CHAPTER XIV. THE TABLES TURNED--THE SAILOR’S STORY.

“As thou urgest justice, be assur’d

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir’st.”

Shakspere.

|Proverbs may be musty matters; but take them generally, and how admirably do they establish facts! “Between the cup and lip” slips are frequent and, as events turned out, Mr. Montague, of comic celebrity, was fated to point that moral.

Nothing could have been attended with more decisive success than the villany of the Jew. His boundless audacity had imposed upon a weak-headed country gentleman; and the information he had acquired at the Cock and Punch-bowl by listening at the wanderer’s door, enabled him to describe the property, alleged to have been stolen, with an accuracy that induced the greater number of those who heard the charge, to believe the story of the robbery confirmed. The hour of revenge was come. The girl, deprived of her protector, and thrown loose upon the world, would once more be at his mercy; and the Jew’s dark eyes brightened with fiendish delight. The man who had crossed his schemes, and treated him with contumely, would now be tenant of a prison; and the woman who had turned from him with contempt, and rejected his overtures with abhorrence, might soon be taught to feel that hatred often follows fast upon the steps of love.

But what appeared to the Jew to be the hour of his triumph, proved unexpectedly, that of retribution; for to mortal villany Providence assigns a limit.

The sudden appearance of the sailor, and the confusion it had occasioned, prevented the entrance of a second personage from being generally observed. Indeed, he slided so quietly into the room, that he seemed modestly endeavouring to avoid any particular attention. The stranger was a stout well-proportioned man, of middle height, and apparently of middle age; and from dress and appearance, it would have been impossible to guess to what order of the body politic he especially appertained. Except for a certain wide-awake expression of the face, he might have passed current for a mail-coachman, a publican, or a drover. Probably, to a horse-dealer he bore the closest affinity. He was dressed in a blue coat with gilt buttons, and extensive skirts and pockets. His vest was scarlet; his unmentionables drab kerseymere, to which jockey-boots were added. Round his neck a spotted silk handkerchief was knotted; and a white hat, with a remarkably broad brim, completed his costume.

Every eye had been directed upon the sailor and the companion of Mark Antony; but lie of the scarlet vest seemed unmoved by a scene that had interested all besides. Indeed, he was a person on whom effect, such as Napoleon would term “theatrical,” would have been absolutely thrown away. His feelings were impervious even to a fainting fit; and he had no more _sentiment_ about him than an oyster. Gliding behind the backs of the spectators, he reached the spot whence Mr. Montague had delivered his address to the man of worship, and stooping to the Jew’s ear, whispered something which possessed the charm of a spell. To the very lip, colour fled from the sallow countenance of the Israelite. He appeared as motionless as if he had been mesmerized; while by a sort of sleight-of-hand the red-vested operator united his wrists together, quickly as if it had been done by magic, next moment it was discovered that Mr. Montague was manacled. The stranger then handed a paper to the gentleman upon the bench, with a request that he would “back that warrant for the apprehension of the prisoner, Ikey Lazarus.”

Of all the descendants of “the Shallows” Mr. Blundell looked the silliest. At last, however, he managed to comprehend that the Israelite was a returned convict, and added his signature to the order for the Jew’s arrest. The court, “in most admired disorder,” was broken up; the runner retiring with his captive; the sergeant and his companions to finish a compotation from which they had been unexpectedly disturbed; and the fosterer to seek some tidings of his lost mistress, who, as he was informed, had been removed by the sailor in a carriage to the inn.

“When consciousness returned, the poor wanderer found herself in the same apartment from which, not an hour since, she had been removed on a charge of felony. She unclosed her eyes. Was it an illusion? A look of love was bent upon her pallid countenance--and a long lost brother held her to his heart.

“William,” she murmured.

“Dear, dear, Julia,” returned the sailor, with a kiss.

“Am I waking?--are you _alive_, William?”

“Ay, girl,” replied the sailor, “and sound and hearty as English oak itself.”

“‘Twas said you were dead--that you had been slain in battle. How came you here? how have you escaped?”

“The story’s long, my sister. I’ll tell it to you presently. Enough; the squall has now blown over; and, d----n it--we shall all be happy once more.”

“No, no, no--I shall never know peace of mind. Would that I could be forgiven!” and tears rolled in fast succession down the poor wanderer’s cheeks.

“Forgiven!” exclaimed the sailor. “For what, Julia?--For being swindled by the false story of a betrayer; and afterwards, with more than woman’s love, clinging to the scoundrel who deceived you, until the grave closed upon his crimes.”

“I have indeed,” said the girl, with a sigh, “suffered for my offending. Oh, when I think of it, it almost maddens me! To have deserted my poor father, broken the old man’s heart, and by my misconduct brought him to the grave.” She paused, for sobs choked her utterance.

“You didn’t, God bless ye, break his heart,” exclaimed the sailor. “Had you run off a dozen times, he wouldn’t have mattered it a stranded rope-yarn. No, no, it was other disappointments that finished uncle Josh.”

“_Finished uncle Josh?_” inquired the wanderer.

“Ay; he’s gone to Davy’s locker, and the village has been quiet ever since. Three clients compromised their suits within one term; that killed our uncle, and Josh never raised his head afterwards.”

“No, no, William--my father--my dear, dear, father--” she made a pause, and then, in a suppressed voice, added, “Is _he_ not dead too?”

“Dead!” replied the sailor. “He must have died since morning. I left him at a town ten miles off, while I came in pursuit of you, in company with a Bow-street officer, who was on another track, but offered to assist in your recovery.”

“Then,” exclaimed the girl, with breathless haste, “the death I read in the newspaper--”

“Was that of our loving uncle. I suppose it was George Gripp that inserted the old boy’s departure; for I believe the bailiff was the only being who regretted him.”

“And shall I once more, William, see my dear, dear, father?” said the actress.

“Ay, Julia, and before you sleep, the old man’s kiss shall welcome you, and his blessing seal your pardon.”

To the hurried narrative of his sister, the warm-hearted sailor listened with the deepest interest. The sufferings she had undergone; the death of her betrayer; her deliverance from the Jew; the kindness of Mrs. O’Leary, and the generous protection of the fosterer, all had their excitement, and elicited from William Rawlings by turns an execration or a burst of gratitude. No, wonder, therefore, that when Mark Antony joined the wanderer and her new protector, his welcome was a warm one. And yet how mingled in life’s history is pain and pleasure!--how soon is unexpected happiness dashed with some latent regret! The prospect of an immediate parting alloyed the triumph of success. Neither Mark Antony nor the quarter-master’s daughter felt at ease; and a similar cause of disquietude pressed heavily upon the breast of both. Under different terms, the feeling was the same; the fosterer called it by the right name--love; the lady by the wrong one--gratitude. Had the hearts of both been analysed, the chymist would have had results perfectly the same.

“William,” said the sailor’s sister, “you have not yet told me by what strange fortunes, one believed to be dead so long, has been again restored to those who love him. Oh! how vividly does that fatal evening return to memory, when you left your sister and your home. Alas! William, had you but known how desperately I was circumstanced, you would not have deprived me of my brother and my adviser.”

“That unregretted relative,” replied the sailor, “now in the grave, occasioned the rash act I then committed. No shadow of blame could have attached itself to me; for with the unfortunate homicide which occurred that evening I was totally unconnected. My savage uncle, who should have allayed my fears, alarmed me by hinting at the disgrace of incarceration; and, with the full conviction of innocence, I was weak enough to believe him. Hence, Julia, to evade an imaginary indignity, I madly left my home--and that at a moment, too, when my presence was most required. The adventures which befell me may interest you, my sister, and I shall briefly narrate them.”

THE SAILOR’S STORY

I need not tell you, Julia, that, with whatever apparent firmness I might have taken leave of you, to tear myself from a home, a parent, and a sister that I loved so fondly, was a trial which taxed my fortitude to its utmost extent. It is true, that I had been long weary of inaction, and longing after those scenes of wild excitement which war every day presents, and which to the ardent fancy of young minds are always so engrossing. Yet I hesitated to take the step; for, in my pursuit of that phantom, glory, how many objects of affection must be abandoned! The accidental embarrassment arising from the smuggling outrage of the evening confirmed me in a course already half resolved upon. I obeyed the impulse; parted from you, love; and at midnight found myself on board that gallant “thing of life,”--a British frigate.

Of her own noble class of vessels, the Harpy was among the finest; and she had a picked crew, and dashing commander. Cæsar O’Brien was an Irishman of humble family, and yet at the early age of twenty-four, he found himself a post-captain. But to no underhand interest was he indebted for his rapid preferment. His career had been gloriously distinguished; he could look back upon it with honest pride, and claim every step he got on the score of professional deserving. Justly considered one of the ablest officers in the service, it was strange that upon his merits his own crew held a divided opinion. The younger portion declared him a man without a fault; the older, however, discovered a failing in his character.--“The captain,” they complained, “_had too much fight in him_. It was true, he had an Irishman’s good luck; but, in the long run, it would bring him into trouble.”

To you, Julia, the details of sea-life would have little interest. We were stationed off the coast of France; and from our captain’s daring character, he had been intrusted with a sort of roving commission, and allowed to employ the frigate almost as he pleased. During a six-months’ cruise, nothing, for brilliancy or effect, could exceed the services he _had_ rendered to his country. In every French harbour the Harpy’s exploits were known and her captain’s name associated with those of England’s most daring and fortunate commanders.

From the moment I entered the frigate as a volunteer, I had been fortunate enough to become a favourite with Captain O’Brien. In a successful night-attack upon a battery and privateer, in which we dismantled the one, and Cut out the other, my conduct was honourably mentioned by the first lieutenant, and the captain’s clerk having been killed on the occasion, I was promoted to fill the vacancy. In this confidential situation I acquitted myself with credit--and to the hour of his death, was treated by the warm-hearted Irishman more like an equal than an inferior.

The period of our cruise had expired, and an order came for the frigate to return to England and refit. At sunset, the vessel sent to relieve us was seen in the distance; and before dark, she had exchanged numbers with the Harpy. In all our gallant crew not one heavy heart could have been discovered. After a daring and successful cruise, next morning the frigate’s head would be turned to the white-cliffed island from which, for nine months, we had been estranged; and all, from “the noblest captain in the British fleet” to the smallest ship-boy, felt the charm which attends a return to fatherland, and slept to dream of “England, home, and beauty.”

Three hundred men rested that night in full security--and how-few were fated to see another sunset! Morning dawned--the breeze was light; the ocean mists rose rapidly; gradually the sea view enlarged; and every eye turned in that direction where the ship, arrived from England, might be expected to present herself. At last, a sail was announced from the mast-head, and the Harpy’s course was altered towards the stranger’s. In half-an-hour, the ship in sight was proclaimed by the look-out men “a heavy frigate.” The private signal was made--some minutes passed--the signal was unanswered--and every glass and eye were directed towards a ship now ascertained to be an enemy.

In a moment orders were given to crowd canvass on the frigate. The drum beat to quarters; the sails were accurately trimmed; and, as if she had determined to sustain her well-earned reputation to the last, the Harpy dashed through the water gallantly--and for every two knots the chase sailed, we went three.

When the frigate was under a cloud of sail, Captain O’Brien retired to his cabin to dress, leaving orders that the progress of the chase, from time to time, should be reported. As he passed me, he touched my arm and whispered me to follow him. I did so. The captain desired his servant to retire, put on his uniform, affixed a foreign order to his breast, and, having unlocked a drawer, he took from it a sealed packet, and thus addressed me.

“Rawlings,” he said, “from the hour you entered this frigate, I have remarked your character and conduct. From the high opinion I formed of both, I selected you to fill a place of trust, and I am now about to give you what may be a last proof of confidence.

“I am the founder of my own fortune. My father was an humble curate, not ‘passing rich on forty pounds a year,’ but poor as a church-mouse, and my mother the daughter of a farmer. I was born in one of the remotest villages on the western coast of Ireland; and, except the advantages of education--the only boon my poor father could bestow--I had nothing to distinguish me in boyhood from the sons of the fishermen who inhabited our secluded hamlet. Like them, the sea was the element I loved; and, but for an accident, like them also, I should have lived and died upon that element unknown.

“One evening, when I was about twelve years old, a message came from the only publie-house the village boasted, to say that a sick stranger had arrived and was most anxious to see a clergyman. The summons was obeyed; and my father was introduced to an elderly man, who seemed to be dangerously ill, and greatly exhausted by his journey. He announced himself a lieutenant of a man-of-war; he had been for several years on the West-India station; was now on leave of absence for bad health; and was endeavouring to reach a town at a considerable distance from our hamlet, to try whether native air might not yet effect a cure. The exertion, however, had been too much for him; and on arriving at the public-house, he found himself unable to proceed farther.

“The parson was a kind-hearted being, and as hospitable as he was poor. The ale-house was noisy and uncomfortable, and he therefore pressed the stranger to take up his residence at our cottage, where, with quiet and care, it was probable that he might speedily come round again. My father’s invitation was accepted; and in a few days the invalid was so far restored as to be enabled to resume his journey. He took his leave accordingly, gratefully acknowledging the kindness and attention of my parents, to which he attributed his recovery.

“A year passed--the stranger was forgotten; and our lonely villagers had no events to excite them beyond every-day occupations. They were removed from the cares and anxieties of busier life; but, as events proved, they were not secure from its common calamities.

“Typhus fever broke out in a neighbouring sea-port; the crew of a fishing-boat caught the infection, and introduced the terrible disease into our crowded hamlet. Numbers became its victims; and in the same week both my parents died, and I was left upon the world without any natural protector.

“On the evening of my father’s funeral I was sent for to the public-house, and there, to my surprise, I found the stranger who had been my father’s guest a year before. The sick lieutenant had been restored to health, and was about to resume his professional duties. He had been appointed to a ship; but before he left the kingdom, he made our village his line of route, that he might have an opportunity of thanking my parents once more for past kindnesses. He found those who succoured him in the grave,--their only child an orphan, and without a relative who could afford him protection or a home.

“A tear trickled down the cheek of the rough old sailor, as he listened to the story of my destitution.

“‘And has he no friends, poor boy?’ inquired the lieutenant.

“‘None,’ said the landlord, in reply. ‘I believe he has not one relative who could give him a second meal, nor a friend who--”

“‘False, by Heaven!’ exclaimed the tar. ‘He has a friend who will divide his last guinea with him; and from this hour, I am the orphan’s father!’

“I must be brief. Lieutenant Oakley stopped that evening in the village, and when he left it next morning I was his companion. He was a rough, but warm-hearted sailor of the old school; and, after a year’s probation, he succeeded in having me rated on the books of a line-of-battle ship as midshipman. A few months afterwards, my protector was killed in a boat affair upon the coast of Spain--once more I was left upon the world--and at fifteen years of age I had to fight with fortune as I could.

“Rawlings, you know now the story of my early life. Without a being to guide my boyhood, I was flung on the wide ocean of existence. The sword has been my talisman, and I have hewn my own road to fame. My very destitution placed me in fortune’s track. I had no gentle ties to bind me to the world: if I died, none would shed a tear: what, then, was life to me?--A nothing! I staked it with a gambler’s recklessness, and I have earned for myself the name that birth denied me.”

A noise on deck was heard. “Stay here,” he said; “I will return immediately.” After a few minutes, Captain O’Brien re-entered the cabin, his face beaming with delight, and its expression betokening the confidence of anticipated victory.

“The Harpy goes nobly through it!” he exclaimed. “Blow, sweet breeze! blow for another hour steadily--bring me alongside that splendid frigate--and then, Dame Fortune! thy spoiled child shall tax thee no further.”

He paused; took two or three turns across the cabin, and then resumed the strain of former conversation.

“Time presses--and now, Rawlings, for another disclosure. Three years ago I returned to England,--‘The happy deed that gilds my humble name was done--I obtained promotion for the service--and wherever I appeared, flattering tokens of popular approbation were heaped on me with unmeasured liberality. Men cheered me as I passed, and--prouder honour--woman smiled upon the daring sailor. To the highest circles the curate’s son was introduced: my passport, _à coup de sabre_, which finished a French captain, and enabled me to lay hands on the halliards of a frigate’s ensign, before those of fifty stout boarders as myself. I met a woman: she was older than myself a year or two; noble by birth; and for beauty, if you sought England over--and that is beauty’s home--you could not find her peer. She was followed and worshipped: the proudest claimed her smiles, and the noblest coronet was offered for her acceptance. Chance introduced me to her father; and I was a casual visitor at his house, with men distinguished for both high birth and unbounded wealth. Would it be credited that I was preferred by that proud lady to all who sought her hand? I--the ocean child--before a crowd of nobles--the humble sailor loved by the _fiancée_ of a duke! ’Tis over;--she is another’s now: and with the heart that fate forbade being united to mine, the mutual secret rests.

“You know enough to understand the service I require. If in the approaching conflict my brief career shall close, the story of my love must perish with me. In this sealed packet there are memorials, that, living, I could not part with, and, in death, must be destroyed. It is leaded--and should I fall, consign it to the same element where I shall find a grave. Farewell! I feel a strange assurance, that with this day’s events, whatever they may prove, my history is doomed to terminate. No matter! Where could it close more gloriously?”

He said, and quitted the cabin for the deck; and when I had secured the sealed packet in my breast, I followed him.

The chase had now assumed an interest almost impossible to be imagined. Both frigates, in the parlance of the sea, were “staggering under a press of canvass;” and the goal for which each vessel strained was a small harbour, with a narrow entrance through the centre of a reef of rocks. There, the Frenchman expected to find his safety--and we endeavoured to cut him off from this his haven of inglorious refuge. We were still two gun-shots astern--the harbour not a league off--the wind began to fail--and as the Harpy sailed best with a stiff breeze, we lost the advantage we had formerly possessed in speed. Indeed, the Frenchman’s escape seemed almost certain. He must gain the anchorage before we could bring him to close action; and, daring as our captain was, surely he would not venture into a roadstead on every side surrounded with heavy batteries, and approachable through a narrow opening in a reef of rocks?

Alas! Fortune may be tried too frequently--and even her chosen favourites will prove her at times capricious. Again, the breeze freshened, and the Harpy drew fast a-head. The vessels were now within cannon range--the chase-guns of both had opened--and at the third discharge from ours, the main-top-mast of the Frenchman came down. It is probable that fatal success induced our captain to take the step he did. Instead of bringing his frigate to the wind, he held his course, and desperately ran into a hostile harbour from which it was decreed we never should return.

The result of this rash act was brilliant as it proved disastrous. After a close engagement of forty minutes, the enemy’s frigate was totally dismasted, and driven--a wreck--upon the rocks; and Captain O’Brien having completed her destruction, endeavoured to work the Harpy out.

For a time we suffered but trifling injury from the cross-fire of the batteries, and it was almost certain that we should weather the tail of the reef, and clear the entrance of the harbour. The frigate was in stays. “She’ll do it easily,” exclaimed the master; while Captain O’Brien, with a smile of exultation, whispered in my ear, “What think you, Rawlings, of the fortunes of the curate’s son? Hold on the packet--my star has saved us!” Alas! his exultation was but short-lived. A thirty-two-pound shot struck us as he spoke: the foretop-mast went over the side--we missed stays, fell off to leeward, and settled on the reef, within musket-range of the heaviest battery.

The seas struck the vessel so fast and heavily that it was quite apparent she would speedily go to pieces. The captain fell mortally wounded. He turned a dying look to me: I understood its silent order; and the packet which contained the memorials of his secret love was committed to the deep.

In a few minutes afterwards the fate of all on board the Harpy was decided. A lofty swell came rolling in--the disabled frigate was lifted off the reef--she fell over into deep water, settled, and went down; and in her shattered hull, the dead, the dying, and the living found a common grave; for, with the exception of myself and six others, not another soul of that gallant crew escaped. ‘We saved ourselves on floating portions of the wreck, to be picked up the same evening, and made prisoners.

What calamitous events had one brief day produced! On the preceding evening, how happily had I sought my hammock, home in my fancy, and you, Julia, in my dreams! How was all changed! frigate and crew buried together in the ocean deeps, and in the very moment of their triumph!--and the poor handful that survived, consigned to a captivity so hopeless, that to its duration no limit could be assigned!

We were marched into the interior, and secured in an old fortress, already over-crowded with squalid creatures, half-clad, half-starved, and to whom, generally, death would have been a deliverance--the only one, indeed, that they, poor wretches, could look to with any thing like certainty. At first, I thought I should have sunk into despair; but it is strange how soon men will accommodate themselves to misery. Gradually the cup of suffering lost a portion of its bitterness; and in the laugh, at first torturous to my ears, at last _I_ could also join. “Let none despond, let none despair”--there is no mortal evil without its remedy. Before a month passed, the elasticity of my spirit returned--another current of thought occupied my mind--my very dreams were engrossed with projects of escape--and every bird that flitted across the prison walls seemed to invite me to become as free as it was.

The governor was a soldier of the republic, wounded and worn out, and for past services entrusted with the custody of the prisoners of war collected in the fortress. He was a strict disciplinarian; stern in enforcing obedience to the regulations of the place, but kind at heart, and easily conciliated. After my first despondency had abated, I endeavoured to resign myself to my fate; and by conforming to the rules which Captain St. Simon had laid down for due maintenance of order, I became rather a favourite with the commandant.

No one could question the bravery of Captain St. Simon; for, among other daring acts he had performed, he had married a woman thirty years younger than himself. The lady was very pretty, very gay, loved fêtes and dancing, and detested the dulness of the fortress. One child had blessed the marriage-bed of the commandant: she was a sweet girl of three years; and in her the affections of both parents seemed to centre. Indeed, they idolized the child; and none could know little Claudine and not love her.

To children I have been ever partial; and with the governor’s I soon became a favourite. I never passed Claudine without a kiss. My attentions gratified the parents. Madame rewarded them with a smile, and the old republican, with long narratives of all that he had done at Lodi and Marengo.

Upon the unfortunates within the place, the effects of captivity were variously exhibited. Some bore confinement with apparent indifference, while others evinced a sullen despondency. One man struck me as being more miserable than any in the fortress besides; and the fixed melancholy visible in his air and countenance induced me to inquire who he was, and ask the cause of his being more wretched than the rest.

His name was Aylmer, and he was a captain of dragoons. In returning from the Peninsula, the merchantman in which he came home a passenger had been taken by a privateer; and, to render that accident the more distressing, the errand that brought him to England was to marry a beautiful girl, to whom for years he had been passionately attached. Hitherto, pecuniary considerations forbade the union; but by the death of a wealthy relative that obstacle was removed. What must have been his disappointment, when, almost in sight of the home of her he loved so ardently, fate marred his promised happiness, and dashed from the very lip the cup of bliss!

No wonder, then, that Aylmer bore this visitation with impatience. Months wore away; interest had been used to accomplish an exchange; and now a hope was held out that this much desired event would be speedily effected. Once more the captive smiled; the colour returned to his faded cheek, and his brow was no longer contracted. Alas for woman’s faith! News came from England, that she whom he all but idolized had forgotten the being who loved so truly,--and--that she was married to another!

From that moment Aylmer never smiled. His heart was seared; his hopes of happiness were withered. He became a gloomy misanthrope; prowled through the dark passages of the prison by himself; rejected every overture at intimacy; and that which had once been a gentle heart, seemed to lose all sympathy with the human race, and become to all its species wolfish and immitigable.

There stood at one angle of the fortress an ancient tower of immense height, which, for many miles, overlooked the surrounding country. By a winding staircase the top of the building could be gained; the roof was fiat, and encircled by a parapet not quite breast-high; and, as the view from the summit was varied and extensive, prisoners, who would go through the labour of ascending seven flights of granite stairs, amused a portion of monotonous captivity by gazing in listless idleness on scenes of busy life, which, to their state of thrall, presented a sad and sickening contrast. This tower was a favourite retreat of Captain Aylmer--and over the parapet of the roof he would lean alone for hours, muttering gloomily to himself, or communing with sad thoughts in silence.

Often, when Claudine was in my arms, I observed, that in passing us, the expression of Aylmer’s eyes was absolutely malignant; and I marvelled that a face so innocently beautiful as that of the child of the commandant, did not, like David’s harp, exert a gentle influence, and speak peace to the dark spirit of the captive. It was strange also, that, by some curious impulse, Claudine involuntarily recoiled from this melancholy man, and that while he continued in sight, she would cling closely to my bosom as if there she was seeking for protection.

It was the evening of a sultry day, and the hour was come when, by prison regulations, the _détenus_ were expected to repair to their respective wards, and there be locked up for the night. On my way to the gallery where I slept, I had to cross an esplanade in front of the governor’s house. Claudine noticed me from the window, and ran out to say “good night.” I carried her a few paces in my arms, kissed the pretty child, set her down, and received from the fond mother a gracious nod of approbation. The drum ruffled, it was the signal for the prisoners to fall in for roll-call, and I hurried on. Suddenly a piercing shriek arrested me. I turned round; Madame St. Simon had uttered it, and one movement of her arm told the cause. Aylmer was running madly across the esplanade in the direction of the old tower, with Claudine struggling in his embrace.

I dashed after him at headlong speed. He sprang into the building and bounded up the stairs--Claudine’s wild screams continued--and I heard her calling “William!” Although Aylmer had cleared one flight of steps before I entered, I overtook him as he jumped with his intended victim on the roof; seized him with one arm, and twisting my hand into his collar, half strangled him, and forced him to drop the child. Upon me the full fury of his rage was turned, and a deadly struggle commenced. In height and weight we were equally matched; but his maniac strength was superhuman. After a desperate conflict of a minute, both came heavily to the ground locked in each other’s arms, the madman uppermost.

In turn, he attempted to choke me, and I as desperately resisted. Apparently, the phrenzy of his rage rendered him insensible to pain; for though I caught his hand within my teeth until they met, the maniac would not let go his murderous hold. My strength failed, I found myself fainting, another minute and his triumph would have been complete, but fortunately, an alarm had been given that brought assistance, and three of the gendarmes who formed the prison guard, rushed on the tower roof with drawn swords, tore Aylmer away, and endeavoured to secure him.

With a marvellous effort the madman shook his assailants off, and answered their order to surrender with a laugh of wild derision--“Ha! ha! ha!” he shouted, “you fancy that Aylmer will be a prisoner. Tell your commander, that if that sailor fellow had not marred my scheme of vengeance, his fair girl would have been what in another moment I shall be--a shattered mass of lifeless flesh--and now for the leap of liberty! Ha, ha!” he roared out convulsively, and, with a demon’s laugh, before any could lay hands upon him, the maniac vaulted across the platform of the tower, and we heard, some twenty seconds afterwards, the dull sound his lifeless body made as it fell on the paved court below.

I had received some severe bruises in the deadly struggle with, the unfortunate madman; and my throat and neck were blackened by the pressure of his knuckles. The gendarmes supported me to the governor’s house, wine was given me, and the surgeons of the fortress were called in. From Madame, I received abundantly the ardent tokens of a woman’s gratitude in tears and kisses, while the old republican, her husband, held my hand in his, and, with the speechless eloquence of the eye, thanked me in the silence of a heart too full to give utterance to its feelings, for saving the treasure of his soul.

No wonder then, that with me the rigour of imprisonment was abated, and that I was now a captive but in name. At the governor’s table a cover was laid for me, the old man treating me as he would have done a son; and Nina, as his wife was named, regarding me as a brother. Of course I felt the kindness evinced by both; and I might have been supposed to be the happiest captive in the fortress. Yet the yearning after home continued; and many a sigh told Nina and her husband, that notwithstanding their efforts to remove it, “a sickening void was aching in the breast.”

“William,” said the old republican, as he passed the wine-flask over, “Why have you been so dispirited of late? Is it within my power to make you happier? Have you any thing to ask for?”

I kept silence.

Nina’s eyes filled--“Speak, William! speak without reserve.”

A blackbird was hanging in his cage beside the open casement.

“What would that captive ask for,” I replied, “could he but make known his wishes?”

“I understand you,” said the governor; “and what you sigh after is almost the only boon beyond my power of granting. For liberty, the appeal must be made to the highest individual in the empire, and let me at once apprise you, that _there_ you would find the ear of mercy closed. You seem astonished--listen, and wonder then will cease.

“Our prison regulations are framed, in some degree, according to the system of our general police; and the character and career of those committed to my charge are carefully recorded. To the safe custody of those who have been daring and successful, my attention is especially directed; and while with a nameless man an exchange is effected without much difficulty, he, who if free, might prove a troublesome enemy, is rarely restored to liberty. Your frigate was the terror of our coast. Your captain bore a reputation second to none among the most daring and dangerous of your naval adventurers. You are noted in our prison record as having won your leader’s favour, by assisting in some bold exploit that I do not recollect at present. Believe me, my dear boy, it would be hopeless to expect that you, and spirits like yourself, would be allowed an opportunity of harassing the coast of France a second time. I go to make my prison returns to-morrow. Would that I might venture the experiment of getting your name included in the next cartel with any prospect of success! Oh! no, no, it were idle--it were hopeless altogether.”

That night when I retired to my cot, I felt the sad conviction that nothing but escape could ever effect my deliverance from the gloomy fortress, in which, it would appear that for life I was fated to remain immured.

The next morning passed in the dull monotony of confinement. I supped with Nina and her child. The commander was to be absent for two days, and when Claudine retired to bed, Madame St. Simon and I were left together. Latterly I had observed a change in Nina’s manner. There was not the same freedom that formerly had marked our intercourse, and while kinder than ever, I fancied that her gaiety was assumed, and her spirits forced and unnatural. Since the evening of poor Aylmer’s suicide, I had been transferred to a small chamber attached to the governor’s dwelling, was exempted from attending roll-call, and left consequently with unrestrained liberty, to wander through the prison where I pleased. It struck eleven, the fortress was quiet, the guard set, and I rose, to leave Nina, and repair to my own chamber.

“Good night,” I said, “my sister;” for by that name I had been permitted to address the lady of the governor.

“Stop--William,” she replied, in evident embarrassment, “I wish to talk with you alone.”

I sate down again beside her.

“I have remarked how ardently you are longing after freedom. St. Simon cannot honourably effect it; and a soldier’s honour, William, should be dearer far to him than life.”

“I know you feel the sentiment, and I am convinced that it guides your acts, my brother.”

“I hope so, Nina.”

“And surely it should guide _mine_--a soldier’s wife--a soldier’s orphan. I never told you my short history, William.”

“No, dear Nina.”

“I am the daughter of a sous-lieutenant, who was killed in the Low Countries while I was yet a baby. Dying, he committed me to a comrade’s care; and faithfully that comrade discharged what he considered a sacred duty. I was tenderly nursed when young, and when I was old enough, placed as a boarder in a convent. At fifteen, my benefactor’s sister, with whom I had resided for the two preceding years, died suddenly. I was thus left, to a certain extent, without protection; and Captain St. Simon offered me the only one a man can give--the sacred one of husband. In our marriage, love could not have had aught to do. He was fifty; I, fifteen. He, for honourable motives had offered to make me his, and I, through gratitude, consented. Five years have passed. All the happiness which could be expected from a union so unequal in point of years, has been mine. If I said I were happy as a wife, I should say what was untrue. But am I not the consort of a brave old man, the mother of a child, in whom all my love is centered?”

“And with these objects of affection, Nina, you must be happy.”

“I was,” she answered, with a sigh.

“_Was?_ Nina. Nay, nay, _you are_.”

“No, William; strong in gratitude to my husband. I feel a woman’s weakness in the heart, and love and duty by turns obtain its mastery. William, neither you nor I have yet seen two-and-twenty summers; and at that age, friendship is too close akin to love to be encouraged. My husband dare not assist you to escape--_I dare, and will_. Prudence tells us to separate; and the act that would sully the honest reputation of the old soldier, is not dishonourable in his wife. Yes--it shall be done. I have already devised means for your deliverance, and when my plan is fully matured, you shall know all. Farewell. Let us not meet in future but in my husband’s presence.” She stooped her cheek to me, I kissed it, next moment she quitted the supper-room, and I returned to my chamber, to marvel how much strength and weakness, principle and passion, can be united in a woman’s heart!

The following day the governor returned. I, as usual, took my place at the dinner-table, and Nina met me with smiles. She seemed perfectly at ease, I, also, exerted myself to be cheerful, and none would have suspected that secret love was lurking in the bosoms of us both.

“I would that you had witnessed the review,” said the old soldier. “It was, indeed, a splendid spectacle. And the Emperor looked so delighted as the troops filed past! Well he might, a nobler or more perfect _corps d’armée_ never was collected. Egad, the sight warmed this old blood again; and I think there’s stuff in me for another campaign. Will you, William, take charge of Madame and Claudine?” said the commandant, laughingly. I made some indifferent reply--Nina’s eye met mine--it seemed to say, the charge would have been a dangerous one.

We heard the inner gate of the fortress open, a horse’s feet clattered along the pavement, and, in a short time, a _chasseur à cheval_ presented himself, and delivered a despatch to the commandant.

The moment the seal was broken the old man’s eye turned to me. “It is,” he said, “an answer to the memorial I handed to the Emperor yesterday. I petitioned for your liberty, William; and stated, in as warm language as I could, the grounds on which I asked the favour. I know, even from the promptness of the reply, that my application has been rejected. Well, it is only what I was prepared for. Let us read the terms of the refusal. lia! I know the handwriting; it is that of my old comrade, Duroc.

“‘I am desired, by his Majesty the Emperor, to acknowledge the receipt of a petition from Captain St. Simon. Its prayer, that the English sailor, William Rawlings, shall be set at liberty, is hereby peremptorily rejected.’’

“I thought so,” said the commandant with a sigh, as he let the paper fall upon the floor. A deep and painful silence succeeded, while Claudine picked the letter up and handed it to her mother.

“Read it, Nina--we know the worst.”

The lady complied, taking up the perusal of the document at the point where her husband had stopped. “‘But from the moment this order comes to hand, give the gallant Englishman the enclosed bill, and let the preserver of the soldier’s child receive freedom from the hand of her father.’ See! the initial of the great Napoleon is annexed,--and a note for five hundred francs! You are free, William.’ May Heaven’s blessings light upon our gracious Emperor!” And Nina flung herself upon my breast. She wept--were her tears those of love or joy?

“I must be brief, Julia. By the first cartel, I came back to England--repaired to our native village--heard, for the first time, the sad tidings of your elopement--found my father living--my uncle dead--and learned that, for many months, the poor quarter-master had been in mourning for his son. To the broken-hearted old man the news was cautiously communicated that he was not so desolate as he believed himself. One child was restored to him as from the dead, and tidings were heard of the wanderer. Instantly, we set out to seek the lost one, and, thank Heaven! our search has not been vain. Yes, Julia, our once happy cottage shall again be the home of peace; and ere the sun sets, a father’s blessing shall seal the pardon of his returning child. And now, before we commence our journey, I have to compensate the officer for his trouble; and, indeed, without his assistance, I should have scarcely found you out. Was it not a strange fatality, that objects so different as those that brought the runner and myself from England, should have led us to the same point?” He said, and left the room. What occurred then and there between the fosterer and fair fugitive, may be readily imagined. Their troth was mutually interchanged; and, “resolved in future to do right,” subject to a father’s approbation, the lady consented at the expiration of a year to commit matrimony a second time, and share the fortunes of Mark Antony O’Toole.

As the travellers branched off by the roads which intersected each other in front of the little hostelrie, their appearance, and the objects of their present pursuits, might be taken as a _tableau vivant_ of what life is--of what man aims at. By one road, the sailor and his sister were hastening to restore comfort to an afflicted heart--by another, the Jew, in charge of the officer of justice, was being conveyed to that home of felony--a jail. The third road tended to scenes of glory; and thither the soldier was hastening after seducing the student to quit the cloister for the field. The fourth route the fosterer took at chance, and reckless whither it might lead to, there Mark Antony determined to recommence his wanderings; and “the captain” having discovered that there was another who, for a time at least, was bent on taking the world as it came, at once proposed to form a travelling co-partnership.

The reader may find out hereafter, that had Mark Antony declined the offer of the rat-catcher, he might have pointed a moral, by “going further and faring worse.” Indeed, it would have been well for me had I the good luck of falling into as honest company, and short as the succeeding chapter is, I think it will establish that fact.