Gordon Stables (continued 3)

Mr Hall was now brightening up again, and all the survivors of the unfortunate Wolverine, having something to engage their attention, became quite jolly and happy. I scarce need mention Matty. The child was happy under all circumstances.

Ilda, too, was contented. Perhaps never more so than when taking long walks with Reginald up the lovely valley, gathering wildflowers, or fishing in the winding river.

Ilda was really beautiful. Her beauty was almost of the classical type, and her voice was sweet to listen to. So thought Reginald.

“How charmingly brown the sun has made you, dear Ilda,” said Reginald, as she leant on his arm by the riverside.

He touched her lightly on the cheek as he spoke. Her head fell lightly on his shoulder just then, as if she were tired, and he noticed that there were tears in her eyes.

“No, not tired,” she answered, looking up into his face.

Redder, sweeter lips surely no girl ever possessed.

For just a moment he drew her to his breast and kissed those lips.

Ah, well, Reginald Grahame was only a man.

I fear that Ilda was only a woman, and that she really loved the handsome, brown-faced and manly doctor.

They had now been one year and two months away from Scotland, and at this very moment the Laird Fletcher was paying all the attention in his power to Annie o’ the Banks o’ Dee. He was really a modern “Auld Robin Grey.”

“My mither she fell sick, An’ my Jamie at the sea; Then Aold Robin Grey came a-courting me.”

Chapter Eighteen.

A Cannibal Brewer and Cannibal Beer.

Queen Bertha of the Isle of Flowers had industriously laboured among her people. It gave her pleasure to do so. She even taught them English, which all could now speak after a fashion.

Well, while Dickson and Hall were drilling a small company of blacks as soldiers, and trying to make them experts in the use of the rifle—for they had over a score of these to spare—Reginald spent much of his time on the hills with his gun, shooting small wild pigs, rock-rabbits, tuen-tuens, etc. He was always accompanied by Ilda, merry Matty, and Oscar the Newfoundland. No matter where a wild bird fell, in river or lake, or in the bush, Oscar found it, and laid it at his master’s feet.

But one day Reginald, while shooting, made a singular discovery indeed. Far up in the hills they came upon the grass hut of a very peculiar old man indeed. Before reaching the place quite, they met three natives, and they were evidently intoxicated, staggering, laughing, singing and dancing.

The old man was seated in his doorway. Around his hut were at least a dozen huge clay jars, with clay lids, and these contained beer of some sort. He was the most hideous old wretch that Reginald had yet clapped eyes on. Even Matty was terrified, and hugged the great dog round the neck as she gazed on that awful-looking and repulsive creature.

“These jars,” said Reginald, “evidently contain some intoxicating drink. And the old brewer doesn’t look a beauty, nor a saint either!”

Nor did he. Here he is, as I myself have seen him more than once. Squatting tailor-fashion outside the door of his dark and windowless hut, a man with a mop of rough silvery hair, thin lips, drawn back into a grin, so that one could see all his awful teeth—tusks they really seemed to be, each one filed into a pointed triangle, the better to tear human flesh. They were stained red. His eyes were red also, and like those of some scared wild beast and cheeks and brow were covered with symmetrical scars. But he was a brewer, and very busy plying his trade. Beside him were open cocoa-nuts and bunches of fragrant herbs.

“Go on,” said Reginald; “don’t let us interfere with business, pray.”

The horrid creature put a huge lump of cocoa-nut into his mouth, then some herbs, and chewed the lot together; then taking a mouthful of water from a chatty, he spat the whole mass into a jar and proceeded as before. This awful mess of chewed cocoa-nut, herbs, and saliva ferments into a kind of spirit. This is poured off and mixed with water, and lo! the beer of the cannibal islanders!

Reginald, noticing a strange-looking chain hanging across the old man’s scarred and tattooed chest, begged to examine it. To his astonishment, it consisted entirely of beautiful pearls and small nuggets of gold.

“Where did this come from, my man?”

“Ugh! I catchee he plenty twick. Plenty mo’. Ver’ mooch plenty.”

Reginald considered for a moment. Money was no good to an old wretch like this, but he wore around his waist a beautiful crimson sash. This he divested himself of, and held it up before the cannibal brewer.

“I will give you this for your chain,” he said, “and another as good to-morrow, if you will come now and show us where you find these things.”

The old man at once threw the chain at Reginald’s feet, and seized the scarf delightedly.

“I come quick—dis moment!” he cried. And he was as good as his word.

It was a long walk, and a wild one. Sometimes Reginald carried Matty; sometimes she rode on the great dog. But they arrived at last at the entrance to a gloomy defile, and here in the hillsides were openings innumerable, evidently not made by hands of man. Here, however, was an El Dorado. Caves of gold! for numerous small nuggets were found on the floors and shining in the white walls around them.

It was evident enough that it only needed digging and a little hard work to make a pile from any single one of these caves.

Next about the pearls. The old savage took the party to the riverside. He waded in, and in five minutes had thrown on shore at least a hundred pearl oysters. These, on coming to bank, he opened one by one, and ten large and beautiful white pearls were found, with ever so many half-faced ones.

Strange and wondrous indeed was the story that Reginald Grahame had to relate in private to Mr Hall and Captain Dickson on his return to his home by the sea.

At present the trio kept the secret to themselves. That gold was to be had for the gathering was evident enough. But to share it with six men was another question. It might be better, at all events, if they were first and foremost to make their own pile. Anyhow, the men’s services might be required; in that case they could choose their own claims, unless Reginald claimed the whole ravine. This he was entitled to do, but he was very far indeed from being mean and greedy.

But so intricate was the way to the ravine of gold that without a guide no one could possibly find it.

For six whole weeks no gold digging was thought about. Matters of even greater import occupied the minds of the white men.

The company of blacks was beautifully drilled by this time, and made fairly good marksmen with the rifle. They were, indeed, the boldest and bravest on the island, and many of them the Queen’s own bodyguards.

Well, the bay enclosed by the reefs on one of which the Wolverine had struck was the only landing-place in the whole island. Every other part of the shore was guarded by precipitous rocks a thousand feet high at least, rising sheer and black out of the ocean. The Armada must come here, then, if anywhere; and, moreover, the bay faced the enemy’s own island, although, with the exception of a mountain peak or two, seen above the horizon, it was far too distant to be visible.

A grass watch-tower was built on the brow of a hill, and a sentry occupied this by night as well as by day. Only keen-eyed blacks were chosen for this important duty, and they were told that if any suspicious sign was observed they must communicate immediately with Captain Dickson.

And now, facing the sea, a strong palisaded fort was built, and completely clayed over, so as to be almost invisible from the sea. It was roofed over with timber, as a protection against the enemy’s arrows; it was also loop-holed for rifles, and here, moreover, were mounted the two six-pounders. Plenty of ammunition for both rifles and guns was placed at a safe distance from the ports.

One evening the sentry ran below to report that, seeing a glare in the sky, he had climbed high up the mountain side, and by aid of the night-glass could see that fires were lighted on the brow of every low hill on the enemy’s island, and that savages in rings were wildly dancing around them. The sentry had no doubt that the attack on the Isle of Flowers would soon follow this. Dickson thanked the man heartily for his attention, gave him coffee and biscuit, and sent him back to the sentry hut. So kind was the captain, and so interested in the welfare of the blacks, that any one of those he had trained would have fought at fearful odds for him. For kindness towards, a savage soon wins his heart, and his respect as well.

Three days more passed by—oh, so slowly and wearily! For a cloud hovered over the camp that the white men tried in vain to dispel. There was this fearful Armada to face and to fight, and the anxiety born of thinking about it was harder to bear than the actual battle itself would be.

Dickson was a strictly pious man. Never a morning and never an evening passed without his summoning his men to prayers, and in true Scottish fashion reading a portion from the little Bible which, like General Gordon, he never failed to carry in his bosom.

I think he did good. I think he made converts. Mind, without any preaching. He simply led these darkened intellects to the Light, the glorious Light of revealed religion.

The portion of the fort where the guns were placed was so fashioned as to be able to cover a wide space of sea on both sides, and from this arrangement Dickson expected great results.

A whole week had worn away since the first fires had been seen from the hilltop; but every night those fires had blazed.

It was evident enough the enemy was endeavouring to propitiate their gods before sailing. For by day, on climbing a mountain, Dickson, by means of his large telescope, could see on the beach that human sacrifices were being offered up.

It was fearful to behold. Men, or perhaps women, were chained to stakes on the beach, and pyres of wood built around them. As the fire curled up through the smoke in tongues, he could see the wretches writhing in agony, while round them danced the spear-armed savages.

Reginald had little to do at present, and would have but little to do until summoned to tight. So he was often at the Queen’s palace, and a very delightful conversationalist she proved herself to be. She had avowed her intention of being at the great battle herself. Her presence, and the sway of her pole-like sceptre, she assured the doctor, would give her people confidence, and mayhap be the turning point which would lead to victory.

Many a ramble together had Reginald and Ilda, nearly always followed by sweet wee Matty and her canine favourite Oscar.

One day, however, Matty was at the seaside camp, and Reginald went out with Ilda alone to collect bouquets for the Queen’s table. The day was a hot one, but both were young, and when they zigzagged up a mountain side they found not only shade on a green mound beneath some spreading trees, but coolness as well.

All this morning Reginald had been thinking sorrowfully about his lost love, as he now called Annie, and of the country he never expected again to see, because never did ships visit this unknown island unless driven hither by storm or tempest.

But now there was the soft and dreamy light of love in Ilda’s eyes, if ever there were in a woman’s.

Reginald was very far indeed from being unfaithful at heart to his betrothed, but—well, he could not help thinking how strangely beautiful Ilda was. When she leant towards him and gave one coy glance into his face, it might have been but passion—I cannot say; it might be budding love. At all events, he drew her to his breast and kissed those red lips over and over again, she blushing, but unresisting as before.

What he might have said I do not know. But at that moment a half-naked armed savage burst hurriedly in upon the scene.

“Come, sah, come; de capatin he sendee me. De bad black mans’ war canoes dey is coming, too. Plenty big boat, plenty spear and bow.”

Reginald thought no more of love just then. His Scottish blood was on fire, and when he had seen Ilda safe in the palace he bade her an affectionate but hurried farewell, and hurried away to the front.

The Armada was coming in deadly earnest, and no one in the Isle of Flowers could even guess how matters might end.

Chapter Nineteen.

Gold and Pearls—Jack Carousing.

No confusion here in the fort. The men were all in, the other spear-armed corps of at least five hundred were hidden in the bush at the base of the mountain side. Inside everything was being conducted as quietly and regularly as—as—well, as a marriage in church.

But looking seaward, even without the aid of a glass, the great Armada could be seen approaching.

Huge black many-paddled war canoes, forty in all, and probably with fifty men in each, or nearly a thousand altogether.

Nearer and nearer they swept with many a wild or warlike shout that was meant to strike terror into the hearts of the Flower Islanders. They were soon so near that the rattling of their spears as they struck them against their big shields could be distinctly heard.

So near now that with a small opera-glass which the doctor carried, he could see their painted skins and faces, and the red and horrible streaks.

And now it was time to fire the first gun. A shot or shell would have carried much further, but grape would be ever so much more demoralising. Dickson himself trained that gun on the foremost or leading boat.

The surprise of the enemy was indeed great. Never had they seen a gun fired before, nor heard the roar of one. But yonder on shore and in front of the barricaded fort they could see a balloon of white smoke, with a stream of red fire in the centre. Then the roar of that piece of ordnance was appalling. Next moment the crowded boat or war canoe was filled with corpses and the shrieking, bleeding wounded. But she was in splinters, and quickly filled and sank. The other boats lay on their paddles for a minute, uncertain what to do.

Meanwhile, and just as Reginald was quickly sponging out the gun previous to reloading, and all was silent for a time, a curious thing occurred.

In at the tiny back door of the fort, which had not yet been closed, rushed a tiny, laughing figure, all in white and barefooted. It was Matty, and in jumped honest Oscar next. She was laughing merrily.

“Oh!” she cried, clapping her hands with glee. “They put me to bed, but I dot up again and runned away twickly, and I’se come to ’ssist!”

“Oh, my darling!” cried Reginald, in great concern, “why did you come?”

“I can tally (carry) tartridges and powder.”

“No, no, no, dear. You must obey me. Here, there is my coat, and in that corner you must sit till all the fight is over.”

Matty said: “Tiss me, then.”

He kissed her, and down she sat with the dog beside her, and looked very demure indeed, with that one wee forefinger in her mouth.

Strange to say, she soon fell fast asleep, with her head pillowed on the dog’s back, one hand clutching his mane.

The battle now became general all along the line. For the riflemen in the back, as well as those within the fort, began to fire.

And now slowly down the hill came Bertha, the Island Queen, sceptre-pole in hand, and dressed in skins of dazzling white. A very imposing figure she looked. But her presence gave extra courage to her people.

The officers in almost every boat were picked off easily, so short was now the range.

It must be admitted that the enemy showed no lack of courage, though boat after boat was sunk to the number of six, and rifles rang out from the bush and fort in a series of independent but incessant firing, and well did the foe understand that their main safety now consisted in landing as soon as they possibly could. They knew that in a hand-to-hand fight the “fire-sticks,” as savages call our rifles, would be of little avail.

The guns were worked with splendid results, however, and by the time the war canoes were beached only about four hundred men were left to fight. But these cannibals knew no fear.

One more telling volley from the bush, one more shot from a six-pounder, then from behind a bush rushed the white Queen waving aloft her sceptre, and instantly from their cover, spear-armed, now rushed the Flower Islanders, one thousand strong at least The fight was a fearful one. Dickson, Hall, with Reginald and the men in the fort, joined with revolver and cutlass. The Queen was in the front. No, she fought not, but her presence there was like that of Joan of Arc.

Many of the invaded fell dead and wounded; but even the fierce foe was forced to yield at last, and the miserable remnant of them tried once more to reach their boats.

They never did. It was a war of extermination, and the invaders were utterly and completely wiped out Never a boat, never a man returned home to their distant island to tell the fearful tale.

The Flower Islanders expected now a grand feast. Here was flesh—human flesh.

The Queen forbade it, and Dickson himself gave orders that every body—the wounded had been stabbed—should be rowed out to sea and thrown overboard to feed the sharks. They demurred. Dickson was determined and stern. If not obeyed instantly, he should turn the guns on the would-be cannibals.

Reginald suggested as a kind of compromise that each man who had been fighting should receive a large biscuit and a glass of rum. It was a happy thought, and after this the work was set about merrily. The sea-burial occupied all the afternoon till within an hour of sunset. Then the canoes returned. All was over. The Armada was no more.

But around him now Dickson gathered the Flower Island Army, and offered up a prayer of thanks to the God of Battle, who had fought on their side, and the islanders seemed much impressed. The enemy would probably never attempt invasion again—in our heroes’ time, at all events.

The Queen gave a banquet that night, she herself presiding. Of course, nothing was talked about except the incidents of the recent terrible battle.

Matty came in for a share of praise, but was told she really must not run away again. And she promised, only adding that she thought she could “’ssist the poor dear doc.”

The banquet lasted till late. The Queen had not forgotten how to play and sing. Dickson and Reginald were both good musicians, and one or two blacks gave inimitable performances, partly gesture, partly song; which would assuredly have brought down the house if given in a London music-hall.

Being freed now for a time from any fear of further invasion, attention was turned to the gold mines and to the pearl-fishing. At a meeting on the hillside it was resolved that the men—they were all honest fellows—should be admitted to the secret. To have shut them out would hardly have been fair, so thought all.

Well, naturally enough, Reginald chose what he considered the best two claims; then came Dickson’s choice; then Mr Hall’s, and after these the six white sailors, and they were willing to dig like heroes.

They divided the work of the day into two parts. One was spent at the gold mines, the other in fishing for pearls. They were remarkably successful with the latter, but for nine months at least the gold came but slowly in, and this was disheartening. Nevertheless, they continued to dig and dig, assisted by native labour. The savages often found nuggets among the débris that had been overlooked by the white men, and these they dutifully presented to the owners of the claims.

It must be admitted that the men were most energetic, for while their officers were always at the Queen’s palace by five o’clock, and ready for dinner, the men often worked by moonlight, or even by the glimmer of lanterns. They were slowly accumulating wealth.

Success crowned Reginald’s efforts at last, though. For, to his extreme wonderment and delight, he struck a splendid pocket.

It was deep down at the far end of the cave, and the mould was of a sandy nature, much of it apparently powdered quartz, broken, perhaps, by the awful pressure of the mountain above. But the very first nugget he pulled from here was as large as a pineapple, and many more followed, though none so large.

No wonder his heart palpitated with joy and excitement, or that his comrades crowded round to shake his hand and congratulate him. But that cave had already made Reginald a fairly wealthy man. His success, moreover, encouraged the others to dig all the harder, and not without excellent results. It seemed, indeed, that not only was this island a flowery land, but an isle of gold. And the further they dug into the hill the more gold did they find. The men were very happy.

“Oh, Bill,” said one to his pal one night at supper, “if ever we does get a ship home from this blessed isle, won’t my Polly be glad to see me just!”

“Ay, Jack, she will; but I ain’t in any particular hurry to go yet, you know.”

“Well, it’s two years come Monday since we sailed away from the beautiful Clyde. Heigho! I shouldn’t wonder if Polly has given me up for good and all, and married some counter-jumping land-lubber of a draper or grocer.”

“Never mind, Jack; there’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it yet. Pass the rum. This is Saturday night, and it was just real good of Captain Dickson to send us an extra drop of the rosy. Fill your glasses, gentlemen, for a toast and a song. That digging has made me a mighty deal too tired to think of dancing to the sweetest jig e’er a fiddler could scrape out.”

“Well, give us your toast, Bill. We’re all primed and waiting.”

“My toast ain’t a very short one, but here it goes: ‘May the next year be our very last in this ’ere blessed island; may we all go home with bags of gold, and find our sweethearts true and faithful.’”

“Hear, hear!” And every glass was drained to the bottom. “Now for the song.”

“Oh, only an old ditty o’ Dibdin’s, and I’d rather be on the heavin’ ocean when I sings it. There is no accompaniment to a song so fetching as that which the boom and the wash of the waves make. Them’s my sentiments, boys.

“Wives and Sweethearts. “’Tis said we ve’t’rous diehards, when we leave the shore, Our friends should mourn, Lest we return To bless their sight no more; But this is all a notion Bold Jack can’t understand, Some die upon the ocean, And some die on the land. Then since ’tis clear, Howe’er we steer, No man’s life’s under his command; Let tempests howl And billows roll, And dangers press; In spite of these there are some joys Us jolly tars to bless, For Saturday night still comes, my boys, To drink to Poll and Bess.

“Hurrah!” But just at this moment a strange and ominous sound, like distant thunder, put a sudden stop to the sailors’ Saturday night. All started to their feet to listen.

Chapter Twenty.

“Oh, awful! What can it be?” cried Reginald.

I do not hesitate to say that the possession of unprotected wealth maketh cowards of most people. The anxiety connected therewith may keep one awake at night, and bring on a state of nervousness that shall end in a break-up of the general health. But no thought of ever losing the precious nuggets and pearls that had cost him so much hard work came into the mind of Reginald Grahame, until an event took place which proved that gold may tempt even those we trust the most.

Harry Jenkins was a bright little sailor, the pet of his mess. He was always singing when at work in the diggings, and he generally managed to keep his comrades in excellent humour, and laughing all the time. In their messroom of an evening they were all frank and free, and hid nothing one from the other. For each believed in his pal’s honesty.

“I have a thousand pounds’ worth of nuggets at least!” said Harry one evening.

“And I,” said Bill Johnson, “have half as much again.”

They showed each other their gold, comparing nuggets, their very eyes glittering with joy as they thought of how happy they should be when they returned once more to their own country. Then they each stowed away their wealth of nuggets and pearls, placed in tiny canvas bags inside their small sea-chests.

This was about a week after that pleasant Saturday night which was so suddenly broken up by the muttering of subterranean thunder and the trembling of the earth.

But earthquakes were frequent in the island, though as yet not severe. The Queen was by no means alarmed, but Ilda was—terribly so.

“Oh,” she cried, “I wish I were away and away from this terrible island!”

The Queen comforted her all she could.

“I have a presentiment,” replied the poor girl, “that this is not the last nor the worst.”

But when days and days passed away, and there were no more signs of earth-tremor, she regained courage, and was once more the same happy girl she had been before.

Then the occurrence took place that made Reginald suspicious of the honesty of some of those British sailors.

One morning Harry was missing. They sought him high, they sought him low, but all in vain. Then it occurred to Johnson to look into his box. The box, with all his gold and pearls, was gone!

Harry’s box had been left open, and it was found to be empty. No one else had lost anything. However, this was a clue, and the officers set themselves to unravel the mystery at once. Nor was it long before they did so. Not only was one of the largest canoes missing, with a sail that had been rigged on her, but two of the strongest natives and best boatmen.

It was sadly evident that Harry was a thief, and that he had bribed these two savages to set out to sea with him.

There was a favouring breeze for the west, and Harry no doubt hoped that, after probably a week’s sailing, he would reach some of the more civilised of the Polynesian islands, and find his way in a ship back to Britain. Whether he did so may never be known, but the fact that the breeze increased to over half a gale about three days after he had fled, makes it rather more than probable that the big canoe was swamped, and that she foundered, going down with the crew and the ill-gotten gold as well. Only a proof that the wicked do not always prosper in this world.

Poor Johnson’s grief was sad to witness.

“On my little store,” he told his messmates, wringing his hands, and with the tears flowing over his cheeks, “I placed all my future happiness. I care not now what happens. One thing alone I know: life to me has no more charms, and I can never face poor Mary again.”

He went to the diggings again in a halfhearted kind of way, and for a day or two was fairly successful; but it was evident that his heart was almost broken, and that if something were not done he might some evening throw himself over a cliff, and so end a life that had become distasteful to him.

So one morning Reginald had an interview with his messmates.

“I myself,” he said, “must have already collected over twenty thousand pounds in nuggets and pearls, and will willingly give of this my store five hundred pounds worth of gold by weight, if you, Captain Dickson, and you, Hall, will do the same. Thus shall we restore reason and happiness to a fellow-creature, and one of the best-hearted sailors that ever lived and sailed the salt, salt seas.”

Both Dickson and Hall must need shake hands with Reginald, and, while the tears stood in his eyes, the former said:

“That will we, my dear boy, and God will bless your riches, and restore you all your desires whenever we reach our British shores again.”

And so that very night there was no more happy man than Johnson.

Another Saturday night in the men’s mess. Dickson willingly spliced the main-brace twice over, and the night passed pleasantly on with yarn and song till midnight. But the thief Harry was never mentioned. It was better thus. Already, perhaps, the man had met his doom, and so they forgave him. Yet somehow this incident rankled in Reginald’s bosom, and made him very uneasy.

“I say,” he said to Dickson one day, “I confess that the flight of Harry Jenkins with poor Johnson’s gold has made me suspicious.”

“And me so as well,” said Dickson.

“I mean,” said Reginald, “to bury my treasure, and I have already selected a spot.”

“You have? Then I shall bury mine near yours. I have ever liked you, doctor, since first we met, and we have been as brothers.”

They shook hands.

Appealed to, Mr Hall said straight:

“I am a wealthy man, and, if ever I reach America, I shall have more than I can spend. I shall leave mine in the box where it is. I admit,” he added, “that if there be one thief among six men, there may be two, and gold is a great temptation. But I’ll go with you at the dead of night, and help to carry, and help you to bury your treasure.”

They thanked him heartily, and accepted his kindly assistance.

The spot at which Reginald had chosen to hide his gold and treasure was called Lone Tree Hill. It was on a bare, bluff mountain side. Here stood one huge eucalyptus tree, that might have been used as a landmark for ships at sea had it been in the track of vessels. But this island, as I have already said, was not so.

Strangely enough, all around this tree the hill was supposed to be haunted by an evil spirit, and there was not a native who would go anywhere near it, even in broad daylight. The spirit took many forms, sometimes rushing down in the shape of a fox, or even wild pig, and scaring the natives into convulsions, but more often, and always before an earthquake, the spirit was seen in the shape of a round ball of flame on the very top of the tree.

This was likely enough. I myself have seen a mysterious flame of this kind on the truck or highest portion of a ship’s mast, and we sailors call it Saint Elmo’s fire. I have known sailors, who would not have been afraid to bear the brunt of battle in a man-o’-war, tremble with superstitious dread as they beheld that mysterious quivering flame at the mast-head. Some evil, they would tell you, was sure to happen. A storm invariably followed. Well, generally a gale wind did, owing to the electric conditions of the atmosphere.

A bright scimitar of moon was shining at midnight when Dickson and Reginald, assisted by Hall, stole silently out and away to the hills to bury their treasure.

There were few sounds to be heard to-night on the island. Far out in the bay there was at times the splash of a shark or the strange cooing of a porpoise, and in the valley the yapping of foxes in pursuit of their prey. The mournful hooting of great owls sounded from the woods, with now and then the cry of a night bird, or shriek of wounded bird.

It was a long and stiff walk to Lone Tree Hill; but arrived there, they set to work at once to dig at the eucalyptus root. The holes made—Dickson’s to the east, Reginald’s to the west—the nuggets, enclosed in strong tarpaulin bags, were laid in, and next the pearls, in small cash-boxes, were placed above these. The earth was now filled in, and the sods replaced so carefully and neatly that no one could have told that the earth had ever been broken or the sods upturned.

Then, breathing a prayer for the safety of their treasure, on which so much might depend in future, they walked silently down the hill and back to the camp.

But that very night—or rather towards morning—an event took place that alarmed all hands.

The earth shook and trembled, and finally heaved; and it felt as if the house were a ship in the doldrums crossing the Line. Everyone was dashed on to the floor, and for a time lay there almost stunned, giddy, and even sick. It passed off. But in an hour’s time a worse shock followed, and all hands rushed into the open air to seek for safety.

Outside it was not only hot and stifling—for not a breath of wind was blowing—but the air had a strange and almost suffocating sulphurous odour. And this was soon accounted for. Now, not far from Lone Tree Mountain was a high and conical hill.

From this, to the great astonishment of all, smoke and flames were now seen issuing. The flames leapt in marvellous tongues high up through the smoke. There was the whitest of steam mingling with the smoke, and anon showers of dust, scorai, and stones began to fall.

For a minute or two the sight quite demoralised the trio. But the men, too, had run out, and all had thrown themselves face down on the ground while the heaving of the earth continued. It was a new experience, and a terrible one. Dickson went towards them now.

“I do not think, boys, that the danger is very extreme,” he said. “But I advise you to keep out of doors as much as possible, in case of a greater shock, which may bring down our humble dwelling. And now, Hall, and you, Reginald,” he added, “the ladies at the palace will, I fear, be in great terror. It is our duty to go to them. Our presence may help to cheer them up.”

Daylight was beginning to dawn, though from rolling clouds of smoke in the far east the sun could only be seen like a red-hot iron shot. It was evident enough to our heroes when they had climbed the highest intervening hill, that the island from which the Armada had come was far more severely stricken than this Isle of Flowers was.

But as they still gazed eastward at the three or four blazing mountains on that island, they started and clung together with something akin to terror in every heart.

“Oh, awful! What can it be?” cried Reginald.

Chapter Twenty One.

A Terrible Time.

Never until the crack of doom might they hear such another report as that which now fell upon their ears. At almost the same moment, in a comminglement of smoke and fire, a huge dark object was seen to be carried high into the air, probably even a mile high. It then took a westerly direction, and came towards the Isle of Flowers, getting larger every second, till it descended into the sea, end on, and not two miles away. It was seen to be a gigantic rock, perhaps many, many acres in extent.

The waters now rose on every side, the noise was deafening; then in, landwards, sped a huge bore, breaker, or wave, call it what you please, but darkness almost enveloped it, and from this thunders roared and zigzag lightning flashed as it dashed onwards to the island shore. The men they had left behind had speedily climbed the rocks behind the camp, for although the wave did not reach so high, the spray itself would have suffocated them, had they not looked out for safety.

It was an awful moment. But the wave receded at last, and the sea was once more calm. Only a new island had been formed by the fall of the rock into the ocean’s coral depths, and for a time the thunder and lightning ceased. Not the volcanic eruptions, however. And but for the blaze and lurid light of these the enemy’s isle, as it was called, must have been in total darkness. Truly a terrible sight! But our heroes hurried on.

Just as they had expected, when they reached the Queen’s palace they found poor Miss Hall, and even little Matty—with all her innocent courage—in a state of great terror. The Queen alone was self-possessed. She had seen a volcanic eruption before. Ilda was lying on the couch with her arms round Matty’s waist Matty standing by her side. The child was now seven years of age, and could talk and think better. Reginald, after kissing Ilda’s brow, sat down beside them, and Matty clambered on his knee.

Meanwhile, the darkness had increased so much that the Queen called upon her dusky attendants to light the great oil lamp that swung from the roof. The Queen continued self-possessed, and tried to comfort her guests.

“It will soon be over,” she said. “I am assured of that. My experience is great.”

But Matty refused all consolation.

“I’se never been a very great sinner, has I?” she innocently asked Reginald, as she clung round his neck.

“Oh, no, darling,” he said; “you are too young to be much of a sinner.”

“You think God won’t be angry, and will take you and me and Ilda and Queen Bertha straight up to Heaven, clothes and all?”

“My child,” said Reginald, “what has put all this into your head?”

“Oh,” she answered, “because I know the Day of Judgment has come.”

Well, there was some excuse for the little innocent thinking so.

Without the thickest darkness reigned. Dickson and Hall went to the door, but did not venture out. Scoria was falling, and destroying all the shrubs and flowers in the beautiful valley. The river was mixed with boiling lava, and the noise therefrom was like a thousand engines blowing off steam at one and the same time. Surely never was such loud and terrible thunder heard before; and the lightning was so vivid and so incessant that not only did the island itself seem all ablaze, but even the distant sea. Crimson and blue fire appeared to lick its surface in all directions.

But the burning mountain itself was the most wondrous sight eyes of man could look upon. The smoke and steam rose and rolled amidst the play of lightning miles high apparently. The peak of the mountain itself shot up a continuous stream of orange-yellow flame, in which here and there small black spots could be seen—rocks and stones, without a doubt.

But the cone of the great hill itself was marvellously beautiful. For rivers of lava—Dickson counted nine in all—were rushing down its sides in a straight course, and these were streams of coloured fire, almost every one a different hue—deep crimson, green, and blue, and even orange.

Were it not for the terror of the sight, our heroes would have enjoyed it. Reginald carried Matty to the door to see the beauty of the burning mountain. She took one brief glance, then shudderingly held closer to Reginald’s neck.

“Take me back, take me back!” she cried in an agony of fear. “That is the bad place! Oh, when will God come and take us away?”

All that fearful day and all the following night scoria and ashes continued to fall, the thunder never ceased, and the lightning was still incessant. There was no chance now of getting back to camp, and they trembled to think of what might have taken place.

Towards morning, however, a wondrous change took place. The sky got clearer, a star or two shone through the rifts of heavy, overhanging clouds. The fire no longer rose from the mountain, only a thick balloon-shaped white cloud lay over it. Then the rain began to fall, and, strangely enough, mingled with the rain, which felt warm, were gigantic hailstones and pieces of ice as large as six-pound shells. Then up rose the glorious sun. Like a red ball of fire he certainly was; but oh, what a welcome sight!

That forenoon, all being now peace and quiet, Dickson and his comrades determined to march back to camp and ease their minds. After a long and toilsome journey over the hills, many of which were covered with ashes, they reached camp, and were glad to find the men alive, and the house intact. A rampart had been built around the barracks, as Hall called it, and inside was a large drill-yard.

Dickson served out rum to the men, and they soon were cheerful enough once more. The guns had been mounted on the walls, and all rifles were stowed away inside. This was at a suggestion from Hall.

“You never can trust those niggers,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

And well it was, as it turned out, that Dickson had taken Mr Hall’s advice.

That same afternoon, about two o’clock, the same savages who had fought with rifles from the bush against the invaders came hurriedly and somewhat excitedly into camp. The spokesman, a tall and splendid-looking native, gesticulated wildly, as he almost shouted in the officers’ ears:

“To-mollow molning dey come! All dis island rise! Dey come to kill and eat!”

The officers were astonished. What had they done to deserve so terrible a fate?

“Dey blame you for all. Oh, be plepared to fight. Gib us guns, and we too will fight plenty much. Foh true!”

A very uneasy night was passed, but the yard and guns had been cleared of cinders and scoria, the bulwarks strengthened, and before the sun once more shone red over the sea Dickson was prepared for either battle or siege. Everyone had been assigned his quarters.

The day was still, hot, and somewhat sultry. Luckily the little garrison was well provisioned, and the water would last a week or even longer. Low muttering thunders were still heard in the direction of the volcano, and sometimes the earth shook and trembled somewhat, but it was evident that the subterranean fires had burnt themselves out, and it might be a score of years before another eruption occurred.

It was evident that the savages did not think so. For as long as the cloud hung over the peak they did not consider themselves safe. About twelve o’clock that day distant shouts and cries were heard in the nearest glen, and presently an undisciplined mob of nearly a thousand howling savages, armed with bows and spears and broad black knives, appeared on the sands, in their war-paint. It was evidently their intention to storm the position, and determinedly too. They halted, however, and seemed to have a hasty consultation. Then a chief boldly advanced to the ramparts to hold a parley. His speech was a curious one, and he himself, dressed partly in skins and leaning on a spear like a weaver’s beam, was a strangely wild and romantic figure.

The officers appeared above the ramparts to look and to listen.

“Hear, O white men!” cried the savage chief, in fairly good English; “’tis you who brought dis evil on us. We now do starve. De rice and de fruit and de rats and most all wild beasts dey kill or hide demselves. In de sea all round de fish he die. We soon starve. But we not wish to fight. You and your men saved us from the foe that came in der big black war canoe. Den you try to teach us God and good. But we all same as before now. We must fight, eat and live, if you do not leave the island. Plenty big canoe take you off. Den de grass and trees and fruit will grow again, and we shall be happy and flee onct mo’.”

“An end to this!” cried Dickson angrily. “Fight as you please, and as soon as you please. But mind, you will have a devilish hot reception, and few of you will return to your glens to tell the tale. Away!”

As soon as the chief had returned and communicated to his men the result of the interview, they shrieked and shouted and danced like demons. They brandished their spears aloft and rattled them against their shields. Then, with one continuous maddened howl, they dashed onwards to scale the ramparts. “Blood! blood!” was their battle cry.

Well knowing that if once they got inside the little garrison would soon be butchered, Dickson immediately had both guns trained on them. He himself did so.

“Bang! bang!” they went, and the grape made fearful havoc in the close and serried ranks of the cannibals. The rifles kept up a withering fire. Again, and quickly too, the guns were loaded and run out, and just as the enemy had scaled the brae they were once more met by the terrible fire, and positively hewn down before it.

Not even savages could stand this. They became demoralised, and fled incontinently. And they soon disappeared, carrying many of their dead with them. Far along the beach went they, and as stakes were placed in the ground, large fires built around them, and one or more of the dead thrown on each, it was evident that they had made up their minds not to starve.

One of the blacks was now sent out from the fort to make a circuit round the hills, and then, mingling with the savages, to find out out what was their intention.

He returned in a few hours, and while the awful feast was still going on. A night attack was determined on, and they believed they would inherit strength and bravery by eating their dead comrades. That was the scout’s report.

Chapter Twenty Two.

More Fearful Fighting—Golden Gulch—“A Ship! A Ship!”

Forewarned is, or ought to be, forearmed. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that Dickson and the others greatly dreaded an attack by savages under cover of the moonless darkness of a tropical night. All was done that could be done to repel the fury of the onslaught. But come it must and would.

Just as the sun was sinking behind the western mountains, amidst lurid and threatening clouds, a happy thought occurred to one of the sailors.

“Sir,” he said to Dickson, “the darkness will be our greatest foe, will it not?”

“Certainly. If these demon cannibals would but show front in daylight we could easily disperse them, as we did before. Have you any plans, McGregor?”

“I’m only a humble sailor,” said McGregor, “but my advice is this. We can trust the honest blacks we have here within the fort?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let them throw up a bit of sand cover for themselves down here on the beach and by the sea. Each man should wear a bit of white cotton around his arm, that we may be able to distinguish friend from foe. Do you follow me, sir?”

“Good, McGregor. Go on.”

“Well, captain, the cannibals are certain to make direct for the barracks and attempt to scale as they did before. I will go in command of our twenty black soldiers, and just as you pour in your withering grape and rifle bullets we shall attack from the rear, or flank, rather, and thus I do not doubt we shall once more beat them off.”

“Good again, my lad; but remember we cannot aim in the darkness.”

“That can be provided against. We have plenty of tarry wood here, and we can cut down the still standing brush, and making two huge bonfires, deluge the whole with kerosene when we hear the beggars coming and near at hand. Thus shall you have light to fight.”

“McGregor, my lad, I think you have saved the fort and our lives. Get ready your men and proceed to duty. Or, stay. While they still are at their terrible feast and dancing round the fires, you may remain inside.”

“Thanks, sir, thanks.”

The men had supper at eleven o’clock and a modicum of rum each. The British sailor needs no Dutch courage on the day of battle.

The distant fires burnt on till midnight. Then, by means of his night-glass, Dickson could see the tall chieftain was mustering his men for the charge.

Half an hour later they came on with fiendish shouts and howling. Then brave McGregor and his men left the barracks and hid in the darkling to the left and low down on the sands.

The enemy advanced from the right. Their chief was evidently a poor soldier, or he would have caused them to steal as silently as panthers upon the fort. When within a hundred yards, Dickson at one side and Reginald at the other, each accompanied by a man carrying a keg of kerosene, issued forth at the back door.

In three minutes more the flames sprang up as if by magic. They leaped in great white tongues of fire up the rock sides, from which the rays were reflected, so that all round the camp was as bright as day.

The astonished savages, however, came on like a whirlwind, till within twenty yards of the brae on which stood the fort. Then Mr Hall, the brave and imperturbable Yankee, “gave them fits,” as he termed it. He trained a gun on them and fired it point-blank. The yells and awful howlings of rage and pain told how well the grape had done its deadly work, and that many had fallen never to rise again.

The tall, skin-clad chief now waved his spear aloft, and shouted to his men, pointing at the fort. That dark cloud was a mass of frenzied savages now. They leaped quickly over their dead and wounded, and rushed for the hill. But they were an easy mark, and once again both guns riddled their ranks. They would not be denied even yet.

But lo! while still but half-way up the hill, to their astonishment and general demoralisation, they were attacked by a terrible rifle fire from the flank. Again and again those rifles cracked, and at so close a range that the attacking party fell dead in twos and threes.

But not until two more shots were fired from the fort, not until the giant chief was seen to throw up his arms and fall dead in his tracks, did they hurriedly rush back helter-skelter, and seek safety in flight.

The black riflemen had no mercy on their brother-islanders. Their blood was up. So was McGregor’s, and they pursued the enemy, pouring in volley after volley until the darkness swallowed them up.

The slaughter had been immense. The camp was molested no more. But at daybreak it was observed that no cloud hung any longer on the volcanic peak. The savages were still grouped in hundreds around their now relighted fires, and it was evident a new feast was in preparation.

But something still more strange now happened. Accompanied by two gigantic spear-armed men of the guard, the Queen herself was seen to issue from the glen, and boldly approach the rebels. What she said may never be known. But, while her guard stood like two statues, she was seen to be haranguing the cannibals, sometimes striking her sceptre-pole against the hard white sand, sometimes pointing with it towards the volcanic mountain.

But see! another chief approaches her, and is apparently defying her. Next moment there is a little puff of white smoke, and the man falls, shot through the head.

And now the brave and romantic Queen nods to her guards, and with their spears far and near the fires are dispersed and put out.

This was all very interesting, as well as wonderful, to the onlookers at the fort, but when the Queen was seen approaching the little garrison, a little white flag waving from her pole, and followed by all the natives, astonishment was at its height.

Humbly enough they approached now, for the Queen in their eyes was a goddess. With a wave of her sceptre she stopped them under the brae, or hill, and Dickson and Reginald hurried down to meet her floral majesty.

“Had I only known sooner,” she said sympathisingly, “that my people had rebelled and attempted to murder you, I should have been here long, long before now. These, however, are but the black sheep of my island, and now at my command they have come to sue for pardon.”

“And they will lay down their arms?”

“Yes, every spear and bow and crease.”

“Then,” said Dickson, “let them go in single file and heap them on the still smouldering fire up yonder.”

Queen Bertha said something to them in their own language, and she was instantly obeyed. The fire so strangely replenished took heart and blazed up once more, and soon the arms were reduced to ashes, and the very knives bent or melted with the fierce heat.

“Go home now to your wives and children,” she cried imperiously. “For a time you shall remain in disgrace. But if you behave well I will gladly receive you once more into my favour. Disperse! Be off!”

All now quietly dispersed, thankfully enough, too, for they had expected decapitation. But ten were retained to dig deep graves near the sea and bury the dead. There were no wounded. This done, peace was restored once more on the Island of Flowers.

Three weeks of incessant rain followed. It fell in torrents, and the river itself overflowed its banks, the fords being no longer of any use, so that the men were confined to their barracks.

It was a long and a dreary time. Very much indeed Reginald would have liked to visit the palace, to romp with little Matty, and listen to the music of Ilda’s sweet voice.

“As for Annie—she must have given me up for dead long ere now,” he said to himself. “Why, it is two years and nine months since I left home. Yes, something tells me that Annie is married, and married to—to—my old rival the Laird. Do I love Ilda? I dare not ask myself the question. Bar Annie herself, with sweet, baby, innocent face, I have never known a girl that so endeared herself to me as Ilda has done. And—well, yes, why deny it?—I long to see her.”

One day the rain ceased, and the sun shone out bright and clear once more. The torrents from the mountains were dried up, and the river rapidly went down. This was an island of surprises, and when, three days after this, Reginald, accompanied by Hall and Dickson, went over the mountains, they marvelled to find that the incessant downpour of rain had entirely washed the ashes from the valley, and that it was once more smiling green with bud and bourgeon. In a week’s time the flowers would burst forth in all their glory.

The ford was now easily negotiable, and soon they were at the Queen’s palace. Need I say that they received a hearty welcome from her Majesty and Ilda? Nor did it take Matty a minute to ensconce herself on Reginald’s knee.

“Oh,” she whispered, “I’se so glad you’s come back again! Me and Ilda cried ourselves to sleep every, every night, ’cause we think the bad black men kill you.”

Ilda crying for him! Probably praying for him! The thought gave him joy. Then, indeed, she loved him. No wonder that he once again asked himself how it would all end.

The weather now grew charming. Even the hills grew green again, for the ashes and débris from the fire-hill, as the natives called it, had fertilised the ground. And now, accompanied by Ilda and Matty, who would not be left behind, an expedition started for the valley of gold. The road would be rough, and so a hammock had been sent for from the camp, and two sturdy natives attached it to a long bamboo pole. Matty, laughing with delight, was thus borne along, and she averred that it was just like flying.

Alas! the earthquake had been very destructive in Golden Gulch. Our heroes hardly knew it. Indeed, it was a glen no longer, but filled entirely up with fallen rocks, lava, and scoria.

They sighed, and commenced the return journey. But first a visit must be paid to Lone Tree Mountain. For Reginald’s heart lay there.

“From that elevation,” said Reginald, “we shall be able to see the beautiful ocean far and near.”

The tree at last! It was with joy indeed they beheld it. Though damaged by the falling scoria, it was once more green; but the grave in which the gold and pearls lay was covered three feet deep in lava and small stones. The treasure, then, was safe!

They were about to return, when Ilda suddenly grasped Reginald’s arm convulsively.

“Look! look!” she cried, pointing seawards. “The ship! the ship! We are saved! We are saved!”

Chapter Twenty Three.

“She Threw Herself on the Sofa in an Agony of Grief.”

Nearer and nearer drew that ship, and bigger and bigger she seemed to grow, evidently with the intention of landing on the island.

Even with the naked eye they soon could see that her bulwarks were badly battered, and that her fore-topmast had been carried away.

Back they now hurried to leave Ilda and Matty at the palace. Then camp-wards with all speed; and just as they reached the barracks they could hear the rattling of the chains as both anchors were being let go in the bay.

A boat now left the vessel’s side, and our three heroes hurried down to meet it.

The captain was a red-faced, white-haired, hale old man, and one’s very beau-idéal of a sailor. He was invited at once up to the barracks, and rum and ship biscuits placed before him. Then yarns were interchanged, Captain Cleaver being the first to tell the story of his adventures. Very briefly, though, as seafarers mostly do talk.

“Left Rio three months ago, bound for San Francisco. Fine weather for a time, and until we had cleared the Straits. Then—oh, man! may I never see the like again! I’ve been to sea off and on for forty years and five, but never before have I met with such storms. One after another, too; and here we are at last. In the quiet of your bay, I hope to make good some repairs, then hurry on our voyage. And you?” he added.

“Ah,” said Dickson, “we came infinitely worse off than you. Wrecked, and nearly all our brave crew drowned. Six men only saved, with us three, Mr Hall’s daughter and a child. The latter are now with the white Queen of this island. We managed to save our guns and provisions from our unhappy yacht and that was all.”

“Well, you shall all sail to California with me. I’ll make room, for I am but lightly loaded. But I have not yet heard the name of your craft, nor have you introduced me to your companions.”

“A sailor’s mistake,” laughed Dickson; “but this is Mr Hall, who was a passenger; and this is Dr Reginald Grahame. Our vessel’s name was the Wolverine.”

“And she sailed from Glasgow nearly three years ago?”

Captain Cleaver bent eagerly over towards Dickson as he put the question.

“That is so, sir.”

“Why, you are long since supposed to have foundered with all hands, and the insurance has been paid to your owners.”

“Well, that is right; the ship is gone, but we are alive, and our adventures have been very strange and terrible indeed. After dinner I will tell you all. But now,” he added, with a smile, “if you will only take us as far as ’Frisco, we shall find our way to our homes.”

Captain Cleaver’s face was very pale now, and he bit his lips, as he replied:

“I can take you, Captain Dickson, your six men, Mr Hall and the ladies, but I cannot sail with this young fellow.” He pointed to Reginald. “It may be mere superstition on my part,” he continued, “but I am an old sailor, you know, and old sailors have whims.”

“I cannot see why I should be debarred from a passage home,” said Reginald.

“I am a plain man,” said Cleaver, “and I shall certainly speak out, if you pretend you do not know.”

“I do not know, and I command you to speak out.”

“Then I will. In Britain there is a price set upon your head, sir, and you are branded as a murderer!”

Dickson and Hall almost started from their seats, but Reginald was quiet, though deathly white.

“And—and,” he said, in a husky voice, “whom am I accused of murdering?”

“Your quondam friend, sir, and rival in love, the farmer Craig Nicol.”

“I deny it in toto!” cried Reginald.

“Young man, I am not your judge. I can only state facts, and tell you that your knife was found bloodstained and black by the murdered man’s side. The odds are all against you.”

“This is truly terrible!” said Reginald, getting red and white by turns, as he rapidly paced the floor. “What can it mean?”

“Captain Dickson,” he said at last, “do you believe, judging from all you have seen of me, that I could be guilty of so dastardly a deed, or that I could play and romp with the innocent child Matty with, figuratively speaking, blood between my fingers, and darkest guilt at my heart? Can you believe it?”

Dickson held out his hand, and Reginald grasped it, almost in despair.

“Things look black against you,” he said, “but I do not believe you guilty.”

“Nor do I,” said Hall; “but I must take the opportunity of sailing with Captain Cleaver, I and my daughter and little Matty.”

Reginald clasped his hand to his heart.

“My heart will break!” he said bitterly.

In a few days’ time Cleaver’s ship was repaired, and ready for sea. So was Hall, and just two of the men. The other four, as well as Dickson himself, elected to stay. There was still water to be laid in, however, and so the ship was detained for forty-eight hours.

One morning his messmates missed Reginald from his bed. It was cold, and evidently had not been slept in for many hours.

“Well, well,” said Dickson, “perhaps it is best thus, but I doubt not that the poor unhappy fellow has thrown himself over a cliff, and by this time all his sorrows are ended for ay.”

But Reginald had had no such intention. While the stars were yet shining, and the beautiful Southern Cross mirrored in the river’s depth, he found himself by the ford, and soon after sunrise he was at the palace.

Ilda was an early riser and so, too, was wee Matty. Both were surprised but happy to see him. He took the child in his arms, and as he kissed her the tears rose to his eyes, and all was a mist.

“Dear Matty,” he said, “run out, now; I would speak with Ilda alone.”

Half-crying herself, and wondering all the while, Matty retired obediently enough.

“Oh,” cried Ilda earnestly, and drawing her chair close to his, “you are in grief. What can have happened?”

“Do not sit near me, Ilda. Oh, would that the grief would but kill me! The captain of the ship which now lies in the bay has brought me terrible news. I am branded with murder! Accused of slaying my quondam friend and rival in the affections of her about whom I have often spoken to you—Annie Lane.”

Ilda was stricken dumb. She sat dazed and mute, gazing on the face of him she loved above all men on earth.

“But—oh, you are not—could not—be guilty! Reginald—my own Reginald!” she cried.

“Things are terribly black against me, but I will say no more now. Only the body was not found until two days after I sailed, and it is believed that I was a fugitive from justice. That makes matters worse. Ilda, I could have loved you, but, ah! I fear this will be our last interview on earth. Your father is sailing by this ship, and taking you and my little love Matty with him.”

She threw herself in his arms now, and wept till it verily seemed her heart would break. Then he kissed her tenderly, and led her back to her seat.

“Brighter times may come,” he said. “There is ever sunshine behind the clouds. Good-bye, darling, good-bye—and may every blessing fall on your life and make you happy. Say good-bye to the child for me; I dare not see her again.”

She half rose and held out her arms towards him, but he was gone. The door was closed, and she threw herself now on the sofa in an agony of grief.

The ship sailed next day. Reginald could not see her depart. He and one man had gone to the distant hill. They had taken luncheon with them, and the sun had almost set before they returned to camp.

“Have they gone?” was the first question when he entered the barrack-hall.

“They have gone.”

That was all that Dickson said.

“But come, my friend, cheer up. No one here believes you guilty. All are friends around you, and if, as I believe you to be, you are innocent, my advice is this: Pray to the Father; pray without ceasing, and He will bend down His ear and take you out of your troubles. Remember those beautiful lines you have oftentimes heard me sing:

“‘God is our comfort and our strength, In straits a present aid; Therefore although the earth remove, We will not be afraid.’

“And these:

“‘He took me from a fearful pit, And from the miry clay; And on a rock he set my feet, Establishing my way.’”

“God bless you for your consolation. But at present my grief is all so fresh, and it came upon me like a bolt from the blue. In a few days I may recover. I do not know. I may fail and die. It may be better if I do.”

Dickson tried to smile.

“Nonsense, lad. I tell you all will yet come right, and you will see.”

The men who acted as servants now came in to lay the supper. The table was a rough one indeed, and tablecloth there was none. Yet many a hearty meal they had made off the bare boards.

“I have no appetite, Dickson.”

“Perhaps not; but inasmuch as life is worth living, and especially a young life like yours, eat you must, and we must endeavour to coax it.”

As he spoke he placed a bottle of old rum on the table. He took a little himself, as if to encourage his patient, and then filled out half a tumblerful and pushed it towards Reginald. Reginald took a sip or two, and finally finished it by degrees, but reluctantly. Dickson filled him out more.

“Nay, nay,” Reginald remonstrated.

“Do you see that couch yonder?” said his companion, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Well, as soon as you have had supper, on that you must go to bed, and I will cover you with a light rug. Sleep will revive you, and things to-morrow morning will not look quite so dark and gloomy.”

“I shall do all you tell me.”

“Good boy! but mind, I have even Solomon’s authority for asking you to drink a little. ‘Give,’ he says, ‘strong drink to him Who is ready to perish... Let him drink... and remember his misery no more.’ And our irrepressible bard Burns must needs paraphrase these words in verse:

“‘Give him strong drink, until he wink, That’s sinking in despair; And liquor good to fire his blood, That’s pressed wi’ grief and care. There let him bouse and deep carouse Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er; Till he forgets his loves or debts, An’ minds his griefs no more.’”

Chapter Twenty Four.

“Oh, Merciful Father! They are here.”

Well, it seemed there was very little chance of poor Reginald (if we dare extend pity to him) forgetting either his loves or the terrible incubus that pressed like a millstone on heart and brain.

Captain Dickson was now doctor instead of Grahame, and the latter was his patient. Two things he knew right well: first, that in three or four months at the least a ship of some kind would arrive, and Reginald be taken prisoner back to England; secondly, that if he could not get him to work, and thus keep his thoughts away from the awful grief, he might sink and die. He determined, therefore, to institute a fresh prospecting party. Perhaps, he told the men, the gold was not so much buried but that they might find their way to it.

“That is just what we think, sir, and that is why we stayed in the island with you and Dr Grahame instead of going home in the Erebus. Now, sir,” continued the man, “why not employ native labour? We have plenty of tools, and those twenty stalwart blacks that fought so well for us would do anything to help us. Shall I speak to them, captain?”

“Very well, McGregor; you seem to have the knack of giving good advice. It shall be as you say.”

After a visit to the Queen, who received them both with great cordiality, and endeavoured all she could to keep up poor Reginald’s heart, they took their departure, and bore up for the hills, accompanied by their black labourers, who were as merry as crickets. Much of the lava, or ashes, had been washed away from the Golden Mount, as they termed it, and they could thus prospect with more ease in the gulch below.

In the most likely part, a place where crushed or powdered quartz abound, work was commenced in downright earnest.

“Here alone have we any chance, men,” said Captain Dickson cheerily.

“Ah, sir,” said McGregor, “you have been at the diggings before, and so have I.”

“You are right, my good fellow; I made my pile in California when little more than a boy. I thought that this fortune was going to last me for ever, and there was no extravagance in New York I did not go in for. Well, my pile just vanished like mist before the morning sun, and I had to take a situation as a man before the mast, and so worked myself up to what I am now, a British master mariner.”

“Well, sir,” said Mac, “you have seen the world, anyhow, and gained experience, and no doubt that your having been yourself a common sailor accounts for much of your kindness to and sympathy for us poor Jacks.”

“Perhaps.”

Mining work was now carried on all day long, and a shaft bored into the mountain side. This was their only chance. Timber was cut down and sawn into beams and supports, and for many weeks everything went on with the regularity of clock-work; but it was not till after a month that fortune favoured the brave. Then small nuggets began to be found, and to these succeeded larger ones; and it was evident to all that a well-lined pocket was found. In this case both the officers and men worked together, and the gold was equally divided between them. They were indeed a little Republic, but right well the men deserved their share, for well and faithfully did they work.

Two months had passed away since the departure of the Erebus, and soon the detectives must come. Reginald’s heart gave a painful throb of anxiety when he thought of it. Another month and he should be a prisoner, and perhaps confined in a hot and stuffy cell on board ship. Oh! it was terrible to think of! But work had kept him up. Soon, however, the mine gave out, and was reluctantly deserted. Every night now, however, both Dickson and Reginald dined and slept at the palace of Queen Bertha. With her Reginald left his nuggets.

“If I should be condemned to death,” he said,—“and Fate points to that probability—the gold and all the rest is yours, Dickson.”

“Come, sir, come,” said the Queen, “keep up your heart. You say you are not guilty.”

They were sitting at table enjoying wine and fruit, though the latter felt like sawdust in Reginald’s hot and nerve-fevered mouth.

“I do not myself believe I am guilty, my dear lady,” he answered.

“You do not believe?”

“Listen, and I will tell you. The knife found—it was mine—by the side of poor Craig Nicol is damning evidence against me, and this is my greatest fear. Listen again. All my life I have been a sleep-walker or somnambulist.”

The Queen was interested now, and leaned more towards him as he spoke.

“You couldn’t surely—” she began.

“All I remember of that night is this—and I feel the cold sweat of terror on my brow as I relate it—I had been to Aberdeen. I dined with friends—dined, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. I remember feeling dazed when I left the train at — Station. I had many miles still to walk, but before I had gone there a stupor seemed to come over me, and I laid me down on the sward thinking a little sleep would perfectly refresh me. I remember but little more, only that I fell asleep, thinking how much I would give only to have Craig Nicol once more as my friend. Strange, was it not? I seemed to awake in the same place where I had lain down, but cannot recollect that I had any dreams which might have led to somnambulism. But, oh, Queen Bertha, my stocking knife was gone! I looked at my hands. ‘Good God!’ I cried, for they were smeared with blood! And I fainted away. I have no more to say,” he added, “no more to tell. I will tell the same story to my solicitor alone, and will be guided by all he advises. If I have done this deed, even in my sleep, I deserve my fate, whate’er it may be, and, oh, Queen Bertha, the suspense and my present terrible anxiety is worse to bear than death itself could be.”

“From my very inmost heart I pity you,” said the Queen.

“And I too,” said Dickson.

It was now well-nigh three months since the Erebus had left, and no other vessel had yet arrived or appeared in sight.

But one evening the Queen, with Reginald and Dickson, sat out of doors in the verandah. They were drinking little cups of black coffee and smoking native cigarettes, rolled round with withered palm leaves in lieu of paper. It was so still to-night that the slightest sound could be heard: even leaves rustling in the distant woods, even the whisk of the bats’ wings as they flew hither and thither moth-hunting. It was, too, as bright as day almost, for a round moon rode high in the clear sky, and even the brilliant Southern Cross looked pale in her dazzling rays. There had been a lull in the conversation for a few minutes, but suddenly the silence was broken in a most unexpected way. From seaward, over the hills, came the long-drawn and mournful shriek of a steamer’s whistle.

“O, Merciful Father!” cried Reginald, half-rising from his seat, but sinking helplessly back again—“they are here!”

Alas! it was only too true.

When the Erebus left the island, with, as passengers, Mr Hall and poor, grief-stricken Ilda, she had a good passage as far as the Line, and here was becalmed only a week, and made a quick voyage afterwards to the Golden Horn. Here Mr Hall determined to stay for many months, to recruit his daughter’s health. All the remedies of San Francisco were at her command. She went wherever her father pleased, but every pleasure appeared to pall upon her. Doctors were consulted, and pronounced the poor girl in a rapid decline. There was a complete collapse of the whole nervous system, they said, and she must have received some terrible shock. Mr Hall admitted it, asking at the same time if the case were hopeless, and what he could do.

“It is the last thing a medical man should do,” replied the physician, “to take hope away. I do not say she may not recover with care, but—I am bound to tell you, sir—the chances of her living a year are somewhat remote.”

Poor Mr Hall was silent and sad. He would soon be a lonely man indeed, with none to comfort him save little Matty, and she would grow up and leave him too.

Shortly after the arrival of the Erebus at California, a sensational heading to a Scotch newspaper caught the eye of the old Laird McLeod, as he sat with his daughter one morning at breakfast:

“Remarkable Discovery. The Supposed Murderer of Craig Nicol Found on a Cannibal Island.”

The rest of the paragraph was but brief, and detailed only what we already know. But Annie too had seen it, and almost fainted. And this very forenoon, too, Laird Fletcher was coming to McLeod Cottage to ask her hand formally from her father.

Already, as I have previously stated, she had given a half-willing consent. But now her mind was made up. She would tell Fletcher everything, and trust to his generosity. She mentioned to Jeannie, her maid, what her intentions were.

“I would not utterly throw over Fletcher,” said Jeannie. “You never know what may happen.”

Jeannie was nothing if not canny. Well, Fletcher did call that forenoon, and she saw him before he could speak to her old uncle—saw him alone. She showed him the paper and telegram. Then she boldly told him that while her betrothed, whom she believed entirely innocent of the crime laid at his door, was in grief and trouble, all thoughts of marriage were out of the question entirely.

“And you love this young man still?”

“Ay, Fletcher,” she said, “and will love him till all the seas run dry.”

The Laird gave her his hand, and with tears running down her cheeks, she took it.

“We still shall be friends,” he said.

“Yes,” she cried; “and, oh, forgive me if I have caused you grief. I am a poor, unhappy girl!”

“Every cloud,” said Fletcher, “has a silver lining.”

Then he touched her hand lightly with his lips, and next moment he was gone.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Cruise of the “Vulcan.”

The next news concerning what was called the terrible Deeside murder was that a detective and two policemen had started for New York, that thence they would journey overland to San Francisco, and there interview the captain of the Erebus in order to get the latitude and longitude of the Isle of Flowers. They would then charter a small steamer and bring the accused home for trial—and for justice.

It is a long and somewhat weary journey, this crossing America by train, but the detective and his companions were excited by the adventure they were engaged on, and did not mind the length of the way.

The Vulcan, which they finally chartered at ’Frisco, was a small, but clean and pretty steamer, that was used for taking passengers (a few select ones only) to view the beauties of the Fiji Islands.

Many a voyage had she made, but was as sturdy and strong as ever.

It must be confessed, however, that Master Mariner Neaves did not half-like his present commission, but the liberality of the pay prevailed, and so he gave in. His wife and her maid, who acted also as stewardess, had always accompanied him to sea, and she refused to be left on this expedition.

So away they sailed at last, and soon were far off in the blue Pacific, steering southwards with a little west in it.

And now a very strange discovery was brought to light. They had been about a day and a half at sea, when, thinking he heard a slight noise in the store-room, Captain Neaves opened it. To his intense surprise, out walked a beautiful little girl of about seven. She carried in her hand a grip-sack, and as she looked up innocently in Neaves’s face, she said naïvely:

“Oh, dear, I is so glad we are off at last. I’se been so very lonely.”

“But, my charming little stowaway, who on earth are you, and how did you come here?”

“Oh,” she answered, “I am Matty. I just runned away, and I’se goin’ south with you to see poor Regie Grahame. That’s all, you know.”

“Well, well, well!” said Neaves wonderingly. “A stranger thing than this surely never happened on board the saucy Vulcan, from the day she first was launched!” Then he took Matty by the hand, and laughing in spite of himself, gave her into the charge of his wife. “We can’t turn back,” he explained; “that would be unlucky. She must go with us.”

“Of course,” said Matty, nodding her wise wee head. “You mustn’t go back.”

And so it was settled. But Matty became the sunshine and life of all on board. Even the detective caught the infection, and the somewhat solemn-looking and important policeman as well. All were in love with Matty in less than a week. If Neaves was master of the Vulcan, Matty was mistress.

Well, when that ominous whistle was heard in the bay of Flower Island, although utterly shaken and demoralised for a time, Reginald soon recovered. Poor Oscar, the Newfoundland, had laid his great head on his master’s knees and was gazing up wonderingly but pityingly into his face.

“Oh, Queen Bertha,” said Reginald sadly, as he placed a hand on the dog’s great head, “will—will you keep my faithful friend till all is over?”

“That I shall, and willingly. Nothing shall ever come over him; and mind,” she said, “I feel certain you will return to bring him away.”

Next morning broke sunny and delightful. All the earth in the valley was carpeted with flowers; the trees were in their glory. Reginald alone was unhappy. At eight o’clock, guided by two natives, the detectives and policemen were seen fording the river, on their way to the palace. Reginald had already said good-bye to the Queen and his beautiful brown-eyed dog.

“Be good, dear boy, and love your mistress. I will come back again in spirit if not in body. Good-bye, my pet, good-bye.”

Then he and Dickson went quietly down to meet the police. The detective stopped and said “Good-morning” in a kindly, sympathetic tone.

“Good-morning,” said Reginald sadly. “I am your prisoner.”

The policeman now pulled out the handcuffs. The detective held up his hand.

“If you, Grahame,” he said, “will assure me on your oath that you will make no attempt to escape or to commit suicide, you shall have freedom on board—no irons, no chains.”

The prisoner held up his hand, and turned his eyes heavenwards.

“As God is my last Judge, sir,” he said, “I swear before Him I shall give you not the slightest trouble. I know my fate, and can now face it.”

“Amen,” said the detective. “And now we shall go on board.”

Reginald took one last longing, lingering look back at the palace; the Queen was there, and waved him farewell; then, though the tears were silently coursing down his cheeks, he strode on bravely by Dickson’s side.

Arrived on board, to his intense surprise, Matty was the first to greet him. She fairly rushed into his arms, and he kissed her over and over again. Then she told him all her own little story.

Now the men came off with their boxes, and Dickson with his traps. The Vulcan stayed not two hours altogether after all were on board. Steam was got up, and away she headed back once more for ’Frisco, under full steam. I think that Reginald was happier now than he had been for months. The bitterness of death seemed to be already past, and all he longed for was rest, even should that rest be in the grave. Moreover, he was to all intents and purposes on parole. Though he took his meals in his own cabin, and though a sentry was placed at the door every night, he was permitted to walk the deck by day, and go wherever he liked, and even to play with Matty.

“I cannot believe that the poor young fellow is guilty of the terrible crime laid to his charge,” said Mrs Neaves to her husband one day.

“Nor I either, my dear; but we must go by the evidence against him, and I do not believe he has the slightest chance of life.”

“Terrible!”

Yet Mrs Neaves talked kindly to him for all that when she met him on the quarter-deck; but she never alluded to the dark cloud that hung so threateningly over his life. The more she talked to him, the more she believed in his innocence, and the more she liked him, although she tried hard not to.

Matty was Reginald’s almost constant companion, and many an otherwise lonely hour she helped to cheer and shorten.

He had another companion, however—his Bible. All hope for this world had fled, and he endeavoured now to make his peace with the God whom he had so often offended and sinned against.

Captain Dickson and he often sat together amidships or on the quarter-deck, and the good skipper of the unfortunate Wolverine used to talk about all they should do together when the cloud dissolved into thin air, and Reginald was once more free.

“But, ah, Dickson,” said the prisoner, “that cloud will not dissolve. It is closed aboard of me now, but it will come lower and lower, and then—it will burst, and I shall be no more. No, no, dear friend, I appreciate the kindness of your motives in trying to cheer me, but my hopes of happiness are now centred in the Far Beyond.”

If a man in his terrible position could ever be said to experience pleasure at all, Reginald did when the four honest sailors came to see him, as they never failed to do, daily. Theirs was heart-felt pity. Their remarks might have been a little rough, but they were kindly meant, and the consolation they tried to give was from the heart.

“How is it with you by this time?” McGregor said one day. “You mustn’t mope, ye know.”

“Dear Mac,” replied Reginald, “there is no change, except that the voyage will soon be at an end, just as my voyage of life will.”

“Now, sir, I won’t have that at all. Me and my mates here have made up our minds, and we believe you ain’t guilty at all, and that they dursn’t string you up on the evidence that will go before the jury.”

“I fear not death, anyhow, Mac. Indeed, I am not sure that I might not say with Job of old, ‘I prefer strangling rather than life.’”

“Keep up your pecker, sir; never say die; and don’t you think about it. We’ll come and see you to-morrow again. Adoo.”

Yes, the voyage was coming to a close, and a very uneventful one it had been. When the mountains of California at last hove in sight, and Skipper Neaves informed Reginald that they would get in to-morrow night, he was rather pleased than otherwise. But Matty was now in deepest grief. This strange child clung around his neck and cried at the thoughts of it.

“Oh, I shall miss you, I shall miss you!” she said. “And you can’t take poor Matty with you?”

And now, to console her, he was obliged to tell her what might have been called a white lie, for which he hoped to be forgiven.

“But Matty must not mourn; we shall meet again,” he said. “And perhaps I may take Matty with me on a long cruise, and we shall see the Queen of the Isle of Flowers once more, and you and dear Oscar, your beautiful Newfoundland, shall play together, and romp just as in the happy days of yore. Won’t it be delightful, dear?”

Matty smiled through her tears, only drawing closer to Reginald’s breast as she did.

“Poor dear doggy Oscar?” she said. “He will miss you so much?”

“Yes, darling; his wistful, half-wondering glance I never can forget. He seemed to refuse to believe that I could possibly leave him, and the glance of love and sorrow in the depths of his soft brown eyes I shall remember as long as I live.”

The first to come on board when the vessel got in was Mr Hall himself and Ilda. The girl was changed in features, somewhat thinner, paler, and infinitely more sad-looking. But with loving abandon she threw herself into Reginald’s arms and wept.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “how sadly it has all ended!” Then she brightened up a little. “We—that is, father and I—are going to Italy for the winter, and I may get well, and we may meet again. God in Heaven bless you, Reginald!”

Then the sad partings. I refuse to describe them. I would rather my story were joyful than otherwise, and so I refrain.

It was a long, weary journey that to New York, but it ended at last, and Reginald found himself a prisoner on board the B— Castle bound for Britain’s far-off shores.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Meeting and Parting.

Reginald was infinitely more lonely now and altogether more of a prisoner too. Neither Captain Dickson nor the four sailors returned by the same ship, so, with the exception of the detective, who really was a kind-hearted and feeling man, he had no one to converse with.

He was permitted to come up twice a day and walk the deck forward by way of exercise, but a policeman always hovered near. If the truth must be told, he would have preferred staying below. The passengers were chiefly Yankees on their way to London Paris, and the Riviera, but as soon as he appeared there was an eager rush forward as far as midships, and as he rapidly paced the deck, the prisoner was as cruelly criticised as if he had been some show animal or wild beast. It hurt Reginald not a little, and more than once during his exercise hour his cheeks would burn and tingle with shame.

When he walked forward as far as the winch, he turned and walked aft again, and it almost broke his heart—for he dearly loved children—to see those on the quarter-deck clutch their mothers’ skirts, or hide behind them screaming.

“Oh, ma, he’s coming—the awful man is coming?”

“He isn’t so terrible-looking, is he, auntie?” said a beautiful young girl one day, quite aloud, too.

“Ah, child, but remember what he has done. Even a tiger can look soft and pleasant and beautiful at times.”

“Well,” said another lady, “he will hang as high as Haman, anyhow!”

“And richly deserves it,” exclaimed a sour-looking, scraggy old maid. “I’m sure I should dearly like to see him strung. He won’t walk so boldly along the scaffold, I know, and his face will be a trifle whiter then!”

“Woman!” cried an old white-haired gentleman, “you ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, talking in that manner in the hearing of that unfortunate man; a person of your age might know just a little better!” The old maid tossed her yellow face. “And let me add, madam, that but for God’s grace and mercy you might occupy a position similar to his. Good-day, miss!”

There was a barrier about the spot where the quarter-deck and midships joined. Thus far might steerage passengers walk aft, but no farther. To this barrier Reginald now walked boldly up, and, while the ladies for the most part backed away, as if he had been a python, and the children rushed screaming away, the old gentleman kept where he was.

“God bless you, sir,” said Reginald, loud enough for all to hear, “for defending me. The remarks those unfeeling women make in my hearing pierce me to the core.”

“And God bless you, young man, and have mercy on your soul.” He held out his hand, and Reginald shook it heartily. “I advise you, Mr Grahame, to make your peace with God, for I cannot see a chance for you. I am myself a New York solicitor, and have studied your case over and over again.”

“I care not how soon death comes. My hopes are yonder,” said Reginald.

He pointed skywards as he spoke.

“That’s good. And remember:

“‘While the lamp holds out to burn, The greatest sinner may return.’

“I’ll come and see you to-morrow.”

“A thousand thanks, sir. Good-day.”

Mr Scratchley, the old solicitor, was as good as his word, and the two sat down together to smoke a couple of beautiful Havana cigars, very large and odorous. The tobacco seemed to soothe the young man, and he told Scratchley his story from beginning to end, and especially did he enlarge on the theory of somnambulism. This, he believed, was his only hope. But Scratchley cut him short.

“See here, young man; take the advice of one who has spent his life at the Bar. Mind, I myself am a believer in spiritualism, but keep that somnambulism story to yourself. I must speak plainly. It will be looked upon by judge and jury as cock-and-bull, and it will assuredly do you more harm than good. Heigho!” he continued. “From the bottom of my heart I pity you. So young, so handsome. Might have been so happy and hopeful, too! Well, good-bye. I’ll come again.”

Mr Scratchley was really a comfort to Reginald. But now the voyage was drawing near its close. They had passed the isles of Bute and Arran, and had entered on the wild, romantic beauties of the Clyde.

It was with a feeling of utter sadness and gloom, however, that the prisoner beheld them. Time was when they would have delighted his heart. Those days were gone, and the darkness was all ahead. The glad sunshine sparkled in the wavelets, and, wheeling hither and thither, with half-hysterical screams of joy, were the white-winged, free, and happy gulls; but in his present condition of mind things the most beautiful saddened him the most.