the door. And yet this expedient did not answer as she had expected,
for the column of strong, cold air pouring in from a higher level
threw the cloud into confusion, stirred it up as it were, and lessened
the space of uninvaded atmosphere below the descending bed of vapor.

Again she went to Jamie. The roar overhead had increased, some vent
had been found, and the attic was in full flagrance. Now, drawing a
long breath at the door, near the level of the ground, she returned to
her brother and disengaged his foot from the slate, then dragged, then
thrust, sometimes at his head, sometimes at his side; then again she
had her arms round him, and swung herself forward to the right knee
sideways; then brought up the other knee, and swung herself with the
dead weight in her arms again to the right, and thus was able to work
her way nearer to the door, and, as she got nearer to the door, the
air was clearer, and she was able to breathe freer.

At length she laid hold of the jamb with one hand, and with the other
she caught the lappel of the boy's coat, and assisted by the support
she had gained, was able to drag him over the doorstep.

At that moment passed her rushed a man. She looked, saw and knew
Coppinger. As he rushed passed, the blood squirting from his maimed
right hand fell on the girl lying prostrate at the jamb to which she
had clung.

And now within a red light appeared, glowing through the mist as a
fiery eye, not only so, but every now and then a fiery rain descended.
The burning tobacco had consumed the boards and was falling through in
red masses.

Judith had but just brought her brother into safety, or comparative
safety, and now another, Coppinger, had plunged into the burning
cottage, rushed to almost certain death. She cried to him as well as
she could with her short breath. She could not leave him within. Why
had he run there? She saw on her dress the blood that had fallen from
him. She went outside the hut and dragged Jamie forth and laid him on
the grass. Then, without hesitation, inhaling all the pure air she
could, she darted once more into the burning cottage. Her eyes were
stung with the smoke, but she pushed on, and found Coppinger under the
open window, fallen on the floor, his back and head against the wall,
his arms at his side, and the blood streaming over the slate pavement
from his right gashed wrist. Accident or instinct--it could not have
been judgment--had carried him to the only spot in the room where pure
air was to be found, and there it descended like a rushing waterfall,
blowing about the prostrate man's wild long hair.

"Judith!" said he, looking at her, and he raised his left hand.
"Judith, this is the end."

"Oh, Captain Coppinger, do come out. The house is burning. Quick, or
it will be too late."

"It is too late for me," he said. "I am wounded." He held up his
half-severed hand. "I gave this to you and you rejected it."

"Come--oh, do come--or you and I will be burnt." In the inrushing
sweep of air both were clear of the smoke and could breathe.

He shook his head. "I am followed. I will not be taken. I am no good
now--without my right hand. I will not go to jail."

She caught his arm, and tearing the kerchief from her neck, bound it
round and round where the veins were severed.

"It is in vain," he said. "I have lost most of my blood. Ju!"--he held
her with his left hand--"Ju, if you live, swear to me, swear you will
sign the register."

She was looking into his face--it was ghastly, partly through loss of
blood, partly because lighted by the glare of the burning tobacco that
dropped from above. Then a sense of vast pity came surging over her
along with the thought of how he had loved her. Into her burning eyes
tears came.

"Judith!" he said, "I made my confession to you--I told you my sins.
Give me also my release. Say you forgive me."

She had forgotten her peril, forgotten about the fire that was above
and around, as she looked at his eyes, and, holding the maimed right
arm, felt the hot blood welling through her kerchief and running over
her hand.

"I pray you, oh, I pray you, come outside. There is still time."

Again he shook his head. "My time is up. I do not want to live. I have
not your love. I could never win it, and if I went outside I should be
captured and sent to prison. Will you give me my absolution?"

"What do you mean?" And in her trembling concern for him--in the
intensity of her pity, sorrow, care for him--she drew his wounded hand
to her and pressed it against her heaving bosom.

"What I mean is, can you forgive me?"

"Indeed--indeed I do."

"What--all I have done?"

"All."

She saw only a dying man before her, a man who might be saved if he
would, but would not because her love was everything to him, and
_that_ he never, never could gain. Would she make no concession to
him? could she not draw a few steps nearer? As she looked into his
face and held his bleeding arm to her bosom, pity overpowered
her--pity, when she saw how strong had been this wild and wicked
man's love. Now she truly realized its depth, its intensity, and its
tenderness alternating with stormy blasts of passion, as he wavered
between hope and fear, and the despair that was his when he knew he
must lose her.

Then she stooped, and, the tears streaming over her face, she kissed
him on his brow, and then on his lips, and then drew back, still
holding his maimed hand, with both of hers crossed over it, to her
heaving bosom. Kneeling, she had her eyes on his, and his were on
hers--steady, searching, but with a gentle light in them. And as she
thus looked she became unconscious, and sank, still holding his hand,
on the floor.

At that instant, through the smoke and raining masses of burning
tobacco, plunged Oliver Menaida. He saw Judith, bent, caught her in
his arms, and rushed back through the door.

A moment after and he was at the entrance again, to plunge through and
rescue his wounded adversary; but the moment when this could be done
was past. There was an explosion above, followed by a fall as of a
sheet of blue light, a curtain of fire through the mist of white
smoke. No living man could pass that. Oliver went round to the window,
and strove to enter by that way; the man who had taken refuge there
was still in the same position, but he had torn the kerchief of Judith
from the bleeding arm, and he held it to his mouth, looking with fixed
eyes into the falling red and blue fires and the swirling flocks of
white smoke.

There were iron bars at the window. Oliver tore at these to displace
them.

"Coppinger!" he shouted, "stand up--help me to break these bars!"

But Coppinger would not move, or, possibly, the power was gone from
him. The bars were firmly set. They had been placed in the windows by
Coppinger's orders and under his own supervision, to secure Othello
Cottage, his store-place, against invasion by the inquisitive.

At length Oliver succeeded in wrenching one bar away, and now a gap
was made through which he might reach Coppinger and draw him forth
through the window. He was scrambling in when the Captain staggered to
his feet.

"Let me alone," said he. "You have won what I have lost. Let me
alone. I am defeated."

Then he stepped into the mass of smoke and falling liquid blue fire
and dropping masses of red glowing tobacco. A moment more, and the
whole of the attic floor, with all the burning contents of the garret,
fell in.

CHAPTER LIV.

SQUAB PIE.

Next morning, at an early hour, Judith, attended by Mr. Zachary
Menaida, appeared at the rectory of St. Enodoc. She was deadly pale,
but there was decision in her face. She asked to see Mr. Desiderius
Mules in his study, and was shown into what had, in her father's days,
been the pantry.

Mr. Menaida had a puzzled look in his watery eyes. He had been up all
night, and indeed it had been a night in which few in the neighborhood
had slept, excepting Mr. Mules, who knew nothing of what had happened.
The smugglers, alarmed by the fire at Othello Cottage, and by the
party collected by Mr. Menaida to guard the descent to the beach, had
not ventured to force their way to the cave. The Black Prince, finding
that no signal was made from the ledge above the cave, suspected
mischief, heaved anchor and bore away. The stupefied members of the
Preventive service were conveyed to the nearest cottages, and there
left to recover. As for Othello Cottage, it was a blazing and smoking
mass of fire, and till late on the following day could not be
searched. There was no fire-engine anywhere near; nor would a
fire-engine have availed to save either the building or its contents.

When Mr. Mules appeared, Judith said in a quiet but firm tone, "I have
come to sign the register. Mr. Menaida is here. I do it willingly, and
with no constraint."

"Thank you. This is most considerate to my feelings. I wish all my
flock would obey my advice as you are now doing," said the rector, and
produced the book, which Judith signed with trembling hand.

Mr. Desiderius was quite ignorant of the events of the night. He had
no idea that at that time Captain Coppinger was dead.

It was not till some days later that Judith understood why, at the
last moment, with death before his eyes, Coppinger had urged on her
this ratification of her marriage. It was not till his will was found,
that she understood his meaning. He had left to her, as his wife,
everything that he possessed. No one knew of any relatives that he
had, for no one knew whence he came. No one ever appeared to put in a
claim against the widow.

On the second day the remains of the burnt cottage were cleared away,
and then the body of Cruel Coppinger was found, fearfully charred, and
disfigured past recognition. There were but two persons who knew that
this blackened corpse belonged to the long dreaded captain, and these
were Judith and Oliver. When the burnt body was cleared from the
charred fragments of clothing that were about it one article was
discovered uninjured. About his throat Coppinger had worn a silk
handkerchief, and this as well as the collar of his coat had preserved
his neck and the upper portion of his chest from injury such as had
befallen the rest of his person. And when the burnt kerchief was
removed, and the singed cloth of the coat-collar, there was discovered
round the throat a narrow black band, and sewn into this band, one
golden thread of hair, encircling the neck.

Are our readers acquainted with that local delicacy entitled, in
Cornwall and Devon, Squab Pie? To enlighten the ignorant, it shall be
described. First, however, we premise that of squab pies there are two
sorts: Devonian squab and Cornish squab. The Cornish squab differs
from the Devonian squab in one particular; that shall be specified
presently.

_How to Make a Squab Pie._--Take half a pound of veal, cut into nice
square pieces, and put a layer of them at the bottom of a pie-dish.
Sprinkle over these a portion of herbs, spices, seasoning, lemon-peel,
and the yolks of eggs cut in slices; cut a quarter of a pound of
boiled ham very thin, and put in a layer of this. Take half a pound of
mutton cut into nice pieces, and put a layer of them on the top of the
veal. Sprinkle as before with herbs and spices. Take half a pound of
beef, cut into nice pieces, and put a layer of them on top of the
mutton. Sprinkle as before with herbs and spices. Cut up half a dozen
apples very fine, also half a dozen onions, mix, and proceed to ram
the onions and apples into every perceivable crevice. Take half a
dozen pilchards, remove the bones, chop up and strew the whole pie
with pilchards. Then fill up with clotted cream, till the pie-dish
will hold no more. (For Cornish squab add, treated in like manner, a
cormorant.) Proceed to lay a puff paste on the edge of the dish. Then
insert a tablespoon and stir the contents, till your arm aches. Cover
with crust or ornament it with leaves, brush it over with the yolk of
an egg, and bake in a well-heated oven for one or one and a half hour,
or longer, should the pie be very large (two in the case of a Cornish
squab, and the cormorant very tough).

In one word, a squab pie is a scrap pie. So is the final chapter of a
three-volume novel. It is made up, from the first word to the last, of
scraps of all kinds, toothsome and the reverse.

Now let the reader observe--he has been already supplied with scraps.
He has learned the result of Mr. Menaida's collecting men to assist
him against the smugglers. Also of his expedition along with Judith to
the rectory of St. Enodoc. Also he has heard the provisions of Captain
Coppinger's will; also that this will was not contested. He has also
heard of the recovery of the Captain's body from the burnt cottage.

Is not this a collection of scraps cut very small? But there are more,
of a different character, with which this chapter will be made up,
before the pie-crust closes over it with a flourishing "Finis" to
ornament it.

Mr. Scantlebray had lost his wife, who had been an ailing woman for
some years, and being a widower, cast about his eyes for a second
wife, after the way of widowers. There was not the excuse of a young
family needing a prudent housewife to manage the children, for Mr.
Scantlebray had only one daughter, who had been allotted by her father
and by popular opinion to Captain Coppinger, but had failed to secure
him. Mr. Scantlebray, though an active man, had not amassed much
money, and if he could add to his comforts, provide himself with good
eating and good drinking, by marrying a woman with money, he was not
averse to so doing. Now, Mr. Scantlebray had lent a ready ear to the
voice of rumor which made Miss Dionysia Trevisa the heiress who had
come in for all the leavings of that rich old spinster, Miss Ceely, of
St. Austell, and Mr. Scantlebray gave credit to this rumor, and acting
on it, proposed to and was accepted by Miss Dionysia.

Now when, after marriage, Mr. Scantlebray found out that the sweet
creature he had taken to his side was worth under a quarter of the sum
he had set down at the lowest figure, at which he could endure her,
and when the late Miss Trevisa, now the second Mrs. Scantlebray,
learned from her husband's lips that he had married her only for her
money, and not for her good looks or for any good quality she was
supposed to be endowed with, the reader, knowing something of the
characters of these two persons, may conjecture, if he please, what
sort of scenes ensued daily between them, and it may be safely
asserted that the bitterest enemies of either could not have desired
for each a more unenviable lot than was theirs.

Very shortly after the death of Captain Coppinger, Judith and Jamie
left Bristol in a vessel, with Uncle Zachie, bound for Lisbon. Oliver
Menaida had gone to Oporto before, to make arrangements for his
father. It was settled that Judith and her brother should live with
the old man, and that the girl should keep house for him. Oliver would
occupy his old quarters, that belonged to the firm in which he was a
partner.

It is a strange thing--but after the loss of Coppinger Judith's mind
reverted much to him, she thought long and tenderly of his
considerations for her, his patience with her, his forbearance, his
gentleness toward her, and of his intense and enduring love. His
violence she forgot, and she put down the crimes he had committed to
evil association, or to an irregulated, undisciplined conscience,
excusable in a measure in one who had not the advantages she had
enjoyed, of growing up under the eye of a blameless, honorable, and
right-minded father.

In the Consistory Court of Canterbury is a book of the marriages
performed at the Oporto factory, by the English chaplain resident
there. It begins in the year 1788 and ends in 1807. The author has
searched this volume in vain for a marriage between Oliver Menaida
and Judith Coppinger. If such a marriage did take place, it must have
been after 1807, but the book of register of marriages later than this
date is not to be found in the Consistory Court.

Were they married?

On inquiry at St. Enodoc no information has been obtained, for neither
Judith nor the Menaidas had any relatives there with whom they
communicated. If Mrs. Scantlebray ever heard, she said nothing, or, at
all events, nothing she said concerning them has been remembered.

Were they ever married?

That question the reader must decide as he likes.

FINIS.

Transcriber's Note

A Table of Contents has been added by the transcriber for the
convenience of the reader.

Saint is abbreviated to both S. and St. in this book.

The author refers to plants by the names of escallonica and
eschalonia. It's likely that both are errors for escallonia, but they
are preserved as printed.

Instances of archaic spelling (e.g. taught meaning taut) are preserved
as printed. Variant spelling (e.g. jewelry and jewellery) is preserved
as printed except where there was a clear prevalence of one form over
another, as follows:

    Page 21--Wyvell amended to Wyvill--"... on one occasion a
    preventive man named Ewan Wyvill, ..."

    Page 21--Wyvell amended to Wyvill--"Wyvill had disappeared,
    and the body was recovered ..."

    Page 79--jassamine amended to jessamine--"... a-smelling to
    the jessamine is the surveyor ..."

    Page 191--stupified amended to stupefied--"... so stupefied
    was he by his terrors, ..."

Hyphenation usage has been made consistent.

Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.

The following printer errors have been fixed:

    Page 31--contion amended to condition--"The chancel of the
    church was in that condition ..."

    Page 32--omitted 'a' added for sense--"... was to be
    anticipated from a broken-hearted widow and helpless
    children ..."

    Page 34--repeated 'the' deleted--"... who occupied a
    double cottage at the little hamlet of Polzeath."

    Page 35--she amended to he--"... with a jerk of the rein and
    a set of the brow he showed ..."

    Page 56--Bluet amended to Blue--"... Boy Blue blew his horn,
    ..."

    Page 63--companian amended to companion--"... the friend and
    companion of Judith."

    Page 70--it amended to in--"... the voice summoned her to
    come in, ..."

    Page 104--repeated 'had' deleted--"... had seen him with his
    carriers defile out of the lane ..."

    Page 120--keenist amended to keenest--"A cry of intensest,
    keenest anguish ..."

    Page 126--repeated 'the' deleted--"That star on the black
    sea--what did it mean?"

    Page 162--aught amended to ought--"... but that he was told
    it was there, he ought to see it, ..."

    Page 163--hime amended to home--"... "may I get out now and
    go home?""

    Page 168--springs amended to sprigs--"... covered with sprigs
    of nondescript pink and blue flowers."

    Page 238--repeated 'and' deleted--"... and never once as I'm
    a Christian ..."

    Page 241--coldnesss amended to coldness--"... formed the
    resolution to break down the coldness ..."

    Page 247--or amended to of--"... to take this accumulation
    of wreckage ..."

    Page 248--officient amended to officiant--"... immediately
    over the head of the officiant, ..."

    Page 259--remorselesss amended to remorseless--"...
    remorseless and regardless of others, ..."

    Page 278--Judiah amended to Judith--""Nothing," answered
    Judith, ..."

    Page 285--Travisa amended to Trevisa--"... by a little
    sentiment for Miss Judith Trevisa, ..."

    Page 337--chose amended to choose--"... and if I choose to
    live in it I can."

    Page 351--superfluous 'where' deleted before 'there'--"Judith
    walked where, near the edge of the cliffs, there was no snow,
    ..."

    Page 362--breakfeast amended to breakfast--"... in utter
    guilelessness, prepared my breakfast for me, ..."

    Page 397--kness amended to knees--"... and herself on her
    knees and dragged him ..."

End of Project Gutenberg's In the Roar of the Sea, by Sabine Baring-Gould