University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Never had Emily experienced such loneliness,
such utter desolation, as she did after the disappearance
of Hetty, as recorded in a previous
chapter. On her she fancied now hung her destiny,
life or death. Would she succeed? The
very thought of a failure made her shudder with
horror. She had felt lonely and desolate while
Hetty was with her, but now she felt doubly so.
Then at least she was in the presence of a human
being—one of her own sex—but now she was
alone,—alone, too, in a wild, mountainous region;
not only far from friends, but, for aught she
knew to the contrary, far from civilization, with
a dark and awful cloud resting upon her mental
sight, and weighing down her spirits. She threw
herself upon her pallet and tried to be composed;
but she only rolled to and fro with the more feverish
anxiety. She tried to hope for the best, and
in her imagination draw bright pictures of the
future; but dark, shadowy forms, like evil phantoms,
would come between, and the sunny spots
go out in gloom. Thus hour on hour went by—
each increasing, rather than diminishing, her soul-torturing
anxiety—while night crept gradually
on, to add its horrors, until Emily felt herself
drawn to the very verge of despair. At last, some
two hours later, she heard steps approaching; and
then she could almost hear too the beatings of
her own heart, so wildly it palpitated. Were
they steps of friend or foe? A few moments
served to decide; for the voice of him she feared-too
soon heard—was of itself sufficient to announce
the worst. John Webber had entered.

“How is this, Hetty?” said he, pausing in the
doorway: “No light!—what means it?”

“Hetty is not here,” replied Emily, in a faltering
voice; “but I am anxiously looking for her
return.”

“Ha! has she been long gone?” enquired John,
as a suspicion of the cause of her absence flitted
through his mind.

“She has been gone some minutes,” answered
Emily, without adding the whole truth, that those
minutes had already run into hours; but she
knew, for Hetty's safety and her own, it was necessary
to dissemble somewhat—though she
would not have been guilty of a direct falsehood,
even to have prevented the worst.

“I will teach her better when she returns,”
said John, angrily, proceeding to the table and
striking a light. “'Tis as well though, perhaps,”
he added, a few moments after, “for our conversation
will not require the ears of a third. You
remember, I presume, the conditions imposed,
when last I quitted you?”

“Too well I remember them,” answered Emily,
in a trembling voice.

“Well, I have come for my answer!”

“But give me more time, John, to deliberate!”

“Time! good heavens! how much time do
you women require to answer a simple question?”

“But I have been so distracted since you left,
that my mind could settle steadily upon nothing.”

“Settle it now, then! You have only to decide
whether you will be mine by your own free
will or no. Mine I have said you must be!—but
of course I prefer your free consent. Upon this
point, Emily, I am determined; and to show you
something of the strength of my determination,
I now swear to you, that I would sacrifice every
living thing that should stand in my way—ay,
even my soul's salvation—rather than be foiled in
my purpose. Emily, I am a desperate man, and
I beg of you, for your own sake, force me not to
extremes!”

“I cannot answer you now, John,” said Emily,
anxious to prolong the time as much as possible,
in the hope of receiving assistance: “Give
me till to-morrow.”

“And to-morrow you will say, give me till to-morrow,”
returned John, “and so forth, and so
on, until you by some means effect your escape.
No, by heavens, girl, this shall not be!—your answer
must be now!” and John grasped her by the
arm, and gazed upon her with a wicked look.

“Let go your hold, sir!” cried Emily, her indignation
fully aroused at this; and springing from
a sitting posture to her feet, she threw off his
grasp. “Shame on you!” continued she, with a
flashing eye; “shame on you, for a villain and
coward! Brave deeds these, truly, for a man of
your strength, to attack an unprotected female!
Go, get you hence, and repent of your acts! Go,
go, for shame on you, go!”

“When you have done,” hissed John, through
his clenched teeth, his face livid with passion,
“when you have done, girl, let me know your
decision!”

“You will have it, then!” replied Emily, firmly,
fixing her eye unquailingly upon his. “Then
hear me! Ere I would wed you, I would suffer
my limbs to be torn from me one by one! Rather
than embrace you, I would go into some old charnel
house, and clasp to my bosom the loathsome
tenant of a half century! Sooner than endure
your hateful presence, I would seek the wildest
spot on these mountains, and make my bed with
serpents! You are answered.”

Astonishment and rage for a time kept John
silent; and after a moment's pause, Emily went
on.

“I have entreated you in vain to restore me to
my friends and home. You have mocked me by

your replies of cowardly threats. You have
sought to intimidate me; but know, sir, I have a
spirit, when roused, as unbending as your own!
Now hear me! Let me go in peace, and the past
shall be forgotten, and with this adventure your
name shall never be coupled. Place but your
hand upon me, with foul intent, and if I escape,
I will expose, and bring you to that justice
you deserve for your crimes!”

“Brave girl!” cried John, bursting into a wild,
fiendish laugh, that in spite of her, made Emily's
blood run cold, and her heart seem to shrink within
her. “You talk well, girl, well; but do you
know”—and again that awful smile lingered
upon his features—“do you know, my pretty
one, that I think you will never escape to put
your threat in execution. You think, then,
that my threats were made to intimidate you?
Ha, ha, ha! I said you did not know me!
Let me see: You said ere you would wed me,
you would be torn limb from limb. Ha, ha,
ha!—that was well said—very well. Again:
Rather than embrace me, you would clasp to
your innocent bosom some mouldy tenant of a
charnel house—ha, ha, ha! Once more: Sooner
than endure my hateful presence, you would
make a bed among serpents. So, so—ha, ha!—
all very good in theory; but I presume you were
somewhat excited when you spoke, and did not
think of putting them in practice. And then
your spirit, when roused, is as unbending as my
own. Ha, ha, ha! Well, well, we shall see. If
it prove so, girl, there will be rare sport—rare
sport. But why do you tremble so? Why do
you look so pale? Is this the unbending spirit of
the one who boasts so boldly about dying? I
trust you will not falter now. I would not have
you for the world. Why this is not even a commeneement.
Now, girl, you must know that I
care as little about life as yourself. Why should
I seek to prolong existence?—it will be death at
last; and it is, besides, sweet to die to get revenge;
and it will be doubly sweet to die in your sweet
company, girl!”

“Great God!” gasped Emily, sinking with
fright upon a bench, as, having listened to the
words of John, she marked the awful light in his
dark, snake-like eyes. “What fearful utterances
are these?”

“I was simply talking about dying,” answered
John; “and thinking how pleasantly we could die
together. I regret, on your account, there is no
charnel house near, so that you could have the
pleasure of hugging a corpse; but as to the snakes,
I think you can be well accommodated in these
mountains!”

“For God-sake speak the worst! what do you
mean?” shrieked Emily, who felt the expressions
of John were dethroning her reason.

“Why simply this,” replied John. “You have
decided to put me to extremes. Extremes with
me go far—farther, perhaps, than with many
others—for they are bounded only by death. I
had you stolen and brought hither, it is true; but
no violence was offered you. All I required of
you, to regain your liberty, was merely a pledge,
to the effect that you would be mine at the altar.
This I am sure was honorable, though you saw
proper to think otherwise. Well, I waited patiently
for your answer, and at length received it
in the negative. In that answer you decided the
fates of both. It now remains for me to fulfil
my oath; which was, you remember, that you
should be mine; whereby I implicitly meant you
should be mine unto death. Were I to dishonor
and leave you here, you would escape and inform
on me. Were I to murder you, doubtless it
would leak out, and I should, sooner or later,
have to suffer the consequence. Therefore, be it
known to you, my dear girl, that as I have resolved
upon what the world would term your dishonor
and death, I have concluded also to die
with you; and as you think a nest of serpents
an agreeable place of rest, compared to my hateful
presence, why I have concluded to find one,
and rest there with you, until death shall rid us
of each other, or bind us more strongly together
in another state.”

Emily gasped for breath, and placed her hands
before her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid sight
imagination had already conjured up.

“To show you I am in earnest,” continued
John, “my first act shall be one of justice to a
certain rich English gentleman, now probably
living in splendor in England. These papers,
dearest”—and John drew forth the roll he had received
from the Jew—“these papers speak of you
expressly, tell who you are, who were your parents,
and how you came to be stolen away from
England and brought to this country. They are
very interesting documents to peruse, I assure
you, and are signed by the gentleman who had
the honor of conducting you over here, and leaving
you at my father's, some fifteen years ago.
They speak well of you, and seem to insinuate
your birth is noble. Had you consented to marry
me, I should have taken great pleasure in reading
them to you; but as matters now stand, I do not
like to waste the time; besides, as you and I are not
long for this world, it were better not to set our
minds too much upon worldly things; therefore
you will excuse me for putting such temptations
out of the way;” and as he concluded, John deliberately
tore the papers into a thousand pieces,
and cast the fragments upon the ground.

“Oh God! John, wherefore this torture?”
groaned Emily, in an agony of mind almost insupportable.
“Why not murder me at once—
for death to this is a thousand times preferable!”

“Do you think so? Well, come then and let
us seek it!” and approaching, John grasped her
by the arm. “Let us forth, girl, ere Hetty's return,
into these wild woods; and if we are not
devoured by wild beasts ere morning, we will in
company, on the morrow, seek out a reptile nest,
and there die quietly together. Come, girl,
come!” and quick as thought John raised her in
his arms. Emily uttered one wild, thrilling
scream, and fainted away. “Screams, girl, will
avail you nothing here,” said John, with another
fiendish laugh. As he spoke, he started, and Emily
slid from his embrace to the ground, in a state
of insensibility. A deep voice sounded in his
ear:

“Ho! villain and traitor!” and the next moment
a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, sent
him reeling to the farther side of the apartment.
“So, sir, then you are caught in the act!”

John looked up in astonishment and rage, and
saw before him the powerful and commanding
form of Ronald Bonardi. By his side stood the
lieutenant, and between himself and the door,
five more of the band, all powerful men, all well
armed, with pistols and hunting knives in their
hands. John ran his dark eye rapidly over the
group, and for a moment seemed to waver—but
his resolution was quickly taken. His first impulse
was to shoot down Bonardi, and trust the

rest to chance. A second thought altered his
purpose. Resistance now would be followed by
instant death—duplicity might save him; and although
but a few minutes before he had seemed so
willing to die, yet now he felt differently; and had
it been necessary, would even have stooped to beg
his life, were it only to get revenge. As we have
said, John's resolution was quickly taken; and
that resolution was to effect by duplicity what
he could not by resistance. In a moment all
traces of anger had passed from his features, and
in a calm voice he said:

“Captain, you have surprised me; and to you,
and these gentlemen, I yield myself a prisoner.—
Circumstances, I will admit, are against me; but
all I ask is a fair trial, and no violence. You have
disturbed me in an affair of love; and who of you,
gentlemen, has not at sometime had one of his
own. I know our laws, captain, and am willing
to abide by them. Let this lady bear witness, and
I am content. I crave only justice.”

“And that, John Webber, you shall have,” replied
Ronald, sternly. “Justice you shall have—
be it liberty or death. On the evidence of this
lady, and another, shall rest your fate. Have you
any thing further?”

“Only, most noble captain, that I may be treated
as an honorable prisoner.”

“Be it so. Piketon, you will conduct him,
guarded by these men, to the cave, and there
await me. Unless he offer resistance, touch him
not. Should he do so, shoot him on the spot!”

“Beware on him, beware on him!” cried Hetty,
rushing in, who thus far had deemed it the most
prudent to remain without.

“Silence, woman!” exclaimed Bonardi, sternly:
“But one commands here! Piketon, conduct him
hence!”

“Ha! treachery, treachery!” ejaculated John,
mentally. “Fool,—fool that I was to trust in
woman!” and surrounded by Piketon, and his
five followers, he disappeared through the doorway.

“Poor girl! she has fainted,” said Ronald, turning
to Emily, who still lay upon the ground; and
carefully raising her in his arms, he laid her gently
upon the rude bed. “Hetty, bring the light
hither, and some water, quick!” Hetty instantly
obeyed, and as the light gleamed full upon her
fair, pale, marble-like features, Ronald started,
and his brow became clouded. “Ha!” exclaimed
he; “that face—so like! I must think my suspicions
correct. Hetty, sprinkle the water on her
face. There, there, that is sufficient. See! she
revives. How is she called, Hetty?”

“She's called Emily Nevance,” answered Hetty;
“but I hearn John Webber say as how that warn't
her name, and that she were a great lady.”

“By heavens! 'tis so. How strange—how
strange, that we should meet thus, for the first
time! Look to her—look to her!” and Ronald
turned away, and walked to and fro the apartment
in much agitation.

In the meantime Emily revived, opened her
eyes with a shudder, and fastened them upon
Hetty, who was bending over her with a compassionate
look. For a moment Emily seemed
bewildered; and then, with a scream of joy, she
sprang up and clasped Hetty around the neck,
crying, “God bless you, Hetty! God bless you!
You have saved me, good woman, you have
saved me from a fate a thousand times worse than
death!” and overcome by her feelings, she sunk
back completely exhausted.

“'Taint me that's done it, gal; it's him!” and
Hetty pointed to Ronald, who was still pacing to
and fro.

“But how, Hetty?” enquired Emily, as soon as
she could recover strength to speak. “I remember
nothing. Where is John Webber?”

“O, they've took him away—they've got him
—”

At this moment came the sharp report of
two pistols, followed instantly by two distinct
cries of distress, and then, in quick succession,
several other sharp reports, and louder cries of a
different nature. Emily sprang up and grasped
Hetty in terror, while Ronald bounded to the
door, and rushed forth down the hill.

“What ho!” he shouted. “Piketon, what ho!”
A couple of minutes and he was joined by his
lieutenant, who came running to him out of
breath.

“What means this, Piketon?—has he dared to resist?”

“He has escaped, captain!”

“Escaped!” echoed Bonardi, in astonishment,
grasping the other by the arm.

“Ay, captain; he shot down the two guards
nearest him and fled. We fired several shots after
him, but unluckily all missed.”

“What ho! men,” shouted Ronald, at the top
of his lungs; “fifty guineas to him who takes John
Webber. ere morning, dead or alive!”

“The offer is in vain, captain,” said the lieutenant.

“How, vain?”

“We are all on foot. His horse it seems was
in waiting below, which he reached in advance of
us, and mounted ere we came up. Ere we can
get to our horses, he will have full twenty miles
between us.”

“Oh, the treacherous villain!” ejaculated Bonardi,
with a terrible oath. “He will betray, and
have the country roused up against us! But by
my mother's soul, he shall not escape punishment
—even should it cost me my own life! Piketon,
he should have been disarmed!”

“True, captain.”

“It was a foolish oversight in me. Well, well,
experience is a good teacher. The smooth-tongued
hypocrite! I did not think he would
venture to resist—least of all, escape. Well, well,
it is useless whining now. Call in your men,
Piketon, and look to your wounded comrades.—
When done, report matters, and I will give you
farther orders. So, so—dark deeds thicken;”
and with his hand pressed upon his temples, Ronald
slowly retraced his steps up the hill, while
Piketon sounded the recall, by applying a piece
of ivory to his lips, that gave out a shrill whistle;
and being shortly joined by three of his party,
proceeded to look after the two who were wounded.
In the meantime Ronald had returned and
entered the apartment where were Emily and Hetty,
both pale and much frightened.

“Be not alarmed,” said he, in a mild tone; “no
harm shall come to you.”

“What has happened, kind sir?” enquired Emily,
anxiously.

“John Webber has escaped, after shooting two
of my men,” answered Ronald, biting his nether
lip.

“I knowed it, I knowed it!” cried Hetty.—
“He's the greatest villain as ever run! I told you
beware on him!”

“And I should have heeded your warning,” returned
Ronald; “but it is useless to repent it now.”

“You have much to fear from him,” said Emily,
respeetfully.

“So I doubt not; and you, Emily—for such I
am told is your name—have had much to fear,”
rejoined Ronald, approaching her.

“Kind sir,” returned Emily, casting upon him
a grateful look, and shuddering at the thought of
her late narrow escape, “to you, and this good
woman, I owe my life—ay, more than life—and
I lack for words to express to you both the deep
thanks I feel;” and her eyes filled with tears.

“Your look, Emily, is thanks sufficient,” replied
Ronald, affected by her earnest manner. “In
my heart I already feel more than repaid for what
little I have done; and besides, there is another
chord touched, Emily, that you dream not of. I
regret that it is impossible for me to restore you
to your anxious friends, immediately—and to one,
the dearest friend of all—but I will do so as soon
as practicable. In the meantime I beg of you to
put yourself under my guidance, and accept of
my hospitality. My wife will be delighted to
serve you.”

“You are then, married?” said Emily.

“I am,” replied Ronald, sadly, “to a lovely being,
far too good and gentle for one like me, and
of my calling. But let that pass; you shall see
her and judge for yourself. I presume Hetty has
already informed you who I am. Doubtless my
name is familiar to your ear, coupled with every
thing that is wicked and base?”

“I have heard somewhat of you that should
have been otherwise,” answered Emily; “though
I have also heard of many acts of your generosity,
which go to prove you possess, notwithstanding,
a kind heart.”

“Thank you!” returned Ronald, deeply affected.
“I am a man of circumstances, Emily, and
circumstances have made me what I am. You
little dream how closely you are connected with
those circumstances.”

“Me!” exclaimed Emily, in astonishment.

“Ay! but let it pass now. Anon I will explain
all. As in coming here, and by what will follow,
I have in a measure placed myself and others—or
at least the secret of our existence and rendezvous
—in your power, you will, I trust, think nothing
hard of me, if I exact from you a sacred pledge,
that what you have learned, seen and heard, or
shall learn, see and hear, you will never—under
any circumstances whatever—divulge while I am
living.”

“To this most solemnly I pledge me,” returned
Emily, “and call God to witness the vow! What
you have done, has been to save me from an awful
fate; and were I to take advantage of this against
you, I should truly be the most ungrateful of my
sex—ay, unworthy the name of woman. You
have nothing to fear from me, kind sir.”

“Enough, enough!—your simple word is enough
—I ask nothing further. And now, so soon as
my lieutenant returns, you will with me to the
cave. But, ha! what have we here, torn into so
many fragments?” added he, enquiringly, as his
eye fell upon the papers destroyed by John a few
minutes before.

“Alas! sir, I suppose them to be proofs of my
parentage,” answered Emily, sadly.

“And this too was the work of John Webber?”

“It was.”

“The villain! But we shall meet again, ere
long; and then there will be a reckoning—a
squaring of accounts,” said Ronald, with quivering
lips, while a dark shade rested on his counte
nance. “Do you know what was written thereon?”

“I do not.”

“Did he mention the names of your parents?”

“He did not; and said unless I would consent
to marry him, I should never learn them.”

“In that he was mistaken—for I will inform
you.”

“You, sir!” exclaimed Emily, starting in surprise.

“Ay! yet hold a moment! Possibly I may
myself be mistaken;” and gathering up several
of the pieces, Ronald examined them by the light
a few moments, attentively. “Yes, yes,” continued
he, at length; “I am right; my suspicions
were correct.”

“Oh then, sir,” cried Emily, breathlessly, “I
beseech you inform me!”

“I will. You are the legitimate daughter, only
living child, and truly legal heir of—”

“Fenton is dead!” cried Piketon, at this moment
rushing in and interrupting him.

“Dead!” echoed Bonardi, staggering back.

“Ay, captain. Webber's ball entered the left
breast, near the heart, and he has just this moment
expired.”

“A thousand curses on the villain! And the
other?”

“Is not mortally wounded. His shoulder-blade
is broken.”

Bonardi pressed his hands hard against his temples,
and tried to look calm; but there came, notwithstanding,
a dark and terrible expression upon
his features.

“This, Piketon,” said he, at length, in a deep,
heavy voice, “is too much—too much! You will
return and see to the burial of Fenton, poor fellow,
and that the other is well attended to. Better
leave him at Mosley's, as he is something of a
surgeon himself. As soon as all is complete, meet
me at the cave, with as many of our band as you
can easily collect. Webber must be punished!—
Send hither Kelly.”

“Ay, captain!”

As Piketon departed, Bonardi strode to and fro
the apartment, in great agitation, until the arrival
of Kelly, when turning to Emily, he said:

“Pardon me, Emily, I am too much agitated,
just at present, to continue the subject on which
we were speaking. I will resume it anon, and tell
you all. If you are ready now, we will hence as
soon as possible. I regret my gallant steed is not
with me, as I fear the distance will fatigue you—it
being some seven miles, and for the most part over
a rough country.”

“Thank you,” returned Emily, “for the generous
regard you are pleased to express in my behalf;
but I doubt not I can easily walk it; I have
sometimes done as much, and felt it not.”

“We will then set forth. Kelly, you will accompany
us;” and in a few minutes the party were
on their way to the cave.

Emily, however, had counted too strongly on
her own powers; for worn out with excitement,
and weakened by loss of rest and food, she soon
found her limbs failing her; and ere they had
reached a mile, she sunk down completely exhausted.
Ronald immediately raised her in his arms,
without apparent effort, and the party again proceeded.
Kelly occasionally relieved him, and in
this manner they reached their destination, in
something over two hours from their time of starting.

The sentinel looked much surprised, on seeing

Ronald descend the ladder with a lady in his arms,
but as it was no business of his, he made no remark.
As he entered the Chieftain's Chamber,
Inez and Cyntha were no less surprised; nor was
their surprise lessened by the manner of Ronald,
who was laboring under great mental excitement.
Placing Emily carefully upon one of the sofas, he
turned abruptly to his wife, and said:

“Inez, as you love me, look well to this lady;
for she has been foully dealt with, and has need of
your most tender care.”

Inez looked at him steadily a moment, and her
features assumed a strange expression. Ronald
noticed it, and immediately added:

“Nay, love, no jealousy. This woman will explain
all;” and he turned to Hetty, who, having
followed him in, now stood gazing around upon
the splendor of the apartment, with a surprised
and bewildered look.

“O yes,” returned Hetty, who had heard the allusion
to herself; “I'll tell this ar' beautiful lady
all as I knows.”

“But why, dear Ronald, do you leave me?” enquired
Inez, sadly, as he turned to depart.

“I have weighty matters to which I must attend
immediately,” answered Ronald, drawing her
fondly to him, and pressing his lips to hers. “Be
not uneasy, dear Inez, I shall pass the night in
the Outer Cave. But look to that young lady,
for she is faint and sick;” and as Inez turned to
Emily, Ronald withdrew, and closed the stone
door behind him.

When in the larger cave, and with the exception
of the sentinel entirely alone, Bonardi paced
to and fro in an excited mood, while the muscles
of his face underwent various changes, and his
hands clenched and unclenched, as one in deep
agony of mind. In this manner he continued
some hour and a half, when he was interrupted by
the arrival of Piketon, with some twenty of the
band, whom he had found in the Retreat, as it was
called—a kind of hostlery, some half mile distant,
kept by one of the party, where, on the nights of
their meetings, the members who had ridden from
a distance, generally left their horses to be fed, and
not unfrequently spent the night themselves, in
drinking, card playing, and the like; and where
the sentinels boarded and slept, and, when not on
duty, could generally be found. This Retreat
was kept by one Mosley, who was the one designated
by Bonardi, in his directions to Piketon concerning
leaving his wounded comrade. The Hollow,
where Bonardi had found Piketon, and the
five who accompanied him, was another place of a
similar character, some half mile farther on.

“Captain,” said Piketon, approaching Bonardi,
“I have obeyed your orders.”

“'Tis well. Do these fellows know what has
taken place?”

“They know that John Webber has proved
treacherous, and shot Fenton and Allen.”

“And what say they?”

“They have but one voice: `Death to the traitor!”'

“Ay, and by — he shall not escape it!” cried
Bonardi, fiercely, uttering an oath. “To-morrow
he or I must die!”

“I trust not you, captain.”

“I do not know,” said Ronald, gravely. “A
something tells me I am not long for this world.—
It may be only a foolish fancy—but let it pass.—
At dawn to-morrow we must mount and follow
him. Doubtless we shall find him at his father's.
No matter where, however, when found he must
die! I hope we may meet him ere he has betrayed
us fully, but I fear not. Ten of these fellows
must remain here, to guard the cave—the others
will with us. You will divide them, and leave
the truest and most courageous here. How now!
what means this?” This last remark was occasioned
by the sudden appearance of a new comer,
who, having descended the ladder, approached Bonardi
direct. “What news, Ellis?”

“The steamer leaves to-morrow, captain, between
the hours of five and seven in the evening.”

“Indeed! Are you sure, Ellis?”

“I had it from the officers of the boat.”

“So soon! this is unlucky. When got you the
information?”

“At noon of yesterday. I started out of St. Louis
late last night, and have scarcely been out of my
saddle since. I have fatigued two horses, and am
now rather fatigued myself.”

“You have done well, Ellis, for 'tis a hard ride—
a very hard ride. To-morrow night—how unlucky!
What could have induced them to alter
their time?—for when I saw them, they positively
asserted they would not leave within a week.—
Piketon, what can be done? It is almost impossible
for us to reach the rendezvous in time—certainly
we cannot without a relay. How unlucky
this news did not arrive sooner, ere the meeting
had broken up! Well, well, we must do our best
under the circumstances. For the present we
must let Webber pass—at least this other business
must be attended to first. Ellis, have the
small boats been dropped down to old Davids?”

“Ay, captain, that was done last night.”

“'Tis well. Piketon, leave ten men here to
guard the cave, withdraw the others, and have them
mount and singly ride for the rendezvous. Tell
them they must reach there ere sunset to-morrow,
or the prize will be lost. By going singly,
and separate routes, they will be enabled to get
relays among the settlers, without exciting suspicion.
'Tis a long fatiguing ride of a hundred
miles, and I do not count on our band being there
in full—still I trust there will be enough to capture
the money. You had better yourself give
the signal, as soon as possible. Doubtless you
will be enabled to overtake some of the band on
their way home. In every case, tell them they
must reach there ere sunset to-morrow! Where
is Hendrick?”

“He has gone with four comrades to arrest Saxton
and Niles, who I have learned are in this vicinity.”

“Right! Tell the men that remain, to have
both strictly guarded when brought hither. And
now to spend an hour with Inez, and then for
action. I have a noble steed at the Retreat, and
relays on the route, so that doubtless I shall be
there in advance of you all. By the by, tell those
who remain here as guards, that if we are successful,
they shall share equally with us. And now,
Piketon, speed! speed! for there is not a moment
to be lost!” saying which, Bonardi turned abruptly
on his heel, and entered the Inner Cave;
while the lieutenant, with great rapidity and precision,
set about obeying his commands.