CHAPTER V THE CAVE
I had been on the island three months, and as yet had found no clew as to why I was kept there, or who was responsible for my detention.
I was free in a sense. I wandered all around the country, and had visited the native settlement, some five miles from the mansion, as I called DeNortier's palatial home; had tramped over the island, which was about fifteen miles square, and had seen about all that there was to see upon it.
But I had not been able to discover where the adventurer kept the treasure which he took from the vessels that he scuttled. I knew that the galleon on which the Donna DeCarnova had been, carried treasure for the Spanish crown; knew that he had taken many other ships laden with gold.
My life went on much as usual. DeNortier had been gone for two months, but I saw no change in my condition; the servants were at my beck and call, always ready to wait upon me. I spent my days in roaming over the island, my nights in exploring the great house.
Somewhat discouraged I was, as I wended my way homeward this February evening. The air was fresh and balmy, despite the fact that it was winter and the people in England were huddled over the fires, and were wrapped in their great-coats and furs. I had spent the day hunting, and two natives who trotted in front of me carried the spoils of the day, a lordly stag; a third Indian carried my musketoon.
The last three months had been spent profitably in a way; the time had been passed in the open air, and my muscles were like steel. I could spend the whole day in the chase, and at night be fresh and untired. I had also devoted a good deal of my time to learning the language of the Indians, and had gotten such a fair idea of it that I could carry on an intelligible conversation.
But I was low-spirited and downcast. Would I ever see England again—and Margaret? At the thought I groaned aloud, and the sound caused the Indians to look back at me.
Shouting to them to go on, I quickened my footsteps and followed faster. They were rapidly getting out of speaking distance, and breaking into a long, swinging trot, they turned in among some trees, and were lost to my view.
I resumed my train of thought. What did Margaret think had become of me—or did she care? England I would fain see again, but more than England, more than all else, I longed for a sight of her whom I worshiped, as the heathen worship the sun. She was my sun. As the captive longs for a sight of the sun, when shut up for weary months in some deep dungeon far below the prison walls, so I longed for one sight of the Lady Margaret Carroll, and with it I would have been content.
What had become of Steele and the lovely Spanish maiden? Were they safe in Spain, or had the pirate but cozened me with his promise, and were they not now in some prison like my own? If Steele had reached England safely, had he delivered my message to my lady? What would she say to such a greeting as that? These and many other thoughts filled my mind, as I walked briskly on to overtake my carriers.
Descending a steep hillock overgrown with brush and undergrowth, I saw far below me, some one hundred yards away, the mansion, from the windows of which the light streamed down and brightened up the dusk below—for it was beginning to grow dark.
I had almost reached the foot of the hill, when I stopped. The dull murmur of conversation caught my ear, and I looked around me; there was no one in sight. Where could the sound come from? It was near me somewhere. I turned, and retraced my steps a few feet, the voice becoming plainer. Stepping cautiously, for I did not know what I was running into, I peered around.
The noise seemed to come from the ground beneath me. A thick hedge of bushes was at my elbow, and from this the sound proceeded. Softly pushing them aside, I looked behind them. Below me I could see a light; that was where the people were, evidently, and talking in English.
I crawled under the bushes, and found myself in a low cave. Quietly moving forward, I looked down. The soft dirt on which I stood came abruptly to an end, and a sheer fall of fifteen feet was directly beneath me.
Sitting together, facing each other, a candle between them, were Herrick and the old priest, Father Francis. Herrick was talking, and I bent forward to hear what he said.
"Yes, the captain has gone forward to meet him now. They will come back together."
"A curse on them both!" Francis replied. "What do we care whether they come back or not?" and he leaned forward to peer at Herrick; but the pirate's face was inscrutable. He straightened back with a sigh, and looked up to where I lay.
"It is a shame," the priest went on, "to keep so gallant a gentleman here in this hole. If he loves the maid, let him have her, and be hanged to him."
"Thou wilt sing a different tune, when I tell the Count what thou hast said," Herrick answered, and he leaned back calmly against the rock.
"Hell and the furies!" cried the old rogue, his face white with terror. "Thou wouldst not tell what I have said in jest?"
"Why not?" answered the sailor. "I could get a handful of gold for it."
"Herrick," the priest implored, his face ashy with fright, "ask what thou wilt. I will do anything, if thou wilt but keep secret what I have said to thee here, only in jest," and he arose, a look of terror awful to behold upon his face.
"Well, I will keep silent," the pirate answered, seemingly enjoying the fright of his companion, "but only upon one condition, which I will tell thee in a moment. But what said thou awhile ago?—that the Count was half-crazy. Why dost thou say that?"
Francis hesitated; then he answered: "Did I not see him walk the floor in agony only a few days ago, and cry out as if in pain? Would a man in his senses do that, thinkest thou?"
"It may be that he has something upon his mind that thou dost not know of," the sailor replied, his face grim and stolid.
The priest smiled, his wrinkles deepening. "Or perhaps it is more likely this devil of an Englishman that he has upon his hands. A thousand fiends fly away with them both to perdition!" the priest continued, his face flushing with anger. "Betwixt them, I am 'between the devil and the deep blue sea.' The Count swears that he will burn me alive, if I so much as intimate to this fellow what I know about his imprisonment; the Englishman will kill me if I do not tell. Between them I do not know what to do," he finished in a wail of agony.
Herrick still looked at him unmoved. I thought I could even discern, from where I lay, a faint trace of irony about his mouth.
"And thou wouldst have lost thy head," he rejoined, "if we had not come upon thee in the nick of time, one night three months ago."
"What wouldst thou have?" Father Francis cried. "The fool had me fuddled with wine, and offered one a king's ransom. What could I do?"
The seaman shrugged his shoulders. "What matter! It is done. We saved thee—and now what other strange thing hast thou seen the Count do lately? Thou art like a cat, creeping silently about the house, thy paw in the cream of all."
"The Count sighs for some lady love," the priest continued deliberately, eying his companion, to see what effect this announcement would have upon him. "Why, even on the night I tell thee of, did I not hear him call out once, twice, 'Margaret! Margaret!'" and he chuckled to himself in glee at the thought.
I started in my hiding place, and a lump of dirt dislodged itself and rolled down to where the villains sat. They started; Francis sprang to his feet in terror.
"What is that?" he cried, and he peered uneasily up to where I crouched.
His companion kept his seat unmoved.
"Art thou a fool," he said, "to be scared out of thy wits by a clod of dirt falling? Thou art even as if thou hadst seen a ghost," and he laughed at his ally's fright.
The priest resumed his seat, still gazing up to where I lay.
"I fancy Sir Thomas Winchester is after me in every breeze I hear," he muttered, as he reseated himself.
"Calm thy mind," the seaman rejoined. "He is safe at his supper long ere this, dreaming over the king's wine," and he grinned.
"What foolishness is this? The Count yearning for some fair lady! Dost thou take me for a schoolboy, that I should believe this? Did he pine for some maid, he would bestir himself and take her; quietly, if possible—if not, then by force. Faith! thou little knowest him, if thou thinkest he would pine over any maiden."
"All the same, comrade, I saw him wring his hands, with my own eyes, but three short months ago, and cry out, as I have told thee, the name Margaret. Who could this Margaret be, if not a lady?"
All this time I was craning my neck to catch every word that was uttered, my mind in a tumult. Why did the Count cry Margaret? There was but one Margaret—pure, innocent, sweet. As soon would I have expected a worm to raise his eyes to the far-distant stars, as that this bloodstained villain should raise his evil eyes to her—so far above him.
And yet would this not explain my detention? Perhaps the pirate expected to lure Margaret from her home, and bring her here to torture me with the sight of her in his arms, before he should make away with me.
Yes, it was like him. He would exult in such exquisite anguish as this, and at the thought I ground my teeth together, and felt for the hilt of my sword. Happen what might, this should not come to pass. Rather would I, with one swift blow, put an end to her misery, and fall upon my own sword, than to witness such a scene as this—death would be a boon beside it.
Perhaps DeNortier was even now returning with her on his ship, that evil smile upon his face as he thought of my anguish and his triumph. He had been gone three months; and I had heard one of the men say only the day before, that the Count would return now almost any time.
I bent forward again; they had resumed their conversation.
"And now," said Herrick, "I will tell the price of my silence. Answer the question that I ask, and the grave shall be no more silent than I; refuse, and I will go to DeNortier immediately upon his arrival, and tell him what thou hast said to me. Thou hast thy choice," and he looked carelessly at the other, as though he would not give a farthing which course he pursued.
Father Francis was moistening his white lips with his tongue. "Thou knowest I must answer," he said sullenly. "Why trifle with me? What is thy question?"
"Who is it behind this plot to keep Sir Thomas Winchester here?" Herrick asked quietly, and leaning back, he gazed up at the wall of the cave above him.
His companion was trembling with fear. "'Tis as much as my life is worth to tell thee!" he cried excitedly. "I durst not! Anything but this—anything! I implore thee to ask me some other question. Herrick, I have been thy friend; have stood by thee through thick and thin, when others would have forsaken and left thee to thy fate. For God's sake! ask not this of me. Dost thou remember Gromas? Did I not save thy life there, when the very breath of thy body hung by but a thread, and I could have slain thee with a word? For the sake of this spare me!" And with clasped hands he looked at the other.
"It is as much as thy life is worth not to tell me," boldly answered the adventurer. "Rememberest thou the tender mercies of our captain—the Indian burned alive at the stake; the mutineer crucified; the slave branded with red-hot irons; the——?"
"Hush!" cried the poor priest, his eyes almost starting from their sockets. "Thou makest my very blood run cold. Lean forward, and I will whisper it in thy ear—the very walls have ears in this place."
Herrick leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. The priest bent over to whisper to him. In my eagerness to hear, I leaned forward further—further over the edge of the ledge, and Dame Fortune, with a twist of her wheel, turned the propitious fates aside. For even as I bent forward, my ears strained to catch the slightest whisper, the soft earth under me gave way, and in a perfect avalanche of dirt, shrubbery, and rocks, I rolled down into the camp of my enemies.
With a yell—shrill, loud, and piercing, which rang through the cave like the blast of a trumpet, the priest sprang up. With one spring like a wild goat, he was upon the ledge from which only one short moment ago I had fallen. I heard him tear through the bushes, and run down the hill outside, as though the furies were after him. The sound died away in the distance—he was gone.
But the other rogue was of sterner mold. With an oath, he whipped out his cutlass, and was upon me as I was rising from the ground. Well it was that I had on my light steel breastplate, for the blade, coming viciously down, struck full upon it, and glanced off harmlessly, or I would not have been here to tell the tale. In an instant I had drawn my sword and was on guard.
"I have against thee a goodly account to settle, Master Herrick," I said. "The night wanes, and we must to business."
"Aye," he cried, "I will rid the world of one rascal," and he pressed upon me, thrusting, cutting, striking with such fury that, had my blade not been a good one, it would have broken sheer off, from the very force of the blows.
I let him come on, contenting myself with parrying his thrusts, for by and by I knew that he would exhaust himself, and then I would force from him the secret of my imprisonment; for the priest had whispered it into his ear before I had rolled down upon them.
Of Father Francis I had no fear. He would not bring help to his comrade. No, I knew him too well to think that he would fail to protect himself. It was to his interest that Herrick should be silenced, now that he knew so much, and he was too shrewd not to know what was best for his own interest.
So I held my own, and let him exhaust himself with his fruitless efforts. Back he came upon me, striking down blow after blow with his blade, any one of which, had it gone home, would have split me like a herring. I could have run him through at any moment, for he left his whole breast exposed in his insane fury; but I merely waited, calmly, coolly meeting every thrust, parrying every cut with a wrist of steel.
Five minutes passed, and the smile which at first had been upon his face died away. The great beads of sweat began to gather upon his forehead, as he saw his every trick and maneuver met easily, without an effort; and how fresh I was, and knew that he was rapidly exhausting himself.
Another little trick he tried, but I read what was coming in his eyes, even before he thrust, and met him, parried his blade, and thrusting back, laid open his cheek—the first time that I had drawn blood.
Then slowly I began to advance towards him, thrusting faster, faster, faster—surrounding him with a flaming wall of steel, which, try as he might, he could not penetrate. Backwards—backwards I pressed him.
It was a grim, weird scene. The white, bare walls of the cave lit up by the gleam of one little candle; the shadows coming and going upon the sides, as the air from above flared the wick of the candle. Now we were in the light; now in darkness.
The wind was rising outside; already it wailed and moaned, like the souls of the lost. There was not a sound to break the stillness that reigned throughout the cave, save only that—for we had fought in grim silence—only the sound of our feet upon the stones, as we moved and turned hither and thither, and the quick panting of our hot breath.
There, within the walls of the cavern, we fought out the last hard battle, that sooner or later, in some guise or other, comes to all of mortal flesh; that grim, silent struggle in darkness and agony, and in that despair that wrings the heart, as we run the last race, with Life in the balance, and the specter, Death, holding in his fleshless hand the scales.
I could feel his presence that night, as he stalked about us, his garments almost touching us, as we struggled to and fro—shut off from the world, with only the feeble rays of one little candle. Life seemed far away and unreal; Death seemed near and omnipresent.
Strange thoughts crossed my mind, as I cut and thrust at the grim pirate. I recalled how my mother had looked, twenty years ago, as she lay in state in the great hall at Richmond Castle. My years seemed to fall from me as a mantle, and I was again the little boy, innocent and fresh, as, holding my nurse's hand, I looked down upon the cold, waxen features of one whom I had known and loved.
I remembered the thrill of fear—or was it only dread of the unknown?—that filled my mind, as I looked upon the change that had been wrought by the hand of the great destroyer. The calm, serene features, lovely with a beauty not of earth; with that look of majesty which death brings to the face of mortals, as they lie wrapped in the embrace of the last foe.
It is as if he would erase the lines and wrinkles that sorrow and care had wrought—which the toil and pain of this cold sphere had imprinted upon that patient face—and instead would imprint upon its calm lineaments that great mystery which none but the immortal can know.
It all came back to me, and I could remember how I had turned away in the throes of my first real grief. Ah! many since then had old "Time" brought me, but none so bitter as the first.
Strange thoughts to think, as I pressed the sea rover back nearer the wall.
Ah! I had him—but he sprang nimbly aside, and my blade passed under his arm.
I had forgotten my scheme to spare his life; the blood thirst was upon me; the blood of the fighting Richmonds was up. Angered by the long fight, angered at myself that I had not slain him when I had a chance, I pressed him harder and harder, with no thought but to run him through.
And now his back was against the wall; he could retreat no further. He turned in despair, as I have seen some hunted thing do when driven to its lair; as I have seen some lone wolf when brought to bay by the hunters, and hope has fled, determined to strike one last blow, and then if need be, to go down with its face to its foes, and its teeth clinched in the throat of some good hound.
The adventurer sprang at me in such fury that I was compelled to give back a pace or two, or be cut to pieces. But his strength was gone; he was exhausted—the end had come.
I know not at that last moment, whether I would have spared his life—I cannot tell; but Fate, who ever stands patiently at our side, awaiting a favorable opportunity to interfere, took the matter out of my hands. For even as I drew back to end the matter by one home thrust, my feet slipped upon the stone and I stumbled.
With a cry, he thrust full at my breast, a blow that would have finished me; but he was too much exhausted to strike true. The blade slipped between my arm and my shoulder, and caught for an instant—it was enough. Recovering myself, I made one good lunge. He had on no armor, and the blade striking him full in the breast, right above the heart, passed entirely through his body and stood out a foot behind his back.
With a shout, he threw up his hands and dropped like a log, the force of the fall wrenching the blade from his body. I stood holding the dripping sword in my hand, and looked down at him, as he lay upon the floor. A slight shudder passed over his body; one deep, long sigh came from his lips—and then he lay motionless.
That figure, which but a short moment before had been animated with hatred and thirst for my life, was now powerless to help or hurt me. Only a moment ago he had been a man, with a man's soul; had loved and sorrowed; had rejoiced and mourned; had toiled and striven—now he was but a lump of senseless clay. He had fought a good fight; he had his faults, but he was a man. Peace to his ashes!
Picking up what remained of the candle from the floor, I walked back further into the cave. It seemed to me to be the work of nature; and at the further end a long, dark passageway led deeper into the earth.
I hesitated a moment, as I peered into it. Then I listened, but could hear nothing, so I plunged boldly into the tunnel, the candle in my left hand, my drawn sword before me in my right, its red blade still dripping. Stopping I wiped the blood off upon my kerchief, and passed on down the narrow way.
Where it led I did not know; nor with what secret traps it was filled. It might be that I would learn the mystery of my captivity at the end; it might be that I would meet with such a fate as Herrick.
Probably this tunnel led to some place where the pirates gathered to discuss the plans for their expeditions and forays; or it was possible that DeNortier had his treasure concealed somewhere within its dark depths, and even now these two men whom I had seen had been sent to watch it. I must be careful, or I would walk full into the pirates' arms.
I had walked perhaps a hundred feet, when I stopped. Two paths diverged here—one to the right, the other to the left; both yawned dark, gloomy, and mysterious before me. I had long since passed out of the natural part of the cave, and this was plainly the work of man, for I could see upon its sides the mark of the pick and shovel.
Both ways looked alike to me. Hesitating a moment, I drew a coin from my pocket. If the Queen's head fell uppermost, I would go to the right; if the reverse, to the left. I tossed the coin into the air and bent over it as it fell. It had fallen upon its face, and turning to the left, I passed on down the path about one hundred and fifty feet more.
I stopped again. Before me, shining down from the top of the rock overhead, a few yards away, there gleamed a light. Moving cautiously forward, I blew out my candle, and in a moment came upon a flight of stone steps. Looking up, I could see that what had appeared to me to be a light was simply an opening in the wall above me, which led into a lighted room.
Ascending the steps, I stood in the bed-chamber of DeNortier. I had never been in it before. It was the only room in the house, so far as I knew, that I had never entered; but the door was always fastened when I tried it, and I could find no key that would fit the lock.
Heavy tapestry lined the walls, and as I stood in the room I was concealed from view by the embroidered arras, which hung directly in front of the trap-door, hiding it from the sight of the occupants of the chamber.
The floor was of polished wood, as was the rest of the house, and bending down I closed the aperture through which I had come, noting as I did so how cunningly it fitted into the wood, so as to be indiscernible to the eye.
A thought struck me. I had best leave the trap-door ajar; it might be that those who had left it open might wish to go through it again. It would arouse suspicion were it found closed. Bending down I endeavored to again open the door, but in vain. It was evidently worked by some secret spring, and desisting from the vain attempt, I peered through the hangings into the brilliantly lighted room.
The same golden candelabra suspended from the wall; the same heavy, elegant furniture and luxurious couches; the same soft rugs and skins upon the floors; even the identical odor of flowers, tropical and sweet-scented.
Upon a little table stood a bottle of that same delicious nectar that I had drunk before; even the very golden goblets were there, from which DeNortier and I, and also Father Francis, had sipped the amber juice.
I had not tasted such wine as that since the fat priest had drunk with me, that night which had proved so near his undoing. DeNortier had sailed the next day, where, I did not know; the burly Francis I had not seen since, until this evening in the cave; only Herrick, the grim, with a few hardy ruffians, had remained behind.
I had already stepped into the room, thinking to let myself out of the door and into the great hall, when the soft thud of approaching footsteps caused me to dodge back behind the friendly tapestry. A key grated in the lock; the door swung open, and I heard the tread of footsteps across the threshold.
The key turned again, and the voice of DeNortier broke the silence. "Come, my dear Lord, thou art safe here. Be seated, pray."
The noise of some heavy article being pushed over the floor, and I could hear them throw themselves upon the couches.
Only one man with the Count, whom, I did not know. I had only heard him growl out a brief "Thank thee," as he took the proffered seat. A man of rank, too, evidently, for DeNortier had said, "My Lord." What did a noble in this part of the world? English, too, by his voice. I had as soon expected to see an elephant here as an English lord.
The stranger spoke. "Where is our prisoner?" he said in a low, clear voice. "I care not to meet him during my brief stay here."
Where had I heard that voice before? It sounded as familiar to me as my own. In London, surely, but I could not for my life remember whose it was. Could I but peer out from my hiding-place without detection, I would soon find out who the visitor was.
Carefully, very carefully, I drew aside a fold of the arras and looked out. There facing me and looking down at DeNortier, who sat opposite, a grin of pleasure upon his face, sat the Viscount James Henry Hampden. The same piercing gray eye, dark brown hair and pointed beard; the same nose and broad, wide mouth; the same cold, hard expression upon his face. As though he were at Lady Wiltshire's ball, instead of upon a wild island in the unknown Western seas, he sat there, gay and careless.
So this was the explanation that I had sought so long. He should pay dearly for this deed. I had a heavy reckoning against him, but it could wait for a while. Perhaps I would learn something of interest to me to-night.
Luckily this part of the room (I was in the furthest corner) was in the shadow, for the tapestry hung some six or eight inches from the wall, and I could move stealthily behind it without being seen from the room.
But the Count was speaking. "No fear of that, my Lord. I inquired from one of the servants as I came in, and he informed me that our prisoner had not returned from a long hunt. He is probably sleeping in the hut of some native to-night. Have no fear—he cannot hear of thy arrival."
And now he proceeded to fill one of the golden goblets with wine; pushing it toward Hampden, and filling another for himself, he said, "Let us drink a toast in this rare old wine. What shall it be? I await thy pleasure," and he rose to his feet and bowed.
The Viscount hesitated; for a moment he sat as if undecided. But the wine he had drunk before had mounted to his head, and he too arose to his feet and extended his glass.
"I give thee a toast!" he cried, his colorless cheek warming. "One for gods and men! Drink with me to the fairest of earth's mortals, as divinely beautiful and as innocent as an angel; one upon whose slightest word all London hangs—to the Lady Margaret Carroll!" And he drained the great golden goblet in a draught.
"The Lady Margaret Carroll!" rejoined the sea rover, lifting the goblet to his lips. "May she be the bride of the bravest gallant!" and he too drained his cup to the dregs.
The Viscount still stood staring at him as the Count finished his cup and set it upon the table. "Yes," said he finally, with a frown, "may the bravest man win her." And following the example of DeNortier, he resumed his reclining position upon the couch.
"And now, my Lord," the adventurer continued, "how long since is it that thy noble uncle died, and thou didst come into the possession of the title and estate?"
"Only a bare two months ago," answered Hampden, with a growl. "I thought the old fool would never die. He hung on to the estates and title as though he thought that he could carry them in his doublet with him, when he passed out of this world. I had thought that I would finally have to end his sufferings with my dagger, but he at last saved me that trouble. The Saints be praised!"
With a devout sigh at the thought of such sin and wickedness, he put to his lips the goblet that the Count had refilled, and drank off half of its contents with a gulp. Then putting it down once more on the table, he continued:
"I had been here long since had it not been for that; but from day to day I kept waiting for the old Lord to die. Each day we thought would be his last, but he held on for months," and looking up at the golden candelabra, he sighed again.
"And what effect had the titles and estates upon thy lady love?" asked DeNortier, with a slight smile. "Surely, Lord Dunraven, the possessor of an ancient title and lordly estates, would be a fit mate for any lady, barring none. Even the Queen would not stoop did she unite her fate with so noble a line."
Lord Dunraven frowned blackly. "It is true many a titled lady would be proud to be Lady Dunraven, wife of one of the greatest noblemen of England, but the foolish girl is as obstinate as a donkey. She would have none of it; told me she would be my friend ever, but I could never hope for more. The foul fiend fly away with such a friend!" he cried, his anger, stimulated by the rich wine, arising at the thought.
"I believe that she loves this Sir Thomas Winchester, so I had thee to bring him here."
My heart gave a great bound of joy as I heard this. Was it possible that Lady Margaret Carroll, courted and admired, with the choice of England's nobility before her, herself the bearer of a proud name, and with great estates, did she—could she—love and remember a gentleman spurned by his own family, penniless, an outcast from his home? Was she true to me, or was it only maidenly coyness, but used to heat my lord's passion, that she repulsed him thus?
"If I cannot win, he shall not!" and rising to his feet, Dunraven began to pace the floor.
The pirate's face wore a serious air, and fingering the goblet before him, he spoke to Lord Dunraven, who was tramping restlessly to and fro.
"If thou fearest that, my Lord, why not say the word? A dagger in the back, and thy rival would be out of thy way forever."
"No," Dunraven said, stopping for a moment his aimless walk. "No; I reserve him for a more exquisite torture than that; he would not suffer—a blow, and he would be out of his misery. But to see her in my arms, his successful rival, to have her cry to him for aid, and he bound helpless, unable to do aught but writhe in impotent agony—agony which wrings the soul—ah, my friend! that would be revenge indeed, such as I long for. Watch over him carefully. I would not have him come to harm for an earl's ransom. Curse him! How I hate him! When I can bring him to such a fate as this I shall be content, and not until then will I rest."
"And what are thy plans?" DeNortier asked, his hands still fingering listlessly the massive goblet.
The other looked at him keenly with his cold gray eye. "Can I trust thee?" he asked suspiciously.
The adventurer laughed sardonically. "Thou hast trusted me thus far," he answered. "Have I played thee false in aught that thou askest me this?"
"Forgive me," replied the Viscount. "Forgive me—but there hangs so much at stake that I fear to trust myself. Listen, and thou shalt learn my plans and purpose," and drawing up a heavy chair to the table, he seated himself.
Filling up another goblet of wine, and drinking it down as though it were a thimbleful, he resumed:
"The lady will not yield to me. I will give her but one more chance to freely and of her own will become my bride. If she still refuses to consent, then," a frown, dark and ominous, passed over his face, "I will by some ruse obtain possession of her and by force carry her on board one of my ships. Then, ho for Eldorado!"
"Yes," he said, noticing the look of astonishment upon the Spaniard's face, "Sir Thomas Winchester shall behold her my bride. When he has suffered enough to satisfy me, I will put him out of the way. We will stay here until my lady becomes reconciled, and then we will sail back to England and home," and his eyes, so cold and gray, lighted up with delight and pleasure as he surveyed the face of the other.
His companion did not at once speak, but sat in silence. "And all this," he finally said musingly—"all this toil and blood and sweat for one woman, when a score as beautiful stand at thy elbow. Truly did some wise man say, 'What fools we mortals be.'"
"Ah!" answered Dunraven, rising from his chair, "thou hast not seen the Lady Margaret Carroll. Didst thou but lay eyes upon her, thou wouldst wonder no longer, for she is the daintiest slip of mortality that ever graced this cold gray earth. Man, half London is wild over her!"
"It may be so," DeNortier replied, yawning behind his hand. "I would, for my part, prefer some less lovely maid who would be won more easily, and without all this labor."
"Tendit ad astra!" cried my lord. Then bending across the table, "Thou shouldst see this lady. Did I not fear that she would entangle that black heart of thine in her golden tresses, I would take thee in disguise with me to London, and show thee this wondrous beauty."
"No fear of that," rejoined DeNortier, a grim smile of amusement upon his countenance. "Would the lady prefer a worn old warrior, his neck resting uneasily upon his shoulders, to a noble of England, handsome, rich, accomplished?" and he drummed his fingers restlessly upon the table, his legs sprawled out before him.
"Thou flatterest me, my friend, and underratest thyself. The lady would look twice before she refused thee." And Dunraven looked at his companion.
Truly they were a striking pair as they sat together beneath the candlelight, and thou couldst have searched Europe, and not have found their match for comeliness and martial bearing. Dunraven, with his broad shoulders, his striking face, his proud pose, dark brown hair and beard; the Spaniard, more slender, but quicker, more agile, his jet-black hair and beard gleaming like the wing of a crow in the light.
They were a dangerous couple. DeNortier was the leopard, restless, cunning, lurking ready to spring at a moment's warning—not so big as his bulky companion, but with muscles of steel; Dunraven, bigger, heavier, clumsier, but more powerful—the bear. Woe to the creature that he locked in his iron arms; he would crush the life from him, even as a vise.
They both now sat silent and motionless, wrapped in their own thoughts, neither breaking the deep silence that reigned in the room.
Quick steps sounded upon the floor outside. A loud rap upon the door, and then another.
"What is it?" DeNortier cried, springing to his feet and catching up his sword, which lay upon the floor beside him.
"The sentry swears that he saw the gleam of the moonlight upon a sail, captain," a gruff voice answered.
"The fiends!" cried the adventurer. Then turning to Dunraven, who had risen to his feet, he whispered rapidly, "Down the stairs into the passageway—quick! Wait for me there; I will join thee as soon as I can," and he stepped forward to unbolt the door.
Hampden dashed behind the tapestry. "Where?" he cried. "What passageway?" and he looked at the floor about him.
"I forgot," DeNortier answered, "that thou dost not know the secret."
Crossing the room and pushing aside the tapestry, he knelt a moment upon the floor and pressed his hand against it. There was a quick click, and slowly the trap door rose. Hampden sprang through it. I held my breath, my unsheathed sword in hand. Surely they must see me; but no, they were too much engaged.
DeNortier sprang up as soon as the trap door yawned open, and rushing over to the door, unlocked and opened it. It slammed to behind him, and he ran down the hall, the sailor following.
In an instant I was through the opening beside me, sword in hand. My enemy was in my grasp. We would fight out the quarrel below, with none but the dead to interrupt us. One of us would come out perhaps; he would have the field to himself; however it ended, the matter would be settled. If my lord fell, I would have the ground to myself; if he triumphed, it would not disturb me; if I fell beneath his sword, it could not matter to the dead.
At the sound of my footsteps, he, not knowing who it was that followed, quickened his own. The dim light through the trap door died out, and we were treading in total darkness. Guided by the sound of his feet, I ran on after him. I had no wish to fight under DeNortier's chamber; some one might hear and interrupt us. I would wait until we got further on into the cavern, where we would be undisturbed.
Several minutes passed; I judged that we were out of hearing, and raising my voice shouted: "Why hurry, my Lord? The night is young yet, and we have much to settle between us. Wait for me but a moment, and I will join thee."
I heard him stop in the darkness.
"Ha!" he said, "speak of the devil and we hear his wings. So that was thou who ran down after me into this black hole; thou must have been behind the arras and have heard all that I said. Well, no matter, dead men tell no tales," and he laughed, a ring of menace sounding in it.
I thrust out in the darkness before me with my sword; he could not be far away, by the sound of his voice—but my blade only struck against the wall, the steel ringing as though struck by a hammer. I heard his footsteps move on down the tunnel.
"Stop!" I cried, "I have long wished to settle several small matters with thee. If thou wilt but wait for me an instant, we will go out into the moonlight, and there we will cross blades and fight out our difference."
"Why should I fight thee?" he answered, his voice coming from in front of me. "The game is mine; did I wish thee knifed, a dozen men stand ready to do it at my command. Why should I risk my life? I do not wish to kill thee, for I reserve thee for a more delicious fate," and his laugh, low and smothered, floated back to me.
"Dog!" I cried, my anger getting the best of me—anger at the taunt—anger that my sword could not reach him. "Boast not, 'there be many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' I may not win my lady but thou at least shalt not have her. Rather would I see her dead than meet such a fate."
"When thou beholdest her resting peacefully upon my breast, my arms around her, my lips pressed close to hers, then, and not till then, will I be content. Fear not. Only a few months, and thou wilt behold her mine. Till then—adieu!" and his footsteps moved again. Then silence.
With a curse I rushed on down the dark passageway, prodding with my sword the walls, cutting the darkness in front of me wildly. Like a madman I dashed on until, cracking my head upon the projecting stone, I staggered back, fell at full length upon the floor, and so was checked in my mad career.
Getting on my feet again, I called. No answer. "Dunraven!" I cried, "Where art thou?" But only the echo of my own voice answered me. He was gone, as though the darkness had swallowed him up to protect him from my wrath. Truly the devil had taken good care of his own.
I resumed my way on down the cavern, for a gleam of light had caught my eye, far in front of me. I drew cautiously nearer; it was the moon shining down at the mouth of the cave, which I had entered a few brief hours ago.
Stumbling over the body of Herrick as it lay where he had fallen, I scrambled up the embankment, pushed aside the bushes, and stood once more in the open air. Far below me lay the mansion, its lights shining out into the darkness as though to welcome me back once more to life and hope. Descending the hill, I made my way down to it.
It was midnight when I stood again on the broad veranda between the great white pillars. No one was in sight, and passing into the hallway I ascended the stairs to my own room.