So saying he rode off in the blinding snow, leaving Mr. Lennox petrified. He did tell his suspicions to the Earl, however, and a watch was kept up all that night, as several others felt perplexed at this singular appearance, and sudden departure of such a bird of prey. When the Captain reached the arbour he found L'Estrange buried in such a reverie his heavy arm only awoke him from it.
"It is useless then. Oh! my God! I am truly most ill-starred."
"If you don't want to be manacled and prisoned you will be up and away; there are a dozen stout fellows at the Towers, and havn't I just stirred up a wasp's nest,—we shall feel their stings if you are not sharp. Confound the snow-storm, and yet it is a friend in need to-night."
Without another word the two remounted, and rode off for the beach, where they found the tide had already floated the craft.
"No fair freight to-night, Bill," said the Captain, "and now let us be aboard and away; it is well, Bill, you know the steerage of these seas; in such a storm of snow as this it is pretty dangerous."
"Never a fear; I can take her through as if the sun was blazing," said old Bill. "The auld country be cussed, and hoora for Italy!"
"Yes, hurra for Naples! No such nights as these, Bill. Come, Ned, what the devil are you dreaming of? Remember you have done with her. Hurra for sunny lands, fleet steeds, and bonny black eyes!"
L'Estrange silently took his place in the small lugger. Hans and old Bill spread the sail, the Captain took the rudder. After one or two sousers, they got under weigh, and steered for the schooner, which lay in the Leith roads, and was ready to carry them to Italy.
Despite the snow, Bill and the Captain sang sea songs, and drank grog, but vainly attempted to rouse their sombre companion. He was miserable; he was leaving Albion for the last time as far as he knew,—leaving his country—leaving his hopes, his fears, his everything. It was a severe wrench. Bad as he was, he was not like the Captain, without one redeeming quality; amid all the vice, guilt, and blackness of his heart, one star shone—the brighter in contrast to the darkness around it. The snow drifted heavily on him, he shook it not off, he felt it not; a sense of utter sickness and despair was at his heart: he knew all was his own doing—he sighed now only for her friendship, only to see her—she could not be his wife now, and he was, by a life of guilt and vice, closing even that door of hope. How could a creature so pure, so beautiful, so refined, look on a wretch like him, so impure, so unholy, so lost to all sense of even shame! Every hour of his present life was adding another league to the distance that severed her from him in this life, as every bound his vessel made was adding another wave to the many that rolled between them. He wished the next billow would gulph their frail boat; alas! it rode them like a seagull, and seemed as if it mocked his misery and laughed at his woe. He was lost—not even the prospect of meeting her above. A gulph—a great gulph was fixed between them; she couldn't love him; he loved her still, though he felt he dared not look up to her, so vile had he become. He was roused from this dream by the clanging of the coupling chains, which showed they had reached the schooner. More dead than alive he was hoisted up, and soon sails were spread,
"And, shrouded as they go,
In a hurricane of snow,"