Colonel Carew was the third in descent from the original planter who by right of conquest and the grace of James the First, had settled upon the broad lands of Castleton, and having swept the ancient possessors from the soil, had planted there a hardy race of colonists, and built himself a great house, half mansion, half fortress. The first Jasper Carew had looked upon himself as the instrument in the hands of Providence to civilize the land and found a family. He had ruled with despotic severity, and when he was laid in the family vault in the new church that he had built, left a name of undying hatred to the native Irish. The second Jasper followed in the footsteps of his father; he built and planted, and like a strong man armed, ruled his own demesne and showed neither mercy nor tolerance toward the ancient race. They were a God-fearing stock and showed no compassion nor kindly pity. Virtues they had, but only toward their friends, and never forgot that they had won by the sword´s right and must continue to hold by its power. The present Colonel Carew had been wild in his youth, and had left the home of his fathers in disgrace. For a time he had entirely disappeared; there were vague rumours that he had prospered in the Virginias and had made a fortune there. However that might be, he had returned home on the death of his father, bringing with him an only son, and lived a moody, retired life in the great house, attended only by a servant who had shared his adventures abroad. His son had early obtained a commission, and served with distinction on the Continent. He had married against the wish of his father, a young lady of great beauty and slender fortune, the daughter of a Huguenot refugee, and when he fell at Senef some years afterwards, left an orphan son and daughter to the care of his father, who received the unwelcome legacy with little outward show of favour or affection. Colonel Carew had brought his grandson home, but permitted the girl to remain under the care of her relatives in London. Here Dorothy had remained until she was sixteen, when the death of her aunt compelled her to seek a home with her grandfather, who was unable to make any other provision for her, however anxiously he desired to do so. At Castleton, Dorothy Carew had spent two years of her life--not very happy or pleasant years, but her sweet and joyous spirit had broken down in some slight degree the barrier that her grandfather had raised between himself and all the world.
He was growing old and frail, and his mind seemed to have gone wholly back to the early years which he had spent in wild adventure and lawless wanderings. The care of his estate he had left to his grandson, who paid little heed to the old man, but went his way with the headstrong and reckless selfishness that was the characteristic of his race. The presence of his grand-daughter seemed to give him pleasure, but companionship between them there was none. He accepted her attentions, not, indeed, with an ill grace, but without any apparent sign of affection, though at times, as he sat watching her moving about his room, her figure appeared to arouse him from his fit of abstraction, and to awaken a chord of memory that was not wholly painful.
So she passed these two years at Castleton--dull enough for a girl of spirit and used to the excitement and life of a great city; and when the news of a great Catholic rising and massacre arrived, it found her alone and unprotected, with a number of panic-stricken domestics and a helpless old man looking to her for assistance and advice. Her brother had gone to Londonderry on business of his own, and there was no one near her on whom she could rely. The servants had remained at their posts for some time, but as the excitement deepened, and the tenantry fled to Enniskillen or to Londonderry for safety and shelter, they refused to remain longer, and while imploring her to join them in their flight, one morning they departed in a body. She herself would willingly have accompanied them, but her grandfather refused to move. It was, he said, mere moonshine. It was only when the Irish army had marched northward, and there came the frequent and alarming reports of robbery and murder, that he was seized with an uncontrollable dread, and insisted on fleeing to Londonderry forthwith. The girl had no one to assist her in their hasty flight but a brave and trusty servant who had served with her father abroad, and who had been since taken into her grandfather´s service. Together they had bundled the old man into the coach, and leaving the great house to its fate, had set out for the city of refuge. How they fared on their way thither we have already seen.
Gervase walked by Bayard´s bridle, unmindful of all weariness and regardless of all dangers, seeking, after the manner of young men, to make the most of the sweet society into which chance had so strangely thrown him. He was indignant with himself that he was ashamed of his rags, though by way of making up for these, he began to talk of his life in Dublin and the gay doings of the capital.
At this Dorothy´s sense of humour was touched, and much to his confusion she began to laugh aloud. “Your talk in such a figure, of the Castle and of Tyrconnell and of my Lady, is a most excellent remedy for lowness of spirits. I cannot set matters straight, and must become accustomed to your mode. And yet I think I could have told that you were a gentleman.”
“That is something,” said Gervase, a little mollified, “and how?”
“Because,” she answered, with a naïve glance that disarmed his resentment, “your present garments fit you so ill. But I am very wrong to jest at such a time, and your friend does not seem to admire laughter. I think that I could have told anywhere that he was a soldier. You could not mistake his carriage.”
“A better soldier and a truer friend there never was,” Gervase answered warmly; “and that you will have cause to admit before your journey ends.”
“I think,” she said, “that you yourself fight not so badly. Oh! why was I not a man that I might strike for religion and liberty? it is a miserable thing to be a woman in times like these.”
“I hope I am not a coward,” Gervase answered, “but I have already seen enough of warfare to dislike my trade, and would never fight if it were possible to avoid it. But fight we must for our rights and liberties and,” he added, after a pause, “in defence of those we love.”
“And,” she said, smiling, “is it for these last that you are fighting? But I have no right to ask you that, though I have been told that men say love is out of fashion. Indeed I think that it is no longer in vogue.”
“I care not for fashion in these things, but I have begun to think that there might be such loving as would make life a royal thing to live. I mean not love that asks to be loved in return, though I should like that too, but a love that fills the heart with great and splendid thoughts, and raises it above contemptible and base designs; the love I mean is wholly pure and unselfish and lifts the lover above himself. I know not whether you know the lines of that sonnet--”
“I think,” she said smiling, “we will change the subject. It seems to me that you are far too romantic to conduct a young and unprotected damsel on a dangerous journey like this. Your grim Captain Macpherson were a far fitter and more becoming companion--he would not breathe out his aspirations in rhyme, or relieve his love-laden soul in a ballad. Heigho! I shall never understand you men. But now tell me about your journey from Londonderry, and how it came about that you were wounded?”
And thereupon Gervase proceeded to relate the story of his ride by night and the skirmish on the road, passing lightly over such incidents as might be unfitting for a woman´s ear to listen to.
But when he mentioned the name of De Laprade she stopped him. “And you have met my cousin Victor, for it can be no other? I had not heard that he had come to Ireland.”
“I mean the Vicomte de Laprade. He is not much older than myself, with a slight lisp, and very fair for a Frenchman.”
“Yes, that is he. You do not know that he is in some sort my cousin, my mother having been of his family. He was in London when I was a girl living with my aunt, and he would come to visit us whenever he could tear himself away from the cards and the festivities of Whitehall. Poor Victor! he was a sad rake in those days, and I fear he would never have come to Ireland had he not run through his fortune.”
“He hinted, indeed, at something of that sort,” said Gervase, “but he is a gallant fellow, and one cannot but like him. He hath done a great deal for me.”
“It would be strange should we meet here, yet who can tell? For it is as likely we shall find ourselves within the Irish camp as within the walls of Londonderry. I wonder in what manner we should be treated there?”
“Camps are ever lawless places,” Gervase answered, “and offer little entertainment for a lady. I trust that you will not be called upon to make the trial. But Macpherson is calling upon us to stop; we have already travelled too far in advance.”
The road now ran through a wooded and undulating country, and they were coming close to the ford by which they hoped to cross. At times they had been able to catch a distant glimpse of the river bright with the fading sunset, but so far as Gervase was able to see, there was no sign of the enemy, and he had begun to hope that they might pass unmolested.
“It is time,” said Macpherson, as he came up, “that we should determine on our plan of action, for we can go no further. The ford yonder is guarded. I caught the gleam of arms but a minute ago from the top of the hill, and there is part of a troop of horse in the little grove yonder to the right. I know the sound too well to mistake it. If it be possible to cross I shall soon know; though--and here I speak, not with any selfish or dishonourable intention, but as a man of honour and a soldier, it were, perhaps, best that this lady and her grandfather should place themselves of their free will in the hands of yonder gentry, and trust to their humanity for generous treatment. It is a perilous undertaking that we have in hand, and bullets may presently be flying. However, as Providence has in some measure placed you under our care, should it be your good pleasure, we will do as best we can.”
“My grandfather is an old and defenceless man,” answered Dorothy, with spirit, “and as you have seen, carries with him a great quantity of treasure, which I would that I had never seen. What treatment, think you, is he likely to receive at the hands of those who live on the fruit of robbery and murder?”
“Miss Carew is right, Captain Macpherson,” said Gervase, “and whatever your design may be, I shall abide with her, and so far as my help goes, shall see that she and her grandfather pass unscathed.”
“I well knew,” answered Macpherson bitterly, “that you would do nothing less, though it may come to pass that you will both suffer for it hereafter. My design, as you phrase it, is even to go gently forward, and see in what manner yon loons have set their guard, and of what strength they may be. In the meantime, I should advise that you withdraw into that clump of oak trees where you may safely await my coming, which will be within the hour. I had looked for some sense from you, Mr. Orme, but I find that you are no wiser than the rest of them. ´Fore God we are all fools together.”
Before Gervase had time to reply he had disappeared within the undergrowth that grew densely by the roadside, and Gervase and the girl stood looking at one another in silence; the same grave suspicion had presented itself to both of them. “What think you of your friend?” she said, with indignation.
“For a moment I hardly knew what to think,” Gervase answered, “but my faith in him is not a whit shaken. Believe me, we may trust him unreservedly, and in good time he will prove that I am right. He will do whatever a man may to bring you safely through, and will risk life and limb to serve you. And now let us follow his directions, for if the ford be indeed guarded, ´tis a wonder that we were not long since discovered.”
Taking Colonel Carew´s horse by the bridle, Gervase led him into the oak wood followed by Dorothy. Here there proved to be excellent shelter, for the underwood had grown thick and high, and discovery was impossible so long as the enemy kept to the road, which it was likely they would do unless their suspicions were aroused.
The old man was helped from his horse and seated himself upon a fallen tree, with his precious box clasped upon his knees, speaking no word, but looking straight before him, with a fixed unmeaning gaze. He appeared to be unconscious of what was taking place round him, and insensible of the dangers to which they were exposed. Dorothy knelt down beside him and placed her hands on his. He was muttering wild and incoherent words.
“Grandfather,” she said, “do you know me?”
He looked at her with a frown. “Ay, girl, wherefore not?” he answered. "Talk no more, but fill up my glass till the red wine runs over. There is plenty where it came from--plenty, and gold that is better than wine, girl; and bars of silver and stones of price. We who sail under the Jolly Roger cannot afford to be scrupulous. You are sly, wench, damnably sly, but you will not overreach me. Nay, you shall have a doubloon or two for yourself and a bundle of silks from our next venture. I am grown stiff with this long lying ashore, and am well wearied for a breath of the Spanish Main.
“‘For the guns are all ready and the decks are all clear
And the prize is awaiting the bold Buccaneer!´”
Dorothy rose and wrung her hands with a gesture of despair. Gervase could see that the wild words of the old man had touched her beyond description. It was not so much that they showed his mind had left him; they had revealed the terrible secret of his early life--a secret that till now she had never dreamed of. She had instinctively guessed the truth, and it had covered her with shame, as though the crime and the reproach were her own. Gervase out of regard for her feelings withdrew to a distance, and busied himself in getting ready a supper, which matter, necessary as it was, had quite escaped his thoughts. But Dorothy, though he pressed her strongly, refused to partake of it.
“I cannot taste of food,” she said, “and you know the reason--you also have heard the dreadful words. That accursed money comes--Oh! I might have guessed it, but who would have thought?--and he is so old and so frail and--and I think he is going to die. Oh! it is very terrible. I was so proud of my name, and the honour of my house, and now----”
Gervase had no words with which to comfort her, and so the three--the two men and the girl--sat here in the thicket, speaking never a word. But for the young man, he could not take his eyes off the sweet, strong face that looked so lovely in its grief--the lips that trembled, and the eyes that were dimmed with unshed tears. Half an hour passed in silence; only the far-off murmur of the river came faintly through the twilight, and the whirr of a startled bird, or the hasty scamper of a rabbit or a rat, broke the stillness round them. As yet there was no appearance of Macpherson. And then Gervase began to wonder whether, after all, Dorothy might not have been right in her hasty surmise, and whether he might not have sought his own safety in flight, and left them to their fate. But he instantly dismissed the suggestion from his mind as ungenerous and unjust.
Then, at that moment, a shot rang out in the evening air, and another, and another. The sound came from the river, and as they stood and listened, they could hear the jinging of bridles and the clank of weapons, for the air was somewhat frosty and very still. They had risen to their feet and stood listening, only Gervase had drawn his sword, and instinctively stepped nearer to where the girl was standing. Soon they heard the sound of hasty footsteps and the crashing of branches, as someone made his way with impetuous haste through the underwood. Then Macpherson appeared bareheaded, with a smoking pistol in his hand.
“There is not a moment to lose,” he cried. “Into the road and make what terms you can. They are regular troops and may not use you ill, but escape you cannot, and I may not tarry here. I have done for one of them, and, I think, another will never hear ‘boots and saddle´ sounded again. ´Tis your only hope.”
“And what,” cried Gervase, “do you purpose doing?”
“Saving my neck if it be possible. I cannot serve you, but would only make your case the worse. It goes against my heart to leave you, but for your sake and my own I can do naught else. Stay,” he continued, “there is one thing more. For that box they would cut your throats, and they must not find it with you. Madam, can you trust me? I am rugged and I am rough, but I think I am honest.”
Dorothy looked at him fairly a moment and their eyes met. “Yes,” she said, in a clear, strong voice, “I can trust you wholly.”
“Then, sir,” he said, stepping forward to the old man, “By your leave and license I must, for your own good, relieve you of your toys.” With a quick movement he took the box out of the hands of the old man who stared at him with a bewildered gaze, and then with a hurried farewell, he passed out of sight. Colonel Carew uttered a loud, shrill scream and fell forward on the grass. Dorothy ran forward and tried to turn him over, but she had not strength enough. Then Gervase knelt down to help her, but when he saw the white, frowning face, one glance was sufficient to show him how it was. The old adventurer, with all his sins fresh in his memory and his wicked life rekindled, as it were, out of the ashes of the past, had gone to his account.
The dragoons, who had hastily mounted on discovering Macpherson, and had been riding down the road, reined in their horses, and dismounting, plunged into the coppice. The old man´s sudden and startling outcry had guided them to the fugitives´ place of concealment. They set up a loud shout when they were discovered, and one fellow was about to pistol Gervase when another struck up his hand and restrained him.
“Time enough for that. We´ll put a question or two first,” said the sergeant who commanded the party. “Tie his hands behind his back, and bring him out into the road. The old man is dead as a nail,” he continued, touching the lifeless body with his foot, “and the wench is no doubt his daughter. By my soul! she´s a beauty: now look you, the first man-Jack of you who lays his finger on her, I´ll blow his brains out, so help me God! and you know I´m a man of my word. Don´t fear, madam; they´re rough but kindly.”
As they led Gervase out into the road, one hope was uppermost in his mind, and that was that they might fall in with some officer of sufficient authority to whose care he might confide Dorothy, and to whose sense of honour he should not appeal in vain. There were still many gallant gentlemen in the Irish army in whose eyes a woman´s reputation would be sacred.
The dragoons who guarded him followed the sergeant out into the open, and they halted under a great oak that threw its broad branches across the road. Dorothy had implored them to bring her grandfather´s body with them, and on their refusing had seated herself beside it. But without using any great violence, they had insisted on her following the rest of the party. She had shed no tears, but her face was very white, and her breath came quickly in little, convulsive sobs. Gervase looked at her for a moment, and then turned away his head.
“Now,” said the sergeant, “we´ll see what stuff he´s made of. How say you, sir? On what side are you? Are you for King James?”
“I am for law and order,” answered Gervase. “This young lady and I were on a peaceful journey, wishing ill and intending hurt to no one, and I know not what right you have to hinder us.”
“That is no answer to my question, sir; but I´ll answer for you--you´re a Whig and in arms against the King, or would be. Where is your authority? And now another question and I have done with you: Where is the prickeared knave gone who pistolled poor Cornet White and sent another of ours to kingdom come? I´ll take my oath he was of your party.”
“I saw no pistolling,” said Gervase; “is it like in such force as you see us, we should fall upon a troop of dragoons? Why, man, it was because we were afraid to venture near you that we hid ourselves in the tangle yonder.”
“This jesting will not answer, Master Whig. I´ll give you one chance of saving your neck and only one--what way went he?”
“Look you here, sergeant,” said Gervase, seeing the desperate position in which he was placed, “I´m a gentleman, and it would profit you little to shoot or hang me. See this lady and myself safe through to Londonderry, and you will have twenty golden guineas for yourself and five for every man here in your company. I cannot say you fairer, and if not for my sake or the money´s, then for the sake of this helpless lady.”
“This lady will be well cared for, never fear, and for your guineas, I´m thinking by the time you got to Londonderry, they would be own brothers to the lads they are making in Dublin. Come, my man, you´ll have sixty seconds to answer my question, and then Hurrah for the kingdom of glory.” So saying he took a piece of rope from the hands of one of the men and began leisurely to measure it, a foot at a time, looking up occasionally from the operation to see how it affected the prisoner.
“My God! you would not hang me?”
“Ay, that I would, with a heart and a half and high as Haman, if the rope were long enough. The time is nearly up--How say you?”
“I say that I care not how you use me, if you see the lady safe. Hang me if you will.”
“The time is up and you have not answered an honest question. Now, lads, we´ll see if this heretic rogue can do anything but prate. It seems to me he looks a strolling player and may be one for all I know.” So saying he deftly threw the rope round the thick branch that grew over the road, and placed his hand on the prisoner´s shoulder.
Up to this time Dorothy could not believe that he meant to carry out his savage threat, but she saw now that this was no mere jest but a matter of life and death. The business was evidently to the taste of the troopers, and two of them laid aside their firelocks and placed their hands upon the rope. Then she sprang forward and caught the sergeant by the arm. “You do not mean what you say,” she cried, “he has never wronged you, nor have I, and had it not been for me and the dead old man yonder, he had not been in your power now. For my sake, for God´s sake, you will not injure him.”
The man seemed touched for a minute, so wild was she, and so beautiful, in her despair, and then he shook her off roughly. “Women have nothing to do in these affairs. Two of you fellows take her away, and leave us to finish this business in peace. Now, make haste about the matter, and get this damnable job out of hand. We must look after the other fellow before night comes down.”
Dorothy turned white and faint, and seemed like to have fallen on the road as Gervase held out his hand to her and said, with a lump in his throat,
“Good-bye, Miss Carew, I regret quitting life less than leaving you in this company, but my last prayer on earth is for your safety. Could my life have brought you help, I should have given it up without regret.”
Then she broke down utterly, and they led her away, with her face buried in her hands. Suddenly, at that moment there was heard the sound of a horse coming rapidly along the road, and the men who were busied placing the noose round Gervase´s neck, stopped short in their work. Dorothy heard the sound also, and looked up. An officer, apparently of distinguished rank, accompanied by a couple of dragoons, was advancing at a rapid trot.
His military cloak, richly embroidered, was thrown open, and showed a burnished cuirass underneath. His broad-brimmed hat adorned with a single white feather, nearly concealed his face. As he approached, Dorothy struggled in the hands of the man who held her and freeing herself, ran swiftly down the road to meet him. As he came up he reined in his black charger.
“Thank God!” she cried, “you have come in time. You, at least, are a gentleman, and you will save him.”
“I hope, madam, I am a gentleman,” he said, with a high, courteous manner and in a voice that was at once strong and musical. “I shall examine into this matter, and if I can in duty and in honour render you this service, you may rely upon me.”
Then hurriedly, and almost incoherently, she told him her story, or as much as she thought necessary for her purpose; and when she had finished he called out to one of the mounted troopers to take his horse.
“Now, Miss Carew,” he said, dismounting, and raising his hat with a stately courtesy, “having heard your story, I am rejoiced that I have arrived in time. These lambs of mine are hasty in their work and, I fear, have not always warrant for what they do. Believe me, I am sorry for your case and will do what I can to aid you. And now let us see how the gentleman has borne himself, who has so fair an advocate to plead his cause.”
With these words, taking her hand he led her up to the group which stood under the tree awaiting his approach. Gervase had given himself up for lost, and had commended his soul to his Maker, for the rope had already been adjusted round his neck, and willing hands were only waiting for the word of command from the sergeant to turn him off. But as the mounted officer rode up and the fellows suspended their work, he felt instinctively that he had been saved. The look of baffled hate on the sergeant´s face showed that. The officer came up leading Dorothy by the hand, and the dragoons saluted him silently. He gave Gervase one quick searching look, a look that flashed with keen intelligence and seemed to take in every detail in a moment, and then said sternly, “Unbind the prisoner, and take down that rope.” He stood quietly, speaking no word, but waited with his keen eyes fixed on Gervase, until the dragoons had unbound the prisoner´s hands and removed the hempen cord from his neck. The work being completed, the men fell back a few paces.
“Now, sirrah!” he said, turning to the sergeant, “what does this mean? By whose orders or instructions were you about to hang this gentleman? Is it thus that you do your duty? While the fellow who shot down your officer has been making his escape, you have been preparing to murder an unoffending traveller whom it was your duty to protect. Had I been five minutes later, I do not doubt that I should have strung you up beside him. Good God! it is fellows like you who make me blush for my countrymen. Now, look you, the man who has made his escape must be brought in before nightfall. Should you fail to capture him you will see how I deal with men who forget that they are soldiers and act like caterans.”
“This fellow, if it please your honour----” began the sergeant.
“Silence, sirrah! Take your men and search the wood. This man must not escape, and when you return, report yourself to me at the house by the ford. Take all the men with you; I shall return alone. Stay, there is one thing more.” Here glancing hastily at Dorothy, he walked a short distance away, and in a low tone gave orders with regard to the remains of Colonel Carew, which he directed to be brought down to the post and await his instructions there. The man saluted, and giving the necessary orders with a sullen and crestfallen air, left his superior standing alone with the prisoner.
“Give me no thanks, sir,” he said, interrupting Gervase. “For I have only done for you what an Irish gentleman is bound in honour to do. Our men will do these lawless deeds, but with the party to which you belong rests the blame, having made them what they are. Till now they have been slaves with all the vices of the slave; they cannot learn the moderation and restraint of freemen in a day. However,” he continued, with a smile that lighted up his dark face, “this is no speech to address to a man who has just escaped the gallows. Miss Carew tells me you are now on your way to Londonderry seeking refuge and safety there. I do not propose to advise you, but within a fortnight the city will be in our hands, and meanwhile must undergo the dangers of a siege. We do not make war on women, and Miss Carew may rely on me to help her to a place of safety.”
“My friends are there,” said Dorothy; “I have not elsewhere to go.”
“We have indeed proposed,” said Gervase, “to take refuge in Londonderry, and since Miss Carew has lost--is alone, I know not where else she can betake herself. For myself I am indebted to you, sir, for my life, and you may dispose of me as you will; but for the lady, I would beg you to allow her to pass safely through your lines and join her friends in the city.”
“That might easily be done, but surely Dublin were safer?”
“As I have said,” answered Dorothy, “my friends are all in Londonderry, and I should prefer to share their danger.”
“Well! we shall see how it may be, but in the meantime, I shall ask you to share my hospitality, such as it is, to-night, and to-morrow we will devise some plan for your security. Miss Carew may safely place herself in the hands of Patrick Sarsfield,” and he raised his hat with the bel air that sat so easily upon him.
Gervase looked with curiosity on the great Irish leader, than whom no more notable figure and chivalrous gentleman fought in the Irish ranks, and lent lustre and honour to a somewhat tarnished cause. He was little, indeed, above the middle height, but his bold and gallant bearing gave him the appearance of being of more than the ordinary stature. His brow was frank and open, and his eyes had the clear and resolute gaze of a man accustomed to bold and perilous action--ardent, impetuous, and courageous. His speech came rapidly, and his utterance was of the clearest and most decisive. Accustomed to camps he had yet the air of a well-bred man of the world, and when he smiled his face lost the fixed and somewhat melancholy air it wore when in repose.
“And you are Colonel Sarsfield?” Dorothy inquired. “Then we are friends, for you were the friend of my aunt Lady Bellasis.”
“Truly she was my very good friend, and her son Will--your cousin, I presume--was my dear crony and companion-in-arms. We served together during Monmouth´s campaign, and I might almost say that he died in my arms at Taunton. You are then the Dorothy of whom I heard him speak. I think his death broke his mother´s heart. It