A moment more and she had been free; when a horseman riding up, pushed her fiercely back, upbraiding, with tremendous oaths, the carelessness of his companion. The fellow, rousing himself, retorted upon the wretched Laura the abuse of his comrade, swearing that 'since he saw she was so cunning, he would keep better watch on her for the future.'
The desponding Laura endured his reproaches in silence. Finding herself thus doubly guarded, she resigned all hope of escaping by her own unaided exertions; and mingling silent prayers with her fearful anticipations, she strove to reanimate her trust that she should not be wholly forsaken. Sometimes her habitual confidence prevailed, and she felt assured, that she should not be left a prey to the wicked. Yet the dreadful threats, the fiery passions of Hargrave rose to her recollection, and she again shuddered in despair. She suddenly remembered Jessy Wilson. Starting, with an exclamation of horror and affright, she sought some weapon which might dispense to her a death less terrible; and instinctively grasping her pen-knife hid it in her bosom. The next moment she shrunk from her purpose, and doubted the lawfulness of such defence. 'Will he dare his own life, too?' thought she. 'Oh, Heaven! in mercy spare me the necessity of sending a wretch to his great account, with all his crimes unrepented on his head—or pardon him and me?'
She continued to commend herself to Heaven, till her terrors by degrees subsided. She began again to feel the steady trust which is acquired by all who are habituated to a grateful consideration of the care which they experience; a trust that even the most adverse events shall terminate in their real advantage; that the rugged and slippery ways of this dark wilderness, shall, at the dawn of everlasting day, be owned as the fittest to conduct us to the house of our Father. She began, too, to regain the confidence which strong minds naturally put in their own exertions. She resolved not to be wanting to herself; nor, by brooding over her terrors, to disable herself from taking advantage of any providential circumstance which might favour her escape.
Morning at length began to dawn, but the blinds being closely drawn up, Laura could make no observations on the country through which she was passing. She remarked that the furious speed with which she had first been driven, had slackened to a slow pace; and she judged that the wearied cattle could not proceed much further. She hoped that it would soon be necessary to stop; and that during the few minutes in which they halted to change horses, she might find means of appealing to the justice of her fellow-creatures. 'Surely,' said she, 'some heart will be open to me.'
After proceeding slowly for some time the carriage stopped. Laura listened for the sounds of human voices, but all was silent. She heard the trampling of horses as if led close by the carriage. Some one was certainly near who had no interest in this base oppression. 'Help! Oh help me,' cried Laura. 'I am cruelly and wrongfully detained. I have friends that will reward you. Heaven will reward you!—Help me! for kind mercy, help me!' 'Heyday!' cried the fellow in the carriage, with something between a grin and a stare, 'who is the girl speaking to? What! did you imagine we should be wise enough to bring you within holla of a whole yardful of stable boys and piping chambermaids? Reward indeed! Set your heart at rest, Miss; we shall be rewarded without your friends or Heaven either.'
The carriage again proceeded with the same speed as at first, and Laura strove to support with composure this new blow to her hopes. Her companion, now producing a bottle of wine and some biscuits, advised her to share with him; and that she might not wilfully lavish her strength and spirits, she consented. Once more in the course of the day the travellers stopped to change horses, and Laura once more, though with feebler hopes, renewed her appeals to justice and mercy. No answer greeted her. Again she was hurried on her melancholy way.
The day, as it advanced, seemed rough and gloomy. The wind swept in gusts through the trees, and the rain beat upon the carriage. The evening was drawing on when Laura remarked that the motion was changed. The chaise proceeded slowly over soft uneven ground, and she guessed, with dismay, that it had quitted all frequented paths. In renewed alarm, she again besought her companion to tell her whither he meant to conduct her, and for what end she was thus cruelly forced from her home. 'Why, how should I tell you what I do not know myself?' answered the man. 'I shan't conduct you much farther—and a good riddance. As for the end you'll see that when it comes.'
About an hour after quitting the road, the carriage stopped; and the man letting down the blind, Laura perceived through the dusk, that they were on a barren moor. Waste and level, it seemed to spread before her; but the darkness prevented her from distinguishing its features or its boundaries. Suddenly, as the gust died away, she fancied she heard the roar of waters. She listened; but the wind swelled again, and she heard only its howlings over the heath. The horseman, who had rode away when the carriage stopped, now gallopped back, and directed the postilion to proceed. They went on for a few hundred yards, and again they stopped. The roar of waters again burst on Laura's ear, now swelling in thunder, now sinking in a sullen murmur. She saw a light glimmer at a distance. It was tossed by the billows of the ocean.
The door of the chaise was opened, and she was lifted from it. Gliding from the arms of the ruffian who held her, and clasping his knees, 'Oh! if you have the heart of a man,' she cried, 'let me not be torn from my native land—let me not be cast on the merciless deep. Think what it is to be an exile—friendless in a strange land—the sport, the prey of a pitiless enemy. Oh! if you have need of mercy, have mercy upon me.'—'Holla! Robert,' shouted the ruffian, 'take away this girl. She's enough to make a man play the fool and whimper.' The other fellow now approaching, lifted Laura, more dead than alive, from the ground, and, wrapping her in a large cloak, bore her towards the beach.
In a creek sheltered by rocks from the breakers, lay a small boat. One man sat near the bow, roaring a hoarse sea-song. As the party approached, he rose, and pushing the boat ashore, received the half lifeless Laura in his brawny arms, cursing her with strange oaths for having made him wait so long. Then, on his uttering a discordant yell, two of his companions appeared; and after exchanging with Laura's guards a murmuring account of the trouble they had undergone, pushed off from the land. The keel grated along the pebbles; the next moment it floated on the waves, and Laura starting up, threw back the cloak from her face, and with strained eyes gazed on her parting native land, till all behind was darkness.