enterprise, Mr Gascoyne," said the latter.

"I _have_ no doubt," replied Gascoyne.

"I do believe you're right," returned Thorwald, smoking furiously as he
became more agitated.  "I make no question but your villains will
receive you with open arms.  What guarantee have we, Mister Gascoyne, or
Mister Durward, that we shall not be seized and made to walk the plank,
or perform some similarly fantastic feat--in which, mayhap, our feet
will have less to do with the performance than our necks--when you get
into power?"

"You have no guarantee whatever," returned Gascoyne, "except the word of
a pirate!"

"You say truth," cried Ole, springing up and pacing the deck with
unwonted energy, while a troubled and somewhat fierce expression settled
on his usually good-humoured countenance.  "You say truth, and I think
we have been ill-advised when we took this step--for my part, I regard
myself as little better than a maniac for putting myself obstinately,
not to say deliberately, into the very jaws of a lion, perhaps I should
say a tiger.  But mark my words, Gascoyne, _alias_ Durward," (here he
stopped suddenly before the pirate, who was leaning in a careless
attitude against the mast, and looked him full in the face,) "if you
play us false, as I have no hesitation in saying I believe that you
fully intend to do, your life will not be worth a pewter shilling."

"I am yet in your power, Mr Thorwald," said Gascoyne; "if your friends
agree to it, I cannot prevent your putting about and returning to Sandy
Cove.  But in that case the missionary's child _will be lost_!"

"I do not believe that my child's safety is so entirely dependent on
you," said Mr Mason, who had listened in silence to the foregoing
dialogue; "she is in the hands of that God on whom you have turned your
back, and with whom all things are possible.  But I feel disposed to
trust you, Gascoyne, and I feel thus, because of what was said of you by
Mrs Stuart, in whose good sense I place implicit confidence.  I would
advise Mr Thorwald to wait patiently until he sees more cause than he
does at present for distrust."

Gascoyne had turned round and, during the greater part of this speech,
had gazed intently towards the horizon.

"We shall have rough weather to-night," said he; "but our work will be
done before it comes, I hope.  Up with the helm now, Henry, and slack
off the sheets; it is dark enough to allow us to creep in without being
observed.  Manton will of course be in the only harbour in the island;
we must therefore go round to the other side and take the risk of
running on the reefs."

"Risk!" exclaimed Henry; "I thought you knew all the passages about the
island?"

"So I do, lad--all the passages; but I don't profess to know every rock
and reef in the bottom of the sea.  Our only chance is to make the
island on the south side, where there are no passages at all except one
that leads into a bay; but if we run into that, our masts will be seen
against the southern sky, even from the harbour where the schooner lies.
If we are seen, they will be prepared for us, in which case we shall
have a desperate fight with little chance of success and the certainty
of much bloodshed.  We must therefore run straight for another part of
the shore, not far from the bay I have referred to, and take our chance
of striking.  I _think_ there is enough of water to float this little
cutter over the reefs, but I am not sure."

"Think! sure!" echoed Thorwald, in a tone of exasperated surprise; "and
if we _do_ strike, Mr Gascoyne, do you mean us to go beg for mercy at
the hands of your men, or to swim back to Sandy Cove?"

"If we strike I shall take the boat, land with the men, and leave the
cutter to her fate.  The _Avenger_ will suffice to take us back to Sandy
Cove."

Ole was rendered speechless by the coolness of this remark, so he
relieved himself by tightening his belt and spouting forth volcanoes of
smoke.

Meanwhile, the cutter had run to within a short distance of the island.
The night was rendered doubly dark by the rapid spreading of those heavy
clouds which indicated the approach of a squall, if not a storm.

"This is well," said Gascoyne in a low tone to Henry Stuart, who stood
near him; "the worse the storm is to-night the better for the success of
our enterprise.  Henry, lad, I'm sorry you think so badly of me."

Henry was taken aback by this unexpected remark, which was made in a low
sad tone.

"Can I think too badly of one who confesses himself to be a _pirate_?"
said Henry.

"The confession is at least in my favour.  I had no occasion to confess,
nor to give myself up to you."

"Give yourself up!  It remains to be seen whether you mean to do that or
not."

"Do you not believe me, Henry?  Do you not believe the account that I
gave of myself to you and your mother?"

"How can I?" said the young man, hesitatingly.

"Your mother believed me."

"Well, Gascoyne, to tell you the plain truth, I _do_ feel more than half
inclined to believe you; and I'm sorry for you--I am, from my soul.  You
might have led a different life--you might even do so yet."

"You forget," said Gascoyne, smiling sadly, "I have given myself up, and
you are bound to prevent my escaping."

Henry was perplexed by this reply.  In the enthusiasm of his awakened
pity he had for a moment forgotten the pirate in the penitent.  Before
he could reply, however, the cutter struck violently on a rock, and an
exclamation of alarm and surprise burst from the crew, most of whom were
assembled on deck.

"Silence!" cried Gascoyne in a deep sonorous tone, that was wonderfully
different from that in which he had just been speaking to Henry; "get
out the boat.  Arm yourselves and jump in.  There is no time to lose."

"The cutter is hard and fast," said Henry; "if this squall does not come
on, or if it turns out to be a light one, we may get her off."

"Perhaps we may, but I have little hope of that," returned Gascoyne.
"Now, lads, are you all in the boat?  Come, Henry, get in at once."

"I will remain here," said Henry.

"For what end?" said Gascoyne, in surprise.

"The cutter belongs to a friend; I do not chose to forsake her in this
off-hand manner."

"But nothing can save her, Henry."

"Perhaps not.  Nevertheless, I will do what I can.  She moves a little.
If she is lifted over this reef while we are on shore, she will be
carried out to sea and lost, and that must not be allowed.  Leave me
here till you land the men, and then send the boat back with two of
them.  We will put some of the cutter's ballast into it and try to tow
her off.  It won't take half-an-hour, and that will not interfere with
your plans, I should think, for the whole night lies before us."

Seeing that he was determined, Gascoyne agreed, and left the cutter,
promising to send off the boat directly.  But it took half-an-hour to
row from the _Wasp_ to the shore, and before the half of that time had
elapsed, the storm which had been impending burst over the island.

It was much more violent than had been expected.  The cutter was lifted
over the reef by the first wave, and struck heavily as she slid into
deep water.  Then she rushed out to sea before the gale.  Henry seized
the helm and kept the little vessel right before the wind.  He knew
nothing of the sea around, and the intense darkness of the night
prevented his seeing more than a dozen yards beyond the bow.

It was perhaps as well that he was kept in ignorance of what awaited
him, for he was thus spared at least the anticipation of what appeared
certain destruction.  He fancied that the rock over which he had been
carried was the outer reef of the island.  In this he was mistaken.  The
whole sea around and beyond him was beset with reefs, which at that
moment were covered with foam.  Had daylight revealed the scene, he
would have been appalled.  As it was, he stood stoutly and hopefully to
the helm while the cutter rushed wildly on her doom.

Suddenly she struck with terrific violence, and Henry was hurled to the
deck.  Leaping up, he sprang again to the helm and attempted to put
about, but the shock had been so great that the whole framework of the
little craft was dislocated.  The fastenings of the rudder had been torn
out, and she was unmanageable.  The next wave lifted her over the reef
and the gale swept her away.

Even then the hopes of the young man did not quite fail him.  He
believed that the last reef had now been passed, and that he would be
driven out to the open sea, clear at least of immediate danger.  It was
a vain hope.  In another moment the vessel struck for the third time,
and the mast went over the side.  Again and again she rose and fell with
all her weight on the rocks.  The last blow burst out her sides, and she
fell to pieces, a total wreck, leaving Henry struggling with the waves.

He seized the first piece of wood that came in his way, and clung to it.
For many hours he was driven about and tossed by the winds and waves
until he began to feel utterly exhausted, but he clung to the spar with
the tenacity of a drowning man.  In those seas the water is not so cold
as in our northern climes, so that men can remain in it for a great
length of time without much injury.  There are many instances of the
South Sea Islanders having been wrecked in their canoes, and having
spent not only hours but days in the water, clinging to broken pieces of
wood, and swimming for many miles, pushing these before them.

When, therefore, the morning broke, and the bright sun, shone out, and
the gale had subsided, Henry found himself still clinging to the spar,
and although much weakened, still able to make some exertion to save
himself.

On looking round he found that numerous pieces of the wreck floated near
him, and that the portion to which he clung was the broken lower-mast.
A large mass of the deck, with part of the gunwale attached to it, lay
close beside, him, held to the mast by one of the shrouds.  He at once
swam to this, and found it sufficiently large to sustain his weight,
though not large enough to enable him to get quite out of the water.
While here, half-in and half-out of the water, his first act was to fall
on his knees and thank God for sparing his life, and to pray for help in
that hour of need.

Feeling that it would be impossible to exist much longer unless he could
get quite out of the water so as to allow the sun to warm his chilled
frame, he used what strength remained in him to drag towards him several
spars that lay within his reach.  These he found to be some of the rough
timbers that had lain on the deck of the cutter to serve as spare masts
and yards.  They were, therefore, destitute of cordage, so that it was
not possible to form a secure raft.  Nevertheless, by piling them
together on the top of the broken portion of the deck, he succeeded in
constructing a platform which raised him completely out of the water.

The heat of the sun speedily dried his garments, and as the day wore on
the sea went down sufficiently to render the keeping of his raft
together a matter of less difficulty than it was at first.  In trying to
make some better arrangement of the spars on which he rested, he
discovered the corner of a sail sticking between two of them.  This he
hauled out of the water, and found it to be a portion of the gaff.  It
was a fortunate discovery; because, in the event of long exposure, it
would prove to be a most useful covering.  Wringing it out, he spread it
over the logs to dry.

The doing of all this occupied the shipwrecked youth so long, that it
was nearly mid-day before he could sit down on his raft and think calmly
over his position.  Hunger now began to remind him that he was destitute
of food; but Henry had been accustomed, while roaming among the
mountains of his island home, to go fasting for long periods of time.
The want of breakfast, therefore, did not inconvenience him much; but
before he had remained inactive more than ten minutes, the want of sleep
began to tell upon him.  Gradually he felt completely overpowered by it.
He laid his head on one of the spars at last, and resigned himself to
an influence he could no longer resist.

It was evening before he awoke from that slumber.  The sun had just
disappeared below the horizon, and the red clouds that remained behind
were beginning to deepen, as night prepared to throw her dark mantle
over the sea.  A gull wheeled over the youth's head and uttered a wild
cry as he awoke, causing him to start up with a feeling of bewildered
uncertainty as to where he was.

The true nature of his position was quickly forced upon him.  A dead
calm now prevailed.  Henry gazed eagerly, wistfully round the horizon.
It was an unbroken line; not a speck that resembled a sail was to be
seen.  Remembering for the first time that his low raft would be quite
invisible at a very short distance, he set about erecting a flag.  This
was easily done.  Part of his red shirt was torn off and fastened to a
light spar, the end of which he stuck between the logs.  Having set up
his signal of distress he sat down beside it, and, drawing part of the
sail over his shoulders, leaned on the broken part of the bulwark, and
pondered his forlorn condition.

It was a long, sad reverie into which poor Henry Stuart fell that
evening.  Hope did not, indeed, forsake his breast--for hope is strong
in youth; but he was too well acquainted with the details of a sailor's
life and risks to be able to shut his eyes to the real dangers of his
position.  He knew full well that if he should be cast on any of the
inhabited islands of the South Seas (unless it might be one of the very
few that had at that time accepted the Gospel) he would certainly be
killed by the savages, whose practice it is to slay and eat all
unfortunates who chance to be wrecked and cast upon their shores.  But
no islands were in sight, and it was possible that he might be left to
float on the boundless ocean until the slow and terrible process of
starvation did its work, and wore away the life which he felt to be so
fresh and strong within him.

When he thought of this he shuddered, and reverted, almost with a
feeling of pleasure, to the idea that another storm might spring up ere
long, and by dashing his frail raft to pieces, bring his life to a
speedy termination.  His hopes were not very clear even to his own mind.
He did indeed hope, because he could not help it; but what it was that
he hoped for would have puzzled him to state.  A passing ship finding
him in a part of the Pacific where ships were not wont to pass was,
perhaps, among the least animating of all his hopes.

But the thoughts that coursed through the youth's brain that night were
not centred alone upon the means or the prospects of deliverance.  He
thought of his mother,--her gentleness, her goodness, her unaccountable
partiality for Gascoyne; but more than all, he thought of her love for
himself.  He thought, too, of his former life--his joys, his sorrows,
and his sins.  As he remembered these last, his soul was startled, and
he thought of his God and his Saviour as he had never thought before.
Despite his efforts to restrain them, tears, but not unmanly tears,
_would_ flow down his cheeks as he sat that evening on his raft;
meditated on the past, the present, and the future, and realised the
terrible solemnity of his position--without water or food--almost
without hope--alone on the deep.  [See Frontispiece.]

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING--DOINGS ON THE ISLE OF PALMS--GASCOYNE'S DESPAIR.

It was not without some difficulty that the boat reached the shore after
the squall burst upon them.  On landing, the party observed, dark though
it was, that their leader's countenance wore an expression of the
deepest anxiety; yet there were lines upon it that indicated the raging
of conflicting passions which he found it difficult to restrain.

"I fear me," said Ole Thorwald in a troubled voice, "that our young
friend Henry Stuart is in danger."

"Lost!" said Gascoyne, in a voice so low and grating that it startled
his hearers.

"Say not so," said Mr Mason, earnestly.  "He is a brave and a clever
youth, and knows how to manage the cutter until we can row back and
fetch him ashore."

"Row back!" exclaimed Gascoyne, almost fiercely.

"Think you that I would stand here idle if our boat could live in such a
sea as now rolls on the rocks?  The _Wasp_ must have been washed over
the reef by this time.  She may pass the next without being dashed to
pieces, but she is too rickety to stand the third.  No, there is no
hope!"

While he spoke the missionary's eyes were closed, and his lips moved as
if in silent prayer.  Seizing Gascoyne nervously by the arm, he
said--"You cannot tell that there is no hope.  That is known only to One
who has encouraged us to `hope against hope.'  Henry is a stout youth
and a good swimmer.  He may succeed in clinging to some portion of the
wreck."

"True, true," cried Gascoyne, eagerly grasping at this hope, slight
though it was.  "Come, we waste time.  There is but one chance.  The
schooner must be secured without delay.  Lads, you will follow Mr
Thorwald.  Do whatever he bids you.  And now," he added, leading the
merchant aside, "the time for action has come.  I will conduct you to a
certain point on the island where you will remain concealed among the
bushes until I return to you."

"And suppose you never return to us, Mister Gascoyne?" said Ole, who
regarded every act of the pirate captain with suspicion.

"Then you will remain there till you are tired," answered Gascoyne, with
some asperity, "and after that, do what you please."

"Well, well, I am in your power," retorted the obdurate Norseman; "make
what arrangements you please, I will carry them out until--"

Here Ole thought fit to break off, and Gascoyne, without taking notice
of the remark, went on in a few hurried sentences to explain as much of
his plan as he thought necessary for the guidance of his suspicious
ally.

This done, he led the whole party to the highest part of the island, and
made them lie in ambush there while he went forward alone to
reconnoitre.  The night was admirably suited to their purpose.  It was
so dark that it was extremely difficult to perceive objects more than a
few yards off, and the wind howled so furiously among the palms that
there was no danger of being overheard in the event of their speaking
too loud or stumbling over fallen trees.

Gascoyne, who knew every rock and tree on the Isle of Palms, went
rapidly down the gentle slope that intervened between him and the
harbour in which the _Foam_ lay at anchor.  Dark though it was, he could
see the taper masts and yards of his vessel traced dimly against the
sky.

The pirate's movements now became more cautious.  He stepped slowly, and
paused frequently to listen.  At last he went down on his hands and
knees and crept forward for a considerable distance in that position,
until he reached a ledge of rocks that overhung the shore of the bay.
Here he observed an object like a round lump of rock, lying a few yards
before him, on a spot where he was well aware no such rock had
previously existed.  It moved after a moment or two.  Gascoyne knew that
there were no wild animals of any kind on the island, and, therefore, at
once jumped to the conclusion that this must needs be a human being of
some sort.  Drawing his knife he put it between his teeth, and creeping
noiselessly towards the object in question laid his strong hand on the
neck of the horrified Will Corrie.

That adventurous and desperate little hero having lain sleepless and
miserable at the feet of Alice until the squall blew the tent over their
heads, got up and assisted Montague to erect it anew in a more sheltered
position, after which, saying that he meant to take a midnight ramble on
the shore to cool his fevered brow, he made straight for the sea,
stepped knee-deep into the raging surf, and bared his breast to the
furious blast.

This cooled him so effectually that he took to running along shore in
order to warm himself.  Then it occurred to him that the night was
particularly favourable for a sly peep at the pirates.  Without a
moment's hesitation he walked and stumbled towards the high part of the
island, at which he arrived just half-an-hour before Gascoyne reached
it.  He had seen nothing, however, and was on the point of advancing
still further in his explorations, when he was discovered as we have
seen.

Gascoyne instantly turned the boy over on his back, and nipped a
tremendous yell in the bud by grasping his wind-pipe.

"Why, Corrie!" exclaimed Gascoyne in surprise, at the same time
loosening his grip, though still holding the boy down.

"Ah! you villain, you rascally pirate.  _I_ know you, I--"

The pipe was gently squeezed at this point, and the sentence abruptly
cut short.

"Come, boy, you must not speak so loud.  Enemies are near.  If you don't
behave I'll have to throttle you.  I have come from Sandy Cove with a
party to save you and your friends."

Corrie did not believe a word of this.  He knew, or at least he
supposed, that Gascoyne had left the schooner, not having seen him since
they sailed from Sandy Cove; but he knew nothing of the manner in which
he had been put ashore.

"It won't do, Gascoyne," gasped poor Corrie, on being permitted again to
use his wind-pipe.  "You may kill me, but you'll never cow me.  I don't
believe you, you cowardly monster."

"I'll have to convince you then," said Gascoyne, suddenly catching the
boy in his arms, and bearing him swiftly away from the spot.

Corrie struggled like a hero, as he was.  He tried to shout, but
Gascoyne's right hand again squeezed the wind-pipe; he attempted to
bite, but the same hand easily kept the refractory head in order; he
endeavoured to kick and hit, but Gascoyne's left hand encircled him in
such a comprehensive embrace and pressed him so powerfully to his
piratical bosom that he could only wriggle.  This he did without
ceasing, until Gascoyne suddenly planted him on his feet, panting and
dishevelled, before the astonished faces of Frederick Mason and Ole
Thorwald.

It is not necessary to describe in detail the surprise of all then and
there assembled, the hurried conversation, and the cry of joy with which
the missionary received the information that Alice was safe and within
five minutes' walk of the spot on which he stood.  Suffice it to say,
that Corrie was now convinced of the good faith of Gascoyne, whom he at
once led, along with Mr Mason, to the tent where Alice and her friends
slept--leaving Thorwald and his men where they were, to await further
orders.

The cry of wild delight with which Alice sprang into her father's arms
might have been destructive of all Gascoyne's plans had not the wind
carried it away from the side of the island where the pirate schooner
lay.  There was now no time to be lost.  After the first embrace, and a
few hurried words of blessing and thanksgiving, the missionary was
summoned to a consultation.

"I will join you in this enterprise, Mr Gascoyne," said Montague.  "I
believe what you say to be true, besides, the urgency of our present
danger leaves me no room for choice.  I am in your power.  I believe
that in your present penitent condition you are willing to enable us to
escape from your former associates; but I tell you frankly that, if ever
I have an opportunity to do so, I will consider it my duty to deliver
you over to justice."

"Time is too precious to trifle thus," said Gascoyne, hurriedly.  "I
have already said that I will deliver myself up--not however to _you_,
but to Mr Mason--after I have rescued the party, so that I am not
likely to claim any consideration from you on account of the obligation
which you seem to think my present act will lay you under.  But you must
not accompany me just now."

"Why not?"

"Because your presence may be required here.  You and Mr Mason will
remain where you are to guard the girls, until I return.  All that I
have to ask is, that you be in readiness to follow me at a moment's
notice when the time comes."

"Of course what you arrange _must_ be agreed to," said Montague.

"Come, Corrie, I will require your assistance.  Follow me," said the
pirate captain, as he turned and strode rapidly away.

Corrie was now thoroughly convinced of the good intentions of Gascoyne,
so he followed him without hesitation.  Indeed, now that he had an
opportunity of seeing a little more of his gigantic companion, he began
to feel a strange kind of pity and liking for him, but he shuddered and
felt repelled when he thought of the human blood in which his hands must
have been imbrued, for as yet he had not heard of the defence of himself
which Gascoyne had made in the widow's cottage.  But he had not much
time to think, for in a few minutes they came upon Ole Thorwald and his
party.

"Follow me quietly," said Gascoyne.  "Keep in single file and close
together, for if we are separated here we shall not easily get together
again."

Leading them over the same ground that he had formerly traversed,
Gascoyne conducted his party to the shores of the bay where the _Foam_
lay at anchor.  Here he made them keep close in the bushes, with
directions to be ready to act the instant he should call on them to do
so.

"But it would comfort me mightily, Mister Gascoyne," said Thorwald in a
somewhat troubled voice, "if you would give me some instructions or
advice as to what I am to do in the event of your plans miscarrying.  I
care nought for a fair fight in open field, but I do confess to a
dislike of being brought to the condition of _not knowing what to do_."

"It won't matter much what you do, Mr Thorwald," said Gascoyne,
gravely.  "If my plans miscarry, you will be killed every soul of you.
You'll not have the ghost of a chance of escaping."

Ole opened his eyes uncommonly wide at this.  "Well," said he at length,
with a sigh of resignation, "it's some comfort to know that one can only
be killed once."

Gascoyne now proceeded leisurely to strip off his shirt, thereby
displaying a chest, back, and arms in which the muscles were developed
to an extent that might have made Hercules himself envious.  Kicking off
his boots, he reduced his clothing to a pair of loose knee-breeches.

"'Tis a strange time to indulge in a cold bath!" murmured Thorwald,
whose state of surprise was beginning to render him desperately
ironical.

Gascoyne took no notice of this remark, but calling Corrie to his side,
said--

"Can you swim, boy?"

"Yes, like a duck."

"Can you distinguish the stern of the schooner?"

"I can."

"Listen, then.  When you see a white sheet waved over the taffrail,
throw off your jacket and shirt and swim out to the schooner.  D'ye
understand?"

"Perfectly," replied the boy, whose decision of manner and action grew
with the occasion.

"And now, Mr Thorwald," said Gascoyne, "I shall swim off to the
schooner.  If, as I expect, the men are on shore in a place that I wot
of and with which you have nothing to do, well and good, I will send a
boat for you with muffled oars--but, mark you, let there be no noise in
embarking or in getting aboard the schooner.  If, on the other hand, the
men are aboard, I will bring a boat to you myself, in which case silence
will not be so necessary, and your fighting powers shall be put to the
proof."

Without waiting for a reply, the pirate captain walked down the sloping
beach and waded slowly into the dark sea.  His motions were so noiseless
and stealthy that those who watched him with eager eyes could only
discern a figure moving gradually away from them and melting into the
thick gloom.

Fierce though the storm was outside, the sheltered waters of the bay
were almost calm, so that Gascoyne had no difficulty in swimming off to
the _Foam_ without making any noise.  As he drew near, a footstep on the
deck apprised him that there was at least a watch left.  A few seconds
later a man leaned over the low bulwarks of the vessel on the side on
which the swimmer approached.

"Hist! what sort o' brute's that?" he exclaimed, seizing a handspike
that chanced to be near him and hurling it at the head of the brute.

The handspike fell within a yard of Gascoyne, who, keeping up his
supposed character, made a wild splash with his arms and dived like a
genuine monster of the deep.  Swimming under water as vigorously as he
could, he endeavoured to gain the other side of the vessel before he
came up; but, finding that this was impossible, he turned on his back
and allowed himself to rise gently until nothing but his face appeared
above the surface.  By this means he was enabled to draw a full breath,
and then, causing himself to sink, he swam under water to the other side
of the schooner and rose under her quarter.

Here he paused a minute to breathe, then glided with noiseless strokes
to the main chains, which he seized hold of, and, under their shelter,
listened intently for at least five minutes.

Not a sound was to be heard on board save the footstep of the solitary
watchman who slowly paced the deck, and now and then beguiled the tedium
of his vigil by humming a snatch of a sea song.

Gascoyne now felt assured that the crew were ashore enjoying themselves,
(as they were wont to do,) in one of the artificial caverns where their
goods were concealed.  He knew, from his own former experience, that
they felt quite secure when once at anchor in the harbour of the Isle of
Palms; it was therefore probable that all of them had gone ashore except
this man who had been left to take care of the vessel.

Gascoyne now drew himself slowly up into the chains, and remained there
for a few seconds in a stooping position, keeping his head below the
level of the bulwarks while he squeezed the water out of his lower
garments.  This done, he waited until the man on deck came close to
where he stood, when he sprang on him with the agility of a tiger, threw
him down, and placed his hand on his mouth.

"It will be your wisest course to be still, my man," said Gascoyne,
sternly.  "You know who I am, and you know what I can do when occasion
requires.  If you shout when I remove my hand from your mouth you die."

The man seemed to be quite aware of the hopelessness of his case, for he
quietly submitted to have his mouth bound with a handkerchief and his
hands and feet tied with cords.  A few seconds sufficed to accomplish
this, after which Gascoyne took him up in his arms as if he had been a
child, carried him below, and laid him on one of the cabin lockers.
Then, dragging a sheet off one of the beds, he sprang up on deck and
waved it over the stern.

"That's the signal for me," said Corrie, who had watched for it
eagerly--"now, uncle Ole, mind you obey orders--you're rather inclined
to be mutinous, and that won't pay to-night.  If you don't look out,
Gascoyne will pitch into you, old boy."

Master Corrie indulged in these impertinent remarks while he was
stripping off his jacket and shirt.  The exasperated Thorwald attempted
to seize him by the neck and shake him, but Corrie flung his jacket in
his face, and sprang down the beach like a squirrel.  He had wisdom
enough, however, to say and do all this in the quietest possible manner,
and when he entered the sea he did so with as much caution as Gascoyne
himself had done, insomuch that he seemed to melt away like a
mischievous sprite.

In a few minutes he was alongside of the _Foam_; caught a rope that was
thrown to him, and quickly stood on the deck.

"Well done, Corrie.  Clamber over the stern, and slide down by that rope
into the little boat that floats there.  Take one of the oars, which you
will find muffled, and scull to the shore and bring off Thorwald and his
men.  And, hark 'ee, boy, bring off my shirt and boots.  Now, look
alive; your friend Henry Stuart's life may depend on it."

"Henry's life!" exclaimed Corrie in amazement.

"Come, no questions.  His life may depend on your promptitude."

Corrie wanted no stronger motive for speed.  In a state of surprise
mingled with anxious forebodings, he leaped over the stern and was gone
in a moment.

The distance between the shore and the schooner being very short, the
boat was quickly alongside, and the party, under stout Ole Thorwald,
took possession of their prize.  Meanwhile Gascoyne had set the jib and
fore-topsail, which latter had been left hanging loose from the yard, so
that by hauling out the sheets slowly and with great care, the thing was
done without noise.  The cable was then cut, the boat manned, and the
_Foam_ glided out of the bay like a phantom ship.

The moment she got beyond the shelter of the palms her sails filled, and
in a few minutes she was rushing through the water at the rate of ten or
eleven knots an hour.

Gascoyne stood at the helm and guided her through the intricacies of the
dangerous coast with consummate skill, until he reached the bay where
the wrecked ship lay.  Here he lay to, and sent the boat ashore for the
party that had been left at the tent.  They were waiting anxiously for
his return; great therefore was their astonishment when he sent a
message inviting them to go on board the _Foam_.

The instant they embarked Gascoyne put about, and, ordering the mainsail
to be hoisted and one of the reefs to be shaken out of the topsail, ran
round to windward of the island, with the foam flying in great masses on
either side of the schooner, which lay over so much before the gale that
it was scarcely possible to stand on the deck.

The manner in which the pirate captain now acted was calculated to fill
the hearts of those whose lives seemed to hang in his hands with alarm
if not dismay.  His spirit seemed to be stirred within him.  There was
indeed no anger either in his looks or tones, but there was a stern
fixedness of purpose in his manner and aspect which aroused, yet
repelled, the curiosity of those around him.  Even Ole Thorwald and
Montague agreed that it was best to let him alone, for although they
might overcome his great physical force by the united strength of
numbers, the result would certainly be disastrous, as he was the only
one who knew the locality.

On reaching the windward side of the island he threw the schooner up
into the wind, and ordered the large boat to be hoisted out and put in
the water, Gascoyne issued his commands in a quick loud voice, and Ole
shook his head as if he felt that this overbearing manner proved what he
had expected, namely, that when the pirate got aboard his own vessel he
would come out in his true colours.

Whatever men felt or thought, there was no hesitation in rendering
prompt obedience to that voice.  The large boat was hoisted off the
brass pivot gun amidships and lowered into the water.  Then Gascoyne
gave the helm to one of the men, with directions to hold it exactly as
it then lay, and, hurrying down below, speedily returned, to the
astonishment of every one, with a man in his arms.

"Now, Connway," said Gascoyne, as he cut the cords that bound the man
and removed the handkerchief from his mouth, "I'm a man of few words,
and to-night have less time than usual to speak.  I set you free.  Get
into that boat--one oar will suffice to guide it--the wind will drive it
to the island.  I send it as a parting gift to Manton and my former
associates.  It is large enough to hold them all.  Tell them that I
repent of my sins, and the sooner they do the same the better.  I cannot
now undo the evil I have done them.  I can only furnish the means of
escape, so that they may have time and opportunity to mend their ways,
and, hark 'ee, the sooner they leave this plane the better.  It will no
longer be a safe retreat.  Farewell!"

While he was speaking he led the man by the arm to the side of the
schooner, and constrained him to get into the boat.  As he uttered the
last word he cut the rope that held it, and let it drop astern.

Gascoyne immediately resumed his place at the helm, and once more the
schooner was running through the water, almost gunwale under, towards
the place where the _Wasp_ had been wrecked.

Without uttering a word of explanation, and apparently forgetful of
every one near him, the pirate continued during the remainder of that
night to steer the _Foam_ out and in among the roaring breakers, as if
he were trying how near he could venture to the jaws of destruction
without actually plunging into them.  As the night wore on the sky
cleared up, and the scene of foaming desolation that was presented by
the breakers in the midst of which they flew, was almost enough to appal
the stoutest heart.

The crew looked on in moody silence.  They knew that their lives were
imperilled, but they felt that they had no resource.  No one dared to
address the silent, stern man who stood like an iron statue at the helm
the whole of that night.  Towards morning, he steered out from among the
dangerous coral reefs and ran south, straight before the wind.

Then Corrie summoned up courage, and, going aft to Gascoyne, looked up
in his face and said--

"You're searching for Henry, I think?"

"Yes, boy.  I am," answered the pirate, and a gleam of kindliness
crossed his face for a moment, but it was quickly chased away by a look
of deep anxiety, and Corrie retired.

Now that the danger of the night was over, all the people on board
became anxious to save Henry or ascertain his fate; but although they
searched the ocean far and wide, they saw not a vestige of him or of the
_Wasp_.  During this period Gascoyne acted like a bewildered man.  He
never quitted the helm, night nor day.  He only ate a biscuit now and
then when it was brought to him, and he did not answer when he was
spoken to.

Every one felt sympathy with the man who seemed to mourn so deeply for
the lost youth.

At last Montague went up to him and said in a gentle voice--

"I fear that Henry is gone."

Gascoyne started as if a sword had pierced him.  For one moment he
looked fiercely in the young captain's face; then an expression of the
deepest sadness overspread his countenance as he said--

"Do you think there is no hope?"

"None," said Montague.  "I grieve to give pain to one who seems to have
been an intimate friend of the lad."

"He was the son of my oldest and best friend.  What would you advise,
Mr Montague?"

"I think--that is to say, don't _you_ think--that it would be as well to
put about now?"

Gascoyne's head dropped on his chest, and for some moments he stood
speechless, while his strong hands played nervously with the tiller that
they had held so long and so firmly.  At last he looked up and said, in
a low voice--"I resign the schooner into your hands, Mr Montague."

Then he went slowly below, and shut himself up in his cabin.

Montague at once put down the helm, and, pointing the schooner's prow
northward, steered for the harbour of Sandy Cove.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

SURLY DICK--THE RESCUE.

We must turn aside here for a short time to follow the fortunes of the
_Talisman_.

When that vessel went in chase of the _Foam_, after her daring passage
across the reefs, she managed to keep her in view until the island was
out of sight astern.  Then the increasing darkness caused by the squall
hid the two vessels from each other, and before the storm passed away
the superior sailing qualities of the _Foam_ carried her far beyond the
reach of the cruiser.

But Mr Mulroy was not a man to be easily baffled.  He resolved to
continue the chase, and, supposing that his commander must have got
safely to the shore, he made up his mind to proceed southward for a
short time, thinking it probable that the pirate would run for the
shelter of those remote islands which he knew were seldom visited by
merchant ships.  The importance of keeping the chase in view as long as
possible, and following it up without delay, he felt it would be
accepted as a sufficient excuse by Montague for not putting back to take
him on board.

The squalls which happened to prevail at that time drove the _Talisman_
farther south than her first lieutenant had intended to go, and she
failed to fall in with the pirate schooner.  Mulroy cruised far and wide
for fully a week; then he gave up the chase as hopeless.  Two days after
the breaking of the storm that wrecked the _Wasp_, the _Talisman's_ prow
was turned northward towards Sandy Cove.

It was the close of a calm beautiful evening when this was done.  A
gentle breeze fanned the topsails, although it failed to ruffle the sea.

"I don't like to be baffled in this way," said Mulroy to the second
lieutenant, as they paced the quarterdeck together.

"It is very unfortunate," returned the other.  "Would it not be as well
to examine the man called Surly Dick before leaving these waters?  You
know he let out that there is some island hereabouts at which the
pirates are wont to rendezvous.  Perhaps by threats, if not by
persuasion, he may be induced to tell us where it lies."

"True.  I had forgotten that fellow altogether.  Let him be sent for."

In a few minutes Surly Dick stepped on the quarter-deck and touched his
cap.  He did not appear to have grown less surly since his introduction
on board the frigate.  Discipline had evidently a souring effect on his
temper.

"Your late comrades have escaped me," said the first lieutenant, "but
you may depend upon it I will catch the villains in the long run."

"It'll be a pretty long run before you do," remarked the man, sulkily.

Mulroy looked sternly at him.  "You forget," said he, "that you are a
prisoner.  Let me advise you to be at least _civil_ in your manner and
tone.  Whether the run shall be a long or a short one remains to be
seen.  One thing is pretty certain, namely, that your own run of life
will be a _very_ short one.  You know the usual doom of a pirate when he
is caught."

Surly Dick moved uneasily.  "I was made a pirate against my will," said
he, in a still more sulky tone and disrespectful manner.

"You will find it difficult to prove that," returned Mulroy.  "Meanwhile
I shall put you in irons and treat you as you deserve until I can place
you in the hands of the civil authorities."

Surly Dick stood first on one leg and then on the other; moved his
fingers about nervously, and glanced in the lieutenant's face furtively.
It was evident that he was ill at ease.

"I never committed murder, sir," said he in an improved tone.  "It
wasn't allowed on board of the _Avenger_, sir.  It's a hard case that a
fellow should be made a pirate by force, and then be scragged for it,
though he's done none o' the bloody work."

"This may be true," rejoined the lieutenant, "but as I have said, you
will find it difficult to convince your judges of it.  But you will
receive a fair trial.  There is one thing, however, that will stand in
your favour, and that is a full and free confession.  If you make this,
and give me all the information you can in order to bring your late
comrades to justice, your judges will perhaps be disposed to view your
case leniently."

"Wot more _can_ I confess, sir," said Dick, beginning to look a little
more interested.  "I've already confessed that I wos made a pirate
against my will, and that I've never done no murder--though I _have_
plundered a little, just like the rest.  As for helpin' to bring my
comrades to justice, I only wish as I know'd how, and I'd do it right
off, I would."

Surly Dick's expression of countenance when he said this, was a
sufficient guarantee that he was in earnest.

"There is an island somewhere hereabouts," said the lieutenant, "where
the pirates are in the habit of hiding sometimes, is there not?"

Surly Dick looked at his questioner slyly as he replied--"There is,
sir."

"Do you not think it very likely that they may have run there now--that
they may be there at this moment?"

"It's _oncommom_ likely," replied Dick with a grin.  "Can you direct me
how to steer, in order to reach that island?"

Surly Dick's aspect changed.  He became morose again, and looked
silently at his feet for a few moments, as if he were debating something
in his own mind.  He was in truth perplexed; for, while he was extremely
anxious to bring his hated comrades to justice, he was by no means so
anxious to let the lieutenant into the secret of the treasures contained
in the caverns of the Isle of Palms, all of which he knew would be at
once swept hopelessly beyond his grasp if they should be discovered.  He
also reflected that if he could only manage to get his late companions
comfortably hanged, and himself set free for having turned King's
evidence against them, he could return to the island and abstract the
wealth it contained by degrees.  The brilliant prospect thus opened up
to him was somewhat marred, however, by the consideration that some of
the pirates might make a confession and let this secret be known, in
which case his golden dreams would vanish.  The difficulty of making up
his mind was so great that he continued for some time to twist his
fingers and move his feet uneasily in silence.

Mulroy observed the pirate's indecision, and although he knew not its
cause to the full extent, he was sufficiently acquainted with human
nature to know that now was the moment to overcome the man, if he was to
be overcome at all.

"Well, well," he said, carelessly, "I'm sorry to see you throw away your
only chance.  As for the information you refuse to give, I can do
without it.  Perhaps I may find some of your late comrades when we make
the island, who will stand witness against _you_.  That will do, my man,
you may go.  Mr Geoffrey," (turning to a midshipman,) "will you
accompany that pirate forward and see that he is put in irons."

"But you don't know where the island is," said Surly Dick, anxiously, as
the lieutenant was turning away.

Mulroy turned back--"No," said he, "but you ought to know that when a
seaman is aware of the existence of an island, and knows that he is near
it, a short time will suffice to enable him to find it."

Again he was about to turn away when Dick cried out--"Stay, sir, will
you stand by me if I shew you the way?"

"I will not deceive you," said Mulroy, bluntly.  "If you shew me how to
steer for this island, and assist me in every way that you can to catch
these villains, I will report what you have done, and the judges at your
trial will give what weight they please to the facts; but if you suppose
that I will plead for such a rascal as you are, you very much mistake
me."

A look of deep hatred settled on the pirate's countenance as he said
briefly--"Well, I'll shew you how to steer."

Accordingly Surly Dick, after being shewn a chart, and being made aware
of the exact position of the ship, ordered the course to be altered to
"north-half-east."  As this was almost dead in the eye of the light
breeze that was blowing, the _Talisman_ had to proceed on her course by
the slow process of tacking.

While she was in the act of putting about on one of these tacks, the
look-out reported "a boat on the lee bow."

"Boat on the lee bow!" was passed from mouth to mouth, and the order was
immediately given to let the frigate fall off.  In another minute,
instead of ploughing her way slowly and doggedly to windward, the
_Talisman_ ran swiftly before the breeze towards a dark object which at
a distance resembled a boat with a mast and a small flag flying from it.

"It is a raft, I think," observed the second lieutenant, as he adjusted
the telescope more perfectly.

"You are right, and I think there is someone on it," said Mulroy.  "I
see something like a man lying on it, but whether he is dead or alive I
cannot say.  There is a flag, undoubtedly--but no one waves a
handkerchief or a rag of any kind.  Surely, if a _living_ being occupied
the raft he would have seen the ship by this time.  Stay, he moves!  No;
it must have been imagination.  I fear that he is dead, poor fellow.
Stand by to lower a boat."

The lieutenant spoke in a sad voice, for he felt convinced that he had
come too late to the aid of some unfortunate who had died in perhaps the
most miserable manner in which man can perish.

Henry Stuart did indeed lie on the raft a dead man to all appearance.
Towards the evening of his third day, he had suffered very severely from
the pangs of hunger.  Long and earnestly had he gazed round the horizon,
but no sail appeared.  He felt that his end was approaching, and in a
fit of despair and increasing weakness, he fell on his face in a state
of half consciousness.  Then he began to pray, and, gradually, he fell
into a troubled slumber.

It was while he was in this condition, that the _Talisman_ hove in
sight.  Henry had frequently fallen into this species of sleep during
the last few hours, but he never continued in it long, for the pains of
thirst as well as hunger now racked his frame.  Nevertheless, he was not
much reduced in strength or vigour.  A long slow process of dying would
have still lain before the poor youth, had it been his lot to perish on
that raft.

A delightful dream came over him as he lay.  A rich banquet was spread
before him.  With wolfish desire he grasped the food, and ate as he
never ate before.  Oh! it was a rare feast that!  Each morsel was
delicious; each draught was nectar.  But he could not devour enough.
There was a strange feeling in him that he could by no means eat to
satisfaction.

While he was thus feasting in dreams the _Talisman_ drew near.  Her
bulwarks were crowded with faces gazing earnestly at the bit of red rag
that fluttered in the breeze and the pile of loose spars on the man's
form lay extended and motionless.

Suddenly Henry awoke with a start, to find that his rich banquet was a
terrible delusion! that he was starving to death--and that a large ship
was hove-to within a few yards of him!

Starting up on his knees, he uttered a wild shriek.  Then, as the truth
entered his soul, he raised his hand and gave a faint cheer.

The revulsion of feeling in the crew of the _Talisman_ was
overpowering--a long, loud, tremendous cheer burst from every heart!

"Lower away!" was shouted to the men who stood at the fall-tackles of
the boat!

As the familiar sounds broke on Henry's ear, he leaped to his feet, and
waving his hand above his head, again attempted to cheer; but his voice
failed him.  Staggering backwards, he fell fainting into the sea.

Almost at the same instant, a man leaped from the bulwark of the
frigate, and swam vigorously towards the raft.  It was Richard Price,
the boatswain of the frigate.  He reached Henry before the boat did,
and, grasping his inanimate form, supported him until it came up and
rescued them both.  A few minutes later Henry Stuart was restored to
consciousness, and the surgeon of the frigate was ministering to him
such restoratives as his condition seemed to require.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE CAPTURE AND THE FIRE.

Eight days after the rescue of Henry Stuart from a horrible death, as
related in the last chapter, the _Talisman_ found herself, late in the
afternoon, within about forty hours' sail of Sandy Cove.

Mulroy had visited the Isle of Palms, and found that the pirates had
flown.  The mate of the _Avenger_ and his companions had taken advantage
of the opportunity of escape afforded them by Gascoyne, and had hastily
quitted their rendezvous with as much of the most valuable portion of
their booty as the boat could carry.  As this is their last appearance
in these pages, it may be as well to say that they were never again
heard of.  Whether they perished in a storm, or gained some distant
land, and followed their former leader's advice--to repent of their
sins,--or again took to piracy, and continued the practice of their
terrible trade under a more bloody minded captain, we cannot tell.  They
disappeared as many a band of wicked men has disappeared before, and
never turned up again.  With these remarks we dismiss them from our
tale.

Surly Dick now began to entertain sanguine hopes that he would be
pardoned, and that he would yet live to enjoy the undivided booty which
he alone knew lay concealed in the Isle of Palms--for, now that he had
heard Henry's account of the landing of Gascoyne on the island, he never
doubted that the pirates would fly in haste from a spot that was no
longer unknown to others, and that they would be too much afraid of
being captured to venture to return to it.

It was, then, with a feeling of no small concern that the pirate heard
the look-out shout on the afternoon referred to, "Sail ho!"

"Where away?"

"On the lee beam."

The course of the frigate was at once changed, and she ran down towards
the strange sail.

"A schooner, sir," observed the second lieutenant to Mr Mulroy.

"It looks marvellously like the _Foam_, alias the _Avenger_," observed
the latter.  "Beat to quarters.  If this rascally pirate has indeed been
thrown in our way again, we will give him a warm reception.  Why, the
villain has actually altered his course, and is standing towards us."

"Don't you think it is just possible," suggested Henry Stuart, "that
Gascoyne may have captured the vessel from his mate, and now comes to
meet us as a friend?"

"I don't know that," said Mulroy, in an excited tone, for he could not
easily forget the rough usage his vessel had received at the hands of
the bold pirate.  "I don't know that.  No doubt Gascoyne's mate was
against him; but the greater part of the crew were evidently in his
favour, else why the secret manner in which he was deprived of his
command?  No, no.  Depend upon it the villain has got hold of his
schooner and will keep it.  By a fortunate chance we have again met; I
will see to it that we do not part without a close acquaintance.  Yet
why he should throw himself into my very arms in this way, puzzles me.
Ha!  I see his big gun amidships.  It is uncovered.  No doubt he counts
on his superior sailing powers, and means to give us a shot and shew us
his heels.  Well, we shall see."

"There goes his flag," observed the second lieutenant.

"What! eh!  It's the _Union Jack_!" exclaimed Mulroy.

"I doubt not that your own captain commands the schooner," said Henry,
who had of course, long before this time, made the first lieutenant of
the _Talisman_ acquainted with Montague's capture by the pirate, along
with Alice and her companions.  "You naturally mistrust Gascoyne, but I
have reason to believe that, on this occasion at least, he is a true
man."

Mulroy returned no answer, for the two vessels were now almost near
enough to enable those on board to distinguish faces with the telescope.
A very few minutes sufficed to remove all doubts; and, a quarter of an
hour later, Montague stood on his own quarterdeck, receiving the
congratulations of his officers, while Henry Stuart was seized upon and
surrounded by his friends Corrie, Alice, Poopy, the missionary, and Ole
Thorwald.

In the midst of a volley of excited conversation Henry suddenly
exclaimed, "But what of Gascoyne?  Where is the pirate captain?"

"Why, we've forgotten him," exclaimed Thorwald, whose pipe was doing
duty like a factory chimney.  "I shouldn't wonder if he took advantage
of us just now to give us the slip!"

"No fear of that," said Mr Mason.  "Poor fellow, he has felt your loss
terribly, Henry, for we all believed that you were lost; but I am bound
to confess that none of us have shewn a depth of sorrow equal to that of
Gascoyne.  It seems unaccountable to me.  He has not shewn his face on
deck since the day he gave up all hope of rescuing you, and has eaten
nothing but a biscuit now and then, which he would suffer no one but
Corrie to take to him."

"Poor Gascoyne, I will go and relieve his mind," said Henry, turning to
quit the quarterdeck.

Now, the noise created by the meeting of the two vessels had aroused
Gascoyne from the lethargic state of mind and body to which he had given
way.  Coming on deck, he was amazed to find himself close to the
_Talisman_.  A boat lay alongside the _Foam_, into which he jumped, and,
sculling towards the frigate, he stepped over the bulwarks just as Henry
turned to go in search of him.

The pirate captain's face wore a haggard, careworn, humbled look, that
was very different from its usual bold, lion-like expression.  No one
can tell what a storm had passed through the strong man's breast while
he lay alone on the floor of his cabin.  The deep, deep sorrow--the
remorse for sin--the bitterness of soul when he reflected that his
present misery was chargeable only to himself.  A few nights had given
him the aspect of a much older man.

For a few seconds he stood glancing round the quarterdeck of the
_Talisman_ with a look of mingled curiosity and sadness.  But when his
eye fell on the form of Henry he turned deadly pale, and trembled like
an aspen leaf.

"Well, Gascoyne, my--my--_friend_," said the youth with some hesitation
as he advanced.

The shout that Gascoyne uttered on hearing the young man's voice was
almost superhuman.  It was something like a mingled cheer and cry of
agony.  In another moment he sprang forward, and seizing Henry in his
arms, pressed him to his breast with a grasp that rendered the youth
utterly powerless.

Almost instantly he released him from his embrace, and seizing his hand,
said, in a wild, gay, almost fierce manner--

"Come, Henry, lad, I have somewhat to say to you.  Come with me."

He forced rather than led the amazed youth into the boat, sculled to the
schooner, hurried him into the cabin, and shut and locked the door.

We need scarcely say that all this was a matter of the deepest curiosity
and interest to those who witnessed it; but they were destined to remain
with their curiosity unsatisfied for some time after that.

When Henry Stuart issued from the cabin of the _Avenger_ after that
mysterious interview, his countenance wore a surprised and troubled
expression.  Gascoyne's, on the contrary, was grave and calm, yet
cheerful.  He was more like his former self.

The young man was, of course, eagerly questioned as to what had been
said to him, and why the pirate had shewn such fondness for him; but the
only reply that could be got from him was, "I must not tell.  It is a
private matter.  You shall know time enough."

With this answer they were fain to be content--even Corrie failed to
extract anything more definite from his friend.

A prize crew was put on board the _Foam_, and the two vessels proceeded
towards the harbour of Sandy Cove in company.

Henry and his friends went in the _Foam_, but Gascoyne was detained a
prisoner on board the _Talisman_.  Montague felt that it was his duty to
put him in irons, but he could not prevail on himself to heap
unnecessary indignity on the head of one who had rendered him such good
service, so he left him at large, intending to put him in irons only
when duty compelled him to do so.

During the night a stiff breeze amounting almost to a gale of fair wind
sprang up, and the two vessels flew towards their destination, but the
_Foam_ left her bulky companion far behind.

That night a dark and savage mind was engaged on board the _Talisman_ in
working out a black and desperate plot.  Surly Dick saw, in the capture
of Gascoyne and the _Foam_, the end of all his cherished hopes, and in a
fit of despair and rage he resolved to be avenged.

This man, when he first came on board the frigate, had not been known as
a pirate, and afterwards, as we have seen, he had been treated with
leniency on account of his offer to turn informant against his former
associates.  In the stirring events that followed he had been
overlooked, and, on the night of which we are writing he found himself
free to retire to his hammock with the rest of the watch.

In the night, when the wind was howling mournfully through the rigging,
and the greater part of the crew were buried in repose, this man rose
stealthily from his hammock, and with noiseless tread found his way to a
dark corner of the ship where the eyes of the sentries were not likely
to observe him.  Here he had made preparations for his diabolical
purpose.  Drawing a flint and steel from his pocket, he proceeded to
strike a light.  This was procured in a few seconds, and as the match
flared up in his face it revealed the workings of a countenance in which
all the strongest and worst passions of human nature had stamped deep
and terrible lines.

The pirate had taken the utmost care, by arranging an old sail over the
spot, to prevent the reflection of the light being seen.  It revealed a
large mass of oakum and tar.  Into the heart of this he thrust the
match, and instantly glided away, as he had come, stealthily and without
noise.

For a few seconds the fire smouldered, for the sail that covered it kept
it down, as well as hid it from view.  But such combustible material
could not be smothered long.  The smell of burning soon reached one of
the marines stationed on the lower-deck, who instantly gave the alarm;
but almost before the words had passed his lips the flames burst forth.

"Fire! fire! fire!"

What a scene ensued!  There was confusion at first, for no sound at sea
rings so terribly in the ear as the shout of "Fire!"

But speedily the stern discipline on board a man-of-war prevailed.  Men
were stationed in rows; the usual appliances for the extinction of fire
were brought into play; buckets of water were passed down below as fast
as they could be drawn.  No miscellaneous shouting took place; but the
orders that were necessary, and the noise of action, together with the
excitement and the dense smoke that rolled up the hatchway, produced a
scene of the wildest and most stirring description.

In the midst of this the pirate captain, as might have been expected,
performed a prominent part.  His great physical strength enabled him to
act with a degree of vigour that rendered his aid most valuable.  He
wrought with the energy of a huge mechanical power, and with a quick
promptitude of perception and a ready change of action which is denied
to mere, mechanism.  He tore down the bulk-heads that rendered it
difficult to get at the place where the fire was; he hurled bucket after
bucket of water on the glowing mass, and rushed, amid clouds of hot
steam and suffocating smoke, with piles of wet blankets to smother it
out.

Montague and he wrought together.  The young captain issued his orders
as calmly as if there were no danger, yet with a promptitude and vigour
that inspired his men with confidence.  Gascoyne's voice was never
heard.  He obeyed orders and acted as circumstances required, but he did
not presume, as men are too apt to do on such occasions, to give orders
and advice when there was a legitimate commander.  Only once or twice
were the deep tones of his bass voice heard, when he called for more
water, or warned the more daring among the men when danger from falling
timber threatened them.

But all this availed not to check the flames.  The men were quickly
driven upon deck, and it soon became evident that the vessel must
perish.  The fire burst through the hatchways, and in a short time began
to leap up the rigging.

It now became necessary to make arrangements for the saving of the crew.

"Nothing more can be done, Mr Mulroy," said Montague, in a calm voice
that accorded ill with the state of his mind.  "Get the boats ready, and
order the men to assemble on the quarter-deck."

"If we were only nearer the island," said Gascoyne in a low tone, as if
he were talking to himself, "we might run her on the reef, and the
breakers would soon put out the fire."

"That would be little consolation to me," said Montague, with a bitter
smile.  "Lower the boats, Mr Mulroy.  The _Foam_ has observed our
condition, I see; let them row to it.  I will go in the gig."

The first lieutenant hastened to obey the order, and the men embarked in
the boats, lighted by the flames, which were now roaring high up the
masts.

Meanwhile, the man who had been the cause of all this was rushing about
the deck, a furious maniac.  He had wrought at the fire almost as
fiercely as Gascoyne himself, and now that all hope was past, he
continued, despite the orders of Montague to the contrary, to draw water
and rush with bucket after bucket into the midst of the roaring flames.
At last he disappeared, no one knew where, and no one cared, for in such
a scene he was soon forgotten.

The last man left the ship when the heat on the poop became so great
that it was scarcely possible to stand there.  Still Montague and
Gascoyne stood side by side near the taffrail, and the gig with her crew
floated just below them.  The last boatful of men pulled away from the
burning vessel, and then Montague turned with a deep sigh and said--

"Now, Mr Gascoyne, get into the boat.  I must be the last man to quit
the ship."

Without a word Gascoyne swung himself over the stern, and, sliding down
by a rope, dropped into the boat.  Montague followed, and they rowed
away.

Just at that moment Surly Dick sprang on the bulwarks, and holding on by
the mizzen-shrouds took off his hat and cheered.

"Ha! ha!" he shrieked, with a fiendish laugh, "I've escaped you, have I?
escaped you--hurrah!" and with another wild shriek he leaped on the hot
deck, and, seizing a bucket, resumed his self-imposed duty of deluging
the fire with water.

"Pull, pull, lads! we can't leave the miserable man to perish," cried
Montague, starting up, while the men rowed after the frigate with their
utmost might.  But in vain.  Already she was far from them, and ever
increased the distance as she ran before the gale.

As long as the ship lasted the poor maniac was seen diligently pursuing
his work--stopping now and then to spring on the bulwarks and give
another cheer.

At last the blazing vessel left boats and schooner far behind, and the
flames rose in great flakes and tongues above her top-masts, while the
smoke rolled in dense black volumes away to leeward.

While the awe-stricken crew watched her there came a sudden flash of
bright white flame, as if a volcano had leaped out of the ocean.  The
powder-magazine had caught.  It was followed by a roaring crash that
seemed to rend the very heavens.  A thick darkness settled over the
scene--and the vessel that a few hours before had been a noble frigate,
was scattered on the ocean a mass of blackened ruins.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

The Pacific is not always calm, but neither is it always stormy.  We
think it necessary to make this latter observation, because the
succession of short-lived gales and squalls which have been prominently
and unavoidably brought forward in our tale might lead the reader to
deem the name of this ocean inappropriate.

Although the sea was not quite so still now, owing to the swell caused
by the recent gale, it was quite as glassy as it was then.  The sun,
too, was as hot and the sky as brilliant, but the aspect of the _Foam_
was much changed.  The deep quiet was gone.  Crowded on every part of
the deck, and even down in her hold, were the crew of the man-of-war,
lolling about listlessly and sadly, or conversing with grave looks about
the catastrophe which had deprived them so suddenly of their floating
home.

Gascoyne and Henry leaned over the stern in order to avoid being
overheard by those around them, and conversed in low tones.

"But why not attempt to escape?" said the latter, in reply to some
observation made by his companion.

"Because I am pledged to give myself up to justice."

"No; not to justice," replied the youth, quickly.  "You said you would
give yourself up to me and Mr Mason.  I for one won't act the part of
a--a--"

"Thief-catcher," suggested Gascoyne.

"Well, put it so if you will; and I am certain that the missionary will
not have anything to do with your capture.  He will say that the
officers of justice are bound to attend to such matters.  It would be
perfectly right in you to try to escape."

"Ah!  Henry, your feelings have warped your judgment," said Gascoyne,
shaking his head.  "It is strange how men will prevaricate and deceive
themselves when they want to reason themselves into a wrong course or
out of a right one.  But what you or Mr Mason think or will do has
nothing to do with my course of action."

"But the law holds, if I mistake not, that a man is not bound to
criminate himself," said Henry.

"I know not and care not what the law of man holds," replied the other,
sadly.  "I have forfeited my life to my country, and I am willing to lay
it down."

"Nay, not your life," said Henry; "you have done no murder."

"Well, then, at least my liberty is forfeited.  I shall leave it to
those who judge me whether my life shall be taken or no.  I sometimes
wish that I could get away to some distant part of the world, and there,
by living the life of an honest man, try to undo, if possible, a little
of what I have done.  But, woe's me, wishes and regrets come too late.
No, I must be content to reap what I have sown."

"They will be certain to hang you," said the youth, bitterly.

"I think it likely they will," replied his companion.

"And would you call that justice?" asked Henry, sharply.  "Whatever
punishment you may deserve, you do not deserve to die.  You know well
enough that your own word will go for nothing, and no one else can bear
witness in your favour.  You will be regarded simply as a notorious
pirate.  Even if some of the people whose lives you have spared while
taking their goods should turn up, their testimony could not prove that
you had not murdered others; so your fate is certain if you go to trial.
Have you any right, then, to compass your own death by thus giving
yourself up?"

"Ah! boy, your logic is not sound."

"But answer my question," said the youth, testily, "Henry, plead with me
no longer," said Gascoyne, in a deep, stern tone.  "My mind is made up.
I have spent many years in dishonesty and self-deception.  It is perhaps
possible that by a life devoted to doing good, I might in the long run
benefit men more than I have damaged them.  This is just possible, I
say, though I doubt it; but I have _promised_ to give myself up whenever
this cruise is at an end, and I won't break the last promise I am likely
to give in this world; so do not attempt to turn me, boy."

Henry made no reply, but his knitted brows and compressed lips shewed
that a struggle was going on within him.  Suddenly he stood erect, and
said firmly--

"Be it so, Gascoyne.  I will hold you to your promise.  You shall _not_
escape me!"

With this somewhat singular reply, Henry left his surprised companion
and mingled with the crowd of men who stood on the quarter-deck.

A light breeze had now sprung up, and the _Foam_ was gliding rapidly
towards the island.  Gascoyne's deep voice was still heard at intervals
issuing a word of command; for, as he knew the reefs better than any one
else on board, Montague had intrusted him with the pilotage of the
vessel into harbour.

When they had passed the barrier-reef, and were sailing over the calm
waters of the enclosed lagoon in the direction of Sandy Cove, the young
officer went up to the pirate captain with a perplexed air and a degree
of hesitation that was very foreign to his character.

Gascoyne flushed deeply when he observed him.  "I know what you would
say to me," he said, quickly.  "You have a duty to perform.  I am
ready."

"Gascoyne," said Montague, with deep earnestness of tone and manner, "I
would willingly spare you this, but, as you say, I have a duty to
perform.  I would, with all my heart, that it had fallen to other hands.
Believe me, I appreciate what you have done within the last few days,
and I believe what you have said in regard to yourself and your career.
All this, you may depend upon it, will operate powerfully with your
judges.  But you know I cannot permit you to quit this vessel a _free
man_."

"I know it," said Gascoyne, calmly.

"And--and--" (here Montague stammered and came to an abrupt pause.)

"Say on, Captain Montague.  I appreciate your generosity in feeling for
me thus; but I am prepared to meet whatever awaits me."

"It is necessary," resumed Montague, "that you should be manacled before
I take you on shore."

Gascoyne started.  He had not thought of this.  He had not fully
realised the fact that he was to be deprived of his liberty so soon.  In
the merited indignity which was now to be put upon him, he recognised
the opening act of the tragedy which was to terminate with his life.

"Be it so," he said, lowering his head and sitting down on a carronade,
in order to avoid the gaze of those who surrounded him.

While this was being done, the youthful Corrie was in the fore-part of
the schooner whispering eagerly to Alice and Poopy.

"O Alice, I've seen him!" exclaimed the lad.

"Seen who?" inquired Alice, raising her pretty little eyebrows just the
smallest morsel.

"Why, the boatswain of the _Talisman_, Dick Price, you know, who jumped
overboard to save Henry when he fell off the raft.  Come, I'll point him
out."

So saying, Corrie edged his way through the crowd until he could see the
windlass.  Here, seated on a mass of chain cable, sat a remarkably
rugged specimen of the British boatswain.  He was extremely short,
excessively broad, uncommonly jovial, and remarkably hairy.  He wore his
round hat so far on the back of his head that it was a marvel how it
managed to hang there, and smoked a pipe so black that the most powerful
imagination could hardly conceive of its ever having been white, and so
short that it seemed all head and no stem.

"That's him!" said Corrie, eagerly.

"Oh! is it?" replied Alice, with much interest.

"Hee! hee!" observed Poopy.

"Stand by to let go the anchor," shouted Montague.

Instantly bustle and noise prevailed everywhere.  The crew of the lost
frigate had started up on hearing the order, but having no stations to
run to, they expended the energy that had been awakened in shuffling
about and opening an animated conversation in under tones.

Soon the schooner swept round the point that had hitherto shut out the
view of Sandy Cove, and a few minutes later the rattling of the chain
announced that the voyage of the _Foam_ had terminated.

Immediately after, a boat was lowered, and Gascoyne was conveyed by a
party of marines to the shore, and lodged in the prison which had been
but recently occupied by our friend John Bumpus.

Mrs Stuart had purposely kept out of the way when she heard of the
arrival of the _Foam_.  She knew Gascoyne so well that she felt sure he
would succeed in recapturing his schooner.  But she also knew that in
doing this he would necessarily release Montague from his captivity, in
which case it was certain that the pirate captain, having promised to
give himself up, would be led on shore a prisoner.  She could not bear
to witness this; but no sooner did she hear of his being lodged in jail
than she prepared to visit him.

As she was about to issue from her cottage, Henry met her and clasped
her in his arms.  The meeting would have doubtless been a warmer one had
the mother known what a narrow escape her son had so recently had.  But
Mrs Stuart was accustomed to part from Henry for weeks at a time, and
regarded this return in much the same light as former homecomings,
except in so far as he had news of their lost friends to give her.  She
welcomed him therefore with a kiss and a glad smile, and then hurried
him into the house to inquire about the result of the voyage.

"I have already heard of your success in finding Alice and our friends.
Come, tell me more."

"Have you heard how nearly I was lost, mother?"

"Lost!" exclaimed the widow in surprise; "no, I have heard nothing of
that."

Henry rapidly narrated his escape from the wreck of the _Wasp_, and
then, looking earnestly in his mother's anxious face he said, slowly--

"But you do not ask for Gascoyne, mother.  Do you know that he is now in
the jail?"

The widow looked perplexed.  "I know it," said she.  "I was just going
to see him when you came in."

"Ah! mother," said Henry, reproachfully, "why did you not tell me sooner
about Gascoyne?  I--"

He was interrupted here by Corrie and Alice rushing into the room, the
latter of whom threw herself into the widow's arms and burst into tears,
while Master Corrie indulged in some eccentric bounds and cheers by way
of relieving his feelings.  For some time Henry allowed them to talk
eagerly to each other; then he told Corrie and Alice that he had
something of importance to say to his mother, and led her into an
adjoining room.

Corrie had overheard the words spoken by Henry just as he entered, and
great was his curiosity to know what was the mystery connected with the
pirate captain.  This curiosity was intensified when he heard a
half-suppressed shriek in the room where mother and son were closeted.
For one moment he was tempted to place his ear to the key-hole!  But a
blush covered his fat cheeks at the very thought of acting such a
disgraceful part.  Like a wise fellow he did not give the tempter a
second opportunity, but, seizing the hand of his companion, said--

"Come along, Alice, we'll go seek for Bumpus."

Half-an-hour afterwards the widow stood at the jail door.  The jailer
was an intimate friend, and considerately retired during the interview.

"O Gascoyne, has it come to this?"  She sat down beside the pirate, and
grasped one of his manacled hands in both of hers.

"Even so, Mary, my hour has come.  I do not complain of my doom.  I have
brought it on myself."

"But why not try to escape?" said Mrs Stuart, earnestly.  "There are
some here who could aid you."

Here the widow attempted to reason with Gascoyne, as her son had done
before, but with similar want of success.  Gascoyne remained immovable.
He did indeed betray deep emotion while the woman reasoned with him, in
tones of intense earnestness; but he would not change his mind.  He said
that if Montague, as the representative of the law, would set him free
in consideration of what he had recently done, he would accept of
liberty; but nothing would induce him to attempt to escape.

Leaving him in this mood, Mrs Stuart hurried to the cottage where
Montague had taken up his abode.

The young captain received her kindly.  Having learned from Corrie all
about the friendship that existed between the widow and Gascoyne, he
listened with the utmost consideration to her.

"It is impossible," said he, shaking his head; "I _cannot_ set him
free."

"Do his late services weigh nothing with you?" pleaded the widow.

"My dear madam," replied Montague, sorrowfully, "you forget that I am
not his judge.  I have no right to weigh the circumstances of his case.
He is a convicted and self-acknowledged pirate.  My only duty is to
convey him to England and hand him over to the officers of justice.  I
sympathise with you, indeed I do, for you seem to take his case to heart
very much, but I cannot help you.  I _must_ do my duty.  The _Foam_ will
be ready for sea in a few days, in it I shall convey Gascoyne to
England."

"O Mr Montague, I do take his case to heart, as you say, and no one on
this earth has more cause to do so.  Will it interest you more in
Gascoyne, and induce you to use your influence in his favour, if I tell
you that--that--_he is my husband_?"

"Your husband!" cried Montague, springing up and pacing the apartment
with rapid strides.

"Ay," said Mrs Stuart, mournfully, covering her face with her hands; "I
had hoped that this secret would die with me and him, but in the hope
that it may help, ever so little, to save his life, I have revealed it
to you."

"Believe me, the secret shall be safe in my keeping," said Montague,
tenderly, as he sat down again and drew his chair near to that of Mrs
Stuart.  "But, alas!  I do not see how it is possible for me to help
your husband.  I will use my utmost influence to mitigate his sentence,
but I cannot, I _dare_ not set him free."

The poor woman sat pale and motionless while the captain said this.  She
began to perceive that all hope was gone, and felt despair settling down
on her heart.

"What will be his doom," said she, in a husky voice, "if his life is
spared?"

"I do not know.  At least I am not certain.  My knowledge of criminal
law is very slight, but I should suppose it would be transportation
for--"

Montague hesitated, and could not find it in his heart to add the word
"life."

Without uttering a word Mrs Stuart rose, and, staggering from the room,
hastened with a quick unsteady step towards her own cottage.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

A PECULIAR CONFIDANT--MORE DIFFICULTIES, AND VARIOUS PLANS TO OVERCOME
THEM.

When Alice Mason was a little child, there was a certain tree near her
father's house to which, in her hours of sorrow, she was wont to run and
tell it all the grief of her overflowing heart.  She firmly believed
that this tree heard and understood and sympathised with all that she
said.  There was a hole in the stem into which she was wont to pour her
complaints, and when she had thus unburthened her heart to her silent
confidant she felt comforted, as one feels when a human friend has
shared one's sorrows.

When the child became older, and her sorrows were heavier and, perhaps,
more real, her well-nurtured mind began to rise to a higher source for
comfort.  Habit and inclination led her indeed to the same tree, but
when she kneeled upon its roots and leaned against its stem, she poured
out her heart into the bosom of Him who is ever present, and who can be
touched with a feeling of our infirmities.

Almost immediately after landing on the island Alice sought the
umbrageous shelter of her old friend and favourite, and on her knees
thanked God for restoring her to her father and her home.

To the same place the missionary directed his steps, for he knew it
well, and doubtless expected to find his daughter there.

"Alice, dear, I have good news to tell you," said the missionary,
sitting down beside her.

"I know what it is!" cried Alice, eagerly.

"What do you think it is, my pet?"

"Gascoyne is to be forgiven! am I right?"

Mr Mason shook his head sadly--"No, that is not what I have to tell
you.  Poor fellow, I would that I had some good news to give you about
him; but I fear there is no hope for him--I mean as regards his being
pardoned by man."

Alice sighed, and her face expressed the deepest tenderness and
sympathy.

"Why do you take so great an interest in this man, dear?" said her
father.

"Because Mary Stuart loves him, and I love Mary Stuart.  And Corrie
seemed to like him, too, since he has come to know him better.  Besides,
has he not saved my life, and Captain Montague's, and Corrie's?  Corrie
tells me that he is very sorry for the wicked things he has done, and he
thinks that if his life is spared he will become a good man.  Has he
been very wicked, papa?"

"Yes, very wicked.  He has robbed many people of their goods, and has
burnt and sunk their vessels."

Alice looked horrified.

"But," continued her father, "I am convinced of the truth of his
statement--that he has never shed human blood.  Nevertheless, he has
been very wicked, and the fact that he has such a powerful will, such
commanding and agreeable manners, only makes his guilt the greater, for
there is less excuse for his having devoted such powers and qualities to
the service of Satan.  I fear that his judges will not take into account
his recent good deeds and his penitence.  They will not pardon him."

"Father," said Alice, earnestly, "God pardons the chief of sinners--why
will not man do so?"

The missionary was somewhat perplexed as to how he should reply to such
a difficult question.

"My child," said he, "the law of God and the law of man must be obeyed,
or the punishment must be inflicted on the disobedient--both laws are
alike in this respect.  In the case of God's law, Jesus Christ our Lord
obeyed it, bore the punishment for us, and set our souls free.  But in
the case of man's law, who is to bear Gascoyne's punishment and set
_him_ free?"

As poor Alice could not answer this, she cast down her tearful eyes,
sighed again, and looked more miserable than ever.

"But come, my pet," resumed Mr Mason, "you must guess again.  It is
really good news--try."

"I can't," said Alice, looking up in her father's face with animation
and shaking her head; "I never could guess anything rightly."

"What would you think the best thing that could happen?" said her
father.

The child looked intently at the ground for a few seconds and pursed her
rosy little mouth, while the smallest possible frown--the result of
intellectual exertion--knitted her fair brow.

"The best thing that could happen," said she, slowly, "would be that all
the whole world should become good."

"Well done, Alice!" exclaimed her father, laughing; "you have certainly
taken the widest possible view of the subject.  But you have soared a
little too high; yet you have not altogether missed the mark.  What
would you say if the chiefs of the heathen village were to cast their
idols into the fire, and ask me to come over and teach them how to
become Christians?"

"Oh! have they _really_ done this?" cried Alice in eager surprise.

"Indeed they have.  I have just seen and had a talk with some of their
chief men, and have promised to go over to their village to-morrow.  I
came up here just to tell you this, and to say that your friend the
widow will take care of you while I am away."

"And shall we have no more wars--no more of these terrible deeds of
blood?" inquired the child, while a shudder passed through her frame at
the recollection of what she had heard and seen during her short life on
that island.

"I trust not, my lamb.  I believe that God has heard our prayers, and
that the Prince of Peace will henceforth rule in this place.  But I must
go and prepare for this work.  Come, will you go with me?"

"Leave me here for a little, papa; I wish to think it over all alone."

Kissing her forehead, the missionary left her.  When he was out of sight
the little girl sat down, and, nestling between two great roots of her
favourite tree, laid her head against the stem and shut her eyes.

But poor Alice was not left long to her solitary meditations.  There was
a peculiarly attractive power about her which drew other creatures
around her wherever she might chance to be.

The first individual who broke in upon her was that animated piece of
ragged door-mat, Toozle.  This imbecile little dog was not possessed of
much delicacy of feeling, having been absent on a private excursion of
his own into the mountain when the schooner arrived, he only became
aware of the return of his lost, loved, and deeply-regretted mistress,
when he came back from his trip.  The first thing that told him of her
presence was his own nose, the black point of which protruded with
difficulty a quarter of an inch beyond the mass of matting which totally
extinguished his eyes, and, indeed, every other portion of his head.

Coming down the hill immediately behind Sandy Cove at a breakneck
scramble, Toozle happened to cross the path by which his mistress had
ascended to her tree.  The instant he did so, he came to a halt so
sudden that one might have fancied he had been shot.  In another moment
he was rushing up the hill in wild excitement, giving an occasional yelp
of mingled surprise and joy as he went along.  The footsteps led him a
little beyond the tree and then turned down towards it, so that he had
the benefit of the descent in making the final onset.

The moment he came in sight of Alice he began to bark and yelp in such
an eager way that the sounds produced might be described as an
intermittent scream.  He charged at once with characteristic want of
consideration, and, plunging headlong into Alice's bosom, sought to
cover her face with kisses--i.e., with _licks_, that being the
well-known canine method of doing the thing.

"O Toozle, how glad, glad, glad, I am to see you, my own darling
Toozle!" cried Alice, actually shedding tears.

Toozle screamed with delight.  It was almost too much for him.  Again
and again he attempted to lick her face, a familiarity which Alice
gently declined to permit, so he was obliged to content himself with her
hand.

It has often struck us as surprising, that little dogs--usually so
intelligent and apt to learn in other matters--should be so dull of
apprehension in this.  Toozle had the experience of a lifetime to
convince him that Alice objected to have her face licked, and would on
no account permit it, although she was extremely liberal in regard to
her hands; but Toozle ignored the authority of experience.  He was at
this time a dog of mature years, but his determination to kiss Alice was
as strong as it had been when, in the tender years of infancy, he had
entertained the mistaken belief that she was his own mother.

He watched every unguarded moment to thrust forward his black, not to
say impertinent, little snout; and, although often reproved, he still
remained unconvinced, resolutely returned to the charge, and was not a
bit ashamed of himself.

On the present occasion Toozle behaved like a canine lunatic, and Alice
was beginning to think of exercising a little tender violence in order
to restrain his superabundant glee, when another individual appeared on
the scene, and for a time, at least, relieved her.

The second comer was our dark friend, Kekupoopi.  She by some mischance
had got separated from her young mistress, and immediately went in
search of her.  She found her at once of course, for, as water finds its
level, so love finds its object without much loss of time.

"O Toozle; hee! hee! am dat you?" exclaimed Poopy, who was as much
delighted in her way to see the dog as Alice had been.

Toozle was, in _his_ way, as much delighted to see Poopy as he had been
to see Alice--no, we are wrong, not quite so much as that, but still
extremely glad to see her, and evinced his joy by extravagant sounds and
actions.  He also evinced his scorn for the opinion that some foolish
persons hold, namely, that black people are not as good as white, by
rushing into Poopy's arms and attempting to lick her black face as he
had tried to do to Alice.  As the dark-skinned girl had no objection,
(for tastes differ, you see,) and received the caresses with a quiet
"Hee! hee!"  Toozle was extremely gratified.

Now it happened that Jo Bumpus, oppressed with a feeling of concern for
his former captain, and with a feeling of doubt as to the stirring
events in which he was an actor being waking realities, had wandered up
the mountain-side in order to indulge in profound philosophical
reflections.

Happening to hear the noise caused by the joyful meeting which we have
just described, he turned aside to see what all the "row" could be
about, and thus came unexpectedly on Alice and her friends.

About the same time it chanced, (for things sometimes do happen by
chance in a very remarkable way,) it chanced that Will Corrie, being
also much depressed about Gascoyne, resolved to take into his confidence
Dick Price the boatswain, with whom during their short voyage together
he had become intimate.

He found that worthy seated on a cask at the end of the rude pile of
coral rocks that formed the quay of Sandy Cove, surrounded by some of
his shipmates, all of whom, as well as himself, were smoking their pipes
and discussing things in general.

Corrie went forward and pulled Dick by the sleeve.

"Hallo! boy, what d'ye want with me?" said the boatswain.

"I want to speak to you."

"Well, lad, fire away."

"Yes, but I want you to come with me," said the boy, with an anxious and
rather mysterious look.

"Very good!--heave ahead," said the boatswain, getting up, and following
Corrie with a peculiarly nautical roll.

After he had been led through the settlement and a considerable way up
the mountain in silence, the boatswain suddenly stopped, and
said--"Hallo! hold on; my timbers won't stand much more o' this sort o'
thing.  I was built for navigatin' the seas,--I was not for cruisin' on
the land.  We're far enough out of ear-shot, I s'pose, in this here bit
of a plantation.  Come, what have ye got to say to me?  You ain't
a-goin' to tell me the Freemasons' word, are ye?  For, if so, don't
trouble yourself, I wouldn't listen to it on no account w'atever.  It's
too mysterious that is for me."

"Dick Price," said Corrie, looking up in the face of the seaman, with a
serious expression that was not often seen on his round countenance,
"you're a man."

The boatswain looked down at the youthful visage in some surprise.

"Well, I s'pose I am," said he, stroking his beard complacently.

"And you know what it is to be misunderstood, misjudged, don't you?"

"Well, now I come to think on it, I believe I _have_ had that
misfortune--specially w'en I've ordered the powder-monkies to make less
noise, for them younkers never do seem to understand me.  As for
misjudgin', I've often an' over again heard 'em say I was the crossest
feller they ever did meet with, but they _never_ was more out in their
reckoning."

Corrie did not smile; he did not betray the smallest symptom of power
either to appreciate or to indulge in jocularity at that moment.  But
feeling that it was useless to appeal to the former experience of the
boatswain, he changed his plan of attack.

"Dick Price," said he, "it's a hard case for an innocent man to be
hanged."

"So it is, boy,--oncommon hard.  I once know'd a poor feller as was
hanged for murderin' his old grandmother.  It was afterwards found out
that he'd never done the deed; but he was the most incorrigible thief
and poacher in the whole place, so it warn't such a mistake after all."

"Dick Price," said Corrie, gravely, at the same time laying his hand
impressively on his companion's arm, "I'm a _tremendous_ joker--_awful_
fond o' fun and skylarkin'."

"'Pon my word, lad, if you hadn't said so yourself, I'd scarce have
believed it.  You don't look like it just now, by no manner o' means."

"But I am though," continued Corrie; "and I tell you that in order to
shew you that I am very, _very_ much in earnest at this moment; and that
you _must_ give your mind to what I've got to say."

The boatswain was impressed by the fervour of the boy.  He looked at him
in surprise for a few seconds, then nodded his head, and said, "Fire
away!"

"You know that Gascoyne is in prison!" said Corrie.

"In course I does.  That's one rascally pirate less on the seas,
anyhow."

"He's not so bad as you think, Dick."

"Whew!" whistled the boatswain.  "You're a friend of his, are ye?"

"No; not a friend, but neither am I an enemy.  You know he saved my
life, and the lives of two of my friends, and of your own captain, too."

"Well, there's no denying that; but he must have been the means of
takin' away more lives than what he has saved."

"No, he hasn't," cried Corrie, eagerly.  "That's it, that's just the
point; he has saved more than he ever took away, and he's sorry for what
he has done; yet they're going to hang him.  Now, I say, that's sinful--
it's not just.  It shan't be done if I can prevent it; and you must help
me to get him out of this scrape--you must indeed, Dick Price."

The boatswain was quite taken aback.  He opened his eyes wide with
surprise, and putting his head to one side, gazed earnestly and long at
the boy as if he had been a rare old painting.

Before he could reply, the furious barking of a dog attracted Corrie's
attention.  He knew it to be the voice of Toozle.  Being well acquainted
with the locality of Alice's tree, he at once concluded that she was
there, and knowing that she would certainly side with him, and that the
side she took _must_ necessarily be the winning side, he resolved to
bring Dick Price within the fascination of her influence.

"Come, follow me," said he; "we'll talk it over with a friend of mine."

The seaman followed the boy obediently, and in a few minutes stood
beside Alice.

Corrie had expected to find her there, but he had not counted on meeting
with Poopy and Jo Bumpus.

"Hallo!  Grampus, is that you?"

"Wot!  Corrie, my boy, is it yourself?  Give us your flipper, small
though it be.  I didn't think I'd niver see ye agin, lad."

"No more did I, Grampus; it was very nearly all up with us."

"Ah! my boy," said Bumpus, becoming suddenly very grave, "you've no
notion how near it was all up with _me_.  Why, you won't believe it--I
was all but scragged."

"Dear me! what is scragged?" inquired Alice.

"You don't mean for to say you don't know?" exclaimed Bumpus.

"No, indeed, I don't."

"Why, it means bein' hanged.  I was so near hanged, just a day or two
back, that I've had an 'orrible pain in my neck ever since at the bare
thought of it!  But who's your friend?" said Bumpus, turning to the
boatswain.

"Oh!  I forgot him--he's the boatswain of the _Talisman_.  Dick Price,
this is my friend, John Bumpus."

"Glad to know you, Dick Price."

"Same to you, and luck, John Bumpus."

The two sea-dogs joined their enormous palms, and shook hands cordially.

After these two had indulged in a little desultory conversation, Will
Corrie, who, meanwhile, consulted with Alice in an undertone, brought
them back to the point that was uppermost in his mind.

"Now," said he, "it comes to this,--we must not let Gascoyne be hanged."

"Why, Corrie," cried Bumpus, in surprise, "that's the very thing I was
a-thinkin' of w'en I comed up here and found Miss Alice under the tree."

"I am glad to hear that, Jo; it's what has been on my own mind all the
morning.  But Dick Price here is not convinced that he deserves to
escape.  Now; you tell him all _you_ know about Gascoyne, and I'll tell
him all _I_ know, and if he don't believe _us_, Alice and Poopy will
tell him all _they_ know, and if that won't do, you and I will take him
up by the legs and pitch him into the sea!"

"That bein' how the case stands--fire away," said Dick Price with a
grin, sitting down on the grass and busily filling his pipe.

Dick was not so hard to be convinced as Corrie had feared.  The glowing
eulogiums of Bumpus, and the earnest pleadings of Alice, won him over
very soon.  He finally agreed to become one of the conspirators.

"But how is the thing to be done?" asked Corrie in some perplexity.

"Ah! that's the pint," observed Dick, looking profoundly wise.

"Nothin' easier," said Bumpus, whose pipe was by this time keeping pace
with that of his new friend.  "The case is as clear as mud.  Here's how
it is.  Gascoyne is in limbo; well, we are out of limbo.  Good.  Then,
all we've got for to do is to break into limbo and shove Gascoyne out of
limbo, and help him to escape.  It's all square, you see, lads."

"Not so square as you seem to think," said Henry Stuart, who at that
moment stepped from behind the stem of the tree, which had prevented the
party from observing his approach.

"Why not?" said Bumpus, making room for the young man to sit beside
Alice, on the grass.

"Because," said Henry, "Gascoyne won't agree to escape."

"Not agree for to escape!"

"No.  If the prison door were opened at this moment, he would not walk
out."

Bumpus became very grave, and shook his head.  "Are ye sartin sure o'
this?" said he.

"Quite sure," replied Henry, who now detailed part of his recent
conversation with the pirate captain.

"Then it's all up with him!" said Bumpus; "and the pirate will meet his
doom, as I once hear'd a feller say in a play--though I little thought
to see it acted in reality."

"So he will," added Dick Price.

Corrie's countenance fell, and Alice grew pale.  Even Poopy and Toozle
looked a little depressed.

"No, it is _not_ all up with him," cried Henry Stuart, energetically.
"I have a plan in my head which I think will succeed, but I must have
assistance.  It won't do, however, to discuss this before our young
friends.  I must beg of Alice and Poopy to leave us.  I do not mean to
say I could not trust you, Alice, but the plan must be made known only
to those who have to act in this matter.  Rest assured, dear child, that
I shall do my best to make it successful."

Alice sprang up at once.  "My father told me to follow him some time
ago," said she.  "I have been too long of doing so already.  I _do_ hope
that you will succeed."

So saying, and with a cheerful "Good-bye!" the little girl ran down the
mountain-side, closely followed by Toozle and Poopy.

As soon as she was gone, Henry turned to his companions and unfolded to
them his plan--the details and carrying out of which, however, we must
reserve for another chapter.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

BUMPUS IS PERPLEXED--MYSTERIOUS COMMUNINGS AND A CURIOUS LEAVE-TAKING.

"It's a puzzler," said Jo Bumpus to himself--for Jo was much in the
habit of conversing with himself; and a very good habit it is, one that
is often attended with much profit to the individual, when the
conversation is held upon right topics and in a proper spirit--"it's a
puzzler, it is; that's a fact."

Having relieved his mind of this observation, the seaman proceeded to
cut down some tobacco, and looked remarkably grave and solemn as if "it"
were not only a puzzler but an alarmingly serious puzzler.

"Yes, it's the biggest puzzler as ever I comed across," said he, filling
his pipe--for John, when not roused, got on both mentally and physically
by slow stages.

"Niver know'd its equal," he continued, beginning to smoke, which
operation, as the pipe did not "draw" well at first, prevented him from
saying anything more.

It was early morning when Bumpus said all this, and the mariner was
enjoying his morning pipe in a reclining attitude on the grass beneath
Alice Mason's favourite tree, from which commanding position he gazed
approvingly on the magnificent prospect of land and sea which lay before
him, bathed in the light of the rising sun.

"It _is_ wery koorious," continued John, taking his pipe out of his
mouth and addressing himself to _it_ with much gravity--"_wery_
koorious.  Things _always_ seems wot they isn't, and turns out to be wot
they didn't appear as if they wasn't; werry odd indeed, it is!  Only to
think that this here sandal-wood trader should turn out for to be
Henry's father and the widow's mother--no, I mean the widow's husband,--
an' a pirate, an' a deliverer o' little boys and gals out o' pirates'
hands--his own hands, so to speak--not to mention captings in the Royal
Navy, an' not sich a bad feller after all, as won't have his liberty on
no account wotiver, even if it was gived to him for nothin', and yet wot
can't git it if he wanted it iver so much; and to think that Jo Bumpus
should come for to lend hisself to--Hallo!  Jo, back yer tops'ls!
Didn't Henry tell ye that ye wasn't to convarse upon that there last
matter even with yerself, for fear o' bein' overheard and sp'ilin' the
whole affair?  Come, I'll refresh myself."

The refreshment in which Jo proposed to indulge was of a peculiar kind
which never failed him--it was the perusal of Susan's love-letter.

He now sat up, drew forth the precious and much soiled epistle, unfolded
and spread it out carefully on his knees, placed his pipe very much on
one side of his mouth, in order that the smoke might not interfere with
his vision, and began to read.

"`_Peeler's Farm_,' ah!  Susan darlin', it's Jo Bumpus as would give all
he has in the world, includin' his Sunday clo'se, to be anchored
alongside o' ye at that same farm!  `_Sanfransko_.'  I misdoubt the
spellin' o' that word, Susan dear; it seems to me raither short, as if
ye'd docked off its tail.  Howsomever--`_For John bumpuss_'--O Susan,
Susan! if ye'd only remember the big B, and there ain't two esses.  I'm
sure it's not for want o' tellin' ye, but ye was never great in the way
ov memry or spellin'.  Pr'aps it's as well.  Ye'd ha' bin too perfect,
an' that's not desirable, by no means--`_my darlin' Jo_'--ay, _them's_
the words.  It's that as sets my 'art a b'ilin'-over like."

Here Jo raised his eyes from the letter and revelled silently in the
thought for at least two minutes, during which his pipe did double duty
in half its usual time.  Then he recurred to his theme, but some parts
he read in silence, and without audible comment.

"Ay," said he, "`_sandle-wood skooners, the Haf ov thems pirits_'--so
they is, Susan.  It's yer powers o' prophecy as amazes me--`_an' The
other hafs no beter_'--a deal wus, Susan, if ye only know'd it.  Ah! my
sweet gal, if ye knew wot a grief that word `_beter_' wos to me before I
diskivered wot it wos, ye'd try to improve yer hand o' write, an' make
fewer blots!"

At this point Jo was arrested by the sound of footsteps behind him.  He
folded up his letter precipitately, thrust it into his left
breast-pocket, and jumped up with a guilty air about him.

"Why, Bumpus, we have startled you out of a morning nap, I fear," said
Henry Stuart, who, accompanied by his mother, came up at that moment.
"We are on our way to say good-bye to Mr Mason.  As we passed this
knoll I caught sight of you and came up to ask about the boat."

"It's all right," said Bumpus, who quickly recovered his composure--
indeed he had never lost much of it.  "I've bin down to Saunder's store
and got the ropes for your--"

"Hush! man, there is no need of telling me what they are for," said
Henry, with a mysterious look at his mother.

"Why not tell me all, Henry?" said Mrs Stuart; "surely you can trust
me?"

"Trust you, mother?" replied the youth with a smile, "I should think so;
but there are reasons for my not telling you everything just now.
Surely you can trust _me_?  I have told you as much as I think advisable
in the meantime.  Ere long I will tell you all."

The widow sighed and was fain to rest content.  She sat down beside the
tree while her companions talked together apart in low tones.

"Now Jo, my man," continued Henry, "_one_ of our friends must be got out
of the way."

"Wery good; I'm the man as'll do it."

"Of course I don't mean that he's to be killed!"

"In coorse not.  Who is he?"

"Ole Thorwald."

"Wot! the descendant o' the Sea Kings, as he calls himself?"

"The same," said Henry, laughing at the look of surprise with which
Bumpus received this information.

"What has _he_ bin an' done?"

"He has done nothing as yet," said Henry; "but he will, certainly thwart
our schemes if he hears of them.  He has an inveterate ill-will to my
poor father;" (Henry lowered his voice as he proceeded,) "and I know has
suspicions that we are concocting some plan to enable him to escape, and
watches us accordingly.  I find him constantly hanging about the jail.
Alas! if he knew how thoroughly determined Gascoyne is to refuse
deliverance unless it comes from the proper source, he would keep his
mind more at ease."

"Don't you think if you wos to tell him that Gascoyne _is_ yer father he
would side with us?" suggested Bumpus.

"Perhaps he would.  I _think_ he would; but I dare not risk it.  The
easier method will be to outwit him."

"Not an easy thing for to do, I'm afraid, for he's a cute old feller.
How's it to be done?" asked Bumpus.

"By telling him the truth," said Henry; "and _you_ must tell it to him."

"Well, that _is_ a koorious way," said Bumpus with a broad grin.

"But not the whole truth," continued Henry.  "You must just tell him as
much as it is good for him to know, and nothing more; and as the thing
must be done at once, I'll tell you what you have got to say."

Here the young man explained to the attentive Bumpus the course that he
was to follow, and having got him thoroughly to understand his part, he
sent him away to execute it.

Meanwhile he and his mother went in search of Mr Mason, who at the time
was holding a consultation with the chiefs of the native village, near
the site of his burnt cottage.  The consultation had just been concluded
when they reached the spot, and the missionary was conversing with the
native carpenter who superintended the erection of his new home.

After the morning greeting, and a few words of general conversation,
Mrs Stuart said--

"We have come to have a talk with you in private; will you walk to
Alice's tree with us?"

"Certainly, my friend; I hope no new evils are about to befall us," said
the missionary, who was startled by the serious countenances of the
mother and son, for he was ignorant of the close relation in which they
stood to Gascoyne, as, indeed, was every one else in the settlement,
excepting Montague and his boatswain, and Corrie, all of whom were
enjoined to maintain the strictest secrecy on the point.

"No, I thank God, all is well," replied Mrs Stuart; "but we have come
to say that we are going away."

"Going away!" echoed the missionary in surprise.  "When?--where to?--
why?  You amaze me, Mary."

"Henry will explain."

"The fact is, Mr Mason," said Henry, "circumstances require my absence
from Sandy Cove on a longer trip than usual, and I mean to take my
mother with me.  Indeed, to be plain with you, I do not think it likely
that we shall return for a long time--perhaps not at all, and it is
absolutely necessary that we should go secretly.  But we could not go
without saying good-bye to you."

"We owe much to you, dear Mr Mason," cried the widow, grasping the
missionary's hand and kissing it.  "We can never, never forget you; and
will always pray for God's best blessings to descend on you and yours."

"This is overwhelming news!" exclaimed Mr Mason, who had stood hitherto
gazing from the one to the other in mute astonishment.  "But tell me,
Mary," (here he spoke in earnest tones,) "is not Gascoyne at the bottom
of this?"

"Mr Mason," said Henry, "we never did, and never will deceive you.
There is a good reason for neither asking nor answering questions on
this subject _just now_.  I am sure you know us too well to believe that
we think of doing what is wrong, and you can trust us--at least my
mother--that we will not do what is foolish."

"I have perfect confidence in your hearts, my dear friends," replied Mr
Mason; "but you will forgive me if I express some doubt as to your
ability to judge between right and wrong when your feelings are deeply
moved, as they evidently are from some cause or other, just now.  Can
you not put confidence in me?  I can keep a secret, and may perhaps give
good counsel."

"No, no," said Henry, emphatically; "it will not do to involve you in
our affairs.  It would not be right in us _just now_ to confide even in
you.  I cannot explain why--you must accept the simple assurance in the
meantime.  Wherever we go, we can communicate by letter, and I promise,
ere long, to reveal all."

"Well, I will not press you farther, but I will commend you in prayer to
God.  I do not like to part thus hurriedly, however.  Can we not meet
again before you go?"

"We shall be in the cottage at four this afternoon, and will be very
glad if you will come to us for a short time," said the widow.

"That is settled, then; I will go and explain to the natives that I
cannot accompany them to the village till to-morrow.  When do you
leave?"

"To-night."

"So soon!  Surely it is not.  But I forbear to say more on a subject
which is forbidden.  God bless you, my friends; we shall meet at four.
Good-bye!"

The missionary turned from them with a sad countenance, and went in
search of the native chiefs; while Henry and his mother separated from
each other, the former taking the path that led to the little quay of
Sandy Cove, the latter that which conducted to her own cottage.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

MORE LEAVE-TAKING--DEEP DESIGNS--BUMPUS IN A NEW CAPACITY.

On the particular day of which we are writing, Alice Mason felt an
unusual depression of spirits.  She had been told by her father of the
intended departure of the widow and her son, and had been warned not to
mention it to any one.  In consequence of this, the poor child was
debarred her usual consolation of pouring her grief into the black bosom
of Poopy.  It naturally followed, therefore, that she sought her next
favourite--the tree.

Here, to her surprise and comfort, she found Corrie seated on one of its
roots, with his head resting on the stem, and his hands clasped before
him.  His general appearance was that of a human being in the depths of
woe.  On observing Alice, he started up, and assuming a cheerful look,
ran to meet her.

"Oh!  I'm so glad to find you here, Corrie," cried Alice, hastening
forward, "I'm in such distress!  Do you know that--Oh!--I forgot; papa
said I was to tell nobody about it!"

"Don't let that trouble you, Alice," said Corrie, as they sat down
together under the tree.  "I know what you were about to say--Henry and
his mother are going away."

"How do you know that?  I thought it was a great secret!"

"So it is, a _tremendous_ secret," rejoined Corrie, with a look that was
intended to be very mysterious; "and I know it, because I've been let
into the secret for reasons which I cannot tell even to you.  But there
is another secret which you don't know yet, and which will surprise you
perhaps.  _I_ am going away, too!"

"You," exclaimed the little girl, her eyes dilating to their full size.

"Ay, me!"

"You're jesting, Corrie."

"Am I?  I wish I was; but it's a fact."

"But where are you going to?" said Alice, her eyes filling with tears.

"I don't know."

"Corrie!"

"I tell you, I don't know; and if I did know, I couldn't tell.  Listen,
Alice, I will tell you as much as I am permitted to let out."

The boy became extremely solemn at this point, took the little girl's
hand, and gazed into her face as he spoke.

"You must know," he began, "that Henry and his mother and I go away
to-night--"

"To-night?" cried Alice, quickly.

"To-night," repeated the boy.  "Bumpus and Jakolu go with us.  I have
said that I don't know where we are going to, but I am pretty safe in
assuring you that we are going somewhere.  Why we are going, I am
forbidden to tell--divulge, I think Henry called it, but what that means
I don't know.  I can only guess it's another word for tell, and yet it
can't be that either, for you can speak of _telling_ lies, but you can't
speak of _divulging_ them.  However, that don't matter.  But I'm not
forbidden to tell you why _I_ am going away.  In the first place, then,
I'm going to seek my fortune!  Where I'm to find it remains to be seen.
The only thing I know is, that I mean to find it somewhere or other, and
then," (here Corrie became very impressive,) "come back and live beside
you and your father, not to speak of Poopy and Toozle."

Alice smiled sadly at this.  Corrie looked graver than ever, and went
on--

"Meanwhile, during my absence, I will write letters to you, and you'll
write ditto to me.  I am going away because I ought to go and be doing
something for myself.  You know quite well that I would rather stop
beside you than go anywhere in this wide world, Alice; but that would be
stupid.  I'm getting to be a man now, and mustn't go on shewin' the
weaknesses of a boy.  In the second, or third, place--I forget which,
but no matter--I am going with Henry because I could not go with a
better man; and in the fourth--if it's not the fifth--place, I'm going
because Uncle Ole Thorwald has long wished me to go to sea, and, to tell
you the truth, I would have gone long ago had it not been for you,
Alice.  There's only one thing that bothers me."  Here Corrie looked at
his fair companion with a perplexed air.

"What is that?" asked Alice, sympathetically.

"It is that I must go without saying good-bye to Uncle Ole.  I'm _very_
sorry about it.  It will look so ungrateful to him; but it _can't_ be
helped."

"Why not?" inquired Alice.  "If he has often said he wished you to go to
sea, would he not be delighted to hear that you are going?"

"Yes; but he must not know that I am going to-night, and with Henry
Stuart."

"Why not?"

"Ah! that's the point.  Mystery!  Alice--mystery!  What a world of
mystery this is!" observed the precocious Corrie, shaking his head with
profound solemnity.  "I've been involved, (I think that's the word,)
rolled up, drowned, and buried in mystery for more than three weeks, and
I'm beginning to fear that I'll never again git into the unmysteriously
happy state in which I lived before this abominable man-of-war came to
the island.  No Alice, I dare not say anything more on that point even
to you _just now_.  But _won't_ I give it you all in my first letter?
and _won't_ you open your eyes just until they look like two blue
saucers?"

Further conversation between the friends was interrupted at this point
by the inrushing of Toozle, followed up by Poopy, and, a short time
after, by Mr Mason, who took Alice away with him, and left poor Corrie
disconsolate.

While this was going on, John Bumpus was fulfilling his mission to Ole
Thorwald.

He found that obstinate individual in his own parlour, deep in the
investigation of the state of his books of business, which had been
allowed to fall into arrear during his absence.

"Come in, Bumpus.  So I hear you were half-hanged when we were away."

Ole wheeled round on his stool and hooked his thumbs into the arm-holes
of his vest as he said this, leaned his back against his desk, and
regarded the seaman with a facetious look.

"Half-hanged, indeed," said Bumpus, indignantly.  "I was more than
half--three-quarters at least.  Why, the worst of it's over w'en the
rope's round your neck."

"That is a matter which you can't speak to, John Bumpus, seeing that
you've never gone beyond the putting of the rope round your neck."

"Well, I'm content with wot I does happen to know about it," remarked
Jo, making a wry face; "an' I hope that I'll never git the chance of
knowin' more.  But I comed here on business, Mr Thorwald," (here John
became mysterious and put his finger to his lips.) "I've comed here, Mr
Thorwald, to--_split_."

As Ole did not quite understand the meaning of this word, and did not
believe that the seaman actually meant to rend himself from head to
foot, he said--"Why, Bumpus, what d'ye mean?"

"I mean as how that I've comed to split on my comrades--w'ich means, I'm
goin' to tell upon 'em."

"Oh!" exclaimed Ole, eyeing the man with a look of distrust.

"Yes," pursued Bumpus, "I'm willin' to tell ye all about it, and prevent
his escape, if you'll only promise, on yer word as a gin'lmun, that ye
won't tell nobody else, but six niggers, who are more than enough to
sarve your turn."

"Prevent whose escape?" said Thorwald with an excited look.

"Gascoyne's."

Ole jumped off his stool and hit his left palm a sounding blow with his
right fist.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed, staring into the face of the seaman.  "I was
sure of it!  I said it!  But how d'ye know, my man?"

"Ah!  I'll not say another word if ye don't promise to let me go free,
and only take six niggers with ye."

"Well, Bumpus, I do promise, on the word of a true Norseman, which is
much better than that of a gentleman, that no harm shall come to you if
you tell me all you know of this matter.  But I will promise nothing
more; because if you won't tell me, you have told me enough to enable me
to take such measures as will prevent Gascoyne from escaping."

"No, ye can't prevent it," said Bumpus, with an air of indifference.
"If ye don't choose to come to my way o' thinkin', ye can take yer own
coorse.  But, let me tell you, there's more people on the island that
will take Gascoyne's part than ye think of.  There's the whole crew of
the _Talisman_, whose cap'n he saved, and a lot besides; an' if ye do
come to a fight about it, ye'll have a pretty tough scrimmage.  Ther'll
be blood spilt, Mr Thorwald, an' it was partly to prevent that as I
comed here for.  But you know best.  You better take yer own way, an
I'll take mine."

The cool impudence, of manner with which John Bumpus said this had its
effect on Ole, who, although fond enough of fighting against enemies,
had no sort of desire to fight against friends, especially for the sake
of a pirate.

"Come, Bumpus," said he, "you and I understand each other.  Let us talk
the thing over calmly.  I've quite as much objection to see unnecessary
bloodshed as you have.  We have had enough of that lately.  Tell me what
you know, and I promise to do what you recommend as far as I can in
reason."

"Do you promise to let no one else know wot I tell ye?"

"I do."

"An' d'ye promise to take no more than six niggers to prewent this
escape?"

"Will six be enough?"

"Plenty; but, if that bothers ye, say twelve; I'm not partic'lar--say
twelve.  That's more than enough, for they'll only have four to fight
with."

"Well, I promise that too."

"Good.  Now I'll tell ye all about it," said Bumpus.  "You see, although
I'm splittin', I don't want to get my friends into trouble, and so I got
you to promise; an' I trust to yer word, Mr Thorwald--you bein' a
gen'lmun.  This is how it is.  Young Henry Stuart thinks that although
Gascoyne is a pirate, or, rather, _was_ a pirate, he don't deserve to be
hanged.  'Cause why?  Firstly, he never committed no murder; secondly,
he saved the lives o' some of your people--Alice Mason among the rest;
and, thirdly, he's an old friend o' the family as has done 'em good
sarvice long ago.  So Henry's made up his mind that, as Gascoyne's sure
to be hanged if he's tried, it's his duty to prewent that there from
happenin' of.  Now, ye see, Gascoyne is quite willin' to escape--"

"Hah! the villain!" exclaimed Ole; "I was sure of that.  I knew well
enough that all his smooth-tongued humility was hypocrisy.  I'm sorry
for Henry, and don't wish to thwart him; but it's clearly my duty to
prevent this escape if I can."

"So I think, sir," said Bumpus; "so I think.  That's just w'at I said to
myself w'en I made up my mind for to split.  Gascoyne bein' willin'
then, Henry has bribed the jailer, and he intends to open the jail door
for him at twelve o'clock this night, and he'll know w'at to do with his
legs w'en he's got 'em free."

"But how am I to prevent his escape if I do not set a strong guard over
the prison?" exclaimed Ole, in an excited manner.  "If he once gets into
the mountains I might as well try to catch a hare."

"All fair and softly, Mr Thorwald.  Don't take on so.  It ain't two
o'clock yet; we've lots o' time.  Henry has arranged to get a boat ready
for him.  At twelve o'clock to-night the doors will be opened and he'll
start for the boat.  It will lie concealed among the rocks off the Long
Point.  There's no mistakin' the spot, just west of the village; an' if
you place your niggers there you'll have as good a chance as need be to
nab 'em.  Indeed, there's _two_ boats to be in waitin' for the pirate
captain and his friends--set 'em up!"

"And where is the second boat to be hidden?" asked Ole.

"I'm not sure of the exact spot, but it can't be very far off from the
tother, cer'nly not a hundred miles," said Bumpus with a grin.  "Now,
wot I want is, that if ye get hold of the pirate ye'll be content, an'
not go an' peach on Henry an' his comrades.  They'll be so ashamed o'
themselves at bein' nabbed in the wery act that they'll give it up as a
bad job.  Besides, ye can then go an' give him in charge of Capting
Montague.  But if ye try to _prewent_ the escape bein' attempted, Henry
will take the bloody way of it--for I tell _you_ his birse is up, an' no
mistake."

"How many men are to be with Gascoyne?" asked Thorwald, who, had he not
been naturally a stupid man, must have easily seen through this clumsy
attempt to blind him.

"Just four," answered Bumpus; "an' I'm to be one of 'em."

"Well, Bumpus, I'll take your advice.  I shall be at the Long Point
before twelve, with a dozen niggers, and I'll count on you lending us a
hand."

"No, ye mustn't count on that, Mr Thorwald.  Surely it's enough if I
run away and leave the others to fight."

"Very well, do as you please," said Thorwald, with a look of contempt.

"Good day, Mr Thorwald.  You'll be sure to be there?"

"Trust me."

"An' you'll not say a word about it to nobody?"

"Not a syllable."

"That's all square.  You'll see the boat w'en ye git there, and as long
as ye see that boat yer all right.  Good day, sir."

John Bumpus left Thorwald's house chuckling, and wended his way to the
widow's cottage, whistling the "Groves of Blarney."

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE AMBUSH--THE ESCAPE--RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE--AND CONCLUSION.

An hour before the appointed time Ole Thorwald, under cover of a dark
night, stole out of his own dwelling with slow and wary step, and
crossed the little plot of ground that lay in front of it with the sly
and mysterious air of a burglar, rather than that of an honest man.

Outside his gate he was met in the same cautious manner by a
dark-skinned human being, the character of whose garments was something
between those of a sailor and a West India planter.  This was Sambo,
Thorwald's major-domo, clerk, overseer, and right-hand man.  Sambo was
not his proper name, but his master, regarding him as being the
embodiment of all the excellent qualities that could by any possibility
exist in the person of a South Sea islander, had bestowed upon him the
generic name of the dark race, in addition to that wherewith Mr Mason
had gifted him on the day of his baptism.

Sambo and his master exchanged a few words in low whispers, and then
gliding down the path that led from the stout merchant's house to the
south side of the village, they entered the woods that lined the shore,
like two men bent on a purpose which might or might not be of the
blackest possible kind.

"I don't half like this sort of work, Sambo," observed Thorwald,
speaking and treading with less caution as they left the settlement
behind them.

"Ambushments, and surprises, and night forages, especially when they
include Goats' Passes, don't suit me at all.  I have a strong antipathy
to everything in the way of warfare, save a fair field and no favour
under the satisfactory light of the sun."

"Ho!" said Sambo quietly, as much as to say--I hear and appreciate, but
having no observation to make in reply, I wait for more from your
honoured lips.

"Now, you see," pursued Thorwald, "if I were to follow my own tastes--
which it seems to me I am destined not to be allowed to do any more in
the affairs of this world, if I may judge by the events of the past
month--if I were to follow my own tastes, I say I would go boldly to the
prison where this pestiferous pirate captain lies, put double irons on
him, and place a strong guard round the building.  In this case I would
be ready to defend it against any odds, and would have the satisfaction
of standing up for the rights of the settlement like a man, and of
hurling defiance at the entire British navy (at least such portion of it
as happens to be on the island at this time) if they were to attempt a
rescue--as this Bumpus hints they are likely to do.  Yet it seems to me
strange and unaccountable that they should thus interest themselves in a
vile pirate.  I verily believe that I have been deceived, but it is too
late now to alter my plans or to hesitate.  Truly, it seemeth to me that
I might style myself an ass without impropriety."

"Ho!" remarked Sambo, and the grin with which the remark was accompanied
seemed to imply that he not only appreciated his master's sentiment, but
agreed with it entirely.

"You've got eleven men, I trust, Sambo?"

"Yes, mass'r."

"All good and true, I hope? men who can be trusted both in regard to
their fighting qualities, and their ability to hold their tongues?"

"Dumb as owls, ebery von," returned Sambo.

"Good!  You see, my man, I _must_ not permit that fellow to escape; at
the same time I do not wish to blazon abroad that it is my friend Henry
Stuart who is helping him.  Neither do I wish to run the risk of killing
my friends in a scrimmage, if they are so foolish as to resist me;
therefore I am particular about the men you have told off for this duty.
Where did you say they are to meet us?"

"Close by de point, mass'r."

A few minutes' walk brought them to the point where the men were
awaiting them.  As far as Ole could judge, by the dim light of a few
stars that struggled through the cloudy sky, they were eleven as stout
fellows as any warrior could desire to have at his back in a hand to
hand conflict.  They were all natives, clothed much in the same manner
as Sambo, and armed with heavy clubs, for, as we have seen, Thorwald was
resolved that this should be a bloodless victory.