unless it 
 be the reformation that draweth on the change, and not the 
 love of change that urgeth the reformation. Is not time the 
 greatest innovator? —is he not always changing? It hath 
 been said that, as in nature things move violently to their place, 
 and calmly in their place ; so virtue in ambition is violent, in 
 authority settled and calm. Steel sharpens steel ; so one glory 
 perfecteth another: and I am of belief, that they who are glo- 
 rious, must have been factious. Yet are there degrees in honour, 
 and amongst the first of them I should rank founders of com- 
 monwealths, or even states, such as we read of in history — 
 Romulus i 
 
 ** And you would, I suppose, include the name of Cromwell 
 in the list you were about to make?” interrupted De Guerre. 
 
 ‘* And why not?” retorted the other proudly; ‘* why not 
 Cromwell? Is the oak to be despised because it was once an 
 acorn? Remember what he suffers for his state; if, like the 
 stars above us, he is much venerated, even like them he hath 
 no rest.” 
 
 “‘ Nor doth he deserve it,” said the youth. 
 
 ** Ah! say’st so!” exclaimed the stranger, hastily, but in- 
 stantly adding in a settled voice—‘‘ Walter De Guerre, or 
 whatever be your name, beware, and use not such expressions 
 when you know not your company. You said but now, your 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. O7 
 
 opinions were your property ; then give them not away un- 
 asked where we are going. I know you to be brave, and gene- 
 rosity follows bravery as truly as one star succeedeth another ; 
 but discretion of speech is more valuable than eloquence. 
 And, as to Cromwell, the people’s shepherd has need to keep 
 good count and careful watch ; for wolves and foxes in sheep’s 
 clothing break into the pinfolds, kill and devour. Did he not 
 act the part of Epimetheus (according to the profane but wise 
 fable), who, when griefs and evils flew abroad, at last shut 
 down the lid, and kept Hope in the bottom of the vessel, verily, 
 indeed, his lot would be severe. We can know but little how 
 hard it is to labour through evil report and good report. Cha- 
 rity in judgment is befitting in all, but most of all in the 
 young.” 
 
 They were now within sight of Cecil Place. De Guerre had to 
 contend with many painful feelings, and a provoking conscious- 
 ness of the strange ascendency his companion had acquired over 
 him, so that he dared hardly speak his own words, or think his 
 own thoughts. Nor could he trace this to any external influence : 
 the man was plain almost to vulgarity; his dress common ; 
 and though his sword-blade was strong, the handle was per- 
 fectly devoid of ornament. His horse was the only thing in 
 his appointments that indicated the station of a gentleman ; 
 but the saddle appeared so old and battered, and withal so ill- 
 made, that De Guerre marvelled so noble an animal would 
 condescend to carry such a weight of old leather and damaged 
 flock. It is true, that towards the close of their conversation 
 he had uttered some sentiments that, for a moment, startled 
 the Cavalier ; but then he had uttered them in so unskilled and 
 confused a manner, and with such an unmusical voice, that it 
 reminded him, not unaptly, of a blacksmith stringing pearls, 
 so coarse was the medium through which these fine things 
 came. He ventured to console himself, however, by the re- 
 flection, that a man of such cool and determined bravery must 
 be, despite external appearances, a person of some consequence : 
 an opinion confirmed by his being a guest, and evidently a pri- 
 vileged guest, of Sir Robert Cecil. He arrived at this conclu- 
 sion as they passed the postern-gate; and, as the night was 
 now far gone, the old porter lighted his flambeaux to escort 
 them to the house. 
 
 H 
 
98 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 As the old man walked some degree in advance, the elder 
 took the opportunity to inquire of his companion, — 
 
 “ Have you ever seen Mistress Cecil ?”’ 
 
 ‘* Seen Mistress Cecil!” repeated De Guerre, in evident 
 embarrassment: ‘‘ 1 have seen but few of the ladies of the 
 country — have had few opportunities of doing so,” 
 
 ** Yet you resented the profanation of her name this after- 
 noon under the oak — dost remember that ? ” 
 
 **T know not who you are, sir,” retorted Walter, angrily, 
 and at length fully roused from the respectful silence he had so 
 long maintained, “ that you should thus cross and question one 
 who sought not your acquaintance. By heavens, if I were a 
 friend (which, thank God, I am not) of him you call Protector, 
 or King, or whatever it be, I would advise him of such per- 
 sons; for it is the duty of every honest subject to watch 
 over his ruler, as over his father, with the care and the duty— 
 the tenderness and affection of a child. I should like to know 
 how you knew I had a grey steed? ” 
 
 ‘© Or how I discovered your ruffle with Sir Willmott Burrell 
 after the funeral,” interrupted the other ; ‘‘ but be not afraid of 
 meeting him: he left Cecil Place some days ago, to arrange 
 some business. Nay, now, do not crow loudly your defiance, 
 because I mentioned the word fear. What a game-cock it is ! 
 pity. that though there is no white feather, there should be no 
 right feather in so gallant a crest !— Methinks the old porter 
 is long in summoning the grooms, so I will enter in the name 
 of the Lord ; and do thou mind, ‘ Old Thunder,’ ” he added, in 
 a gentle tone, at the same time patting the curved neck of the 
 noble creature, who turned round his head at the caress, as if in 
 appreciation of its value. 
 
 De Guerre took the bridle almost mechanically in his hand, 
 and at the same time muttered, ‘ Left here, like a groom, to 
 hold his horse! By the Lord! Vl groom it for no man — 
 yet, ‘tis no disgrace, even to knighthood, to handle a good 
 steed ; though I’d bet my poor Jubilee against him.—Ah! 
 here they come —”’ and he was preparing to resign his charge 
 right gladly to two servants, who advanced from a side-door 
 just as the stranger had mounted the last of a series of broad 
 and platform-like steps leading to the principal entrance. No 
 sooner, however, had the first of the attendants caught sight of 
 the horseman’s cloak and broad-brimmed hat of the stranger, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. . 99 
 
 than he sprang up the steps, and seized the garment, as the 
 wearer was entering the hall. He turned fiercely round at the 
 assault ; but the aggressor, whom De Guerre now recognised 
 as Springall, hung upon him too firmly to be easily shaken 
 off: — he drew his sword half out of its scabbard, and kept 
 his eye fixed upon the youth. 
 
 * T was sure of it! I was sure of it!” shouted Springall ; 
 * the cloak, the hat —all! Now will I be even with thee for 
 hanging me over the cliff, like a poor fish in a heron’s claw, 
 and all for nothing.” 
 
 “Go to, Springall,” said De Guerre, coming up, pleased at 
 observing that the wrathful glance of the stranger had changed 
 into a smiling good-humoured look at the boy’s harmless im- 
 petuosity : ‘Go to, Springall ; the double-dub and the Canary 
 are in thine eyes, and in thy scatter-pate. What could you 
 know of this strange gentleman ? ” 
 
 “* J vow by the compass,” replied the boy, suffering his grasp 
 on the cloak to relax, as he gazed in no less amazement on the 
 Cavalier ; “‘ we are bewitched! all bewitched! I left you, 
 sir, on your way to Gull’s Nest with wee Robin ; and here you 
 are keeping company with this very hey-ho sort of — But by 
 the Law Harry ! he’s off again!” exclaimed Springall, whose 
 astonishment had got the better of his watchifulness, and who 
 perceived, on turning round, that the mysterious gentleman 
 had disappeared. 
 
 ** You are not going to be mad enough to follow any one 
 into Sir Robert Cecil’s hall !’’ argued De Guerre, at the same 
 time seizing Springall’s arm. 
 
 * Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! that I should ever live to see you, 
 sir, in league with a bogle! Why, I vow I had the mark of 
 that devil’s hand on me in black lumps, just as if I was burnt 
 with what our scourer calls ague-fortys. As I am a living 
 man, he went from off the brow of the cliff, just like a foam- 
 wreath.” __ 
 
 ** Pshaw ! Spring ; how can you or any one else tell ‘ who’s 
 who,’ on a dark night ? ” 
 
 *“ Could I be deceived in the cut of his jib or mainsail, 
 yer honour? to say nothing of the figure-head! — Am I a 
 fool ? ” 
 
 ** You are not over wise, just now, my gay sailor ; so off to 
 your hammock.” 
 
 H 2 
 
100 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 «* And must I see no more of that old gentleman ? ” 
 
 “Not to-night, Spring ; perhaps to-morrow he may give 
 you satisfaction,” added Walter, smiling at his own conceit. 
 
 The youth went off, not very steadily, to the little gate by 
 which he entered ; and a servant immediately announced to 
 De Guerre, that Sir Robert Cecil waited for him in the supper- 
 hall. 
 
 He followed the domestic through the great vestibule, which 
 bore a more cheerful aspect than on the sad but memorable 
 night of Hugh Dalton’s most unwelcome visit. Although the 
 spring was considerably advanced, the fagot blazed up the huge 
 * chimney, and illumined every corner of the overgrown apart- 
 ment. The grim portraits which graced the walls looked 
 more repugnant than usual in the red light that was thrown 
 upon them by the glowing fire ; while beneath hung the very 
 suits of armour in which, if their most approved chroniclers are 
 to be believed, they had performed feats of valour. Upon the 
 table of massive marble were strewed sundry hawk’s hoods, 
 bells and jesses; some fishing-tackle, and a silver-mounted 
 fowling-piece also appeared amid the mélange ; while a little 
 black spaniel, of the breed that was afterwards distinguished by 
 a royal name, was busily engaged in pulling the ears of a mag- 
 nificent hound of the wolf kind, who, shaggy and sleepy, 
 seemed little disposed to be roused from his lair by the capri- 
 oles of the diminutive creature that hardly reached to the first 
 joint of his fore-leg. The lesser animal, in accordance with 
 the general custom of his kind, ran yelping and barking at the 
 stranger as he advanced up the hall ; while the more sagacious 
 and dangerous dog raised his head, shook his ears, stretched 
 forth his paws, and elevated his broad chest, then sniffed the 
 air so as to be able to remember De Guerre if ever he needed 
 to do so; seeing that he was escorted by the servant, and 
 therefore, doubtless, a person of respectability, he composed 
 himself again to rest as De Guerre entered the presence of Sir 
 Robert Cecil. 
 
 A few weeks had wrought a fearful change upon his coun- 
 tenance and form: the eyes were more hollow, the cheeks more 
 pale, the hair ribanded with white, where but a little before 
 there had been few grey hairs, and the shoulders were much 
 rounded since his interview with the Buccaneer. He proceeded 
 courteously to meet his guest, bowing, and expressing the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. : 101 
 
 honour he felt in being introduced (through the Lord’s mercy) 
 to the preserver of his friend. The baronet had approached 
 slowly towards De Guerre during this salutation, but either his 
 dim sight, or the obscurity of the further end of the room, 
 prevented his being at first struck with his appearance. As 
 the young man advanced, Sir Robert Cecil’s gaze was fastened 
 on his countenance with a gasping earnestness, that shook 
 every fibre of his frame; his lips trembled, and remained 
 apart, and he seemed for a few moments unable to move to 
 the seat he had quitted. 
 
 The “friend” he had alluded to was seated in a carved chair 
 near the fire, his foot placed upon a cushioned stool, and his 
 arms folded over his bosom, his head rested on his chest, but 
 his eyes were fixed on the beautiful face of Constance Cecil, 
 who had risen on the stranger’s entrance ; nor did it escape the 
 notice of so keen an observer, that the lady’s cheek was sud- 
 denly suffused by a deep hue of crimson, as suddenly succeeded 
 by a pallor and trembling, that made her cling to the arm of 
 Lady Frances Cromwell for support. 
 
 “IT beg to present,’ he rose, and said, “‘ to my worthy 
 friend Sir Robert Cecil, and to you, Lady Frances Cromwell, 
 and to you also, Mistress Cecil, this young gentleman, by the 
 name of Walter de Guerre, who, though of French extraction, 
 hath doubtless had an English godfather, who hath favoured 
 him with an English Christian name. And now, most worthy 
 baronet, as master of this mansion, I pray you to present me 
 to him who hath a swift arm and a ready hand for the defence 
 of an attacked soldier.”’ 
 
 ** Major Wellmore, young gentleman ; a tried .and trusty 
 friend to the English Commonwealth and its Protector!” said 
 Sir Robert at last ; adding, as if in apology for his emotion — 
 * Constance! this strange megrim in my head!” And Con- 
 stance, with the watchful care of an affectionate child, led him 
 to his seat, presented him a glass of cordial; and not till 
 he had declared himself quite recovered, did she return to her 
 station on the low fofa, beside her friend Lady Frances 
 Cromwell. 
 
 De Guerre was particularly struck, during the brief repast 
 that followed, by the extraordinary change in the manner of 
 his companion, who,*from being an animated and sensible 
 speaker, upon matters connected with the state, had become 
 
 H 3 
 
102 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 more like a mystified and mystifying preacher than a soldier, 
 but whose out-pourings were listened to with reverence and 
 attention by the company. The Cavalier felt himself ill at 
 ease in his presence, and but for a governing motive, hereafter 
 to be explained, would have withdrawn from the house when 
 the supper was concluded, despite the specious invitation, and 
 much pressing to remain ; he, however, accepted the apartment 
 provided for him by Sir Robert Cecil. The ladies, attended 
 by their women, withdrew immediately afterwards, and, as 
 Lady Frances kissed her friend’s cheek, she whispered, — 
 
 “ Didst see how Major — plague upon me to forget his 
 name — eyed both you and the handsome stranger?’ And 
 then she whispered so as to be quite inaudible, ending by 
 saying — while Constantia affectionately pressed her hand, — 
 
 ““ Ah! those holy eyes of blue, remaining so silent and so 
 fixed, do more mischief than my poor little brown ones, that 
 are ever roaming about seeking what they can devour, but se~ 
 curing no prey.’ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms, 
 
 And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms ; 
 
 Which to the lowest depths of guilt descends, 
 
 By vilest means pursues the vilest ends. 
 
 Wears friendship’s mask for purposes of spite, 
 
 Fawns in the dayjand butchers in the night. CHURCHILL. 
 
 Tue dwelling of Sir Willmott Burrell was about eighteen or 
 twenty miles from the island of Shepey, on the Kentish 
 border. The mysterious companion of De Guerre had cor- 
 rectly stated, that at the period of his introduction to the 
 Cecil family ‘the youth had little chance of meeting with his 
 treacherous antagonist of the evening on which the remains of 
 Lady Cecil were consigned to the tomb; the knight having 
 been, for some days previous, occupied upon certain weighty 
 affairs within his own house. A bad landlord can never suc- 
 ceed in convincing his tenantry that he is a good man. ‘The 
 presence of Sir Willmott was by no means desirable to his 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 103 
 
 poorer neighbours and dependents, by whom he was at once 
 dreaded and disliked. Rarely, indeed, was it that a blessing 
 ever followed the mention of his name; and, although his in- 
 fluence and authority were such as to render it dangerous to 
 murmur against the one, or oppose the other, Sir Willmott had 
 ample reason to know that he was nowhere surrounded by so 
 many secret enemies as when residing upon his hereditary 
 estate. ‘The domestics who had served his progenitors had 
 long been dismissed, and their places supplied by more sub- 
 servient creatures, and more willing panders to the vices that 
 had increased with his increasing years. Although he had 
 taken ‘especial care to surround himself with knaves of great 
 apparent devotion, in order that his character might not suffer 
 in the estimation of the few really religious personages by 
 whom he was occasionally visited, it required considerable care 
 to prevent their exposing, by their own depravity, the gross 
 and iniquitous life which their master led. It is seldom that 
 a uniform hypocrite is found among the uneducated ; a more 
 than ordinary degree of talent and prudence being necessary to 
 sustain a character that is but assumed. Nature may be sup- 
 pressed by habitual caution ; but the meaner, though not the 
 baser, villain, finds appetite too strong for even interest to con- 
 trol. The household of Sir Willmott Burrell was ill-governed, 
 and the lessons which the master sometimes taught, but never 
 practised, the servants neglected or — despised. The butler, 
 the housekeeper, the steward, and the numerous insubordinate 
 subordinates were evermore in a state of riot and debauchery : 
 the evil had at length grown to such a pitch, that Burrell saw 
 its danger, and more than once resolved to adopt thé only 
 remedy, and discharge them altogether ; but upon such occa- 
 sions, he overlooked one very important circumstance, namely, 
 that he was in their power, and was consequently any thing 
 but a free agent in his own house. Burrell knew himself in 
 their toils, and at their mercy. Large sums of money might, 
 perhaps, have purchased their silence, but such a mode of pro- 
 curing safety was now beyond his reach; and although deeply 
 desirous to rid himself of them before his marriage with Con- 
 stantia Cecil, he scarcely conceived it possible to escape from 
 their trammels, without subtracting from the fortune that was 
 to accompany her hand. He dreaded the danger of confiding 
 his difficulties to Sir Robert Cecil, by whom they were unsus- 
 H 4 
 
104 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 pected ; and his fine property was so considerably mortgaged, 
 as to render an appeal to his ancient friends, the usurers, a 
 matter of much difficulty, if not totally useless. Manasseh 
 Ben Israel, indeed, he knew had an inexhaustible store, and a 
 not unready hand, as he had upon more than one occasion, 
 experienced ; but, villain as he was, he shrank from the idea 
 of applying to him for assistance, at the very moment when he 
 was thrusting the iron into his soul. 
 
 Burrell was seated alone in his library, musing over the 
 labyrinth from which he saw no immediate prospect of escape; 
 plan succeeding plan, as, unnoticed by him, the twilight had 
 deepened into the night. His doors were ordered to be locked 
 at an early hour—-a command which, it is to be supposed, 
 the servants obeyed or disobeyed according to their own plea- 
 sure. 
 
 The Lords’ Commissioners, Fiennes and Lisle, who were 
 travelling round the country on special business, had been his 
 visiters for three or four days ; and on the evening on which 
 they took their departure, he was, as we have described him, 
 musing in his library, upon no very amicable terms with him- 
 self, when his reverie was broken by a knock against the glass 
 of an oriel window that was sunk deep into an embrasure of 
 the wall. He started from his seat, and was so alarmed at 
 perceiving the face of a man close to the fretted frame-work, 
 as to draw forth a pistol, and present it towards the intruder. 
 In an instant the shivered fragments of an exquisitely tinted 
 pane flew into the library, and a voice exclaimed,— 
 
 “ It’s me!” 
 
 “And what is the motive of this destruction?” stormed 
 forth the Master of Burrell, in an angry tone, proceeding at 
 the same time to open the window; “ were there not people 
 enough below to bring up your message? and are there not 
 doors enough for you to enter, without clambering twenty feet 
 up a straight wall, and shattering this beautiful picture, the 
 Marriage of St. Catherine, in a thousand pieces ?” 
 
 “* As to the marriage of St. Catherine,” observed his visiter, 
 stepping through the casement, “ I wish I could break all 
 marriages as easily ; and as to the motive, your honour, I did 
 not like to wait quietly, and see a pistol-ball walk towards my 
 witless pate, to convince, by its effects thereupon, the unbeliev- 
 ing world that Robin Hays had brains. As to the domestics, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 105 
 
 the doors were locked, and they, I do believe, (craving your 
 pardon, sir,) too drunk to open them. As to the wall, it’s 
 somewhat straight and slippery ; but what signifies a wall to 
 one who can be in safety on a tow-line, and only that between 
 him and eternity? Thank God! there is nothing on my 
 conscience to make my footing tremble — or 7 
 
 ** Robin Hays,” interrupted Burrell at last, “‘ I have listened 
 to you with much patience, because I know you love to hear 
 the sound of your own voice; if you bear either message or 
 letter from my worthy friend Sir Robert Cecil, let me have it 
 at once.” 
 
 *¢ You are in error, sir, under favour.” 
 
 ** Indeed ! — then to whom am I indebted for this visit ; 
 for I suppose you came not on your own account ?” 
 
 ** Ah, Sir Willmott ! — you are always wise, Sir Willmott ; 
 truly it would be ill coming on my own account, seeing that I 
 had no business of my own to bring me, therefore why should 
 I come? and even if I had, Dapple Dumpling travels so 
 slowly.” 
 
 ** This trifling is impertinent,’ exclaimed the knight an- 
 grily : “ to your business.” 
 
 ** T hope it wo’n’t end in smoke, as it begins in fire,’’ replied 
 Robin, slily presenting a roll of the tobacco vulgarly called 
 pig-tail. 
 
 ** Mis-shapen wretch !” retorted Burrell in a towering pas- 
 sion, flinging the roll directly in his face, ‘‘ how dare you to 
 trifle thus with your superiors? art drunk, or mad ?” 
 
 ** Neither, an please ye, Sir Willmott,” replied Robin, re- 
 placing the tobacco in his bosom ; “ only since you wo’n't look 
 into the pig-tail, perhaps you will tell me what I am to say to 
 Hugh Dalton.” 
 
 “ Hugh Dalton! There, give it me ; why did you not tell 
 me you came from the Buccaneer? Robin, you are a million 
 times worse than a fool! There, sit, good Robin — But, no, 
 light me yon lamp; the fire burns dimly. A murrain on’t, 
 I can’t see! There, that will do.” 
 
 While Burrell read Dalton’s communication, thus whim- 
 sically but carefully conveyed, Robin had ample time to mo- 
 ralise on and observe all around him. 
 
 “That table,” thought the Ranger, “is just a type of the 
 times. The Bible, it can hardly be seen for the heap of foolish 
 
 
 
106 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 expositions, and preachments, in the shape of pamphlets, that 
 crowd upon it. O, Lord! O, Lord! take from the Puritans 
 their vain opinions, wild imaginations, false valuations, and 
 the like, which they hang over the book that Barbara says has 
 so much good in it (just as the Catholics at San Eustatia trick 
 out the Saviour’s figure), and what poor shrunken minds they'd 
 have! Then the bottle and glass: that, I’m afraid, typifies 
 the Cavalier ; the poor Cavalier! who clings so fitmly to the 
 worn, and lets go the stronger, rope. But mark how the filthy 
 liquor stands beside the pure book !—even so are the just and 
 the unjust mingled. Ah! he has been praying with the Lords’ 
 Commissioners ; then drinking, and so forth, the instant their 
 backs were turned! Yet, God hath made the double-faced 
 villain of good proportions, so that a woman can look on him 
 with love, though his heart — augh! — I wouldn’t have his 
 heart for his lands, no, nor for his fine person either. Bar- 
 bara can’t abide him ; she always says he has a black look — 
 and so he has. But hark there’s knocking at the gate, and 
 loud knocking too — Sir Willmott, as the servants can’t hear, 
 So can’t answer, shall I go down?” 
 
 Burrell was so much occupied with his letter, that he heard 
 neither the knocking nor Robin’s question, but sat, his eyes 
 staring on the paper, as if the words were of fire. Nor was it 
 a long epistle, though sufficiently important to rivet his whole 
 attention. The contents were as follows : —- 
 
 April the 6th, 1656. 
 < Sir, 
 
 ** Agreeably to your instructions, I went to the house at 
 St. Vallery, where you told me I was to meet the lady of whom 
 we spoke ; but she had left harbour a few hours before I en- 
 tered. With much trouble I succeeded in tracing her to a 
 very odd sort of dwelling, a little outside the town, yet not in 
 time to overtake her or her attendant. Some said one thing, 
 and some another ; but I could gather no information to be 
 depended on. I remained nearly nine days in the neighbour- 
 hood, watching every vessel that came in or went out ; never- 
 theless, I am persuaded that she has embarked for England : 
 how, is still a mystery. 
 
 “ Yours, 
 ‘* FIRE-FLY.” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 107 
 
 The fellow is careful enough: can it be possible he has 
 played me false? Yet, where the motive, or what ?” mused 
 Burrell aloud. The knocking at the door was repeated, but 
 was only answered by the loud baying of a brace of hounds, 
 *« And are the rascals really drunk ?” inquired their master in 
 a piteous tone, roused at last to a sense of what was passing 
 around him. 
 me. Ay, faith, sir; had I not as well go down? for, though 
 ill-apparelled as a serving-man, methinks I could do the civi- 
 lities better than the night-wind that howls so cursedly round 
 the entry.” 
 
 “Ay, go, go! only see that I be not disturbed, unless, 
 indeed, it be some person I must see — some one of conse- 
 quence.” 
 
 “« Ay,” muttered Robin : “so much for modern hospitality ! ” 
 and he hastened to undo the fastening. 
 
 As the chains fell, a small bent figure, completely enveloped 
 in a fur cloak, entered the hall, closely followed by a swarthy 
 attendant, whose high features, quick sparkling eyes, and down- 
 cast look bespoke him one of the tribe of Israel. 
 
 “Is Sir Willmott Burrell within?” inquired the stranger, 
 letting fall the cloak that had been closely muffled round his 
 face: he spoke, however, in so foreign an accent, that it was 
 a moment or two before Robin could reply. 
 
 ‘©T demanded of thee if Sir Willmott Burrell of Burrell 
 was within ?’’ repeated the old man; and as Robin observed 
 him more attentively, he perceived that he was dressed in the 
 peculiar fashion of the high-born Jews: his beard descended 
 nearly to his girdle, and his head was surmounted by a perpen- 
 dicular cap of yellow silk. 
 
 ** Sir Willmott Burrell is not well,” replied Robin ; “but I 
 will take your name, if it please ye, and return speedily with 
 his commands.” 
 
 **Manasseh Ben Israel demands instant parley with the 
 Master of Burrell.” 
 
 Robin did not bow, because, as a humble Cavalier and 
 a proud Christian, he held it a point of duty to hate and avoid 
 the despised race to which the stranger belonged ; but he made 
 a respectful answer, for the riches of the Rabbi and the favour 
 of Cromwell were not to be contemned. He then proceeded 
 along the hall, and up some narrow stairs, called private, as 
 
108 THE BUCCANEER.’ 
 
 they led only to the library, and was crossing the apartment 
 for the purpose of announcing Ben Israel, when the Jew, who 
 had closely and unobservedly followed his footsteps with so 
 light a tread as even to escape Robin’s ears, passed him sud- 
 denly, and as suddenly Burrell of Burrell sprang from his seat, 
 as if struck by a musket-ball. The old man stood before him, 
 his features working, his lips moving, but no articulate sound 
 coming forth — his entire frame agitated, almost convulsed ; 
 while Burrell, exerting every power of his mind to the contest, 
 was the first to move. He stepped towards the Jew, extending 
 his hand in token of amity. Ben Israel touched it not, but 
 raised his arm, pointing his skinny and shrivelled finger to- 
 wards Burrell, until it came on a level with his countenance ; 
 then, by a desperate exertion, the cracked, strained voice forced 
 a passage through his parched throat, and he exclaimed,— 
 
 “* My child ! — my only one ! — Zillah ! — my beloved, my 
 only, only child! Do ye remember your own mother, who 
 travailed for ye, brought ye forth in pain, and carried ye, and 
 nourished ye in her bosom? Do ye ever hope to havea child, 
 who will tend, and serve, and watch over you, as mine once 
 did over me? If so, tell, tell me where mine is ! —I will 
 bless you for the knowledge! I, an old man, whose beard is 
 white, implore you, who have ruined her, to tell me where she 
 is |” 
 
 The Jew flung his cap on the floor, and prostrated himself 
 before Burrell, who immediately raised him, and in his most 
 persuasive tone sought to soothe and assure the Rabbi he had 
 been in every respect misled and misinformed. 
 
 ‘* Sit, good Ben Israel, and comfort yourself ; you have, I 
 swear to you, been grossly imposed upon by some malignants 
 whom I must Robin! hunt out the knaves, and bring 
 some wine —the best in the old bin, for my good friend. 
 How could you, sir, suppose me capable of betraying the con- 
 fidence you reposed when you introduced me to the abode in 
 which your fair daughter dwelt? But, granting I had the 
 ascendency over her, which from your speech you seem to 
 infer, how > 
 
 “Sir Christian, stop!” interrupted Ben Israel, who, now 
 his feelings had found vent, had composed himself, so as to 
 meet his wily adversary with tolerable fortitude: ‘ Sir Christian, 
 stop! There are two classes of human kind your sect deceive 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 109 
 
 without regret — betray without compunction — and destroy, 
 body and soul, without remorse — women and Jews. It is 
 nought, sir, nought — mere pastime — women’s hearts and re- 
 putations, and old men’s grey hairs! Alas! alas! and is such 
 the religion of England!” The old man bent his head, and 
 moaned heavily ; then, after a little space of time, raised him- 
 self, and said, ‘In the name of the God of Jacob, I will take 
 you point by point! Reply unto my questioning ; and, if thou 
 canst, acquit thyself.” —-A ray of hope darted over his ex- 
 pressive features, like a beam of light athwart a thunder-cloud. 
 * But no,” he continued, his countenance again darkening, 
 “it cannot be — it cannot be.” 
 
 “Worthy Ben Israel! excellent Rabbi !’’ replied Burrell ; 
 ‘dissect me as you will; and if I answer not thy expecta- 
 tion ——” 
 
 *« Too truly wilt thou answer my expectation,” said the Jew. 
 ‘* The Lord of Hosts be praised that these iniquities are un- 
 practised by the children of my people! The innocent lamb 
 torn from the fold; or, what is worse, decoyed from the tents 
 of her fathers! Had she been dead, I could have said, ‘ The 
 Lord’s will be done,’ He hath taken the child back into her 
 mother’s bosom. But answer unto me these points — Didst 
 often see Zillah ?” 
 
 “I certainly did see your daughter at times, during my stay 
 in Paris.” 
 
 ** And why, having delivered my messages? Of what im- 
 portance ought thy visits to have been to one of the despised 
 race P” 
 
 ** You surely would not impute evil to my inquiring if your 
 daughter wished to write to her father when I forwarded 
 despatches to England ?” ’ 
 
 *‘ Strange, then, she should never have availed herself of 
 such kindness. Did she give no reason for this neglect of her 
 parent ?” | 
 
 “TI saw so little of her,’’ replied Burrell carelessly, “ that I 
 really forget.” 
 
 The Rabbi shook his head. 
 
 ** Perhaps, then, Sir Willmott Burrell, you can remember 
 this trinket, and inform me how it came into my daughter’s 
 hands: it was forced from her previous to her flight.” 
 
 Burrell started, for it was a miniature of himself, which 
 
 b 
 
110 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 he had given her in the bud of his affection. At last he 
 brazened out an assurance that, however like, it was not his ; 
 that he could not tell how young ladies obtained miniature 
 pictures ; that, if the Rabbi would look, he would observe the 
 hair and eyes to be much lighter.” 
 
 «* Man !” exclaimed the Rabbi, fixing his keen black eye 
 upon Burrell, ‘‘ away from before me! Guilt and falsehood 
 are on your lip. Your eye, the eye of the proud Christian, 
 quails before the gaze of the despoiled and despised Jew ; were 
 you innocent, you would stand firm as I do now, erect in your 
 Maker’s image. Do you not tremble lest God’s own lightnings 
 blast you? Did you ever read, and reading believe, the Chris- 
 tian story of Ananias and Sapphira !” 
 
 If Burrell had possessed an atom of human feeling, he would 
 have sunk abashed to the earth, and entreated the forgiveness 
 of the Rabbi, whose flashing eyes and extended features glared 
 and swelled with indignation ; but the only two emotions that 
 at the time contended within him were cowardice and _ pride. 
 Had he the power, gladly would he have struck the Jew to 
 death, as a punishment for what he deemed his insolence ; 
 but he feared the protecting and avenging hand of Cromwell, 
 who never resigned a cherished purpose or a cherished person, 
 and whose esteem for the learned Rabbi was perfectly known, 
 and much talked of about the court. 
 
 «* You cannot avoid crediting me for meekness, Ben Israel,” 
 he said, without, however, raising his eyes from the ground 
 (for his blood boiled in his veing, though he spoke in a gentle 
 tone) ; “ you have come into my house, rated me upon a foul 
 charge, and will not permit me to speak in my own defence. 
 Take a cup of this wine, and then I will hear, if you can adduce 
 it, further proof than that false portrait.’’ 
 
 The Rabbi touched not the proffered beverage, but with- 
 drew from his vest sundry letters, which he unfolded with a 
 trembling hand: they were the communications he had re- 
 ceived from the Polish Jew, with whose family at Paris his 
 daughter had remained. He stated Burrell’s extraordinary 
 attention to Zillah, during his residence abroad — the frequent 
 letters that passed between them under pretence of a corre- 
 spondence with her father— her having received others from 
 England since Burrell’s return—her total change of manner 
 —and, finally, her having quitted his house, and his being un- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. Bit 
 
 able to discover where she had gone. Strong suspicions were 
 added that she had followed Burrell to, and was now in, Eng- 
 land ; and there was a long and formal expression of regret 
 from the Polish Jew that he had ever admitted the Christian 
 beyond the threshold of his door. 
 
 The villain breathed more freely when he ascertained that 
 the fugitive had not been traced from St. Vallery ; and he felt 
 he could have braved the affair with perfect ease and indiffer- 
 ence, but for the information conveyed by Dalton’s letter, and 
 the consequent dread of Zillah’s appearing before him, perhaps 
 at the very moment that the often-asserted, and sworn to, lie 
 passed his lips. It was now more difficult to dissemble than 
 he had ever yet found it; he saw clearly that his oaths and 
 protestations made but little impression upon the mind of Ben 
 Israel, who filled up every pause either by lamentations for his 
 daughter, execrations on her seducer, or touching appeals to 
 one whose feelings were centred in self, and who therefore had 
 little sympathy for sorrow that would have moved a heart of 
 stone. Burrell was so thoroughly overpowered by the events 
 of the evening, that the only point of exertion on which his 
 mind rallied was a strong wish te rid himself of the Jew as 
 speedily as possible, so that he might find opportunity to collect 
 and arrange his thoughts —it therefore occurred to him to 
 assume the bearing of injured innocence, as protestations had 
 been of no avail; he accordingly said, in a tone and with a 
 manner so earnest, that at the moment it almost destroyed the 
 suspicions of the Rabbi: — r 
 
 ‘< Sir, I have over and over again asserted enough to con- 
 yince any rational person that I know nothing of the crime 
 you impute to me; having, in my own estimation, performed 
 all that could be required, I must now withdraw. If you 
 please to lay your statement before his Highness, I will defend 
 myself, as I have now done, and let him judge between thee 
 and me.” 
 
 “‘T have not been yet able to gain speech with the chosen in 
 Israel,’’ replied Manasseh: ‘“ he hath been much from home 
 on secret service for the good of his people.” 
 
 Burrell exulted at this knowledge, and again protested his 
 innocence in the strongest terms. Manasseh rose to depart. 
 Burrell pressed him to remain; but the old man resolutely 
 refused, 
 
112 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “I am about to go forth from your dwelling. If you have 
 not been the seducer of my child, I crave your pardon in 
 deep humility, and will do penance in sackcloth and ashes for 
 having wrongfully accused you ; but,” he added, bitterly, “if 
 you have wronged me, and devoted her soul to destruction, 
 may the curse of the old Jew enter into your veins, and curdle 
 the red blood to a hot and destroying poison !— may the 
 flowers of the spring be to you scentless and revolting !—may 
 the grass wither under your footsteps ! — may the waters of 
 the valley be even as molten lead unto your parched lips ! — 
 ma 
 
 ce Dog of an unbeliever!” exclaimed Burrell, whose tem- 
 per could no longer brook the taunting curses of the old man, 
 and whose coward spirit quailed beneath them, “ hold thy foul 
 tongue, lest I pluck it from between thy teeth. Had I been a 
 circumcised Jew, and thou a Christian, I could not have lis- 
 tened with more humility ; and this is the reward of my for- 
 bearance— curses deep and bitter as the waters of the Dead 
 Sea.” 
 
 “They cannot harm if thou art ‘innocent. I have neither 
 broken bread nor tasted salt within thy walls ; and now I shake 
 the dust from off my feet upon thy threshold. Thy words 
 at first were of honey and the honey-comb, but now are they 
 as gall. Others must deal with thee. The prayer of the 
 bereaved father was as a tinkling cymbal in thine ears ; but the 
 curse — the curse knocked at thy heart, and it trembled. Others 
 must deal with thee.” 
 
 Manasseh Ben Israel repeated the curse with terrible 
 energy ; then shaking the dust from his sandals, he passed, 
 and entered, with his attendant, the carriage that awaited him 
 at the gate. 
 
 Burrell was convinced, and humbled by the conviction, that 
 an irresistible impulse had compelled him to desert his 
 sophistry, and stand forth in his real character before one who 
 had the ear of the Protector, and whose religious persuasion 
 had not prevented his advancement, or his being regarded as a 
 man of extraordinary mental attainments, even in a country, 
 the prejudices of which, always deeply-rooted, were at that time 
 peculiarly directed against the Jews. This people were de- 
 voted in their attachment to Cromwell; and it was believed 
 that they would not have scrupled to declare him the Messiah, 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 113 
 
 could they have traced his descent in any degree, however 
 remote, to the dwellers in Judah. Manasseh had mixed so 
 much with Christians, and had been treated by the Protector 
 so completely as an equal, that he retained but little of the 
 servility of tone or manner, and less of the cringing and sub- 
 missive demeanour, that characterised his tribe; he therefore 
 spoke boldly to Sir Willmott Burrell, after a burst of strong 
 and bitter feeling. He knew himself protected by the ruler of 
 England, and felt undaunted in the presence of one he could 
 easily destroy ; but then he was a father, and as such impelled 
 by nature to adopt every expedient that might promote the 
 disclosure of a secret on which almost his life depended, and 
 which, he doubted not, was, in some shape or other, in the 
 keeping of his wily opponent. 
 
 * A pretty scrape my villanies have brought me into!” 
 thought Burrell, as he returned to his chamber: “ the girl will 
 come over—that stops a wedding. Suppose I were to take 
 Zillah to wife — the old rascal would not give me a maravedi. 
 Suppose, before I have secured Constance, Cromwell listens to 
 the Rabbi’s tale, he will forbid my marriage to please the 
 accursed Jew, and I — may blow my brains out. Suppose I 
 marry at once— But how? Lady Cecil not many weeks dead ! 
 I must manage it, however,” he continued, pacing the apart- 
 ment, while Robin, who had ascertained the impossibility of 
 rousing the ill-governed menials from their state of hopeless 
 debauchery, amused himself by counting the number of times 
 the Master of Burrell walked up and down the room. At 
 length, finding such dull watching wearisome, he ventured to 
 enter, and inquire if he were to remain at Burrell House, or 
 return to the Gull’s Nest. 
 
 “Well thought on, Robin Hays,” said the knight, as if 
 roused, and not unpleasantly, from himself and his thoughts ; 
 “you will rest here to-night, and accompany me to Cecil 
 Place on the morrow. See to these rioters, of whom I must 
 rid my house.” 
 
 « You had better do it, then, immediately,” retorted Robin, 
 or they will save you trouble by ridding you of your 
 house.” 
 
 * True, good Robin ; you are ready-witted.” 
 
 “ And, to keep up my character, I’ll back to Cecil Place 
 
 f 
 
114 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 this very hour,” muttered Robin, as he closed the door ; 
 ‘‘ there is one there who must not tarry the coming of Sir 
 Willmott Burrell.” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 But such it is: and though we may be taught 
 To have in childhood life, ere love we know, 
 Yet life is useless till by reason taught, 
 And love and reason up together grow. Str W. DavEnNant. 
 
 «‘ Ann, indeed, my grave Lady Constance plays with the poor 
 fish in a very sportsmanlike manner ; only, methinks, a little 
 too shy, and a trifle too sensitive! Marry, girl! what a most 
 yielding, docile, and affectionate wife you would make ! — 
 like one of the heroines in the ancient Spanish romances ; or 
 such a one as — Judith !—no — for you would never venture 
 to chop off a man’s head — Stay — did she so? — or — 
 Barbara! you are well read in Scripture history ; and, though 
 you ply your needle so industriously, that will not prevent 
 your calling to mind some of the holy women in the Bible, to 
 whom your mistress may be compared.” 
 
 Barbara Iverk, who had no other duty at Cecil Place than 
 to wait upon the young heiress or assist in her embroidery, 
 was considered and treated more as a humble companion than 
 a menial; and Lady Frances Cromwell talked just as freely 
 to Mistress Cecil in her presence as if they were perfectly alone. 
 Nor was such confidence ever abused by the gentle girl. She 
 moved within her small circle like an attendant satellite upon 
 a brilliant star — silent and submissive—yet ever in her 
 place, ever smiling, innocent, and happy, — 
 
 s* A maid whom there were few to praise, 
 And very few to love.” 
 Simple and single-minded, her soul had never been con- 
 taminated by the idea, much less the utterance, of falsehood. 
 Even to Constantia, the fulness of her worth and fidelity was 
 unknown ; although the bare contemplation of Barbara’s ever 
 parting from her was one of actual pain. 
 
‘THE BUCCANEER. 115 
 
 She replied to the lively question of the Lady Frances in 
 her usual straightforward and unpresuming manner: a manner 
 that afforded considerable amusement to the merry trifler, by 
 whom the little Puritan was commonly spoken of, while ab- 
 sent, as ‘* the fresh primrose.” 
 
 * Indeed, my lady, I do not like mixing up profane and 
 holy things together.” 
 
 ** Fie, Barbara! to call your mistress profane. Constance, 
 do put down those heavy poems of Giles Fletcher, and listen 
 to your bower-maiden, describing you as one of the profane.’ 
 
 Constance looked up and smiled ; while poor Barbara en- 
 deavoured to free herself from the charge with earnestness and 
 humility. 
 
 «* My Lady Frances, I ask your pardon ; but I can hardly, 
 I fear, make you understand what I mean. I know that 
 Mistress Cecil is always aiming at the excellence to which the 
 holy women of Scripture attained — but ¥ 
 
 *““Then she has not attained their holiness in your esti- 
 mation? She is too earthly still?” 
 
 ** She is my dear and noble lady, and to know her is to love 
 her,” replied Barbara, her brown, affectionate eyes swimming 
 in tears at the wilful perversion of her words. ‘‘ May I beg, 
 Lady Frances, that you will condescend not to question so poor 
 and simple a girl as myself on what I know so little of ?” 
 
 ** There you are again in error, Barbara,” retorted her tor~ 
 mentor, who, like most wits, cherished a jest more than the 
 feelings of those she jested with ; ‘‘ I condescend when ques- 
 tioning, not when silent.” 
 
 Barbara made no reply, and Lady Frances, who was, at the 
 same time, pulling to pieces a superb fan of ostrich feathers, 
 proceeded to open her light battery against Constantia. 
 
 “© How is Sir Robert this morning? I wish he were rid of 
 the rheumatism, and with us again. I have hardly seen him 
 since the valiant De Guerre made his appearance among us, 
 except at dinner; and, indeed, he looks ill, though — heigh 
 ho !—I wish all papas were as accommodating, and let their 
 daughters flirt with whom they like.” 
 
 “ Flirt, Lady Frances?” 
 
 “Yes, flirt, Mistress Cecil! Is there any thing appalling 
 in the word? though I believe it somewhat of the newest. 
 Now, poor I have no skill in these matters! If I see a pretty 
 
 es 
 
 
 
116 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 fellow, I care not who knows it; I like a jest, a laugh, tem- 
 pered with all rightful modesty. Ido not prim my mouth, 
 tutor my eyes into sobriety, nor say Amen, like old Will’s 
 Macbeth, to those who say ‘God bless us!’ I laugh my 
 laugh, and look my look, and say my say, though I am 
 youngest, and, by God’s grace, wildest of his Highness the 
 Protector’s children.” 
 
 “* Where got you your gay spirit, Lady Frances?” said 
 Constantia, rising and stepping towards her. 
 
 “* My mother is a discreet matron as need be, but my father 
 was not always one of the gloomy rulers of this gloomy land : 
 he had his wild days, though it is treason to speak of them 
 now ; and, in sooth, he sometimes forgets that young blood 
 runs swifter than old — How he lectures poor Richard !”’ 
 
 “‘ The Lord Richard is not cast in his great father’s mould ; 
 he is a gentler and a feebler spirit ; one who loves to hear of, 
 or to read of, great deeds, rather than to act them. Lady 
 Fauconberg is more like your father.” 
 
 “* My sister Mary would certainly have made a fine man, 
 It was one of nature's blunders to convert such coarse clay 
 into a woman.” 
 
 “* She has a noble mind, Frances, though not so holy a one 
 as the Lady Claypole.” 
 
 * Well, dear Constance, you are very good to bear with 
 me. Suppose, now, my father, instead of sending me here, 
 had commanded that I should sojourn and mystify with that 
 righteous Mrs. Lambert, whom he magnifies into a model of 
 holiness; what a time I should have passed! Why, the 
 nuns, whom the holy Sexburga placed up yonder, had not as 
 much loneliness; don’t you think the place was admirably 
 adapted for an elopement? I am certain—-nay, you need 
 not smile—for I am quite certain, that every one of the 
 seventy-seven maidens, of whom history tells us, including the 
 charming Ermenilda herself, fully made.up their minds to run 
 off with the Danes before they came to the island. I wish, 
 though, that your father could be persuaded to consider this 
 only a summer residence, for it must be a little dreary, I think, 
 Not that I feel it such, for you are so kind; and just as we 
 were beginning to grow a little dull or so, a flourish — and 
 enter Walter De Guerre, under the auspices of Major Well- 
 more! Ha! ha! ha! Well it has amused me so much. He 
 
THE BUCCANEER. Lit 
 
 certainly is a most charming person ; and if one, who is not 
 here, were here, I should be inclined to tease him a little by my 
 vast admiration of this gentleman. By the way, Sir Willmott 
 Burrell has little reason to thank Major Wellmore for this new 
 introduction ; though it must be quite delightful to make 
 either a lover or a husband jealous. Ah, I see you do not 
 agree with me —I did not expect you would; but, do you 
 know, I have taken it into my head that this De Guerre is not 
 De Guerre.” 
 
 ““ Indeed ! who is he then?” 
 
 * That, Constantia, is exactly what I want to know—and 
 I think you could unravel the mystery.” 
 
 “* My dear Frances, you are a very unaccountable person ; 
 always playing false yourself, you hardly ever give people 
 credit for being true.” 
 
 “You are vastly complimentary. Ah, Constance, when 
 you come to Hampton, you must learn some court observ- 
 ances. When we were children together, we spoke truth.” 
 
 ** Were we not very happy then?” 
 
 ** We were,” said Frances, drawing a heavy sigh; “ but 
 how changed the times since then! Constance, those who 
 walk along a precipice may well dread falling. Gay, giddy 
 as I am, Cromwell has not a child who glories in him more 
 than I do.” 
 
 “ And well you may,” added Constance, whose dignity of 
 soul led her to appreciate, with as much judgment as enthu- 
 siasm, the extraordinary man who commanded the admiration, 
 not only of England, but of Europe. ‘‘ Well may you be 
 proud of the most successful statesman, the most resolute 
 general, the most useful Christian that ever governed a state. 
 By his power he holds our enemies in subjection ; and guides 
 our friends by his wisdom. JI am but a poor politician, yet, 
 methinks, I could almost worship your father for the spirit 
 and humanity with which he succours those poor persecuted 
 Vaudois, who have kept their faith pure as the breath of their 
 native valleys: when I think of this, even the conqueror is 
 forgotten in the man.” 
 
 ** You are a dear noble creature,” exclaimed Frances, as she 
 gazed with admiration upon the animated and expressive coun- 
 tenance of her companion ; then encircling her neck, and kiss- 
 ing her cheek, with that delightful warmth of manner which 
 
 13 
 
118 THE BUCCANEER. | 
 
 can spring only from warmth of feeling, she continued, “ I 
 wish, my love, that flush were always on your cheek. You 
 nourish some secret sorrow, Constance; nay, I am sure you 
 do ; and I will write and say so to my sister Claypole, who is 
 worthy to be your confidant, as well as your godmother, though 
 Iam not. Nay, nay, I know it well: I admire, but do not 
 quite understand you. The heavens are given us to hope 
 for, and the sun to look upon, and — but dear me! that would 
 be —a simile! I vow that sounded like rhyme; but here 
 comes reason, in the shape of our new knight. Adieu! dear 
 Constantia !—Barbara! that is surely Robin Hays, groping 
 among the slopes like a huge hedgehog. Did you not want 
 to consult him as to the management of the peewits’ eggs?” 
 
 “In truth, yes, my lady,” replied Barbara, rising from a 
 half-finished carnation :—‘‘ May I go, mistress ?” 
 
 Constance assented. 
 
 ** May J go, mistress? ”’ repeated Lady Frances, mimicking 
 Barbara’s tone and courtesy, in her light-hearted gaiety. 
 
 “* Yes,”’ replied Constantia firmly, “ I would rather you 
 did ; for I have something particular to say to Major Well- 
 more’s friend.” 
 
 ““ Now, is not that just like Constance Cecil?” thought 
 Lady Frances, as she left the room ; ‘ another would have said 
 any thing rather than the truth — yet is truth a noble thing: 
 something to venerate as well as love-—the best of virtues, 
 the wisest of counsellors, and the firmest of friends.” 
 
 Constance rose from her seat as the Cavalier entered ; but 
 there was an expression of deep sorrow over his whole coun- 
 tenance, that was almost immediately communicated to hers. 
 What an extraordinary and undefinable tie is that which binds 
 souls and sympathies together — the voice, that is heard only 
 by the ear of affection — the look, that only one can under- 
 stand —the silent thrill of happiness or of anguish, commu- 
 nicated by a smile or by a sigh! The world may sneer at, 
 or may condemn ; yet most true it is, that they who love with 
 the most purity and the most truth, draw nearest to that great 
 Spirit who is the perfection of both ! 
 
 “IT am come,” said De Guerre, ‘‘ to bid for awhile fare- 
 well to Mistress Cecil; to thank her for the kindness I have 
 received under this roof ; and to assure her that it can never 
 be forgotten.” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 119 
 
 ** You have received but little attention — too little, indeed ; 
 yet, my father’s health — our recent heavy affliction — will, I 
 am sure, plead for us, and win an excuse. JI was not, how- 
 ever, aware that your departure would come so suddenly. Is 
 my father apprised of it?” 
 
 *‘ He is not: —forgive me, lady; but I could not avoid 
 saying how much and how truly I have felt the kind consider- 
 ation you have bestowed upon one who, however worthy, I 
 hope, in many respects, has nevertheless deceived you.”’ 
 
 * De Guerre may deceive me,” replied Constance, with con- 
 siderable emotion, extending one hand as she spoke, and cover- 
 ing her face with the other, “‘ De Guerre may deceive me, but 
 Walter — dear Walter —never.” 
 
 The young man took her offered hand, and pressed it af- 
 fectionately to his lips. ‘Ah! how soon you saw in the 
 Cavalier the companion and playmate of your childhood, though 
 you believed him dead! Women have quick eyes, and warm 
 hearts for old friends. Unrecognised by my nurse —by your 
 father —yet discovered by you —by you only, Constance ! 
 I need not say, do not betray me; do not breathe, even to 
 those walls, who it is that has entered within them ; let it re- 
 main secret as the grave. But I need not urge you thus, for 
 treachery is not in your nature ; let me talk of other things, 
 and ask by what token, Constance, did you trace me through 
 the disguise that years, and the burning sun of many a parched 
 land, have thrown over my features and my form?” 
 
 *‘ It was your voice that struck me first — some tones and 
 _modulations, that I well remembered when you called my 
 dog : —then the unforgotten locket which you placed in my 
 hand, which, when I had seen you, I knew could have been 
 placed there by no other : —then ” Constance paused and 
 blushed ; she ought to have felt angry at the liberty that had 
 been taken with her tresses, but she gave no expression to such’ 
 a feeling ; and the pause was broken by the Cavalier, who 
 drew from his bosom the beautiful braid of which the maiden 
 had been robbed. 
 
 The colour on Constantia’s cheek was succeeded by a deadly 
 paleness. 
 
 “ Ah! what a moment it was, by that old temple, the lily 
 triumphing over the rose on your fair cheek, even more than 
 now, yet with such mild and gentle triumph, one scarce could 
 
 I 4 
 
 
 
120 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 wish it less ; your eyes veiled by those soft lashes : — well, no 
 more — I will say no more of this. I tried my poor skill to 
 call you back to life, and, just as I succeeded, your companion 
 and attendant came in sight. Since then, this dear memento 
 has nestled near my heart, a shield against evil, and against 
 evil thoughts. What! still so pale? you must be ill, my 
 sweet friend,” he inquired tenderly. 
 
 “No, Walter, notin body ; but wherefore should you bear 
 that braid so near you?” 
 
 “‘ Sweet Constance, may I now call you by that dear name? 
 Oh, how my heart rebelled against the sound ‘ Mistress Cecil !’ 
 — Truly is love a republican, for he does not recognise titles ; 
 though, perhaps, it were better to describe him as a despot, 
 acknowledging none that are not of his own creation. Why 
 should I not wear the braid? Though now an outlawed 
 man, it may not be always thus; the time will come when 
 my own arm shall win the way to glory and to fortune.” 
 
 “I doubt it not—I doubt it not ; — but — save that 
 nothing can make your fortunes a matter of indifference to 
 the friend and companion of your childhood —I can have 
 no greater interest in you, nor youin me. But why prevent 
 my saying to my father that the lost bird is found ? Methinks 
 I would gladly know with him the mysteries of your disap- 
 pearance, and the still greater one of your concealment ; suffer 
 that I tell ” The Cavalier smiled a smile so moody, so 
 full of sad expression, that she paused. 
 
 “Not so; I cannot explain any thing: perhaps (if your 
 words be serious) the time may never come when I can ex- 
 plain. As to your father, if you ever valued Walter, I 
 charge you, even as you now value his life, that you give 
 hint to no human being of his existence. I am sure you will 
 keep my secret ; strange as may seem the request, still you 
 will grant it.” 
 
 “* Yet surely, Walter, you may confide in one who sorrowed 
 for her playmate, with a lengthened and deep grief ; but —” 
 she slowly added, observing the altered expression of his 
 countenance, “ remember, I can only be to you a friend.” 
 
 The words were uttered in a tone not to be misconceived. 
 The Cavalier understood and felt it. 
 
 “ Better, then, that I had gone forth, as I was about to do, 
 in ignorance that any here recognised the ruined and outcast 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. iZt 
 
 Walter! Can there be truth in the rumour, that one so 
 young, so beautiful, bearing the softened impress of a noble and 
 immortal mind upon a brow so lofty, is a willing sacrifice to 
 a coward and villain? Did I not hear you, with my own 
 ears, protest to the Lady Frances Cromwell, that, of your own 
 free will, you would never marry this Sir Willmott Burrell ? 
 and, if it be so, if you spoke truth then, who dare compel 
 you, wealthy and high-born, to give your hand where your 
 heart is not? Oh, you are not the free, true-hearted girl, 
 that, twelve years ago, leaped upon your native hills to meet 
 the sunshine and the breeze, and often — alas! alas! that it 
 should only have been in mere sportiveness — declared that — 
 but no matter —[ see it all, and future Lady of Burrell, bid 
 you farewell and for ever.” 
 
 Constance replied with tears, yet calmly and firmly: 
 ** Walter, be not cruel ; or, at least, be not unjust. You were 
 ever impetuous, but also ever ready to repair the evil you had 
 done. It is ill of you to use so harsh a word against one who 
 has never wronged you. Alas! could you but read my 
 heart, you would also judge of me otherwise ; but think of 
 me as your friend — your fervent and faithful friend — I will 
 not prove unworthy.” 
 
 The Cavalier was about to reply, when Robin Hays was 
 ushered into the room by Barbara, who immediately with- 
 drew. After bowing with due respect to Constance, he was 
 about to whisper into the ear of the Cavalier, who, however, 
 desired him to speak out, as he had nought to conceal from 
 that lady. The Ranger seemed but little astonished at re- 
 ceiving such a command, and without further ceremony pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 “1 did hope, sir, that you would have left Cecil Place 
 before this; Sir Wilmott Burrell will, I am certain, arrive 
 within an hour; and you know it is the Skipper’s earnest 
 desire that you should not meet.” 
 
 “ Robin, you told me all this but a little time past ; and I 
 know not why I am to hear it again. I have nought to fear 
 from this Burrell.” 
 
 *‘ It would be certainly unsafe, were there a possibility of 
 his suspecting you, for his ” Again Constantia interrupted 
 herself ; she had been on the point of betraying her know- 
 ledge of Sir Willmott’s jealous and impatient temper ; and, 
 
 
 
 & 
 
122 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 after a pause, she added, “‘ but there is little danger of that : 
 as a boy, he never saw you; and he must respect the friend 
 of Major Wellmore.” 
 
 «« Ah, madam!” observed Robin, ‘‘ he is no respecter of 
 persons ; and I see no reason why two should meet again, 
 who have already so roughly handled each other.” 
 
 “« Where did they meet ?’’ inquired Constance eagerly. 
 
 “ There is no time to tell the story now, lady,’ replied 
 Robin impatiently. ‘“ As I see you know this gentleman, and 
 knowing him, are too generous not to be interested in his 
 favour, urge, I beseech you, his instant departure from Cecil 
 Place. Surely I can explain every thing as well as he. It 
 was Dalton’s wish : 
 
 “I bitterly grieve to hear that you have aught to do with 
 so bold, so bad a man as Dalton,” said Constance hastily ; 
 “‘ his name brings to my remembrance feelings of undefined 
 pain, for which I cannot account. It is long since I have 
 heard of him ; but something poor Barbara communicated to 
 me in her innocence, made me suspect he had been here. Go 
 then ; and take my prayers, and (though nothing worth, it 
 may be,) my blessing. And now, farewell — farewell — at 
 least for a time !”’ 
 
 ** We must meet again, Constance! say only that you will 
 see me once more before " 
 
 ‘“* By Heaven!” exclaimed Robin, “ you stand dallying 
 here, and there is Sir Willmott himself coming down the 
 avenue at full speed! Lady, I entreat your pardon for my 
 boldness — But go, lady go ! — in God’s name ! — then, and 
 not till then, will he depart.” 
 
 Constance did not trust herself in the room a moment 
 longer. After briefly collecting her thoughts, which had 
 laboured unceasingly to unravel the mysteries that surrounded 
 the Cavalier, she entered her father’s chamber. He had been 
 evidently suffering from illness, and was seated in a large 
 easy chair, his feet resting upon cushions, while the Reverend 
 Jonas Fleetword read from time to time out of sundry pious 
 books that were placed on a table before him. The preacher 
 paused as she approached, and signified his intention of 
 walking forth “ to meet the man Burrell,” who, he under- 
 stood from the wild youth called Robin Hays, was to ar- 
 rive ere noon. It was a precious opportunity, one not to 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 123 
 
 be neglected, for cultivating the rich seed sown in that holy 
 land. 
 
 When the worthy divine was fairly out of the room, Con- 
 stance delivered a message from the Cavalier, stating that he 
 had been obliged to leave Cecil Place without taking a per- 
 sonal leave of his kind host ; and repeated his expressions of 
 gratitude for the attentions he had experienced during his 
 brief sojourn. 
 
 *‘ Thank God, he is gone!’’ replied the baronet, drawing 
 his breath freely, as if relieved from a painful oppression. 
 ** Introduced as he was, it was impossible not to treat him 
 with respect, but he strangely disturbed me. Did you not 
 think him a cold, suspicious youth P”’ 
 
 ** I cannot say I did, sir.” 
 
 ** You are singularly unsuspicious, Constance, for one so 
 wise: you ought to learn distrust ; it is a dark, a dreadful, 
 but a useful lesson.” 
 
 *“* Methinks one has not need to study how to be wretched ; 
 suspicion has to me ever seemed the school of misery.” 
 
 The baronet made no reply to this observation, but soon 
 after abruptly exclaimed, — 
 
 “« He will not come again, I suppose.” 
 
 Constance did not know. 
 
 He then fancied he could walk a little; and, pressing to 
 his side the arm on which he leaned, said, — 
 
 “ Ah, my child! a willing arm is more delightful to a 
 parent than a strong one. Wilt always love thy father, Con- 
 stance P” 
 
 “* My dear father, do you doubt it?” 
 
 ** No, my child ; but suppose that any circumstance should 
 make me poor ? ” 
 
 ** You will find what a nice waiting-maid your daughter is.” 
 
 ‘* Suppose I was dishonoured ? ”’ 
 
 ** Public honour is given and taken by a breath, and is 
 therefore of little worth ; but the private and more noble 
 honour is in our own keeping: my father keeps it safely.” 
 
 ** But suppose that I deserved the ill word of all man- 
 kind ? ” 
 
 “ My dear father, why trouble yourself or me with such 
 a thought ?—if it so happened, you would still be my pa- 
 rent ; but such an event is impossible.” 
 
124 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 The baronet sighed, as if in pain. Constance looked 
 anxiously into his face, and noted that a cold and clammy per- 
 spiration stood thickly on his brow. 
 
 ‘* You had better sit down, dear sir.” 
 
 ** No, my child, I shall be better for a little air ; let us go 
 into the library.” 
 
 As they entered the room, a scene of solemn drollery pre- 
 sented itself, that a humorous painter might well desire to 
 portray. Kneeling on a high-backed and curiously-carved 
 chair, was seen the lean, lanky figure of Fleetword, placed 
 within a foot of the sofa, on which, in the most uneasy 
 manner and discontented attitude, sat the Master of Burrell. 
 The preacher had so turned the chair that he leaned over it, 
 pulpit-fashion ; holding his small pocket Bible in his hand, 
 he declaimed to his single auditor with as much zeal and 
 energy as if he were addressing the Lord Protector and his 
 court. The effect of the whole was heightened by the 
 laughing face and animated figure of Lady Frances Cromwell, 
 half-concealed behind an Indian skreen, from which she was, 
 unperceived, enjoying the captivity of Burrell, whom, in her 
 half-playful, half-serious moods, she invariably denominated 
 “ the false black knight.” Fleetword, inwardly rejoicing at 
 the increase of his congregation, of whose presence, however, 
 he deemed it wisdom to appear ignorant, had just exclaimed,— 
 
 “ Has not the word of the Lord come to me, as to Elisha 
 in the third year? and shall I not do His bidding ? ” 
 
 “* Thou art a wonder in Israel, doubtless,” said Burrell, 
 literally jumping from his seat, and that so rudely as nearly 
 to overturn the pulpit arrangement of the unsparing minister ; 
 “but I must salute my worthy friend, whom I am sorry to 
 see looking so ill.” 
 
 “ Perform thy salutations, for they are good,” said the 
 preacher, adjusting the chair still further to his satisfaction, 
 ** and after that I will continue; for it is pleasant repeating 
 the things that lead unto salvation.” 
 
 “ You would not, surely, sir,” said Lady Frances, coming 
 forward and speaking in an under-tone, ‘‘ continue to repeat 
 poor Lady Cecil’s funeral sermon before her husband and 
 daughter ? — they could not support it.” 
 
 ““ You speak like the seven wise virgins,” replied Fleet- 
 word, putting one of his long limbs to the ground, as if to 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 125 
 
 descend; and then as suddenly drawing it back, he added, 
 “* But the Lord’s servant is not straitened ; there are many 
 rivers in Judah, so the faithful may drink at another stream.” 
 
 “‘ [ wish you would come with me,” said Lady Frances, 
 rightly interpreting the entreating look of Constantia: “ or 
 rather, come with us, for I am sure Mistress Cecil has much 
 to say to, and I have much to hear from, you: we will leave 
 Sir Robert and Sir Willmott to talk over the affairs of this 
 great nation; temporal matters must be attended to, you 
 know : and though ’’—she looked for a moment at Burrell, 
 whose countenance had not yet regained its usual suavity — 
 *“T am sorry to be the means of depriving Sir Willmott of 
 much necessary instruction —I have no doubt you will make 
 up the deficiency to him at some future time.” 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The soote season that bud and blome forth brings, 
 With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale, 
 Thesnightingale with fethers new she sings, 
 The turtle to her mate hath told the tale, 
 Somer is wih a for avery spray mo springs. 
 * * * 
 
 And thus I see among these pleasant things, 
 Eche care decay; and yet my sorrow springs. SuRREY. 
 
 Ir may be readily imagined that Burrell remained in a state 
 of extreme perplexity after the receipt of Dalton’s letter, and 
 the departure of Ben Israel. He saw there was now but one 
 course that could preserve him from destruction, and resolved 
 to pursue it: —to cajole or compel Sir Robert Cecil to pro- 
 cure the immediate fulfilment of the marriage contract between 
 himself and Constance. ‘This was his only hope, the sheet- 
 anchor to which he alone trusted ; he felt assured that, if the 
 Protector discovered his infamous seduction of the Jewess, 
 Zillah, he would step in, from a twofold motive, and prevent 
 his union: in that he esteemed both the Rabbi's wisdom and 
 his wealth, and was most unlikely to suffer one on whom his 
 favour had been bestowed so freely, to be injured and insulted 
 with impunity ; and next, inasmuch as he entertained a more 
 
126 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 than ordinary regard for Constance Cecil, the child of an 
 ancient friend, and the god-daughter of the Lady Claypole. 
 Of this regard he had, within a few weeks, given a striking 
 proof, in having selected Cecil Place above more splendid 
 mansions, and the companionship of its youthful mistress, in 
 preference to many more eager candidates for such an honour, 
 when, for certain weighty reasons, he deemed a temporary ab- 
 sence from the court essential to the comfort and prosperity 
 of the Lady Frances. 
 
 The friendship that had subsisted between the family of the 
 Protector and that of Sir Robert Cecil was, as we have intimated, 
 not of recent growth ; the Lady Cromwell and Lady Cecil had 
 been friends long before the husband of the former had been 
 called to take upon him the high and palmy state that links 
 his name so gloriously, so honourably — but, alas! in some 
 respects, also, so unhappily — with the history of his country. 
 When an humble and obscure individual at Ipswich, the 
 visits of the Lady Cecil were considered as condescensions, 
 upon her part, towards friends of a respectable, yet of a much 
 inferior, rank. Times had changed ; but he who was now 
 a king in all but the name, and far beyond ordinary kings in 
 the power to have his commands obeyed as widely as the winds 
 of heaven could convey them — remembered the feelings that 
 held sway in lowlier, yet, perhaps, in happier days; and, 
 although rarely a guest at Cecil Place, he continued a stanch 
 friend to the family, to whom he had, upon several occasions, 
 extended the simple hospitalities of Hampton Court. 
 
 Towards the Lady Constance, his sentiments of respect and 
 regard had been frequently and markedly expressed. When 
 he beheld the fading beauty of the mother reviving with added 
 graces and attraction in the fair form and expressive coun- 
 tenance of the daughter, it was with feelings of pride, unusual 
 to him, that he remembered his wife had been among the first 
 to cherish and estimate the promise which the youth had 
 given, and which the coming womanhood of Constance was 
 surely about to fulfil. 
 
 Moreover, two sons of Sir Robert had fought and died by 
 the side of the Protector, having been schooled in arms under 
 his own eye; and had there been no other motive for his in- 
 terference, he was not a man to have looked on the dead 
 features of his brave companions, and have felt no interest in 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 127 
 
 the relations who survived them. To the only remaining 
 scion of a brave and honourable race, Cromwell, therefore, had 
 many reasons for extending his protection and his regard. 
 Sir Robert, perhaps, he considered more as an instrument than 
 as a friend ; for Cromwell, like every other great statesman, 
 employed friends sometimes as tools, yet tools never as friends 
 —a distinction that rulers in all countries would do well to 
 observe. It is an old and a true saying, “ that a place showeth 
 the man ;” few, at that time, could look upon the Protector, 
 either in a moral or political point of view, without a blending 
 of astonishment and admiration at his sudden elevation and 
 extraordinary power; and, more especially, at his amazing 
 influence over all who came within the magic circle of which 
 he was the centre. Burrell of Burrell he regarded as a clever, 
 but a dangerous man ; and was not, perhaps, sorry to believe 
 that his union with so true a friend to the Commonwealth as 
 Constance Cecil would convert him from a doubtful adherent, 
 into a confirmed partisan, and gain over to his cause many of 
 the wavering, but powerful families of Kent and Sussex, with 
 whom he was connected. 
 
 Burrell, however, had succeeded in satisfying Cromwell 
 that the proposed union had the full consent and approbation, 
 not only of Sir Robert Cecil, but of his daughter. The pro- 
 tracted illness of Lady Cecil had much estranged Constance 
 from her friends; and, as the subject was never alluded to 
 in any of the letters that passed between her and her god- 
 mother, it was considered that the marriage was not alone 
 one of policy, but to which, if the heart of Constance were 
 not a party, her mind was by no means averse. Of the Pro- 
 tector’s views upon these several topics, Burrell was fully 
 aware ; and he dreaded the discovery, not only of his own 
 conduct, but of the feelings that existed towards him on the 
 part of his affianced bride; there were other topics that did. 
 not so readily occur to the mind of Burrell, but that would 
 have been of themselves sufficiently weighty to have confirmed 
 his worst fears for his own safety— the Protector’s stern love 
 of justice, and his especial loathing of that vice of which the 
 villain had been guilty. Had the Jew, Ben Israel, and the 
 maiden, Constance Cecil, been indifferent persons in his sight, 
 
 the double treachery of Burrell would have been requited upon 
 his head. 
 
128 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Next to Hugh Dalton, no man possessed so unbounded, 
 and, so apparently, unaccountable, an influence over Sir Robert 
 Cecil as Sir Willmott Burrell: he knew, as we have elsewhere 
 stated, many of his secrets, and shrewdly guessed at others of 
 more weighty import; while, with the ready sagacity of an 
 accomplished knave, he contrived to appear well acquainted 
 with matters of which he was altogether ignorant, but the ex- 
 istence of which he had abundant reasons for suspecting. The 
 enfeebled health and growing infirmities of the baronet ren- 
 dered him an easy prey to his wily acquaintance, who, driven 
 to his last resource, resolved upon adopting any course that 
 might save him from destruction, by inducing Sir Robert, not 
 only to sanction, but command an immediate marriage with 
 his daughter. 
 
 In commencing the conversation with Burrell, Sir Robert 
 peevishly complained of the annoyance to which he had been 
 subjected in receiving and accommodating the young friend of 
 Major Wellmore, although he abstained from the indulgence 
 of feelings similar to those he had exhibited in the presence of 
 his daughter. He then murmured bitterly of sleepless nights 
 — of restless days — of watchings and weariness — of hideous 
 dreams — of the toils, turmoils, and unfaithfulness of the 
 world — the usual theme of those who have done nothing to 
 merit its fidelity ; and, as Sir Willmott Burrell looked upon 
 him, he marvelled at the change that but a few weeks had 
 wrought in his appearance ; his mind seemed so enfeebled, 
 that he deemed it even more altered than his body. He was, 
 moreover, much astonished to find that he dwelt so little upon 
 his recent and most heavy loss; for the attachment between 
 Sir Robert Cecil and his wife had been remarkable at a time 
 when domestic happiness was even the court fashion. But 
 here Burrell was at fault ; he knew nothing of the position in 
 which Sir Robert at present stood with regard to Hugh Dalton, 
 and was therefore ignorant of the positive peril by which he 
 was encompassed: a peril so great and so immediate, as to 
 render him, in a degree, insensible to the affliction under 
 which he had so recently and so painfully laboured. Often, 
 in his dreary night watches, when sleep set no seal upon his 
 aching lids, or when they closed for a little over the strained 
 and worn eyeballs, and then opened in terror at frightful 
 images that haunted his fevered fancy — often, at such times 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 129 
 
 had he endeavoured to offer up a thanksgiving, that she was 
 gone from the wrath, the avenging horrors — the approach of 
 which he dreaded a thousand times more than death. 
 
 The application that had been made to the Protector for 
 Dalton’s pardon, had been treated as he expected ; and his 
 only chance of accomplishing the object of the Buccaneer, 
 now rested on the possibility of his gaining over certain per- 
 sons of the court, to exert their influence with Cromwell in 
 the outlaw’s behalf. Sir Robert’s personal interest did not 
 extend far, but the influence of his gold did. The Protector 
 could free himself from outward sinners, but he could not rid 
 himself of the more smooth, and consequently more danger- 
 ous, villains, generated by the peculiar forms and habits of 
 the times. To some of these, Sir Robert had secretly offered 
 temptation in every way: the stake was large, the danger 
 certain ; for he well knew the inflexibility of Dalton’s cha- 
 racter, and that he would not fail to perform that upon which 
 he had resolved. It had occurred to him, more than once, to 
 consult Burrell on the subject ; but a dread of his future son- 
 in-law, for which he could not account, had hitherto prevented 
 his naming to him the Buccaneer’s desire to be a legalised 
 commander. His anxiety to carry his point now, however, 
 overcame his timidity, and he resolved to speak to him on the 
 matter, at the very time the knight had decided on addressing 
 the baronet — under equal weighty circumstances — on the 
 subject of his marriage. Unfortunately for Sir Robert Cecil, 
 he was the first to unfold his plan; and thus gave the wily 
 Burrell another and a firmer hold than he had yet possessed. 
 After repinings over his health, and murmurs against man- 
 kind, had somewhat lessened that secret and consuming misery 
 that enveloped him as with a winding sheet, he inquired if Bur- 
 rell had lately encountered aman they must both remember, — 
 Hugh Dalton, —a bold, but reckless fellow, who had played 
 cavalier, buccaneer, and a thousand other characters in turn — 
 all characters, in fact, save that of a coward. Burrell replied 
 in the negative; but confessed he knew the man had been 
 upon the coast; cunningly adding, that since his affections had 
 been so entirely fixed upon Constantia, he had given up every 
 connection, every idea, that might hereafter draw him from a 
 home where all blessings would be united. 
 
 Sir Robert was never insensible to his daughter’s praise, 
 
 K 
 
130 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 but it did not prevent his continuing the subject. He stated 
 that Dalton was a clever, experienced seaman ; — that his 
 knowledge of foreign seas and foreign affairs in general might 
 be made most useful to government, if government would 
 avail itself of such advantages ; — that the Buccaneer was a 
 bitter thorn in the side of the Protector, as he had been known 
 to convey malcontents to England, as well as to ship them 
 off; — that his Fire-fly might be termed a meteor of the 
 waters, now here, now there, shining like a blazing star — 
 stealing like a moon-beam — in the Texel, in the Thames, in 
 the Baltic, or the Black Sea — as occasion required ; every- 
 where when mischief was doing, nowhere when it was to be 
 remedied : — that all this evil might be avoided by giving 
 Dalton a pardon and the command of a Commonwealth ship ; 
 that he would accept, indeed he (Sir Robert) was sure that he 
 desired, such an employment, and that it would be a grievous 
 thing for the state if an arrangement could not be made to 
 purchase his future services and his good conduct at so small 
 a price. 
 
 '* Burrell was astonished, but saw clearly enough that there 
 must be some covert motive for such deep and unaccountable 
 anxiety: he dexterously set forth the various arguments that 
 might be urged by government against a man of Dalton’s 
 character ; the ill example, the dangerous precedent of one so 
 circumstanced taking his place amongst honourable men, and 
 so forth ; mooting a variety of points, in order that he might 
 judge of Sir Robert’s object by his manner of answering ob- 
 jections. 
 
 The baronet was caught in the toils ; he betrayed so much 
 anxiety, so much panting eagerness in the Buccaneer’s behalf, as 
 to satisfy Burrell that hardly any thing less than a cause of life 
 and death could create such intense earnestness on such a subject 
 in a person who seemed balancing between this world and the 
 next. Various surmises and conjectures, which he had heard in 
 former times, strengthened the opinion. Having assured him- 
 self upon this point, he ventured upon one of those daring 
 falsehoods that had hitherto been the principal means of his 
 success : he assured the baronet, in the most solemn manner, 
 that he had a secret way, one which he could not explain, but 
 it was a species of promise for service performed, of winning 
 from Cromwell the desired pardon and appointment ; — that 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 131 
 
 he had avoided asking such a favour until something particular 
 occurred, something of deep value and importance ; —that he 
 was willing to sacrifice his own prospects to oblige his friend ; 
 and the only favour he asked in return was one that, though 
 above all price in his estimation, could be easily bestowed by 
 Sir Robert Cecil — the immediate gift of his daughter’s hand. 
 He did not wish her feelings to be wounded by a public cere- 
 mony so shortly after the loss they had all sustained ; nay, he 
 would prefer receiving her from her father in the ruined but 
 beautiful little chapel that belonged to the house: all he re- 
 quested, all he entreated, was that the marriage should be 
 speedy. Then, with the power of one deeply skilled in deceit- 
 fulness, he wound up the whole by tender allusions to the 
 weakness, the precariousness of Sir Robert’s health, and the 
 despair he might experience on his death-bed, if he expired 
 with the knowledge that his beloved, and only child, had no 
 earthly protector. 
 
 Sir Robert remembered his promise to his wife, that he 
 would never urge his daughter’s marriage with Burrell ; and 
 although he avoided noticing this as an apology to the knight, 
 yet he firmly stated his dislike to press Constantia on the sub- 
 ject ; and earnestly inquired if there were no other way by 
 which he could show his gratitude than by interfering in the 
 matter, at all events, until the year of mourning for Lady 
 Cecil had expired. 
 
 Burrell feigned astonishment at this reply : the hand of 
 Mistress Cecil, he said, had long been betrothed to him ; he 
 confessed that he did not think Sir Robert would for a moment 
 have hesitated to comply with his most reasonable request : he 
 urged various motives for hastening the union, and finally en- 
 treated the baronet’s permission to address his daughter her- 
 self on the subject. To this Sir Robert offered no opposition ; 
 he was ignorant of the strength of Constantia’s feelings with 
 regard to Burrell. She had been affianced to him in her early 
 girlhood, when much too young to have an opinion on the 
 matter ; and as the union had never been pressed upon her, 
 she had not been called upon to state any objections to it. 
 Her poor mother had seen, with the clearness of a mother’s 
 love, that the marriage would never tend to her child’s happi- 
 ness: she had observed both characters narrowy, and was 
 perfectly convinced of Burrell’s worthlessness. She could 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE BUCCANEER,. 
 
 not impress this conviction on Sir Robert’s mind; but in her 
 last moments she extorted from him the promise that he would 
 never urge the union. This was, as we have seen, all she 
 could obtain ; and Sir Robert was content to “keep the word 
 of promise to the ear,”’ without reference to the sense. 
 
 Burrell seemed perfectly satisfied with the permission he 
 had obtained, and left Sir Robert in a library, expressing his 
 determination to speak to Mistress Cecil on the subject that 
 evening. 
 
 «¢ And he will make her a very affectionate husband,” mused 
 Sir Robert, after his departure: ‘* how can he do otherwise P 
 But I do not interfere in it; I know she has no other attach- 
 ment ; and my Constantia’s sense of duty will oblige her to 
 love her husband. Oh, yes, she will be happy — happy — 
 happy ” — he said, as if the repetition of the word could give 
 birth to the feeling. 
 
 It was the clear and balmy twilight; the sun had left the 
 west in glory, and the delicious breeze of evening was mingling 
 among the young leaves of the shrubs and trees ; all appeared 
 in contentment and at peace, when the Lady Frances Crom- 
 well and Constance sat together upon a mossy bank, but a few 
 yards distant from the house, yet so overshadowed by vener- 
 able trees, that not a turret nor a vestige of the building was 
 to be seen. ‘The spot they had chosen for their resting-place 
 was known as “the Fairy Ring: ” it was a circular mound, 
 girdled by evergreens, which, in their turn, were belted by 
 forest-trees, that spread in an opposite direction to the 
 house, into what was called the Ash Copse. The dark green 
 of our winter shrub, the spotted laurustinus, was relieved by 
 the golden tassels of the laburnum, just opening into bloom ; 
 the hawthorn’ contended for beauty and perfume with the 
 delicate blossoms of the purple lilac; while its modest sister, 
 the white, sent forth her pale green leaves, and delicate buds, 
 over a bed of double violets ;: — 
 
 *¢ Where all the earth beneath — the heaven above, 
 Teem’d with the earliest spring of joyous youth, 
 Sunshine, and flowers, and vague, and virgin love.” 
 
 The quiet and serenity of the evening communicated its 
 tone and character to the buoyant mind of Lady Frances 
 Cromwell. 
 
 “Tam sober as the twilight, Constance, because I have 
 
' THE BUCCANEER, 133 
 
 been thinking of sober matters. Alas! alas! we have all our 
 twilights. — Youth’s twilight is soft and perfumed as that 
 which hovers over us, — tranquil — but it is the tranquillity 
 of hope. The twilight of middle life is, methinks, nearly 
 allied to that of an autumn evening, —doubts hover and come 
 upon us as the falling leaves; the wind whistles like the 
 wailing of departing days ; there is but little tranquillity then, 
 because the hope that is left is enough to agitate by its vain © 
 dreams, but not to soothe. What shall I say of the twilight 
 of age? I donot like to think of it — its tranquillity ap- 
 pears to me so closely linked with despair.’ 
 
 ** No, Frances, not despair: it is only the moody and ab- 
 stracted silence of guilt that claims such awful kindred. I 
 think age more beautiful — more hope-giving, than youth ; 
 though its beauty is far different, and its hope sublime, in- 
 stead of joyous. Ask the most prosperous — the most for- 
 tunate man in existence — one on whom the eyes of the whole 
 world are turned in admiration and its attendant, envy — ask 
 such a one if he would live over his life again, and he will 
 answer, * No!’ ” 
 
 “¢ This speaks badly for the happiness of life,” said Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 “I do not think it does,” replied Constantia ; ‘ every evil 
 has either a remedy or an anodyne: but, unfortunately, we 
 are more prone to dwell upon evils than upon blessings — yet 
 this should make us less satisfied with earth, as we draw nearer 
 heaven.” 
 
 ** Constance, are you a philosopher ? ” 
 
 ““No; for I am a woman! and what is called philosophy 
 is sadly at war with both our mental and our bodily endow- 
 ments. I have heard there are lands in which certain persons 
 think they confer honour upon our sex, by mixing us more up 
 with the bustle and turmoil of the world — methinks they 
 would strangely pervert our natures.” 
 
 _ “J agree with you, Constance: let men have all the pub- 
 lic, and women all the private business of life to manage, and 
 my word on 't, the balance of power is with us. Our tongues 
 have enough to do at home, without chattering in high places; 
 and as to our arms! mine could ill wield battle-axe or broad- 
 sword. JI suppose these people of whom you speak would 
 invent a new sex to look after domestic matters, while we 
 k 3 
 
134 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 assist in the broil and the battle! We shall lose our infiu- 
 ence, depend on’t, the moment we are taken out of our 
 sphere — we shall lose caste as women, and be treated with 
 contempt as men. What J like, Constance, is to have my 
 own dear little way, by my own pretty little manceuvres —be- 
 hind the bush — thrust another into the breach, and then, if 
 evil arise, the man gets the blame, while I retreat in safety.” 
 
 “Then the Lady Frances would take one of the other sex 
 as a shield ?” 
 
 “Yes, Constance ; they would do as well to be shot at as 
 ourselves, you know.” 
 
 «* Ah, Frances, you are no true woman, unless, if there were 
 real danger, you would thrust yourself between it and the life a 
 thousand times more precious than your own. Suppose, for 
 instance, that sudden danger menaced the life of ¢ 
 
 “Hush, dear Constantia; the idea of such an event is 
 enough. It is easier to sacrifice life when the sacrifice is 
 demanded by affection, than to resign one selfish indulgence.” 
 
 “Ah! because, in the first case, we gratify ourselves; in 
 the second, others.” 
 
 “You are a mental chemist, Constance: but here comes 
 the maid called Barbara, with hoods and cardinals, signifying 
 that the dew is falling, though we feel it not.” 
 
 “I sought you, mistress,” said Barbara, “all over the 
 house, for Sir Willmott Burrell advised me that he wished to 
 speak with you in the oak parlour, if it so please you, or in 
 the library ; my honoured master was present.” 
 
 “Did my father too want me? ” 
 
 *“ No, madam ; he said he would go to his chamber, for a 
 little, before the evening meal.” 
 
 The young ladies, followed by Barbara, entered the house, 
 and, as Frances Cromwell pressed Constantia’s hand, she felt it 
 clammy and chilling cold: she would have spoken, but, while 
 arranging the necessary words, her friend, with a more than 
 usually dignified deportment, entered the parlour. Itwasa dark, 
 dim room, the frettings and ornaments of black carved oak. 
 
 * Tell Sir Willmott Burrell I await him here,” she said to 
 Barbara, while passing the threshold. 
 
 Frances Cromwell, over whose mind a feeling of terror was 
 imperceptibly stealing, would have remained, but Constance 
 intimated that she would receive Burrell alone. 
 
 
 
qr 
 
 THE BUCCANEER. 13 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I am sworn brother now 
 To grim Necessity ; and he andI 
 Will keep a league till death. SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 
 
 ** My blood seems to curdle in my veins,” murmured Con- 
 stance, as she rubbed the palm of one hand against the back of 
 the other ; ‘‘ my very blood seems to curdle in my veins, and 
 a shadow, as of the vampire’s wing, is over me. But why is 
 this? Is God less present with me here than beneath the 
 heavenly atmosphere I have just now breathed?” And then 
 she uttered a few words of prayer, so earnestly, that Burrell 
 had entered the room before she was aware of his presence. 
 
 ** You are not well,”’ he observed, seating himself in a chair 
 beside that into which she had sunk: ‘“ I hope I do not dis~ 
 turb you unpleasantly. You keep watch too anxiously by your 
 father’s couch.” 
 
 “* I am better now,” she replied ; “ but that of which you 
 speak, my thought of the living and the dead, although it 
 may have somewhat touched my health, has been my happiest 
 duty.” 
 
 * Perhaps you would rather hear what I have to say to- 
 morrow,” he observed, a momentary feeling of sympathy 
 forcing itself upon his mind, as he noticed her white lip, and 
 still whiter cheek. 
 
 “ I pray you, sir,” she replied proudly, “ to proceed: I am 
 as ready now as I can be on the morrow to listen to aught it 
 may be your pleasure to advance. Your observations, if it 
 please you, now.” 
 
 *< I have no ‘ observations’ to offer, Mistress Cecil, — may 
 I say Constance? for so I used to call you in the early days 
 of our betrothment, — though I have much to request. I 
 confess, I have felt hurt, and aggrieved, at the small show of 
 courtesy you have vouchsafed me ; but, as I believe that sor- 
 row, and an habitual reserve, have wrought this manner, I do 
 not blame, though I regret it deeply. The time, I hope, fair 
 lady, is not far distant when you will ratify my claim to your 
 
 K 4 
 
136 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 hand ; then the devotedness of my future life, — the entireness 
 of my attachment, — the depth of my love + 
 
 ‘© Sir Willmott Burrell,” interrupted Constantia, “ the grass 
 upon my mother’s grave is not yet green ; and would you talk 
 of love ?” 
 
 For a moment the knight was silent. 
 
 “© Reasons -— reasons that I will explain hereafter, make me 
 exceedingly desire that the contract should be immediately 
 fulfilled. Nay, lady, do not start, and shudder,” he con- 
 tinued, taking her hand, that hung listlessly, and without 
 motion, within his grasp; ‘even should you not love as 
 I do, affection will make you all mine own, within a little 
 time.” 
 
 “© Believe it not, Sir Willmott,” said Constantia, at length 
 disengaging her hand ; “ I can never love you.” 
 
 Men have been accustomed, in all ages, to hear simple 
 truths, of such a description, declared in so simple a manner. 
 Ladies rant, and protest that they abhor and abominate, — or 
 they weep, and shriek, and call the gentleman odious, or 
 horrid, cr some such gentle name ; which the said gentleman 
 perfectly understands to mean — any thing he pleases; but 
 Constantia’s perfect truth, the plain earnestness of that brief 
 sentence, carried conviction with it; and the handsome Bur- 
 rell paced three or four times the length of the oak parlour, be- 
 fore he could sufficiently bring his mortified feelings under 
 necessary subjection: he then resumed his seat. 
 
 ‘J think otherwise; a woman can but require devoted 
 affection, constant watchfulness, and tender solicitude. All, 
 all this will be yours. Besides, a daughter of the house of 
 Cecil would not break faith. I could command your hand — 
 I only solicit it.” 
 
 ** Sir Willmott, you well know, that when the unhappy 
 contract was entered into, I was of tender age ; too young, in- 
 deed, to comprehend its nature. Ought you in honour to 
 urge it on me, when I frankly tell you by word of mouth, what 
 my demeanour must have informed you long, long since, that 
 — I can never love you ?” 
 
 ** You have said it once, lady ; and the sentence cannot be 
 pleasant to the ears of your affianced husband. The turmoils 
 of the times, and the service I so largely owed to the Pro- 
 tector, have called me much from home; and though my 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 137 
 heart lingered here, I was forced away by duty to the state : 
 surely you would not love me less because it was rigidly per- 
 formed ?” 
 
 ** You would not wish me your wife,” said Constance, in 
 a faltering tone, resolving to make trial of Sir Willmott’s 
 generosity, while her strength seemed to rise with her honest 
 purpose, — “ you would not wish me your wife ; for not only 
 do I not love you, but — I love — another.” 
 
 Now, Sir Willmott Burrell did not start from his chair, nor 
 did he pace up and down the polished floor, — he fixed his 
 eyes upon Constantia, as if he would have read within her 
 soul who she loved ; but the expression gradually changed, 
 from a deep and perilous curiosity, to one of firm resolve, 
 until, drawing his breath between his set teeth, he said, slowly 
 and deliberately, but in a restrained tone, as if the voice came 
 from the fiend within him, — 
 
 “<I am sorry for it, Constantia Cecil ; for it cannot prevent 
 your being mine — mine — and, by the God that hears me, 
 mine only, and for ever !” 
 
 Constantia rose slowly from her seat, and said, in a firm 
 voice, ** I did not come here to suffer insult, sir.” 
 
 She walked across the room with so dignified a step, that 
 she had nearly reached the door, before Burrell acquired sufii- 
 cient courage to stay her departure. He laid his hand on her 
 arm as she touched the lock, but she shook it off as cooily, yet 
 as firmly, as the apostle threw from him the viper into the 
 flames at Melita. Burrell, however, had too much at stake 
 tamely to relinquish his purpose. He spoke in a constrained 
 voice, and said, — : 
 
 ** I entreat you to remain; if it be not for your own good, 
 it will be for your father’s that you do so.” 
 
 The mention of her father’s name at once commanded ker 
 attention. She desired Burrell to speak on ; without, however, 
 resuming her seat. He paused for so considerable a time that 
 she at length observed, — 
 
 “I wait, Sir Willmott, and will wait patiently, if it be 
 necessary : but methinks your silence now is as uncourteous 
 as your speech a brief while since.” 
 
 “ Tt is because I feel for you, Mistress Cecil, — feel for you 
 acutely, that I thus hesitate. I would spare you the pain I 
 know my words must inflict ; and therefore, once more, calmly, 
 
138 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 but energetically, implore you to consent to the immediate ful. 
 filment of the contract existing between us.” 
 
 “ This is trifling, sir. I desire that you suffer me to pass 
 forth. I might have known you had nothing to say that con- 
 cerned my father ; and, as to myself, if you could be mean 
 enough, under such circumstances, to accept my hand, I can- 
 not be base enough to give it.” 
 
 “A fine sentence!’’ exclaimed Burrell, sneeringly. “ I 
 make bold to tell you, lady, I care not so much as you may 
 imagine for your affections, which I know you have sufficient 
 principle to recall, and bestow upon the possessor of that fair 
 hand, whoever he may be. Nay, look not so wrathful, for I 
 know that which would make your proud look quail, and the 
 heiress of Cecil rejoice that she could yet become the wife of 
 Sir Willmott Burrell !” 
 
 Constantia trembled. She had never before listened to 
 such language ; and she felt there must be something appall- 
 ing in the motive that could give it utterance. Although her 
 hand rested on the massive lock of the door, she had not 
 power to turn the handle. If looks could wither, the Master 
 of Burrell would have shrunk before her gaze; yet he bore 
 her indignant frown with more audacity than he could have 
 believed he possessed. 
 
 ** If your communication concerns my father, speak, sir ; if 
 not,” — she paused, and he took up the sentence — 
 
 ‘“* If not, Constantia casts me off for ever! Yet,’ he added, 
 in a tone of insulting pity, ‘‘ I would spare your feelings, for 
 you have been a most affectionate child.” 
 
 “* Sir,” interrupted Constance, ‘‘ I hope I am too true a 
 daughter to hear those taunts with patience: your insinu- 
 ations I despise, and I defy you to utter an accusation against 
 him that could summon a tint of crimson to my cheek!” 
 
 ** But I could speak that which would make the red cheek 
 pale, lady — what think you of — of — of murpER?”’ 
 
 Constantia’s eye gleamed for a moment, like a meteor, and 
 then it became fixed and faded ; her form assumed the rigidity 
 of marble, and at each respiration her lips fell more and more 
 apart. The villain became alarmed, and, taking her hand, 
 would have led her to a seat; but his touch recalled her to 
 herself: she darted from him to the centre of the room, and 
 there, her arm extended, her fine head thrown back, every 
 
HE BUCCANEER. 139 
 
 feature, as it were, bursting with indignation, she looked like 
 a youthful priestess denouncing vengeance on a sinful world.” 
 
 *< If I could curse,” she said, “ you should feel it heavily ; 
 but the evil within you will do its own work, and my soul be 
 saved from sin. Away! away! And you thought to fright 
 me with that horrid sound! My dear, dear father !” 
 
 * T declare before Heaven,” interrupted Burrell, “ it is to 
 save him I speak! The damning proofs of his guilt are within 
 my hold. If you perform the contract, neither tortures nor 
 death shall wring them from me; if you do not — mark me 
 — I will be revenged !” 
 
 “« Silly, wicked that I was,” exclaimed Constance, “ not to 
 command you before him instantly, that the desperate lie 
 might be sent back into your throat, and choke you with its 
 
 venom! Come with me to my father !— Ah, foul coward ! 
 you shrink, but you shall not escape !— To my father in- 
 stantly !” 
 
 Burrell would have restrained her, but it was impossible. 
 Finding that he did not move, she was rushing past him, when 
 he arrested her progress for an instant, saying, — 
 
 “Since you will thus dare the destruction of your only 
 parent, it is fitting you know of whose murder he is accused.” 
 He drew nearer to her, so near that she felt his hateful breath 
 upon her cheek, as, like the serpent in the garden of Eden, he 
 distilled the deadly poison into her ear. A slight convulsion, 
 succeeded by an awful paleness, passed over her countenance ; 
 but, rallying, she darted on him another look of defiance and 
 scorn, and flew to her father’s chamber. 
 
 The old man had been sleeping, but awoke as she entered, 
 and probably refreshed by the short repose he had enjoyed, 
 stretched forward his arms to his daughter with an expression 
 of confiding fondness, which, in the then state of Constantia’s 
 feelings, but added to the agony she endured. She could not 
 resist the mute appeal ; falling on her knees, she buried her 
 face amid the drapery of his robe. In this posture she con- 
 tinued for a few minutes: her lips uttered no word, but her 
 bosom heaved as if in mortal struggle, and her hard breathings 
 were almost groans. At length, still kneeling, she raised her 
 head, her hands clasped, her swollen but tearless eyes fixed 
 upon the pale, anxious, and alarmed countenance of her 
 parent. He would have spoken, but she raised her finger in 
 
140 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 token that she entreated silence; a moment afterwards she 
 addressed him in broken and disjointed sentences. 
 
 “1 can hardly give it utterance — and when I think upon 
 it, I know not why I should intrude so vile a falsehood on 
 your ear, my father ; but Burrell seemed so real, so fearfully 
 real in what he said, that I tremble still, and my voice comes 
 heavily to my lips.” She paused for breath, and pressed her 
 clasped hands on her bosom. 
 
 Sir Robert, imagining that she alluded to her marriage, 
 which he knew Burrell must have been urging upon her, 
 replied, — 
 
 “My dearest child knows that I have not pressed her 
 union ; but Sir Willmott is so anxious — so attached — and, 
 I must say, that my grey hairs would go peacefully to the 
 grave were I to see her his wife. I am almost inclined to 
 think my Constance capricious and unjust upon this point ; 
 but I am sure her own good sense, her regard for her 
 father 4 
 
 ‘© Merciful powers !” interrupted Constance, wildly ; ‘‘ and 
 is it really possible that you knew of his proposal? Ay, ay, 
 you might have known that, but you could not know the 
 awful, the horrid threat he held out to me, if I did not comply 
 with his demand — ay, demand for an immediate union ?- 
 
 “It was very imprudent, very useless, in fact,” said the 
 baronet, peevishly, his mind reverting to the proposals of the 
 Buccaneer, which he believed Burrell had communicated to 
 Constantia ; “ very absurd to trouble you with the knowledge 
 he possesses of my affairs — that is strange wooing — but 
 good will arise from it, for you will now, knowing the great, ° 
 the overpowering motive that I have for seeing your union 
 accomplished 
 
 The baronet’s sentence remained unfinished, for the look 
 and manner of his daughter terrified him. She had risen 
 from her knees, and stood, her eyelids straining from her 
 glaring eyes, that were fixed upon her father, while her 
 hands were extended, as if to shut out the figure upon which 
 she still gazed, 
 
 “Tt is all madness — moon-struck madness,” she exclaimed, 
 and her arms dropped at either side as she spoke ; “‘ some 
 eruel witchery surrounds me ; but I will speak and break the 
 spell, Father, you are not a murderer? you did not mur- 
 
 
 
 
 
 ) 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 141 
 
 
 
 der ” and she, too, whispered a name, as if it were one 
 that the breath of heaven should not bear. 
 
 The baronet sprang from his seat, as if a musket ball had 
 entered his heart. 
 
 “°T is false !”’ he exclaimed ; “ there is no blood upon my 
 hand — look at it —look at it! Burrell has no proofs — 
 unless that villain Dalton has betrayed me,” he added, in a 
 lower tone ; “ but I did not the act, the blood is on his head, 
 and not on mine. Constance, my child, the only thing on 
 earth now that can love me, do not curse — do not spurn me. 
 I ask not your sacrifice, that I may be saved ; — but do not 
 curse me — do not curse your father.” 
 
 The haughty baronet fell, humbled to the dust, at his 
 daughter’s feet, clasping her knees in awful emotion, but 
 daring not to look upon the face of his own child. 
 
 It would be as vain to attempt, as it would be impossible to 
 analyse, the feelings of that high-souled woman during mo- 
 ments of such intense misery. She neither spoke nor wept ; 
 nor did she assist her father, by any effort, to arise ; but, 
 without a sentence or a word, folding her mourning robe 
 around her, she glided like a ghost forth from the chamber. 
 When she returned, her step had lost its elasticity, and her 
 eye its light ; she moved as if in a heavy atmosphere, and her 
 father did not dare to look upon her, as she seated herself by 
 the chair he had resumed. 
 
 She took his hand, and put it, but did not press it, to her 
 lips : he thought he felt a tear drop upon his burning fingers ; 
 but the long hair that fell over her brow concealed her face. 
 He was the first to break the dreadful and oppressive stillness, 
 
 “1 would speak with Burrell: there must have been 
 treachery. Of himself, believe me, he knew nothing: but I 
 was so taken by surprise, that I did not consider nn 
 
 “* Stop, sir, I entreat you,” interrupted Constance. “ There 
 is now no motive for consideration. I have just seen, and 
 promised to be the wife of Sir Willmott Burrell within this 
 week — and three of its days are already past: — his silence, 
 and your honour are secured.” 
 
 The unhappy man was powerless and subdued ; he hid his 
 face amid the pillows of the chair, and wept bitterly. Con- 
 stance walked to the window: the beams of the silver moon 
 dwelt with more than usual brightness on the tops and around 
 
 
 
142 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 the foliage of the trees that encircled the Fairy Ring, where, 
 but an hour before, her footsteps had lingered with her friend. 
 All around seemed buried in the most profound stillness ; not 
 the bay of a dog, nor the hum of an insect, disturbed the re- 
 pose that slept on every plant and flower, and covered the 
 earth as with a garment. Suddenly a nightingale flew past 
 the window, and resting its breast on the bough of an old 
 thorn, poured forth a delicious strain of melody. Constance 
 leaned her throbbing forehead against the cold stained-glass, 
 and the tenderness of the wild bird’s untaught music pene- 
 trated her soul ; large tears flowed down her cheeks, and her 
 seared heart was relieved, for a little, of its overwhelming 
 horrors. She then returned to her father’s side ; and again 
 taking his hand in hers, said, in a calmer voice, 
 
 “* Father, we have both need of consolation — let us read 
 and pray together.” 
 
 ‘It is too late to attempt deceiving you longer, Constance ; 
 yet I would fain explain = 
 
 “ Not now, father. We will pray.” 
 
 ‘And you will be happy; or if not, you will not curse 
 him who has wrought your misery ? 
 
 ** J have too much need of blessing. Bless, bless you, my_ 
 father !— Let us now seek consolation where only it is to be 
 found.” 
 
 ** But may I not speak with Burrell? I want to know 
 
 “Father! I entreat you, peace. It is now useless; the 
 die is cast — for me — for us — in this world — useless all, 
 except the aid that, under any trials, we can ask and receive 
 from Heaven.” 
 
 “* My child, call me your dear father, as you were wont ; 
 and let your soft lips press upon my hand as there were fond- 
 ness in them. You said you would not curse me, Constance.” 
 
 “* Bless, bless you, my dear father!” She kissed his hand ; 
 and having lighted the chamber lamp, read one of the peni- 
 tential psalms of the King of Israel, when sin, and the wretch- 
 edness that follows sin, became too heavy for him to bear. 
 
 ** And now let us pray,” said Constantia, conceiving that 
 her father’s mind was more composed ; “ let us offer up peti- 
 tions to the source of all mercy and forgiveness.” 
 
 “T cannot pray,” he said; ‘‘ my lips may move, but my 
 heart is hardened.” 
 
 
 
 93 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 143 
 
 *€ We will learn of Him who softened the stony rock, that 
 the children of promise might taste of the living waters in a 
 strange land.” 
 
 And her earnest and beautiful prayer floated to the Al- 
 mighty’s throne, from that dull and heavy chamber, a record 
 of the faithful and self-sacrificing spirit whose purest earthly 
 temple is a woman’s heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Yet, spite of ali that Nature did’ 
 To make his uncouth form forbid, » 
 
 This creature dared to love. 
 * * * * 
 
 But virtue can itself advance 
 To what the favourite fools of chance 
 By fortune seem design’d. PARNELL. . 
 
 “Ts your sweet lady out yet, pretty Barbara?” inquired 
 Robin Hays of Barbara Iverk, as he met her in the flower- 
 garden of Cecil Place, when it was nearly midday. 
 
 «© My poor lady is, I am sure, very ill; or, what is still 
 worse, ill at ease,’ replied the maiden. ‘‘ She has not been in 
 bed all night, I know, for the couch was undisturbed this 
 morning, so I just came here to gather her some flowers: 
 fresh flowers must always do one good, and I think I never 
 saw so many in bloom so early.” 
 
 ** Barbara, did you ever hear tell of a country they call the 
 East ?” 
 
 * A country!” repeated Barbara, whose knowledge of geo- 
 graphy was somewhat more extensive than that of Robin, 
 although she had not travelled so much, “ I believe there are 
 many countries in the Kast.” 
 
 “* Well, I dare say there may be, Mistress Barbara: you 
 are going to chop scholarship with me; but yet, I suppose, 
 you do not know that they have in that country a new way of 
 making love. It is not new to them, though ** i new to 
 us. 
 
 “© Oh, dear Robin! what is it 2” 
 
144 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “‘ Why, suppose they wished you, a young pretty maiden 
 as you are, to understand that I, a small deformed dragon, 
 regarded you, only a little, like the beginning of love, they 
 would —”’ Robin stooped as he spoke, and plucked a rose-bud 
 that had anticipated summer — “they would give you this 
 bud. But, suppose they wanted you to believe I loved you very 
 much indeed, they would choose you out a full-blown rose. 
 Barbara, I cannot find a full-blown rose ; but I do not love 
 you the less for that.” | 
 
 “* Give me the bud, Robin, whether or no; it is the first of 
 the season : — my lady will be delighted with it — if, indeed, 
 any thing can delight her !” 
 
 ‘“T will give it you to keep; not to give away, even to 
 your lady. Ah, Barbara! if I had any thing worth giving, 
 you would not refuse it.’’ 
 
 «* And can any thing be better worth giving, or having, than 
 sweet flowers?” said the simple girl. ‘‘ Only it pains me to 
 pull them—they die so soon—and then, every leaf that falls 
 away from them, looks like a reproach !” 
 
 “Should you be sorry if I were to die one of these days, 
 Barbara,” inquired the Ranger, ‘like one of those flowers?” 
 
 ‘“‘ Sorry ! have I ever appeared ungrateful, Robin? When 
 first I came here, you used to be so kind me: — indeed, you 
 are always kind — only I fear lately you are displeased with 
 me about something or other. You have avoided me — are 
 you angry, Robin?” 
 
 “Indeed I am not; nor do I forget how often you have 
 driven away the ‘ shadows’ that used to come over me.” 
 
 ** And do you—I mean, do you esteem me as much as 
 ever?” . 
 
 Robin looked earnestly into her face, and then taking her 
 hand, gently replied : — 
 
 “IT do esteem you, as you term it, more than ever; but I 
 also love you. When a little helpless thing, I took you from 
 your father’s arms: I loved you then as a parent would love 
 a child. When Lady Cecil took you under her care, and I saw 
 you but seldom, my heart leaned towards the daughter of my 
 best friend with a brother’s love. And when, as I have just 
 said, the sunlight of your smile, and the gentleness of your 
 young girlish voice, dispelled much melancholy from my 
 mind, I thought—— no matter what. But now the case is 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 145 
 
 altered — you see in me a mere lump, a deformed creature, a 
 being unseemly to look upon, a wretch i 
 
 “ Robin Hays, you wrong yourself,” interrupted Barbara ; 
 “I do not see you thus, nor think you thus. The raven is 
 not a beautiful bird, nor hath it a sweet voice, yet it was 
 welcomed and beloved of the prophet Elijah.” 
 
 “So it was, Barbara; but why ? — because it was useful 
 to him in his hour of need. Think you that, in the time of his 
 triumph and prosperity, he would have taken it to his bosom, 
 as if it had been a dove?” 
 
 “‘ T do not see why he should not,” she said: ‘God is so good, 
 that he never takes away one beauty without bestowing another ; 
 and the raven’s glossy wing might be, to some, even more 
 beautiful than the purple plumage of the dove: at all events, 
 so excellent a man would not be chained by mere eye-beauty, 
 which, after all, passeth quickly. Though I think it was 
 very uncourteous of Mr. Fleetword to say, in my hearing, 
 Robin, that the time would come when Mistress Constance 
 would be as plain-favoured as old Dame Compton, whose 
 countenance looks like the worm-eaten cover of Solomon 
 Grundy’s Bible.” 
 
 “Ah, Barbara! you are a good girl: but suppose I was as 
 rich as I ought to be before thinking of marrying — and sup- 
 posing you came to the knowledge of your father, and he 
 agreed — and supposing Mistress Cecil did not say nay — 
 supposing all this FY, 
 
 Robin paused, and Barbara, with her eyes fixed on the 
 ground, commenced pulling to pieces the rose-bud he had 
 given her. | 
 
 ** Supposing all this, Barbara 
 
 ** Well, Robin?” 
 
 ** Do you think, Barbara, you would then — marry me ?” 
 
 “I never thought of marriage, seeing that I am too young, 
 and, withal, too inexperienced; but there is one thing, 
 Robin i 
 
 *< 1 knew it,” interrupted the Ranger, in one of his sudden 
 bursts of bitterness ; “ I might easily have known it— Beauty 
 and ugliness ! — Fool! fool! to imagine that a girl could look 
 on me without loathing! 'There—go to your mistress, go to 
 your mistress, and make gay sport of Robin Hays!” 
 
 The soft eyes of Barbara filled with tears; she made no 
 
 L 
 
 
 
 
 
 aie 
 
 
 
 
 
146 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 reply, but prosecuted her attack on the rose-bud sv vigorously, 
 that nought but the stem remained in her fingers. 
 
 «* You need not have torn that rose to bits before my face! 
 Ay, trample on its leaves as you do on my heart! — Why do 
 you not go to your mistress ?” 
 
 “You are very wayward, Robin; one time smooth, at 
 other times, and without cause, rugged as a path through a 
 thorny common : I can only pray that the Lord may teach you 
 better than to misinterpret my words, and mock a poor girl 
 who never entertained a thought to your disadvantage.” 
 
 She could say no more, for the large round tears forced their 
 way down her cheeks, as she turned towards the house with a 
 bowed head and a feeble step. But Robin’s mood had again 
 changed. 
 
 ‘“‘ T beg your pardon, Barbara: forgive me; and think, that 
 af my mind sometimes takes a crooked turn, it is the fault of 
 ‘my damnable body !” 
 
 ‘“* Do not swear ; it is the profaneness of your words, and, 
 T fear me too truly, of your life also, that hurts me. Oh, 
 Robin! do tell me who my father is, that I may find him, 
 and have some heart to lean upon that will not always cause 
 ‘me tears. My lady is ever sad, and you are ever wayward 
 and uncertain: I am a double orphan; and were it not for 
 the consolation afforded me by better thoughts; should be most 
 “miserable.” 
 
 ** Forgive me, girl, forgive me; but every one alludes to 
 this cursed deformity, and it is ill to bear —”’ said Robin, 
 ‘walking by her side. 
 
 ‘JT never alluded to it, never even thought of it,” replied 
 Barbara, sobbing: ‘‘if the voice and the eye is kind, and, 
 above all, if the face become familiar, it is one, all one, whether 
 the features be formed according to beauty or otherwise. I 
 never thought of looking into little Crisp’s face, when he 
 Jicked my hand but now; I only felt that the creature loved 
 me.” . 
 
 “Crisp is no more a beauty than his master,” observed 
 Robin, patting the dog, who leaped to the caress: “ but you 
 cannot like him as well as black Blanche, or Bright-eye, your 
 mistress’s silken favourites, who show their teeth at the poor 
 fellow whenever he approaches the entrance ?”’ 
 
  Bright-eye is a trifle conceited, I grant; but Blanche is 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 147 
 
 like a lamb, only what can she do? Crisp comes gammocking 
 up, wagging his tail, seeming in the best of good humours; poor 
 Blanche receives him kindly, and sometimes walks before him 
 to the buttery ; then, all of a sudden, just as she is thinking 
 how very glad she is to meet Crisp—thinking, too, that 
 notwithstanding his shaggy coat and crooked legs, he is a 
 thousand times more to be esteemed and liked than the fine 
 and conceited Bright-eye — at that very time, and just as 
 suddenly as you fly into your passions, Crisp stops, grins, twirls 
 his tail, and will neither return her civility nor accept her in- 
 vitation. What can poor Blanche do, Robin ?” 
 
 This statement was made by the pretty Puritan with a 
 mingling of simplicity and shrewdness, for which, to have 
 looked in her innocent face, one would scarcely have given her 
 credit. The tears of youth dry as quickly as the dews in 
 summer; and the young heart rebounds from grief as swiftly 
 as the arrow from the bow. Robin looked upon her with 
 doubting, but with strong affection. He knew, though he 
 struggled with hope against the conviction, that Dalton’s friend- 
 ship would hardly induce him to bestow his daughter upon 
 such an unpropitious personage as himself ; and he felt as- 
 sured — or, at least, believed, in his more gloomy moments, 
 that so it must be — no woman could, by any possibility, feel 
 affection for him. He was also, at times, under the full as- 
 surance that Barbara only laughed at his addresses; and 
 though she had more than once given him all reasonable en- 
 couragement, he most industriously placed it to the account 
 of the universality of female coquetry, a theory in which he 
 most conscientiously believed. 
 
 Without, therefore, any notice of her little fable, or the 
 visible inference so easily drawn from the comparison between 
 Crisp and himself, he started off from the subject nearest his 
 heart, with an abrupt inquiry as to whether her mistress would 
 be likely to go abroad that evening. 
 
 *“T dare say she will come out in the twilight,” replied 
 Barbara, who had sufficient of the sensitiveness of her sex to 
 feel deeply mortified at Robin’s heedlessness of her delicate 
 allusion, adding, “ Good day ; I cannot stay any longer with 
 you ; so give you good day ;” and she added in a lower tone, 
 ‘a more gentle humour when next we meet.” Woman’s pride 
 
 Lu 2 
 
148 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 impelled her footsteps with extraordinary alacrity ; woman’s 
 affection, or curiosity, both of which are oftentimes at war 
 with her reason, obliged her to look back as she entered the 
 postern, and then she enjoyed the little triumph of observing 
 that Robin remained on the same spot gazing after her. 
 
 “TI don’t think I said any thing very unkind to him,” she 
 thought while passing along the gallery. “1 have a great 
 mind to go back and ask him if he wanted to send any mes- 
 sage to my lady; I did not give the poor fellow time to speak 
 —TI ought not to serve anyone so. What would good Mr. Fleet- 
 word say, if he knew I spoke so snappishly to any fellow- 
 christian P— Keep your cold nose away from my hand, Master 
 Bright-eye ; you forget how you behaved to my friend Crisp 
 yesterday.” 
 
 Just as she arrived at this point of her soliloquy, she stood 
 before a window, overlooking the part of the garden where 
 she had left Robin. — He was no longer there! and the fond 
 heart of little Barbara, at once forgetful of the harshness and 
 waywardness of her early friend, was only aroused from pro- 
 found reasoning upon her own unworthiness, by a smart tap 
 on the shoulder from the fair hand of Lady Frances Crom- 
 well. 
 
 «Pretty Barbara in meditation !”’ she exclaimed ; — “ but 
 this is no time to ask upon what or why. What is the mean- 
 ing of your lady's sudden resolve ?” 
 
 “What resolve, madam?” 
 
 «* Why, a resolve to marry Sir Willmott Burrell within this 
 week.” ; | 
 
 Barbara was panic-struck: she remained silent for a few 
 minutes, and then clasping her hands, implored Lady Frances 
 to do — she knew not what. 
 
 « Ah! she will die, my lady, she will die! for who could 
 live married to such a man? He is, indeed, a fearful hus- 
 band for such a one. My lady, I know she does not love him 
 — she never did — never could. I have heard her say in her 
 sleep 7 
 
 «© What, good maid ?” asked Lady Frances eagerly, and with 
 _her usual curiosity. But the habitual integrity of Barbara’s 
 mind was awakened: with tears and sobs she replied, — 
 
 ‘‘ What I must not, as a true girl, repeat. I crave your 
 pardon, my lady, but it would ill become me to speak of what is 
 
 
 
THE BUOQCANEER. 149 
 
 said in sleep: only, dear, dear lady, if you love my dear mis- 
 
 tress — if her life be dear to you — prevent, if possible, this 
 marriage.” 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 And them beside a ladie faire he saw, 
 Standing alone on foote in foule array ; 
 To whom himself he hastily did draw, 
 To weet the cause of so uncomely fray, 
 And to depart them, if so be he may. SPENSER. 
 
 Tue Lady Frances Cromwell was not likely to keep secret, 
 grief or any thing else she had the power of disclosing: forth- 
 with she proceeded to assail Constance Cecil with a torrent of 
 exclamations and expostulations, to support which no incon- 
 siderable degree of philosophy was requisite. The intention, 
 however, sanctified the deed, and Constance, for some time, 
 only pressed her hand in reply: at length she said, — 
 
 ** You see me, dearest Frances, at present under much de- 
 pression: — a dark cloud is over me; but, I entreat you, 
 heed it not. JI am about to do what is right, and not even 
 the commands of his Highness, your father, could prevent it, 
 if indeed you were to act upon the hint you have given me, 
 and procure his interference. My fate is sealed, irrevocably 
 sealed! And do you wonder that I tremble at the change I 
 am about to undergo, the awful change, from maid to wife ?P 
 Barbara, good maid, let me see no more of tears, but smiles, 
 as in past times. And now I entreat you both, sweet friends, 
 (for that humble girl has a heart formed by tenderness for 
 what is more exalted — friendship,) leave me. You, my 
 dear Lady Frances, will to-day, for my sake, and for his, be 
 as much as possible with my father; he must grieve at this 
 parting — it is but natural ; and you, girl — there, go to 
 your embroidery.” 
 
 Barbara looked into her lady’s face, seized her hand, and 
 pressed it alternately to her heart and lips. 
 
 ** | will sit in yonder nook, dear mistress ; I will not turn 
 towards you, nor speak, nor breathe — you may fancy me a 
 statue, so silent, so immovable will rest your little Barbara, 
 
 L 3 
 
150 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Blanche and Bright-eye, and even that black wolf-hound, re- 
 main in the chamber, and why not I? Am J less faithful, 
 or less thoughtful, than a dog? and would you treat me 
 worse ? Besides, dear lady, your wedding-clothes! There 
 is not a satin or a silver robe, nor farthingale, nor cardinal — 
 not a lone ostrich-plume, that is not of six fashions past! 
 Good, my lady, if it is to be, you must wed as of a right be- 
 comes your high descent. My Lady Frances can well speak 
 of this ; and as there is no time to send to London now, her 
 tire-women would help me to arrange the robes necessary 
 upon such occasions.” 
 
 “ Peace, Barbara! I mean to dress as well befits this 
 bridal; so trouble not thyself as to the tiring; but go, my 
 gentle girl, go, go.” 
 
 “‘ And may I not crouch yonder, where so often I have 
 read to you, and sung the little ballads that you taught me for 
 pastime P ” 
 
 “Or those that poor Robin taught you? I wish that 
 young man, Barbara, had a more settled way of life; for, 
 despite his awkward form, there is much that is noble and 
 elevated about him. However, make no haste to wed, and, 
 above all, guard well your heart; keep a keen watch over 
 your affections — ay, watch them, and pray, pray fervently, 
 poor girl, that they may go to him who may have your hand.” 
 
 “ They shall go,” said Barbara, rising to follow Lady 
 Frances, who had abruptly left the chamber to conceal her 
 tears ; ‘‘ I would not marry a king —I mean, madam, a go- 
 vernor —if I did not love him! Why should I? ” 
 
 “ Why should you, indeed, my kind Barbara! There, go 
 and tell your master, tell also Sir Willmott, that I have much 
 to do and much to think upon ; so that to-day they must ex- 
 cuse my absence. It is an awful thing this marriage — an 
 unknown, or at least uncharted course to enter on ;— to virgin 
 minds,” she murmured, as her faithful attendant left the room, 
 “at all times full of doubts, ay, even when love is pilot and 
 the fond soul brim-full of hope. I too, who had such dreams 
 of happiness, of good and holy happiness — the interchange 
 of kindness, the mutual zeal, the tender care — the look, so 
 vigilant and gentle, so full of pure blandishment — the out- 
 pouring of thoughts on thoughts — the words, so musical be- 
 cause so rich with the heart’s truth; and so I fancied love 
 
THE BUCCANEER,. 151 
 
 and its fulfilment, marriage. Well knew I of the contract: 
 yet still | dreamed and hoped, yes, slept and dreamed ; but to 
 be awakened thus— to such unutterable horror! Thank 
 God, my mother is in heaven ! — that is the solitary drop of 
 comfort in my life’s poison-bowl.— My mother’s death a 
 comfort! Alas, alas! ” 
 
 She covered her face with her hands, and we draw the 
 Grecian painter’s veil over the contending feelings it would be 
 impossible adequately to portray. 
 
 Sir Willmott Burrell bustled and chafed, and gave orders 
 to his serving-men, and to those now called tailors ; visited 
 the neighbouring gentry, but spoke not of his approaching 
 marriage, which he preferred should take place as silently as 
 might be. Nevertheless he had far too much depending upon 
 the succeeding hours to pass the day either in quiet or com- 
 posure. He had braved through his interview with the un- 
 happy Sir Robert Cecil, and urged, as an excuse for his con- 
 duct, the extremity to which his love was driven by Con- 
 stantias decided rejection of his suit, carefully, however, 
 concealing from her unfortunate parent the fact that she loved 
 another. 
 
 Sir Robert had sent several messages to his daughter, im- 
 ploring her to see him, but in vain — she resolutely refused, 
 wisely dreading the result of such an interview. ‘‘ This day 
 and to-morrow is all the time,” she said, ‘‘I can call my own, 
 until — for me — time has entered upon eternity. All I im- 
 plore then is, that I may be alone, the mistress of myself 
 during such brief space.” 
 
 When the sun was set, Barbara entered her room with a 
 slight evening meal. Her mistress was sitting, or rather 
 lying on a low couch, opposite a table, upon which stood a 
 small dial, mounted in chased silver, representing a garland of 
 flowers. 
 
 “* Lay it down, good girl ; I cannot taste it at present. J 
 have been watching the minute-hand pace round that dial. — 
 Is it, indeed, near seven? It was an ill thought of the fo- 
 reign craftsman to set Time amid roses ; he should have placed 
 it among thorns. Is the evening fine? ” 
 
 “ Fine, but yet sober, my lady ; the sun has quite set, and 
 the birds are silent and at roost, except the old blackbird, who 
 whistles late, and the wakeful robin, who sometimes bandies 
 
 L 4 
 
152 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 music with the nightingale. — Would you like to hear them, 
 madam ? ” 
 
 “ Not just now, Barbara: but leave out my hood. Did 
 my father again ask for me? ” 
 
 “* Not since, mistress. Mr. Fleetword is with him.” Bar- 
 bara left the room. 
 
 “ T cannot tell why, my lady,” she said earnestly to Lady 
 Frances, whom she met in the vestibule — ‘‘ I cannot divine 
 the reason, but this bridal has to me the semblance of a 
 funeral. God shield us all from evil! there is a cold death- 
 like chill throughout the house. I heard —(though, my 
 lady, I do not believe in such superstitions,) but I heard the 
 death-watch tick — tick — ticking, as plain as I hear the old 
 clock now chime seven! And I saw — I was wide awake — 
 yet I saw a thin misty countenance, formed as of the white 
 spray of the salt-sea wave, so sparkling, so shadowy, yet so 
 clear, come between me and the moonbeams, and raise its 
 hand thus. — Oh, merey — mercy — mercy !” she shrieked, 
 so as to startle the Lady Frances, and then as hastily ex- 
 claimed, “ La! madam, to think of the like! if it isn’t that 
 little muddy, nasty Crisp, who has found me out! I will 
 tell you the rest by and by, madam, only I want to turn 
 this little beast into the shrubbery, that he may find his 
 master.” 
 
 At another time Lady Frances would have rallied her for 
 accompanying, instead of dismissing Crisp to the garden ; but 
 a weight of sorrow seemed also to oppress her. Her usually 
 high spirits were gone, and she made no observation, but re- 
 treated to the library. 
 
 A few moments after the occurrence of this little incident, 
 Constance was seated on the bank in “ the Fairy Ring,” pon- 
 dering the dread change that had taken place since the pits 
 vious night. 
 
 The evening, as Barbara had expressed it, was fine but 
 sober. The lilac and the laburnum were in full blossom, but 
 they appeared faded to Constantia’s eyes ; so completely are 
 even our senses under the control of circumstances. Sorrow 
 is a sad mystifier, turning the green leaf yellow and steeping 
 
 “young roses in tears. She had not been long seated, when a 
 step, a separating of the branches, and Walter De Guerre was 
 at her feet. Constance recoiled from what at heart she loved, 
 
 uw 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 153 
 
 as it had been a thing she hated ; and the look and motion 
 could not have been unnoticed by her lover. 
 
 **I have heard, Mistress Cecil— heard all !— that you 
 are about to be married — married to a man you despise — 
 about to sacrifice yourself for some ambitious view — some 
 mad resolve — some to me incomprehensible determination ! 
 And I swore to seek you out — to see you before the fatal act, 
 had it been in your own halls ; and to tell you that you will 
 never again feel what happiness is * 
 
 “TI know it!” interrupted Constance, in a voice whose 
 music was solemn and heavy as her thoughts: “ Walter, I 
 know it well. I never shall feel happy — never expect it — 
 and it would have been but humanity to have spared me this 
 meeting, unwished for as it now is. You, of all creatures in 
 this wide, wide world, I would avoid. — Yes, Walter, avoid 
 for ever! Besides,” she continued with energy, “ what do 
 you here? This place — this spot, is no more safe from his 
 intrusion than from yours. If you loved, if you ever loved me, 
 away! And oh, Walter! if the knowledge —the most true, 
 most sad knowledge, that I am miserable — more miserable 
 than ever you can be — be any soothing to your spirit, take it 
 with you! only away, away — put the broad sea between us, 
 now and for ever! If Sir Willmott Burrell slept with his 
 fathers the sleep of a thousand dead, I could never be yours. 
 You seem astonished, and so was I yesternight ; but it is 
 true —- true — true — so put the broad sea between us 
 quickly, Walter — now, and for ever!” 
 
 The Cavalier looked as if he understood her not, or thought 
 her senses wandered : at last he said, ‘‘ But why need you, with 
 a fortune to command, and a spirit to enjoy whatever is bright, 
 or beautiful, or glorious — why should you fetter your free- 
 born will? There is a cunning mystery about it, Constance” 
 (Constance shuddered, and hid her face, lest its expression 
 should betray something of her secret) ; ‘‘ a mystery I can- 
 not solve: confide it to me, and solemnly I swear, not only 
 never to divulge, but to peril, with my good sword, my heart's 
 richest and warmest blood, in any cause that can free you 
 from this bad man. Nor do I expect aught of you in return, 
 nor any thing ask, save that you may be happy, with any, any 
 but this I cannot speak his hated name.” 
 
 Constance was too agitated to reply. Under present cir- 
 
 
 
 
 
154 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 cumstances, she would have given worlds not to have seen 
 Walter ; and, having seen him, she knew not what to say, or 
 how to think or act: the painful struggle she endured de- 
 prived her of the power of utterance. 
 
 “* It is not for myself I speak, Constantia ; though now I 
 need not tell you that the love of boyhood has never been 
 banished from my bosom. The remembrance of the hours we 
 spent together, before a knowledge of the world, before a change 
 in the constitution of our country, shed its malign influence, 
 not over our hearts, but over our destinies — the remembrance 
 of those hours has been the blessing, the solitary blessing, of 
 my exile ; it has been the green oasis in the desert of my exist- 
 ence: amid the turmoil of battle, it has led me on to victory ; 
 amid the dissipation of the royal court, it has preserved me 
 from taint. The remembrance of Constance, like the night- 
 star that cheers the mariner on the wide sea, has kept all holy 
 and hopeful feelings around my heart ; telling of home, my 
 early home, and its enjoyments — of Constance, the little af- 
 fectionate, but high-souled girl — the f 
 
 “Stop!” interrupted Constance, with an agonised ex- 
 pression — “ Stop, I conjure you! JI know what you were 
 going to say; you were about to repeat that which my mother 
 loved to call me — your wife! She did not mean it in mockery, 
 though it sounds so now, like a knell from the lower earth. 
 But one thing, Walter, one request I have to make— you 
 pray sometimes ? —the time has been when we have prayed 
 together ! — when neat you pray, thank God that sux is dead !” 
 
 “‘ How! thank God that my kind and early friend — that 
 your mother is dead!” repeated the young man, in a voice of 
 astonishment. 
 
 *¢ Even so, Walter. You would not see her stretched upon 
 the rack ? would not see her exposed to tortures, such as, at 
 no very distant period, the saints of our own church endured? — 
 — would not see her torn limb from limb by wild horses ?” 
 
 “ Heavens ! Constantia, are you mad ?” exclaimed Walter, 
 terrified at her excited and distraught manner, 
 
 “TI am not mad,” she replied, in a changed and subdued 
 tone ; “‘ but do not forget (and let it be on your knees) to 
 thank God that my mother is dead; and that the cold clay 
 presses the temples, which, if they were alive, would throb 
 and burn as mine do now.” 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 155 
 
 She pressed her hands on her brow; while the youth, ap- 
 palled and astonished, gazed on her in silence. 
 
 “It is well thought on,” she said, recovering her self-com- 
 mand much more quickly than he could have imagined pos- 
 sible. “I will give it you; it would be sinful to keep it after 
 that dread to-morrow ; even now, what do I with your gift?” 
 She drew forth from her bosom the locket of which we have 
 before spoken, and, looking on it fondly for a moment, thought, 
 though not aloud, “.Poor little fragment of the glittering sin 
 that tempts mankind to their destruction! I heeded not your 
 chasing nor your gems ; but once (forgive it, God, forgive it !) 
 thought far too much of him who gave it: I should have 
 known better. I will not look on you again, lest you take 
 root within the heart on which you have rested: though it 
 was then in innocence, yet now it is a crime; there —” she 
 held it towards him with a trembling hand. While her arm 
 was thus extended, Burrell rushed from behind the covert of 
 a wide-spreading laurel, and, with an action at once unmanly 
 and insulting, snatched the trinket from her hand and flung it 
 on the sward. 
 
 Magic itself could not have occasioned a greater change in 
 the look, the manner, the entire appearance of the heiress of 
 Cecil. She drew herself up to her full height, and instantly 
 demanded, “‘ How Sir Willmott Burrell dared to act thus in 
 her presence ?” 
 
 The Cavalier drew his sword from its sheath; Burrell was 
 not backward in following the example. He returned Con- 
 stantia’s look of contempt with one of sarcasm —the pe- 
 culiar glance that becomes so effective from under a half-closed 
 lid — and then his eye glared like that of the hooded snake, 
 while he replied, — 
 
 ** Methought the ladyin her chamber: the destined bride, dur- 
 ing the day, keeps to her own apartment ; ’tis the soft night that 
 draws her forth to interchange love-pledges and soft sayings.” 
 
 ** Villain!” exclaimed De Guerre with startling energy, 
 “hold thy blaspheming tongue, nor dare to imagine, much 
 less express, aught of this lady that is not pure as heaven’s own 
 firmament !” 
 
 * Oh, my good sir,” said the other, “‘ I know you now! the 
 braggart at my Lady Cecil’s funeral — the pall-bearer —the 
 church-yard lounger — the in 
 
 
 
156 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ‘* Hold, coward!” interrupted the Cavalier, grinding the 
 words between his teeth. ‘* Lady, I entreat you to retire ; 
 this is no scene for you: —nay, but you must!” 
 
 “Touch her not, exclaimed Burrell, the brutality of his 
 vile nature fully awakened at perceiving Walter attempt to 
 take her hand; ‘“‘ touch her not, though you are doubtless 
 the youth to whom her heart is given.” 
 
 “‘ Forbear, sir!” ejaculated Constance; ‘‘if you have the 
 spirit of a man, forbear !”’ 
 
 “Oh, then, your passion has not been declared by words — 
 you have spoken by actions!” he retorted with redoubled 
 acrimony. 
 
 Thevreply to this gross insult was made by the point of De 
 Guerre’s sword resting on Burrell’s breast. 
 
 “‘ Defend yourself, or die like a vile dog!” thundered the 
 Cavalier, and Sir Willmott was obliged to stand on his de- 
 fence. 
 
 The feelings of the woman overcame those of the heroine, 
 and Constance shrieked for help, when she beheld the com- 
 batants fairly engaged in a feud where the shedding of blood 
 appeared inevitable. Her call was answered, but not by words ; 
 scarcely more than three or four thrusts had been made and 
 returned, when a stout gentleman, clad in a dark and tight- 
 fitting vest, strode nearly between them, and clashed the 
 tough blade of his broad basket-hilted sword upon their more 
 eraceful, but less substantial, weapons, so as to strike them to 
 the earth. Thus, without speaking word or farther motion, 
 he cast his eyes, first on the one, then on the other, still hold- 
 ing their weapons under, more, however, by the power of his 
 countenance, than of his arm. 
 
 « Put up your swords!” he said at length, in a low stern 
 voice — ‘‘ put up your swords!” he repeated; then, seeing 
 that, though Burrell’s rapier had leaped into iis rest, De 
 Guerre retained his unsheathed, “‘ put up your sword, sir!” 
 he said again in a loud tone, that sounded awfully through the 
 still twilight, and then stamped upon the ground with force 
 and energy: “ the air is damp, I say, and good steel should 
 be kept from rust. Young men, keep your weapons in their 
 scabbards, until God and your country call them forth ; then 
 draw according to the knowledge — according to the faith that 
 is in ye; but a truce to idle brawling.” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 15% 
 
 ** T would first know who it is,” demanded Walter, still in 
 fierce anger, “ who breaks in upon us, and commands us thus ?”’ 
 
 ** Have you so soon forgotten Major Wellmore, young man ?”’ 
 replied the stranger in his harshest voice: “ I little thought 
 that he of the English graft upon a French stock would have 
 carried such brawling into the house of my ancient friend. — 
 Sir Willmott Burrell, I lament that the fear of the Lord is not 
 with you, or you would not use carnal weapons so indiscrimi- 
 nately: go to, and think what the Protector would say, did 
 he find you thus employed.” 
 
 ** But, sir,” said De Guerre, in no degree overawed by the - 
 imperative manner of Major Wellmore, ‘<I, at least, care not 
 for the Protector, nor am I to be baffled of my just revenge 
 by any of his officers.” 
 
 *« Wouldst fight with me, then?” inquired the Major, with 
 much good temper, and placing himself between the oppo- 
 nents. 
 
 ‘“< If it so pleasure you,” replied the youth, abating not a jot 
 of his determination ; ‘‘ when I have made this treacherous 
 and false fellow apologise to the Lady Constance, and after- 
 wards to me, for his unproved and unprovoked words.” 
 
 During the parley, Constance had remained fixed and im- 
 movable ; but a new feeling now seemed to animate her, as 
 she approached, and, clinging to Major Wellmore’s arm for 
 support, spoke in an audible but tremulous voice, — 
 
 “ Walter, I entreat, I command you to let this matter rest. 
 I shall not debase myself by condescending to assert, what Sir 
 Willmott Burrell ought, and does believe — that I came not 
 here to meet you by any appointment. I say his heart tells 
 him, at this moment, that such a proceeding would be one of 
 which he knows I am incapable.” 
 
 *‘ If any reflection has been made upon Mistress Cecil,” 
 observed Major Wellmore, “I will be the first to draw steel 
 in her cause. Sir Willmott, explain this matter.— Young sir,” 
 he continued, noting Walter’s ire and impatience, “a soldier’s 
 honour is as dear to me as it can be to you.” 
 
 Burrell felt and appeared exceedingly perplexed ; but with 
 his most insinuating manner, and a tremulous voice, he re- 
 plied : — 
 
 ** Mistress Cecil will, I hope, allow for the excess of af- 
 fection that gave rise to such needless jealousy. On consider- 
 
158 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 ation, I perceive, at once, that she would not, could not, act 
 or think in any way unworthy of herself.” He bowed pro- 
 foundly, as he spoke, to Constantia, who clung still more closely 
 to Major Wellmore’s arm, and could hardly forbear uttering 
 the contempt she felt; at every instant, her truthful nature 
 urged her to speak all she thought and knew, to set Burrell at 
 defiance, and hold him up to the detestation he merited: but 
 her father, and her father’s crime! the dreadful thought sent 
 back the blood that rushed so warmly from her heart in icy 
 coldness to its seat ; and the high-souled woman was compelled 
 to receive the apology with a drooping head, and a spirit bowed 
 almost to breaking by intense and increasing anguish. 
 
 «« And you are satisfied with this!” exclaimed the Cavalier, 
 striding up to her ; ‘‘ you, Constance Cecil, are satisfied with 
 this! But, by Him whose unquenchable stars are now shining 
 in their pure glory over our heads, I am not !—Coward! 
 coward! and liar! in your teeth, Sir Willmott Burrell! as 
 such I will proclaim you all through his majesty’s dominions, 
 by word of mouth and deed of sword !”’ 
 
 “Walter, Walter!” exclaimed Constance, clasping her 
 hands. 
 
 ‘I crave your pardon, Lady,” said Burrell, without alter- 
 ing his tone; “but do not thus alarm yourself: my sword 
 shall not again be drawn upon a low and confirmed malignant. 
 Sir,” turning from his opponent and addressing the stranger, 
 ‘heard you not how he applied the forbidden title of majesty 
 to the man Charles Stuart; shall I not forthwith arrest him 
 for high treason P —runneth not the act so, formed for the 
 renouncing and disannulling of the pretended title of the late 
 man’s progeny ?” 
 
 « Perish such acts and their devisers !”’ shouted the Cavalier, 
 losing all prudence in the excitement of the moment. “ Let 
 the lady retire, while we end this quarrel as becomes men !” 
 
 ** Heed him not, heed him not, I implore, I entreat you!” 
 exclaimed Constance, sinking to the earth at the feet of Major 
 Wellmore, by whom the hint of Burrell was apparently un- 
 noticed ; ‘ the lion takes not advantage of the deer caught in 
 the hunter’s toils, and he is distraught, I know he is!” 
 
 “IT am not distraught, Miss Cecil, though I have suffered 
 enough to make me so: what care I for acts formed by a pack 
 of regicides !” 
 
 > 
 
THE BUCCANEER,. 159 
 
 > 
 
 ** Young man,” interrupted the old officer with a burst 
 of fierce and strong passion that, like a mountain torrent, 
 carried all before it, ‘* J arrest you in the name of the Com- 
 monwealth and its Protector! A night in one of the lone 
 chambers of Cecil Place will cool the bravo-blood that riots in 
 your veins, and teach you prudence, if the Lord denies you 
 grace.” 
 
 He laid his hand so heavily on De Guerre’s shoulder, that 
 his frame quailed beneath its weight, while the point of his 
 sword rested on the peaceful grass. Burrell attempted, at the 
 same instant, to steal the weapon from his hand: the Cavalier 
 grasped it firmly ; while Major Wellmore, darting on the false 
 knight a withering look, emphatically observed, and with a 
 total change of manner,— 
 
 ** T can, methinks, make good a capture without your aid, 
 kind sir ; although I fully appreciate your zeal in the cause 
 of the Commonwealth!” The latter part of the sentence was 
 pronounced with a slow and ironical emphasis; then, turning 
 to De Guerre, he added, “‘ I need not say to you that, being 
 under arrest, your sword remains with me.” 
 
 De Guerre presented it in silence; for the result of his 
 interview with Constantia had rendered him indifferent to his 
 fate, and, although but an hour before it would have been only 
 with his life that his sword had been relinquished, he now 
 cared not for the loss of either. 
 
 Major Wellmore took the weapon, and appeared for a mo- 
 ment to consider whether he should retain it or not : he decided 
 on the former, and in a cold, calm voice commanded his _pri- 
 soner to move forward. De Guerre pointed to Constantia, 
 who had neither shrieked nor fainted, but stood a mute statue 
 of despair in the clear light of the young spring moon, whose 
 early and resplendent beams fell ina silver shower on her 
 bared and beautiful head. 
 
 ** J will take care of Mistress Cecil,” said the insidious 
 Burrell. 
 
 As he spoke, Lady Frances, who, alarmed at the absence of 
 her friend, had come forth to seek her, bounded into the Fairy 
 Ring, and as suddenly screamed, and stood irresolute amid the 
 dread circle. The Major immediately spoke : — 
 
 ** Lady Frances, pray conduct your friend: Sir Willmott 
 Burrell, we follow you to the nearest entrance.” 
 
160 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 «© And now,” said Constantia,.as her head fell on the bosom 
 of her friend, ‘ he is in the lion’s den — fully and for ever 
 destroyed!’ Nature was exhausted: it was long ere she 
 
 again spoke. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 161 
 
 VOLUME THE SECOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy, 
 And wit me warns to shun such snares 
 As threaten mine annoy ; 
 For falsehood now doth flow, and subject faith doth ebb, 
 Which would not be, if Reason ruled, or 
 Wisdom weav’d the web. QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 Wuite the headstrong Cavalier was confined in “ the strong 
 room ” of Cecil Place, he had ample leisure to reflect upon the 
 consequences of his rashness, and to remember the caution he 
 had received from Major Wellmore on the night of their first 
 meeting — to be guarded in his expressions, where danger 
 might arise from a single thoughtless word. He surveyed the 
 apartment with a careless look, as if indifferent whether it 
 were built of brick or of Portland stone, glanced upon the 
 massive bars of the iron-framed windows, and scarcely ob- 
 served that the walls were bare of tapestry, and that dampness 
 and decay had mottled the plastering into a variety of hues 
 and shades of colour. His lamp burned brightly on the table ; 
 the solitary but joyous light seemed out of place ; he put it 
 therefore aside, endeavouring to lessen its effect by placing it 
 behind a huge worm-eaten chair, over which he threw his 
 cloak. Thus, almost in darkness, with a mind ill at ease, 
 brooding on the events of the day, which had perhaps perilled 
 his life, although life had now become of little value, we leave 
 him to his melancholy and self-reproachful thoughts, and 
 hasten to the chamber of Constance Cecil. 
 
 It has already appeared that an early and a close intimacy 
 had subsisted between her and Walter De Guerre; but we 
 must leave it to Time, the great developer, to explain the cir- 
 cumstances under which it originated, as well as those by which 
 it was broken off. 
 
 Lady Frances Cromwell had left her friend in what she 
 
 M 
 
162 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 considered a sound slumber ; and sought her dressing-room 
 only to change her garments, so that she might sit with her 
 during the remainder of the night, Barbara, however, had 
 hardly taken the seat the lady had quitted, when her mistress 
 half arose from the bed, and called her by name in so hollow 
 a voice that the poor girl started, as if the sound came from a 
 sepulchre. 
 
 “ The night is dark, Barbara,” she said, “ but heed it not ; 
 the good and the innocent are ever a pure light unto them- 
 selves. Go forth with courage and with faith, even to the 
 * Gull’s Nest Crag ; tell Robin Hays that Walter De Guerre 
 is a prisoner here, and that, unless he be at liberty before sun- 
 rise, he may be a dead man, as surely as he is a banned one; 
 for some covert purpose lurks under his arrest. Tarry not, but 
 see that you proceed discreetly, and, above all, secretly. It is a 
 long journey at this hour; the roan pony is in the park, and 
 easily guided — he will bear you along quickly ;— and for 
 security — for you are timid, Barbara — take the wolf- 
 hound.” 
 
 Barbara had Jong known that a servant’s chief duty is obe- 
 dience, yet she would just then have done errand to any one 
 rather than to Robin Hays ; she however replied,— 
 
 “* Please ye, mistress, the roan pony is easy to guide, if you 
 happen to be going the way he likes, and that is, ever from the 
 park to the stable, from the stable to the park ; otherwise, like 
 the Israelites of old, he is a stiff-necked beast, whom I would 
 rather eschew than commune with. And the wolf-hound, my 
 lady, behaves so rudely to little Crisp, holding him by the throat 
 in an unseemly fashion, and occasionally despoiling him of a 
 fragment of his ears, toes, or tail, as it pleasures him, that I 
 had rather take black Blanche if you permit me — she can 
 soon find Crisp or Robin either.” 
 
 «« As you please, Barbara ; only silence and hasten.” 
 
 «* My mistress,” thus ran Barbara’s thoughts as she wended 
 on her way through the night, ‘‘ is a wonderful lady ; so good, 
 so wise, so rich, yet so unhappy! I wouldn’t be a lady for the 
 world ! — it is hard fate enough to be a woman, a poor, weak 
 woman, without strength of limb or wisdom of head ; and, 
 withal, a fond heart, yet afraid and ashamed to show its fond- 
 ness. If I was my lady, and my lady I, instead of sending 
 my lady to tell Robin Hays to let the poor gentleman out, I'd 
 
THE BUCCANEER. : 163 
 
 just go and let him out myself, or send my lady (supposing 
 her the maid Barbara) to let him out, without telling anybody 
 about it. And I am sure she loves that poor gentleman ; and 
 yet she, wise, good, rich, and wonderful, is just going, in the 
 very teeth of her affections, to marry that black Burrell! I 
 am very happy that I’m not a lady, for I'd die, that I would 
 ten times over, sooner than marry any one I didn’t love. It 
 will kill her, I know — I feel it will: yet why does she marry 
 him? And she keeps such deep silence too.— Down, pretty 
 Blanche, and do not rouse your sleek ears: your ears, Blanchy, 
 are lady’s ears, and so ought to hear nothing frightening — 
 and your eyes, Blanche, are lady’s eyes, and should never see 
 any thing disagreeable. — What ails thee, doggy? Nay, wag 
 yer tail, and do not crouch so; ’tis but the shadow of a cow, 
 { think. — How my heart beats!” 
 
 The beating of the maiden’s heart accelerated her speed, and 
 she ran with hasty and light footsteps a considerable distance 
 before either dog or girl paused for breath. At length they 
 did pause, and Barbara saw with much satisfaction, that she 
 had left far behind the shadow which caused Blanche and her- 
 self so much alarm. She reached the Gull’s Nest without any 
 misadventure, and now her object was to draw Robin forth 
 from the hostelry without entering herself. Through a chink 
 in the outer door (the inner being only closed on particular 
 occasions) she discovered Robin and his mother, and one or 
 two others — strangers they might be, or neighbours — at all 
 events she did not know them. Presently Crisp stretched his 
 awkward length from out its usual coil, and trotted to the door, 
 slowly wagging his apology for tail, as if perfectly conscious 
 of the honour of Blanche’s visit. Miss Blanche, in her turn, 
 laid her nose on the ground and snorted a salutation that was 
 replied to by a somewhat similar token from master Crisp. 
 Robin, who was the very embodyment of vigilance, knew at 
 once there was something or some one without, acquainted and 
 on friendly terms with his dog, and he quietly arose and opened 
 the door without making any observation to his companions. 
 He was, indeed, astonished at perceiving Barbara, who put her 
 finger on her lip to enjoin silence. He immediately led her to 
 the back of the house, where none of the casual visiters could 
 see them, and she communicated her lady’s message quickly 
 but distinctly. She would have enlarged upon the danger, and 
 
 M 2 
 
164 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 expatiated on the interest she took in the cause of the Cavalier, 
 had Robin permitted her, but she saw he was too much dis- 
 tressed at the magnitude of the information to heed the de- 
 tails, however interesting they might have been at any other 
 time. 
 
 ‘* But I don’t understand it,” at length murmured Robin ; 
 ** I can’t see it: how could he possibly suffer Sir Willmott 
 Burrell to place him in confinement ? ” 
 
 ** It was not he at all,” replied Barbara; ‘‘ it was Major 
 Wellmore, and he is at the Place now.” 
 
 ‘© Death and the devil!’’ exclaimed Robin, at the same in- 
 stant pressing his back against the wall beside which he stood: . 
 it instantly gave way, and Barbara was alone — alone in that 
 wild and most dreary-looking place. 
 
 She summoned Blanche, but Blanche was far away over the 
 cliffs, exploring, under Crisp’s guidance, the nooks and intri- 
 cacies of the hills and hollows. She would have called still 
 louder, but her quick eye discerned not now a shadowy figure, 
 but Sir Willmott Burrell himself, within a distance of two or 
 three hundred yards, and approaching towards her. She was 
 concealed from his sight by a projection of the cliff: but this 
 she never considered, alive only to the feelings his appearance 
 at once suggested. She had noted the spot where Robin had 
 disappeared, and, urged by terror, flung herself against the 
 same portion of the wall, with such success, that it gave way 
 before her, replacing itself so suddenly that, in an instant, the 
 light of the bright stars in the blue heavens was shut out, and 
 she stood in total darkness, within the recess that had so mys- 
 teriously opened to receive her. 
 
 When she became a little collected, she distinctly heard the 
 sound of voices at no great distance, and groping about in the 
 same direction, discovered a narrow flight of stairs, which she 
 immediately descended, imagining that she was following the 
 course which Robin had pursued. Her progress was scon 
 arrested by a door, which she attempted to shake, but in vain ; 
 she leaned against it, however, or rather sank down upon the 
 steps, worn out by fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. She 
 could not have lain there a moment, when the door opened, and 
 Robin literally sprang over her in his haste tore-ascend. She 
 started from her position on perceiving before her the well- 
 remembered figure of the Buccaneer, who was about to mount 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 165 
 
 also, evidently with as much eagerness, though with less acti- 
 vity, than Robin Hays. 
 
 The sight of a stranger at their most secret entrance, even 
 though that stranger was a woman, sent Hugh Dalton’s hand 
 to the pommel of his sword, but it was as quickly stayed by 
 Robin’s cry of, “ It is Barbara.” 
 
 The Buccaneer had just time to catch the fainting form of 
 his daughter in his arms, and the wild and reckless seaman 
 was so overpowered by the unexpected meeting, that he 
 thought not of inquiring how she had obtained admittance. 
 We have observed that women in the inferior ranks of society 
 continue much briefer time in hysterics, swoons, and such- 
 like, than the highborn and well educated, who know how to 
 make the most of all matters of the kind. Barbara rapidly 
 revived, and as rapidly urged Robin to heed her message, and 
 to take her away, informing him in the same breath, that she 
 had pushed against that portion of the wall where he had so 
 strangely disappeared, because she had seen Sir Willmott Bur- 
 rell approaching the spot with determined speed. 
 
 *“* Listen. at the secret door,’ exclaimed the Buccaneer. 
 “When he cannot find you above, he will seek you at the 
 only entrance he knows of: I need not say, answer not the 
 sign.” 
 
 ** Robin, Robin!” ejaculated Barbara, “ take me, oh ! take 
 me with you! — You are not, surely, going to leave me in 
 this horrid place, and with a stranger too !” 
 
 Poor Dalton! what painful and powerful emotions con- 
 vulsed his heart and features ! — “a stranger !”” —a stranger, 
 indeed, to his own child ! 
 
 Robin quitted the place without replying to her entreaty ; 
 and when the Buccaneer spoke, it was in that low and broken 
 voice which tells of the soul’s agony. 
 
 “* Why call me stranger?” he said, approaching, and ten- 
 derly taking her hand ; “ you have seen me before.” 
 
 “ Yes, good sir, the night previous to my dear lady’s death 
 — it is an ill omen to see strangers for the first time where 
 there is death. I thank you, sir, I will not sit. May I not 
 go after Robin ?” 
 
 “ Then you prefer Robin to me ?”’ 
 
 “So please ye, sir ; I have known Robin a long, long time, 
 and he knows my father: perhaps you, too, may know him, 
 
 mu 3 
 
166 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 sir; you look of the sea, and I am sure my father is a sailor. 
 Do you know my father ?” 
 
 The gentle girl, forgetting her natural timidity under the 
 influence of a stronger principle, seized the hand of the Buc- 
 caneer, and gazed into his face with so earnest and so beseech- 
 ing a look, that if Robin had not returned on the instant, the 
 Skipper would have betrayed the secret he was so anxious to 
 preserve until (to use his own expression) ‘‘ he was a free man, 
 able to look his own child in the face.” 
 
 ** He is at the entrance, sure enough,” said Robin; “ but 
 it will occupy him longer to climb the rocks than it did to 
 descend them ; we can take the hollow path, and be far on 
 the road to Cecil Place before he arrives at the summit.” 
 
 ** But what can we do with her ? — She must not longer 
 breathe the air of this polluted nest,” argued Dalton, all the 
 father oveflowing at his heart ; “‘if we delay, Burrell may see 
 her: if so, all is over.” 
 
 “‘ T can creep along the earth like a mocking lapwing,” she 
 replied. ‘ Let me but out of this place, I can hide in some of 
 the cliff-holes — any where cut of this, and,’’ she whispered 
 Robin, “ away — above all things away — from that fearful 
 man.” 
 
 “ To Cecil Place at once then, Captain ; the delay of half 
 an hour may seal his doom. JI will place Barbara in a nook 
 of the old tower, where nothing comes but bats and mice ; and, 
 as it overlooks the paths, she can see from it the road that 
 Burrell takes, and so avoid him when returning.” 
 
 Dalton looked at Barbara but for a moment, then suddenly 
 clasping her with rude energy to his bosom, he darted up the 
 stairs, holding open the door at the top, so that he might see 
 her forth in safety. 
 
 The terrified girl passed tremblingly before him ; and won- 
 dered not a little at the strong interest the wild seaman mani- 
 fested towards her. Only one way of accounting for it 
 occurred to her simple mind —that he had known her father ; 
 the idea was strengthened, when she heard him murmur, 
 “* Thank God ! she breathes once more the uncontaminated air 
 of heaven!” He strode a few hasty steps forward, then turned 
 back, and said emphatically to Robin, — 
 
 ** Place her in safety, as you hope for salvation !” 
 
 “ And am I to stay by myself in this horrid place, Ro- 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 167 
 
 bin?” inquired Barbara, as he seated her in the window of a 
 portion of the old tower, from whence a large extent of coun-~ 
 try was visible, steeped in the pale moonlight. 
 
 ‘* Fear nothing,” he replied ; “ I must away: only do not 
 leave this until you see — which you can easily do by the 
 light of the bright moon — Sir Willmott Burrell take his de- 
 parture.”’ 
 
 ** And will that rude old sailor help the young gentleman 
 from his confinement ?” 
 
 “ He will, he will.” 
 
 “One word more, Robin, and then my blessing be with you ! 
 Did he know my father ?”’ 
 
 “ He did.” 
 
 ** But one syllable more: Did he love him ?” 
 
 “So truly, that he loves you as if you were his own 
 child.” 
 
 ** Then,” thought Barbara, in the fulness of her innocence, ' 
 «< J am happy — for no one is loved, even by the wicked, who 
 is not good.” 
 
 Her clear eye observed that Robin took the same path as the 
 Buccaneer ; though, had she not known. them, she could 
 hardly have recognised their figures, because of some disguise 
 they must have suddenly assumed. They had scarcely faded 
 from her sight, when she discovered the tall person of Burrell 
 standing at no great distance on the brow of the cliff, and 
 apparently surveying the adjacent landscape. He rapidly 
 approached the Gull’s Nest; and soon after she heard the 
 shrill voice of Mother Hays, protesting over and over again, 
 that ‘“‘ Robin had been there not twenty, not fifteen — no, not 
 ten minutes past ;— that she had searched every where, and 
 that he was nowhere to be found ;— that she had not seen 
 Hugh Dalton for a lon, long time ; and that, to the best of 
 her belief, he had not touched the shore for many a day ; — 
 that the men within were good men, honest men — one in 
 particular, who would be happy to serve him, as he seemed so 
 earnest to see Robin — Jack, true Jack Roupall, a tried, 
 trusty man :— could he be of any service, as that ne’er-do- 
 good, Robin, was out of the way ever and always when he was 
 wanted? ‘To be sure, she could not even give a guess at 
 any thing his honour might want; but perhaps Jack might co 
 instead of Robin.” It occurred to Burrell at the moment, 
 
 Mm 4 
 
168 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 that Roupall might serve his purpose even better than Robin 
 Hays, for he was both a strong and a desperate man ; and he 
 bade the old woman send him forth; telling her at the same 
 time, and in a significant tone, that he was well acquainted 
 with the talents and character of her guest. 
 
 The fragment of the tower in which Barbara was perched 
 was a small projecting turret-room, standing on the top of a 
 buttress, and had been, doubtless, used in the early ages, as a 
 species of sentry-box, from which a soldier could command a 
 view of the country and the coast. It was with feelings of 
 extreme terror that she perceived Burrell and Roupall close 
 beneath her, standing so as to be concealed from the observ- 
 ation of any passenger who might go to or from the dwelling. 
 She drew her dark cloak over her head and face, leaving only 
 an opening to peep through, anxious to avoid, by every 
 means in her power, the hazard of a discovery. She could 
 gather from the conversation between the two, that Burrell 
 was describing to Roupall something that he must do, and 
 offering him a large reward for its completion ; she listened 
 eagerly, and heard them frequently speak of Cecil Place and 
 Walter De Guerre. Her attention, however, was soon drawn 
 away by the appearance of a third person — unseen by the 
 others — creeping round a projecting corner, like a tiger about 
 to spring upon its prey, and then crouching close to the earth. 
 The form was that of a slight youth, clad in a tight-fitting 
 doublet and vest, and, it would seem, armed only with a dag- 
 ger, which, however, he carried unsheathed, and so openly that 
 the moonbeams danced upon its polished point, as lightning on 
 a diamond, whenever he changed its position in his hand 
 (which he did more than once). He crept on so silently that 
 neither were at all aware of his approach, but continued talk- 
 ing and bargaining as before. Barbara felt that danger was at 
 hand ; and yet, had she the inclination, she had not the power 
 to speak, but sat breathlessly and tremblingly awaiting the re- 
 sult. Suddenly, but still silently, as though the figure were 
 a phantom, and the dagger air-drawn, the boy rose from the 
 ground, and held the weapon as if irresolute whether to 
 strike or not. The manner in which he stood fully convinced 
 Barbara Iverk that Burrell was the object of some intended 
 attack — she tried to shriek, but the voice choked in her 
 throat. As rapidly as this mysterious being had risen from, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 169 
 
 he sank into his former crawling attitude, and disappeared. 
 All this occurred in much less time than has been occupied in 
 relating it, and the poor maiden almost thought she had been 
 deceived by some supernatural appearance. She was soon 
 aroused from her painful state of voiceless terror by the words 
 of Burrell, who now spoke more loudly than at first. 
 
 “1 will give him his liberty this very night, which of 
 course, under the circumstances I have mentioned, he cannot 
 fail to consider a most deep obligation — an act of disin- 
 terested generosity. I will give it him secretly, of course ; 
 and you meet him on his exit. As we go along, 1 will 
 settle the where—and then — the matter is easily con- 
 cluded.” 
 
 “* Very easily for you, doubtless,” retorted Roupall ; ‘* you 
 had ever the way, master, of keeping your neck out of the 
 noose. How much of the coin did you say ?,” 
 
 Barbara did not hear the reply. 
 
 “< Why it’s only one more. Is he young ?” 
 
 «© Yes,” 
 
 “IT don’t like young customers. It’s a charity to put the 
 old out of the way ; for, be they ever so well off, they must 
 be sick and weary of the world. But the young — I don’t 
 like it, master.” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! it’s only saving him in time from that which 
 gives old men trouble ; and life can go but once: besides, I 
 will not stand for the matter of a few broad-pieces. I care 
 not if I make the sum half as much more, provided it be done 
 safely.” 
 
 ** Will you give me your note of hand to it ?” 
 
 ** Do you take me for a fool ? — or did you ever know me 
 to break my word ?” 
 
 ** I never took ye for the first, Sir Willmott, and, as to the 
 other, we’ve had no business between us lately. Half as 
 much more, you said ?” 
 
 ‘“« Half as much more.” 
 
 ** Well, it is but one, and then — ah! ah! ah! — I'll re- 
 form and turn gentleman. No, d—n it, I hate gentlemen, 
 they’re so unprincipled ; but you must double — double or 
 quits.” 
 
 “ Jack Roupall, you are an unconscionable scoundrel.” 
 
170 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ** By the lady-moon, then, there be a pair of us.’ 
 
 Burrell muttered some reply that Barbara did not ee but 
 again the grating voice of Roupall ascended. 
 
 . © Double or quits; Lord, ye needn’t be so touchy about a 
 little word of familiarity — such fellowship makes all men 
 equal,” 
 
 “‘ Well then, double, if so it must be; only remember, 
 Roupall, there is some difference between the employer and 
 the employed,” was the knight’s answer. And the high-born 
 and the low-born ruffian walked away together ; and the 
 bright beams of the holy moon and the unsullied stars felk 
 upon them as gently, as if they had been good and faithful 
 ministers of the Almighty’s will. 
 
 The two leading features of Barbara Iverk’s character were, 
 fidelity and affection ; all her feelings and actions were but 
 various modifications of these great principles —in every 
 sense of the word, she was simple-minded. After the men 
 had departed for some time, still she could hardly bring her- 
 self to understand or believe the nature or extent of the crime 
 they meditated. 
 
 It was surely a most singular manifestation of God's provi- 
 dence, she thought, which placed her there, that she might 
 overhear, and it might be prevent the great wickedness of 
 those evil men. She descended from the window with haste, 
 but with caution also, for the stones crumbled from beneath 
 her feet as she moved along. She had scarcely set her foot on 
 the grass turf, when the dog was at her side, whining and 
 fawning with delight at again meeting with her friend and 
 mistress. Barbara crossed the wild country, and gained the 
 park-wall without encountering any danger. When there, 
 she paused breathlessly under an oak, and would have given 
 worlds to see and speak to her friend Robin. Amid the deep- 
 ness of night, and among the foliage of the trees, she thought 
 she discerned the figure of a person creeping beneath the 
 boughs — now in shadow, and now casting his own shadow 
 upon what had shadowed him. This appearance terrified her 
 so exceedingly that she did not gain courage to proceed, until 
 she saw that he turned into a distant path; she then stole 
 slowly along under the shelter of the wall, and when she came 
 to a small gate which opened into the park, within view of the 
 mansion, she pushed through it, and just gained the lawn, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 171 
 
 whien the sound of a pistol, and a flash through the darkness, 
 terrified her so much, that she fell, faint and exhausted, on 
 the sward. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A mystery ! ay, good, my masters, 
 there’s mystery 
 In a moonbeam — in a gnat’s wing — 
 In the formation of an atom — 
 An atom! it may be a world —a peopled world — 
 Canst prove that it is not a world? Go to, 
 _ Weare all fools. Old Play. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Huew Daron and Robin Hays had hastily proceeded to 
 Cecil Place, discoursing, as they went along, upon the pro- 
 bable consequences of their friend’s arrest. Bitterly did the 
 Buccaneer comment upon the rashness and impetuosity so 
 frequently evinced by De Guerre. 
 
 “It is perfectly useless,” he said, “‘ attempting to curb 
 these boy heroes ! the rushing blood must have its way until 
 arrested by age, not wisdom ; the hot head must be cooled by 
 the ice of time, and not till then will the arguments or ex- 
 perience of others be regarded as they merit.” 
 
 “Tt is Burrell, I fear,” retorted Robin ; “ there is but one 
 hope in that quarter — he cannot know him.” 
 
 ** But he may hear.” 
 
 MLigw 7, 
 
 ** God knows ; only I have ever observed that the keenness 
 of such men exceeds that of better and wiser ones.” 
 
 «< Ay, ay, said Robin ; “ but we must sharpen our wits in 
 due proportion: though, at present, I suspect it is arms we 
 shall want. I know the room well, and there is a lot of 
 creeping ivy and such plants under the window ; the greatest 
 difficulty will be with the iron stanchions,” 
 
 “The greatest difficulty, methinks, will be to escape from 
 the arrester ; and you seem to think nothing of the danger I 
 run in trusting myself within the grasp of such a man.” 
 
 “¢ The Cavalier is worth all risks.” 
 
 “1 know it, Robin. Did I ever shrink from peril in such 
 a cause?” 
 
Ly2 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “ Faith, no!” replied the other with his usual chuckle ; 
 “if God had willed you to be born a snail, you would have 
 crept out of your house, so careless are you in all things.” 
 
 “Do you think there is aught of danger for Barbara?” 
 said the Buccaneer, his manner clearly showing that, if he did 
 not care for himself, there was something he did care for. 
 
 ‘Tf she is timid as a hare,” replied Robin, “‘ she is, as a 
 hare, heedful and light-footed ; no fear for her. How your 
 heart clings to her, Captain !” 
 
 “So it does ; and yet some strange shadow comes over me 
 when I think of her —as if I knew she would despise, per- 
 haps hate me — she has been brought up in such strict prin- 
 ciples ; still, I would not have her less right-minded.”’ 
 
 He paused, and they proceeded silently on their way, 
 Dalton pondering on the best method of procuring De Guerre’s 
 liberty, and then thinking of his sweet and gentle child. 
 
 Nature may lie buried or be stifled for a time — an apa- 
 thetic temperament will seek to smother, a harsh one to bind, 
 a strong one to subdue it — but it overcomes them all; and 
 though a man’s speech may run according to his learning, 
 and his deeds according to his habits, yet nature thinks and 
 speaks within him, often in direct opposition to the words that 
 fall from his lips, and the actions in which he may be 
 engaged. Thus it was with the Buccaneer ; despite the fear- 
 ful course his outlawed life had taken, the remembrance of his 
 child would arise to his imagination, shaded by sorrow, or 
 sunned by happiness, according to his mood of mind — but 
 always as his child — the being upon whom his very ex- 
 istence seemed to hang. 
 
 “‘ There is little light from his window,” said Robin, as 
 they came within view of the house; ‘‘ let us over the fencing. 
 — Hush!” he continued, elevating his hand so as to com- 
 mand the attention of his companion, at the same time bend- 
 ing his ear to the earth. Dalton listened, but, it would seem, 
 heard no sound, for he exclaimed hastily, — 
 
 “Hush me no hush ! — you are ever fancying something 
 or other out of the way.” 
 
 Robin repeated the signal. 
 
 “ What mummery !”’ said the Buccaneer ; “‘1 hear nothing, 
 and see nothing.” 
 
 Robin laid himself on the ground, while the impatient and 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 173 
 
 irritated seaman fumed and moved about, a curse whizzing 
 from between his teeth as ever and anon he looked at Robin, 
 and from Robin to the house. 
 
 *“If you must have employment,” said the Ranger at last, 
 in a low tone, “see to your arms. Are your pistols loaded 
 muzzle high ? — are your weapons sharp ? — Hush !” 
 
 The Buccaneer knew that these hints were not given in 
 wantonness, and calmly examined his fire-arms. 
 
 ** The tramp of horses!’ continued Robin, “and of heavy 
 ones too ; but they are going from, not coming towards us. 
 Ah! heard ye not that ?” 
 
 He raised himself from the ground, and the neigh of a 
 horse was borne to them on the blast. They both stood in 
 breathless silence, the Buccaneer with his hand suspended 
 over, but not touching, his sword-handle — Robin with open 
 mouth and extended hands, as if the very movement of his 
 limbs could destroy the quietness around, or impede the sound 
 they watched for. Again the neigh was repeated, but more 
 faintly, and evidently from a greater distance. 
 
 “Safe from one at least,” said Robin, jumping in ecstasy, 
 but yet speaking in a subdued voice. ‘‘ I would know the 
 neigh of that black steed amid a thousand ; its tone is like 
 that of a trumpet, mightiest among its kind. I feel as if the 
 weight of a hundred stone was off my heart — don’t you?” 
 
 Dalton replied not, for he was fearlessly striding towards 
 the house, not, as before, sneaking among the bushes. 
 
 “‘ Let us to the window, Captain,” said Robin. 
 
 “Not I,” he replied. ‘“‘ What care I for any of them now ? 
 I shall demand Waiter from Sir Robert.” 
 
 ** You are foolhardy. What can be done quietly, ought to 
 be done quietly. If we cannot succeed so, why dare both Sir 
 Robert and Sir Willmott?” 
 
 “<I believe you are right, though I hate sailing on a lee- 
 shore. The open, open sea, for my money! Hark ye! 
 Cecil dare not refuse me this.” 
 
 ** Or any thing else, I suspect — though I know not why,” 
 replied Robin, as he commenced climbing by the creeping 
 plants to the prison-window, beneath which they now stood. 
 ** How delighted he will be to see my ugly face, poor fellow !” 
 
 Robin continued muttering broken sentences all the while 
 he ascended, having previously arranged with the Buccaneer 
 
174 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 that he was to remain below. ‘* Ah! firm footing this old 
 ivy. There, now we are up!— Master Walter! Master 
 Walter !— He sleeps behind that screen, I warrant me, 
 little thinking of his faithful friends. So, so! the rust has 
 done its duty. Strong room! strong walls they mean ; but 
 what signify strong walls without strong windows ? — Good ! 
 There goes another, and another—better still! And now ——”’ 
 
 He entered the chamber, passed to the front of the screen, 
 opened the large cupboard, cast his eyes upon the untrimmed 
 lamp, and then perceived that the door was slightly ajar ; but 
 no vestige remained of Walter De Guerre, except his cloak, 
 that was flung over the chair. His first movement was to 
 close and bolt the door, and then call softly to the Buccaneer 
 to ascend. 
 
 “‘ He is gone!” exclaimed Robin with a trembling voice, 
 as Dalton entered the room. 
 
 “* Gone!” repeated the Skipper: ‘ then is there treachery. 
 My brave boy, that I loved as my own son! By Heavens ! 
 Yl rouse the house! Had it not been for my accursed plots, 
 he would not have come over. I’ll have him delivered up to 
 me, did Sir Robert plan his destruction as skilfully as he 
 plotted that of ie 
 
 Hugh was prevented from finishing his sentence by the 
 sudden entrance of Sir Wilmott Burrell, who appeared in the 
 room they could not tell how, as the chair was still against 
 the door, and there were no visible means of admission except 
 by the window. 
 
 Dalton and the knight eyed each other with evident 
 astonishment, but the fiery Buccaneer was the first to speak. 
 
 ** And you are here, Sir Willmott! and for no good, or 
 your face would not be so smooth, or your lip so smiling. 
 Where, sir — where, 1 say — is your prisoner ? ” 
 
 “ My prisoner, good Captain! I had no prisoner.” 
 
 “ Death and d n! Sir Willmott, dare not to trifle with 
 me. Where is the young man? where is Walter De Guerre ? 
 You know ; you must know. Why come you here silently, 
 secretly? Answer me, Sir Willmott Burrell. Where is the 
 young man ?”’ 
 
 “Captain Dalton,” replied Sir Willmott, “although your 
 anxiety about this malignant convinces me that:you are not 
 the man my friendship thought you, yet I confess that I came 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 175 
 
 here for the express purpose of forwarding his escape. Doubt 
 me if you will; but see, I am unarmed, and here is the secret 
 key for unfastening the grating, which I suppose you, and my 
 quondam servant, have so unceremoniously removed.” 
 
 Dalton looked at him, and then at the key, which he took 
 from his hand and scrupulously examined. 
 
 “ Sir Willmott Burrell,” he said, after a few moments’ de- 
 liberation, “ why did you this? You are not one to do an 
 act of good— whatever you might of evil— for its own 
 sake.” 
 
 “Why ?” repeated Burrell. 
 
 “ Ay, why? Your motive, sir—your motive?” 
 
 “© Motive? What motive had you for bringing over this 
 fly-away Cavalier, and, when I questioned you, denying any 
 knowledge of the youth ?” 
 
 “‘ Sir Willmott, my question was first asked, and must be 
 first answered.” 
 
 *« Then, sir,”’ replied Burrell, drawing himself up, “ let it 
 be enough that such was my pleasure. Now, Captain, your 
 answer to my question.” 
 
 “ Your answer will save me the trouble,” replied the Buc- 
 eaneer, with as much height, if not as much dignity of man- 
 ner. * Apply it in the same way.” 
 
 ** J must call you to account for this, as well as other mat- 
 ters ; but now, think that considering who sleeps under this 
 roof, it would be only wise to withdraw. It is somewhat upon 
 my mind, despite your well-feigned surprise, that you have 
 spirited away this fellow — if so bc: 
 
 ‘* Stuff, stuff!” interrupted the Buccaneer :,,‘‘ there has been 
 here a stronger spirit at work than either yours or mine; and, 
 as to calling me to account, you always know where I am to 
 be found.” 
 
 “| sought you there to-night on this very errand,’’ replied 
 the wily Sir Willmott, “ but you were absent.” 
 
 ** Still I repeat, you know where to find me. And now for 
 my parting words. Observe, I dread no meeting with any ; 
 you have more reason to tremble than I have, if all were known. 
 But now —see that no harm happen to the Cavalier, who, 
 but an hour since, occupied this chamber ; for, by the God of 
 heaven ! if but a hair of his head fall to the earth, I will hunt 
 you to your own destruction! Never tell me that you have 
 
 
 
176 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 no power, no control, over him or his destiny. All I say is, 
 —see toit. It would be better that you had been drowned, 
 like a blind kitten, at your birth, than that any harm happened 
 to Walter De— De—De——”’ Dalton looked confused, 
 then, recovering himself, he glanced a fierce look at Sir Will- 
 mott, and commenced his descent from the window, muttering, 
 “ Devil! I forgot his name; couldn’t he have taken an En- 
 glish one? D—n all foreigners!” With this Jobn-Bullish 
 exclamation, which seems so natural to the natives of “ Old 
 England,” the Skipper reached the ground. Nor was Robin 
 long in following his example: he cared not to tarry Sir 
 Willmott’s questioning, and touched the earth sooner than his 
 friend, inasmuch as he sprang down, when midway, with his 
 usual agility. 
 
 They had not gone three steps on their path when Sir 
 Wilmott’s voice arrested their progress. 
 
 ‘¢ Hist, Dalton ! hist !— here is the youth’s cloak — put it 
 on, good Dalton, the night is raw ; here it goes. Well caught, 
 Robin ; make the Captain put it on ; you can return it to the 
 Cavalier when you see him, which you doubtless will, and 
 soon — I entreat you put it on. The path by the lake leads 
 straight to the Gull’s Nest. J wish, Robin, you could tarry 
 here till morning —I shall want you on business of im- 
 portance.” 
 
 Robin shook his head in denial. Dalton threw the cloak 
 over his shoulder, and almost mechanically took the path that 
 Burrell had pointed out. Sir Willmott immediately withdrew 
 from the window. They had not gone more than a hundred 
 yards when Robin locked back towards the house, and, by the 
 light of the moon, caught a glimpse of the Master of Burrell, 
 as if intent on their movements. He at the time took no 
 notice of this to the Buccaneer, but they no sooner arrived at 
 a spot where the branches of the trees overshadowed their 
 path, than Robin plucked the cloak from the shoulders of his 
 companion. 
 
 “ Well, Robin!” exclaimed the Skipper in astonishment. 
 
 “© Tt is not well,” replied the manikin ; “ it cannot be well 
 when the devil turns nurse-tender. He would not have been 
 so careful of your health, if he thought your life would be of 
 long duration. And why point out this path ? —it is not the 
 shortest ; and if it were, what cares he for our legs? Wanting 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 177 
 
 me to stay at the Place too — it’s all ill. Besides, I saw him 
 watching us from the window: why should he watch us ? 
 was it love, think ye? Go to, Master Dalton, you are not 
 the man you were: let us strike into another path ; I will be 
 all ears and eyes, and do you keep your arms in readiness.” 
 
 “You are right, Robin; you are right— right in one 
 thing, at all events,” replied Dalton, leaning his arm against a 
 tree, and pressing his forehead with his hand; ‘I am not, 
 indeed, the man I was! The lion spirit is yet within me ; 
 but, Robin, that spirit which never quailed to mortal authority, 
 is become weak and yielding as a young girl’s heart, to the 
 still, but appalling voice of my own conscience. After every 
 effort there is a re-action: — the blood ! —the blood, shed 
 through my instrumentality, and often by my own hand, rises 
 before me, like a crimson cloud, and shuts out all that is pure 
 and holy from my sight. It used not to be thus! My pas- 
 sions — my whirlwind passions, that carried me forward for 
 so many years — are dead, or dying. It takes time to wind me 
 up to a brave action: — my joints are stiffening, and crack 
 within their sockets, when called upon to do their duty. The 
 very good I would, I cannot! This Walter, whom I love 
 next to my own Barbara — to find him in the lion’s net! 
 That Jewish girl I sought, merely to save her from yon hell- 
 hound’s grasp !— she unconsciously eludes my search; in 
 some shape or other she will be sacrificed. I am sick — sick 
 of villains and villany! With wealth enough to purchase 
 lands, broader and fairer than these we now tread upon, I 
 would thank God, night and day upon my bended knees, to 
 make me as one of the poor hinds, who has not wherewith to 
 purchase a morning meal — or as a savage — a wild untamed 
 savage — who hunts the woods for food !” 
 
 _ You'd do foolishly then, Captain ; under favour, very 
 foolishly,” replied Robin, yielding to the Buccaneer’s humour, 
 and yet seeking to calm it away. ‘ Know ye not that every 
 rose has its own thorns, and every bosom its own stings? 
 Besides,” he continued, faintly, “the wealth you speak of will 
 richly dower Barbara; make her a match for a gentleman, or 
 mayhap a knight !” 
 
 *“* Did you say a gentleman? No, no, I will never marry: 
 her to one who would take her as so much ballast to her gold, 
 and scorn her as the Rover’s daughter.” 
 
 N 
 
178 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 “But you would scorn a poor man for her ?” 
 
 ** Blessed poverty !’’ exclaimed the sailor ; “ how would I 
 hug it to my heart — make it joint partner with my child in 
 my affections, if it would only bring a fair unspotted name in 
 exchange for the gold it might take away. Blessed poverty !” 
 
 It would appear that Robin was too much occupied by his 
 own feelings to be on the alert as usual ; for Dalton was the 
 first to perceive a man stealing along by the side of, but not 
 on, the path they had quitted ; he pointed him out to Robin’s 
 attention. In an instant the little Ranger commenced recon- 
 noitring ; and came back without delay, to tell the Captain 
 that it was no other than Jack Roupall. 
 
 « Jack Roupall!” repeated Dalton, returning instantly to 
 the path they had quitted, saying aloud at the same time, 
 <‘ Why, Jack, what sends you on this tack?” 
 
 Whether from some sudden tremor or astonishment, it 
 cannot be ascertained, nor could the ruffian himself account 
 for it, he discharged a pistol, evidently without aim, and 
 Robin as instantly struck it from his hand. ° 
 
 It was this report that had so terrified Barbara. But there 
 was another ear upon which it struck —in the solitude of that 
 wild room in Cecil Place. It sent the blood rushing to his 
 evil brain ; — he clasped his hands in exultation ; for the 
 death-sound was to him the voice of security ; and he prayed 
 — (that such wretches are allowed to pray !) — that the bullet 
 was at that moment wading in the life-stream of the Buc- 
 caneer. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Brother of Fear, more gaily clad, 
 The merrier fool 0’ th’ two, yet quite as mad; 
 Sire of Repentance! child of fond Desire ! 
 That blow’st the chymic’s and the lover’s fire, 
 Leading them still insensibly on 
 By the strange witchcraft of “anon.” 
 CowLeEy AGAINnsT Hope. 
 
 To account for Walter De Guerre’s sudden departure, we 
 must revert to the time when, silent and solitary, he shaded 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 179 
 
 the glare of the night-lamp from his eyes, and threw himself 
 along the black oak form to meditate and mourn over events 
 that appeared to him, at least, now beyond his own control. 
 
 Whatever others may think as to our bringing on our own 
 misfortunes, we hardly ever agree in the hard task of self- 
 condemnation —a task of peculiar difficulty to the young 
 and the ardent. They may even be inwardly dissatisfied 
 with themselves, yet they care not to express it openly, lest 
 they may be thought little of ; a timidity natural in youth, 
 and arising, not unfrequently, from diffidence in its own 
 powers. Age may improve the understanding, but it chills 
 the affections ; and though the young are ever fitter to invent 
 than to judge, and abler for execution than for counsel ; yet, 
 on the other hand, they are happily free from that knowledge 
 of the world which first intoxicates, and then, too frequently, 
 leaves its votaries with enfeebled heads and palsied hands. 
 Had not Walter been schooled in adversity, he would have 
 been as haughty and as unyielding a cavalier as ever drew 
 sword in the cause of the unhappy Stuarts; but his boyhood 
 had been passed amid privations, and they had done the work 
 of wisdom. As in books, so it is in life, we profit more by 
 the afflictions of the righteous Job, than by the felicities of 
 the luxurious Solomon. The only break of summer sun- 
 shine in his short but most varied career was the time he 
 had spent with Constance Cecil; nor had he in the least 
 exaggerated his feelings in saying “that “the memory of the 
 days ‘passed i in her society had been the soother and brightener 
 of his existence.” He sorrowed as much at the idea that she 
 was sacrificing herself from some mysterious cause, as at the 
 termination his affection was likely to suffer. That so high 
 souled a being was about to make such a sacrifice from 
 worldly motives, was, he knew, impossible; and among the 
 bitterest of his regrets was the one, that she did not consider 
 him worthy of her confidence. 
 
 ** I could give her up, almost cheerfully,” he would repeat 
 to himself, “ if her happiness depended on it; but I cannot 
 support the idea that she thinks me undeserving her esteem.” 
 As to his arrest, he cared but little for it: at another time it 
 would have chafed and perplexed him in no small degree; 
 but Constance — the beloved Constance — the playmate of 
 his childhood —the vision of his boyhood — the reality of 
 
 N2 
 
180 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 his maturer years, was alone in his mind. Often did he 
 wish he had not seen her in her womanly.beauty ; that he 
 had not spent a day beneath the roof were he was now a 
 prisoner; that she had been any thing but worthy of the 
 passionate affection he endeavoured vainly to recall. Had 
 she been less perfect, he thought he could have been less 
 devoted ; and yet he would not have her other than she was. 
 But for such a one to be the victim of Sir Willmott Burrell 
 —a traitor! a coward—the thought was insupportable. 
 After many contending ideas, he came to the resolution that, 
 cost what it would, he would put the case in all its bearings 
 to Major Wellmore — another mystery he vainly sought to 
 unravel, but who had evidently powerful interest with the 
 family at Cecil Place. True, he was a partisan of the Pro- 
 tector; but, nevertheless, there were fine manly feelings 
 about his heart ; and it was, moreover, clear that he was by 
 no means well inclined towards Sir Willmott Burrell. With 
 this resolution on his mind, bodily fatigue overcame even his 
 anxieties, and he fell into a deep slumber. 
 
 He had slept but for a short time, when he was suddenly 
 awakened by the pressure of a hand upon his shoulder ; he 
 looked up, and by the dim light of the fading lamp saw it 
 was Major Wellmore who disturbed his repose. He started 
 at once from his couch; but the officer seated himself upon 
 an opposite chair, placed his steeple-crowned and weather- 
 beaten hat on the floor, and resting his elbows on his knees, 
 and his chin between the palms of his hands, fixed his keen 
 eyes upon the young Cavalier, who, when perfectly awake, 
 perceived that his visiter was dressed and armed as usual, 
 
 “Ts it morning, sir?” inquired De Guerre, anxious. to 
 break the silence. 
 
 «< No, sir,” was the concise reply. 
 
 “* The whole house sleeps,” resumed Walter; ‘ wh 
 then are you up and dressed? and why am I disturbed ?” 
 
 ** You are mistaken, young man. Know you a pretty, de- 
 mure, waiting-gentlewoman, called Barbara ?” 
 
 ‘“* Mistress Cecil’s attendant ?” 
 
 “* The same : —she has but now left the house, to commu- 
 nicate, I suppose, with your respectable friends at the Gull’s 
 Nest, and devise means for your escape.” 
 
 «‘ If so, I am sure I know nothing of the foolish plan.”. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 181 
 
 ** I believe you. There is another who slumbers not.’ 
 
 ** What, Constantia !— is she ill?” inquired the Cava- 
 lier, with an earnestness that caused something of a smile to 
 visit the firm-set lip of the hardy soldier. 
 
 “No; I know nothing of young ladies’ slumbers ; I dare 
 say she and her loquacious friend, Lady Frances, have talked 
 themselves to sleep long since.” 
 
 Lady Frances, I dare say, has,” persisted Walter: ‘ light 
 o’ lip, light o’ sleep.”’ 
 
 “1 spoke of neither of the women,” said the Major, 
 sternly; “I allude to Sir Willmott Burrell — he sleeps 
 not.” 
 
 « By my troth I am glad of it,” exclaimed the Cavalier ; 
 *‘ right glad am I that slumber seals not the craven’s lids. 
 Would that I were by his side, with my good steel, and 
 where there could be no interruption ; the sun should never 
 rise upon his bridal morn.” 
 
 “Ah! you would show your regard for Mistress Cecil, I 
 presume, by destroying the man she has chosen to be her 
 husband ; such is the Malignant’s love!” 
 
 ** Love, sir! Ihave not spoken of love. But could Con- 
 stantia Cecil love a dastard like this Burrell? Listen! — I 
 thought to tell you — yet, when I look on you, I cannot — 
 there is that about you which seems at war with tenderness. 
 Age sits upon your brow as if it were enthroned on Wisdom 
 — the wisdom learned in a most troubled land — the wis- 
 dom that takes suspicion as its corner stone ; yet once, may- 
 hap, blood, warm and gentle too, flowed in those very veins 
 that time hath wrought to sinews; and then, sir — then 
 you looked on love and youth with other eyes :— was it not 
 sop” 
 
 ‘* It may have been,”’ replied the soldier : “ speak on.” 
 
 “In my early youth, nay, in very childhood, I was the 
 playmate of her who is now ripened into glorious womanhood. 
 I will not tell you why or wherefore — but ’tis a strange 
 story —my destiny led me to distant but far less happy 
 scenes: my heart panted to be near her once again ; yet it 
 was all in vain ; for, in truth, I was cast upon the waters — 
 left ; 
 
 “Like the infant Moses, doubtless,” interrupted the 
 Major; adding, ““ But found you no Pharaoh’s daughter to 
 
 N 3 
 
 
 
182 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 succour and take pity? Methought there were many to be- 
 come nursing fathers and mothers to the spawn, the off-sets, 
 of monarchy.” 
 
 “« Sir!” exclaimed the Cavalier with emotion, “ why this 
 needless insult? You told me to proceed ; and now : 
 
 “I tell you to desist. What care I to hear of the love 
 you bear the woman Cecil? She is the betrothed of another 
 man; and were she not, think you I could wish her wedded to 
 one holding principles such as yours? Have not her gallant 
 brothers, boys fostered, nurtured in freedom, soared to taste 
 the liberty of heaven ? Have they not yielded up their breath, 
 their life-blood in the holy cause? The saplings were de- 
 stroyed, although the Lord’s arm was outstretched, and 
 mighty to save! And think ye I would see her, who is part 
 and parcel of such glorious flesh, wedded to one who yearns 
 for the outpouring of slaughter, and the coming again of a 
 race of locusts upon this now free land ?” 
 
 ** If Lady Constance would have broken the unjust con- 
 tract,” replied Walter, reasoning for once with something 
 like coolness, “‘ I should not have thought of asking your 
 opinion, or consulting your wishes, Major Wellmore.” 
 
 « And yet, had you been different, had the Lord given 
 unto you to discern the right, I could, I might, I would say, 
 have had sufficient influence to order it otherwise — that is, 
 if her affections be not placed on Burrell; for I hold it as a 
 fleshly and most carnal act to bestow the hand in marriage, 
 where the heart goeth not with it.” 
 
 «< If Mistress Cecil were asked,” said Walter, “ she would 
 not, J am sure, deny that the man is held by her in utter 
 abhorrence.” 
 
 “J have heard of this,” replied the veteran, “ but look 
 upon the twnformation most doubtingly. Constantia Cecil is 
 a truth-loving and a God-fearing woman, and I deem her to 
 be one who would die sooner than plight a false faith: it 
 would be difficult to find a motive strong enough to destroy 
 her sense of religion, or the rectitude springing therefrom.” 
 
 ** Ask yourself, acquainted as you are with both natures,” 
 persisted De Guerre, “if one like Mistress Cecil could love 
 such as Sir Willmott Burrell?” 
 
 « T grant the apparent impossibility of the case; but mark 
 ye, it is easier to believe in the existence of impossibilities, 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER: 183 
 
 paradoxical as such a phrase may sound, than to fathom the 
 mind of a woman, when she pleases to make secret what is 
 passing within her, or when she has taken some great charge 
 into her heart. Howbeit, whether she loves Sir Willmott 
 or not, she is little likely to love one who seeks, like you, the 
 ruin of his country.” 
 
 “< The ruin of my country!” repeated the Cavalier. 
 
 *‘ Even so: dissatisfied with present things in England, 
 you cannot deny that you hunger and thirst after a Restora- 
 tion, as the souls of the Israelites thirsted after the luxuries 
 of Egypt, and would have endured a second bondage to have 
 tasted of them again. Young man, you should know that 
 those who bring war into their country care little for its 
 prosperity.” 
 
 «‘ T shall not deny that I desire a change in this afflicted 
 kingdom,” he replied ; ‘‘ but as to bringing war again into 
 England, those who first drew the sword should think of that.” 
 
 Major Wellmore knit his brows, and looked fixedly at the 
 Cavalier. Then, after a few moments’ pause, recommenced 
 the conversation, without, however, withdrawing his eyes 
 from their scrutiny. 
 
 ** We will again talk of your own individual affairs, good 
 youth ; for we are not likely to agree upon the political bear- 
 ing of this land. You believe that Mistress Constance is but 
 little affected towards the man she is about to marry?” 
 
 “ Affected towards him!” repeated Walter, kindling at 
 the idea. ‘‘ Unless affected by deep hatred, nothing else 
 affects her, as far as he is concerned. I could swear to the 
 truth of that conviction, on the Saviour’s Cross — on the hilt 
 of my own sword, were it necessary.” 
 
 “© Which it is not,’’ observed the Major. ‘ But how re- 
 concile you that with the high opinion you entertain of the 
 lady?” 
 
 ** T cannot reconcile it. If I could, I should feel almost 
 at peace with her and with myself. It is mystery all — 
 except that the accursed bridal will be the stepping-stone to 
 her grave! That is no mystery.” 
 
 ** You would prevent this marriage ?” 
 
 ** Yes, truly, were my heart’s blood to rush forth in so 
 doing ; if,’ he added sorrowfully, “ its prevention could be 
 indeed accomplished ; — but it is too late now.” 
 
 n 4 
 
184 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 3) 
 
 “Tt is not too late,” said the old officer, “if you will 
 listen calmly, and learn that there is no necessity for such 
 profaneness as you have used. Oaths and exclamations can- 
 
 not destroy facts, any more than sunbeams can dissolve iron: * 
 
 so, avoid, I pray you, idle or wicked words, and listen. You 
 would prevent this marriage ?”’ 
 
 “¢ Most undoubtedly, were it possible ; but I. know, I feel 
 it is too late: —the damning ——- 
 
 “¢ Sir!” interrupted the Roandhesd warmly, “ IT have just 
 cautioned you against the use of profane words; yet you 
 stuff them down my throat. I am crammed, rey with your 
 blasphemy.” 
 
 “‘ Ts this a time to stand on words?” inquired De Guerre, 
 with great quietude of manner. ‘‘ We have different modes 
 of expression, but they tend towards the same end — at least 
 so you would have me believe. We have both in view the 
 happiness of Mistress Cecil.” 
 
 “* You speak truly,” replied the other; ‘‘ and having so 
 good an object to attain, it is meet that we use the worthiest 
 means to achieve it; a lily should not be trained and nou- 
 rished by a sullied hand.” 
 
 The youth bowed, though, when he afterwards thought 
 upon the simile, he pondered on the strangeness that one like 
 Wellmore should seek metaphors from the flowers of the field. 
 But nature and its feelings are rooted in the heart of the 
 warrior and the statesman, as well as in that of the tenderest 
 maid who tends the sheep or milks the lowing kine; the 
 difference alone is that many things besides find place within 
 the worldling’s bosom, while her breast is one sweet and gentle 
 storehouse for God and for his works. 
 
 ** You would prevent this marriage?” reiterated the sol- 
 dier. Walter again bowed; but the gesture intimated im- 
 patience. 
 
 “* You are opposed to the present system, and would have 
 it changed?” he continued. 
 
 & Where is the use of this repetition } >?’ said De Guerre. 
 “You know all this, and from myself: imprudent I have 
 been, but not deceitfal RS 
 
 «© And you would see the Protector of these realms brought 
 to the Can you not finish the sentence ?” 
 
 “ T would, and I would not, see him brought to the block,” 
 
 
 
 ‘ 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 185 
 
 replied Walter, with manly frankness. “I come of a race 
 who loved the Stuarts ; in some degree I have been cherished 
 by them. Yet, though a most desperate 4 
 
 ** Out with it, sir,” said the Major hastily, filling up the 
 pause in De Guerre’s sentence. “ Out with it! I am ac- 
 customed to hear him abused.” 
 
 “A most desperate villain; still there is a boldness — a 
 native majesty — a - Dalton has so often praised his 
 bravery.” 
 
 “ Dalton! Did Dalton speak well of Cromwell?” inter- 
 rupted Wellmore. 
 
 “< Yes, well, greatly of him, as an intrepid soldier, as a 
 being to wonder at. Yet he has no right to the high place 
 whereon he sits; and 
 
 ** You would pull him down?” . 
 
 “‘ T confess it.”’ 
 
 ** The time will come when I will discuss the merits of 
 this case with you,” said Wellmore, after a pause; “ albeit I 
 like not discussion ; ‘tis not a soldier’s weapon; but you are 
 worthy of the effort. I like you, though you are mine 
 enemy, and that is more than I can say of many friends. 
 You know nothing of what the country suffered. You know 
 nothing of the sacrifices that man has made for its good. 
 Were not Cromwell and Ireton accused by their own party of 
 favouring the man Stuart? Was not Cromwell obliged to 
 say to Ashburnham and Berkeley, who came to him, as the 
 Parliament thought, on all occasions, and about all things, 
 ‘ If I am an honest man, I have said enough of the sincerity 
 of my intentions ; and if I am not, nothing is enough?’ Was 
 he not overpowered by the people’s clamours ? —— They would 
 have a king no longer ; the name, sir, the very name was as 
 a foul stench in their nostrils; the time had arrived when the 
 lawgiver was to depart from Judah. Could he, or could any 
 man —- ought he, or ought any man to fight against the Lord, 
 or the Lord’s people?” He spoke thus far with strength 
 and energy, then suddenly pausing, he added, “ But, as I 
 said before, there is time enough for this. As to yourself, 
 young man, if your love towards the lady be firm and true, 
 if your wishes for her welfare be pure and holy, if you are a 
 true patriot —behold! I will tell you— for this came I 
 hither — say that you will be one of the standing army of 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
186 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 England! say but the word — to enjoy rank, opportunities 
 of distinction, honour, and Constance Cecil as your bride !” 
 
 He paused as for reply, but the Cavalier made none ; he 
 only leaned his head against his hand, as if communing with 
 himself. 
 
 “ She will be miserable,” persisted the crafty soldier ; 
 ** inevitable misery will be her lot ; and you can prevent it, if 
 you please.” He fixed his eyes upon Walter, as if to read 
 the secrets of his soul; then, unsatisfied with the scrutiny, 
 continued — ‘* Burrell, as you have observed, cannot make 
 her happy: so much beauty, so much worth ! — you cannot 
 hesitate — your single arm could not accomplish the end you 
 aim at.” 
 
 “* Peace, tempter, peace!” exclaimed the Cavalier, bursting 
 as fearlessly and as splendidly from his repose as the sun from 
 behind a dark but yet silent thunder-cloud. ‘‘ You might 
 have conquered,” he continued in a more subdued tone, “ had 
 not the knowledge of the love of Constantia Cecil saved me, 
 as it has often done. She would only loathe the man who 
 could change his principles from any motive but conviction. 
 Enough, sir — enough, sir! I know not who you really are; 
 but this I know, I would no more see her despoiled of her 
 rectitude than of her chastity. Had she been here, she would 
 have acted as I have done: —no, she would have acted better, 
 for she would not have hesitated.” 
 
 The veteran remained silent for a few moments after this 
 burst of strong and noble feeling ; he then slowly and de- 
 liberately put on his hat, drew the thick buff gloves over his 
 muscular hands, resumed the cloak that had fallen from his 
 shoulder, and pointed to the door. 
 
 “Do you mean,” inquired Walter, “ that I am at liberty 
 to depart ?” 
 
 * You are to go with me; but you are still to consider 
 yourself under arrest.”’ 
 
 ** To go — whither ?” 
 
 “* You go with me. You might have been at liberty ; but 
 now — you go with me. And, one word more. Walk gently 
 if you value life, or what may be dearer than life. I am 
 not one to have my will disputed. You will learn as 
 much; but now, I say, walk gently, I wish not to dis- 
 turb this giddy household: they prate, like others of their 
 
THE BUCCANEER. ) 187 
 
 sort, of people’s doings, and ’tis not meet to grant them op- 
 portunity.” 
 
 “Tam a man of desperate fortunes now,” thought the 
 young Cavalier, as he followed his mysterious guide through 
 some winding and to him unknown passages of the mansion 
 — ‘‘a man of desperate fortunes, and care not where I go.” 
 
 As they passed through the shrubbery, he saw distinctly 
 the rays of a lamp stream from Constantia’s window. The 
 light fell on a clump of early roses that grew upon a flat and 
 ancient wall, the vestige of some old moat or turret. As they 
 passed nearly at its base, Walter sprang up and pulled one, 
 then shrouded it within his bosom, as he thought, unobserved 
 by his stern warder; but it was not so — the veteran noted 
 the little act, and, noting, understood it. There was a time 
 when he could feel and not define; that time was past, and 
 succeeded by the present, when he could define, but hardly 
 feel. In this instance, however, his memory did him good 
 service ; and the remembrance of what his own course had 
 been came upon him with all the freshness of renewed boy-~ 
 hood, so that he could have pressed his youthful and ardent 
 antagonist to his bosom. This sunbeam of the past was not 
 to continue, for he opened a wicket-gate leading into the park, 
 and blew one note, not loud, but clear, upon a whistle. In 
 an instant, as if the grass had produced men, Walter found 
 himself in the midst of mounted soldiers. He looked around 
 him in amazement, and even touched the nearest horse, to be 
 certain that it was not a dream! There they stood, the 
 moonbeams, broken by the overshadowing trees, coming down 
 in dappled spots upon the chargers and their iron-looking 
 riders: carved centaurs could not be more immovable. 
 True, Walter had been absorbed; yet was all this real! 
 There was for him, too, a stout steed, which he was twice 
 desired to mount ere he obeyed. 
 
188 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Jointure, portion, gold, estate, 
 Houses, household-stuff, or land, 
 (The low conveniences of fate,) 
 Are Greek no lovers understand. Cow_ey. 
 
 «* Verizy the Lord scattereth !’’ was the exclamation of the 
 Reverend Jonas Fleetword, as he passed from one to another 
 of the apartments of Cecil Place, seeking for some one with 
 whom to hold converse, yet finding none. Sir Willmott Bur- 
 rell was abroad, even at an hour so early ; Lady Frances 
 Cromwell closeted with Constantia ; Sir Robert Cecil particu- 
 larly engaged ; even Barbara Iverk was not to be found — 
 and the poor preacher had but little chance of either a break- 
 fast or a gossip, or, as he termed it, “‘ a commune.” In the 
 course of his wanderings, however, he at length encountered 
 Solomon Grundy, puffing and courtesying under the weight of 
 a huge pasty he was conveying, by a prodigious effort, to the 
 buttery. 
 
 “* Ah, Solomon, my friend,” said Fleetword, “ of a truth it 
 is a pleasant thing to see thee.” } 
 
 “* You mean that you behold something pleasant with me,” 
 retorted the cook ; ‘‘ and of a verity, your reverence p 
 
 “* You must not call me reverence ; it is one of the desig. 
 nations of the beast ;—— my voice is raised against it— against 
 the horned beast.” 
 
 “*« This was a horned beast once,” again replied Solomon, 
 observing that the preacher’s eye was fixed upon the pasty ; 
 “‘ nature may be changed by cookery. It hath lost all the 
 sinful qualities that you talk about, and hath become most 
 savoury and nourishing food: doth it resemble the change 
 that, you say, takes place in the spirit P ” 
 
 We must not so mingle profane and sacred things,” mur- 
 mured Fleetword, placing his forefinger upon the tempting 
 dish, with a longing and eager look ; for he had walked far and 
 was fasting. ‘* Is this one of the baked meats thou art pre- 
 paring for the coming festival ? ” 
 
 “« What festival ? ’”’ inquired the cook, surlily : “ I know of 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 189 
 
 no festival. Of a surety, have I laboured in my calling, to 
 furnish forth something worthy of this house ; yet, from what 
 I hear, there will be few at this wedding to profit by my skill. 
 I little thought to see our dear young lady so wedded.” 
 
 ** Solomon, feasting is foolishness; it savoureth of the 
 mammon of unrighteousness: yet was Nimrod a mighty 
 hunter before the Lord, and Isaac loved seethed kid. Couldst 
 thou extract a morsel of meat from that compound, for of a 
 truth I am an hungered?” 
 
 ** What! spoil my garnishing !” exclaimed Grundy ! “ look 
 at the frosting of that horn, and the device, the two doves — 
 see’st thou not the doves? ” 
 
 “ Yea; but methinks thou mightest take away a portion, 
 without injury to the goodly fabric. — Behold!’’ and the 
 Reverend Jonas lifted, with the cook’s long knife (which he 
 snatched in unbecoming haste from the girdle), the paste of 
 the edge of the gigantic pie, and stole a weighty slice of the 
 venison from beneath. 
 
 ** Ah, ah!’ grinned Solomon, evidently pleased at the dis- 
 tinction bestowed upon his compost. ‘“‘ Is it not passing 
 good? But you taste not of the gravy —the gravy!” 
 
 ** It is unseemly to dispose one’s heart towards such luxu- 
 ries ; though the saints stand in need of food no less than the 
 young ravens — only it should be in moderation.” 
 
 The preacher gulped down a ladleful of the pottage, and 
 gasped for another, unmindful of his own precept, while the 
 gravy lingered on his lips. 
 
 * Such as that would soon make you another man,” said 
 Solomon, glancing at Fleetword’s slender and spindle shanks ; 
 ‘* there’s nourishment in it.” 
 
 “We all stand in need of regeneration, Solomon, and 
 should desire improvement, even as the hart panteth for the 
 water-brooks ; be it improvement of body, or improve- 
 ment of mind. There was a wise King of Israel of thy 
 name.” 
 
 ** What! Grundy, sir? the Grundys were of Lancashire,” 
 said the gratified compounder of kitchen-stuff. 
 
 “Not Grundy; heard ye ever in Scripture of a name 
 like that?” retorted the preacher. “ It was Solomon the 
 wise.” 
 
 “J remember him now; he had a many wives. But you 
 
190 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 can call to mind, sir, when I only wanted to put away old 
 Joan, and marry Phoebe Graceful, you, sir, wouldn’t let me. 
 But them old Christians had a deal more liberty.” 
 
 «© Peace, fool!” exclaimed Fleetword, somewhat in anger. 
 “‘ Solomon was a Jew.” 
 
 «“ A Jew!” repeated the cook — “ I wonder at your holy 
 reverence to think of such wickedness ; surely your reverence 
 does not want me to be like aJew? ” | 
 
 <* Solomon, thou art a fool — in bone, in flesh, in marrow, 
 and in spirit. Have I not told thee of the ungodliness of these 
 thoughts? ”’ replied the preacher, as he finished his last morsel. 
 «¢ But, unless I answer thee according to thine own foolish- 
 ness, I cannot make thee understand. Get me a flagon of 
 double-dub.” t 
 
 “* With a toast in it? ’ demanded Grundy, slily peering out 
 at the corner of his eye. 
 
 ‘¢ Thou canst comprehend that,” replied Fleetword : “ truly 
 — truly, the creature comforts have absorbed thy whole stock 
 of ideas. Thou art like a sponge, Solomon —a mere fungus. 
 Thou may’st put in the toast. And hark ye! if ye see Bar- 
 bara, tell her I would speak with her ; not here — not here — 
 that would be unseemly —but in the oak parlour, or the 
 library, I care not which.” 
 
 ““ Now do I wish for Robin Hays,” muttered the shrewd 
 yet ignorant cook ; “‘ for he would expoundiate, which signifies, 
 make clear — why a parson must not meet a maid in the but- 
 tery. — But he is not a parson — Then he is a man — But 
 not only a man, he must be something else, methinks. But 
 why not Barbara go to the buttery ? Just in time, here comes 
 Robin ; so I'll e’en ask him. — Give you good day, my Kentish 
 man ; it was a pity you were not here last night, as you so love 
 a fray. The handsome youth, who had been staying on a 
 visit, was cooped up, because he and Sir Willmott fought about 
 my Lady Constance. And then the Major —he has been 
 here two or three times, and they call him Wellmore — al- 
 though worthy Jabez Tippet, the boatman, swears — no, not 
 swears — declares, that no such person ever crosses the ferry : 
 — yet is he dumb as a tortoise as to who does. Well, the 
 Major and the young gentleman went off in a flash of light- 
 ning, or something of the sort; for Sir Willmott and my 
 master could not find him. And I asked Barbara about 
 
 a ' 
 ta 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 191 
 
 it! but marry, she knows nothing, and therefore says 
 nothing ? 
 
 *¢ Which proves her different from the other sex ; for they 
 sometimes know next to nothing, yet say a great deal,”’ retorted 
 Robin, sarcastically. 
 
 ‘“Humph!” replied Grundy; ‘* you look chuffish this 
 morning, Master Robin: have you got any thing ready for the 
 bridal ? ” 
 
 « Don’t worry me,” exclaimed Robin; “ what care I for 
 bridals, or bridles either, unless I could fix one in your mouth ? 
 Where’s Barbara? ” 
 
 “ The very thing I want to know ; for that holy man, the 
 preacher Fleetword, having communed with the pasty, would 
 fain commune with the maid —not in the buttery though. 
 And now, methinks, I had a question to put to you — Why 
 is it unseemly for a man to The cook held up his hand 
 in his usual oratorical style, so that it stood out like a substan- 
 tial fan before his face, and touching the second finger of his 
 left with the forefinger of his right, was proceeding with his 
 inquiry, when he perceived that Robin had vanished! “ Robin! 
 Robin Hays! oh! thou heedless, and most faithless person ! 
 thou Jacky Lantern! ” he exclaimed, and then followed, as he 
 thought, the passage that Robin had taken. It happened, 
 however, to be the opposite one, so that he received not the 
 required information. — 
 
 Robin sought Barbara in every place where it was likely she 
 might be found, but without success ; being unable to enter 
 the more private apartments of the dwelling, he applied to one 
 of the damsels of Lady Frances’ suite. 
 
 «< Oh, you seek Mistress Barbara, do you, young man?” 
 and she cast her eyes over Robin’s mis-shapen figure with an 
 expression of contempt that could not be mistaken ; then passed 
 her finger along the braid of hair that bounded the border of 
 a plain cap, made of the richest lace; pulled down her 
 stomacher, and apparently waited for the Ranger’s reply. 
 Robin reddened to the eyes, for he could but impatiently brook 
 such personal scrutiny ; and his annoyance increased when he 
 saw that his embarrassment was noticed by his courtly companion. 
 
 « We do not call her mistress here,” he said at length ; 
 *< but I pray you tell me where she is—I mean the Lady Con- 
 stantia’s attendant, little Barbara Iverk.” 
 
 
 
 
 
192 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 <* T know who you mean perfectly well,” replied the pert 
 woman in authority ; ‘‘ we of the court are not thick-headed, 
 as you of the country may be, so I will explain fully to 
 your ” she tittered rudely and loudly ; but Robin’s pride 
 was nettled, and he heeded it not; ‘ to your but I 
 wouldn’t laugh, if I could help it. Barbara wished to know 
 how the attendants were dressed when my Lady Mary was 
 matried so very lately to my Lord Fauconberg ; and, as we of 
 the court always carry our wardrobes with us, and the simple 
 girl being my size —she hath a marvellously fine person for 
 one country-bred — I dressed her as was fitting in my robes : 
 a white striped silk petticoat, and a white body made of foreign 
 taffeta, the sleeves looped up with white pearls, no cap upon 
 her head, but a satin hood just edged with Paris lace. ’Od’s 
 Gemini! young man, if you had but seen her. Then all of a 
 sudden her lady wanted her to get some flowers, and she had 
 only time to throw on her cardinal and run for them? ” 
 
 ** Then she is in the garden P” 
 
 “* By the Fairy Ring, I take it; for there the best flowers 
 grow.” 
 
 Robin did not tarry to thank the court damsel for her in- 
 formation, but bounded right away to the garden, cursing the 
 rude laugh that again insulted him. 
 
 As he drew near the Ring, he heard a faint shriek. His 
 quick ear knew at once that it came from the lips of Bar- 
 bara; and bursting through the trees, he was in an instant by 
 her side. 
 
 It will take many words to describe what had passed in a 
 single moment. 
 
 Barbara, dressed as Lady Frances’ woman had described, 
 was on her knees before a slight, sallow youth, who held an 
 unsheathed dagger in one hand, and spoke in a language that 
 was a mixture of some foreign tongue and most imperfect 
 English. Barbara, pale and trembling, evidently did not un- 
 derstand a word the other said, yet knelt with hands and face 
 upturned, while the boy brandished the weapon, as if in the 
 act of striking. As his dark eye flashed upon his victim, it 
 caught sight of the Ranger, who rushed from the thicket to . 
 her side. With a piercing cry, the boy sprang away into an 
 almost impenetrable underwood, that skirted the portion of the 
 Fairy Ring most distant from the house. Barbara no sooner 
 
 
 
 
 
 < 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 193 
 
 saw Robin than she attempted to rise ; but she was unequal to 
 any further exertion, and sank fainting on the grass. 
 
 When she recovered, she found herself in the same spot, 
 with her head on Robin’s shoulder. Her spirits were relieved 
 by a burst of tears; and, withdrawing her head, she wept 
 plentifully in her hands, heedless of the drops that crept 
 through her small fingers, and fell abundantly on the white 
 silk petticoat the waiting-maid so highly prized. Robin had 
 always thought her beautiful, but he had never avowed it to 
 himself so decidedly as now. Her long, luxuriant hair, no 
 longer twisted and flattened under her Puritan cap, flowed over 
 the simple, but, to Robin’s eyes, superb dress in which she was 
 arrayed ; the drapery rather added to, than lessened, the pure 
 and holy look which is the soul and essence of virgin loveli- 
 ness; and he never felt his own worthlessness so much, as 
 while thus contemplating Barbara at the very moment when 
 she was a thousand times dearer to him than ever. 
 
 She was the first to speak, as passing her hand over her 
 eyes, then looking up between their long silken lashes, smil- 
 ing as a young child at the danger that was past, and retain- 
 ing only the remembrance of it, because it brought to her 
 gentle and affectionate mind another proof of Robin’s attach- 
 ment and protecting care, she stretched out her hand, all gem- 
 med as it was, and sobbed, even while smiling, — 
 
 “* Dear, good Robin! he would have killed me. Are you 
 quite sure he is gone? Come near me, Robin ; he will not 
 come back while you are here. Iam sure he mistook me for 
 some one else, for —” she spoke in a low tone, “ I saw him 
 once before, Robin Hays,” still lower, “ at the Gull’s Nest 
 Crag, only last night.” ‘ 
 
 ** I knew the little rascal was after no good ; and to pretend 
 dumbness too !” 
 
 “‘ Dumbness !” repeated Barbara. <“‘ Did he pretend to be 
 dumb ? — and do you know him ?” 
 
 ** I do know that he, in some degree, stole his passage over 
 in But no matter; Vl clip his wings, and blunt his 
 dagger, | warrant me; he shall play no more such pranks. 
 To frighten you, my Barbara! — what could be the motive ? 
 serious injury he could not intend.” 
 
 * Ah, Robin!” said Barbara, shuddering, “ you did not 
 see his eyes as I did, or you would not say so; such eyes! 
 
 0 
 
 
 
194 THE BUCCANEER. ~ 
 
 Ah, I should have been bitterly frightened had I not prayed 
 ‘this morning. Dear Robin, why do you not pray ?” 
 
 Robin looked at her and sighed — “‘ Could you understand 
 nothing of what he said?” inquired he. 
 
 “‘ Y heard him repeat the name of Burrell, and that of my 
 dear lady, two or three times; but what he meant I cannot 
 fathom. Oh, but he had a wild and terrible look! Why 
 should he seek to harm me?” : 
 
 << Why, indeed !”’ echoed Robin ; ‘‘ it must be seen into, 
 and that immediately. I'll speak anon of it to Dalton.” 
 
 “To Dalton!” in her turn echoed the girl — “ Oh! that 
 fearful man i 
 
 “* There is no one under the sun who has more love for you 
 than he has — than Hugh Dalton.” 
 
 ‘“ T am sure he knew my father.” 
 
 “© He did, indeed: but question me no farther now, sweet 
 Barbara ; make your mind quite easy, the outrage shall not be 
 repeated Perhaps the boy is crazed. Let’s think no more 
 of it, my gentle girl. I must bid you farewell.” 
 
 «* Farewell, Robin! Why — wherefore? Tell me, where 
 are you going? When do you return? How long do you 
 stay P” 
 
 “* Now, if I were a king, and one that woman could look 
 upon and love, I would give the half, the whole of my king- 
 dom, to be sure she feels as earnestly as she speaks,” thought 
 Robin. She perceived the coldness of his look, and continued, 
 though with a changed expression, — 
 
 “What ails you? Have I angered you? Will you be 
 thus wayward with your poor Barbara ?” 
 
 ‘« My Barbara!” he repeated bitterly, and he touched the 
 Frenchified hood that hung over her shoulders: ‘ my Bar- 
 bara! would these trappings become any one that belonged to 
 such a thing as me? Rare contrasts we should be! Methinks 
 such bravery does ill adorn a simple Puritan ; one professing 
 such principles should don a plainer robe. Gems, too, upon 
 your sleeves ! — is not a bright, but modest eye, a far more 
 precious jewel? If it can be outshone by any other ornament, 
 it is worth nothing.”’ 
 
 He turned from her as he spoke, and tears again gathered 
 in her eyes. . 
 
 ** Robin,” she said in a broken voice, “ it was Mistress 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 195 
 
 Alice put them on, to show me the proper tiring for a bower- 
 maiden at a great festival— such as my lady’s ought to be. 
 — But I will take them off — all off, if yo. like them 
 not.” 
 
 ** Nor sigh for them again ?” 
 
 ' Sigh for such as these!” she repeated, looking on her 
 finery with disdain. ‘ No, Robin, young as I am, I have 
 learned better things. The linnet would look ill tricked out 
 in parrot’s feathers. Not but I think the bravery becoming, 
 though, perhaps, not to me ; — surely no, if you like it not! 
 But whither are you going? only tell me that. Alas! that 
 dark and black-browed boy has so confounded me, that I know 
 not what I say. The last night’s fray has sore distressed me 
 too : — you know it all.” 
 
 ‘Hush, Barbara! ’Tis of that I would speak ; it is that 
 which takes me from you— but only for a few days — it 
 cannot be very long ; — yet I must find out where he is. I 
 know the hands his wilfulness has thrown him into, but I 
 think they will save him from worse treachery. Nevertheless, 
 I must to London, and, if I cannot find him there, I must 
 elsewhere seek him out. If any ask for me, you will remain 
 silent; and, dear girl, if chance should throw you in Dalton’s 
 way, (it is likely he may be here in a few days, perhaps be- 
 fore I return,) speak him kindly and gently ; bear with him, 
 as you have borne with me.” 
 
 *“ That is impossible,” interrupted Barbara, “ for there 
 is no reason why I should do so. He was never kind to 
 me. 
 
 ** But the time is coming when he will be kind. And now 
 adieu, Barbara. I desired much to remain ; but I cannot. I 
 imagined I might be useful to Mistress Constance, but I could 
 not ; it rests not with me.” 
 
 ** J am very sorry you are going, Robin ; for now, when I 
 think of it, my heart is heavy within my bosom; I know not 
 why it should beso. You are sure you can prevent that wild 
 bad boy from frightening me again ?” 
 
 ** Quite sure. I'll lock him up within the Crag till my re- 
 turn.” 
 
 “Thank you, Robin ; but he will be kindly treated.” 
 
 * To be sure he will.” 
 
 “ Thank you again ; — but still the weight is here — here 
 
 0 2 
 
196 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 on my heart. Do you think it would be very wrong to wear 
 this dress at my lady’s bridal P” 
 
 Robin smiled at the earnestness and simplicity that cha- 
 racterised this child of nature. 
 
 “ Oh, no; but if you love such, I can get you far finer 
 garments.” 
 
 “Can you indeed ?” she exclaimed joyfully : — But no,” 
 she added in a sadder voice, “no bravery for me after this 
 bridal. I dreamed a dream last night. Do you believe in 
 dreams, Robin? Listen: I thought we were all standing at 
 an altar in the ruined chapel.” 
 
 “Whor All?” inquired the Ranger, eagerly. 
 
 * My lady and that man, and ” she paused. 
 
 “Who?” again inquired Robin. 
 
 “Why you: ’twas but a dream, you know,” she added, 
 blushing to the temples. Then, as the colour faded from her 
 calm face, even more quickly than it came, she continued, 
 « And we all looked so beautiful ! and I thought you so like 
 the Cavalier Walter, and I felt so peaceful and happy. But 
 just as you touched my hand, there came a mist between us 
 — a dense and chilling mist, that made the marrow curdle in 
 my bones, and my joints stiff and iron-bound ; and a voice, a 
 low mournful voice, like the wail of a dying bird, said, 
 ‘Come!’ —and I attempted to answer, ‘ Not yet ;’* but my 
 tongue felt frozen to my teeth, and my teeth were as icicles 
 within my lips ; and I was enshrouded in the mist. Then 
 suddenly a pang shot through my heart, as if it were the dart 
 of death, and I would have screamed, such was its agony } 
 but still my tongue was frozen! And I suffered, I cannot 
 tell you what: when suddenly a soft breath breathed upon 
 my cheek, and it felt warm and soothing, and a voice — 
 sounding — I may as well tell it all, Robin —so like yours, 
 said, ‘Pray.’ And as I prayed — not in words, but in spirit, 
 the pain departed from me, and the blood flowed again 
 through my veins; and gazing upwards, I found that I was 
 not in the ruined chapel, but in the presence of the blessed 
 Saviour! He looked upon us — upon us both ‘s 
 
 “Stop, Barbara!” exclaimed Robin, whose imagination, 
 at all times easily worked upon, now became absolute torture, 
 for mercy, stop! It was but the dream of a weak girl.” 
 
 For the first time since she had grown to woman’s estate, 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 197 
 
 he pressed her to his bosom, and then silently walked with 
 her to the little gate that led to the garden. 
 
 “ Let Crisp stay with me. Bright-eye and he agree better 
 than usual,” said Barbara with a quiet smile. 
 
 * T will,” replied Robin, adding, as he turned away, “ Trust 
 in the God you worship, and put no faith in dreams.” 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 That rule affairs of state, 
 Their purpose is ambition, 
 Their practice only hate ; 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give them all the lie, 
 
 Tell Wit how much it wrangles 
 In tickle points of niceness — 
 Tell Wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in over-wiseness ; ' 
 And when they do reply, 
 Straight give them both the lie. JOSHUA SILVESTER. 
 
 Rosin had, doubtless, good reasons for the hint he had given 
 Barbara, that she might soon again see the Buccaneer, and 
 that she would do well to use that forbearance towards him 
 which she had so kindly and so invariably practised towards 
 the Ranger. After leaving her, as we have stated, in safety 
 at one of the entrances to Cecil Place, he proceeded to the 
 Gull’s Nest. His first inquiries were concerning the boy who 
 had contrived to steal a passage on board the Fire-fly from 
 France to England, and who had pretended dumbness. How 
 the youth got on board his vessel, Dalton could not imagine ; 
 although, when the discovery was made, his feigning the in- 
 firmity we have mentioned succeeded so well, that the Bucca- 
 neer absolutely believed he could neither hear nor speak, and 
 sympathised with him accordingly. The indignation of Dalton 
 was quickly roused by the outrage described by Robin Hays: 
 he was, moreover, much exasperated that such a deception 
 should have been successfully practised on himself. Nothing 
 is so sure to anger those who duly value their penetration, as 
 the knowledge that they have been duped by those they con- 
 0 3 
 
198 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 sider inferior to themselves: indeed, the best of us are more 
 ready to pardon bare-faced wickedness than designing cun- 
 ning ; — we may reconcile ourselves to the being overpowered 
 by the one, but scarcely ever to the being over-reached by the 
 other. 
 
 Springall had quitted Cecil Place the morning after his 
 encounter with Major Wellmore, of whom he persisted in 
 speaking as “ the strong spectre-man ;” and neither Robin’s 
 entreaties nor Dalton’s commands could prevail on or force 
 him again to take up his abode within the house. 
 
 “ ¥ know not why I should remain,” he said; ‘ the girls 
 flout and laugh at my ‘sea-saw ways,’ as they call them ; 
 and though Barbara is a trim craft, well-built and rigged too, 
 yet her quiet smile is worse to me than the grinning of the 
 others. I'll stay nowhere to be both frightened and scouted : 
 the Captain engaged me to weather the sea, not the land, and 
 I'd rather bear the cat a-board the Fire-fiy, or even a lecture 
 in the good ship Providence, than be land-lagged any longer.” 
 
 He was present in the room at the Gull’s Nest when Robin 
 recounted to the Buccaneer the peril in which Barbara had 
 been placed ; and the young sailor speedily forgot the meek 
 jesting of the maiden in the magnitude of her danger. 
 
 “The black-eyed boy has not been near the house all day,” 
 added Springall, ‘‘ and my own belief is, that he’s no he, but 
 a woman in disguise. My faith on it, Jeromio’s in the secret, 
 as sure as my name is Obey Springall! Jeromio understands 
 all manner of lingoes, and would be likely to consort with any 
 foreigners for filthy lucre: he has ever ventures of his own, 
 and this is one.” 
 
 “There may be wisdom in thy giddy pate,” observed the 
 Buccaneer thoughtfully.‘ God help me! dangers and plots 
 gather thickly around, and my wits are not brightening with 
 my years.” 
 
 ** Marry, it’s no woman,” observed Mother Hays; “I 
 could not be deceived — it’s a dark-browed boy,” lowering her 
 voice, “very like what Prince Charlie was, as I remember 
 him, but with rather a Jewish look for a Christian prince.” 
 
 “* Robin,” said Dalton, taking the Ranger aside, ‘if this 
 most loathsome marriage cannot be stayed —if what I mean 
 to do should fail— my daughter must seek another home and 
 another protector. Were Miss Cecil to become the wife of 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 199 
 
 Sir Willmott Burrell, under their roof Barbara should not 
 bide — the kite’s nest is a bad shelter for the ring-dove.”’ 
 
 “Where would you take her ? — who would protect her ?”’ 
 inquired Robin earnestly. 
 
 * Faith, I know not. I'll to Sir Robert Cecil this day — 
 speak to him about some matters of our own, and then be 
 guided by circumstances as to the disposal of my daughter.— 
 My daughter! that word sends the blood to and from my 
 heart in cold and then in hot gushing streams! But, Robin, 
 you must not tarry ; close watch shall be set for this danger- 
 ous imp, to prevent farther mischief; and if Springall’s con- 
 jecture should be right — yet it is most wild, and most im- 
 probable ! — What disguise will you adopt in this pursuit of 
 our heedless friend P ” 
 
 ** As yet, I know not; I must suit it to the times and to 
 the persons I encounter ; a pedlar’s will do me best at present ; 
 a pack is a fitting nook for concealment. Dear Captain, look 
 well to Jeromio ; he never meant you honest.” 
 
 “J believe you are right, Robin; and yet why should I 
 quarrel with men’s honesty? they have as good a right to 
 label mine with the foul word ‘spurious.’ This damning 
 thing within my breast, that saints call conscience, how it has 
 worked me lately! Poison is nothing to it: but it will soon 
 be over, if the boy were safe, and my own Barbara would but 
 pray for me, after the fashion of her mother.” He paused, 
 then striking his forehead violently, as if to banish thought, 
 continued, ‘‘ You go to London straight ? ” 
 
 _ ** Ay, sure, and have secreted the invoices you spoke of, for 
 the good merchant beyond St. Paul’s, who ordered the rich 
 velvets, counting, perhaps, upon a coronation.” 
 
 ** 1 hope he has a better chance of selling them than that 
 affords. Noll will hardly dare it; his name — Protector — 
 gives as much power, and ’tis as a fencing-master’s guard, 
 ever at hand to turn aside the sneers against his ambition. 
 Thought’st thou of the pearls for my Lord Fauconberg’s rich 
 jeweller ?” 
 
 ““ Ay, master, they are safe; those I will myself deliver ; 
 though, from what the journals say, his Lordship has small 
 need of new trimming. “Twas the public talk, when you made 
 me act the respectable character of spy in Sir Willmott Bur- 
 rell’s service —at the court, sir, they talked of nothing else— 
 
 0 4 
 
200 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 how the King of France, with his own hands, made him a pre- 
 sent of a gold box, inlaid with diamonds, that had upon the 
 lid, on the outside, the arms of France, composed of three large 
 jewels, and, in the inside, the monarch’s own picture ; — the 
 Cardinal Mazarine, too, gave him a dozen pieces of the richest 
 Genoese velvet ; and then his Lordship, not to be outdone, 
 made him a gift of equal value ;—and then, I forget me what 
 was the next — and the next—and the next—and the 
 next ; but it was mighty fine trafficking, that I know.” 
 
 ‘Ay, Robin, ‘nothing for nothing’ is the statesman’s 
 motto. Now, give you good speed and success! You can 
 send to me almost from any part of the kingdom in a few 
 hours. Spare no efforts for his freedom — Jack Roupall’s 
 confession proves but too truly, that Sir Willmott is sworn 
 against his life ; and, till that ruffian is done for, or quieted, 
 there is no safety for Walter. I have sent Jack on private 
 work to the West; so he is out of the way—that’s one com- 
 fort. Great interest have I in the boy; next to my own child, 
 there is nothing I love so much. And now, Robin, fare- 
 well !” | 
 
 When Robin bade adieu to his mother, she began to weep 
 and wail, after the natural custom of mothers, high and low. 
 ** Ah! you are ever on the rove ; ever on the wander! You 
 will be on your ranges, some of these odd days, when I depart 
 this life; and then you'll never know what I have to tell 
 you.” 
 
 “ Tf it were any thing worth telling, you would have told it 
 long ago; for a woman cannot keep a secret, that we all know.” 
 
 “ Ah, boy! boy! God bless you, and good-by! 1 won- 
 der will that wench, Barbara, think to send me a bit of the 
 bride-cake? I warrant I have a sweet tooth in my head still, 
 albeit I have but two.”” And after some more idle talk, and 
 much caressing, they parted. 
 
 ‘“ My poor old mother !”” thought Robin Hays, “ she does 
 excellently well as a mother for me ; but think of such as Bar- 
 bara calling her by such a title!” And he whistled on his 
 way, though not “for want of thought ;” his feelings and 
 affections were divided between Barbara Iverk and Walter De 
 Guerre. 
 
 We must now proceed with Hugh Dalton a second time to 
 Cecil Place. His interview with the baronet was of a nature 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 901 
 
 very different from that with which our narrative commenced. 
 Sir Robert seemed as if the weight of a hundred years had 
 been pressed upon his brow ; indeed, Time could not have so 
 altered any man. It was not the deed of Time that made the 
 eye vigilant, even in its dimness — the hand, though trembling 
 almost to palsy, fumble with the sword-handle — that racked 
 the poor, withering, and shrinking brain, within its multiplied 
 cabinets, by a thousand terrors— such was not the work of 
 Time. How different was his, from the hoary, but holy age, 
 that ushers an aged, and it may be a worn, but godly and 
 grateful spirit, to an eternity of happiness ! —when the records 
 of a good man’s life may be traced by the gentle furrows that 
 nature, and not crime, has ploughed upon the brow — the 
 voice, sweet, though feeble, giving a benison to all the living 
 things of this fair earth — the eye, gentle and subdued, sleep- 
 ing calmly within its socket — the heart, trusting in the pre- 
 sent, and hoping in the future; judging by itself of others, 
 and so judging kindly (despite experience) of all mankind, 
 until time may have chimed out his warning notes ! 
 
 A thousand and a thousand times had Sir Robert cursed the 
 evil destiny that prompted him to confess his crime to his 
 daughter ; and his curses were more bitter, and more deep, 
 when he found that Sir Willmott Burrell had played so 
 treacherous a part, and inveigled him under total subjection. 
 
 “And is it Sir Willmott Burrell who is to procure me a 
 free pardon and an acknowledged ship? Trust my case to 
 Sir Willmott Burrell!” growled Dalton, as he sat opposite the 
 enfeebled baronet: his hands clenched, his brows knit, and 
 his heart swelling in his bosom with contending feelings. 
 “Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!” he repeated. “ And 
 so, Sir Robert Cecil, you have sold your soul to the devil for 
 a mess of pottage, a mess of poisoned pottage! You have not, 
 you say, the poor power of obtaining the most trifling favour 
 for yourself. But I say again, Look to it ; for, by the God in 
 heaven, I will have my suit or my revenge.” 
 
 *“ Revenge has come!” groaned forth the unfortunate man. 
 “Ts it not enough that my child, that high-souled, noble 
 creature, knows of my guilt! All this day, and yesterday too, 
 she would not see me. I know how it is —I am as a leper 
 in her eyes.” 
 
 “ Your daughter !—your daughter know your crime!” said 
 
202 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 the Buccaneer: ‘“‘ How, how was that?—Who told, who 
 could have told her such a thing >—who had the heart ?— 
 But stay !” he continued, with his rude but natural energy, 
 the better feelings of his nature coming out at once, when he 
 understood what the baronet must have endured under such 
 circumstances : —‘‘ stay, you need not tell me; there is but 
 one man upon earth who could so act, and that man is Sir 
 Willmott Burrell.— The villain made a shrewd guess, and 
 fooled ye into a confession. I see through it all !— And are 
 you so mean a coward?” he continued, turning upon Sir 
 Robert a look of ineffable contempt —“ are you cowardly enough 
 to sacrifice your daughter to save yourself? I see it now ; the 
 secret that Burrell has wormed from you is* the spear that 
 pushes her to the altar; and you — you suffer this, and sell 
 her and her lands to stay his tongue! Man, man, is there no 
 feeling at your heart? Have ye a heart? I—IJI—a rude, 
 untaught savage, whose hands are stained with blood, even to 
 the very bone; who have been as a whirlwind, scattering 
 desolation ; over the deck of whose vessel has floated the pen- 
 non of every land, working destruction as a pastime; I, my- 
 self, would brand myself as a brigand and a Buccaneer — 
 scorch the words, in letters of fire, on my brow, and stand to 
 be gazed upon by the vile rabble at every market-cross in Eng- 
 land, sooner than suffer my humble child to sacrifice the least 
 portion of herself for me !” 
 
 Dalton paused for breath ; Sir Robert Cecil hid his face 
 from the flashing of his angry eye. 
 
 ** Dalton!” he said at length, “ I cannot do it, honoured 
 as I have been, bearing so long an unspotted name, venerated 
 at the court, praised by the people! Besides, I am sure Sir 
 Willmott loves her ; his whole conduct proves ———” 
 
 “¢___ Him to be what I have often declared him, and will 
 again once more — a double-distilled villain!” interrupted 
 the Buccaneer with renewed energy. ‘‘ But what is this to 
 me?” he added, stopping abruptly in the midst of his sen- 
 tence — ‘ What have I to do with it? My revenge upon you 
 both is certain, unless my own purpose be accomplished — 
 and it shallbe accomplished for my child’s sake. I will find 
 out Sir Willmott, and tell him so to his teeth. Sir Robert 
 Cecil, farewell! You, I suppose, are a courtly, a gentlemanly 
 father! Pity that such should ever have children!” and 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 203 
 
 gathering his cloak around him, he left the room without ut- 
 tering another word. 
 
 We may omit our account of the interview between the 
 Buccaneer and Sir Wilmott Burrell ; merely observing that it 
 had the effect of chafing both in no ordinary degree. 
 
 “ If I did but dare show myself at Whitehall,” muttered 
 Dalton, as he quitted the room in which he had conversed with 
 his base opponent, ‘“‘ how I should be revenged! Nay, the 
 delight I should feel in giving their deserts to both would 
 make me risk my life, were it not for my girl's sake ; but my 
 pardon once obtained, sets me at bikexty (2 in England — Let 
 them look to it, then.” 
 
 As he loitered in one of the passages leading to the back 
 entrance, Barbara crossed his path. At first she did not 
 recognise him, for in the day-time he wore many disguises ; 
 and his present one was, a Geneva band and gown, covered 
 with a long cloak of black serge. Having coldly returned his 
 salutation, she turned into a closet to avoid further parley ; 
 but he followed, and shut the door. Barbara, who on all 
 occasions was as timid and as helpless as a hare, trembled from 
 head to foot, and sank on the nearest seat, her eyes fixed upon 
 the Skipper and her quivering lip as pale as ashes. 
 
 ‘“« Barbara,” he said, “‘ you are afraid of me — you are 
 afraid of me, child,” he repeated, almost angry with her at the 
 moment, although the feeling was so perfectly natural. 
 
 ** Robin told me not to be afraid,” she replied, at last ; and 
 then looking about for a chair, pointed to one at the farthest 
 corner of the small room. ‘“ There isa seat, sir!” 
 
 ““T see you want me to be as far away from you as possible, 
 Barbara,” he replied, smiling mournfully. 
 
 ** Not now,” she said, rising, and moving nearer, until she 
 stood at his side and looked into his face, pleased at the 
 softened expression of his features ; “‘ I am not, indeed, afraid 
 of you now, sir. The first thing I did not like you for, was 
 for offering me money ; the second — but I beg your par- 
 don” (bowing her head) — “I make too free, perhaps?” 
 Dalton, gratified at any mark of confidence, encouraged her to 
 go on — “ The second was — your name ;—JI heard of a 
 daring man called Hugh Dalton — a ruthl less, cruel man — a 
 man of 
 
 * Speak out, Barbara; you cannot anger me.” 
 
 
 
204 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 « A man of blood!” and she shuddered at her own words. 
 < But I am sure one thing Mistress Cecil said was true — 
 ‘ that we are not to put faith in all we hear.’ Now, I believe 
 all she says, and all Robin Hays says ; and he speaks so kindly 
 of you. And another thing, sir, makes me think so well of 
 you is —that you knew my father— Nay, I am sure you 
 did,” she continued. laying her hand on his arm and looking 
 into his countenance, which he turned away to conceal his 
 emotion. ‘ I am certain you did, Robin told me as much, 
 and Mistress Constance did not deny it ; and now that you are 
 here, so gentle, and so kind, I am sure you will tell me. Do, 
 dear, good sir. Did you not know my father ? my poor dear, 
 dear father |” 
 
 All Dalton’s resolutions of silence, all his resolves melted 
 into airy nothings at the sound of that sweet soft voice. Tears, 
 the only tears of pleasure that had for years moistened the 
 cheek of the reckless Buccaneer, burst from his eyes: he could 
 not speak ; he felt weak as a new-born infant; his limbs 
 trembled ; he would have fallen to the ground, had not the 
 feeble girl supported him. In a moment she perceived and 
 understood the whole truth, and exclaimed, — 
 
 ** You — you are my father !”’ 
 
 « And you do not shrink? Do not turn away from me,” 
 he said fondly. ‘‘ How like your mother you are, now that 
 your eyes are filled with love, not fear !” 
 
 «¢ And my mother loved you? ” she inquired. 
 
 « Ay, girl, Why do you ask?” 
 
 ‘«‘ Because,” replied Barbara, laying her head on his bosom, 
 _ as, if, like a young bird, she had found a home and peace 
 within the parent nest, “ because, if my mother loved you, 
 you cannot be a bad man ; and I am satisfied.”’ 
 
 The most beautiful feature in Barbara’s character was, as 
 we have said, her trustfulness ; she had no idea of guilt. She 
 heard of crime as a thing abroad in the world, but she could 
 never identify it with persons: her mind was a compound of 
 feeling and affection ; and with the beautiful and earnest sim- 
 plicity of truth, she perfectly believed that her father could 
 not be wicked. 
 = 1 will tell my lady how my mother loved you, and then 
 
 she will know you cannot be the wild man we took you for.” 
 “‘ Tell her nothing, sweet, about me. In a little time I 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 205 
 
 shall be able to take you to a proper home; only mark this, 
 you must never go to the home of Sir Willmott Burrell.” 
 
 “Ah! he is very wicked, I have heard; and yet you see 
 how wrong it is to believe evil of any one; but I know that he 
 is evil, if ever man was,’ was the maid’s reply, reverting 
 almost unconsciously to her father’s situation. 
 
 * Let us talk of nothing evil, Barbara, during the few mo- 
 ments I can remain with you now. Remember, you are to 
 tell your lady nothing about me.” 
 
 “I do not see how I can help it.” 
 
 “ Why?” 
 
 “< Because she has ever told me to tell her all things, and I 
 have obeyed. Ah, sir — father, you know not how good she 
 is to me, and how she cries, dear lady! Ever since this mar- 
 riage has been fixed upon, she has wept unceasingly.” 
 
 The Buccaneer felt at the moment as all parents must feel 
 who desire to preserve their children in innocence, and yet 
 themselves lead vicious lives. To the wicked, lies are as ne- 
 cessary as the air they breathe, as common for use as household 
 stuff. Had Barbara been what is now termed a clever girl, 
 the Buccaneer might have employed her, not as an agent of 
 falsehood — that his delicate love of his child would have pre- 
 vented — but as an instrument, perhaps, to work some delay in 
 a wedding that humanity, independent of one or two new and 
 latent causes, called upon him to prevent; but in any plot 
 where finesse was necessary, he saw that Barbara would be 
 perfectly useless ; and before taking his departure, he only 
 told her she might, if she pleased, inform Mistress Cecil, but 
 at the same time begged of her not to repeat to any one else 
 that he had been there. This Barbara promised to do; and 
 on the assurance that he would soon return, and enable her to 
 show her lady that, instead of being the wild man they both 
 took him for, he was a very peaceable (how the Buccaneer 
 smiled at the word!) person, she suffered him to depart, and 
 then went into her little room, to arrange her ideas, and mingle 
 
 thanksgivings that she had found a father, with prayers for his 
 safety, 
 
206 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 But now, no star can shine, no hope be got, 
 Most wretched creature, if he knew his lot, 
 And yet more wretched far because he knows it not. 
 * * * * * 
 The swelling sea seethes in his angry waves, 
 And smites the earth that dares the traitors nourish. 
 GILEs_FLETCHER. 
 
 Tue Buccaneer failed not to inquire relative to the pretended 
 dumb boy, but without success: he appeared to have vanished 
 suddenly from before their eyes, and had left no trace behind. 
 After despatching one or two trusty messengers on some parti- 
 cular embassies, Dalton concealed himself in the secret recesses 
 of the crag until the evening fell sufficiently to enable him to 
 get off to the Fire-fly without attracting the observation of any 
 stragglers, or persons who might be on the watch for him or 
 his vessel, which he had left, as before, under the superintend- 
 ence of Jeromio, with strict orders to move about off Shelness 
 Point, and the strand at Leysdown, and to be ready, on 2 
 particular signal, to heave-to and cast anchor nearly opposite 
 the Gull’s Nest. Three times had Dalton lighted his beacon 
 on the top of the ruined tower, and three times extinguished 
 it: the signal was at length answered, although not according 
 to his directions, which were light for light. The Buccaneer 
 was, however, satisfied ; descended by the private stair to the 
 shore, and pushed off his little boat, having called in vain for 
 Springall, whom he had left at Gull’s Nest in the morning. 
 The motion of the oars was but a mechanical accompaniment 
 to his thoughts, which wandered back to his child, to his next 
 beloved, Walter, and to the events through which his che- 
 quered iife had passed during the last year. Strong as was 
 now Hugh Dalton’s affection for his daughter, it is doubtful if 
 it would have had force enough to make him relinquish so 
 completely his wandering and ruthless habits, and adopt the 
 design of serving for a little time under the banner of the 
 Commonwealth, before he completely gave up the sea, had not 
 his declining constitution warned him that at fifty-five he was 
 older than at thirty. Hehad grown a wiser and a better man 
 than when, in middle age, he ran full tilt with his passions at 
 all things that impeded his progress or his views. A long 
 and dangerous illness, off the Caribbees, had sobered him more 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 207 
 
 in one little month, than any other event could have done in 
 years. “Away from bustle and excitement, he had time for re- 
 flection, and when he arose from his couch, he felt that he was 
 no longer the firm, strong man he had been. The impressions 
 of early life, too, returned: he longed for his child, and for 
 England ; but when he remembered her mother, he could not 
 support the idea that Barbara should know him as he really 
 was. Still his restless mind suggested that occupation would 
 be necessary, and his busy brain soon fixed upon the only way 
 by which honourable employment could be obtained. England 
 had been, for a long series of years in a perturbed and restless 
 state, and Dalton had made himself well known, both by his 
 ingenuity, energy, and bravery: he had been useful as a 
 smuggler, and imported many things of rich value to the Cava- 
 hers — trafficking, however, as we have seen, in more than 
 mere contraband articles. 
 
 Sir Robert Cecil, as we have shown, was not always the 
 possessor of Cecil Place ; and the secret of whatever course he 
 had adopted, or crime he had committed, to obtain such large 
 possessions, was in the keeping of Hugh Dalton. 
 
 Cromwell had not at all times watched as carefully over the 
 private transactions of individuals, as he was disposed to do 
 during the later years of his Protectorate. Persons obnoxious 
 to the Commonwealth had frequently disappeared ; and though 
 Oliver’s system of espionage was never surpassed, not even by 
 Napoleon, the Cromwell of modern years, yet it had been his 
 policy to take little or no note of such matters: uniting in 
 himself the most extraordinary mixture of craft and heroism 
 that ever either disfigured. or adorned the page of history. 
 
 Dalton and such men were no longer necessary to bear from 
 the shores of England the excrescences of royalty. Time, the 
 sword, or stratagem had greatly thinned their numbers ; yet 
 many recent events proved that loyalists were imported, and 
 assassins hired, and let loose in the country by contraband 
 ships ; until, at length, the Protector was roused, and resolved 
 to check the pirates and smugglers of our English strands, as 
 effectually as the gallant and right noble Blake had extermi- 
 nated them on the open sea. 
 
 No one was better acquainted with the character, the deeds, 
 and misdeeds of Hugh Dalton, than the all-seeing Cromwell ; 
 and so firm a heart as the Protector’s could not but marvel at 
 
208 THE BUCCANEER. 
 x 
 
 and admire, even though he could neither approve nor sanction, 
 the bravery of the Fire-fly’s commander. Dalton knéw this, 
 and, in endeavouring to obtain an authorised ship, acted 
 according to such knowledge. He felt that Cromwell would 
 never pardon him, unless he could make him useful; a few 
 cruises in a registered vessel, and then peace and Barbara, was 
 his concluding thought, whilst, resting on his oars, he looked 
 upon his beautiful brigantine, as she rode upon the waters at a 
 long distance yet, the heavens spangled with innumerable stars 
 for her canopy, and the ocean, the wide unfathomable ocean, 
 spreading from pole to pole, circling the round earth as with 
 a girdle, for her dominion. 
 
 It was one of those evenings that seem “ breathless with 
 adoration ;” the gentleness of heaven was on the sea; there 
 was not a line, not a ripple on the wide waste of waters; ‘the 
 winds,” to use again the poet’s eloquent words, “ were up, 
 gathered like sleeping flowers.” There was no light in the 
 vessel’s bow — no twinkle from the shore —no ship in sight 
 ~~ nothing that told of existence but his own Fire-fly, couch- 
 ing on the ocean like a sleeping bird. 
 
 “‘ There is a demon spirit within her,” whispered Dalton to 
 himself; “ the sight of her sends me wild again. Devil that 
 she is! so beautiful! so well proportioned! Talk of the 
 beauty of woman ! — But I’Il look to her no more — Ill think 
 of her ‘no more !” 
 
 He again applied himself to the oar, and was pulling stea- 
 dily towards the ship, when his eye rested upon something 
 black and round in the water. Again he paused in his ex- 
 ertions, and lay-to: the substance floated towards him. He 
 would have shouted, but — no sailor is ever free from super- 
 stitious qualms of one sort or another — he remained silent, 
 fixing his eye steadily upon the object. At last it came close, 
 quite close to the boat ; and in another instant, Springall was 
 seated in the prow. 
 
 “Good God! Spring, what’s the matter? are you mad? 
 Has any thing occurred yonder?” exclaimed Dalton, some- 
 what alarmed. 
 
 “Hush !’’ replied the panting youth; “I can hardly 
 breathe yet.” The Skipper was going to pull towards the 
 ship ; but the youth laid his hand on that of his master, and 
 ejaculated, “ Wait !” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 209 
 
 Dalton complied, and when Springall could speak, he com- 
 municated what astonished the Buccaneer in no small degree: 
 — He said that, having hunted about for the strange blade to 
 no purpose, he tacked off towards the ship, and told Jeromio 
 his master had found that the boy was no boy, but a girl in 
 disguise ; that he therefore desired Jeromio to tell him who 
 she really was, as he had secreted her on ship-board, knowing 
 perfectly well she was neither deaf nor dumb : — That Jeromio 
 said, as the master had fished it up, there was no use in 
 making any bones about the matter; for how it happened was, 
 that when they were lying off St. Vallery, this girl, whom he 
 believed to be a Jewess, offered him a large sum of money if 
 he would secrete her on board, at all events until the ship 
 sailed, and if — after concealment was impossible — he would 
 not betray her. She stipulated to be landed upon the Kentish 
 coast ; and Jeromio added, that he was sure she had a design 
 upon the life of somebody, and it might be easily guessed who, 
 as she prevailed on him to show her the use and management 
 of fire-arms, and had, besides, a dagger, which she usually 
 carried in her bosom : — That, as she wrote English very im- 
 perfectly, she had bribed him to write a letter to Mistress Cecil, 
 saying that, before God, she was the wife of Sir Willmott 
 Burrell, and that if she (Mistress Cecil) persisted in marrying 
 him, she would be revenged ! — That he (Jeromio) kept back 
 this letter, because he feared his hand-writing might eventually 
 lead to a discovery that he had been the means of bringing her 
 to England. — Springall detailed this intelligence in much less 
 time than it has occupied us to repeat it ; and then pausing, 
 added, — 
 
 ** But the worst is yet to come. Jeromio — Master, I was 
 right about that fellow !—had hardly finished this account, 
 when a boat hove out, and, at first, we thought it was you, but 
 presently who should come on board but Sir Willmott Burrell, 
 as large as life! Well, Jeromio was precious frightened, as 
 you may suppose, and said it was to inquire after the Jewess ; 
 but he took the Italian into your eabin, and —I can’t but own 
 I was vastly anxious to know what they were saying A 
 
 The greatest villain in the world dislikes to be thought a 
 listener, on the same principle that men would rather be 
 accused of crime than cowardice — of vice than folly; poor 
 Springall stopped and stammered until commanded to go on. 
 
 P 
 
 
 
210 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “It was a fine day, and, thinking I should like a bath, I 
 let myself down close by the cabin window with a rope. The 
 window was open, and as I hung half in and half out of the 
 water, I could hear every syllable they said, the sea was so 
 calm. Not a word about the Jewess ; but that precious villain 
 was listening to a proposal made by the other villain to seize 
 you, this very night, in your own ship, and murder you out- 
 right! It’s true, master, as I’m alive! Then Jeromio said 
 it would be better to deliver you up, as a rover, to the govern- 
 ment; but Sir Willmott made reply, that might answer his 
 purpose, but it would not do for him. ‘Then he promised him 
 a free pardon, and tempted him with the riches of the Crag, 
 and other things ; — and, as well as I could understand, they 
 fully agreed upon it. And then, for fear of discovery, I was 
 inounting up, when the rope, as ill-luck would have it, broke, 
 and I went tilt splash into the water! Well, Jeromio looked 
 out, and swore at me; but it mattered not: I scrambled up, 
 resolving, as you may suppose, to keep a good look-out ; but 
 that double devil, Sir Willmott, was at it again, and would 
 have it that I was listening, and so I was clapped under 
 hatches ; and hard enough I found it to steal off to you.” 
 
 ** The villain!” exclaimed the Buccaneer. “ But the thing 
 is impracticable ; there are not more than ten or a dozen of her 
 crew ashore: my brave fellows would never see their captain 
 murdered !” 
 
 “On what pretext I know not, but he has, during the 
 afternoon, sent the long-boat off with the truest hands aboard. 
 I heard the men talking, as they passed backwards and 
 forwards, that Bill o’ Dartmouth, Sailing Jack, Mat Collins, 
 and the Fire-fly rovers, as we used to call thtem— those boys 
 who had been aboard with you in foreign parts— had gone 
 ashore by your orders ; and I know there are five ,or six — 
 those Martinicos and Sagrinios, and the devil’s own O’s, that 
 are “fore and aft in all things with Jeromio. There’s no 
 putting faith in any of them, seeing they have a natural 
 antipathy towards us English. So, now, let us put back, sir.” 
 
 ** Put back!” repeated Dalton, casting a look of scorn upon 
 poor Springall ; “ the man’s not born who could make me put 
 
 back ! — The ship’s my own — and the sea, the broad sea we , _ 
 
 look upon, is mine, as long as I have strength to dip an oar in 
 its brine, or wit to box a compass! Avast! avast! boy; you 
 
THE BUCCANEER. ail 
 
 know not what you speak of when you talk to Hugh Dalton of 
 putting back!” 
 
 ** They'll murder us both!” said Springall, in a mournful, 
 and almost a reproachful tone. 
 
 ** My poor boy!” replied Dalton looking in his face, and 
 poising on high the oar he had so vigorously dipped in the 
 blue wave — “ My true-hearted boy! it would be, indeed, a 
 bad recompense for your devotedness, to lead you into the 
 tiger's den ; — for myself, I have no fear ; — I will put you 
 on shore, and return.” 
 
 “¢ Never, master!” exclaimed the lad. ‘“ There is no ohne 
 in the wide world I care for but yourself. To serve you, I 
 would venture all. No, no, master, I may be but a poor weak 
 boy in some things, but in this Iam a man. I will never 
 leave you while I have power to serve you.”’ 
 
 “* And you will not repent it,’ observed the Buccaneer ; 
 the spirit of former days rallying round his heart at the idea 
 of danger, which ever appeared to him the path to glory: 
 * you will not repent it — in a right cause too. What can I 
 have to fear? I know that the instant I show myself among 
 them, they will return as one man to their duty ; and iF THEY 
 DO NOT i 
 
 As they neared the vessel, they perceived that not more than 
 five or six of their comrades were, like shadowy things, pacing 
 the deck. Jeromio himself, however, they noted, waiting to 
 receive them. 
 
 Dalton, who was vigilant as brave, had previously thrown 
 his boat-cloak over Springall, so that he might not be recog- 
 nised, and handed him a cutlass and pistol. Whether the 
 appearance of two, when he only expected one, or whether the 
 natural dread with which he always, despite himself, regarded 
 his captain, overpowered Jeromio, we may not guess; but as 
 the Buccaneer strode up the ladder, his penetrating look 
 steadily fixed upon the wily Italian, his quick eye perceived 
 that twice he attempted to level a pistol; while his more 
 cowardly accomplices crowded behind him. Had the villain 
 possessed courage enough to fire as Dalton was ascending, his 
 life would in all probability have been the sacrifice ; but once 
 upon the deck of his own ship, he was indeed a sea-king ! 
 For an instant he stood proudly before Jeromio ; then, pre- 
 senting his pistol to the head of the Italian, who trembled 
 
 P 2 
 
 
 
pe br THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 wo 
 
 violently, he said as calmly as if he were in the midst of 
 friends, — 
 
 “ One moment's prayer ; and thus I punish traitors —— 
 
 There was a breathless silence ; one might have heard a pin 
 drop upon the deck ; the very air seemed to listen within the 
 furled sails. Jeromio’s pistol fell from his grasp ; he clasped 
 his hands in agony, and falling before the Buccaneer, upon his 
 knees, uttered a brief prayer, for well he knew that Dalton 
 never recalled a doom, and he felt that all had been discovered! 
 In another instant a flash passed along the ship, and danced 
 in garish light over the quiet sea! The bullet shattered a 
 brain ever ready to plot, but never powerful to execute. With 
 unmoved aspect Dalton replaced the weapon, and planting his 
 foot upon the prostrate dead, drew another from his belt. 
 Springall was still by his side, ready to live or die with his 
 commander. 
 
 ‘© Come on! come on!” said Dalton, after surveying the 
 small and trembling band of mutineers, as a lion of the Afric 
 deserts gazes upon a herd of hounds by whom he is beset. 
 “Come on!” and the sentence sounded like the tolling of a 
 death-bell over the waters, so firmly yet solemnly was it pro- 
 nounced, as if the hearts of a thousand men were in it. 
 ‘Come on! Are ye afraid? We are but two. Or are ye 
 still men ; and do ye think upon the time when I led ye on to 
 victory, when I divided the spoil of many lands among ye? 
 Ye are friends — countrymen of this — that was a man; yet 
 if ye will, ye shall judge between us. Did I deserve this 
 treachery at his hands? Can one of ye accuse me of in- 
 justice ?” 
 
 A loud, a reiterated “‘ No,” answered this appeal, and the 
 mutineers rushed forward, not to seize on, but to lay down 
 their weapons at the feet of their captain. 
 
 ‘“ Take up your arms,” said Dalton, after casting his eye 
 over them, and perceiving at a single glance that they had 
 truly delivered them all. ‘ Take up your arms: ye were 
 only beguiled ; ye are too true to be really treacherous.” 
 
 This most wise compliment operated as oil on the tumultuous 
 sea: the ship-mob fancied they were acting according to the: 
 dictates of reason, when they were really under the influence 
 of fear, and then they aroused the tranquillity of the night, 
 
 99 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 218 
 
 shouting long and loudly for the Fire-fly and the brave Buc- 
 caneer ! 
 
 Although Jeromio had cunningly despatched several of 
 Dalton’s most approved friends in the long-boat to the shore 
 on some pretended business, yet others had been secured 
 below ; and, when they were liberated, they created great and 
 noisy jubilee at what they jestingly called ‘‘ the Restoration.” 
 Springall had orders to distribute among them, and without 
 distinction, abundance of rum, while Dalton retired to his 
 cabin, still unmoved, to pen some despatches, which he deemed 
 necessary to send to the main land that night. 
 
 When he returned on deck, the revellers had retired, and 
 the watch was set. Many of the stars that had witnessed the 
 events we have recorded had sunk, and others had risen in 
 their stead. The midnight air was chill and cold ; Jeromio’s 
 body lay where it had fallen, stiffening in its gore; for no one 
 cared to meddle with it till the Skipper’s pleasure was: known 
 as to how it was to be disposed of. Dalton gazed upon it but 
 for an instant, and then ordered that a man named Mudy, the 
 black, and butcher of the ship, should attend him. 
 
 *“ Here, Mudy,” he exclaimed, “ chop me off that rascal’s 
 head — quick, do it!” The brute carelessly performed his 
 task. ‘* Now roll the carcass in a sail, and, being well leaded, 
 throw it overboard. Wrap me the head in a clean napkin ; I 
 would fain make a present to Sir Willmott Burrell — a wed- 
 ding present he may think it, if he will. The head to which 
 he trusted will serve the purpose well. I will not send you, 
 Springall, on this errand,” he continued, laying his hand gently 
 on the shoulder of the trembling boy, who sickened at the dis- 
 gusting sight. “Go to your hammock ; you shall not sleep 
 there many nights more. You are too good for such a life as 
 this !” 
 
 He then directed two of his men to row to land, and leave 
 the parcel at the gate of Cecil Place. He also gave them other 
 packets to deliver, with orders to those of his crew who were 
 still on shore ; and then, his ship being under sail for another 
 division of the coast, like a mighty but perturbed spirit, he 
 paced the deck till morning. 
 
214 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I am not prone to weeping as our sex 
 
 Commonly are; the want of which vain dew 
 
 Perchance shall dry your pities ; but I have 
 
 That honourable grief lodg’d here, which burns 
 
 Worse than tears drown. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Ir is curious to note how differently persons known to each 
 other, and, it may be, endeared by the ties of relationship, or 
 the still stronger ones of friendship, are occupied at some pre- 
 cise moment, although separated but by a little distance, and 
 for a brief space of time. Life is one great kaleidoscope, where 
 it is difficult to look upon the same picture twice; so varied 
 are its positions, and so numerous its contrasts, according to 
 the will of those who move and govern its machinery. While 
 the hand of the Buccaneer was dyed in blood, his child was 
 sleeping calmly on her pillow ; — Sir Robert Cecil pondering 
 over the events of the day, and drawing conclusions as to the 
 future, from which even hope was excluded ; — Sir Willmott 
 Burrell exulting in what he deemed the master-stroke of his 
 genius ; — and Constance Cecil, the fountain of whose tears 
 was dried up, permitted Lady Frances Cromwell to sit up with 
 her, while she assorted various letters, papers, and other mat- 
 ters, of real or imaginary value, of which she was possessed. 
 Within that chamber one would have thought that Death was 
 the expected bridegroom, so sadly and so solemnly did the 
 bride of the morrow move and speak. She had ceased to dis- 
 course of the approaching change, and conversed with her friend 
 only at intervals, upon topics of a trifling nature ; but in such 
 a tone, and with such a manner, as betrayed the aching heart ; 
 seldom waiting for, or hearing a reply, and sighing heavily, as 
 every sentence obtained utterance. Her companion fell into 
 her mood, with a kindness and gentleness hardly to be expected 
 from one so light and mirthful. 
 
 “ T am sure,” she observed, “ I have deeper cause for grief 
 than you, Constantia; my father is so obstinate about Mr. 
 Rich. He treats his family as he does the acts of his parlia- 
 ment, and tries to make use of both for the good of the 
 country.” 
 
 Constantia smiled a smile of bitterness ; Lady Frances little 
 knew the arrow, the poisoned arrow, that rankled in her bosom. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 215 
 
 * Oh, I see you are preserving Mrs. Hutchinson’s letters. 
 How my sister Claypole esteems that woman! Do you think 
 she really loves her husband as much as she says ?” 
 
 ** I am sure of it,” was Constantia’s reply, “‘ because he is 
 worthy of such love. I received one letter from her, lately ; 
 she knew that I was to be—to change my name—and kindly 
 (for the virtuous are always kind) wrote to me on the subject ; 
 read over these passages.” 
 
 Lady Frances was about to read them aloud, but Constantia 
 prevented her. 
 
 *< T have read it over and over, dearest, though wherefore I 
 hardly know ; my lot is cast in a way so different from that 
 she imagines. The precepts are for the promotion of happi- 
 ness, which I can never expect to enjoy — never to be cited as 
 an example of connubial excellence. I shall leave no record 
 that people in after years will point at. and say, Behold, how 
 lovingly they lived together! But read it, Frances, read it: 
 to you it may prove salutary, for you will be happy in your 
 union, and with one whom you can love.” 
 
 The Lady Frances took the letter with a trembling hand, 
 
 and read as follows : — 
 ‘© Richmond, 1657, the 2d day of June. 
 
 * Your letter, which I had the happiness to receive some 
 time since, my dear young friend, notwithstanding its melan- 
 choly theme, afforded me real satisfaction. It is true that 
 your loving mother has been removed ; but blessed is ‘the 
 knowledge which instructs you that she and all her excellences 
 came from God, and have now but been taken back to their 
 own most perfect source ; that you are parted for a moment, to 
 meet again for eternity! Her soul conversed so much with 
 God while it was here, that it rejoices to be now freed from 
 interruption in that hallowed exercise. Her virtues were re- 
 corded in heaven’s annals, and can never perish: by them 
 she yet teaches us, and all those to whose knowledge they shall 
 arrive. *Tis only her fetters that have been removed ; her 
 infirmities, her sorrows that are dead never to revive again — 
 nor would we have them: we may mourn for ourselves that 
 we walk so tardily in her steps, that we need her guidance and 
 assistance on the way. And yet, dearest Constance, but that 
 the veil of tearful mortality is before our eyes, we should see 
 her, even in heaven, holding forth the bright lamp of virtuous 
 
 P 4 
 
216 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 example and precept, to light us through the dark world we 
 must for a few years tread. 
 
 “ But I have heard tidings lately, and from the Lady Clay- 
 pole too, of. which, methinks, to your mother’s friend, you 
 have been over chary. Ah! maidens care not to prate of their 
 love affairs to matrons. Silly things! they would go their own 
 course, and think for themselves! without knowing how to go, 
 or what to think! The besetting sin of youth is — presump- 
 tion: but it is not your sin, my gentle girl; it was some 
 species of modesty withheld your pen — yet I heard it. My 
 husband, albeit not a very frequent guest at Whitehall, pays 
 his respects there sometimes, mainly out of his duty and regard 
 to the Lady Claypole ; for he is no scorner of our sex, and 
 holds it a privilege to converse with wise and holy women. 
 She informed him, and not as a matter of secrecy, that you 
 would soon be wedded to Sir Willmott Burrell ; and, although 
 we know him not, we readily believe that he is a good and 
 honest gentleman, commanding our esteem, because beloved of 
 you — the which, I pray you, advise him of — and say we 
 hope he will number us among his friends. I never doubted 
 your wisdom, Constantia, and those cannot wed well who 
 do not wed wisely. By wisely, I do not mean that longing 
 after foolish gain and worldly aggrandisement, which vain 
 women, alas! covet more than the enjoyment of their lives 
 and the salvation of their souls. I would have a woman seek 
 for her husband one whom she can love with an ardent, but not 
 idolatrous passion ; capable of being a firm, consistent friend ; 
 who has sufficient knowledge and virtue to sit in council within 
 her bosom, and direct her in all things. Having found such, 
 the wife should desire and strive to be as a very faithful mirror, 
 reflecting truly, however dimly, his own virtues. I have been 
 long wedded, and, thank God, most happily so. We have 
 become as a proverb among our friends ; and matrons, when 
 they bless their daughters at the altar, wish them to be as 
 happy as Lucy Hutchinson. Had your blessed mother lived, 
 my advice might have been almost impertinent; but now, I 
 am sure you will not take it ill of a most true friend to speak 
 a little counsel: my words may be but as dew-drops, yet there 
 is a spirit within you that can convert them into pearls. But 
 counsel ought to be preceded by prayer — and I have prayed 
 — Will you take ill the supplication? I know you will not. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 217 
 
 ** J am also sure that you will not consider unacceptable the 
 prayer I am about to transcribe in this my letter. It was 
 written by my dear husband, some time after the exceeding 
 goodness of God made us one; and we feel much comfort and 
 encouragement in repeating it each morn and eve, ere the cares 
 and turmoils of the day are come, or when they have departed. 
 May it have a like influence on you, my sweet friend! May 
 your destiny be as mine! 
 
 “ ¢ O Lord, divine uniter of true hearts! Grant to thy servants an 
 increase of that blessed gift of grace which is wrought into the soul 
 by thy regenerating Spirit, that so the whole creature may be re- 
 signed unto thy will, human love be subservient to that which is 
 heayenly,-and all its thoughts, hopes, and actions be directed to thy 
 glory, with whom is its source, and from whom its blessing cometh: 
 Two pray unto thee as one, one in heart, one in interest, one for time, 
 one for eternity. So may it ever be, O Lord! our Maker and our 
 guide, our protector and our friend. We bless and thank thee for the 
 comfort we have found in each other, for the worldly prosperity to 
 which virtue, trustfulness,” and!faith in thy care have conducted us; 
 for the mutual esteem, confidence, and affection that sway and direct 
 our frail natures, but, above all, for the sure and certain knowledge 
 that when our mortal shall have put on immortality, we shall be onE 
 — undivided, inseparable, and eternal.’ 
 
 “Tis brief, Constantia, but long supplications too often 
 lose in spirit that which the heart cannot make up in words. 
 Prayer should be the concentrated essence of Humility, per- 
 fumed by Hope, and elevated by Faith; but you know all 
 this as well as I. I would not presume to instruct, or give 
 you advice upon any point, save this most blessed or most 
 miserable one (to a mind like yours it can have no medium) 
 —marriage! Many young females are beguiled by evil coun- 
 sel, and thus commence in a careless or obstinate course, which 
 leads them into the thorny path of discontent, and consequent 
 wretchedness. And, first of all, do not fancy that petty tyran- 
 nies become a bride. It is the habit of the bridegroom to yield 
 to such like ; but, trust me, he loves you not the better for 
 weak fantasies, unless he be a fool; and I pen no lines for 
 fools, or fools’ mates. I have no sympathy with a woman 
 weak or wicked enough to wed a fool. In the honeymoon, 
 then, study your husband’s temper; for the best of men—and 
 women too — carry (it may be unconsciously) a mask during 
 the days of courtship, which, if not taken off, wears off, and 
 
218 THE BUUCANEER. 
 
 you must strive to know him as he really is ; remembering 
 that though lovers may be angels, husbands are only mortals. 
 Looking within at the imperfection of our own nature, we learn 
 to make allowance for the faults they may possess. 
 
 «* For my own part, my only wonder has been how a man, 
 like Colonel Hutchinson, could so kindly pity my infirmities, 
 and correct them after such a fashion that his blame has ever 
 sounded sweeter in my ears than the praise of the whole world 
 besides. He has looked upon my errors with an indulgent 
 eye, and not suffered them to detract from his esteem and love 
 for me, while it has been his tender care to erase all those 
 blots which made me appear less worthy the respect he every 
 where pays me. 
 
 ** One thing, although I hardly need recall it to a mind like 
 yours, is, above all else, necessary to be remembered — that a 
 maiden has only her own honour in keeping, but a wife has 
 her husband’s as well as her own. It wasa fine saying that of 
 the ancient Roman: ‘ The wife of Caesar must not be sus- 
 pected.’ Suspicion is too often, as the plague-spot, the intimater 
 of a disease, which may either break out, or be suppressed by 
 care or circumstances ; but still the intimation has gone forth. 
 Reserve is the becoming garment for the wedded wife — that 
 sweet reserve springing from holy love, which the chastened 
 eye, the moderated smile, the elevated carriage — all betoken ; 
 — a something which a pure heart alone can teach, and that 
 a sullied woman never can assume. Study the accomplish- 
 ments your husband loves with continued assiduity: he may 
 delight in seeing the beauties of his estate miniatured by your 
 pencil, or the foliage of a favourite tree doomed to perpetual 
 spring on your obedient canvass ; or, peradventure, delight 
 more in the soft touching of your lute or harpsichord: what- 
 ever it may be, study to do it quickly, and cultivate your taste 
 unto his pleasure. I say, do it quickly, in the early days of 
 marriage, because habit is a most tyrannical master. Then, 
 when your affections and your customs tend to the same end, 
 and are, moreover, guided by the all-powerful hand of duty, 
 and under the especial control of godliness, I have little doubt 
 that you will make all that a wife should be. 
 
 ** I would fain counsel you on the custom of a neat and be- 
 coming attire ; but I have observed that you ever habit your- 
 self, from an innate consciousness of what is just and becoming 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 219 
 
 in your station, and that not from any caring for occasion or 
 love of display. A tall and stately figure, like yours, becomes 
 well the rich satins of France, and the still richer velvets of 
 Genoa; yet I prefer to see a British woman adorned by the 
 artisans of her own land, and I have lately seen some articles 
 of such manufacture of most rare beauty. As to your jewels, 
 consider your husband’s desire ; if he care for them, deck your- 
 self with much attention, and wear those that please him best. 
 Your mother’s diamonds were of the finest water, as befitted 
 her rank, and I am sure you will never carry counterfeits, 
 whether of gems or of gold. I have heard of those who affect 
 the vanity of great expenditure at small cost, and I hold them 
 in contempt ; for every thing about a woman should emblem 
 her own heart, and be pure, even as she is pure. Simplicity 
 in dress is ever in harmony with beauty, and never out of 
 place ; yet are there state times when it is expected that the 
 high-born carry bravery, as the horses bear high and waving 
 plumes—to make the pageant grand; and though his High- 
 ness, at first, deemed it expedient to lessen such extravagance, 
 yet my dear husband assures me that his children lack nothing 
 worthy the state of princes. 
 
 *“ But all these matters must be left to the discretion of your 
 judgment, which, if well-tempered, will direct them in a fitting 
 manner; always remembering, the most seemingly insigni- 
 ficant point that contributes the smallest atom to domestic 
 happiness is worthy the attention of a truly wise and peace- 
 loving female. It is better not to be concerned about trifies ; 
 but some men, and men not of particularly small minds either, 
 are very anxious as to things which appear of no moment: in 
 that case, the best way is to humour them, and then, by intro- 
 ducing some strong motive, wile them on to better: this must 
 be done skilfully, or it will fail of success. A woman’s first 
 desire should be her husband’s goodness ; her next, his great- 
 ness. Matrimony is a bondage, but one that carries with it 
 the protection which is as necessary to a woman as the air she 
 breathes ; with a tender husband, after a little time, she will 
 find the chains so overgrown by affection, which is the wood- 
 bine of the moral garden, that, instead of being enslaved, be- 
 hold, she finds peace, love, and safety within the charmed 
 circle. 
 
 “I commenced a letter, my sweet friend, yet, I fear me, 
 
220 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 have written an homily ; but forgive it, Constance, and take it 
 as it is intended. 
 
 ‘“‘ | hear the Lady Frances is with you. I pray you call 
 me to her remembrance. She is a lively but honourable lady, 
 and I should be glad that Mr. Rich found favour in the sight 
 of her father; for I do believe her heart has been fixed, at 
 least more fixed upon him than upon any other, for some time. 
 We have been passing a few days in this dear spot— the nest, 
 I may well call it, of our affections. My husband, in the days 
 of his bachelorhood, had been cautioned to take heed of Rich- 
 mond, as a place so fatal to love, that never any disengaged 
 young person went thither who returned again free; and I 
 wonder not at it, for there is a sober and most happy beauty in 
 its very aspect, that tranquillises and composes the thoughts to 
 gentleness and affection. We have visited our old music- 
 master, at whose house we both boarded for the practice of the 
 lute! He was so pleased to find I still studied! observing 
 that many married ladies relinquished it soon ; and he praised 
 my husband’s execution on the viol in no small degree. 
 
 ** Adieu, my dear young friend. We crave earnestly to be 
 kindly thought of by him whom your soul ‘ delighteth to 
 honour!’ May the blessing of the Lord dwell within your 
 house, and sanctify all things for your good! Such is the 
 prayer of your true and loving friend, 
 
 “* Lucy Hurcnrnson. 
 
 “‘ My husband, who is indeed a most kind counsellor in all 
 things, says that I ought to tender any assistance I can offer, 
 seeing that I am near London, and you may require sundry 
 habits befitting a bridal; if so, command my services as 
 fully as you do my affections.” 
 
 Lady Frances placed the letter on Constantia’s writing- 
 table, and for some time offered no observation on its contents. 
 
 “Ts not she a beautiful model for a married woman?” 
 inquired Constantia. 
 
 “‘ It was very good of her to remember a giddy pate like 
 me,”’ replied Frances ; ‘‘ and I do confess that she is one of 
 my perfections, though in general I hate your pattern-women, 
 where every thing is fitted and fitting — women of plaster and 
 
 parchment—to cut one’s character by ; who are to be spoken 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 2921 
 
 of, not to; who can make no excuse for people's failings, be- 
 cause they think they are themselves exempt from fault; who 
 study devout looks, and leer at their lovers from under their 
 hoods — hole-and-corner flirts, yet held up as_pattern- 
 women, bless the term! to innocent and laughter-loving 
 maidens like myself, who having no evil to conceal, speak 
 openly, and love not the conventicle.”’ 
 
 ‘** But Mrs. Hutchinson is none of these,” interrupted Con- 
 stance. ‘* She is pure in heart—-in word—in look. She 
 really has nothing to conceal; she is all purity and grace, and 
 with her husband shared for years the friendship of the illus- 
 trious Selden and Archbishop Usher.” 
 
 “ Well, I am willing to admit all this,” retorted Frances, 
 eager to catch atany thing to divert her friend’s melancholy. 
 ** But, for all that, I never could feel easy in the society of 
 your very wise people ; it is not pleasant to know that those 
 you are speaking to regard you as a fool, though they may be 
 too well-bred to tell you so. And now I remember a story 
 about Selden that always amused me much. When he was 
 appointed among the lay members to sit in the Assembly of 
 Divines at Westminster, one of the ministers, with all the 
 outward show of self-sufficient ignorance, declared that the 
 sea could not be at any very great distance from Jerusalem ; 
 that as fish was frequently carried from the first to the last 
 place, the interval did not probably exceed thirty miles! and 
 ’ having concocted this opinion, he gave it forth, as it had been 
 one of the laws of the Medes and Persians, which altereth 
 not! Well, the Synod were about to adopt this inference, 
 when Selden quietly observed, that in all likelihood it was 
 ‘salt fish!’ Was not that excellent ?” 
 
 ** Yet his wit, in my estimation, was his least good quality. 
 Methinks the Commonwealth has reason to be most proud of 
 two such men as John Selden and Archbishop Usher.” 
 
 « But the glory has departed from Israel,” was Frances’ 
 reply, “‘ for they are gathered to their fathers.” 
 
 “The sun may be shorn of its beams,” said Constantia, 
 with something of her former energy of manner, ‘ but it is 
 still a sun. Cromwell is the Protector of England !” 
 
 That was the rallying point of Lady Frances’ feelings, and 
 she embraced her friend with increased affection. 
 
 “JT love you more than all,” said the kind girl, “ for 
 
299 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 your appreciation of my father; I only hope that posterity 
 may do him equal justice. But why, I ask again, dear Con- 
 stance, have you not permitted me to speak to him about this 
 wedding ? You reap sorrow, and not joy, of the contract. 
 Well, well,’ she continued, perfectly understanding Constan- 
 tia’s mute appeal for silence, ‘‘ I will say no more, for I ought 
 to be satisfied with the privilege of being thus enabled to dis- 
 turb the solitude you consider so sweet.” 
 
 ** How lessened,” exclaimed Constance, “ I must appear 
 in the eyes of all good and wise people! How they will jeer 
 at the lofty Mistress Cecil selling herself — for —they know 
 not what!” 
 
 “* Lessened ! * repeated Frances ; ‘on the contrary. You 
 certainly do sacrifice yourself to fulfil this contract; but that 
 deserves praise. Besides, Burrell is a man whom many ad- 
 mire,” 
 
 “‘ There, talk not of it, Frances—talk not of it: hence- 
 forth, the world and I are two -—I mix no more in it, nor 
 with it.” 
 
 “* Now, out upon you for a most silly lady!" retorted Lady 
 Frances. “ It may be my fate, despite the affection I bear 
 poor Rich (1 like the linking of these words), to wed some 
 other man —one who will please my father and benefit the 
 state. Is not the misery of being chained to a thing you 
 loathe and detest sufficient cause for trouble, without emulat- 
 ing bats and owls! No, no; if I must be ironed, I will cover 
 my fetters with flowers — they shall be perfumed, and tricked, 
 and trimmed. I shall see you gay at court, dear Constance. 
 Besides, if you are to be married, you must not twine willow 
 with your bridal roses — that will never do.” 
 
 There was no smile upon Constantia’s lips at her friend’s 
 kind and continued efforts to remove the weight that pressed 
 upon her heart. 
 
 ‘© This is the last night that I can dare trust myself to speak 
 of Walter. Frances,” she said, after a long pause, “ I have 
 no fears for his personal safety, because I know with whom he 
 left this house: but, one thing I would say ; and if, my dear- 
 est, kindest friend, I have not prated to you of my sorrows — 
 joys, alas! I have not to communicate — it is because I must 
 not. With all the childish feeling of a girl you have a 
 woman’s heart, true and susceptible, as ever beat in woman's 
 
 1”? 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 293 
 
 bosom. I know you have thought me cold and reserved ; an 
 iceberg, where nothing else was ice: — true, I am chilled by 
 circumstances, not by nature. I am sure you can remember 
 when my step was as light, and my voice as happy, though not 
 as mirthful, as your own: but the lightness and the mirthful- 
 ness have passed: — only, Frances, when the world dyes my 
 name in its own evil colour, I pray you say *? She paused 
 as if in great perplexity. 
 
 “Say what? Surely ail the world can say is, that you did 
 what thousands of devoted girls have done before you — 
 married to fulfil a contract,’ observed Lady Frances, who well 
 knew that some deadly poison rankled in her heart, and almost 
 overturned her reason. 
 
 “« True, true,” repeated Constance —* I had forgotten ; for 
 I am, as you may see, bewildered by my misery. But one 
 thing, dear Frances, vou can surely do : —take this poor trinket 
 —it perplexed you once —and if ever you should meet the 
 Cavalier who parted lately in such company, give it him back. 
 That simple girl, poor Barbara, found it to-day within the 
 Fairy Ring, and brought it me:— it is the only memento I had 
 of him,” she continued, placing it in Lady Frances’ hand — 
 ‘the only one —there, put it away. And now, dear Frances, 
 since you will companion me through this last night of liberty, 
 go, fetch your lute, and sing me all the songs we learned to- 
 gether; or talk in your own sweet way of those we knew, 
 esteemed, or jested at.” 
 
 “ When I do sing, or when I talk, you do not listen,” re- 
 plied the youngest of Cromwell’s daughters, taking down her 
 lute and striking a few wild chords: ‘ your ears are open, but 
 their sense is shut.” 
 
 “Forgive me; but, even if it is so, your music and your 
 voice is a most soothing accompaniment to much bitterness ; it 
 is a pretty fable, that of the nightingale resting her bosom on 
 a thorn, while warbling her finest notes.” 
 
 “It proves to me that the nightingale who does so is a most 
 foolish bird,” retorted Frances, rallying, “inasmuch as she 
 might select roses, instead of thorns, and they are both soft 
 and fragrant.” 
 
 “ And fading,” added Constance: ‘ you perceive I heard 
 you.” 
 
 “‘ Your heart, my dear friend,” replied Lady Frances, “ only 
 
 
 
294 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 echoes one tone, and that is a melodious melancholy. Shall E 
 sing you ‘ Withers’ Shepherd’s Resolution, — my father’s 
 rhyming ‘ Major-general,’ who lorded it so sturdily over the 
 county of Surrey? For my own part, I like the spirit of the 
 man, particularly as it comes forth in the third verse.” And 
 with subdued sportiveness she sung : — 
 
 ** Shall a woman’s virtues move 
 Me to perish for her Jove ? 
 Or her well deservings knowne, 
 Make me quite forget mine owne ? 
 
 ‘© Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may merit name of best ; 
 Tf she be not such to me, 
 
 What care I how good she be ? 
 
 ** Great or good, or kind or fair, 
 I will ne’er the more despair ; 
 If she love me, this believe, 
 
 I will die ere she shall grieve. 
 
 * Tf she slight me when I wooe, 
 I can scorne and let her goe, 
 If she be not fit for me, 
 What care I for whom she be ? ”’ 
 
 “Do you not admire it, Constantia? ’’ she said. 
 
 « Admire what? ”’ 
 
 “Why, the conceit of the song.” 
 
 ‘J fear I did not heed it. I was thinking of — of — 
 something else.” 
 
 ‘‘ Shall I sing it again? ”’ 
 
 “ Not to-night, dearest: and yet you may; methinks it is 
 the last night I shall ever listen to minstrelsy — not but that 
 there is philosophy in music, for it teaches us to forget care ; 
 it is to the ear what perfume is to the smell. How exquisite 
 is music! the only earthly joy of which we are assured we 
 shall taste in heaven, Play on.” 
 
 Lady Frances again sung the lay, but with less spirit than 
 before, for she felt it was unheeded by her friend, and she laid 
 the lute silently on the ground when she had finished. 
 
 “‘ Do you know,” said Constance, after a time, “ I pity your 
 waiting lady, who was married to Jerry White, as you call 
 him, so unceremoniously.” 
 
 ‘«* Pity her! ”’ repeated Lady Frances, with as disdainful a 
 toss of her head, as if she had always formed a part of the 
 aristocracy. ‘‘ Pity her! methinks the maid was well off to 
 obtain the man who aspired to her mistress,” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 295 
 
 “But she loved him not,” observed Constantia, in a sad 
 voice. 
 
 “« Poor Jerry !’’ laughed Lady Frances, ‘‘ how could she love 
 him ; the Commonwealth jester ; wanting only cap, bells, and 
 a hobby-horse, to be fool, par excellence, of the British domi- 
 nions? And yet he is no fool either ; more knave than fool, 
 though my father caught him at last.” 
 
 “It was a severe jest,” said Constantia. 
 
 “ Why, it was— but verily I believe my father thought 
 there was danger of having two fools at his court, instead of 
 one. It was after this fashion. Jerry presumed a good deal 
 upon the encouragement his Highness had given him — for the 
 Protector loves a jest as well as any, when there is nobody by 
 to repeat it to the grave ones: and his chaplain, Jerry White, 
 chimed in with his humour, and was well-timed in his con- 
 ceits ; and this so pleased my good father, that he suffered him 
 much in private about his person. So he fell, or pretended to 
 fall, desperately in love with my giddy self. It was just at the 
 time, too, when Charles Stuart made his overtures of marriage, 
 that so caught my mother’s fancy ; and my imagination was 
 marvellously moved by two such strings to my bow— aprince 
 and a preacher —a rogue and a fool: — only think of it, Con- 
 stantia! However, Jerry grew much too tender, and I began 
 to think seriously I was going too far; so I told my sister 
 Mary, and I am sure she told my father ; for, as I was passing 
 through a private anteroom at Whitehall, his reverence was 
 there in ambush, and commenced his usual jargon of love and 
 dove, faithfulness and fidelity, gentleness and gentility, and at 
 last fell upon his knees, while I, half laughing, and half won- 
 dering how his rhapsody would end, as end it must — Well, 
 there! fancy Jerry's countenance, clasped hands, and bended 
 knees! and I pulling my hood (1 had just returned from a walk) 
 over my face to conceal my merriment, trying to disengage my 
 hand from the creature’s claws— when, I really don’t know 
 how, but there stood my father before me, with a half smile on 
 his lip, and his usual severity of aspect. 
 
 *« « My chaplain at prayers! you are mighty devout, me- 
 thinks,’ he said, in his coldest voice. Jerry stammered, and 
 stumbled, and entangled his leg in arising with the point of my 
 father’s sword; and then my father’s choler rose, and he 
 stormed out, ‘ The meaning, sir, the meaning of this idolatrous 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 mummery ? what would ye of my daughter, the Lady Frances 
 Cromwell?’ And Jerry, like all men, though he could get 
 into a scrape, had not much tact at getting out; so he looked 
 to me for assistance —and I gave it. ‘He is enamoured, 
 please your Highness,’ said I, with more wit than grace, ‘ of 
 Mistress Mabel, my chief lady.’ Then, having got the clue, 
 Jerry went on without hesitation: ‘And I was praying my 
 Lady Frances that she would interfere, and prevent Mistress 
 Mabel from exercising so much severity towards her faithful 
 servant. ‘ What ho!’ said his Highness, ‘ without there ! — 
 who waits?’* One of the pages entered on the instant. ‘ Send 
 hither,’ he commanded, ‘ Mistress Mabel, and also that holy 
 man of the Episcopal faith, who now tarrieth within the house.’ 
 Jerry looked confounded, and I trembled from head to foot. 
 Mabel, with her silly face, entered almost at the moment. 
 «And pray, Mistress Mabel,’ said my father, ‘ what have you 
 to say against my chaplain ? or why should you not be married 
 forthwith to this chosen vessel, Jeremiah White?’ And Mabel, 
 equally astonished, blushed and courtesied, and courtesied and 
 blushed. Then my father, flinging off his hat and mailed 
 gloves, ordered the Episcopalian to perform the ceremony on 
 the instant, adding, he would take the place of father, and I 
 that of bridesmaid. It was like a dream to us all! I never 
 shall forget it — and Jerry never can; it was most wonderfully 
 comic — Only imagine it, Constance ! ” 
 
 Lady Frances had been so carried away by her mirthful 
 imagining, that she had little heeded her mournful friend ; nor 
 was it till her last sentence — “ Only imagine it, Constance ! ” 
 — that she looked fully upon her. 
 
 ‘ Hush!” murmured Constantia in a hollow tone ; ‘‘ hush!” 
 she repeated. 
 
 ‘© Merciful Heaven ! what is it?’’ inquired Frances, terri- 
 fied at her earnestness. 
 
 “Hush!” again said Constantia: adding, “Do you not 
 hear?” 
 
 “Hear? I hear nothing but the tolling of the midnight 
 bell —’Tis twelve o'clock.” 
 
 “Tt is,’ said Constantia, in a voice trembling with intense 
 suffering; “it is twelve o’clock My wedding-day is 
 indeed come!” 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 227 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 When all the riches of the globe beside 
 Flow’d in to thee with every tide ; 
 When all that nature did thy soil deny, 
 The growth was of thy fruitful industry ; 
 Whien all the proud and dreadful sea, 
 
 And all his tributary streams, 
 A constant tribute paid to thee, 
 
 Extended Thames. CowLey. 
 
 Tue country through which Robin travelled on his journey to 
 London presented an aspect very different from that which it 
 now assumes. Blackheath was noted for highwaymen ; and 
 there was a fair and reasonable chance of being robbed and 
 murdered between Greenwich and London. The Ranger never 
 paused from the time he set out until he found himself under 
 a portion of the long brick-wall that still divides the richly 
 ornamented park from the arid and unfertilised heath. He sat 
 down beneath its shadow, and regaled himself with a morsel of 
 ship-biscuit and a mouthful of brandy ; then undid the fasten- 
 ing of his wallet, and selected from amid its contents a neatly 
 and skilfully made hump, which, having’previously removed his 
 coat, he dexterously transferred to his shoulder, and then 
 donned a jacket into which the hump fitted with extraordinary 
 exactness. He next drew from his bosom a small hand-glass, 
 and painted and dyed his face with different preparations, so 
 that even Barbara would have failed to recognise her friend 
 and admirer. Having placed a patch over one eye, and stuck 
 a chin-tuft of black hair under his lip, he seemed satisfied 
 with his appearance, replaced the glass and sundry other things 
 in his sack, then, with his usual agility, mounted one of the 
 overhanging trees, and concealed it amid the branches. As he 
 resumed his journey, he might have been taken for a gipsy 
 minstrel, for suspended round his neck was a small cracked 
 gittern, retaining only two strings. This, as if in mockery of 
 his assumed misfortune, he had rested on the hump, while the 
 riband, which was of bright scarlet, encircled, like a necklace, 
 his swarthy neck, that was partially uncovered. In his steeple- 
 crowned hat was stuck a peacock’s feather ; and any passenger 
 would have been puzzled to ascertain whether the motley de- 
 formed being was a wit or a fool. 
 
 “ Now ” — thus ran his thoughts — “‘ Now do I defy any 
 
 Q 2 
 
998 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 of the serving-men at Whitehall to recognise their play-fellow, 
 Sir Willmott Burrell’s valet, in the gipsy-looking rascal into 
 which I have, of myself, manufactured myself! Verily, Robin, 
 thou art a most ingenious fellow! Apt at contrivances—even 
 nature is thy debtor, for thou hast increased her deformity! I 
 could gain no tidings of the Cavalier in my own proper person 
 — of that I am certain ; because the people there will either not 
 know, or be so effectually cautioned — there would be no use 
 in fishing in such water. Ah! your heart’s blood Puritans will 
 never defile themselves by questioning such as me. “Slife, I 
 think Old Noll himself could hardly make me out! I wonder 
 what would Barbara say now, if she were to behold me in this 
 disguise! I should not like her to see me, and that’s the 
 truth ; for no man likes to look worse than he is to his mis- 
 tress, and, the devil knows, I can ill spare my beauty! My 
 beauty !” he thought again, and then chuckled one of his vile 
 laughs, the most decided indicators of a scornful and bitter 
 temper. 
 
 Robin did not pursue the high London road, but struck 
 across the Park ; and his love of fine scenery induced him to 
 pause at the top of Greenwich Hill, and look around on the 
 richness and beauty of the prospect. Flowing to the right, 
 the broad and glorious Thames turned its liquid mirror to the 
 skies, and reflected every passing cloud upon its translucent 
 bosom. But our noble river had more than clouds to shadow 
 it;— the treasures of the universe floated for us upon its 
 wave — the spoils of conquered and humbled nations left their 
 track along its shores ; Spain, France, and either India — the 
 whole world, rendered us homage and paid us tribute, and 
 proud was our own Father Thames to bear that homage and 
 that tribute to his favoured city. Well might the great cupola 
 of St. Paul erect its heavy but majestic head, and peer forth 
 through the first beams of day upon the rich and blessed river ! 
 Robin felt his heart swell within his bosom when he looked 
 down upon the waters and the land of which every English- 
 man is so justly proud. ‘It is my own country!” was 
 his emphatic ejaculation, as he gazed on this picture of 
 English wealth and English cultivation. The little village of 
 Greenwich, straggling at the foot of the hill, approaching 
 closely to the palace, and then wandering along the great Dover 
 and London road, formed a more pleasant object than it does 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 229 
 
 now that it has been magnified into a great and populous town. 
 Many wooden cottages nested under the Park walls, and sent 
 their smoke curling through the foliage of the fine trees that 
 formed a bold, rich back-ground. The palace, extending its 
 squares and courts along the river’s brink, gave an air of dig- 
 nity to the whole scene ; while the tinkling music of the sheep- 
 bells, echoing from the heath, lent to it a soft and harmonising 
 effect. On the river, in the extreme distance, an English ves- 
 sel was towing up some of the Spanish prizes which the 
 gallant Blake had forwarded to their future home: they trailed 
 the water heavily and gloomily, like captives as they were ; and 
 their dismantled and battered aspect afforded ample subject for 
 discourse to a group of old sailors, who, though not yet pos- 
 sessed of their Palace-Hospital, found many convenient dwell- 
 ings in the village, and added not a little to the picturesque 
 appearance of the hill, as, congregated in a small party, they 
 handed a rude spy-glass from one to another, 
 
 ** And told how ships were won.”’ 
 
 “ Ah!” said one veteran, ‘ I heard old Blake myself say, 
 soon after his Highness was made the same as a king, and 
 many lubberly scoundrels put up their backs at it—‘ Boys,’ 
 says he, and, my eyes! how nobly he does stand upon the deck 
 o his own ship, the Triumph !—‘ Boys,’ says he, ‘it isn’t 
 for us to mind state affairs, but keep foreigners from fooling 
 us.’ D—n it, that’s what I call English.” 
 
 “So it is,” continued another, whose weather-beaten body 
 was supported on a pair of wooden legs, and who had just 
 joined the little party of which Robin made one; “so it is, 
 Jack, and what J call English, worth ten books full of other 
 lingo; wasn’t I with him in Fifty-three, when, with only 
 twelve vessels, he beat Van Tromp, who had seventy ships of 
 the line and three hundred merchantmen under convoy? and 
 hadn’t the Triumph seven hundred shot in her hull? Well, 
 though it was there I lost my precious limbs, I don’t grudge 
 them, not I: it’s as well to go to the fish as to the worms, 
 and any how we have the king’s pension.” 
 
 “ Jemmy,’ said a waggish-looking sailor, with only one eye 
 and half an arm, twirling some tobacco in his mouth at the 
 same time — “‘ Jemmy, it’s rum talking about royalty—you 
 forget ——” 
 
 Q 3 
 
230 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “It's no such thing as rum talking, Terry; I don’t mind 
 who governs England—she’s England still. It warms my 
 blood, too, to think of the respect paid the Union Jack by all 
 nations. When our admiral, God bless him! was in the road 
 of Cadiz, a Dutch fellow didn’t dare to hoist his flag ; so, ye 
 see, the Dutch knows what's what, though both men and ships 
 are heavy sailors.” 
 
 “Yes,” chimed in the first speaker, “that was the time 
 when his health was drunk with a salute of five guns by one 
 of the French commanders: and it’s noble, so it is, to see 
 the order he keeps those Algerines in. Why, if in searching 
 the Sallee rovers they found an English prisoner aboard, they 
 sent him off to Blake as civil as possible, hoping to get favour. 
 But that didn’t hinder him from peppering both the Dey of 
 Algiers, and the infidel rascal at Tunis.” 
 
 “I hear that the burning of the Spanish ships in the 
 Road of Santa Cruz was the most wonderful thing ever done,” 
 observed he of the wooden legs; “and it’s desperate bad news 
 that he’s taken on for sickness ; for sure am I, that the Pro- 
 tector will never have so faithful a friend, or so good a ser- 
 vant. And so I told the sergeant, or whatever you choose to 
 call him, of the Ironsides, who stopped at the Oliver’s Head, 
 down below yesterday, to bait horses, or some such thing:— 
 says I, ‘ If Blake goes, let your master look to himself.’— But 
 I hate all soldiers — lubberly, sulky, black-looking fellows — no 
 spirit in them, particularly now, when it’s the fashion not to 
 drink, or swear, or do any thing for divarsion—ugh!” And 
 the old man’s ire against the “land-lubbers”” grew so hot, 
 that he turned away, and stumped stoutly down the hill. 
 Robin was not tardy in following, nor long in getting into 
 conversation, though the remembrance of the “ land lubbers”’ 
 still rankled in the old man’s mind. 
 
 “‘ Here’s a most excellent glass,” said Robin, pulling a pocket- 
 glass from his vest, and showing it to the sailor; “‘ you can 
 count the very shot-holes in the vessel they are towing up.” 
 
 The sailor took it with a sneer of incredulity and a glance 
 of distrust at the speaker, but neither were of long duration. 
 
 “ Yes,” said he, after gazing through it attentively for some 
 minutes; ‘‘ yes, that is something like what I call a glass. 
 "Gad, it makes me young again to see those marks—every 
 bullet had its billet, I warrant me. The eye you have left, 
 
 “i 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 231 
 
 my friend, does not look, though, as if it wanted such a 
 helper.” 
 
 ** Nor does it,” said Robin ; “ and, asa token of the great 
 honour which I bear to the wooden walls of Old England, you 
 are welcome to keep it.” 
 
 *« Keep your glass, sir!” repeated the wooden-legged hero; 
 **no; you don’t look like one who could afford to make such a 
 present. But I'll buyit, I'll buyit, if you'll let me—that I will.” 
 
 “ 1’d rather you would take it,” replied Robin with much 
 courtesy, and in a well-feigned foreign accent ; ‘‘ for though I 
 am a poor wanderer, one of another country, trying to pick up 
 a little by my skill in music, and from those charitable Chris- 
 tians who pity my deformity, yet I love the very look of a 
 sailor so much, that I would give even my gittern to a true son 
 of the sea.” 
 
 “Say you so, my boy?” shouted the old tar, “ then d—n 
 me now if I do take it, nor I'll not buy it either; but I'll 
 swop for it any thing I have, and then, d’ye see, we'll have 
 something to remember each other all our days.” 
 
 “* The sailors of England,” pursued the crafty Robin, “ are 
 never seen but to be remembered — feared on sea and loved on 
 land.” 
 
 * You’re the best-hearted foreigner I ever fell in with,” 
 said the old man; “so let us make full sail for the Oliver's 
 Head, and settle the matter there ; perhaps you'll give us a 
 taste of your calling,” touching as he spoke the cracked gittern 
 with the point of his stick. ‘My eyes! how Ned Purcell 
 will stare at this glass! His own! why his own an’t a fly- 
 blow to it.” 
 
 ** The Oliver’s Head”’ was a gay hostelry by the road-side, 
 with what was called in those days a portraiture of the Pro- 
 tector swinging from a post which stood on the slip of turf 
 that skirted the house. It was kept by a bluff landlord anda 
 young and pretty landlady, young enough to be her husband’s 
 daughter, and discreet enough to be an old man’s wife with 
 credit and respectability. There were benches all round the 
 house, one side of which looked towards the river, and the 
 other out upon the heath, and up the hill ; anda pleasant view 
 it was either way ; but the sailor chose the water- prospect, and 
 established himself and Robin on a small separate bench that 
 was overshadowed by a green and spreading cherry-tree. 
 
 Q 4 
 
232 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Having settled the exchange, which ended in Robin’s receiv- 
 ing a small Spanish dagger in exchange for his glass, the sea- 
 man insisting on his taking a glass of another sort ; to which 
 Robin was by no means averse, as he had not yet been able to 
 obtain the desired information relative to the Ironsides. 
 
 While they sat under the cherry-tree, however, the wished- 
 for opportunity occurred. 
 
 “‘ What a pity it is,” observed Robin, ‘that they don’t cut 
 canals through the country, and do all the business by water 
 instead of land. They do it, you know, in Venice.” 
 
 “There'd be sense and reason in that,” replied the sailor 
 in great glee. ‘I never could see much use in the land at 
 any time.” 
 
 «¢ And then we should have all sailors and no soldiers, 
 tinued Robin. 
 
 “Ah!” said the sailor, “I doubt if the Protector could 
 ever be brought to see the good of that ; he’s mortally fond of 
 the army.” 
 
 ** You had some of his own Ironsides here yesterday, you 
 said ?” 
 
 “* Ay, they were after something or other, I’ll answer for 
 that ; for though they never go the same road twice, if they 
 can by any means help it, yet they have been about the place, 
 and round the neighbourhood, very much lately. I did hear 
 that Noll was after some smuggling, or devilrie, down a little 
 beyond Gravesend. He never can let a thing alone when once 
 he gets scent of it.” 
 
 “‘ Was there any one, any prisoner, or chap of that sort, 
 with them last night, or yesterday ? ” Robin ventured to ask. 
 
 ““ No, not that I saw or noticed,” said the sailor. 
 
 “Yes, there was,” replied the landlady, who had been lean- 
 ing over the hatch-door, listening to their conversation, and 
 scrutinising the person of her new guest. ‘“‘ There was a 
 young gentleman, not like a prisoner either, only I fancied 
 under some restraint ; and I brought him a better stoup of 
 wine than I brought the rest. Poor gentleman! he seemed 
 downhearted, or like one crossed in love.” 
 
 “Crossed in a fiddlestick!” said the bluff old landlord : 
 *‘ your woman’s head is ever running on love.” 
 
 «Then it does not run on you, I am sure,” retorted Robin. 
 «Your stick would get no music out of any fiddle.” 
 
 ?? con- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 233 
 
 *T could make as good music out of a currycomb, as you 
 out of that cracked thing that sits perched on your hump— 
 like a monkey on the back of a dromedary.” 
 
 «Get your currycomb, and we'll make a wager of it,” re- 
 plied Robin, unslinging his gittern, while some of the old 
 sailors crowded round the challenger, and voted it a fair chal- 
 lenge. 
 
 ‘“Uch!” grunted forth the bluff landlord, turning away. 
 «* When I play, it shall be against a Christian Englishman, 
 and none of your foreign jigmaries.” 
 
 “< Play, play, nevertheless,” said the young landlady, hand- 
 ing Robin at the same time a measure of fine ale; then stoop- 
 ing as if to untie the knot that fastened the gittern, she whis- 
 pered in hisear. ‘ And there was one who, with a few others, 
 left the party, rode on, and took no refreshment. I knew him 
 well; but if the youth be a friend of yours, depend upon’t 
 he’s kindly thought of, for the leader put a broad-piece into 
 my hand as he passed, and told me to see that the Cavalier 
 was properly attended to.” 
 
 “* Took they the London road?” inquired Robin. 
 
 «“ Ay ; though ’tis hard to say how long such as they con- 
 tinue on any path.” 
 
 “ What are you doing, Maud?” inquired the rough land- 
 lord, who had just returned, and was lounging against the 
 door-post. 
 
 “ There! I have broken the string that went round his 
 neck,” she said aloud, without heeding the question. “I 
 must get you another.” 
 
 When she returned with a flaming red riband, that glared 
 in cruel mockery at the shabby gittern, she contrived to add, 
 ** J have a brother in the Ironsides, and he said he thought 
 they were bound for Hampton Court ; but it might have been 
 only his fancy.”’ 
 
 It was a quaint but pretty sight under that green Kentish 
 cherry-tree, and upon the bank of that beautiful river, to see the 
 weather-cock Robin in his motley dress, the long peacock’s 
 feather ever and anon lifted from his hat by the fresh breeze 
 that came from the water, while he sung with sweet and 
 animated voice a song that suited well the tastes and feelings 
 of his hearers. 
 
234 THE BUCCANEER,. 
 
 ** Oh, the sailor’s home is the boundless sea, 
 ‘The sea, the sea, the sea! 
 He loves it best when waves are high, 
 And a fierce nor’-wester shakes the sky. 
 Oh, the sea, the sea, the sea — 
 Oh, the sailor’s home is the home for me! 
 
 s¢ Away we go, o’er our own blue sea, 
 The sea, the sea, the sea! 
 We are ocean lords, for the winds obey, 
 And the raging billows own our sway. 
 Oh, the sea, the sea, the sea! — 
 Let my home be the sailor’s home — the sea! 
 
 ** A proud man well may our captain be, 
 The sea, the sea, the sea! 
 But our noble ship a bride shall be 
 To five hundred men as good as he. 
 Oh, the sea, the sea, the sea — 
 *Tis a fitting mate for the brave and free! 
 
 “ Give the land to slaves, but give us the sea — 
 The sea, the sea, the sea ! 
 Our hopes, our joys, our bed, and our grave, 
 Are above or below the salt-sea wave. 
 Oh, the sea, the sea, the sea — 
 Hurrah for the sailor’s home — the sea!”’ 
 
 Then leaning over the hatch-door, her rosy cheek half- 
 resting on the rough shoulder of her rough husband, was the 
 pretty Mistress Maud, the personification of rustic English 
 beauty ; then the picturesque grouping of the old and worn, 
 but still gallant and manly sailors — our friend of the wooden 
 legs a little in the fore-ground, supported by the quizzical 
 seaman, and a tall stiff bony-looking “ Black Sal” of a wo- 
 man on the other, whose complexion was contrasted by a 
 snow-white cap, somewhat pointed at the top, which hardly 
 concealed her grizzled hair. She was both exhibiting and 
 admiring in dumb show the telescope so lately in the posses- 
 sion of our friend Robin; while Ned Purcell, a little dumpy, 
 grey-headed mariner, who had heretofore been considered the 
 owner of the best glass in Greenwich, was advancing, glass in 
 hand, to decide which was really the best without farther 
 parley. As Robin was obliged to sing his song twice, we may 
 be excused for having given it once, though certainly it re- 
 ceived but little advantage from the miserable accompaniment 
 of the wretched instrument that had just been so gaily adorned 
 by the hands of Mistress Maud. 
 
 When the song was fairly finished, Robin arose to depart, 
 for he had been long anxious to proceed on his way, though 
 the scene we have described, and the conversation we have 
 recorded, had passed within the compass of an hour. They 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 235 
 
 all pressed him to remain. Even the bluff landlord tempted 
 him with the offer of a pint of Canary, an offer he would not 
 himself under any circumstances have declined. Robin, how- 
 ever, bade them a courteous farewell; but he had hardly 
 reached the outskirts of the village, when he heard a light 
 step, and felt a light hand press upon his shoulder. He 
 turned round, and the blithe smile of mine hostess of the 
 Oliver's Head beamed upon his painted face. 
 
 ** Robin Hays!” she said, ‘‘ I would advise you never to 
 sing when you go mumming; you did well enough till then ; 
 but, though the nightingale hath many notes, the voice is aye 
 the same. The gentleman you were speering after, dropped 
 this while making some change in his garments ; and it looks 
 so like a love-token, that I thought, as you were after him, 
 you would give it him, poor youth! and my benison with it.” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied the Ranger, taking from her the very lock 
 of hair which the Cavalier had severed, with his own hand, 
 from among the tresses of Constantia. “ I'll give it him when L 
 ean find him ; yet, had you not better wrap it up in something P 
 It pains the heart to see such as this exposed to the air, much 
 less the eyes of any body in the world.’ Maud wrapped it in 
 apiece of paper, and Robin placed it carefully in a small 
 pocket-book. 
 
 “© The devil’s as bright in your eyes still, Maud, as it was 
 when you won poor Jack Roupall’s heart, and then jilted him 
 for a rich husband. I did not think any one would have 
 found me out.” 
 
 ** If I did sell myself,” replied the landlady, “ I have had 
 my reward ’’ —— the colour faded from her cheek as she spoke 
 — “as all will have who go the same gait. But ye ken, 
 Bobby, it was not for my ain sake, but that my poor mother 
 might have a home in her auld age — and so she had, and 
 sure that ought to make me content.” The tears gathered in 
 her eyes, and the Ranger loudly reproached himself for un- 
 kindness, and assured her he meant no harm. 
 
 “* J am sure o’ that ; but when any one evens Jack to me, 
 it brings back the thought of my ain North to my heart, and 
 its words to my tongue, which is no good now, as it becomes 
 me to forget both.” 
 
 “God bless you, Maud!” said Robin, shaking her affec- 
 tionately by the hand: ‘ God bless you! and if any ask after 
 
236 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 the Ironsides, see you say nothing of the young gentleman, 
 who is as dear to me as my heart’s blood; and do not tell to 
 any, even of our own set, that I passed this way; for it’s 
 hard to tell who’s who, or what's what, these times.” 
 
 “So it is,” replied the dame, smiling through tears ; 
 “and now God be wi’ ye, Robin!” And presently he heard 
 her voice carolling a North country ballad, as she returned to 
 her own house. 
 
 “* Now is her heart in her own country,” muttered the 
 Ranger, “though her voice is here; and those who did not 
 know her little story would think her as cheerful as the length 
 of a summer’s day ; and so she ought to be, for she performed 
 her duty ; and duty, after all, when well performed, seems a 
 perpetual and most cheerful recompense for care and toil, and, 
 it may be, trouble of mind and pain of heart.” 
 
 Robin having obtained the clue to the secret of which he 
 was in search, wended his way towards the metropolis. The 
 steeples of a hundred churches were soon in sight. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 But yonder comes my faithful friend, 
 That like assaults hath often tried ; 
 On his advice I will depend 
 Whe’er I shall win or be denied ; 
 And, look, what counsel he shali give, 
 That will I do, whe’er die or live HENRY WILLOBY. 
 
 Rosin, when he arrived in London, loitered away an hour 
 around Whitehall and the Park, before he proceeded farther, 
 ead easily ascertained that the Protector was then at Hampton 
 Court ; as to who went with him, how long he would remain, 
 or when he would return, he could receive no intelligence ; for 
 the best of all possible reasons — the movements of his High- 
 ness were secrets even from his own family. 
 
 There was much talk, however, and 7 scidenelepecula 
 tion among all classes of people, as to whether he would yield 
 to the eager entreaties of a certain party in the parliament, 
 who were urgently pressing forward a motion, the object of 
 which was, that Cromwell should exchange the title he had 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 237 
 
 heretofore borne, and adopt the more time-honoured, but, 
 alas! more obnoxious one, of King. Some of the more rigid 
 sects were busily discoursing in groups, respecting Walton’s 
 Polyglott Bible, and the fitness or unfitness of the committee 
 that had been sitting at Whitelock’s house at Chelsea, to con- 
 sider properly the translations and impressions of the Holy 
 Scriptures. Robin received but surly treatment at the palace- 
 gates, for minstrelsy was not the fashion ; and he almost began 
 to thing the disguise he had selected was an injudicious one. 
 He hastened on to the city, along the line of street now called 
 the Strand, but which was then only partially skirted by 
 houses, and delivered Dalton’s invoices to the merchant beyond 
 St. Paul’s, who had need of the Genoa velvets ; then pro- 
 ceeded to the dealer in: jewels, by whom the pearls had been 
 commanded. Here it appeared no easy matter to gain admis- 
 sion ; but a few words mysteriously pronounced to a grave- 
 looking person, whose occupation was half porter, half clerk, 
 removed all obstacles, and he found himself in a dark, noisome 
 room, at the back of one of the houses in Fenchurch Street — 
 at that time much inhabited by foreign merchants, who were 
 generally dealers in contraband goods, as well as in the more 
 legitimate articles of commerce. 
 
 As soon as the wayfarer entered, he disburdened himself of 
 his hump, and from between its folds produced strings of the 
 finest pearls and heaped them on the table. The dealer put 
 on his glasses, and examined them separately, with great care, 
 but much rapidity ; while Robin, like a good and faithful 
 steward, kept his eyes steadily fixed upon the jewels, never 
 losing sight of them for a single moment, until his attention 
 was arrested by a person entering and addressing the merchant. 
 Robin immediately recognised the stranger as the old Jew, 
 Manasseh Ben Israel, whom he had seen at Sir Willmott 
 Burrell’s. 
 
 ** Excuse me, I pray you, for a few moments, good Rabbi,” 
 observed the merchant, who was now occupied in entering the 
 number, size, and quality of the pearls in a large book. 
 
 “* T cannot wait, friend,’ was the Jew’s quick reply, “ for 
 I am going a journey, and the night draws on darkly.” 
 
 “© Whither, sir, I pray you?” 
 
 “Even to Hampton House,” replied Ben Israel, “ to 
 commune with his Highness, whom the God of Abraham 
 
238 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 * 
 protect !—and I am sorely perplexed, for my own serving- 
 man is ill, and I know not whom to take, seeing I am feeble 
 and require care, unless you can lend me the man Townsend : 
 Samuel assures me he is a person of trust.” 
 
 ‘«< Townsend is, unhappily, gone on secret business to a long 
 distance, set off not an hour since: would that I had known 
 it before !” 
 
 ‘ There is no lack of servants,” continued the Rabbi, “ but 
 there is great lack of faithfulness. I know not what to do, for 
 I must see his Highness to-night.” 
 
 “If it so please you,” said little Robin, eagerly stepping 
 forward, “ I will go with you; I am sure this gentleman can 
 answer for my fidelity, and I will answer for my own fitness.” 
 
 The Rabbi and the merchant looked at each other, and then 
 the latter observed, — 
 
 «* T can well answer for this young man’s trust-worthiness, 
 seeing he has been engaged to bring me goods such as these, 
 from secret sources, the nature of which you understand, ex- 
 cellent Ben Israel. But what know you of the service be- 
 fitting a gentleman’s servant P” 
 
 ‘‘ T have been in that capacity, too,” replied little Robin 
 Hays. 
 
 ‘* With whom ?” inquired Manasseh. 
 
 “‘ With one I care not much to name, sirs, for he does 
 me no credit,” was Robin’s answer; ‘* with Sir Willmott 
 Burrell.” 
 
 ** The old man shuddered, and said in an agitated voice — 
 « Then, indeed, you will not do for me on this occasion.” 
 
 “* Under favour,’”’ persisted Robin, ‘* I know not the occa- 
 sion, and therefore cannot judge, if I may speak so boldly ; 
 but I have seen you before, sir, and can only say, that 
 knowing all his manceuvres well, I am just the person to be 
 trusted by his enemy.” 
 
 «Young man,” said the Jew, severely, “‘ I am no man’s 
 enemy ; I leave such enmity as you speak of to my Christian 
 brethren. I ask only justice from my fellow mortals, and 
 mercy from my God.” 
 
 “ But, sir, I thought you had sustained some wrong at the 
 hands of Sir Willmott Burrell, from your visit at such an hour, 
 and your manner on that night.” 
 
 “ Wrong ! ay, such wrong as turns a father’s hair grey, his 
 
THE BUCCANEER. . 239 
 
 veins dry, and scorches up his brain.” The old man paused, 
 for his feelings had overpowered him. 
 
 “‘T know none more faithful than Robin Hays,” urged the 
 pearl-merchant ; ‘‘ and now that I call to remembrance, the 
 time he served that same knight, (who, I hear, is going to re- 
 pair his fortunes by a wealthy marriage,) I think he did well 
 as a lackey ; though, to own the truth, I should fancy him 
 more in his place, and to his liking, as the servitor to a bold 
 Buccaneer.” 
 
 “‘ Buccaneer !” repeated Ben Israel —‘ What Buccaneer ?”’ 
 -> <QOh!” said the merchant, smiling, “‘ Hugh Dalton — the 
 fairest man in the free trade.” 
 
 “ Hugh Dalton !”’ repeated the Jew, slowly: then adding, 
 after a lengthened pause, “‘ Art cunning in disguises ? ” 
 
 “« As cunning as my body will permit,” replied Robin. 
 
 ** You have seen my faithful Samuel ?” 
 
 << J have, sir.” 
 
 “Then array thyself on the instant as much after his dress 
 and fashion as is possible.” 
 
 Robin hastily and right cheerfully obeyed this command ; 
 and, in less than half an hour, was rolling along the road to 
 Hampton Court, in the guise of a serving Jew. 
 
 ’ 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Vengeance will sit above our faults ; but till 
 She there do sit, 
 We see her not, nor them. Dr, Donne. 
 
 Ir is hardly necessary to direct the reader’s attention to the 
 quickness and ingenuity at all times displayed by Robin Hays, 
 or the facility with which he adapted himself to any circum- 
 stance or situation that was likely to favour or further his de~ 
 signs. The moment the Rabbi had stated his intention of 
 visiting Hampton Court, he perceived that, as a Jewish ser- 
 vant, he might have abundant opportunities of ascertaining the 
 precise condition of the Cavalier: fortunately for his purpose, 
 the mention of Hugh Dalton’s name at once decided Ben Israe! 
 in granting his request. 
 
240 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 The Jew had received intimation that the noted and well- 
 known commander of the Fire-fly had been lying off St. Val- 
 lery, and making many inquiries relative to his daughter, who 
 had at length been traced on board his cruiser by her conti- 
 nental friends. ‘‘ Doubtless,” thought the Rabbi, “< I may be 
 enabled to draw forth, or bribe forth, from this his associate, 
 whatever knowledge he may possess of the views and objects 
 which they contemplate as regards my most wretched daughter.” 
 In pursuance of this plan he commenced a series of examin- 
 ations as they journeyed towards Hampton Court; which 
 Robin, with all his dexterity, would have found it difficult to 
 parry, if he had had any intention or desire so to do. Sud- 
 denly it occurred to the Ranger that the pretended dumb boy 
 was no other than Ben Israel’s daughter, and he frankly men- 
 tioned his suspicions. 
 
 The old man at first shrank from the supposition with ex- 
 treme horror. “ Itwas impossible,” he said, ‘‘that his childshould 
 so far forget her birth and station, as to degrade herself by as- 
 suming male attire ;”” but Robin reminded him that when a 
 woman loves, as she must have done, and has once sacrificed 
 her duty, perhaps her honour, all obstacles become as nought. 
 The Jew groaned heavily, and remained long silent ; she was 
 his only, and his beloved one ; and, though the Jewish laws 
 were strict, even unto death, against any who wedded with 
 strangers, yet he loved her despite her disobedience, and the 
 more he thought, the more resolved he became to punish the 
 betrayer of her innocence and faith. 
 
 Robin was also greatly distressed; the fear of some evil 
 occurring to Barbara took forcible possession of his mind. 
 Why should this girl, if indeed Jeromio’s charge was actually 
 a girl, why should she menace Barbara? What had Barbara 
 to do with the foul transaction? Could it be possible, that, 
 from her being tricked out with so much finery, the stranger 
 mistook the maid for the mistress; and with impotent rage, 
 was warning or threatening her, in an unknown tongue, against 
 a marriage with Burrell! He could not comprehend the mat-. 
 ter; and the more he was at fault, the more anxious he be- 
 came. He, in his own mind, reproached even the Buccaneer 
 for imparting to him only half measures. 
 
 “* Had I known,” thought Robin, “the true particulars 
 about Sir Willmott’s affairs, of which I am convinced, from 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 241 
 
 many circumstances, Dalton was in full possession, I could 
 have assisted in all things, and prevented results that may here- 
 after happen.” There was another idea that had lately min- 
 gled much with the Ranger’s harassed feelings — Constantia’s 
 intended marriage. Robin was satisfied that a strong regard, 
 if not a deeply-rooted affection, existed between Walter De 
 Guerre and Barbara’s kind mistress; and he thought that 
 Hugh Dalton’s manifesting so little interest on the subject was 
 not at all in keeping with his usually chivalrous feelings to- 
 wards woman-kind, or his professed esteem and affection for 
 his young friend. He knew that the Buccaneer’s heart was 
 set upon attaining a free pardon; and he also knew that he 
 had some powerful claim upon the interest of Sir Robert Cecil ; 
 he knew, moreover, Dalton’s principal motive for bringing 
 over the Cavalier ; but with all his sagacity, he could not dis- 
 cover why he did not, at once and for ever, set all things right, 
 by exhibiting Sir Willmott Burrell in his true colours. Robin 
 had repeatedly urged the Buccaneer on this subject, but his 
 constant reply was, — 
 
 ** I have no business with other people’s children ; I must 
 look to my own. If they have been kind to Barbara, they 
 have had good reason for it. It will be a fine punishment, 
 hereafter, to Sir Willmott; one that may come, or may not 
 come, as he behaves; but it will be a punishment in reserve, 
 should he, in the end, discover that Mistress Cecil may be no 
 heiress.” In fact, the only time that the Buccaneer felt any 
 strong inclination to prevent the sacrifice Constantia was 
 about to make, was when he found that she knew her father’s 
 crime, but was willing to give herself to misery as the price of 
 secrecy ; then, indeed, had his own pardon been secured, he 
 would have stated to the Protector’s face the deep villany of 
 the Master of Burrell. Until his return on board the Fire-fly, 
 and his suppression of the mutiny excited by Sir Willmott and 
 the treachery of Jeromio, he had no idea that Burrell, base as 
 he knew him to be, would have aimed against his life. 
 
 The Buccaneer was a brave, bold, intrepid, careless man ; 
 more skilled in the tricks of war than in tracing the secret 
 workings of the human mind, or in watching the shades and 
 modifications of the human character. His very love for his 
 daughter had more of the protecting and proud care of the 
 eagle about it, than the fostering gentleness with which the 
 
 R 
 
242 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 tender parent guards its young; he was proud of her, and he 
 was resolved to use every possible means to make her proud of 
 him. He had boasted to Sir Robert Cecil that it was his sus- 
 picions made him commit “ forged documents to the flames,” 
 at the time when the baronet imagined that all proofs of his 
 crimes had been destroyed ; but, in truth, Dalton had mislaid 
 the letters, and, eager to end all arrangements then pending, he 
 burned some papers, which he had hastily framed for the pur- 
 pose, to satisfy Sir Robert Cecil. When in after years it oc- 
 curred to him that, if he obtained those papers he could wind 
 Sir Robert to his purpose, he searched every corner of the Gull’s 
 Nest Crag until they were discovered ; so that, in fact, he 
 owed their possession to chance, and not to skilfulness. Even 
 the boy Springall had seen through the Italian’s character; but — 
 Dalton had been so accustomed to find his bravery overwhelm- 
 ingly successful, and consequently to trust to it almost impli- 
 citly, that his fine intellect was suffered to lie dormant, where 
 it would have often saved him from much that he endured. If 
 he had thought deeply, he would have seen the impropriety of 
 trusting the Fire-fly at any time to Jeromio’s command, be- 
 cause, as he had found him guilty of so many acts of treachery 
 towards others, he should have known, that it only needed 
 sufficient bribery, or inducement of any other kind, to turn 
 that treachery upon himself. 
 
 His last interview with Sir Robert Cecil had made him 
 aware that the baronet had really lost the greater part of the 
 influence he once maintained at Whitehall ; and since he had 
 been so much off and on the English coast, he had heard enough 
 to convince him that Cromwell granted few favours to those 
 who had not much usefulness to bestow in return. Sir Robert 
 was broken in intellect and constitution: he had no son to whom 
 the Protector could look for support in case of broil or disturb- 
 ance, and the Buccaneer was ignorant of the strong and friendly 
 ties that had united the families for so long a series of years. 
 He had fancied that fear would compel Sir Willmott Burrell 
 to press his suit; but the atrocious attempt upon his life as- 
 sured him that there was nothing to expect from him but the 
 blackest villany. When, therefore, he despatched, with all the 
 ferocity of a true Buccaneer, the head of Jeromio as a wedding- 
 present to Sir Willmott, he at the same time transmitted 
 to the Protector, by a trusty messenger, the Master of Bur- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 243 
 
 rell’s own directions touching the destruction of the Jewish 
 Zillah, and stated that if his Highness would grant him a free 
 pardon,which he had certain weighty reasons for desiring, he 
 believed it was in his power to produce the Rabbi’s daughter. 
 His communication concluded by entreating that his Highness 
 would prevent the marriage of the Master of Burrell, at all 
 events until the following week. 
 
 His envoy had particular orders neither to eat, drink, nor 
 sleep, until he had found means of placing the packet in the 
 hands of the Protector. Dalton having so far eased his 
 mind, bitterly cursed his folly that he had not in the first in- 
 stance, instead of proceeding to St. Vallery in search of the 
 Jewess, informed Ben Israel of the transaction, who would at 
 once have obtained his pardon, as the price of his daughter’s 
 restoration and Burrell’s punishment. 
 
 It will be easily conceived that on the night which Burrell 
 expected to be the last of the Buccaneer’s existence he neither 
 slumbered nor slept. The earliest break of morning found 
 him on the cliffs at no great distance from the Gull’s Nest 
 Crag, waiting for the signal that had been agreed upon be- 
 tween Jeromio and himself, as announcing the success of their 
 plan. There was no speck upon the blue waves between him 
 and the distant coast of Essex, which, from the point on which 
 he stood, looked like a dark line upon the waters ; neither was 
 there, more ocean-ward, a single vessel to be seen. He re- 
 mained upon the cliff for a considerable time. As the dawn 
 brightened into day, the little skiffs of the fishermen residing 
 on the Isle of Shepey put off, sometimes in company, some- 
 times singly, from their several anchorings. Then a sail 
 divided the horizon, then another, and another ; but still no 
 signal told him that treachery had prospered. At length the 
 sun had fully risen. He then resolved upon hastening to the 
 Gull's Nest, with the faint hope that some message from 
 Jeromio might have been forwarded thither. Time was to him, 
 upon that eventful morning, of far higher value than gold ; 
 yet above an hour had been spent in fruitless efforts to learn 
 the result of an attempt on which he knew that much of his 
 future fate depended. He had not proceeded far upon his 
 course, when he was literally seized upon by the Reverend 
 Jonas Fleetword, who ever appeared to the troubled and plot- 
 ting Sir Willmott in the character of an evil genius. 
 
 R 2 
 
244, THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “TI have sought thee as a friend,” observed the simple- 
 minded man, — “ as a petitioner, I had almost said, so earnest 
 was the lady about it — from the Lady Frances Cromwell, to 
 beg that the bridal, which even now, according to thy direc- 
 tions, he of the Episcopalian faith was preparing to solemnise, 
 might be delayed until evening, in consequence of Mistress 
 Cecil being somewhat ill at ease, either in body or in mind, or, it 
 may be the Lord’s will, in both ;—very ill of a surety she is.” 
 
 “This is trifling,” exclaimed Burrell in anger. ‘“ She 
 asked delay, and I granted till this morning. I can brook no 
 such vain excuse.” 
 
 “Of a verity,” quoth Fleetword, “ thy reply is, as I deem 
 it, given in a most unchristian spirit. Thy bride elect is ill ; 
 and instead of a shower (which is emblematic of tears) cometh 
 a storm, which (in poetic language) signifieth anger ! ” 
 
 ** Forgive me, sir,” replied Burrell, who perceived that the 
 delay, under such circumstances, however dangerous, must be 
 granted; “‘ but it is natural for a bridegroom to feel disap- 
 pointed when there arises any postponement to his long looked- 
 for happiness, particularly when there be reasons strong as 
 mine against it.” 
 
 Fleetword little comprehended the meaning of this last sen- 
 tence ; but drawing forth a pocket Bible, which on more than 
 one occasion had given much trouble to Sir Willmott Burrell, he 
 told him he had considered that admirable portion of the Scrip- 
 ture touching the duty of husband and wife, so well set forth 
 therein, and that he had composed a discourse thereon, which 
 he meant to deliver unto them after the holy ceremony, but 
 that he would now expound much upon the subject, as they 
 journeyed homeward. 
 
 “T am not going direct to Cecil Place,” was Burrell’s ex- 
 cuse; “I am looking after one Robin Hays, who dwells some- 
 where near, or at, a place called the Gull’s Nest Crag: he was 
 once my servant, and I desire to see him.” 
 
 ‘‘ It is even one with me,” replied Fleetword ; “I know 
 the lad Robin, too ; so I will go with thee, and read the while. 
 I covet a holy exercise ; and for it every time, yea, and every 
 place, is fitting.” . 
 
 Most cordially did Burrell wish the good preacher —no mat- 
 ter where ; but his wishes availed nought, for he remained 
 close to his side, holding forth, without intermission, in the 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 245 
 
 same monotonous tone, that sounded like the ding-dong, ding- 
 dong of a curfew-bell to the knight's bewildered ear. 
 
 Yet this was not the only source of embarrassment Sir 
 Willmott was that morning doomed to encounter. We have 
 elsewhere had occasion to mention an old tower that supported 
 Gull’s Nest, in which Barbara Iverk found shelter the evening 
 she did her lady’s errand to the Crag: as Burrell and his 
 companion turned the corner by this tower, Zillah Ben Israel, 
 still habited as a boy, but wearing a tunic of cloth that reached 
 below her knee, stood before him! 
 
 Had a spectre sprung from the earth, Sir Willmott could 
 not have regarded it with greater astonishment or dismay. He 
 would have passed, but she still stood in his path, her head un- 
 covered, and her black luxuriant hair braided around it, dis- 
 playing to full advantage her strikingly beautiful but strongly 
 marked Jewish features: her eyes, black and penetrating, 
 discovered little of gentle or feminine expression, but sparkled 
 and fired restlessly in their sockets: her lips curled and 
 quivered as she sought words, for some time in vain, in which 
 to address the false, base knight. 
 
 Fleetword was the first to speak. 
 
 ‘In the name of the Lord, I charge thee, avoid our path, 
 young maniac! for, of a truth, there is little sobriety, little 
 steadiness, in thy look, which savoureth neither of peace nor 
 contentment. What wouldst thou with my friend ? — This is 
 his bridal-day, and he has no leisure for such as thee.” 
 
 “The devil take thee with him, thou everlasting pesti- 
 lence!” exclaimed Burrell to the preacher, fiercely, forgetting 
 all moderation in the excess of his passion ; for at the word 
 ** bridal” a change as awful as can be imagined to shadow the 
 face of woman rested on the countenance of Zillah. ‘* Avoid 
 me, both of ye!” he continued ; “ and you, young sir, who so 
 eagerly rush upon your own destruction, avoid me especially : 
 the time for trifling is past !” 
 
 During this burst of rage, the Jewess kept her eyes steadily 
 fixed upon Burrell, and held her hand within the bosom of 
 her vest. When he paused, she addressed him at first in 
 broken English, and then finding that she could not proceed 
 with the eagerness and fluency her case required, she spoke in 
 French. 
 
 She first appealed to her seducer’s honour ; referred to his 
 
 R 3 
 
246 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 marriage with her; called to mind his protestations of affection, 
 and used all the entreaties which a woman’s heart so naturally 
 suggests, to arouse his better feelings on her behalf. All was 
 in vain ; for Burrell parried it all, managing to recover his self- 
 possession while she exhausted herself with words. She then 
 vowed that, if he failed to render her justice, she would, as 
 she had threatened at a former time, throw herself, and the 
 proofs she possessed of his villany, at the Protector’s feet, and be 
 his ruin. Sir Willmott then sought to temporise, assured her 
 that it was necessity obliged him to forsake her ; and would 
 have persuaded her to meet him or go with him into the house, 
 where, he assured her, he could perhaps arrange — per- 
 haps 
 
 ““ No,” she replied, in the less strong, but more poetic lan- 
 guage of France, “I will go under no roof with you, I will 
 exchange no token, no pledge with you. I believe you would 
 follow me to the death ; and if you fail to do me justice, I 
 will pursue you to the same, and not you alone. No woman 
 but myself shall ever rest upon your bosom. I swear by the 
 God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, that I will have 
 vengeance, though my nation should spill out my blood as a 
 sacrifice before the Lord for my iniquities, the next hour!” 
 She shook back her head as she pronounced the vow, and her 
 hair, loosened from its confinement, cloaked her slight figure 
 with a robe of darkness. 
 
 « Acknowledge your marriage with me before this holy man,” 
 she continued: “‘ although he is a Christian, I have heard 
 that he is honest — and I will leave you for a time.” 
 
 * Peace, Zillah !’”’ interrupted Burrell ; “ there was no mar- 
 riage. It is a fable of your own invention — you have no 
 proof.” 
 
 “‘ Have I not?” she replied, and, with woman’s luckless 
 imprudence, she drew forth a small packet and held it for an 
 instant towards him. That instant was enough: he snatched 
 the documents from her hand, and held them before her with 
 the exultation of a demon. His triumph, however, was but 
 short-lived, for Fleetword, who comprehended what had passed, 
 was sufficiently alive to its importance to seize the papers from 
 the Master of Burrell before he had the least idea that the 
 preacher would have dared such an act. Sir Willmott stood | 
 _ amazed at his presumption: but instantly Fleetword drew 
 
 
 
© 
 
 THE BUCCANEER. Q4:7 
 
 forth the basket-hilted sword we have before noticed, and with 
 more real intellect, and excellent feeling, than a cavalier would 
 have believed he possessed, exclaimed, — 
 
 * Sir Willmott Burrell! When Solomon sat in judgment 
 in Israel, he despised not the cause even of the worst. It hath 
 been given me to understand the tongues of many lands—not 
 by the intervention of the Holy Spirit, but by the industry and 
 labour of my poor brain, aided, as all just and fitting things are, 
 by the blessing of the Lord! If what this person says is true, 
 it would be most unseemly for you to become the husband of 
 Mistress Constantia Cecil; if it is not true, why the person 
 must fall by its (for of a truth I cannot determine the sex) — 
 its own falsehood! But keep off, Master of Burrell! Jonas 
 Fleetword can fight for the truth by strength of hand as well 
 as of voice ; the documents shall be heard of at the seat of 
 judgment in our New Jerusalem.” 
 
 Sir Willmott, thus run down on all sides, had now recourse 
 to stratagem. After a brief pause, during which both Zillah 
 and the preacher, as if having come to the same determination, 
 kept silence, he said, — 
 
 ** Well; perhaps it is best. Will you, Zillah, go with me 
 to Cecil Place ?” 
 
 *“ No!” was her reply. “ I will meet you there; but I 
 frankly tell you, I will not trust myself in your company under 
 any roof, unless it be with many persons.” 
 
 “‘ Then come there at seven o’ the clock this evening — and 
 I swear if 
 
 ** J have no faith in your oaths — but I will trust to this 
 man ; and if he assures me that the accursed marriage shall 
 not take place until I hold commune with the woman you 
 would wed — safe, and undisturbed commune — I will leave 
 you until night.” 
 
 “Then I assure you of it,” replied Fleetword ; “and let this 
 convince you of my truth, that I love the sweet lady, Constance 
 Cecil, too well, to see her shadowed even by such dishonour 
 as your words treat of.—Sir Willmott, Sir Willmott ! you have 
 shown the cloven foot!” 
 
 ** Look out on the waters, Sir Willmott Burrell,” shouted 
 the Jewess, in her wild voice: ‘look out on the waters, and 
 see the sail and the signal of the brave Buccaneer !”’ 
 
 Burrell looked anxiously, and earnestly ; but he could per- 
 
 R 4 
 
 
 
e 
 
 ’ 
 248 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ceive nothing of which she spoke. When he turned towards 
 the spot where Zillah had stood — she was gone ! 
 
 ‘All this is of the evil one,” said Fleetword, after peering 
 among the old walls, and approaching his nose so closely to 
 the larger stones, that it might be imagined he was smelling, 
 not looking at them.—‘‘ Whither has the creature escaped ?” 
 
 “‘ Verily, 1 know not,” was Burrell’s reply. ‘‘ Best come 
 with me into the Gull’s Nest ; I would speak with Robin.” 
 
 The unsuspicious preacher did as he was desired. 
 
 Sir Willmott inquired for the Ranger. His mother said, 
 truly, “ He was gone a journey.” 
 
 “ For Hugh Dalton ?” 
 
 ‘* He had joined his ship.” 
 
 He then managed privately to ask for the secret key of a 
 place called “ the Cage,’ where contraband goods, not wanted 
 for ready sale, were generally deposited. It had no commu- 
 nication with any of the private chambers, except by a narrow 
 passage, which, leading to no other place, was seldom traversed. 
 Into this cage he managed to get Fleetword, saying, ‘ It was 
 one of the ways out;” and while the preacher was looking 
 round with much curiosity, he turned the key, placed it safely 
 in his vest, and, without saying a word to Mother Hays, who, 
 at such an early hour was just beginning to be very busy, left 
 the Gull’s Nest with much self-congratulation. 
 
 “* Stay safely there but till another morning, poor meddling 
 fool!” he murmured ; “and then, for your sweet Constantia’s 
 sake, you'll keep my secret, and resign these cursed papers.” 
 
 It is not to be imagined that Sir Willmott Burrell would, 
 upon any account, have suffered Zillah to make her appearance 
 at Cecil Place. His existence seemed now to hang upon her 
 destruction ; but instruments were wanting : Roupall had been 
 sent out of the way by Hugh Dalton, and tidings were in vain 
 expected of or from Jeromio. The slight relief afforded by 
 the imprisonment of Fleetword was speedily succeeded by a | 
 state of mind bordering on madness. 
 
 Stopping for a few moments at the lodge of Cecil Place, he 
 warned the old porter not to admit, but to detain, any person, 
 man or woman, who might inquire for him, no matter under 
 what pretext entrance might be demanded ; for he assured the 
 old man there was a deranged youth, who pretended to have 
 known him abroad, and who, he was informed, had used un- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 249 
 
 accountable threats against him. Sir Willmott, moreover, 
 enforced his instructions by a handsome present, and was pro- 
 ceeding to the house, when the gate-bell rang, and a man, 
 habited as a travelling merchant, presented a parcel, directed 
 ** For Sir Willmott Burrell. These it 
 
 Burrell commanded the messenger into the lodge room ; the 
 stranger, after some hesitation, entered. Sir Willmott briefly 
 dismissed the old porter, and undid the packet; when, lo! the 
 matted and gory head of the Italian, Jeromio, rolled at his 
 feet. There it lay, in all the hideous deformity of sudden 
 and violent death ! the severed throat, thickened with gouts of 
 blood! the dimmed spectral eyes starting from their sockets ! 
 the lips shrinking from the teeth of glaring whiteness — there 
 it lay, looking up, as it were, into the face of the base but 
 horrified associate. His utterance was impeded, and a thick 
 mist came over him, as he sank into the old porter’s chair. 
 
 ** What does this mean?” he said at length to the man, 
 whom he now recognised as one of the sailors of the Fire-fly. 
 — “ What means it?” 
 
 “A wedding present from Hugh Dalton, is all I heard 
 about the matter,’ returned the fellow, quietly turning a morsel 
 of tobacco in his mouth, and eyeing the knight with ineffable 
 contempt. 
 
 «* You must give information of this most horrible murder 
 — you witnessed it — it will make your fortune,” continued 
 Sir Willmott, springing from the seat, and, like a drowning 
 man, seizing even at a straw. ‘I can take your deposition — 
 this most foul murder may make your fortune— think of that. 
 — What ho!” he would have called the porter, but the man 
 prevented him, and then burst into a laugh, wild as a wild 
 sea-wave. 
 
 ** Lodge informations! You alaw-maker! May I never 
 spin another yarn, but ye are precious timber! Shiver and 
 blazes! haven’t ye with your palaver and devilry worked 
 harm enouw’ aboard our ship, but ye want me to be pickled up, 
 or swing from the yard-arm! No, no, master; I'll keep 
 off such a lee-shore. I’ve no objections in life to a — 
 any thing — but yer informations, Ah! ah! ah! what sinnifies 
 a hundred such as that,” and he kicked at the bloody head, 
 “‘ or such as you,” pointing to Sir Willmott, “in comparison 
 to the bold Buccaneer! Look here, master — whatever ye’r 
 
 
 
250 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 name be — they say the law and the pirates often sail under 
 false colours ; and blow me but I believe it now, when sich 
 as you have to do with one of ’em. Bah! Fd cry for the 
 figure-head of our ship, if she had sich a bridegroom.” 
 
 ** You shall not escape me, villain!” exclaimed Sir Will- 
 mott, rendered desperate by his adverse fortunes, and springing 
 towards the seaman. — ‘‘ But stay,” he added, drawing back, 
 *“ you,” hesitatingly, ‘‘ you are honest to your captain: well, 
 there is something you could do for me, that ” He paused 
 —and the sailor took advantage of the pause to say, — 
 
 ** A farewell and foul weather to ye, master! Look, if 
 you could make ye’r whole head into one great diamond, and 
 lay it at my feet, as that carrion lies at yours, may I die on 
 a sandbank like a dry herring, if I’d take it to do one of the 
 dirty jobs ye’re for ever plotting !” 
 
 Oh, what a degrading thing it is to be scoffed at by our 
 superiors! How prone we are to resent it when our equals 
 meet us with a sneer! But when the offscouring of society, 
 the reptiles that we could have trodden under foot, may 
 rail at and scorn us with impunity, how doubly bitter, how 
 perfectly insupportable must it be! The very ministers of 
 evil scouted him, and sin and misery thought him too con- 
 temptible to deal with! Burrell gnashed his teeth and struck 
 his temples with his clenched fist—the room turned round— 
 the bloody head of Jeromio uplifted itself to his imaginings, 
 and gibbered, and cursed, and muttered, and laughed at him 
 in fiendish merriment! If Zillah could have seen Burrell at 
 that moment, she would have pitied and prayed for him: the 
 strong man trembled as a weak girl in the shiverings of a 
 mortal fever—his heart shuddered within his bosom—he lost 
 all power of reasoning, and it was not until huge drops of 
 perspiration had forced their way along his burning brow, that 
 he at all recovered his faculties. He gazed around the small 
 apartment; but the man was gone. The lodge window that 
 looked on the road was open, and the knight’s first effort was 
 to reach it. ‘The pure air of heaven, breathing so sweetly 
 upon his pale and agonised countenance, revived him for the 
 moment, and his energetic mind in a short space was restrung 
 and wound up to fresh exertion. He resolved to set some of 
 his own people to watch about the grounds, in case Zillah 
 should attempt to obtain entrance ; and though he felt assured 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 251 
 
 they would do but little for him, yet he knew they would do 
 much for gold, and that he resolved they should have in 
 abundance. The marriage once over, he fancied himself safe 
 —safe from all but the Buccaneer. Hope is strong at all 
 times, but never more so than when we are roused from de- 
 spair. He turned from the window, and his eye fell on the 
 bloody head of the traitor Jeromio. He knew that, if the 
 porter saw it, there would be an outcry and an investigation, 
 which it was absolutely necessary, under existing circum- 
 stances, to avoid; for old Saul was one of those honest 
 creatures who hold it a duty to tell all truth, and nothing 
 but truth, to their employers. He therefore wrapped it care- 
 fully in the napkin in which it had been originally enveloped, 
 and then covered it over with his own kerchief. After another 
 moment of deliberation, he summoned the old man, and di- 
 rected him to bear it to the house. 
 
 ‘¢ But where is the stranger, sir?” inquired Saul. 
 
 “‘ Oh, he passed from the window, to save you the trouble 
 of unclosing the gate.” 
 
 It was fortunate for Sir Willmott Burrell that age had de- 
 prived Saul of more faculties than one. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Where though prison’d, he doth finde, 
 
 Hee’s still free, that’s free in minde; 
 
 And in trouble, no defence 
 
 Is so firm as innocence. WITHER. 
 
 WueEn the poor preacher found that Burrell was really gone, 
 and had left him a prisoner, without the remotest prospect of 
 escape, he felt (to use his own expression) “ rather mazed,” 
 and forthwith applied his hand to the lock, with the vain hope 
 of extricating himself as speedily as possible: he found, how- 
 ever, the entrance closed firm and fast, and, moreover, of so 
 solid a construction, that, with all his effort, he was unable to 
 move it in the slightest degree. He would have welcomed 
 the idea that the Master of Burrell did but jest; yet there had 
 been that about his demeanour which excluded all thought of 
 
252 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 merriment, and Fleetword felt his limbs tremble beneath him 
 when he reflected on the desperate character of the man with 
 whom he had to deal. “ The Lord can make a way for safety 
 even from this den,” he muttered, ‘‘ yea, even from this fast- 
 ness, which, of a truth, is most curiously fashioned, and of 
 evil intention, doubtless.”” The little light that was admitted 
 into the cell came through an aperture in the cliff at so great 
 a height from the floor that it could hardly be observed, even 
 if it had been left unprotected by a ledge of stone that pro- 
 jected a considerable distance under the opening, which was 
 scarcely large enough to permit the entrance of a sufficient 
 quantity of air. The atmosphere was therefore dense and 
 heavy, and the preacher drew his breath with difficulty. The 
 chamber, we should observe, was directly over that in which 
 we have heretofore encountered the Buccaneer ; for the in- 
 terior of the cliff was excavated in various parts, so as more 
 nearly to resemble the formation of a bee-hive than any other 
 structure. It was filled, as we have stated, with a variety of 
 matters, for which either there was no immediate demand, or 
 that time had rendered useless. Of these, Fleetword piled a 
 quantity one over the other, and standing tiptoe on the top- 
 most parcel, succeeded in peeping through the aperture, but 
 could perceive nothing except the broad sea stretching away 
 in the distance until it was bounded by the horizon. As he 
 was about to descend, one of the packages rolled from under the 
 rest, and the hapless preacher came to the ground amidst a 
 multitude of bales of cloth, logs of ebony, cramps, and spoiled 
 martin-skins, and found himself half in and half out of a box 
 of mildewed oranges, into which he had plumped, and which 
 repaid the intrusion by splashing him all over with their pulpy 
 and unpleasant remains. It was some time before he could 
 extricate himself from this disagreeable mass, and still longer 
 before he could cleanse off the filthy fragments from his gar- 
 ments. When he had done so, however, his next care was to 
 bestow the papers he had rescued from Burrell into some safe 
 place. ‘* The Lord,’ he thought, “hath, at his own good 
 pleasure, given Satan or his high priest dominion over me, and 
 it may be that I shall be offered up upon the altar of Baal or 
 Dagon as a sacrifice; but it shall be one of sweet-smelling 
 savour, untainted by falsehood or dissimulation. Verily, he 
 may destroy my body —and I will leave these documents, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 253 
 
 which by an almost miraculous interposition of Providence 
 have been committed to my charge, so that one time or other 
 they may be found of those by whom they may be needed.” 
 He carefully sought and ransacked every parcel he could 
 find in search of pencil, ink, or any thing by which he could 
 direct a letter; but in vain. He discovered, however, some 
 parchments, whereon the words “ Oliver Lord Protector ” were 
 frequently inscribed: he cut off a slip containing this sentence, 
 and having encased the papers he had seized, in many folds, 
 pinned it upon the parcel, so that it might serve as a direction. 
 He then corded it so firmly that it would require both industry 
 and patience to dissever the several knots and twistings. Having 
 performed so much of his task, he set himself to consider what 
 possible means he could devise to secure its safe delivery. He 
 had previously shouted and called with all his strength ; but 
 when he remembered the length of the passage he had traversed 
 with his subtle guide, and the little appearance there was of 
 any apartment near the one in which he was confined, he de- 
 sisted, wisely determining not to waste, in such useless efforts, 
 the breath that, perhaps, he would be suffered to retain only 
 for a few short hours. Greatly he lamented his want of cau- 
 tion in accompanying Burrell; and bitterly wept at the fate 
 that awaited his favourite, Constantia. At length, after much 
 deliberation, he determined on building a more secure standing~ 
 place, mounting once again to the window, fastening the longest 
 string he could find to the parcel, and merely confining it to 
 the inside of the cave in so slight a manner, that it might be 
 detached by the least pull. He would have thrown it down at 
 once, trusting that some one on the beach would find it ; but 
 he was aware that the tide at high water washed up the cliffs, 
 so that there was but small chance of its not being borne away 
 upon the waters. He also remembered that there were sundry 
 little pathways winding up the chalky rocks, where he had 
 seen people walk; and that, by God’s good blessing, the 
 packet might be found by some one wandering there. Having 
 accomplished this object, he took his seat on a pile of moth- 
 eaten clothes, and drawing forth his little pocket Bible, set him- 
 self to read the Holy Scripture, with as much diligence as if he 
 had never before opened the blessed and consoling volume. 
 Two classes of persons peruse the Sacred Book ; one from 
 pure love of, and entire dependence on, the words and precepts 
 
254 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 contained therein ; the other from habit — “their mothers, 
 grandmothers, and great-grandmothers did so before them — 
 always on a Sunday — and sometimes (when they had time) 
 during the week — and God forbid that they should ever be 
 worse than their ancestors !’? The Reverend Jonas Fleetword 
 belonged partly to the one class, partly to the other: his pro- 
 genitors, for upwards of a century, had been foremost in 
 forwarding the religion of the Gospel; they had fought for it 
 both with carnal and spiritual weapons, and he had followed 
 in their footsteps without swerving either to the right hand or 
 the left ; but, to do him justice, he was stimulated to activity 
 in his vocation by a better motive than that which arises 
 either from custom or an estimate of hereditary right — he 
 was at heart, as well as in word, a Christian, and the promises 
 contained in, together with the prospects held out by, the 
 book he’ perused so eagerly, had been, from the moment when 
 reason dawned, the ruling principle by which his life was 
 governed. We pause not to inquire whether he had duly 
 weighed or correctly interpreted all its precepts — whether 
 the hastiness of his nature was not at times opposed to the 
 meek and unupbraiding example of his Divine Master — 
 whether he did not now and then mistake bitterness for sin- 
 cerity, and persecution for zeal; such errors were but too 
 common to the age in which he lived, and with the church of 
 which he was a member. Never did Gospel hope and Gospel 
 consolation visit him with greater welcome than at the moment 
 of which we write. He entertained little doubt but that his 
 enemy meditated towards him some evil that placed his life in 
 danger : such, however, was not the case ; Burrell had agreed 
 to defer the marriage until six of the clock that evening ; and, 
 after the ceremony had been concluded, he entertained no 
 doubt that the preacher would retain the secret now in his 
 possession for Constantia’s sake. 
 
 At Cecil Place all was confusion, for the mind of its 
 afflicted mistress was scarcely able to bear up against the 
 weight of misery that pressed upon it; and Lady Frances 
 Cromwell felt happy and relieved when, about eight in the 
 morning, she fell into an apparently sound sleep. The pre- 
 parations for the wedding devolved entirely upon her ; but, 
 like most persons of an exalted rank, although she knew when 
 things were properly done, she was ignorant how to do them: 
 
 — 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 255 
 
 she, therefore, contented herself with directing her women to 
 make all matters in order ; while they, proud and pleased at 
 the commission, gave every body as much trouble as possible. 
 Sir Robert wandered about the house like a troubled spirit, 
 anxious, yet dreading, to see his child; while Sir Willmott, 
 after using every precaution within his power against Zillah’s 
 appearance, endeavoured to find occupation by inspecting the 
 carriages that were to convey them to his aunt’s house in 
 Surrey, where he had previously determined that they should 
 pass many of the succeeding days — an object not only of 
 convenience, but of necessity, inasmuch as he could thus gain 
 time to arrange with his servants and tenantry at his own 
 dweiling. 
 
 Mrs. Claypole had written to Lady Frances, stating that 
 the Protector did not wish his daughter to accompany her 
 friend to the abode of Sir Willmott’s aunt, and would, there- 
 fore, send a suitable escort to conduct her to Whitehall im- 
 mediately after the ceremony was concluded. Mrs. Claypole 
 also added that she had left Hampton Court for the purpose 
 of meeting her dear sister Frances in London, as her mother 
 had been indisposed, and could not conveniently do so. The 
 letter prayed for many blessings on the head of their sweet 
 friend Constantia, adding that, from what she heard of her 
 decision on the subjeet, she could hardly believe contradictory 
 reports — as to her heart being given elsewhere, inasmuch as 
 she must know it to be less evil to break a contract made in 
 youth, with which the mind and feelings had no connection, 
 than to register a solemn pledge of affection and faithfulness 
 before the Lord, where in fact there could be no affection, 
 and faithfulness must be a plant of forced and not of natural 
 growth.” 
 
 “* Yet would they all wax marvellously wroth,” said Lady 
 Frances, ‘‘if I were to draw my own conclusions from this 
 opinion, and act thereupon. I wonder, does my being the 
 daughter of his Highness the Lord Protector make it less 
 necessary for me to be true and upright? and can a woman 
 be either, yet pledge her hand and faith to one for whom she 
 cares not? Yet—” She paused, for she had perused 
 the letter within the chamber, and beside the couch on which 
 Constance was still sleeping, and as her eyes fell upon her 
 friend, she could pronounce no harsh judgment upon an act 
 
 
 
256 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 performed by one she loved so dearly, and of whose truth and 
 uprightness there could be no doubt. 
 
 While the note was yet open before her, the door opened, 
 and Sir Robert Cecil entered. Lady Frances motioned him 
 that Miss Cecil slept, and the old man stooped over her bed 
 with clasped hands, scarcely breathing, lest he should disturb 
 her rest. 
 
 ‘“ Has she slept thus all the night?” he whispered. — 
 
 ** Has she slept thus soundly all the night, Lady Frances ?” 
 ' No, sir,” was the reply ; and it was delivered in a tone of 
 unusual sternness ; for it must be remembered that she enter- 
 tained much anger against Sir Robert, for permitting the 
 marriage to take place so manifestly against the inclination of 
 his daughter. . “‘ No, sir, it is many nights since she has slept 
 soundly.” 
 
 ‘* But, lady, see how sweet, how gentle her repose! Surely, 
 she could not sleep thus with a heavy heart ?” 
 
 ** Sir Robert,” replied Lady Frances, ‘the heart’s heavi- 
 ness will make heavy the eyelids ; nay, with greater certainty, 
 when they are swollen with weeping.” 
 
 The baronet stooped down, as if to ascertain the correctness 
 of what the lady had said, and at the instant a tear forced its 
 way through the long fringes that rested on his daughter’s 
 pallid cheek. He groaned audibly, and left the apartment 
 with the stealthy step and subdued deportment of a proclaimed 
 criminal. 
 
 “They are all mystery, one and all, mystery from begin- 
 ning to end,” thought Lady Frances, as with a heavy heart 
 she went in search of her women to ascertain how they were 
 fulfilling her directions. 
 
 In one of the passages she met Barbara weeping bitterly. 
 
 ‘Tears, tears! nothing but tears!” said the Protector’s 
 daughter, kindly. ‘‘ What ails thee now, girl? Surely there 
 is some new cause for grief, or you would not weep thus ?” 
 
 “« My lady, I hardly know what is come over me, but I can 
 scarcely stanch my tears: every thing goes ill. I sent two 
 of the serving maidens to gather flowers, to help to dress up 
 the old chapel, that looks more like a sepulchre than any thing 
 else. And what do you think, my lady, they brought me ? 
 Why, rue, and rosemary, and willow boughs; and I chid 
 them, and sent them for white and red roses, lilies and the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 257 
 
 early pinks, which the stupid gipsies brought at last, and I com- 
 menced nailing up the boughs of some gay evergreens amongst 
 the clustering ivy, that has climbed over the north window — 
 the lower one I mean ; and just as I had finished, and was 
 about to twist in a garland of such sweet blush roses, an adder, 
 a living adder, trailing its length all up the fretted window, 
 stared with its dusky and malignant eyes full in my face, and 
 pranked out its forked tongue dyed in the blackest poison. 
 Oh, madam! how I screamed —and I know the creature was 
 bent on my destruction, for, when I jumped down, it uncoiled, 
 and fell upon the earth, coming towards me as I retreated, 
 when Crisp (only think, my lady, of the wisdom of that 
 poor dog!) — little Crisp seized it, somewhere by the neck, 
 and in a moment it was dead!” 
 
 “You should smile at that, not weep,” observed Lady 
 Frances, patting her cheek as she would that of a petted child. 
 
 «Oh, but,” said Barbara, “it was so horrid, and I was 
 almost sorry Crisp killed it! for it is an awful thing to destroy 
 life, yet it was wickedly venomous.” 
 
 ** Ah, my poor maid! you will have worse troubles soon 
 than that which bids you mourn over an adder’s death.” 
 
 ** Do not say so, sweet lady,” interrupted Barbara: “ ah! 
 do not say so: for I feel, I can hardly tell how, so very, very 
 sad. My poor lady, and my poor self! and you going away, 
 madam — you, who keep up the life of every thing; and, 
 though your waiting maids seem so rejoiced to get back to 
 the court! JI don’t know what I shall do, not I. I only 
 wish ” She paused abruptly. 
 
 ** Tell me what you wish, my pretty Barbara—a new 
 cap, kirtle, hood, or farthingale? What, none of these!” 
 
 “J was only wishing that Robin Hays was come back, 
 because he would understand my troubles.” 
 
 ** You pay a poor compliment to my understanding, Bar- 
 bara,’’ observed Lady Frances, with whom Barbara was at all 
 times an especial favourite. 
 
 The simple maid courtesied respectfully, while she replied, 
 *€ My lady, it would ill become me to make free with such as 
 you, but I have many small causes of trouble, which, even if 
 you did hear, you could not comprehend. The brown wren 
 would not go for counsel to the gay parrot, however wise and 
 great the parrot might be, but seek advice from another brown 
 
 s 
 
 
 
258 THE BUCCANEER,. 
 
 wren, because it would understand and feel exactly ite cares 
 and troubles of its own kind.” 
 
 _ © What a little fabulist thou art, pretty esas! But, 
 if you had been at court, you would not have likened a lady 
 to a parrot.” 
 
 “* Not to a parrot !’”” repeated Barbara ; “ such a beautiful 
 bird ! that looks so handsome and talks so ; well ! Li 
 
 “No: but here is a parting present for you, my fair 
 maid ; a chain of gold. Stay, I will clasp it on your slender 
 neck myself; and listen to me, Barbara. The daughters of 
 the Protector of England would be ill worthy their father’s 
 name or their father’s honours, did they not seek to protect 
 the women of their country, and to keep them in virtue and 
 innocence, as he protects the men, and guides them to war 
 and victory, or to peace and honour! Would to God, fair 
 girl, that, notwithstanding your simplicity, the maidens of 
 Britain were all as right-minded and gentle as yourself! As 
 a proof how highly I value your faithful and true affection, I 
 bestow upon you an ornament I have long worn, not to feed 
 your vanity (for we are all vain, more or less,) but to 
 strengthen your principles. If ever you should encounter 
 ‘real sorrow, and I can aid you, send me the clasp of this 
 chain, and I will attend to your request, be it what it may.” 
 Lady Frances turned from her with more gravity of aspect 
 and more dignity of demeanour than was her custom, and 
 proceeded to look after the arrangements for her friend’s 
 nuptials. 
 
 Barbara stood for some time after the lady’s departure, 
 holding the gift upon the palm of her small and beautifully 
 formed hand, which no rough labour had hardened or sullied. 
 Her eye brightened as she gazed upon the rich gift; but, in 
 a moment, her thoughts reverted to those with whom were the 
 best feelings of her happy and innocent heart. . 
 
 «Oh, that Robin had but been here !’’ she said, “ to have 
 heard it all. To think of her who is as great as a princess ! 
 What was it? faithful and true,’ and, oh! how proud — 
 no, I must not be proud —how grateful I am! If my father, 
 my father, too, had heard it; but I can show this to them 
 both. I will not again think of that horrid adder.”’ And 
 with this resolution she crept softly into the chamber of her 
 still sleeping lady. 
 
* 
 THE BUCCANEER. 259 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Poor fool! she thought herself in wondrous price 
 With God, as ifin Paradise she were ; 
 But, were she not in a fool’s paradise, 
 She might have seen more reason to despair, 
 And, therefore, as that wretch hew’d out his cell 
 Under the bowels, in the heart of hell! 
 So she, above the moon, amid the stars would dwell. 
 
 GILES FLETCHER. 
 
 We must leave Cecil Place for a while — suffer Manasseh 
 Ben Israel to pursue his journey to Hampton Court — offer 
 no intrusion upon the solitude of the preacher Fleetword — 
 take no note of aught concerning Walter De Guerre or Major 
 Wellmore — nor heed, for a time, whether the Buccaneer 
 steered his course by land or water: attend to nothing, in fact, 
 for the present, except the motives and actions of Zillah Ben 
 Israel. 
 
 The Jewish females were brought up, at the period of 
 which we treat, with the utmost strictness, and kept in great 
 seclusion, scarcely ever associating but with their own people, 
 and enduring many privations in consequence of never mixing 
 in general society. It is true they had companions of their 
 own nation, and amusements befitting (according to the 
 notions of the Elders) their state and age ; but, nevertheless, 
 they were held under much and injudicious restraint, the 
 result of which was evil. It is seldom that the young can 
 be held back by a tight and galling rein, without either biting 
 the bit, or breaking the bridle. Zillah was the only child of 
 her father, and nothing could exceed the expense or the care 
 lavished upon her. Had Manasseh himself superintended her 
 education, it is but fair to infer that his wisdom and judg- 
 -ment would have curbed the headstrong and stubborn nature 
 of her mind and temper ; but, deprived in her infancy of a 
 mother’s watchfulness, and Ben Israel’s duty and business 
 calling him continually from one country to another, she was 
 necessarily intrusted to the care of certain relatives of his 
 own, Polish Jews ; who, though excellent friends in their 
 way, and well versed in all the rites and ceremonies of the 
 Mosaic law, were totally ignorant of the proper course to be 
 pursued with a wild, high-spirited girl, fully aware of the im- 
 
 $2 
 
¥ 
 260 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 portance of her father’s wealth and influence, and panting for 
 the time when she should share in both. The people with 
 whom she resided perceived her wilfulness ; but, instead of 
 combating it with reason, they sought to overcome it by force 
 — and the best of all force, according to their ideas, was that 
 which a staid and sober husband might exercise. The person 
 upon whom they fixed was a Jew diamond-dealer, who had 
 numbered about as many years as her father, but was greatly 
 his inferior both in sagacity and power ; indeed, there were 
 very few who could compete with the learned Rabbi, Manasseh 
 Ben Israel, in either of these qualities. Cromwell thought 
 most highly of his talents, and ‘bestowed upon him a degree 
 of confidence he reposed in few, treating him with a respect 
 and attention which all classes of Christians thought he carried 
 much too far ; for, at that time, Toleration was only in its 
 infancy, and true peace-loving Religion suffered much from 
 the persecutions with which the successful party never failed 
 to visit those over whom they had triumphed. Catholic 
 against Protestant — Protestant against Catholic — Sectarian 
 against both — both against Sectarian — all against Jew — 
 and the defamed and despised Israelite obliged, in self-defence, 
 to act by subtlety (for his strength had departed from him) 
 against all! Cromwell took advantage of this state of things, 
 and with much policy, but it is to be hoped also with. much 
 sincerity, exerted himself continually to render England a place 
 of security and happiness to the wandering children of Israel. 
 To quote his own words, his opinion was, “ Since there was 
 a promise that they should be converted, means ought to be 
 used to that end ; and the most likely way was, the preaching 
 of the Gospel in truth and sincerity, as it was then in Britain 
 — devoid of all Popish idolatry, which had rendered the Chris- 
 tian religion odious to them.” But the design was so violently 
 and so generally opposed, that it came to nothing. Many 
 scrupled not to affirm, that the Protector had secured a condi- 
 tional bribe, to an enormous amount, in case he procured for 
 them equal toleration with English subjects ; while others, 
 with more show of truth, declared, that when Cromwell 
 “‘ understood what dealers the Jews were every where in that 
 trade which depends on news, the advancing money upon high 
 or low interest, in proportion to the risk they ran, or the gain 
 to be made as affairs might turn up, and in the buying and 
 
 _ 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 261 
 
 selling of the actions of money so advanced, he, more upon 
 that account, than with a view to tolerate their principles, 
 brought a company of them over, and gave them leave to build 
 a synagogue.” It is certain that they were sure and trusty 
 spies for him, especially with relation to Spain and Portugal, 
 and that they never betrayed his confidence. — Is it not, how- 
 ever, most extraordinary, in these our own times, when the 
 spirit of liberty is bestriding the whole earth “ like a Co- 
 lossus,” that a people so faithful, so influential, and so peace- 
 able, should be deprived of so many privileges ? — privileges, 
 which we are labouring with mind, pen, and purse, to procure 
 for tribes of ignorant and uncivilised savages, who as yet are 
 utterly unable to comprehend the nature of the freedom we 
 seek to thrust upon them, but who are too often ready and 
 eager to bite the hand that would bestow it? God forbid that 
 we should desire it to be withholden from a single human 
 being, whether black or white, who bears the impress of his 
 Maker. But reason, policy, and humanity, may alike teach 
 us that the blessing should first be shared by those who have 
 done most to deserve it —- who know best how it should be 
 used — and who have the most powerful hereditary claims 
 upon the sympathy and consideration of Christians. The time 
 is surely at hand, when the badge of ignominy shall be removed. 
 from them— at least in Britain — where, but for the excep- 
 tion to which we refer, Freedom is the birthright of every 
 native of the soil. Cromwell knew their value to a state ; and 
 had he lived a few years longer, the Jew would have been at 
 liberty to cultivate his own lands, and manure them (if it so 
 pleased him) with his own gold, any where within the sea-girt 
 isle of England. 
 
 We must no longer digress, although upon a most important 
 and most interesting topic, but proceed to inform our readers 
 what they must already have anticipated, that Zillah had little 
 inclination towards the husband procured for her by her inju- 
 dicious friends. The Rabbi thought it altogether a suitable 
 match, particularly as Ichabod could trace his descent from the 
 tribe of Levi, and was of undoubted wealth, and, according 
 to belief, unspotted reputation; but Zillah cared little for 
 reputation, she knew not its value — little for wealth, for the 
 finest and rarest jewels of the world sparkled in gorgeous 
 variety upon her person, so that she moved more like a rainbow 
 
 s 3 
 
262 THE BUCCANEER: 
 
 than a living woman — little, very little for the tribe of Levi, 
 and less than all for Ichabod. His black eyes she likened to 
 burnt cinders; she saw no beauty in a beard striped and 
 mottled with grey, although it was perfumed with the sweets 
 of Araby, and oiled with as pure and undefiled an unction as 
 that which flowed from the horn of the ancient Samuel upon 
 the head of the youthful David. His stateliness provoked her 
 mirth —his deafness her impatience ; and when she com- 
 pared him with the joyous cavaliers, the brilliant and capti- 
 vating men who graced the court of the gay and luxurious 
 Louis, for whose gallant plumes and glittering armour she so 
 often watched through her half-closed lattice, she turned from 
 the husband they would have given with a disgust that was 
 utterly insupportable. 
 
 Her father had prevailed upon the family with whom she 
 lived to remove to Paris during his residence in England, 
 which had been prolonged from day to day, in compliance 
 with the desire of the Protector. He was anxious that his 
 child should be instructed in such elegant arts as those in which 
 the ladies of France and England excelled — not remem- 
 bering that, in a young, forward, and ill-educated woman, the 
 dangerous desire of display succeeds the acquirement of 
 accomplishments as surely and as regularly as day follows 
 night. 
 
 Thus, shut up in one of the most gloomy hotels in Paris — 
 conveyed in a close carriage once or twice a week to the Bois 
 de Boulogne, or the gardens of Versailles — fearing to express 
 delight, lest she should be reproved for. levity — or desire for 
 any thing, lest it should be the very thing she would not be 
 permitted to possess — the proud, warm, frank-hearted Jewess 
 became gradually metamorphosed into the cunning, passionate, 
 deceptive intriguante, only waiting for an opportunity to de- 
 _ ceive her guardians, and obtain that which, from being so 
 strictly forbidden, she concluded must be the greatest possible 
 enjoyment — freedom of word and action. Alas! if we may 
 use a homely phrase, many are the victims to strait-lacing, 
 both of stays and conscience ! 
 
 But if the old, grey-bearded Ichabod had been an object of 
 dislike to the youthful and self-willed Jewess before she saw 
 Sir Willmott Burrell, how did she regard him afterwards ! _ 
 
 Manasseh Ben Israel had, as we have intimated, intrusted 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 963 
 
 some packages for his daughter to the charge of the treacherous 
 knight ; and how he abused the trust has been already shown? 
 But the poor Jewess found to her cost, that though she loved 
 him with all the warmth and ardour of her own-nature, he 
 regarded her only as an object of pastime and pleasure ; the 
 idea of in reality marrying’a Jewess never once entered into 
 his calculation, though he was obliged to submit to something 
 like the ceremony, before he could overcome scruples that are 
 implanted with much care in the heart of every Jewish maiden. 
 Although she deceived her guardians and her antiquated lover 
 with great dexierity, it never occurred to her that Sir Willmott 
 could be so base as to deceive her. She was new to the world 
 and its ways ; and the full torrent of her anger, jealousy, and 
 disappointment burst upon him, when she found that the 
 charms of a fair-haired lady had superseded her own, and that 
 Burrell was already treating her with coldness. Of all the 
 passions inherent in the heart of a woman, that of jealousy is 
 the most dangerous to herself and others: it is fierce and rest~ 
 less in its nature ; when infuriated, nothing can oppose its 
 progress ; and although most powerful in the most feeble- 
 minded, it frequently assumes the semblance of intellectual - 
 strength. Zillah’s jealousy kept pace with her headlong love, 
 and in one of its most violent paroxysms she made the attempt 
 on the life of Burrell, which, it is easy to believe, he never 
 forgave. Subsequently, and during the remainder of his stay 
 in Paris, he humoured her fancy, and led her to imagine that 
 he had sufficient influence with Cromwell to prevail on him ‘to 
 interest her father on her behalf, and do what no Israelite of 
 the time had ever done — recognise a Christian son-in-law. 
 After Burrell’s departure, however, she soon saw how little 
 reliance was to be placed upon his promises, and therefore 
 resolved to act for herself. Suspicion and jealousy divided her 
 entire soul between them; and she determined not to trust 
 Dalton to bring her over to England, because Burrell had 
 recommended her to do so. Jeromio was known to the person 
 at whose house she lodged at St. Vallery, and, hearing’ that 
 she wanted to get to England, and would dispense much largess 
 to secure a passage, he thought he could make something by 
 secreting her on board, and then passing her off to his captain 
 as adumb boy. ‘To this plan Zillah readily agreed, for her 
 imagination was at all times far stronger-than her reason. She 
 s 4 
 
264 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 had cast her life upon a die, and cared not by what means her 
 object was to be secured. 
 
 It is one of the most extraordinary anomalies in the female 
 character, that, having once outstepped the boundaries that are 
 never even thought upon but with danger, it plunges deeper 
 and deeper still into irretrievable ruin. Perhaps it is because 
 women must feel most acutely that society never permits them 
 to retrieve, or, what is much the same, takes no cognisance of 
 their repentance, be it ever so sincere: their station once lost 
 is never to be regained ; it would seem as if Dante’s inscrip- 
 tion on the gates of Hell were to be for ever their motto — 
 <¢ All hope abandon.” Man may err, and err, and be for- 
 given ; but poor woman, with all his temptations and but half 
 his strength, is placed beyond the pale of earthly salvation if 
 she be but once tempted into crime! It is a hard, even though 
 it may be a salutary law. 
 
 It must be borne in mind that Zillah had committed as 
 great an iniquity in the eyes of her people by marrying as by 
 intriguing ; nor could she expect pardon for either one or the 
 other, except by some wonderful and powerful interposition, 
 such as Burrell held out. It was astonishing to witness the 
 fortitude with which the fragile and delicate Jewess, who had 
 been clothed in purple and fine linen, fed on the most costly 
 viands, and slept on the most downy couch, encountered the 
 illness, terrors, and miseries attendant on a sea voyage in the 
 vessel of a Buccaneer. ‘The Fire-fly certainly deserved every 
 encomium bestowed upon her by her captain; yet was she not 
 the most pleasing residence for a delicately-nurtured female. 
 No murmur escaped her sealed lips, nor, in fact, did she per- 
 ceive the inconveniences by which she was surrounded ; her 
 mind was wholly bent upon the prevention of Sir Willmott 
 Burrell’s marriage, of which she had heard from undoubted 
 authority ; and it would appear that she had no feelings, no 
 ideas to bestow upon, or power to think of, other things. 
 
 Jeromio’s plotting but weak mind, never satisfied with the 
 present, eager for the future, and anxious to make it better by 
 foul means, had contrived to bring into use an abandoned 
 excavation under the old tower we have so frequently men- 
 tioned, which had been forsaken by Hugh Dalton’s party 
 from its extreme dampness. They had filled the entrance 
 with fragments of rock and large stones ; but it was known to 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 965 
 
 Jeromio, who, thinking that during his occasional visits to 
 Gull’s Nest he might manage to smuggle a little on his own 
 account, assisted by two other Italians as evil-minded as him- 
 self, arranged the stones so as to permit one person at a time 
 to creep into the wretched hole, where he stowed away such 
 parts of the cargo of the Fire-fly as he could purloin from his 
 too-confiding commander. He admitted Zillah to a knowledge 
 of this cave, as a place in which she might shelter. He knew 
 her to be a female of wealth and consequence ; yet had no 
 idea of her connection with the Master of Burrell, whom he 
 had rarely seen; and though of necessity she occasionally 
 mixed with the people of the Gull’s Nest, yet she expressed 
 so strong a desire for some place of privacy in the neighbour- 
 hood of Cecil Place, and paid so liberally for it withal, that 
 he confided to her the secret of this cave — the entrance to 
 which was nearly under the window of the tower in which 
 Barbara Iverk had been concealed on the night when, by her 
 lady’s direction, she sought to communicate to Robin Hays 
 the perilous situation of the young Cavalier, At that time, 
 also, the Jewess saw Sir Willmott for the first time in Eng- 
 land. She had been on the watch ever since her landing, but 
 terror for her own wretched life had prevented her addressing 
 him openly. The tones of his well-known voice had reached 
 her miserable cavern, and roused her from a troubled slumber. 
 She understood too little of his language to comprehend the 
 nature of his communication to Roupall, and her first impulse 
 was to strike a dagger to his heart ; but this, her womanly 
 affection prevented, and she suddenly withdrew. Subsequently, 
 she wrote to Mrs. Constantia, and trusted much to her ge- 
 nerosity and truth of character, of which she had heard in 
 France ; but poor Constance, through the cowardice of Jero- 
 mio, never received her packet, and, enraged and maddened 
 by the reports of his immediate marriage, she resolved on 
 seeing Mistress Cecil, and accomplished her purpose, as she 
 thought, when in fact she only saw Barbara. Her jealousy 
 and violence defeated her purpose at that time; but still her 
 determination remained fixed to prevent the union, if her life 
 were to be the forfeit. After meeting with the knight, she 
 retreated into the earth, from which she had so suddenly 
 appeared, much to the Master of Burrell’s astonishment, who 
 had no knowledge whatever of the cave, though he doubted 
 
266 | ‘THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 not it was of Dalton’s preparing. After securing the preacher, 
 he examined every portion of the ruins most attentively, but 
 without success, for she had learned to be as wily as a fox, and 
 had carefully secured the aperture, through which even her 
 delicate form passed with difficulty. 
 
 It would have touched a heart, retaining any degree of 
 feeling, to see that young and beautiful woman within that 
 damp and noisome excavation — so damp that cold and slimy 
 reptiles clung to, and crept over, its floor and walls, while the 
 blind worm nestled in the old apertures formed to admit a 
 little air; and the foul toad, and still more disgusting eft, 
 looked upon her, as they would say, “‘ Thou art our sister.” 
 
 “* And here,” thought she, “ must the only child of Ma- 
 nasseh Ben Israel array herself, to meet the gaze of the proud 
 beauty who would not deign to notice the letter or the sup- 
 plication of the despised Jewess ; to meet the gaze of the cold 
 stern English, and of the cruel man who points the finger of 
 scorn against her he has destroyed. Yet I seek but justice, 
 but to be acknowledged as his wife, in the open day and 
 before an assembled people, and then he shall hear and see no 
 more of the Rabbi’s daughter! I will hide myself from the 
 world, and look wpon all mankind as I do upon him — with a 
 bitter hatred !— Yet I was not always thus,” she continued, 
 as she clasped a jewel on her arm: “ The bracelet is too wide 
 for the shrunk flesh! Out, out upon thee, bauble! O that 
 I could thus —and thus— and thus —trample into this 
 black and slimy earth, every vestige of what I was, and have 
 no more the power to think of what Iam! Is this the hap- 
 piness I looked for? Are these the feelings of my girlhood ? 
 My heart seems cold within me, cold to every thought but 
 vengeance! yen the burden I carry —it is part of him, » 
 and with the groans that come in woman's travail I will 
 mingle curses, deep and blasting, on its head. O that I could 
 east it from me! And yet—and yet it will be my own 
 ehild!’’ And the feelings of the mother triumphed ; for, at 
 that thought, the Jewess wept, and tears are as balm to an 
 overwrought mind, at once a relief and a consolation. Zillah 
 wept, and was humanised. After a little time, she arrayed 
 herself in befitting garments, but placed pistols within her 
 bosom. Long before the appointed hour, and despite the 
 watchfulness of Sir Willmott’s spies, she was secreted near 
 the ruined chapel adjoining Cecil Place. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Hither, th’ oppressed shall henceforth resort, 
 Justice to crave and succour at your court, 
 And then your Highness, not for ours alone, 
 But for the world’s Protector shall be known. 
 WALLER fo the Protector. 
 
 Ir was past midnight when Manasseh Ben Israel, accompanied 
 by Robin Hays, as his own servant, and disguised as we have 
 seen him, arrived at Hampton Court. The night was murky, 
 and the numerous turrets of the great monument of Wolsey’s 
 grandeur and ambition were seen but dimly through the 
 thickened air, although looked upon with feelings of no ordi- 
 nary interest by both Jew and servitor. 
 
 The carriage was stopped at the outer court by the sentries 
 on guard, and some little delay occurred, apparently to ascer- 
 tain if the Rabbi could be admitted at so late an hour. 
 
 Robin looked from the carriage-window and saw, what 
 appeared to him, scores of mailed and armed warriors reclin- 
 ing on the stone benches of a spacious but low guard-room, 
 while others crowded over a large fire, which the chilliness of 
 the night rendered, at least, desirable. The glaring of the 
 flames showed brightly on their polished armour, and their 
 firm immovable features looked of a piece with the iron itself. 
 Nothing could be more imposing, or atford a more correct 
 idea of Cromwell’s perseverance and judgment, than his well- 
 trained soldiery. Obedience, inflexible obedience to their 
 commander, seemed the leading, almost the only principle 
 upon which they acted : not that slavish obedience which is the 
 effect of fear, but the obedience which is the result of con- 
 fidence. ‘* God and the Protector ” was their faith, and they 
 knew no other.. As the Jew gazed upon those invincible men, 
 he shrouded himself still more closely within his furred cloak, 
 and shuddered. Robin’s eye, on the contrary, brightened, for 
 he was born of England, and proud of her greatness. Ah! 
 Englishmen in those days had a right to be proud. 
 
 There was another difference in the conduct of the Pro- 
 tector’s troops from those of every other time and every other 
 nation: they had none of the reckless wildness, none of the 
 careless bravery which is supposed necessarily to belong to the - 
 
268 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 profession of arms. Their habits were staid and sober ; and 
 if any Cavaliers did enter in among them, they were forced 
 to behave themselves according to the fashion of their associ- 
 ates, which habit, in alittle time, tamed their heedlessness into 
 propriety. There was no singing of profane songs in the 
 guard-room, no filthy jesting or foolish talking ; no drinking; 
 their very breathing seemed subdued, and nothing frighted 
 the tranquillity which rested on the turrets at Hampton, and 
 pervaded its courts, save the striking of some iron heel on the 
 ringing pavement, or the neighing of some gallant steed in the 
 not distant stables. 
 
 Once, indeed, a psalm wailed through the casement from 
 one of the inner courts: it was sung at first in a troubled 
 tone, and in a low key, but afterwards the sound was increased 
 by other voices ; and it swelled upon the ear in long and loud 
 continuance. 
 
 “* He has departed, then !” observed one of the sentries, to 
 an armed man who stood near the carriage. 
 
 “ T suppose so, and, I trust, in the Lord,” was the re- 
 ply. 
 
 “* Doubtless — yet the heart was strong for life. His High- 
 ness will be sorrowful.” 
 
 “ He will; but grace abounded greatly ; he was one of the 
 Lord’s best soldiers, and fought well in the good cause.” 
 
 ‘“‘ Would that my time was passed! I would fain uplift my 
 voice with theirs.” 
 
 ** I will go there forthwith,” replied he in armour; and 
 Robin heard the echo of his step die in the distance. Ere the 
 utessenger, despatched by the officer of the guard, had re- 
 turned, a sort of rambling drowsy conversation was carried on 
 by the soldiers within, which only reached the quick ear of the 
 Ranger at intervals. 
 
 * His Highness has been tormented to-night; methinks 
 the length of a summer day ought to satisfy those who want 
 to see him.” 
 
 The sun had set a good hour or more, when Sir Christopher 
 Packe, the worshipful Lord Mayor, passed in. 
 
 “‘ His Highness,” replied the stern gruff voice of an old 
 soldier, ‘‘ is of the people ; and he knows that his duty — next 
 to awaiting the Lord always — is to wait on them.” 
 
 “‘ His time is not an easy one, then,” thought Robin ; and 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 269 
 
 as he so thought, the messenger returned with an order that 
 the Rabbi should be immediately admitted. The lumbering 
 carriage passed under one archway, and traversed a small 
 court — then under another — then across the next — then 
 stopped, and one of the principal servants opened the door, and 
 requested Manasseh to descend. 
 
 ‘* Her Highness,” he said, “ had been indisposed ; the 
 Lord Protector, therefore, hoped the worthy Israelite would 
 not object to walk across the next court, as her chamber was 
 nearly over the entrance.” 
 
 The Jew leaned upon Robin for support, as they mounted 
 the flight of steps leading to the grand entrance hall. He 
 paused once or twice ; they were many in number, and hard 
 to climb for one bent with age, and now bowed down by trou- 
 ble. When they arrived at the great door, he perceived that, 
 instead of two, there were four sentries, who stood, two on 
 each side, like fixed statues, and the torch their conductor car- 
 ried glittered on the bright points of their swords that rested 
 on the ground. The stair was faintly illumined by one large 
 massive iron lamp, hanging from the ceiling, and flickering, 
 so as to show the outline, not the minutie of the objects. 
 
 When they had fairly entered the great hall, Robin truly 
 and sincerely wished himself safely out again; the more par- 
 ticularly when he saw, mingled with the pages and servants in 
 waiting, some tried and trusty soldiers, by whom, if his dis- 
 guise were penetrated, he would be better known than trusted. 
 It was one thing to steal and pry about a place, and another 
 to be only separated by a single plank of oak from Cromwell 
 — the all-powerful, all-seeing Protector of England — liable 
 to be called at once into his presence ; for the Jew might 
 mention — doubtless would mention — that one who had 
 served Sir Willmott Burrell, and knew much of his doings, was 
 in attendance. 
 
 This magnificent room, though used as a hall of audience 
 on state occasions, was generally occupied by the guards, re- 
 tainers, and petitioners of the Protectorate. There was a long 
 table of rude workmanship near the door at which they en- 
 tered — above was a lamp, similar in size and construction to 
 that which swung outside: — many assembled round, or sat 
 close to, this table, while others walked up and down — not 
 passing, however, the centre of the hall, which was crossed by 
 
270 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 a silk cord of crimson, fastened in the middle to two brass 
 poles, standing sufficiently apart to permit one person ata ° 
 time to enter ; and also guarded by a single sentinel, who 
 walked so as to pass and repass the opening every half minute. 
 Manasseh paced slowly towards the soldier, still leaning on 
 Robin. His conductor kept a little in advance, bowing on 
 either side, while a conciliating smile lingered on his lip, until 
 he came to the silken line. gt 
 
 ** Only one may pass!”’ was the soldier’s brief notice ; and 
 the Rabbi, grasping his staff more firmly, walked to the door 
 opposite the great entrance, which was guarded also by an- 
 other sentinel. 
 
 ** You can find a seat — that is, if you choose to sit,” said 
 the servitor sneeringly, to Robin, pointing at the same time to 
 an empty corner of the hall. 
 
 “* Or would it please you I descend to the apartments of 
 the lower servants?” inquired the Ranger, remembering the 
 meekness befitting the character of a Jew. 
 
 “* None leave this hall, after entering it by his Highness’s 
 permission, till they receive orders to that effect,” he replied, 
 turning from Robin, who slunk to the place assigned him, in 
 no very agreeable mood. 
 
 If his imaginings were of an unpleasant description, still 
 more so were the observations made aloud by the pages, flip- 
 pant both by nature and usage, and the sarcastic and cool jests, 
 given forth at his expense by the more sober persons of the 
 assembly. ; 
 
 “‘ Wouldst like any refreshment, friend?” inquired a . 
 youth in a sad-coloured tunic and blue vest, over which fell a 
 plain collar of the finest Valenciennes’ lace, so as to cover his 
 shoulders. ‘ And yet,” continued the malapert, ‘“‘ methinks 
 there is nothing to offer thee but some ham, or preserved pigs’ 
 tongues, which, of course, thou tastest not of.” 
 
 «“ No, I humbly thank ye, young sir,”’ replied Robin ; “ I 
 do not need the pigs’ tongues, having tasted of thine.” 
 
 “¢ What mean you by that, Jew dog!” said the boy fiercely, 
 laying his hand on his sword. 
 
 ** Nothing, fair gentleman, except it be that thine, though 
 well presery ed, would fain take up the business of thy white 
 teeth. 
 
 “* How, knave ?”’ 
 
THE BUCCANEER. OTT 
 
 * Become biting,” replied Robin, bowing. 
 
 ** Ah, Morrison ! the Jew is too much for ye,” said another 
 youth, who was just roused from a half slumber in a high- 
 backed chair. —,‘‘ Where got ye yer wit?” 
 
 ** Where you ‘did not get yours, under favour,” was Robin’ s 
 
 ready reply. 
 
 «* And where was that?” 
 
 ** From nature ; too common a person for so gay a young 
 gentleman to be beholden to,” he retorted, bowing again with 
 even a greater show of humility than before. 
 
 At this reply, Sir John Berkstead, formerly a goldsmith in 
 the Strand, but gradually raised to the dignity of chief steward 
 of Oliver’s household, approached Robin with his usual 
 shuffling gait, and said, — 
 
 « Hey ! young gentlemen —hey ! young gentlemen, what 
 foolish jesting is this? what mean ye? It is his Highness’s 
 pleasure to receive the master, and what for do ye treat the 
 man with indignity? My worthy Samuel,” he looked 
 closer — “ but it is not Samuel,” he continued, peering 
 curiously at Robin, “it is not Samuel. What ho! Gracious 
 Meanwell! did this man enter with the learned Manasseh 
 Ben Israel? ” 
 
 “« Yes, please ye, Sir John,” replied the page, humbly. 
 
 “ Indeed!” he exclaimed, surveying Robin attentively. 
 ‘* But where is the Rabbi’s usual attendant, whom I have 
 before seen? ” 
 
 ** He is sick even unto death, unless it please the God of 
 _ Abraham to work a miracle in his favour,” replied Robin: 
 thinking to himself, ‘‘ he remembers enough, at least, of his 
 old trade to know all is not gold that glitters.” 
 
 Sir John Berkstead withdrew, only observing to the page, 
 who stood back, boy-like, longing for any frolic likely to re- 
 lieve the monotony of so dull a court, especially at midnight, 
 “See ye do not treat him uncourteously. The Rabbi has 
 always been permitted to bring his attendant, almost to the 
 anteroom: a favour seldom granted — but his Highness is 
 gracious in remembering that his bodily infirmities need sup- 
 port. So see that he is treated with all courtesy, for his 
 Highness is wishful that Christian toleration be exercised to- 
 wards this and all other Jews.” 
 
 More than one Roundhead looked at another during this 
 
272 THE BUCCANEER« 
 
 declaration ; and all but the two youngsters appeared more 
 than usually intent upon whatever they were employed about 
 before the Rabbi’s entrance. Youth is a bad courtier, ever 
 preferring frolic and amusement to sobriety and attention. 
 They had been at once piqued and pleased by Robin’s smart- 
 ness, and resolved to whet their own wit upon so well-tempered 
 a steel. 
 
 << Wert ever at court before ? ” inquired the younger. 
 
 “<< No, sir, an’ please ye.”’ 
 
 < And what think ye of it?” 
 
 «* Nothing as yet, sir.” 
 
 “ Nothing ! how is that P ”’ 
 
 “<< Because I have not had time; and, if the small things of 
 life require thoughtfulness, how much more must the great 
 things of a court!” 
 
 <* Shouldst like to turn Christian and live at court ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Heaven forbid! All I should be turned to would be 
 ridicule, and that is a wonderful lowerer of the consequence 
 of even a serving man 4 
 
 «‘ Hush!” said the elder page — “‘ there goes Colonel John 
 Jones.” 
 
 As the brother-in-law of the Protector approached, the 
 several persons in the hall rose and saluted him with con- 
 siderable respect. His aspect was stern and rigid: his whole 
 person firm and erect ; and whatever his faults might have 
 been, he gave one the idea of a person who, doing wrong, 
 thought it right. His eyes were generally upturned, and 
 there was a good deal of enthusiasm in the expression of the 
 upper portion of his countenance, while the firm-set mouth 
 and broad muscular chin betokened the most inflexible reso- 
 lution. He proceeded towards the cord we have before men- 
 tioned, exchanged a few words with the sentry, and then re- 
 turned to the door whereby he had entered. While unclosing 
 it, he perceived Robin, and, struck by his Jewish appearance, 
 altered his course and approached him. 
 
 The Ranger bent most lowlily to the ground, for he well 
 knew the veneration this man excited both amongst soldiers 
 and Puritans. 
 
 “ One of the cast-aways within the sanctuary!” he said 
 in a stern reproving voice. ‘ How is it?” 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 273 
 
 ** Sir, his master, the Rabbi, tarrieth with his Highness,” 
 replied the elder page. 
 
 ‘“‘ It is evil, and of evil,” returned Colonel Jones, with still 
 more severity. ‘ The clean and the unclean, the believer and 
 the unbeliever, the offscouring of the earth with the chosen of 
 the Lord! Why is he not cast forth, yea into outer dark- 
 ness? Why should the filthy vulture make his nest with the 
 eagles? Dog of a Jew, out, into the highway !”’ 
 
 * * May it please ye,” interrupted Gracious Meanwell, “ his 
 Highness has just issued express orders that this man be 
 carefully tended, and kept within.” 
 
 The Colonel cast a look full of displeasure at the messenger, 
 and without trusting himself to utter another word, strode 
 from the hall. 
 
 ** You see where we would send Jews, 
 the lads. 
 
 *¢ Even where they would rather be.” 
 
 *< How, where?” 
 
 “* Far from ye.” 
 
 ** And deem ye it not an honour to be admitted within 
 these walls?” 
 
 ** Ay, sir, such honour as a poor merlin would feel at being 
 caged with honourable and right honourable eagles. But 
 would ye unravel me, kind young gentlemen, if Colonel Jones 
 is often seen without his Patients? ”’ : 
 
 “ Oh! you mean the preacher, do ye? Why, yes, fre- 
 quently now-a-days.” 
 
 «« Ah! what a blessing that must be!”’ 
 
 ** As how? master Jew.” 
 
 ** Because others can have their soles mended.” 
 
 The jest upon the miserable fanatic Patients, who had been 
 a stocking-footer in London, was not lost upon the lads, 
 though they dared not countenance it by a very boisterous 
 laugh: they resolved, however, to become more intimately 
 acquainted with the facetious Jew. 
 
 «* You ought not to laugh so loud, Morrison,” said the 
 elder page. ‘‘ You know you are a sort of nephew to his 
 Highness, now that your uncle, Doctor Wilkins, is married to 
 the Lady French, his Highness’s sister.” 
 
 « And here is my uncle,” returned the other. “ He said 
 he had permission to call for me. Ah! he is never angry at 
 
 T 
 
 a? 
 
 observed one of 
 
 a? 
 
274 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 a little jest, so long as it is innocent. I heard a gentleman 
 say last night that ‘he was by nature witty, by industry 
 learned, by grace godly.’ What think ye of that for a cha- 
 racter P” 
 
 As the subject of this panegyric drew near, Robin thought 
 he had never seen a more sweet or gracious countenance: he 
 looked ‘‘ peace on earth and good will towards men.” His 
 entire expression was that of pure benevolence; and though 
 the eye was something wild and dreamy, yet it was gentle 
 withal, and of marvellous intelligence. He seemed like one, 
 and such he truly was, to whom the future as well as the 
 present would be deeply indebted. The use he made of his 
 alliance with the Cromwell family must ever be regarded as 
 most noble ; instead of aggrandising himself and his friends, 
 he rendered it only subservient to the great wish of his heart 
 — the promotion of learning, which, it cannot be denied, was at 
 that time in danger of being overthrown by bigotry and fana- 
 ticism: for this reason, it was that he opportunely interposed 
 to shelter Oxford from the moroseness of Owen and Godwin. 
 Well might his eye look dreamy. . How could that of the 
 author of a “ Discovery of a New World” look otherwise ? 
 He openly maintained that, not only was the moon habitable, 
 but that it was possible for a man to go there. His reply to 
 the Duchess of Newcastle, herself a visionary, when she jested 
 a little at his theory, although sufficiently known, is still 
 worthy of repetition. 
 
 “Where am I to find a place for baiting at, in my way up 
 to that planet ?”’ she inquired of the Doctor. 
 
 “‘ Madam,” replied he, ‘ of all the people in the world, I 
 never expected that question from you, who have built so many 
 castles in the air, that you may lie every night at one of your 
 own.” 
 
 As he conducted his nephew to the door, he turned back to 
 look on Robin: ‘* You have not teased the poor Jew, I hope?” 
 he said to the page. 
 
 “No; but he has worried us, uncle; you know not what — 
 a wit-snapper it is.” 
 
 “ Indeed! art thou a Solomon, friend ?” 
 
 “‘ An’ please ye, sir, the wisdom, as well as the glory, has 
 departed from our people,’’ said Robin. 
 
 ‘<* I care little for the glory,” observed the Doctor, who was 
 
THE BUCCANEER. Q75 
 
 Warden of Wadham College; ‘‘I care very little for any 
 earthly glory: but canst tell me where the wisdom is gone — 
 the wisdom, Jew, the wisdom! Where is that to be found?” 
 
 “Usually at the College of Wadham,” replied the crafty 
 Robin, bowing respectfully, “though sometimes it wanders 
 abroad to enlighten England.” 
 
 “Go to; you are a most cunning Isaac,” said Doctor Wil- 
 kins, laughing ; and at the same time throwing Robin a piece 
 of silver, which he caught, with much dexterity, ere it touched 
 the ground. 
 
 “ This is the only unwise thing your worship ever did,” 
 continued Robin, depositing the silver safely in his leathern 
 purse. 
 
 * How so, most cunning Jew ?” 
 
 “* Bestowing money — when there can be no interest there- 
 upon.” 
 
 ** You have never heard, J fear,’’ said Doctor Wilkins, who, 
 with true Christian spirit, was ever ready to speak a word in 
 season—‘“* you have never heard of laying up treasures in a place 
 where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, and where thieves 
 cannot break through and steal ?” 
 
 **T have heard some Christians speak of such a place,’’ re- 
 plied Robin, ‘‘ though I did not think they believed in its 
 existence.” 
 
 “Why so?” 
 
 ** Because they seemed so little inclined to trust their pro- 
 perty in that same storehouse.” 
 
 “You say but too truly ; 3 yet it is written ‘that charity 
 covereth a multitude of sins,’ ”’ 
 
 “Then that is reason why so many sins are roaming abroad 
 ‘naked but not ashamed.’ Ah, sir! it is a marvellously 
 scarce commodity that same charity ; when Christians spit 
 upon and rail at the poor Jew, they lack charity ; when they 
 taunt me with my deformity, they lack charity ; when they 
 destroy the web of the spider, that toileth for its bread, and 
 useth what the God of Moses gave it to catch food, they lack 
 charity. Sir, I have walked by the way-side, and I have seen 
 aman tread into the smallest atoms the hill of the industrious 
 ant, and say, it stole the peasant’s corn; and yet I have known 
 that same man make long prayers and devour widows’ houses. 
 I have watched the small singing-bird, trolling its sweet song 
 
 r 2 
 
276 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 on the bough of some wild cherry-tree, and a man, whose haif 
 was combed over his brow, whose step was slow, whose eyes 
 appeared to seek commune with Heaven, killed that bird, and 
 then devoured all the cherries. A little of that red fruit would 
 have served the singing-bird for the length of a long summer’s 
 day, and it could have sung to its mate till, when the night 
 came, they sheltered in each other’s hosom ; yet he, the man 
 with the smooth hair and the holy eye, killed the small bird ; 
 but mark ye, sir, he ate the cherries, all, every one. Though 
 I am as one lacking sense, and only a serving Jew, I trow he 
 lacked charity !” 
 
 * Uncle,”’ whispered the page, creeping up to his ear, “ can 
 this man be indeed a Jew? He hath a blue eye and an 
 English tongue; and surely not an Israelitish heart ; see that 
 he deceive us not.” 
 
 “ My glear boy, peace,” said the simple yet learned Doctor ; 
 “let the wisdom of this poor child of Israel teach thee to be 
 more humble-minded ; for, look ye, who might not profit by 
 his words?” 
 
 The excellent man would have spoken much more to our 
 friend Robin, who might not inaptly be likened to a dark- 
 lantern, within which is much light, though it is only occa- 
 sionally given forth; but on the instant Gracious Meanwell 
 summoned him to appear before the Protector. 
 
 “The Lord deliver me! the Lord deliver me!” muttered 
 Robin, as he followed his conductor past the silken barrier — 
 ** The Lord deliver me! for, of a truth, my head is now fairly 
 in the lion’s mouth.” 
 
 The room into which he was ushered thus abruptly was 
 hung with ancient tapestry, and furnished after the strangest 
 fashion. Robin had little inclination to examine either its 
 proportions or arrangements, but tremblingly followed until 
 his guide paused with him opposite a long narrow table, at the 
 further end of which, his hand resting upon a pile of books, 
 stood the Protector — Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 It was impossible to look upon him without feeling that he 
 was a man born to command and to overthrow. His counte- 
 nance, though swollen and reddish, was marked and powerful, 
 and his presence as lofty and majestic as if he had of right in- 
 herited the throne of England. However his enemies might 
 have jested upon his personal appearance, and mocked the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. QTF 
 
 ruddiness of his countenance, and the unseemly wart that 
 disfigured his broad, lofty, and projecting brow, they must 
 have all trembled under the thunder of his frown: it was ter- 
 rific, dark, and scowling, lighted up occasionally by the flash- 
 ing of his fierce grey eye, but only so as to show its power 
 still the more. His dress consisted of a doublet and vest of 
 black velvet, carefully put on, and of a handsome fashion; a 
 deep collar of the finest linen, embroidered and edged with 
 lace, turned over his vest, and displayed to great advantage 
 his firm and remarkably muscular throat. His hair, which 
 seemed by that light as dark and luxuriant as it had been in 
 his younger age, fell at either side, but was completely combed 
 or pushed off his massive forehead. He looked, in very truth, 
 a most strong man — strong in mind, strong in body, strong 
 in battle, strong in council. There was no weakness about 
 him, except that engendered by a warm imagination acting in 
 concert with the deepest veneration, and which rendered him 
 ever and unhappily prone to superstitious dreamings. 
 
 When Robin entered, there was no onein the room but the 
 Lord Broghill, Manasseh Ben Israel, and a little girlk My 
 Lord Broghill, who was one of the Protector’s cabinet coun- 
 sellors, had been sent for from Ireland to go to Scotland, and 
 be President of the Council there, but soon wearying of the 
 place, had just returned to London, and posted down imme- 
 diately to Hampton Court :—he was bidding the Protector 
 good night, and that with much servility. The presence of 
 Robin was yet unnoticed save by the Jew. Before his Lord- 
 ship had left the chamber, even as his foot was on the thres- 
 hold, Cromwell called him back. 
 
 ** My Lord Broghill.”’ 
 
 The cabinet counsellor bowed and returned. 
 
 “I forgot to mention, there is a great friend of yours in 
 London.” 
 
 “Indeed! Please your Highness, who is it?” 
 
 «© My Lord of Ormond,” replied the Protector. “* He came 
 to town on Wednesday last, about three of the clock, upon a 
 small grey mule, and wearing a brown but ill-made and shabby 
 doublet. He lodges at White Friars, number — something 
 or other ; but you, my Lord,” he added, pointedly, will have 
 no difficulty in finding him out.” 
 
 * T call the Lord to witness,” said Broghill, casting up his 
 
 T 3 
 
278 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 eyes after the most approved Puritan fashion — ‘I call the 
 Lord to witness, I know nothing of it !” 
 
 Cromwell gathered his eyebrows and looked upon him for a 
 moment with a look which made the proud lord tremble ; 
 then sending forth a species of hissing noise from between his 
 teeth, sounding like a prolonged hish—h—h—h. “ Never- 
 theless, I think you may as well tell him that I know it. Good 
 night, my Lord, good night !” 
 
 ec He's had his cay -cap put on, and now for mine,’ thought 
 little Robin, who, as he advanced, bowing all the way up the 
 room, could not avoid observing, (even under such circum- 
 stances, there was something singularly touching in the fact, ) 
 that a little girl, a child of about six or seven years old, sat on 
 a stool at the Protector’s feet, her fair arms twined around his 
 knee ; and her plain, but expressive face, looking up to his, 
 and watching every movement of his features with more than 
 childish earnestness. As Robin drew near, she stood up, and 
 contemplated him with very natural curiosity. 
 
 “Closer, young man — still closer,” said the Protector ; 
 “our sight grows dim; and yet we will see distinctly, and 
 with our own eyes too— for the eyes of others serve us not.” 
 
 Robin did as he was commanded, bowing and shaking all 
 the time like the figure of a mandarin. The Protector ad- 
 vanced one step towards him ; and then plucked at the 
 Ranger’s beard with so strong a hand, that it deserted his 
 chin, and dangled between Cromwell’s fingers. At this, the 
 child set up a loud and merry shout of laughter ; but not so 
 did the incident affect the Protector, to whose mind treachery 
 was ever present ; he instantly exclaimed,— 
 
 ** Guards! what ho! without there!” . Five or six rushed 
 into the room and laid hands upon Robin, who offered no re- 
 sistance, submitting to their mercy. 
 
 “Your Highness has mistaken,” said Ben Israel; “ there 
 is no treachery in the young man. I have told your High- 
 ness how he came to me, and what he knows. Your servant 
 has not spoken words of falsehood, but of truth.” 
 
 “* But you did not tell me he was not a Jew: you know 
 him not as I do,” was the Protector’s reply: “he consorts 
 with ’ then suddenly checking himself, he continued, 
 addressing the soldiers: ‘“ But search him gently withal — 
 peradventure he has no secret weapons — we would not deal 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 279 
 
 unjustly ; but, of late, there has been so much evil intended 
 us by all classes of Malignants, that it behoves us to be care- 
 ful. Methinks, friend Manasseh, there was no need of this 
 
 disguise ? ” . 
 
 “It was to avoid the scandal of my own people, please 
 your Highness, who would marvel to see any other than one 
 of our tribe about my person.” 
 
 The little girl, who was no other than Bridget, a great 
 favourite of Cromwell's, and one of the youngest children of 
 Ireton, the Protector’s son-in-law, seemed much amused at the 
 search, and the extraordinary materials it brought to light. 
 There was a whistle, a string of bells, a small black mask, 
 quantities of paint and patches, and various other things; but no 
 arms of any kind, save the small Spanish dagger which Robin 
 so lately exchanged with the sailor at Greenwich. The Pro- 
 tector took this up, examined it attentively, placed it ina 
 small drawer, then briefly dismissed the attendants, and seat- 
 ing himself, apologised to Ben Israel for the delay. 
 
 “‘ This person will not wonder at it,” he continued, looking 
 at Robin; “for he knows what excellent reason I have to 
 believe him an adept in falsehood.” 
 
 ** No one ever heard me speak a lie, please your Highness,” 
 said Robin, in a hesitating and tremulous voice. 
 
 **T cannot call to mind your speaking lies; but you are 
 famous for acting them: however, I desire you speak none 
 here.’ 
 
 ‘Please your Highness,” returned Robin Hays, regaining 
 his self-possession, ‘‘ I do not intend it, for it would be use- 
 less.” 
 
 ** How mean ye? ” 
 
 “* Because your Highness can always tell truth from false- 
 hood ; and say who is the speaker, no matter how hidden from 
 others.” 
 
 _A smile relaxed for a moment the full, firm, but flexible 
 mouth of Oliver Cromwell, at this well-timed compliment to 
 that on which he so much prided himself — his penetration. 
 He then commenced questioning the Ranger upon his know- 
 ledge of Sir Willmott Burrell and the Rabbi’s daughter. 
 Robin did not in the least degree equivocate; but related 
 every particular as minutely and distinctly as he had done to 
 Ben Israel ; not omitting his knowledge that Sir Willmott 
 
 T 4 
 
280 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 meditated the destruction of Walter De Guerre. Cromwell 
 listened to the details with much attention ; but it was not 
 until this portion of his story was concluded, that, with his 
 usual wiliness, he told the Ranger, that, as it had nothing to 
 do with Manasseh Ben Israel, it need not have been men- 
 tioned. 
 
 The Protector then commanded Sir John Berkstead to his 
 presence, and directed that a troop of horse should be had in 
 immediate readiness, and that, in a few minutes, he would 
 name to Colonel Jones the officer who was to accompany 
 them, and the place of their destination. 
 
 ‘«¢ And now let us to bed. Will my little Bridget bid her 
 grandfather good night? ” and he kissed the child with much 
 tenderness. —*‘ People wonder why I trust thee in my councils; 
 but God hath given thee a soul of truth and a secret tongue ; 
 thou growest pale with late sitting, and that must not be.” 
 The Protector clasped his hands, and said a few words of 
 prayer over the girl, who knelt at his feet. 
 
 “Good Manasseh, I would recommend your resting here 
 to-night ; you need repose, but I must detain your serving- 
 man. Without there!” 
 
 An attendant entered. 
 
 “Conduct this person to ” A whisper told the re- 
 mainder of the sentence, and Robin was led from the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 Very few lingered in the great hall ; the pages were sleeping 
 soundly ; and, though they encountered Colonel John Jones, 
 he did not recognise Robin, who, despoiled of his beard and 
 black hair, looked so much ‘like the servant of Sir Willmott 
 Burrell, as to be thought such by more than one of the at- 
 tendants. As he passed through the second court, his guide 
 suddenly turned into a small arched door-way, and directed 
 Robin to proceed up a narrow flight of winding stairs, that 
 appeared to have no termination. Robin once halted for 
 breath, but was obliged to proceed, and at length found him- 
 self in a small, cell-like apartment, with a narrow sky-light, 
 opening, as he conjectured, on the palace roof. 
 
 Here his attendant left him, without so much as ‘* good 
 night,” and he had the satisfaction of hearing the key turn 
 within the rusty lock. 
 
 The mistiness of the night had passed away, and the moon 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 281 
 
 looked down in unclouded majesty upon the courts and tur- 
 rets of “the House at Hampton.” 
 
 Robin seated himself on his truckle bedstead, upon which 
 merely a rude straw mattress, covered with a blanket, was 
 thrown, and which, for aught he knew, had been occupied by 
 a thousand prisoners before him ; but, however bitter and sar- 
 castic his mind might be, it was not given to despond ; and he 
 soon began to reflect on what had passed. Although it was 
 not by any means the first time he had been face to face with 
 the Protector, yet it was the first time he had ever seen him 
 with any of the indications of human feeling. “ He has made 
 many children fatherless,” thought the Ranger, ‘‘ and yet see 
 how fond he is of that ill-favoured girl, who is the very picture 
 of himself! Poor Walter! Well, I wonder what has been 
 done with him ; I had a great mind to ask, but there is some- 
 thing about him, that, were he never a Protector, one would 
 just as soon not make free with.” As Robin thought thus, his 
 eyes were fixed on the light and flitting clouds, and he was 
 longing to be free and abroad in the moonbeams, that entered 
 his cell only to smile on his captivity ; when some opaque body 
 stood between him and the light, so that he was for a moment 
 almost in darkness. About three minutes after, the same effect 
 occurred ; and presently a man’s face was placed close to the 
 glass, evidently with the design of seeing into the room. 
 
 ** A-hoy there!” shouted the Ranger. The face was with- 
 drawn, and no answer returned, but immediately afterwards 
 the key grated in the lock, and the Protector himself entered 
 the chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Grundo. And what did they there talk about ? 
 Julia. Tfaith, I hardly know, but was advised 
 *T was a most cunning parley. 
 Grundo. I do well credit it. Old Play. 
 
 «J wounp rather talk to him in that old tapestried hall,” 
 thought Robin, “ than in this narrow chamber. There I could 
 have a run for my life; but here, Heaven help me! I am 
 fairly in for it.” 
 
282 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “‘The room is passing close, the air is heavy,” were the 
 Protector’s first words: ‘‘ follow me to the palace-roof, where 
 there can be no listeners, save the pale stars, and they prate 
 not of man’s doings.” 
 
 Robin followed Cromwell up a narrow flight of steps, so 
 narrow that the Protector could hardly climb them. They 
 were terminated by a trap-door leading to the roof; and there 
 these two men, so different in station and in stature, stood to- 
 gether on a species of leaden platform, which by day com- 
 mands a most beautiful and extensive view of the surrounding 
 country ; — at night there was nothing to be seen but the dim 
 outline of the distant hills, and the dark woods that formed the 
 foreground. 
 
 Scarce a sound was heard, save of the breeze wailing among 
 the many turrets of the proud palace, and now and then the 
 tramp or challenge of the sentries at the different outposts, as 
 they passed to and fro upon their ever-watchful guard. 
 
 “I believe your real name is Robin Hays? ” said the Pro- 
 tector. 
 
 “* Your Highness — it is so.” - 
 
 ** And you are the son of one Mary or Margery, proprietor 
 of an hostelry, called the Gull’s Nest?” 
 
 “The son of Margery Hays, as your Highness has said, 
 who, God be thanked! still lives in a quiet corner of the Isle 
 of Shepey, and of her good husband Michael, who has now 
 been dead many years.” 
 
 “TY take it for granted that you know your own mother ; 
 but it is a wise son who knows his own father. Impurities 
 are, praised be the Lord! fast fleeing from the land ; but they 
 were rife once, rife as blackberries that grow by the roadside. 
 Yet this is nought ; what business brought you here P ” 
 
 “ Your Highness knows: I came with the Rabbi Ben Israel.” 
 
 “« Parry not with me,” exclaimed the readily-irritated Crom- 
 well. — “I repeat, why came ye here?”’ 
 
 “Your Highness is acquainted with the reason of my 
 coming.” 
 
 “I do know; but I also choose to know it from yourself. 
 Why came ye here?” 
 
 « Just then to seek out one who has fallen into your Highness's 
 clutches ; with favour, I would say, under your Highness’s 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 283 
 
 eare,” replied Robin, who felt himself not over comfortably 
 situated. 
 
 “ His name sir — his name? ” 
 
 ** Walter De Guerre.” 
 
 ** And who advised you he was here?” 
 
 ** I found it out; I and another of his friends.’’ 
 
 ** You mean Hugh Dalton?” 
 
 ** I do, please your Highness.” 
 
 “* You have some secret communication for this Walter ? ” 
 
 ** Your Highness, I have not; yet, if he is here, I humbly 
 entreat permission to see him ; for, as it is your pleasure that 
 we be detained, I am sure it would be a comfort to him to 
 meet some one who has his interest firmly, humbly at heart.” 
 
 “* Why came he to England? ” 
 
 ** I believe, that is known only to Hugh Dalton.’ 
 
 “« Where got ye that Spanish dagger ?’ 
 
 ** Please your Highness, from a sailor at Greenwich, a pen. 
 sioner.”’ 
 
 ** You had other business in London than seeking out this 
 Walter?” 
 
 “¢ Please your Highness, I had.” 
 
 “© What was its nature? ” 
 
 ** Your Highness must pardon me —I cannot say.” 
 
 Cromwell, during this examination, had walked backward 
 and forward on a portion of the roof, bounded at either end by 
 a double range of turreted chimneys: at the last reply of Robin 
 Hays he suddenly stopped and turned short upon him, paused 
 as if in anger, and then said,— 
 
 $ Know you to whom you speak? Know you that the 
 Lord hath made me a judge and a ruler in Israel? and yet 
 you dare refuse an answer to my question ! ”’ 
 
 ** Your Highness must judge for me in a righteous cause. 
 From infancy I have been cherished by Hugh Dalton: if my 
 lowly mind has become at all superior to the miserable and de- 
 formed tenement in which it dwells, I owe it to Hugh Dalton 
 — if I have grown familiar with deeds of blood, still I owe it 
 to Hugh Dalton that I saw deeds of bravery ; and to Hugh 
 Dalton I owe the knowledge, that whatever is secret, is sacred.” 
 
 ** Honour among thieves, and rogues, and p‘rates!” ex- 
 claimed the Protector, chafed, but not angry. ‘‘ Your Dalton 
 had a purpose of his own to serve in bringing over this scatter. 
 
284 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 pate Cavalier, who has too much blood and too little brains for 
 aught but a cock-throw. Young man, I know the doings at . 
 your Gull’s Nest Crag—I have been advised thereupon. 
 Listen ! there has been hardly a malecontent for months in the 
 country who has not there found shelter. Were I inclined to 
 pardon vagabonds, I might bestow the mercy with which the 
 Lord has intrusted me upon poor misguided wretches; but 
 Dalton has been a misguider himself. With my own good 
 steed, and aided by only three on whom I could depend, I 
 traced two of those leagued with Miles Syndercomb to their 
 earth, at the very time when Hugh Dalton was lying in his 
 Fire-fly off the coast. — What waited he for there? That 
 Buccaneer has imported Malignants by dozens, scores, hun- 
 dreds, into the Commonwealth ; and now the reever expects 
 pardon! for I have been solicited thereon. Mark me! the 
 Lord’s hand is stretched out, and will not be withdrawn until 
 his nest be turned up, even as the plough uprooteth and scat- 
 tereth the nest of the field-mouse and the blind mole; and 
 mark yet farther, Robin Hays—there is a book, in which is 
 written the name of every one concerned in those base prac- 
 tices ; and opposite to each name is a red cross —a red cross, 
 I say — which signifieth the shedding of blood ; and as surely 
 as the stars above us know their secret course along the path- 
 way of the resplendent heavens, so surely shall all those traitors, 
 reevers, buccaneers, upsetters, perish by the Lord’s hand — 
 unless it pleaseth the Spirit to infuse its moving power into 
 some of their hearts, so that one or more of them may point 
 the secret entrance into this cavern, where there is great trea- 
 sure, and whereby blood-shedding and much trouble may be 
 spared. If such an influence was happily exercised — was, I 
 say, happily exercised over the minds or mind of any one of 
 this accursed crew, he might not only be spared, but rewarded 
 with much that the heart of man longeth after.’ Cromwell 
 paused, and fixed his eyes on the Ranger, who spoke no word, 
 and made no gesture of reply. 
 
 *“ Could not such be found?” he continued, addressing 
 Robin more pointedly. than before. 
 
 ‘* A person found, did your Highness ask, who would betray 
 his comrades unto death, and give up his master’s property to 
 destruction P”’ 
 
 ““ No, I meant not that: but think ye, is there not one, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 985 
 
 who, convinced of the wickedness of his past ways, would lead 
 _ blind Justice on the right track, insomuch that plundered 
 property might be restored to its rightful owners, and the cause 
 of the Lord and his people be forwarded many steps ? ” 
 
 “ May I speak to your Highness as a man, or as a servant ?”’ 
 inquired Robin. 
 
 ** Even as a man — I am neither a king nor a tyrant.” 
 
 “ Then, with all respect, I say that such men may be found; 
 but they would be unworthy pardon, much less reward. May 
 it please your Highness, a Buccaneer is, to my mind, only one 
 who takes advantage of troubled times to secure unto himself 
 the most power and the most property that he can. The sea 
 is as free to him as the land to — to — to any other man. His 
 is no coward’s trade, for he risks his all, and is neither an 
 assassin, nor a traitor, nor a rebel, nor a tf 
 
 *< Peace, atom, peace!” interrupted Cromwell; ‘“ I did not 
 want to hear your reasons on the legality, and justice, and 
 mercy of the Buccaneer; I only gave you to understand (and 
 I know ye to be quick of comprehension) that I wished for 
 information touching this retreat — this maze — this labyrinth 
 — this embowelling of nature, formed in the cliffs — ay, and 
 that in more than one place, along the Kentish coast — that 
 so I might erase one red cross at the least. Mark ye, knave— 
 your own name is in the list, though I may regret it, seeing 
 that there is a mixture of honest blood in your veins, and a 
 sprinkling of wit in your head, which might lead to some dis- 
 tinction. , Worse men than you have risen to high places.” 
 
 “Your Highness mocks me! Wit! — high place! With 
 this mis-shapen body tackled to a world of wit—a place as high 
 as any of those turrets that cut the midnight air, still should 
 I be a thing for men to scorn! Your Highness bitterly mocks 
 me!” ; 
 
 “JT mock no one; it is ill Christian sport. But at your 
 own pleasure — within the space of fifteen minutes you may 
 go forth from this our house, conduct a chosen few to the 
 Gull’s Nest Crag — point out its ways — give us the necessary 
 information as to the other smuggling stations — telegraph the 
 Fire-fly into smooth water, and the next sun will rise on a 
 rich, ay, and a well-favoured gentleman !” ; 
 
 “ With a damned black heart!” exclaimed Robin, whose 
 faithful spirit beat so warmly in his bosom that he forgot for 
 
 
 
286 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 an instant in whose presence he stood, and gave full vent to 
 his feelings, which doubtless he would not have done had he 
 seen the expression of Cromwell's countenance — that awe- 
 inspiring countenance which had full often sent back the 
 unspoken words from the open lips of bolder men who looked 
 upon him. 
 
 “‘ With that I have nothing to do,” said the Protector calmly, 
 after taking another turn along the platform: “ but you mis- 
 take the case — it is only justice, simple justice.” 
 
 “ My Lord Protector of England,” said Robin, whose thin, 
 disproportioned figure, as it moved in the dim light, might 
 have been taken for a dark spirit summoned to some incant- 
 ation —‘‘ My Lord, with you it may be justice: you believe the 
 Buccaneer deals not only in the free trade, but imports persons 
 who endanger your Highness’s life and the peace of your pro- 
 tectorate. I believe, from my soul, that he never bore off or 
 brought over one of the Syndercomb gang, or any that had 
 evil intent against your person. There are others who deal in 
 that way ; and now, when ke is soliciting your mercy, it would 
 speak but little for his wisdom if he went on provoking your 
 vengeance. My Lord, Hugh Dalton has a daughter, and it is 
 to save her name from ever-continuing disgrace, that he yants 
 for honest employment. And may it not offend your Highness, 
 for one so ill-read as myself in aught that is good or godly, to 
 remind you that the Bible somewhere tells of those who were 
 received into pardon and glory at the eleventh hour. As to 
 myself, could your Highness make me what my heart has so 
 panted after, but as vainly as the carrion-crow might seek to 
 be the gallant falcon of the chase — could you give me a well- 
 proportioned figure — make me one who could repel an injury 
 or protect a friend—stretch out this dwarfish body to a proper 
 length — contract these arms, and place the head right well 
 upon a goodly pedestal — then give me wealth — rank — all 
 a man’s heart covets in this most covetous world — weigh these 
 advantages against a portion of Hugh Dalton’s life ;—the scale 
 turns in the air, my Lord — there’s nothing in’t!” 
 
 Cromwell folded his arms in silence, while Robin, who had 
 been much excited, wiped the night-dew from his brow, and 
 sighed heavily, as having rid himself of that which weighed 
 upon his conscience. 
 
 ““ One word more, young man — those who hear the Pro- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 287 
 
 tector’s wishes, and in some degree can draw conclusions as to 
 his projects — if — mark ye well—if they act not upon them, 
 if they agree not with them, they are seldom of long life.” 
 
 ** 1 understand your Highness.” 
 
 ** To your cell i 
 
 Overpowered and heart-stricken, for he hoped to have been 
 granted speech of the Cavalier, Robin obeyed the mandate, 
 and the Protector of England passed alone along his palace- 
 roof. 
 
 «¢ Ever in the ascendant!” he said, casting his eyes on the 
 star of his nativity, that shone brightest among the countless 
 multitudes of night. ‘‘ High, high, highest, and most power- 
 ful,” he repeated, gazing upon his favourite planet with that 
 extraordinary mixture of superstition and enthusiasm which 
 formed so prominent a part of his most singular character. 
 “IT never saw thee brighter” (he continued) ‘save upon 
 Naseby-field, when I watched thy pathway in the heavens, 
 while hundreds of devoted soldiers couched around me, waiting 
 the morrow’s fight. I prayed beneath thy beam, which, as 
 the Lord permitted, fell right upon my breast, glistening upon 
 the bright and sturdy iron that openly, and in the sight of all 
 men, covered it then — pouring into my heart courage, and 
 confidence into my soul! Would that I might sleep the sleep 
 of death upon that same field, that you might again watch over 
 this poor body which now panteth for repose! Yea, there, 
 under the turf of Naseby, shall my grave be made ; there shall 
 I sleep quietly — quietly — quietly — with thee to keep watch 
 above the bed in which this poor body shall be at peace, when 
 the ever-restless spirit is with Him whose right hand led me 
 through the furnace, and made me what I am. Shine on still, 
 bright star, even to the fulness of thy splendour ; yea, the 
 fulness of thy splendour, which is not yet come. Ah! well 
 do I remember how you lingered in the grey dawn of morning, 
 eager to behold my glory — my exceeding triumph upon that 
 eventful field ; and thou hast seen me greater than I dreamed 
 of, great as ] can be — or if I can be greater, to thee all is 
 known, yea, all of the future as well as of the past is known 
 to thee.” 
 
 And as he walked along, and again and again traversed the 
 leaded space, his step was as the step of war and victory ; but 
 suddenly it lingered, and came more heavily, and his foot was 
 
 
 
288 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 more slowly raised, and his eyes, that so lately drank in the 
 rays of his own star with so much exultation, fell upon the 
 spot where the little deformed prisoner, even Robin Hays, of 
 the Gull’s Nest Crag, was incarcerated. Again he spoke: 
 << Complimented by the subtle Frenchman, feared by the cun- 
 ning Spaniard, caressed by the temperate Dutch, knelt to by 
 the debased Portuguese, honoured by the bigoted Pope, holding 
 the reins of England — of Europe — of the world, in these 
 hands—the father of many children — have I so true-hearted 
 a friend, as to suffer the scale of his own interests to turn in 
 the air, my life weighing so much the more in the balance ? 
 Truly my heart warmed at his fidelity ; it is worth all price, 
 yet no price that I can offer will purchase it. In my youth a 
 vision said I should be greatest in this kingdom. Greatest I 
 am, and yet I may be greater ; but will a name, the name at 
 which I scorned, increase my power? He from whom I took 
 that name was more beloved than I. Oh, ’tis a fearful game, 
 this game of kingdoms! crowns, ay, and bloody ones, bloody 
 crowns for foot-balls! while treachery, dark, cunning, slippery 
 treachery, stands by with many amask to mock and foil our 
 finest sporting! God to my aid! Now that success has 
 broken down all opposition, I am in the face, the very teeth 
 of my strongest temptations ; forbid, O Lord! that they should 
 conquer me, when I have conquered all things else! God to 
 my aid! One foot upon the very throne from which I — not 
 I alone — praise Heaven for that — not I alone, but many 
 dragged him !”? Again for a brief time he stood with 
 folded arms, his back leaning against a turret; and afterwards 
 his step was quick and agitated, and much he doubtless me- 
 ditated upon the crown which he well knew a strong party of 
 the parliament would tender for his acceptance ; and then he 
 paused and muttered as before. ‘“ My children princes! May 
 be wedded to the mightiest! But will they?  Stiff-necked 
 and stubborn! There is but one who loves me — only one on 
 whom I doat, and she, like all things loved and lovely, fading 
 from before mine eyes, as the soft mist fades from the brew of 
 some harsh and rugged mountain, which is shrouded, and 
 softened, and fertilised before the proud sun climbed the high-. 
 est arch of heayen!— Ah! the sentry at the outward gate is 
 sleeping. Let him rest on, poor wretch. I cannot sleep. 
 And there’s a light in the apartment of my Lord Broghill ; 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 289 
 
 perhaps he writes to his friend Ormond. I had him there ; 
 how pale he grew! I have them — know them all! could 
 crush them in this hand ; yet God knows I would not; it has 
 had enough to do with that already.” 
 
 And then sobs, sobs that came from the Protector’s heart, 
 burst from his lips, and he fell into one of those passions of 
 tears and prayers to which of late he had been often subject. 
 It soon subsided, and the man so extolled and admired by the 
 one party — so abused and vilified by the other — so feared by 
 all — retired in silence and in sorrow to his couch. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 What is the existence of man’s life ? 
 
 It is a weary solitude 
 
 Which doth short joys, long woes include 3 
 
 The world the stage, the prologue tears, 
 
 The acts, vain hope and varied fears ; 
 
 The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 
 
 And leaves no epilogue but death. Henry Kina. 
 
 *« Anp it’s come to this, is it?” exclaimed Solomon Grundy, 
 who sat enthroned like a monarch of good cheer among the 
 beings of his own creation in the buttery at Cecil Place — 
 ** And it’s come to this, is it? and there’s to be no feasting ; a 
 wedding-fast in lieu of a wedding-feast! No banquet in the 
 hall— no merry-making in the kitchen! I might have let 
 that poor shrivelled preacher cut into the centre of my pasty, 
 and ravish the heart of my deer ; stuffed, as it is, with toma- 
 toes and golden pippins ! he might have taken the doves unto 
 his bosom, and carried the frosted antlers on his head ; they 
 would have been missed by no one, save thee, Solomon Grundy. 
 And those larded fowl! that look like things of snow and not 
 of flesh ; even my wife praised them, and said,— ‘ Grundy,’ 
 said she — ‘ Solomon, my spouse,’ said she, ‘ you have outdone 
 yourself : ’— that was praise. But what signifies praise to me 
 now? My master won't eat—-my mistress won’t eat — 
 Barbara, she wo’n't eat! I offered her a pigeon-pie; she 
 said, ‘No, I thank ye, Solomon,’ and passed away. That I 
 uU 
 
290 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 should ever live to see any one pass away from a pigeon-pie of 
 my making! Sir Willmott Burrell, he wo’n’t eat, but calls 
 for wine and strong waters in his dressing-room: it’s a queer 
 bridal! Ah! there’s one of the Lady Cromwell’s women, 
 perhaps she will eat; it is heart-breaking to think that such 
 food as this” — and he cast his eye over a huge assemblage of 
 sundries, that 
 
 * Coldly furnish’d forth the marriage tables’? — 
 
 “such food as this should be consumed by vulgar brutes, who 
 would better relish a baron of beef and a measure of double- 
 dub, than a trussed turkey and a flagon of canary.” 
 
 Solomon, however, succeeded in prevailing upon Mistress 
 Maud to enter, and then had but little difficulty in forcing 
 upon her some of the confections, though all his efforts could 
 not extort a compliment to his culinary accomplishments. 
 
 “They are wonderful, considering they are country made,” 
 she said, after discussing a third tartlet ; “‘ but there must be 
 great allowance for your want of skill; and you ought to es- 
 teem yourself fortunate (I'll take another jelly) that there is to 
 be no banquet ; for — though it is evil to give one’s mind to 
 fleshly tastes or creature comforts — these things would hardly 
 be deemed fit for a second-table wedding at Whitehall!” 
 
 Solomon was deeply mortified. He had great veneration for 
 court, but he had greater for his own talent, and he loved not 
 to hear it called in question: he therefore scanned the waiting- 
 maid after his peculiar mode, and then drawing himself up, 
 stroked his chin, and replied, ‘“‘ That great men had sat at his 
 master’s table, and had, he was well assured, praised his skill 
 in words which could not be repeated —that Lady Frances 
 herself had condescended to ask his method of blanching 
 almonds, and lauded his white chicken soup; and that he 
 should not dread being commanded to serve a banquet unto the 
 Lord Protector himself.” 
 
 Mistress Maud sneered, and examined a third jelly, which 
 she was reluctantly compelled to quit by 2 summons from her 
 lady. , 
 
 «* What robe would your ladyship desire ?”’ she inquired of 
 Lady Frances, whose eyes were red with weeping, and who 
 appeared astonishingly careless upon a point that usually occu- 
 pied much of her attention. ‘* Would your ladyship like the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 201 
 
 white and silver, with the pearl loopings and diamond sto- 
 macher P” 
 
 ““ What need to trouble me as to the robe ?” at length she 
 replied with an irritability of manner to which she too often 
 yielded. ‘‘ Why do I entertain two lazy hussies, but to see 
 after my robings, and save me the trouble of thinking thereon ? 
 — Go to! — you have no brain.” 
 
 Maud and her assistant laid out the dress and the jewels, yet 
 Lady Frances was ill satisfied. 
 
 ** Said I not that the stomacher needed lengthening P — The 
 point is not a point, but a round ! — Saw one ever the like P — 
 It is as square as a dove’s tail, instead of tapering off like a 
 parroquet’s !” 
 
 “© Did your ladyship mean,”’ said the elder of the bewildered 
 girls, ‘‘ that the stomacher was square or round ?”’ 
 
 She perfectly agreed with her mistress in thinking a sto- 
 macher a matter of great importance, but was most sadly per- 
 plexed that Lady Frances should so markedly object to that 
 which she had so warmly praised on a former occasion. 
 
 ‘Square or round!” repeated Lady Frances impetuously — 
 “ neither : —it is to be peaked — thus !” 
 
 The poor maid, in her eagerness to hold the stomacher for 
 her lady’s inspection, let it fall— the principal jewel-band 
 caught in a hook, and was scattered in fragments upon the 
 ground. ‘This was more than Lady Frances could bear, and 
 she turned both women out of the room, commanding them to 
 send Barbara in their stead. The little Puritan had been 
 weeping plentifully, but when she came, Lady Frances ap- 
 peared to have forgotten her wrath, and greeted her with much 
 gentleness. 
 
 ** Your mistress, my pretty maid — is she dressed ?” 
 
 “* No, my lady.” : 
 
 «* See what havoc these girls have wrought with my sto- 
 macher! Pick me up the jewels, Barbara, if your mistress 
 can spare you such brief time.” 
 
 ‘‘T was not with her, my lady: she said she would call 
 when I was wanted. I can hear her in this chamber.” 
 
 While Barbara was gathering the jewels, her tears fell fast 
 upon them. Lady Frances observed it, and smiling said,— 
 
 * You are gemming my ornaments, setting them in crystal 
 instead of gold.”’ 
 
 U2 
 
292 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “TI can’t help my tears, dear lady, when I think how 
 she weeps. Oh, it is a mournful thing to see an oak bend 
 like a willow, or a stately rose low as a little wild flower ! 
 Something has crushed her heart, and I cannot help her. 
 I would lay down my life to make her happy, if I knew 
 but how! The very dogs hang their tails, and steal across 
 the rooms they used to gambol in! Ah, madam, she has 
 wealth, and rank, and all that a poor girl would call great 
 glory. Yet her step is like the step of an aged woman, and 
 her head is bent, though not with the weight of years. I 
 think of a little poem I knew when I was a child. I believe I 
 heard it before I could speak the words thereof, yet it is so 
 perfect on my mind. Did you ever hear it, madam? it is 
 called ‘The Lady of Castile.’ ” 
 
 ** Never ; but I should like to hear it, Barbara, while you 
 hook on the diamonds those careless minxes scattered so heed- 
 lessly. What tune is it to?” 
 
 “<I know not the tune, madam ; nor could | sing it now if 
 I did. I often wonder how the birds can sing when they lose 
 their mates; though their notes are not, as at other times, 
 cheery ; and no wonder. It’s very cruel to kill poor innocent 
 birds. 
 
 “© Let me hear the ballad, Barbara.” 
 
 “ TI fear me, it has gone out of my head; but, madam, it 
 began thus, something after a popish fashion; but no harm, 
 no great harm in it : — 
 
 6° * The lady was of noble birth, 
 And fairest in Castile, 
 And many suitors came to her——’ 
 And many suitors came to her,” repeated Barbara. “ I 
 forget the last line, but it ended with ‘ feel.’ I am sorry, 
 madam, that I have lost the words, quite lost them to-day, 
 though I could have said them all yesterday. But the lady 
 had many sweethearts, as my lady had, and like my lady sent 
 them all away ; only she was over nice. And she made up 
 her mind at last to marry one whose name was ill thought of, 
 and her wedding day was fixed ; and the night before, as she 
 was sleeping, who should visit her (it is here comes the 
 Popery) but the Virgin? And the Virgin gave her her hand, 
 and led her to a beautiful grove; and this grove was filled 
 with the most beautiful birds in the world; and the Virgin 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 2938 
 
 said to her, take any one of these birds that you choose, and 
 keep it as your own; and you may walk to the end of the 
 grove and take any one you meet; but you must choose it 
 before you come back, and not come back without one; you 
 must not have the power to take one: after you begin to return. 
 And the bird you take will be lord of your estates, and of 
 yourself, and the eyes of all Castile will be upon him. And 
 the lady was very beautiful, as beautiful as my lady, only not 
 good or well-taught like her. Ifshe had been, she would not 
 have believed in the Virgin. So the lady walked on and on, 
 and the sweet birds were singing to her, and courting her, and 
 striving to win her favour all the way. They were such birds 
 as IJ never heard of but in that song — with diamond eyes, 
 and ruby wings, and feet of pearl; but she found some fault 
 with every one she met, and fancied she might find a better 
 before her walk was done. And, behold! at last she got to 
 the end of the grove without having made any choice; and 
 what think you, my lady, sat there? why a black vulture, a 
 wicked, deceitful, cruel bird. And she was forced to take him. 
 She had passed by many good and beautiful, and their sweet 
 songs still sounded in her ears ; yet she was forced to take that 
 hideous and cruel bird. ‘Only think, my lady, how horrid! 
 The poor lady of Castile awoke, and began thinking what the 
 dream could mean ; and after praying awhile, she remembered 
 how much she wished in her sleep that she had taken the first 
 bird she saw. And it brought back to her mind the com- 
 panion of her youth, who had loved her long, and she likened 
 this gallant gentleman to the sweet bird of her dream. So 
 she put away him whose name was ill thought of, and wedded 
 the knight who had loved her long. And so the song finishes 
 with 
 s¢ * Happy lady of Castile!’ ”’ 
 
 _ “ And a good ending too,” said Lady Frances ; ‘ I wish our 
 wedding was likely to terminate so favourably.” 
 
 “Amen to that prayer!” said Barbara, earnestly, and 
 added, shuddering as she spoke, ‘‘ It is very odd, madam, but 
 one of your ladies, who was arraying the communion-table, 
 scared away a great toad, whose bloated sides were leaning on 
 the step, and, she says, on the very spot where Sir Willmott 
 Burrell must kneel to-night. Hush! that was his door 
 
 u 3 
 
2904 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 which shut at the end of the corridor — the very sound of his 
 foot-fall makes me shudder —the Lord preserve us! It is 
 astonishing, my lady, the wisdom of some dumb animals: 
 Crisp can’t bear the sight of him ; but Crisp is very know- 
 ledgeable !”’ . 
 
 « There will be another miserable match,” thought Lady 
 Frances ; ‘‘ that pretty modest creature will sacrifice herself to 
 that deformed piece of nature’s workmanship ; even his nasty 
 eur, long-backed and bandy, shares her favour: I will beg her 
 of Constantia, take her to court, and get her a proper hus- 
 band. — Crisp is an ill-favoured puppy, Barbara,” she said 
 aloud, ‘‘ and the sooner you get rid of him the better. You 
 must come to court with me, and be one of my bower-girls for 
 a season ; it will polish you, and cure your Shepey prejudices. 
 I shall ask Mistress Cecil to let you come.” 
 
 Barbara thought first of Robin, then of her father ; and 
 was about to speak of the latter, when she remembered her 
 promise of secrecy. 
 
 ** Thank your ladyship; a poor girl, like me had better 
 remain where —where— she is likely to bide. A field-mouse 
 cannot climb a tree like a gay squirrel, my lady, though the 
 poor thing is as happy on the earth as the fine squirrel among 
 the branches, and, mayhap, a deal safer: and as to Crisp! 
 beauty is deceitful — but honesty is a thing to lean upon — 
 the creature’s heart is one great lump of faithfulness.” 
 
 “You must get a courtly husband, Barbara.” 
 
 “* Your ladyship jests ; and so would a courtly husband, at 
 one like me. Mayhap I may never live to marry; but if I 
 did, I should not like my husband to be ashamed of me. — 
 The jewels are all on, my lady !”’ 
 
 “‘ Should you not like to be as my maidens are ? ” 
 
 ** Thank you, madam, no: for they have too little to do, and 
 that begets sorrow. Were my lady happy, and —and 
 But that is my lady’s call. Shall I send your women, 
 madam ?”’ 
 
 “ I have often thought and often said,” murmured Lady 
 Frances, as Barbara meekly closed the door, “ that nothing is 
 so perplexing to the worldly as straight-forward honesty and 
 truth. It is not to be intimidated, nor bribed, hor flattered, 
 nor destroyed — not destroyed even by death. I would give 
 half my dowry — alas! do Z talk of dowry ? — great as my 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 2905 
 
 father is, he may be low as others, who have been as great. 
 And now I must accompany my sweet friend to the altar on 
 which she is to be sacrificed. Alas! better would be for her 
 if death were to meet and claim her upon the threshold of the 
 chapel she is about to enter !”’ 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Nought is there under heaven’s wide hollownesse 
 That moves more dear compassion of mina, 
 Than beautie brought t’ unworthie wretchednesse 
 Through envious snares or fortune’s Beaks unkinde, 
 # % * * 
 
 To think how causeless of her own accord 
 This gentle damzell, whom I write upon, 
 Should plonged be in such affliction, 
 Without all hope of comfort or reliefe. SPENSER. 
 
 “] am driven to it, I am driven to it!” repeated Sir Will- 
 mott Burrell, as-he attired himself in his gayest robes, while his 
 eyes wandered restlessly over the dial of a small clock that 
 stood upon the dressing-table. ‘* No one has seen her — and 
 
 I have forced Constantia to wed at six, instead of seven. Once 
 wed—why, there’s an end of it; and if the worst should 
 come, and Zillah persecutes me still, I can but swear her mad, 
 and this will terminate her fitful fever.” He placed a small 
 pistol within his embroidered dress, and girded his jewelled 
 sword more tightly than before. ‘‘ The minutes linger more 
 tardily than ever,” he continued: “ full fifteen to the time. 
 — Would it were over! I am certain Cromwell would 
 not interfere, if once she was my wife; he loves her honour 
 better than the Jew’s.” 
 
 _ Again he drew forth the pistol and examined it, and then 
 replaced it as before—again girded his sword; and having 
 drunk copiously of some ardent spirit, a flask of which had 
 been placed near him, he descended to the library. 
 
 The only person in the apartment was Sir Robert Cecil: he 
 was leaning, in the very attitude in which we first met him, 
 against the high and dark chimney-piece of marble ; but, oh, 
 how altered! His hand trembled with emotion as he held it 
 
 vu 4 
 
296 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 to Sir Willmott, who took it with that air of easy politeness 
 and cordiality of manner he could so well assume. 
 
 ‘The hour is nearly arrived,” said the old man, “and you 
 will become the husband of my only child. Treat her kindly 
 —oh, as you ever hope to have children of your own, 
 treat her kindly: be to her what I ought to have been — 
 a protector! Sir Willmott, I cannot live very long; say only 
 that you will treat her kindly. Whatever I have shall be 
 yours: you will be kind, will you not?” And he looked at 
 Sir Willmott with an air of such perfect childishness, that the 
 knight imagined his mind had given way. 
 
 «Sit down, my good sir ; compose yourelf — you are much 
 agitated — I pray you be composed.”’ 
 
 “‘ Broad lands are a great temptation,” continued Sir Robert, 
 with the same appearance of wavering intellect — “ Broad lands 
 and gold are great temptations, and yet they do not make one 
 happy. Stoop your head — closer — closer — there : — now 
 I will tell you a secret, but you must not tell it to Constantia, 
 because it would give her pain-——I have never been happy 
 since I possessed them! Stop, I will tell you all, from begin- 
 ning toend. My brother, Sir Herbert — I was not Sir Robert 
 then — my brother, I say -. 
 
 “* Some other time, my dear sir,” interrupted Burrell, whose 
 apprehension was confirmed ; “ you must cheer up, and not 
 think of these matters: you must take some wine.” He filled 
 a goblet from a silver flagon that stood with refreshments on 
 the table ; but the baronet’s hand was so unsteady, that Sir 
 Willmott was obliged to hold the cup to his lips. ‘* Now, 
 my dear sir, collect your thoughts ; you know all things are 
 safe and secret: there is no possibility of your ever being 
 otherwise than beloved and respected.” 
 
 “Not by my child,” said the unhappy man two or three 
 times, twisting his hands convulsively — “‘ Not by my child, 
 my pride, my Constantia! Her kiss is as cold as ice upon my 
 brow ; and I thought — perhaps ’twas but a dream, for I have 
 been sleeping a little —I thought she wiped her lips after she 
 kissed me. Do you think she would destroy the taste of her 
 father’s kiss ? ” 
 
 *‘ Most certainly not: she loves you as well and as dearly 
 as ever.” 
 
 **J cannot believe it, Sir Willmott, I cannot believe it ; — 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 2907 
 
 besides, there’s no safety for me till Hugh Dalton’s pardon is 
 granted.” 
 
 “Damn him!” growled Burrell, and the curse grated 
 through his closed teeth—‘ Damn him, deeply, doubly, ever- 
 lastingly !” 
 
 ** Ay, so he will be damned,” replied Sir Robert, in a calm, 
 quiet tone, *‘ and we shall all be damned, except Constantia ; 
 but he must be pardoned — on earth I mean — for all that.” 
 
 Burrell looked daggers at Sir Robert Cecil, but he heeded 
 them not, saw them not. Sir Willmott’s first suspicion was 
 right — the injured were avenged! The unhappy man re- 
 tained his memory, though his words and actions were no 
 longer under the control of reason: his conscience lived on — 
 his intellect had expired. “It is even so,” thought Sir Will- 
 mott the next moment: “and now, Constantia, despite your 
 scorn, your hatred, your contempt, I do pity you.” 
 
 Burrell understood not how superior was Constance in every 
 respect, either to his pity or his praise. 
 
 Exactly as the clock struck six, the doors at the bottom of 
 the room were thrown open, and Lady Frances Cromwell en- 
 tered with her friend; Barbara and the waiting-maidens of 
 Lady Frances followed; but nothing could exceed Burrell’s 
 displeasure and mortification, when he perceived that his bride 
 was habited in the deepest mourning. Her hair, braided from 
 her brow, hung in long and luxuriant tresses down her back, 
 and were only confined by a fillet of jet. Upon her head was 
 a veil of black gauze, that fell over her entire figure ; and her 
 dress was of black Lucca silk, hemmed and bordered with 
 crape. She advanced steadily to her father, without noticing 
 her bridegroom, and, throwing up her veil, said, in a low 
 voice, — 
 
 “ Father, I am ready.” 
 
 Burrell, who feared that even in the very brief space which 
 now remained, Sir Robert would betray the weakness of his 
 mind, stepped forward, and would have taken her hand; 
 but she put him from her, with a single gesture, saying, — 
 
 ** Not yet, sir, I am still all my father’s, — Father, I am 
 ready.” 
 
 It was pitiable to see the vacant eye which Sir Robert fixed 
 upon her pale, fine face, and most painful to observe the look 
 of anxious inquiry with which she regarded him, 
 
298 THE BUCCANEER: 
 
 “Dear father,” she exclaimed at length, sinking on her 
 knees, ‘‘ dear father, speak to me.’’ 
 
 The gesture and the voice recalled him for a little to him- 
 self, He kissed her cheek affectionately, and, rising with 
 much of the dignity of former years, pressed her to his 
 bosom. 
 
 *‘ Forgive me, child;—my Lady Frances, I crave your 
 pardon— I am myself again—TI was a trifle indisposed, but it 
 is over. Fill me some wine,” he commanded to the attend- 
 ants, who gathered in the doorway — ‘‘ Yes— up— full — 
 more full; I drink—” he continued, with a gaiety of man- 
 ner suiting ill with his grey hairs and pallid face—‘ I drink 
 ‘to the happiness and prosperity of my daughter and her bride- 
 groom!” He quaffed to the bottom of the cup, then flung it 
 from him. 
 
 *“ Now go we to the bridal,” he said, leading Constantia for- 
 ward, while Sir Willmott conducted Lady Frances, who hardly 
 condescended to touch the hand he presented to her. As they 
 passed an open court, leading to the little chapel, Sir Robert 
 stopped abruptly, and addressing his daughter, said,— 
 
 “But I have not blessed you yet; youswould not like to 
 die without my blessing.” 
 
 ‘* Die, my father!” repeated Constance. 
 
 ‘‘T pray your pardon, child,” he replied, in a half mutter- 
 ing, half speaking voice — “ I was thinking of your mother : 
 but now I quite remember me, this isa bridal,’ and he hurried 
 her forward to the altar where the clergyman stood ready to 
 receive them. 
 
 “ Sir Willmott Burrell,’ said Constantia to the knight, as 
 he placed himself at her side, “my father is ill, and I cannot 
 think upon what his malady may be with any thing like calm- 
 ness ; if what I dread is true, you will not force me from 
 him.” 
 
 “Let the ceremony proceed, and, villain as I know you 
 think me, I will not oppose any plan you may form for him,” 
 was Burrell’s reply. Lady Frances stood close beside her friend ; 
 and Barbara, in her white robes and simple beauty, headed 
 the group of servants who crowded round the steps. | 
 
 The clergyman commenced the service according to the form 
 of the Established Church, and concluded the opening address 
 without any interruption. He then proceeded to the solemn 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 299 
 
 and beautiful appeal made as to the liberty of those who pre- 
 sent themselves at the altar. 
 
 ‘I require and charge you both, (as ye will answer at the dreadful 
 day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,) 
 that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully 
 be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it ?” 
 
 At this point Sir Robert Cecil, his enfeebled mind still more 
 relaxed after the strong effort made at self-possession, and 
 weakened and heated by the wine he had taken, exclaimed, — 
 
 “Those two joined together in matrimony! It is impos- 
 sible — she has not on a wedding-garment! What does she 
 here?” ‘Then looking round, he left his daughter’s side, and 
 seizing Barbara’s hand, dragged her to the altar, saying, “ This 
 must be our bride—our lady bride—no one would wed in 
 sables.” 
 
 It is impossible to describe the consternation which this cir- 
 cumstance occasioned ; but the baronet had hardly uttered the 
 _ words, when the window that Barbara had taken so much pains 
 
 in adorning, was darkened by a figure springing into and 
 standing on the open casement, and the shrill voice of the 
 Jewess Zillah shouted, in a tone that was heard most audibly 
 over the murmurs of the little crowd, and echoed fearfully 
 along the chancel, “ Justice—vengeance !” and, suiting the 
 action to her words, she discharged a pistol with but too steady 
 an aim at the innocent Barbara, whom on this occasion, as 
 before, she had mistaken for her rival, Constantia Cecil. 
 
 END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
pec testl Heer: 
 rit 3h eee 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER;, 301 
 
 VOLUME THE THIRD. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Behold! 
 What blessings ancient prophesie foretold, 
 Bestow’d on her in death. She past away 
 So sweetly from the world, as if her clay 
 Laid onely downe to slumber. Then forbeare 
 To let on her blest ashes fall a teare. 
 But, if th’art too much woman, softly weepe 
 Lest grief disturbe the silence of her sleepe. HABINGTON. 
 
 Barsara, the young, the beautiful, the innocent Barbara, 
 fell, as the bullet struck her, upon the arm of the imbecile Sir 
 Robert Cecil. It is impossible adequately to describe the scene 
 that followed. Constantia caught the maiden from her father, 
 who shrank at the sight of blood, and drew himself gradually 
 away, like a terrified child from a frightful object, while his 
 daughter, kneeling, supported the stricken girl upon her 
 bosom. After the deed was done, the Jewess stood for a 
 moment with an air of exultation upon the ledge of the 
 oriel window, and then disappeared; but Sir Willmott, who 
 saw that the time was come when, if ever, his prey was to be 
 secured, rushed to the open door, with a view to seize her as 
 she descended, and at once rid himself of all danger by her 
 destruction. At the instant his evil purpose was about to be 
 accomplished, his course was arrested, as he reached the pos- 
 tern, by a powerful arm, which grappled at his throat. The 
 stentorian voice of Dalton shouted “ Villain !” so loudly, that 
 many, who had crowded round the dying Barbara, turned in 
 alarm to ascertain who spoke. 
 
 ‘«* Hinder me not,” said Sir Willmott, gasping for breath, 
 “‘ but help me to secure the murderer — the girl is slain ! ”’ 
 
 “ God of Heaven! — what girl? — Who was it fired ?” 
 exclaimed the Skipper. — “ What means this ?”’ he continued, 
 relaxing his grasp, and advancing up the chancel with a 
 beating heart and a rapid step. Burrell took advantage of the 
 momentary reprieve, and was hastily proceeding round to the 
 
$02 THE BUCCANEBR. 
 
 window, when the tramp of many horses came upon his ear. 
 The steel caps and polished blades of a detachinent of Crom- 
 well’s own Ironsides glittered amid the ruins and trees that 
 surrounded the chapel, and his progress was again stayed by 
 no other than Colonel John Jones. 
 
 “ Sir Willmott Burrell,” said the Puritan soldier, in a slow 
 and deliberate tone, “ his Highness commands your immediate 
 presence at the house of Hampton, profanely denominated 
 Hampton Court; and I have his Highness’s commands also to 
 prevent the taking place of any union between you and Mis- 
 tress Constantia Cecil.” 
 
 “Tt has taken place,” interrupted Burrell, turning pale, 
 and trembling. 
 
 “It has not taken place,” interrupted in her turn Lady 
 Frances, whose habitual and active kindness had prompted her 
 to seek assistance for Barbara, so that she encountered the 
 troop under the command of her step-uncle—‘ I say it has 
 not taken place—half a ceremony is no marriage, But have 
 you any with you skilled in surgery? for here has been a most 
 foul murder: come with me into the chapel, and behold!” 
 Lady Frances returned, followed by Colonel Jones, Sir Will- 
 mott as a prisoner, and the greater number of the soldiery. 
 
 Constantia Cecil, still kneeling, supported Barbara, whose 
 life was ebbing fast, as the blood trickled from a small wound, 
 where the ball had entered a little above her right shoulder. 
 Her eyes, gentle and expressive as ever, were fixed upon her 
 father, who stood speechless and powerless by her side. The 
 women gathered, weeping, around. The good clergyman ap- 
 proached to offer spiritual consolation to the departing girl. 
 Hugh Dalton had heard the story of the fatal act repeated by 
 at least a dozen persons, who were ignorant that they spoke 
 in the presence of the poor maiden’s parent ; but he heeded 
 not their words ; he did not even ask how or by whom the 
 dreadful deed was done. Enough to him was the certainty 
 that his daughter was dying, dying before him — that she, to 
 whom his heart had clung through evil report and good report, 
 in sorrow and in sin, but always with confidence and hope, as 
 the star that would at length guide him into a haven of peace 
 and joy, which had been rapidly growing out of repentance; 
 that she, his only, his beloved, his most excellent, and most 
 unspotted child, would, within an hour, become as the clay on 
 which he trod — that her mild, cheerful, and patient spirit, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 8308 
 
 was passing to the God who gave it — unrepiningly passing ; 
 for no groan, no murmur came from her lips — lips that had 
 never been stained by deceit or falsehood. Still her eyes rested 
 on her parent, and once she endeavoured to stretch forth her 
 weak arms towards him, but they fell powerless at her side ; 
 while he, still mute and motionless as a statue, seemed rooted 
 to the earth. The clergyman spoke a few words of an ap- 
 proaching eternity. It was only then the Buccaneer replied ; 
 without a tear, without a sob; or any outward demonstration 
 of sorrow: though all who heard him felt that the words came 
 from a man whose sole sensation was despair. 
 
 ‘“‘ No need, sir, to speak so to her. She knows about these 
 things far more than we do. Hush! for the sake of God, and 
 let me hear her breathing.”’ 
 
 *« Some ten of you look out for the murderer,” commanded 
 the stern voice of Colonel Jones, who had by this ,time re- 
 ceived the whole account from the Lady Frances. 
 
 ** You will not be able to find her,” exclaimed the alarmed 
 Burrell, dreading that, if she were secured, she might com- 
 municate the secret she still retained. ‘ You willnot, I assure 
 you, be able to find her,” he repeated, as the sturdy soldiers 
 prepared to obey their officer’s command. 
 
 “ You know the person, then, Sir Willmott,” said Colonel 
 Jones, coldly. Burrell looked abashed. ‘“ Mistress Constan- 
 tia will, I hope, forgive me,’’ added the rough soldier, walking 
 towards the steps of the altar, where the lady of Cecil Place 
 still supported the fading form of the poor faithful maiden she 
 had so truly loved — “* Mistress Constantia will forgive one 
 of her father’s oldest friends for thus breaking in upon and 
 disturbing a most solemn ceremony. His Highness has com- 
 manded her bridegroom to be brought before him, and the 
 marriage to be stayed, inasmuch as he charges Sir Willmott 
 Burrell with being already wedded !” 
 
 The maiden to whom he spoke looked up, and gazed into 
 the countenance of the speaker ; but it would have been diffi- 
 cult to determine the nature of her feelings, save by the cold 
 shudder that seemed to pass over her whole frame. 
 
 On Sir Robert Cecil the information made no impression, 
 for he understood it not, though he smiled and bowed several 
 times to his old companion in arms. But the Buccaneer 
 started, roused for a moment from the one absorbing sorrow 
 of his whole soul, but Still heedless of the danger he encountered 
 
 ? 
 
‘304 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 in thus standing face to face with a troop of the hardiest sol- 
 diers of the Commonwealth. Turning eagerly towards their 
 officer, he exclaimed, — 
 
 “Ha! it is known !—then the papers were received.” 
 
 « Traitor! double traitor! I have ye now!” shouted Bur- 
 rell, presenting his pistol at the head of the Buccaneer. In- 
 stantly Barbara, as with a last effort, sprang from the arms of 
 the Lady Cecil, and threw herself on her father’s bosom. The 
 effort was not needed, for the weapon was snatched from the 
 villain’s hand. He had now to encounter the reproof of 
 Colonel Jones. 
 
 < Sir Willmott, I thought I could have taken your word, 
 that you had no arms except your sword. I was mistaken.” 
 
 * That fellow is the famous Buccaneer, Hugh Dalton, upon 
 whose head a price is set. Arrest him, Colonel Jones!” ex- 
 claimed Burrell, skilfully turning the attention from himself 
 to the Skipper, who stood embracing the lifeless form’of his 
 daughter — gazing upon eyes that were now closed, and upon 
 lips parted no longer by the soft breath of as sweet a maiden 
 as ever was born of woman. 
 
 «* Are you the Malignant of whom he speaks?” inidisttedt the 
 stern colonel. 
 
 “* He is the unhappy father of that murdered girl,” inter- 
 posed Constantia. 
 
 «“ Whoever refuses to seize him deserves a traitor’s death,” 
 reiterated Sir Willmott. 
 
 The troopers stood with their hands on their swords, await- 
 ing their officer’s commands. 
 
 The Buccaneer turned fiercely round, still pressing his child 
 to his bosom with one arm, and holding a pistol within the 
 other hand. 
 
 “TI am,” he said in a bold and fearless, but not an arrogant 
 tone, I am he whom that accursed villain names. But ye 
 had better not rouse a desperate man. Dare not to touch me ; 
 at your peril stay my course. Colonel Jones, tell the Protector 
 of England, that Hugh Dalton craves no pardon now. This, 
 this was my hope —my pride; for her I would have been 
 honest, and well thought of! Behold! she stiffens on my 
 arm. She is nothing now but clay! Yet, by the God that 
 made her! no churlish earth shall sully this fair form. She 
 was as pure as the blue sea that cradled her first months of 
 
THE BUCCANEER. rae 805 
 
 infancy ; and, mark ye, when the rays of the young sun rest 
 upon the ocean, at the morning-watch, by my own ship’s side, 
 in the bosom of the calm waters, shall she find a grave. I 
 will no more trouble England — no more—no more! Gold 
 may come dancing on the waves, even to my vessel’s prow, I 
 will not touch it. Cromwell may take me if he will, but not 
 till I perform for my good and gentle child the only rite that 
 ever she demanded from me.” 
 
 Even as the tiger-mother passes through an Indian crowd, 
 bearing the cherished offspring of her fierce but affectionate 
 nature, which some stray arrow has destroyed — terrible in 
 her anguish and awful in her despair — her foes appalled at 
 her sufferings and the bravery of her spirit, though still panting 
 for her destruction — their arrows are on the string — yet the 
 untaught, but secret and powerful respect for the great source 
 of our good as well as of our evil passions — Nature — works 
 within them, and she passes on, unmolested, to her lair : — 
 even so did Dalton pass along, carrying his daughter, as she 
 were a sleeping infant, through the armed warriors, who made 
 way, as if unconscious of what they did ; — some, who were 
 themselves fathers, pressed their mailed fingers on their eyes, 
 while others touched their helmets, and raised them a little 
 from their brows. 
 
 ** Colonel Jones,” exclaimed the enraged Burrell, “ you will 
 have to answer for this to a high power. The Protector would 
 give its weight in gold for the head of that man; and the 
 weight of that again for a knowledge of his haunts.” 
 
 “ Sir Willmott,’ was the soldier's reply, who, now that 
 Dalton was really gone, began to fear he had done wrong in 
 permitting his escape, and therefore resolved to brave it 
 haughtily, “1 can answer for my own actions. Methinks you 
 are cold and hot as best serves your purpose!” Then turning 
 abruptly from him, he added, ‘‘ We will but intrude upon the 
 hospitality of this mourning bride,” glancing at Constantia’s 
 dress, and smiling grimly, “until some tidings be obtained of 
 the person who has perpetrated this horrid murder; and having 
 refreshed our horses, return forthwith ; for his Highness is im- 
 patient of delay, and ’tis good fifty miles to London. Our 
 orders were, Sir Willmott, that you hold no communion with 
 any ; so that, if you have aught to say to Mistress Cecil, it 
 must be said at once.” 
 
 > 
 
806 ' THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 «TI can only offer my protestations against this tyrannical 
 — ay, sir, I speak boldly, and repeat it — this tyrannical 
 mandate — and assure the fair dame that I consider her my 
 lawful wife.” 
 
 Constantia made no reply. Colonel Jones then gave the 
 Lady Frances a slip of paper from the Protector, which merely 
 stated that he thought she ought to remain with her friend, 
 until the mysterious rumour was either cleared up or confirmed. 
 Lady Frances right joyfully assented ; and Constantia, over- 
 powered by a multitude of contending feelings, led the way 
 with her father, who seemed as passive and as uninterested in 
 the events of that most eventful hour, as if he were a child of 
 a twelvemonth old. The soldiers who had been sent to recon- 
 noitre soon returned, for night was closing upon them, and 
 they had searched the ruins of Minster, and galloped over the 
 wild hills of Shepey, without being able to trace the misguided 
 Jewess. Colonel Jones could, therefore, do nothing more than 
 advise Sir Michael Livesey (the sheriff, who resided, as we 
 have stated, at Little Shurland) of the circumstance that had 
 occurred, and send off to King’s Ferry, Sheerness, Queen- 
 borough, and all the little hamlets along the coast, information 
 of the melancholy event, with orders to prevent any stranger, 
 male or female, from quitting the island, until his Highness’s 
 future pleasure was known. 
 
 The murder of Lady Cecil’s favourite was calculated to ex- 
 cite strong feelings among all classes; for the poor had long 
 considered the residence of so good a family on their island as 
 a blessing from Heaven ; more particularly, as the former pos- 
 sessor, Sir Herbert, Sir Robert's elder brother, only lived at 
 Cecil Place occasionally, being of too gay, too cavalier a tem- 
 perament, to bide long in so solitary a dwelling. He had been 
 warmly attached to the house of Stuart; and while his 
 younger brother sought, and made friends of the Parliamenta- 
 rian faction, he remained steady in his loyalty, and firm in his 
 attachment to the unfortunate and unpopular Charles. Upon 
 this topic we may hereafter treat: at present, we have to do 
 with the living, not the dead. 
 
 We cannot now intrude upon the privacy of either Lady 
 Frances or Constantia; we must content ourselves with 
 simply stating that Colonel Jones took his departure, leaving, 
 at Lady Frances’s request, a guard of six soldiers at Cecil 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 207 
 
 Place —a precaution he felt justified in adopting when he had 
 taken late events into consideration, and was made acquainted 
 with the miserable condition of Sir Robert’s mind, to whom 
 also he undertook to send immediate medical advice. The 
 servants, particularly Lady Frances’s women, assembled in the 
 great hall, and with many tears, real and unfeigned tears, la- 
 mented the loss of poor Barbara — talked of the mystery of 
 her birth, and the sudden and almost supernatural appearance 
 of her father. Greatly did they blame themselves for permit- 
 ting him to remove the body, “ not knowing,’ as they said, 
 “but he would give it heathenish and not Christian burial.” 
 
 After a little while they conversed upon the malady that 
 had overtaken their master, and then hints and old tales were 
 thought of, and almost forgotten rumours of Sir Herbert and 
 his revelries repeated ; and as the lamps burned still more 
 dim, and the embers of the fire dropped one by one into that 
 grey and blue dust that heralds their perfect decay, the legends 
 of the isle were rehearsed — How Sir Robert de Shurland, a 
 great knight and a powerful thane, being angry with a priest, 
 buried him alive in Minster churchyard; and then, fearing 
 the king’s displeasure, and knowing he was at the Nore, swam 
 on a most faithful horse to his majesty from the island, to 
 crave pardon for his sin; and the king pardoned him; and 
 then, right joyfully, he swam back to the land, where, on his 
 dismounting, he was accosted by a foul witch, who prophesied 
 that the horse which had saved him should be the cause of his 
 death ; but, in order to prevent the accomplishment of the 
 prophecy, he slew the faithful animal upon the beach ; — how 
 that some time afterwards he. passed by the carcass, and strik- 
 ing a bone with his foot, it entered the fiesh, which mortified, 
 and the tyrant died ; in testimony whereof the tomb stands in 
 Minster church until this day, in the south wall, under a 
 pointed arch, where he lies, leaning on his shield and banner, 
 and at his feet a page, while behind him is carved the 
 horse’s head that caused his death : — and, moreover, how his 
 spirit is seen frequently leaping from turret to turret of the 
 house of Great Shurland, pursued by a phantom steed! Of 
 such like legends did they talk. Then they thanked God that 
 their lady was not likely to be Sir Willmott’s wife, and spoke 
 of Dalton and his daring, and many of the old servants 
 shuddered. 
 
 x 2 
 
,’ 
 
 508 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Then again they reverted to Barbara, and the women crept 
 more closely together, like a flock of frightened sheep, when 
 one older than the others affirmed that no true maid could ever 
 rest in the ocean’s bed, unless a Bible were slung about her 
 neck ; and as Dalton, of course, had no Bible, their beloved 
 Barbara could have no rest, but must wander to all eternity on 
 the foam of the white waves, or among the coral-rocks that 
 pave the southern seas, or sigh in the shrouds of a doomed 
 ship. But again, some other said, as she was so pure a 
 Christian, perhaps that would save her from such a fate; and 
 one of the soldiers who sat with them reproved their folly, and 
 lectured, and prayed for their edification, with much zeal and 
 godliness ; and when he had concluded, the thought came 
 upon them that the Reverend Jonas Fleetword had not been 
 there since the earliest morning, when somebody declared he 
 was seen talking with Sir Willmott Burrell near the Gull’s 
 Nest, and fear for the preacher came over them all—why, 
 they could not tell. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Poesy! thou sweet’st content 
 
 That e’er Heaven to mortals lent, 
 
 Though they as a trifle leave thee 
 
 Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; 
 
 Though thou be to them a scorn 
 
 That to nought but earth are born ; 
 
 Let my life no longer be 
 
 Than I am in love with thee. GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 Ture are two things that to a marvellous degree bring people 
 under subjection — moral and corporeal fear. ‘The most dis- 
 solute are held in restraint by the influence of moral worth, 
 and there are few who would engage in a quarrel, if they were 
 certain that defeat or death would be the consequence. Crom- 
 well obtained, and we may add, maintained his ascendency 
 over the people of England, by his earnest and continually 
 directed efforts towards these two important ends. His court 
 was a rare example of irreproachable conduct, from which all 
 debauchery and immorality were banished ; while such was 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 809 
 
 his deep and intimate, though mysterious, acquaintance with 
 every occurrence throughout the Commonwealth, its subjects 
 had the certainty of knowing that, sooner or later, whatever 
 crimes they committed would of a surety reach the ear of the 
 Protector. His natural abilities must always have been of the 
 highest order, though in the early part of his career he dis- 
 covered none of those extraordinary talents that afterwards 
 gained him so much applause, and worked so upon the affec- 
 tions of the hearers and standers by. His mind may be com- 
 pared to one of those valuable manuscripts that had long been 
 rolled up and kept hidden from vulgar eyes, but which exhibits 
 some new proof of wisdom at each unfolding. It has been 
 well said by a philosopher, whose equal the world has not 
 known since his day, “ that a place showeth the man.” Of a 
 certainty Cromwell had no sooner possessed the opportunity so 
 to do, than he showed to the whole world that he was destined 
 to govern. ‘‘ Some men achieve greatness, some men are born 
 to greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.” 
 With Cromwell, greatness was achieved. He was the archi- 
 tect of his own fortunes, owing little to, what is called, 
 **chance,’’ less to patronage, and still less to crime, if we ex- 
 cept the one sad blot upon the page of his own history, as 
 connected with that of his country. There appears in his cha- 
 racter but a small portion of that which is evil, blended with 
 much that is undoubtedly good. Although his public speeches 
 were, for the most part, ambiguous — leaving others to pick 
 out his meaning — or more frequently still, having no meaning 
 to pick out — being words, words, words — strung of mouldy 
 sentences, scriptural phrases, foolish exclamations, and such 
 like ; yet, when necessary, he showed that he could sufficiently 
 command his style, delivering himself with so much energy, 
 pith, propriety, and strength of expression, that it was com- 
 monly said of him, under such circumstances, “ every word he 
 spoke was a thing.” But the strongest indication of his vast 
 abilities was, the extraordinary tact with which he entered into, 
 dissected, and scrutinised the nature of human kind. No man 
 ever dived into the manners and minds of those around him 
 with greater penetration, or more rapidly discovered their 
 natural talents and tempers. If he chanced to hear of a person 
 fit for his purpose, whether as a minister, a soldier, an artisan, 
 a preacher, or aspy —no matter how previously obscure — he 
 phe 
 
810 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 sent for him forthwith, and employed him in the way in which 
 he could be made most useful, and answer best the purpose of 
 his employer. Upon this most admirable system (a system in 
 which, unhappily, he has had but few imitators among modern 
 statesmen,) depended in a great degree his success. His de- 
 votion has been sneered at ; but it has never been proved ta 
 have been insincere. With how much more show of justice 
 may we consider it to have been founded upon a solid and up- 
 right basis, when we recollect that his whole outward deport- 
 ment spoke its truth. Those who decry him as a fanatic 
 ought to bethink themselves that religion was the chivalry of 
 the age in which he lived. Had Cromwell been born a few 
 centuries earlier, he would have headed the Crusades, with as 
 much bravery, and far better results than our noble-hearted, 
 but wrong-headed ‘“ Coeur de Lion.” It was no great com- 
 pliment that was passed on him by the French minister, when 
 he called the Protector “the first captain of the age.” His 
 courage and conduct in the field were undoubtedly admirable : 
 he had a dignity of soul which the greatest dangers and diffi- 
 culties rather animated than discouraged, and his discipline and 
 government of the army, in all respects, was the wonder of the 
 world. It was no diminution of this part of his character that 
 he was wary in his conduct, and thai, after he was declared 
 Protector, he wore a coat-of-mail concealed beneath his dress. 
 Less caution than he made use of, in the place he held, and 
 surrounded as he was by secret and open enemies, would have 
 deserved the name of negligence. As to his political sincerity, 
 which many think had nothing to do with his religious opinions, 
 he was, to the full, as honest as the first or second Charles. 
 Of a truth, that same sincerity, it would appear, is no kingly 
 virtue ! Cromwell loved justice as he loved his own life, and 
 wherever he was compelled to be arbitrary, it was only where 
 his authority was controverted, which, as things then were, it 
 was not only right to establish for his own sake, but for the 
 peace and security of the country over whose proud destinies 
 he had been called to govern. ‘ The dignity of the crown,” 
 to quote his own words, ‘‘ was upon the account of the nation, 
 of which the king was only the representative head, and there- 
 fore, the nation being still the same, he would have the same 
 respect paid to his ministers as if he had been a king.” Eng- 
 land ought to write the name of Cromwell in letters of gold, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. $11 
 
 when she remembers that, within a space of four or five years, 
 he avenged all the insults that had been lavishly flung upon her 
 by every country in Eurepe throughout a long, disastrous, and 
 most perplexing civil war. Gloriously did he retrieve the 
 credit that had been mouldering and decaying during two weak 
 and discreditable reigns of nearly fifty years’ continuance — 
 gloriously did he establish and extend his country’s authority 
 and influence in remote nations — gloriously acquire the real 
 mastery of the British Channel — gloriously send forth fleets 
 that went and conquered, and never sullied the union-flag by 
 an act of dishonour or dissimulation ! 
 
 Not a single Briton, during the Protectorate, but could 
 demand and receive either reparation or revenge for injury, 
 whether it came from France, from Spain, from any open foe 
 or treacherous ally ; — not an oppressed foreigner claimed his 
 protection but it was immediately and effectually granted. 
 Were things to be compared to this in the reign of either 
 Charles? England may blush at the remembrance of the in- 
 sults she sustained during the reigns of the first most amiable, 
 yet most weak — of the second most admired, yet most con- 
 temptible — of these legal kings. What must she think of the 
 treatment received by the Elector Palatine, though he was son- 
 in-law to King James? And let her ask herself how the Duke 
 of Rohan was assisted in the Protestant war at Rochelle, not- 
 withstanding the solemn engagement of King Charles under 
 his own hand! But we are treading too fearlessly upon ground 
 on which, in our humble capacity, we have scarcely the right 
 to enter. Alas! alas! the page of History is but a sad one! 
 and the Stuarts and the Cromwells, the Roundheads and the 
 Cavaliers, the pennons and the drums, are but part and parcel of 
 the same dust — the dust we, who are made of dust, animated. 
 for a time by a living spirit, now tread upon! Their words, 
 that wrestled with the winds and mounted on the air, have left 
 no trace along that air whereon they sported ; — the clouds in 
 all their beauty cap our isle with their magnificence, as in those 
 by-gone days ; — the rivers are as blue, the seas as salt ; — 
 the flowers, those sweet things! remain fresh within our fields 
 as when God called them into existence in Paradise — and are 
 bright as ever. But the change is over us, as it has been over 
 them: we, too, are passing. O England! what should this 
 teach? Even three things — wisdom, justice, and mercy. 
 
 x 4 
 
312 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Wisdom to watch ourselves, and then our rulers, so that we 
 neither do nor suffer wrong ; —justice to the memory of the 
 mighty dead, whether born to thrones or footstools ;—mercy, 
 inasmuch as we shall deeply need it from our successors. 
 
 We must not longer trifle with or mingle among forbidden 
 themes, but turn to that which lightens many a heart, and 
 creates of its own power a magic world of pure and perfect 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Many there were, before and during those troublous times, 
 who, heedless of the turmoils that were taking place around 
 them, sang, as birds will sometimes sing, during the pauses of 
 a thunder-storm. We would fain con over the names of a few 
 of those who live with the memories of peace, and hope, and 
 love, and joy —as so many happy contrasts to the wars and 
 intrigues, that sin, and its numberless and terrible attendants, 
 have brought upon this cheerful, and beautiful, and abundantly 
 gifted earth. 
 
 A blessing on sweet Poesy ! whether she come to us mounted 
 on the gallant war-horse, trumpet-tongued, awakening our 
 souls and senses unto glory, hymning with Dryden some bold 
 battle-strain that makes us crow of victories past, present, and 
 to come ;—or with a scholar’s trim and tasselled cap, a flow- 
 ing gown of raven hue, and many tales of Chaucer’s — quaint, 
 but pleasing — good reading under some old tree close by a 
 quiet brook, where minnows sport and dart with silver flight 
 beneath the broad-leaved lilies, whose white and yellow chalices 
 are spread full to the cheerful heavens, wherein the sun rides 
 like a monarch in his azure kingdom ;— or, better still, 
 mounted on a green dragon with glaring eyes and forky tongue, 
 looking for encounter with some Christian knight, who, “ full 
 of sad feare and ghastley dreariment,” would nathless risk life, 
 honour, all — for his faire ladie love. Beloved Spenser! age 
 withers not thy beauty. 
 
 Or Poesy may come in the cool twilight, when the garish 
 day is past, and the young modest flowers, which refused their 
 perfume to the sun, that, with his hot and fiery beams, sought 
 to command their incense, now welcome back the evening, and 
 become prodigal of sweetness ;—— within some rustic temple, 
 clustered with woodbine, where the robin or the tiny wren hath 
 formed a nest of matchless skill and neat propriety, and trem- 
 bles not at the approaching footstep, while the soft breath of 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 8313 
 
 heaven plays with those blossoms of the sun — the painted 
 butterflies — that fold their wings and fain would sleep till 
 morning. There let her come, and with her bring more blessed 
 children of the olden time,— 
 
 ** Whose names 
 In Fame’s eternal volume live for aye.” 
 
 The gallant handsome Surrey, tutored by Love into our first, 
 if not our sweetest sonneteer ; and Michael Drayton, with his 
 apt crest — Mercury’s bright cap, blazoned with sunbeams, 
 Old Fletcher, floating towards his Purple Island, in the same 
 graceful bark that bears his more thoughtful, it may be sombre, 
 brother Giles. Then, garlanded with the rich thistle in all 
 its purple glory ; the perfume of his braes, and burns, and 
 heather, reeking amid his clustering hair; his cheerful plaid, 
 and his gay bonnet, graced by the heron’s plume; his voice 
 subdued by sorrow, but still sweet and free, singing of “ Sion’s 
 flowers” — Drummond of Hawthornden ! welcome from bonny 
 Scotland, herald of a line of poets, who fling their music on 
 the breezy air, that floats along in melody. 
 
 Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail—heauty in all thy 
 lines, so quaint yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou 
 wert, dainty and perfumed, yet still a poet, sweet in a lady’s 
 bower, where all is fashioned as befits the place and time: a 
 poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou turned 
 from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse—although 
 a poet and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. 
 Alas! must we contrast thee with the weathercock of the 
 rhyming folk, bowing to kings, protector, lords, and all that 
 could pay golden coin for his poesy? Many there be 
 among the scribbling tribe who emulate a Waller’s practice, 
 and amble in his ill-chosen path ; how few have the redeem- 
 ing gift that was his so largely ! 
 
 And thou must not be forgotten, “O rare Ben Jonson!” 
 for whom a single sentence doth suffice. And him, ‘the 
 melancholy Cowley!” let him come too, with his honeyed 
 wisdom : it will be still the sweeter if we think upon his stern 
 bitterness in prose. Let him reprove the muse to whom he 
 owes his fame, — 
 
 ** Th-v who rewardest but with popular breath, 
 ——— And that too after death ; —” 
 
a 
 314 THE. BUCCANEER. 
 
 let him reprove, yet not come without her. Ah! the poet is 
 but a sorry politician after all. 
 
 Ye cannot do ill if ye pile the verdant turf breast high 
 with those old masters; those mighty monarchs of sweet 
 song, — 
 
 ** Blessings be with them and eternal praise, 
 The poets! ”’ 
 
 Bring them all, all, from the ancient of days, who have 
 gained this “ praise eternal,’ to those of our own age, who have 
 laboured for, and will also obtain it.“ And chiefly among such 
 as have sweetly carolled among us—still more, if ye be young 
 and warm-hearted, with the affections pure and true within you 
 — bring the dear lays of a poet— a ladye poet —a poet who will 
 hold rank among the best, when life shall have given place to 
 immortality. — How gladly do I add the tribute of admiration 
 to the gift of friendship.— In her own eloquent words’ may 
 we give our thoughts utterance. 
 
 ** Methinks it is not much to die — 
 To die, and leave behind’ 
 A spirit in the hearts of men, 
 A voice amid our kind ; 
 
 When Fame and Death, in unison, 
 Have given a thousand lives for one. 
 
 ** Our thoughts, we live again in them, 
 Our nature’s noblest part ; 
 Our life in many a memory, 
 Our home in many a heart : 
 When not a lip that breathes our strain, 
 But calls us into life again.” 
 
 But fail not, above all, to bring the one who comprehends 
 the whole; whose name is to be found in every school-boy 
 book, written in living letters — words that breathe ; to whom 
 the hearts of multitudes were as one most simple instrument, 
 which he could tune and tone unto his pleasure. The birds 
 taught him their language—the forest leaves had life within 
 their veins, and talked with him of Nature’s mysteries. The 
 broad sea sent its homage by a thousand sprites, fresh from 
 their coral beds, who watched him in his dreams, or by those 
 sylvan glens wherein he wandered—riding the salt-sea foam, 
 or the light spray of the wild cataract, they sung the melodies 
 of river and of ocean into his soul. The beings of air, that, 
 atom-like, float in the clearest ether, bathe in the liquid dew, 
 or drink their nectar from the honey-bells of the wild heather 
 bloom, called him their brother, and prated of their tricks in 
 
¥ 
 ~ 
 
 THE BUCCANEER. 315 
 
 gay familiarity. Oh, world! art thou the self-same world 
 that Shakspeare trod upon? 
 
 And there’s another too, who stands alone in his sublimity 
 —who dared the mysteries of Paradise, and communed with 
 angels— angels both of hell and heaven —a giant-master, yet a 
 man of beauty, wisdom, simplicity, knowledge. Behold him 
 as he sits, within the tapestried chamber at Hampton Court! 
 * Tis the same room in which the Protector sat last night ; but 
 how changed its aspect, just by the presence of that one man! 
 How different is the feeling with which we regard men of 
 great energy and men of great talent. Milton, blind —blind, 
 powerless as to his actions, overwhelming in his genius, grasp- 
 ing all things and seeing into them, not with the eyes of flesh, 
 but those of mind, altering the very atmosphere wherein we 
 move, stilling the air that we may hear his oracles! 
 
 The room is one of most curious fashion, and hung with 
 the oldest tapestry in England, lighted on either side by long 
 and narrow windows, that are even now furnished as in the 
 time of the old cardinal who built them. On the low seat 
 formed within the wall the poet sat. Who would suffer a 
 thought of the ambitious Wolsey or the sensual Henry to in- 
 trude where once they held gay revels and much minstrelsy in 
 their most tyrant pastimes? Cromwell, the great Protector, 
 even Cromwell is forgotten in the more glorious company of 
 one both poor and blind! He sat, as we describe him, within 
 the embrasure of the narrow window ; the heat and bright- 
 ness of the summer sun came full upon his head, the hair upon 
 which was full and rich as ever, parted in the centre, and fall- 
 ing in waving curls quite to his shoulders ; his eyes were fixed 
 on vacancy, but their expression was as if communing with 
 some secret spirit, enlivening thus his darkness; he seemed 
 not old nor young, for the lines upon his face could not be 
 considered wrinkles— tokens were they of care and thought — 
 such care and such thought as Milton might know and feel. 
 
 He was habited with extraordinary exactness ; his linen of 
 the finest quality, and his vest and doublet put on with an 
 evident attention to even minute appearance. His hands of 
 transparent whiteness were clasped, as if he were attending to 
 some particular discourse ; he was alone in that vast chamber, 
 —yet not alone, for God was with him — not in outward 
 form, but in inwayd spirit. It was the Sabbath-day, and ever 
 
mm 
 316 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 observed in the Protector’s family with respect and reverence. 
 The morning-meeting was over, and Cromwell in his closet, 
 “¢ wrestling,” as he was wont to term it, “ with sin.” Silence 
 reigned through all the courts— that due and reverend silence 
 which betokens thoughtfulness, and attention to one of the 
 Almighty’s first commands—<‘ Keep holy the Sabbath-day,” 
 given when he ordained that man should rest from his labours 
 in commemoration that he himself set an example of repose 
 after calling the broad earth into existence and beauty. The 
 poet sat but for a little time in that wide silence; yet who 
 would not give a large portion of their every-day existence to 
 have looked on him for those brief moments, moments which 
 for their full feeling might play the part of years in our life’s 
 calendar? Blessed holy time! — when we can look on genius, 
 and catch the gems that fall from its lips! Yet Milton spoke 
 not —he only looked ; and still his looks were heavenward — 
 turned towards that Heaven from whence they caught their 
 inspiration. He heard the sound of coming footsteps, and 
 loving quiet on that holy day, withdrew to his own chamber. 
 How empty now appeared the tapestried hall! as when some 
 great eclipse shuts to the golden portals of the sun, and steeps 
 the earth in darkness! 
 
 Soon after Milton’s departure, the Protector entered, in con- 
 versation with his secretary, Thurloe ; and although it was the 
 Sabbath, there was an air of anxiety and eagerness about him, 
 which made his step more hurried, more abrupt than usual. 
 He suddenly stopped, and said, — 
 
 ** Pray God that Colonel Jones and the troop arrived in 
 time! Lady Frances, methinks, must have known something 
 —seen something — however, now all shall be investigated. 
 Pray God they arrived in time!” 
 
 He then took from a large pocket-book a set of tablets, and 
 having read therein for a few minutes, suddenly turning to 
 Thurloe, exclaimed, ‘“‘ What! is this indeed the tenth ? ” 
 
 ** Even so,” replied the secretary. 
 
 “Then have I business which requires immediate atten- 
 tion,” said his Highness. “ Behold! I had nearly forgotten 
 both the promise and the appointment ; but spare nor haste 
 nor trouble! Under the archway, at the left-hand side of 
 Gray’s Inn, after you pass the house whose corners are bound 
 with white stones, the walls being of red brick — under that 
 
THE oe 317 
 
 arch you will see a man — now mark me —a man wearing a 
 green cloak, the collar being of velvet ; and, to distinguish him 
 the more perfectly, you will perceive that his hat is banded by 
 a small blue riband, of the narrowest breadth: his left hand 
 will be uncovered, and placed upon his breast, and on its 
 centre finger will be a broad hoop ring of jet. Be there exactly 
 as the clock of St. Paul’s strikes three-quarters past four ; and 
 speak thou no word, nor make sign, except to put this bill into 
 his hand, which, as thou seest, is for twenty thousand pounds, 
 payable to the bearer at Genoa.” 
 
 “< Ts it your Highness’s pleasure that I take no receipt? ”’ 
 
 ** It is not needed — you can return hither by the evening 
 meal.” 
 
 The secretary bowed, and withdrew; and at the same 
 moment, the trampling of many horses sounded in the paved 
 court-yard ; and looking from the window, Cromwell beheld 
 the arrival of Colonel Jones, and his prisoner, Sir Willmott 
 Burrell. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The base and guilty bribes of guiltier men 
 
 Shall be thrown back, and Justice look as when 
 
 She loved the earth, and feared not to be sold 
 
 For that which worketh all things to it, gold. BEN Jonson. 
 
 « Tre course of justice must not be delayed, although it be 
 the Sabbath,” said the Protector ; and, having hastily ascer- 
 tained that his officer had arrived at Cecil Place in time to 
 prevent the intended marriage, he immediately ordered that 
 Colonel Jones and Sir Willmott Burrell should be at once 
 ushered into his presence. At the same time he despatched 
 one of his pages to command the attendance of Manasseh Ben 
 Israel. 
 
 When the knight entered, he was received by Cromwell 
 with his usual show of courtesy. He appeared, however, with 
 a downcast look, his hands folded over his bosom, and his 
 mind made up to the approaching contest with one whom he 
 well knew to be as profound and accomplished a dissimulator as 
 
318 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 himself, when dissimulation was the weapon wherewith he de- 
 signed to fight. 
 
 Sir Willmott briefly apologised for his travel-worn and 
 soiled habiliments, and displayed a due portion of surprise and 
 indignation at being torn from his bride in the midst of the 
 marriage ceremony. The Jew trembled with agitation, and 
 would have interrupted the Protector’s more slow, but not less 
 sure, proceedings, had he not been prevented by a timely check 
 from Cromwell, who bent his brow towards him with a peculiar 
 and warning expression. 
 
 “It cannot be supposed, Sir Willmott,” he observed, in a 
 calm, and even friendly tone, ‘‘ but that I regret exceedingly 
 being compelled to trouble you in this manner, and at such a 
 time. You will be made aware that I have been called upon 
 to perform a double duty ; first, to my worthy and excellent 
 friend Manasseh Ben Israel, with the nature of whose sus- 
 ‘picions (it maketh a Christian soul shudder to think upon it) 
 you are already acquainted — and next, to the lady who was 
 about to become your wife. Her Highness has long and truly 
 loved her ; and she is, moreover, somewhat related (although 
 only after the Episcopalian fashion) to my most beloved 
 daughter. I was, therefore, bound to have especial care con- 
 cerning the maiden’s bridal.” 
 
 “The Lady Frances Cromwell could have informed. your 
 Highness that Mistress Constantia was, of her own free will, 
 a party to the ceremony.” 
 
 * I do not dispute it. Now our business is to satisfy the 
 mind of our friend here, as to your alleged conduct towards his 
 only child. It is a noble matter in our laws, and one that we 
 may well be proud of, that, by God’s blessing, every man is 
 considered innocent until he be proven guilty. The Lord forbid 
 that I should lay aught of sin unto your charge ! — you, who 
 have appeared at all times a sure and a safe prop unto our 
 Commonwealth. Doubtless you saw the lady — Zillah: 
 say you not, worthy Rabbi, that the maiden’s name was 
 Zillah ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Even so,” replied?the Jew, with a bitter sigh ; “ she was 
 named after her mother.” 
 
 ““ You, doubtless, saw her, and, struck by her beauty, which 
 we hear was most marvellous, paid her more courtesy than was 
 quite fitting in a betrothed man. But Satan lays many snares 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 319 
 
 for the unwary, and beauty is a peril that few men altogether — 
 escape. Verily, it is of the evil one. But there are excuses ; 
 at least there may be excuses, especially in such a land as 
 France, where temptation assumes every seducing form ; and a 
 young woman, like this lady, might have been easily led to 
 believe your courtliness to be that of the heart, whereas it was 
 only that of the manner.” 
 
 The rabbi stood aghast, his friend Cromwell talked in a 
 tone so much more moderate than he had expected — he knew 
 not what to think. Even Burrell, who had anticipated a 
 thunder-storm, was deceived by the calm; and, after con- 
 sidering a moment that the Protector would not speak thus if 
 he had really received any communication from Hugh Dalton, 
 replied, breathing freely for the first time since he received the 
 mandate to appear at Hampton Court, — 
 
 *< It is possible she might have been led to such belief, 
 though, as I heave before assured her father, I had no intention 
 so to mislead his daughter. It is very hard to be suspected of 
 a crime so base ; and 
 
 ** But innocence wears a robe of such pure light,” inter- 
 rupted the Protector, ‘that it will shine in the darkest night, 
 as yours will, if you are innocent. Know you how the fair 
 Jewess became possessed of this picture? Nay, I should 
 hesitate to think harshly of you, even if you had given it to 
 her, which you might have done in pure friendliness, although 
 the world — it is a harsh and ill-judging world — might 
 condemn you on such ground. But we have ourselves suf- 
 fered so much from its wrong judgment, as to have learned 
 mercy towards others. Friendship, excellent, right, true 
 friendship, may exist between man and woman in our ad- 
 vanced —-ay, and in our young years. Why should it not? 
 Or, as the picture is of excellent painting, and the young lady, 
 it would seem, desired accomplishment in that useless art, you 
 might have lent it her as a study — or : 
 
 “‘T certainly did not give it,” replied Burrell ; “ but I have 
 some idea of having lent it, with sundry Flemish drawings. 
 Your Highness may remember that several gentlemen, attached 
 to the embassy at Paris, came away hastily. I was one of 
 those.” 
 
 Hereupon the Rabbi would have spoken, for he remembered 
 how Sir. Willmott had told him that the picture was not his ; 
 
 
 
 
 
* 
 
 320 THE BUCCANERR. 
 
 but the Protector again stayed him, seeking to entangle Bur- 
 rell in a web of his own weaving. 
 
 «* You visited the lady frequently ?” 
 
 “ Not very frequently. I told Manasseh Ben Israel, when 
 first he injured me by this most unjust suspicion, that I did 
 not often see her, and when I did, it was to ascertain if there 
 were any letters she desired to transmit to England.” 
 
 ** Not from the carnal desire of paying her homage ? ” 
 
 ‘© How could your Highness suppose it was?” 
 
 “You but now confessed she might so have interpreted 
 your civilities. _But—know you aught of one Hugh Dalton, 
 a free-trader ? ” 
 
 ** Know — know — know, your Highness? I know him 
 for a most keen villain!’’ replied the Master of Burrell 
 warmly. 
 
 ‘Indeed ! — But you scorned not to employ him.” 
 
 Burrell was silent ; for, though he had journeyed full fifty 
 miles, he had not been able to form any plan of defence, if 
 Cromwell should really be aware of the arrangements entered 
 into in the cavern of the Gull’s Nest Crag. Such he now 
 dreaded was the fact, not only from the appearance of a paper 
 the Protector drew forth, but from the fact that the seeming 
 calmness was fading from his brow. All that remained was 
 stoutly to deny its being in his hand-writing: it was a case 
 that finesse could in no way serve. 
 
 “‘ Did your Highness mean that I employed this man? ” he 
 said at last, with a clever mingling of astonishment and inno- 
 cence in his voice and manner. 
 
 During a brief pause that followed, the eye of Cromwell 
 was, as it were, nailed upon his countenance. ° 
 
 “‘ J do mean, Sir Willmott Burrell, that you scorned not to 
 employ this man. Know you this hand-writing ?” 
 
 Sir Willmott’s worst fears were confirmed. 
 
 «Permit me,” he said, glancing over the document ; then, 
 looking from it with most marvellous coolness, he raised his 
 eyes, exclaiming, ‘Sir, there is a} plot for my destruction ! 
 This hand-writing is so well feigned, that I could have sworn 
 it my own, had I not known the total impossibility that it 
 could so be!” 
 
 ful have seen your hand-writing before: — write now, 
 sir. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. S21 
 
 Burrell obeyed — took the pen in his hand, and Cromwell 
 noted that it trembled much. 
 
 ** Sir Willmott, I believe you in general place your paper 
 straight ? ’” 
 
 « Please your Highness, I do; but I am not cool — not 
 collected enough to act as calmly as at my own table. The 
 knowledge in whose presence I sit, might agitate stronger 
 nerves than mine. Behold, sir, the villain counterfeited well ; 
 the W is exact, even in the small hair-stroke — the ¢t’s are 
 crossed at the same distance, and the J/’s are of the height 
 of mine :—a most villanous, but most excellent counterfeit ! ”’ 
 
 «© Which ?” inquired the Protector : ‘‘which mean ye is the 
 counterfeit — the writing or the writer ? Without there ! 
 — Call in Robin Hays. Sir Willmott Burrell, Sir Willmott 
 Burrell! the Lord deliver me from such as thou art!” he 
 continued, swelling and chafing himself into anger, ‘ pricking 
 the sides of his intent,’ that so he might overwhelm the das- 
 tard knight. ‘“‘ We doubted, sir, at first, but we doubt no 
 longer. Sir, you have robbed that old man of his daughter ! 
 You have, by so doing, perjured your own soul, and brought. 
 most foul dishonour upon England. I once heard you talk of 
 patriotism : a true patriot loves his country too well to commit 
 a dishonourable action! Sir, I have learned that you were 
 married to the Jewish girl.” 
 
 “* Please your Highness,” interrupted Manasseh at length, 
 “I do not wish the marriage: if there be, as we suppose, a 
 marriage, I wish it not kept; I only want my wretched and 
 deluded child.” 
 
 “‘ Your pardon, good Rabbi. I am protector of the rights, 
 and not the fantasies, of those who inhabit England, and I 
 hold no sinecure. You may well turn pale, Master of Burrell! 
 —O Lord! that such should dwell in the tents of Judah ! — 
 that such should remain sound in life and limb, blessed with 
 carnal and fleshly comforts ! — that such reptiles should crawl 
 among us — be fed by the same food, warmed by the same 
 sun, as just men! No, no, Manasseh; if there has been a 
 marriage, as sure as the Almighty governs heaven, it shall be 
 kept! Nay, Sir Willmott Burrell, never dare to knit your 
 brows. Justice, sir, justice to the uttermost, is what I desire 
 in this country! Dost remember the fate of Don Pantaleon 
 
 xX 
 
 
 
322 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 Sa, the Portugal ambassador’s brother — a knight of Malta, 
 and a person eminent in many great actions? Dost remember 
 him, I say — that he died the death of a murderer, according 
 to the Scripture, ‘he that sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall 
 his blood be shed.’ Justice shall be satisfied !— Not that I 
 seek to confound you without a hearing. But here comes 
 one, once a retainer of your own, who can point out where the 
 lady is.” 
 
 Robin Hays, little conscious of the fate that had befallen 
 Barbara, entered with much alacrity, for he was glad of any- 
 thing that afforded him change of place. 
 
 “ What, Robin Hays!” said Burrell. ‘ Methinks your 
 Highness has assembled most creditable witnesses against me — 
 a Jew, and a thing like that !” 
 
 “No sneering, sir. This person asserts that Zillah Ben 
 Israel came over in the Fire-fly.” 
 
 ‘Ah! with Hugh Dalton,” said Sir Willmott, thrown off 
 his guard at what he conceived the Skipper’s utter faithlessness ; 
 then muttering, “ I thought sf 
 
 “* No matter what. Methinks ¢his confirms the document 
 you denied,” observed the Protector, whose rage had somewhat 
 subsided. ‘* No, not with Hugh Dalton, as you imagine, Sir 
 Willmott, but with a man of the name of Jeromio, an Italian. 
 The description answers in every respect — the dark eye, the 
 black hair, the sallow aspect — all.” 
 
 “© Indeed !”’ said Colonel Jones, who had been present dur- 
 ing the examination, leaning against one of the window-frames, 
 and taking much note of all that passed. ‘ Indeed! then 
 doth the Lord work marvellously, and wonderful is his name ! 
 for it was to all appearance a foreign woman, or rather fiend — 
 one with a pale cheek and jetty locks, who interrupted the 
 bridal at Cecil Place, and slew the fair young maid that waited 
 on Mistress Cecil!” 
 
 “«« Why told ye not this before?” inquired Cromwell hastily, 
 while the Rabbi advanced towards the soldier with great eager- 
 ness as the Protector spoke. But there was another whose 
 blood ran icy cold as the words of Colonel Jones were uttered. 
 He stood for a moment as if suddenly smitten with some cruel 
 malady, the next touch of which would be death; then he 
 pushed boldly past Sir Willmott, and grasping the soldier’s 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 323 
 
 arm, said in a broken husky voice, “‘ In God’s name, who was 
 slain P” 
 
 ** A modest-looking maid, whom they called Barbara, — yes, 
 Barbara was the name.” 
 
 Robin spoke not again, nor did he move from the Colonel’s 
 side, though his hand relaxed its grasp: he stood and looked 
 like a creature to whom the grave had refused rest — a being 
 whose breath and blood were frozen and congealed, at the mo- 
 ment when life and its energies were most needed ; strong 
 passion, powerful feeling were upon his countenance, and re- 
 mained there as if the spell of some magician had converted 
 him to stone. The effect which this scene produced upon the 
 Protector was evidence that he had a heart where the milk of 
 human kindness flowed, and must once have flowed abundantly, 
 however circumstances might have chilled its generous source. 
 Deeply anxious as he was as to the result of the investigation, 
 running full tilt at the difficulty he encountered, having the 
 means of overwhelming the Master of Burrell within his reach, 
 he suffered the Jew to continue a series of questions to Colonel 
 Jones, while he spoke to Robin — soothing and caressing him 
 as a father would have soothed and caressed an afflicted child. 
 But this unbending of his sterner nature was lost upon the 
 unhappy Ranger ; he could not have replied if he would ; all 
 his faculties were suspended, and he remained in silence and 
 without motion, unconscious of the Protector’s condescending 
 kindness. 
 
 ** *Tis ever thus,’’ ejaculated Oliver, looking upon the sad 
 figure now by his side. ‘“ ’Tis ever thus ; there never was a 
 noble heart but the blight fell on it; doubtless he loved the 
 maid: the Lord be with us! He is seized — pray the Al- 
 mighty not for death.” He struck his dagger on a hand-bell 
 that lay upon the table, ordered that his own surgeon should 
 attend Robin with all due speed, and then walked kindly by 
 his side to the opened door, where he delivered him to a 
 favourite attendant. Those in the ante-room who had wit- 
 nessed Cromwell's gentleness to Robin Hays were profuse in 
 their offers of assistance to one, whom, but a little while before, 
 they had jested at and insulted. Courtiers are as ripe in re- 
 publics as in king-governed countries. Your sycophants bow 
 to the power, and not to the person. Dress but a dog in royal 
 
 yY 2 
 
 > 
 
524 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 robes, and call him Emperor — Protector — King, and thou- 
 sands will rejoice loudly if he but wag his tail. 
 
 Cromwell returned to his investigation, and interspersed his 
 questionings with much bitterness of remark — the more so as 
 he feared his chain of evidence was in some degree incomplete, 
 although no moral doubt could remain on the mind of any 
 person as to the Master of Burrell’s guilt. Colonel Jones failed 
 not to show how anxious Sir Willmott had been that Zillah 
 should escape, and the Rabbi’s agitation bordered on madness 
 when he contemplated the new crime into which his wretched 
 daughter had been led. 
 
 «* Brand me as you please; think of me in your good judg- 
 ment as you will. JI ama free man ; free to go as to come ; 
 and as your Highness cannot detain me on legal grounds, I am 
 at liberty to depart.” 
 
 Sir Willmott had scarcely finished the sentence, when Gra- 
 cious Meanwell, having first knocked, and received permission 
 to enter, advanced with a small and peculiar-looking packet in 
 his hand; it was composed of slips of parchment, and the 
 direction was in printed, not written letters. 
 
 ‘I crave your Highness’s pardon ; but a sailor-like lad 
 brought this to the great gate, and would take no denial, but 
 that it should be given immediately to your Highness, saying 
 that he found it hanging in some out-o’-the way place, betwixt 
 heaven and earth, far off in the Isle of Shepey, and seeing that 
 it was directed to your Highness, he came straightway to de- 
 liver it; he prevailed on the porters to forward it up, which 
 they did, knowing that your Highness wishes nothing of the 
 sort to be kept back.” 
 
 While Meanwell spoke, Cromwell was undoing or rather 
 tearing open the parcel ; and the man was about to withdraw 
 with all the court observance which the Protector would not 
 lack. 
 
 “The manifestation of the Lord! The manifestation of 
 his righteous judgments! His ways are clear in Israel, and 
 mighty is his name ! — Look here, Colonel Jones ; my worthy 
 friend Manasseh Ben Israel, behold! Is it not wonderful ! 
 Gracious Meanwell, see that the bearer of this be well cared 
 for, but safely kept. We will speak with him ourselves. Of 
 a truth it is wonderful !” fey 
 
 Such were the words of Cromwell as he scanned, with a 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 325 
 
 rapid but scrutinising glance, each of the several papers con- 
 tained in the parcel ; — first, a certificate of marriage between 
 Sir Willmott Burrell and Zillah Ben Israel, as performed by 
 one Samuel Verdaie a monk residing at the Benedictine Friary 
 in the “ Faubourg St. Antoine,” at Paris — next, many letters 
 from the said Sir Willmott Burrell to the Jewess — and lastly, 
 a love document given before their marriage, wherein he 
 pledged himself to marry Zillah, and to use his influence with 
 Cromwell (whom he facetiously termed vieux gargon), to in- 
 duce her father to pardon the undutiful step she was about to 
 take. 
 
 ** This is also a counterfeit, Sir Willmott, I presume,” con- 
 tinued the Protector, pointing to the document; ‘‘ nor is this 
 in your hand-writing — nor this — and this is not your seal 
 — and there is no such person as Samuel Verdaie — nor such 
 place as the Benedictine Friary, or Paris, I suppose ? What ! 
 have you lost the power of speech? Shame! shame! shame! 
 and the curse of shame fall upon you! It is such men as you 
 —such crimes as yours, that bring disgrace upon England. 
 Sad will be the day for her, when she sinks in the estimation 
 of the world as a moral nation. Behold her, a small speck in 
 the immensity of the globe ; yet great is her name among the 
 kingdoms of the earth! A Briton carries, or ought to carry, 
 ten times the influence of any other man, because our power is 
 over the mind, over the respect, over the veneration of man- 
 kind. Go to, sir, you are no Englishman! Behold, how ill 
 prosper your evil contrivances! Sir, I say again, you have 
 robbed that old man of his daughter. — What say you ?” 
 
 ** It was to spare that old man’s feelings I denied the act,” 
 said Sir Willmott, again rallying, yet wanting the courage that 
 forms a respectable villain; “it was to spare him. But the 
 marriage is nought! a Popish priest, a Protestant gentleman, 
 and a Jewess! I knew not your Highness would sanction such 
 unholy rites. Besides, despite all this, the Lady Constantia 
 will wed me yet.” 
 
 “* By the holy heavens, she shall not !” exclaimed Cromwell, 
 forgetting the Puritan Protector in the soldier, the soberness of 
 the age in the energy of the moment ; then as suddenly adding, 
 “The Lord forgive me! the Lord blot out mine iniquities ! 
 See what it is to have to do with sinners !” 
 
 “Shall not!” repeated Burrell, who was as much of the 
 
 Wa: 
 
326 ; THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 bully as the coward, and still trusted his cause to the know- 
 ledge of Constantia’s filial affection, and her readiness to sacri- 
 fice all for her father ; ‘let the lady decide.” 
 
 “So be it ; though I hardly think it — there must be some 
 hidden motive. Yet no, Sir Willmott Burrell, I will not, — 
 even if she will, I will it otherwise. Ah! think ye to control 
 me? Didst ever hear of one Cony? or of Maynard Twisden, 
 and Wyndham, his counsel? What if I imprison ye, Sir 
 Willmott, till this Jewess be found, and compel ye to wed her 
 again, even here in England! What say ye now?” 
 
 “Would you have me wed a murderess ?” inquired the 
 villain, in a calm tone. 
 
 “‘ My child is not that,” said the heart-broken father, who 
 had been examining the papers, with overpowering anxiety. 
 
 “What! good Manasseh ?” inquired Cromwell. 
 
 “That which he did call her,” replied the Jew. 
 
 ‘There needs no farther parley. Colonel Jones, we will 
 ourself accompany our worthy friend to the Isle of Shepey, 
 and investigate more minutely this most unhappy business. 
 You will take all requisite care of Sir Willmott Burrell, who 
 goes with us — willing or unwilling — Perhaps he would like 
 to appeal from our decree? To-night we will set forth, so as 
 to arrive at King’s-ferry before to-morrow’s sunset; for we 
 must stay an hour at Whitehall, and say a word in passing to 
 Colonel Lilburne, at Eltham.” 
 
 “« How does your Highness travel ?” 
 
 “‘ As befits our state,’’ replied the Protector. ‘* Worthy 
 Rabbi, be not cast down ; all may yet be well.” 
 
 “Your Highness is ever kind ; but justice is inflexible. My 
 child !— that which he called my child, rings in mine ear — 
 pierces it! O Father Abraham! I knew not the curse that 
 fell upon Israel until this day !” 
 
 «* All may yet be well, I say again,’ observed the Protector, 
 “know ye not what was said by the prophet of old — the pro- 
 phet of the Lord — ‘ Now thus saith the Lord that created 
 thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, fear not !’” 
 
 “ May I return and commune with your Highness?” craved. 
 Colonel Jones, as he escorted Burrell to the door — “ there is 
 much that I would mention, although this is the Lord’s day.” 
 
 ** Ay, certainly. — Gracious Meanwell! I would speak with 
 him who brought this parcel.” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 327 
 
 A lad was introduced ; but he could tell nothing, except 
 that passing along the crags of the Gull’s Nest, (the Protector 
 started at the name,) he saw the packet dangling in the air ; 
 he pulled at it, and it came easily away in his hand; and 
 finding it directed to his Highness, he had been recommended 
 to bring it forthwith — that he had ridden part of the way in 
 company with some who were coming as far as Gravesend, and 
 had ‘lifted’ him. He looked like what he was, part oyster- 
 dredger, part smuggler. Cromwell saw nothing in him that 
 would justify detention, and dismissed him with a liberal gra- 
 tuity. 
 
 ** We shall solve the mysteries of this Gull’s Nest Crag be- 
 fore we leave the island,’ thought the Protector, and then 
 proceeded to the almost hopeless task of comforting the hum- 
 bled and afflicted “ Master in Israel.” 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Where I, a prisoner chain’d, scarce freely draw 
 The air, imprison’d also, close and damp, 
 Unwholesome draught. 
 
 But here I feel amends, 
 The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet, 
 With day-spring born. MILTON. 
 
 My readers will, doubtless, be more interested in visiting 
 Robin Hays than in noting the preparations made and the 
 order observed by the Protector for his intended journey. 
 When Cromwell put his state upon him, he did it with all 
 dignity ; there was no sparing of expense, no scant of attend- 
 ants, no lack of guards — boldly and bravely were his arrange- 
 ments formed ; for he wisely knew that plainness and simpli- 
 city, although they may be understood and appreciated by the 
 high-minded, are held in contempt by the low and the unedu- 
 cated, because imagined to be within their own attainment. 
 Had Cincinnatus ruled in England, he would never have 
 abandoned a kingdom for a ploughshare ; such an act would 
 have been looked upon, at least by more than half the nation, 
 as proceeding from weakness rather than from true strength 
 of mind. The English, notwithstanding all their talk about 
 y 4 
 
328 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 equality, have not enthusiasm enough to understand or to feel 
 the greatness that slights, and even scorns, magnificence! a 
 gilded pageant wins their hearts; and a title overturns their 
 understandings. We will here hazard the assertion, that if 
 Cromwell had listened to a very powerful party, and had ac- 
 cepted, instead of having declined the name, while he possessed 
 the station of a “ King,’ he would have conquered all the 
 obstacles by which he was surrounded, and have bequeathed a 
 throne to his son, that in all human probability would have 
 been continued in his family, even to our own day. We 
 must leave this sentence, startling though it may be, without 
 the arguments necessary to support it ; certain it is, however, 
 that so thought the Protector himself, who considered that the 
 people of England, like the Israelites of old, would never be 
 at rest until they had ‘ a king to rule over them.” 
 
 It would be a vain attempt to describe the sufferings of 
 Robin Hays, from the moment when the news of Barbara’s 
 death fell upon him like a thunderbolt, and he quitted the pre- 
 sence of the Protector without the power of reply. He was 
 sensible of only one feeling — awake to only one emotion — 
 his heart echoed but to one sensation — his eyes burned with- 
 in their sockets — all things before him were confused ; and 
 there was but a single image present to his mind. As if in 
 compassion to his personal deformity, Nature had endowed 
 him with a degree of sentiment and refinement perfectly at 
 war with his habits and pursuits. But in his case, such com- 
 passion was, if we may so speak, cruelty. Had he been born 
 to a higher station, it might have been a blessing —in his 
 present sphere it was a curse — a curse which the Ranger had 
 felt most constantly and most acutely. He had been laughed 
 at by such as Roupall, who exulted in the possession of mere 
 brute strength ; and he had been sneered and scouted at by 
 the giddy and the vain, who, dreading his sarcasms, repaid 
 themselves by finding out his one vulnerable point, and prob- 
 ing it to the quick. Barbara had stolen into his heart uncon- 
 sciously, as a sweet and quiet stream insinuates itself through 
 the bosom of some rugged mountain, softening and fertilising ~ 
 so gently, that its influence is seen and acknowledged while 
 its power is unaccounted for and its source unknown. The 
 belief that the young Puritan entertained an affection for him, 
 was a belief he hardly dared to cherish; but there were times 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 829 
 
 when he did cherish it ; and it was at such times only that his 
 turbulent and restless mind was enabled to find repose: then 
 the memory of her kindness, her gentleness, her tenderness, 
 would come upon him like sleep to the eyes of the weary — 
 like a fresh well in a sandy desert — like a gentle spring after 
 a stormy winter —in a word, like woman’s love, where it is 
 most hoped, but least looked for. Whenever he indulged the 
 idea of her affection, he felt like one uplifted above the world 
 — its base sorrows and still baser joys ; — earth had for him 
 but one sound of comfort — it was the name of her he loved ! 
 but one promise of happiness ; and from her it was never for 
 a moment severed — hope, love, faith, centred in her — she 
 was his world, and though his wandering employments might 
 summon him elsewhere, it was in her presence alone that he 
 relished, or even felt existence. At times, when the acidity of 
 his nature forced him to distrust her smiles, and he upbraided 
 her though she deserved it not, hours of penitence could not 
 blot out from his own remembrance the act of weakness and 
 injustice: he pondered upon it long after the gentle girl had 
 forgotten that ever unkind word had passed between them. 
 Beings of a gross and fettered nature cannot conceive of a love 
 so pure as that which Barbara felt for the mis-shapen Robin 
 —so perfectly devoid of earthly passion, yet so faithful — so 
 exalted — so devoted — so engrossing! She had looked so 
 long on his deformities, that she had ceased to perceive them ; 
 and often paused and wondered what people meant by flouting 
 at his plainness. But the excellent and gentle girl was now 
 to the unfortunate Ranger only as a dream of the past — 
 vanished from off the earth like a sweet perfume, or a sweeter 
 melody, with the memory of which comes the knowledge that 
 it can be enjoyed no more. 
 
 After he had \been conveyed to another chamber, the phy~ 
 sician ordered restoratives and immediate bleeding ; — but 
 time did more than the leech’s art; and the first wish he 
 formed was, that he might once more wend his way to the 
 Isle of Shepey, and gaze again, and for the last time, upon 
 the form of her he loved. 
 
 Once aroused from his torpor, the means of effecting his 
 escape was the first thing he considered. He had been 
 removed to one of the lower rooms, and his apartment could 
 not be termed a prison, though the door was fastened on the 
 
330 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 outer side — for the window was not more than ten feet from 
 the ground, and unbolted ; it looked out into the garden, and 
 the sentinel placed beside that portion of the building had a 
 longer range than was usually allotted to the palace guard. 
 Robin soon observed that the lawn beneath was planted with 
 rich clusters of young trees. The hour for evening prayer 
 had arrived ; so that the household would be most probably 
 engaged, and the garden free from visiters. He looked from 
 the window ; it was one of the loveliest days of summer — a 
 day that at any other time he would have welcomed with all the 
 enthusiasm of a true lover of nature ; so warm the air, so sweet 
 the flowers, so silently flitted the small insects, as if dreading 
 to disturb the repose of the sunbeams that slept on the green 
 turf. Nothing could be more unlike the vicinity of a court ; 
 the very sentry seemed to tread it as hallowed ground—his 
 step was scarcely heard along the soft grass. 
 
 Robin did not attempt to assume any disguise. 
 
 ‘“‘ T shall walk boldly when I get out of the garden,” he 
 thought, “ and if I am taken before Cromwell, I will say why 
 I desire liberty ; I only wish to see her once more, and then 
 farewell to all! the red cross against my name, in Oliver's 
 dark book, may be dyed still redder —- in my heart’s blood !”’ 
 
 Although his arm was stiff from the bleeding he had 
 undergone but an hour before, be watched till the soldier’s 
 back was turned, and dropped from the window. He had 
 scarcely time to conceal himself beneath a row of evergreens 
 when the sentinel turned on his path. Robin crept on, from 
 tuft to tuft— now under the shadow of a tree — now under 
 that of a turret, until he found himself close to a high wall 
 which flanked the side next the river ; and then he became 
 sorely perplexed as to the method of his further escape. To 
 the right was a gate which, from its position, he judged led 
 into one of the outer courts, and, notwithstanding his first re- 
 solve of braving his way, habit and consideration induced him 
 to prefer the track least frequented or attended with risk. At 
 the extremity of the wall, where it turned at a right angle to 
 afford an opening for a gateway, grew an immense yew-tree, 
 solitary and alone, like some dark and malignant giant, stretch- 
 ing out its arms to battle with centuries and storms; softened 
 by no shadow, cheered by no sunbeam, enlivened by no 
 shower, no herb or flower flourished beneath its ban, but there 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 331 
 
 it towered, like the spirit of evil in a smiling world. The 
 wall, too, was overgrown with ivy —the broad ivy, whose 
 spreading leaves hide every little stem that clasps the bosom of 
 the hard stone, and, with most cunning wisdom, extracts sus- 
 tenance from all it touches. Robin’s keen eye scanned well 
 every nook and corner, and he then mounted the tree, con- 
 ceiving he might, with little difficulty, descend on the other 
 side, as he perceived that the branches bent over the wall. He 
 had hardly reached midway, when a voice, whose tones he well 
 remembered, fell upon his ear, and for a moment called back 
 his thoughts from their sad and distant wanderings. He 
 paused: the sound was not from the garden, nor the roof. 
 After much scrutiny, he discovered a small aperture of about a 
 foot square, that was originally a window, but latterly had 
 been choked by the matted ivy which overspread its bars. The 
 voice was as of one who has tasted the weariness of life, 
 and would fain put away the cup that was all bitterness. It 
 sung, but the song was more a murmur than a lay, sorrowful 
 as the winter’s wind that roams through the long and cluster- 
 
 ing grass in some old churchyard, telling, — 
 
 ** Of blighted hopes and prospects shaded, 
 
 Of buried hopes remember’d well, : 
 
 Of ardor quench’d, and honour faded.”’ 
 
 With a trembling hand the Ranger sought to disentangle 
 the ivy ; but this he found it almost impossible to effect in 
 consequence of the pain arising from his left arm whenever 
 he slung himself by it. At length he in some degree suc- 
 ceeded, but could see nothing, except that light came up from 
 a chamber, which, he then believed, must be lighted from be- 
 neath, though the window did not look into the garden. The 
 voice still continued ; it was one of the songs of Provence that 
 was sung — the wail of a young girl over the body of her 
 dead lover, the burthen of which was that of the Psalmist of 
 old : — 
 
 ‘© T shall go to thee, 
 But thou canst never come to me.” 
 
 There was no poetry in the song, but the sentiment touched 
 the heart of the afflicted Robin. His breast heaved and 
 heaved, like the swell of the troubled sea, and then tears burst 
 in torrents from his eyes, and relieved his burning and dizzy 
 brain. 
 
832 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ‘‘T never thought to have wept again,’ he said, “and I 
 bless God for the ease it gives me ; yet why should I bless that 
 which has cursed me?” And again his heart returned to its 
 bitterness ; the hand that so often had attuned it to gentleness, 
 was cold — cold in death. Alas! resignation is the most diffi- 
 cult lesson in the Christian code ; few there are who learn it 
 to perfection — it requires a long and a melancholy apprentice- 
 ship ! 
 
 Again he endeavoured to withdraw the ivy, and once ven- 
 tured to speak ; but he dreaded to raise his voice. ‘* At all 
 events,” thought Robin, “I will send him a token ;” and, 
 extending his hand, he dropped the paper containing the lock 
 of hair which had been given him by the blithe landlady of 
 the Oliver’s Head. The ringlet was received, for on the in- 
 stant the singing ceased, and presently. Walter De Guerre 
 called aloud, “‘ In the name of God, who sends me this?” 
 
 Bitterly did Robin regret that he was totally unprovided 
 with pencil, tablets, or aught that could convey intelligence to 
 Walter. At another time his active genius would have found 
 some means of communication, but his faculties were only 
 half alive, and he could but regret and listen. It would ap- 
 pear, however, that, as Walter spoke, he was interrupted by 
 some one entering his chamber, for his voice suddenly ceased, 
 and though Robin heard it again, it was in converse with 
 another. He listened attentively for some time, but could 
 catch nothing of the subject upon which they spoke. 
 
 As suddenly as the interview had commenced, so suddenly 
 did it terminate ; for, though Robin threw pieces of stick and 
 fragments of mortar into the aperture, to intimate that he con- 
 tinued there, no answering signal was returned. The evening 
 was drawing on, and persons passed and repassed beneath the 
 tree —some of them with hurried, some with slower steps: at 
 last the self-same page with whom he had jested rushed for- 
 ward in company with the sentinel, and Robin heard him 
 say, — 
 
 “IT tell you, his Highness will wait no forms; he com- 
 manded you instantly to come to him. It is impossible that 
 a cat could fall from that window without your seeing it, un- 
 less you were asleep on your post.” 
 
 ‘J had no caution about the window, master; and, at all 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 333 
 
 events, nothing, I am sure, could pass from it, except a spirit,” 
 replied the soldier. 
 
 Immediately after the guard passed for the purpose of re- 
 placing the sentinel ; and about half an hour afterwards, there 
 was a bustle in the courts, the tramping of brave steeds, and 
 the rolling of carriage-wheels ; then the braying trumpet 
 sounded “ to horse!” and soon the noise of much and stately 
 pageantry was lost in the distance. Robin Hays cared not to 
 move until the palace was more at rest ; but his meditations 
 were continually disturbed by the passers-by. Had he been 
 disposed to listen or pay any attention to those who came and 
 went, he could have heard and seen things, from which much 
 that was bitter and much that was sweet might have been 
 gathered. He might have observed that a plain coat or a sim- 
 ple hood changes not the nature of those who wear it ; yet, on 
 the other hand, he would have noted that the plain coat and 
 simple hood preserve from outward vice, however the inward 
 thoughts may triumph. But the watchful lynx-eyed ranger 
 was changed, sorely, sadly changed ; in four brief hours he 
 had lived more than treble the number of years. He patiently 
 lingered, till the shades of evening closed, to effect an escape, 
 that had now become more easy, inasmuch as the inmates of 
 the palace had nearly all retired to their apartments. ‘Through 
 the agency of the yew-tree, he arrived at the highest portion 
 of the wall, and looking over, perceived that a roof descended 
 from the large coping-stones on which he stood, in a slanting 
 manner, and that the building communicated by an arched 
 covering to the palace: the Thames was not distant from the 
 base of the building more than sixty yards, so that once down, 
 his escape was certain. Watching the movements of a sentry, 
 posted at some little distance from the gate, he slid along the 
 roof, stretching himself at full length, and without any further 
 mishap crawled to the river’s brink, plunged in, and arrived at 
 the Surrey-side of the silver Thames in perfect safety. He 
 resolved to cross the country to Bromley with as little delay as 
 possible, inasmuch as he had friends there who would hasten 
 his journey ;—and as concealment was no longer needed, he 
 thought that a good steed would be most valuable ; he there- 
 fore availed himself of one who was enjoying its evening 
 meal quietly among the Surrey hills; for the credit of his 
 honesty, however, it is fair to record, he noted the place, so 
 
334 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 that one of his agents could restore the animal in the course of 
 the following night. By this manceuvre, and urging its ut- 
 most speed, together with the assistance he received at Brom- 
 ley, Robin arrived at King’s-ferry before the morning was far 
 advanced. He did not now, as on former occasions, cross the 
 Swale to Elmley or Harty, with a view to avoid observation, 
 but threw himself into the boat of Jabez Tippet, the ferry- 
 man, to whom, as it may be supposed, he was well known. 
 
 Jabez carried about him all the external distinctions of 
 Puritanism —a cropped head—a downcast eye —a measured 
 step, and a stock of sighs and religious exclamations. There 
 was one maxim that found a ready response within his bosom. 
 “¢ He was all things to all men;” could aid a smuggler, drink 
 with a Cavalier, pray with a Roundhead. He was, moreover, 
 a tall, powerful man—one who, if he found it fitting, could 
 enforce a holy argument with a carnal weapon; cutting a 
 man’s throat, while he exclaimed, ‘It is the Lord’s will! it 
 is the Lord’s will!” There was nothing peculiar in his dress, 
 except a huge pair of loose boots, of the thickest untanned 
 leather, that reached considerably above his knees, and from 
 frequent immersion in the tide had assumed a deep brown hue. 
 His hat was conical, and only distinguished by a small dirk 
 glittering in the band, which he carried there as a place of 
 safety from contact with the sea-water. 
 
 “« My gay Ranger travelling in open day, when there is such 
 wild news abroad !”’ he said. 
 
 Robin made no reply ; and Jabez, who was pulling at the 
 huge cable, which then, as well as now, towed the boats across, 
 stopped and looked at him. 
 
 ** My bonny Robin, what ails ye, man? Hast been cheated 
 by the excise, or plundered by the Roundheads, or does the 
 strange trouble they say has come upon Hugh Dalton affect ye 
 so much ?” 
 
 Robin turned his head away ; his grief was too deep to 
 covet witnesses. 
 
 «‘ There’s a guard of Ironsides at Cecil Place by this time,”’ 
 continued the man, who began to think that Robin was re- 
 lapsing into one of his taciturn fits, “‘ and Noll himself on the 
 road, which I heard, not an hour past, from two soldiers, who 
 have been sent on with his own physician to Sir Robert, who’s 
 gone mad as a March hare; and they do say that his High- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. $35 
 
 ness has a plan of his own to destroy all free trade on the 
 island for ever: but I’m thinking Hugh has scented it, and is 
 far enough off by this time.” 
 
 Robin looked inquiringly into the man’s face, but did not 
 speak, 
 
 ““Some time or other, master,” continued the ferryman, 
 whose boat now touched the strand, ‘‘ youll maybe condescend 
 to unriddle me how Dalton could have a daughter brought up 
 by t 
 
 Robin Hays did not wait for the conclusion of the sentence, 
 but sprang right on the land, with the air of a man bereft of 
 reason, confirming Jabez in the idea that he was again labour- 
 ing under his old infirmity. 
 
 The Ranger took not the direct road to Minster, which he 
 ought to have passed on his way to the Gull’s Nest, where he 
 resolved to ascertain if Barbara’s body was at Cecil Place ; 
 but after crossing the downs, that were brightening in the 
 summer’s sun and alive with multitudes of sheep, wound 
 round the base of the hill on which the mansion stood, and as 
 its mixture of ancient and modern architecture became de- 
 veloped, he paused to look upon a spot so endeared by many 
 affectionate recollections. The trees that encircled the fairy 
 ring were conspicuous for their height and beauty of colour ; 
 there, too, was the casement window which he had so often 
 watched, knowing that Barbara must pass it in her morning 
 and evening attendance on her lady; there, peeping from 
 beneath a turret, the lattice admitting light to Barbara’s own 
 little chamber ; there, the window of Constantia’s sitting- 
 room ; there — But he could gaze no longer, his heart sickened 
 within him, and covering his face with his hands, he rushed 
 into a narrow glen that skirted the hillside, and was com- 
 pletely overshadowed by trees, whose unpruned branches were 
 matted and twined together in most fantastic and impervious 
 underwood. He pursued this track, with which he was well 
 acquainted, as leading directly to the back entrance, where he 
 more than once resolved to inquire where Barbara’s remains 
 were placed; but he had scarcely proceeded a dozen yards 
 towards the house, when his attention was excited by a sudden 
 and loud rustling amongst the bushes, and on looking towards 
 the spot, he saw first one and then another raven mount in 
 the air, uttering, at short intervals, the peculiar dull and com- 
 
 
 
336 THE BUCCANEER,. 
 
 plaining cry of rapacious birds when frightened from their 
 prey. The creatures evidently meditated another descent, for, 
 instead of betaking themselves to the neighbouring trees, they 
 circled round and round in the air, now higher, now lower, 
 mingling their monotonous notes with an occasional scream — 
 thus inharmoniously disturbing the sweet solitude by their 
 unholy orgies. In the mean time, the rustling beneath was 
 renewed, and then as suddenly ceased ; but the birds, instead 
 of descending, whirled still higher, as if the object they had 
 sought was for a time hidden from their sight. The Ranger 
 proceeded more cautiously than before, and peering into the 
 bushes, descried one whom he iminediately recognised as Jack 
 Roupall, unfastening something of considerable bulk that was 
 contained in a handkerchief, and had apparently lain there for 
 some days, as the grass from which it had been taken was 
 completely levelled by its pressure. Roupall’s ears were 
 nearly as quick as those of Robin, and an exclamation of 
 recognition escaped his lips as he turned round to where the 
 Ranger stood. 
 
 « Ah! our little Ranger,” said the man, extending his 
 rough hand, “it charms me to see you! I feared you were 
 nabbed somehow, for I knew you'd be cursedly down in 
 the feathers from what the whole island is talking of. — Hast 
 seen the Skipper? ” 
 
 “« Where is he? ” 
 
 “ That’s exactly what I want to know; but no one has 
 seen him, that 1 hear of, since he seized the poor girl, dead as 
 she was, and carried her through the midst of the soldiers, who 
 had too much fear or too much nature in ’em to touch him —I 
 don’t know which it was. I’m thinking he’s off to the Fire-fly, 
 for he said he'd bury her in the sea ;— or hid, maybe, in some 
 o’ the holes at the Gull'’s Nest — holes only known to a few of 
 the sly sort, not to us strappers.” 
 
 ** Good God!” exclaimed Robin. 
 
 « Ah! you may well say, good God,” said Roupall, putting 
 on a look of great sagacity, “ for I’m come to the deter- 
 mination that there’s much need of a good God in the world 
 to circumvent man’s wickedness. Why, look ye here now, if 
 here isn’t the head of that infernal Italian, Jeromio! and 
 what I’m puzzled at is, that, first, it’s wrapped in a napkin 
 which I swear is one of them Holland ones I had o’ the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 837 
 
 Skipper, and which he swore I could have made more of, 
 had I took them on to London, instead of tiffing them at 
 Maidstone ; and this, outside it, is Sir Willmott Burrell’s — 
 here’s the crest broidered in goold: — it’s the finest cambric 
 too,” he added, relieving the muslin of its disgusting burden, 
 and folding it with care, ‘‘ and ’tis a pity it should be wasted 
 on filthy flesh; so I'll take care of it—-ah! ah! And the 
 napkin’s a good one: it’s sinful to spoil any thing God sends 
 —ah! ah! The fellow used to wear ear-rings too,” he con- 
 tinued, stooping over the festering head, while the ravens, 
 whose appetites had increased when they saw the covering 
 entirely removed, flapped the topmost branches of the trees 
 with their wings in their circling, and screamed more vigorously 
 than before. 
 
 «© How came it — how happened it ?”’ inquired Robin, per- 
 fectly aroused to the horror of the scene, to which Roupall 
 appeared quite indifferent. 
 
 * T know no more than you,”’ replied the good-humoured 
 ruffian, holding up a jewelled ear-ring between his fingers — 
 * T know no more than you ; — Gad, that’s fit for any lady’s 
 ear in Kent !— Only I heard it was believed among the 
 sharks, that my friend Sir Willmott excited a mutiny aboard 
 the Fire-fly, which this fellow, now without a head, headed — 
 and so, ye understand, lost his head, as the Skipper’s punish- 
 ment for mutiny. How it came here — where it may stay — 
 I know not. ‘There, Robin, there are a pair of rings fit for 
 a queen: maybe, you'll buy them; they’re honestly worth 
 two dollars. Well, you would have bought ’em if she’d ha’ 
 lived.” 
 
 ‘© Me !—-her!” exclaimed Robin, closing his teeth, and 
 glaring on Jack Roupall with fiendish fierceness. 
 
 “* Keep off!” ejaculated Roupall, securing the ear-rings, 
 and placing himself in a posture of defence — “ Keep off! 
 I know ye of old, Robin Hays, with your griping fingers and 
 strong palms! Never quarrel with a man because he doesn’t 
 understand ye’r delicacies, which are things each makes in his 
 own mind, so that no one else can taste’em. I meant no 
 harm ; only, mark ye, ye sha’n't throttle me for nothing the 
 next go ; so keep off; and I’m off, for sides 0’ flesh and sides 
 o’ iron are astir up there ; so this is no place for me. I shall 
 be off, and join King Charlie: he’s much in want of strong 
 
 Z 
 
338 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 hands, I hear, and who knows but the time is coming when 
 ‘ the king shall enjoy his own again?’ ” 
 
 ‘© Do but bury that!” said Robin: I would stay and do it, 
 but that I must to the Nest at once.” 
 
 “No, no,” replied Roupall, striding away in an opposite 
 direction ; “let it stay where it is, to poison ravens and the 
 cearrion-birds. It is fitting food for them. They had nobler 
 banquets at Naseby and at Marston.” 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Down, stormy Passions, down ; no more 
 Let your rude waves invade the shore 
 Where blushing Reason sits, and hides 
 Her from the fury of your tides. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Fall, easy Patience, fall like rest, 
 Where soft spells charm a troubled breast. Henry Kina. 
 
 We believe that even those who are anxious to learn if the 
 Protector travelled in safety to his place of destination, and 
 what he did when he arrived there, will scarcely murmur at 
 the delay which a brief visit to Constantia Cecil will necessarily 
 occasion. , 
 
 We must not leave her alone in her sorrow, which, of a 
 truth, was hard to bear. A temporary respite had been afforded 
 her by the terrible events of the evening ; it was, however, a 
 respite that was likely, in her case, only to bring about a more 
 fatal termination. What was to prevent Sir Willmott Burrell 
 from branding her father — from publishing his crime, now 
 that he was to receive no benefit by the terrible secret of which 
 he had become possessed? Although she might be preserved 
 from the dreadful and dreaded doom of marrying a man she 
 could neither regard nor respect, it was equally certain that an 
 eternal barrier existed between her and the only one she loved 
 —— a barrier which not even the power of Cromwell could break 
 down or remove. It has been said, and said truly, that there 
 are few things reason can discover with so much certainty and 
 ease as its own deficiency. Constantia was a reasoning being, 
 and she appeared ever placid in situations where her fine mind 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 839 
 
 was overwhelmed by a painful train of circumstances over 
 which she had no control: the sins for which she suffered 
 were not of her own committing. 
 
 She had often gloried in days past at the prospect of fame — 
 the honest, upright fame which appeared the guiding principle 
 that influenced her father’s actions, when the seeking after 
 glory seemed to her as a ferment thrown into his blood to work 
 it up to action; and though she sometimes apprehended that 
 he used his will with his right hand and his reason with his left, 
 she never imagined the possibility that his pomp was furnished 
 by injustice and his wealth dyed in blood. It was, in truth, a 
 fearful knowledge she had acquired —a knowledge she could 
 not communicate, and upon which she could never take advice. 
 Her misery was to be endured not only with patience, but in 
 secret and without complaint. That destiny was indeed severe 
 which compelied her to anticipate a meeting with Walter as 
 the greatest evil which could befall her; yet ardently did her 
 soul yearn to know his fate. She sat by her father on the first 
 night of his affliction, and on the long, long day that followed, 
 guarding him through his dreadful malady with the watchful- 
 ness of a most devoted child, and the skilfulnes of a most wise 
 physician. Almost every word he uttered was as a dagger to her 
 heart ; yet she saw and knew the necessity that must soon exist 
 for others to hear him speak, and shuddered at the thought. 
 
 “God! God! have mercy on me!” she murmured, clasp. 
 ing her hands, as she looked upon his features, which, when 
 it was nearly morning, had been tranquillised into forgetful- 
 ness — ‘‘ God have mercy upon me— and upon him, poor 
 sleeper !”’ 
 
 *“ Who sleeps?” he exclaimed, starting from his couch — 
 ** He will not let me sleep! — There! Constance, Constance, 
 the ship is under weigh — she spreads her white sails to the 
 breeze, the ocean breeze —the breeze that will not cool my 
 brow ! — And there — they drag him from the hold ! — Look 
 how he struggles on the vessel's deck ! — Spare him ! — But 
 no, do not spare him: if he returns, where am I? Hush! 
 did you hear that? — Hush! hush! hush!” He stretched 
 his hand, and bent his head in an attitude of deep attention ; 
 then seizing her arm, repeated “‘ hush!” until at last she again 
 inquired what disturbed him. ‘*’Tis your mother, child ; 
 heard you not that she said I murdered you? Speak, Con- 
 
 z 2 
 
 4s tw 
 
340 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 stantia,— you are not dead? I did not murder you — speak! 
 I fired no pistol, and you did not fall!” The sleep she had 
 so unintentionally broken had been but of short continuance 
 during those weary hours ; and the day was far advanced be- 
 fore she had leisure to bestow a moment's thought upon the 
 probable turn that might be given to her future prospects by the 
 sudden summons of Sir Willmott Burrell to Hampton Court. 
 But, upon whichever side she turned, her destiny was dark, 
 lowering, and fearful as the thunder-storm. How her heart 
 fainted when the form of her favourite Barbara was present 
 to her imagination, as she last held it bleeding on her bosom! 
 How mysterious was that death! how terrible! She would 
 have given worlds to look upon her but once more, for she 
 could ill reconcile the idea of that gentle girl’s having a stormy 
 sea-bed at her father’s hands — that rude, unhallowed man, 
 the origin and nature of whose influence over her own parent 
 she now understood but too well. 
 
 Lady Frances Cromwell would have soothed her affliction 
 had she known how to do so, but comfort cannot be given to 
 a sorrow whose source is unknown. She entered her friend’s 
 watching-room, but could not prevail upon her to take either 
 repose or food ; and hoping to catch the earliest view of the 
 physician, whose arrival she knew must be soon, she called one 
 of her women to attend her, and wandered up the hill to 
 Minster, where the beautiful ruins of Sexburga’s nunnery 
 commanded so extensive a view of the entire island, and a 
 considerable portion of the adjoining country. The day had 
 risen to one of unclouded beauty ; the marshy coast of Essex 
 was cleared of its hovering fogs; and its green meadows 
 stretched away in the distance, until they were lost in the clear 
 blue sky. The southern part of the island, flat and uninterest- 
 ing as it is, looked gay and cheerful in the sun-light; for every 
 little lake mirrored the smiling heavens, and danced in diamond 
 measures to the music of bee and bird. 
 
 The cliffs at East-Church towered away for nearly six miles, 
 broken here and there by the falling of some venerable crag, 
 hurled, as it were, into the ocean by the giant hand of chang-' 
 ing nature ; while, as a sentinel, the house at Gull’s Nest Crag 
 maintained its pre-eminence in front of the Northern Ocean. 
 The two little islands of Elmley and Harty slept to the 
 south-east, quietly and silently, like huge rush-nests floating 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 341 
 
 on the waters. Beyond East-Church the lofty front of the 
 house of Shurland reared its stone walls and stern embattle- 
 ments, and looked proudly over its green hills and fertile val- 
 leys — while, if the eye wandered again to the south, it could 
 discern the Barrows, where many hundred Danes, in the tur- 
 bulent times long past, found quiet and a grave. 
 
 Several large men-of-war, with reefed sails and floating 
 pennons, lay at the entrance of the Nore, while a still greater 
 number blotted the waters of the sluggish Medway ; — still 
 the sun shone over all; and what is it that the sun does not 
 deck with a portion of its own cheerfulness and beauty ? 
 
 “ Mount up the tower, Maud,” said Lady Frances, “ the 
 tower of the old church ; it commands a greater range than I 
 can see; and tell me when any cross the ferry ; thy eyes, if 
 not brighter, are quicker far than mine.” 
 
 ** Will ye’r ladyship sit?” replied the sapient waiting- 
 maid ; ‘ I’ll spread a kercher on this fragment of antiquity : 
 yer ladyship ean sit there free from any disturbance. I can 
 see as well from this high mound as from the castle, or church- 
 steeple, my lady ; it is so hard to climb.’’ 
 
 ** Maud, if you like not to mount, say so, and I will go 
 myself. You are dainty, young mistress.” 
 
 Maud obeyed instantly, though with sundry mutterings, 
 which, well for her, her lady heard not ; for the Lady Frances 
 was somewhat shrewishly given, and could scold as if she had 
 not been a princess, the rank and bearing of which she was 
 most anxious to assume, and carry as highly as the noblest 
 born in Europe. 
 
 ** See you aught?” she inquired, at last looking up to Mis- 
 tress Maud, whose head, surmounted by its black hood, over- 
 looking the parapet wall, showed very like a well-grown crow. 
 
 ** A shepherd on yonder hill, lady, waving his arm to a dog 
 down in the dingle, and the beast is driving up the fold as if 
 he were a man” 
 
 Lady Frances bent over a-tombstone near her and read the 
 inscription. It described in quaint, but touching language, 
 the death of a young woman, about her own age, the day be- 
 fore her intended bridal. There had been a white rose-tree 
 planted close to the rude monument, but its growth was im- 
 peded by a mass of long grass and wild herbage, so that there 
 was but one rose on its branches, and that was discoloured by 
 
 z 3 
 
342 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 a foul canker, whose green body could be seen under the froth 
 it cast around to conceal its misdeeds. Lady Frances took it 
 out, destroyed it, and began pulling up the coarse weeds, 
 
 ‘Such a tomb as this I should have liked for Barbara,” she 
 said aloud, sighing heavily as the words escaped her lips. 
 
 “‘ She will not need it,” replied a voice from under an old 
 archway, close beside where she sat. 
 
 Lady Frances started. 
 
 «© Will you tell your friend, Mistress Cecil,” continued 
 the same voice — Lady Frances could not see the speaker, 
 although, as may be readily believed, she looked around her 
 with an anxiety not divested of terror — ‘“‘ Will you tell your 
 friend, Mistress Cecil, that old Mother Hays, of the Gull’s 
 Nest Crag, is dying, and that she has something to communi- 
 cate which it concerns her to know, and that the sooner she 
 comes to the Gull’s Nest the better ; for the woman’s spirit is 
 only waiting to tell her secret, and go forth.” 
 
 “* Methinks,” replied Lady Frances, “ that her own child — 
 I know she has one — would be a fitter depositary for her 
 secret than a lady of gentle blood. But why come ye not 
 forth? I hate all jugglery.”’ 
 
 “* Her own child, Robin, is away, the Lord knows where ; 
 and those who are not of gentle blood are as eager after secrets 
 as other folk. Your father has had rare hunting after the 
 Cavaliers and their secrets, though his blood has more beer 
 than Rhenish in it, to my thinking.” 
 
 Lady Frances stamped her little foot with rage at the insult, 
 and called, in no gentle tone, “ Maud! Maud!” then raising 
 her voice, which she imagined could be heard below, as the 
 garden of Cecil Place joined the ruins of Minster, she shouted, 
 in a way that would have done no discredit to any officer in 
 the Commonwealth service, “‘ Below there!— turn out the 
 guard, and encircle the ruins!” 
 
 «Turn out the guard, and encircle the ruins!” mimicked 
 the voice, which was evidently receding ; “‘ the little Round- 
 head’s in a passion ! — ‘Turn out the guard!’ ah! ah! ah!” 
 and the laugh appeared to die away beneath her feet. 
 
 Maud had hastened down right joyfully at the summons, 
 and stood beside her mistress, whose temper had by no means 
 cooled at the term “‘ Roundhead,” as applied to herself; and 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 843 
 
 broke forth in good earnest, when noting a smile that elongated 
 her woman's lip, as she said, — 
 
 ‘© Law! daisy me, my lady! I thought you were run away 
 with, seeing I have just seen two ravens come out o’ the glen 
 — the Fox-glen, as we call it.’’ 
 
 * Run away with!” repeated Lady Frances, bridling ; 
 “have the goodness to remember to whom it is you speak — 
 woman — Here has been a — a— voice — Why turns not 
 out that coward guard? we are too long peaceful, methinks, 
 and need a stir to keep our soldiers to their duty.” 
 
 *“ A yoice, my lady!” repeated Maud, creeping to Lady 
 Frances, and remembering the legends they had talked of in 
 the hall —“ Did it speak, my lady ?” 
 
 “ Fool! how could I know it a voice if it had not spoken P”’ 
 replied Lady Frances, who, as her temper subsided, felt that 
 she was making herself ridiculous, as it would not be in keep- 
 ing with her dignity to repeat the words she had heard. 
 
 ** Shall I go down and call up the guard, and the servants, 
 my lady, to see after this voice?” persisted Maud, with the 
 stupid obstinacy of a person who can only see one thing at a 
 time. 
 
 *° Go up to the steeple, and look out — But — no — follow 
 me to the house; and remember,” she added, with all the as- 
 perity of a person who is conscious of having permitted temper 
 to overcome judgment, ‘that we are in the house of mourning, 
 and ought not to indulge in any thing like jest — say nothing 
 of my alarm —I mean of what I heard, to your companions : 
 it is not worth recording # 
 
 “© My lady !” 
 
 ** Silence, [ say !” returned Lady Frances, folding her robe 
 round her with the dignity of a queen. The woman certainly 
 obeyed ; but she could not resist muttering to herself, ‘‘ She 
 never will let a body speak when she takes to those stormy fits. 
 Marry, come up! I wonder who she is ! — Well, she’s pu- 
 nishing herself ; for I could have told her that out by East- 
 Church I saw two soldiers and another, who seem to have 
 taken the wrong instead of the right road ; and, after still 
 staying a little at the Cross, turned back on their steps, so as to 
 come to Cecil Place.” 
 
 How many bars and pitfalls are in the way of those who 
 would climb highly, even if they wish to climb honestly and 
 
 Zz 4 
 
 
 
 17? 
 
344 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 holily! If they stand as the mark for a multitude’s praise, 
 they have also to encounter a multitude’s blame — the rabble 
 will hoot an eagle; and the higher he soars, the louder will 
 they mock — yet what would they not give for his wings ! 
 
 Lady Frances’s woman found within her narrow bosom an 
 echo to the sneer of the mysterious voice ; yet, could she have 
 become as Frances Cromwell, how great would have been her 
 triumph! How curious are the workings of good and evil in 
 the human heart! How necessary to study them, that so we 
 may arrive at the knowledge of ourselves. 
 
 Yet Maud loved her mistress ; and had not Lady Frances 
 reproved her harshly and unjustly, she would never have 
 thought, ‘“‘ Marry, come up! I wonder who she is!” The 
 spirit of evil worked at the moment in both — in the lady, as 
 a triumphant tyrant — in the woman, as an insolent slave. 
 
 We leave it to our philosophical readers to determine which 
 of the two manifestations was the most dangerous: we hope 
 their displeasure against either will not be very violent; for 
 we have but too frequently observed the self-same dispositions 
 animate bright eyes and open coral lips. Women are fre- 
 quently greater tyrants than men, because of their weakness : 
 they are anxious for power as the means of strength; and 
 therefore they more often abuse it than use it properly ; and 
 men are better slaves than women; because an innate con- 
 sciousness of their strength, which they are apt to believe they 
 can employ whenever a fitting opportunity occurs, keeps them 
 tranquil. It has been often noted, that in popular tumults 
 women are frequently the most busy, and the least easy to be 
 controlled. 
 
 No one would have supposed that Lady Frances’s temper had 
 been ruffled, when she crept into the room where Constantia 
 was watching her still sleeping father, and communicated the 
 news of the anticipated death of Mother Hays, with her strange 
 request, in so low a whisper, that happily he was not dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 She quitted the apartment when her father’s physician was 
 announced ; but not until he had informed her that his High- 
 ness was about to visit the Island, inquire personally after the 
 health of Sir Robert Cecil, investigate the strange murder that 
 had occurred, inspect the fortress of Queenborough, and ascer~ 
 tain if useful fortifications might not be erected at Sheerness ; 
 thus mingling public with private business. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 345 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 This deadly night did last 
 But for a little space, 
 And heavenly day, now night is past, 
 
 Doth shew his pleasant face: 
 * * * ¥ * 
 
 The mystie clouds that;fall sometime, 
 And overcast the skies, 
 Are like to troubles of our time, 
 Which do but dimme our eyes ; 
 But as such dewes are dried up quite 
 When Pheebus shewes his face, 
 So are such fancies put to flighte 
 Where God doth guide by grace. GASCOIGNE, 
 
 Ir would be an act of positive inhumanity to leave the unfor- 
 tunate preacher any longer to his solitude, without taking 
 some note, however brief it may be, of his feelings and his 
 sufferings. After consigning his packet (which, as we have 
 seen, was not only received, but appreciated by — the Pro- 
 tector) to the rocks and breezes of the Gull’s Nest Crag, he 
 sat him down patiently, with his Bible in his hand, to await 
 whatever fate was to befall him, or, as he more reverently and 
 more properly termed it, ‘ whatever the Almighty might 
 have in store for him, whether it seemed of good or of evil.” 
 The day passed slowly and heavily ; but before its close he 
 had the satisfaction of ascertaining that the parcel had disap- 
 peared. Again and again he climbed to the small opening: 
 at one time he saw that the fierce sunbeams danced on the 
 waves, and at another that they were succeeded by the rich and 
 glowing hues of the setting sun; then came the sober grey of 
 twilight — the sea-birds screamed their last good-night to the 
 waters —one by one the stars came out, gemming the sky 
 with brilliancy, and sparkling along their appointed path. 
 The preacher watched their progress and meditated on their 
 mysteries ; though his meditations would have been more 
 cheerful could he have partaken of any of the “ creature 
 comforts’’ appertaining to Cecil Place, and under the special 
 jurisdiction of Solomon Grundy. It was in vain that he 
 had recourse to the crushed oranges — they merely kept his 
 lips from parching and his tongue from cleaving to the roof of 
 his mouth, and by the dawning of the Sabbath morn he was 
 “verily an hungered” — not suffering from the puny and 
 
346 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 sickly faintness of temporary abstinence, but literally starving 
 for want of food. He paced his narrow cell — called loudly 
 from the window — exhausted his strength in fruitless endea- 
 vours to shake the door which the treacherous Burrell had so 
 securely fastened, until, as the day again approached to its 
 termination, he threw himself on the ground in an agony of 
 despair. 
 
 “To die such a death—to die without a witness or a 
 cause! If the Lord had willed that I should suffer as a 
 martyr for his holy word, Jonas Fleetword would not have 
 been the man to repine, but gladly would have sacrificed his 
 body as a proof of his exceeding faith, and as an example to 
 encourage others; but to be starved for Sir Willmott Burrell’s 
 pastime — to starve in this horrid cell — to feel nature de- 
 caying within me, while not even the ravens can bring me 
 food! O God! O God! pass thou this cup from me, or im- 
 plant a deep spirit of patience and resignation within my soul !”’ 
 
 The unfortunate man continued praying and exclaiming, 
 until nature became almost exhausted, and he sat opposite the 
 aperture, his eyes fixed on the heavens, from which the light 
 was once more rapidly receding. 
 
 “Tf the villain willed my death, why not exterminate me 
 at once? ” he thought ; and then he prayed again ; and as his 
 fervour increased, the door opened, and, by the dim light that 
 entered his cell, he discovered the figure of a tall stalwart 
 man, who was in the middle of the chamber before he per- 
 ceived that a living being occupied any portion of it. 
 
 “The Lord has heard !—the Lord has answered! the 
 Lord has delivered !” exclaimed the preacher, springing on his 
 feet with astonishing agility ; then going up closely to his de- 
 liverer, he scanned his features with an earnest eye, and con- 
 tinued, “ It is not the chief of cunning, art, and bloodshed, 
 albeit one who appears skilled in the habits of warlike people. 
 Friend, my inward man doth greatly suffer from long absti- 
 nence, seeing I have not tasted any thing but a fragment of 
 bitter orange in a state of decomposition, to which I should 
 soon have been reduced myself but for thy timely arrival! 
 Behold, I have been compelled to tarry here a prisoner for the 
 space of thirty-six hours, computing by the rising of the sun 
 and the setting thereof. — Art thou a friend to Sir Willmott 
 Burrell ?” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 847 
 
 ** D—n him!” replied the stranger with a startling earnest- 
 ness that left no doubt of his sincerity, at the same time 
 returning to his belt the pistol he had drawn forth at the sight 
 of a stranger in one of the most secret apartments of the Crag. 
 
 “* Friend !”” exclaimed the poor preacher, greatly offended, 
 despite his hunger, at the man’s unblushing profaneness, “ I 
 cannot commune with thee if thou art of the household of 
 evil-speakers: it is not in thy power to set the mark of de- 
 struction on any, though, doubtless, that evil man is in danger 
 of hell-fire. I like not to seem as caring for the creature, but 
 the Creator hath given the things of earth for man’s support 
 — hast thou food?” 
 
 ** Follow me,” was the brief reply ; and Fleetword did fol- 
 low as quickly as his exhausted state permitted, to the large 
 vaulted room in which we have heretofore encountered the 
 Buccaneer. 
 
 Hugh Dalton, for he it was who had so unexpectedly, but 
 so fortunately, broken in upon the dreary solitude of the 
 preacher, pointed to a rude table, upon which stood fragments 
 of a substantial meal: these Fleetword immediately attacked, 
 while the Skipper re-ascended the stairs, down which he had 
 conducted his unlooked-for guest, and disappeared. When 
 the worthy man had satisfied his hunger, he glanced from 
 flagon to flagon, piled one over another upon the floor. 
 
 ‘“‘ They are, of a truth, dangerous ; yet here is no water, 
 and I am, of a verity, much athirst.”’ 
 
 He seized one that had been opened, and drank so eagerly, 
 that, unused as he was to such potations, his head in a very 
 short space of time became incapable of directing his motions ; 
 and when Dalton returned, the simple-minded man was sleep- 
 ing soundly, his forehead resting on his arms, that were crossed 
 on the table. Dalton looked upon him for a few moments, 
 and a curse—one of those to which he was unhappily familiar 
 — burst from his lips. 
 
 ** T cannot learn how he came there,” he said ; “ the thing 
 will sleep till morning: —a pretty nursery my Crag has be- 
 come!” He moved towards the portion of the wall we have 
 formerly mentioned as being covered with the skins of various 
 animals, and holding them out from the side of the cave, dis- 
 covered a very small arched chamber, which, as well as the 
 one where Fleetword had just partaken of “‘ the creatures com- 
 
348 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 forts,” was lighted by a small iron sconce, carefully guarded 
 by a horn shade. Directly opposite the entrance a female was 
 seated after the Eastern fashion, cross-legged, upon a pile of 
 cushions. She placed her finger on her lip in token of silence, 
 and the Buccaneer returned the signal by beckoning her for- 
 ward ; she rose, though with some difficulty, and as a rich 
 shawl, in which she had been enveloped, fell from her shoulders, 
 her appearance denoted her a married woman. Dalton pointed 
 to Fleetword, and the instant she saw him, she clasped her 
 hands, and would have rushed towards him; but this the 
 Skipper prevented, and they exchanged a few sentences in a 
 strange language, the apparent result of which was, that Dalton 
 proceeded to examine the pockets of the sleeper, and even 
 thrust his hand into his bosom, without, however, it would 
 seem, finding what he sought. There was the small Bible, a 
 handkerchief, a reading-glass, some fragments of orange-peel, 
 which, perhaps, he had unwittingly thrust there, one or two old 
 religious pamphlets, a newspaper — and a strip of parchment. 
 The foreign lady shook her head, as Dalton laid each upon the 
 table. After a few more words, both the Buccaneer and the 
 stranger were secreted in the arched chamber, and the curtain 
 of skins again fell over the entrance. 
 
 It was past the hour of the next day’s noon before the 
 preacher recovered from the effects of potations so unusual to 
 him. It was then that Dalton questioned him, and discovered 
 the artifice and cruelty of the treacherous Burrell, in abandon- 
 ing the poor preacher to starvation: a consequence that must 
 have occurred, had not the Skipper providentially stood in 
 need of some articles of bedding, that were kept in this cham- 
 ber, as matters rarely needed by his crew. 
 
 Fleetword, having explained what he had done with the re- 
 quired papers, would have willingly departed, but Dalton de- 
 tained him, frankly saying, that he cared not, just then, to 
 trust any one abroad, who had seen so much of the mysteries 
 of his singular palace. Without further ceremony, he was 
 again confined, in a small cupboard-like cavity, close to the 
 hostelry of the Gull’s Nest. 
 
 It was not long after the preacher’s second imprisonment, 
 that Robin Hays might have been seen, treading the outward 
 mazes of the cliff, and, without pausing at his mother’s dwell- 
 ing, approaching the spot where, on a former occasion, Burrell 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 349 
 
 had received the signal for entrance from Hugh Dalton. He 
 was ignorant of his mother’s illness ; but the information that 
 Jack Roupall unwittingly communicated was not lost upon 
 him ; and he had earnestly scanned the waters, to see if the 
 Fire-fly were off the coast. Though the gallant sparkling 
 ship hardly hoisted the same colours twice in the same week, 
 and though she had as many false figure-heads as there are 
 days in January, yet Robin thought he never could be de- 
 ceived in her appearance, and he saw at once, that though there 
 were many ships in the offing, she certainly was not within 
 sight of land. The feeling that he should look on Barbara no 
 more was another source of agony to the unhappy Ranger. 
 Yet he could hardly believe that the Buccaneer would so soon 
 part with the beautiful form of a child he so dearly loved. 
 He struck his own peculiar signal against the rock, and it was 
 quickly answered by the Skipper himself, who extended his 
 hand towards his friend with every demonstration of joy. Robin 
 started at seeing the Buccaneer in so cheerful a mood, and was 
 endeavouring to speak, when the other prevented his words 
 from coming forth, by placing his hand on his lips. The 
 Ranger's head grew dizzy —his knees smote against each other, 
 and he gazed on Dalton’s countenance, eager to ascertain if 
 there was a possibility of hope, or if excess of grief had de- 
 ranged his intellect. 
 
 ** Silence! silence! silence!” repeated the Buccaneer, in 
 the subdued voice of a puny girl; and Robin thought his eye 
 glared wildly as he spoke. 
 
 ‘© Where — where is she?’ muttered Robin, leaning for 
 support against a projecting stone, that served as one of the 
 slides for the rough, but skilfully-managed doorway — his 
 heart panting with anxiety to behold, and yet dreading to look 
 upon the form of the dead Barbara. The Buccaneer pointed 
 to where the skins had hung when Fleetword was in the cham- 
 ber, and the Ranger attempted to move towards it; but his 
 feet were as if rooted to the earth. Dalton watched his agita- 
 tion with a curious eye; yet Robin perceived it not. He made 
 several ineffectual attempts to stir from his position ; but con- 
 tinued fixed in the same spot, unable to withdraw his gaze 
 from the opening. At length the blood circulated more freely 
 in his veins, his chest heaved, as if the exertion of breathing 
 was an effort he could not long continue; and he staggered, az 
 
850 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 a drunken man, towards the entrance. The uncertainty of 
 his step was such that he would have fallen into the chamber, 
 had not the Buccaneer seized him within his powerful grasp, 
 on the threshold of the inner chamber, and silently directed his 
 attention towards a pile of cushions, covered with a variety of 
 coloured silks and furs, on which lay a form he could not mis- 
 take. The hair, divested of its usual cap, rested in shadowy 
 masses on the throat and bosom, and the light of the small 
 lamp fell upon a cheek and brow white as monumental marble. 
 By the side of this rude, yet luxurious couch, crouched another 
 female, holding a fan, or rather a mass of superb ostrich fea- 
 thers, which she moved slowly to and fro, so as to create a cur- 
 rent of air within the cell. It contained one other inmate — 
 the little and ugly Crisp — lying, coiled up, at the foot of the 
 cushions, his nose resting between his small, rough paws ; his 
 eyes fixed upon his master, to hail whom he sprang not for- 
 ward, as was his custom, with a right joyful and doggish salu- 
 tation, but, mutely and quietly, wagged his dwarfish tail — so 
 gently, that it would not have brushed off the down from a 
 butterfly’s wing. 
 
 Robin grasped his hands convulsively together — shook 
 back the hair that curled over his forehead, as if it prevented 
 his seeing clearly — his breathing became still more painfully 
 distinct — large drops of moisture burst upon his brow — his 
 tongue moved, but he could utter no sound—his under lip 
 worked in fearful convulsion — and, despite Dalton’s efforts to 
 restrain him, he sprang to the side of the couch with the 
 bound of a red deer, and falling on his knees, succeeded in ex- 
 claiming, — 
 
 ‘© She lives! she lives !”’ 
 
 The sweet sleeper at once awoke ; the long dark lashes separ- 
 ated, and the mild hazel eye of Barbara turned once more 
 upon Robin Hays ; a weak smile separated lips that were as 
 white as the teeth they sheltered, as she extended her hand to- 
 wards the Ranger. But, as if the effort was too much, her 
 eyes again closed ; and she would have looked as if asleep in 
 death, but that Robin kissed her hand with a respectful feeling 
 that would have done honour to men of higher breeding. The 
 maiden blood tinged her cheek with a pale and gentle colour— 
 the hue that tints the inner leaves of a blush rose. 
 
 The Buccaneer had been a silent spectator of this scene, and 
 
THE BUCCANEER. $51 
 
 it had taught him a new lesson — one, too, not without its 
 bitterness. When Robin, with more discretion than could 
 have been expected from him, silently withdrew into the outer 
 room, he beheld Dalton standing in an attitude of deep and 
 painful thought near its furthermost entrance. As the Ranger 
 approached, his heart swelling with an overflowing of joy and 
 gratitude — his head reeling with sensations so new, so unde- 
 finable, that he doubted if the air he breathed, the earth he 
 trod on, was the same as it had been but an hour, a moment 
 before — yet suffering still from previous agony, and receiving 
 back Barbara as an offering from the grave, that might have 
 closed over her ;— as the Ranger approached the Buccaneer, in 
 a frame of mind which it is utterly impossible to define, Dalton 
 threw upon him a look so full of contempt, as he glanced over 
 his diminutive and disproportioned form, that Robin never 
 could have forgotten it, had it not passed unnoticed in the 
 deep feeling of joy and thankfulness that possessed his whole 
 soul. He seized the Skipper’s hand with a warmth and energy 
 of feeling that moved his friend again towards him. The 
 generous heart is rarely indifferent to the generous-hearted. 
 Dalton gave back the pressure, although he turned away the 
 next moment with a heavy sigh. 
 
 Ah! it is a common error with men to believe that women 
 value beauty as much as it is valued by themselves. Such a 
 feeling as that his daughter entertained for Robin Hays, 
 Dalton, even in his later years, could no more understand than 
 an eagle can comprehend the quiet affection of the cooing ring- 
 dove for its partner: the one would glory in sailing with his 
 mate in the light of the tropical sun, would scream with her 
 over the agonies of a dying fawn, and dip the beaks of their 
 callow young in blood ; the other, nested in some gentle dell, 
 the green turf beneath watered by a brook, rippling its ca- 
 dences to his sweet, though monotonous, melody — would peel 
 for his companion the husk from the ripening corn, and shadow 
 his brood from the noonday heat. Yet the love of both is 
 perfect, according to its kind. 
 
 The time had been when, as Hugh Dalton walked on the 
 deck of his bright Fire-fly, and counted the stars, guided the 
 helm, or watched the clouds flitting past the disk of the 
 silver moon, he thought that, if his pardon were granted, and 
 he could bestow his ship upon one in the beauty and prime of 
 
352 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 manhood, who would take Barbara to his bosom, and call her 
 by the hallowed name of ‘‘ wife,” he could lay his head upon 
 his pillow, and die in peace, the grandsire of a race of sons, 
 who would carry the name of Dalton honourably over the 
 waves of many lands. He had never, in all his adventures, 
 met with a youth who had gained so much upon his affections 
 as the lad Springall. He knew him to be brave and honest, 
 of a frank and generous nature, well calculated to win the 
 heart of any maiden; and he had arranged for the youth’s 
 temporary residence at Cecil Place, at a time when he knew 
 the baronet could not refuse aught that he demanded, with a 
 view to forward a long-cherished design. 
 
 “‘ Barbara will see, and, I am sure, love him,” quoth Dalton 
 to himself: ‘‘ how can it be otherwise? Matters may change 
 ere long, and, if they do His family is of an old Kent- 
 ish stock, well known for their loyalty, which, in truth, made 
 the boy quit the canting ship, the Providence, when he met 
 with a fitting opportunity. She cannot choose but love him ; 
 and even if, at the end of ten or twenty years, he should turn 
 out a gentleman, he’ll never scorn her then ; for, faith, he could 
 not; she is too like her mother to be slighted of mortal 
 man!” And so he dreamed, and fancied, as scores of fathers 
 have done before and since, that all things were going on 
 rightly. When Springall held occasional communication with 
 him, he never saw him tread the deck without mentally ex- 
 claiming, ‘‘ What a brave skipper that boy will make! He 
 has the very gait of a commander: the step free, yet careless ; 
 the voice clear as a warning bell ; the eye keen, and as strong 
 as an eagle’s.” Then he would look upon his ship, and, 
 apostrophising her as a parent would a fondling child, con- 
 tinue, — 
 
 * Ah! your figure-head will be all the same when he has 
 the command, and your flag will never change. You may 
 double the Cape then without dread of a privateer ; crowd sail 
 beneath the great ship Argo, or be rocked by any land-breeze 
 in Britain without dread of molestation. The lad may look, 
 as I have often done, over the lee-gangway, during the morn- 
 ing watch, seeking the sight of the far off fleet—the fleet 
 that will hail him as a friend, not a foe! And he will love 
 every spar of your timber for the sake of old Dalton’s 
 daughter !”’ 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. | 853 
 
 The feelings of the Buccaneer towards Robin Hays were of 
 a very different nature. He loved and esteemed the manikin, 
 and valued his ready wit and his extreme honesty. He was also 
 gratified by the Ranger’s skill in penmanship and book-learn- 
 ing, and took marvellous delight in his wild sea-songs ; but, 
 that he could look to be the husband of his daughter, had 
 never for a moment entered his thoughts. Now, however, the 
 unwelcome truth suddenly flashed upon him ; there were signs 
 and tokens that could not mislead : the fearful agitation of the 
 one — the evident joy of the other —the flush that tinged 
 her cheek, the smile that dwelt, but for a moment, upon her 
 pallid, lip, gave such evidence of the state of the maiden’s 
 heart, that Dalton could not waver in his opinion — could not 
 for an instant doubt that all his cherished plans were as 
 autumn leaves, sent on some especial mission through the air, 
 when a whirlwind raves along the earth. 
 
 To the Buccaneer it was a bitter knowledge ; the joy that 
 his daughter was of the living, and not among the dead, was, 
 for the time, more than half destroyed by the certainty that 
 she had thrown away the jewel of her affections upon one 
 whom, in his wrath, Dalton termed a “ deformed ape.” 
 
 The Buccaneer turned from the Ranger in heavy and heart. 
 felt disappointment ; then walked two or three times across 
 the outward room, and then motioned Robin Hays to follow 
 him up the stairs, leading to the back chamber of the small 
 hostelry of the Gull’s Nest Crag. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Good sir, look upon him — 
 But let it be with my eyes, and the care 
 , You should owe to your daughter’s life and safety, 
 Of which, without him, she ’s uncapable, 
 And you ’Il approve him worthy. MASSINGER. 
 
 Tue apartment which the Buccaneer selected as his place of 
 
 conference was at some distance from, though on a line with, 
 
 that which Fleetword had so unwillingly tenanted. Its entrance 
 
 was by two doors, one of secret construction, leading to the 
 AA 
 
854 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 stairs, the other opening into the passage that was frequented 
 by all who were connected with the Fire-fly. 
 
 ‘* Now — now,” said Robin, “ tell — tell me, captain, how 
 all the wonderful things of the past days have happened: it is 
 a strange mystery, yet it was a horrid dream!” 
 
 Dalton again sighed, but more heavily than before, as he 
 replied, ‘© My adventures are soon told. I had despatched to 
 the Protector such documents as I knew would lead him to 
 prevent the marriage of Lady Constantia ; my heart relented 
 towards her, and I saw that Providence was working its reed 
 in other ways without my aid. Secreted in one of the chapel 
 vaults, I watched the coming of those who were to stay the 
 ceremony. I knew the certainty that come they would, for I 
 could rely upon the speed of the man I trusted, and that 
 Oliver would act upon the instant I had no doubt. I have 
 long had my own plans of revenge against the villain Burrell, 
 but they were too slow for one so perfect in iniquity. Robin! 
 he would have murdered me on board my own ship. I 
 listened for the tramp of the soldiers — gloating in my own 
 mind over his disappointment, and exulting in his fall, think- 
 ing how his proud spirit would be brought low amid the 
 crowded court! But they tarried —I could not hear the 
 sound of their horses’ hoofs — although within the old abbey 
 chapel were the bride, the bridegroom — (curse him !) — and 
 their attendants. Again I listened — the ceremony began — 
 J sniffed the breeze like a war-steed —I heard them coming, 
 but the Preacher was speaking the words, and they would 
 arrive too late. All consideration for my own safety was lost 
 in my longing for revenge, and, I will add, my deep desire to 
 save the lamb from the tiger’s fangs. I rushed towards the 
 chapel — there was a pistol-shot — it gave speed to my steps. 
 At the door I encountered Burrell ; and he —he, the fiend, 
 screamed into my ears that my child was slain! ” 
 
 Dalton and Robin Hays both shuddered, and some minutes 
 had elapsed before the Buccaneer resumed his story. 
 
 « T know not what I did, except that the place was filled 
 with armed men, and the dastard Burrell commanded the 
 fanatic Jones (I remembered him well) to seize me ; moreover, 
 he would have fired, I believe he did fire, but my memory is 
 sadly confused. 
 
 Then Barbara, whose blood was streaming from her wound, 
 
 he 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 355 
 
 sprang to my bosom — sweet girl ! — and hung, as I thought, 
 a corpse upon my arm. When I looked upon her pallid 
 cheeks and livid lips, I could have braved a thousand deaths 
 sooner than have left her to be buried in their black and filthy 
 clay ; and I spoke from my heart to them, and I think Lady 
 Constantia spoke too; and they let us pass, me and my dead 
 child ! 
 
 I carried her round the chapel, and sank with her into the 
 yault, where I had been concealed —.that which contains the 
 passage leading up to Minster, and then sloping down the hill; 
 and I placed my daughter on the ground and closed the 
 entrance, as we have ever done. And then I sat on the earth 
 and raised her head and shoulders on my knees, and loosening 
 her kerchief to look at the wound, which I had no doubt had 
 been inflicted by the Jewess Zillah — shall I ever forget the 
 sensation !— I cannot describe it, so different from anything 
 I ever felt — ever can feel: —her bosom was warm, as the 
 fleece of a young unshorn lamb, and her heart palpitated within 
 it.” The rugged Buccaneer covered his face with his hands, 
 and Robin, in a voice which strong emotion rendered almost 
 inarticulate, said, 
 
 ‘* T know what must have been your feelings from what I 
 myself felt so short a time past.” 
 
 Hugh Dalton slowly withdrew his broad palms from his 
 countenance, and looking somewhat sternly on the Ranger,replied, 
 ** Young man, that you love my daughter, I have seen but too 
 plainly ; and I take it ill that you told me not of it before.” 
 Robin would have interrupted,-—— but he motioned him to 
 remain silent. ‘ We will talk of it hereafter ; — only this— 
 you may love her, but you cannot love her with a parent’s 
 love. It isas deep as it is mysterious ; it comes with the first 
 look a father casts upon his babe; the infant, which to the 
 whole world seems a mis-shapen, an unpleasant thing to look 
 upon, to him is a being of most perfect beauty — the hope — 
 the prop — the stay of his future life. Upon that weak, 
 helpless, inanimate creature, his heart leans — the heart of the 
 strongest man leans upon it. The world holds out no promise 
 to tempt him like the well-doing of his child. It is a won- 
 derful mystery,” continued the Buccaneer, reverently uncover- 
 ing his head, as men do when they are about to enter a place 
 of worship ; “* it is most wonderful, the holy love which comes 
 
 AA 2 
 
 
 
356 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 upon us, for the simple, senseless, powerless things, that fill us 
 with so much hope, and strength, and energy! I saw a 
 whale once, who, when her young one was struck by the 
 harpoon, came right between it and the ship, and bore the 
 blows, and took the fatal weapons again and again into her 
 bleeding body ; and when she was struggling in her flurry, 
 and the sea around was dyed as red as scarlet, still she tried to 
 save her offspring, and managed so as to die lying over it. It 
 was the very time that I was bringing my own girl to England 
 — a little creature, sleeping in my bosom — and it was by a 
 vessel in our company the poor whale was killed ; for I would 
 not suffer one of my men to have a hand in such a sickening 
 job: — but I never forgot it — never — how she lay over her 
 young, shielding it to the last with her own body! I used to 
 pray —I could pray whenever I took my Barbara into my 
 arms!—J thought it a duty then to pray for her, and I 
 trusted that she would heresfter pray for me. Had I always 
 her sweet face to look upon, I should be free from many a 
 crime ! — It is a beautiful mystery, I say again; and no one 
 but myself, young man, can ever tell what I felt when I knew 
 that she was yet alive! As soon as J] had sufficiently col- 
 lected my senses, I examined the wound. Often had I looked 
 on blood ; and wounds were familiar to me, as blackberries to 
 a schoolboy ; but I trembled from head to foot, as if I had 
 never seen either. The ball had made its own way out under 
 the shoulder; and, as consciousness was fast returning, I 
 endeavoured to staunch the stream, which flowed so copiously 
 that I began to dread the destruction of my newly raised hopes. 
 While I was thus occupied, I heard so deeply drawn a sigh 
 from some one close to me, that I started back, and was hor- 
 rified at seeing the source of all the evil — the Jewess Zillah 
 —- pale as ashes, standing by my side. I cursed her with a 
 wicked curse, and was about to inflict instant, but most unjust 
 punishment. The unfortunate creature prostrated herself at 
 my feet,*and explained, as briefly as her sobs permitted, that, 
 enraged at Burrell’s treachery — finding herself deserted by 
 Fleetword, whose faith she relied upon — imagining that 
 Mistress Cecil was leagued against her, from the circumstance 
 of her never taking notice of the communications she wrote 
 and confided to Jeromio’s care — wrought up, in fact, to a 
 pitch of frenzy, she determined on destroying Burrell’s dese 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 357 
 
 tined bride, whose appearance she had confounded with that of 
 my poor Barbara! Nothing could exceed her penitence. She 
 had groped her way to the secret entrance into the tomb. It 
 had been revealed to her by the traitor Jeromio. She returned 
 with us after nightfall to this horrid place ; and has ever since 
 watched my poor child with the earnestness and care of a 
 most devoted sister. I am astonished how she escaped Sir 
 Willmott’s vengeance. He was so hemmed in by difficulties, 
 that he had no power to act, though he tried hard for it. The 
 villain Jeromio . 
 
 “<I heard of that,’ interrupted Robin; ‘“ Roupall told me 
 all: he met me but a little time past in the Fox Glen; and 
 there, too, I saw the traitor’s head, with the ravens feasting on 
 their prey !”’ 
 
 * Ah! ah!” exclaimed Dalton, “ is that the way Sir Will- 
 
 mott treats his wedding present! The Fox Glen is beneath 
 his chamber window ; so I suppose he cantered it out to find 
 its own grave in the grassy hollow.” 
 ' Is this Barbara’s father!” thought Robin, ‘and the man 
 who would not kill a cub-whale?— How wonderful! how 
 strange his modifications of feeling: the older he grows, the 
 more incomprehensible he becomes.” 
 
 Robin then detailed the particulars of his journey since he 
 left the Gull’s Nest, which, as we are already acquainted with 
 them, need not be repeated here, and raised himself consider- 
 ably in the Buccaneer’s estimation by his attention, shrewdness, 
 and, above all, by the account he gave of his interview with 
 Cromwell. 
 
 “I believe it, Rob, I believe it—I am sure you would 
 not betray me! But I fear we must abandon this place — 
 this and all others of a similar description. I knew that as 
 soon as internal commotions ceased, old Noll would root us 
 out. He will set Burrell on the trail, if he can get no other 
 informer ; for he has never been too great not to make use of 
 filthy tools to effect his purpose. He had been here long ago 
 but that he dislikes to employ such troops as he has trained in 
 hunting up moles and water-rats. Yet he thinks it a disgrace 
 to his policy not to know all things, even the hiding-holes 
 along the coast. There’s good nesting in the Cornish cliffs ; 
 but I have done with it, pardon or no pardon. Sir Robert 
 Cecil’s gone mad, and I have a game to play there still. What 
 
 ATS 
 
 
 
 ax 
 
358 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 you tell me of Walter is most strange ; yet I feel certain he is 
 safe, and my course, in reference to him, must be guided by 
 the events that a very few hours will doubtless produce. Crom- 
 well — Roundhead ana rebel as he is— unless he be marvel- 
 lously changed —has generosity enough to guarantee the youth’s 
 safety, were he a thousand times more dangerous than he can 
 be. Whatever may be my fate, his will be a happy one. 
 They may leave me to rot upon a gibbet, so he and my sweet 
 Barbara are safe.” 
 
 “ But,” observed Robin, ‘I dread no such peril for you. 
 Even if danger awaits you in England, there are other lands—”’ 
 
 « Ah! but my child — my child! Shall I leave her among 
 strangers, or take her into a world that will rob her of her 
 wealth — innocence ? ” 
 
 “Gold wiil do much; there are many about the court of 
 Oliver who love the yellow colour and the pleasant chink of 
 coin.” 
 
 ‘No, I have other and stronger means of buying mercy. 
 But mercy is not all I want — I sometimes think, that were I 
 to walk up to Whitehall, banned as I am, Cromwell would not 
 touch a hair of my head. I would say, ‘God direct Mme for 
 the best!’ only I fear He has no thought of me, except for 
 my girl’s sake: and, Robin, touching her, I must again say, 
 that ” 
 
 Whatever the Buccaneer would have added, Springall’s en- 
 trance at the moment prevented. He seemed delighted at 
 meeting Robin, and inquired in the same breath if he had been 
 with his mother. Robin said, “No.” Springall then told him 
 she was ill — fancied herself dying, and that, as the old dame 
 seemed so wishful to see Mistress Cecil, saying she had some- 
 thing important to communicate to her, he had gone up to 
 Cecil Place, and found a strange messenger to do his bidding. 
 Robin needed no urging to seek his mother, whom he tenderly 
 loved ; and when he had left the room, the Buccaneer could 
 not help observing, that a parent's first thoughts after a journey 
 are with the child, but that a child does not always first fly to 
 the parent: “ And yet,’’ pursued Dalton, “ the boy loves his 
 mother !”’ ’ 
 
 “Captain o’ mine,” said the ever-joyous and affectionate 
 sailor, who deserved the attachment bestowed upon him by the 
 skipper —‘“‘ Captain o’ mine, I have news for you. You see, 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 359 
 
 I sailed right for the old port, and just as I was going to steer 
 into harbour, I spied one of the steel-caps lounging about the 
 great gate, and peeping through the bars like a lion that would 
 and couldn't ; but I knew he was one who could if he would, 
 and though I had a message for Mistress Cecil, yet I didn’t 
 see the good of trusting him ; and so I crowded sail to-leeward 
 into the Green Cave, and on under the arch that has openings 
 enough ; but no one could I see until I was just by the church 
 at Minster, when, on the look-out, I got a glimpse of a sail, 
 and suspecting it to be something in the privateer line, I hove- 
 to and used my trumpet, and who should it turn out to be but 
 the young Cromwell ! and I couldn’t for the life of me help hoist- 
 ing false colours and dealing in the spirit line ; so she took me 
 for a ghost when I delivered Mother Hays’s message to Mistress 
 Constantia: then she blew out like a nor’-wester, and flouted, 
 and called names ; and what else do ye think she did? By 
 Jove, she shouted, ‘ Below there !—turn out the guard!’ and 
 stamped her little foot. Never trust me, if her ankle isn’t 
 as neatly turned as the smoothest whistle that ever hung from 
 a boatswain’s neck! After a while she said something about 
 jugglery, and I called her a little Roundhead ; and, to be sure, 
 how she did stamp! Then presently down tumbled Mistress 
 Maud from the steeple, where, I guess, she had been making 
 observations, and Lady Frances rated the waiting-maid soundly, 
 which I didn’t grudge her —the frippery, insolent baggage ! 
 It isn’t a month since she called me a chip of the jib-boom 
 and an ugly fellow !—Ugly fellow, indeed ;” repeated Spring- 
 all, twitching up his trowsers — ‘‘ I wonder what she meant 
 by ugly fellow!” 
 
 “So do I,” said the Skipper, with a sigh ; for his mind was 
 still ‘harping on his daughter :’ “ So do I, but women have 
 strange fancies. Let me now ask you what news you have, for 
 I cannot see how this concerns me.” 
 
 ' Let me read my log my own way, or I cannot read it at 
 all—_and you know, master, I never spin a long yarn, except 
 when I can’t help it.” 
 
 Dalton smiled, for, of all the youths he had ever known, 
 Springall loved the most to hear himself talk. 
 
 “When I had delivered my message, and had the satisfac- 
 tion of knowing that a rascally Roundhead, and a princess (as 
 
 AA 4 
 
360 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 3) 
 
 they call her,) was employed in doing my bidding,’’ continued 
 the lad, “‘ I tacked about, and loitered along, looking at the 
 queer tackling of the hedges, and the gay colours hoisted by 
 the little flowers, and wondering within myself how any one 
 would like to be confined to the land with its hills and hollows, 
 where it’s the same, same thing, over and over again ; when I 
 spied two steel caps and a gentleman in black steering along 
 the road to Cecil Place. So I thought it would be only civil 
 to go with them, seeing they were strangers; but I did not 
 care to let them spy me, so I anchored in the hedge till they 
 came up, and then crept along—along, on the other side, like 
 a tortoise, and as slowly too, faith ! for the road is so bad they 
 were forced to lead their horses, except the black one, who, I 
 found, was the Protector’s own doctor going to cure Sir 
 Robert Cecil! What do you think of that, captain?” 
 
 Dalton saw no necessity for reply, and Springall con- 
 tinued :— 
 
 “I gathered from their talk that Cromwell himself was on 
 the road, coming bodily to inquire into the murder, (as they 
 supposed,) and to rout out the smugglers ; and the rascals 
 were even talking about the prizes, having heard the place was 
 full of riches; and they said they were sure that more than 
 one thing brought his Highness such a journey. At every 
 stumble their horses made, the psalm-singing scoundrels offered 
 up an ejaculation. May I never reef a sail, captain, if they 
 didn’t pray more, going that length of road, than you, and I, 
 and all the the crew of the Fire-fly put together, have prayed 
 during the last twelve, ay, twice twelve months! — How is 
 Mistress Barbara?” 
 
 ** What a giddy mind is yours, Springall,” said Dalton; “ in 
 the same breath you speak of danger, and ask for my peace- 
 loving child.” 
 
 “‘ More than she would do for me,” replied the boy, sulkily, 
 adding, with some of the wisdom of matured manhood, “ she 
 must not remain here, though, no, not another night, for who 
 knows what those rascals would be at? I am much inclined 
 to think with the crop-eared fellows, that his Highness (the 
 devil take such highnesses, say I!) would never lay to wind- 
 ward and trust himself on the island, unless he had good 
 reason to think he could kill two, ay, ten birds with one stone ; 
 he is too old a man now to go dancing about the country be- 
 
 aa . eee x 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 861 
 
 eause of a murder, or a wedding— neither of which he cares 
 much about.” 
 
 * Except when they come home— quite home—and Mis- 
 tress Constantia is to him like an own child. There’s a deal 
 of difference in the colour of our own blood and that of other 
 people. But we must see toit, Springall, and without delay. 
 The Fire-fly is, as you know, tricked out like a Dutch lugger, 
 masts —sails—all! I defy even Robin Hays to know her ; 
 and I had a report spread at Sheerness and Queenborough that 
 she had the plague aboard. Tom o’ Coventry, and another 0’ 
 the lads have talked of nothing else at the hostelries ; and not 
 an hour ago I sent a message to Jabez Tippet, with a three 
 gallon memorandum of the best Nantz, so that he might prate 
 of it to all who crossed the Ferry. Her cargo is nearly dis- 
 charged, and there are but four men aboard; they walk the 
 deck by two, as sentries, to keep up the deception ; but evil is 
 in the wind when the Protector is stirring. I should have got 
 her out, far out before, had I not been obliged to move her 
 backwards and forwards, owing to the cursed mischances of the 
 times ; and, Springall, I am not the man I was.” 
 
 ** Look, captain!” said the boy, energetically ; “I would 
 rather set a torch to the powder-chest of that gay ship, than 
 have her turned into a Roundhead. Didn’t I with my own 
 eyes see a lubberly rascal take a chisel, or some o’ their land 
 tools, and shave every lock of hair off the figure-head of the 
 ‘ Royal Charles,’ and even off the beard, shorten the nose into 
 a stub, and ‘then scrawl under it, ‘The blessed change ; this 
 regenerated vessel will be known hereafter as the Holy Oliver’ ? 
 Wasn’t that blasphemy ? Come, captain, rouse yourself ; let’s 
 call a council—there’s little Robin Hays, he loves her timbers 
 as he loves his life—there’s the boatswain, and a lot of honest 
 hands. Let’s ship the ballast —the women I mean—and off 
 for the Americees. Let them blow Gull’s Nest to the devil, 
 if they like; so our trim ship is safe, what need we care? 
 Ill luck is in the land to any who touch it, save to put off a 
 rich cargo or take in fresh water.” 
 
 Dalton shook his head, and his heart sank within him ; his 
 mind becoming more and more perplexed, when he remem- 
 bered the two helpless females who depended on him—the 
 one for life, the other for justice — his own desire for pardon, 
 too, struggling with his affection for his vessel. 
 
362 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 He paced the room for a few moments, and then, accom~ 
 panied by the animated and daring young sailor, sallied forth 
 in search of Robin Hays, having first resolved that the preacher 
 Fleetword should be sent to keep watch by the bedside of the 
 dying woman. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 E’en such is Time ; which takes in trust 
 
 Our youth, our joys, and all we have; 
 
 And pays us nought but age and dust, 
 
 Which in the dark and silent grave, 
 
 When we have wander’d all our ways, 
 
 Shuts up the story of our days. Sir WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 Rosin, when he quitted the Buccaneer, proceeded not towards 
 his mother’s house, but again entered the chamber in which 
 Barbara lay: he paused, and listened to ascertain if she again 
 slept. He heard no sound, and at length ventured to divide 
 the drapery, and look within. The motion, slight as it was, 
 was noticed by the gentle maid, who beckoned with her finger, 
 and her lover was in an instant by her side. 
 
 “<I shall be well—soon well again, Robin,” she murmured ; 
 ** and I know you will be glad when I am so.” 
 
 Robin made no reply, but stood wondering at the exceeding 
 beauty of the beloved object that lay upon that strange, but 
 not ungraceful couch. He had heretofore only seen Barbara 
 in the oddly-fashioned dress, and with the humble bearing of 
 a servant ; but now, reclining on piles of skins and velvets, 
 her hair falling in unconstrained and untutored profusion over 
 her white throat, and shrouding her slight figure, she seemed 
 to him the embodying of all he had ever imagined as belong- 
 ing to the exquisite creatures of other worlds. Sour and sar- 
 castic as- he was, there were few in that age who had more 
 frequently dreamed of the pure and holy beings that people 
 the imagination of richly-endowed minds. Solitude is the 
 nurse of all that is good within us. The world stains what it 
 touches ; and the more we withdraw from it, the better we be- 
 come. Robin knew much of its wickedness ; but, fortunately, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 363 
 
 had ever sufficient leisure and sufficient loneliness for reflec- 
 tion. Never tell us, that a man can walk beneath the rain- 
 bow’s arch, and not think of the power that placed it there! 
 that he can stand on the tall cliff’s peak, and not drink in the 
 fullness of God’s exceeding glory—that he can hear the small 
 lambs bleat, or inhale the perfume of the hawthorn, without 
 thankfulness to the great Author of all! Devoid of any thing 
 like a settled creed, he still had many vague, yet sublime con- 
 ceptions of the mightiness and the goodness of a Power that 
 fills the universe with His presence. Many there are with 
 such belief ; and many, whose hearts aspire to a more defined 
 and intimate knowledge of the Great Fountain of Life; and 
 for lack of opportunity —for want of proper direction, either 
 plunge amid the pitfalls and quagmires of infidelity, or are 
 lost amid the equally dangerous fallacies of various and contra- 
 dictory interpretations of the same perfect and beautiful creed. 
 Happy was it for the Ranger,that she he so truly loved was 
 religious in its purest and simplest sense—gifted with that 
 gentle and holy wisdom, which instructed her in the honest 
 rule of right, and rendered her unobtrusively impervious to 
 temptation. 
 
 ** I shall be soon well again,” she repeated ; “and do not 
 look so sadly on me, Robin ; indeed I shall soon be well.” 
 
 “‘ Thank God for that, Barbara!” he replied. “I bless God 
 that it is so!” 
 
 *“Robin! Do you really mean that you do thank God: is 
 it your heart, or your lips that speak ?” 
 
 ** As God sees me, I think that both speak, Barbara.” 
 
 “Then,” said the girl, “I bless God more for that than 
 for the saving of my life. I pray daily for those to whom I 
 owe much ; but for you and my father I say double prayers.” 
 
 ‘* Because you think we need them doubly ?” inquired the 
 Ranger, smiling. | 
 
 ** Even so; for since I have lain here, not being able to 
 talk much with that kind stranger, who has more than atoned 
 for what she did by her present goodness to me, Ihave had 
 time for reflection ; and—and — I have prayed very much 
 for you, Robin Hays.” 
 
 «« Perhaps,” said the Ranger, (his strong and turbulent 
 feelings struggling painfully in his bosom, ) ‘‘ perhaps, Barbara, 
 your prayers are all you mean to give me?” 
 
364 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ** Robin,” replied the maiden, while a flush passed. over her 
 pale cheek, “ you are often unjust; but I forgive it: for you 
 are abroad in the world, which, I believe, makes people unkind. 
 And yet I did not mean you were unkind, Robin. Now do 
 not turn away so strangely. I would give the life that has 
 been so lately restored to me, that your faith was as my faith, . 
 — that your God was my God.” 
 
 The Ranger fell on his knees by the side of the couch, and 
 clasping his hands energetically together, replied, not in a loud, 
 but in a low, earnest tone,— 
 
 “* Barbara, teach me your faith, and I will learn it — learn 
 any thing from your lips: I will cast aside my waywardness 
 — my nature shall be changed — I will become gentle as a 
 babe. And as to your God, I am no heathen, Barbara, but 
 an Englishman, and all so born know there is but One to 
 worship !”’ 
 
 «Ay, but One,” replied the gentle and thoughtful girl ; 
 
 ** yet a wild, reckless temper like yours is ever verging to 
 idolatry, to the formation of many gods. Do you not worship 
 Mammon when you risk body and soul to procure ill-gotten 
 gold?” 
 lx “ Reformation is the work of time, and there will be time 
 for it, Barbara, when you are better. I will sit during the 
 whole length of the Sabbath-days, winter and summer all the 
 same, from sunrise to sunset, and listen to the word of God : 
 I will not speak, I will not look except to you, and you shall 
 read to me from the beginning to the end, and explain, and 
 pray: and even on week-days I will hear it for one hour each 
 evening, from Monday till Saturday, week after week, till I 
 understand what you expound. Will not that improve me, 
 Barbara ?” 
 
 A smile, succeeded by an expression of much anxiety, passed 
 over her innocent countenance, and then she spoke. 
 
 “God knows, Robin, that [ have much trouble—my father, 
 I see, I feel, loves his ship better than any earthly thing; and 
 though it would anger him to know it, yet I do wish from my 
 heart the vessel would fade from the waters as a shadow from 
 the green hill’s side. He will never become a staid man — 
 never set his heart on things above — never either be happy, 
 or make me so, until no plank floats upon ocean that calls 
 him master. Ah me, Robin! Mistress Cecil used to say that 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 365 
 
 age brought wisdom; and, if so, methinks wisdom brings 
 sorrow.” 
 
 It was some minutes before the Ranger offered any com- 
 ment on her words. At length he assured her how fully he 
 agreed in believing that Dalton would be much more happy if 
 his ship ‘‘ faded,” as she termed it, ‘‘ from the waters ; and yet,” 
 he added, “‘ it would be as the separating of soul and body !” 
 
 ** A fearful separation that would indeed be, and one I 
 could not bear to think on. Ah, Robin! I felt death in a 
 dream once, and once almost in reality ; — and yet my dear 
 father, he is the soul, and the ship the body — the worthless 
 body that ties him to the earth!” 
 
 ** And has Barbara no little fable of her own to make that 
 come out prettily ?”’ 
 
 *“ Ah, Robin! I think of fables, as you call them, as much 
 as ever, but am not able to speak them now ; so, good b’ye, 
 Robin, and let not the promise you have made me be like the 
 flower of the wild rock-rose, which blooms and blights within 
 a single day. When we indeed sit together, and read and 
 pray, remember the pledge you have now given freely to one 
 who will labour to make you happy all the day long.” 
 
 Robin again pressed his lips upon her hand, and left the 
 chamber with feelings of deep joy and gratitude that mock 
 description. He had, however, to witness a scene of a nature 
 very different. 
 
 The last interview between him and his mother was brief, 
 for duties towards those who lived could scarcely yield their 
 influence even to those which the dying claimed at his hands. 
 The kind and affectionate heart of the Ranger was chilled as 
 he entered the small and scantily-furnished chamber in which 
 his mother lay, suffering in body, but still more in mind. Had 
 her son been a ministering angel, she could not have welcomed 
 him with greater joy, although her eyes were dim, and her 
 voice was almost inarticulate as she pressed her shrivelled lips 
 to his cheek. 
 
 ** Raise me up, Robin — Robin — and move that chest on 
 my right. Gently, gently, Robin ; it contains much that will 
 make you rich when I am gene. It would have been hard if 
 the poor widow had not her tithe out of those who came and 
 went. I have sent for Mistress Cecil, but she has not come: 
 she thinks little about the lone widow of the Crag.”’ 
 
366 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 “‘ Mother,” replied Robin, “ her own troubles are many.” 
 
 «Ah! she knows not what secrets are in the old woman’s 
 keeping. She comes not, and I have a story to tell that would 
 be as poison to her — ay, to body and soul! You must hear 
 it, Robin, if no one else will. But, first, hand me a drink of 
 the strong waters. Ah, that will put fresh life into me! Let 
 the preachers preach their fill, nothing rouses one like the, 
 strong waters !” 
 
 Robin did as she desired, but with evident unwillingness. 
 
 “« Many years have gone,” she continued, “ yet, to the aged, 
 many years appear as yesterday. I was sitting by the door of 
 this very cottage, which had just been made public —for your 
 poor father——(honest man that he was, far above your mother 
 in wisdom and goodness) — your poor father, I say, had been 
 drowned the winter before, and I was obliged to do something 
 to keep the children, and so thought of making the cottage a 
 public ; well —I sat at the door, and you were in my arms.” 
 
 The aged woman’s mind appeared to wander for a few mo- 
 ments, as if she was calling her thoughts from a long distance. 
 
 “ It was night, dark, dark night, and many runagades had 
 been about the coast all day trafficking and trading and smug- 
 gling, and the gentry helping them, for things were not strict 
 then : —it was pitch dark, with now and then a gleam of light 
 from a bright cloud; and there came towards me a gentleman 
 I knew full well —a gallant, handsome gentleman: he stood 
 upon the rock that hangs over the sea, where the sea is ever 
 wildest. Presently some of the strange-looking men joined 
 him, and they talked and talked, though I heard them not, 
 for the wind was whistling’ around me, and I was watching you 
 asleep.” 
 
 The woman again paused, but soon resumed her story. 
 
 ** Well, as I was saying, they talked ; but soon I heard a 
 ery through the storm, and the next minute there was a gleam 
 of light —I saw him struggling ; but darkness fell again, and 
 on a sudden, while you would clap your hands, came a scream 
 for help. O God! O God! I hear it now! —now I hear 
 it! — Robin, another drink of the strong waters, that will 
 silence it!” 
 
 ‘* Mother,” said the Ranger, as he held the cup which her 
 skinny fingers were extended to grasp, while her parched lips 
 clanked against each other impatient of moisture — ‘* Mother, 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 367 
 
 take but little, for you have need of prayer ; that will stifle 
 the cry far better than this.” 
 
 “* And I will pray,” returned the woman, “ when my tale is 
 finished. There was but that one loud, loud scream, and a 
 heavy splash in the ocean, and with it the darkness again 
 passed: but, Robin Hays, Robin Hays, the men had passed 
 too, and one of them returned no more! And why did he 
 not? He had broad and fair lands, such as make people cling 
 to their own country, but he came not back. Soon after, I 
 heard the noise of oars, and— mind your mother now, 
 Robin, — another man came to the cliff — to the brow of the 
 same cliff—I saw him look down, and along the waves, and, all 
 of a sudden, a pistol flash from the boat sprang through the 
 darkness, and he who came last stood while you could count 
 ten, and passed away. But mind again, Robin, he came with 
 a weak step, and he went as a strong man.” 
 
 Robin shuddered ; his mother after a brief pause con- 
 tinued. 
 
 ** Now, who think you, Robin — my child, Robin, who 
 think you was the murdered man — and who think you was 
 he who came last, and saw the murderers departing in peace — 
 who? I will tell it, before my breath is for ever stopped : 
 the one was Robert Cecil, and the other his father’s son, the 
 first-born of his own mother !” 
 
 “Oh God!” exclaimed Robin, adding in a muttering tone, 
 “I see through it all, the hold that Dalton has over the 
 wretched, wicked man! But could Dalton do this? ” 
 
 *‘ Did you say any thing of Dalton?” inquired Mother 
 Hays, whose quickness of hearing appeared increased ; “it 
 was his ship that was off the coast, though I could not swear 
 he was himself there. Such things, I have heard, were often 
 done in those wild times, and it made a noise then, and Sir 
 Robert seemed like one mad about his brother ; though people 
 did whisper, for they were set against one another to the 
 knowledge of all, and of different parties. And in time the 
 lands all fell to him ; and the Parliament since, I heard, made 
 out, that Sir Herbert, being a friend to the king, even if he 
 were alive, shouldn’t have his own, which was all made over to 
 the present man. But, as sure as there is a God, so sure He 
 is just! Isit not plain? Of all the fine boys his lady bore 
 him, not one is left! And, as to the daughter, look, if she 
 
368 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 knew as much of Sir Willmott Burrell as I do, she’d make 
 her night-posset with the mermaids before she’d wed him. 
 Well, Robin, Sir Herbert had once a son — an only son, and, 
 “as his lady died in childbed, Sir Robert’s wife had taken great 
 delight in the boy, and brought him up with her own child- 
 ren ; and a pretty boy it was, so fond of the sea! He would 
 sit for an hour together on my knee, and always called me 
 nurse, and used to play with you as if you were his equal, and 
 call Mistress Cecil, that now is, his wife! Sweet lamb that 
 he was! Robin, Robin, he went too; how, 1 never knew, but 
 I guess: the murderer of the father thought he should be 
 more safe if the boy was away, and he pretended grief, and his 
 poor lady felt it. Now it is of that boy I would have spoken 
 to Mistress Cecil, for my heart misgives me —” 
 
 Farther communication was interrupted by the entrance of 
 Constantia’s maid, who came to ascertain if the widow Hays: 
 were really dying. 
 
 *¢ My lady has trouble enough of her own, the Lord knows ; 
 but she will leave watching by the bed-side of my poor dis- 
 traught master, if she can render any aid.” 
 
 ** Robin, raise me up,” exclaimed the dying woman, with a 
 gesture of great impatience; ‘‘raise me up, Robin, and push 
 the hair from my ears, that I may hear distinctly. Did 
 you mean, young woman that Sir Robert was distraught — 
 mad ? ”’ 
 
 ** Alack ! yes,” replied the girl ; “‘mad, poor gentleman !” 
 
 “It is enough — enough —enough! I knew it would 
 come in some shape ; yet madness must be mercy to him!” 
 ‘Having so said, she sank back, while the serving wench 
 stood in astonishment: and at length inquired, ‘‘ What she 
 meant ?”’ 
 
 *«« She raves,” was Robin’s reply, drawing the girl out of the 
 chamber: ‘‘ give my humble duty to your lady, and tell her 
 that the son of Mother Hays is with her, and that she lacks 
 nothing the world can give her now.” As the girl departed, 
 Springall came to the door. 
 
 “Robin Hays! you must leave even your dying mother — 
 something must be determined on. Hejis come! Listen to 
 the guns at Sheerness, telling the island who has touched the 
 soil on this side of the ferry.” 
 
 Robin stood for a moment at the porch, and heard the boom- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 569 
 
 ing of cannon heavily passing through the air, traversing the 
 low downs, and roaring from crag to crag, as if rejoicing in 
 liberty ; the ships that lay out at sea sent forth a reply, and in 
 a moment their flags were waving in the wind. 
 
 Robin returned for a moment to his mother’s room. 
 
 “© Mother,” he said, ‘‘ for one hour I must leave you, but I 
 will send some one to watch by your bed-side. Pray to God, 
 a God of mercy, who has but lately opened my heart: pray to 
 Him, and He will answer. I will be with you soon—a hun- 
 dred lives may rest upon that hour ! ” 
 
 His mother appeared scarcely conscious of what he said, nN 
 with her finger pointed to the chest. 
 
 A new, but a most unwelcome light had broken in upon the 
 mind of the unhappy Ranger. The father of his beloved 
 Barbara he had long known to be a reckless and a daring man, 
 with the stains of many crimes upon his soul ; but he had now 
 the terrible knowledge that the Buccaneer was a cold-blooded 
 and hired assassin, who for gold, for there could have been no 
 other temptation The thought was perfect agony, yet 
 the Ranger resolved to face the man he at once loved and 
 dreaded, and boldly charge him with the act his parent in her 
 dying moments had communicated. 
 
 “Tt will all be known,” he thought; “ there can be no 
 pardon for the murderer— no peace for Barbara — the sinless 
 child of sin! ”’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Mainly they all att once about him laid, 
 And sore beset on every side arownd, 
 That nigh he breathless grew: yet nought dismaid 
 He ever to them yielded foot of grownd. SPENSER. 
 Roxgin followed Springall into the room he had so recently 
 left, and stood at the entrance ; fixing at the same time his 
 eyes, which, it must be confessed, were of unrivalled brilliancy 
 and blackness, upon the Buccaneer, he said — 
 “* Captain, 1 would speak a few words with you in private, 
 after which we will talk of the danger that surrounds us.” 
 Dalton and Robin withdrew together, and remained alone 
 BB 
 
8370 ‘THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 for more than twenty minutes, during which Springall and 
 three or four others of the crew, who had crowded, like crows 
 into a rookery in dread of an approaching storm, debated upon 
 and formed plans for the safety of their vessel. 
 
 “* Were all hands aboard,” said Springall, whose youth joyed 
 in perpetual hope — ‘‘ were we all aboard, I would undertake 
 to pilot that vessel over and under or through any one or any 
 number of ships between Sheerness and Chatham ! ” 
 
 “ Through their hulks, do you mean?” inquired Jack 
 Roupall, who had but just joined the party. 
 
 ** IT don’t pretend to speak grammar or book-English, Jack,” 
 retorted the young sailor, ‘no more than yourself; but all 
 who have ever sailed in the Fire-fly, as both you and I have 
 done, know her quality, and that anything can be made of her: 
 I tell you, every beam of her timbers has life in it — every 
 spar is a spirit! ”’ 
 
 «* What sort of spirit ?— Is it rum, brandy, or Hollands? ” 
 inquired Roupall, who could see no more yalue in the timbers 
 of the Fire-fly than in those of any other ship that carried a 
 good cargo. Springall’s enthusiasm was wasted on him ; but 
 it was followed by,a reply from the hot-headed lad that would 
 have led to more than words, if another of the party had not 
 interfered. 
 
 ** For shame, Spring, to be so fiery! Sure you know of 
 old, that Jack will have his joke, and meansno harm. Besides, 
 he’s only a land-lubber, after all.” 
 
 ““ Well, pepper away, brave boys! pepper away! I'll have 
 my revenge on you all yet!” continued the trooper. 
 
 “You won't inform, will you?” exclaimed Springall, ever 
 ready for a fray, pushing his beardless face close to the 
 weather-beaten countenance of sturdy Roupall. 
 
 «¢ Will you keep your face out of my mouth?” replied the 
 man-mountain, stretching his jaws at the same time, and dis- 
 playing a double row of the most enormous teeth, and a gulf 
 which really looked as if it could contain the animated coun- 
 tenance of the young sailor, who, as easily moved to mirth as 
 anger, burst into a merry laugh at the prospect before him. 
 
 “« There, boy,” said the Goliath, “ take it easy, and talk 
 reason about the ship, and talk the reason reasonably, and Ill 
 join ye; but Spring has a dash o’ poetry about him—TI think 
 it’s called poetry :—verse-making and verse-thinking, that 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 371 
 
 never did anything in the way of ship-building or ship-saving 
 since the world was a world, that I know. Now look, lads ; 
 here’s a man-a-war, a heavy, ‘slugs gish thing, whose guns could 
 take no effect on the Fire-fly, because their shot would go right 
 over her, and only anger the waters. Her. long boats, to be 
 sure, could do the business ; but she has no more than two and 
 the captain’s gig a-board—as I heard this morning at Queen- 
 borough. The evening is closing, and neither of the other 
 ships—whose slovenly rigging wants Blake’s dressing — hae 
 any guns a-board to signify.” 
 
 “« Ay,” said another, “‘ so much for our near neighbours: 
 what say you to our farther ones, at t’other side the island — 
 just at the entrance to the Mersey ?” 
 
 “Say!” said Springall, “‘ why, that they could be round 
 in less than no time if they knew who’s who.” 
 
 ** Which they do by this: what else would bring the steel 
 caps, and the Devil himself amongst us? besides, there’s others 
 off the coast, as well as we. Do you think old red-nosed Noll 
 would come here about a drop of blood — a little murder, 
 that could be settled at the ’sizes? There’s something brood~ 
 ing in another direction, that ’ill set his hot blood boiling: but 
 as it’s purely political, all honest men, who have the free-trade 
 at heart, will keep clear of it. May be he’s heard the report that 
 black-browed Charlie’s thinking of pushing on this way, — 
 though I don’t believe it; it’s too good to be true: it would 
 soon make us tune up ‘ Hey for Cavaliers!’ and bring the old 
 days back again.” 
 
 *- But let us,’’ chimed in Springall — “let us keep clear of 
 every thing of the sort till our ship’s safe. Why, in half an 
 hour they might split her spars as small as jack-straws !” 
 
 ** Which they won’t, I think ; because, if they know who 
 she is, they know her cargo’s safe — where Noll himself can’t 
 get at it, unless he drags the cellars — and the stomachs too, 
 by this time — of half his prayer-loving subjects along the 
 Kent and Essex coast.” 
 
 * Stuff, stuff! every enemy destroyed is a shade nearer 
 safety,” said Springall ; ‘* and Noll knows it.” 
 
 *« That’s well said, Spring,” replied Jack, winking on his 
 companion ; * and [’ll tell you what’s true, too, shall I?” 
 
 «¢ Ay, ay.” 
 
 « Young geese are the greatest cacklers.” 
 
 BB 2 
 
‘372 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 < T’ll tell you what,” retorted the lad, drawing himself up 
 with some dignity, and reddening to the eyes, “ I may be but 
 a boy ; but have the goodness to remember, that every oak was 
 a sapling, and every sapling an acorn. If men trample on the 
 acorn, it will never grow to be the oak ; for, little as it is, the 
 spirit of the oak is in it. — D’ye read my riddle ?” 
 
 A good-humoured burst of approbation followed Springall’s 
 speech, which was hushed by some one of the party saying, 
 
 «© Here comes our Captain, and we can form no plan till he 
 is present.” 
 
 The door accordingly opened after the hand, applied at 
 last to the latch, had evidently wandered over the panel, seek- 
 ing the fastening which at first it could not discover, and 
 making outside a noise resembling the scratching of a cat. 
 
 No race of beings so decidedly differ from every other in 
 the world as sailors: no matter whether they belong to a king’s 
 ship, to a smuggler, or a merchantman. Though there may 
 be shades among them, yet the grand distinction between men 
 of the sea and men of the land endures, —it is impossible to 
 confound them together. A seaman is ever so easily amused, 
 so reckless of consequences, so cheerful amid difficulties, so 
 patient under privations. His blue jacket is a symbol of en- 
 terprise and good humour. Even his nondescript hat— black, 
 small, and shining as ajapanned button, adhering to the back 
 of his head by a kind of supernatural agency, with’ which 
 landsmen are unacquainted —can never be seen by a true-born 
 Englishman without feelings of gratitude and affection, which, 
 ‘at all events, no other hat in the world can command. Al- 
 though the crew of the Fire-fly would have been looked upon 
 by your genuine seaman as a set of half-castes, which they 
 really were, yet they had, if possible, more recklessness of 
 character than ever belonged to any number of persons so con- 
 gregated together; they had so often jested at, and with death, 
 in all its shapes, that it was little more than pastime; and they 
 had in their own persons experienced so many hairbreadth 
 ’scapes that they looked upon Springall’s great and very natu- 
 ral anxiety for the fate of the ship he loved, as a species of 
 madness which a little experience would soon cure him of. 
 The elder ones certainly knew that there was little use in their 
 forming plans or projects, as their commander would as usual 
 adopt his own, and adhere to them without their council or 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 373. 
 
 approval. It must be confessed that lately they regarded his 
 lying so constantly off so exposed a coast, a proof of want of 
 energy and forethought they had never noticed before ; but his 
 prompt punishment of Jeromio had set his character again on 
 a firm footing ; for, as Roupall said, “ It proved that the Cap- 
 tain was still himself.” 
 
 When the door of the room in which they were assembled 
 was opened, instead of the Skipper, the long, lanky figure of 
 the Reverend Jonas Fleetword presented itself in the opening; 
 his coat and hose unbrushed, his pinnacle hat standing at its 
 highest, and his basket-hilted sword dangling from the belt 
 carelessly and rudely fastened. 
 
 Those of the men who had been sitting, stood up, while 
 others. rushed forward. Some laid their hands upon his 
 shoulders, and all demanded whence he came, and what he 
 wanted. 
 
 Poor Fleetword had long since arrived at the conclusion that 
 he had unconsciously committed some crime, for which he was 
 doomed to much suffering in the flesh: first imprisoned, and 
 destined to endure starvation at the hands of Sir Willmott 
 Burrell ; then fed, but caged like an animal, by one whom he 
 denominated ‘‘ a man of fearful aspect, yea, of an angry coun- 
 tenance and fierce deportment, yet having consideration for the 
 wants of the flesh ;”? then, when he had been liberated as he 
 thought, for the express purpose of affording consolation to, 
 and praying with a dying woman, and bound by his sacred 
 word not to leave Gull’s Nest, he found himself in the midst 
 of the most unamiable-looking persons he had ever seen as- 
 sembled ; and his pale eye grew still more pale within its orbit 
 from the effects of terror. 
 
 * Cut him down!” exclaimed one ruffian, drawing a cut- 
 lass, long and strong enough to destroy three at a blow. 
 
 ** Fill his pinnacle hat with gunpowder, and blow him to 
 the devil! ”’ said another. 
 
 _ © He is a spy anda Roundhead,” vociferated a third, “ and, 
 wherever there’s one, there’s sure to be more o’ the breed.” 
 
 “‘ Search his pockets,’ shouted a fourth; ‘ I'll lay my hand 
 there’s villany in them.” 
 
 *‘1’m the best at that work,” exclaimed Jack Roupall, spin- 
 ning the long-legged preacher round and into the midst of the 
 men before he had time to utter a syllable of explanation, 
 
 BB 3 
 
374 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 The change produced on them by this display of Roupall’s 
 dexterity was like magic, for, in an instant, they were to a 
 man convulsed with laughter: the poor preacher retained most 
 motley marks of the bruised oranges upon his hinder gar- 
 ments, which were, moreover, rent by various falls, or, as he 
 would designate them, “ perilous overthrows ;”” and there was 
 something so ludicrous in his whole appearance, spinning on 
 one leg, (for he was obliged to keep up the other to maintain 
 his balance,) and looking more like an overgrown insect, called 
 by children “ daddy long-legs,” than any other creature dwel- 
 ling upon earth, that the mirthfulness of the sailors might 
 well have been pardoned. 
 
 ‘Children of Satan!” he said at last, recovering his breath 
 during their laughter— “Imps of darkness!” he’ added, 
 holding out both hands in front, as he would keep them from 
 contaminating him by their touch — ‘if that ye ever hope 
 for pardon “d 
 
 “I told ye he was a Roundhead —a negotiator,” shouted 
 one of the rudest ; “stop his gab at once — yard-arm him.” 
 
 “‘ Peace, peace!” interrupted young Springall ; “he is part 
 of our skipper’s cargo, a harmless mad preacher, and no spy ; 
 he’d talk to ye by the hour, and make as rare sport as a mass- 
 service at Lisbon —if ye hadn’t something else to think of.” 
 
 “ Hear him, hear him!” exclaimed the thoughtless fellows, 
 who forgot their own and their ship’s danger in expectation of 
 some revelry. 
 
 ‘‘ Hear him,” repeated Roupall, while occupied in searching 
 his pockets. 
 
 ‘“* Albeit I was not sent unto ye, ye worthless, blasphemous, 
 and accursed crew —” began Fleetword. 
 
 “¢ Above there !”’ sung out a little one-eyed seaman, squint- 
 ing up at our friend, and poising a long lath so as to arrest his 
 attention by a smart blow across the knees, which made the 
 poor man elevate first one limb and then the other, in what 
 soldiers term ‘ double quick time.’ ‘Keep a civil tongue in 
 your head,” he added, threatening to renew the salute. 
 
 “For shame, Tom o’ Coventry,’ said Springall, who had 
 more generosity in his nature ; “ if you don’t behave, I'll spit 
 ye as neatly as ever top-mast studding sdil was spitted on the 
 broken stump of a boom in a smart gale, —d’ye hear that, 
 master officer — that was — but is not?” 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 845 
 
 This insult could not be received quietly, because it was de- 
 served, and the diminutive sailor applied the weapon to Master 
 Springall’s shins, so as to set his hot blood raving for en- 
 counter. Fleetword heeded not this, but rejoicing sincerely 
 in any event that gave him opportunity of speech, proceeded 
 to anathematize the whole assembly as confidently as if he had 
 been the pope’s legate. Roupall, having finished his investi- 
 gation of Fleetword’s pockets, advanced one step, and, taking 
 Tom o’ Coventry by the collar, shook him and Springall apart 
 as if they had been two puppy dogs, while the others bawled 
 loudly for fair play. At this instant the door opened, and 
 Dalton strode into the midst of them with that lordly step and 
 dignified aspect he could so well, not only assume, but pre- 
 serve ; even Fleetword was silenced, when the Skipper, turn- 
 ing to him, demanded how he came. there, and if he had for- 
 gotten that a dying woman had solicited his aid. 
 
 “Of a truth,” he replied, “I mistook the apartment: ye 
 cannot suppose, most worthy commander of this enchanted 
 and impish conservatory, that, of my own free will, I would 
 choose such company. Where is the sinner? ” — Dalton de- 
 sired Springall to show him to the room of Mother Hays. 
 
 The Buccaneer offered no comment on the fray, for he had 
 often observed that little good arises from lecturing people for 
 their faults at the very time you want their services. He ex- 
 plained'to them briefly but fully, and with as much clearness 
 and wisdom as if he had been for hours in deliberation, the 
 danger by which they were encompassed ; the more than fear 
 for their ship — that they themselves were in the most perilous 
 situation they had ever experienced, clogged by the land, and 
 not free on the sea: that as the evening was fast closing in, 
 and the moon did not rise until near midnight, their enemies 
 could do little until after the lapse of a few hours — that those 
 who wished, might disperse themselves along the shore, and 
 escape to Sussex, or any other smuggling station, as they best 
 could ; sending intimation to their friends as to their move- 
 ments: and he was the more particular in giving this permis- 
 sion, as to each and every one had been distributed full pay 
 and profits ; — that those who loved the Fire-fly, and would 
 risk their lives for her, or with her, were to conceal themselves 
 along the coast, and ere the moon rose, make their way a-board. 
 This they could easily effect under the thick darkness, and in 
 
 BB 4 
 
876 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 so calm a night. There was not one who could not steer a 
 plank, in quiet water, from Essex to Sheerness ; and in default 
 of that, they were all good swimmers. 
 
 “And now, my brave fellows,” he added, “I may, or I 
 may not, meet you on the deck, where I have so often trod 
 and triumphed. One great account I have to settle with the 
 land before I leave it. I may swing from a gibbet before to- 
 morrow’s sun sets ; or I may secure But if I am not with 
 you,” he added, breaking off his sentence abruptly, “ before 
 the moon rises, Mathews will take the helm ; for I see by his 
 eye that he will not leave the ship he has mated with so much 
 steadiness and good seamanship forso longa time. The long- 
 boat must have a light placed like ours ; and false canvass hung 
 round, so as to make a bulk, while the Fire-fly steals silently 
 and darkly on her way. This, if well managed, will give an 
 hour’s start — But you understand all that. Make up your 
 minds, among yourselves, who's for the land, who for the sea ; 
 and I will join you again in five minutes.” As Dalton (who 
 was more agitated than his crew had ever seen him) withdrew, 
 he heard Roupall mutter — 
 
 **Confound all she-things! This circumbendibus is all 
 owing to his daughter: *twould be a precious good job if she 
 had never been born, or being born, was dead in earnest, which 
 I hear she is not — He’s not the same skipper he was afore he 
 took to land and sentimentality! Confound all she-things, 
 again say I! they are tiresome and troublesome.” . 
 
 We trust none of our readers will echo the prayer of Jack 
 Roupall, as we draw towards the conclusion of our story. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Vain is the bugle horn, 
 Where trumpets men to manly work invite! 
 That distant summons seems to say, in scorn, 
 We hunters may be hunted hard ere night. 
 Sir WILLIAM DavVENANT. 
 
 Consrantra Crcrn watched with much anxiety the progress of 
 the carriages and horsemen which composed the train and 
 body-guard of the Protector, as they passed slowly along the 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 377 
 
 road that led to Cecil Place. A troop, consisting of twenty 
 men, preceded ; their bright arms, and caps, and cuirasses, 
 reflecting back the blaze of the setting sun, like so many bur- 
 nished mirrors. Then came Cromwell’s own carriage, drawn 
 by four strong black horses ;— they had need of strength, 
 dragging, as they did, a weight of plated iron, of which the 
 cumbrous machine was composed. The windows were re- 
 markably narrow, and formed of the thickest glass, within 
 which was a layer of horn, that, if it were shattered by any 
 rude assault, would prevent the fragments from flying to the 
 inside. Behind this carriage rode four mounted soldiers ; it 
 was succeeded by another, and at each side a horseman rode ; 
 a third conveyance, the blinds of which were closely drawn, 
 brought up the procession ; and behind this was only a single 
 soldier. At some distance, perfectly unattended, and seeming 
 as if unconnected with the party, came the simple vehicle of 
 the Jew Manasseh Ben Israel. However great was Cromwell’s 
 partiality for this learned and distinguished man, he was fully 
 aware of the impolicy of permitting one of so despised a race 
 to associate with him publicly, or to travel abroad under his 
 direct protection. 
 
 Frances Cromwell joined her friend at the window from 
 whence she looked, and at once congratulated her on the tran-~ 
 quillity Sir Robert had enjoyed during the last two hours. 
 
 ** The physician has done much,” she replied; ‘‘ yet I can 
 hardly trust myself to cherish any feeling that tells of peace 
 or hope. Dearest Frances! what will be the fate of your 
 poor friend ?”’ 
 
 Constantia hid her face on the Lady Cromwell’s shoulder, 
 and wept ; but her grief appeared of a less feverish kind than 
 heretofore. 
 
 ** Hope for the best — my father can work marvels when 
 he wills. He may read all right; and as yet you are un- 
 wedded.” 
 
 © He cannot restore the sweet life of one J loved so dearly, 
 — one whose place I can never see filled, and upon whose in- 
 nocent countenance I can ne’er again look.” 
 
 ** 1 wonder who is in my father’s carriage ? — Colonel 
 Jones, I dare say, and a couple more of the same severe cast,” 
 observed Lady Frances, trying to divert her friend’s attention 
 from the thought of poor Barbara ; “ not a joyful face amongst 
 
3878 ‘THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 a troop of them ; the very soldiers look like masses of grey 
 stone, stuck on the horses’ backs with iron paste.”’ 
 
 ‘“The second carriage,” said Constantia, ‘‘ looks as if it 
 contained a prisoner — see, a soldier rides at each door.” She 
 turned still paler as she spoke, and grasped the arm of Lady 
 Frances with all her strength, though support was required 
 but for a moment. The motion was unnoticed by her friend, 
 who added in her usually gay tone — | 
 © A good guess! And who is in the third? some other 
 caged animal; one of my father’s pet lions, or leopards, or 
 creatures of that sort: pet or no pet, I would rather see what 
 it contains than all the others put together——so much for 
 woman’s curiosity !”’ 
 
 * The guard are entering the great gates,” said Constantia, 
 “* and whether he bring me weal or woe, friend or foe, I must 
 receive the Protector, so as to show our sense of the more 
 than honour he has done us.” 
 
 “* Constantia !”” exclaimed Lady Frances, who still lingered 
 at the window, “‘ there is a fourth carriage, a foreign-looking 
 one, with an overgrown boot, and no attendants — coming 
 behind the train, like the last bit of paper at the tail of a boy's 
 kite. I marvel more than any who that can contain ?” 
 
 _ “ Will you not come with me to receive your father ?” said 
 Constantia, extending her hand to her friend. Lady Frances 
 tripped across the room and took it within hers, 
 
 ** Constantia, nothing frights you from your propriety ! — 
 I am ready.” 
 
 The sudden, though anticipated visit of the Protector, pro- 
 duced a proportionate degree of embarrassment and confusion 
 among all the inmates of Cecil Place. At any other time, 
 the bare intimation of such an honour would have turned their 
 heads, and inspired their heels with the alacrity of St. Vitus 
 himself ; but they had felt too much interest in the events of 
 the past week to experience the full joy to which, at any other 
 time, they would have yielded. As it was, housekeeper, por- 
 ter, steward, cook, butler, and their subordinates, set about 
 the necessary preparations with the dexterity and alertness of 
 servants who know that their first duty is obedience, not only 
 of their employer's words, but their wishes: — not one but 
 felt the warmest interest in all that concerned their dear mas- 
 ter, and still more dear mistress; they would have gladly 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 379 
 
 sacrificed their lives to make her happy: in them was clearly 
 shown the “ constant service of the antique world.” Solomon 
 Grundy, as usual, having the smallest quantity of brains, was 
 the most noisy, and the least useful, though the creature was 
 affectionate enough in his way, and, as we have stated, mar- 
 vellously skilful in his calling. He stood with the rest of the 
 servants, about twenty in number, who had assembled to 
 await Cromwell’s entrance, and do honour to their young lady 
 by as numerous and well arranged a show as they could col- 
 lect. They were all dressed in deep and decent mourning, 
 except the women of Lady Frances, who walked behind her 
 to the great entrance, where she and Constantia stood ready to 
 receive his Highness. As he alighted, the advanced-guard 
 formed a semicircle beside the carriage; and when his foot 
 rested on the first step of the entrance-stairs, the two ladies 
 passed the threshold, to meet him with due respect. It was a 
 picturesque sight — the meeting of that rugged and warlike 
 man with two such females ; —for Lady Frances, though de- 
 ficient in what may be termed regular beauty, had an air and 
 fascination about her that was exceedingly captivating ; and 
 as she waited, one foot a little in advance, her head thrown 
 back, and the jewels of her clasped stomacher distinctly mark- 
 ing the outline of her full and graceful bust, she formed a 
 considerable, but still a pleasing contrast to the high-souled 
 beauty of her dignified friend. Constantia, at the moment 
 Cromwell alighted, trembled lest the next person should be 
 Sir Willmott Burrell; and the terror she naturally felt, lent 
 an air of embarrassment to her pale, high features, to which 
 they were generally strangers. Her long mourning veil fell, 
 as usual, to her feet; and the folds of her rich velvet robe 
 concealed the change which but a little time had wrought in 
 her exquisitely moulded figure. The arched hall was crowded 
 on either side by her domestics, whose dresses formed a 
 gloomy back-ground, which, nevertheless, accorded well with 
 the hatchment that hung over the entrance, — a memorial of 
 Lady Cecil’s recent death. Lady Frances, as she glanced on 
 the sober, but well-arranged party in front, their bright ar- 
 mour and broad swords flashing in the light, the prancing of 
 the brave horses, and the smiling face of her uncle’s favourite 
 page — her own cousin, who followed close to his indulgent 
 master —the mixture of carriage and cuirass, of spear and 
 
880 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 pennon, set out against the green meadows, and still farther 
 off the blue and beautiful sea — all this looked to her cheerful 
 mind as if hope and happiness were about once more to enter 
 Cecil Place. The impression was so strong upon her mind, 
 that she only regretted she could not speak of it to Constantia, 
 who bent her knee to salute the hand of her friend — the 
 Protector of England! while he, gallantly removing his hat, 
 raised her from the ground, and imprinted a grave and re- 
 spectful kiss upon her brow — then, having saluted his own 
 daughter after the same fatherly fashion, he presented a hand 
 to each of the ladies, and walked, bareheaded, into the hall, 
 returning the salutations of the delighted domestics as he 
 passed, and inquiring in a low, earnest tone, after the health 
 of his worthy host and friend, Sir Robert Cecil. As they 
 entered the apartment, in which a suitable refection had been 
 prepared, Constantia was about to return to receive her other 
 guests. 
 
 “ Not so,” observed the Protector, retaining her hand. 
 «I have taken upon myself for one day and one night the 
 wardenship of Cecil Place, if your excellent parent will so 
 permit it; with the Lord’s help we will discharge the trust 
 well and faithfully. Such as I wish to introduce to you will 
 join us soon, and to those who will not I have allotted cham- 
 bers. Our mutual friend, Major Wellmore,” he added, smil- 
 ing, “‘ has instructed me so perfectly in the bearings of this 
 fine house, that I do not at all feel as a stranger within its 
 walls.”’ 
 
 Constantia bowed, and from her heart thanked the Pro- 
 tector for the kindness and delicacy of his thoughts. 
 
 “Great and glorious I knew him ever,’ she said to her- 
 self, “but I was unprepared for the tenderness we usually 
 consider the exclusive attribute of our own sex.” 
 
 Some five or six of the officers and gentlemen of Cromwell’s 
 household were, in their turn, presented to her; but Sir 
 Willmott Burrell came not among them. Constantia trembled 
 as often as she turned her head towards the opening door. 
 
 During the time occupied in partaking of the abundant 
 repast, upon which the delighted Solomon had expended all 
 due care and anxiety, there were few words spoken, and neither 
 healths nor toasts passed round — the Puritans holding all 
 such observances as profane things ; nor was there any allusion 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 381 
 
 made to the unfortunate occurrences of the past days, except 
 as regarded the disappearance of the Preacher Fleetword, a 
 circumstance which weighed heavily on the mind of Constantia. 
 
 “I assure your Highness,” said Lady Frances, “this is a 
 perfect island of romance ; there has been as much mystery, 
 and as many misunderstandings, as would form a Spanish 
 play.” 
 
 “ T am sorry, Mistress Frances,” replied Colonel Jones, “to 
 find your thoughts still turning to these follies — follies ana- 
 thematized in this regenerated land.” 
 
 A smart reply mounted to the lady’s lip, who was annoyed 
 that the plain mistress had taken place of the title so univer- 
 sally ceded to her, but she dared not send it forth in her 
 father’s presence. 
 
 ** I assure Lady Frances,” observed her father, rising from 
 the table at the same time, and laying a particular emphasis 
 on the word lady, as if he would reprove Colonel Jones’s 
 plainness — *‘ I assure Lady Frances that I am a most excel- 
 lent unraveller of mysteries, — of ail mysteries,” he repeated 
 with a stress on the word au, that made the blood rush into 
 his daughter’s cheek. ‘“‘ And if I may presume on such an 
 accomplishment, I would request the honour of a private in- 
 terview with Mistress Cecil.” 
 
 Cromwell conducted the lady from the room with an air 
 that would not have disgraced the descendant of a race of kings. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 If you, my son, should now prevaricate, © 
 
 And, to your own particular lusts, employ 
 
 So great and catholic a bliss; be sure 
 
 A curse will follow, yea, and overtake 
 
 Your subtle and most secret ways. BEN JONSON. 
 
 WauareEvenr passed between Cromwell and the Lady Constantia 
 must remain secret, as neither were of a particularly commu- 
 nicative disposition. Lady Frances, indeed, laboured hard to 
 succeed and comprehend the whole matter, but in vain. She 
 waylaid her friend on her passage from the room of audience, 
 
382 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 and observed, in a tone and manner that betrayed her anxiety 
 on the subject, 
 
 “«* My father and you have had a long conference !” 
 
 ** He has indeed. honoured me by much condescension and 
 kindness,” was Constantia’s reply. 
 
 “Do you know whom he has closeted up so strangely in 
 Cecil Place? I was going into the oak parlour, when a sentry 
 at the door —(What rough fellows those soldiers are !)) — 
 cried ‘Stand!’ as if I had been a statue. With that I re- 
 paired to the small oriel chamber ; but there, too, was another 
 ‘Stand!’ Why, the house is at once a prison and a garrison !” 
 
 ** Not quite.” 
 
 «Oh, you take it more gently than I should — to have per- 
 sons in your own house, and not know who they are.” 
 
 ** Your father, I suppose, knows them; and I may have 
 sufficient confidence in the Protector of England to believe in 
 the wisdom of all he does — nothing doubting.” 
 
 ‘‘ My father is very anxious about Sir Robert.” 
 
 ** He is indeed.” 
 
 “«* And to search out the destroyer of our poor Barbara.” 
 
 ** He has ever been to justice as its right hand.” 
 
 How poor Lady Frances longed to ask of Constance if her 
 father had talked about Sir Willmott —if there were any 
 tidings of Walter De Guerre, or where he had been since his 
 disappearance with Major Wellmore! but she could not — she 
 dared not ask another question: indeed, Constantia effectually 
 prevented her so doing, for, taking her hand with that extra- 
 ordinary combination of frankness and reserve which is ever 
 the characteristic of a great and honest mind, she said — 
 
 «« My sweet friend, do not question me; I have either an- 
 swered your father’s questionings as I answer every one, truly, 
 in word and spirit, or told him, when he asked what I must not 
 reveal, that I could not tell. I never equivocated in my whole 
 life ; equivocation is a subterfuge, mean as well as sinful — 
 the special pleading of a lie.” 
 
 “My dear Lady Perfection !” 
 
 ‘** Do not mock me, sweet Frances: the world will say, and 
 say rightly, you are much nearer perfection than 1 am; you 
 have far more of the woman — the open, cheerful, confiding 
 woman. But hear me say a few words more, — and apply 
 them as you will. I once saw a young fresh tree — it was an 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 383 
 
 oak —a bright tree and a beautiful! It flourished on the 
 hill-side, and injured nothing ; for its shadow was harmless, 
 and served but as a kindly shelter for the modest violet and 
 the pale primrose. The woodcutter looked upon it as he passed 
 it by, and said it would grow to be the pride of the forest ; — 
 the village children held their innocent revelry beneath its gay 
 branches : — but, Frances, dear Frances, the storm gathered, 
 and the thunder leaped from cloud to cloud in the angry hea- 
 vens, and the lightning — the forked lightning, darted among 
 its leaves, and struck it to the heart. The next morning the 
 sun saw that it was blighted ; and the sun said, ‘ My beautiful 
 tree and my brave, that my beams delighted to shine upon, is 
 blasted ; but I will throw forth my warmest rays, and my 
 favourite shall revive, and again be glorious!’ And the sun 
 came in all its power, and it shone upon the tree; but the 
 more it shone, the more quickly the tree withered — for it 
 fainted beneath the kindness which had the will, but not the 
 gift, of renovation.” 
 
 Lady Frances turned from her friend with tears, and asked 
 her no more questions. Constantia wept not, but passed 
 towards the servants’ hall to give some directions. The even- 
 ing had quite closed, and the earth slept under the broad grey 
 wings of twilight ; as she crossed the corridors, she would 
 have been bewildered by the darkness, had not her feet been 
 acquainted with every winding passage. 
 
 As she passed one of the deep and sunken entrances for 
 light, that seemed constructed for the purpose of expelling and 
 not admitting the beams of day, so narrow and complicated 
 was its framework, something struck violently on the glass. 
 She started on perceiving a small figure enveloped in a 
 woman's cloak. Late occurrences had made her cautious ; 
 but she was quickly assured of safety on hearing her name 
 pronounced by the voice of Robin Hays. In a low but some. 
 what confident tone he informed her of his desire to see the 
 Protector upon a matter of life and death. 
 
 ** Only ask him if he will see me, dear lady !— I would 
 not come openly, because I know he loves mystery in all 
 things, and likes not that the world should be able to prate of 
 his interviews. — But ask quickly, dear lady — quickly, as ye 
 would seek heaven !” 
 
 “See you, Robin! The Protector see and counsel with 
 you, Robin?” 
 
384 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 «* Ay, dear lady — the lion and the mouse — the lion and 
 the mouse — only let it be quickly — quickly.” 
 
 “Stay, Robin ; you of all men are the most likely to know 
 —can you tell me aught concerning one, I believe, we both 
 loved P”’ , 
 
 _ ** Ask me not, dear mistress, now; only quiekly, quickly 
 to the Protector.” 
 
 In a few minutes Robin Hays again stood before the great 
 and extraordinary man he both respected and feared. 
 
 There was a mingling of kindliness and warmth in Crom- 
 well’s manner, as he desired the manikin to come forward, 
 and, having first questioned him about his health, commanded 
 him to tell his business. 
 
 “J have intruded on your Highness, which is a mark of 
 great boldness in a creature of such low degree,’’ commenced 
 the Ranger in obedience to the Protector’s orders, “ and it is 
 on behalf of one to whom I am much bound. Alack! great — 
 sir, it is a sad thing when a man of spirit, of power, and of 
 bravery, has no friend to speak for him but one that Nature 
 threw from her as unworthy of the neat finishing she bestows 
 on others: — when our parent discards us, what have we to 
 expect from mankind P”’ 
 
 “‘ Do you speak of the youth called Walter, whose gallant 
 Jubilee waits impatiently till his master is at liberty to boot 
 and saddle? He shall mount him soon.” 
 
 “ With all humility, your Highness, no: —I would speak 
 of Hugh Dalton and the Fire-fly.” 
 
 “ Of his ship, which may be at sea, say you?” 
 
 Robin ventured one glance at Cromwell’s countenance, 
 doubtless with the intention of ascertaining if he knew the 
 position of the vessel: but there was no expression on those 
 features that could lead to any conclusion, and the Ranger 
 skilfully evaded the question. 
 
 “ It is indeed of Hugh Dalton I would speak,” continued 
 Robin, “ and intreat in his behalf, what I need myself, yet 
 ask not for —a pardon.” 
 
 « Pardon!” repeated Cromwell, ‘ Pardon !—on what 
 grounds 2” 
 
 « Those of mercy — upon which your Highness has par- 
 doned many ; and, please your Highness, if I may make bold 
 to say so, this same man has some reason, however small, to 
 
 offer. The Jewess Zillah ce 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 385 
 
 * Ah! what of her?” 
 
 ‘Ts in his keeping, and a certain preacher also—a worthy, 
 simple, yet, withal, a keen man, whom Sir Willmott Burrell, 
 as I understand, entrapped and shut up, with famine as his 
 only associate, because he had become possessed of some 
 papers proving Sir Willmott’s marriage with the Jewish 
 lady.” 
 
 ** And Dalton A 
 
 ** Saved this Fleetword !”’ 
 
 « Ah, Fleetword!” interrupted Cromwell, “ I have heard 
 of his disappearance — and he is safe?” 
 
 “ Perfectly.” 
 
 * T bless the Lord for his unravelling! But why comes 
 not this man forth from his den? Methinks, if he have 
 rendered such service to the Jew, who is our friend, he has 
 some claim to our consideration, and might hope — perhaps, 
 hope for pardon. But, if I judge rightly, he expected more 
 than pardon, — pardon for his ship also, and farther grace 
 towards himself : — ran it not thus ?” 
 
 “‘ Please your Highness, yes. The man loves his ship, 
 which is but natural ; and then his men % 
 
 ‘* What! the reeving ravenous set who have carried de- 
 struction as their flag, and filled the coast with desolation ; 
 aided and abetted in plunder, and brought over malcontents 
 from evil lands, and scattered them like flax-seed over the 
 country! Cornwall— Devon — Essex —- Kent— Sussex — 
 everywhere ; — disturbed ourselves, so that by night as well 
 as day we lack repose ; and are forced to be our own watch- 
 dog, to the great discomfort and danger of our body, and the 
 vexation of our soul! Pardon for such as they! Dalton we 
 might pardon, we have reasons for it; but his ship — it shall 
 burn upon the high seas, as an example to all like it ; and, as 
 to his crew, — why not a scoundrel could be found robbing a 
 hen-roost who would not declare himself one of Hugh Dal- 
 ton’s gang! To send you, too, as his ambassador !” 
 
 “ Please your Highness,” interrupted Robin, “ he did not 
 send me, though he knew of my coming. The man is watch- 
 ing by the side of his child.” 
 
 ‘© His child, said you — I heard he had but one, and that, 
 through some mystery, the girl was here, and 4 
 
 Cromwell would have added, ‘ shot,’’ but he remembered 
 
 cc 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
886 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 what Robin had suffered at Hampton Court, when Barbara’s 
 death was mentioned before him, and, though chafed at the 
 picture he had himself drawn of the ravages of the Buccaneer, 
 yet the kind feelings of his nature prevented his opening the 
 green wound in the Ranger’s heart. No matter what distinc- 
 tion rank makes between man and man, Nature has instituted 
 a moral freemasonry, by which all her children understand 
 the signals and symptoms of goodness and greatness in each 
 other’s bosoms. Robin blessed him for his forbearance with 
 the fresh warm blessing of an affectionate heart; and the 
 blessing ascended to the Almighty’s throne, although breathed 
 into no mortal ear !— it ascended, not on the wings of the 
 wind, for the wind heard it not ; yet there it was, and there it 
 remains, registered in the book of life, amongst the few but 
 holy offerings which are paid to the mighty, in secret, by 
 those who look to them for aid, — whose homage is generally 
 of the lip, not the heart. 
 
 After a pause, more full of meaning than if it had been 
 crammed with words, Robin said — 
 
 “* Please your Highness, the girl is not dead, though badly 
 wounded.” 
 
 ** I thank God !—I thank God for every blessing. Have 
 you so said to the Lady Constantia?” 
 
 ‘¢ T did not like to mention it, yet, as I did not know 
 
 “ Right, right,” interrupted Cromwell, not permitting him 
 to finish the sentence, “ a silent tongue is ever harmless, and 
 with it there is safety. But I must see Fleetword and the 
 Jewess forthwith: say unto Dalton that so I desire it.” 
 
 ‘* The Skipper has secrets touching this family in his keep- 
 ing which I have reason to think he will retain, unless = 
 
 Wily as he was, Robin now paused, for he dreaded to rouse 
 the Protector’s ire, and Cromwell, seeing his hesitation, ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 “«* Speak on — speak out, young man —this fellow would 
 dictate to us— but speak — speak, I say ; what are his gracious 
 terms?” 
 
 Although the last words were uttered in an ironical tone, 
 Robin did speak, and boldly. 
 
 “‘ Pardon for himself, his registered followers, and safety 
 for his ship; I know such to be his feelings, and know he 
 would so say.” 
 
 a9 
 
 
 
 
 
 ah 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 387 
 
 The Protector replied calmly — “ To the pardon for him- 
 self, I say, ay; to the other conditions, no. Once spoken is 
 enough. My words are for eternity, young man; it is much 
 that I pardon even him. Go to— what hinders that I blow 
 not his nest into the sky? what care I for the vultures of his 
 eyrie !” 
 
 ** But the doves, your Highness, — the doves that shelter 
 there !”’ 
 
 ** Look ye, sir ambassador,” returned Cromwell, “ were I 
 to twine a wreath of gunpowder round his nest, think ye he 
 would suffer his child to perish, whatever fate in desperation 
 he might award himself?” 
 
 “* My Lord, he can look the sun in the face at noon-day ; 
 he could weigh with an unquailing eye the bullet that brought 
 him death—he is a man of unspeakable firmness,” 
 
 “ Granted,” said the Protector ; ‘‘ but I am a father — 50 is 
 he ; you are not, or you would feel that, were the female a vul. 
 ture, not a dove, still he could not peril her life. She is his 
 child. I forget, while I now speak, that which I am; for I 
 could not speak thus if I remembered it. I send you to Dal- 
 ton, to tell him, that in humble, most humble, imitation of the 
 blessed God, whose unworthy servant I am, I say that 
 ‘ though,’ in the eyes of the world, ‘ his sins be as scarlet, 
 they shall be as wool ;’ they shall be blotted from my memory, 
 and I will stretch forth my right hand to save and not to 
 punish ; so much as regards himself, I will not hint at his 
 misdeeds, provided that *” he stopped abruptly, and fixed 
 his eye upon the timepiece that was set over the chimney —a 
 huge heavy iron machine, that one would fancy even Time 
 found it difficult to deal with. ‘* You see the hour—the hand 
 is on the stroke of nine: provided that, before that same hand 
 rests upon the single figure which heralds in the morning, 
 the Preacher, the Jewess, himself and his daughter are within 
 this room — provided they are here I will seal his pardon: 
 he shall go forth, or remain, a free subject of the Common- 
 wealth. And more than this, my soldiers sleep till midnight, 
 so that men, a// men may travel in safety, — in safety by land, 
 I mean ; for if the slightest attempt be made to rid the har- 
 bour of the pestilential vessel, whose crew keep such careful, or 
 rather such prudent, watch upon her deck, if that the night 
 were dark as blackness itself, there are eyes that see, and hands 
 
 co 2 
 
 
 
388 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 that avenge! The ship must not remain unpunished ; of her, 
 justice’ shall have its due. Your Buccaneer should think of 
 this, and bless the God that has made us merciful.” 
 
 ** The Fire-fly, to be towed into Chatham and about, and 
 pointed at by the cowardly land-lubbers, as Hugh Dalton’s 
 fine vessel! ’ T'would kill him, please your Highness, it would 
 kill him, He would not take his life on such terms ‘i 
 
 “* Let him lose it, then. Think ye that, though you were 
 honest, there are not many who pant to discover the secrets of 
 that nest? Came I here for pastime? The Lord he is 
 righteous and merciful. The cavern and its wealth is ours. 
 The goodness of the Lord is over all the earth; yet such is 
 the corruption of all things that we have no leisure for repose, 
 much less pastime. Men’s passions and evil propensities de- 
 vour us, and fright comfort and often holy communing from 
 our pillow. Go to, then. We have one who could lead us 
 blindfold through your crag and its chambers. If we find 
 Dalton armed, justice must take its course; even I could not 
 save him then.” 
 
 ** It is little your guide would know what awaited him, if 
 he did conduct the soldiers of your Highness,’’ replied Robin, 
 perhaps in a tone of momentary familiarity, the result of his 
 long conference. 
 
 “It is enough,” said Cromwell. ‘‘ Though you have 
 denied that you were directed by him to see us on this matter, 
 yet you will not scruple to do our bidding. I need not repeat 
 — within four hours from this time, — the Jewess, the man 
 of God, Dalton and his daughter — secretly, mark, secretly — 
 within this chamber. During this period my soldiers sleep ; 
 but the vessel must not be unmoored. Remember, if its anchor 
 is weighed —or slipped,” he added, with that extraordinary 
 penetration which saw every possibility of even equivoque, 
 and guarded against it, “ the Buccaneer’s life is forfeit.” 
 
 Robin bowed with great submission, but still lingered. 
 
 ‘* Please your Highness, he does so love that vessel ! ” 
 
 “* You practise on our humanity, young man, and forget to 
 whom you speak.” 
 
 Robin bowed again more lowly than before, and retreated 
 down the room. While closing the door, he looked to where 
 the Protector sat ; Cromwell, observing the movement, raised 
 his hand, and pointed to the time-piece, whose iron finger was 
 fast travelling round the dial, 
 
 
 
- THE BUCCANEER. 889 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 So up he arose upon his stretched sails, 
 Fearless expecting his approaching death ; 
 So up he arose, that the air starts and fails, 
 And overpressed sinks his load beneath ; 
 So up he arose, as doth a thunder cloud 
 Which all the earth with shadows black doth shroud ; 
 -So up he arose. PHINEAS FLETCHER. 
 
 “ Tux Lord deliver me! once more, say I,” ejaculated Robin 
 Hays, “and the Lord deliver Dalton! He would sooner 
 submit to have his limbs hewed one by one from his body, 
 than permit a single plank of his good ship to be touched: he 
 loves it far more than his own life. I will not speak with him 
 about it. There is no possibility of a hundred of our men, if 
 we could summon them from the different stations, encounter- 
 ing the well-disciplined soldiers now upon the island. No- 
 thing legal or illegal can withstand the power or turn aside the 
 will of that most wonderful man. It is useless to commune 
 more with Dalton ; but I will save him, though I perish in the 
 attempt !” 
 
 It may be almost said that he flew to the Gull’s Nest. 
 When there, he turned with a stealthy step towards the cham- 
 ber which his mother occupied. There was no living being 
 in the room save one, and she was busied in composing the 
 limbs and features of his dead parent, chanting, in a low mo- 
 notonous tone, fragments of old songs and snatches of ballads 
 appropriate to the gloomy task. 
 
 Robin clung to the door-post. However little he might 
 have respected his mother, he knew she had loved him ; and 
 it is sad, in a world where so few affectionate ties are formed, 
 to see the nearest and the dearest severed. He stood for a 
 little watching the slow movements of the old crone, who was 
 so withered and woe-looking that, with but slight effort of 
 imagination, he might have believed the grave had given up 
 one dead to prepare another for the sepulchre. The small 
 lamp sent forth but little light, and the features of his mother, 
 not yet decently arranged, had a scared and frightened look, 
 as if terror, at the oncoming of death, had left her a powerless 
 though unwilling captive. 
 
 ** Has the spirit long passed!” at length inquired Robin, 
 
 cco 3 
 
390 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 in a voice so low that the aged woman started, as if the whisper 
 sounded from below the earth. 
 
 «© Anan, Master Robin, is it you? Ah! I little thought 
 you'd ha’ been away ; not that I fancy she missed ye much, 
 for she didn’t make much struggle — that is, not to say much 
 at the very last —. 
 
 * And at the last your bed shall be,’ 
 Ay, near the broad and briny sea!’”’ 
 
 She gave out the rhyme while smoothing back the hair from 
 the haggard features of the corpse ; and her trembling treble 
 voice, so weak, so shrill,"added a most miserable and desolating 
 effect to the awful scene. 
 
 *“ Do it decently, good dame, decently and gently too, and 
 you shall be rewarded,” said Robin, deeply affected, — aware 
 how impossible it was for him to remain and see that every 
 thing was well ordered. 
 
 «* Ay, ay, I warrant it shall all be done rightly, master, as 
 rightly as if she decked herself, poor soul! which she was well 
 fond of in days long ago.” 
 
 Robin turned towards the cliff. As he commenced the de- 
 scent, the wail of the corpse-dresser fell upon his ear with the 
 sighing of the wind that was straying amongst the many 
 hollow crags —the mysterious wind that comes— whence ? — 
 we know not; and goes—where ? — we cannot tell — yet 
 moves along upon its appointed way— felt, although unseen, 
 on the vast earth and the wide sea — now rejoicing over 
 pleasant fields, and filling the leaves with harmony — kissing 
 in its gentleness the blushing bosom of the rose, and wafting 
 the humble bee on its industrious voyage !—then stirring up 
 oceans by its breath, and shouting to the clouds its man- 
 dates !— Thou playfellow of thunder, and mate of the fierce 
 lightning! whether as a hurricane or a zephyr, great source of 
 good and evil, hail to thee on thy way ! 
 
 Robin stood on the smooth beach at the bottom of the cliffs, 
 and, taking in at one glance all the objects within sight, per- 
 ceived that the government ships had certainly moved closer to 
 the vessel, whose identity had puzzled even him, keen observer 
 though he was. The night was dark but clear—no haze, no 
 moon — the clouds not heavy nor light, yet few stars made 
 their appearance: now and then, as a shadow passed, one 
 would twinkle for a moment, until obscured by some ambitious 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 391 
 
 vapour soaring from earth to become purified by heaven. The 
 ocean was calm and still, sleeping the sleep of waters in their 
 immensity! Persons unaccustomed to such scenes could 
 hardly have distinguished the vessels in the offing, so much of 
 the same colour did they appear with the waves themselves. 
 Robin then scanned the cliffs as he had done the ocean, and 
 whistled soft, low, but audibly,—a note like that of the 
 frightened plover. It was speedily answered, and in a mo- 
 ment Roupall stood by his side. 
 
 *« Are any gone off to the ship ? —and where is the Skip- 
 per?” 
 
 “The Skipper’s with the women, and, I think, has been 
 looking out for you,” replied Roupall. 
 
 * Tell him, then, — tell all—that it will not be safe for any 
 of ye to venture off to the Fire-fly till I give ye a signal. 
 The ships have got closer to her, and a boat going off now would 
 be sunk by a shot, for, night as it is, they can see ; and, if it 
 continues clear over head, the moon will not be needed to light 
 to mischief — the stars shine bright enough for that. And 
 now, Jack, I’m going to make a confidant of you—a proof 
 that I think ye an honest rascal, at all events. Do not give 
 what I am going to write on this parchment to the Skipper 
 until I have made a signal from the ship. He is too old a 
 sailor not to be on the look out ; but you and Springall must 
 be with him. You owe me thus much service for a wrong 
 you once did me. It is meet that I forget and forgive it 
 now. 
 
 ** As to the wrong, Robin, it is clear out of my memory,” 
 replied Roupall. ‘‘ Gad! you must be a good scholar to write 
 in the dark ; but, I say, your signals and book learning could 
 be much clearer, if you would just step in to the Skipper and ex- 
 plain. Here are we, like a parcel of bats and owls, stowing away 
 in the cliffs, waiting to get out to the ship ; and I know, from 
 what old Hugh said, he is only watching for some messenger, 
 with some answer or another. I know he is about a negotiation, 
 which I’d never consent to, but fight a thousand troopers, 
 had it not been that as good as eight or ten took his permis- 
 sion, and walked off for the other holdfast — fellows, to be 
 sure, that never cruised with him above once. Let us a-board, 
 and we’re safe. Would that the night were darker! for I 
 think, by the movement of the watchers, (to the Devil with 
 
 co 4 
 
392 THE BUCCANEER;: 
 
 them!) that they suspect — ah! now you've finished, pray 
 tell me what the signal will be —a red light?” 
 
 « A red light !” repeated Robin musingly, as he rolled up 
 the parchment; “oh, yes! it will be a very red light.” 
 
 “ But, Bob, won't that alarm the ships?” 
 
 ““ Never mind if it does,” replied Robin, casting off his 
 boots, and throwing away all the loose portions of his dress, 
 so as to stand only in his shirt and hose ; ‘‘ Give me your 
 belt — it is broader than mine.” 
 
 Roupall did as he requested, demanding, in his turn, if 
 Robin was mad enough to think of swimming to the Fire-fly. 
 
 “Yes,” was the Ranger’s concise reply. ‘And now,” he 
 added, ‘‘ Jack, remember, the moment you see my signal, 
 deliver this to the Skipper; but, as you value your life, not 
 before.” 
 
 He plunged into the ocean as he spoke ; and presently, the 
 sound of the dividing waters was lost in the distance. 
 
 “Well!” exclaimed Roupall, “ that beats all the freaks I 
 ever knew even Robin to be after! Why, the vessel's near a 
 mile off ; and, now I think of it, I never asked him what we 
 were to do when he gave the signal; but I suppose his paper 
 tells. Lying about here, in such peril! But it’s always the 
 way —the minute a sailor touches land, good-by to his well- 
 doing.” 
 
 Before the speaker had climbed the topmost cliff, he met 
 the Buccaneer. 
 
 “ Hast seen Robin Hays?” was his first question. 
 
 ‘* Ay, sir; and, if it was day, you might see him too — at 
 least, the best part of him — his head, yonder — making for 
 the Fire-fly.” 
 
 “‘How! making for the Fire-fly! What do ye mean, 
 Jack? this is no time for jesting.’¢ 
 
 ‘I mean, Captain, that Robin Hays is swimming to the 
 Fire-fly ; and that he told me to watch for a signal he would 
 make ; and ad 
 
 « And what P” 
 
 “Why, he is to make a signal—a red light from the ship.” 
 
 “* Red light from the ship!” repeated the Buccaneer, in a 
 voice of astonishment ; ‘* He has lost his senses! What can 
 this mean? Left he no message for me ?” 
 
 “None,” replied Roupall; thinking to himself, ‘a piece 
 of parchment’s no message, so that’s no lie,” 
 
 
 
 ab 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 393 
 
 Dalton paced to and fro on the small ledge that had been 
 beaten smooth by the step of many an illegal sentry in days 
 gone by: beneath his feet lay the subterraneous apartments 
 of the Gull’s Nest ; and before him (although the night had 
 so darkened that it was no longer visible), before him was his 
 own vessel anchored. At any other time he would have felt 
 secure of refuge in the one resource or the other ; but circum- 
 stances combined to convince him there was now no certain 
 safety by sea or land. At one moment, he thought of man- 
 ning his boat, and carrying his daughter boldly to the ship. 
 Had he been alone, such would at once have been his deter- 
 mination — but he could not expose much less leave her to 
 peril. With the common blindness of those who argue only 
 on their own side of the question, he could not ‘see why the 
 Protector should object to the preservation of the Fire-fly ; 
 and he had hoped for Robin’s return with tidings that would 
 have made his child’s heart, as well as his own, leap with joy. 
 He knew that Cromwell would make a large sacrifice to secure 
 the Jewess, Zillah ; and he had also reasons to believe the 
 Protector suspected there were other secrets within his keep- 
 ing, the nature of which he would give much to learn. Robin’s 
 motive, in thus visiting the Fire-fly, was beyond his compre- 
 hension ; and he had no alternative but to await the promised 
 signal with all the patience he could command. As he paced 
 the ledge, now with a slow now with a hurried footstep, the 
 darkness increased, and the stars twinkled less frequently : — 
 there was no storm —no fierce blast swept along the heavens, 
 or disturbed the earth, but dense heavy clouds canopied the 
 the ocean as with a pall. Roupall was seated on a huge stone, 
 his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the “ mul- 
 titudinous sea,”’ silently, and not less anxiously, watching for 
 the flash which he expected would disturb the dull and sleepy 
 night. Ever and anon, the querulous voice of the woman, 
 keeping watch by the lifeless clay, which she had laid in de- 
 cent order upon its humble pallet, in the Gull’s Nest, floated 
 over the cliffs, and died away on the bosom of the waters. At 
 times, Roupall would growl and fret as a chained mastiff ; 
 but the anxiety of the Skipper had so increased, that he ceased 
 moving, and stood on the bold brow of the crag, like a black 
 monument of stone. 
 
 Suddenly, a strong light, a fierce blaze, as if the ocean had 
 thrown up one immense pyramid of flame, to dispel the dark- 
 
594 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 ness and divide the clouds, sprang into the heavens! and 
 then a peal, loud as the straggling thunder! The cliff shook 
 beneath their feet—the sea-birds started from their nests, and 
 flew, and screamed, and wheeled in the air! From behind 
 the different points and crags along the shore rushed forth the 
 smugglers, who had lain to, watching the time when it would 
 have been prudent for them to put off their boats and join the 
 ship, as Dalton had directed. The old death-dresser forsook 
 the corpse, and standing on the highest crag, her long hair 
 floating backwards on the breeze, her arms tossing from the 
 effects of terror and astonishment, looked like the sybil whose 
 spells and orgies have distracted nature by some terrible con- 
 vulsion. The cliffs and strand at the moment formed a pic- 
 ture that Salvator would have gloried in conveying to his 
 canvass — the line of coast now rising boldly from the ocean, 
 each projecting point catching the glaring blaze, and seeming 
 itself on fire — the caverns overhung by creeping plants, revel- 
 ling in gorgeous colours from every changing light that 
 touched their beauties : — then the wild figures clasping by 
 the rocks, panting with terror and excitement —the sibyl 
 on her pinnacle — the gigantic frame of Roupall, rendered 
 still more gigantic to the eye by the position in which -he 
 stood, breathless, with the written parchment in his hand, 
 yet unable to move or direct Dalton’s attention to it. The 
 Skipper, still like a monument of stone, but called to anima- 
 tion by astonishment and dismay, while the light played with 
 the grace and brilliancy of lightning on the bright mountings of 
 his pistols. Still the flames towered brightly to the heavens, 
 while each fresh explosion separated their condensed effect, 
 and sent a portion of them higher in the clouds, or hissing 
 over the variegated and sparkling sea, which rolled to the 
 shore in masses of glowing fire. 
 
 “ Read! read!’ at length exclaimed Roupall, thrusting the 
 parchment into the hand of the Buccaneer. ‘‘ Read! read!” 
 he repeated, for Dalton heeded him not. ; 
 
 “* Read what ?” said the Skipper, in a voice which entered the 
 heart of all who heard it ; “ do I not read — do I not read — 
 black, bitter, burning treachery ?— It is my own ship—I 
 know every spar that flits like a meteor through the air. My 
 heart was never crushed till now.” 
 
 ** Read — I will read it, if I can,” said Springall, who had 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 395 
 
 joined the party. With some difficulty he succeeded in making 
 audible its contents. 
 
 ** Dalton, you are safe! it may be that I perish: I knew 
 you would never sacrifice your ship for your own life, so I 
 have done it for you. Go with the Jewess, your daughter, 
 and the Preacher, immediately to Cecil Place, to the small 
 passage leading to the purple chamber, and demand admittance. 
 You are pardoned —and all the rest may leave the island, 
 provided they depart before the hour of one.” 
 
 The Buccaneer apparently heard it not: the communication 
 made no visible impression upon him ; he stood in the same 
 position as before. Even Springall spoke no word, although 
 his feeling of attachment to Dalton was rendered sufficiently 
 obvious by his creeping close to his side, and grasping his 
 arm with a gesture which said, “ I will not be separated from 
 you.”’ 
 
 At this moment a cry arose from the beach, and, though 
 the flames were fading, it could be seen that several of the 
 men had rushed to the water’s edge, and assisted a creature to 
 the shore who was unable to struggle longer for himself ; 
 soon, however, he contrived to mount the cliff on which Dalton 
 still remained a living statue of despair, and faint, dripping, 
 unable to utter a single word, Robin stood, or rather drooped, 
 by the side of the Buccaneer. He came too soon ; Dalton, 
 irritated, maddened by the loss of his ship, was unable to 
 appreciate the risk which the Ranger had run, or the sacrifice 
 he had made. He thought but of what he had lost, not of 
 what he had gained ; and saw in Robin only the destroyer of 
 his vessel, not the obtainer of his long sought-for pardon. 
 Urged by uncontrollable frenzy, he seized his preserver with 
 the grasp and determination of a desperate man, and, raising 
 him from the ledge, would have hurled him over the cliff, had 
 not one, weak and gentle, yet with that strength to which the 
 strongest must ever yield, interposed to thwart his horrid pur- 
 pose. It was Barbara, who clung to her father’s arm: feeble 
 as she was, the death-throes of the gallant vessel had frighted 
 her and her companion from their retirement, and she now 
 came, like the angel of mercy, between her parent and his ill- 
 directed vengeance. When the Buccaneer found that his arm 
 was pressed, his impulse was to fling off the hand that did it ; 
 but when he saw who it was that stayed him, and gazed upon 
 the bloodless face and imploring eyes of his sweet daughter, he 
 
396 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 stood a harmless unresisting man, subdued by a look and over- 
 powered by a touch. 
 
 Barbara never was a girl of energy, or a seeker after power. 
 She considered obedience as woman’s chief duty — duty as a 
 child to the parent — as a wife to the husband ; and, perhaps, 
 such was her timidity, had there been time to deliberate, she 
 would have trembled at the bare idea of opposing her father’s 
 will, though she would have mourned to the end of her days 
 the result of his madness ; but she acted from the impulse of 
 the moment. Nothing could be more touching than the sight 
 of her worn and almost transparent figtire, hanging on her 
 father’s dark and muscular form, like a frail snow-wreath on 
 some bleak mountain. 
 
 Robin, whose resentments were as fierce as his fidelity was 
 strong, felt in all the bitterness of his nature the indignity the 
 Buccaneer had put upon him, and stood panting to avenge the 
 insult and injustice, yet withheld from either word or deed by 
 the presence of Barbara, who remained in the same attitude, 
 clinging to her father, unable, from weakness, either to with- 
 draw or to stand without assistance. 
 
 Springall, who did not love her so much as to prevent his 
 being useful, was the first to regain his self-possession; he 
 brought in his cap some water that was trickling down the 
 rock, and threw it on her pallid brow — while Zillah chafed 
 her hands, and endeavoured to separate her from her father. 
 At last she spoke, and, though her voice was feeble as the cry 
 of infancy, the Buccaneer heard it, and withdrew his gaze 
 from the remains of his burning vessel to look on the living 
 features of his child. 
 
 “Father! you frighten me by those wild passions — and 
 this wild place! let us go from it, and be at peace ; poor Robin 
 is your true friend, father. Be friends with him.” 
 
 “You speak as a woman, a young weak woman, Barbara,” 
 replied the Skipper, evincing his returning interest in present 
 objects by passing his arm round his daughter, so as to sup- 
 port her on his bosom. ‘‘ Look out, girl, and say what you 
 Bee.’/, 
 
 “‘ Father, huge masses of burning wood, floating over the 
 ocean, and borne to other shores by the rising breeze.” 
 
 *“And know you what that burning wood was scarce a 
 minute since ?” 
 
 * Father — no.” 
 
THE BUCCANEER, 397 
 
 “Those blazing masses were once the Fire-fly—my own 
 ship — my own ship !”’ 
 
 “And Robin BE 
 
 ** Has been the means of its destruction.” 
 
 “Has he?” Barbara paused after she had so exclaimed, 
 and then, clasping her hands, raised them upwards as she con- 
 tinued, “‘a blessing, a thousand blessings on him! for what 
 he does is ever good, and full of wisdom. Ah! now I see 
 it all: he destroyed the bad vessel that you, dear father, might 
 no more tosea ; but stay on shore with us — with me, I would 
 have said —” she added, hiding, as she spoke, her face on her 
 father’s shoulder. 
 
 Five or six of the crew had clambered up the cliff, and 
 clustered round their Skipper. Roupall, Springall, and the 
 Jewess were close to Barbara, and Robin stood exactly on the 
 spot where Dalton’s rage had left him — one foot on the edge 
 of the crumbling cliff, his long arms enwreathing his chest. 
 
 The red glare had faded from the waters, the sea-birds 
 were settling in their nests, but the government-ships were 
 alive with lights, and, suddenly bursting through the night, 
 came the shrill blast of a trumpet from Cecil Place. It called 
 Robin Hays into activity, and, while the men were looking on 
 each other, he advanced and spoke. 
 
 ** Hugh Dalton, the ship was yours, and yours alone, and 
 to you the parchment which Springall holds accounts for its 
 destruction ; that destruction, Captain, ought to prove one 
 thing, and one thing only — that I loved you better than the 
 Fire-fly. Both could not have been preserved. You have 
 treated me as a dog, to whom you would haye given a dog’s 
 death ; and I shali not forget it.” 
 
 ** Robin!” exclaimed a small soft voice. 
 
 “J cannot forget it,’’ repeated the Ranger ; and then the 
 voice again said, “ Robin,” in a tone of such sweetness, that 
 all present were moved. After another pause, hardy Jack 
 Roupall put in his word. 
 
 « The Skipper was hurt, and no marvel, to see her burning. 
 You mustn’t be spiteful, Robin Hays, — only what hindered 
 to get her out?” 
 
 “She was known, marked, and watched, as I am well as- 
 sured of,” he replied. ‘‘ Had you attempted to weigh anchor, 
 every man on board would have been blown to atoms, Nota 
 
 he 
 
 life would haye been spared. The men who had charge of 
 
 
 
398 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 her are safe. I sent them to the Essex side — though they 
 little thought why.” 
 
 Another trumpet-blast mounted with the breeze, and Robin 
 exclaimed, 
 
 “Away, away, lads! It is not yet midnight, and no 
 hindrance will be offered to any who quit the island before the 
 hour of one. Away, away! Ye are foxes, and have earths in 
 plenty. Away, for your lives away !” | 
 
 «© Away!” replied Roupall. ‘ Whither, good Ranger ? 
 Heard ye not the trumpet, and know ye not that every outlet 
 will be guarded, every man on the watch after such a sound?” 
 
 “‘ Had your safety not been cared for, there need have been 
 no trumpet-blast. I pledge my faith— my life—for your 
 security, exclaimed Robin, energetically. ‘‘ Only away, and 
 quickly !” 
 
 One or two of the men sullenly and quietly dropped down 
 the cliff; but there were others who would not thus part from 
 their captain, — sailors, who had braved danger, disease, and 
 death in his company ; these would not leave him now, but, 
 as if in expectation of an attack, they looked to their pistols 
 and jerked their daggers sharply in their sheaths. Dalton still 
 remained, uncertain, perhaps, or careless as to his future course, 
 with Barbara still hanging on his arm, while the Jewess clung 
 closely to her side. 
 
 “* Springall !’”’ said Robin, “ you have influence with him. 
 Use it for his good: his pardon is secured if he complies with 
 the terms I have mentioned.” 
 
 “Great tidings! glad tidings !”” exclaimed a hoarse voice a 
 little above them. ‘‘ The Philistines will be overthrown, and 
 the men of Judah triumph! I have heard in my solitude, yea 
 in my extremity, tidings of exceeding gladness: and, albeit 
 not of quick hearing, the tramp of Joshua and his army hath 
 come upon mine ear. Oh, ye Canaanites! ye dwellers in the 
 accursed land !”’ 
 
 “Fetch him down!” shouted Roupall. 
 
 “‘ For your lives touch him not, but to your earths!’ ex- 
 claimed Robin impetuously. ‘‘The Gull’s Nest will be no 
 place of safety now.’ Then, springing on Dalton, he snatched 
 the pistols from his belt and flung them into the sea. 
 
 He had hardly done so, when spears and helmets glittered 
 in the faint starlight on the higher cliff. It was no time for 
 deliberation. Roupall and the others slunk silently and sor- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 599 
 
 rowingly away, and the little group — Dalton, Barbara, the 
 Jewess, Fleetword, and Robin — stood nearly together on the 
 ledge. , 
 
 Colonel Jones had accompanied the soldiers by direct orders 
 from the Protector, who, from the firing of the ship, imagined 
 for a time that Dalton and Robin had acted with treachery — 
 treachery which, with his usual promptness, he adopted the 
 immediate means to counteract. 
 
 Robin advanced to meet the troop, and addressing Colonel 
 Jones respectfully, said, 
 
 * You will have the goodness to observe, sir, that Hugh 
 Dalton is not only unarmed, but has assembled round him 
 those whose presence were commanded at Cecil Place before 
 the hour of one.” 
 
 Colonel Jones vouchsafed no reply to Robin's observation ; 
 but it was not the less heeded on that account. He inquired, 
 in a stern voice, 
 
 ** By what means have ye wrought the destruction of yon- 
 der vessel ?” 
 
 “<I will tell hereafter’? was the only reply he could elicit 
 from Robin Hays. It was repeated more than once — “I will 
 tell hereafter.” 
 
 By this time the little party was surrounded. The Buc- 
 caneer attempted no resistance. His strength, his spirit, 
 seemed gone ; his child lay fainting, weak, and exhausted at 
 his feet. Colonel Jones felt, though he did not then express 
 it, much joy at seeing alive the girl he believed dead, Dalton 
 attempted to raise and carry her with him, but in vain. He 
 staggered under the light load asa drunken man. One of the 
 troopers offered horses to the females. Dalton would not 
 commit her to other guidance than his own, and, mounting, 
 placed her before him. 
 
 Robin would have turned to the room that contained his 
 mother’s corpse, but Colonel Jones forbade it. 
 
 «My mother, sir, lies dead within that hut,” expostulated 
 the Ranger. 
 
 “That may be,’’ replied the soldier ; “but I say, in the 
 words of Scripture, ‘ Let the dead bury their dead.’ ” 
 
 The party then proceeded towards Cecil Place, Zillah en- 
 trenching herself under the protection of the Preacher Fleet- 
 word, 
 
4.00 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Weep no more, nor sigh nor groan, 
 
 Sorrow calls no time that’s gone. 
 
 Violets pluck’d, the sweetest rain 
 
 Makes not fresh nor grow again. 
 
 Trim thy locks, look cheerfully ; 
 
 Fate’s hidden ends eyes cannot see. 
 
 Joys, as winged dreams, fly fast: 
 
 Why should sadness longer last ? 
 
 Grief is but a wound to wo: 
 
 Gentlest fair! mourn, mourn no mo. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 Ir was with feelings of considerable anxiety that the Protector 
 waited the return of Colonel Jones from the second task as- 
 signed him in the Isle of Shepey. 
 
 The routing out of a band of lawless smugglers, although 
 commanded by so daring askipper as Hugh Dalton, was to him 
 a matter of little consideration, compared to the restoration of 
 Zillah Ben Israel, and the positive saving of Constantia Cecil 
 from worse than death: these two motives weighed deeply 
 upon Cromwell's mind, and he would have made any sacrifice 
 to have been assured that his purpose, with regard to both, 
 might be effected before the morning’s dawn. When the ex- 
 plosion of the Fire-fly disturbed his solitude in the purple 
 chamber at Cecil Place, he directed immediate inquiry to be 
 instituted as to its origin, and quickly ascertained that it was 
 caused by the destruction of some ship at sea ; his suspicions 
 were at once directed to the vessel of the Buccaneer. 
 
 There was no time to lose; Colonel Jones, whose courage 
 and coolness were proverbial amongst soldiers more celebrated 
 for these qualities than even British soldiers have ever been 
 before or since, was instantly dispatched to the Gull’s Nest. 
 At first the command of the Protector was to ‘ mount 
 silently ;”’ but his pledge to Robin Hays was remembered, and, 
 at the very moment when the glare of the burning ship was 
 illumining the island, he could not bring himself to determine 
 that the little deformed being, with whom he had held com- 
 mune, had betrayed the confidence reposed in him. 
 
 “* Let him know who are coming and prepare for it,” 
 thought Cromwell, whose caution was really subservient to 
 his enthusiasm, powerful as was at all times this latter quality ; 
 and then he gave, in a low, but earnest and energetic tone, the 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 401 
 
 order, ** Sound a brief ‘ to horse!’ trust in the Lord, and see 
 that yeur swords be loose in their scabbards.” 
 
 The troop, on its return, was met by Cromwell himself at 
 the gate to which we have so frequently alluded. His anxiety 
 had not been often greater than on that occasion, and it was 
 manifested by an impatience of manner that almost terrified 
 the attendants who waited in his presence. He was accom- 
 panied by only two officers, and his first question was if 
 ** Colonel Jones had secured Dalton and the Jewess?” A 
 reply in the affirmative evidently afforded him great relief and 
 satisfaction ; but the feeling was quickly succeeded by one of 
 extreme anger when informed of the total destruction of the 
 Fire-fly, which he had desired to preserve for his own special 
 purpese. - Yet, until the prisoners had been conducted into 
 Cecil Place by the private entrance, as he had previously ar- 
 ranged, his displeasure only found vent in occasional exclam- 
 ations, The house was alive with alarm and curiosity, but its 
 inmates received little information to quiet or to satisfy their 
 eager thirst for intelligence. As the soldiers passed the gates, 
 lights floated through the dwelling, and the windows were 
 crowded with inquisitive countenances ; great, therefore, was 
 the disappointment when they observed the party separate, and 
 one portion of it take a private path, leading to the Pro- 
 tector’s apartments, while the other proceeded round an angle 
 of the building to the stables. Many of the domestics met 
 them at the stable gates, but could learn nothing from those 
 trusty soldiers, who perfectly understood, and invariably acted 
 upon, their master’s favourite motto, “ safety in silence ;”— 
 still they could not rest, no one went to bed, for all were in 
 expectation of — they knew not what. 
 
 The clock struck one ; about five minutes afterwards Crom- 
 well had closed the door of his chamber ; the half-hour chimed. 
 Constance was looking on her father, sleeping calmly in his 
 chair, in a closet that opened into his favourite library. He 
 had not been in bed for several nights, and, since his afflicting 
 insanity, could seldom be prevailed on to enter his own room. 
 After pausing a few minutes, while her lips appeared to move 
 with the prayer her heart so fervently formed, she undid the 
 bolt, quietly opened the door, then partially closed it, and left 
 her wretched parent alone with his physician. 
 
 She could hear within the library, in which she now stood, 
 
 D D 
 
402 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 the heavy breathings of the afflicted man. A large lamp was 
 burning on the massive oak-table: it shed a cheerful light, 
 but it was a light too cheerful for her troubled and feverish 
 spirit —she sank upon a huge carved chair, and passed her 
 small hand twice or thrice over her brow, where heavy drops 
 had gathered ; then drew towards her the large Bible that had 
 been her mother’s. On the first page, in the hand-writing of 
 that beloved mother, was registered the day of her marriage, 
 and underneath the births of her several children, with a short 
 and thanksgiving prayer affixed to each; a little lower down 
 came a mournful register, the dates and manner of her sons 
 deaths ; but the Christian spirit that had taught her words and 
 prayers of gratitude, had been with her in the time of trouble ; 
 the passages were penned in true humility and humble-minded- 
 ness, though the blisterings of many tears remained upon the 
 paper. 
 
 onstantia turned over the leaves more carelessly than was 
 her custom ; but her eye dwelt upon one of the beautiful pro- 
 mises, given with so much natural poetry by the great Psalmist, 
 —‘‘ I have been young, and now am old, yet saw I never the 
 righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread.” “ Alas!” 
 she thought, ‘‘ I can derive only half consolation from such 
 as this. One of my parents was indeed righteous ; but, alas! 
 what has the other been?’’? She bowed her head upon the 
 book, and did not again raise it, until a soft hand touched her 
 shoulder, and a light voice whispered ‘‘ Constance ! ” 
 
 It was Lady Frances Cromwell. 
 
 “© My dear Constantia! here’s a situation! I never knew 
 any thing so provoking, so tantalising! My father, they say, 
 has taken as many as twenty prisoners, of one sort or another ; 
 and has caged them up in that purple-room with himself, ex- 
 amining into and searching out every secret — secrets I want 
 so much to know. He has got the Buccaneer, they say.” 
 
 « Who says so P”’ inquired Constance eagerly. 
 
 ‘© Why, everybody. Maud says so. And I have been to 
 the door at least ten times; but even the key-hole, I verily 
 believe, is plugged. Iam sure it is, for I tried hard to see 
 through it.” 
 
 ‘* The crisis of my fate is indeed come,’ murmured Con- 
 stantia. Then, after a pause, she was about to address her 
 ‘friend: ‘‘ My dear Lady Frances —” 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 403 
 
 ** Don’t Lady Frances me,” interrupted the young maiden, 
 pettishly. ‘I hate to be Lady Frances. I should know 
 more about every thing if I were a chamberlain’s daughter.” 
 
 * Your father can discover nought to your prejudice. I 
 confess I both dread and hope to hear news of the Gull’s 
 Nest. There is nothing which can affect you there.” 
 
 “ How can I tell? Poor Rich chooses queer postmen 
 sometimes! And that Manasseh Ben Israel ! he is as anxious 
 as myself to know what is going on. Two rooms locked up ! 
 Constance, I wonder you have not more spirit than to submit 
 to such proceedings. I would not.’’ 
 
 ** I am sorry for it; because it shows that your confidence 
 in your father is overbalanced by your curiosity.” 
 
 ‘* Pshaw !”? exclaimed the lady, turning from her friend, 
 just in time to see the doors at the bottom of the room thrown 
 open with much ceremony : — the Protector, attended by his 
 pages, followed by Dalton, Fleetword, and Robin, entered. 
 
 Constance rose respectfully from her seat, glanced upon the 
 form of the fearful Buccaneer who now stood before her, and 
 laying her hand on the arm of her friend, would have with- 
 drawn, had not Cromwell commanded her to stay. 
 
 ** Mistress Cecil, you will remain ; — both remain,” he 
 said, while an expression of exceeding kindness lent to his 
 harsh countenance the effect that sunlight gives to a rugged 
 landscape, softening without destroying a single point of its 
 peculiar and stern character. ‘* I have no dread of objection 
 on the part of the Lady Frances, and I must request your 
 presence.” He took a large chair at the head of the table, 
 and seating himself, delivered a slip of writing to his page, 
 who immediately quitted the room. 
 
 ** Our young friend will pardon this intrusion upon her 
 privacy, and moreover allow us to continue an investigation 
 that has already been attended with much pain, but we should 
 hope with some satisfaction also.” 
 
 As he spoke, the door again opened, and Manasseh Ben 
 Israel, pale and trembling with agitation, walked, or rather, 
 so submissive was his attitude, crept forward, saluting the 
 Protector and the ladies as he advanced. 
 
 “Will your Highness permit?’ inquired Constantia, 
 rising from her own seat, and pushing it towards the Rabbi. 
 
 ** Most certainly,’ was Cromwell’s prompt reply; “ our 
 
 DD 2 
 
4.04 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 friend is aged, but he is welcome ; and we have news that 
 will gladden his heart.” In an instant all trace of the ser- 
 vility which custom had imposed upon the manners of the 
 children of Israel vanished. ‘The Rabbi stood upright, and 
 clasping his hands together, exclaimed, “‘ My child! my 
 child !” 
 
 “‘ The lost sheep is found — blessed be the Lord ! —safe 
 here, within this house — and I lay my commands upon her 
 father that she be received as a stray lamb from the fold, and 
 warmed within his bosom. We have all children, good 
 Rabbi; and the Lord judge between us and them, they are 
 stiffnecked and stubborn! All, more or less, all — except 
 one or two who shine forth as bright examples ; — such is my 
 own Elizabeth, and such also is Mistress Constantia here.” 
 
 ‘‘ She is found!” repeated the Jew ; “ but they talked of 
 crime —of her having I cannot speak it, please your 
 Highness, but you know what I would say. Peradventure 
 gold might be made to atone.” 
 
 “* Peace, good friend !” interrupted Oliver sternly ; “ jus- 
 tice must have its due ; and, by God’s blessing, while we are 
 Protector, all the gold your tribe is worth shall not turn the 
 scale! We would be merciful for mercy’s sake ; but for jus- 
 tice — Yet pardon me,” he added in compassion to the Rabbi's 
 horror, ‘‘ I would not trifle with a father’s feelings — she is 
 guiltless of murder.” 
 
 He struck the table with the butt-end of his pistol —a 
 private door of the library opened as of itself — not one, but 
 two females stood beneath its shadow, eaeh supporting each, 
 as if the one weak creature thought she. could lend a portion 
 of much needed strength to the other. Lady Frances and 
 Constantia sprang from their seats — all distinction of rank 
 was forgotten, and Mistress Cecil wept over her affectionate 
 bower-maiden, as an elder over a younger sister, or even as a 
 mother over a beloved child. She asked no questions, but 
 kissed her brow and wept; while Barbara stood curtseying, 
 and smiling, and crying, and glancing with evident satisfac- 
 tion, amid her tears, towards her father and Robin; as if she 
 would have said, “‘ See how my lady, my grand lady, loves me!”’ 
 
 It did not escape the observation of Lady Frances that 
 Barbara wore the chain she had given her, and she most 
 heartily wished her father at Whitehall, or elsewhere, that she 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 405 
 
 might have an opportunity of asking all the questions at once 
 suggested by her busy brain. 
 
 It is impossible to convey an adequate idea of the meeting 
 between the Jew and his daughter. It was with feelings of 
 terror, more than of affection, that Zillah prepared to encounter 
 a justly offended parent. She had heard and believed that 
 erime such as hers — marrying or intriguing with Christians 
 — was punished by a lingering and cruel death ; and scarcely 
 could the word of Cromwell, pledged twice for her safety, con- 
 vince her that such would not be her fate. She instantly 
 prostrated herself at the Rabbi's feet ; and it would seem that, 
 assured of his daughter’s life—assured of her safety under 
 laws — British laws — his eastern notions with regard to the 
 submission due from woman to her master, man, returned to 
 him in full force ; for he suffered her to remain, her forehead 
 resting on the ground, and her hands clasped around it, 
 although he was so deeply agitated that he clung to a pedestal 
 for support. 
 
 The Protector arose from his seat, and, advancing, kindly 
 and tenderly raised the poor victim of confiding but too 
 violent passion, and placed her leaning on her father’s shoulder. 
 
 ** Manasseh!” he said, “ at times our speech is obscure, 
 and men see through it darkly. We hope it will not be so 
 now. Your daughter is no harlot, but a wedded woman who 
 will soon become a mother, and, in virtue of her husband and 
 her child, is a subject of our own. We regret the violence of 
 which she has been guilty, but Satan is ever busy in his work 
 of temptation. If you cast her from you, we take her to our- 
 selves ; as our blessed Lord would have received the prodigal 
 — the sinful, but repentant son — even so will we receive her. 
 Poor prodigal,” he added, after waiting for a reply from the 
 Rabbi, which came not, for the feelings of the tribe were 
 struggling with those of the father —‘“ Poor prodigal! we 
 will not desert thee in thy hour of trial — but seek to preserve 
 thee from worse crimes than even those of which thou hast 
 been guilty.” 
 
 Although Cromwell had placed Zillah resting on the 
 shoulder of her father, he made no effort to support or keep 
 her there, and the Protector was in the act of leading her 
 towards his daughter, when Ben Israel raised a great cry, for 
 the father had triumphed over the Jew, and snatching her to 
 
 DD 3 
 
405 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 his bosom, he burst into a fervent but almost inaudible prayer 
 of thanksgiving and gratitude, that entered the hearts of those 
 who heard it, and witnessed the terrible strength of his emo- 
 tions. The Lady Constance was suffering from various 
 causes ; the nature of which, from past events, may be more 
 easily imagined than described. Nor were those sufferings 
 either terminated or relieved, when, on Cromwell's striking 
 the table again in the same manner as before, Sir Willmott 
 Burrell stood in the apartment. 3 
 
 His entrance caused a sensation of astonishment and con- 
 fusion through the whole group. Constantia Cecil uncon- 
 sciously moved her seat nearer to that of the Protector, An 
 expression of satisfaction crossed the anxious and feverish 
 brow of Robin Hays. Dalton folded his arms across his 
 bosom, and advanced his right foot, as if strengthening his 
 position. Preacher Fleetword, who had hitherto leaned against 
 a high-backed chair, his eyes glaring from their sockets on 
 the countenance of ‘ the Lord’s anointed,’ and drinking in, 
 with open ear and mouth, every word he uttered — now 
 shrank into the farthest portion of the room, skilfully keeping 
 a chair in the direction of Burrell, as a sort of fortification 
 against violence or evil, while he muttered sentences of no 
 gentle or complimentary nature, which, but for the august 
 presence in which he stood, would have burst forth in ana- 
 themas against the “ wolf in sheep’s clothing,” by which title 
 he never failed in after years to designate the traitor. The 
 Jew trembled, and partly rose from his seat; while Zillah, 
 whose love had turned to hate — whose affection had become 
 as wormwood — stood erect as he advanced, with a pale but 
 firm look. Prepared to assert her rights to the last, she was 
 the very model of a determined woman, who, having been 
 greatly wronged, resolves to be greatly avenged. If her lip 
 quivered, it was evidently from eagerness, not from indeci- 
 sion ; and her eye had the lightning of hell, not of heaven, in 
 its glance. Barbara crouched at the feet of her mistress ; and 
 Lady Frances, to whom something new was synonymous with 
 something delightful, was tip-toe with expectation. She be- 
 lieved, from what her father had hinted, that Constantia was 
 free, and might wed whom she pleased: this imparted an 
 hilarity to her countenance and manner, totally different from 
 the aspect of all others within that room, Burrell himself 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 4.07 
 
 looked like a bull turned into the arena, from whence there is 
 no escape. His deep-set eyes were grown red and dry: but 
 they rested, for a moment, while he saluted Constance and 
 Lady Frances ; their next movement showed him Zillah and 
 her father, and he shrank within himself, and quailed beneath 
 the defying gaze of the woman he had so deeply injured. For 
 an instant, and but for an instant, eye met eye, and glance 
 encountered glance: the Master of Burrell was overthrown, 
 and looked round for some relief ; but like other sinners, when 
 the hour of retribution comes, he found none; for those he 
 next saw were Dalton, Fleetword, and Robin Hays. 
 
 ** We have more than circumstantial evidence to show now, 
 Sir Willmott Burrell,” exclaimed the Protector, after survey- 
 ing him with a look of terrible contempt: ‘‘ what say you to 
 this lady ? Is she, too, a counterfeit ?”’ 
 
 Burrell remained silent ; and while Cromwell paused, as if 
 expecting an answer, the Preacher could no longer hold 
 silence, but vociferated from behind his intrenchment : — 
 
 “Under favour of the Greatness before whom I speak — 
 under the shadow of his wing — I proclaim thee to be a sin- 
 ner — even as those who stoned the holy Stephen, when he 
 was about the Lord’s bidding — even as those ‘s 
 
 ** Peace!” exclaimed Cromwell, in a voice that sounded 
 like thunder in the Preacher’s ear. ‘ Sir Willmott Burrell, 
 there are now sufficient proofs — what have you to say why 
 this lady be not declared your lawful and wedded wife?” 
 
 “J desire it not! I desire it not!” murmured the Rabbi: 
 *“my wealth he shall not have, nor my child.” 
 
 “But I desire it—-I demand it!” interrupted Zillah ; 
 “not for my own sake, most gracious judge,” and she bent 
 her knee to the Protector ; “‘ for never will I commune with 
 my destroyer after this hour — but for the sake of an unborn 
 babe, who shall not blush for its parent, when this poor 
 head and this breaking heart have found the quiet of the 
 grave |” 
 
 “May it please your Highness,” replied Burrell, ‘ the 
 marriage in a foreign land is nought, particularly when so- 
 lemnised between a Christian and a Jew, unless ratified here ; 
 and I will submit to that ratification, if the Lady Constantia 
 Cecil, whom I was about to wed, and whom the person your 
 Highness designs for my wife sought to assassinate, will agree 
 
 DD 4 
 
 
 
408 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 to it, — taking on herself the penalty to which her breach of 
 contract must of necessity lead.” 
 
 All eyes were now turned to Constantia, who sat labouring 
 for breath, and struggling with an agony to which it almost 
 seemed her life would yield. 
 
 ““ We have ourselves provided for the Lady Constantia a 
 fitting mate, good Master of Burrell,” replied the Protector ; 
 ‘think ye that the fairest of our land are to be thrown to the 
 dogs?” Again he struck his pistol upon the oak table, and 
 after a breathless silence, during which Burrell never removed 
 his eyes from Constantia — (Lady Frances afterwards said 
 she noted they had all the evil expression of those of the 
 hooded snake, when preparing to dart upon its prey) — the 
 villain contrived to move more closely towards his victim, 
 whose misery was but faintly painted on her blanched cheek. 
 
 “A little time,” she murmured ; “a little time to deli- 
 berate.” 
 
 ““ Not a moment — not a moment,” he replied ; “and re- 
 member if 
 
 The words had hardly passed from between his closed lips, 
 when Walter de Guerre was ushered in, and Burrell’s brow 
 flushed one deep hue of crimson. A murmur of congratula- 
 tion escaped from several of the party ; the Protector turned 
 towards Constantia with the look and manner of one who has 
 planned what he believes will be a joyful surprise — to be 
 gratefully received and appreciated as such ; instead of behold- 
 ing her face beaming with love and hope, he saw that every 
 fibre of her frame became rigid ; and she endeavoured to bury 
 her face in her hands, 
 
 ** Mistress Cecil seems to approve our choice no better than 
 her father’s,” he said, after a pause of intense anxiety -to all 
 present: “ We would have taught this youth what is due to 
 ourself and our Commonwealth, by the gentlest means within 
 our power. Methinks, women are all alike.” 
 
 “Father! she is dying!’’ exclaimed the easily-alarmed 
 Lady Frances. 
 
 “‘ One moment, and I shall be well,’’ said Constantia: and 
 then she added, 
 
 “Sir Willmott Burrell, you pant for vengeance, and now 
 you may have it. Believing that lady, in the sight of God, 
 to be your wife, I cannot wrong her; though I would have 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 409 
 
 2? 
 
 sacrificed myself to—to—.” She was prevented from 
 finishing her sentence by the Protector’s exclaiming with the 
 energy and warmth of his natural character, 
 
 ** We knew it ; and now let me present your bridegroom. 
 Frances, it was excess of joy that caused this agitation.” 
 
 Constantia interrupted him. 
 
 ** Not so, your Highness. Alas! God knows, not so. But 
 while I say that the evil contract shall never be fulfilled — 
 though I will never become the wife of Sir Willmott Burrell, 
 I also say that the wife of Walter de Guerre [ can never be. 
 Nay more, and I speak patiently, calmly — rather would I 
 lay my breaking heart, ere it is all broken, beneath the waves 
 that lash our shore, than let one solitary word escape me, which 
 might lead you to imagine that even the commands of your 
 Highness could mould my dreadful destiny to any other shape.”’ 
 
 There was no mistaking the expression of the Protector’s 
 countenance ; it was that of severe displeasure ; for he could 
 ill brook, at any period, to have his wishes opposed and his 
 designs thwarted. While Constance was rising from her seat, 
 Sir Willmott Burrell grasped her arm with fiendish violence, 
 and extending his other hand towards the door leading to the 
 closet, where she had left her sleeping father, he exclaimed : 
 
 “Then I accuse openly, in the face of the Protector and 
 this company, Robert Cecil, who stands there, of the murder 
 of his brother Herbert, and of the murder of Sir Herbert 
 Cecil's son ; and I assert that Hugh Dalton was accessory to 
 the same !” 
 
 A shriek so wild and piercing issued from Constantia’s lips 
 that it rang over the house and terrified all its inmates, who 
 crowded to the portal, the boundary of which they dared not 
 pass. 
 
 It was little to be wondered that she did shriek. Turning 
 toward the spot at which the villain pointed, the Protector saw 
 the half-demented Baronet standing in the door-way. He had 
 opened the closet, and come forth during the momentary ab- 
 sence of his attendant, and now stood moping and bowing to 
 the assembly in a way that would have moved the pity of a 
 heart of stone. 
 
 *« Fiend!” shouted the Protector, grasping in his great 
 anger the throat of Sir Willmott, and shaking him as he had 
 been a reed — “ ’tis a false lie! He is no murderer; and if 
 
410 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 he had been, is it before his daughter that ye would speak it ! 
 Hah! I see it all now. Such is the threat — the lie — that 
 gave you power over this excellence.” He threw the ruffian 
 from him with a perfect majesty of resentment. Gross as was 
 the deed, the Protector condescending to throttle such as Bur- 
 rell, the manner of the act was great: it was that of an aveng- 
 ing angel, not of an angry or impetuous man. 
 
 Sir Willmott regained his self-possession, although with 
 feelings of wounded pride and indignation ; fixing his eye upon 
 Constantia with, if possible, increasing malignity, he spoke :— 
 
 ** His Highness much honours his subject ; but Mistress 
 Cecil herself knows that what I have spoken is true —so does 
 her father —and so does also this man! Is it not true, I ask?” 
 
 ““No! I say it is false — false as hell !”’ answered the Buc- 
 eaneer ; ‘‘and if his Highness permits, I will explain.” 
 
 ** You say — what ?”’ inquired Constantia, her whole coun- 
 tenance and figure dilating with that hope which had so long 
 been a stranger to her bosom. 
 
 ‘JT say that Robert Cecil is no murderer! Stand forth, 
 Walter Cecil, and state that within the two last years, you saw 
 your father in a Spanish monastery ; and that 
 
 ““ Who is Walter Cecil?” inquired Burrell, struggling as a 
 drowning man, while losing his Jast hope of salvation. 
 
 “Tam Watrer Croc!” exclaimed our old acquaintance 
 Walter ; “my nom de guerre is no longer necessary.” 
 
 ‘“* It needed not that one should come from the dead to tell 
 us that,” said the Protector, impatiently ; ‘but there are for- 
 mer passages we would have explained. What means the 
 villain by his charge? Speak, Dalton, and unravel us this 
 mystery.”’ 
 
 “It is well known to your Highness, that few loved the 
 former powers more than Sir Herbert Cecil; and truth to say, 
 he was wild, and daring, and bad ¢ 
 
 “ Dalton!” exclaimed the young man, in an upbraiding tone. 
 
 ** Well, young master, I will say no more about it. Gold 
 is a great tempter, as your Highness knows; and it tempted 
 yonder gentleman, with whom God has dealt. He is a different 
 sight to look upon now, to what he was the morning he sought 
 me to commit a crime, which, well for my own sake, and the 
 sake of others, I did not commit. He came to me ——” 
 
 ““ Mercy! mercy! J claim your Highness’ mercy !” said 
 
 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. AV 
 
 Constantia, falling on her knees, and holding her hands, 
 clasped and trembling, above her head. ‘‘ It is not meet that 
 the child hear thus publicly of her father’s sin! The old man, 
 your Highness, has not power to speak !”’ 
 
 “ Lady,” continued Dalton, “ he could not deny — But 
 my tale will soon be finished, and it will take a load off your 
 heart, and off the hearts of others. Sir Herbert did not die. 
 I conveyed him to another land ; but the papers—the instruc- 
 tions I had received, remained in my possession. Sir Herbert’s 
 wild character — his fondness for sea-excursions—his careless 
 life, led to the belief that he had perished in some freak, in 
 which he too often indulged. His brother apparently mourned 
 and sorrowed ; but, in time, the dynasty of England changed, 
 exactly as he would have wished it — the Commonwealth soon 
 gave the missing brother’s lands to the man who was its friend, 
 who had fought and laboured in its cause, and seemed to for- 
 get that any one else had any right to the possessions : — 
 but the son of the injured remained as a plague-spot to his 
 sight. I had but too good reason to know how this son of 
 this elder brother was regarded, and I had learned to love the 
 Jad: he was ever about the beach, and fond of me, poor fel- 
 low! because I used to bring him little gifts from foreign parts 
 —by way, I suppose, of a private atonement for grievous 
 wrong. I took upon myself the removing of that boy to save 
 him from a worse fate, for I loved him as my own child; and 
 there he stands, and can say whether my plain speech be true 
 or false. I was myself a father but a little while before I 
 spirited him away from a dangerous home toa safe ship. Sir 
 Robert believed they were both dead, and sorrowed not ; 
 although he compassed only the removal of the brother, yet 
 the going away of his nephew made his possessions the more 
 secure ; for, as he said, times might change, and the boy be 
 restored if he had lived. His disappearance made a great stir 
 at the time; yet there were many went from the land then 
 and were seen no more. I thought to rear him in my own 
 line, but he never took kindly to it, so I just let him have his 
 fling amongst people of his own thinking — gentry, and the 
 like — who knew how to train him better than I did. I kept 
 Sir Herbert safe enough until the act came out which gave Sir 
 Robert right and dominion over his brother’s land, declaring 
 the other to have been a malignant, and so forth ; — but the 
 
412 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 spirit was subdued within the banished man; he was bowed 
 and broken, and cared nothing for liberty, but took entirely to 
 religion, and became a monk ; and his son, there, has seen him 
 many a time; and it comforted me to find that he died in the 
 belief that God would turn all things right again, and that his 
 child would yet be master of Cecil Place. He died like a good 
 Christian, forgiving his enemies, and saying that adversity had 
 brought his soul to God — more fond of blaming himself than 
 others. As to Walter, he had a desire to visit this country, 
 and, to own the truth, I knew that if Sir Robert failed to pro- 
 cure the pardon I wanted, the resurrection of this youth would 
 be an argument he could not withstand. 
 
 *‘ Perhaps I was wrong in the means I adopted; but I 
 longed for an honest name, and it occurred to me that Sir 
 Robert Cecil could be frightened, if not persuaded, into pro- 
 curing my pardon. God is my judge that I was weary of my 
 reckless habits, and panted for active but legal employment. A 
 blasted oak will tumble to the earth, if struck by a thunder- 
 bolt, —like a withy. Then my child! I knew that Lady 
 Cecil cared for her, though, good lady, she little thought, when 
 she first saw the poor baby, that it was the child of a Buccaneer. 
 She believed it the offspring of a pains-taking trader, who had 
 served her husband. She guessed the truth in part afterwards, 
 but had both piety and pity in her bosom, and did not make 
 the daughter suffer for the father’s sin. I loved the girl ! — 
 But your Highness is yourself a father, and would not like to 
 feel ashamed to look your own child in the face. I threatened 
 Sir Robert to make known all— and expose these docu- 
 ments ( 
 
 The Skipper drew from his vest the same bundle of papers 
 which he had used in that room, almost on that very spot, to 
 terrify the stricken Baronet, a few months before. Sir Robert 
 Cecil had remained totally unconscious of the explanations 
 that had been made, and seemed neither to know of, nor to 
 heed, the presence of Dalton, nor the important communica- 
 tion he had given —his eyes wandering from countenance to 
 countenance of the assembled group, —a weak, foolish smile 
 resting perpetually on his lip; yet the instant he caught a 
 glimpse of the packet the Buccaneer held in his hand, his me- 
 mory returned: he staggered from his daughter — who, after 
 her appeal to Cromwell, clung to her father’s side, as if heroi- 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 418 
 
 cally resolved to share his disgrace to the last — and grasped 
 at the papers. 
 
 * What need of keeping them?” said the Protector, much 
 affected at the scene: “‘ give them to him, give them to him.” 
 
 Dalton obeyed, and Sir Robert clutched them with the 
 avidity of a maniac: he stared at them, enwreathed as they 
 were by his thin, emaciated fingers, and then, bursting into a 
 mad fit of exulting laughter, fell prostrate on the floor, before 
 any one had sufficiently recovered from the astonishment his 
 renewed strength had occasioned, to afford him any assistance. 
 He was immediately raised by Constantia and his attendants, 
 and conveyed to his own apartment, still holding fast the 
 papers, though he gave little other sign of life. There was 
 another, besides his daughter, who followed the stricken man 
 —his nephew Walter. 
 
 “ Tt is ill talking of marriage,” said Cromwell, as the young 
 man paused, and requested permission to leave the room, — 
 * It is ill talking of marriage when Death stands at the thresh- 
 old ; but I have little doubt you will be able to obtain the hand 
 which Z could not dispose of. When I first saw you, I ex- 
 pected to see a different person —a director of spies — a chief 
 of discord —a master, not a servant. Walter Cecil, although a 
 bold Cavalier, would hardly have had power to draw me to the 
 Isle of Shepey, had he not, on board the Fire-fly, chosen to 
 embrown his face, and carry black ringlets over his own; a 
 trick, perchance, to set the Protector on a wrong scent. Never 
 hang yer head at it, young man—such things have been 
 from the beginning, and will be to the end. Methinks that 
 old oaks stand friends with the party ; but I quarrel not 
 with the tree—if it shielded the worthless Charles at Wor- 
 cester, it revealed the true Walter at Queenborough. Yet I 
 thank God on every account that I was led to believe you one 
 whose blood I would fain not shed, but would rather protect — 
 if that he has the wisdom not to trouble our country. I thank 
 God that I was brought here to unravel and wind up. A 
 ruler should be indeed a mortal (we speak it humbly) omni- 
 present! As to yonder man — devil I should rather call him 
 —he has, I suppose, no farther threats or terrors to win a 
 lady’s love. Sir Willmott Burrell, we will at least have the 
 ceremony of your marriage repeated without delay : —here is 
 my friend’s daughter — this night —.” 
 
4.14 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 <‘ Not to-night,” interrupted Zillah ; ‘‘ to-morrow, and not 
 to-night ; I can bear no more to-night.” 
 
 * Sir Willmot Burrell,” said Dalton, walking to where he 
 stood, beaten down and trampled, yet full of poison as an 
 adder’s tooth, ‘‘ be it known that I pity you: — your dagger 
 has been turned into your own heart! — The human flesh 
 you bribed me to destroy, lives! What message brought 
 Jeromio from the ocean?” | 
 
 Dalton was proceeding in a strain that would have quickly 
 goaded Burrell to some desperate act; for, as the Buccaneer 
 went on, he was lashing his passion with a repetition of the in- 
 juries and baseness of his adversary, as a lion lashes himself with 
 his tail to stimulate his bravery ; but the Protector demanded 
 if Hugh Dalton knew before whom he stood, and dared to brawl 
 in such presence. Silenced, but not subdued, he retreated, and 
 contented himself with secret execrations on his enemy. 
 
 “© We have rendered some justice to-night,” said Cromwell, 
 after striding once or twice the length of the apartment. “ Yet 
 is our task not finished, although the morning watch is come. 
 Without there! Desire Colonel Jones that he remove Sir 
 Willmott Burrell to the apartment he before occupied. The 
 morning sun shall witness the completion of the ceremony 
 between him and her he has so deeply wronged. We will 
 then consider the course that justice may point out to us. 
 Dalton, you are a free man, free to come and free to go, and 
 to go as soon and where you please. Observe, I said as soon.” 
 Dalton bowed lowly, and moved to raise his daughter from 
 the spot on which she had crouched by the seat of her beloved 
 mistress ; Robin instinctively moved also. 
 
 «* Stay !” continued the Protector, “ there is yet more to 
 do. Young man, you must be well aware your act of this 
 night demands some punishment. The ship which you de- 
 stroyed —.” Dalton writhed at the remembrance, and Bar- 
 bara half unclosed her gentle lips. 
 
 “* Please your Highness, I knew the man’s affection for 
 his ship, and I loved him better than the timber ; he would 
 have destroyed me in his anger but for poor Barbara,’’ 
 
 ‘* That is nothing to us ; at the least, fetters must be your 
 portion.” 
 
 Barbara involuntarily sank on her knees, in an attitude of 
 supplication. Robin knelt also, and by her side. 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 415 
 
 So touching was the scene, that Cromwell smiled while he 
 laid his hand on her head, and with the other raised the long 
 chain his daughter had given the modest bower-maiden, and 
 which had remained suspended from her neck, he threw it 
 over the shoulders of Robin, so that it encircled them both. 
 
 “ We are clumsy at such matters,” he continued, “ but the 
 Lord bless you! and may every virtuous woman in England 
 meet with so warm a heart, and so wise a head, to love her 
 and direct her ways — though the outward fashioning of the 
 man be somewhat of the strangest.” 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Know then, my brethren, heaven is clear, 
 And al) the clouds are gone ; 
 The righteous now shall flourish, and 
 Good days are coming on: 
 Come then, my brethren, and be glad, 
 And eke rejoice with me. FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 Over the happy and the miserable, the guilty and the good, 
 Time alike passes ; though his step may be light or heavy, 
 according to the feelings of those who watch his progress, still 
 he pursues, with sure and certain tread, a course upon which 
 he never turns. 
 
 We are about to bid farewell to those who have been our 
 companions through a long but we trust not a weary path ; 
 and we delay them but for a short space longer to learn how 
 felt the household of Cecil Place, after the events and excite- 
 ments of a day which gave birth to so many marvels, and un- 
 ravelled so many mysteries. 
 
 We have, however, yet to deal out perfect justice, — and 
 would fain tarry a moment to remark how rarely it is that, 
 even in the sober world of Fact, the wicked finish their course 
 —and vengeance has not overtaken. Truly has it been said 
 that ‘‘ virtue is its own reward:” as truly has it been added, 
 that “ vice brings its own punishment.” 
 
 How lightly, and with how deep a blessing, did Constance 
 Cecil, when the day was breaking, offer up a fervent thanks- 
 giving to God that her only parent, though deeply sinful in 
 
416 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 intent, was free from blood, and, though worn in body, was 
 sleeping as quietly as a wearied child when its task is ended. 
 Her mother’s spirit seemed to hover over and bless her, and 
 imagination pictured another by her side who came to share 
 the blessing —it was the companion of her childhood, the 
 chosen, and loved, and trusted of a long and happy and pro- 
 sperous after-life. 
 
 Constantia pressed her couch ; but, with the exception of 
 the worn and weary Sir Robert, whose existence quivered like 
 the parting light of an expiring lamp, no eyes slumbered in 
 Cecil Place. The Lady Frances Cromwell, upon that morn- 
 ing, took not up the lays of the foolish Waller, but the precious 
 volume that, in her vanity, she had too often slighted — she 
 read therein, — 
 
 “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and 
 I will give you rest.” 
 
 And as she so read, a more calm and settled expression 
 spread over her features ; and after much musing and much 
 thankfulness, she sought the chamber of her friend. Con- 
 stantia was not alone, for, pale and weak, and trembling, — 
 still like the aspen which every breeze may agitate, — the 
 little Puritan Barbara crouched on an old cushion by the side 
 of her lady’s bed. 
 
 It did not escape the Lady Frances, that however thankful 
 and comforted was Constantia by her release from the terrible 
 doom of a union with Sir Willmott Burrell, she was deeply 
 humbled and smitten by the publicity that had been given to 
 her father’s meditated crime, and she skilfully avoided any 
 allusion to the scene of the night. The feelings of the maiden 
 were, however, elicited sufficiently to satisfy even the curiosity 
 of, Frances Cromwell, by one of those simple incidents that 
 speak more eloquently than words. As Barbara sat on the 
 cushion, she could see into the garden beneath: the window 
 overhung the very spot where Walter had gathered the wild 
 rose as he went forth a prisoner, with Major Wellmore, from 
 the house in which he was already considered a master ; and 
 the simple girl discerned, amid the foliage of the trees, even 
 Walter himself, whose gaze was fixed upon the casement 
 above. 
 
 “ Look, Mistress, look!” she exclaimed. 
 
 Lady Frances and Constantia did look both at the same 
 
THE BUCCANEER. ALT 
 
 : : 
 moment, and saw the same sight. They also both at once with- 
 drew their glance, and, as the eyes of the ladies encountered, a 
 blush, not of shame, or pride, or anger, overspread the fine 
 features of Constantia —it was the pure bright colouring of 
 assured affection; it said more than if volumes had been 
 written to express her feelings. If she seemed less dignified, 
 she looked more lovely than ever: it was as sunshine lending 
 new warmth and fresh beauty to a landscape, which needed 
 that alone to vivify and enlighten, to cheer and charm, to 
 gladden and give life. 
 
 ** Thank God !” exclaimed Frances, clasping her hands — 
 “thank God !—after all, Constantia, you are but a woman !”’ 
 
 “My dear friend,” replied the lady, literally turning on 
 her couch to hide her blushes, “‘ this is no time to trifle: the 
 melancholy " 
 
 She paused for want of words: that proneness to dissemble, 
 which inevitably attends all women who ever were or ever will 
 be in love, was struggling with her high and truthful nature. 
 But Constantia was still Constantia, and could not depart from 
 truth, so as successfully to feign what she did not feel: her 
 sentence consequently remained unfinished, and Lady Frances 
 was left at full liberty to draw her own conclusions therefrom, 
 — a matter of no great difficulty. 
 
 ‘J have received a letter from my sister Mary,” she said, 
 kindly changing the subject, “and it will please you to know 
 that my lordly father is inclined to listen to reason, and mani- 
 fests a disposition to admit the reasonableness of his daughter 
 Frances becoming Rich. Beshrew me! but most fathers like 
 that distinction for their children ; only, alas ! in this instance, 
 Rich and riches are not synonymous. What think you of 
 that? His Highness has not said a word to me on the sub- 
 ject. There is your prim Barbara smiling. Ah! you too, 
 I suppose, will soon be saluted as Mistress or Dame Hays. 
 Fie, fie, Barbara! I thought you had better taste. But never 
 mirid, I will not say a word to his disparagement — no, nor 
 suffer one of the court curs to growl at Crisp when he visits 
 the buttery at Whitehall or Hampton. What have you done 
 with the Lady Zillah?” 
 
 *“So please you, madam,” replied Barbara, “ the Rabbi 
 would not be separated from his daughter. He seems to think 
 her only safe under his own eye. So he forced her to lie on 
 
 EE 
 
 
 
418 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 , 
 
 his own bed, and she has fallen, poor lady, into a deep sleep 
 — and he sits by her side, sometimes gazing upon a dim old 
 book, full of strange marks and characters, but more often look- 
 ing upon the face of his child, until his eyes fill with tears ; 
 and then he clasps his hands, and mutters, what I know must 
 be a blessing, it is so earnest; and then, if perchance she 
 moves and the pillow swells, or the coverlet be disturbed, he 
 smooths it so gently you would think it was a woman’s hand, 
 and not that of aman. Ah, my lady! love makes all things 
 gentle,” 
 
 “YT wonder,” observed Lady Frances, “ will she turn 
 Christian ? ” 
 
 “* She has been a kind nurse to me, in my trouble,” replied 
 the puritan ; “ but our good preacher says her heart is far from 
 being humbled. She has a high mind, and is proud of her 
 tribe. While we were in the cell, Master Fleetword took a 
 deal of pains with her, and expoundiated most wonderfully for 
 hours together ; but I fear me the seed fell upon stony ground: 
 for, though she sat still enough, I know she did not listen.” 
 
 «« Where is your father? ” 
 
 Barbara started at the abruptness of the question, and co- 
 louring, she knew not why, said, 
 
 ** Please you, my lady, though his Highness at first com- 
 manded him hence, he has graciously suffered him to remain 
 until to-morrow’s noon. Ah, madam!” she continued, sink- 
 ing on the ground at Lady Frances’s feet, ‘‘ if you would only, 
 only remember the promise you made when you gave me this,” 
 — she heid the clasp of the golden chain towards Lady Frances, 
 — ‘and intercede with him, to whom is given the power of 
 life and death, to pardon to the uttermost, and suffer Hugh 
 Dalton to tarry on this island, I would — I would —alas! 
 my lady, I am but a poor girl, and have nothing to give save 
 blessings, and they shower so upon the heads of greatness that 
 they must weary and not gladden ; but my blessing would come 
 from the heart, and it is not always, I hear, that the heart 
 beats when the lips speak. So good, my lady, think upon 
 your own great father ; and think that as great as he have ere 
 now asked for mercy ; and then think upon mine—mine, who 
 igvas brave, and — and — will be as honest as the best man in 
 all. Engiand. Then, gracious madam, it is not from presump- 
 tion “7 speak, but Robin has wit and wisdom, and wit and 
 
 
 
THE BUCCANEER. © 419 
 
 wisdom are sometimes needed by those in high places; but he 
 would lend —ay, give it all, to serve any one who pleasured 
 me in a smaller thing than this. I can do nothing ; but Robin 
 is one who can always do much.” 
 
 When Barbara had pleaded thus far, she could get no far- 
 ther, but trembled, so that Lady Frances placed her on her 
 cushion, and smilingly replied, 
 
 ** So, for this woodbine-sort of assistance, you would have 
 me rouse the British lion, who has been in such marvellous 
 good temper lately that I fear me the wind will shift soon ; 
 but Cromwell, girl, is not one to halve his mercy. I can pro- 
 mise, not from my influence, but the knowledge of his mind, that 
 Hugh Dalton will not be banished ; nay, Iam sure of it. But 
 see ye there, the helmets are stirring already. Constantia, 
 your chamber is delightful for a heroine, but a melancholy one 
 for acurious maiden. Only behold! one can scarcely catch a 
 glimpse of the court-yard. When I build a castle, Ill con- 
 struct a turret with eyes, commonly called windows, all round 
 it: nothing shall be done in secret! —Good morn to you, 
 sweet friend! I can soon find out what the stir is about from 
 the head of the great staircase.” 
 
 ‘“* Adieu, fair Lady Curiosity,” said Constantia, as Lady 
 Frances tripped with a light step on her inqusiitive mission : 
 “¢T will now goto my father’s chamber ;” and thither she went, 
 resolved to perform her duty to the last, though she shuddered 
 at the remembrance of the crime he had once meditated, and 
 humbly, earnestly prayed that the sin ue be washed away 
 from his soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 This even-handed justice 
 Commends the ingredients of our poison’d chalice 
 To our own lips. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 As the grey and misty twilight brightened into the glowing 
 and happy morn, there were two men prying about and around 
 the otherwise deserted cavern of the Gull’s Nest Crag. 
 Nothing is more dreary and lonely to look upon than a scene, 
 EE 2 
 
420 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 where bustle and traffic have but lately been, changed, as if by 
 magic, into a place of stillness — forsaken by those who gave 
 to it animation and existence which before it knew not, and 
 may never know again. 
 
 Solitude now covered it as with a pall. At the door of the 
 once noisy and frequented hostelry, instead of the bent but 
 busy figure of old Mother Hays, two sea-gulls stalked, and 
 flapped their wings, and screamed, and thrust their bills into 
 the rude cooking-pots that stood without. 
 
 The two persons, who appeared intent upon investigating 
 the mysteries of the place, could not be seen without bending 
 over the edge of the topmost cliff. It was then at once per- 
 ceived that they were occupied in fulfilling no ordinary or 
 every-day task. They moved in and out of the lower en- 
 trance like bees intent on forming new cells. For a consider- 
 able time no word was spoken by either: at length the object 
 they had in view appeared accomplished, and, after climbing 
 to the highest cliff, they sat down opposite each other, so as to 
 command a full prospect of both sea and land. 
 
 “It was only a little farther on — about a quarter of a mile 
 nearer Cecil Place —that I first set foot on the Isle of Shepey,” 
 said the younger, ‘‘and a precious fright I got—a fright 
 that never was clear explained, nor ever will be now, I 
 guess,” ’ 
 
 “* T little thought matters would have had such an end,” 
 replied the other. ‘* Gad, I’m hardly paid for the powder of 
 the train by the few bits I’ve picked up inside. I couldn't 
 believe, unless I’d seen it myself, that the place was so cleared 
 out: except the furs and shawls belonging to the women, there 
 wasn't the wrapping round my finger of anything worth hay- 
 ing. Well, Hugh had many friends — I never thought he’d 
 turn tail.” 
 
 “ Turn tail!” repeated the youth: “ who dares to say he 
 turned tail? If any one repeats that before me, I'll make 
 free to give him a dose of cold lead without farther cere- 
 mony!” 7 
 
 ** All our chickens are game-cocks now-a-days!” returned 
 the elder one, half laughing: “but, Springall, could you 
 swear that the Skipper and Robin Hays didn’t concert it all 
 together?” _ 
 
 “< Let me alone, Jack, and don’t put my back up. I'll lay 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 421 
 
 my life, if there was any concerting in it, twas between Robin 
 and the maid Barbara. Well, girls have queer fancies! — 
 Who’d ha’ thought she’d ha’ fancied Robin?” — though he’s 
 a brave sound-hearted little fellow; yet who'd ha’ thought 
 she’d have preferred him to — to iN 
 
 *“To you, I suppose. Lord, Springall, there’s no coming 
 up to the women. Bless ye, I’ve seen those who loved apes, 
 and parrots, and puppy-dogs, and took more pride and pleasure 
 in them than in their own lawful husbands and born children! 
 What d’ye think o’ that?) Why, would you believe it? a 
 girl I loved better than my heart’s blood took a fancy to an 
 old man, and sent me adrift, though I was a likely fellow 
 then —ah! different, very different to what I am now;” 
 and Jack Roupall, leaning his elbows on his knees, that were 
 wide apart, commenced drawing, with the butt end of his pistol, 
 figures on the sand, which the wind, whether in anger or 
 sportiveness, had flung upon the crag. After a lengthened 
 pause, he looked suddenly up at the youth Springall, who still 
 sat opposite to him, and said abruptly, ‘‘Are you sure you 
 made no mistake ? ” 
 
 «Am I sure of the sight of my eyes, or the hearing of my 
 ears?” returned the lad. ‘‘ I was as close to the troopers as I 
 am to you, though they saw me not, and their entire talk was 
 of the Gull’s Nest, and how they were all to be down here 
 soon after sunrise ; and a deal of jokes, in their own way, they 
 passed upon it — stiff dry jokes, that were as hard to swallow 
 as a poker.” 
 
 “ Ha, ha!” laughed the smuggler; “ how they will pray 
 when they see the crag dancing in the air! It would be ill 
 done towards the secret stations of our friends on other parts 
 of the coast, to let these fellows find the ins and outs of such 
 a place as this; it would be holding a candle to the devil 
 — giving them a guide to lead them on through all their 
 plans henceforward and for ever. The Gull’s Nest shall go 
 after the Fire-fly. It gives me joy to mar their sport — their 
 peeping and prying. But we will not let off the train until 
 we see them pretty close upon us. The Roundhead rascals 
 shall have the full benefit of our gay bonfire. ’Ods rot it! what 
 else could we do, but make a gay ending of it at once. A gay 
 ending!” he repeated —“ a gay ending! No rock to mark the 
 spot of so much merriment, so much joviality, so much spoil! 
 
 EE 3 
 
 
 
422 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Ah! in a hundred years, few can tell where the watchers of 
 the Gull’s Nest Crag lighted beacon and brand for the free 
 rovers of the free sea! ” 
 
 Another pause succeeded the rhapsody of Jack Roupall 
 and then Springall inquired how it was that he could not 
 open the strong room where the preacher had been left to his 
 prayers. 
 
 ‘“ How it wasP why, because I had not the key. And I 
 am sure there’s nothing in it. J was in with the skipper 
 after the long-legged puritan was out, and I could see only 
 squashed fruit, broken boxes, and old good-for-nothing rags. 
 Whatever had been worth moving was moved; but that room 
 will mount as high as any of them, I warrant me. I laid a 
 good lot of combustibles to the door. Ah! there was the 
 gleam of a spear, to my thinking.” And he arose as he 
 spoke, groaning out a curse against Springall the moment after. 
 ** My back — a murrain upon you and upon me too ! —aches 
 like the rheumatism from the weight of that old hag’s coffin, 
 which you would have me carry from the Gull’s Nest out 
 yonder, for fear it should be blown up with the crag. What 
 did it signify if it was, I wonder? ” 
 
 “You wouldn’t like the body of your own mother to go 
 heavenward after such a fashion, sinner as ye are, would ye, 
 Jack?” 
 
 “They are coming, 
 Springall’s words, “ they are coming.’ 
 
 It was a fine sight to see even a small number of such well- 
 disciplined soldiers winding their way under the shadow of 
 the hill nearest the scene of so many adventures, 
 
 Roupall and the youth crept stealthily down the cliff by a 
 secret path ; then, with the greatest deliberation, Jack struck 
 a light, and prepared to fire the train they had connected with 
 those within the nest, to which we alluded at the commence- 
 ment of our narrative; while Springall proceeded to perform a 
 similar task a little lower down the Crag, towards the window 
 from whence the preacher, Fleetword, slung the packet which 
 so fortunately arrived at the place of its destination. 
 
 The instant their purpose was effected by a signal agreed 
 upon between them they quickly withdrew, and sheltered be- 
 neath the shade of a huge rock left bare by the receding tide, 
 where no injury could befal them. It was well they did so, 
 
 ” observed the rover, without heeding 
 
 ? 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 493 
 
 for in a moment the report as of a thousand cannon thundered 
 through the air, and fragments of clay, rock, and shingle fell, 
 thick as hail, and heavy as millstones, all around. 
 
 Immediately after a piercing cry for aid burst upon their 
 ear, and spread over land and water. 
 
 “God of Heaven!” exclaimed Springall, “it is not pos- 
 sible that any human creature could have been within the 
 place!” and he stretched himself forward, and looked up to 
 where the cry was uttered. 
 
 The young man, whose locks were then phe as the golden 
 beams of the sun, and whose step was as free as that of the 
 mountain roe, lived to be very old, and his hair grew white, 
 and his free step crippled, before death claimed his subject ; 
 he was moreover one acquainted in after years with much 
 strife and toil, and earned honour, and wealth, and distinc- 
 tion ; but often has he declared that never had he witnessed 
 any thing which so appalled his soul as the sight he beheld on 
 that remembered morning. He seized Roupall’s arm with 
 convulsive energy, and dragged him forward, heedless of the 
 storm of clay and stones that was still pelting around them. 
 Wherever the train had fired, the erag had been thrown out ; 
 and as there were but few combustibles within its holes, and 
 the gay sunlight had shorn the flames of their brightness, the 
 objects that struck the gaze of the lookers on were the dark 
 hollows vomiting forth columns of black and noisome smoke, 
 streaked with a murky red. 
 
 As the fire made its way according to the direction of the 
 meandering powder, which Dalton himself had laid in case of 
 surprise, the earth above reeled, and shook, and sent forth 
 groans, like those of troubled nature when a rude earthquake 
 bursts asunder what the Almighty united with such matchless 
 skill. The lower train that Springall fired had cast forth, 
 amongst rocks and stones, the mass of clay in which was the 
 loophole through which Fleetword had looked out upon the 
 wide sea. Within the chasm thus created was the figure of a 
 living man. He stood there with uplifted hands, lacking 
 courage to advance; for beneath, the wreathed smoke and dim 
 hot fume of the consuming fire told him of certain death ; un- 
 able to retreat, —for the insidious flame had already destroyed 
 the door which Roupall had failed to move, and danced, like a 
 
 EE 4 
 
424, THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 fiend at play with destruction, from rafter to rafter, and beam 
 to beam, of the devoted place. 
 
 ‘¢ Ha!” exclaimed the reckless rover, with a calmness which 
 at the moment made his young companion upbraid him as the 
 most merciless of humankind; “ha! I wonder how he got 
 there? I heard that some how or other he. was in limbo at 
 Cecil Place ; he wanted to make an escape, I suppose, and so 
 took to the old earth. Ay, ay! look your last on the bright 
 sun, that’s laughing at man and man’s doings — you'll never 
 mount to where it shines, I trow.” 
 
 Sir Willmott Burrell — for Roupall had not been deceived 
 either as to the identity of the person, or the motive which 
 led him to seek refuge in the Gull’s Nest —had effected an 
 almost miraculous escape, considering how closely he was 
 guarded, a few hours before, and secreted himself in the very 
 chamber where he had left poor Fleetword to starvation, little 
 imagining that he was standing on the threshold of retri- 
 butive justice. He had caught at flight, even so far, as a 
 sort of reprieve ; and was forming plans of future villany at 
 the very moment the train was fired. God have mercy on all 
 sinners! it is fearful to be cut off without time for repentance. 
 Sir Willmott had none. In the flower of manhood, with a 
 vigorous body and a skilful mind, he had delighted in evil, 
 and panted for the destruction of his fellows. His face, upon 
 which the glare of the garish fire danced in derision of his 
 agony, was distorted, and terrible to look upon: brief as was 
 the space allotted to him, each moment seemed a year of tor- 
 ture. As the flames rose and encircled their victim, his cries 
 ‘were so dreadful, that Springall pressed his hands to his ears, 
 and buried his face in the sand ; but Roupali looked on to the 
 last, thinking aloud his own rude but energetic thoughts. 
 
 “Ah! you do not pray, as I have seen some do! Now, 
 there come the Ironsides,” he added, as those grave soldiers 
 drew up on a projection of the opposite cliff, which, though 
 lower than the ruined Gull’s Nest, commanded a view of the 
 cavern and its sole inmate; “there they come, and just in 
 time to see your departure for your father the devil’s land. 
 You don’t even die game! What an end one of those Ingy 
 chiefs would ha’ made of it on such a funeral pile ; but some 
 people have no feeling — no pride —no care for what looks 
 well !” . 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 425 
 
 At that instant the Preacher Fleetword, who had accom- 
 panied the troops, stood a little in advance of the Protector 
 himself. Cromwell had a curiosity to inspect the resort of 
 the Buccaneers ; and, perfectly unconscious of Sir Willmott’s 
 escape, was petrified with horror and astonishment on seeing 
 him under such appalling circumstances ; the tumbling crags 
 — the blazing fire—the dense smoke mounting like pillars of 
 blackness into the clear and happy morning sky — and, above 
 all, the agonised scorching figure of the wretched knight, 
 writhing in the last throes of mortal agony ! 
 
 “The Lord have mercy on his soul!” exclaimed Fleet- 
 word: ‘* Pray, pray!” he continued, elevating his voice, and 
 hoping, with a kindliness of feeling which Sir Willmott had 
 little right to expect, that he might be instrumental in direct- 
 ing the wretched man’s attention to a future state. “ Pray! 
 death is before you, and you cannot wrestle with it! Pray! 
 even at the eleventh hour! Pray! —and we will pray with 
 you!” 
 
 The Preacher uncovered: the Protector and his soldiers stood 
 also bareheaded on the cliff. But not upon the prayers of 
 brave and honest soldiers was the spirit of active villany and 
 cowardly vice to ascend to the judgment-seat of the Almighty 
 — before one word of supplication was spoken, a column of 
 flame enwreathed the remaining portion of the crag: it was 
 of such exceeding brightness that the soldiers blinked thereat ; 
 and, when its glare was past, they looked upon a smouldering 
 heap at the foot of the cliffs: it was the only monument of 
 ** The Gull’s Nest Crag;’’ and the half-consumed body of 
 Sir Willmott Burrell was crushed beneath it. 
 
 While the attention of Cromwell and his friends was fixed 
 upon the desperate end of the miserable man, Roupall was 
 crawling under a ledge of black rock, that stretched to a con- 
 siderable distance into the sea, where he calculated on remain- 
 ing safe until high tide drove him to another burrow. Not 
 so Springall: the moment he saw the Protector on the cliff, 
 he appeared to have forgotten every thing connected with dis- 
 guise or flight ; he no longer sought concealment, but hastened 
 to present himself in front of the soldiers, who still remained 
 uncovered, expecting, doubtless, that such an event would be 
 followed by exposition or prayer. 
 
 Nothing daunted, he advanced with a steady and deter- 
 
426 THE BUCCANEER; 
 
 mined step, without so much as removing his hat, until he 
 stood directly opposite to Cromwell, whose countenance, under 
 the influence of awe and horror, had something in it more 
 than usually terrific. The clear blue eye of the young in- 
 trepid boy encountered the grey, worn, and bloodshot orb of 
 the great and extraordinary man. 
 
 Foran instant, a most brief instant,eye rested upon eye—then 
 the young seaman’s dropped, and it would seem that his gay 
 and lofty head bent of itself, the hat was respectfully removed, 
 and he confessed to himself that he trembled in the presence of 
 the mysterious being. 
 
 * We would not quench the spirit,” said the Protector, 
 addressing Fleetword, “‘ but let your prayer be short —a 
 word in season is better than a sermon out of season. We 
 have somewhat to Investigate touching the incendiaries by 
 land as well as sea.” 
 
 For the first time in his life Springall considered that a 
 prayer might not be of wearisome length. There he stood, as 
 if nailed to the same spot, while the smoke of the Gull’s Nest 
 ascended, and the soldiers remained with their helmets in 
 their hands. 
 
 Cromwell manifested an occasional impatience, but only by 
 moving first on one leg, then on the other; which, however, 
 escaped the observation of Fleetword, who most certainly be- 
 came a more dignified and self-important person ever after the 
 hour when he was “ permitted to speak in the presence of the 
 ruler in the New Jerusalem.” 
 
 His address was brief and emphatic; and upon its conclu- 
 sion the Protector commanded Springall to advance. 
 
 “It appears to us that you had something to communi- 
 cate,” 
 
 ‘““T believe I made a mistake,” replied the boy, “ I took 
 you — your Highness, 1 should say — for one Major Well- 
 more.” 
 
 ** We know you to be a faithful watchman, but it remains 
 to be proved if you are an honest witness. Canst tell how came 
 about this business, and how Sir Willmott Burrell escaped, 
 and took refuge there ? ”’ 
 
 ‘Tt was always settled, please your Highness, that, if any 
 thing happened, whoever could was to fire off the trains, 
 which were always ready laid, to make an ending when 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 427 
 
 ~~ 
 
 needed : we little thought that there was any living being 
 within the nest ; but Sir Willmott had access to many of the 
 cells, being as deep in their secrets as other resorters to this 
 place — only he never had the bravery of the free trade about 
 him, seeing he was far from honest.” 
 
 Springall observed not the warning finger of Robin Hays, 
 nor heard the murmured sentence of caution that fell upon his 
 ear from the lips of Walter Cecil. Although he had assumed 
 an attitude of daring, his whole thoughts were fixed on the 
 Protector. He was proceeding in the same strain, when 
 Cromwell interrupted him. 
 
 ** Peace, youngster ! it is ill from one who has committed 
 evil, like yourself, to speak evil of the living, much less the 
 dead ; it was you, we take it, who reduced this place to 
 destruction ? ” 
 
 ‘* Please your Highness, I did.” 
 
 ** You and another ?”’ 
 
 ** Well, sir, there was another: but he’s gone —no use in 
 trying to find him, he’s away. If,’ added the young man, 
 with his usual recklessness, “ there should be punishment for 
 destroying a wasp’s nest, your Highness shall see that I will 
 bear it as well as a 
 
 The Protector again interrupted the youth’s eloquence by 
 adding, “‘ As well as you did the hanging over yonder bay ? 
 No, no — we can discriminate, by God’s blessing, between the 
 young of the plundering fox and the cub of a lion: both are 
 destructive, but the one is mean and cowardly: the other — 
 it shall be our care to train the other to nobler purposes.” 
 
 Springall raised his eyes, almost for the first time, from the 
 ground, and started at seeing his friends standing on a level 
 with the Protector. Robin’s cheek was blanched, and his ken 
 wandered over the blazing gulf which had swallowed up the 
 dwelling of his early years. 
 
 Springall, with the quickness of feeling that passes from 
 kind heart to kind heart, without the aid of words, sprang 
 towards him, and catching his arm, exclaimed, 
 
 «< Your mother’s body! it is safe, safe, Robin, under the 
 dark tree, by the cairn stones. Surely I would not let it be 
 so destroyed.” i 
 
 Cromwell’s veneration for his own mother was one of the 
 most beautiful traits in his character ; from that instant the 
 
 
 
498 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 Protector of England took the boy Springall unto his heart: 
 there was something in common between them — out of such 
 slight events are destinies moulded. 
 
 ** Your Highness,” said Walter, whom we must now dis- 
 tinguish as Waxrer Cercin, “ will pardon one who is in- 
 debted to you, not only for a restored fortune, but for his 
 hopes of happiness. Your Highness will, I trust, pardon me 
 for so soon becoming a suitor : — that boy he 
 
 ** Shall be cared for — it pleased the Almighty that Major 
 Wellmore encountered more than one brave heart and trusty 
 hand in this same Isle of Shepey. After a time we trust to 
 show you and your cousin-bride, when she visits her god- 
 mother, how highly we esteem your friendship ; and we trust, 
 moreover, that the awful lesson of retributive justice, it has 
 graciously pleased the Lord to write in palpable letters of fire, 
 will be remembered by all those who hear of Hugh Dalton 
 and the Fire-fly. Great as is the power given into our keep- 
 ing, we would not have dared to execute such awful judgment 
 as that which has fallen upon the man of many sins. And 
 behold, also, by the hands of the ungodly righteous punishment 
 has been dealt unto the sticks and stones that have long given 
 to rapine most unworthy shelter. The wheat, too, mark ye, 
 young sir! — the wheat has been divided — glory be to God ! 
 for it is his doing. The wheat has been divided from the 
 tares —and from amid the lawless and the guilty have come 
 
 forth some who may yet take seats among the faithful in 
 Israel.” 
 
 
 
 CONCLUDING CHAPTER. 
 
 TWELVE years — twelve eventful years — had passed, and, ere 
 our work is done, we must entreat our readers to visit with 
 us, once again, the old Isle of Shepey. The thoughtless, 
 good-tempered, dissipated, extravagant, ungrateful, unprin- 
 cipled Charles, had been called by the sedate, thinking, and 
 moral people of England to reign over them. But with En- 
 glish whim, or English wisdom, we have at present nought to 
 do; we leave abler and stronger heads to determine, when 
 
THE BUCCANEER,. 4,29 
 
 reviewing the page of history, whether we are or are not a 
 most change-loving people — lovers of change for the sake of 
 change. 
 
 Our business is with an aged man, seated, on a pleasant 
 evening of the year 1668, under a noble oak, whose spreading 
 branches shadowed a brook that babbled at his feet. 
 
 The beams of the setting sun were deepening the yellow tints 
 of yet early autumn, and many of the trees looked as if steeped 
 in liquid gold. In the distance, the ocean, quiet, calm, un- 
 ruffled, was sleeping beneath the sober sky, and not a breeze 
 wafted its murmurs to the little streamlet by the side of which 
 that old man sat. He was but one of a group; four healthy 
 and handsome children crowded around him, watching, with 
 all the intense hope and anxiety of that happy age, the pro- 
 gress of his work. He was occupied, as grandfathers often 
 are, in constructing a toy for his grandchildren. The prettiest 
 of the party was a dark-eyed rosy girl of about four, perhaps 
 five — for her countenance had more intelligence than gene- 
 rally belongs to either age, while her figure was slight and 
 small, small enough for a child not numbering more than three 
 years: she, too, was employed — stitching, with a long awk- 
 ward needle, something which looked very like the sail of a 
 baby-boat. A boy, somewhat older than herself, was twisting 
 tow into cordage, while the eldest, the man of the family, 
 issued his directions, or rather his commands, to both, in the 
 customary style of lads when overlooking their juniors. The 
 next to him was probably grandpapa’s especial pet, for he knelt 
 at the old man’s knee, watching patiently, and taking good 
 note, how he secured the principal mast steadily in the centre 
 of the mimic vessel, it had been his kind task to frame for the 
 youngsters’ amusement. 
 
 It must not be forgotten that a very pretty spaniel crouched 
 at the little maid’s feet, and ever and anon lifted its mild gentle 
 eyes to the countenance of its mistress, 
 
 ‘Con,’ said the eldest boy, “ you are making those stitches 
 as long as your own little fingers; aud you must remember, 
 that if the work is not done neatly, the wind may get into the 
 turnings and throw the ship on her beam-ends.” 
 
 “© Grandfather !’’ exclaimed the child, holding up her work 
 with an imploring look, ‘‘ be those stitches too long? If you 
 
 + 
 
430 THE BUCCANEER, 
 
 say so, grandfather, I will take them all out, because you 
 know.” 
 
 ‘* They will do very nicely indeed, Conny,” replied the old 
 man, with an approving smile ; and as for you, Master Walter, 
 I wish that your work was always done as well as your sister's. 
 Bless her! how like her mother she is !” 
 
 “J wish I was like my mother too,” said Walter, “ for 
 then you would love me.” 
 
 “© Boys and girl, I love you all, and thank God that, in these 
 bad times, you are as good as you are! But, Watty, you 
 must never think of the sea; you were not intended for a 
 sailor, or you would not talk of wind getting into the stitch- 
 ings of a topsail, and throwing the ship on her beam-ends — 
 ha, ha!” 
 
 The proud boy turned blushingly away, and began playing 
 with, or rather teazing, a very old nondescript dog, who was 
 lying comfortably coiled up on the youngest lad’s pinafore, 
 under shelter of the grey stone which the grandfather used as 
 his seat. 
 
 “* Wat will be a soldier,” said the second boy, whose name 
 was Hugh; “ his godpapa, Sir Walter, says he shall. But 
 you will teach me to be a sailor before you die, and then I 
 may live to be as great as the great man you and father talk 
 about, the brave Blake. Oh! how proud I should be if you 
 could live to see that day,” he continued, his bright eyes dan- 
 cing at the anticipation of future glory. ‘* And you may, dear 
 grandfather, for mother says that Crisp is older now for a dog 
 than you are for a man. Watty, you had better not teaze 
 Crisp, for he has three teeth left.” 
 
 ‘‘ Three!” interrupted little Con, whose fine name of 
 Constantia had been diminished to the familiar appellation — 
 “three! he has four and a half and a little piece, for I 
 opened his mout and counted them myself.” 
 
 “When do you mean to speak plain, and be a lady, Miss 
 Con?” 
 
 The child looked into her brother’s face, and laughed a glee- 
 some laugh, one of those burstings of a joyous heart that 
 come, we know not how, but never come after the dancing 
 pulse of youth changes into a measured time, when we look 
 upon the dial’s hand, and note that hours are passing. 
 
 “Grandfather,” said Hugh, when the mast was fairly esta- 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 431 
 
 blished, and the rigging properly arranged, “may I call my 
 vessel the ‘ Firefly ?’” 
 
 From whence came the rich warm blood that in a moment 
 suffused the old man’s cheek, as his unconscious grandchild 
 pronounced the name of his darling, his long-lost, but not 
 forgotten ship? He grasped the boy’s arm with the energy 
 of former times, and shook him as he never thought to have 
 shaken the child of his own Barbara. 
 
 «* Where heard you those words — where, I say?” he de- 
 manded of his namesake, while the boy cowered, and the 
 other children stood aghast. 
 
 ‘*] heard that wild old man who died in our barn last week, 
 although mother made him so comfortable, and you and father 
 were so kind to him, say that was the name of a ship you 
 once had,” sobbed little Hugh: “and I only thought I should 
 like to call mine after it.” 
 
 «* And was that indeed all? ”’ inquired the aged Buccaneer, 
 relaxing his grasp, but still looking into the boy’s ingenuous 
 countenance, as if he expected some evil tidings. 
 
 “It was all that I understood,” replied the child, now 
 weeping from pain and terror, “except that I remember he 
 asked to be buried at East-church, because that was nearer 
 what he called the Gull’s Nest Crag than the old church of 
 Minster.” 
 
 “* Poor Jack! —poor Jack Roupall!” exclaimed Dalton, for- 
 getting his momentary displeasure, and musing aloud upon the 
 end of his ever reckless follower—‘‘ Poor Jack! The nut had 
 been good, fresh, sweet, wholesome, though the rind was rough 
 and bitter; it was the canker that destroyed it: and I should 
 have been as bad —as blighted —lost— but for my own 
 sweet child.” And then Hugh Dalton’s eye fell upon the 
 pouting boy, whose arm he had, in the anguish of his remem- 
 brance, pressed too roughly, and he caught him to his bosom, 
 and blessed him with all his heart and soul. 
 
 _ Little Con crept round, and, seeing where her brother’s 
 arm was still red, held it to her grandfather's lip, saying, 
 
 “* Kiss, kiss it, and make it well.” 
 
 The old man did as that child in her simplicity directed ; 
 and, when she again looked upon it, there was more than one 
 tear glistening on the fair firm flesh. 
 
 *‘ Let us call her ‘ King Charles,” exclaimed the eldest 
 
432 THE BUCCANEER: 
 
 boy, as the gallant little vessel moved down the stream ; while 
 the children, who not ten minutes before were trembling with 
 alarm at their grandfather's displeasure, now, with the happy 
 versatility of youthful spirits, shouted gaily at the ship’s pro- 
 gress over the unrippled waters. 
 
 “You will call it by no such name,” said Dalton gravely. 
 “Yonder comes your mother, and she or your father can best 
 christen your little ship.” . 
 
 The old man, who had launched their fairy boat, turned to- 
 wards where once Cecil Place had stood. From some peculiar 
 feeling in the bosoms of Sir Walter and Lady Cecil, for which 
 it would not be difficult to account, only a portion of the old 
 structure remained — sufficient, and just sufficient, to lodge 
 Robin, and Robin’s wife, and Robin’s father-in-law, and 
 Robin’s children. The fine old gateway was fast crumbling 
 to decay, and, indeed, it was well known that a kindly senti- 
 ment towards the Buccaneer decided Sir Walter on keeping 
 even so much of the place standing, as the old man’s only wish 
 now was to die in the Isle of Shepey ; and it will be readily 
 believed that Hugh Dalton’s wishes were laws to the family 
 of Cecil. The trees had in many places been levelled, and the 
 only spot which remained perfectly untouched in the gardens 
 was one called “‘ The Fairy Ring.” The neighbouring pea- 
 santry believed that it was hallowed by some remembrance of 
 which both Lady Cecil and Barbara partook; for the latter 
 tended every herb and flower therein with more than common 
 care —with perfect devotion. Did we say there was but one 
 spot cherished? faithless historians that we are! there was 
 another —a rustic temple; and, about ten years before the 
 period of which we now treat, something resembling an altar 
 had been erected therein, with a quaint device carved in white 
 stone, a braid of hair encircling two hearts, and a rhyme, or, 
 as it was then called, a posy, the words of which are not recorded, 
 but were said to have been written by Lucy Hutchinson, asa 
 compliment to her friend Constantia Cecil. 
 
 The old man, as we have said, turned towards Cecil Place, 
 which then presented only the appearance of a small and 
 picturesque dwelling. Issuing thence were two persons whom 
 we may at once introduce as the manikin, Robin Hays, and the 
 little Puritan, Barbara Iverk, of our story. Manikin, indeed ! 
 He of the gay pink doublet, silken hose, and plume hat, 
 
 a 
 
THE BUCCANEER. » 433 
 
 would little thank us for the term! He was rather over than 
 under-dressed, more fine than might be expected in a country 
 gentleman in so lonely an island; but it was evident he loved 
 finery, and loved to deck his own person: his long black hair 
 curled naturally and gracefully over his shoulders ; his eyes had 
 more to do, during latter years, with love and home, than with 
 hate and adventure; consequently they sparkled with pure and 
 kindly feeling ; and if sometimes sarcasm lighted its beacon 
 within their lids, it was quickly extinguished by the devoted 
 affection and gratitude of his right excellent heart. His figure 
 appeared much less disproportioned than when first we saw 
 him taunted into fury in his mother’s hostelry by poor Jack 
 Roupall’s ill-timed jests on his ‘deformity: he was much 
 stouter ; aud the full cavalier dress was better calculated to 
 hide any defects of person, than the tight fitting vests of the 
 bygone Roundheads, who looked to every inch of cloth with a 
 carefulness altogether scouted by their more heedless suc- 
 cessors. He had a free and open air, and a smile of dazzling 
 brightness. What can we say of Barbara? Female beauty is 
 seldom stationary ; there is no use in disguising the fact, that 
 after twenty — dear, sweet, fascinating twenty ! the freshness 
 of the rose is gone. We have said freshness — not frag- 
 rance. Fragrance to the rose, is what the soul is to the 
 body —an imperishable essence, that lasts after the petals 
 have meekly dropped, one by one, upon their mother-earth. 
 A blessing upon the fragrance of sweet flowers! and a thou- 
 sand blessings upon the power that gifted their leaves with such 
 a dowry! Oh, it partakes of heaven to walk into the pastures 
 and inhale the goodness of the Lord, from the myriad field- 
 flowers that gem the earth with beauty! And then in sick- 
 ness! What, what is so refreshing as the perfume of sweet 
 plants? We speak not of the glazed and costly things that 
 come from foreign lands, but of the English nosegay — (how 
 we love the homely word!) — the sweet briar, lavender, cow- 
 slip, violet, lily of the valley, or a sprig of meadow sweet, a 
 branch of myrtle, a tuft of primroses, or handful of wild 
 thyme! Such near the couch of sickness are worth a host of 
 powdered doctors! Again we say, a blessing on sweet flow- 
 ers! And now for one who loved them well, and learnt much 
 wisdom “ from every leaf that clothed her native hills.” 
 Barbara was no longer the slight, delicate girl, tripping with 
 FF 
 
ASA THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 an orderly but light step to do the behests of those she loved ; 
 but a sober, diligent, affectionate matron, zealous in the dis- 
 eharge of her duty, patient in supporting pain, whether of mind 
 or body ; a sincere Christian, a kind mistress, a gentle daugh- 
 ter, a wise mother, but, above all, a devoted, trusting wife, 
 still looking upon Robin — her Robin, as the English Solomon, 
 —a system we advise all wives to follow — when they can. 
 The manner in which this truly pious woman yielded to all her 
 husband’s whims was almost marvellous — one of the miracles 
 of that miracle-worker — Love! With the simple, yet dis- 
 eriminating tact, of itself a gift from nature, which no earthly 
 power can either bestow or teach, she understood the wishes 
 of Robin almost before he was himself acquainted with his 
 own thoughts. And had she been on her death-bed, that ex- 
 cellent creature could have declared before Him, to whom all 
 things are known, that ‘‘ God and her husband” had been her 
 true heart’s motto. 
 
 Even Robin’s weaknesses were hallowed, if not cherished 
 things — she innocently catered to his personal vanity, for she 
 really loved to see him well appointed ; and she avoided every 
 
 thing bordering on gaiety of dress, manner, or society, because 
 she felt that jealousy was one of his infirmities ; thus by never 
 arousing his evil passions, their very existence was forgotten, 
 and the violent, capricious Ranger would have been hardly re- 
 cognized (except by his very intimates), as the self-satisfied, 
 and somewhat important manager of Sir Walter Cecil’s estates. 
 
 As Robin and Barbara drew near their father and the 
 children, they perceived a Cavalier well mounted, and attended 
 by two serving men, also on horseback, winding along the hill ~ 
 path, or road, as it was called ; ana the younger dog — by the 
 way a daughter of our old acquaintance Blanche— gave notice 
 to the little mariners of the approach, by bristling her silken 
 hair and rounding her flapping ears, while she barked long and 
 loudly at the unusual arrival. 
 
 The Buccaneer shaded his eyes with his hand and looked 
 out. Robin jerked his hat a little more on one side, while 
 Barbara drew the Flanders lace of her silken hood more closely 
 round her face, 
 
 “‘ It is a Court Cavalier,” exclaimed Master Hays, as he 
 was respectfully termed by his associates, ‘‘ with two attend- 
 ants and a dog; beshrew me! but a noble dog from foreign 
 
THE BUCCANEER, / 4.35 
 
 parts ; some friend of our kind master is that gentleman. One 
 would think he was reconnoitring, so earnestly does he look out 
 from place to place. Father,” he continued, drawing towards 
 Dalton, “ do you note how he peers out yonder, towards where 
 once — you understand me i 
 
 “IT do,” replied the old man, “I do note it; and I note 
 also that yon same Cavalier is no other than one we both knew 
 well, There! he sees us — his hat is off —he hails us right 
 joyfully. Know you not the bold brow, and the bright eye— 
 blue, blue as the waters and the heavens he has so long looked 
 upon? Off with ye’r hats, my boys,” he added to the chil- 
 dren ; “and, Robin, is yours nailed to your head, that it 
 answers not his signal? —it is the young sea captain of 
 whom, even here, we have heard and read so much. It is 
 Springall ! ” 
 
 And so it was; distinguished bv the Protector at the very 
 moment when to be so distinguished makes a man’s fortune, 
 the bold intrepid boy quickly ripened into the able and ex- 
 perienced seaman. His promotion was rapid, because his 
 talents were appreciated — and, after the death of Cromwell, 
 he had been too much occupied with England’s enemies at 
 sea, to suffer from the moral blight of Charles’s court on 
 shore. 
 
 * * * * %* * 
 
 “ Now, Springall —I love to call you by that name,” said 
 the Buccaneer, “though you have taken your old one, and 
 made it even more honoured than it was before, — the even- 
 ing has closed in —the children a-bed — God bless them ! 
 We will draw nearer round our cheerful hearth, and talk of 
 days long gone. Barbara, let’s have some fresh logs on the 
 fire ; and now, for past and present times.” 
 
 “IT am a bad hand at a long yarn — you know I always 
 was so, captain,” — said the naval officer, smiling, ‘ and the 
 news of poor Jack’s death has damped my canvass. I always 
 thought he’d make a queer end of it—so fond of plunder — 
 so careless — so unprincipled — but brave, brave to the back- 
 bone.” 
 
 ““ Do you remember what he dared, by way of adventure, 
 not a hundred miles from this; when Major Wellmore and 
 Walter De Guerre were masquing it here so gaily ?”’ inquired 
 Robin. 
 
 
 
 FF 2 
 
ty 
 Ae = , 
 4900 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 «« Ay, ay! But he and Grimstone were both half-seas over, 
 or they'd have hardly ventured it: — poor Grim paid the 
 penalty.” 
 
 “ And deserved it too,” added Robin. ‘“ He whom they 
 assaulted was a wonder —a being that will serve future ages 
 totalk about, when the rulers of the present day are either 
 execrated or forgotten. Marry! but it makes one’s head swim 
 to think of the warm blood and true that has been spilled and 
 wasted to raise up a throne for obscenity and folly! Cham- 
 bering and wantonness walk together as twin-born, along the 
 very halls where Cromwell, and Ireton, and Milton, and — 
 my head's too hot to recollect their names; but they are 
 graven on my heart, as men who made England a (Queen 
 among the nations.’ 
 
 rs T hen their Popery plots!” chimed in the Buccaneer ; 
 “the innocent blood that has flooded the scaffold, as if the 
 earth was thirsty for it — and upon what grounds? the evi- 
 dence, I hear, of one villain, supported by the evidence of 
 another! I grieve for one thing, truly — that 1 was ever in- 
 strumental in forwarding the King’s views. Robin said a true 
 word in jest the other day, that men as well as puppies were 
 born blind, only it takes a much longer period to open our 
 eyes, than those of our four-footed friends.” 
 
 “ So it does,” said Springall, laughing ; “ that was one of 
 Robin’s wise sayings. Barbara! I beg your pardon, — 
 Mistress Hays —do you think him as wiseias ever?” 
 
 ‘I always thought him wise ; but I know it now,” she re- 
 plied, smiling. 
 
 ‘Sit ye down, Barbara,’’ said Robin, “and our friend here 
 will tell you how much he admires our children ; they are fine, ~ 
 healthy, and, though I say it, handsome — straight withal — 
 straight as Robin Hood’s own arrow ; and I do bless God for 
 that —for that especially! J would rather have seen them 
 dead at my feet than —-- ” 
 
 “* Now, God forgive you, Rob! so would not I. I should 
 have loved them as well, had they been crooked as —” in- 
 terrupted his wife. 
 
 *« Their father ! "* 
 
 ‘¢ For shame, Robin!” 
 
 Robin looked at Barbara and laughed, but turned away his 
 head ; and then he looked a second time, and saw that a deep 
 
“i a 
 THE BUCCANEER. 437 
 
 red hue had mounted to his wife’s cheek, while a tear stood 
 in her eye; and he forgot the stranger’s presence, and con- 
 verted the tear to a gentle satisfied smile, by a kind and affec- 
 tionate kiss. How little tenderness, how little, how very little, 
 does it take to constitute the happiness of a simple mind! 
 
 “ There was a strange long preacher here, ages ago,” in- 
 quired Springall, filling his silver cup with sherris; ‘“‘ he 
 surely did not migrate with the higher powers ?” 
 
 “No!” replied Dalton, whose eyes had been fixed upon the 
 burning logs, as if recapitulating the events of former days ; 
 “he was a staunch and true-hearted Puritan, apt to take wrong 
 notions in tow, and desperately bitter against Papistry, which 
 same bitterness is a log I never could read, seeing that the best 
 all sects can accomplish is to act up to the belief they have. 
 But, as I have said, he was true-hearted, and never recovered 
 the tale we heard, as to the way in which the new directors 
 insulted the remains of one whom they trembled even to look 
 at in his lifetime. He died off, sir, like an autumn breeze, 
 chilly and weak, but praying, and thankful that God was so 
 good as to remove him from the blight of the Philistines, who 
 covered the earth as thickly as the locusts overspread the land 
 of Egypt.” 
 
 *“ J never did, nor ever can believe,” said Robin. ‘it was 
 permitted that such cravens should insult the body of so great 
 asoul. The Protector wished to be buried on the field of 
 Naseby, and something tells me he had his wish.” 
 
 *“ Your politics changed as well as mine!” replied the sea- 
 captain ; “‘ what cavaliers we were in the days of our youth — 
 heh, Commandant ! ” 
 
 “Tt is very odd, Springall,” replied the old Skipper ; “ but 
 somehow, my heart is too full for words; I seem to be living 
 my life over again ; and but now could have sworn I saw poor 
 Sir Robert, as I saw him last, clutching those dreaded papers. 
 What a night that was, and what a day the next!” 
 
 © And the poor Lady Zillah, when she heard of Sir Will- 
 motts end!” said Barbara. ‘‘ She spoke no word, she made 
 no scream ; but her trouble came quickly, and hard and bitter 
 it was ; and the child her hope rested on breathed no breath — 
 there was no heir to the house of Burrell ; and she and her 
 father passed from the land, and were seen no more.” 
 
 *« Seen no more, certainly ; but many were the jewels and 
 
438 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 costly the tirings she sent from foreign parts to my lady’s first- 
 born,” continued Robin. 
 
 «‘ And to me she sent baubles, — not baubles either,” added 
 Barbara, “ but things too costly for one in my state. Her last 
 gift was the most precious in my sight —a gold eross, and 
 along the top these words —‘ Thy God shall be my God ;’ 
 and down the centre — ‘Thy people my people!’ It gave 
 me great consolation ; it was like a token of resignation and 
 peace, and a wonderful working of God’s providence.” And 
 after she had so said, she went out of the room, to conceal the 
 emotion she always felt when speaking of the Jewish lady. 
 
 “So it was undoubtedly,” rejoined Robin, who had not 
 noted Barbara’s departure. 
 
 “‘ Despite your bravery, Master,” said the seaman, “I 
 think you have got a touch of the past times yourself; I have 
 not heard the breath of an oath from either ?”’ 
 
 * Hush!” replied Robin, looking round the room, and right 
 pleased to find that Barbara was absent: “ were it only to 
 avoid giving her pain, it would ill become either of us to blas- 
 pheme Him in whom we trust.” 
 
 ** And so you say,” commenced Dalton, uniting the thread 
 of the discourse, which had been broken, “ that Sir Walter 
 and Lady Cecil are seldom seen at court? I heard this be- 
 fore, but not for certain.” 
 
 “Seldom, you may well say,” returned Springall; “ the 
 king presented Lady Castlemaine to the Lady Constantia, at 
 one of the drawing-rooms ; and our right noble dame declared 
 it was the last she would ever attend. It was said that the 
 king spoke to Sir Walter about it ; and I think it likely, as he 
 knew him abroad so well. And Sir Walter was even more 
 high on the matter than his lady had been ; and the king jested, 
 ‘and said it was only the court fashion ; to which Sir Walter 
 returned for answer, that, however it .might be the court 
 fashion, it was scarce courtly to present an immodest to a mo- 
 dest woman. With that the king chafed, and said he supposed 
 Lady Constantia’s friendship for Dame Frances Russell was 
 stronger than her loyalty, for she regarded Cromwell's daughter, 
 both as Ricu and Ruvussexu, more than she did his favour. 
 And Sir Walter, making a low bow, replied that Lady Con- 
 stantia had little thought to displease her king by her attach- 
 ment to a lady who had once been honoured by the offer of his 
 
THE BUCCANEER. 439 
 
 hand. Upon which the king bit his lip, turned upon his. heel, 
 and spoke no farther word to Sir Walter Cecil.” 
 
 “ Good! good! good!” exclaimed Robin with manifest 
 delight, chuckling and rubbing his hands, “ that was good ! 
 How it warms my heart when an honest subject speaks to a 
 king as man to man, feeling he has no cause to dread his 
 frown or court his smile. Brave! brave, Sir Walter! There 
 is a moral dignity, a fearlessness in truth, that makes one not 
 tread — not tread, mind ye, but spurn the earth he walks 
 upon. If we would not be of the earth, earthy, but of the 
 heavens, heavenly, we must be independent in thought and 
 action! Brave, brave Sir Walter!” 
 
 ** Master Robin,” said the captain, looking earnestly in his 
 countenance, and half-inclined to smile at his enthusiasm — 
 “ Master Robin, that’s not the court fashion.” 
 
 pea n the court!” shouted the Ranger ; then suddenly 
 checking himself, he added, turning to his wife, whose return 
 he had not heeded, — “ [ beg your pardon, my dear Barbara, 
 — it was his fault, not mine. Nay, I have said nothing half 
 so wicked this long, long time. Come, tell me, did you see 
 Sir Walter's children, Captain? Oliver, he is the first-born, 
 a noble boy? Then, —I forget their names; but I know 
 there is neither a Herbert ner a Robert among them. Alas! 
 there are good reasons why it should so be. I think Richard 
 Cromwell stood godfather to the eldest.” 
 
 ** Richard Cromwell!” repeated Springall, in a tone of 
 contempt. 
 
 “ He was wise, though ; he felt that he had not his father’s 
 talents, consequently could not maintain his father’s power,” 
 observed Robin. 
 
 “Master Hays,’ inquired Springall, wisely avoiding any 
 topic likely to excite political difference, ‘‘ you are an oracle, 
 and can tell me what has become of my worthy friend, that 
 most excellent compounder of confections, Solomon Grundy?” 
 
 _*€ Poor Solomon!” replied Robin, ‘‘ he accompanied the 
 family after Sir Robert's death,— which was lingering enough, 
 to set forth more brightly the virtues of both daughter and 
 nephew,— to London, and was choked by devouring too hastily 
 a French prawn! Poor Solomon! it was as natural for him 
 so to die as for a soldier to fall on the field of battle.” 
 
 * So it was,” replied the seaman ; “ but having discussed 
 
 
 
44.0 THE BUCCANEER. 
 
 the events and the persons with whom we had most to do in 
 past years, let us, before entering on other subjects, fill a 
 bumper to the health of my long cherished, and, despite his 
 faults, my trusty beloved friend — the Oip Buccanzer ! 
 Much has he occupied my thoughts, and it joys me to find 
 him, and leave him, where an old man ought to be — in the 
 bosom of his true and beautiful family. We have all faults,” 
 continued the officer, somewhat moved by the good sherris 
 and his own good feeling — “ for it’s a well-written log that 
 has no blots ; but hang it, as I said before, I never could spin 
 a yarn like my friend Robin here, either from the wheel, which 
 I mean to typify the head — or the distaff, which, be it un- 
 derstood, signifies the heart. So here goes —” and, with a 
 trembling hand, and a sparkling eye, the generous Springall 
 drained the deep tankard, to the health of his first sea friend. 
 
 “It is not seemly in woman to drink of strong waters or 
 glowing wine,” said Barbara, whose tearful eyes rested upon 
 the time-worn features of her father: “ but, God knows, my 
 heart is often so full of grateful thanks, that I lack words to 
 speak my happiness ; and I have need of constant watchfulness 
 to prevent the creature from occupying the place of the Creator. 
 My father has sometimes hours of bitterness, yet I bless God 
 he is not as a brand consumed in the burning, but rather as 
 gold purified and cleansed by that which devoureth our im- 
 purities, but maketh great that which deserveth greatness. 
 As to Robin me 
 
 «Don’t turn me into a fable, wife!” exclaimed Robin, 
 playfully interrupting her: — “ I am, in my own proper per- 
 son, an sop as it is. There has been enough of all this for 
 to-night : we will but pledge another cup to the health of Sir 
 Walter, the Lady Constance, and their children — and then 
 to bed ; and may all sleep well whose hearts are innocent as 
 yours, Barbara! and I hope I may add without presumption, 
 purified as mine. You see, Springall, the earth that nourishes 
 the rose may in time partake of its fragrance.” 
 
 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Lonpon : 
 
 Printed by A. SPoTTISwOOoDE, 
 New-Street-Square. 
 

 

 
 
 
 
 
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