Chapter Forty Nine.
The captives were grouped together, some sitting, and some standing. Not one of them looked dejected at his fate; though I could see by their movements that they were impatient of the bonds that tied them. My attention was most frequently directed to the old gentleman who had been addressed as Mr Evelyn. Notwithstanding the grief expressed in his countenance, it possessed an air of benevolence and kindness of heart that even his settled melancholy did not conceal. I could not understand why, but I felt a deeper interest for this person than for any of the others—a sort of yearning towards him, mingled with a desire to protect him from the malice of his enemies.
Almost as soon as they were gone, John Gough beckoned to Mr Evelyn to sit down by his side. Possibly this was done to prevent his assisting his companions to regain their liberty, as he, not being pinioned like the rest, might easily have done, and they might have overpowered their guard before his companions could come to his assistance. But Gough was well armed, and the rest being without weapons of any kind, it was scarcely probable that they would have risked their lives on so desperate an attempt.
Mr Evelyn came and quietly sat himself down in the place indicated. I observed him with increasing interest, and, singular to relate, the more I gazed on his venerable face, the more strongly I felt assured that I had seen it before. This of course was impossible; nevertheless, the fancy took possession of me, and I experienced a strange sensation of pleasure as I watched the changes his features underwent.
“John Gough, I am sorry to see you mixed up in this miserable business,” said he, mildly addressing his companion. The other did not answer, and as his back was turned towards me, I could not observe the effect the observation had upon him.
“The men who have left us, I know to be bad men,” continued the speaker; “I expect nothing but wickedness from them. But you, I am aware, have been better brought up. Your responsibility therefore becomes the greater in assisting them in their villainy.”
“You had better not let them hear you, Mr Evelyn,” replied Gough, at last, in something like a surly tone; “I would not answer for the consequences.”
“Those I do not fear,” the other answered. “The results of this transaction can make very little difference to a man on the verge of the grave, who has outlived all his relatives, and has nothing left to fall back upon but the memory of his misfortunes: but to one in the prime of life like yourself, who can boast of friends and relatives who feel an interest in your good name, these results must be serious indeed. What must be the feelings of your respectable father when he learns that you have joined a gang of pirates; how intense must be the grief of your amiable mother when she hears that you have paid the penalty that must sooner or later overtake you for embracing so lawless a life.”
“Come, Mr Evelyn,” exclaimed Gough, though with a tremulousness in his voice that betrayed the state of his feelings, “you have no right to preach to me. I have done as much as I could for you all. The men would have made short work with you if I had not interposed, and pointed out to them this uninhabited island.”
“Where it seems you left a poor woman to be starved to death,” continued Mr Evelyn.