“I thought so,” observed Rolf, bluntly. “You’ll understand me, sir—I am but a rough seaman, and all I want is fair play. You and I were present at the marriage of that unhappy lady of Lunnasting Castle. We are the only surviving witnesses, besides Pedro Alvarez, and where he is to be found no one knows. What I ask you is, to help me to see her righted, and to find her lost son. Now that England and Spain are friends again, her son may be discovered with less difficulty than before; when discovered, assist in enabling him to regain his father’s property in Spain, which was, if I remember rightly, at once taken possession of by his relative, who, from the accounts received in Shetland, was a very great rogue; the Marquis of Medea he was called. I am not wrong, I fancy.”
Father Mendez rapidly thought over the state of the case. The marquis had certainly supported him during the misfortunes which their country had suffered by the French invasion, but he had been anything but a generous patron, and it occurred to him that he might make a far better bargain with the rightful heir, if he could be found; and he believed that Rolf Morton, notwithstanding what he said, had the clue to his discovery, if he did not already know where to place his hand on him. When therefore, Rolf, feeling that he might have been too abrupt and uncourteous in the way he had addressed him, apologised for his roughness, the priest answered blandly—
“Do not concern yourself, my friend, on that account. We are old acquaintance. I have good reason to remember your sterling qualities, which far outweigh all others, and I own that it would be with great satisfaction that I found you looked upon me as a friend. I love justice as much as you do, and most anxious I am to attain it for the son of my old and esteemed friend, Don Hernan. Tell me how I can assist you, and I promise you all the aid I can afford.”
Rolf Morton was not so completely deceived by this speech as the priest might have supposed. He, however, thanked him, and rejoined Ronald in his quarter-deck walk, which they had to themselves, as the captain and most of the officers had, gone below.
Very great was Rolf’s surprise when he found that the dignified old gentleman on the other side of the deck was the Marquis de Medea, and still more so on hearing that the very man who had carried off the young Hernan Escalante was in irons below.
Ronald reported to Lord Claymore the fresh discoveries that had been made. “All will go right, Morton, in the end, depend on that,” he answered. “I am very sanguine that the young Hernan, if he is forthcoming, will obtain his rights, and so will your father his; those two old men were not fallen in with by you in so unlikely a way, except for some object. ‘Never despair!’ has always been my motto, adopt it, there is no safer one.”
Lord Claymore would very gladly have landed the disagreeable marquis and the priest on the first part of the coast of Spain they made; but as the French still held numerous ports and towns to the west, they would have found it impossible to travel towards Cadiz, to which they expressed their wishes to proceed, and as there was a lady of the party, he could not, without great want of courtesy, have put them on shore. For the sake indeed of Don Josef’s daughter, Donna Julia, the captain would very gladly have borne with his haughty and morose manners. The young lady, indeed, contrived to enchant every one on board; and those who knew the character of her father, and entertained hopes of dispossessing him of his property, could not help feeling compassion for one so young and lovely, who would, should they succeed, be in reality the principal sufferer.
The frigate was not to be idle; numberless were the dashing exploits performed by her gallant crew. In most of them Ronald took an active part, and several times his father insisted on accompanying him, as he observed, just to make him feel young again. Numerous vessels were also captured—one was a French privateer; some Spaniards taken in a prize were on board her. From these men Lord Claymore learned that within a day’s sail there was a strong and important castle, garrisoned by French troops. This castle commanded a pass on the road by which the chief communication was kept open between the borders of France and the French army on the Ebro. A Spanish force, it was said, had already assembled, and commenced the siege of the place, but with little success. The frigate made a long tack off the coast; when she again stood in the fort was made out, situated on a commanding elevation, overlooking the road which wound along the shore. The frigate had her guns run out, and the crew stood at their quarters, ready for action. The officers, with their glasses, were examining the coast. The sun shone brightly; the water was blue, still more blue was the sky, shedding a brilliancy over the sand, the rocks, the hill-sides clothed with verdure, showing here and there the darker tints of orange or olive groves, with lighter shades where vineyards clothed the ground. Had it not been for that ominous-looking little fort, with its extended outworks, the landscape would have exhibited a picture of perfect rest and peace.
Nearer and nearer approached the frigate, gliding majestically over the smooth sea. Suddenly, emerging from a ravine, appeared a long line moving slowly on. Then dots which might have been mistaken for minute insects separated from it, and here and there puffs of smoke were seen, which were replied to by the fort with other puffs, and the faint thunder of cannon was heard on board the frigate.
“Those must be Spaniards attacking the fort,” exclaimed the captain, mechanically whistling for a breeze to urge on the ship with the rapidity that might satisfy his impatience.