University of Virginia Library

THE ARROW OF GOLD

1. CHAPTER I.

In the narrow loop-hole of a ruined tower on
the east coast of England, stood a man gazing
forth upon the sea, dark and tempest lashed.
His eyes were fixed upon a foreign looking barque
which for an hour past had been struggling with
masterly skill and seamanry on the part of those
who manned her, to beat off from the iron rocks
which the tower crested. It was near sunset,
and the low clouds east artificial night over all,
and through the gloom the three top sails of the
ship shone spectrally white. The waves were
high, and the wind terrific.

The watcher had been for half an hour observing
the movements of the stranger, not with
the nervous and humane anxiety which most
men would manifest in beholding fellow-men in
dire peril, and possibly on the verge of imminent
destruction, but the expression of his face was
cold and stern. His appearance was that of one
high born, with that finished severity of profile,
intellectual outline of head and haughty air, that
oftener is associated with the imperative character
of nobles accustomed to have the will executed,
than of men of lesser degree. Command
and obedience, life-long exercised, stamp their
distinctive seal upon the carriage of the head,
the movement of the eyes, the bearing and
step.

This man was clearly of high rank. Yet the
tower was a ruin, and its situation desolate
upon a spur of the rocky coast that projected half
a mile into the deep bay, and so lonely a wild
was it, that the peasant people gave it the name
of the “Devil's Castle.”

Its origin was remote beyond the reach of tradition
or record. Wild and horrifying tales
were connected with its history. For many
years past it had not been inhabited, and in lack
of heirs had escheated to the crown, which left it
to crumble to dust. Yet one tower remained in
good preservation. It had been the donjon-keep
of the old baronial lords. Beneath it men said
were dungeons that went as far into the depths
of the rock as the tower rose above the surface.

In a seaward loop-hole of this donjon tower,
stood this strange, stern man, gazing upon the
sea and the storm, and the imperilled barque, with
an expression of freezing satisfaction. He was
enfolded in a large, well-worn Welsh cloak,
and a low-crowned Cornish hat flapped in the
wind over his eyes.

“They do it bravely. But they will go down.
Their skill and courage avail not. They were
born to die, and their ship to have its end. What
avails contest for life? Ten or seventy years
longer for a man to live! What are they in the
measure of the eternities past and before us?
Men are but worms, and of no more value!

They strive for a few years with fate, and perish!
Why not perish to night those men of despair in
yonder ship? why not to-night, as well as forty
years hence? 'Twill be the same in the end!
Ah, they have missed stays! The gale has her
in the teeth! She drives landward! They may
now fold their hands, say their last prayer—as
well to-day, as any time—and go down to the
bottom of the sea! For what is a man dead,
better than a dead fish?”

The expression of his cold, cynical face, denoted
the total loss of human faith, hope, confidence
and trustfulness.

“You speak like a fool, my lord!” said a shrill
voice behind him.

He betrayed no surprise, nor turned his head.

“I have not said there is no God, woman!”
he answered, with a sneer on his dark and haughty
yet handsome face.

“As much. If man dead be no more than a
fish dead, then there can be no God!”

“What knowest thou? Leave me! Or rather
stay, if thou wouldst like to see men die with
drowning, calling on God, who hears never the
cry!”

“Thou art an infidel! Hadst thou believed,
thou wouldst not now have been an outlaw, and
hiding here to save thy head.”

“Nay, I care not for my head; hut I would
not like the king to have the sweet satisfaction
of getting it. I love him not well enough to
bestow voluntarily such a present on his majesty.
But as for death, it were the same now or
next century. Were a man's life ten thousand
years, yet compared with eternity, it were but a
day—a moment—a nothing—so it were the
same to us, whether we have ten thousand years,
a day, a moment, or not at all; for existence
measured by time is annihilation embraced by
eternity. So, whether we live or die, with this
awful eternity stretching away around us, it is
all one, for we become nothing.”

“My lord,” said the intruder, who was an old
woman, whose aspect was wild, and whose age
was evidently very great, “you will never prosper.
Life in time is given to man to make use
of to live in eternity. When I saw thee a child,
and heard thy infant prayers go up at thy beauteous
and holy mother's knee, I little believed to
see thee in manhood an atheist.”

“Go, good Alice, go! Look you to the supper.
Perchance some of this crew may be washed
ashore and will crave food. Bestir thee, and
if thou wilt discourse theology, talk with thy
cat! Hark! Hearest thou that sound? They
fire guns of distress! They pray to God with
their lips, and call on men with the mouths of
cannon! By the rood! men's ears will get the
sounds sooner than they will reach heaven.”

“Lord Robin, thou art wicked enough to
bring the red lightnings down on this old tower
and topple us all over into the seething sea below!
Carest thou for naught?”

“Nay, nurse good one, I will not shock thy
faith. Albeit, I marvel that thou hast any
Christianity in thy soul, since they say thou art
a witch and hast compacts and covenants with
Sathanas! They do say thou hast bought a
thousand years o' life, over and above, and for
this guerdon sold him thy soul. But I heed not
these slanders, thou knowest,” added Lord Robin,
with a slight smile passing over his cold visage.
“I like thee, because thou wert my nurse
in childhood; and I thank thee after thou wert
grown old, and hadst got such reputation for
dealings with evil spirits, thou hast given me
shelter in this old dungeon, whither the hatred
of thy race hath driven thee. But watch the
ship. Hear how bellow their guns! and the blue
smoke jets out and appears for an instant and
then vanishes into thin air like the prayers of
the poor wretches on board.”

“If it were possible to serve them, my Lord
Robin,” said the old nurse, with an anxious gaze
upon the vessel which was now driying towards
the cliff! “If there were but a boat and strong
men to go in it!”

“And what avail! Let them die to-day and
they will not not live and sin to-morrow,” answered
the nobleman. “And die they will, for
nothing can save them! Go!”

His attention was now fixed upon the barque.
The mariners, finding that it was in vain to try
longer to weather the lee shore, seemed to be
seeking out a place to drive upon where the shape
of the shore offered the best chances for escape.
The commander could be seen at the helm steering
firmly towards a beach at the foot of the excavated
steps that anciently led from the castle
to the sea side. Lord Robin, from his elevation,
could look down upon her decks as a bird flying
over would see them. There were a score
of men visible who were stationed at ropes; and
astern was a group composed of two ladies, a
lad and one old gentleman, whose white locks
blew wildly in the gale. They were clinging
together as one family, the females kneeling as
though in prayer. The nobleman thought he

discovered an infant folded to the bosom of one
of them.

“Poor souls! poor babes!” cried the old woman,
wringing her hands with emotion as she
peered over his shoulder out of the loop-hole,
and looked down on the stormy whirl of waters,
through which the vessel was driving with fatal
speed.

The helmsman, aided by two men, in vain
tried to cast the barque upon the sand-spit. The
current swirling past the cliff head, drew her
broadside with greater force than the wind drove
her forward, and she was blown like a feather
towards the cliff, the water at the base of which
was two hundred fathoms deep.

The helmsman, with a gesture of despair, quitted
his post, and for a moment, all was confusion
and running to and fro, quick casting of
casks and planks overboard to swim with, while
the shrieks and cries of the more terrified rose
above the roar of the storm. Lord Robin watched
with a fixed mouth and cold eye, yet not
without interest, the consummation of the tragedy
beneath him. The barque struck head on
against the cliff side, rebounded, and her masts
went by the board. Another dash against the
rock broke her in two amidships, and down
went the after part with half a score of living
souls, whose wails were their only requiem. The
forecastle, crowded with seamen, remained above
the waves only a few moments longer, when,
with a plunge, the huge fragment went perpendicularly
down.

The face of the noble changed not. The old
woman uttered a cry of horror and hid her face.

“Look, my Lord Robin! Does any one
swim?”

“Swim, woman? When lead swims, then
men will swim in such a cauldron as this! Dead
all! And why not? Men are born for this
very thing—to die! Matters it not, therefore,
when or how, in fire or in water! Beshrew us!
they will rest as quiet in the deep sea as in the
graveyard! Prayers nor guns saved them!”

“Lord Robin, you make me, wicked as I am,
shudder! I know that the prayers of men will
pierce heaven, through its walls be made of iron,
and its floors of brass. He that made the ear,
shall he not hear?”

“Then why died these, if Heaven heard?”

“Because Heaven is wiser than we are. It
were best they should perish, or they would
have been heard in their strong cries to God for
help.”

“You are a fatalist, old Alice; you call me
a deist; let both pass!” answered the noble,
with a slight laugh. “What seest thou down
there, that thou creenest thy scraggy neck so,
and strainest thy rheumy eyes?”

“A mortal being battling with the waves!”

“A plank or a spar tossed by the billows?”

“Nay, but a living man! I see him throw
out his arms with strong beating of the waves
that each moment roll over him!”

“I see him! There are two! He carries on
his arm a child! But they will not live five
minutes!”

“Can we not save them?”

“Save? Have you a rope fourscore fathoms
long, to cast to him, woman? Already he has
sunk with his burden. Well, better death now,
than to live to manhood for the child; for death
would come at last. Look ye! The sea is conqueror!
The blind waves o'ermaster men made
in the image of God! Canst thou read me this
riddle?”

But the woman had left him, and he was alone.
He continued to watch the sea, and the play of
the forked lightnings that darted from the clouds
with incessant arrows of fire, while the deep
howl of the remote thunder continued ceaselessly
echoing along the cliffs. At length night
gathered over the deep, and at intervals, the
lightning revealed in the offing a small schooner
closely reefed and laying to.

“There will anon be another wreck and another
tragedy for man to play his part in,” he said,
half aloud. “Life is only a battle for life—
men are hunted by death from the moment they
are born; and life is a continual flight and pursuit;
but the pursuer at last is victor.”

The nobleman left the loop-hole and called to
the old Dame Alice; but only echoes returned
his voice as it reverberated through the tower.
He descended a flight of stone steps and entered
a low apartment, where fitfully blazed a fire on
which boiled an iron pot. There was a rude
table, and a bench and keg, and a cot of dried
sea-weed in the room. This was the abode of
the old woman who had dwelt here after getting
a reputation as a witch, partly to keep up that
fame by the loneliness of her abode, and partly
to secure a shelter. The nighest peasant's hut
was half a league distant. Beyond that the
country was wild and heath-like; but ten miles
over the waste the towers of a city rose to the
eye, and pleasanter fields environed it.

The outlawed noble, for such he was, had a

few weeks before sought this secluded tower in
which she had so long dwelt alone. Here he was
protected and sheltered by its very desolation, as
well as by the evil reputation of Alice. The
old woman had received him without a question,
for in former years she had been his foster-nurse
And so we find them living, hostess and guest,
on the might of our story.

Passing out a low door, the nobleman entered
a more airy chamber which he occupied. Its
furniture was rude enough, comprising only a
mattress and one broken stool. There were a
few Latin books, and some paper and a pen lying
on the stool. A window opened from it towards
the cliffs, without casement, and through it the
storm blew with violence. It was a desolate
and inappropriate abode for a man with the air
of rank and command such as he possessed; but
crime drives men to share the lair of wild beasts;
for when men violate the laws of the land, they
are cast forth of men to consociate like Nebuchadnezzar,
with the beasts of the field. How dreadful
the condition of a man who fears to meet a
man! Such a wretch is isolated, and the earth
is a place of punishment of almost inexpressible
anguish.

Lord Robin feared the sight of man. He threw
himself upon his couch, and after tossing restlessly
for an hour, fell asleep. As he slept, the
blaze from the fire in the adjoining room flashed
upon and lighted up his face. Sleep, as death
will, had removed the experience of a guilty
soul from the outward features, which were now
calm, noble and strikingly handsome. The wicked
heart within betrayed nothing on the surface.
The face of the sleeping and the face of the waking
man were two opposite ones. Awake, his
brow was dark and bent, his eyes fierce and
watchful, his lips sternly compressed; his whole
form elate with the strength of powerful fancies.
He slept with the severe repose of the dead. The
storm passed over and the noon poured a flood of
light into the gloomy chamber. The winds
ceased to sweep around the tower. It was past
midnight. Lord Robin had been some hours
asleep when a step was heard on the tower stair,
and the next moment old Alice appeared, carrying
in her arms a young child. She hurried
with it to the fire, all the while muttering:

“Sweet angel! you shall yet come to life,
and smile on me! Never was such a face of
beauty! You shall be mine, little body, if you
come to! You want warmth! Ho, my lord!
Ho! Up and help me chafe the hands! He sleeps
like a rock! Let him rest! He may refuse to
let the child be brought to! I will let him alone!”

Then she proceeded to rub the little girl, a
fair child of four years, with a face as white as
marble, and of wonderful beauty. Her golden
hair was wet and hanging in rich perfume all
over her shoulders. “She looks like a little angel
that has fallen from the skies into the sea,
and would have been drowned but for me!” said
the dame, continuing to rub her and keep her
feet by the fire; and from a little crevice in the
chimney she drew a vial, out of which she poured
a liquid with which she moistened her lips
and nostrils. The lovely child soon after evinced
signs of reviving, and in half an hour opened
her eyes, looked around, smiled, and extending
her hands, articulated “mamma,” and then sank
to sleep.

“She is safe! All is well! She will awake
quite herself,” cried the dame, with joy. Poor
babe! Her ma is in the deep sea, and she dreams
of being in her arms! It was a perilous work
to get her as she floated ashore on the dead
man's body, who, though dead, was her safety by
her clinging to him. If I had not caught her
as she was driving past the rock in the eddy, she
would never have breathed again. She is now
mine! I will make a fairy of her. She shall
learn to tell fortunes, and I will make the poor
ignorant countryfolk believe she is a spirit. She
will make old Alice's fortune, and when she
grows up to be a young lady, I will give her all
my riches for a dowry, and marry her to some
lord—nay, a prince would not be too high for
her! But what is here on the floor? A necklace
as I live, and all of gold and precious stones!
This is a prize. I must quickly hide it from
Lord Robin, for he needs money! The child is
of good lineage, of a surety; and her dress is of
the richest cloth!”

The old woman bent over the child, and for
some time watched it sleeping on her knees as
softly as it lay in its mother's arms. She then
removed it carefully to her rough couch and lay
down by its side, though first hiding the necklace
in a secure place from her guest.

Lord Robin could not sleep. Dreams, reaching
some fearful climax would many times in
the night cause him to utter a cry of distress, and
to leap upright upon the floor. In one of these,
he awoke not long after the old woman had fallen
into deep sleep.

“Is there no rest, sleeping or waking, for me?”
he cried. “By day my memory tortures me, and

by night I live over again the accursed past!
Like an avenging spirit, the apparition of my
murdered father haunts my sleep! Would God
I could keep awake and ever look about me, and
so let external objects draw off my thoughts
from this dread within! Cold drops stand on
my brow, and my frame trembles with horror!”

The nobleman, in his irregular movements up
and down the stone floor, passed unconsciously
through the wide arch that afforded communication
between the room occupied by the dame,
and was there pacing to and fro, deep in his dark
thoughts, when he suddenly stopped, with an
exclamation!

A broad stream of moonlight poured through
the lofty lattice, like a silver river, and fell brightly
upon the face of the sleeping child! It
lighted up its golden hair, lent a radiance of supernatural
glory to its fair brow, and revealed a face
such as seraphs must have in heaven! Lord
Robin paused and gazed as if he had seen a
vision. He held his breath and remained motionless,
as if he feared a step would cause it to
vanish. Save the face of the child, all else was
in obscurity, the bed, the muffled head of the old
dame—and out of, and from the midst of the
darkness, was revealed the lovely sight, such as
Lord Robin thought could not appertain to
earth.

“If sleeping demons have been permitted to
visit me, and madden me with horrors unspeakable,”
he said, mentally, “waking, I behold an
angel! Yet this fair sight must be human, for I
see the moving lips and smile of one pleasantly
dreaming; and the living heart lifts the vestment
with its undulations! I will draw near and see
what means this sweet vision.”

He bent over the lovely child. Its rich hair
was still wet. He wondered whence it had come.
A slight frown contracts its forehead. A troubled
look crosses the face.

“Mama! dear papa! Let me not drown!”
it murmurs, and turns restlessly.

The careful dame even in her sleep seemed to
hear and be conscious of her precious charge.
For without waking, she seemed to answer:

“I will save the babe! I will throw out the
line as the under-tow drives the dead man this
way! I have it! The line catches the body by
the arm, and the noose holds close and fast. It
comes shoreward. I reach it! I take off the
child from his arm, and drag it from the jaws of
the waves! Away darts the dead body, which
has been so good and safe a ship for bearing this
babe to land. Heaven shrive thy soul, brave
sailor! This child, if it live, shall be taught a
prayer for thee! Fear not, babe! You shall
have a mother in old Alice!”

Here the old woman, who had in her sleep
lived over again her good deed and given it
words, passed her arm over the child with unconscious
instinct of preservation and tender
solicitude.

“I see! I need not ask whence came this fair
child? Alice hath saved it from the sea. Hapless
child! Surely the decree of fate that cast
thee on these rocks, hath bestowed beforehand
beauty on thee that would disarm misanthropy.
Though my race has cast me out from its bosom,
and I am at war with mankind, yet will I make
exception and love thee, child! Already thy
sweet face hath touched my heart, and thy loveliness
appealed to my manhood.”

His dark eyes rivetted upon her seemed to
magnetize her; for feeling that mysterious influence
which makes us conscious of being looked
closely upon, even in sleep, she started, awoke,
opened her large, glorious eyes, and fixed them
full upon his own.

“Pa, my dear papa!” she exclaimed, in a voice
of love and delight; and extended her arms towards
him.

“An omen of good!” he murmured. “I will
henceforth be to her as a father.” And stooping
towards her, he kissed her and folded her with
emotion to his heart.

“Yes, my beautiful child, I am indeed your
father.”

No sooner did she hear him speak, than she
uttered a sharp cry of terror, and struggled so to
free herself from him, that Alice awoke.

“What—ho, my lord, do you seek to kill the
child?” she shrieked, springing upon him and
fastening her long fingers upon his throat.

“Off—wretch! Release me!” and he flung
her back upon the bed, and taking the child,
which was now intensely alarmed and trembling
with all the sensibility of mortal fear, at finding
herself in such a place and company, and environed
by such violence, he attempted to soothe
her. She looked from one to the other, and then
flying from him, cast herself upon the breast of
the old woman, and hid her face crying:

“Keep me—take care of me—the dreadful man
is not my pa! I know you are good, if you are

old and ugly; for you speak so. Let him not
take me.”

“Sathanas himself may have her for me, woman,”
answered the outlaw, his rage fairly aroused.
“Even,” he added, “even a child reads
crime on my brow, or hears guilt in my voice, and
shuns me for such a thing as thou art.”

As he spoke, sounds upon the water made him
go to the loop-hole and look out, when he saw a
schooner just laying to within a quarter of a mile
of the cliff, her snowy sails shining broadly and
bright in the moon, which was so brilliant as to
reveal her deck dark with men, and warlike
with guns.

2. CHAPTER II.

“This bodes me no good,” was the thought
that passed across the mind of the outlawed noble,
as he gazed from his loop-hole in the ruined
tower down upon the armed schooner as she lay
to, clearly visible in the bright moonlight.
“Doubtless my retreat is suspected, or Dame
Alice, for gain, hath betrayed my shelter; and
this vessel hath been sent to take me prisoner.
What other motive could it have in visiting this
inhospitable iron coast and coming to off the
castle? See! a boat is dropped from her quarter.
Men filled! I see the gleam of arms, and
even the ringing of steel comes clearly to the
ear. They give way and pull towards the spit
of sand! This is no place for me, if they seek
me! Ho, Alice! up with thee! Here come
armed men ashore, and will soon be climbing up
to the tower!”

The old woman was at once to her feet, the
fair child clinging to her and casting glances of
fear and wonder towards Lord Robin. She
whispered to her:

“It is papa's face—but not papa's voice! Let
him not touch me!”

“He shall not harm thee, child!” answered
the woman, as she looked down from the window.
After a moment's scrutiny, she said:

“It is a king's vessel, my lord! I know her
well. He who commands her is a young lord,
and has a mother living not far away hence, towards
the great town inland ayond the heath;
and every year in his cruise he cometh to land
here to visit her. Thou hast naught to fear.”

“Is what thou sayest true, woman?” he demanded,
with a searching glance.

“Yes, Lord Robin, true and fair! Would I
deceive you?”

“You might,” he muttered, “if you knew my
crime; albeit, you nursed me when a child!”

“Whatever it be, God will judge thee, not I!
It is not for a poor mortal like me to avenge and
punish.”

“I mistrust the boat, not thee, Alice. Thou
mayest be mistaken! They are landing. I must
conceal myself. What place knowest thou in
thy old tower here, safer than another? But
let me assure the child that I love and will protect
her!”

The fair little stranger drew back and cried
with fear. “Go away—I am afraid. You are
not my dear pa!”

“And yet why will you not love me, sweet
child?”

“Because you look wicked! God doesn't love
you, and I can't!”

“Curses even of innocence follow me!” he
said, with a deep oath of rage. And advancing
towards her he grasped her by the arm, and tearing

her from Dame Alice, cried, “I will make
you love me, whether God loves me or not!
Back, old woman! I am fleet of foot and strong
of arm. Pursue me in my flight and you peril
your life! If I am to be driven from men, I will
have at least one thing to love and to be loved
by. The desolation of a heart unloved and unloving,
is too dreadful to bear. Release my
arms!”

“Never, my lord! Do you not see the child
dreads you? This violence is not the way to
make her love you. And you will not escape
these armed men burdened by this little girl.
After they are gone and you are safe, I will give
you up the child, and you may teach her what
you will.”

“Be it so!” he answered, yielding. “Hark!
I hear those men near! Secrete me, and betray
me not,” he said, quickly.

“This way, Lord Robin,” she replied; but her
face was strangely altered in its expression.

He followed her along a passage between the
walls of the tower and a row of half ruined apartments.
Descending a flight of steps, she came
to a stone door which led into a deep excavation
made in the rock on which the tower stood.

“Enter here, my lord. The door is so shaped
that when shut it is invisible, and to the hand
and eye there seems to be only the face of the
cliff.”

“How long wilt thou keep me here, woman?”
he asked, hesitating to enter, yet acting with
decision as he heard voices above.

“Until they are gone.”

“Get them soon off, for this dungeon is dump
and dark as a grave. But so I am safe—I am
content to occupy it a few hours. Have them
soon away.”

“Trust my wits, my lord.”

“Let me have the child—they may steal it
from thee!”

“No, no, I will not go in!” cried the child,
firmly.

“Nay, I will see that they do nothing of that
kind,” she answered, after a moment's startled
thought. “Farewell, my lord, till I can assure
thee of thy safety.”

Thus saying she swung the door heavily to,
and forced in the stone bolt, which so fitted as to
be undistinguishable from the door, which was
cut into the irregular shape of the varying grain
of the rock, so that it was rather a fragment artificially
cut out of the rock than a shapely door.

“What cowards guilt makes of men! Once
he had a lion's courage—and now he flies and
hides under ground like a mole, at the sight of
men he never saw! And because all men are
his foes, he would make this sweet child love
him—and yet would win her love with a tiger's
fawning. Fairy,” she added, as she led the
trembling child along lightly up the dark passage
with a torch of pine, “sweet fairy, you must
not tremble. I am your friend! I will make you
so happy. He shall not come near you.”

“I can't be happy. I must see my ma! I
can't be happy with you. Where is my dear
ma? Where is the ship? This is not the ship.
I saw pa in the water. Where is he and my ma?”

“You shall soon see them,” she said soothingly.
“Here come men. Don't be afraid of
them.”

But before she could prevent it, the little girl
darted away from her and hid in the darkness.
She was going to pursue her, when two men,
one an officer in the British naval uniform, came
close upon her. She was instantly seized and
commanded not to give any alarm.

“Your name is Dame Elsy?” said the officer,
who while speaking, was joined by four more
men, with pistols in their hands, and one or two
dark lanterns.

“Alice, not Elsy,” she answered. “And Alice
or Elsy, what do you want with a lone poor
dame, who has no other home left on earth than
this old tower, shared with the owls and bats?”

“And with a companion beside,” significantly
said the officer, who was a man of thirty, brown
with years of sea-exposure, and stern in voice
and eye with years of command over men. There
was, however, a frank, nautical air about him,
singularly prepossessing.

“What other than a poor woman like me
would live here, captain?” she answered evasively.

“Not of choice. Where is the man whom you
have sheltered for some weeks?”

“Man?”

“Be open and truth-telling, or it will go hard
with thee!” said the officer, sternly.

“Whom do you look for?”

“Your former master, Lord Robert Clan
William! We know he is here, or has been
here, waiting to escape by sea.”

“Yes—he was here, but—he's escaped for
safety. When he saw you coming ashore, he
fled!”

“Knowest thou whither? Speak out, woman,
if thou wouldst thyself escape.”

“He is my master!” she said with hesitation,
and looking with fear upon the drawn swords
and eager faces about her.

“Quickly—say whither he went—or your
own life will pay the forfeit for harboring a
murderer!”

“Whom hath Lord Robin slain?”

“His father, with poison!”

“His father?” she repeated with horror.

“No less a crime! Besides, treason against
the state hath been discovered since he fled.”

“Slain his father! I believed he died in his
bed a natural death, a year ago!”

“So all men believed. But it is come out
now that he was poisoned, and the disentombed
body hath borne its own witness, which hearing
of, caused the parricide to seek safety in flight,
and desert all the honors, the name, and title,
and wealth, to enter upon the possession of which,
before his time, tempted him to the great crime
of a father's murder; and now I have told thee
so much, for thou seemest to be a woman of
sense and intelligence, above thy wretched lot
here, I will add, that his papers left behind, unfolded
a treasonable correspondence with France,
in prospect of the threatened invasion. Wicked
and powerful, he was secretly the state's arch
enemy, and used the wealth he had got by bringing
about his father's cruel death, to forward his
views. Such a man should receive no shelter
from his kind. Reveal at once where he has
concealed himself; for information is clear that
he is in the tower; for our spies on land have
watched closely all avenues, days before we
reached here; and have seen him, and we know
he is still here. But what lovely child is this?”
the officer exclaimed, as the little girl, gathering
confidence as she listened, in the speaker, and
prompted by instinct, suddenly ran forward from
her hiding-place, and caught him by the hand!
With thrilling tones of voice, she cried:

“Sir, good, dear officer, take me away from
this dreadful place and wicked people! The
woman is little good—but I don't want to stay
with her. Don't you know my ma? I have
been drowned and they are drowned, or I should
see them! I never was away from my pa and
ma before! I know you are good, and will not
hurt me!”

The officer pressed her soft hands with which
she clasped his, bent down and kissed her, and
said, gently:

“You are safe with me! I will take you
home. Woman, how came you by this lovely
child?”

“I took her dripping from the sea, last night!
She was the only soul saved from the wreck of
the barque.”

“You did well! (so the vessel did go ashore
in the storm, as we feared,” he added, turning to
his lieutenant). “You must give up this child
to me, and tell me at once where this Lord
Robert is?”

“Never will I give up the child. She is
mine!” cried the woman, and springing towards
the little girl as she was held by the officer,
released her with sudden violence, and darted
with her along the dark passages of the tower,
and was out of sight before pursuit could fairly
begin, so unexpected was the bold act.

“Give chase, my men!” called out the officer.
“Take some of you one way and some of you
the other, while you, lieutenant, will go outside
and intercept her. I will take the way she has
gone!”

The shrieks of the child, which sounded as if
she was endeavoring to suppress them by force,
were a sure guide, and Dame Alice was soon
overtaken as she was ascending a broken stairway
towards the top of the tower. Upon seeing
the captain close upon her, she bounded upward,
and reached the open floor of the tower which
was now roofless. The next moment she was
standing upon the projecting stone cap of a buttress.
Below, two hundred feet of wall and
cliff in sheer descent, rolled the surges with the
roar of thunder against the rock.

“Advance one step, sir captain, and I cast the
child into the sea whence I took it! No power
shall rob me of my right! If I may not keep
her for my old years to love, no one shall have
her.”

The officer stood transfixed with indecision.
That she would fulfil her word her resolute looks
clearly convinced him. He was about to parley
with her, when the child made a spring towards
him; the sudden movement caused her to lose
her balance, to recover which, she instinctively
released her hold upon it. The child fell upon
the very edge of the tower with its face and
hands inward, and its feet hanging over the
frightful gulf. The officer quickly caught her
by one hand, as she was balancing between life
and death, and drew her in upon the tower floor,
but with such rescuing violence that she fell
senseless from fright and pain at his feet. At
the same instant the woman, unable to recover
herself, madly beat the air with her bony hands.
But in vain her superhuman efforts. With an

expression of indescribable despair upon her
face, she suddenly shrieked with an appalling
cry, and losing her footing, reeled and pitched
headlong out of sight.

The officer echoed her shriek with a voice of
horror; and bending over, saw her descending,
turning over and over in her progress, until she
struck the sea and disappeared in its depth.

“Rather thyself, old dame, than this fair child,
whom thou wouldst have cast over to this dreadful
death! Thou wilt rest sound enough a-neath
the wave till Gabriel's trump. And now, my
sweet little angel, I trust thou art not seriously
hurt by my flinging thee so rudely down as I
caught thy hand; but it was my only chance for
thee!”

And he laid down the torch which he had held
until now, to raise her up. At this crisis he was
rejoined by his lieutenant, and hastening with
their lovely burden down to the court, where
there was a well of water, they speedily revived
her with its refreshing coldness. When she
came to, she looked fearfully around, and then
said:

“O, let her not have me! She will kill me,
and drown me in the sea!”

“No—do not fear, my sweet child,” he said,
tenderly. “She is dead, herself, in the sea!
You shall soon be safe with a kind mother, and
with everybody who will love you and pet you,
and make you forget your sorrow and tears.”

“O, shall I? O, take me to dear mother! I
haven't seen her since she was in the big ship in
the naughty storm!”

“Go at once to the hamlet inn, Antonio,” said
the officer, “and order three horses for me!
Have them here at once. 'Tis but three miles.”

This order was addressed to his servant, a
young Spanish lad of eighteen (whose life's
story in itself was full of romance enough for a
tale, if we had time to tell it), who, answering,
“Si, senor,” quickly disappeared on his errand.

The officer now laid his cloak folded upon a
stone bench, and placing the little girl upon it
with tenderness, soothed her with promises of
soon being at home. In a little time she fell
asleep, with her head upon his arm.

“Was ever created thing so lovely?” he said,
half aloud, as he gazed upon her. “An orphan
child of the sea! Of good lineage and noble is
she, if beauty and perfection of hand and foot
are signs of blood. But I must not idle here.
Now that that old witch's tongue is silent, we
cannot learn from her this outlawed noble's hid
ing-place. Let us search the tower thoroughly,
Perey,” he said to his young lieutenant; “and as
it is now daybreak, we shall have light to aid
us.”

A search was now instituted of the closest
character. More than once those who sought
the noble passed the wall wherein he was concealed.
He heard their voices, and gathered
enough to know that they were, indeed, as his
fears foretold, looking for him. He thanked old
Alice in his heart for the secure place in which
she had so carefully hidden him, and feeling secure,
he laid down on the hard rock to try to get
some rest, trusting that when he awaked, his
pursuers would have left the tower. Suddenly
a shriek far above him in the air, startled him!
Then a dark body passed like a descending rock
by a little window in the cliff. He was unable
what to make of it. But it was the falling body
of the woman! Again he slept. When he next
awaked, they had departed. It was high noon,
and they had been gone two hours—Captain
Manners, satisfied that the nobleman had escaped
him by leaving the tower at the outset, on
seeing him land. Lord Robin could see that it
was day by a light that came through the breathing
hole, or small window, in the rock, that looked
towards the sea. It was not large enough to
put his head out of, yet sufficiently so to afford
him light and air, and a prospect of the ocean;
and even, by putting his face close to it, he could
discern the topmasts of the armed schooner laying-to
under the cliff.

“Their vessel is not yet gone! Perhaps Alice
waits till they sail fairly off before she comes to
let me out! So I am discovered at last! They
know my hiding-place? Could the woman have
betrayed it for their gold! But it may not be,
since she hides me from them! I will wait with
patience! Better be here a time than in a king's
prison, or on the scaffold, with a block of wood
for my pillow! When I get out again, I will
take the first ship I can reach for the wilds of
America! There, they tell me, men question
not men! All are free to come and go; and the
laws of the old world have not arms long enough
to reach their fugitives. Here I have been like a
lion caged—there I will be like the lion free in
his retired forests! Ho! Alice! Nay, I must
not call too loud! My foes may yet be near.
But I hunger, and am perishing for water! I
will try and rest again—and in sleep forget I am
here!”

But he could not repose. He walked up and

down his cavern, beneath the foundations of the
tower, and ever and anon paused and listened at
the door! He would then try it, and endeavor
to open it, but it moved no more than the rock
out of which it was cut. He then looked out of
his little crevice upon the sea. The vessel was
sailing easily along under main, foresail and jib,
the breeze light, evidently waiting for her boat's
crew and officers. By this he was assured that
they must be searching for him in the vicinity of
the tower.

So hours passed on. He grew impatient, and
then anxious. He was instantly passing between
the little window in the rock and the door of
rock. The blood red rays of the setting sun fell
slanting into his hiding-place. The sea was
crimson with its beams. To his great joy, he
saw the schooner come out from under the cliff,
with her boats all aboard, and with her canvass
set alow and aloft, steer seaward. This sight
caused him to forget his day of torture and anxiety.
As the schooner receded, his heart grew
lighter, and he breathed freer.

“They are full a league away now, and are
leaving, giving up the search. It has been a
hard day's purchase this pleasing sight. Now
I shall soon be released! Already the shades of
evening veil her from my sight, and the stars
begin to sparkle above the waves. Ho! Alice—
dame—good dame, Alice!” he shouted, as he
approached and shook at the door.

“Come and open!”

He listened, and shouted again:

“Woman! nurse! Alice! I am hungry, and
thirsting for water! Haste and open! The
vessel is two leagues away—and where dost thou
loiter?”

He listened, but heard no sound save that of
the dashing of the waves, as it was borne upward
to his ear from the base of the cliff.

It grew darker in the cavern each moment,
and he finally shouted, at the full top of his deep
voice, sharpened by anger and half-awakened
suspicion:

“Hag of a woman! Ho, hillo! Why do you
not come and open this door, and let me forth?
Shall I be left to die?”

“Die!” answered a distant echo from the
vault's galleries.

He paused, amazed! It seemed the voice of
a mocking demon. Fear and suspicion had already
begun to be formed in his mind—mere
shadows, at first, flitting across his thoughts.
At length, he put them into the shape of words,
as he paced fiercely to and fro, at intervals stopping
to utter a loud shout.

“What if she has been carried off, and is now
a captive in the vessel I saw so gladly leaving
the coast! If so, I rejoice at my own destruction,
for only she knows where I am—only she
can open my door! Yet, wherefore should they
take her? They seek only me! Perhaps—
perhaps”—he gasped, “she has been slain, for I
heard a fierce cry and sound of distress, and her
voice! Perhaps, she has only fled, and will return
soon! I will try and think so! I will not
dwell on the worst side of the dread alternatives!
I will wait. I will be composed. I will be content
to pass this night here, and in the morning,
she will be here! Come to my aid, patience!
Strengthen me, manhood and courage! Away,
cowardly fears and apprehensions and timid suspicions.
I will let the morning bring all to pass.
So! it is hard resting, on hunger for a couch,
and thirst for a coverlid; but it is better than the
king's prison. Better the ills I have than those
I might have!”

Thus soliloquizing, he concentrated the energy
of a spirit of no ordinary strength of character,
and with a calm, though rigid aspect, stood leaning
by the hole in the rock, and gazed quietly
out upon the stars. There was a slight breeze
which poured in at the crevice and cooled his feverish
brow. The wind at the same time blew
outward, from a rough spur of the external rock,
a shred, like a streaming pennon, which flapped
between him and the evening sky. It attracted
his attention, and he at length extended his arm,
and, disengaging it from the sharp needle of the
rock, drew it in.

“What is this? A fragment of cloth, and intermingled
with hair—human hair! How can
this have come here! No human being could
have passed out of this small crevice and left it
clinging to the rock! Doubtless some wretch
has fallen, or leaped, from the tower above, and
their clothes have caught in the descent, and
shreds have been left here. Well, they are at
peace! The only good of this life is that it has
death at the end!”

He cast the long hair and fragment on the
floor, and soon forgot it! though at intervals he
would wonder if the dark body he had seen falling
in the morning, like lightning, past his loop-hole,
had not been a human body.

All night, he walked the cavern. The secrets
of his meditations, who may reveal! Who
knoweth the things of the spirit of man but

the spirit of man within him? A life-time may
be reviewed in a wakeful night! Thoughts go
swifter than pens, and thoughts write out volumes
on the memory with immeasurable rapidity.
The acts of a long life, good and evil, the thoughts
can volume in a few hours. When wicked men
are wakeful, they read themselves! They are
their own book. Read—read—read they must!
They may shut their eyes, but the eyes of the
soul close never, and read on and read ever,
whether the outward man will or no! This terrible,
ceaseless reading of the life is what makes
a night of wakefulness so dreadful to bad men!
So, Lord Robin passed the long night with the
blazing eyes of his soul perusing the acts of his
life, to which the ever open ears of his conscience
were vainly tried to be closed. At length, day
came. The sun rose, and the gloom of his cavern
was dispelled. Hunger and thirst now made
him frantic. He shouted for dame Alice. With
his dagger twisted into the close joint, he tried
to open the stone door, but broke the steel at the
first trial. He began to utter execrations upon
the woman, and to charge her with wilful desertion,
when his eyes fell on the piece of dress.
He took it up from the floor, and instantly recognized
it as a part of the gown she had worn; and
the long gray and black hair, which he saw was
torn up by the roots from the head, he knew was
hers.

For a few moments, he remained stupefied
with the fearful discovery. The certainty that
the body which had fallen down the cliff was
that of dame Alice was now clearly apparent to
his appalled soul.

“She has perished! They have cast her over
the wall, and my fate is sealed! I am buried
alive!”

This was spoken with a hollow voice, and a
face as pale as the marble that effigies the dead
of earth. His hand shook, that grasped the lock
of hair, and his whole frame was agitated.

“I see it! My doom is sealed! The woman
is no more! The secret of my shelter was
known to her alone. What said she, as she left
me! That the secret of the door was so done,
that no eye, no hand could detect, but only those
who knew it! The woman is murdered by
them—perhaps for refusing to betray me, and I
am left to perish—entombed alive!”

He at length, with an aspect of despair scarcely
lighted by a ray of hope, surveyed, with a ghastly
look, his prison! He walked carefully around
it. He examined every irregularity. He inspected
the door, and tried to shake it. He
threw himself across the room, like a battering
ram, against it. He then examined the window.
It was scarcely larger than to receive his arm,
and the rock was two feet in thickness.

“I must die!” he said, after an hour's restless
and frenzied examination of the strength of his
hiding-place. “My voice can never be heard,
save by the mocking billows. Must I die?
Must I perish here day by day? feel death eating
at my heart and drying my brain? Nay!
I will meet it! I have my dagger left. It shall
be my friend, to end my torture ere it begins.”

3. CHAPTER III.

Ten years have passed since the scenes in the
foregoing chapter transpired, and we once more
return to the tower upon the cliff, but not with
the same characters. The evening sun glances
its arrows of gold and crimson along the rippling
sea, and is reflected richly from the wooded
cliffs and rocks, tinging them with a ruby glow.
Far and wide expands the ocean, its line unbroken
by isle or sail, until it meets the rosy
horizon.

A boat lay moored in the little cove by the
sand-bar, at the foot of the steep path leading
from the tower to the sea-side, at the place where
Dame Alice had so bravely rescued, ten years
before, this very night, the lovely little girl
wrecked with the barque. The boat is that of a
fisherman, and over its side hang nets, a-drying;
its brown sail is furled to the low, black mast.
It contains no one; but ascending the steep
steps of the cliff-side is a youth and an old man,
who have just landed from her. They soon
reach the top, the latter laden with shining fish,
while the other carries across his shoulder a dipnet,
through the interstices of which shone, with
divers bright tints, a number of beautiful sea-shells,
of all sizes.

“It is a steep climb, lad,” said the old man,
setting down his strings of fish, as he reached
the top; “I once had limb and wind to mount
it, and not mind it no more than a hare! But
I be getting old a-now! I am well on to sixty-seven,
and that is pretty close on the threescore
an' ten!”

“I will take the fish for you, father! you go
and lay down under the old tower wall till I get
back,” said the youth, with affection, while a
noble look of benevolence lighted up his handsome,
though sun-burned, face.

“Nay, Philip, my son! I am not yet good
for nothing!” said the old man, stoutly. “You
have enough weight with your shells, and the
quality ladies will rather buy them than my fish.
When I was a lad, ne'er a penny could a man
have got for a sea-shell; but now it is a better
trade than fishing. I will rest me here a bit,
and then will trudge for the houses o' the
gentry.”

“Father,” said the lad, gazing upon the tower,
“while you are resting, I will go and look over
this old place; for I never yet had time to see
more than the outside.”

“Nay, boy, thou art best outside o' it,” answered
the fisherman, in a grave tone. “The
place has an evil name, and I have reason to
know it is no place for an honest Christian to set
foot in.”

“Is it haunted, father?” asked the youth with
interest, and lively curiosity evidently awakened.

“I have heard the cry and wail of ghosts or

devils, no one knoweth which; and I do not
want to hear such sounds again.”

“Where was it, father? I recollect that last
year, when we came down here from the hamlet
where we live, you said that robbers were haunting
here.”

“Yes, robbers and ghosts, and Sathan, it may
be. It is a bad old place, and I ne'er heard good
come o't. Once it was dwelt in, some dozen
years or so ago, by an arrant witch, Dame
Alice; and one night, in a storm, the devil flew
off with her from the tower top and dropped
her, shrieking awful, in the sea! Some say she
believed that she could fly, and so jumped
off, in her folly, and was drowned at the bottom
of the cliff. Her ghost haunts the place ever
since! Sometimes she is seen dancing a top o'
yon rock, and sometimes skipping about o'
moonlit nights on the sea below!”

“Hast seen her, father?”

“Many a time! But I always gave her a
wide berth; for I could hear her scream long
before she was in sight.”

“Perhaps it was a curlew, father?”

“It sounds a very deal like one, boy; but a
witch can imitate any sound. But this is not
the worst. There has been heard most awful
cries coming out from under the tower. They
seemed to be in the very bowels of the rock.
One might, it may be ten years ago, this very
month, or thereabout, I was catching mackerel
off the tower. There had been a great storm,
two nights before, and a ship was wrecked, and
not a soul saved, and by that token I remember
the night well. Jacob, my brother, and I were
in the boat. All at once the stillness was broke
by a terrible cry that seemed to come from the
mid-air. We were well frightened, and Jacob's
line slipped through his fingers into the sea, and
I lost the best hook I owned, and a line sixty
fathoms long.”

“But the cry, father? What was it?”

“It sounded like some fiend shut up in the
bowels of the cliff. It was a most dreadful
sound as ever human ears heard. It seemed to
cry for help—and then it would roar and yell
like a wild beast. We were so near the cliff that
we pulled out, as fast as we could use our oars,
and came to our comrades in two other boats,
who also were frightened at the noise; and
though most of us believed it to be one of the
evil ones said to haunt the tower, two of the
boldest proposed landing, to see if it might not
be some human being in great distress. So
their courage gave us courage, and we landed,
and armed with our boat hooks and fish knives,
seven of us in all, we got up to the tower.”

“You were very bold, father!”

“We were very scared, boy, and a hare crossing
our path, would have made us run away
back again. When we got near the tower, just
about where you see that larch tree, we were all
startled by the cries again; for we had not heard
them since we landed. They now seemed to
come from below and out in the air. The
bravest men drew close to the cliff edge and
said the sounds were not from the tower, but
were from the middle air—and that it was not
from an earthly being. We trembled, but still
listened, till we were assured that they were not
in the air, but far below. This discovery not a
little amazed us, and as they grew more and
more horrible, we did not long delay in returning
to our boats. When we got to them, we
could hear the shriek above us! By-and-by
they ceased, and we pulled off, and for my part,
I have never fished there again by night.”

“I think I would not have feared, father,”
answered the youthful Philip.

“Youth is ignorant, and ignorance is rash,
boy! But see! what brave cavalcade have we
here?”

The youth turned his head, and saw galloping
forward, towards the tower, a party of four or
five gay riders, evidently an excursion from
some one of the country-seats of the noblemen
or gentry within the vicinity.

“They are Lord and Lady Monteagle, lad!
Doff thy cap, when they pass!” said the old
man, setting him the example of deference “to
one's betters” by uncovering his rough, white
head, while yet they were a hundred yards off.

But the lad did not hear. His eyes were
fixed upon an apparition of loveliness such as
only visit the dreams (if even these) of the
lowly born. It was a fair, child like maiden of
fourteen or fifteen, not older, dressed in a green
hunting jacket, with gold buttons, a broad
brimmed straw hat, hanging by the ribbon
around her neck upon her shoulders, over which
waved and flashed in the sun rays, as she cantered
rapidly along, a cloud of golden brown
hair. Her charming and expressive face was
full of animation, and richly roseate with the
excitement of motion. She was laughing merrily,
and her voice was an alembic, in which all
sweet sounds were fused, to make a voice that
was melody, even though mocking-birds sang

around in rivalry of its cadences. This voice
caused to vibrate a chord of emotion untouched
before in the heart of the young shell-gatherer!
while he gazed upon her face, as she flew past,
on a fleet, snowy white pony, with the air of one
fascinated!

“You have made a conquest there, fair
Agnes,” said laughingly a young man who
rode by her rein, as he pointed with the silver
whistle of his riding whip at Philip, who, with
his bag of shells across his shoulder, stood with
his dark eyes rivetted in homage upon her.

The young girl looked towards the fisher's
son, and seeing his handsome face, his dark
locks uncovered and finely waving about his
open and noble brow, his piercing eye, she
heeded not his coarse garb nor his bag of shells,
but blushing at his ardent looks, which met fully
her eyes, she looked more beautiful than before,
and turning to the young man, said gaily:

“How handsome he is! It is indeed a rare
conquest!” She looked back again, and seeing
Philip still following her with bright eyes and a
crimsoned cheek, she dropped her eyes.

“Upon my word,” answered her companion,
“he has made one also!”

“Made what, Radnor?” she asked, archly.

“A conquest also,” was the reply, with a
slight motion of the frowning muscles, and a
scarcely perceptible hiting, with very white
teeth, of the nether lip.

“Ha, old George, are you here?” said the
elder of the party, reining up a large chestnut
colored English horse near the fisherman, who
tood cap in hand, with his son near him. “Is
am glad to see you hearty. You have had luck
on the water, I see! Take those fine fish up to
the castle! Here is a half-sovereign—that will
pay thee for thy fish and buy thee something for
the good dame.”

“You are very kind, my good lord,” answered
the old man, gratefully.

“And who is this? I have never seen him?”
added the countess of Monteagle, a youthful and
pretty woman, with an air and manner of great
sweetness, smiling as she spoke, as if to encourage
him.

“My—my son—my lady! When he has been
with me to the castle, your lordship and ladyship
have always been up to London, or to
court; he sells shells, as you see, to the neighboring
gentry's ladies, and hearing your ladyship
had come home, we were going to your
ladyship's house with them, hoping your ladyship
would find some to your liking among 'em.”

While he was speaking, she was regarding the
face of the youth, and so steadily, that he turned
his head and looked confused, and of course, being
handsome by nature, looked handsomer still.
Educated and refined people do not notice the
dress, but the face, expression, air, tone, bearing.
The vulgar regard costume, and so judge;
while to cultivated minds, costume is lost sight
of in the superior claims of the “human face
divine.” Lady Monteagle knew how to separate
the face from the apparel. She turned to her noble
husband, whose naturally proud bearing was
only apparent to his peers, for to the poor and
humble he always seemed humble as they, and
said, in a low voice:

“That face is not that of a peasant! That
eye is like a prince's, and so is the native carriage
of the head. It cannot be that he is indeed
this old man's child!”

“You are ever seeking for romance, Eleanora,”
answered the earl, smiling. “Believe
me, when he gets old, he will be as commonplace
a fisherman as George here! Youth always
is attractive!”

“You are so practical, Conyers. But let us
go on after Agnes and Radnor. What a graceful
pair they make, for Agnes has now the height
of a woman. I trust that they will take to one
another, for my heart is on the union of our
house with that of my cousin, Lord Cranstown.
Radnor is now nearly of age, and will soon, as
Lord Cranstown, be one of the most desirable
matches in England.”

“Wait awhile, dear wife! Agnes will be too
young yet, for four years, to think of husbands,
and by that time Lord Cranstown may have
been taken captive by some other fair dame!”

“It is not injudicious to begin in time to
make moves for so important an issue as I hope
to see brought about. There they are reined up
on the very verge of the cliff! They are rash!
Any sudden alarm would cause their horses to
leap off! Agnes, child! Draw back!” cried
the countess, as she came near.

“We are only gazing, from this height, upon
the noble expanse of sea, my dear mother. Is
it not sublime! See! far in the distant a white
sail is visible, like a speck of down!”

“And would you like to be on board, Agnes?”
said Radnor Cathcart.

“O, no! I shudder at the idea of being in a
vessel! The sea is beautiful as a spectacle from

this safe place; but I cannot hear it roar without
a secret and indefinable dread! If I ever
dream of the sea, I behold it lashed with a tempest,
and seem to be on board of a ship imperilled,
and always wake struggling with the billows
and gasping for air!”

“How strange!” said the young noble. “I
never dream but pleasant dreams, for you always
mingle with them!”

This was said with gallantry and in an under
tone. The countess exchanged a glance with
her husband, but evidently with relation to the
words spoken by the young girl.

“Come, let us alight and walk through the
ruins,” said the earl.

The equerry in attendance, who wore the
livery of the Monteagle family, took the horses
of the countess and his master, and was about to
take the bridle of the pony, from which Agnes
Monteagle had bounded, refusing the proffered
aid of the young man, when the latter, who was
also on his feet, called haughtily to Philip:

“Ho, boy! come hither and hold these animals;
and see you, walk my hunter about—
keep him in motion, for he's warm—hark ye!
do ye hear!”

There was something in the manner and voice
of the young nobleman that must have offended
the fisher's lad, for he coldly smiled and turning
from them, with his bag of shells, walked away.

“What, dog of a peasant? Do you refuse?”
cried Radnor Catchcart, with anger. “Obey
me, and hold my horse!”

“I am not thy servant—I am free to consent
or refuse, as it pleases me,” was the reply of the
shell-gatherer.

“But I will teach thee civility to thy superiors,
an it please me!” responded the youthful
nobleman, red with ice; and advancing towards
him with his riding-whip, would have struck
him, but for the voice of the earl.

“Hold thy ready hand, Radnor,” he said, in
a slight tone of reproof. “Thou forgettest, so
long hast thou been in India, that English peasants
are not Hindostanee slaves. He is free,
and will freely obey, of request, but not of command.”

“See, Radnor, how I will nule him,” said
Agues, with a smile. “Come hither, fair youth,
and please hold my horse, while I go and see the
tower!”

In an instant, Philip was at her rein! In the
next moment, he felt the hand of the young noble
upon his throat, and found himself flying
ten feet from him. He did not fall! Quickly
recovering himself, he drew his fish knife and
bounded towards him, caught him by the breast,
hurled him to the earth, and with his foot upon
his chest, and the knife waved in the air, stood
over him, the master of his life!

The countess shrieked! The earl sprang forward,
but before he reached the spot, the shell-gatherer
had removed his foot, sheathed his
short knife, and walked away with the slow,
proud, self-possessed tread of a young Indian
warrior. The earl's fine countenance betrayed
his own view of the affair, and plainly he felt
that Cathcart had been wrong, and that the fisherman
had only acted with commendable spirit.

“I did not look for such high blood in a cliff-side
sailor's lad,” he said to the countess, who,
pale at the sudden crisis just passed, was watching,
with half-terrified interest, the receding
Philip.

“He is no son of the old fisher, my lord!
Never did I witness such courage, pride, chivalry,
all at once, in the best born of the realm!”

“He is a base lout, and shall suffer for this
infamous insult,” muttered Radnor Catchcart,
as he rose to his feet.

“Without doubt, such conduct in a peasant
ought not to be borue,” said the earl. “These
people must know their place, and what is due
to rank. George, thou art to blame in bringing
thy boy up with such a temper.”

“Nay, my lord, but he's always gentle hitherto!
This 'bout of his amazeth me! I know
not what evil spirit hath broke out o' the boy.
I ne'er knew the like before in him!”

“Teach him not to show the like again! He
has made a deadly foe, I fear, in this young lord.”
This was said aside, and in an under tone: “Tell
me truly, is this lad thy own child?”

“What, my lord?”

“Nay, answer me!”

“But, my lord, he is my only stay! I am old
and stricken, and he is of great help to me.
When the times are hard, and the fish are scarce,
he gathers shells, and makes me many a shilling
for winter comfort.”

“But you evade my question. Is he your
son?”

“My good lord, everybody will tell you he is!
He bears my name—he will tell you so himself.”

“George, you are not candid and open. Once
more I ask you to say whether he is your child.”

The old man looked troubled! He bent down
his eyes, as if he were counting his fish. He

looked every way but in the nobleman's face.
At length he said:

“My lord, I am too near the grave to lie,
especially to so great a man as your lordship. If
your lordship will tell me when I can see his
lordship, and no one is near, I will tell the whole
matter.”

“To-morrow, at breakfast, be at the castle and
ask for me!”

“I will not fail, your lordship,” reluctantly
answered the old man, as the nobleman turned
away to rejoin the countess, who had overheard
all that was said.

“You will find I am right, Conyers,” said the
countess, smiling. “The boy will prove to
have been some estray, picked up, perhaps from
a wreck.”

“Like our dear Agnes,” answered the earl,
with a smile. “Because there is one child of
the sea, you think there must be a score of them.”

“Mark me, Conyers, that that old man will to-morrow
tell you that he is no blood relation to the
youth. A plough horse and my Arabian might
as well be kindred, as these two.”

“I am sorry to see that Radnor's early India
life has made him imperative and fiery for our
colder climate. The lad ought to have held his
horse, and—”

“Any other would have done so, gladly, but
this youth, who being, doubtless, as high born
as Cathcart—”

“Upon my word, Eleanora, you jump at conclusions
famously.”

“I am assured that only an instinctive consciousness
of being an equal could have led to
this shell-gatherer's haughty refusal.”

“You have odd fancies. But let us join them.
Agnes and he seem to be at pouts, for they walk
about.”

They joined the yoathful pair, who were at
the tower's entrance. Cathcart was gloomy,
and seemed to have some cause of dissatisfaction
with the maiden, who said:

“You need not be angry, Radnor. If the
young shell-gatherer is handsome, and very
brave, I cannot help it.”

“But you can help saying so. I have no
doubt you would have been amazingly pleased
if he had buried that knife in my heart!”

“This is rather severe on Agnes, my young
friend,” said Lord Monteagle, who now came
up. “But let us go about the tower, and from
the top get a view of the fine sea aspect, for
which we have ridden hither.”

As they wandered about the ruin, Cathcart's
good disposition returned; and the earl entertained
them with stories and legends of the
place.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked the lovely
Agnes, as he concluded a legend in which these
mysterious beings played a part.

“I cannot say. There are unaccountable
things told of many old castles. As to the awful
sounds heard about this, there seems to be
no doubt.”

While thus talking, they came to the end of a
passage, into which opened a side avenue; but
as the arched ceiling above had fallen in, there
was plenty of light to disclose its whole length.

“Let us follow this passage, Radnor,” said
Agnes, “and see where it leads.”

“Perhaps into some old dungeon,” pleasantly
answered the young noble, as he followed her.
The earl and countess also went after them.

“Here the passage ends against the rock, and
there is no going farther,” said Agnes, who was
in advance.

“That is odd,” remarked the earl. “The
passage could not have been constructed to lead
no where but against the face of this rock.”

While he was speaking, Radnor exclaimed,
drawing his hand quickly from the rock over
which he had been passing it, to feel for a door:

“I have wounded my hand! Here is the
steel point of a dagger, or knife, sticking out of
the rock.”

All drew near; and the earl, feeling the object,
perceived clearly that it was the rusted
fragment of a dagger.

“But how sticking out of the solid rock?” he
exclaimed.

“Here is a crevice above and below it, dear
father,” said Agnes, whose brighter eyes had
been able to detect what in the obscurity the rest
did not perceive.

With the aid of a pocket-knife, the earl traced
and irregular crevice for several inches, and then
lost it.

“This must be a secret entrance into some
cavern in the rock. If we had a torch, we might
make some rare discovery!”

“I have flint and steel with me,” answered
the young man; “and with some dry sticks that
we passed a while ago, I can make a bright
light.”

“Do so, Cathcart,” said the countess; “I am
full of curiosity.”

In a few minutes the young nobleman re-appeared

with the light, and by its aid the crevice,
or joint, was soon traced for length enough
to show them that an irregularly formed block
of stone concealed the entrance to some subterranean
chamber. After some time and close
inspection, Agnes detected the stone bolt, almost
hid by mould. This discovery was hailed with
joy.

The earl and Radnor with their united strength,
forced it back, and then pried open the door.

“I shudder at what may be revealed!” cried
the countess. “I will not look till I know!”
and she drew back.

Upon opening the heavy door, the earl, who
looked first in, started back with an exclamation
of horror. The countess echoed it with a shriek.
Agnes trembled, and clung to the earl, who called
to Radnor to thrust in the torch; for he had
looked in without it, and seen only obscurely
what had so deeply moved him.

“Behold!—it is a human skeleton upright!”
he cried. “Some wretched prisoner, left here
to perish by some tyrant of the tower! Let us
go in and examine.”

He entered, followed by Radnor; and Agnes
shrunk back with the countess.

“What is it, Conyers?” asked the latter,
shuddering.

“There is a cavern here, made for a prison,
and in it is the skeleton of a man. He seems to
have perished standing by this little hole or window,
looking out for air or aid! See, his long
hands are clasped through it, and keep the body
in its place! There is some secret history of
crime written here! The last day only will
reveal it.”

“Here is the broken dagger,” said Radnor,
stooping, to raise something from the floor.

“The same that had the point,” exclaimed
the earl, “for they fit.”

“He has tried to pry open his prison door,
and broken it in the attempt,” said Cathcart.

“Poor prisoner!” said Agnes, venturing in.
“How much he must have suffered!”

And she timidly surveyed the suspended skeleton,
as it glared white and bleach by the torchlight.

“See, father,” she suddenly called out, “it
has a ring upon one hand!”

“I see it! It may reveal something.”

The earl approached to remove the ring, which
was a signet; in doing so, at his touch, the fingers,
hand, bones, arms, and whole frame, fell in
pieces, and the skeleton lay in fragments upon
the floor, the skull rolling across the dungeon.
There was a momentary consternation, which
soon passed by.

The earl secured the ring, and holding it to
the torch, after a moment's scrutiny, gave utterance
to an excited exclamation of amazement,
and raising his eyes with reverence to Heaven,
said solemnly:

“There is divine justice and retribution still
on earth!”

“What, my lord?” asked the countess.

“Who is he?” inquired Cathcart, eagerly.

“This captive, who has so miserably perished,
is none other than the renegade and parricide,
Lord Robert Clan William! Though he escaped
the scaffold by flight, Heaven suffered
him not to live. This solves all mystery! Ten
years ago, I knew he was pursued to this tower,
where he was said to hide himself; but he baffled
pursuit. Without doubt, in shutting himself
in here to escape his foes, he unintentionally
buried himself alive; for we see by his broken
dagger, by his attitude at the window, how he
was seeking escape. He poisoned his noble and
venerable father for title, and also betrayed a
trust committed to him by the crown. He fled,
an outlaw, and concealing himself here, was
punished by God, as we see!”

The countess withdrew from the spot under
emotions of horror, and the earl, after examining
the dreadful place to see what more he might
find, closed the stone door, and the whole party,
slowly and silently, with solemn reflections, returned
to the upper apartments.

The sun was now low, and they were soon in
saddle, but deeply impressed with what had been
so strangely revealed to them.

A mile from the tower they overtook the old
fisherman and the young shell-gatherer. As
they cantered by the foot travellers, the two
stopped and raised their caps.

“Good even, ladies; a fair ride,” said the old
man.

“A good even of fair fishing for thee,” answered
the merry Agnes; “and if thou wilt come
to the castle, I will buy all thy shells,” she added
to the youthful Philip, who, hat in hand,
stood gazing admiringly, and with the deepest
awe, upon her.

At this, Cathcart, who seemed to have taken
a bitter dislike to the shell-gatherer, either because
he was too handsome, or too independent,
or too kindly spoken to by Agnes, with an ugly
light in his eye, rode so close to the youth as

violently to knock the net of shells from his
shoulders upon the ground. The marine treasures
were scattered over the road, and Radnor,
with a mocking laugh of satisfaction, galloped
on. Agnes, not suspecting design in the act,
reined up, and said:

“We will help thee gather them up!” and in
a moment was on the ground, and her bridle
thrown to the old man.

“Agnes!” cried Cathcart, with an angry surprise.

“Nay, Radnor, Agnes is always for doing
kindnesses. She will soon remedy thy awkwardness.”

This was said pleasantly by the earl.

Agnes soon completed her task, and was re
warded, not only by a few words of grateful
thanks from the surprised youth, but a gift of
the most beautiful shell in his possession, and
which she had admired as she picked it up. She
accepted it with a smile, and was soon in her
saddle, and on her way homeward, followed by
Cathcart, in the worst possible mood for a young
man to be in who would make himself agreeable
to a fair girl. It was already starry night when
they reached Castle Monteagle, and trotted
through the ancient gateway.

Two hours afterwards, the fisherman and his
son appeared, and, for the night, took up their
abode in a peasant's house, outside of the walls,
ready to enter early to dispose of their fishes and
shells.

4. CHAPTER IV.

Early the morning following the events related
in the last chapter, the old fisherman brought
his merchandize to the gate outside of which he
and Philip the shell-gatherer had lodged the
preceding night. It was not yet sunrise, though
the pencilled rays of morning shot across the
east like an open fan.

“You are full early, Uncle George,” said the
drowsy porter, opening the lattice. “Give me
thy fish, and here, take thy silver pay! You
fishermen are too early risers for gentlemen on
land.”

The fisher handed his basket in at the window,
and having counted the money, said:

“Master Simon, the good earl bade me come
and see him in the castle, for he hath some questions
he would put to me touching certain
matters.”

“What can my master have to ask such a low
monger as thou art? Get thee gone, and let me
sleep till the sun be up. Dost thou think lords
rise at thy hours? a noble's sunrise is when he
is over a peasant man's head, at high noon.”

“Nay, but—”

“No buts. Get thee gone; and if thou hast
ought to say to my lord, come six hours hence.”

“Sir porter,” exclaimed the voice of the earl,
who was visible upon the wall over the gate,
where he had been walking to breathe the morn
ing air; “thou art going beyond thy place. Unbar,
and let the old man enter; and see that
thou be civiler to plain folk when they come to
my gate, or I will speedily give thy office to
another.”

Upon hearing the voice and these words of
reproof from his master, the fat keeper of the
gate colored, and with apologies replete with
confusion, he undid the gate, and admitted old
George and his son; the latter of whom had
been too much occupied in surveying the towers,
bastions, high wall and turrets of the castle, to
heed what was passing at the gate.

Upon entering the court, old George, by the
command of the earl, was conducted by a servitor
to his own rooms. Philip remained behind,
and was suffered to roam about the castle-yard at
his pleasure.

The earl, walking around the wall, met the old
fisherman at the head of the stairs by the door of
his private room.

“My rogue there would have thee think,
George, that we are late risers here; but I do
more work before sunrise than after, among my
books. Come in! Sit down. Now I will hear
from thee what thou hast to say touching this lad,
Philip, I think you called him?”

“Philip, your lordship,” answered old George,
with hesitation; “but, my lord, if I tell you the

truth, I trust your lordship will remember that
I have raised him, and that now he is repaying
me for my care; and that it would go hard with
an old man to have him taken away from him;
besides, no one can have a better right to him
than I, who took him out of the jaws of death!”

“Then he is not your son?” said the earl,
looking at the fisherman, who sat, hat in hand,
on a stool by the door, rubbing down his gray
locks.

“No, not exactly, my lord; but I have adopted
him.”

“Be frank—you shall not be a loser, whatever
be the narrative you have to give.”

“Then, my lord,” answered George, brightening
up, and with a more cheerful manner,
“you shall hear how I came by him. It is thirteen
years this next shad season, I was out in
my skiff fishing. It was a hard year, and the
schools kept far out a' sea. There had been a
three days' storm, and I was anxious to get the
first advantage, for fish always are caught easiest
after a gale o' wind. It might have been about
three o'clock in the afternoon, and having got my
boat full, I hoisted sail to run in landward home,
I was at least twelve miles a' sea.

After running about a mile, I saw some large
object floating on the water, at least half a league
to the south of my course. The man who was
with me, said it was a wreck dismasted, for there
was no rock there. I thought the same, and
steered for it.”

“And it proved to be a wreck?” said the earl,
interrupting the details.

“Yes, my lord, not a stump standing; and the
sea rolling her about like a log. It had been a
very large ship, and had many guns overturned
on her decks. But not a soul could we see.
So—”

“And you boarded her?” said the earl.

“Yes, and found in her cabin seven dead
bodies, which had been drowned there, for the
cabin was full of water to within a foot of the
deck. We were looking about to see what we
could find, when we discovered in a berth over
the companion-way a little boy, five or six years
old, asleep. We waked him, and took him up
and put him into our boat.”

“And this Philip—is he the same child?”

“Yes, your lordship. No one ever appeared
for him, and I raised him as mine. The ship
sunk in an hour after we took him off.”

“The name of the ship? Do you know it?”
asked the earl, eagerly.

“No, your lordship. It was sunk too low for
me to read it; and she was settling so fast we
hastened out of her.”

“I see—but got you nothing from the ship at
all, by which she might be guessed at?”

“A silver cup, your lordship, and a compass,
and some canvass.”

“Where is the cup?”

“At my cabin, your lordship's earl,” answered
the old man—“that and the compass.”

“How was the boy clad?”

“Scarcely at all—but was wrapped in a shawl.”

“Have you the shawl?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring the cup, compass and shawl to the
castle, the next time you come, good George,”
said the earl. “This youth may have a mother
and father living, and it is right every means
should be used to discover them! You shall not
be a loser if they are found and he is restored to
them. Come on Saturday with fish, and bring
these articles.”

“Your lordship's wish is a command,” answered
the old man, bowing low, and hobbling
out of the earl's library.

“Well, Eleanora,” said the earl, at the breakfast-table,
“you are not so far out of the way,
after all! This handsome shell gatherer is not
old George's son. He picked him up at sea
some fourteen years ago, from off a wreck, and
adopted him!”

“I was well convinced there could be no blood
lineage!” said the countess. “How odd it
would be, if he should turn out to be of high
rank.”

“That denouement occurs only in novels,
dear wife,” said the earl, smiling.

“How singular that there should be two such
instances! Look, my lord! There both are!
Both taken from the sea—orphans alike! See,
Agnes is merrily bargaining with him on the terrace
for his shells.”

It was a fair sight to which she directed her
lord's eyes.

Upon the upper step of the broad terrace,
Philip sat, with his shells all arranged in harmony
of shape and colors. As Agnes went by
to the breakfast-room, attracted by the display,
she lingered and began to select the fairest from
among them. He seemed perfectly happy at her
presence, and with constant blushing heard her
praises of their beauty, and replied to her questions
as to their names.

“And what is this superb one, all pink and

orange, with pearl intermingled, and curved like
a lotus?”

“That is a sea-fairy's shell,” he answered.
“Hold it to your ear, and you will hear the roar
of the sea.”

“Indeed, I do, plainly enough,” she cried,
with delight. “Where do you find all these?”
she asked, fixing her beautifully lingering eyes
upon his face, as if wondering at his beauty;
but if he rested his full gaze upon hers, she would
drop their eyelids at the same instant, while the
conscious blood would mantle their temples.
Neither, in truth, could look at or speak to the
other without embarrassment—a confusion of
the senses, pleasing as it was bewildering.

Fortunately, Radnor Cathcart was not at the
castle to see this, or his ireful jealousy would
have been roused to some purpose.

Suddenly their eyes met, over a gorgeous
shell as she was asking its name, and such was
the effect of his upon her, that she said, hastily:

“I must not stay here—I will buy them all!
Take this gold piece.”

And putting it into his hand, she laughed she
knew not why, and ran away and seated herself
at the table as roseate as a caruation pink.

“You and the fisher-lad seem to have made
quite an acquaintance, Agnes;” said the earl,
with a smile.

“I hardly said ten words, dear father—”

“But looked ten-score! If Radnor could get
from you such glances as you showered upon
Philip, he would feel himself happy.”

“Why, my dear father!”

“Agnes is young, Conyers, you should not
make her blush so!” said the countess.

“The blush was on her face when she came
in. It was the shell-gatherer put it there!”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the countess, quickly.
“What did he say to you, Agnes?”

“Nothing, mother—he only—only—”

“Only what—speak!”

“Only looked, that is all! But then his eyes
are so handsome and piercing.”

At this the earl laughed aloud, and the countess
slightly frowned, as she said:

“Agnes, you must not notice the eyes of young
men, especially of those you know nothing of.”

“I wont, my dear mother!” answered the
maiden, demurely.

“Agnes has handsome enough eyes of her
own,” answered the earl, “without thinking of
other folks. How many shells did you buy?”

“All he had, dear father?”

“Marry come up! But he brings his wares to
a good market!” Did you bid him bring more?”
asked the smiling nobleman.

“As many as he pleased; but I would like to
ride to the same sea-beach, dear papa, and gather
for myself. He says that there are more
beautiful ones there!”

“We will ride there some day,” said the earl.
“But when is your archery party coming off?”

“Soon! On the first of May, dear father.”

“And the prize arrow is to be of gold?”

“Yes, papa! Radnor has ordered it from
London.”

“Radnor is very kind and thoughtful,” said
the countess. “I hope you will show him, Agnes,
you appreciate his thought for your happiness.”

“I would like Radnor, if he would not tease
and annoy me so,” answered the maiden. “He
watches my words and looks, and wont let me
smile at anything only when he speaks. He
would be a blue-beard to me, I believe, if he had
me in his castle.”

“Don't talk in this manner, Agnes,” said the
countess; “he thinks so much of you, that—”

“That he wont let any one else look at her,”
said the earl, laughing. “Well, I dare say it
was just so when I was young, fair wife! I was
a miser of your looks and glances, and could
have crossed lances with any other young man
who caught one of them.”

While they were talking, a gentleman entered,
whose arrival was hailed with transports of
welcome. The earl shook him heartily by both
hands. The countess kissed him and called him
“brother,” while Agnes was folded in his arms.

It was Captain Manners. Ten years had
made but little more alteration in his appearance
than to turn his whiskers gray, and give him
more fullness in person.

“When did you leave London, Manners?”
said the earl.

“Three mornings ago. I have come to say
good-by, before sailing for the Mediterranean;
and have three days to spare.”

“Four days, and you will be at our archery
party, uncle,” cried Agnes, who sat by him holding
him by the hand.

“Archery! You have arrows enough in your
eyes, girl, to pierce the best target a man ever
placed in front of his heart.”

“It is my birthday, uncle; I shall be fifteen,
and—”

“Your birthday— Why, Conyers, sister!
How did you find out, wh—”

A glance from the countess stopped the naval
officer, while the earl said:

“The first of May, you know is her—”

“O, yes, that is right, I understand,” answered
the captain, with an intelligent return of the
earl's look. “How the sweet thing has grown.
Why she is as tall as the queen, and that is tall
enough for any loyal English girl, hey, Agnes?
By the bow of Dan Cupid! If I were a score of
years junior, I would be sure to fall in love
with your eyes, girl!”

“You couldn't fall in love with a niece, you
know, uncle?” said Agnes, naively.

“Niece! ah—yes—I—I forget! True, it
would not answer,” answered the captain, in a
blundering way.

After breakfast was over, the earl and his
brother-in-law were seated together in his library.

“And so she is ignorant of her birth, and believes
herself to be your own daughter?” said
the captain, continuing a conversation.

“Yes.”

“And the day I brought her here on horseback
from the old tower, you celebrate as her
birthday?”

“Yes, the first of May. On the occasion of
her fifteenth birthday, we give her an archery
party. Some score of the young maids and
youths of the vicinity are invited, and an arrow
of gold is to be the prize to be shot for.”

“I will stay, and maybe I will shoot for it,
too,” cried the captain. “What would I not
give to know who her parents were? I have
long ago given up my fruitless inquiries to learn
what barque was lost that night off the tower.
But I love her, as if she were my own child.”

“And we share your love for her, captain!
Never was so fair a daughter given to parents—
fair in temper, in form, in face, in voice, in manners.
Such a winning art of loving—she has a
winning love.”

“Were ever such superb eyes! I have seen
Spanish girls and Circassian, and maids of Ind
and the South Sea, but never such a pair of eyes.”

“You were always running wild with beautiful
eyes, brother,” said the countess, entering.
“Has Conyers told you what horrible discovery
we made at the old tower, yesterday?”

“No, what was it? Not the ghost of that
witch, who leaped from its top!”

“No, but the skeleton of the outlaw and parricide,
whom you sought to take captive!”

“What—of Lord Clan William?” exclaimed
the captain, with eager surprise.

“Yes.”

“He had evidently sought shelter in one of
the dungeons—a secret cavern—where we found
his ghostly remains! This ring which I removed
from his bony finger, identifies him. He
must have perished miserably.”

“What a wonderful discovery!” mused the
captain. “I fancy that the woman knew of
his concealment, and having been killed, he was
left unapproached by any human foot, and so
died by slow torture.”

“I think it probable. What a chapter of horror
would his last days there unfold.”

“Surely there is one who rules above!” ejaculated
the captain, with emphasis. “What did
you do with the skeleton?”

“Left it there in its dungeon-tomb, and closed
the door upon it as we found it.”

“I would like to ride over there.”

“Yes, while you are here, we will visit the
place to gratify your curiosity.”

Not far from the castle was the parish church
buried in a group of venerable oaks. Towards
this sacred spot, Captain Manners slowly took
his way, during the evening of the day of his
arrival at Monteagle. The doors were open, and
uncovering his head, he reverently entered and
took his way up the aisle towards the chancel.
Ancient marble effigies of the noble dead reclined
on tombs erected above the crypt. To one of
these he advanced, and kneeling by it covered
his face for a few moments as if in silent prayer.

Upon it was inscribed the names of the earl
and countess of Beverley. They were his parents.
He came, with filial piety to pay his respects to
their revered memories, before going into a foreign
land. The latter had died since his last
visit home. Ten years before, she was the dowager
mistress of the castle, and it was to her he
conveyed in the saddle, the child which he had
rescued from the power of Dame Alice. The
countess had with her at the time her daughter
and husband, the Earl of Seafield, now Monteagle,
who adopted the “orphan of the sea,” and
took her to their own residence. On the death
of the aged countess soon afterwards, the Earl of
Seafield removed to Monteagle Castle, and took
the title of Monteagle, to that of Seafield. Captain
Manners, whose true title was now Lord
Beverley, after having paid this tribute of his
respect for the memory of his noble mother,
arose from his knees and unconscious of the tears
that stood on his sea-tanned cheek, turned to
walk out of the church, when he was startled by

seeing before him the form of a woman in gray,
who was leaning upon her elbows with her face
in her hands, and fixing upon him keen and
watchful looks from her haggard eyes. The
church was obscure with evening twilight, and
he could only perceive indistinctly her face.

“In the name of Heaven, what art thou?” he
cried with a changing countenance, and stepping
back as if he had seen a spirit.

“Thou shouldst know me, Lord Beverley,”
answered the woman, mockingly.

“If I had not seen thee killed by a fall of two
hundred feet into the sea!”

“The sea opens its bosom to its children, and
dashes them not to atoms like mother earth.”

“You did not survive that descent! Is it
possible?”

“I am no ghost!”

“It seems incredible; but since thou art alive
it was possible!” said the sailor. “What do
you here among these graves, as if thou wert a
restless soul?”

“I had last night a house among the dead!
an empty tomb shelters well the living. My
lord,” she suddenly added, “I demand of thee
my child.”

“Then thou hast not seen her?”

“I look to thee for her. She is mine! Does
she live?”

“Yes—but—”

“Then she is mine! I have travelled half
the globe to get hither, to find what became of
her. I last saw her in thy arms ten years ago.”

“Where hast thou been?”

“Over the sea. Wouldst thou know? I
was driven to sea on a fragment of the barque's
wreck. After being a day upon the deep, I was
picked up by a ship bound to the distant shores
of Brazil. Only yesterday did I reach this place,
seeking my child!”

“What is she to thee?”

“I have had only one thought in all my absence—to
get back to England to hunt up
my child! I have come thus far. I believed
you took her to your own home. I shall know
to-night, whether she was sheltered by yon
castle wall. Tell me, my lord! She is naught
to you. Does the child live?” asked the woman,
with almost a menacing air.

Captain Manners was troubled. He felt that
a serious evil had crossed the path of Agnes, in
the sudden re-appearance of this woman—whose
passions ten years had increased and made
fiercer. He felt that it was important that she
should be ignorant of the child's fate, whether it
were living or dead. He resolved that she should
not see her if he could prevent it.

“Dame Alice, if this be thy name, this is no
place for thee! Begone from this estate, or I
will have thee arrested as a vagrant.”

“Thou wilt, eh? No, no! I fear no such
thing. I go not away, until I have seen the inside
of yonder castle.”

“Wilt thou take gold and begone?”

“Gold. Look ye! Hark!” and she shook
before his eyes a bag that she drew from her
girdle, and then opening the mouth of it, showed
him that it was filled with gold. “This
comes from Brazil, where it grows. Think ye
I was ten years in that land, and got not wealth?
I have hoarded it up for my child.”

“What child?” asked the captain.

“The child I drew from the sea, and of which
thou hast robbed me.”

Lord Beverley for a few moments was undecided
how to act. To let her visit the castle
would be to cast a firebrand into it, and destroy
the peace of mind of the earl and countess, and
the happiness of Agnes, who was ignorant of her
orphanage.

At this moment, he saw passing on the road,
one of the bailiffs with two other men, on their
way to the village two miles off. He called to
them; and not without a struggle was Dame
Alice borne off by his command as a vagrant.

He returned to the castle ill at ease in his mind,
but resolving to have the old woman sent the
next day out of the parish, to her own, he concluded
not to speak of his having met her in
the church to any one, trusting no more would
ever be heard of her. The ensuing day he appeared
before the justice, and making his complaint,
she was banished beyond the bounds of
the parish, which would place two leagues and a
half between her and the castle at the least.

Preparations were now made with great activity
for the coming trial at archery. A lawn in
front of the castle, between the chief gateway and
the church was enclosed, and seats provided for
spectators, and tents made ready to be pitched on
the coming morning. Booths for refreshments
for the peasantry, and Maypoles and ground for
sport of ball, were prepared for them beyond the
lists for the archers. Some of the noble guests
commenced arriving the evening before; youths
and maidens followed by retainers bearing bows,
arrows and targets. All was cheerfulness and

confusion, hurrying to and fro, and getting ready
for the momentous morrow.

Captain Manners, in his excitement, quite forgot
his interview with old Alice.

“You must feather that arrow nicer than that,
uncle,” said Agnes; “for I intend to win the
golden arrow with that one!”

“I had best feather it with humming-bird
wings,” said the sailor, laughing.

“No, with the eagle's feathers!”

“Are these eagle's plumes?”

“Yes, and they are very hard to get! Radnor
said it was impossible to shoot an eagle.”

“How then came you by these?”

“Why, when I said yesterday that I would
give anything if I could only beard my arrows
with eagle's feathers, for they are the truest, the
young shell-gathered said he would capture me
an eagle!”

“A brave promise?”

“And he redeemed it. This morning he
brought to me a live young eagle, and it is now
a captive on the other side of the courtyard; and
these are some of the kingly bird's plumage.”

“This shell gatherer must be a man of courage,”
said the captain.

“He is only a youth—scarcely nineteen!”

“Handsome as well as brave, I dare say?”
said the captain, with a mischievous twinkle in
his hazel eyes.

“Very!”

“Fine teeth?”

“Perfect.”

“Raven hair?”

“Like the very raven's plumes.”

“Tall and well-shaped?”

“Princely.”

“A real hero, hey? in canvass jacket and bare
feet!”

“Now you are laughing at me, dear uncle.”

“At your earnestness and romance. It is well
this youth is a poor peasant, or Radnor Cathcart
would fare badly, I am of opinion.”

“I don't think Radnor near so handsome!”

“No?”

“Nor so—so kind-looking!”

“Ah, indeed!”

“Nor so—he hasn't such fine eyes!”

“I see how it is; Radnor has a formidable
rival. I must warn him,” said the captain, trying
to look grave.

“He knows it already, and hates Philip, and
quarrels with me!”

Here the captain laughed heartily, and nearly
spoiled the arrow; while Agnes laughed and
blushed, and finally ran from the apartment.

5. CHAPTER V.

The morning of the fete of May dawned with
cloudless skies. Ere the sun was fairly arisen,
scores of youths and maidens were in saddle for
two leagues or more around Castle Monteagle,
and coursing in high spirits towards the scene of
the day's festivities.

The archery ground was a spectacle of the
greatest activity and excitement. A level lawn,
just outside of the castle wall, had been temporarily
enclosed by a slight wicket fence. Here
and there in the area grew a venerable oak, sufficient
to shelter the archers, but without presenting
any obstacle to the sports in contemplation.
At the southern extremity of this park-lawn
was pitched a markee of large size, from
the summit of which fluttered and flashed in the
morning sunbeams the red cross banner of England
and the gorgeously emblazoned bannerets
of the noble Monteagles.

From the lattice of her room the fair girl,
whose “birthday” was to be honored by all this
rich display, gazed down upon the lawn with its
busy groups. She was already arrayed in her
archer's costume of green velvet and crimson
cap with a superb sable plume. Her graceful
and youthful figure was finely displayed by this
costume. She leaned upon a long and richly-ornamented
bow with a silken string, and with
one hand was tracing upon the window-sill, with
a thoughtful and absent manner, erratic outlines
of involved figures with the point of an arrow of
gold. Evidently her mind was not with her
hand, though her eyes followed mechanically the
movements of the point of the arrow.

She was observed by Radnor Cathcart. Attired
as Robin Hood, and looking like a prince
of the forest realms, he had thrown himself from
his horse a few moments before at the gate, and,
ascending the terrace, had designedly walked
around the square tower, which he well knew
would lead him past the windows of the room
occupied by Agnes, and which opened upon the
terrace.

He beheld her thus engaged, and drew near
her unperceived, and watched her countenance
through a lattice of ivy that partly veiled the
window. If she had been thinking of him,
there would have been a secret sympathy, a
certain instinct, that would have told him so.
But there was no such consciousness in his
soul. The fair face on which he looked was
indeed a mirror, but it did not reflect, as he
gazed upon it, his own image. He felt the
disappointment a man would feel, who looks
into a glass, as he supposes it to be, and sees
only his rival on the other side.

In a word, Radnor, predisposed to jealousy,
did not like the aspect of Agnes's countenance

though a more lovely one wooer never need
wish to gaze upon. Her pensive eyes, soft
and dreamy and bright as the gazelle's, though
the hue of the maiden's was borrowed from
the southern skies, followed musingly the
point of the arrow; and once a rich suffusion
from the heart mantled her cheeks and made
her look more beautiful than ever; yet Cathcart
liked her looks less than ever. He was
satisfied, quite so, that it was the thought of
somebody else besides himself that had brought
up that conscious emotion.

Still her beautiful eyes followed the point of
the golden arrow. His also did so, but he
could see nothing, for she consciously wrote
nothing; and though gold write on stone, it
leaves no more impression than words written
on the air with the finger's end.

But words shaped in the air with a finger
may be read by a quick eye. Radnor's jealousy
made his eyes very sharp; for jealousy
is a great quickener of all the passions and
emotions. Doubtless he would not acknowledge
that he was jealous! “Of whom?” he
might interrogate the interrogator. There was
no other Agnes knew; and everybody understood
they were by-and-by to be married. Of
course, if the young shell-gatherer were named,
the young nobleman would fling back a scronful
denial, and regard the intimation as an insult!
A young fisher's son make a lord jealous?
If he had him at his whip's end, he
would lash him as he would his hound. Yes,
and lash him for jealousy's sake. In a word,
the young noble hated Philip in his heart; but
he would not have deigned to hate one so
lowly, if he had not been touched with a pang
of jealousy. Not that he believed for a moment
that Agnes would favor a peasant with a
thought, or that the peasant would dare to look
up to her with a shadow of hope; yet he was
plainly jealous of the youthful shell-gatherer.

His eyes followed the motion of the golden
arrow as it seemed to trace out some shape or
other on the stone sill, and he hoped to read the
invisible words by the motion of the point; but
it only formed circles and curves in and curves
out, now a triangle and then a wreath. This
wreath seemed to please her, and she let it
shape itself into a crown, leaf and stem, beautifully
interwoven with the golden stylus, all invisibly.
Yet he could, by the movement of the
point, see the very form of the leaves, which
were laurels. When she had ended it she
paused, and seemed to regard it in her mind's
speculation as if it were visibly before her eyes;
then, with a smile and a sweeter blush, she commenced
writing with the point within this invisible
immortel. With an eager gaze Radnor followed
its motions. He saw her write a large
letter, which at first he thought would terminate
with being an R, and his heart bounded pleasingly;
but, after a slight pause at the first loop,
she there ended the letter, and left it a capital P.
Then followed a small “h,” then an “i,” to be
succeeded by an “I” and another “i;” and a
small “p” concluded this airy name written
within the airy wreath.

There was no doubting. His eyes had followed
the invisible tracery of the visible hand
as plainly as if it had left behind letters of fire.

“Philip!” he gasped. “This peasant is in
all her thoughts! If he crosses my path, I will
crush him beneath my feet as I would a worm.”

“So, fair maiden,” he suddenly exclaimed,
advancing into view, “you seem to be fancy free
this morning, and amusing yourself with your
thoughts. I trust they were agreeable.”

This was spoken with temper and a slight
manner of derision which he did not take the
trouble to conceal. Young as she was, she was
high-spirited, and felt his tone to be insulting to
her; and she answered, with a slight curve of
her upper lip:

“Extremely so, Radnor!”

“Then you were not thinking of me!” he
said, moodily.

“You must consider yourself a very disagreeable
person, then, cousin!”

He frowned, and retaliated, “I know well you
were not thinking of me; for I have been a-disagreeable
subject, I doubt not, since —”

“Since when, cousin?” she asked, quietly.

“Since you saw the fine eyes of that impertinent
fisher fixed upon you, and he flattered you
by giving you shells.”

“He has very fine eyes. I am glad you had
the taste to admire them, Radnor.”

“You are provoking, Agnes!”

“Then you should be more gentle, especially
on this my birthday.”

“Answer me one question!”

“If it be civil, cousin.”

“Who was in your thoughts as I came up?”

She colored like a peony, and, after a moment's
embarrassment, answered:

“O, a good many things.”

“I can tell you of one subject.”

“Name it!”

“The shell boy! Your thoughts were all
upon him!” he said, with an evil look of mischievous
triumph.

“Well, may I not think of whom I will?
Are you not thinking of him now? What
more harm if he cross my thoughts than yours,
cousin?”

“But you did more. You wrote his name
within a wreath!”

“Wrote his name?” she repeated, with looks
of amazement, first at him and then of close
scrutiny of the window sill. But it told to her
eyes no tale of betrayal. Again she fixed her
wondering gaze upon his face, on which was an
expression of intense triumph.

“Radnor, what do you mean? You saw me
write no name, for none was written!”

And yet she knew she had made the motion of
writing the outlines on the stone's surface; but,
not dreaming that she had by these motions
been betrayed, she began to fear that he had the
power to read her thoughts. She became pale,
and regarded him fixedly with a look of fear.
But fear was not a new emotion in his presence.
There was an imperative haughtiness and insolence
in his character that often made her feel
afraid of him; while he possessed, in his better
hours, better attributes, that made her easily forget
his more disagreeable manner.

“How could he know my thoughts?” she
mentally asked, and saying, hurriedly:

“You must excuse me, Radnor. My young
friends are spurring towards the gate, and I
must go down and receive them.”

“First,” he cried, detaining her by the hand
rudely, “tell me if you love not this peasant?”

“Cousin Radnor, your question is an insult!”

“So it is; and so it would be, if I were to ask
you if you loved my hound because he licked
your hand. I will only look upon your notice
of this fellow as I would regard a look of kindness
cast from your superb eyes upon my dog!
So, pardon the insult, fair cousin!”

There was a bright flash of indignant light in
the eyes of the young girl, but she suppressed
the answering speech that sprung to her lips,
and, saying she must receive her guests, fled
from him as he endeavored, in order to say
something more, to detain her by the golden arrow.
She left it in his hand, and disappeared.

“This girl has no longer a heart, soul and
mind all for me! I loved her because no one
had ever loved her, nor she a thought of other.
In all her freshness and innocence I bowed
down to her, and believed myself the only worshipper
of one who, young as she is, has all the
power and genius of a woman's nobler feelings
—innocence—nature without guile. I could
have taught her to love me—fear me—bend to
my will as if I were God to her! But this fisher's
boy, gifted with a form and face that make
him look beneath his coarse garb like a disguised
prince—this fellow, on whom nature, in a freak,
has lavished all the outward gifts of birth—he
has made an impression upon her imagination.
The thought of him has entered her heart. It
has corrapted her single-minded regard for me!
To write his name with unconscious expression
in motion of what she was meditating upon!
This betokens evil to my love's selfishness. On
her upon whom I fix my passion neither king
nor peasant must gaze admiringly! And this
arrow revealed her thought!” added the young
noble, as he regarded the elegant shaft which
was to be the victor's prize that day. “The
thing is blasted in my sight!” And, with a
gesture of anger, he cast it upon the floor of
the terrace, and, stepping upon it, ground it
with his heel as he walked away.

At nine o'clock the whole company had arrived
in the castle, and were regaled by a
sumptuous breakfast in the great hall. At
ten o'clock the trumpets sounded from the
archery ground, as the signal to prepare for
the chief sport of the day. The country people
gathered outside the lists in a dense crowd;
while within the barrier was an amphitheatre
of seats, where sat the lord and lady of the castle,
with more than a hundred nobles and gentry
with their ladies. Between this terrace
and the superb markee stood the archers, forty-four
in number, youths and maidens; the former
dressed like foresters, but in silk and gold
and velvet, and the latter in varied and graceful
costumes, in which green and crimson hues
predominated. Few of the youths were over
nineteen, while the maidens were from a fifteen
to eighteen years of age. Seldom has a festal
gathering displayed so much noble and high-born
beauty in promise. Peerless among her
peers was Agnes, “sole daughter of the house,”
whose loveliness drew expressions of admiration
from all eyes; for, though more beautiful
than all her companions, such was her sweetness
of temper, unconscious of superiority, and
her gentle deference to and preference for others,
that she was not only popular but beloved.

Opposite this group of competitors, about fifty
yards across the green, stood the target,
which was painted with five circles, each of a
different color. The centre of the circle was a
gilt disc, the size of a crown-piece.

The gold arrow, which Agnes had returned
for, and found upon the terrace, unaccountably
marred, was suspended above the target by blue
and scarlet ribbons. Over the target two great
oaks flung out their arching limbs, and formed a
grand roof above, like the groined ceiling of a
cathedral.

At length the herald sounded again, and the
sports began. Many a good hit was made, and
many a bad one, and laughter and applause alternated.
The young girls proved to be the
best shots, but, after an hour's trial, not an arrow
had touched the centre of the crown-piece,
though three times it had been struck. One of
these arrows belonged to Agnes.

Among the spectators outside the barrier was
old George, the fisherman, and near him stood
Philip, the shell-gatherer. His looks followed
only the movements of the daughter of the castle,
his eyes traced the path of only the arrows
from her bow.

If any one had watched his fine face, they
would not have failed to perceive that his heart
was in the success of Agnes; and if the watcher
knew much of the human heart, he would have
detected under the outward interest the timidity
of a love that was in the first trembling of its
new and strange emotions.

At length there was a recess for a banquet in
the tent.

During this interval of two hours, as they
were walking about the grounds, after the feast,
waiting for the herald's trumpet to sound for
them to resume the sports, old George, seeing
Agnes near the barrier, talking with a young
man who was feathering an arrow for her, drew
near, in a humble way, and said, deferentially:

“Ah, my young lady, no arrows like them
feathered with eagle's wing! I hope you were
pleased with my boy's gift.”

“Yes, George,” answered the maiden, kindly:
“but it takes an eagle to make the feathers fly
straight to the mark.”

“You do not make allowance for wind, lady;
and all your strings are made of silk, when they
should be of good deer's hide; silk gives, and
don't let the arrow go off with a spring, as it
ought to.”

“Why, George, what do you know about
archery?” asked Agnes, with a pleasant laugh.
“It would seem you ought to know only about
hooks and fish-lines, instead of talking so wisely
about bows and bow-strings.”

“In my younger days, lady, I could use the
bow, and have shot many a bird with arrows
headed with sharp steel. It was when I was in
the Hebrides, and lived as much by egging in
the high cliffs as fishing in the deep seas
a-neath. We often had to kill the birds to get
the eggs, and also for their down, with which
great ladies in them days trimmed their winter
coats. We had to use bows and arrows, not
only because guns and powder was dear, but the
noise of shooting would scare off the birds; and
when they got to understand how that the report
meant death, they wouldn't come back the
next year, but go to other islands. I have
killed in my day, lady, many an eider duck
with my yard-long arrow, at a hundred yards.”

“And we can't hit the centre of the target in
fifty,” said the young man, laughing. “Come,
old man, you must take a trial at the target, and
win the golden arrow; for we all deserve to lose
it, being such bunglers.”

“I couldn't do nothing, young gentleman,
with one of them toy-things,” answered George,
looking with contempt on the handsome bow, ornamented
with pearl, which he held in his hand.
“But perhaps Philip might do something with
it, as he is a better bowman than ever I was,
though I taught him.”

“Then Philip can use the bow,” cried Agnes.
“He must certainly enter the lists,” she added,
with carnestness.

“If he did, lady, he would quickly carry off
your golden arrow,” said the old man, proudly.

“If he will only consent! Will you, Philip?”
she asked, as the young shell gatherer's eyes
met hers, at which collision of glances both their
faces reddened, while Philip answered:

“I have not so much confidence as to be confident
of success; still, if you wish it, I will try;
but —” and here he glanced down upon his
coarse apparel.

“He shall have my suit,” answered the young
man, “for I should like, of all things, to see the
prize carried off by a fisher's boy. It is in the
porter's lodge, where I left it when I resolved I
would shoot arrows no more at a mark I could
not hit. He shall have my bow and arrows,
also.”

With some persuasion on the part of Agnes,
who had set her mind on Philip's entering the

list, for she had secretly hoped his skill would
prove superior to that of Radnor, who, moodily
keeping out of the sports in the morning, had
been heard to express his intention to enter the
lists, and secure a prize which “no one seemed
able to win,” as he sneeringly expressed it.
Agnes now resolved to set off Philip against
him; but aware that Radnor would not contend
with him, knowingly, she gladly embraced the
offer of her cheerful young friend, Edward, the
son of Charles Dacre, who forthwith, in his desire
to gratify her whim, led Philip off to the
porter's lodge; having first, however, pledged
secrecy about the whole matter to the fair girl.

About half an hour afterwards the lists were
once more alive with the archers, and the spectators
again were seated, as before, in the amphitheatre.
At the private suggestion of Agnes,
Lord Monteagle proclaimed, by the herald, that
after two trials each of the competitors, without
taking the prize, the lists should be open to all
comers.

There were many excellent shots, but none
clave the centre, which was so constructed, that,
when hit exactly, it opened in two leaves, like a
crown-piece split, and moving in and out on
hinges, and let the arrow through out of sight.
Out of over four hundred shots that day, not a
single arrow had disappeared, though two struck
within half an inch of the charmed centre.
Even Radnor's shaft failed. When at length
all had made two trials, the field was proclaimed
open to all comers. Upon this the eyes of
Agnes might have been seen to brighten, as she
looked earnestly towards the right side of the
tent, where she saw standing Edward Dacre,
and, near him, a young man of the noblest aspect
and appearance on the field that day. At
first she could not believe her eyes; but she
knew it must be the handsome shell-gatherer;
yet, but for that knowledge, she would never
have recognized him in his present costume.
The crimson cap, and sable plume tipped with
green, the jacket of rich purple velvet, and vest
of silk, gorgeous with gold, all exceedingly set
off one of the finest figures and most handsome
faces ever maiden gazed with admiration upon.
If she had almost lost her heart (which she had
never lost to Radnor) to the shell-gatherer,
there was danger of its irrecoverable loss now.

“Who accepts the invitation to all?” asked
Lord Monteagle. “Are there none of my fine
forester lads who want a golden arrow to kill
venison withal?”

There was a laugh in the crowd, but no one
moved to come forward, for the presence of the
great awed the peasantry; albeit among them
might have been some stalwort youths who
drew as good a bow as Robin himself.

“Come, Radnor,” said Lady Monteagle,
“try once more your skill, as there seems to be
no more competitors. We will not leave the
field till the target be hit. The last best hit was
your own.”

“I can hardly compete without a rival,” answered
Radnor.

“Hither comes one who looks as if he intended
to show us his skill,” said the earl, as he saw
a young man, with dark, flowing locks, an eagle
eye, a tread like a prince of the desert, and an
air at once frank and noble. All eyes were
turned upon him, as he advanced and took his
place at the point whence the arrows were to be
shot.

“Who is he?” “Whence comes he?” “Who
knows him?” was asked from one to another.

No one was more perplexed than the earl, unless
it was Radnor. He regarded him with a
look of open admiration, but, though Agnes
closely watched his countenance, without the
least suspicion. Indeed, old George did not
know him, and commented upon him, as of a
stranger, to his companions about the barrier.

Bowing to Agnes, who was seated upon a
canopied dais, like a queen upon her throne,
he strung his bow with a practised hand, and,
giving it one or two trials with his whole
arm's strength, he next chose his arrows with
great care. There were seven in his quiver,
and he had broken and cast upon the ground
six before he was satisfied with the seventh.

“He has seen a bow before,” said a forester,
within bearing of old George. “He means to
shoot but once!”

“Ay, man, and he looks, young as he is,
as if he knew how to use a bow. I never
saw but one lad, and that's my boy Philip,
who can hold a how like —”

The old man was interrupted and his attention
drawn by a cry of, “Hist! they are going
to shoot!”

Radnor took the first shot, after having,
with the greatest care, tightened his bow and
selected his shaft. All was suspense as the arrow
hummed sharply through the air along its
fifty yards of rapid flight. Every eye followed
it to the target. It struck the central crown-piece,
but not so exactly as to open the valve,

and fell, shivered in a dozen fragments, at the
foot of the target.

The unsuccessful archer dashed his bow upon
the earth, as the shout of the people, who at
first thought he had hit it fairly, changed into a
note of disapprobation. The populace were
tired of unsuccessful shots, and had a right to
suppose that one who had put himself, as it
were, on a “forlorn hope,” would carry off the
prize.

“Better not try, you'll fail!” said several
voices, as Philip drew his arrow up to his eye.
It lingered not a moment, but went off on its errand
like a shaft of light. Straight to the target's
centre it sped, and had no sooner touched
the gilded disc than it disappeared through it.

There was a simultaneous shout from peer
and peasant. The air rang with applause, and
when the cheers had subsided, there arose a
loud hum of voices, all speaking together in
praise of the shot and of the skill of the archer.
Old George was eloquent in his admiration, and
only wished he knew who had taught “that
young lord” how to use the bow.

The herald brought the golden arrow, and
placed it, kneeling, in the hands of Agnes, as
she sat upon her throne. He then conducted
the victor to her, who, blushing and embarrassed,
stood before the dais “the cynosure of all
eyes.”

Agnes then gracefully presented to him the
golden arrow, which he received with a grace
and self-possession singularly becoming, and replied
to her in a few words of grateful acknowledgement.

“It is Philip! I know him now!” cried the
old fisherman, hearing his voice.

“What, the shell-gatherer!” exclaimed Radnor,
with eyes full of the light of angry surprise

And fixing his gaze fully upon him, he then,
as if fully satisfied of his identity, grasped him
by the throat, crying:

“Caitiff! To dare compete with a noble!”

There was instantly a general commotion.
Philip flung back his antagonist, and, in the
act, dropped the gold arrow without knowing it.
He then turned to leave the spot, when a sudden
outcry caused him to look back. Radnor
was standing, with the golden arrow fitted to
the string of his bow and drawn hard to the
feather. In another moment the metal shaft
would have been launched through his body;
but Agnes, with a scream of horror, caught
Cathcart's hand, but too late to prevent a most
terrible calamity; for the arrow turned aside,
and the bow slipping at the same moment, the
point of the arrow rapidly grazed the brows of
the young girl, and pierced an oak, in which it
stuck tremblingly. Agnes, with a cry of pain,
fell insensible into the arms of the earl.

When at length she revived, she felt around
for her mother, and said, with touching plaintiveness,
“All is darkness!”

There seemed to be no visible wound on the
eyes, though the brow above them trickled with
blood; nevertheless, as it soon appeared to all,
was she, in that brief, cruel, guilty moment, rendered
totally blind! The light of her glorious
eyes, by one act of pride and passion, was extinguished
in darkness!

6. CHAPTER VI.

The scenes upon the archery ground, at castle
Monteagle, which closed so painfully, and almost
tragically, as narrated in the chapter preceding,
had been passed full three weeks, when
Radnor Cathcart, now Lord Cranstown, by the
recent death of his father, rode towards the gate.
He was arrayed in deep mourning, and his
haughty countenance was subdued, partly, it
may be, with grief at his father's decease, partly,
perhaps, with shame and regret at the disgraceful
part he had enacted on the day of the fete.

He had, immediately on the occurrence of the
calamity which had stricken the lovely Agnes
with total loss of sight, after a confused and
brief attempt to apologize, mounted his horse
and galloped off, followed by the excerations of
the people. He did not believe that she was
blind, and with arrogant confidence, said, half
aloud, as he dashed farther from the scene:

“She will see well enough, to-morrow. It is
only a temporary shock of the nerve!”

Nevertheless, he was uneasy, and the following
morning despatched a messenger to learn her
condition. The reply was in a note by the hand
of the countess:

“Unhappy young man! Your uncontrollable
temper has ruined Agnes forever. She is pronounced
by the surgeon totally blind. Heaven
and your own conscience have mercy upon you!
Agnes forgives—but the earl will not hear your
name.”

Upon reading this, Radnor became nearly insane.
He was deeply attached to Agnes, and
loved her with more ardor than he ever manifested
towards any earthly object. His father,
being at this time rapidly declining, drew off his
thoughts in some degree from Agnes; and his
death, two weeks after the fete, overwhelmed
him with grief.

At length, having paid the last filial honors to
the noble dead, he determined to present himself
at the castle and solicit the pardon of the earl
and countess, and in person receive the forgiveness,
scarcely to be realized by hope, of the
lovely girl whom he had deprived of sight. It
was late in the afternoon when he drew rein
near the gate, and the evening sun was casting
the long shadows of the trees far across the level
lawn. Between the gate and a group of oaks
was a shaded rock, from beneath which gushed,
cool and clear, a spring of water, which flowed
across the park in a bubbling brook, and finally
lost itself, six miles distant, in the sea not far
from the tower. In the shade of the rock sat an
old woman, with gray hair hanging loosely
about her shoulders, and dressed in a sort of
Spanish style. Her head was bound about,
above her hard and wrinkled temples, by an

orange colored shawl. Her eyes were deep-set
and bright as stars, while an expression of cunning
in them was in keeping with the subtlety
about her mouth. Her looks were evil and misanthropic;
and if she ever loved her kind, such
emotions seemed now altogether extinguished in
her soul.

The young nobleman regarded her with surprise
and curiosity. The road led by the spring,
which was within a hundred yards of the castle
wall. As he drew near and was riding past, on
a slow walk, with his eyes fixed upon her, she
rose from the spring side and advanced quickly,
so as to intercept his path. His horse stopped
and turned half round with alarm at so wild an
apparition.

“Who and what are you, and why do you
stand thus in my way? Aside! or I will spur
over you!” he cried, between anger and superstitions
dread.

“Nay, my lord, a young and new lord will not
stain his fresh and noble name with maiming a
poor old woman.”

“You know me, but I never saw thee! Thou
art a witch, at the very least, or thy looks belie
thee.”

“Men think old age and witchcraft in woman
go together, my lord,” she said, with a sneer
and laugh. “I can tell fortunes, nevertheless.”

“I want not mine! Begone!”

“Thine is already told! A titled lord and a
blind bride!”

“Out upon thy foul tongue!” he exclaimed,
with a fierce cry, as he attempted to reach her
with his riding whip.

“Nay, my good lord! You need not foam
and fret. It becomes not thy sable garments nor
thy nobility. Hear me patiently! I will tell
thee what, after thou art wedded to this blinded
bride—”

“Witch—silence!”

“Peaceful, my lord! After thou art wedded
and learn the secret I can now tell thee, thou
wouldst give half thy gold that thou hadst listened
to me now.”

“Ah, what then? what hast thou to tell?” he
cried, eagerly.

“Thou lovest her?” she asked, or rather asserted.

“Well!”

“Blind?”

“Woman, you will madden me! Yes, blind.
I love her—for I made her so!” Here his face
suddenly paled, and he seemed deeply moved.

“And you go now to cast yourself at he
feet, I dare say! But what wilt thou with a
sightless wife. She will ever be a present reproof!
You will by-and-by hate her rebuking
eyes that never look out of their darkened windows.
All who see her, will talk of thy deed of
passion! Thou canst not take her to court—
thou canst never love her! She will be a fixed
column in thy hall, and thou canst never stir
from her side! Thy days will be those of a
captive; and by-and-by you will say, with Cain,
`my punishment is greater than I can bear.' ”

“Woman, what picture is this you so maliciously
paint?”

“The prophetic future!”

“I begin to fear to make her my bride! Your
words impress me.”

“You believe her to be the daughter of the
noble lord of this castle!”

“And truly so!” he said with surprise.

“Falsely so!” she answered, significantly.

“What is it thou sayest?”

“That the fair Agnes, now blind Agnes, is not
the daughter of this noble house!”

“What do you tell me? What evil speech is
this?”

“Ask them!” added the woman firmly.

Lord Cranstown appeared impressed by her
manner, and said:

“Whose daughter is she, if thou sayest truly
she is not their's?”

“Mine!”

“Thy child!”

“Ay. Am I not a woman? May I not be a
mother as well as the noblest countess in the
land? The girl is mine!” added old Alice,
with a loud and determined voice.

“What you say is false!”

“Go in and ask my lord and my lady!” she
answered, scornfully.

“And if thou liest, I will have thee hanged,”
he cried, as he rode rapidly towards the gate of
the castle.

“And if I speak truly, wilt thou wed her and
become my brave son-in-law?”

“Never—though she saw with the eyes of an
archangel,” was the young nobleman's haughty
response.

“There is one sweet act I have done for my
beloved! He will cease to trouble her! for, by
going down on his knees and humbling himself
before the earl and countess, he might have yet
won her; for who would marry a blind wife!
But I have well rid her of him, with all his

greatness. He would not wed her, though she
saw with angel's eyes! So, good—she will yet
be mine! I will have her all to myself; for the
earl will not care to have her long, when he shall
know all! Then, I will keep her in my own
house. I will watch her, and be eyes to her.
She can't see how old and ugly I am, and wont
hate me! O, it will be so pleasant to be loved
by some one who cannot know how unloving I
look. They call me a witch—but I have not
quite given up all my human nature. I love
that child I took out o' the sea, and because she
is blind, I love her more, because she cannot see
me and hate me! No bridegroom, noble or
peasant, shall take her from me! Already she
loves me, and when, last night, I secretly found
my way by the terrace and stood by her bed, and
while her attendants were asleep, told her her
whole history, how I risked my life to take her
from the roaring sea, and how I was robbed of
her, and how they brought her to this castle and
reared her as their own child, and how I had
been for years thinking only one thought, and
that about her, having only one object and that
to find her again, loving only one thing and that
her sweet image, she shed tears out of her beautiful,
but sightless eyes. She could not see how
old and ugly I was, and as my voice was kind, I
might have been an angel, for all she knew!
There enters the young lord! He will soon
learn the truth, and then I shall have only the
earl and countess between me and the possession
of her.”

So soliloquized the old dame, as she re-seated
herself by the spring and continued her occupation
of washing certain medicinal plants which
she had gathered in the forest.

The young nobleman was ushered by a servitor
into the room where the earl of Monteagle
sat with a sad and troubled countenance. He
had only half an hour before come from the darkened
room where the countess kept almost ceaseless
watch, by day, with Agnes. She had sent
for them to unfold to them what had been revealed
in the midnight interview which Dame
Alice had had with her.

When they entered, she was seated in an arm-chair
by the lattice. A faint ray of light fell
upon her brow, which was pale as alabaster.
Above the right temple was visible a slight scar
Her eyes appeared perfectly natural, and perhaps
were more bright than was natural, but
they were like eyes exquisitely made by art.
There was in them no expression—out of them
looked forth no soul. Her face was touchingly
lovely, and upon her features was impressed sad
and gentle submission.

It was a touching spectacle. The earl's eyes
filled with great tears, and sitting down by her,
he took her hand in his and kissed her with deep
affection.

“My noble and good lord—” began Agnes.

But she was interrupted quickly and with surprise:
“It is I, your father, dear child!”

“I know it, dear father—you are my father
and you my mother indeed! but I know my
story! I am not your child!”

Both the noble pair started and exchanged
glances of inquiry and of pain.

“How did you learn this? Who hath told
you the secret we would forever have sealed?”
asked the countess, earnestly.

“You shall know, my dear parents—my more
than father and mother! Last night, I was laying
awake, for a slight pain within my eyes kept
me from sleeping. I told my watchers to sleep,
and if I needed them, I would call. I lay between
waking and sleeping, and seemed to be
carried in my thoughts to a beautiful land, where
I saw birds of the most beautiful plumage, such
as I never saw before, and trees of the strangest,
yet most glorious description, and flowers of fragrance
and beauty that were unknown to me.
There were fields and woodlands and a noble
villa—but all unlike anything I ever saw. Even
the skies were bluer and more lovely, and the soft
air did not appear like the air I knew before. I
was gazing upon this scene, it seemed to me,
from a rosy cloud, not far above it, when an indescribably
lovely being, with four wings, all of
gold and blue and purple feathers, appeared suddenly
before me. The face of this noble angel,
as I thought it was, looked backward continually,
and could not turn her face forwards. This
did not appear to surprise me in the least, nor
did I consider it a deformity, but on the contrary
regarded her as the most wonderfully lovely
creature imagination could conceive of.

“She addressed me, saying:

“ `Daughter of men, I am the angel of Memory!
Now that thine eyes to view the present
around thee are closed, I am sent to open thine
eyes of the past! Behold! what thou seest beneath
thee is a scene in the world of the past,
from which I come. We call Time in that world
Memory, the younger sister of Time, and ever
following in her path.'

“The angel then left me, and I contemplated

with delight the lovely scene revealed below,
and which I have described. It gradually seemed
to me as if I had seen it before, and while I
was wondering, I was recalled to myself and the
present by a low voice near me. I started, and
felt a soft touch upon my forehead.

“`Agnes, be not alarmed! I am come to see
thee, for I love thee, and dearer art thou to me
than all on earth.'

“`Who are you that speak?' I asked, not being
able to see her.

“She then proceeded to relate to me how that
I had been shipwrecked when four years old, and
that she had rescued me, and taken me to the
tower on the cliff, when a naval captain took me
by violence from her, and conveyed me here, as
she has since learned; for she was carried a
great way over sea, and only after years of
search has found me. She said I was given her
by Providence, that she has a mother's claim
upon me, and that now I am blind no one will
care for me, and she will take me to a home
where she will spend her days in making me
happy. I have sent for you to know from your
own lips, my dear father, if this tale is true.”

“It is,” answered the earl. “This woman
must have arisen from the dead, for she was
surely drowned.”

“No, she was saved by a boat. You confess
that I am the child she saved, do you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Nay, my dear father; but if it be so, this
woman has indeed a claim upon me; and—”

“Not one word, dearest Agnes! You are and
shall ever be to us, our child!”

“Yes, you have shown the same affection to
me as if I were, and I wish I could show you
my gratitude. I am now blind and helpless.
You can have no pleasure or hopes in me now!
I have sent for you to let me go with this good
woman, who saved my life, for I shall only be a
constant burden and care to you—”

“Agnes,” cried the countess, weeping and
interrupting her, “dearest daughter of our
hearts, do not agonize us by thus calmly talking
of leaving us, and of being a burden to us!
You are nearer and dearer to us than ever!”

“But my lord is soon going to Spain, as minister
from the king, and you and I were to accompany
him. I, helpless, as I am, cannot go,
and you, my dear mother, must not remain behind
for me. I cannot mar your pleasure.”

“We will make any sacrifice for you, self-sac
rificing girl,” said the earl, impassionately. “I
will abandon the position, and—”

“No, my dear lord, no! Already I see I am a
bar to your movements; since I am not of your
name, consider me as a stranger. I willingly
will go with the good woman who saved my
life!”

“This may not be,” said the earl. “Knowing
you were an orphan we loved you, and this
discovery, which is only one to you, does not
affect us. When did this woman visit you?”

“Last night; and left as secretly as she came.
Do you know who my parents are, my father?”

“No, my dear child.”

“Nor my country?”

“No. It must be England, for you spake the
purest English when we received you at the
hands of Captain Manners, my brother-in-law.”

“The good woman who claims me must become
my mother,” said Agnes, sadly, but firmly.
“I cannot mar your visit to Spain. You must
make no such great sacrifice for me.”

Both of them embraced the lovely girl, and
shed tears freely. At length the earl said:

“This woman must be found! She must not
trouble you again. You are our daughter, and
we will not part with you.”

“But by-and-by my birth may prove to be too
lowly, and—”

“Not wert thou as low-born as Philip the
shell-gatherer,” answered the earl.

“He has been here again to-day to ask after
my welfare,” she said, in a tone full of grateful
emotion; “and he insists on bearing all the
blame. He says that if he had not presumed to
enter the lists, it would never have happened!
He blames only himself, and suffers as if he
were indeed the real cause of my misfortune.
He is so noble and feeling!”

“Yes, and I feel a deep interest in him,” said
the earl. “He shall always see you when he
comes, for I have observed how much happiness
it gives him.”

“And me, also,” she answered, artlessly.

The countess looked at her husband, and
smiled.

Soon afterwards, not wishing to weary the
lovely patient, the earl retired, resolved, as well
as was the countess, that she should be removed,
as soon as it could be done, from beyond the influence
of the “weird woman,” as he termed
Dame Alice. He was found by Radnor pacing
his room, and reflecting upon what had passed;
for truly as she had said, her calamity would

stop his journey to the court of Madrid, to be
undertaken in a few days, by the king's command.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and
beheld the young lord Cranstown. He regarded
him with a fixed look of displeasure, which,
however, was instantly removed from his face,
which assumed a cold, grave expression.

“Good even, my lord. I condole with you
upon your loss. Your father I well knew.
Peace to his memory!”

Thus speaking, the earl coldly waved his hand
towards a chair.

“No, my lord, I will not sit. I have been so
bold as to call to inquire for lady Agnes.”

“Blind, sir, blind—stone blind!”

“Your lordship's tone is severe,” said Lord
Cranstown, with a reddening cheek.

“So is her misfortune. What would you
more?” and Monteagle turned almost fiercely
upon him.

“To ask forgiveness, and to offer to atone—”

“Atone!—atone for extinguishing the light
of heaven from a human brain! Hast thou
fetched with thee, my lord, new eyes, that she
may see? In no other way can thy words have
meaning.”

“I see I am not welcome! But I hoped to
show you that I felt my guilt. I came to assure
your lordship that I will still take her to wife;
and try by my devotion to her, to atone—”

“You will marry her, eh?”

“I repeat it; and since she is sightless, you
will appreciate—”

“O—ah—yes—I appreciate! You have taken
the jewels, and would have me toss you the casket.
But, pardon me, my lord. I have felt
this calamity. I may, by-and-by, talk with you
more favorably. But first I have a duty to perform.
Agnes is not my daughter—she is a
foundling!”

“Then the tale I heard is true indeed!” exclaimed
the young man.

“What tale hast thou heard?”

“That she was the child of an old peasant
woman.”

“Where heard you this?”

“From her own lips.”

“Well, we know not who is her mother! She
is equally dear to us. She may have a better
mother than the woman you speak of.”

“Is she noble, my lord? Think you Agnes
is noble?”

“Made so by our love and adoration!”

“I cannot marry unless it be ascertained who
she is. This woman may have stolen her; yet
she says she is her own offspring.”

“It matters not. She is blind and helpless;
and she is God's offspring, committed to our
keeping.”

“My lord, pardon me if I withdraw my obligation.”

“What obligation?”

“That I would wed her.”

“My lord Cranstown, you add insults to deep
injuries! Your horse waits his rider! I know
you now, and beg that the acquaintance here
end!”

Thus speaking, the earl turned from him. The
young man, pale as marble, and with livid lips,
haughtily took his departure, leaped into his
saddle, and spurred madly away towards the
forest.

“How, my lord? What news? Is it not all
true?” cried the weird woman, stepping from
behind a tree, as he dashed past.

He gave her no other reply than a look of desperate
fury, and was soon lost to sight in the
depths of the wood.

Without question, Radnor Cathcart loved
Agnes; but his pride of birth could not stoop to
one who might be ignoble. A sense of honor
might have induced him to marry one whom he
had deprived of sight, but no considerations
would have led him to unite to his name and
house an unknown girl. If we could look into
his thoughts as he rides homewards, more slowly
as he increases the distance between him and
the castle, we should detect a secret satisfaction,
an undefinable feeling of relief that he was not
bound to marry Agnes! for though he had been
willing to make her his wife, blind as she was,
in some sort to atone, as an honorable man, for
the calamity he had brought upon her, yet now
that the obscurity of her origin afforded him a
favorable way of escaping, he gladly embraced
it; for, in his heart, even were she the daughter
of the Earl and Countess of Monteagle, he felt
no disposition to clog his life, upon which he
was just entering, with a blind and helpless wife.
Therefore, Lord Cranstown, as he rode on, became
more and more calm, and by the time he
reached his own home, he felt very lightly reconciled
with the issue of his visit to castle
Monteagle.

“And this accounts for her looks of regard
cast upon that low-born shell-gatherer—being
low-born herself; as every bird mates with its

fellows! I have made an escape; and but for
this accident—yet it was her own fault, in arresting
my arm to save the serf's life,—but for
this lucky accident, I should, perhaps, have
taken to wife the daughter of a peasant; nay,
this old woman may have had the Earl of Cranstown
as her son-in-law!”

Thus gratulating himself, the young and subtle
noble resolved to banish Agnes from his
thoughts, with a feeling of resentment against
himself for loving one so obscure, and against
Lord Monteagle for permitting him to remain in
ignorance of her history.

After the departure of the young nobleman
from his castle, the Earl of Monteagle, following
with his eye from his window his rapid pace,
had seen the weird woman appear from among
the trees, and address him as he galloped past
her. Instantly he left the castle by a postern on
that side, and rapidly made his way to the forest.
He beheld the gray figure of the old woman
moving swiftly in the direction of the ancient
church. He followed, and saw her disappear
within the church-yard, under the shadows of
the yews. He hastened forward, and came
upon her as she was entering the tower, the
door of which was broken from its hinges, and
could not be quite closed by the old sexton.
He was upon her steps, and found her just in
the act of descending beneath the chancel into
the crypt of tombs. The interior of the venerable
church was solemnly gloomy, and at this
evening hour, when the shadows of the closing
day were everywhere spreading and deepening,
it had an awe-awakening aspect. He paused in
the aisle as he saw her disappear; and recollecting
that she had once been cast into the sea for
dead, he began almost to believe that it was a
spirit he had followed, rather than a living being.
But he was not superstitious. He was
quite convinced that this person must be the
woman who had secretly visited Agnes by night;
and as he had seen Dame Alice years before,
when she dwelt in the tower, he had been satisfied
of the identity when he beheld her hail Lord
Cranstown in the forest.

He now moved swiftly and noiselessly, and
found the door of the crypt open. But he need
not have been so careful to conceal his approach.
She had seen him following her from the first,
and had purposely led him to the church. As
he was gazing down to see where she was, she
struck a light, which cast a strange glare about
her, as he discovered her in the empty tomb.

“Come down, my lord! This must be your
home one day, and you may as well familiarize
your eyes with it! Enter, my lord of Monteagle.
Nay, shrink not back! It is not death
that invites you, but the living. This is my
home!”

“Art thou the woman—the—”

“I am the woman you seek.”

“Wherefore do you haunt my house? What
wicked notion can urge you to mar the peace of
the dear child—”

“Because,” she interrupted, sternly, “because
the child is as dear to me as to you. She is
mine, Lord Monteagle! Heaven sent her to
take the place of my own fair-haired one, which
died when I was a young wife. I snatched the
child from the waves and became its mother.
Your brother robbed me of her. I would recover
her! I will take her, blind as she is, for
now you care not for her. Give her to me, my
lord!”

“You ask in vain. Rather would I come and
lay her dead in this tomb, than give her into thy
hand!” answered the noble.

“Dead shall she be laid in this tomb, unless
thou givest her into my hand!” answered the
weird woman.

“Dost thou threaten her life?”

“Nay. But her life is mine! Thou hast
loved her and had her smiles for ten years,
while I have wandered the world desolate. The
past is thine—the future must be mine!”

7. CHAPTER VII.

The Earl of Monteagle slowly returned towards
his castle, from the old church where he
had talked with the weird woman. The interview
between them lasted full half an hour; and
resulted in a conviction on his part, that, though
he would not surrender Agnes to her appeals, he
might permit her to visit her and remain with
her in her apartment, to watch over her.

“This much, I feel, is due to her singular affection
for her,” he said to the countess as he entered
her room on his return, after having given
an account of his interview with Dame Alice.
“She is no witch—but a strong hearted woman
who has been more abused by the superstitious
hatred of ignorant people than she merits. I
am satisfied that she will make a faithful nurse
to the dear child; and she will need, in her helplessness,
all the aid we can give her.”

“But she is so old and hideous, my dear lord,”
objected the countess.

“Agnes is blind and cannot know it!”

“True. But may she be trusted?”

“Without doubt. Her affection for her
is her security, dear wife! And we owe this
to her; for truly she has a higher claim to her,
than we ourselves have. Besides, it is imperative
upon me to proceed to Madrid. I must
leave London in two days. It will be impossible
to leave you behind to watch over her, and
as impossible to take Agnes, helpless as she is.
It would be dragging her through a tour of
misery.”

“But with whom, besides this Dame Alice,
who perseveres in calling her her child, shall we
leave her?”

“My brother-in-law, Manners, will return to-morrow;
and is to remain on furlough, you are
aware, for several months, until his new frigate
is completed. He remains here!”

“I had forgotten it. We can leave Agnes
in his good hands, and that of the marchioness
his amiable wife.”

“Until our return. This is settled.”

“I only object to this old dame.”

“Consult Agnes. I have confidence in her,
and to say truth I would gladly see her about
Agnes; for I believe we should render both happy.
Do not forget that if she is dear to us, we
owe her to the courage of this woman.” At
this moment a page entered.

“I will see what Agnes says,” answered the
countess; and the earl sat down to open and
read some letters, brought by the page, from
London, while the Countess Eleanora sought the
chamber of the blind maiden. At the door her
ear was arrested by low voices. She paused
and recognized in one of the speakers Philip;
the other was Agnes. She was seated in the

window that opened upon the terrace. The moonlight
revealed the young shell-gatherer standing
outside and leaning in over the very spot where
she had in imagination written in air his name
with the point of the golden arrow.

“I am alone to blame, Lady Agnes,” he said,
in tones of self-reproof. “I shall never forgive
myself. If I could return your sight by giving
up my own life, I would not hestitate a moment
to sacrifice it.”

“You are not to blame at all, Philip,” she
answered, very earnestly; and she extended her
fair hand to feel for his, to grasp it in token of
her confidence in his innocence. He was timid
and would not touch it! he had not boldness
enough to put his hand into her warm clasp.
He felt himself but a fisher's lad, while she was
a highborn maiden—invested by her birth and
beauty, in his lowly view, with the superiority of
a goddess. It was bold in him, it is true, to
steal to her window and whisper her name as he
had done; but it was from anxiety, from a desire
to see her and ask her forgiveness, and to
know how she was; and if there was no hope
that she could see again. She appreciated his
kindness, and her grateful accents thrilled
through and through his soul. He felt he could
have lingered there all night to listen to her
musical voice, and gaze down upon that angelic
face, the glorious eyes of which, in the moonlight,
seemed seraphically bright.

The countess now entered, when the youthful
shell gatherer embarrassed would have fled.
But innocent of all evil, and having been aforetime
suffered by the countess to come into the
castle to ask after Agnes, he checked the impulse
and remained.

“So, Philip, you are not content with seeing
Agnes by day, but you must come by night.”

“I came, lady, to tell her good-by. I am
going away.” This was spoken sadly but with
decision.

“Wither? not out of the country, I trust,”
said the countess, smiling at his manner.

“I am going to London, lady!”

“And why there?”

“To seek my fortune. I am done with shell-gathering,
since Agnes can see and admire them
no more.”

“But I can feel their shape and smoothness,
Philip,” she said, pleasantly; “and you can tell
me all about the beautiful tints.”

“I am resolved to go!”

“And leave your old father?”

“He is not my father. He found me on a
wreck at sea! This I have been told by him.
He consents that I may go; for he hopes I may
find my parents.”

“Have you any clue?”

“Only a silver cup and an iron-rimmed compass
which were taken by him from the wreck.”

“And how will these aid you?”

“They have initial letters, and the compass
the maker's name and number. I hope to learn
by them what ship was wrecked, and then who
were the passengers. My father, that is George,
says I shall find the record in the port it sailed
from, and if I can only discover what ship the
compass was sold to, or what person the silver
cup was sold to. It bears the maker's stamp,
and was made in the Strand in London.”

“These may indeed aid you; and I trust they
will. But you go on a forlorn hope: yet you
may find employment, and yet do well in London,”
added the countess, who felt disposed to
encourage the departure of one who was evidently
too deeply interested in Agnes for his own or
her happiness.

“Good-by, Lady Agnes!” said Philip, now
taking her hand. “Forgive me your blindness!
“I shall not return until—”

Here his emotions overcame his voice, and
touching his cap to the countess he vanished in
the shadow of the buttress and the next moment
letting himself down by the ring on the
wall by which he had ascended, he was soon
rapidly moving across the moonlit lane, towards
the king's highway, which wound through the
ancient forest, surrounding the castle.

After he had thus suddenly taken his leave,
the countess approaching Agnes, took her hand
and found her weeping, great drops of tears
chasing one another down her cheeks.

“What, my child! tears for a peasant boy!”
said the countess, smiling, and gently wiping them
away.

“Mother, he is more than a peasant boy!
He is so noble, so frank, so good, so kind!”

“Yet it becomes you not to think of him
again.”

“Mother, I have no other occupation,now I
am shut out from the beautiful world, but to
think of those whose voices are kind. Philip is
not the son of a fisherman. He may be well-born,
as I believe he is! Yet high or lowborn,
he is kind and he loves me, and I cannot but be
grateful! Now that I am so helpless, I shall
have few to love me; and I must cherish every

heart. The blind are often dependent on the
attachment and faithfulness of a little dog. Reprove
not my tears, dear mother.”

“I am rebuked, sweet daughter! I like Philip
almost as well as you do; and so does my lord
think much of him. Have you any idea how he
is going to London?”

“On foot, he told me.”

“He must have need of gold! I will send a
well-filled purse after him.”

“Nay, mother, I asked him if he would take
from me ten gold pieces; but he looked hurt,
and declined them—proudly, too.”

“He is above his seeming, evidently. George
has well taught him; for I see he is well-accomplished.”

“Yes. The old man has many books he
picked up in chests from wrecks, and all these
Philip says he has read, and that makes him talk
like one of better position. I am so sorry he is
gone! for he would have been so much company
to me,” she said, with artlessness.

“It is better he go, child! Better for both of
you. Without doubt, he felt it so, and therefore
departed. But I have come to ask you, my
dear child, if it is your wish to have the old
Dame Alice about you? She entreats to be allowed
to serve you.”

“Then by all means suffer her to come. It
will gratify me, for I owe her my life! Have
you consented to please me, my dear mother,
and go with my lord to Spain?”

“It is a sore question for my heart.”

“But the good, noble captain and his lady will
be here.”

“Yes. To their care I could commit you
without anxiety, if I leave you; but—”

“Leave me you must! The earl will have to
go, and you must accompany him for his own
happiness and your own.”

“I will please you, then,” answered the countess,
with a smile struggling through her tears.

“A thousand thanks, dearest mother!” cried
Agnes, embracing her. “Now I shall bear my
affliction easier, since it does not involve the
happiness of those I love most. Here I shall be
happy. You will often write to me, and Dame
Alice, my second mother, will read your letters
to me.”

The next day Dame Alice came to the castle,
and applied for admission to see the earl. Her
whole appearance was changed. She wore her
hair smooth, and a cap above it, neatly tied.
Her gown was plain but neat, and her whole air
was that of a respectable village matron. The
change of costume had produced a corresponding
improvement in her face, and she wore a
look of dignified repose. Lord Monteagle did
not at first recognize her. The countess, who
now beheld her for the first time, was prepossessed
in her favor. Willing to recognize the debt
due to her, as the rescuer of Agnes, they now
fully consented to give her the position near her,
which she sought, and she was led to her room,
and forthwith installed, greatly to her joy, in her
new vocation.

The ensuing day, the naval nobleman and his
wife arrived at the castle, and the following day,
Lord and the Countess of Monteagle took their
departure for London—not without a sorrowful
parting from the lovely and unfortunate Agnes.

We will now follow the fortunes of the youthful
Philip, on his way to seek his fortune, after
his departure from Agnes and the castle.

He had left the sea-side home of old George
that day with the purpose in view of going to
London. The old man had reluctantly given
his consent; but he had become so proud of him
after his victory on the archery ground that he
was willing to indulge him in anything he
asked.

“But, my son,” said the aged fisherman,
“London is far away from hence; and it is a
world of wickedness and woe, they tell me,
where men know not each other, and no one has
a neighbor. Yet I will not keep you here to
waste your youth in shell-fishing. I know you
are fitted for better things. But you cannot go
without money. Here is a purse of gold. Use
it with caution, as a man without money in the
big world may as well be without eyes! Ah,
you groan! You are thinking of the poor child,
Lady Agnes. A sad misfortune!”

“And the surgeon, whom I met coming from
the castle, and asked about her, yesterday, told
me,” answered Philip, with emotion, “that she
can never see again!”

“A pitiful accident!” said the old man, shaking
his white head, sorrowfully. “So fair, and
young, and noble!”

“She is so good, and kind, and gentle, and
suffers so patiently, that I cannot but weep when
I see her.”

“She seems to think mightily of you, my
boy; and the earl and countess praised you to
me till my heart rose right up with joy. But
you are not fastening on your pack! You will
not go to day?”

“Yes, dear father. I am ready to go now.
But, as I promised, I will send you a letter from
London; and you shall often hear how I get on.
But you will not forget to write to me once every
month how Lady Agnes is.”

“I am but a poor hand at pen and ink, lad;
but I will send you what news I can.”

“Farewell, my dear father! I know not how
to thank you for all your kindness to me. If I
thought I could not do and serve you better by
going away to get riches for you, I would remain.
But I hope ere long to return. All our
friends at the hamlet have promised me if you
get sick, to take the best of care of you; and I
will ask the kind Lady Agnes to inquire about
you often. Good-by, my dear father! I hope
soon to send you good news, for I shall try at
once to find who my parents were!”

The parting between this noble young man
and the old fisherman who had fostered him
from boyhood was touching and affecting. The
old man wept on his shoulder, and, giving him
a last embrace, commended him to the protection
of Heaven.

With his pack slung over his shoulder, Philip
left the lowly cabin of his childhood, and took
his way to the castle, and there, as we have
seen, bidding Agnes adieu, he started on his
solitary way, “the world before him all to
choose.”

His way lay past the church-yard, which
stood, solemn and obscure, within the heavy
shadow of its overarching yew-trees. He paused
a moment, as he passed the porch, to offer up a
silent prayer that God would prosper his journey
with the success his heart desired. As he
moved on, with a lighter spirit, he felt a touch
upon his shoulder. He quickly turned, and beheld
Dame Alice, not now attired in the wild
costume of the weird woman, but in the grave
and decent apparel with which we saw her half
an hour later present herself at the castle, towards
which she was now making her way.

“Young man, whither goest thou, that thou
hast need to preface thy journey with a holy
prayer to Heaven?” she said, in a kindly voice.

“To London,” he answered.

“Thou art Philip, the foster-son of George,
the fisherman?”

“Yes.”

“I knew thee! I saw thee on the day of the
archery sports. Thou wert victor, and didst
win the golden arrow; but it cost the eyes of
the fairest maiden thine own eyes ever beheld!”

“I would willingly lose my own to restore
hers!” answered Philip, earnestly.

“Thou wert not to blame! It was the fierce
wrath of the Lord Cranstown which did the deed
of guilt. His day will come! I saw all, and
understand it all. Thou wert his successful
rival, not only in the lists but in love.”

“I do not know what you say, woman,” answered
Philip, blushing, yet with instinctive and
happy consciousness.

“Can the eye, the lip, the cheek of him who
loves tell tales contrary to the true heart? I
watched thee and her. She loves thee, and
thou regardest her with a greatness of love that
thou darest not own even to thy own soul!”

“I am but an humble person, and I dare not
love one like Lady Agnes,” answered Philip.
“I pity and feel sad for her, and—but—that is,
I do not—at least, I may not look to her with
love! She is to me as yonder fair star hanging
in the western sky tremulous in the light of its
own beauty. I gaze upon it with wonder and
admiration, but I never hope to approach it!
So with Lady Agnes. I gaze afar off, content
to be far off, so that I may be permitted only to
gaze!”

“Thou art not a peasant, young man.
This is not the language and the thoughts of
a fisherman's son!”

“I am a foundling. I am not his son! He
rescued me from the sea—found me a child
upon a deserted wreck, and raised me as his
son. You speak to me so kindly, you have
won my confidence, and so I tell you these
facts freely.”

“This is strange. Both children of the sea,
and both loving one another with all their
young hearts' fervor! This is a providence!
I must not,” she continued, to herself, “cross-purpose
Heaven's decrees. Then thou knowest
not thy true parentage?” she asked, with
deep interest.

“No, mother. A few books, a compass, and
a silver cup, are all that were taken from the
wreck. She was so deeply sunk in the water,
that George could not see her name.”

“And that compass! that cup! Have you
them?”

“Here, in my pack!”

“Let me see them.”

“There is hardly light enough for you to
read the names on them.”

“Then there are names!”

He placed the cup in her hand. She closely

examined it and the stamp of the maker, “Hamel,
London.”

“I see what takes you up to London. You
seek your parentage by these.”

“Yes, but—not only this! I have a higher
motive—but—but —”

“Nay, do not hesitate. I am thy friend for
Agnes's sake. Wouldst thou make a great
name, or hopest thou to find thyself noble, that
thou mayst come back and win her?” she said,
smiling.

“Not this only!”

“Then what more eanst thou have in view?
What more beside this?”

“To see if there be not skill on earth, mother,”
he answered, with startling emphasis and
deep feeling manifested in his fine face; “to see
if there be not skill on earth to restore sight to
her!”

“This is noble and worthy thy nature, young
man,” cried Alice, warmly regarding him as he
stood before her, his whole form dilated, and his
bearing elevated by his one great thought.
“And this, then, takes you to London!”

“All else is secondary. I thought not of going
until she became sightless. At first I could
not keep from believing she would soon see.
But as week after week her sight remained
sealed up, and as the surgeons declare her blind
for life, I could not calmly consent to the abandonment
of all hope. The surgeon who pronounced
her incurable was from Windsor, and
served the queen's household; and from his decision
the countess said there could be no appeal,
for there was no higher authority in the
realm!”

“Then what do you hope for?”

“I know not! I must go forward and see
what I can do! France has men skilled in the
eye, and I will go there! Nay, I have put a
vow upon my soul never to rest or cease my
search, until I can discover the skill, if it be on
earth, that will give her back her sight again!”

“Heaven bless you, my dear youth! This is
an angel's mission you are started upon. But
you cannot travel from land to land and over
sea without gold!”

“I have money”'

“Not much, I fear. Let me see what thou
hast!”

“Great store, for a long journey, given me by
my foster-father, George.”

Here he opened his old leathern purse, and
showed her a handful of small gold pieces.

“This is but little, my friend! Wait you
here a few moments!”

Thus speaking, she disappeared in the rear of
the church, and shortly after came back with a
black belt in her hand.

“Take this, and buckle it about your waist,
beneath your frock. I have worn it many a
year over sea and land. It will do thee good
service.”

Philip took it as she forced it into his hand.
He was surprised at its weight.

“Is this money?” he asked, with amazement.

“Yes. One hundred pounds in golden guineas.
And there are in it, besides, many silver
crowns. Buckle it about you, and make no
words of refusal. It is for Agnes!”

“For her I take it, then, and may blessings
follow you, good woman. I know you not,
only that you are her friend! If you see her,
tell her you met me on my way, and that I
sent my humblest homage to her; but betray
not for what object I go on my journey! I
may fail; and then, if she cherishes hopes,
these would perish also!”

“I will keep your secret. Know you that I
will give your message to her. I am appointed
to be one of her attendants, for now she may
never be left alone. I will see that she forgets
you not; for I will so speak of you whom
she regards, as that she will love me for your
sake!”

“I must now proceed on my way, as evening
is advancing,” said Philip. “Farewell,
and may Heaven one day bring me back with
one in my company skilled to give her back
her sight.”

“Be courageous and persevere, and we know
not what may come to pass.”

Here the young man gave his hand to the
woman who had, to his surprise, manifested
such interest in Agnes and in his mission, and
they moved off different ways, she towards
the castle and he into the forest, over which
the shadows of night were darkly gathering.

Late in the afternoon on the ninth day after
leaving the neighborhood of Castle Monteagle,
Philip was slowly threading his way through
the streets of London towards the Strand. He
was weary and foot-sore, for he had journeyed
the whole distance walking, desirous of saving
every penny of his hoard for the actual needs
of the future. No one regarded the youthful
traveller, as he made his way amid the throng

on the sidewalks. Every face, every voice, was
new and strange. But he pressed on with the
one idea—“sight for Agnes”—in his mind!
This thought had sustained him through all
his fatigues and voluntary privations. This
holy purpose gave him strength above his own.
He went on towards the Strand, inquiring his
way every little while of such civil looking people
as he met. His object in seeking the Strand
was that there his cup was made; and from
often thinking of this name, it seemed to his
imagination to be the soul of London. It was
the only name in London he ever heard, and
so for the “Strand” he pressed forward. At
length he came in sight of the Thames, with its
forests of ships, and was soon told he was also
in the great street he sought.

Attained his object so far, he began to feel his
fatigues, and sat down upon one of the lower
steps of a large edifice whereon were seated
many women and children with baskets of fruit
to sell to passers-by. Like a river full to the
flood of living beings the crowd rolled past, the
body of the stream flowing one way and an eddy
the other. The noise, motion, multitude, novelty
and wonderfulness of the scene awed and
amazed him. He saw no one speak to another!
Thousands passed and met thousands, but he
perceived take place no word or nod or look of
recognition between any! The universal brotherhood
of the race seemed disselved and no
longer recognized!

“And this is the great world of which good
old George spoke,” he reflected, as he gazed on
the vast crowd. “Men in it are isolated, and
seem to have no common nature! Doubtless I
might perish here and no eye regard me with
pity, but with a hurried glance rush on. What
is the death of one in such a million! What is
a grain of sand dropped from a shell filled with
it! But I must seek some lodging for the
night, and to-morrow begin my work which I
came hither to do.”

He rose from the step, and, resuming his
walk, came to a narrow alley, a short distance
a down which he saw a sign showing that it was
an inn. To the door he made his weary way,
and entering a low room neatly kept, with the
floor sprinkled with white sand, he laid his
pack on a chair, and, exhibiting a half-crown
in his hand, asked if he could be accommodated
for the night.

“Surely, my good youth,” answered the
landlady, with a welcome smile in her eyes;
“you shall have a nice supper and a good,
clean bed. You have travelled far to reach
London town, by your looks!” and, regarding
with satisfied approbation his fine figure and
handsome face, she poured out a tankard of
foaming ale, and handed it to him.

Philip felt at once at home, rejoicing that in
the great desert of London he had found so delightful
an oasis.

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The morning after his arrival in London,
Philip descended to the tap-room of the inn, invigorated
by rest and anxious to commence he
search upon which his heart was set. It was
late in the day, for fatigue had made him sleep
long, and he found the good landlady had prepared
his breakfast by itself in her own little
back parlor. Her kind “good morning,” her
pleasant smile, and the neat room, made him
feel at home.

“Come, sit down and have a nice breakfast,
my good man,” she said, placing a chair for
him. “I'll be bound you are hungry; but you
look smarter than you did last night. Here is
a mug of best ale, and such white bread as there
is not found in every inn in London. Take a
slice of this golden butter. It smells sweet of
the country dairy.”

As Philip ate she watched him attentively,
and at length said quickly and confidently:

“You are not what your dress betokens!
Neither your looks nor speech nor air are low.
What has brought you to London in disguise?
I dare guess you are a young lord, run away
from some home trouble.”

“I am only a fisherman's son, good dame,”
answered Philip, laughingly. “My dress and
my rank quite correspond. I have passed my
life in gathering shells and catching fish.”

“You look greatly above your condition, not
to flatter you. Now, will you tell me what has
brought you up to London?” added the hostess;
giving him a plateful of beef-steak.

“I am come up to seek my fortune.”

“That has brought many a youth to London
who has never found it. But I hope you will
do well. But you can never live in London by
fishing and shell-gathering.”

To this Philip assented. The result of this
social breakfast was that he told the good woman
his whole history; how he had been found
at sea, raised by old George, loved Agnes, won
the golden arrow, and how she had become
blind. He also told her how he was in hopes to
find in some country, if not in London, some
one skilled to restore her to sight. Moreover,
he showed her the silver cup and iron compass.

That the pleasant hostess took a deep interest
in his narrative need not be asserted, since she
had taken so kind an interest in him for his fine
face before she knew it. How potent is personal
beauty! How it goes before its possessor
and paves the way for good opinion. If Philip
had been an ordinary-looking young fisher's lad,
he would not have eaten his breakfast in the little
private side-room, nor won the favor of the
hostess. Beauty of person is power over us. It
is a power, like money, over the minds of men.

It is a power in itself that commands homage
and receives it. Often it is more potent than
gold, for it wins its way where gold would fail
of success.

“Now, the first thing for you to do, good
Philip,” said his new friend, the landlady, “is
to go into the Strand, round the corner, and find
the silversmith who made this cup. I have
heard the name, or seen the sign at least. They
can, perhaps, tell you who they made it for.
This will be a beginning. Here is a Directory
will show you where the place is; and also
`Kerr & Kerr's,' where the compass was made.
If you can get hold of the first step, you will be
able, I doubtt not, to trace up to who your father
and mother are!”

“I will call and see them first; but my main
wish is to consult an eye surgeon. I will go to
the greatest in London, and must go to-day.
Each moment is precious to Agnes, if so be
there is hope left that she may see.”

“You are a noble young man! You deserve
to succeed; but if the queen's surgeon has pronounced
the young lady incurable, have little
room for hope. You will be careful and not get
lost, and come back before dark.”

Philip promised to do as she said, and, leaving
his package in her possession, with the cup
and compass, which he concluded not to take
with him until he had first found the places
where the makers kept, he left the inn and
mingled with the human current in the Strand.

It was quite three hours before he found the
silver warehouse he was in search of. The door
was blocked with carriages of the nobility, and
many noble dames were within, selecting the
most costly and beautiful silver plate that London
furnished; for this house possessed the
highest reputation, inasmuch as it was patronized
by their majesties. Philip, in his poor
garb, presented quite a contrast, even to the gay
footmen of these titled dames. After some
time he found opportunity to ask permission to
look at silver cups. The shopman, if he had
looked wholly at his dress, would have disregarded
his request; but meeting his eye, and
feeling the superiority of his look over his own,
he moodily obeyed. All that Philip desired was
to examine the stamp on the bottom of the cup.
It was, he saw with satisfaction, exactly the
same as that upon his own which he left in the
inn.

This verification filled him with hope; and,
shortly leaving the place, he found his way to
the compass makers', and verified the stamp
upon his own there. He resolved the next day
to bring both articles down, for, being numbered
by the makers, it was possible that they might
know to whom they had sold them, though ten
or more years ago.

From the compass makers' he now took his
way, by frequent inquiries, towards St. James's
Palace, near which he was told by the hostess
that the most eminent oculist lived. The discovery
of his own parentage was secondary in
the mind of this noble youth to the discovery of
skill to restore sight to Agnes.

He reached with great difficulty, from his ignorance
of the streets, the destination he
sought. It was near the close of day when
he found the place. Then he nearly failed
seeing the great man, who, though not the
king's surgeon, was eminent above him for
skill in his profession in the eyes of the people.
He was just entering his cab.

“Sir, if you please, listen to me one moment,”
cried Philip, eagerly holding by the
side. “I have come all the way to London
to see you! There is a noble and beauteous
lady become perfectly blind, and —”

“Go on!” cried the surgeon, sternly, to his
coachman.

Here the driver rudely started his horses,
and threw the young man violently to the
ground. He was not hurt; but, on rising to
his feet, the cab was far beyond his reach, and
he was hustled hither and thither by the
crowd, until, with his disappointment and the
Babel confusion around, he became bewildered
and escaped from the throng by the first opening
he could find. This was a narrow lane,
which led to the river side. At the extremity
was a sailors' tavern, and upon the bench in
front he took a seat, to rest himself and recover
his self-possession.

“I will return there to-morrow!” he said, as
he reflected upon what had just passed. “He
may not have heard me with all the noise! I
will go and see him early.”

The sight of the river was refreshing to him.
He sat and watched the boats and vessels upon
it until the growing darkness warned him that
it was time for him to return home to his inn.
But as he looked about him, he knew not which
way to go. There were three streets which met
at this point, and he had forgotten which he
came down. But recollecting that the Strand
was near the river, he resolved to follow the

streets parallel with it, until he should come into
it. He had not proceeded far before he was
lost among the docks and wharves, and finally,
unable to tell which way to go, he stepped on
board a small boat, to ask two men, who were
seated, the way he should take. A waterman
himself, he felt confidence in men of like craft,
and so hoped to have such directions from them
as would enable him to find his way.

He could not see their faces distinctly, as the
twilight was deepening. The boat was one of a
score that lay in close to the pier-head, and all
around rose the dark spars of numerous vessels
that crowded so closely together that only a
narrow way was left open from the quay into
mid-river.

“I say, Ben, this Londoner wants to know
how to steer for the Strand,” said one of the
men who was forward to his shipmate aft.

“Ay, ay! Come aboard, my lad,” was the
answer, in a gruff voice.

“Can you direct me?” asked Philip, civilly.

“O, that we can, without chart or compass!
Take a seat aft here, and we will land you there
in the turning of a reel.”

“Do you pull that way?”

“We shall be off in ten minutes. Take a seat
on that thwart, and you shall have passage
free!”

“Thanks; you are very kind,” answered
Philip, unsuspicious of any evil, but frankly accepting
what he believed to be frankly offered.
It requires many years of sad experience for
youth to learn that men are a sort of beasts of
prey, who prey on the weak and ignorant! that
man's greatest enemy is man! and that the
greatest evils suffered by men are those inflicted
by their own species! Youth usually enters
upon life with a heart overrunning with confidence,
and believes all things; man often goes
out of life with a heart sealed against his race,
and suspicious of every man.

Philip was soon in easy conversation with his
companions; but, finding that it grew darker,
and they did not start, he rose up and said he
would try and find the way by land.

“No, avast there, comrade,” said the elder of
the two, lightly laying his hand on his shoulder,
and keeping him in his seat. “We only wait
for the captain. Here they come now!” he
added, as a party of men drew near, walking
rapidly. Part of them seemed to be armed, and
to be dragging the rest along. They soon came
to the boat, but not without noise and a strug
gle between those who wore awords and those
who seemed to be their captives.

“Steady your boat, men, and stand by to receive
our prisoners!” cried the leader.

Philip, on seeing and hearing this, took the
alarm, and rose to leap again upon the pier.
But he was caught by the forward man, and
drawn violently back into the boat. But he recovered,
and sprang out only to be knocked
down senseless with the back of a cutlass; for
the men in the boat had cried to those on the
pier:

“Seize him! He is our man!”

The press-gang boat, for such was the trap
into which Philip had unconsciously walked,
having taken on board four men, Philip making
the fifth, put off from the pier and rowed out of
the dock. Many a muttered oath was sent after
it from the decks of the vessels it rowed past, for
sailors love not well the sight of this infamous
press-gang.

The boat, which was a man-of-war's fourth
cutter, having gained the stream, pulled down
swiftly through the heart of the parted city, now
shooting beneath a bridge, now drawing in shore
to avoid vessels, now barely escaping collision
with the wherries of watermen. A thousand
lights, on both shores, were reflected in the
river, and the sounds of the streets filled the air,
like a storm roaring through a forest. Voices
in all keys reached their ears, from the gruff call
of seamen to the startling shriek of a female.
Swiftly the cutter kept on her way.

“Who is the lad in the fore-sheets?” asked
the lieutenant of the gang, in a cold, unfeeling
tone, speaking for the first time since they had
left the pier.

“A country youth, sir. Said he was a fisherman.
Lost his way, and came to ask us; and
we kept him on board!”

“The bounty is fairly yours, lads,” he answered,
“if he gets over the blow. You strike
too hard, Gordon, unless you mean to kill your
men.”

“He was all but off, sir,” answered the man,
apologetically.

“Hit less hard next time. The lad is still insensible;
but his head bleeds, and he will soon
come to.”

“Shall I duck him, sir?” asked Gordon.

“No. We shall soon have him board ship!
All these fellows fought hard, and the surgeon
will have work to do for us. These five will

make up our complement of men, and to-morrow
we weigh and put to sea.”

“May I ask, sir,” said one of the pressed
men, who had been, with his follows, hitherto
silent, except uttering an oceasional oath or
groan, “what port you are to sail to?”

“You may ask, my man, but to get an answer
is another thing,” replied the officer, with
a hard laugh.

The cutter was now passing the dark walls of
the Tower of London, and, after a quarter of an
hour's rowing, drew up alongside of a frigate
that was moored in the middle of the Thames.

The captives, some of them earnestly protesting
and struggling against being taken on
board, were speedily transferred to the ship's
decks. Philip remained insensible, and was
placed in the care of the surgeon, who had him
conveyed to the cockpit.

In an hour after being in his hands, Philip revived,
but only to fall into a heavy sleep. The
kind surgeon watched over him with humane attention,
and at the end of several hours' sleep he
awoke with a look of intelligence. He gazed
with surprise and wonder about upon the sides
of the cockpit, lighted by a lantorn, and then inquiringly
upon the face of the surgeon's mate,
who reported to his chief that he had awaked.

“Where am I? I know not this place! How
came I here?” he murmured.

“You are in good hands, my man,” answered
the surgeon. “You must he quiet, and all will
be right at last. Here is a sedative; take it and
sleep awhile.”

When Philip awoke in the morning, he was
perfectly conscious. He was trying to make
out where he last was and where he now found
himself; but was lost in amazement and conjecture.
Suddenly the detonation of heavy cannon
shook the ship, and made him leap from the
hammock. Peal followed peal, and the noise
was overpowering to his hearing. It seemed as
if he were in the midst of a roaring volcano.

“Do not be alarmed, shipmate,” said an old
boatswain, who was lying on his back, sick.
“You don't seem to know your reckoning exactly.”

“Will you inform me how I came here, and
what this all is?” he asked, earnestly.

“You are on board his majesty's frigate, the
`Conqueror.”'

“And how?”

“Pressed! You may take it quietly, and
make up your mind to go to Malta in her!”

“It was then a press-boat I must have got on
board of,” he said to himself. “What am I to
do? What do they wish with me?” he demanded
of the boatswain.

“To make a sailor of you, and teach you to
serve your country!”

“I will die first before I am carried away
from England in this way! I have a great
work to do! I came to London to—to —”

“No matter what, my lad! When a man is
pressed, he breaks all bonds! Wife, children,
parents, friends, count nothing in the scale
against the king's service. Have you ever been
to sea?” he asked, kindly.

“I was raised a fisherman.”

“So much the better. You will take to it
kindly. It is enough to break the heart of a
proper green-grass landsman, to compel him to
serve on board a man-of-war.”

“But I must go on shore! The happiness of
one of the —”

“No matter were it your own mother's happiness
that is at stake! The king's service is
topmost of all. If a man has a heart, he must
hide it under his blue jacket when the king's
ship has need of him.”

“It is a hard fate!” said Philip, with tremulous
lips. “Poor Lady Agnes! It is impossible
now that I can do anything for you! I may
never, never behold you more!”

Tears filled his eyes, and he buried his face in
his hands in passionate grief. At this moment
he was called to come on deck to be mustered
with the other men who had been pressed. On
reaching the light of day on the upper deck, he
found himself surrounded with large cannon, a
numerous crew of man-of-war's-men, and before
him were several officers. He could see over
the bulwarks only sky and water, for the frigate
had long before gained an offing, and was now
in mid-channel on her way to Portsmouth,
whence she was to take her final departure for
the Mediterranean.

About thirty men were arranged in line before
the quarter-deck and inspected, their names
taken down, ages, and the occupations each had
followed. Philip's replies were brief and almost
defiant. His face was pale as marble, and the
fine outline of his features was more striking
than ever. His noble air and handsome face
drew the attention of the officers, and he knew
that he was the subject of remark.

The third day the frigate anchored in Portsmouth.
Here she took on board some troops,

and on the second day thereafter weighed anchor.
While in port, Philip, who was chafing
like a young lion in a cage, under his captivity,
made an unsuccessful attempt to escape by
swimming from the frigate, but was discovered,
taken up by a boat, and put in irons. In this
unhappy condition he remained until the frigate
had been three days at sea; when he was released,
reprimanded, and ordered to go to his
duty among the men.

Leaving our hero for a time to his untoward
fate, we will now return to the inn in London
which he had left in the morning to go in search
of the eye-surgeon, from whom he had received
so rough a reception. But great men, unless
great in benevolence also, do not stoop to regard
lowliness in homespun. Doubtless, if a
young lord had addressed the man of skill, he
would have alighted and listened with his hat in
his hand!

When night came and the street lamps were
all a-light, yet without bringing her youthful
guest home, the good Dame Cresset of “The
Arrow” began to feel apprehensions for his
safety.

“Who do you look up and down so often for,
fair hostess?” said a customer, in a faded military
coat, who was taking a can of ale by a little
table in the tap-room. “You seem to expect
some one.”

“Yes, captain, I look for a nice young man,
who said he should return long before night. He
came in last night from Lincolnshire, and put up
at `The Arrow.' I never took such a liking to
a body, he is so handsome and gentle-spoken!”

“Perhaps he had no money to pay his scot,
and keeps away altogether! Handsome faces
don't often have handsome pockets!”

“You are always thinking evil, captain! The
young man not only paid before he went, like a
lord, but I have his bundle here, and it contains
in it a silver cup worth many a silver crown-piece!”

“Ah, well, that alters the case! What said
you his name was?”

“I only know that it is Philip! He went out,
he said, to—to —”

Here Dame Cresset hesitated whether she
ought to make the red-nosed captain a confidant
of the young strunger's narration. But the captain
was an old friend of her deceased husband,
a customer of many years standing, and a man
of heart and good feeling. He had years ago retired
on half-pay, and, as he was a bachelor and
loved a quiet place, “The Arrow” became his
favorite abiding-place. So, after going again to
the inn door, and looking up and down, and
sighing heavily, she sat down opposite the captain,
and, in a confidential tone, told him all she
knew about Philip, and on what errand he had
come to London.

“This is an interesting tale, good Cresset,”
said he, “and I do not feel surprised that you
take an interest in him and are anxious for his
return. I fear that being a stranger in London
he has got lost; or perhaps fallen into the hands
of rogues, if he took any money with him.”

“That did he! He showed me that he had
ten gold pieces in a purse, which he said the old
man, his foster-father, gave him when he came
away; and he added, that he knew where he
could lay his hands on more.”

“Be sure, if he does not return to-night, and
has not lost himself,” said the captain, “that he
has been robbed.”

“O, I do not wish to think such a dreadful
thought!” cried the hostess, with emotion.

“We will hope for the best.”

Morning came, and yet Philip had not made
his appearance at the inn. Good Dame Cresset
had no heart for her breakfast. She feared the
worst. She went about quite overcome with
her anxieties, and was more than half of a mind
to go and search for him! His bundle attracting
her eye, she opened it and showed the cup
and compass to the captain, who examined them
attentively.

“I will go to these manufacturing shops,
good dame, and ask if he has been there.”

“You are too kind, dear Captain Bodley,”
she said, with gratitude. “And if you hear
nothing of him there, please go to the great eye-surgeon
near St. James's Palace—Dr. —; I
forget his name. Find out if he has been seen
at either place.”

“I will do it cheerfully, good hostess. I will
do my best to hunt him up. But how is he to
be described?”

“Tall, about eighteen years of age, straight,
and rather dark complexion, with a handsome
brown face, and an eye black and piercing. He
carries his head well up, and seems to walk as if
he feared no man. He was dressed in a snuff-colored
frock, bound with a belt buckled round
his waist, blue woolsey trowsers, and wore a seal-skin
cap. His black hair curled beneath it all
about his neck.”

“Well, this is a pretty description, dame!

have some curiosity to see him myself. Be sure
I will do my best to find him. His history has
a sort of romance about it, what with the blind
maiden and the silver cup. But what is this?”
exclaimed the captain, who, having put on his
hat and taken his cane, was looking into the
knapsack.

“It is a gold arrow—real gold, as I live!”
cried Dame Cresset, taking the arrow in her
hand, which the captain had discovered sticking
out of the bundle.

“It is heavy enough, and looks pure enough,
for true metal,” answered the captain, balancing
it on his finger.

“How strange he should have this—and gold,
too! For my house is the sign of `The
Arrow!”'

“And if you hear no more from him, you will
have a sign of gold!”

“Do not talk so, Captain Bodley! I would
give fifty crowns in gold rather than not see
that nice young man again!”

“Well, I will do my best,” answered the half-pay
captain, and, bidding her good morning, he
proceeded to the Strand and to the silversmith's
in search of Philip. Here no one could give
any more account of him than that such a youth
had asked to see silver cups; and at the compass
makers' he obtained information that such
a person had been there; but beyond this he
could ascertain nothing. Thence he took a cab,
and in an hour was at St. James's. Here he
learned, from the porter of the surgeon, that a
young man answering his description had
spoken to the doctor, but had been thrown
down by the wheel; but whether he was hurt or
not he could not say, nor could he say what became
of him.

The captain became by this time deeply interested
in knowing the fate of the youthful
stranger, and, having commenced the search for
him, he resolved to pursue it. He drove to an
old-fashioned club-house, where he sometimes
resorted, and looked over the papers at the list
of casualties the day before, to see if the young
man had not been taken to one of the hospitals.
But he found no allusion to any accident of the
kind named by the porter.

“He was not, then, much hurt,” said the captain,
musingly. “He must have left the place to
try and reach the Arrow Inn, and is lost, doubtless
having forgotten its name and the name of
the lane it is in.”

It was near the close of the day when he returned
to the inn and reported his day's efforts
to Dame Cresset. The good woman burst into
tears, and felt like taking her bonnet and going
all over London in search of him; for she felt
not only an interest in him, but she felt, as it
were, responsible for him, since he had been her
guest.

“The only way is to advertise in the Times,”
said the captain.

“Yes, we will do that at once!” cried the
hostess, with a ray of hope brightening up her
fair and kindly features. “Write one at once,
captain, and I will be at all costs.”

“Give me a pen and ink, good dame,” answered
the captain, putting on his spectacles.

Between them the following advertisement
was completed:

9. CHAPTER IX.

The advertisement of the lost young stranger
duly appeared in the newspapers. Dame
Cresset felt that she had done her duty herewith,
and she hoped that by means of it some news
might reach “The Arrow.” Closely did she and
the half-pay captain examine, in vain, the columns
of the Times for a response.

Two weeks passed by, and she had tearfully
made up her mind that he was drowned, or had
been murdered for his ten pieces of gold which
he had in his belt; of the much larger amount
concealed in his breast, she was ignorant, as
Philip, in all his confidence, had not made it
known to her.

It was, however, fully four weeks, before she
quite gave up all hopes of ever hearing from
him again. It was with a sorrowful heart that
she came to this painful conclusion. The contents
of the knapsack of the young man now
became, very naturally, objects of attention.
Bringing them into the tap-room, she found
the worthy captain smoking his pipe and thinking
whether it were wisdom in him to give up
the peculiar comforts and independence of his
bachelor life, and press his long pending suit for
the hand of the widow and her two thousand six
hundred and seven pounds in the three per cents,
her snug inn, and not to speak of her many
wifely virtues. While he was thus meditating,
she came in with the knapsack. Of course, she
did not know what his thoughts were engaged
upon. It is true, he had often talked to her,
while smoking, about the advantages of a husband
to a lone woman; and he had more than
once hinted, at a great distance, that his half-pay
and his rank would present quite a respectable
consideration to a wise woman, were he inclined
to marry. But Dame Cresset never seemed to
take the hint; and he was apprehensive, if he
pressed matters home, he might, lose her favor,
and so be compelled to give up his corner in the
neat tap-room.

“Poor boy!” said the widow, plaintively, as
she placed the knapsack on the table on which
the captain's elbow was leaning.

The half-pay officer looked not at the knapsack,
but at the fair widow. His eye seemed to
inspect her face as if he were contemplating
some bold measure. He was not amiss in his
looks for a man of fifty-one. He had a martial,
red face, grey locks, was something portly, and
had a pleasant smile always a-twinkling about
his gray eyes. He was a man of sense, had
been a brave warrior, and limped from a sabre
wound across his knee. He loved ease, quiet
and a pipe, and Widow Cresset.

“Widow, I am thinking—” he began boldly.

“I know it—about the dear boy!” she said,
sorrowfully.

“No—about something still more dear!”

“This silver cup! yes—we ought to—”

“Not the cup, but the hand it is in! Widow
Cresset, I have made up my mind that I must
marry!”

“Do not do anything so foolish, Captain Bodley,
said the widow, with a sharp speech, but
coloring with pretty consciousness.

“I have made up my mind!” said the half-pay
captain, with emphasis; “I have known
you, wife and widow, nine years! You are the
only woman that could make me surrender. I
capitulate, this morning, without challenge.”

“Go out with your military phrases,” said the
blushing widow. She did not, however, look
angry nor say “nay.” So the captain took
courage, and took her by the hand.

“Will you consent? You know me! You
know my ways and tempers!”

“Yes—you are a good customer, but I don't
know if you may make as good a husband.”

“Try me, fair widow!”

“On one condition;” and she let her hand
rest in his.

“Name it, were it to take the tower of
London!”

“That you find Philip! That you bring me
some intelligence about him!”

“That is a hard condition, widow!” said the
captain, looking blank. Doubtless he is dead!”

“I fear me he is so! But I would like to
know his fate! Bring me some information
about him, and—and—”

“And you will be Mistress Captain Bodley?”

“Yes—I will marry you—for I do think we
would be happy together!”

“I am sure of it! But if you abide by this
condition, I fear that—”

“It is the only condition, captain! You have
nothing else to do but go about London and
hear what you can!”

“Faint heart never won a true woman! I
will accept the condition, for six months—nay,
for three months!”

“For six months!”

“And then?—”

“Then we will talk about other conditions.”

“Ah, Widow Cresset, you must not be too
cruel to an old soldier who would—”

“I don't want to hear what you will do; I
only wish to have you begin to do what I wish.”

“I will commence my Herculean task this
very day. First, had I not best go to the silversmith's,
and take the cup with me, and see if he
can tell who bought it?”

“And what good will this do?”

“It is possible that it may give me a clue to
find out who his parents were; and it is barely
possible that he may in the same way have discovered
them, and, forgetting all else, be now
with them, and unable, from his ignorance of
London, to return here to unfold to you his
good fortune.”

“This is an idea I never thought of!”

“It only just occurred to me, widow. You
see the hopes you hold out to me sharpen my
wits. I will take the cup and compass, and follow
this scent first. I cannot think he can be
murdered!”

“But if he had found his relatives, he would
have seen the advertisement, or some of them
would.”

“Perhaps not. Good morning, fair Cresset, I
will be diligent in my task. But here is a little
book in the pocket of this coat. It is a small
and well-worn prayer-book!”

“Doubtless he was a pious youth, he seemed
so gentle and good,” said the hostess, sighing.
“Here is a part of a picture and a name on the
first page.”

“The part of a picture, as you term it, is the
half of a coat of arms; and the name is so
faded that I can only make out, `Cla'—`lia.'
This book might lead to something, if these
were not so defaced.”

“It looks as if he was well-born.”

“It may not be his own—perhaps some one
given to him by some of the gentility in his parish.
It doesn't prove anything.”

An hour after leaving the inn, the captain
was at the silversmith's on the Strand. He had
now a motive for making the most stringent investigations.

“Sir,” he said to the chief salesman, “I
have here a silver cup. Will you tell me if it
was made by your house!”

“Yes, sir. You see our stamp!” answered
the man, looking at it. “It is an old-fashioned
pattern, and must have been bought a long time
since.”

“Can you tell me when?”

“Let me see! The number is nearly worn
off. I have it—249. That must have been sold
about twenty years ago.”

“Be so kind as to ascertain.”

“Indeed, sir, it will be no little trouble. Its
sale must have been recorded in the old books
which are stowed away.”

“I am ready to pay for what trouble your

clerks may be put to, if you are sure you can
discover when it was sold and to whom.”

“Without doubt, when—but as to the whom,
it is not so certain. In those days, we were not
so particular in making such full records of
plate sales as we do now. But, as you seem,
sir, very anxious to ascertain the fact, you are at
liberty to go into that room and examine the
old books. You will find the year labelled on
each, and you had best go back twenty years ago.”

The captain thanked the silversmith, and was
shown by a lad into an old lumber-room. Here
he found the books of sales, covered with dust
and cobwebs. After some trouble, he found that
of twenty years before; and looking over the
index which named the articles sold and the
page where the sale was registered, he found
many silver cups, but none with so high a number
as that he held in his hand. So he came
down a year later; and finding that the last cup
sold that year was numbered 235, he knew that
he was near the end of his long search. The
next volume bore, under letter “C,” in the index,
this record:

“Cup (silver)—No. 249—vide page 57.”

Turning to the page indicated, he read, with
joy, the following entry:

“May 7, 1781. To Lady Wortley Devon 1
chased silver cup, No. 249—£6 8s.”

“I have now a clue to the labyrinth—I have
hold of the end of the thread,” said the captain,
with animation. “But,” he reflected, “what
good will this discovery do the poor youth?
Evidently he has not found his friends, for he
has not been here to examine these books. He
is not with them, unless, indeed, he has discovered
them through the compass. I will next go
to the nautical instrument shop and learn what
is to be revealed there!”

Having carefully noted down the entry upon
his private pocket-book, he left the lumber-room,
and thanking the shopman for his courtesy, departed
for the place where the compass was sold.

“At all events, the purchaser of the cup was
of the highest nobility!” he mused, as he went
along; “and Dame Cresset may be right in her
conjectures that he comes of good blood. But
then there is no evidence that the cup found on
the deck and the child rescued from the vessel
are necessarily connected. But here is the compass-maker's
shop! Doubtless, if I can get a
link here, I can learn by-and-by what ship had
the instrument.”

“Sir,” he said, as he entered, addressing an
old man in round iron spectacles, who was fitting
a polar needle accurately to its centre, on the
pivot of a new compass, “will you allow me to
occupy a few moments of your time?”

The old man did not raise his eyes until he
had completed the tremulous adjustment. Then
pushing his great glasses back upon his forehead,
he looked sharply at the captain, when, seeing
his military coat, he bowed with respectful consideration.

“How can I serve you, sir?” he asked, with
a serving smile.

“I have here an old compass,” answered the
captain, unwrapping the instrument from his
red pocket-handkerchief. “Has any one called
here—a youth—to ask you about it?”

“Not that I recollect, sir. Why, that is one
of my own make! It is an old one! I have
not seen one of mine of that date for a long
time!” and the compass-maker took it and examined
it with evident satisfaction.

“Then it is of your own manufacture?”

“There is our name, `Kerr & Kerr!”'

“Can you tell me how long ago it was that
you sold it?”

“Let me see! Here you see the number, on
the inside of the rim. It is No. 106. We had
not made many compasses then!”

“Is it possible for you to remember to whom
you sold it?”

“Perhaps our old books will show!”

“May I ask you to take the trouble to look
into them? The ship, on which this compass
was found, was lost on the Lincolnshire coast
ten or twelve years ago, and circumstances render
it important that the name of the vessel
should be discovered, in order to know who her
passengers were, for a child was rescued from
the wreck at the same time with the compass,
and if we can ascertain the name of the ship,
we may possibly learn whose child was thus
saved!”

“True—true! This is a very interesting affair!
I will do what I can. Let me see—No.
106—that must have been about—about—let me
see—about the year 1779 or '80. It will be easy
to refer to my sales book of those years, as I
always have everything in order and at hand!”

Opening a large oaken case, he laid his hands
upon one of a score of large sales books. On
the back was printed “1779, 1780.” He laid it
open before the captain and began to examine
the index. It gave only the names of the ships
or of persons to whom articles had been sold.

“It will take some trouble and time, sir, to
look over each name. But if you will examine
the book and look for the first entry of a compass
sold, its number will indicate pretty nearly
how far in the book from it may be found 106.”

The captain opened the book at the beginning,
and examined full thirty entries of sales before
the words, “Mariner's compass, No. 62, sold
the brig Adonis,” met his eyes. He now knew
that the compass which he had must have been
sold later. So he turned over the leaves rapidly,
here and there, among entries of spy-glasses,
hour-glasses, quadrants, sextants, and all sorts
of nautical instruments, catching sight of the
words, “compass, 73,” “compass, 81,” “compass,
96,” “compass, No. 100,” “mariner's
compass, No. 105.” He now examined carefully
each page, until, at length, he read—and they
seemed to his rejoicing eyes to be written in letters
of gold:

“On 4th January, 1780, two mariner's compasses
to ship `Exeter Castle,' Nos. 106 and
107.”

There were other entries to the ship, but this
one alone fixed the eyes of the captain. Pointing
it out to the maker, he said, with animation:

“Here is what I look for! Do you recollect
the call?”

“The Exeter Castle! It was Captain Norman
who was master. He bought them here
himself. I recollect the captain well! and now
I think of it, I recollect a report some years ago
that he and his ship had been lost at sea—or, at
least, had never been heard from. She belonged
to Newcastle on Tyne!”

“This is all I want to know, just now,”
said Captain Bodley, as he finished copying the
entry of this important sale into his note book.
“Sir, I am greatly obliged to you for the favor
you have done me.”

He hastened along the Strand, overjoyed at
his success thus far in this direction; for, though
he was no nearer on the track of the missing
Philip, yet he had obtained a clue to discover
who he was, which would be something towards
gaining favor with Widow Cresset. Nay, more;
he had begun to take a lively interest in following
out the mystery for curiosity's sake.

In another hour, he was again at “The Arrow,”
and detailing to the widow the result of
his day's work.

“Well, captain, you deserve praise and shall
have it,” she said, warmly. “I am sure he will
turn out to be high-born—for he looked and
spoke it! A great lady bought the cup, and
she, perhaps, was his mother!”

“Do not be too sanguine, fair widow. The
cup and the boy may have no necessary connection.
The child rescued may have been the son
of a poor passenger, while the cup might have
belonged to a rich child who was lost.”

“You always look so on the wrong side of
everything, Captain Bodley,” said the widow,
with some anger.

“But I would not have your hopes raised to
be disappointed!”

“What matters now—hopes or fears,” she
said, sorrowfully. “The poor boy is dead!”

“I do not think so! Do you know that a
murder cannot be hid in London, with its three
millions of eyes and six millions of hearing
ears! We should have heard of him, if he had
been killed. As I was coming along, I was delayed
by a press-gang. They had two young
men in custody, one of whom was desperately
fighting his captor, while the other wept like an
infant. The thought struck me, as I saw them
dragged past, that Philip, your favorite, might
have been pressed!”

The widow shrieked, and for a moment
seemed to be overcome by the terrible idea.

“It must be so! It is what has become of
him! I wonder I had not thought of it before.
I have had in my day at least twenty persons,
who had lodged here, pressed and carried to
sea.”

“His costume was that of a Lincolnshire
sailor, and he was the very youth a press-gang
would desire!”

“What can be done?”

“It is hard to say! It would be impossible to
find what ship he is on board of, if, as I now believe,
he is pressed. Such is the demand for
men now, in this coming war with France, that
all ships are pressing, and no plain man is safe
in the streets after dark.”

“It is an infamous practice, and if I were a
pressed sailor,” said the widow, indignantly, “I
would turn the guns against my captors: I
would not serve my country as a captive.”

“You are right. The great English heart is
cowed by its habitual and hereditary submission
to nobles and to petty tyranny of the titled landlords.
They are not free, but slaves—and so
they submit, when pressed by violence, to the
masters whose feet have been on their necks for
eight centuries.”

“What shall be done?”

“I see no way of learning his fate!”

“You shall have money to aid you.”

“But money is not all. I must have influence
with the admiralty.”

“What then?”

“They could ascertain at once what ship-of-war
received pressed men on the night of Philip's
disappearance; and if he were on board,
they could find it out. There are many war
ships in the Thames, and even if I should ascertain
that any one of them took on board men,
and should inquire, I should receive no answer.
No revelations of this kind are ever made by
the officers, except by authority.”

“Do you know any great lords who could
help us in this matter?”

“Not one! I am too obscure now, and have
been forgotten by the few nobility I once knew
in my best army days.”

“If I was certain he was pressed, I would go
to the Admiralty myself—”

“Only to be disappointed and ill-entreated!
You could never get past the out-works of menials
and liveried sentries, to reach head-quarters.
You would fail in approaching the citadel!
But who is here?”

His abrupt inquiry had reference to a man in
the costume of a Thames waterman, who, pale
and weak, staggered into the door. Dame
Cresset, supposing he was intoxicated, would
sharply have bidden him begone; but the captain's
more practised eye saw that the man's irregular
gait proceeded from debility.

“Excuse me, ma'am! I have a writing for
you! I am weak, and will sit down, if you
please!”

Here he took a chair and began to search his
pocket, and took out a piece of paper, soiled and
crumpled.

“It was the lining of his cap, ma'am!”

“Whose?”

“He tore it out, ma'am, and gave it me!”

“Who are you talking about, man?” asked
the captain, at a loss.

“Why, the—the young man! Here is the
paper he gave me!”

“Philip—can it be from Philip?” almost
shrieked the widow, as with trembling fingers
she opened the piece of paper.

“I don't know his name, ma'am! He had
black eyes and hair! When he writ it in his
cap and tore it out and gave it to me, I promised,
if ever I reached shore, I'd sacredly bring
it to you at `The Arrow.' I'd have done it
sooner, ma'am, but they shot me in the side as I
was swimming; and I have only got about again
to-day.”

“It is from Philip! Hear what he says!”
cried the hostess, between smiles and tears.

“Poor, dear young man!” ejaculated the
hostess, wiping her eyes. “It is then as we
feared! But it is some comfort to know he is
alive! Here, my good man! drink this can of
beer. You look pale and weak!”

“So you were a pressed man, also?” asked
the captain, of the waterman, after he had set
down the empty can.

“Yes, sir; I was pressed the same time he
was! But I knew their ways and kept quiet
and let them think I was well contented to serve
my country. When we got to the boat, we
found the young man Philip in the hands of two
of the oarsmen. He afterwards told me he had
lost his way and had gone to the boat to ask
them to direct him to the Strand; and that
when he would have left, they seized him. He
came near escaping from the gang, but was
knocked down and taken aboard senseless!”

“Infamous!” cried the captain.

“Poor boy! did it hurt him much?” asked
the widow.

“He came to, after awhile, and was good as
new, only a little heavy about the head. I took
a fancy to him, and he told me how he should
feel happier if he could let you know where he
was. So I up and told him I had made up my
mind to escape by swimming; for I am a waterman,
and we swim, sir, like sharks, you know.
So he wrote on the lining of his cap what you
read, and the same night I dropped out of a port
into the river. The sentinel soon saw me. I
watched the flash of his musket and dove; but
a boat was sent after me, and a pistol shot from
one of them hit me in the side. At the same moment,
I grasped hold of the cable of a ship near
the pier, climbed upon her deck, and, making
my way along her bowsprit, dropped upon the
quarter of another vessel and so on, from craft to
craft, till I reached the pier. Here I was so
weak from loss of blood, that I should have
fallen, but for two of my comrades, watermen,

who having heard the noise of the chase, placed
me into their boat, and pulled me beyond pursuit,
and thence took me to one of their houses, and
cared for me so well I am now on my feet again.”

“You shall now stay in my house,” said the
widow, “until you get entirely well, and at no
charges. You have done me and Philip service.”

“And I dare say that you will reward him, fair
Widow Cresset, as I hoped to have been, since he,
and not I, has brought news of your favorite.”

This was spoken half in jest; half in earnest,
by the captain.

“What a speech, captain!” said the hostess,
with a smile. “I will once more make conditions,
that you may have hopes yet.”

“Name them, were it to capture the frigate!”
said the half-pay officer, gallantly.

“That you get him from this frigate! You
say that you do not know the name of this vile
ship?” she asked of the waterman.

“No. But I might learn it.”

“Do so, and you shall be well rewarded.”

“I can inquire among the watermen, and learn
what frigate was then anchored below the tower.”

“This will be easy,” said the captain.

“But it will be impossible to recover the
young man. Besides, the vessel has sailed ere
this, for she was only waiting men; and I heard
the lieutenant of the press-gang say that we
made up her full complement, and that they
would put to sea the next day. They are a
thousand miles off now.”

The hostess clasped her hands in distress, and
looked appealingly heavenward, as if she had no
hope of aid on earth.

“How did he seem when you left him?” she
asked the waterman.

“He bore up bravely; but he seemed to feel
most for a young lady he called Agnes, who was
blind, he said, and he had come to London to
try and find some one to cure her.”

“Yes, he had her in his thoughts, you may
be sure! Captain Bodley,” she added, turning
to him with decision, “what is now to be done?”

“If this worthy man will make the inquiries
he proposes, and bring the name of the frigate,
I will see what can be done. But I fear—” and
here he shook his head despondingly.

“Fear what?”

“That I can do nothing.”

“But suppose you could ascertain by the silver
cup that he was of noble blood, couldn't you
then interest—”

“Your bright wits have given me just the
idea! I will follow up diligently the thread
found at the stores! It may lead to something
favorable. If it does, why, there may be higher
interest than mine set to work in his behalf.
But let me say beforehand, that all is doubt and
uncertainty; for—”

“But it must be seen whether doubt may not
end in certainty. I have read of as marvellous
things as that Philip should turn out to be a
lord, in some of my girl-day's novels.”

“Yes, but we are not acting parts in a novel,
dear dame, but are real flesh and blood, living
and real persons. Ours is common life!”

“I have my hopes, nevertheless!”

“And I my doubts! But what would I not
undertake for your fair hand, dear Mistress Cresset!
Be sure I will leave no stone unturned to
see where leads the thread of circumstances I hold
in my hand, and the end of which I picked up
at the silversmith's and compass-maker's.”

A long consultation now followed as to the
expediency of the captain's calling on Lady Devon,
or advertising the cup, and also asking for
information as to the last port which the “Exeter
Castle” sailed from.

It was finally decided to try the columns of
the Times once more, in the hopes of ascertaining
the information they knew not how so well to
obtain in any other way.

10. CHAPTER X.

The scenes of our narrative now change from
the humble inn of “The Arrow,” to a noble and
ancient castle in the north of England. It is
six days after the scene in the inn, which closed
the preceding chapter.

In a sumptuous chamber in this lordly home
of one of the aristocratic families of England,
sat a lady, about thirty-eight years of age. She
was still handsome, but her fine features wore a
pensive cast. Near her, by the table, sat a tall,
soldierly-looking gentleman, whose hair was
slightly gray. He was reading the London
Times, which had that morning been brought
from the post-office.

“What news, my lord?” she asked, looking
up from a piece of embroidery which she was
engaged upon.

“Not much, Mary,” he answered, in a pleasant
voice; “not much, wife. War news, only—
which does not interest you ladies.”

“No—unless we have those we love in the
field. I trust you will not be engaged, dear
husband, in the coming struggle with France?”
questioned the countess.

“No—I am invalided. I have done with
war.”

“If our dear boy had lived, he would now
have been of an age to serve his country, like
his ancestors.”

“Yes—he would have been about nineteen.
But do not speak of the past, Mary! Your
memory is to-day as sensitive as ever it was
upon this painful subject.”

“How can I ever forget? And such a death!”

“It was the will of Heaven!”

“I have submitted! I have bowed my will to
this! I have tried to say `His will be done!”'

“It was an unfortunate day when we consented
to embark from Newcastle to Gibraltar.”

“The dread night we spent upon the few
planks upon the sea can never be obliterated!”

“We should be thankful for our own safety,
by means of the ship so providentially passing
us in the morning.”

“But if he, if our own dear Henry, had been
also saved!”

“Let us cease to speak of this dark past, my
dear Lady Mary. It only increases sorrow, and
cannot recall the lost.”

The lady's eyes sparkled with tears, and she
resumed her embroidery with a look of sadness.
The noble lord resumed his reading of the gazette,
though it was some moments before he
could fix his attention to what his eyes travelled
over. Suddenly, after eagerly reading something
for a moment to himself, he exclaimed:

“Hear this! Can it be that—”

“What is it, my lord?” she asked.

“Listen, and tell me what you think of it:”

“INFORMATION WANTED.

“If any one can give information as to the
last port out of which the ship `Exeter Castle'
sailed, some ten years ago, or more, they are requested
to send to, or call at the “Arrow Inn,”
Bell Lane, near the Strand, where any intelligence
about said ship will be handsomely paid for.

“P. S.—If the purchaser of a silver cup,
No. 249, of `Hamel,' Strand, in 1782, or thereabouts,
will call at `The Arrow,' they will learn
something greatly to their advantage.”

When the Earl of Devon—for such was the
rank of the nobleman, had finished reading,
with nervous rapidity, this two-fold advertisement,
he laid down the paper, and gazed fixedly
at his wife, whose returning gaze was one of
amazement and trepidation. She trembled—she
scarcely knew why.

“Can it be that—” she hurriedly articulated,
in her agitation.

“This is all very remarkable! The `Exeter
Castle' was not only our ship, in which we sailed
and were wrecked, but you bought a silver
cup, if I recollect aright, at—”

“Yes, and in that year, also, I believe, at
Hamel's! It was lost, with everything else, in
the wreck. It was Henry's. But what can
these advertisements mean?”

“It is very strange! Perhaps some one is
equally interested with ourselves in that ill-fated
ship.”

“But the silver cup? I certainly purchased
one at Hamel's!”

“Do you recollect the number?”

“No, I do not,” answered the lady.

“It is mentioned here as 249. There may
have been other cups bought and on board that
ship.”

“But the advertisement does not say that the
cup was found with the vessel,” said the lady,
deeply interested.

“But both are united in one advertisement;
both references are to the `Arrow Inn,”' said
the nobleman, whose interest was now wholly
awakened.

“In this ship all our dearest hopes were lost,
my lord! Whatever concerns it, that is now
revived, may concern us; especially when a silver
cup, bought at Hamel's, is connected with
it; and such a cup was in the ship, belonging to
our dear boy!”

“What would you suggest, Mary?” asked the
Earl of Devon, half anticipating her reply, if
one might judge, by the expression of her dark,
fine eyes.

“That we go up to London one week sooner
than we contemplated going.”

“What! and call at `The Arrow?”'

“Yes. I feel in my soul that this advertisement
interests us both more closely than we
imagine.”

“We will depart the day after to-morrow. I
must confess it has awakened in me a keen desire
to ascertain what the object of the advertisement
is.”

“It asks for the information, too, we have the
power to give. We know whence she sailed,
and her fate.”

“We will go to London as soon as possible,”
answered the earl, again carefully reading the
advertisement, and taking down the address of
“The Arrow.”

Two days afterwards they left their princely
seat, and took their way towards London. They
went with vague and undefined hopes. There
was a mystery connected with the advertisement
which they instinctively felt in some way concerned
themselves and their lost child! The
earl had found the day before, after long search,
the bill of plate bought at Hamel's, and the
number of the cup was two hundred and forty-nine,
the same that was advertised. This discovery
made their journey far from an unmeaning
one. Hope filled their hearts; yet neither
breathed to the other the secret thought of their
souls—“Can he yet live?”

On the morning of the second day they passed
near an ancient and warlike-looking castle.

“That is Castle Clan-William,” said the earl,
pointing it out to his wife. “It was for centuries
the abode of a race of noble earls. The fate of
the last two earls was tragical, and since then
the castle has been unoccupied, save by a seneschal.”

“Was not the old lord poisoned?”

“Yes; and by his own son, Robert. This
young nobleman was a wild liver, and was in
need; and impatient for his father's title and
wealth, and tempted by the devil, he poisoned
him. It was a dreadful crime, but known only
sometime afterwards. The parricide fled, and
having been at the same time accused of treason,
he was pursued both by the criminal and state
officers. But he escaped for a time. But vengeance
suffered him not to live; for it is said,
and believed, that he cast himself into the sea
to escape his pursuers. Crime always has a
voice to betray itself, and always seems to be
punished, even in this life.”

“Left he no heir?”

“Yes, an infant daughter—so rumor says—
whom he cruelly cast off, leaving her in the
hands of a foster-mother.”

“What became of her?”

“It is not known. Should she make her appearance,
it is not probable that she could inherit,
as the estate of the treasonous parricide
has been confiscated to the crown.”

They rode on through the green scenery of
England, and on the evening of the third day
entered London by the great northern road, just
as the lamps were being kindled in the streets.

The ensuing morning, about eleven o'clock,
the half-pay captain at the inn of “The Arrow”
was taking a luncheon of cheese and ale, and
reading over, for the hundredth time, his advertisement
in the Times; for not being much given
to literary efforts, the worthy captain looked
upon this composition with no little pride and
complacency. The widow was knitting by the
window that looked out on the lane.

“It is now two weeks nearly, and no answer
to this advertisement,” said the captain.

“It is a pity,” sighed the widow.

“I have about made up my mind to make a
journey into the north, and see this Lady Devon,
for I understand from the Peerage Book that
their seat is near the Tyne, not far from Newcastle.”

“If it is necessary to go, you shall have the
money to bear the expenses. But here is a
brave equipage—arms, and liveries, and gay
horses!” she exclaimed, looking from the window.
“It must be a lord, and not less!”

“Yes, a titled personage,” said the captain,
going to the window on hearing her exclamations.

“Bless us, they are stopping here!” she cried,
rising up in great excitement. “What can have
brought such great people to `The Arrow!'
Quick, captain! unlock the best parlor; and
please throw the shutters open. I will go and
receive them.”

“Perhaps it is somebody to answer the advertisement,”
suggested the sanguine captain, as
he obeyed his orders with much alacrity, thereby
fore-shadowing his obedience as her future husband,
should such a desirable event happen.

“This is the `Arrow Inn,' I believe?” said the
Earl of Devon, as alighting, he was received by
Dame Cresset with one of her lowest courtesies.

“Yes, my lord, at your service.”

He then handed out his countess, and both
entered the humble inn, to the great surprise
and curiosity of the over-looking neighborhood.
They were shown into the “best” parlor by the
hostess, who hastened to dust seats for them.
The captain stood, respectfully, in the door.

“There is an advertisement in the Times that
refers persons to this inn,” said the earl. “Will
you be so kind as to inform me who wrote it?”

“It was written by me, my lord; if, as I imagine,
I address a noble lord.”

“I am the Earl of Devon, and this the Countess,
sir,” said the nobleman, bowing with deference
to the captain's military air and buttons.

“Then there could not, my lord and lady,
have been more welcome visitors. I was just
making up my mind to go down into the north
to call on you.”

“In reference to the silver cup?” asked the
countess.

“Yes, my lady. I ascertained that the cup
was purchased by a Lady Devon.”

“Yes, by me!”

“We can also, sir, inform you, that the `Exeter
Castle' sailed from the Tyne, and was two
days afterwards wrecked on the coast of England,
not far from `The Wash.' We were on
board, and were saved only by the miraculous
power of God. But what of this cup you
advertise?”

“My lord, may I ask if you have a son?”

“No—he was lost—lost at the time—a child,
nearly six years old,” answered the nobleman,
sadly.

“Do you know this cup?” asked the captain,
placing it in his hand.

“I do not recognize it; but the number—”

“I know it!” exclaimed the countess, catching
it, and pressing it to her lips. I know it
well by this indentation of his three teeth. Well
do I know it, and clearly remember when it was
done by our lost boy. It is the cup he had with
him at the time of the wreck.”

“Even if the teeth-prints were not evidence,
the number is,” said the captain.

“Yes, without question, that is the cup we
purchased!”

“And the cup that was on board the `Exeter
Castle' when she was wrecked?” inquired, or
rather asserted, the captain.

“Yes—the same! But what object have you
in adv—”

“Your lordship shall hear,” said the hostess,
who took the deepest interest in what passed.
“I will tell your ladyship. About six weeks

ago, a tall, handsome youth, with black hair and
dark, fine eyes, and gentle spoken, came from
the country and lodged here. I was so taken to
him—he was so good looking and kind—that I
treated him more like my own! He told me all
about himself; how he was reared a fisherman
on the coast of Lincolnshire, but that he was not
born one, but had been taken from a wreck when
very young. He said his name was Philip, and
that it had been given to him by the fisherman
who had rescued him, and brought him up. He
told me how he had loved, humble as he was, a
little noble-born blind maiden, younger than he,
and that it was out of love for her he came up to
London, to try to find some surgeon skilled
enough to give her sight. He said he was the
occasion of her losing her sight, by means of an
arrow! Wait a moment, dear lady, I will soon
be at the end!” said Dame Cresset, seeing the
eager air and clasped hands of the countess, as
she drank in every word with a throbbing heart.
“This young man went out the next day, and
was kidnapped by a press-gang, and taken on
board a frigate, which has sailed for the seas.”

“What more? What has this story to do—”
gasped the countess, whose hopes and fears were
struggling together.

“In his knapsack I found a silver cup—”

“This?”

“The same, my lady—and a compass. These,
he said, were on the wreck with him, and he told
me that he had brought them with him to London,
hoping to learn something by them about
the ship, and those who sailed in it.”

“I have ascertained,” said the captain, “that
the compass was sold by Kerr & Kerr to the ship
`Exeter Castle,' a dozen or more years ago.”

“And that the cup, with this number on it,
was bought by Lady Devon?” asked the earl,
rapidly.

“Yes, my lord.”

There was a moment's silence; the silence of
astonishment, of hope, of emotion. The countess
first spoke in a voice trembling with joy:

“Without doubt, this is our child!”

“Let us not raise our hopes too high, dear
Mary,” said the earl, trying to conceal his own
feelings. “It is possible that this cup may have
been saved, and yet the child not be our own!”

“There was no other boy on board but him!”

“True, I recollect none! We will, at least,
hope—”

“I am sure—”

“My lady, here is a little old book, which he
said was found in his pocket by the fisherman.”

“My own prayer book!” shrieked the countess.
“It is our own child! It is Henry who
was saved! It is Henry who has been here in
this house! O, my son! my son! Has God
given thee back to me out of the jaws of death?”

“Be calm, my dear wife!” said the earl, tenderly
embracing her.

“Do not say you doubt! Confirm my joy!
See! read this part of his whole name: `Cla'
`lia,'—`For Henry Clarence William.' It is
our own writing!”

“And there are our arms!” said the earl. “I
am now convinced that our dear boy is yet
alive!”

“But where?” cried the countess, whose newborn
joy was nearly stifled by fear.

“You say, sir, that the young man—Heaven
grant that he prove to be our son, and that we
may yet behold him; you say that he was pressed
on board one of his majesty's frigates?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Proof of it, have you?”

“Yes, by a man who was pressed at the same
time and escaped, and brought a note to the
good hostess here.”

“O, let me see my child's writing!” cried the
countess.

“He writes well—even at such a time,” said
the earl, with satisfaction.

“He is well schooled, your ladyship. He uses
language like a lord, saving your presence. You
need not feel ashamed of him, if he was brought
up by a fisherman.”

“Ashamed! You are not a mother, good woman,
to think I could be ashamed to receive my
son to my arms in rags!”

In the meanwhile, the earl learned from the
happy captain, who began to imagine himself
already the husband of the landlady of “The
Arrow,” that the waterman was out making inquiries
about the frigate.

“If he can ascertain her name, all the rest is
easy,” said the earl, speaking with the confidence
of one who has influence and power at
his command.

While he was speaking, Bolton entered, and
looking not a little surprised at finding such noble
company; for in that day, noblemen were
distinguished from other men by the richness
and style of their dress.

“Here is the man, now, my lord,” said the
captain, turning to the waterman, whose appearance

a week's good fare in the inn had much
improved. “What news now? I hope more
success than the last few days.”

“Yes. The frigate was the `Bucephalus.' I
heard another name first, but after close inquiry
I made certain.”

Lord Devon took down the name upon his
tablets.

“Now, my good friends—you, excellent captain,
and you, worthy hostess—how can we reward
you for being the authors of so much happiness
to us in prospect? To you, if we indeed
receive our child, we shall owe his restoration,
through your wise steps taken in advertising the
facts. Be assured, you will neither of you lose
your reward.”

“My reward, my lady and my lord,” said
Dame Cresset, “will be to see Philip folded in
your arms as your own son!”

“And mine, my lord, will be to have you
honor my marriage with your presence here, for
I have my full reward in the hand of fair Dame
Cresset, who promised if I could get intelligence
of—”

“My lord, don't listen to him,” said the dame,
coloring, yet looking pleased; “he has done
nothing at all as he promised. The waterman,
here, brought the news of his being pressed;
and your lordship came without his knowledge!”

“But, did I not write the advertisement?
Was I not going up into Lincoln—”

“Ah, the captain is winner, fair dame! If
we find our son, our happiness will not be complete
until we see you both made happy by marriage.”

“Thanks, my lord! With such a friend as
your lordship, I shall not fail to be the happy
man you wish me.”

What pen can portray the joy and hope trembling
in the heart of the countess, as she left the
inn, though not without warmly pressing the
hands of the hostess.

“You took an interest in him! Your regard
for him has brought him to our knowledge.”

“When you hear from the frigate, please your
ladyship, let us hear,” said the hostess.

“Without fail!”

“Yes, captain,” said the earl, in conversation
with this person at the door, “it is to the Admiralty
I shall at once go. Will you take a seat
with me in my coach?”

The captain readily complied, promising to
report to the hostess all he should ascertain
about the ship-of-war.

The earl's coach drew up in due time at the
gate of the office of the Admiralty. The nobleman's
high rank obtained him admittance without
delay. Accompanied by the captain—for he
had dropped the countess at his hotel on the
way,—he entered the apartment where one of
the high dignitaries, who direct the destinies of
the British navy, was surrounded by his secretaries
and clerks.

Lord Devon was received with a hearty shake
of the hand by the Lord of the Admiralty, as if
well known to him.

“You are welcome to London, my lord!”

“I have come a little earlier than usual. But
I have reason to believe that a person, in whom
I am deeply interested, has been pressed on
board one of his majesty's ships of-war.”

“Ah! that matter can be easily fixed.”

“But I do not know what frigate it is.”

“Then it will be difficult to—”

“It was, however, a frigate—yes—I forgot—I
have her name on my tablets. It is the `Bucephalus.”'

“Captain Lord Berkeley.”

“Can you inform me where she has sailed?”

“I will ascertain for you, unless she went under
sealed orders.”

“Even in that case the seal, I trust, will be
removed for me,” said the earl.

“Your lordship appears very earnest about
the poor man.”

“It may be so; I have good reason, which I
may, by-and-by, make known.”

The Lord of Admiralty having beckoned to a
page, gave him a message, written with pencil.
He soon returned, with a secretary, from an
inner room.

“Pray, to what place is the `Bucephalus'
sent?”

“To the Mediterranean, my lord. But as she
has on board Lord Monteagle and suite, for Madrid,
she will stop at Cadiz.”

“How long since she sailed?” inquired the
earl, earnestly.

“Thirty-eight days since she left Portsmouth.”

“She must now be near Malta,” remarked the
Lord of the Admiralty to the earl.

“My lord, you will confer on me the highest
personal favor by giving me the authority to
place in the hands of Captain Manners, for the
discharge of a youth of eighteen, named Philip,
who was pressed in London the evening before
the frigate left the river.”

“It is but a slight favor to grant you, my

lord. The order shall be at once made out; and
if you wish, forwarded by our next despatch.”

“I would rather take it with me,” said the
earl.

The order was soon written, and duly signed
and sealed, and given to Lord Devon; for power
and rank command where the poor and humble
despair. It must ever be that, “to them that
have shall be given; and from them that have
not shall be taken away even that which he
hath.” The captain was amazed at the facility
with which the whole affair had been achieved,
and marvelled at the potency of a great name.

We will now leave London and its scenes, and
follow the “Bucephalus” in her track across the
waters. The ship had been at sea eleven days,
and was in a far southern latitude, towards
Spain, when, one morning, Captain Manners
sent for Philip to come into his cabin. The captive
had been too ill until then to appear on
deck; for, what with his wound and the motion
of the vessel, he could not hold up his head, and
was compelled to keep below. But he had not
been upon the deck ten minutes, when the
Countess of Monteagle's eyes accidentally fell
upon him as he was leaning over a gun, and
looking pale and sick at heart.

“My lord, do you see that face?” she said to
the earl.

“Yes; it is pale and sad! Poor youth, he
seems ill!”

“Is it unknown to you?”

“Now I recognize him! Is it the shell-gatherer,
Philip?”

“So it strikes me! It must be he!”

“How came he here? It may not be! Manners!
what youth have you there? He, who is
looking out of the port, with his eyes towards
England, and doubtless thinking of home!”

“I do not know—but I know that face! It is
the victor of the golden arrow!”

“You are right! None else can it be!” said
the countess, with animation.

“But how came he here?” asked the earl.

“I will soon ascertain,” answered the captain,
as he entered his state-cabin. The page obeyed
his command, and to his surprise and joy, Philip
found himself standing in the presence of the
earl and countess—two tried friends; and he,
also, next recognized the captain, whom he had
seen but once, on the archery ground. The kind
welcome he received from the noble pair, moved
his generous heart, and tears stood in his eyes—
tears of joy and gratitude.

“And how came you on board here?” demanded
the captain, after witnessing the interest
taken in him by his sister and the earl.

“I was pressed, sir.”

“In London or Portsmouth?”

“In London. I had only been there one day,
when I was seized and brought on board. This
wound from a cutlass has prevented me from doing
duty. I am happy to know that I am among
friends.”

“This pressing men is so cruel,” said the
countess, “it—”

“We know it, sister,” interrupted the captain,
with a smile. “But the service must have men.
As for this young man, if you desire it, he is
free.”

Two days afterwards, the frigate reached Cadiz.
Philip, at the request of the countess, was
also landed there, and thence took a Spanish
ship to return to London.

11. CHAPTER XI.

The story now leaps over three years from
the conclusion of the last chapter. The scene
and the country change. It is at the close of a
delicious tropical day, and in the palm shaded
court of a Moorish palace that the thread of the
narrative is resumed.

A Moorish prince is seated upon his divan
surrounded by his guards, and glittering with all
the splendors of his rank. Before him stands a
venerable man, wita a beard like snow in whiteness
descending to his breast. He wore a close
fitting cap or fez, of red cloth, and a long black
robe girdled at the waist with a green silk sash,
the sacred color of his faith. His chain bound
hands were folded upon his breast, and he seemed
to be awaiting the judgment of the pacha.

No eye was turned upon him with commiseration
or feeling save those of a handsome male
slave, who stood at prince's right hand, his
cup-bearer. His gentle, dark eyes were fixed
upon the old man with sorrow, strangely contrasting
the appearance of his haughty master's.

“So, Selim,” said the pacha, speaking to him
as to a favorite, “so thou hast pity on this vile
charlatan by thy looks!”

“I reverence, my lord prince, his venerable
air and his benign aspect. I hope he has done
nothing worthy of death that he is brought before
my lord this morning,”

“Thou shalt know,” answered the prince,
with a slight smile passing over his dark features.
“Speak, dervish, what is thy crime?”

“May it please your highness,” answered the
old man, “I could not heal the disease of the
princess, thy favored wife.”

“This is not all! This were not a crime, caitiff;
hadst thou not professed to be a healer of discases,
and pretendedst to powers medicinal that
would restore her, without the discase leaving a
mark! But lo, her face is not only pitted with the
vile plague, but she is threatened with blindness.
By Allah, she scarce knew when the sun rose to-day!”

“The physician can only use remedies: the
result is in the hands of Heaven,” answered the
old man, calmly.

“Thou art worthy of death! Let thy skill
restore thy head to thy shoulders, when it shall
fall soon at thy feet!”

“Mercy, my lord prince! If your highness
will spare my aged head—for old men cling most
closely to life—I will prepare thee a cosmetic
that will, not without pain, but will effectually
remove all trace of the disease from the princess's
skin, and—”

“Doubtless restore her sight,” interrupted
the pacha, mockingly. “Go to! Thou art an
impostor!”

“Nay, my lord, but this I will do!”

“What, restore her sight?” demanded the
pacha with incredulous surprise.

“No—but her complexion by my cosmetic!”

“Without eyes she will never know whether
she be fair or blemished, old man! Thy want of
skill has deprived her of her sight, and daily her
soul is being sealed up in darkness. She knows
me now only by my voice and step. Thou shalt
die! Commend thy soul to the Prophet's keeping,
for thou hast not another five minutes to
live!”

“If my lord will have mercy and spare his
servant, I will tell my lord of a great physician
in the city of Algiers, who has power even to restore
sight! He will come to thee if thou wilt
send me for him!”

“Thou seekest but excuse to prolong thy miserable
existence, old man! Thou hopest to escape
in the desert on the way! Let his head be
taken off! We have other matters to judge this
morning.”

The captain of the guard, at the signal of a
raised finger by his master, stepped forward
with a drawn sword, and was in the act of
swinging it round to sever the head of the unsuccessful
oriental chirurgeon, when the page Selim
impulsively sprang towards him, and catching
him by the arm, held it firmly, while he
turned his face imploringly towards the pacha.

“Spare him! oh, spare him, my noble master!”

“And why dost thou care for him, Selim?”

“He may know a man who can help the princess;
and, if he perish, this knowledge perishes
with him! Spare his life, my good lord! Thou
canst always have him in thy power to do with
him as thou wilt. A few days will make no
great matter, that thou shouldst not grant it!”

“It is granted—but not for him—but to thee,
Selim. Sheathe thy scimitar, captain.”

The young man bent his knee, gratefully, before
the prince, and kissed his hand.

“Art thou not of kin to this old man, Selim?”
asked the prince.

“Nay—I never saw him until he came to the
palace a few days ago to heal the princess.”

“Thou owest thy life to this youth,” said the
pacha to the old man, whose looks expressed his
joy at his escape from present death, and his
gratitude to the young man, slave as he was, who
had such influence as to save his head. “Now,
what is the name of this man in Algiers, whom
thou sayest can restore sight to the blind?”

“He is, my lord, a great alchymist and astrologer;
and by his wisdom he has found out many
secrets important to man's happiness. One of
these is, the restoration to sight of those who
have once seen and lost it.”

“Sayest thou he gives new eyes, man?”
asked the prince, incredulously, with a look of
contempt.

“No, my lord prince; but if the eye remain
untouched, the sight can be recovered by means
of his art and skill.”

“Doubtless equal to thy own, dotard!”

“My lord, may his skill be tested?” asked
the page, earnestly.

“This wise man of Algiers shall be sent for,
old man; but thou goest not for him thyself. I
will have thy head within reach of my lieutenant's
good blade! What is his name?”

“Aldebrac, my lord pacha.”

“The Arabian magician! I have heard of
his fame. Sayest thou he dwellest in Algiers?”

“I left him there, your highness, no less than
four weeks ago. He will be found there yet—for
he casteth the horoscope of the Royal House at
Algiers, and it will take two moons yet to complete
the year's circle, ten months of which he
has been at work.”

“He must come at our bidding.”

“If I went, my lord, and saw him—and—”

“You go not! You leave not Morocco, old
man! I will take good care you escape not your
deserts, if the magician come not up to your
praise of him. Selim?”

“My good lord,” answered the handsome
page, who had manifested by his countenance
the deepest interest in all that passed.

“I shall despatch you on this errand to Algiers.”

“Yes, your highness, I will gladly go.”

“You will start an hour before sun-down, taking
the cool of the day, and ride all night. An
officer, with a guard of sixty horse shall escort
you. In five days you will reach Algiers! You
will bring the magician with you! I will give
you a letter to the pacha, who will send him at
my request. Delay not to return. By the twelfth
day hence I shall expect to see you return.”

The young man bowed low in sign of obedience,
while his dark eyes betrayed a secret joy
at heart.

“By the beard of the Prophet, Selim, thou
carest more for the princess, thy mistress, than I
believed,” said the pacha, whose quick glance
nothing escaped.

“She has always been gentle and good to me,
my lord.”

“And, by Allah! have I not?”

“Too kind, my lord! Only—”

“Only — what? What femains behind unsaid?”

“Only, my lord, that thou withholdest my
freedom.”

“Thou art the pearl of my eye, Selim! I
could not live without thee! Thou hast more
wisdom, and judgment, and devotion in thee
than all my other slaves put together.”

“These qualities, my prince, if they exist,
ought surely to give me a title to the record of
freedom rather than seal more firmly my bondage.”

“Callest thou thy condition bondage, Selim?”
said the prince, smiling, and looking pleasantly
upon his page. “Have I not made thee, though
thou hast not yet seen more than twenty-one
years, my companion and confidant?”

“True, my lord—but—”

“If thou wilt bring this magician with thee,
and he restore sight to the princess Fatima, I
will restore thee thy freedom!”

“In twelve days, your highness, the astrologer
shall stand before you, if he be alive,” answered
Selim with animation, his eyes sparkling
with joy.

“Go, old man! Guard him safely, but give
him leave to walk in the out courts of the palace.”

With this command to the officers of his guard,
the prince moved his hand for their departure.
Other matters were brought before him for
judgment; but Selim immediately left the presence
of the prince, to prepare for his departure.

A few hours later in the day the princess Fatima
was seated in her apartment, with the lattice
open towards the gate of the city. By her
side was the young pacha, her idolizing husband.

“Nay, tell me not, fair wife, you cannot see
that party of horsemen passing?” he said sorrowfully,
and almost as it were reproachfully.

“I perceive a moving mist—nothing more!”

“It is the party with Selim, who goes to Algiers
to bring hither the astrologer Aldebrac, to
try his skill upon thine eyes!”

“Nay, my lord! If my beauty be gone—I
wish not sight to see my ugliness.”

“But this chirurgeon sweareth by the Prophet
he can prepare a cosmetic which will give thee
a child's skin for fairness and smoothness. I
have set him to his task. He promises in three
days to have it prepared. If he fail, goes his
head, and his carcase to the dogs!”

“Seest thou not the palm tree waving above
us?”

“Only a shadow moving in a deep night!”

The pacha gazed sadly down upon her and
sighed; and turning sorrowfully away followed
with his eyes the party of horse as it trotted out
of the gate of the city and took its way across
the sandy plain.

At its head rode the noble looking page. He
was armed like a warrior; and his manly mustache
and bright, black eyes, and tall figure,
were in harmony with his soldierly apparelling.

On the morning of the fifth day, as the dawn
broke, they came in sight of the Mediterranean
and of the walls and towering mosques of the
city of their destination, laying in the morning
light between them and the shining sea. They
arrived at the gate as the sun gilded its minarets,
and Selim presenting his order from the
Prince of Morocco, was received by the captain
of the walls with great honor, and escorted to
the palace of the bey.

After the first receptions and salutations were
over, the Bey, reading the letter of the prince,
courteously signified his willingness to send him
the magician.

“Call him into our presence,” he commanded
his attendant. “It is a sad calamity, the loss of
eyes to the wife of our princely friend of Morocco,”
he added, turning to Selim, whose noble
air and rich costume attracted his attention.—
But if there be skill in man to aid her, it is in
the hand of the great astrologer. Art thou a
slave?” he suddenly asked.

“I am, your highness,” answered the page.
“A Christian slave.”

“Of what nation—Greece or Ispania?”

Before a reply could be made, a slave entered
and said:

“The mighty magician sends word to your
highness that he may not leave his calculations
until the ninth hour of the day.”

“We must submit to the stars,” said the bey.
“I will send thee to him in his tower where he
casteth his horoscopes. He at least can see thee
there and know thy message. Return hither
when thou hast spoken with him thy prince's
word.”

Selim being conducted across the court of the
palace, came to a terrace, which he ascended,
following his conductor to a tower. Up the stairs
of this he wound his way, and entered a small

upper room, where sat the astrologer, surrounded
by strange instruments and telescopes, and all
the paraphernalia of a magician's occult profession.
He was a tall, dark man, with a long
black beard and gray hair profusely covering his
shoulders. He wore a blue gown and a green
turban. The lines of his face were deep, and
marked advanced age; his features were strongly
cast and expressive of intelligence; his air was
haughty and his look imperative.

He raised his piercing eyes from a piece of
parchment on which he was making calculations,
and seeing Selim enter, he said sternly
to the attendant:

“Said I not I must be undisturbed?”

“My lord,” said Selim, calmly, “I am come
on business most urgent, and time is precious,
each moment!”

“Speak! what wouldst thou?”

“I am the page of the Emperor of Morocco.
His fair bride was taken ill with the small pox.
A physician offered to cure her without leaving
a scar, but failed—and—”

“Who was he?”

“Abdel of Fez.”

“I know him—he has great skill! But diseases
are in the hands of Allah! Men are not
infallible.”

“My master would have slain him, but he
spoke of you.”

“I can do nothing. If her beauty is impaired,
let her use cosmetics,—those Abdel prepares,—
not I!”

“So he promises to do. But, my lord, the
empress is blind! The fell disease destroyed her
sight,” added the page, with extraordinary emotion.
When the sword was hanging over his
head, he said if the prince would spare his life
he would send him one who could give her back
her vision. He named you. His life depends on
my success in taking you to Morocco and your
skill there! Speak, my lord! Can you restore
sight to the blind?” he added, with an earnestness
that made the magician fix upon him his
penetrating look with surprise.

“If the eye be not broken. I have learned the
skill to restore an uninjured eye; but I obtained
it with a life's toil and great treasure expended.
I found the art in India!”

“Then thou canst restore the sight of the
empress?”

“Not until I see her, can I answer thee!”

“Thou must go with me. It is the command
of the bey.”

“I yield obedience. To-morrow I will start
with thee. To-night I must watch a certain
occulation.”

“The emperor, my master, will well reward
thee!” said the page, with trembling joy and hope.

“Thou lovest her well, young man.”

“She is kind, my lord. She was very fair
before this happened. It would make her so
happy; and also the prince.”

“To-morrow, at early dawn, I will depart
with thee. So I return by the beginning of the
circle of the next coming month, as it enters the
zodiac, I shall not mar my horoscopes! At the
end of the year I depart for Gibraltar, a while to
be present to watch the eclipse of one of Jupiter's
moons. The motions of the heavens are our
volumes, where we read written the destinies of
the princes of the earth.”

It was moonlight when the escort of horse,
which had twelve days before left Morocco, reentered
the city, and took its weary, slow, and
dusty way toward the palace.

When the prince heard of Selim's return, he
sent for him to come immediately into his presence.

“Welcome! Hast thou succeeded?”

“Aldebrac, the magician, is within the palace,”
answered Selim, with an air of triumph.

“What says he? Can he restore sight?”

“He will give no answer, my prince, until he
beholds the royal patient,” he has said.

“Wisely forborne! To-morrow he shall see
her. To-night have him well taken care of.
But I did not tell thee, Selim, that the cosmetic
of Abdel promiseth to do all he said it would.
This is the ninth day that it has been applied,
and already Fatima has begun to recover her
beauty.”

“May the magician, my lord, be as successful
in restoring her to sight.”

“Allah grant it!”

The next day the astrologer was sent for, to
the presence of the empress. The prince was
with her, and Selim stood near.

“Art thou, then, the great magician, Aldebrac,
of whom fame speaks?” asked the prince,
as he bowed himself before him with stately
courtesy.

“I am Aldebrac, your highness's servant.”

“Hast thou skill to restore sight to the blind?”

“If not born blind, my lord prince, and if the
eye be not marred in appearance.”

“Here, then, is a case that will test thy skill,
sir magician. Behold this royal lady, the sharer

of my throne as of my heart. Her eyes seem, as
thou seest, without injury; but within the last
three days total blindness has sealed their vision.
If thou canst give her back her sight, I will pay
thee thine own weight in silver bars.”

“My lord prince, I will see what my skill can
do,” answered the magician.

He then drew near, and looked steadily into
the eyes of the empress. Selim watched him,
if possible, with more eagerness than the prince
himself. Bringing her eyes broadly to the full
sunlight, he several times pressed and closed the
lids, and then suddenly removed his thumb and
fingers, and asked her what colors she saw?”

“Blue and orange,” she answered.

“And when I press my hands upon the eyes?”

“Glittering stars!”

“Thy sight can be restored to thee?” answered
the magician, confidently. “But thou
must bear a moment's pain! It will be like fire.”

“So I see once more my husband's face, I
will bear whatever pain may be necessary.”

“Sir astrologer,” said the monarch, warningly,
“if you operate upon her eyes to injure their
appearance, or fail to restore her sight—”

“My head answers for it!” he interrupted.
“I know it; but I fear not the issue! In a few
minutes she shall behold your highness's face!”

The magician then drew from a pocket beneath
his black robe, a small casket. Opening it, he
took from it two crystal bottles. One contained
a crimson oil, the other a transparent fluid. He
opened both, and desired the empress to lay her
head back and open fully the eyes. He was
about to pour from the red vial into them, when
the emperor said, sternly:

“Beware! See that thou doest no evil; for
thy life shall presently answer it.”

“I know my art, your highness.”

“I have confidence, my lord!” said the empress,
and she placed her head back upon the
side of the ottoman; but the emperor removing
it, held it, while he fixed his fiery eyes upon the
magician.

The latter calmly, and with a steady hand,
poured from the red vial into both eyes an oily
liquid, which overrun them.

“There is no pain,” she said.

“Were it not for this oil thou couldst not endure
what I am now to pour into thine eyes,”
said the astrologer. “Be firm, and move not!”

“Guard well what thou art doing!” warned
the prince.

Without regarding his words, the magician
dropped slowly, drop by drop, the colorless liquid
upon the pupil of the eye. The empress
slightly screamed, and grew deadly pale. But
the operator immediately closed her eyes with
his fingers, and held them firmly for a moment.
He then took a silken bandage, and bound it
tightly over them.

“The pain was intense; but I can bear it
now,” said the empress to her husband's inquiries.

Selim had watched the process as eagerly and
with as breathless interest, as if she had been
his sister.

The astrologer held the handage upon her
eyes about five minutes, and then removing it,
bade her open her eyes. As she did so, he poured
into them an amber-colored fluid, and after a
moment called for water to bathe them. After
a free application of the water, the empress
was permitted by him to look about her, and say
if she saw ought.

“I see—I see you, my dear husband!” she almost
shrieked, and fell weeping with joy upon
his shoulders. By direction of the magician,
she was to be kept in a deeply-shaded room for
a day or two. The result was, that on the third
day, she saw perfectly, and her eyes appeared as
if they had never been dimmed.

The old physician, Abdel, was released from
his captivity, and rewarded with a purse of gold
for naming Aldebrac to the emperor; and the
magician himself received his own weight in
silver, duly weighed, out of the royal treasury,
and which took two camels to convey to Algiers.
But when Selim bent his knee before his royal
master, and craved the fulfilment of his promise,
to give him his freedom, if the empress were restored
to sight, the prince looked sorrowful.

“If thou wilt take thy freedom and yet remain
with me in Morocco, I will make thee my
chief vizier, confer upon thee my second palace,
place at thy disposal a body guard, bestow upon
thee fourscore slaves, and thou shalt have thy
choice of the fairest maids of my realm for
wives! Gold and silver shall be thine without
measure; and only in the throne shall I be greater
than thou!”

“My noble master and prince,” answered Selim,
“these proofs of thy favor deeply touch me.
But I ask no more of thee than my freedom;
and leave to return to my century.”

“Thou sayest thou hast no father nor mother;
nay, that thou knowest not surely thy country!
But my words make thee sad! I will keep my

promise. Rise from thy knees! Thou art from
this moment free!”

Selim, with tears in his eyes, rose and kissed
his hand. The emperor then presented him with
many suits of raiment, and a heavy purse of gold,
and said: “Whither wilt thou go?”

“To the nearest European port, my prince.”

“I send a ship in four days to Gibraltar, with
bales of camels' hair and dates. Thou mayest
go in her if thou hast made up thy mind to
leave me.”

Early on the night following this interview
with the prince, Selim left the palace, and secretly
took his way towards the quarter of the
city where the magician had taken lodgings, in
order to be ready to leave the gates at midnight,
on his return to Algiers; for in the hot desert of
that torrid clime, travellers venture not forth
upon the road by day, but sleep in the shade,
moving only by night. The astrologer had
taken leave of the emperor before night, and not
only received his rich reward in silver ingots,
but the gratified empress placed upon his hand
a diamond of great value, in token of her appreciation
of his services.

Selim made his way through the horsemen of
the escort that was to accompany the magician
back to Algiers, who were in groups about the
house where he dwelt, some in the saddle, others
making ready their harness, others asleep.

He found the great Aldebrac alone in his
room. He was engaged in watching the stars
through his window, and was muttering to himself
his calculations. Upon seeing Selim enter,
he said, with a look of pleasure:

“Welcome, page! Thou hast come, I trust,
to say thou hast changed thy mind, and will escort
me back; for I like well thy company; and
thy conversation betokens a mind above thy
years. Go with me, and I will teach thee to
read the stars, and foretell the events that are to
happen on earth!”

“Mighty Aldebrac,” answered Selim, with
reverence, “I respect thy skill in reading the
stars; but I would rather possess ten drops of
the fluid in the three vials thou openedst to restore
sight to the princess, than all the stars of
heaven—were each a burning ruby!”

The astrologer fixed his star-penetrating gaze
upon his eyes, as if they would penetrate to the
very depths of his soul, and said, gravely:

“Young man, thou knowest not what thou
speakest. Man and God behold the stars at the
same instant! They are the link that unites the
Creator with his lower universe!”

“I love to gaze upon them, and from them
let my thoughts ascend to Him who hung them
in the skies. I shall revere them no less to possess
the boon I ask of thee! All my riches,
with which the emperor has loaded me, I will
give to purchase of thee a few drops from each
vial!”

“Nay—I love thee! Thou shalt have what
thou desirest, as a gift of my regard for thee.
On my journey hither, thou hast won my
heart.”

“O, wilt thou, indeed, bestow this treasure
upon me?” cried Selim, with emotion between
doubt and hope.

“Thou shalt have what thou askest of me;
but on one condition.”

“Name it, my lord.”

“That you return with me to Algiers! From
thence thou mayst sail for Spain. I will then
accompany thee to the Gibraltero of the Infidels,
once the rock of our fathers' dominion. I go to
restore sight to a Giaour maiden of high degree;
for my fame has reached even Ispania!”

“It shall fill the world if thou bestowest on
me my desire!” answered Selim.

“What wouldst thou do with it? But hark!
the bugle of the escort sounds! I must soon
be upon my camel. Wilt thou go with me, instead
of taking this vessel that may be more
weeks a sea than we shall be days?”

“If it is the only condition—”

“I make it the condition of granting thy wish,
for thy good company's sake,” answered the
magician, with a smile.

In an hour afterwards, the whole cavalcade,
with its guarded treasure, with Aldebrac, and
Selim riding at his side, left the city by starlight,
and took the way across the desert, northwardly,
guided in their course by the polar
star.

12. CHAPTER XII.

The scenes of this story are now once more
transferred to Castle Monteagle. Three years
have passed since our hero, Philip, whom we
trust the reader has not quite forgotten, left
there to go to London. We have seen how he
was pressed into the service of the king, on
board the “Bucephalus;” and that, through the
recognition of him by the Earl and Countess of
Monteagle, who were on board, passengers for
Cadiz, he was released from duty on board, and
permitted to return from that port to England
at his pleasure.

We have also seen how, after his forcible departure
from London, by the means of the advertisement
of the half-pay captain, it was
clearly shown that he was the long lost son of
the Earl and Countess of Devon. We have
seen them acknowledge the consanguinity from
evidence not disputed by them, and how, at the
request of the nobleman, his father, the Admiralty
instructed the captain, Lord Manners, to
give him his liberty, and send him at the crown's
cost, on his way back to England.

The order from the Admiralty reached Cadiz
in due time; but the “Bucephalus” had already
resumed her voyage to Malta, having left at Cadiz
not only the Earl and Countess of Monteagle,
but, as was reported to the Admiralty,
“the pressed seaman, Philip.” The report fur
ther stated that he had embarked, soon after the
departure of the “Bucephalus,” from which he
was discharged, in a Spanish ship for London,
there being no English vessel immediately sailing.

This intelligence being received at the Admiralty
was duly made known to the Earl of Devon.
With anxious hope, and with hearts yearning
to embrace their long lost and now recovered
son, the noble pair awaited the arrival of the
“Carlos V.,” the name of the vessel in which
Philip was said to have taken his return passage
for England. Twenty—thirty—thirty five days
passed, and yet she arrived not. Daily the earl
visited the Exchange, and examined the list of
vessels in from sea. Thence he invariably
stopped at the “Arrow Inn,” to ask there if the
captain, or Bolton the waterman, had, by chance,
got any intelligence. The distinctions of rank
seemed to be quite set aside when the heart was
interested; and the countess would often spend
an hour at the inn, talking with Dame Cresset
about her son, and making her, over and over,
describe his dress, his look, his eyes, the color of
his hair, his mouth, his smile, his tone of voice,
his step, his hands! and good Dame Cresset was
never weary of the subject. The earl, at the
same time, would hold discourse with the captain,
and wonder at the detention; they would
bring up all the instances of protracted passages

they could hear of; but these comforted the
earl but little; for three ships from Cadiz had
already arrived that left a fortnight or eighteen
days after the “Carlos V.”

“We have only recovered our son to lose him
again, unseen and unembraced!” said the countess,
one day, after hope, long deferred, had made
her heart sick.

“There yet is hope, dear lady,” said the kind
hostess.

“None! It is now fifty-four days. The `Bucephalus'
is already returning from Malta!
The earl has learned that there was a great
storm the day after the `Carlos' left Cadiz; and
without doubt the ship was wrecked on the coast
of Spain, or of Portugal, and Henry perished!”

“Take heart, take heart, dear lady!” said the
widow, whose own heart now sank within her;
“Providence would not snatch him from the sea
twelve years ago, and give you knowledge of his
being alive, to cause him to perish before you
see him.”

But time passed on. Months elapsed, and,
with total absence of all tidings of the ship,
died all hopes in the bosoms of the noble earl
and countess of embracing on earth their lost
son—now twice lost to them!

At length three years passed by, and they had
not ceased to mourn him whom they had once
more assigned to a grave beneath the sea.
About this time, the Earl of Monteagle, who
for three years had faithfully served the crown
at Madrid, as minister to the Spanish court, returned
on a visit of a few weeks to his estates.
This visit had been rendered imperative by the
fall in battle, with a French frigate, of the brave
brother of the countess—Captain Lord Manners.
Lady Berkely Manners, his widow, yielding
to her grief at his loss, was rapidly going
into a decline.

“We must return for a time,” said the earl,
on hearing this news at Madrid. “Our dear
child, Agnes, must now be ever with us, since
her unfortunate blindness is to be for life.”

The evening after the return of Lord and
Lady Monteagle to their castle, the Lady Manners
was laid in the tomb beneath the chancel of
the village church.

“You must now return to Spain with us,
dear Agnes,” said the Conntess Eleanora, as
they were seated in the castle, at the lattice of
which three years before, Radnor Catheart had
stood and observed the maiden write the name
“Philip” on the air with the point of the gold
en arrow; and at which Philip, a few days afterwards
had taken leave of her, to go up to
London.

“And you have no doubt, my more than
mother, that I am the daughter of Lord Robert
Clan-William?” after some silent thought, asked
Agnes, now in her nineteenth year, and, if possible,
more beautiful than ever. Her blindness
had lent a pensive cast to her sweet face, and
given a spiritual and soul-inward look to her
soft eyes. She appeared like an angel, who is
compelled to dwell for a time on earth, but is
ever thinking of the heaven whence she came.

“The necklace which Alice found upon your
neck, and which my brother, Lord Manners,
took up to London, has been recognized at the
Herald's Office, where he left it before going to
sea. We heard yesterday that it was claimed
by Lady Clan-William! And we look for her
here every hour!”

“To see me?” cried Agnes, with trembling
lips, and turning pale.

“But not to take her from me!” said Dame
Alice, decidedly—the decision of firm affection.

This faithful and true friend of Agnes had
for three years watched over her “daughter of
the sea,” as she termed her, and was now present,
looking no longer wild and weird-like, but
calm and affectionate.

“If she takes her, you will not be left behind,
Alice,” said the Countess of Monteagle.

“And if Lady Clan-William be my mother?”

“She is kind as well as noble. I know her
intimately, Agnes. You will almost forget me,
I fear, when you see her.”

“See her? Would that I could see her, dear
Lady Eleanora, if she be indeed my mother!”

“Pardon me! I was careless in the word I
used.”

“And my father?—if she be my mother!”
asked Agnes, with deep interest.

The countess looked embarrassed, and then
said: “He has been a great many years dead.”

Alice started, and became deadly pale! She
recollected where and how, fifteen years ago, she
had hid him in the dungeon of the old tower on
the cliff. She had not from that hour till the
present thought of him! Her own danger and
imminent peril of death had cast him quite out
of her mind.

“Dead? Lord Robin dead!”

“Yes, Alice. He has been many years dead.”

“In the—the—cavern—”

The countess made a sign for her to be silent.

She obeyed, but her looks betrayed her curiosity
and deep interest in the interdicted subject.

“He has been years dead,” added the countess;
“but you will be a source of consolation to
your mother, who has passed a life of sad and
secluded widowhood.”

At this moment the earl entered, and announced
their expected guests to be in sight
upon the road. The countess left Agnes, trembling
with anxiety and nervous hope, to receive
the noble widow of Lord Robin, whose terrible
death in the tower the reader is already familiar
with.

The Lady Clan-William, upon an interview
with the earl and countess on her arrival at the
castle, showed them clearly that Agnes must be
her daughter. She explained to them how that
she had taken passage in a barque, at London,
to go to her brother, a Scottish lord, near Inverness,
after the treason and crime of her husband,
Lord Robert; and that the vessel was
wrecked off the tower, already known to the
reader. She stated that she had been washed
ashore some miles above the tower upon a piece
of the ship, and that a fisherwoman rescued her,
and entreated her with hospitality for several
days; and that finally her son had conveyed her
to the nearest town. Here she made known her
desolate situation to her brother, who came for
her, and took her to his home.

“My child,” she added, “I gave up for lost.
I mourned for it for years, and left not my
brother's secluded home; for he was now my
all, as my erring husband's estate had been confiscated
to the crown. But a few weeks ago,
my brother being in London, saw in the papers
how that a costly necklace, found upon a female
child, shipwrecked fifteen years ago, was deposited
at the Herald's Office for recognition. On
his return he described it to me, and said he believed
that it once belonged to Agnes. I at
once clung to the hope, hastened to London,
and recognized the bracelet by her initials graven
beneath the braided hair in the clasp. I am
now here, dear Lady Monteagle, to see if in this
young girl I can recognize my daughter.”

She was soon ushered into the room where
Agnes was seated, helplessly, as usual, in her
arm-chair. Lady Olan-William gazed a moment
upon the lovely face, each instant the light
of maternal recoguition brightening her countenance.

“Agnes! do you know your dear mothers,
voice?” she suddenly called out, with much
emotion.

“Mother—O, my mother! my dear, dear
mother!” cried Agnes, extending her hands, “I
hear you—I know those tones! You are my
own—my lost—my beloved mother!”

In an instant they were folded in one another's
arms, and so clung they together that it seemed
they would mingle into one. Lady Monteagle
wept, and Dame Alice let the tears trickle unheeded
adown her wrinkled cheeks.

A few days passed of such happiness as earth
seldom bestows upon its children. The time at
length arrived that the earl should return to his
post at Madrid. Lady Clan-William consented
to accompany them with Agnes, who now would
not for a moment be separated from her newfound
mother. The earl had insisted that Agnes
ought to go to Spain, for he said he had heard
there of the reputation of a great Arabian magician
and alchymist, who had restored sight to
the eyes of many blind persona.

“It was our intention,” he said, to Lady
Clan-William, “to have taken her back with us,
that the skill of this person, who often comes
into Spain from Barbary, may be tested in her
case.”

“Whatever holds out any hope for the recovery
of her sight, must not be untried,” said her
mother; and so it was decided that they should
sail with them.

Three weeks afterwards, the whole party were
in London, waiting the sailing of their frigate.
At the hotel where they lodged, the earl happily
met his friend, Lord Devon, whom he had not
seen for some years, and who was on the eve of
embarking for a tour in the East. Dining together
the following day, the latter alluded to
the proposed voyage to Cadiz by the earl, and
sorrowfully remarked:

“We can never, Lady Devon and I, think of
Cadiz without emotion. One dear to us, who
embarked there for London three years ago,
never reached England. He was lost at sea!”

“May I ask of what friend you speak?” asked
Lord Monteagle, with a look and tone of sympathy.

“Of our son—our only son, Henry! The
history of this dear boy is one full of painful
interest. Twice lost to us—twice given up as
dead!”

Here, at the request of the earl and countess,
and while Agnes, as well as Dame Alice, were
listeners, Lord Devon recounted what the reader
already knows of the narrative of Philip, up
to the time of the expected return from Cudiz in
the Spanish ship.

This account was heard by the earl and countess,
and not less so by Agnes, with the deepest
surprise. And when the earl made known to
Lord and Lady Devon what he knew of Philip,
their amazement was unbounded; while their
regret at his death was increased when they
heard him spoken of with such praise by their
noble friends.

“You have no doubt,” said the earl, “of his
being your son?”

“None, my lord,” answered Lady Devon.
“The silver cup—the prayer book found upon
him, with our arms and my name, assure us!
But, I should have known him without any hesitation
had it pleased Heaven to give him back
to us. Upon each arm he had tattooed a strange
gipsey mark.”

“What was it, my lady?” asked Dame Alice.

“A crocodile on one wrist, and a fish on the
other! The gipsies would often camp about our
castle, and once we missed Henry for a whole
day. When at length he was found in their encampment,
his arms bore these signs, which they
said were a charm for good luck. Being pricked
in in Hindoo ink, they are indelible.”

“He is without doubt your son, then,” said
the earl; “for I noticed on his left arm, as he
drew his arrow hard to the head on the archery
ground, the crocodile. It struck me then as a
singular device; but as seamen and fishermen
often tattoo themselves, I did not think of it
again. Now I distinctly recall it to mind!”

“Too late! Our child is lost forever to us!”
said the Countess of Devon, with deep emotion.

We now change the scene of our tale to the
fortress of Gibraltar. A month has elapsed, and
the whole party, whom we left in London, are
guests in the lordly mansion of the commander
of the gigantic fortress. The next month, Lord
and Lady Devon were to continue their voyage
to Constantinople, while the earl and his family
were to remain to test the skill of the famed
Arabian magician, who, to the nobleman's great
gratification, he learned was in Algiers. Thither
he at once sent to invite him, with offers of a
large sum, to visit Gibraltar.

We now return to Aldebrac and Selim. In
due time they reached Algiers; and here the
magician communicated to the page the secret
of preparing the three fluids, and, at the same
time, presented him, with great ceremony, three
small vials.

Selim was now all impatience to embark for
Europe; and Aldebrac having received the earl's
message, said he would depart the day after the
year, then drawing to its close, completed the
horoscopic cycle.

At length the two took ship together, on board
of a Portuguese trading vessel, that came to Algiers
with tribute. The fifth day, thereafter,
they anchored within the shadow of Gibraltar.
It was night when Aldebrac reached the town
from the vessel, accompanied by Selim. The
latter followed him to an ancient quarter of the
city, where dwelt chiefly Moors and Jews. After
devious windings through narrow and dark
streets, which seemed familiar to the astrologer's
tread, he stopped before an old house, built in
the Oriental style. Here he was welcomed by a
bearded man, whose features betrayed his Moorish
origin.

The two men conversed long together, while
Selim, fatigued, slept, clasping his precious vials
to his breast; while his goat-skin bag, filled with
gold and precious stones, lay carelessly near
him.

About midnight he was awaked by a deep,
muttered cry and a heavy fall. Springing to
his feet, he saw by the moonlight the astrologer
lying bleeding upon the stone floor, and gasping
with the suffocation of death. He attempted to
raise him up, but the body fell back with the
lifeless weight of clay. The spirit of the astrologer
had flown beyond the stars. The soul
of the magician had gone to the mysteries of
another life!

Selim was amazed at the suddenness of the
catastrophe. He saw no one in the room, but
he fancied he had caught sight of a dark form
gliding from the spot as he awoke. Suspecting
robbery as the cause of the murder, he felt for
the old man's sack of diamonds and pearls, into
which he had converted his wealth, and it had
been torn from his neck.

“The host has slain the guest for his gold!”
said Selim. “I, also, must fly! But happy am
I to have secured this great secret for restoring
vision, before it perished with him forever.”

The next day, the Earl of Monteagle, who had
been for several days past sending to the abode
to know if the Arabian magician had yet arrived,
sent again! Selim, in the meanwhile, had
sought other lodgings, and in the morning had
given information to the authorities of the robbery
and murder. When the earl's messenger
arrived at the door, he found a press of people
about it; and learning the fate of the astrologer,
was about to hasten to the fortress to inform his
master, when Selim, learning why he had come,
said: “When thou seest thy master, say to him
that though the astrologer is no more, he has an
apprentice to his art, who has equal power to
give sight to the blind. If he will send for me,
I will come. Who is thy lord? Who is the
patient?”

But before the man could reply, a party of
soldiers coming up, separated them.

“I will, at least, do this lady good, for whose
relief my poor master, Aldebrac, was sent for—
if relief be possible. I will test the virtue of
the vials on this lord of Gibraltar's daughter,—”

“Wert thou not with the Moorish magician
when he was slain?” suddenly demanded an
officer at his side.

“Yes, he was slain within reach of where I
slept.”

“Come with us—we need your testimony!”
said the officer.

It was late in the day before Selim was permitted
to go by the examining judge. The assassin
was proven to be the host, as on his person
was found the bag of jewels. The jewels
were given into Selim's possession, and the murderer
conducted to prison.

“Come with me, Sir Moor?” said a soldier,
addressing him, as he left the hall of judgment.
“My lord, the general and his guests wait
thee!”

Selim followed the man to the fortress; entering
its massive gateway, he was led across a
broad court, and into a stately residence, above
which floated the crimson folds of the banner of
the British Isles. It was an hour before sunset,
and the golden radiance of his western light
flooded a gorgeous banqueting room, where sat
around a table, from which the feast had long
since given place to a rich display of tropical
fruits, the white-haired commander of the castle,
Earl and the Countess of Monteagle, Lady Clan-William,
Lord and Lady Devon, Agnes, and
others. In the room were attendants, and good
Dame Alice was not far from the side of her favorite
“child of the sea.”

“You say you read this news of Lord Cranstown's
suicide in the Times?” asked the Earl of
Monteagle, with a look of surprise, at an announcement
by the commander of the castle.

“Yes, my lord—by poison.”

“I deeply regret this sad termination of the
life of a young nobleman, who, but for his uncontrollable
temper, might have conferred distinction
upon his country.”

Agnes seemed deeply touched by the intelligence,
and they were still speaking of the unhappy
event, when Selim was announced. His
appearance was striking, and drew all eyes upon
him. He was dressed in a magnificent Moorish
costume, with a jewelled yatagan at his side.
His figure was tall and noble in its commanding
proportions, his manner dignified and graceful,
his face dark, but exceedingly handsome, his
finely-shaped mouth relieved by a brown mustache,
and his jet black hair waved about his
neck.

There was a general interchange of glances of
admiration among the noble persons present.

“The apprentice of the magician, my lord,”
announced the attendant at the door.

Selim bowed with grace, and with a noble air.

“Canst thou hold speech in English?” asked
the commander.

“If it please your excellency.”

“This is well! For an Arab, you speak remarkably
well,” suggested the old officer, looking
around upon his guests. “It was a bad
murder of thy master?”

“He was old and defenceless, my lord.”

“Dost thou profess to have his art and skill?”
asked the Earl of Monteagle, while all eyes, but
those of Agnes, were fixed earnestly upon him.

“Not in all things, my lord. I have only one
art, and that is to restore sight to the blind, if
the eye be not marred.”

“Thou speakest confidently, young man!”

“Because I have confidence in my power! I
have heard that there is here a maiden who is
so unhappy as to have lost her sight. He who
came at your command to restore it, is no more.
His art lives with me. If you will permit me to
behold the lady, I will say if it is in my power
to benefit her by my skill.”

“He speaks fair,” said the old officer.

“Agnes,” said the earl, looking towards the
lovely daughter of Lady Clan-William, “thou
hearest! Will you consent?”

“Do not tremble thus,” said the countess and
her mother, going to her where she was seated in
a recess of the window, shaking like the leaf of
an aspen, and deadly pale.

“What wilt thou do?” demanded the earl,
without heeding this by-scene.

“I will use only a liquid.”

“I am calmer now,” said Agnes. “I was
only overcome! I feel that I ought to let this
young man try his skill. There is something in
the sound of his voice that gives me a strange
confidence in him!”

“Behold thy patient!” said the earl, conducting
Selim to where Agnes sat. The young
Arab, in his turn, was now visibly under the influence
of some sudden emotion.

“He trembles!—he doubts! He must not be
trusted!” said Lady Clan-William.

At this moment he stood before Agnes. He
had no sooner beheld her than a new agitation
seemed to seize him. He started back!—he
seemed about to fall! But recovering himself,
he said, firmly:

“My lord, I will cure her!”

“Agnes, wilt thou consent?” asked Lady Devon.
“He looks so noble and frank that I could
trust my life in his hand.”

“He shall try! I have full trust in him!”
she answered, in a voice tremulous and liquid
with some strange inward joy.

The maiden, by Selim's order, placed her
head between the hands of the Countess Monteagle.
Her countenance was pale, but expressed
firmness and trust.

There was the most intense expectation visible
on the faces of all present as Selim took from a
pearl casket the three vials which the magician
had given to him. His hand trembled—and the
reader will begin by this time to perceive why—
as he drew the golden stoppers. But when he
took up the first vial, to pour into those beautiful
but sightless eyes, that looked up to him like
twin heavens from beneath, his hand became
firm.

The crimson oil overflowed the fair eyes, which
seemed to be filled with blood to the sight of
those who gazed on. He then took the vial of
transparent fluid, and poured a drop upon each
pupil, whispering:

“Be firm and do not shrink. The pain will
be severe; but only for a moment.”

A slight moan escaped her. The next moment
a third vial had been used, and her eyes
were quickly bandaged. Scarcely had he tied
the knot, when a loud shriek thrilled to every
heart! Every eye turned to Lady Devon. She
stood pointing to the bared arm of Selim, who
had put back his sleeve in operating upon Agnes's
eyes.

“A crocodile!” exclaimed the Earl of Monteagle.

“It is my son—my living, lost son!” cried
Lady Devon, rushing towards him.

“Stay! Let us question him!” said Lord
Monteagle. “Young man, are you a Moor?”

“No, my Lord Monteagle! I am an Englishman,
I believe. I am surprised you did not recognize
me, as soon as I did you! I am Philip,
the shell-gatherer—who—”

“Is it true! Thou art he!” cried the earl.

“And my son!” shrieked Lady Devon.

“Art thou he who, three years ago, left in
London a silver cup, and was pressed on the
`Bucephalus?”' demanded Lord Devon.

“The same, my lord. I embarked from Cadiz,
and was captured, with the ship I was in,
by a Moorish cruiser, and made a slave to the
Prince of Morocco. After three years service,
he gave me, a few weeks ago, my freedom. I
there obtained knowledge from the great magician,
Aldebrac, of the art I have just now exercised
upon the eyes of the Lady Agnes.”

It would be impossible with pen and ink to
portray the scene of joy and excitement that
followed. Lord and Lady Devon clasped him
in their two fold embrace, and recognized him
as their long lost but recovered son. Who shall
paint, also, his surprise and joy?

All this while, Agnes was seated with bandaged
eyes. Her ears heard all, and her heart
bounded with the wildest joy. She had already
half recognized the voice as Philip's, but believing
him dead, the resemblance only touched
her, and led to no suspicions of the truth; it
only gave her confidence in one who spoke in a
tone so much like his, whose image was dearest
to her heart.

“When will Agnes see?” asked Lady Monteagle,
with tears of joy sparkling in her eyes at
the happy scenes of recovery, recognition and
re-union she had just passed through.

“This moment, if she can see again,” answered,
no longer Philip, no longer Selim, but
Lord Henry Devon, with a voice full of his
newly-awakened happiness.

He approached her, removed the bandage, and
bathing her eyes freely with water, as he had
seen the astrologer do in the Moorish prince's
palace, he removed the pressure of his fingers,
and said: “Agnes—look about you!”

“I see—I see you all! I behold your face
dear, noble Philip! my deliverer! Heaven bless
you forevermore!”

Thus speaking with the outbursts of her feelings,
she threw herself upon his breast, and the
lovers mingled their tears of joy together! No
one, for a moment, spoke! It was s scene too
sacred and holy to be interrupted.

The tale is done! It need not be told that
they all returned to England a happy party;
that the lovers were united at Monteagle castle;
and that the half-pay captain won for his part of
the spoils, the fair hand of the widow of “The
Arrow.”