Chapter Seventy Seven.
Almost a Murder.
At the cliff’s base, the action, simultaneous, is even more exciting.
Having left their boat behind, with a man to take care of it, the rescuers advance towards the inner end of the cove.
At first with caution: till passing the rock-portal, they see the platform and those on it.
Then the young officers rush forward, with no fear of having to fight. Instead of armed enemies to meet them, they behold the dear ones from whom they have been so long apart. Beside them, half-a-dozen figures, more like skeletons than men—with cowed, craven faces, seeming so feeble as to have a difficulty in keeping their feet!
With swords sheathed, and pistols returned to their holsters, the English officers hasten on, the young ladies rushing out to receive them.
Soon they are together, two and two, breasts touching, and arms enfolded in mutual embrace.
For a while no words—the hearts of all too full for speech. Only ejaculations and kisses, with tears, but not of sorrow.
Then succeeds speech, necessarily brief and half-incoherent, Crozier telling Carmen that her father is still alive, and aboard the barque. He lives—he is safe! that is enough.
Then in answer to his questions, a word or two, on her fide. But without waiting to hear all, he turns abruptly upon Harry Blew, who is seen some paces off. Neither by word, nor gesture, has the sailor yet saluted him. He stands passive, a silent spectator; as Crozier supposes, the greatest criminal on earth. In quick retrospect of what has occurred, and what he has heard from Don Gregorio, how could it be otherwise?
But he will not condemn without hearing him, and stepping up to the ex-man-o’-war’s man, he demands explanation of his conduct, sternly saying:
“Now, sir, I claim an account from you. Tell your story straight, and don’t conceal aught, or prevaricate. If your treason be as black as I believe it, you deserve no mercy from me. And your only chance to obtain it, will be by telling the truth.”
While speaking, he has again drawn his sword, and stands confronting the sailor—as if a word were to be the signal for thrusting him through.
Blew is himself armed with both pistol and knife. But, so far from touching either, or making any sign of an intention to defend himself he remains cowed-like, his head drooping down to his breast.
He gives no response. His lips move not; neither his arms nor limbs. Alone, his broad chest heaves and falls, as if stirred by some terrible emotion.
His silence seems a confession of guilt!
Taking, or mistaking, it for this, Crozier cries out:
“Traitor! Confess, before I run this blade through your miserable body!”
The threat elicits an answer.
“You may kill me, if you wish, Master Edward. By rights, my life belongs to ye. But, if you take it, I’ll have the satisfaction o’ knowin’, I’ve done the best I could to prove my gratefulness for your once savin’ it.”
Long before he has finished his strange speech, the impending stroke is stayed, and the raised blade dropped point downward. For, on the hand which grasps it, a gentler one is laid, a soft voice saying:—
“Hold, Eduardo! Dios de mi alma! What would you do? You know not. This brave man—to him I owe my life—I and Iñez.”
“Yes,” adds Iñez, advancing, “more than life. ’Tis he who protected us.”
Crozier stands trembling, the sword almost shaken from his grasp. And while sheathing it, he is told how near he has been to doing that which would ever after have made him miserable.
He feels like one withheld from murder—almost parricide. For to have killed Harry Blew, would have been like killing his own father.
The exciting episode is almost instantly succeeded by another, even more stirring, and longer sustained. While Carmen is proceeding to explain her interference on behalf of Blew, she is interrupted by cries coming up from the beach. Not meaningless shouts, but words of ominous import.
“Ahoy, there! help! help!”
Coupled with them, Crozier hears his own name, then the “Help, help!” reiterated; recognising the voice of the man left in charge of the boat—Grummet.
Without hesitating an instant, he springs off toward the strand, Cadwallader and the gold-diggers following; two staying to keep guard over those of the robbers who have surrendered.
On clearing the rocky ledge, they see what is causing the coxswain to sing out in such terrified accents. Grummet is in the boat, but upon his feet, with a boat-hook in his hands, which he brandishes in a threatening manner, shouting all the while. Four men are making towards him fast as their legs can carry them. They are coming along the beach from the right side of the cove.
At a glance the English officers recognise two of them—De Lara and Calderon—sooner from their not meeting them there unexpectedly. For aware that they are on the isle, they were about to go in quest of those gentlemen, after settling other affairs.
No need to search for them now. There they are, with their confederates, rushing direct for the boat—already within pistol-shot of it.
Nor can there be any doubt about their intention to seize upon the boat and carry her off!