 | CHAPTER XII. Ringwood the rover |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
For a moment or two the wretched girl gazed
in pale terror on the dread apparition which stood
before her; nor would it indeed have been easy to
imagine one more terrible. His gorgeous dress
was all begrimed with the black smoke of gunpowder,
and dashed with frequent flakes of human
gore; his face and hands were crimson; and,
more than all, in his wild eye there was a gleam
of terrible fire that could be compared to nothing
but the glare of some dread fiend caught from the
penal flames of his eternal prison house.
She had risen from her knees on his entrance,
for during the whole din and clamor of the desperate
assault, her silvery tones had mounted to
the throne of grace in pure and constant supplication—she
stood staring at his distorted furious
features, speechless with terror and despair; but
when he rushed toward her, and seized her delicate
arm in his strong grasp, she sent forth a long
fluttering thrilling shriek, so awfully acute and
shrill, that pealing far above the blended roar of
musquetry and cannon, above the shouts and yells
of the assailants, above the clang of axes plied
fast and furiously against the portal of the keep,
it reached the ears of the besiegers, and lent new
vigor to their arms, new fire to their hearts. Yet
though the gate was crashing even now, and wavering
beneath their blows—yet had their aid
come all too late—for he had seized her round the
waist, despite her feeble struggles, despite her
pitiful supplications, lifted her from the ground,
and flung her by main force upon a velvet ottoman,
with all her raven hair disheveled, the
braids which bound it having burst, and all her
garments ruffled and in the last disorder from the
hot struggle—he paused one second in his barbarous
pastime, and profiting by that brief interval
all out of breath and panting as she was,
“Your word!” she cried, “your word—your
plighted oath of honor!—never to do me wrong!”
A bitter sneering laugh burst from his lips.
“My word!” he said, “my word—a pirate's
plighted word!—a robber's oath of honor!—ha!
ha! you jest, Teresa—ha! ha! you would be
merry—hark,” he continued, as the dread sounds
of the assault rung nearer and more near. “Hark!
to the blows!—the steps—the voices of your
friends! There rings the full shout of your cursed
sire—the war cry of the Des Aviles—there
close at hand, fair lady!—close enough—almost!
to preserve you. Ten minutes more, and they
shall find you here, but their arms shall not clasp
you to their hearts—father's nor lover's! No!
no! I tell you no! Nor their lips press your
brow, for you shall be a thing blighted, dishonored,
foul! Vengeance! ho! vengeance! vengeance
on Melendez,” and with the words he again
caught her in his arms; and in a moment more
his horrid purpose had been too well accomplished;
but while she shrieked and struggled, as impotently,
it is true, as the small bird in the talons
of the merciless falcon, but still with all her
power, the fair haired English beauty rushed,
hardly less disarrayed than the Spanish maiden,
into the room; and close behind, both her comrades,
screaming for present aid to Ringwood,
and fearful was their need! For, seeing now that
every hope of protracting the defence was over,
and that the enraged Spaniards were forcing their
passage foot by foot, the brutal negroes, who had
manned the great gun on the platform of the keep,
and fought it until now, right dauntlessly, had left
their post as desperate; and drunk with bloodshed
and despair, maddened with liquor and with lust,
had turned their fierce and brutal passions from
their natural enemies, against the favorite beauties
of their leader. But better had it been for
them, had they awaited the avenging Spaniard;
better had they rushed into the den of the cubdrawn
tigress, than thus have roused the fury of
their chief.
Leaving Teresa, pale and breathless, and too
terrified to thank God for her near escape, he
rushed upon the mutineers—the first he caught
about the middle, for he had no offensive arms—
his sword having been broken in the conflict, and
all his pistols emptied!—and hurled him headlong
through the window, like an enormous missile
shot from some giant catapult. The strong brocaded
awnings opposed his passage; but with such
mighty impulse was he sent, that the tough velvet
was rent through and through, as though it had
been gossamer—and the huge buccaneer was seen
one instant sprawling and writhing in mid air
with a terrific sound of blended screams and
curses on his tongue, before he fell upon the lifted
pikes of the besiegers. Quelled for a moment by
this awful spectacle, the other negroes stood
aghast, and Ringwood leaping upon them with
the bound of an angry tiger, snatched his own
weapon from the first, and whirling it about his
head, clove him with one blow to the jaws.
“Ha! dogs!” he shouted, in tones trumpet-like
and clear, “ha! villains! dare ye dispute my
will—or look too boldly on my prizes?—down to
your kennels, dogs! down to the dungeon gate,
and fight it to the last, with these accursed Spaniards!
Down to the gate, I say, and if ye must,
of your low nature, perish brutes, see that, at
least, ye perish brave ones!”
Not a word more was spoken, nor a blow
stricken, but all cowed and abashed, the mutineers
rushed down the sounding stairway, and,
ere a moment passed, might be heard battling
hand to hand with the fierce veterans of Melendez,
who had already forced the gates, and were now
rushing in, like a flood tide, resistless. Just at
this juncture, by the other door, Pluto and Charon,
the trusty guardsmen of the Rover, entered
the harem, bleeding both from several recent
wounds, but still bold and undaunted.
“Ha! all is lost, then,” exclaimed the Rover,
as they entered. “Is all lost, Charon?”
“All is lost,” answered the faithful black,”
“all is lost! carried! postern gate carried too!
enemy in the hall, will be here presently!”
“And ye—what would ye?” cried the great
English pirate, still calm in his extremity and
fearless—“what would ye—fly?”
“Will massa,” answered the negroes in one
breath, “fly with massa Ringwood by covered
way into the forest—or if he will, die here, with
him.”
“Ha! by the covered way—fine boys—I had
forgotten! so may I live, if not for victory, still
at the least for vengeance—reach down three carbines
from the wall, there—they are all loaded—
now light the matches—so give me that long Toledo—ha!
here they come—they come! but by
the fiends, too late! Charon, take thou Toraida
—set her in safety in the forest, and thou hast
won thy freedom. Pluto, bear thou Italian Beatrice!
Thou art for me, Teresa—my girl, no
dallying!” and he shook her fiercely by the arm,
as she would have struggled to escape; for now
the voices of her father—of her dear Amadis,
came close upon her ear, above the clash and clatter
of the contest, as they bore their last foes
bleeding and breathless at the sword's point before
them, and now they had won the staircase, and
now were on the very threshold of the gay armory—too
late! He had swung her up in his
stalwart arms, threw her across one shoulder as
though she had been an infant. “Follow me,
Bella,” he cried, “follow close, thine English
blood is brave, thou needst no supporter! follow
me close, and bar the door behind!” and with the
words he sprung across the vestibule, entered the
secret stairway in the wall, and was just out of
sight, when beating down the last of the defenders,
Don Amadis darted through the opposite
doorway with twenty veterans at his back. Well
for us he left the armory, she snatched down from
the wall a studded buckler of the tough hide of
the rhinoceros, a light Damascus cimiter, and
with her beautiful blue eyes beaming with fiery
valor, made good the door in a moment, and barred
and chained it fast in the very teeth of the foe!
With speedy steps they trod the damp floors of
the vaulted passage—they barred three massive
doors behind them, yet with so desperate speed
did Amadis pursue, plying his ponderous battle
axe, that as they reached the sally-port, they
heard him thundering already at the last portal
they had passed—they hurried through the sally-port,
a plank was thrust across the fosse, they
darted over it in safety!—they stood in the wild
forest!—another minute and they had been concealed
in the dark hazes of a labyrinth so tortuous
and dense, that scarcely could the keen instinct of
an Indian have traced their flying footsteps! But
at the very moment when they crossed the fosse,
and climbed its landward face, five or six Spanish
musqueteers, who stood on guard in the stone bastion,
discovered them! blew their slow matches,
leveled their long bright barreled harquebuses,
and a sharp volley followed! Three balls struck
Ringwood; his left arm fell to his side shattered
by one bullet—well was it for Teresa, that he had
just released her, or that same ball had borne her
fate upon its wings!—a second pierced his broad
chest; a third just grazed his muscular thigh—yet
he flinched not, nor uttered any sign of pain nor
wavered in the least. By the same volley the
negro Charon fell, shot dead where he stood, by
one ball; while another, so closely was that terrible
discharge poured in, killed the poor Persian
in his arms—happier so to fall, than to survive
awhile and glut the furious vengeance of the enraged
Castilians.
“Ha, dogs!”—shouted the Rover—shaking his
long bright rapier at them, in defiance—“Ha!
dogs—would ye were at arm's length! Now,
Pluto, quick! quick! while their muskets are
discharged, pull the plank over to this side, and
all will yet be well—quick!—quick, I say!—
they come!”
And they did come—swinging his rapier high
in air, and leaping like a freed panther from the
dark sally-port, all youthful energy, all high enthusiastic
valor—young Amadis Ferrajo—and
close to his heels, with his long gray locks all
unhelmeted and floating on the breeze, and his
antique steel panoply all blood from greaves to
gorget, Juan Melendez de Aviles; and after these,
Pedro, Gutierrez, Sanchez, and Diego, and fifty
more hidalgos of Castile, with their high hearts
aflame for deadly vengeance.
Forth leaped young Amadis, the foremost—his
foot was on the plank already—the cry of triumph
ringing already from his lips—when almost simultaneously,
the negro, who when he stooped down to
remove the plank had not laid by his carbine, and
the great Rover fired. Well was it for Don Amadis—his
armor was Spain's choicest fabric—had
it been steel of any foreign city, he had been sped
that moment; for both balls took effect at scarce
ten paces distance—one striking full upon the
frontlet of his helmet, and leaving a deep dent in
the trusty steel; the other actually penetrating
the strong corslet, so fairly was it aimed, and
even inflicting a slight wound; as it was, stunned
and bewildered for the moment, he went down—
and all around surely believed him dead—though
in a little while he recovered himself and regained
his feet.
Teresa, who had been gazing on the little group,
with hope fresh kindling in her heart, beheld him
fall, and the light left her eyes, and she sunk
faint and senseless on the dark dewy earth. All
this had passed, in less time than is needed to describe
it. As Amadis went down, Melendez
took his place, and rushed across the narrow
bridge, striking down Pluto, with a single sweep
of his two-handed broadsword, a breathless corpse
into the stagnant moat—but while one foot was yet
upon the quivering plank, the Rover leaped upon
his foe. It was a desperate and a dreadful conflict—for
the wounds—one of which was in truth
slowly mortal—counterbalanced the advantage
which Ringwood's youth would have otherwise
given him over his aged yet still firm antagonist.
Melendez was armed cap-a-pie all to his
helmet; the Englishman was quite unarmed, with
the exception of his long two-edged broadsword—
so that the one had all his body to defend—the
other his head only. Yet was this point of vantage
neutralized by the extraordinary skill of
fence, the blithe agility, the mighty strength
of Ringwood, who like a wounded boar was but
the fiercer and more furious for his hurts.
Dreadful and desperate was that contest, yet it
was over almost in a minute—their swords
flashed like the beams of the noon-day sun, too
dazzling and too fleet for any eye to trace them
yet ere six blows and parries were exchanged,
the Rover's blade descended with such violence
upon the weapon of Melendez, that it beat down
his guard, and afterward inflicted a deep wound
on his brow—the old man staggered back, the
Rover pressing on with a fierce lunge, and
sheathing his rapier in the Spaniard's throat
above the gorget vein.
“Ha! ha!” he laughed aloud with a fiendish
tone, as he shook off his dying foeman from the
water of the ditch—“Ha! ha! ha! sister—sweet
angel sister--thou art avenged! avenged! avenged!
and I die happy!” and with the words, unhurt by
any blow, unsmitten by any mortal hand in equal
combat, he staggered up the slope, fell by Teresa's
side, and was dead in a moment. Whether or no
it was the sound of Ringwood's heavy fall beside
her, cannot be told, but it is certain that as he
dropped, she started to her feet, and, with recovered
senses, gazed wildly about her.
Her father's corpse she saw not, for falling into
the deep wet fosse it had sunk instantly to the
bottom, and was kept there by the weight of armor
which it bore!—but she did see her lover,
whom she had fancied dead, alive and on his feet,
and rushing to her rescue!—she did see her deadly
enemy prostrate and lifeless at her side!—and
over him with her broad blue eyes flashing fire,
with lifted buckler, brandished blade, his the
beautiful Bella, standing erect and fearless—so to
defend from shame all that was left of her undaunted
lover.
Teresa screamed, she sprung to save her, but
she was all too late, for flushed with victory, and
mad with vengeful fury, the Spaniards were upon
her. One good blow did the English girl strike
at the nearest enemy—one good home blow, and
the strongest man who met it staggered, and fell
headlong! but ere he struck the earth, ten pike
heads tore the lovely bosom of that frail faithful
girl.
As she had spoken, so she died! She died
with him whom she would not survive! their
life-blood mingled, as she breathed out her last
sigh on his mangled breast—and one tomb held
their bodies—for at Teresa's bidding, when the
fierce rage of war was over, a tomb was reared
by that calm basin, over the lovely Bella, and the
great English Buccaneer.
Long did Teresa mourn—long did she weep her
brother and her father; yet her tears ceased at
length to flow, as she blushed her consent to her
young rescuer's ardent wooing; and, when they
sailed together from the wild shores of Florida,
for their dear Spanish home, the faithful slave
Cassandra followed her mistress' footsteps; and
many a time and often in after days and a far
land, they shed a pitying tear for the kind-hearted
English girl, and half admired the daring, even
while they blamed the sins of Ringwood the great
Rover!
| CHAPTER XII. Ringwood the rover | |