Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 19

Sail Ho!

On board everything had been done to promote the safety of its occupants that could be effected. The lashings of the timbers had been carefully overhauled and strengthened under Captain Weber’s own superintendence, while the boxes and cases of provisions, which had been lowered on to the raft before pushing off from the sinking ship, had been arranged so as to form a kind of walled cabin over which a heavy sail had been spread as its roof. A light studding sail formed the door, which could be brailed up or let down at the desire of the occupant. The weather continued moderate, and though a green wave would occasionally break on board, no great discomfort had been as yet experienced.

It had been a sad moment when the sweeps were unshipped, and when the line of coast became fainter and fainter, until at last its outline was no more distinguishable, and nothing was to be seen but the wide expanse of ocean, on which the frail raft rose and fell. The gulls and Mother Carey’s chickens were their sole companions, and the sun rose without a cloud, daily to pour its blaze of light over the calm waters of the Indian Ocean, and then to sink to rest, setting, as it seemed, in the waste of waters. Soon the stars would peep forth, and the gentle breeze which had prevailed during the day, die away into calm; no sound disturbing the stillness, except the occasional spouting of a whale near the raft, the whish of the breaking wave, and the creak of the spars as they worked together.

At first the men bore this well, for there were no watches to keep, no sails to tend, and provisions of all kinds were plentiful. Calm weather was to be expected after the late series of heavy gales, and they were sure to be picked up. They must be rapidly nearing the shores of Madagascar, too, and the men amused themselves by spinning long yarns about the savage inhabitants of the island, between the intervals of smoking, eating, and drinking. The dawning of daylight was ever an anxious moment for all, and every eye eagerly scanned the limited horizon in quest of the coming ship. The light grew gradually stronger; the wing of a gull was taken for a sail. A feeling of delight, of hope, spread through the hearts of all. The delusion was exposed as the sun tipped the tops of the waves with its light, and, do what they would, despondency took the place of hope. At first none would acknowledge this feeling, each trying to cheer up the other; but the men became gradually restless and uneasy, the tale and the laugh were less frequent; the few orders which were given them were obeyed, it is true, but slowly and listlessly, and it became evident that the confinement to so limited a space was telling, and that the crew were becoming demoralised.

The morning of the third day since the loss of the “Halcyon” had dawned, and the raft still rose and fell on the gentle swell of the ocean. The studding sail was brailed up, and Isabel was seated at the open entrance. Captain Hughes was lying on the spars at her feet, while close by Weber and his mate were endeavouring to prick off their position on a chart, which was spread on a barrel. The men were just finishing their twelve o’clock dinner, and the raft was slowly driving through the water before a gentle westerly breeze.

On a box between the two at the entrance of the improvised cabin stood a chess-board. The pieces were ranged in position, but the interest of the game seemed languishing.

“You might have checkmated me, last move, Enrico,” said Isabel. “Either you did not care to do so, or you are thinking of something else.”

In fact Hughes had been gazing up into the speaker’s face, and had forgotten all about the game.

“A game at chess on a raft in the Indian Ocean is another thing to one in a lady’s drawing-room,” remarked the missionary, who had been looking on at the play, with a smile on his face; “and yet,” he continued, “it has been much the same kind of game as usually takes place between a lady and gentleman thinking only of each other.”

“Oh, how I should like to have my foot once more on the carpet of that same drawing-room!” exclaimed Isabel. “This eternal hoping against hope is dreary work.”

“We have known worse moments together, Isabel,” remarked Hughes, who had raised himself from his elbow to a sitting position, and was gazing intently over the waves.

“I dare say I am impatient, Enrico; but everything seems to go wrong. First of all the storm, and then, when safely moored in the land-locked bay, where everything seemed so quiet, the frightful affair with the Malays. I think I can hear their terrible yells yet.” And the girl covered her eyes with her hands.

Hughes had risen, and was leaning moodily against a pile of boxes, and still gazing over the sea.

“No sooner,” continued Isabel, “had we made all right than the pirate schooner was upon us, and, as if that was not sufficient, the storm which caused my dear father’s death followed.”

“To me, Isabel, there seems still one bright point in all the black past you are looking into,” replied Hughes, as his gaze left the distant horizon, to fix itself on Isabel’s fair face.

Raising her lustrous black eyes, and returning the look with one of deep confiding tenderness, Isabel placed her hand on his arm, as she continued—

“But just as we were close to land, when I could see the undulations of the coast line, and mark the clumps of trees on the shore, to be driven away,—and now this fearfully monotonous life, ever rising and falling on the waves. One of these days we shall see Madagascar, and just as we are about to land, be blown to sea again.”

“Sail ho!” shouted Hughes, in a voice which startled every one on board.

“You are right!” exclaimed Captain Weber, starting to his feet. “See there away to the westward.” And he laid his brown hand on the mate’s shoulder, pointing in the direction named; and, sure enough, no bigger than a man’s hand, like the wing of some far-away sea-gull, a small patch of white appeared on the horizon.

A hearty cheer burst from the missionary’s lips, and it was taken up by all on board. The men, however, did not evince much satisfaction. They were sorry, it may be, after all to change a life of idleness for one of toil; or they knew, perhaps, that the passing sail might not come near.

However this might be, certain it is, that after gazing on the white speck which told of coming help, one after another sat down in a dogged, sullen manner, as though they cared little about the matter.

Grouped round the entrance to the little cabin, Captain Weber, his mate, and passengers began the midday meal, and it was a more cheerful one than usual. Provisions were plentiful, and Mr Lowe had reported the strange sail to be nearing them rapidly.

“She is working to the southward on a wind,” remarked he; “and if she makes a long leg will run us slap aboard.”

“See the union jack set over our mainsail, Mr Lowe,” returned the captain, “it will not help us along much, but will make us more easily seen. They don’t keep a very bright look-out on board yonder craft, I’ll be bound.”

“Ay, ay, sir. Come, my lads, make sail on the frigate,” said the mate, laughing, “we’ll soon run yonder fellow aboard.”

The flag was hoisted, the whole party watching anxiously. The sun shone brightly on the white canvas of a full-rigged ship, which was coming bows on towards them. At the door of the rude cabin Isabel sat, her hand clasped in that of her lover-husband, her head resting on his shoulder, and her eyes intently fixed on the ship.

“How beautiful she looks as she heels over to the breeze,” she murmured. “Surely, they see us now.”

“The ship is more than ten knots away,” replied Captain Weber, “and if even the look-out saw us, and most probably there is none, we should only be taken for a gull or albatross.”

“Could we not make them hear us?” asked Isabel.

“Impossible,” replied the master; “but we will try. Now my lads, a good hearty cheer,” he shouted. “Hip! hip! hurrah! One cheer more; fancy yourselves at the Jolly Tar in Portsmouth Harbour. Hooray! Why, I have heard you make twice the row when I wanted you to knock off shouting,” he said, as the cheer died away. In point of fact, the crew seemed too idle even to exert themselves for their own safety.

“See,” said Isabel, “see, they hear us!” and she clasped her hands together as she spoke with delight.

Captain Weber and his mate knew better. There were, indeed, indications of a bustle on board the ship. The sun was shining brightly full on her white canvas, and even the dark mass of her hull could be made out, as she came careering through the waves, with all sail set to her royals on a taut bowline. Then her sails shivered, the black bows came sweeping up to the wind, the yards were braced round, as the ship, now on the opposite tack, every moment lessened the chance of those on board the doomed raft.

“One effort more, my lads; stay a moment, they’ll be coiling down the sheets and bowlines just now. Are you ready? ‘Ship, ahoy! ahoy! aho-o-o-y!’” roared the captain with all the force of his powerful lungs, producing a shout, with which the voices of all on board joined, even the feeble treble of Isabel being heard.

It was useless; the ship neither heard nor saw them, but kept calmly and steadily on her course, leaving them to their fate. Towards sunset her royals only could be seen on the horizon, and when the stars shone forth, the raft was once more rising and falling in helpless loneliness on the waves of the sleeping ocean, slowly dragging on her way.

Isabel had retired, and cried herself to sleep. Hughes had thrown himself, as was his wont, before the opening of the cabin, and was quite motionless. Near him lay several recumbent forms wrapped in cloaks or tarpaulins, while the men, grouped together, were, or seemed to be, sleeping.

He had bitterly felt the cruel disappointment of the morning, and, though it was nearly midnight, was in reality wide awake. A low confused murmur reached him, and he listened attentively.

“I tell you he has all the gold aboard, Phillips; enough to make men of the likes of we,” were the words which came to his ears.

“For the matter of that, Gough, he’ll die hard, the old beggar, and some of us will lose the number of our mess.”

“All the more gold for them as remains,” muttered the man Gough.

“Well, if so be as we are to go in for the yellow boys, why not now? They’re all caulking soundly.”

“No, yonder ship may be within hail to-morrow morning, and a fine mess we should be in,” answered the ruffian.

Hughes at once became aware that mischief was brewing, and determined to discover what it was. Slowly he dragged himself onwards, inch by inch, until he lay in a position where he could hear well. The two were sitting up, wrapped in their greatcoats, and spoke low and cautiously. The pale light of day was just breaking over the waves as hours later Hughes regained his position, gently and cautiously. Tired with watching he fell fast asleep, and it was broad daylight when he was aroused by Captain Weber shaking him by the arm.

“Rouse and bitt, my lad,” said the old seaman, laughing. “The bare planks seem to suit your humour. We want your place for breakfast.”

There was no lack of water round about them, and while he made his hasty toilet the soldier determined on the course to be taken. An attempt to possess themselves of the gold would certainly be made that night, and, as Phillips had said, Captain Weber was not the man to give it up quietly, “I have a few words for you, Captain Weber, before breakfast,” he said, as that officer passed near him.

“Heave ahead, my hearty, I’m not pressed for time,” was the reply.

“Have you noticed how sullen the men seemed yesterday, how apathetic they were when the ship went about?” asked Hughes.

“It is the natural consequence of this state of relaxed discipline and idleness,” replied the master.

“One more query. Have you not gold in these cases, in some of them at least. Are we not nearing Madagascar?”

Captain Weber turned sharply round, looking the speaker full in the face, and paused a moment as if in astonishment, ere he replied.

“Yes, I have gold dust in some of them, and if yonder ship had only stood on for an hour longer, the dust might have served me to fit out another vessel, and give me another chance; but why do you ask?”

“I lay awake nearly all last night. You know I have always thrown myself before the entrance to the little cabin.”

The seaman nodded his head.

“Well, about four o’clock this morning, I heard two of the men talking. Yonder red-bearded, blear-eyed fellow who is whittling a stick as he whistles, was the principal speaker.”

“Ah, Gough,” replied the master, “he is the worst character on board; it was Gough tried to persuade the men to break into the spirit-room, when tired of the work at the pumps. I can believe anything of him.”

“Well, he held out a dazzling picture of life in Madagascar. He talked of the warm welcome given by the Queen of the island to the English, he painted a life of luxury and ease, instead of one of toil and privation, saying we might sight the island any moment.”

“The scoundrel!” muttered the old master between his clenched teeth, “I see it all now.”

“He told of the gold on the raft, and how with it they might be kings and nobles in the land. How the wind was dead fair, and they had but to stretch forth their hands to help themselves.”

“Not while I live—not while I live, the mutinous scoundrel,” growled the seaman.

“You are not intended to live,” replied the soldier. “We were all to die, unprepared, and therefore incapable of resistance. Adams and Simmonds were to share our fate, the raft to be seized, and the loss of the brig to cover that of the crew and passengers.”

“And Dona Isabel?” inquired the captain.

“Was to die to secure her silence,” replied Hughes, shuddering.

“A pleasant lot of fellows; and when is this infernal plot to be carried out?”

“Last night was fixed for its execution, but a fear for the return of the ship we saw yesterday prevented it, and now it is determined that it be carried out to-night.”

“We may see a sail again to-day, and if we do, we are saved; but again, we may not,” muttered the captain, “and we must be prepared for the worst.”

“We had better, at all events, show no suspicion, but go to our breakfast as usual.”

“I will consult with Lowe; do you tell your old comrade,” said the captain, moodily, as the two moved away.

The simple breakfast was laid out before the cabin-door just as usual. The steward acted as cook, and Isabel superintended her breakfast table on the raft, with all the natural grace she would have shown, had she been in her father’s house in sunny Portugal.

Her face was sorrowful, as she advanced to meet Hughes, for yesterday had indeed brought her a cruel disappointment. So sure had she felt of rescue, that the blow had been very severe.

“Did I not tell you, Enrico, all is against us? Oh, I dreamed that the ship we saw yesterday had come back, and so vivid was the dream, that I lifted the sail expecting to see it,” she remarked.

The breakfast finished, Captain Weber and his mate rose to consult the chart.

“Wyzinski, help us to clear away, and we will get out the chess-board. I want to speak to you. You can lean over us as we play.”

“What on earth is wrong now?” exclaimed Isabel, fixing her large black eyes on her husband’s face.

“Hush, Isabel!” returned Hughes, throwing himself down on the planks, “a great peril hangs over us. If there was a chance of rescue, I would have said nothing about it, but the day wears on, and the horizon is clear.”

Isabel looked up. “All seems calm, there is no sign of storm about,” she remarked.

“Peril!” repeated Wyzinski, as he stooped over Hughes and moved a knight on the board. “Check to your king and castle—both. It and I are old friends.”

And Hughes told his tale, while the game proceeded in a most irregular manner.

Captain Weber sauntered up, and looked knowingly at the board, though he did not understand anything about it.

“Have you spoken to Adams and to Morris?” asked the missionary.

“Yes, and they are prepared—and what is better, yonder in the cabin is the arm-chest securely locked. It was a lucky thing I placed it there. The villains are unarmed.”

“They have their knives—there are eleven of them, and we count how many?” quietly asked the missionary.

“Seven,” answered the old sailor; “but Adams is still very weak. Will you open yonder chest, pretty one,” he continued, for he ever addressed Isabel by that endearing epithet; “will you open yonder chest, and push the revolvers within my reach with your foot.”

Wyzinski took her place at the chess-board, as Isabel rose to do as she was desired, and the captain having placed a couple of pairs of revolvers in the pockets of his monkey jacket, moved forward among the men, talking and chatting as if nothing was wrong.

It was Sunday; the breeze died away towards evening, and the missionary read the service of the day in the makeshift cabin. He possessed a fine, clear voice, and, aware of their great danger, his hearers found the beautiful litany of the church more solemn, perhaps, than usual.

To Isabel it was all very strange, but as the sun sank to rest among the ocean waves, she joined in the rites of her husband’s creed with a simple, and confiding faith, not understanding them, and night gradually gathered round the crew of the raft. Inured to danger, and now fully armed, one after another of the little party lay down to sleep, and soon all was quiet on board.

The wind had fallen, and with it the sea, the motion of the spars becoming less and less. The night was warm, the stars were shining brilliantly, and the moon, in her first quarter, was rising over the ocean, making a long narrow strip of silver on the waves. The sail was raised at the opening of the cabin, and on the planking before it sat Isabel. Her husband’s arm was round her, and her head leaned back on his breast, the long hair uncared for, falling on the planks which formed the deck, while the starlight shone on her face, and twinkled in her black eyes. The sail of the raft just drew, but barely so.

“How quiet all seems, Enrico; except the splash of the waves, there is not a sound abroad.”

“Yes, many years hence we may talk of this. Does it not seem strange to be floating about on a few sticks in the middle of the ocean? Hark! do you hear that?”

A loud noise, like the blowing off of steam, was heard.

“It is a whale, Isabel.”

“I did not know there were many of them here,” said the fair girl, again leaning back, for she had started up in alarm at the noise.

“There are plenty of an inferior description to those caught further north, and further south,” replied Hughes. “But tell me of your own country, Isabel, a land I do not know.”

“No; we will have it the other way about, Enrico. Tell me of our home among your native mountains, and of the strange customs and manners of the people.”

“But they are not strange, and there is no difference between them and others, save that they are of more ancient race and speak an older tongue than the English. True tradition lives among the time-worn mountains of the Cymri.”

“Well, tell me one of them, Enrico mio.”

With that faculty of enjoying the present, without thought of the future, inherent to the Spanish and Portuguese nature, Isabel seemed to have forgotten her position, even the dread peril which menaced them from the evil humour and greed of the dissatisfied seamen. All was merged in the present, in the quiet beauty of the night, the starlight which glistened in her eyes, the long thin quivering strip of moonlight dancing over the calm ocean waves, and the presence of him she loved best.

The soldier was well armed. From his childhood he had been accustomed to scenes of danger; his manhood had been spent in a country where the European carries his life in his hand, and all on board the raft seemed quiet. The men might have renounced their treacherous purpose.

“Well,” said he, falling into the humour of the moment and drawing the thick cloak so as to cover Isabel more completely, while he looked down on the fair face turned up to meet his gaze, “I had an ancestor, who, for the sake of his religion, which was yours, lost lands and property that ought to have descended in direct line to us. Shall I tell you of this?”

“Do, Enrico mio,” replied Isabel, nestling nearer to him.

“There is an old mansion near the sea shore in North Wales. It is a small farm-house now, Isabel, and though many hundreds of people who go year after year to the two well-known towns of Conway and Llandudno pass it often, though they remark its old Elizabethan windows, its twisted chimneys, and queer odd look, none ever take much notice of it, because near it stands the lordly house of Gloddaeth, surrounded by its sweeping woods and noble park. Yet it is just of this old farm-house I am going to tell you.”

“Don’t talk of trees and parks, Enrico; it makes me feel such a longing for land,” said Isabel.

“It was a curious pile in the days of which I speak, that old house of Penrhyn, with its uncouth rambling style of architecture, belonging to no age in particular, but a little to all. The principal part of it, however, had been built in Queen Elizabeth’s time, and, as I have said, many of the queer gables and twisted chimneys yet remain. Before it lies the sea, and away to the right a chain of magnificent mountains, sweeping into the very heart of Snowdonia. The Denbighshire range, and the long low hills trending away to the mouth of the Dee, give a charm to the landscape, while the broad lands of Penrhyn lie stretched around. The woods of Gloddaeth and Bodysgallen add to the beauty of the scene, and close to the house a chapel, in good repair, the ruins of which still stand, then told of the religious faith of the Pughs of Penrhyn.

“Between them and the powerful family of the lords of Gloddaeth a feud existed, and the Sir Roger Mostyn of that day had added to it by forcing his neighbour to remove the stone cross which formed the only ornament of the chapel. The owner of the place, Robert Pugh of Penrhyn, was old, and a mere tool in the hands of a wily priest, Father Guy. This latter was a dangerous man. Bred in the Jesuit ‘Collegio dei Nobili’ at Rome, he had by accident inherited his brother’s titles and part of his estates. The rank Sir William Guy never publicly assumed. Wholly absorbed in his religious views he had visited many countries, and had in his fanaticism longed even for the crown of martyrdom.

“The small Catholic community, existing by sufferance only in the heart of this wild Welsh land, had attracted his attention, and he had asked and obtained the small chaplainry of Penrhyn, soon acquiring a complete ascendancy over the owner.

“The tenants of the place, as well as those of Coetmore, were at his disposal, old Robert Pugh’s only son and heir, Henry, being affianced to Lucy Coetmore. Help had been promised by the Earl of Shrewsbury and other Catholic nobles in England, so the fanatic priest had determined to raise the standard of revolt, and thought he saw his way to success.”

“And Lucy Coetmore, Enrico, was she beautiful?”

“You shall see her picture yourself, Isabel. It hangs in the entrance of Plas Coch, on the banks of the Conway;” and Hughes paused, for the memory of the quiet valley and the flowing river, with its grey ruins and old Roman remains, came over him as he glanced at the waste of waters, while their helpless position struck him in contrast with a sickening sensation.

“What a curious red star that is down in the horizon!” he remarked. “I could almost fancy it goes out sometimes; but to continue—

“Lucy was a tall stately heiress; her hair was not like yours, Isabel, but of a golden brown, and her eyes blue and full of melancholy softness, her complexion of that transparent white and red so seldom seen united with strong constitutions. The white was the enamelled white of ivory, and the red was the blush of the wild rose. The charm of her beautiful face and well-turned head was heightened by the graceful neck and slender figure. Lucy was a Saxon beauty.”

“And did she die young?” languidly asked Isabel.

“She did; leaving one daughter, who married my great grandfather, and through whom the property came into my family; but now we must leave Penrhyn for a time, dearest.

“It was ten o’clock in the morning, and Sir Roger Mostyn sat in the great hall of Gloddaeth. There was the ample fireplace with its old-fashioned dogs, the panelled and carved oaken walls and roof. There was a balcony at the further end, where the white-haired harpers played, and sang tales of war and love; curious antique mottoes were blazoned on the walls in old Welsh characters. There, too, were the arms of the Mostyns and the Royal device of the Tudors, with the red dragon grinning defiance to the world. Sir Roger seemed uneasy as he threw open the latticed window and let in a glorious flood of sunshine and fresh air into the ancient hall. On the terrace beyond several children were playing, while before him, for many a mile, lay his own broad lands. The woods of Bodysgallen and of Marl were waving in the wind. There were the grey towers of Conway Castle and the glancing river, the noble background of the Snowdonian Mountains closing the view, with the splendid outline of old Penmaenmawr as it sank with one sheer sweep into the sea.”

“I don’t want to hear of all that, Enrico,” said Isabel, slipping her hand into her husband’s. “I don’t care for waving trees, old ruins, and rivers—at least not here.”

“Well, I don’t think Sir Roger Mostyn did either at that moment, for his face was clouded with care.

“‘And so, Griffith,’ he said to a man who was standing near the door, ‘that was all you learned?’

“‘It was, Sir Roger; but not all I saw. Susan was as close as a miser with his gold, and though I slept in an out-house and only returned half an hour since, she would tell me nothing.’

“‘And you say great preparations were on foot for the reception of guests?’

“‘Messengers were coming and going, Sir Roger, the whole night long; the butchers were busy slaughtering; all was bustle and excitement.’

“Thou art a poor lover, Griffith, if this is all thou couldst obtain.

“‘About twelve o’clock, Sir Roger,’ continued the fellow, reddening, ‘I heard the tramp of men, and looking out, I saw a company of about fifty. They appeared to obey a word of command, were dressed in grey frieze, and armed. The windows of the chapel were a blaze of light. I learned that they were Irish from the Isle of Man.’

“‘Very well, Griffith; send the steward here;’ and Sir Roger leaned on the sill of the latticed window in deep thought. The children called to him in their play, but he did not see them; the birds sang and the leaves rustled, but he did not hear them.

“There you are, Enrico, with your birds and trees again, and we on the broad ocean, with the sea below us, and the blue sky overhead.

“Yes, but there is love in both cases. As to who is in love on board the raft, you know as well as I do,” and the speaker bent over the form nestled on his bosom, and kissed the fair forehead.

There was a moment’s silence, and one of the apparently sleeping men lifted his head, glanced around, and then, as Hughes continued his tale, dropped again on the deck, uttering a heavy curse.

“Father Guy had brought over a strong body of the Catholic peasantry from Ireland, the cutter which landed them lying in a snug little bay near the farm. It is such a beautiful spot that bay, Isabel, formed by the hills dying away into the sea, and the rugged sides of the Little Orme.”

“Now, Enrico, I won’t have it. Tell me of anything except rocks, trees, and birds,” murmured Isabel.

“Well, night had set in. The stars were gleaming round the twisted gables and chimneys of Penrhyn, but the windows of the little chapel were a blaze of light. Inside it some twenty noblemen were assembled, the last relics of the Catholic religion among the mountains of North Wales. The altar was decked out for mass, the long tapers lighted, the fragrant incense floated on the air, while, in the full splendour of his robes, stood Father Guy.

“He was speaking eloquently and earnestly, just as a man, wearing a heavy horseman’s cloak, glided in through the doorway of the chapel.

“His audience were so wrapped up in the words they heard, and in the powerful appeal to their feelings so carried away by his eloquence, that he only remarked and recognised the intruder, who was no other than Sir Roger Mostyn.

“‘Yes, my sons,’ concluded the old priest, ‘prompted by the Master of Iniquity, they would deny us the worship of our God, they would destroy religion by the introduction of schismatic doctrines. They would make the tenets of an ancient and holy Church subservient to the will of an earthly king, putting off and on its principles at pleasure, like to a raiment. I say unto you, that death is a meet reward for these usurpers of our Church—that he who aids not in the holy work set on foot this night belongs not unto us. Go forth, my sons, uphold the banner of the Church: let its enemies perish from the face of the earth, and, as a sign unto you that the God of our fathers is with you, turn, and behold whom he has delivered into your hand.’

“The long, white, transparent fingers pointed towards the doorway, where Sir Roger Mostyn stood.

“It was a strange scene that chapel blazing with light, as, dropping his cloak, Sir Roger strode into its centre, dressed in the uniform of his own regiment of Yeomanry.

“‘Away with him,’ cried the priest, and a score of blades leaped from their scabbards.

“‘Silence, gentlemen,’ said the baronet, no way dismayed, his voice sounding clear and sonorous above the tumult, ‘the place is surrounded. I have but to raise my voice, and the soldiers enter. Disperse while there is yet time.’

“The conspirators looked into each other’s faces with blank amazement. Some moved towards the door of the chapel and, returning, told that men wearing the Royal uniform were outside.