University of Virginia Library

LAFITTE:
THE PIRATE OF THE GULF.

BOOK II.
CONTINUED.

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Shortly after Juana entered the cavern, two
figures, one slight and boyish, the other taller and
stouter, came forth from the cave, passed with a
hasty and suspicious tread by the drunken guard,
whose pistols they secured, and crossed carefully
the plank bridge over which the taller, who was in
female apparel, carefully assisted the lighter, who
wore a cap and pea-jacket.

On gaining the shrouds, the apparent female
passed her arm around the waist of the boy, and
supported his unsteady and unpractised footsteps
down the descent to the deck.

“Now dearest Constanza, all your energy and
presence of mind is necessary. There stands the

watch with his head leaning upon the quarter rail,
holding to a stay. He is not wholly intoxicated,
but we must pass him as Juana and Théodore; now
move lightly and firmly.”

“Va usted a los infiérnos!” muttered one of the
sleepers, as the count's foot pressed heavily upon
his hand.

Constanza had the presence of mind not to scream,
when the disturbed sleeper turned over upon his
hard bed, and grumblingly fell asleep again.

“Who are you, there? Carramba! Is it you Juana?
Por amor de dios! but that agua de vita of yours JuJuana
my beauty, has made the schoo-schooner,
and the bay, and the land, go rou-round in a merry
reel,” he said, slowly and thickly articulating—“Fa
la rá la ra lá, la! But who is that Juana?” he said,
suddenly stopping in the midst of a drunken pirouette.
“Oh, I see! Señor Théodore. Your humble
servant; I kiss my hand to you. It is your next
watch Señor Théodore, your watch! Do you take
Señor Théodore? I b-believe I am drunk or getting
so—but it's all owing to—to that beauty there—she
fascinated me master Théodore, she fascinated me.
There sweet Juana, hold up your pretty face, let
me banquet on it. So, gi-give me a small sip more,
one si-sip at that fl-flask; what kills may cure, yo-you
know, Señor Théodore!”

The disguised count handed him the bottle, and
while he was diligently engaged in quaffing its contents,
he handed Constanza over the side of the
schooner into the boat, and immediately followed
himself.

“Ho! wh-where are you go-going, Juana?—oh!
I, I see, to get the clothe-clothes. Well, I'll take
them up—take them up,”—and as he made an attempt
to reach over the quarter-railing, he lost his
equilibrium, and staggering backward, fell across
the companion-way, where he lay nearly insensible.

“Now, Constanza, dearest,” said the count, “sit
perfectly still. Are you alarmed? have you all
firmness?”

“Perfect—perfect, Alphonse,” she whispered,
“I can assist, if you require it.”

“No no, dearest, brave girl! I shall need only
your mental energies.”

Cutting with a cutlass which he had taken from
the deck, the painter, or rope which secured the
boat to the schooner, he cautiously, and without
noise, shoved off from her. Then seizing an
oar, five or six of which besides a mast with a
single sail lay along the thwarts, he wrapped a
portion of the carpet which he severed for the
purpose, around it, and placing it in the rowlock
or cavity fitted for its reception in the stern, gently
as though he plied a glass oar, he turned the head
of the boat, and impelled her, by sculling, across
the basin to the entrance of the rock-bound passage
which communicated with the open sea.

Constanza, with a fluttering pulse but courageous
heart, sat silently by him. Not a word was spoken,
and not a sound was heard around them. Even the
motion of the blade of his oar as it divided the water,
was noiseless, and the ripple under the stem
scarcely reached her ear.

They had now entered the passage, and with
more boldness and assurance the count urged forward
his little bark. Their bosoms began to swell
with hope, as the schooner, the mouth of the cave,
and the tall cliff gradually faded in the distance;
when suddenly, the loud voice of one giving the
alarm as they thought, fell upon their ears with
fearful distinctness, curdling the current of life in
the bosom of the maiden, while a cold thrill passed
over the heart of her lover.

“We are missed,” said the count incited to
greater exertion, “but the chances are on our side.”

With a seaman's skill he worked the single oar,
and urged the boat through the water with increasing
rapidity.

But a single voice had yet been heard by them,
and listening, they recognized the air of a song,
which some one—Diego, as they judged from the
sound of the voice, was singing in a wild air—

“It is but that drunken watch,” he said, as he
listened to the last notes of the song dying away in
the distance, “he has recovered from his momentary
stupor, and is now giving vent to his excitement
in a bacchanalian song. Would to heaven he had
been as much of the animal as the guard. Be not
alarmed dear Constanza,” he continued, stooping to
kiss her brow, “do not fear; there is no real danger;”
and he still swayed vigorously to the oar.

“But may not Lafitte, who is so rigid in his exactions
of duty, if he is awakened by this man,
come to learn the cause and discover us? Heaven
forbid! Holy Maria bless us, and aid us with
thy presence!” and she sought her crucifix to press
it to her lips, as she lifted her heart in devotion.

“Oh! Alphonse—I have lost my crucifix, my
mother's dying gift;” she exclaimed, alarmed, “my
long cherished medium of communication with heaven!
Oh! have you it?”

“No, dearest, you have probably dropped it.”

“My sainted mother! it is an augury of evil.
Holy virgin protect me!” and tears filled the eyes
of the lovely petitioner, as with locked hands she
gazed upwards.

“Calm your feelings, sweetest,” he said cheeringly,
“we shall soon be free. See! they pursue
us not. Listen! the voice of the singer is scarcely
heard; and look about you! we are just at the
mouth of the passage with the open sea before us,
and Port au Prince but a few leagues to leeward.
Courage my brave Constanza,” he added encouragingly.
“Now we are out of the pass—I feel

the sea breeze already upon my cheek. See how
it is playing with your hair. No, do not fear; do
you see that bright burning star, deep set in the
heavens, directly above us? That star, my love, I
have always regarded as the star of my destiny—
whenever that is in the ascendant I am successful.
Be happy, for with that eye of light open above us,
we have nothing to fear.

“Feel the wind! how refreshing it comes from
the sea! Now Constanza we will hoist our sail;
and the gull shall not skim the water with a
swifter wing than our little bark.”

He raised the mast, and hoisted the little latteen
sail, which swelling and distending as it caught the
breeze, instantly depressed the boat down to one
side, and impelled her rapidly over the water. Under
the influence of this new agent, it sprung
lightly forward, skipping from wave to wave and
dashing their broken crests from her bows.

The count who had taken his seat by the side of
Constanza now that the boat was urged forward by
the wind was congratulating her upon their escape.

She silently pressed his hand, and kept her eyes
fixed steadily on the shore.

“Did you see that light?” she said, suddenly clinging
to his arm.

The count, who was intent upon his duty of governing
the boat, whose head he turned towards the
entrance of St. Marc's channel in the direction of
Port au Prince, where he expected to find his frigate,
turned and saw the edge of the moon just appearing
above the distant cliff and broken into apparent
flame by the woods over which it was rising.

“No no, sweetest, it is the moon; a second augury
for good. It smiles upon our departure. See
now, as she ascends the skies, how she flings her
silvery scarf out upon the waters.”

“No no, not that, it was a flash. Hark! did you

hear that?” she exclaimed, as the heavy report of a
gun came booming over the sea.

“It is indeed a gun, and fired from the schooner;
but be not alarmed, they can hardly reach us.”

“Hark! what whizzing, rushing sound is that
over our heads?”

“A bird, merely,” said the count quietly; and then
added to himself, “That shot was well aimed.
Courage my dearest, this beautiful boat was built
for sailing. If this wind holds, we shall make Cape
St. Marc by sunrise, and then if we are pursued,
which I doubt, we can run into the town—but if
not, we will continue on to Port au Prince, which
is but fifteen leagues farther. Ah! there is another
flash.”

A few seconds after he spoke, the report of a
second gun came sharply from the shore.

“Courage, Constanza! they cannot reach us now.
That too was shotted,” he added. “If they have
discovered our escape, Constanza, dearest, they are
firing at some object which they think is our boat.
It will require time to take them off and put them
on the right track. Blow bravely winds! Are you
confident, dearest?” he asked, pressing her to his
heart; “there is now no longer cause for fear.”

“Yes, now I begin to hope we may yet escape.
Heaven, I thank thee!” and she looked devoutly
upward, the mellow moonlight falling upon her fair
forehead, and adding a richer gloss to her dark hair.
In that attitude something fell from her bosom, and
rung as it struck the bottom of the boat.

“There is your crucifix, sweet Constanza,” he
said, bending to pick it up—“What! no, a dagger!
What means this?”

“My last hope on earth, if yon outlaw had retaken
us,” she answered, with firmness and emotion.

“God forbid! Constanza;—noble spirited woman!”
he exclaimed, embracing her.

Morning found the lovers in sight of the town
of St. Marc. At the first moment of dawn the
count eagerly searched the horizon for an indication
of being pursued, and just as the sun lifted his disc
above the inland mountains, his beams fell upon a
white spot many leagues to the northward, and on
the verge of the sky and sea.

Pointing out to her the pleasant town of St. Marc
at the head of the bay of the same name, he suggested
to Constanza the expediency of continuing
their course to the port of their original destination;
as the sail which he saw in the distance, even if in
pursuit, was too far off to overtake them. To this
she acquiesced with buoyant spirits.

Before a steady wind, they now held on their way
along the romantic and cultivated shores of the
channel—their bosoms elated with the hope of soon
terminating their varied and trying adventures.

14. CHAPTER XIV.

An alarm—discovery—result—pursuit.

We will now return to Lafitte, whom we left
lying in troubled sleep on one of the rude benches
in the cave upon which he had thrown himself, after
having, with a severe struggle between his passions
and desire to act honourably towards his fair captive,
decided upon giving her and her lover their
freedom, and convey them to Port au Prince in the
morning. His sleep though deep, was still tortured
with dreams.

A fourth time he dreamed. He was upon the
deck of his vessel, contending hand to hand with an
officer. At length he disarmed him, and passed his
cutlass through his breast, from which the blood
flowed as he drew out the steel. He uttered a cry
of horror! It was the bosom of Constanza! A loud
voice rung in his ears, which sounded like a chorus
of triumph at the fatal deed. He sprung to his feet,

and the cry “To arms—to arms!” rung loudly
in his ears.

“To arms, señor,” shouted his lieutenant—“a
boat is in the passage—we may be surprised!”

“The outlaw, shouting to the men who slept
about him to arm and follow, hastened to the
terrace, where two or three of the buccaneers had
collected.

“Awake the crew in the schooner,” he shouted.
“Where is the guard? Ho! there! Ho! the guard!
where is he?” he sternly demanded.

His commands, issued in the cavern, had been
followed by a hasty and simultaneous rising of
the sleeping crew, who had not heard the alarm
given by Théodore, who, leaving a recess within
the cavern where he slept, had gone forth to stand
his watch, when the boat of the fugitives in the
passage caught his quick eye, and he instantly
flew to communicate his discovery to Lafitte.

There was now a bustle of preparation on board
the schooner, when Lafitte gave orders to the crew
to ascend to the platform and defend it. Having
lost so many men in the severe fight of the previous
night, he did not wish to expose the lives of his men
needlessly.

“Up! who is that lagger there?” he demanded,
as the form of the guard lying on the quarter-deck
caught his eye.

“It is Diego, señor—he is dead, or dead drunk,”
replied one of the men.

“Drunk? Throw him down the hatches, and
leave him to the knives of the enemy, if there be
any.”

“Théodore, how do you make that boat? you
said you saw her in the passage;” he inquired,
turning quickly to the youth: “I can see nothing.”

“Look sir! there! just beyond the farthest rock

—see! she has a sail, which I did not before discover—she
must have set it since.”

“That boat is not approaching,” replied Lafitte,
after looking for a moment in the direction indicated
by Théodore, “she is outside, and standing to the
south. What can it mean?”

“Whoever it is, señor, they seem to have been
ashore on mischief!” said one of the crew. “Here
is Gil also drunk or dead.”

The pirate turned as he spoke, and saw the body
of the guard, insensible where he had fallen.

“Ho! a light here. He is warm,” he said, placing
his hand upon him. “Faugh! he breathes like
a distillery. Up, brute, up!” he cried fiercely; but
the drunkard remained immoveable. With an execration,
the chief raised him from the ground with
an iron grasp upon his throat, and hurled him over
the precipice into the sea.

“Say you the watch is drunk too?” he inquired,
as the waters closed over the body of his victim.

“Yes sir, as dead as the guard;” replied the man
whom he addressed.

“By the holy cross! I would like to know what
this means!” he shouted.

“Diable! Now I think, señor,” said one of the
men; “somebody stepped on my hand while I was
asleep, and I afterward dreamed of hearing a boat
leave the schooner.”

“Fool! dolt! dreaming idiot! there may have
been good cause for your dream—you deserve to
be swung from the yard arm,” he said, striking the
man with the hilt of his cutlass. “But why do I
dally—light that match—depress that piece Theodore,
if you see the boat.”

“Yes, señor!” replied the youth in a voice which
had lost its former animation. He now began to
suspect whom the boat contained, having, as the
man spoke of his dreams, cast his eyes over the

terrace and discovered that the schooner's boat was
gone. Obeying the command of his chief, he levelled
the gun high over the true mark which was
now visible as the white sail of the boat gleamed in
the rising moon—while his bosom beat with apprehension
lest his good intention should be unsuccessful.

The chief seized the match and fired the piece,
the report of which reverberated among the cliffs,
and died away like distant thunder along the caverned
shores of the bay.

“A useless shot—they still move on,” he exclaimed.
“See! the white sail glances in the
moonlight. Do better than that.” The gun was
eagerly depressed and fired by Lafitte himself, with
no better result, and in a few moments the object of
their attention and alarm, was entirely invisible in
the haze and darkness of the sea.

“I would give my right hand to know what this
means!” said the pirate musingly.

“The schooner's boat is gone sir!” said one of
the men hastily.

“Gone!” he exclaimed, springing to the verge of
the terrace—“Gone indeed! hell and devils! it is
so!” he shouted, as apparently a new thought flashed
across his mind. “That light here!” and seizing
a lamp from one of his men, he rushed through the
long passage into the inner cavern with rapidity,
and entered the chamber recently occupied by his
prisoners.

It was silent and deserted. He looked into every
recess—sprung through the breach into the opposite
room, and called upon their names, yet the
echoes of his own voice and footsteps only replied.
Again he traversed the apartments, scaled the walls
and searched every niche and corner of the room,
before he was thoroughly convinced of the flight of
his captives. Then he dashed the lamp upon the

pavement, and muttered between his clenched teeth
deep execrations.

For several minutes he paced the cavern like a
madman; gradually he became calmer and spoke:

“They have escaped me then! she whom I
worshipped has doubted my faith—no! no!” he
added quickly, “she has not; it was he—he! I
will pay him back this deed. Curse, curse the
fates that are ever crossing me! Here I have been
humbling my passion to his—schooling my mind to
virtuous resolves, for the happiness of this woman
who despises me. For the bliss of this titled fool
who doubts my word, I have let slip the fairest
prize that ever fell into the possession of man. But
the charm is broken—now will I win her! There
are now no terms between him and me. I will
pursue him to the death, and her I will win and
wear. She shall yet become the bride of the detested
outlaw.”

“Ho!” he shouted, without having formed any
decisive plan to pursue with regard to the fugitives
—“Cast off and make sail on the schooner—spring!
we must overhaul that boat. Lively! men, lively!”
he added, as hastily issuing from the cavern, he energetically
repeated his orders for immediately getting
under weigh.

The morning sun shone upon the sails of the pirate's
schooner, many leagues from the point of her
departure, crowding all sail and standing towards
the south and east as the most probable course taken
by those of whom Lafitte was in pursuit.

The outlaw was upon the deck which he had
not quitted since the schooner left the basin, his eager
eye scanning the faint lines of the horizon.

“Do you see nothing yet, Théodore?” he inquired
of his young protege, whom he had sent aloft
—“See you nothing?”

“No, señor, the sun is just lifting the haze from
the water—you can see better from the deck.”

“Sail ahead!” shouted a man on the forecastle.

“I see it,” cried Théodore, “as the haze rises—
it is ahead, just off St. Marc's town. If it is the
boat we seek it is useless to pursue it, as it has at
least two leagues the start of us, and unless we take
her out from under the guns of the town we must
give her up.”

“If it were from under the guns of the Moro, I
would take her out,” exclaimed the buccaneer chief.
“Set the fore top mast studding sail—we will
yet reach them before they get under the land,” he
added, bringing his spy-glass to his eye.

“It is the boat!” he exclaimed joyfully after a
moment's scrutiny; “I would know my little gig as
far as I could see her. It is the fugitives! they
have hauled their wind and are passing the port no
doubt for Port au Prince.”

“Now favour me, hell or heaven, and I will yet
have my revenge!” he added through his shut teeth;
and under additional sail the pirate dashed on after
the boat of the fugitives.

Théodore descended to the deck after the discovery
of the boat, with a thoughtful brow and a gravity
unusual to his years and to the individual, who
was naturally gay and light hearted, while a vein of
delicacy, high moral sentiments, and an honourable
feeling in spite of his education formed the basis of
his character. Perhaps, however—although gratitude
in every shape should be a virtue; perhaps, it
was shaded by a grateful attachment to his benefactor
which influenced him to do that against which
his heart and judgment revolted. Sometimes he
had modified his obedience to the instructions of his
friend and chief, and occasionally he had dissuaded

him from insisting upon the act, or when this was
impossible to appoint some other agent. Whenever
he thought his own presence would diminish the
amount of human suffering, he would often with the
hope of doing good when evil was intended, overcome
his own repngnance, and himself voluntarily
become the agent of the outlaw.

Knowing the character of his protegé, and desiring
when he parted from Constanza to render her
situation as comfortable as circumstances would admit
of, Lafitte had appointed his young friend to
the pleasing and congenial duty of protecting her to
Kingston. How he executed this task is well
known.

In the fair Castillian he had taken a deep and
lively interest; and her helpless situation, her extreme
beauty and gentleness had captivated him
and made him, if not her lover, her enthusiastic devotee.
Her image was ever present in the waking
hours of the romantic youth, and he could never
picture a paradise without filling it with angels
whose bright faces were only some beautiful modification
of that of the Spanish maiden.

When the shipwreck of the brig again threw her
into the power of Lafitte, knowing his impulsive
character, Théodore trembled for her happiness.
In the silence of his own bosom he had sworn that
he would protect her from insult, even to the shedding
of the blood of his benefactor. When he discovered
the absence of the boat and her escape, his
heart leaped with joy, and the darkness of the night
alone kept him from betraying his emotion upon his
tell-tale features.

Appearing to second Lafitte's anxiety to overtake
them, he did all in his power to retard the preparations
for commencing the pursuit. During the dark
hours of the morning as he leaned over the quarter-rail

watching with a trembling heart the indistinct
horizon, fearing to look lest he should discover the
boat, yet by a kind of fascination constantly keeping
his eyes wandering over the water, his thoughts
were busy in devising means to prevent the recapture
of the lovers.

15. CHAPTER XV.

Newton.

Lafitte and Theodore—persuasion—a victory—change of
purpose.

When morning showed clearly the object of
their pursuit, the cry of the sailor, which made the
blood of Lafitte leap, sent the life-current of the
youth's veins back to his heart chilled and dead.

“What means that sad countenance, my young
child of the sea?” inquired Lafitte, playfully, as, in
pacing with an elastic step, fore and aft the quarter-deck,
he stopped and tapped lightly the shoulder
of the boy who was leaning thoughtfully against
the rigging, gazing upon the glimmering sail of the
boat diminished in the distance to a mere sparkle
upon the water.

“Want of sleep has paled you, Théodore. Go
below and turn in, and when the watch is next called
you shall once more become fair lady's page. Ha!
your blood mounts quickly to your cheek! Nay,
never be ashamed to be esquire of dames. It is the
best school of gallantry for a spirited youth! Silent,
sir page? and pale again!—but I crave your pardon,
my boy, I meant not to jest with you,” he added

as the youth's emotion although from a different
cause than he imagined, visibly increased.

“You do not jest with me, señor, my more than
parent; but there is something weighs heavily upon
my spirits. I cannot throw it off!” he replied in a
serious and impressive tone of voice.

“What is it, Théodore? tell me freely. It
must indeed be heavy to chill you thus; you are not
wont to give room to sadness without cause—a deep
cause must there be for this. Tell me freely what
so saddens your spirit, you have never yet asked
favour of me in vain. Surrounded as I am by men
who fear, but love me not, there is happiness in
feeling that there is one whose attachment for me
is sincere.

“You have been a greater source of happiness to
me since first I took you from amidst the ocean
than words can express. Till then my heart was
like a wild vine running riot upon the dank earth;
but you, my child, have caught up at least one tendril,
and so trained, nourished and twined it about
your heart, unpromising as it may have seemed, it
bears some fruit of human affection.

“It tells too what the whole vine might have
become.” he continued sadly, “had it not been
trampled upon and laid waste by him who should
have cherished it, instead of being sought out and
nurtured by the hand of affection. To all but you
I am cast out as a loathsome and poisonous weed;
and if I did not know that one human breast knew
me better, I should be, if you can believe it, a much
worse man than I am. It is this little tendril your
love has nurtured which binds me to my species
—which makes me not forget that I am a man!”

“There is one other breast that does you equal
justice, señor?” said the boy inquiringly and with
embarrassment, as the outlaw turned away and
walked the deck in silence.

“One other! what—whose?” none but the all-seeing
Virgin, who knows me by my heart, and not
by my actions, as men know me. It is the will, not
the deed, boy, which makes the guilt.”

“Father Arnaud whom you sent for to Havana
to confess the men, says differently,” remarked
Théodore.

“No matter what he said,” replied the chief hastily.
“The father was bigoted, and loved his wine
too well for his doctrine, to be seasoned with the
right spirit. It is the will—”

“Ha! we gain on the boat rapidly,” he said interrupting
himself, and looking out forward, and
then continued:

“It is the will, that stamps the guilt or innocence
of an action. If I, waking suddenly from a dream
discharge a pistol at the phantom which scared me,
and pierce your heart, I am absolved by heaven of
murder. I had not the will to slay you;—there is
no guilt involved in the act. But if I resolve to kill
you and place the dagger in my slave's hand, and
he strikes home the blow which releases your soul,
then I am guilty, though my hand struck not the
blow. No, no!” he added with energy, “I am not
so guilty before heaven as I seem. God is merciful.
I would rather He and all heaven should read
my heart than man—man! guiltiest of all, yet the
most unforgiving of guilt;” and his lip writhed with
a scornful smile as he spoke.

“But, señor,” inquired his companion, his mind
diverted from his anxiety for the fugitives by the
language of his friend—“you have been engaged
in scenes of strife and carnage; was not the blow
the agent of the will at such times?”

“Not always—no!” he replied, after a moment's
reflection, apparently appealing to memory—“with
but two exceptions have I voluntarily and deliberately

spilled human life; for these I am accountable.
May God in his mercy, assoilzie me for them!
But am I accountable, strictly, for impulses which
are beyond my control—which are not truly my
own acts? Seldom have I done deeds of violence,
where I did not regret the fatality which impelled
me to do them—revolting at the act, of which at the
same time I felt the necessity.”

“Then you resolve all actions into one single
cause—irresistible fate—dividing them into three
kinds—accidental, impulsive, deliberative. But
shall we not change the subject sir?” he added abruptly,
as he thought of the fugitives.

“There is one, who regards you with the same
feelings I do; she—”

“She? Whom mean you? No, you do not mean
her!”

“I mean the Castillian.”

“Say you so, Théodore?” he said, grasping his
arm. “You have been much with her. Do you
know her heart?” and he looked steadily and eagerly
into his face.

“It is not of her heart I speak, señor, but of her
expressed opinions.” The pirate's brow changed,
but he listened in silence. “I have heard your
name frequently upon her lips, and never as the
world uses it. She spoke of you with interest.—”

“Ha!”

“The interest she would feel for a brother;” he
continued, without noticing the interruption. “She
asked me of your character, the tone of your mind,
and indeed all I knew of you.”

“And how did you speak of me to her?” he inquired
eagerly.

“As I can only speak of my benefactor,” he said
taking and warmly pressing his hand; “As I, and
no one else know you.”

“Thank you, thank you, Théodore;” he said,
moved at the generous sincerity of the boy. “And
what said she further?”

“She alluded to her capture—to her interview
with you; and she spoke of and enlarged upon your
generous nature; she said she could never cease to
remember you with kindness, and that next to the
stranger count, you shared a place in her heart.”

“Said she so much?” he exclaimed, his eye
lighting with hope. “Prosper me Heaven! and she
may yet, voluntarily be mine!”

“But the Count D'Oyley, sir!” said Théodore
with emphasis.

Abruptly changing his tone and manner, which
were softened by his conversation with his young
friend he exclaimed almost fiercely—

“And what of him? Has he not outraged me?
has he not stolen off, when my plighted word that
he should have safe conduct to Port au Prince was
yet warm upon his ear? what shall bind me to
terms of courtesy to him? We gain upon them
bravely;” he added eagerly, as he turned in his
walk, and looked steadily ahead. “I almost fancy
I can see the mantilla of the maiden floating in
the breeze.”

“And what is your purpose with the lady sir, if
we recapture her?” inquired the youth with firmness
and respect.

Lafitte started at this abrupt question, and his
face flushed and paled again before he spoke.

“Purpose? purpose? purpose sure enough!” he
slowly articulated.

“Señor, you would not do the sweet lady harm?”

“Harm! what mean you sir?” he said, turning
fiercely upon the boy and grasping his cutlass hilt.

“Forgive me señor! but rather than so gentle a
creature should come to harm, I would be willing”

he continued, mildly and firmly, “to pour out my
heart's best blood.”

“Do you dare me to my face, Théodore? do
you presume upon my affection, to use such language?
Know you that where deep love has been
planted, hate takes deeper root. Boy—boy, below!”
and his anger rising with his words, he struck
the youth violently upon the breast. He reeled
against the main-mast, but recovering himself, with
a face in which resentment and wounded feelings
struggled forcibly, he silently descended to the
cabin.

His captain paced the deck alone for awhile, with
agitation in his step and manner, and then hastily
followed him.

“Théodore, my son, my brother, forgive me that
blow! It was an angry one, and I would atone for
it. Oh! if you knew how I have been punished for
a blow like that given in a moment of passion in
early life, you would forgive and pity me.”

The youth rose from the table, where he sat with
his head leaning upon his hand, and threw himself
into the arms of his benefactor.

“Forgive you! It is all forgiven. Ungrateful
should I be to let this cancel all I owe you, my
more than parent. I spoke warmly for the lady,
for I feel much for her—so gentle! so lovely! and
then her whole soul wrapped up in her lover. Oh!
if you could see how their hearts are bound up in
one another—how pure and deep their love—how
fondly she doats on him; you would—I am sure
you would, like me, be willing to sacrifice even
your life to make them happy. For my sake,” he
continued warmly, “if you regard me—for her sake,
if you love her, pursue them no farther. Seek not
to capture them. Oh! let them go free, let them
be happy and their prayers will be for you; your

name will be graven upon their hearts for ever, in
letters of gratitude. What is your purpose, if you
take them? It is true, they are almost in your
power; but let them go in peace. Stain not your
heart and hand with innocent blood, and far deeper
moral guilt. Let there be no more marks of crime
upon your brow; for oh! my benefactor, you cannot
possess her even as your wife without dark and
dreadful crime!” Observing that Lafitte remained
silent and moved by his appeal, the noble and youthful
advocate for innocence and love continued;

“You love her deeply,—intensely. I know it is
an honourable love you cherish. Let her still be
free, and such it will be always, and your soul sinless
of the crime I fear you meditate. But take
her once more captive, and you debase her to the
earth either as a bride or mistress. Your love will
turn to disgust; and hatred instead of gratitude
which now reigns there, will fill her breast for the
slayer of her lover, the violator, even with the sanction
of the Holy Church, of her honor, and plighted
troth.—Nay sir! please listen to me—it is for your
honor, from love to you, my best benefactor, I speak
so freely. Do you not remember, just before Constanza
left your vessel, I remarked how cheerfully
you smiled, and what a calmness dwelt upon your
brow, and how consciousness of doing right and
governing your own impulses, elevated and ennobled
the expression of your features?”

“I do, Théodore.”

“And were you not then happy—happier than
you had been before—happier than you have been
to-day?”

“I was—I was!”

“Was it not the victory over yourself, and the
resolutions which on bended knee you made to the
lady, that henceforward your course should be one
that she would feel proud to mark—Oh! was it not

the calm confidence of rectitude, when you let the
maiden go free, and the resolution to win an honourable
name which thus restored peace to your bosom
and composure to your brow, and ennobled
you in your own mind with sentiments of self-respect?”

“It was—it was, my Théodore.”

“And were you not very happy; and did you not
feel better satisfied with yourself than ever in your
life before, when your eye dwelt upon the faint speck
indicating the fast disappearing vessel which contained
the being who had called up these holy and
honourable feelings?”

“Théodore, I did my boy!”

“Oh! then why will you throw away this cup of
happiness, when it is once more offered to your
lips? why will not my excellent benefactor create
for himself again, this happiness?” he said, taking
the passive hand of his friend and chief, and looking
up with an entreating smile in his face.

“I will Théodore, I will! you have conquered!”
exclaimed Lafitte, touched by the passionate and
affectionate appeal of his ardent young friend; and
yielding to his better feelings, he said, after a few
moments' affecting silence. “Théodore, you have
conquered—go to the deck and give what orders
you will.”

“Yet, for Constanza I will live; for her sake,”
he said mentally as the happy boy disappeared up
the companion-way—“I will become an honourable
man. Oh! that some good angel would help me
to do what I wish to do, but have not the power!
Bright spirit of my departed mother!” he said looking
upward calmly and thoughtfully, “if there is a
communication between saints and men, give me
thy assistance; temper my passions, allure me to
virtue, make me to abhor my present mode of existence
and refrain evermore from dying my hand

in guilt. To thee, I offer my broken and subdued
spirit; I am in thy hand, take me and mould me
as thou wilt!”

“Sail ho!” shouted the lookout from the foretop-mast
head. The cry was again repeated by the
officer of the deck at the entrance of the companion-way,
before the pirate moved from his statue-like
attitude.

“Where away, Théodore?” he quietly asked, as
he slowly ascended to the deck.

“Off the starboard quarter, sir. I have put the
schooner about?” he said inquiringly to his captain,
looking with sympathy into his pale face.

“It is well, Théodore!”

“The stranger, sir, is in a line with the boat. If
he should be one of our cruisers—”

“True boy, true; we must watch over their
safety. Alter her course again, we must see that
they come not to harm.”

In a few minutes the schooner was once more
under sail, standing for the boat which was now
about five miles ahead.

“What do you make her?” he hailed to the man
aloft.

“I can't see her very distinctly now sir, she is
almost in the sun's wake. There! now I make her
out sir—a large vessel, and very square-rigged. I
think she must be a man of war. I can't make her
hull yet, she's down, to her fore-yard, under the horizon.”

“We must look out, and not run into the lion's
den;” said Lafitte; “there is a stir I see among
the craft in the bay of St. Marc, as though they
suspected the wolf was abroad,” he continued with
a saddened smile. “Stir up the crew, Ricardo.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Forward there all! Be ready to
tack ship,” shouted Ricardo. “To your posts
men.” A momentary bustle ensued, and dispersed

in different parts of the vessel, the crew remained
silently awaiting the next command of their officer.

The stranger gradually rose above the horizon,
and showed the majestic proportions of a large frigate,
standing close-hauled on the wind out of St.
Marc's channel. The boat containing the lovers,
was now within a mile of the ship of war.

“That is the French frigate señor, that passed us
the night we came out of the devil's punch bowl,”
said Ricardo. “See, she has the French ensign
flying at her peak.”

“Ha! it must then be the Count D'Oyley's frigate,”
said Lafitte. “So we shall in our turn, have
to play the fugitive.”

“No, señor,” said Théodore, “he will not pursue
us; but were it not as well to put about. See,
the boat steers for her.”

After watching with his glass for a long time, and
with much interest, Lafitte saw her run along side
of the stranger, who lay too and took the lovers on
board.

He then laid down the spy-glass, and giving in a
calm and measured tone, his orders to put about and
stand for Barritaria, with a melancholy expression
upon his fine features, he descended into his state-room,
leaving the command of the vessel for the remainder
of the day, to his lieutenant.