 | CHAPTER III. The forsaken |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
By word of mouth a single challenge from me,
That, man to man, if he have honour in him,
We may decide all difference.
—Chances.
Jurian was still looking out of the window after
Miriam, when the jailer again appeared at the door,
accompanied by a man enveloped in a tartan plaid.
“This is the gentleman you inquire for,” said the
jailer, pointing at Jurian.
“Leave us,” replied the other, “I desire to be
alone with him for a few moments.” The jailer withdrew,
and the stranger approached the window where
Jurian stood. “I presume, sir, you can divine the
purport of this visit?”
“I am not blest with the gift of divination,” replied
Jurian, “but perhaps I might read your thoughts, had
I a better view of your person.”
“Am I so soon forgotten?” said the other, throwing
off his cloak.
“Colonel Lindsay! You are not forgotten, and I
presume I am remembered too.”
“Right, sir,” replied the earl, biting his lips—“and
what do you augur from this visit?”
“Neither good nor harm. Good I have no reason
to expect, nor injury as long as I remain a prisoner.”
“True; until we can meet on equal terms, it is my
time is not far distant when we may meet as enemies
should meet.”
“Your mind, I perceive, is still imbued with your
Highland superstitions,” replied Jurian, with a smile.
“What superstition, sir? I do not understand you.”
“You have faith in the number three. Well, there
may possibly be a charm in a third trial that no one but
a Scotchman could discover.”
“You may discover it, sir.”
“So confident in the spell! I shall be impatient
until we put its virtue to the test—
Thrice; and once the hedge-pig whin'd.”'
“Shall I finish the incantation you have commenced?—
Then the charm is firm and good.”'
“Your wit is sharper than your sword, and of the
two, the latter is by far less offensive; so, sir, I should
be pleased to learn when we shall spill the baboon's
blood?”
“To-morrow at sunrise, if you are prepared.”
“Impossible! how shall I leave the prison?”
“Here is that will dissolve the bolts and bars,” replied
the earl, handing Jurian a slip of paper which he
perused.
“An order from the commander-in-chief that I shall
be released!—
Sponte suâ fama est, nullo solvente, catenas,'
am I indebted for this act of kindness?”
“At my solicitation general Howe granted it,” replied
the earl.
“I shall begin to believe that you deal in magic, indeed.
And in return for this favour you expect”—
“That you will meet me as a man.”
“Your wishes shall be complied with, for it would
be a pity to disappoint you after the pains you have
taken.”
“Have you a friend among the prisoners, whose
presence you would desire on the occasion? If so,
name him, and I will contrive that he shall accompany
us.”
“You are generous, and I do not apprehend that
you will take any undue advantage. All I desire is my
own sword.”
“It shall be returned. Young Morton is your friend,
and it would be a satisfaction to me that somebody
should act as your second.”
“My friend! a pretty cabalistical word, containing
about as much meaning as the abracadabra of the Syrians,
and yet more pregnant with mischief than the
whole vocabulary besides.”
“You object to him, then?”
“Not I; he will serve to look on as well as another.”
“Major M`Druid will act on my behalf, and I feel
convinced, from his sense of honour, he will be as
much your friend as mine upon the occasion.”
“Friend again, and in a different sense! A whole
dictionary might be filled in explaining that little word!
I am perfectly satisfied, sir, with the names you have
mentioned.”
“What weapons do your prefer?”
“Not the broadsword, or possibly the charm of
number three might be cut asunder,” replied Jurian,
smiling. A slight tinge coloured the cheeks of Balcarras,
and the other continued: “Pistols, I presume, will place
us more upon an equality; you can, however, make
your own selection, and give the charm a fair chance.”
“I have no objection to pistols, and as you have not
a case of your own at hand, you can take your choice
of mine.”
“I accept your offer.”
“Then to-morrow, at sunrise,” continued Balcarras,
“I may expect you on Walnut street wharf. We will
cross the river and fight on the opposite shore, that in
case I fall, there will be no danger of your being overtaken
and carried back to prison.”
“You are considerate.”
“Descend with me to the door, and there we part
for the present.” They left the room and met the
jailor in the passage, to whom Balcarras handed the
slip of paper, saying, “here are your instructions, sir;
this prisoner must be delivered into my custody; I am
colonel Lindsay of the Highlanders.”
“All is right,” said the keeper, and accompanied
them to the gate of the prison which he unlocked, and
they descended the rough granite steps to the street,
where they paused for a moment, and Balcarras turning
to Jurian, said—
“We are now equals, sir, and I rejoice at it; but
to-morrow will prove which is the superior.”
“That I deny. It may possibly decide which is the
better shot, but nothing more.”
“Well, that is sufficient for me.”
“The devil it is! I must say you have a vast deal
of curiosity on the subject, to hazard your life to gratify
it; for my part, I would not give five straws to
settle the question.”
“This is singular language, from one reputed
brave.”
“The truth does appear rather singular in these degenerate
times.”
“If such are your sentiments, why have you accepted
the challenge?”
“Purely out of courtesy to you. Society sometimes
imposes heavy taxes upon those who are willing to pay
voted a savage, unfit for polished life, if I did not cut
your throat, or permit you to cut mine.”
“You then reprobate this mode of settling quarrels?”
“It is one that I would never willingly resort to, and
perhaps shall never have the courage to decline. Still
there are injuries to which we all are liable, and unless
the injured party becomes his own avenger, the offender
will escape with impunity. No man, it is said, should
take the law in his own hands, even though his feelings
may be outraged by a villain, and the law add to their
poignancy by disavowing cognizance of the offence.
This is demanding a vast sacrifice of natural privilege,
and one that many are unwilling to concede. The social
compact is founded on intellect and refinement of
mind, and in order to secure its duration, it is necessary
to protect the basis of the institution. Let us not
be told that the law may not enter into the refined feelings
of the party aggrieved, for to such feelings is society
indebted for its proudest institutions, and without
them, we should speedily return to a state in which
brute strength would maintain the ascendency. As
long as we are liable to outrages which the law cannot
adequately punish, man will assume the character of
the self-avenger, though laws be enacted for his punishment,
and the consequent protection of him who
called forth his vengeance. So, sir, farewell until to-morrow,
when we shall discuss the subject with keener
argument.”
“Farewell, thou inexplicable being.”
Balcarras wrapped his cloak more closely around
his form, and bending his head to protect his face from
the keen night wind, directed his steps down the street,
while Jurian followed him slowly, at a distance, without
having any definite object in view. It was now
about ten o'clock, and the moon shone indistinctly, as
the gathering clouds that were flying rapidly and low,
obscured her brightness. At this period the dock was
place a substantial stone bridge was erected. The
creek above the bridge had already been arched over,
and formed a street, as at the present day, while below
it was uncovered, and at flood tide boats ascended the
dock as high as the bridge. As Balcarras approached
this spot, he was accosted by a hoarse and low voice—
“I have been waiting impatiently for you.”
He stopped, and raising his head from the folds of
his cloak, looked around, but beheld no one.
“Who was it spoke?” demanded Balcarras, but no
answer was returned. He heard footsteps approaching,
and a few moments after he was addressed by another
voice from a different direction.
“Why are you standing here alone, colonel, at this
hour? Your mistress is not so deaf to your complaints,
I hope, that you have come forth to tell your sorrows
to the moon?” He turned, and beheld M`Druid by
his side, who continued—“By my hilts, you have
chosen a romantic spot, and the very place where your
true lover may finish his business according to established
rules, for if the fit comes over you, it is but to
leap from the bridge, and you find a watery grave up
to the chin in the mire.”
“Ah! major, well met; was it you spoke?”
“By the powers, what a question is that for a man
in his senses! To be sure and it was, my darling. But
where have you been since we parted?”
“At the prison, in order to effect a meeting with
that upstart, Jurian Hartfield.”
“And how have you arranged matters?”
“He is to meet me to-morrow, at sunrise, on the
wharf, and then we shall cross to the opposite shore,
where the career of one of us must close.”
“That now will be beautiful; the affair could not
have been better managed if I had had a hand in it
myself.”
“And before it is finished, major, you shall have a
settle, in case of the worst, and time presses.”
They crossed the bridge, turned into another street,
and soon disappeared. Immediately after a squalid
figure came from a recess between the buildings, where
he had been concealed during the foregoing dialogue,
and also slowly crossed the bridge; after remaining
on the opposite side a few minutes, as if waiting for
some one, he proceeded down the street towards the
river. He had not advanced many steps before he was
met by a man ascending from the wharf.
“You have come at last; I began to fear you had
been discovered.”
“Corwin, well met.”
“You have overstaid the hour; what detained you?”
“I have been endeavouring to find out the best
means of escape,” replied Mauns, for it was he, “and
have been as far as the headquarters in the north. The
council has just broke up, and from what I can learn,
there is some important movement on foot.”
“Of what nature?”
“That I could not ascertain, but from the bustle in
the Hessian quarters, I conclude colonel Donop is to
take an active part.”
“Have you discovered any way by which we can
regain our freedom? True, I am permitted to wander
at large as a harmless being, and it matters little whether
I am here or elsewhere; but with you it is otherwise.
What can be done?”
“As I came along the wharves,” replied Mauns,
“I saw a man mooring a boat at the extremity of this
street, and as the night is dark we may elude the vigilance
of the sentinels, and escape by this means.”
“I fear the attempt will be hopeless.”
“I am certain it is the only sure way. The tide is
high ebb, and I am a Swede and have faith in water.”
While they were yet speaking, a man was indistinctly
seen crossing the bridge, and slowly advancing towards
to conceal themselves beneath the shade of the houses,
but as he drew nigh the sharp eyes of Talman recognised
Jurian, and he accordingly accosted him by
name.
“Who calls me?”
“A friend,” replied the other, and advanced from
his place of concealment. “This is a fortunate
meeting.”
“I should rather term it unfortunate, considering
the place we are in. But, Mauns, how have you escaped
from the State House?”
“By means of the great clock at the gable end.”
“The clock! how did that assist you?”
“When they locked me up for the night, I crawled
in among the works, and descended by the ropes by
which the weights are suspended.”[1]
“An ingenious mode, truly. I presume you lost no
time while you were in the clock,” said Jurian.
“No, I lost no time,” replied Mauns, paying no attention
to the attempt at a witticism.
“The hand of Providence has brought us together,
and will point out the path we are to pursue,” exclaimed
the hollow voice of the mendicant.
“Who is that?” demanded Jurian.
“It is Corwin, the maniac.” He came from his
place of concealment, and Mauns continued—“We
are about to attempt to escape, and you, of course, sir,
will accompany us.”
“I cannot leave here at present.”
“Nor do I know that we can,” replied honest
Mauns, “but still it is worth the trial.”
“The snares of Satan have encompassed him, and
tone.
“Are you on parole, sir?” demanded the sergeant.
“No; but in honour bound to remain here until to-morrow.”
“That he may spill the blood of a fellow mortal, or
have the sluices of his own heart opened,” continued
Corwin.
“How have you learnt this already?”
“The knowledge of it is not confined to me; it is
known where it will be remembered,” continued the
mendicant, pointing above. “Pause, ere thou art sullied
with a stain that no tears can wash away.”
“Impossible; it is now too late.”
“And thou art prepared to go forth and do the deed
that hath the primeval curse upon it. Obdurate boy,
rocks have been dissolved to water, and steel become
pliable, but who hath the skill to change the heart of
man when it rises in rebellion against the laws of God!”
The solemn manner of Corwin had an effect upon the
mind of Jurian, who replied—
“You may torture my feelings, but cannot change
my purpose,” and at the same time moved off, as if
about to leave them.
“Ay, turn from me,” cried the mendicant, “for he
who defies his heavenly Father, need not hesitate to
treat with contempt his earthly sire.”
The conduct of Corwin from the first had made a
deep impression upon the mind of Jurian, which was
increased at each succeeding interview. There was
nothing definite to be gathered from the vague expressions
that escaped the unhappy man, and though Jurian
at times supposed them to be nothing more than
the incoherencies of a man devoid of reason, still he
could not wholly relieve his mind from the idea that
there was a link which joined his fate, in some degree,
with that of the wretched wanderer. But the nature
of the tie it was impossible to divine. This idea now
his parentage had long been an all-absorbing
thought, as Corwin concluded, the young man clasped
his hands, tottered towards him, and fell upon his
neck—
“Are you my father? Speak, O! speak, are you
my father?”
“I know not what I say. I am not, though the time
has been when I would freely have given all that this
world affords to have called thee son. But it might not
be, and so my heart was broken and my brain was
turned.”
The moon emerged from behind a dense cloud, and
shone full upon the face of Corwin, which was raised
above, and indicated the acuteness of his feelings.
“Speak,” exclaimed Jurian, “and relieve me from
this agony of suspense: speak, do you know my father?”
The whole frame of the maniac trembled violently;
he burst into a wild laugh, which having subsided, he
replied in a tremulous and guttural tone—
“Know him! I have cause to know him. The angels
of heaven have recorded my injuries, and the demons
of hell have registered his crime in characters of
never-dying flame. Know him! yea, as the victim
knows the serpent that has stung him.”
“My mother; speak to me of my mother.”
Corwin shrunk from him, while a convulsive sob for
a few moments obstructed his voice, and he replied, in
the utmost agitation—
“Peace, thou poor unfortunate, ere you set my
death-wound bleeding afresh, and call forth the curse
of the child upon the grey head of the parent.”
“My mother; speak to me of her. Does she still
live?
“If to endure the unceasing gnawings of remorse
can be termed living, she lives, but only to undergo in
this world, the sufferings of the world to come.” He
be living, I am among the living too; I am not ready
for the grave yet, though dead to all creation save myself.”
“In mercy speak.”
“No; I am not ready for the grave yet, though I
marvel how the earth can bear one so wretched. I
have endured enough to crush a giant's strength, and
still I am not ready for the grave. Pour on, pour on;
what additional weight must I endure!”
He tossed his arms, and strode rapidly to and fro
along the pavement.
“Guide me to my mother,” continued Jurian,
“though the most miserable outcast, she is still my
mother, and as such I will reverence and cherish her.”
Corwin raised his hands, clenched them across his
forehead, and after remaining in this posture silent for
some time, abruptly exclaimed—
“My brain aches to bursting; the whirlwind is
there, and the rush of thought comes on in terrible array.
Action, action, or I shall go mad.”
He took a few hasty strides towards the river, and
Jurian followed him.
“Do not leave me yet,” he exclaimed, clinging to
him; “My fate is in your hands; do not leave me
yet.”
“I must move, I tell you, or I shall go mad. Release
your hold—I will not be stayed, for I am my own
master yet—free to think and act, wild as my thoughts
and deeds may be, and when they get beyond bounds,
why whips and chains will bring me to reason again.
Ha! ha! ha! a rare way that, a cunning way, indeed.
Whips and chains! whips and chains! Ha! ha! ha!”
“For pity's sake, satisfy my doubts.”
“Off, I say, I'll not be restrained. You are not my
keeper yet; not yet; off, off, and let me depart, for I
will harm no one, not even a worm.”
He broke from Jurian's hold, and hurried towards
they descended the hill that originally formed
the western bank of the majestic Delaware. A sentinel
was pacing the wharf with measured tread; as soon as
Mauns discovered him, he darted forward and arrested
the progress of Corwin, who was advancing without
being conscious of the danger of a discovery, and they
concealed themselves behind a flight of steps which
ascended from the street to the second story of a
building.
By this time an unceasing roll of the drums from the
northern part of the town, and the creaking and plashing
of oars was heard upon the water. As the moon
emerged like a fairy bark from the ocean of clouds
which almost continually obscured her brightness,
barges, with soldiers on board, were indistinctly seen
passing to the Jersey shore, while others, empty, were
returning to the Pennsylvania side. The sentinel occasionally
paused to contemplate this movement, without
being able to form any conjecture as to its meaning.
Mauns watched his opportunity, and while the
sentinel's face was turned up the river, intent on what
was passing in that quarter, he darted rapidly forward,
and by clinging to the wharf, let himself drop lightly
into the skiff that lay moored in the shade, out of the
view of the soldier.
Jurian's thoughts were now confined to a single
channel. He was on the eve of drawing the veil from
the mystery that had preyed upon his mind for years,
and all other considerations were absorbed in that single
thought. The moment had arrived, and if suffered
to pass it might never occur again, he therefore determined
to follow Corwin, until his doubts should be fully
satisfied. As a dense cloud obscured the face of the
moon the sentinel resumed his heavy tread, but paused
again when the moon reappeared. Jurian now followed
the example of Mauns with equal success, and seated
himself in the bottom of the skiff, in obedience to the
remained to be achieved, for Corwin was not yet on
board, and even should he succeed in passing the sentinel,
how should they get afloat without being detected?
All the wharves were guarded, and should they
suffer the boat to be borne along by the tide without
the use of the oar, they would run great hazard of
being taken or fired upon before they passed the southern
boundary of the city. Honest Mauns was sorely
puzzled to devise a plan to surmount these difficulties,
as he sat ruminating beneath the shadow of the wharf.
The curiosity of the sentinel was still attracted by
the movements in the north, and at intervals he paused
to scrutinize into what was going forward. Corwin
availed himself of a favourable opportunity to emerge
from his place of concealment, but before he had
reached the edge of the wharf the sentinel turned and
discovered him, and commanded him to stand. He
obeyed, for it was now too late to attempt to escape.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the sentinel.
“Looking out upon the heavens and the water,”
replied Corwin, “for there is no sight in nature so
well calculated to calm the troubled mind.”
“By the powers,” exclaimed the sentinel, “if you
were stationed here for three hours at a stretch, I am
thinking you would be after changing your opinion.
But stand back; this is neither time nor place for star-gazing.”
“I am a harmless man,” replied Corwin, “and
would but read the book that nature has unfolded to
the gaze of all. Do not drive me from my study.”
“Faith, master philosopher, you must study elsewhere,
so retire within the line.”
“Come with me, and I will read to you the wonders
of that immeasurable scroll. What a work is there for
the study of man! since every step he takes opens a
new field to explore, and though his brief life were extended
to the end of time, and he had hourly studied,
of the universe, still he would find that with all his labour
he had scarcely taken a drop from the fountain of
knowledge. Come with me.”
“And what for,” demanded the sentinel, “should I
study that same book, which from your own showing
I may not understand?”
Mauns raised his head above the edge of the wharf
to ascertain what was going forward, and Corwin's
quick eye no sooner perceived him, than he called the
attention of the sentinel to an opposite direction.
“Behold that star in the west, that brilliant star, just
above the horizon, that shines forth as a queen amidst
her satellites. Move this way, and you will see the
star I mean.”
“Botheration, now, and don't I know her as well as
I do my own mother's son? She's one of the planters;
but by the powers, master philosopher, if you were to
see the stars we have in sweet Ireland, you would be
ashamed of this blarney about your rushlights here.
The smallest among them is as big as your moon, and
bigger too. Such a twinkler as that now, wouldn't be
noticed at all at all. But this is a new country, and
the like may answer until it becomes thickly settled;
but when your population thickens it will never do. Of
a dark night now, you will be beautifully bothered to
find your way with nothing more than a firefly-lamp
like that to light you. Don't come over me, I say, with
the pride of your stars, for even your moon itself is as
dull as a pewter pint-pot.”
During this bravado of the sentinel his back was
turned towards the river, and Corwin made a sign to
Mauns to push off with the boat, as he himself had
abandoned all hope of escaping by that means. Mauns
understood the signal, and lost no time in fixing the
oars and cutting the rope by which the boat was secured.
This was attended with some noise, which attracted
the notice of the sentinel, and the boat no sooner
it. Mauns returned no answer, but seated himself and
seized hold of the oars.
“Hold on, and give the word,” cried the sentinel,
“or by all the saints in the calendar, I will blow you
out of water.”
“The king,” returned Mauns, who had fortunately
overheard the man who left the boat give the word as
he landed.
“Right,” replied the sentinel. “What is the meaning
of all this commotion in the upper part of the town;
have you heard?”
“The yagers are under marching orders,” replied
the other, at the same time dashing his oars lightly
into the water.
“You told me you were colonel Lindsay's servant.
Has he a command in this expedition?”
“No; his quarters are too comfortable. Good
night,” which reply was accompanied by a second pull
at the oars.
“Hold on. Who is that with you?”
“A friend.”
“But what has become of your brogue, Sawney?
demanded the sentinel, who perceived that the voice
was different from that of Lindsay's servant: “By the
mass it was as thick as my leg not half an hour ago,
and now you speak as clear as a whistle. Hold on, and
tell me what you have done with your brogue, man.”
Mauns made no reply, but pulled away at the oars.
“Hold on, I say, or I shall pepper your jacket.”
As this threat failed to arrest the progress of the skiff,
the sentinel raised his gun to put it in execution, when
Corwin, who had stood near him during the foregoing,
intent on the result, sprang forward and seized the gun,
as it was elevated to his shoulder. The soldier, thus
taken by surprise, was soon disarmed, and Corwin
threw the gun to the ground, when a scuffle ensued,
the result of which was doubtful for some moments,
which was counterbalanced by Corwin's superior
strength and stature. Fortune, however, soon decided
in favour of the latter. The contest took place near
the edge of the wharf, and the sentinel, in endeavouring
to disengage himself from the grasp of Corwin, made
a sudden and powerful effort to break from him, which
was successful, but unluckily his impetus was so great
that he could not check it before he reached the river.
He no sooner arose to the surface of the water than
he cried out lustily for assistance, and Corwin perceiving
that he was a good swimmer, and in no danger,
darted up the street by which he had descended, and
soon disappeared. Mauns, in the mean time, made
the light skiff glide over the water as though it had
been a creature of the element, and the sentinel having
regained the wharf, clambered up, muttering imprecations
upon the head of the star-gazing philosopher.
His cries for assistance had by this time brought
several soldiers to the spot, and as the boat was still
in sight, the cause of the alarm was soon made known,
notwithstanding the confusion into which the passion
of the Hibernian had thrown his ideas. As he stood
dripping on the wharf, he urged his comrades to search
for the star-gazing philosopher, as he termed Corwin,
and seemed to consider the escape of the prisoners in
the boat a matter of minor importance, provided he
could be found. The moon also came in for a share of
his ill humour, and he protested that the accident
would not have occurred had she only shown as bright
as a tin saucepan, that he might have seen what he
was doing; and then he deplored the condition of the
country, being so badly lighted, and protested roundly
that as the population increased, we should never be
able to get along at all, of cloudy nights, without sending
to Europe to get a new moon manufactured.
Many were long of the sentinel's opinion with regard
to every thing else but the moon.
The alarm having passed from one sentinel to another,
boats were seen putting off from different
wharves in pursuit of the fugitives, and at intervals a
gun was fired in order to arrest their progress, but it
had a contrary effect, and made Talman redouble his
exertions. As he heard the creaking of oars in his
wake, he remarked in a tone that approximated boasting,
that he must be a skilful waterman who overtook
them, for he could feather an oar with any man on the
river, wind and tide favouring.
Before they had passed the southern boundary of
the city, half a dozen boats had commenced the pursuit,
and an occasional shot was fired after them by
the sentinels on the wharves. Fortunately the tide
was ebbing rapidly, the skiff was a light one, and
Mauns had not boasted of his skill at the oar without
reason, for the little vessel glided over the surface
with all the buoyancy of a water-fowl, while the lumbering
barges were labouring wearily after her. Scarcely
a sound was heard to proceed from the oars as they
were lightly dipped in the water by the skilful Mauns,
while those of the barges creaked lazily on their pivots
at every stroke that was taken. It was not long before
Mauns had outstripped his pursuers, and they were
lost sight of in the obscurity of the night, still the
creaking of the oars, borne by the breeze over the surface
of the water, denoted that they were following in
his wake. For half an hour the chase continued, but
as there was no sound to guide them in the pursuit,
they paused, and after a short consultation, turned their
boats and pulled against the tide for the city. The quick
ear of Mauns caught the sound, and understanding
the movement he relaxed in his exertions, at the same
time remarking, with an air of triumph, that they might
as well send a buzzard after a red-neck, as such lubbers
in pursuit of a Swede on the water. Mauns was
not much given to boasting, but he prided himself upon
his skill at the oar, and at times he was disposed to
to any other in this branch of science. This was
an excusable piece of vanity in Mauns, and one that he
shared in common with the rest of mankind, for most
of us imagine we possess some faculty peculiar to ourselves,
and he who can balance a pole upon his nose,
or eat six pounds of bacon at a meal, boldly challenges
the admiration of all, and considers himself the eighth
wonder of the world.
Jurian during their progress down the river remained
silent, for he had failed in the accomplishment of
that which he most earnestly desired. His hopes had
been defeated by the absence of Corwin, and when he
perceived that there was no prospect of his getting on
board the boat, his first impulse was to spring on shore,
and remain with the mysterious man, with whose fate
he believed his own to be intimately connected. This
feeling was, however, checked by reflecting that by so
doing he would totally defeat honest Talman's prospects
of escape, and that no personal consideration
would justify a step of the kind. He accordingly remained
passive.
The following morning at the time appointed, Balcarras
and his two friends were upon the wharf, where
they waited impatiently for about an hour, at a loss to
account for the tardiness of the other party.
“What can it mean?” demanded Balcarras. “It
cannot be possible that he has become craven.”
“My life on it, his courage is not to be questioned,”
replied Morton.
“You may say that,” replied M`Druid, “and if
questioned, it is not here to answer it.”
“There is no sign of the boat, and yet Sawney protests
that he moored it safely at the wharf,” said Balcarras.
The servant called half a dozen saints to bear witness
to the truth of what he asserted, and again pointed
out the spot where he had secured it.
“It is all very comical, by my hilts,” exclaimed
M`Druid, and having grown weary of waiting, they returned
to their breakfast with rather an unfavourable
opinion of the honour and courage of the young American,
though with a much better appetite for their
meal than if they had found him at the place appointed.
Physiologists agree that there is nothing that tends so
completely to the destruction of appetite as a duel before
breakfast.
| CHAPTER III. The forsaken | |