William lay in the loft, reclining at length on his front, his chin resting on his hands. He was engaged in reading. On one side of him stood a bottle of liquorice water, which he had made himself; on the other was a large slab of cake, which he had stolen from the larder. On his freckled face was the look of scowling ferocity that it always wore in any mental effort. The fact that his jaws had ceased to work, though the cake was yet unfinished, testified to the enthralling interest of the story he was reading.
“Black-hearted Dick dragged the fair maid by the wrist to the captain’s cave. A bottle of grog stood at the captain’s right hand. The captain slipped a mask over his eyes, and smiled a sinister smile. He twirled his long black moustachios with one hand.
“‘Unhand the maiden, dog,’ he said.
“Then he swept her a stately bow.
“‘Fair maid,’ he said, ‘unless thy father bring me sixty thousand crowns to-night, thy doom is sealed. Thou shalt swing from yon lone pine-tree!’
“The maiden gave a piercing scream. Then she looked closely at the masked face.
“‘Who—who art thou?’ she faltered.
“Again the captain’s sinister smile flickered beneath the mask.
“‘Rudolph of the Red Hand,’ he said.
“At these terrible words the maiden swooned into the arms of Black-hearted Dick.