There is one other view that must not be overlooked. Away to the right, towards the south, half a mile from the village, but only a few rods distant from the eastern shore of Kings’ Cove, in the edge of the forest, with no other human habitation near, stood a small stone cottage, the abode, when on shore, of the chief of a crew of smugglers, whose lair was in the adjacent hidden inlet.
We now approach two scenes of a different character. The first is in the cottage of the smuggler chief.
Hugh Maitland, now close upon his fortieth year, had for full half his life been a bold and successful smuggler. Never, as yet, had he been arrested.
Not only had the secret cove afforded him safe hiding from the king’s cruisers, but the mass of the people, high and low, whom he had furnished abundantly and cheaply with many a luxury of life, had been his friends, tried and true, in the hour of need.
At length, however, an enemy with whom he was powerless to contend had laid its unsparing hand upon him.
He was dying. A round shot, from the bow gun of a revenue cutter, had struck the quarter-rail of his brig, knocking therefrom a splinter, which had entered his side.
Two surgeons had been with him until within a few minutes of the time when we look in upon him, and had promised to call again during the day, but not with the hope of saving him. Death was sure, and close at hand.
The dying chief lay upon a comfortable bed, in a rear apartment on the ground floor of the cottage, and near him were two persons—his wife, Margery, and his son, Percy.
Margery Maitland was of middle age; a tall, handsome woman of dark complexion, her hair black as a raven’s wing, with a pair of full, bright, restless eyes to match.
She had loved her husband better than anything else on earth. Her marriage had cost her friends and position, and she had prized the thing gained accordingly.