“I ask no farther, unless it may be the aid of your gentle prayers! But the night is gloomy, and I will see you in safety to the abbey.”
“It is unnecessary,” she returned, with womanly reserve. “The innocent can be as fearless, on occasion, as the most valiant among your warriors. But here is no cause for fear. I shall take a path that will conduct me in a different way from that which is occupied by your soldiers, and where I shall find none but Him who is ever ready to protect the helpless. Once more, John, I bid ye adieu.” Her voice faltered as she continued—“Ye will share the lot of humanity, and have your hours of care and weakness; at such moments ye can remember those ye leave on this despised island, and perhaps among them ye may think of some whose interest in your welfare has been far removed from selfishness.”
“God be with you, Alice!” he said, touched with her emotion, and losing all vain images in more worthy feelings—“but I cannot permit you to go alone.”
“Here we part, John,” she said firmly, “and forever! 'Tis for the happiness of both, for I fear we have but little in common.” She gently wrested her hand from his grasp, and once more bidding him adieu, in a voice that was nearly inaudible, she turned and slowly disappeared, moving, with lingering steps, in the direction of the abbey.
The first impulse of the pilot was certainly to follow, and insist on seeing her on the way; but the music of the guard on the cliffs at that moment sent forth its martial strains, and the whistle of the boatswain was heard winding Its shrill call among the rocks, in those notes that his practised ear well understood to be the last signal for embarking.
Obedient to the summons, this singular man, in whose breast the natural feelings, that were now on the eve of a violent eruption, had so long been smothered by the visionary expectations of a wild ambition, and perhaps of fierce resentments, pursued his course, in deep abstraction, towards the boats. He was soon met by the soldiers of Borroughcliffe, deprived of their arms, it is true, but unguarded, and returning peacefully to their quarters. The mind of the Pilot, happily for the liberty of these men, was too much absorbed in his peculiar reflections, to note this act of Griffith's generosity, nor did he arouse from his musing until his steps were arrested by suddenly encountering a human figure in the pathway. A light tap on his shoulder was the first mark of recognition he received, when Borroughcliffe, who stood before him, said:
“It is evident, sir, from what has passed this evening, that you are not what you seem. You may be some rebel admiral or general, for aught that I know, the right to command having been strangely contested among ye this night. But let who will own the chief authority, I take the liberty of whispering in your ear that I have been scurvily treated by you—I repeat, most scurvily treated by you all, generally, and by you in particular.”
The Pilot started at this strange address, which was uttered with all the bitterness that could be imparted to it by a disappointed man; but he motioned with his hand for the captain to depart, and turned aside to pursue his own way.
“Perhaps I am not properly understood,” continued the obstinate soldier: “I say, sir, you have treated me scurvily: and I would not be thought to say this to any gentleman, without wishing to give him an opportunity to vent his anger.”
The eye of the Pilot, as he moved forward, glanced at the pistols which Borroughcliffe held in his hands, the one by the handle, and the other by its barrel, and the soldier even fancied that his footsteps were quickened by the sight. After gazing at him until his form was lost in the darkness, the captain muttered to himself: