CHAPTER XVII THE DEATH OF DeNORTIER
A light hand shook me by the shoulder. I moved uneasily, and rubbing my eyes looked about the hut; all was inky darkness.
"Hist!" said a voice, which I recognized as Windango's, "let the Eagle follow silently behind me." And taking my hand in his, he led me quietly across the hut and into the night air.
As I looked down at the sleeping warrior in the doorway, I saw something red trickling slowly down his broad breast. Bending over him, I looked. A great gash was over the heart, and from it was streaming a torrent of blood. The old chief had taken this means of silencing him effectually, and so straightening myself, I stepped to his side, where he stood in the shadow of the lodge.
With a quick movement, he threw a deerskin over my head, so that nothing could be seen of my face. The night was dark and moonless, and from the deserted streets of the village no sound arose. He turned, and with me at his heels began a quick journey towards the woods. We met no one, as with bent heads we silently stole towards the shadow of the trees.
The cabin in which I had been confined that night lay at the northern end of the village, and it was only a few moments until we reached the outskirts of the place. I started back in alarm, for before us there trod to and fro upon his beat a sentry. We could not pass him without being seen; but the chief by my side reassured me in a word.
"It is a friend," he whispered. "Once I saved his life from the Tuscaroras, and he has not forgotten; the Eagle need not fear." And with head still bent, he stole silently by the motionless figure, who, with his back turned toward us, stood gazing intently into the night. He must have heard us as we passed, but if so he made no sign as we trod softly by, and in a few moments we had reached the friendly shadow of the trees.
Never for an instant did Windango relax his swinging trot, as he hurried through the forest. Twice I tripped upon some root or branch, and came to the ground; but I was up in an instant, and after his dark shadow, which I could partly discern before me. Through bushes and vines we tore, the briars scratching my hands and face; into trees I bumped, and stumbled into gulleys, as I hurried on after the chief.
Five good miles we must have trodden thus, and then crashing through a cluster of undergrowth and trees, we halted upon the banks of the river, the Roanoke the natives called it. Here, from underneath some bushes and vines, the Indian brought out a canoe, and placed it upon the water. Turning to me he spoke:
"Windango has kept his word, and has repaid the Eagle for the life of Winona, which he saved from the wild beast in the forest. It is not safe that the Eagle should remain longer with the Cherokees, for to-night they plot his life, and while it may be that Windango could save him for this once, yet in the end they would slay him. Let the Eagle depart," and with a wave of his hand, he motioned me toward the canoe.
"The Eagle will not forget Windango," I answered, as with a clasp of his hard hand, I stepped into the boat, and picking up the paddle dipped it into the water. "The memory of him will be as the sun upon the tired traveler after the storm has passed. But how shall the Eagle know when he has reached the lodges of the pale ones?"
"It is three suns' journey," answered the Indian. "The Eagle will see upon the banks of the river upon his right a broad rock which juts out into the water, and over it a withered oak. Let him alight there, and take the trail which he will see; in an hour he will be at the lodges of the pale men."
"The Eagle thanks his brother," I said, and with a wave of my paddle, I pushed the little canoe into the stream, and made rapidly towards the east, down its wide current.
I had left the Indian behind, and with strong strokes, I made haste toward Dunraven. Overhead brooded the night, dark, silent; before me lay the great river, and somewhere beyond those dark trees was Margaret. My foot struck something in the bottom of the canoe, which rang against the board. Stooping, I picked it up; it was my gold-hilted sword—the companion of my wanderings—and beside it lay some food and a jar of water, placed there by the same kind hand. Buckling the blade about my waist, around which was still fastened the blue wampum belt, I resumed my task, my mind engrossed in thought.
Why had not the Cherokees attacked the settlement of Dunraven, if they knew so well where it lay? It was only a few miles away, and I knew them too well to think they stood in awe of four men, however brave. No, there was something deeper than this somewhere. This was the secret of those steel hatchets and knives which I had seen among the Indians; he had bought their friendship with these trinkets, and bribed them to hold me a captive among them.
Ah! there was a long reckoning to settle with my lord, when we should meet again. One which had been long in the making, and such as one mortal man could seldom count up against another. If I could only reach him with my sword, I would give worlds for the opportunity.
A light sound of a paddle floated to my ears from behind me down the stream. Someone was evidently following, but who I did not know. With a quick stroke of the paddle, I turned the head of the canoe towards the bank, and shot in among the overhanging trees and bushes. Here I waited in silence; five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and I had almost persuaded myself that I heard only the sound of some beast from the forest, when again came that light sound. Nearer, clearer, it again struck my ears, and in a moment I saw the dark body of a canoe upon the water.
I strained my eyes to discover who were its occupants, but in the gloom I could see nothing. A pale glimmer of the moonlight for a moment came out from behind a cloud, and fell full upon the face of Winona, as with her raised head she looked around her for a glimpse of my canoe.
"Winona!" I called softly, and in an instant I had paddled out from my hiding place, and to where the boat rocked. "Thou must go back, child," I said. "What doest thou here?"
She only answered with a storm of sobs.
"Thou canst not follow me, a wanderer upon the face of the earth," I continued. "What will thy father think of this, after he has saved my life? No, turn again to thy people," and I pushed her canoe around with my hands.
"Winona cannot return!" she cried. "Her people will have naught to do with her after to-night. If the Eagle refuses to let her follow him, she will cast herself into the river."
I was sorely vexed; here I was about to go into the camp of the enemy; at the very time that I needed to be footloose, the Indian girl must needs follow me—a plague on her! And there was Margaret, Heaven only knew what she would think; but the lass had saved my life, and I could not leave her alone and friendless in the wilderness. If it be true that her friends had cast her out, there was naught to do but carry her with me, and so with a sigh I turned my canoe, and in silence continued my journey up the river, with her little craft behind me. And so we journeyed for two long days.
We were moving up the river, only a day's journey from Dunraven now, and with paddle in hand I pushed the little boat for all there was in her. But a few more hours and I would face my lord, and with sword in hand would end his troubles.
A low call floated out to me from the shore, and turning my head quickly, I saw standing upon the bank some fifty feet away, his face distorted by a ghastly smile, the apothecary, John Marsden. If I had seen a vision, I could not have been more surprised. I looked at him in amazement, as he raised his hands and beckoned me to approach him.
What ruse was this? Did he but attempt to lure me to the shore, so that I would fall into the hands of some of Dunraven's men, who concealed by the trees lay in wait for me?
"Quick!" he shouted, as my canoe lay motionless upon the water. "Quick, Sir Thomas! for I know not what moment Lord Dunraven may appear, and if I fall into his hands, it will all be up with me." And he shuddered in such terror that, half convinced that his fear was genuine, I paddled towards him.
"Let me but come aboard," he said, as my canoe touched land; and he rushed forward in the boat and seated himself in the stern. "Give me a paddle!" he cried, and seizing one, he never rested until we had pulled far out into the current; then he gave a sigh of relief. "If Lord Dunraven overtakes me, it will end the career of John Marsden," he said, with another uneasy look at me.
"What doest thou here?" I asked sternly, "and why flee from Lord Dunraven?—mind thee, the truth."
"'Twas on the day before yesterday at noon that I sat in the hut," he answered. "I was brooding over the failure of my lord to pay me the gold that he had promised, and the scornful way in which he treated me, when I approached him and begged for the reward which he held out to me. I heard a footfall on the floor behind me, and looking up I saw DeNortier."
"'Dost thou wish one thousand pounds sterling, Marsden?' he said in a low voice. 'If so, thou hast but to speak.' What could I do? Here was a vast treasure, sufficient to overthrow the honor of an angel and a way to revenge myself upon Dunraven; so I answered that I would do his bidding for one thousand pounds.
"'Then listen to me,' he said, glancing around cautiously. 'The Lady Margaret Carroll is imprisoned here, and languishes as the captive of Lord Dunraven. I would rescue and restore her to her lover, Sir Thomas Winchester, but it is not to be, for last night as I lay upon my bed I dreamed a dream. As I looked, lo! there stood beside me the dead Herrick, even as I had seen him often in life. I thought a look of sorrow was upon his face, and as I looked at him his lips opened and he spoke:
"'Thy time has come, my captain,' he said. 'Long have I waited in this far land for thee, but now thy end draws nigh, and I am sent to warn thee. Three days, and thou shalt join the shadowy throng of thy men; but do this before thou goest. Send a messenger to Sir Thomas Winchester to guide him to Lady Margaret Carroll, whom he loves, and perchance it will avail thee much in the end." As he said this he vanished.
"'I lay there in the silent room; I am not a person to fear either man or devil, but I feel within me this shade spoke truth, and it shall be as he has said. It matters little now, since I know that I cannot win the Lady Margaret Carroll, for death is better than a weary existence without her. Dost thou, therefore, Marsden, go to Sir Thomas Winchester and guide him here, while I stay and guard the lady until his arrival. Hasten back when thou dost give the message.'
"And he gave me the one thousand pounds, which I buried, and straightway I set out to find thee. Praise be to God I have done it!" And he looked at me with an air of joy.
"Dost expect me to believe this?" I asked incredulously.
"Believe it or not—it is the truth," he said doggedly. "Would I be likely to put myself in thy hands, if what I say were not true?"
We were all this time making our way swiftly down the river, Winona in her little boat behind us.
"Marsden," I said, "tell me the scheme of my abduction, all thou dost know of it—and then perhaps I may believe thee."
"DeNortier had watched for several days to carry thee away from London," he answered, his face lighting up at the thought. "When thou didst walk abroad that night Herrick was at thy heels. But thou gavest him the slip and they had given up all hope, until one of the crew who drank in a little inn saw thee come by and sent word to DeNortier. Immediately he posted men at every lane which led from the tavern. As luck would have it, thou didst come up to the very one which he himself guarded, and he but had time to engage in a discussion with the drunken fool Steele, when thou didst approach, and the rest thou knowest."
"Why did not DeNortier slay me when I was in his power?" I asked. "'Twas not like him to let the opportunity slip."
"He loved the same fair lady that Dunraven and thyself sought to win," Marsden replied. "Whilst he had thee in his hands, he could play thee off against my lord, and so hold him in check," and he burst into a roar of laughter.
"Why dost thou shout so?" I asked sternly. "I see naught to laugh at."
"I but thought of the tale I heard DeNortier tell one day in his cups, of how thou didst go into the cave to explore it. The old hag, Neulta, cried out from a secret panel in the wall, and blew the candle out of thy hand with some of her secret power, and thou didst dash out of the cave as though the devil were at thy heels." He laughed again apologetically, and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve.
"Thou knowest how Dunraven entrapped the Lady Margaret," he continued, "and how they set sail in the 'Betsy,' and making further south reached this coast a week before thou didst."
"Yes," I answered impatiently. "But how does the Lady Margaret bear her imprisonment?"
"Like an angel," he said, his crafty eyes lifted to mine to watch every expression. "Not a murmur has ever crossed her lips, and DeNortier protects her from harm, for he stands ever between her and Dunraven like a shield."
"But I have something here that nearly concerns thee," he continued, drawing from his doublet a square package. "'Tis thy father's will, which I stole from thy brother Richard one night, thinking perhaps to sell it to thee at a propitious moment. It is thine for ten thousand pounds," and he waited impatiently for my reply. "Wouldst give that much for the estates and title?"
"Thou art mad!" I replied. "Even if I thought thou didst speak truth and that it were my father's will, which I do not believe, still he had no power to will the title and land from Richard if he so desired, which is improbable, for the estates have been entailed for the benefit of the eldest son for ages."
"Old Sir Hugh Richmond, thy grandfather, broke the entail by suffering a common recovery," he replied. "Nay, do not look so incredulous, the proof is in this package. Wilt give ten thousand pounds for the document?"
"If what thou sayest be true, I am willing," I answered. "But how came my father to disinherit Richard?"
"'Tis the same old tale," Marsden rejoined. "Richard, thinking he had the game in his own hands, turned loose all his ill-humor upon thy father after thou hadst left England, making the old lord's life a perfect hell on earth with his abuse and ill-treatment. Four days before he died he sent for a scrivener, and deeded all of his property of whatsoever character to Sir Robert Vane to hold in trust for thee. As the estate has been held in fee simple since the common recovery was suffered, he could so fix it that Richard could not get at the property. I tell thee that old Sergeant Moore, who drew up the deed, has so tied up the estate that 'tis impossible to overturn the conveyance," and he chuckled at the thought.
"But to resume my tale—the title cannot be disposed of as long as Richard lives, but thy brother cannot of course maintain the dignity of his position without the estates to keep it up. He will be glad to relinquish it in thy behalf for a mere pittance, and thou canst have his action ratified by act of Parliament, so thou wilt be safe in any event," and so saying, he put the package into my hands.
It was composed of three papers. The first I laid aside after carelessly glancing at it. 'Twas the common recovery by which Sir Hugh Winchester barred the estate tail, and attached to it the instrument by which he took it back again to hold in fee simple.
The next was a bulky document in which my father solemnly transferred all his estates to Sir Robert Vane in trust. "Nevertheless to hold the same for the benefit and advantage of my second son, now beyond the seas—Thomas Winchester." And below he had scrawled his name.
I folded the document together again—so that homely old saying had come to pass, that "curses like chickens come home to roost." I had never loved my father, he had meant naught to me but a name, but at that moment I pitied him. He had hated me without a cause and his sin had brought its own punishment. And so thinking I opened the third and last paper—it ran thus:
"Richmond Castle,
April 10, 1588."Thomas:—As I lie here to-night, I realize that in a few hours I must pass out to meet that God, whom I have never served or obeyed. I have done little of good in this world; have lived only for self, my own desire and enjoyment my only thought. I know of not one soul whom I have ever helped or assisted during the whole of my miserable life, but on the contrary there are many whom I have wronged and injured, who will rejoice as they hear the news of my death.
"I have wronged thee most of all, for I allowed that villain, Richard, to play upon my dislike of thee, until I did thee that last injury and drove thee from England. I have paid for my sin in agony and torture; my life since thou left has been a living death. There has been no night for months that I have not writhed in anguish, and to add to my sufferings, Richard has done all in his power to be-devil me, thinking that he had the estates safe.
"I have made what little reparation I could, and have disinherited him, and transferred all the property to thy friend Sir Robert Vane, to hold in trust for thee; for something tells me thou art alive, and will yet come to claim thy own. Death, my son, will be a boon to me—it will at last end my agony in this world. I trust that my God will take into consideration my suffering here, in measuring my punishment in the life to come.
"And now I will close forever. I cannot ask thee to forgive me, I have sinned too deeply. I only ask thee to remember that if I have wronged thee I have been repaid; for every drop of suffering that has been wrung from thy brow, I have sweated two—for every groan thou hast uttered, I have groaned thrice. So thou dost see, that even in this world, we are repaid for our sins, for as a man makes his bed so shall he lie.
"Farewell,
"Richmond."
I held the paper in my hand, and from my long dry eyes there fell a tear, as though in tribute to one who had sinned and suffered. I knew he had repented bitterly the injury he had done me, and from the bottom of my heart I forgave him. I looked up at Marsden, who sat opposite, eying me as a cat gazes at a mouse.
"But thou dost forget that I am a fugitive from justice, and if I set foot in England to claim the estate, the Queen will hang me."
He threw up his hands in despair.
"I had forgotten that; thy estates are forfeited to the Crown as those of a traitor, and thy father's disposition of them goes for naught. 'Tis maddening with only that between thee and fortune—fool that I was not to think of it! Shall I have the papers back again?" he said. "They are of no value to thee."
"No," I answered. "Did I give them back to thee, thou wouldst sell them to Richard, and 'tis best that they remain in my hands."
A scowl of fury came over Marsden's pale face at my words, and he glanced about him. But he saw that I was prepared to meet him, so he arose to his feet. Raising my head, I saw that the canoe lay by a little neck of land, and that even now he was preparing to step ashore.
"What doest thou?" I asked in surprise.
"I promised DeNortier to return as soon as I delivered the message," he said; "for the Count needs help to protect Lady Margaret from Dunraven." And resisting all remonstrances, he plunged into the woods, bidding me go by water. "Dunraven might try to escape by the river, and 'tis best to surround him on all sides," he said, and seeing the wisdom of his words, I let him go and resumed my journey.
All night long I paddled steadily, the canoe of Winona behind me, and by morning we were nearing the goal for which I had struggled so long.
Four of the afternoon had arrived, and Winona called to me that just ahead there lay the broad white rock which marked the end of our journey. Yes, there to the left, jutting out into the water, was a broad flat rock, and above it hung a withered oak.
"'Tis the rock," said Winona, and turning our canoes in that direction, we soon approached it.
The girl caught the prow of my boat, and concealing both canoes in the high reeds that fringed the bank, with bow in hand she led the way along the little beaten path into the woods. So this was the beginning of the end I thought, as with my sword loosed in its scabbard, I followed the lithe figure of Winona. With eyes bent upon the path, and step as proud and free as a young fawn, she tripped in front of me.
For some minutes she walked thus, and then with an exclamation she pointed to the trail; for here there was a great place trodden smooth, as though some monarch of the forest had locked horns with an enemy in the death struggle. The earth was torn and furrowed, and a great pool of blood, which looked as though it had been shed only a few minutes before, was in front of us.
"What is it, Winona?" I asked. "Have some bucks locked horns here?"
"No," she answered gravely, as she gazed at the ground; "it is the pale faces—see!" And she pointed to the earth, where bending I could dimly see the print of a shoe.
"Let us go on, Winona!" I cried, alarmed at the sight, and I followed the trail of blood, where it led out again to the path.
"See!" she cried, and she pointed to the stream of blood. "One of the pale ones was struck down, but he sprang up and followed his enemies," and brushing by me, she ran on down the path.
For a few minutes we kept on after the bloody track, then turning from the path, we followed the blood into the woods down a little hillock and up under a great oak, where I could dimly see the figure of a man, as with upturned face he lay quiet and still.
"The wounded man almost caught one of those who struck him!" she cried excitedly, pointing to a deep track, as where one had leaped in terror and then sprang forward in desperation.
I did not answer, but breaking into a run, I rushed by her and up the slope to where that ghastly figure lay beneath the tree. As I stood beside him, he stirred and opened his bloodshot eyes, wearily looking up at me—it was DeNortier, and wounded unto death, it required no leech to see that. Beside him lay the dead body of the apothecary, Marsden, a look of terror awful to behold upon his pale face.
One stiff hand clutched some leaves, the other lay outstretched above his head, as though in despair. He had died like a trapped rat; the ghastly look upon his face was more significant than words, for it showed the agony and despair of the last moment, when the freebooter had struck him down. There still quivered in his lifeless frame the keen blade of a sword, which had been thrust through his body and deep into the ground, pinning him down to writhe and die like a butterfly transfixed by a needle.
The Count DeNortier looked at me a moment with his glassy eyes, and then drew back from me.
"Art come to torment me, pale shade?" he said. "Away! A few moments and I will be even as thou art."
"I am no shade," I answered, "but a man of flesh and blood like thyself."
"Who is it, cloaked and hooded, that stands gray and silent by thy side?" he continued in the same low voice, as though he had not heard me. "It looks even as one whom I have known in the long ago. Speak, dim spectre! Who art thou?"
I looked behind me, there was no one there save the wondering Indian girl.
With a shout that resounded through the forest, he dragged himself to a sitting position, horror stamped upon every feature of his face.
"It is Sir Samuel Morton!" he shouted in an unearthly voice. "Back! I slew thee, but it was in fair fight. Why comest thou here to torment me? Go! I said," and he fell back trembling upon the ground.
"'Tis no one, Count," I said soothingly. "Be calm—It is only the creation of thy fevered brain that thou seest."
But with straight, unseeing eyes, already fixed in death, he stared past me.
"'Tis ever thus," he groaned, "ever I see rise around me the shadowy faces of those whom I have slain. They flock about with leering looks and outstretched fingers, taunting me as I lie thus. If there be a hell, as the lying priests would have us believe, it would be torture enough to listen through countless ages to their gibes, and to see about me their staring faces," and he lay back exhausted, with panting tongue.
"Water," he moaned—"would that I had but one drink of water."
I cast my steel cap towards the motionless girl.
"Bring him some water, Winona," I said.
She bounded away to a little brook that glimmered through the trees near by.
"Dunraven," he screamed, rising again, "thou shalt not have her! I would rather that this Sir Thomas should win than thou; he is at least a man, whilst thou art a creeping serpent. I would rather see the maid cold in death, than to be the bride of such as thou."
"How camest thou thus?" I said, seating myself by him.
"What carest thou?" he answered, seeming to see me again. "What difference can it make to thee, thou who art a shadow, whether I live or die? But listen, if it be of any interest, and thou shalt hear how I came to be in this condition.
"This Dunraven had kept the maid captive for two long months in the cabin yonder, constantly threatening her and menacing her with I know not what, unless she would give her consent to let that imp of hell—the priest Francis—marry her to him. I had landed the day after they did upon the coast; for I knew Dunraven's plans, and that he would come directly here. I learned them from the spy, Marsden, the rogue who lies beside me, who would have played me false. I followed hot on their trail and found them here. Dunraven was furious that I should have tracked him, for he thought to have the maid in his power, and I was ever as a thorn in the flesh to him.
"Often wearied by the long resistance of Lady Margaret, he swore by Heaven and earth to wed her. I took the part of the maiden—partly because I loved her—partly because down in my black heart I pitied her. For if ever woman bore herself nobly, under circumstances that would daunt a heart of iron, that woman is Lady Margaret Carroll.
"Curse it!" he cried. "My throat burns and scorches, and yet I lie here and babble to amuse a pale shade, and thou wilt not give me a drop of water to cool my aching throat."
"Thou shalt have water," I answered; "have patience," and even as I spoke, I heard the step of the girl as she returned.
Taking the cup from her, I bent over the dying man, and lifting him up, held the cool water to his lips, while he gulped it down eagerly and resumed his story, a far-away look in his glassy eyes.
"For the last week Dunraven has been as one possessed, for one of the savages brought him tidings which set him wild, and it was only with the point of my sword I held him in check.
"I strolled down to the great rock this morning, where I had dispatched Marsden to find thee and bring thee here to rescue the lady. My agreement with the traitor was to meet him on his return at the rock. As I gazed upon the water, I heard a sound behind me, and turning I saw Dunraven, with his henchman, the fat priest, and Marsden, together with the Indian whom my lord had ever with him. Fool that I was to suspect nothing from Dunraven's smiling face, as talking and chatting, he rode with me back to the cabins, the others following.
"Anxious I was to know what success Marsden had met with, but I could say naught until I could get him apart from the others. So I came along with them, perhaps a mile, when the priest, leaning behind me, without a word plunged a long knife into my back. I turned on him, but like a flash the whole band were upon me.
"I struggled furiously, and tried to draw my sword, but the Indian had severed the belt with his knife. I fought for my life, unarmed and alone—but what could one man do? They bore me down to the ground, and thrusting their knives in me a last time, pursued their way, leaving me for dead.
"'Have no fear for the Lady Margaret!' Dunraven cried, as with a smile he left me. 'I will care well for her.' I lay there and cursed the fate that had willed that I, a man who had slain a score of gallant gentlemen in fair fight, and held at bay for five long years the strength of Europe, should die in an unknown hole of this great uninhabited country.
"Even as I lay thus, I heard a light step, and the ruffian Marsden came stealing down, knife in hand, fearing that by some mischance I might betray the secret of his perfidy to Dunraven. I waited quietly, with my eyes closed, until he bent over me, then gathering all my strength, even as a lamp flares up into a bright flame before it goes out forever, I sprang at him, and caught him by the throat.
"With a yell of fear, he wrenched himself free and tore down the path, with me at his heels. I drew nearer and nearer to him until, with one last leap, I sprang upon his back and hurled him to the ground. Then with his own sword I slew him. Could I have only cut the throat of that fiend Dunraven, I would die content.
"And now, thou dweller of another sphere, one last thing to soothe thy troubled heart would I do, before I go to join thee. The Lady Margaret loves thee. Would I could have told thee before thou hadst passed out of this mortal globe, but I only discovered it a few brief hours ago. They say that dying men see plainly into the future. I know not if that be true—I only know that something tells me that Margaret Carroll will be the bride of a nobler man than Dunraven."
He was nearing the end now, and with long-drawn breath and wildly groping hands, he fought for breath. Suddenly he looked up at me with vacant gaze.
"Say that thou forgivest me for the share I had in thy detention!" he wildly cried. "As God is my witness, I have rued it oft and deeply. I have other and grievous sins to answer for, and would not go down to death with that blot unforgiven."
"I forgive thee," I gently answered, as I bent over him, "and though 'twas a terrible thing, I bear thee no malice, and would not stand between thee and thy God."
"I have done thee a great favor," he muttered. "Thou wilt discover it sometime."
He babbled on a few moments at random. Of deeds of blood and terror, awful and ghastly; of men murdered in cold blood; of women and children put to death with torture, such as the mind of man could hardly conceive, by the thumbscrew and the stake; of burning ships and murdered crews. Then a look of cunning and avarice came over his ghastly face, and he tried to raise himself, but was too weak. He could only beckon me to draw near.
"Nearer," he whispered, "I will tell thee a secret, that will make thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams. It will be some recompense for the pain I have caused thee, and thou canst let a small portion be used in Masses for my soul. No one knows where it is concealed, save myself and the dead Herrick."
"Where is it hidden?" I asked listlessly, for in truth I cared little for the golden hoard, since one whom I loved could not share it with me.
"Nearer," he whispered, so low that only bending far over his white face, could I hear his voice. "Those pale ones who bend beside thee shall not hear it; 'tis for thy ear alone. Look upon the Island Eldorado, it is concealed——"
He stiffened himself; even as he did so, I knew that his race was run, for I could feel beside me the presence of that one who had beckoned him, and who with waiting boat was preparing to waft him over the dark stream, and into the dim unknown region from which no traveler returns.
The dying man had lifted himself until he sat erect, his dull, glazed eyes fixed far beyond me. He spoke, and with awe I recognized that his voice had regained all the strength and imperiousness with which it rang when he had reigned supreme, the lord and ruler of the savage crew.
"Some wine, José!" he cried. "The wine of the King of Spain. We will drink one more toast before we go; our time is short—long and weary the journey. Now, men, fill up to the brim, for I give you a toast to-night, such as you have never drunk e'er this, nor will again.
"'Tis a lady, pure, beautiful, divine, such a one as never graced this rough earth before. Had Eve been such as she, 'tis no wonder that Adam lost all, and counted it naught beside the glory of her deep eyes. Had Helen been one-half so fair, I wonder not that Paris for her sake braved all Greece and laughed at their rage. I give thee a lady, my comrades, more lovely than the pale blushing dawn, purer than the driven snow, with eyes whose deep blue outshines the azure sky, one whom England admires and adores—The Lady Margaret Carroll!"
He fell back upon the bank, the same calm smile upon his face. He made no sign or motion; bending forward, I saw that he had died without a struggle.
With the help of Winona I dug a trench and buried the Count. So we left him to keep his last long watch; the snows of winter lie thick upon his grave, the sun and rain of summer beat upon it, but he heeds them not. He was a man with all his faults, and deep above his grave I carved upon a hemlock the simple words "Requiescat in pace."
It was night when the Indian maid and myself resumed our journey. Winona had buried Marsden near DeNortier, and by the light of the moon we made our way down the rocky path and towards the cabins. No sound broke the gloom of the forest, as we strode rapidly on. I had lost precious time with DeNortier; during which perhaps the fox Dunraven had taken the alarm, and fled still further into the vast country beyond the dim mountains of which Manteo had told me.
And now, as we silently turned a bend in the path, the glare of a fire met my eyes, only a few feet ahead, and to the left of where I stood. Cautiously drawing my sword, with Winona, bow in hand, at my heels, I stole forward, until I stood underneath the trees in the shadow. Then quietly I looked out upon those who sat about the fire.
In front and facing me, sat Lord Dunraven upon a huge log, his sheathed sword between his knees. To his right, and several feet away, was another figure, a woman in a white dress. The light from the fire shone upon her white neck and rounded arms, and a gold chain about her throat glistened and sparkled as the glow from the blazing embers fell upon it. One little foot peeped out from the hem of her skirt, and her burnished hair shone in the dim light, as though each strand were gold, mined from the far-off land of the Indies.
A fagot from the dying fire blazed up, and the light fell full upon her face, which was in the shadow. Even before the firelight told me, I knew the maid was Margaret. Paler than it was her wont to be, but radiant with the same marvelous beauty. The last few months had defaced not one trace of loveliness, and even as I gazed upon her from my hiding-place, the same faint perfume floated across to me that I had ever noticed when in her presence.
"And so DeNortier, a plague upon him, has gone out upon a longer journey than it has been his wont to take," Dunraven said, a sneer upon his face. "He will find it, I fear, a rough voyage, and will meet on his arrival a warm greeting," and he looked up at the lady.
"I would have gone to where he lay, and read to him from the Holy Scriptures," she said in a clear voice. "Perhaps it would have soothed his last moments, but thou wouldst not let me do this."
"No," he answered, his sneer deepening into an evil smile. "Curse him! He has thwarted me long enough. Had it not been for him, thou wouldst have been Lady Dunraven long ere this. But the fruit only grows more tempting with the waiting," and he laughed long and loud.
The Lady Margaret had risen, and with tears in her eyes now faced him. "Why dost thou persecute me thus?" she said, as though in despair. "Thou knowest I will never willingly be thy bride; there are many fair ladies in England. Why wilt thou persist in thy mad pursuit of me, when thou knowest I do not love thee?"
My lord kept his seat, the smile still upon his face.
"If thou for any reason dost look into thy mirror, thou needst wonder no further."
"I seek not for compliments," she answered impatiently. "I would know the cause of thy unreasonable conduct."
"Thou seekest for a reason, behold thou hast it. Margaret, I have spent a great treasure; have slain two gallant gentlemen; have left the luxuries and pleasures of my own country to become a wanderer in a strange land; have traversed countless leagues of trackless ocean and boundless forest, my very life at the mercy of these roving savages. Have imperiled all, Margaret—wealth, position, title, reputation, and for what?"
"Yes, for what?" she answered, her head held proudly erect. "It has been worse than wasted."
"'Tis for this," he cried, and he advanced a step nearer to her—"because I love thee."
My lady's face had grown scornful, her eyes flashed, for she came of a noble line, and when once aroused, the Carroll blood could be hot and fierce.
"Thou hadst best save thy breath," she answered contemptuously. "Thou art like a child, that frets and whimpers for the moon."
"Art thou made of stone?" he cried, "that naught can touch thy cold heart? What more wouldst thou have. I have dared all, endured all, for thy sake, and yet thou still dost frown—hast thou no smile?"
"Not for such as thee," she answered calmly, turning her back upon him and looking out into the gloom.
"Perhaps thou thinkest that they be for Sir Thomas Winchester," he said with a scowl. "Fool not thyself, proud lady, thy lover is dead—died with such torture as thy mind knows not, devised with all the ingenuity that the savage Indian can contrive. Thy smile shall never more be for him."
Margaret had grown paler, but her courage did not fail her for an instant.
"If he be dead," she replied piteously, "he was something that in thy whole life thou hast never been, nor conceived of—a brave and gallant gentleman."
"It may be so," he answered, "but I had rather be a live man with the Lady Margaret Carroll, than a dead gentleman, though he be a saint."
"Beast!" she cried, in anger and despair. "I loathe thee! Even the very savages have some mercy on their helpless victims, but thou knowest not what mercy is."
"Not where thou art concerned," he answered steadily. "Cost what it may, thou shalt be mine." And folding his arms upon his chest, he looked at her as though he would imprint every feature of her face indelibly upon his brain.
"Name my ransom," she said. "Any price—though it take every penny of my estate, I will pay it gladly and willingly," and she turned again and faced him imploringly.
"What wouldst thou do here, alone in this wilderness? Thou wouldst lose thyself amid its dark shades; be devoured by some wild beast, or fall into the hands of the Indians, beside which captivity in my hands would be a paradise."
"It matters not," she cried eagerly, her face alight with hope. "Better to die at the stake, than to endure such as this. Name but thy price, and it shall be paid."
"This is my answer," he replied slowly and deliberately, his dark eyes upon hers: "Though each leaf upon every tree in all this vast continent were a golden sovereign, and all that vast treasure mine, should I but set thee free, I would turn my back upon it in scorn and disdain. Not for aught that this great world holds would I forego my power to make thee mine."
Margaret had sunk back again upon the log from which she had risen, her hands over her face. I still lay where I was behind Dunraven. I would wait until the moment arrived when he would attempt to carry his scheme into effect; then at the very instant when he held the cup to his lips, I would dash it to the ground. Defeat would only seem the more bitter because he had been so near to victory.
"So don thy fairest dress and thy brightest smile this evening, for I can wait no longer for the time when thou shalt be mine. With only the light of thine eyes to bask in, with thee to cheer me, this rough land would be an Eden, and we like two children to wander hand in hand beneath the trees. Such a life I have long dreamed of—such at last is at hand for me. The priest will make us one this very night. So prepare thee, for in a few brief moments he will be here."
She raised her head, a look of determination in her blue eyes, which had grown hard and cold as steel.
"I cannot tell what things the future holds in store for me, but this much is certain: Before I would submit to such an indignity I would slay myself with my dagger and so end my misery. I warn thee that I am desperate. Push me not to the wall, or I will do something that perchance thou wilt regret. Be not so sure. At the last moment the cup may be dashed from thy hands." And she arose, courage and desperation upon her face.
"There is no help for it," he answered. "Thou canst do naught, Margaret, but weep and wring thy white hands; there is no one to aid thee. Thou art alone in my power—neither God nor man can help thee now."
"Be not so sure of that, my lord," I answered as I stepped out into the firelight, my sword raised. "Thou knowest not what these dark woods contain."