“Admiral Havenful,” said Mr. Toosypegs, abashed and rather terrified by this outburst, “I beg your pardon, and I ain’t the least afraid. I’ll go with you, and do my best to help you to keel-haul the smugglers, whatever that may be. Miss Minnie, good-by. Don’t take on about it, because we’ll be sure to find Miss Pet and bring her home. I dare say the smugglers will give her up, if they’re only asked politely.”
The admiral heard this comforting assurance with a snort of unspeakable contempt, and then waddled out; and groaning bodily and mentally, mounted Ringbone, and accompanied by Mr. Toosypegs, set out at the rate of half a knot an hour to Judestown.
During the remainder of the day, Erminie was left alone, half wild with alternate hope, terror, anxiety, expectation. Her busy fingers, for a wonder, were idle now, as she passed continually in and out, watching, with feverish impatience, the forest road, in the hope of seeing some one who could give her some news of how the search progressed.
But night came, and no messenger had arrived to relieve her torturing anxiety.
It was a sultry, star-lit night. Not a breath of air stirred the motionless leaves of the forest trees, and the clear chirp of the katy-did and lonely cry of the whippoorwill alone broke the oppressive silence. Down on the shore below, she could faintly hear the dreary murmur of the waves as they sighed softly to the shore; and at long intervals the wild, piercing cry of some sea-bird would resound about all, as it skimmed wildly across the dark, restless deep. The wide, lonesome heath was as silent as the grave; and the long line of cherry-red light that usually shone over it from the parlor-windows of the White Squall was not visible to-night—the dreary darkness betokening its master was away. The forest lay wrapped in somber gloom, looming up, like some huge, dark shadow, in the light of the solemn, beautiful stars.
All within the cottage was silent, too. Ketura had long ago retired, and the negress, Lucy, was sleeping that deep, death-like sleep peculiar to her race.
Standing in the shadow of the vine-shaded porch, Erminie watched with restless impatience for the return of some one from Judestown—her whole thought of Pet and her probable fate. Unceasingly she reproached herself for having allowed her to depart at all that night; never pausing to reflect how little Pet would have minded her entreaties to stay when she took it into her willful little head to go.
The clock struck nine, and then ten; and still no one came.
Half-despairing of their return that night, Erminie was about to go in, when the thunder of horses’ hoofs coming through the forest road arrested her steps.
The next moment horse and rider came dashing at a mad, excited gallop up to the gate, and Ray leaped off and approached.