University of Virginia Library

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.