Sir Ludar

"Sir Ludar" (continued 8)

Reading edition

For this was Ludar.

Chapter Thirty.

How the Sun went down behind Malin.

I think it was the sudden shock of this great discovery, and naught else, that arrested our feet in time and saved us from madly rushing on the doom of our lost enemy.

At such a time how could we think even of him?

Of all my long fierce journeyings, no part seemed half so long as the few minutes it took me to skirt round the fatal bog and reach the hand of my long-lost friend.

“Humphrey,” said he presently, after we had stood silent awhile, “I scarce knew thee. How rose you from the dead?”

“The God who parted us hath brought us together again,” said I. “Thanks be to Him.”

“Amen,” said he. “Therefore, while I lead you to the Don—”

“The Don!” cried I; “is he here then?”

“Why not, since the Rata came ashore weeks ago on these coasts?”

“And are the Spaniards all here too?” said I, with my hand feeling round my belt for my sword.

“Nay,” said he, smiling. “That is my story. Tell me yours.”

So I told him, and he listened, marvelling much. His brow grew black as thunder when I came to speak of the lost maidens. He wheeled round, and, laying his hand with a grip of iron on my arm, pointed to the black bog below us.

“Is it certainly Merriman who lies there?”

“As certain as this is you,” said I.

“God forgive him!” said Ludar, and walked on.

Then he told me how, missing me after the battle, and seeing the mast on which I had perched shot away, he had mourned for me as dead, and, for my sake, taken a gun with a good-will against my Queen. How, when after Gravelines the south wind sprang up and the Invincible Armada began to run, the Rata sailed as rear-guard and bore the brunt of the few English ships that dogged them. How it was resolved by the Spanish captains, Don Alonzo himself not protesting, that the shortest way back to Spain now lay by way of the Orkneys and the Atlantic. How, thereupon, that glorious fleet trailed in a long draggled line northward, never looking behind them, even when the Englishmen one by one drew off and abandoned the chase. How, after a while, when they looked out one morning they found the Rata staggering through the stormy northern seas alone.

“’Twas a sad sight,” said Ludar. “You would not have known the queenly vessel we had met scarce a month before off Ushant. Her main-mast clean gone, her tackle dishevelled as a wood-nymph’s hair; with flags and sails and pennons blown away, guns rusted in their ports, and the very helm refusing to turn. The bells, all save the dismal storm bell in the prows, were silent; the priests had crawled miserably to their holes. No one read aloud the King’s proclamation; and even the gallants of Spain sat limp and listless, looking seaward, never saying a word but to salute and cheer their beloved Don, or talk in whispers of the sunny hills of Spain.

“Captain Desmond, the one man on board who, after you, was my friend, had died in the fight off Gravelines. I had not the heart or the wish to seek new comrades; and, save when the brave Don himself gave me a passing word of cheer, I forgot what it was to speak or listen.

“Well, when off Cape Wrath (just as we sighted a few of our scattered consorts and hoped for food and comfort), a new storm overtook us from the north-east and drove us headlong, under bare poles, southward again. We none of us, I think, cared if the next gust sent us to the bottom. Many a weary young Don did I see fling himself in despair overboard; and but that we daily drew nearer to Ireland, I had been tempted to do the same.

“How long we drove I forget, or what wrecks we passed; but one day we found ourselves flung into a great bay, where, for a while, we held on to our anchors against the storm. But the Rata had lost her best thews and muscles at Calais, and, after two days, dragged towards the shore and fell miserably over, a wreck.

“We came to land in boats, or on floating spars, but only to meet worse hardships than on sea; for the savages on the coast, aided by your gallant Englishmen, fell on us, defenceless as we were, stripped us of all we had, and drove us from the shore in an old crank of a galleon, which, if it carried us thus far, did so only by the grace of God and His saints.”

“And where be we now?” I asked.

“At Killybegs,” said he, “and Heaven grant we may get out of it. For a while, Tyrone, the O’Neill in these parts, sheltered and fed us. But since the English came, he has left us to our fate, and the men lie rotting here as in a dungeon.”

“Why,” said I, “’twas rumoured in England that the Spaniards had descended on Ireland to take it, and so strike across it at the Queen.”

He laughed.

“May your Queen ne’er have sturdier foes, Humphrey. Come and see them.”

As we turned the corner of the hill, we came suddenly on three men, standing with their faces seaward and engaged in earnest talk. The oldest of them was white-haired and slight of build. But the nobleman shone through his ragged raiment and battered breastplate, and I knew him in a moment to be Don Alonzo da Leyva himself.

He greeted Ludar kindly, and looked enquiringly at me.

“Do the spirits of English printers walk on earth?” asked he.

“No, Sir Don, not till their bodies be dead,” said I, saluting; “I am here to warn your Excellency that the English soldiers are drawing a cord around this place, and will fall speedily upon you in force.”

“’Tis well they come only to slay and not to eat us,” said he, with a grim smile.

And I perceived that both he and his companions were half-starved.

“Yet they should not delay, for if they haste not, they will find us gone. Sir Ludar, the Gerona,”—here he pointed to a large galliass that lay at anchor in the bay—“is ready, and sails to-night for the Scotch coast. I claim your services yet, as you claim those of your squire.”

Ludar looked at me. I knew what passed in his mind, for ’twas in mine also. How could we leave Ireland thus, on a desperate venture, while those two fair maids—

But before we could even exchange our doubts, there sprang out upon us from behind a rock half-a-dozen fellows with a horseman at their head, who waved his sword and called loudly on us, in the name of the Queen, to yield.

I groaned inwardly as I pulled out my sword. Once more I was about wickedly and grievously to wage war on her Majesty, and break my vows of allegiance. Yet, how could I otherwise now?

The Don deigned no reply, but waited calmly for the attack. We were but five to six, and the two Spaniards were so lean and ill-fed as scarce to count as a man betwixt them. At the first onset one of them dropped dead, and the other, after scornfully running his adversary through, fell back himself in a swoon of exhaustion.

Meanwhile, the Don was struggling with the horseman. I can remember, occupied as I was with the sturdy rogue who flew at me, how noble he looked, as, with head erect and visage calm, he parried blow after blow, stepping back slowly towards the rock.

’Twas a sharp fight while it lasted; for, though Ludar made short work of his first man, the other three were stubborn villains, and, being well-fed and well-armed, put us hard to it.

Presently, he on the horse, enraged that, for all his advantage, he got no closer to his foe, pulled out a pistol from his holster and levelled it full at the Don’s head.

With a shout like a lion’s, Ludar flung away his own assailant, and rushed between the two, dealing the horseman a blow which sent him headlong from his saddle and echoed among the rocks like a crack of thunder.

He was none too soon, for the shot had flashed before ever the blow fell, and, only half diverted, rattled on the Don’s breastplate, hard enough to fell and draw blood, though, happily, not hard enough to kill.

After that, Ludar and I had a merry time of it, with our backs against the rock, and four swords hacking at our two. I know not how it was; but as I found myself thus foot to foot again with my dearest friend, listening to his short, sharp battle snort, and seeing ever and anon the flash of his trusty steel at my side, I felt happy, and could have wished the battle to last an hour. I forgot all about my Queen, and, but for sundry knocks and cuts, had half forgotten my adversaries themselves. Nor were they any the better off for my daydream; for the four swords against us presently became but two, and these ere long were in the hands of flying men.

When we had leisure to look at one another and see how we stood, we found we had been playing no child’s play. Ludar was pale, his sleeve was bloody, and his sword broken in two. As for me, drops were trickling through my hair and down my cheek, and I needed no astronomer to tell me the earth turned round. But the Don, when we came to him, was in a worse plight yet. For he lay where he had fallen, white as a marble statue, his eyes closed, his breath coming and going in quick, short gasps. As best we could we tore off his breastplate, and looked to the wound beneath. ’Twas but a gash, the ball having grazed the ribs and flattened itself on the steel beyond. But the blood he had lost thereby, and the feebleness of his ill-nourished body, made it more dangerous a wound by far than our vulgar scratches.

We caught the Englishman’s riderless horse, which grazed quietly near, and laid the gallant gently on his back; and so, painfully and slowly, brought him off.

Even as we did so, we could see on the crest of the far hills behind the figures of men on foot and horse moving our way; and, nearer at hand, when we stood and halted a moment, the sound of a trumpet broke the air.

There was no time to lose, verily, if these worn-out Dons were to leave the place alive. And as for Ludar and me, wounded and weak as we were, what chance was there for us to break through the lines and wander on foot in search of our lost ones?

“Humphrey,” said Ludar, guessing what was in my mind, “we sail with the Don to Scotland. Thence we will cross to the Glynns, and so be where we must be sooner than if we ventured by land.”

“So be it,” said I.

The sight of the wounded Don completed the panic which had already set in among the Spaniards at the report of the coming of the English.

“To sea! to sea!” they cried, and followed us as we bore their beloved captain to the bay.

The Gerona, Ludar told me, had been found on the coast, a half wreck, some weeks since, and, by dint of great labour and patching, had been made passably seaworthy.

“She will carry but three out of every four of this company,” said he. “After the nobles are all on board, there will be but place, I hear, for one hundred beside, and these must work at the oars. Lots have already been drawn, and, unless I mistake, ’twill be a hard parting betwixt those who go and those who stay.”

So indeed it was. No sooner had we the Don safely on board, and delivered him to the leech (to whom he opened his eyes, and showed signs of returning life), than a strange turbulent scene ensued on shore. The Don’s second in command, fine gentleman as he was, had little power to deal with a rabble that was fighting for dear life. He drew up his men on the beach and bade no man stir for the boats till his name was called, under penalty of death.

While the young nobles (who, of course, were exempt from lot), silently and anxiously took their places in the boats and were rowed out to the ship, all stood gloomily by, mute and obedient. But when, these being safely embarked, the order was given for the hundred who had drawn the lot to follow, a hubbub and tumult began which it was pitiful to witness. Men, desperate with hunger and fear, fought tooth and nail to reach the boats. They that had the right and they that had none were mingled in a fray which strewed the water’s edge with corpses. Some flung themselves into the sea after the boats, yelling and cursing till the flash of a sword or the pitiless thud of an oar sent them back into silence. Some, rather than others should go and not they, tore the craft board from board, and fought with the fragments. Some with muskets poured fire on the boats. And some wreaked their vengeance on the haughty Spanish gallant and hurled him from the rock on which he stood into the depths below.

’Twas a hideous scene; and when, after all was done, sixty gasping souls scrambled on board, glaring at one another like beasts of prey, and hissing defiant taunts at the wretches on shore, it boded ill—very—ill for this voyage.

For a while neither Ludar nor I was fit to take our seat on the thwarts or lend a hand with the oars, much as help was needed.

For two days, indeed, the Gerona’s sails were of little service owing to the perverse south-wester, which threatened to imprison us in the bay of Killybegs, and well-nigh defied every effort of the crew to bring the galley beyond the great headland of Malinmore.

But once out in the open, where the south-wester would have favoured our course to Scotland, the wind veered to westward and drove us in perilously near the rocks. So that we at the oars (for, by then, Ludar and I perforce had to take our share of the toil) were kept hard at work, and the roar of breakers on our starboard quarter never ceased, day nor night.

The Gerona, moreover, had been but indifferently patched, and, in the heavy sea across which she laboured, answered her helm hardly, and could by no means be counted upon to sail more than a point or two out of the wind. So in this hard cross gale her canvas was all but useless, and, had it not been for the oars, she would have been on the rocks about the Bloody Foreland before a week was out.

How we rounded that dreadful head I scarce know. Strong man as I was, I was well-nigh dead with the endless toil of the rowing, broken only by short snatches of repose when I laid my head down in the galley-slaves’ reeking hold. Ludar, on the contrary, grew mightier and bolder day by day. He neither wearied nor lost heart; but like a man who has recovered faith in his destiny, he talked as if each stroke brought us nearer, not to Scotland, but to the end of our hopes and the arms of those we loved.

“Courage, Humphrey,” said he, “I can row for you and me both. Save your heart, brother, for those who shall welcome you when all this tossing and toil shall be passed.”

“You talk of beyond the grave.”

“Beyond the grave!” cried he. “I never talked less of it. Come, are you, too, like these Spanish gentles, down in the mouth for a puff of wind and a pailful or two of salt water over the deck? Courage, man. If you be an Englishman, show these Dons how an Englishman can hold up his head and keep a stiff upper lip.”

That brought up the courage in me; and though for a day or so the weakness of my thews caused me to rest my hands idly on the oar, while he lugged at it cheerily and mightily, my heart came up from my boots and knocked louder and stronger within me day by day.

So, after ten days out, we came off the black headland called Malin, where, as the wind still held westerly, the welcome order was given to ship oars and spread all canvas for the Scottish coast.

Ludar alone looked grave when the order came, and pointed to the furious, livid swirl of purple clouds that crowded round the setting sun.

“I have seen yon sky before,” said he, “often when I was a boy. And they taught us, when we saw it, to pray the saints for those at sea.”

“May be there are saints ashore who see it and pray for us to-night,” said I.

“There had need be,” said he, solemnly.

Chapter Thirty One.

How we came into Calm Water after all.

Ludar’s forecast was destined to a swift and sudden fulfilment. The red glare was scarcely out of the west when the wind began to howl and whistle through our rigging with a presage of the tempest that was to come. What was of worse omen still, the long streamer on the main-mast, which hitherto had spread due eastward, now suddenly flapped to south-east, showing that the gale was coming upon us from the one quarter we had most cause to dread, namely, the north-west.

For, as Ludar well knew by this time, unless we could keep the Gerona’s head out so as to clear the far Antrim Headlands of Bengore and Benmore, we ran the peril of being driven in on an iron-bound shore, which had short shrift and little mercy for such as fell upon it.

The danger soon became manifest to others beside Ludar, and once again the oars were ordered out and the ship’s head put across the wind.

Ludar and I were among the party of cursing and mutinous rowers whose turn it was to be relieved, and we were about to crawl below for a snatch of repose, when a messenger came from Don Alonzo bidding Ludar attend him.

“Come with me,” said Ludar, and we followed the man.

Don Alonzo, who, from the moment he could stand upright, had resumed his post of command, stood in his cabin, pale and stern, surrounded by his officers, who, by their uneasy study of the charts before them, were plainly alive to the peril that threatened the ship.

“Sir Ludar,” said he, “your presence on board is not without a fortunate meaning for us. The account betwixt us runs high already. I have no means to pay you, but by demanding a further service at your hands. You know this Irish coast well?”

“I have sailed from Malin Head to Cantire in an open galley many a time as a boy,” said Ludar.

“And you know specially the coast about your father’s castle, and this great causeway of rocks near it?” said he, pointing on the chart to Dunluce and the jagged headlands beyond.

“I know them, every inch,” said Ludar.

“Then,” said Don Alonzo, “I make a request of you, Sir Ludar, in the name of my master, the King of Spain.”

“’Tis more than enough,” said he. “Ask me in your own name. I owe you, Sir Don, more than I do the King of Spain.”

“Well, then, will you honour me and my company by taking the helm, and, if it be possible, clearing us of the peril which this foul wind threatens?”

“I will do my best,” said he. “But I doubt the ship’s power to keep a course across the wind. ’Twill need more than one man at the tiller; and, by your leave, I appoint my comrade here to assist me.”

“So be it,” said Don Alonzo. “And, whatever befall, we thank you, Sir Ludar, for this service.”

Thus honourably did Ludar McDonnell step, where he deserved, to a post of command on board this ship. As for me, ’twas glory enough to stand his second; and, so soon as I saw his hand on the helm, all my doubts of our safe passage round the headlands and on to Scotland, were at an end.

Not so his.

“I have undertaken more than I can perform,” said he, “and the Don knows it. If this wind hold, nothing can persuade this lob-sided, ill-trimmed craft out of the bay. Away with sleep, man! and chain down the helm across the wind. Bid them put all their strength on the starboard oars.”

An hour after that the gale broke in full fury from the north-west. It must have caught us some two leagues north of Malin Head; for, as we drove down before it, we could hear a thunder of breakers on our right, which Ludar pronounced to be the Tor Rocks, off the island of Instrahull.

“’Tis a mercy to be past them, anyhow,” said he. “But see, for all our turning of the helm, we are driving down the wind.”

So indeed we were. To our dismay, the Gerona sailed almost as far sideways as she did forward; and, had we not been well out to seaward to start with, we might have been hard put to it even to clear the headlands of Innishowen.

About midnight there was nothing for it but to order the sails to be let go, and depend only on the oars for our course. After that, for a while, we went better. But the men, worn-out and dispirited, pulled with but half a heart; and hour by hour the vessel drifted in, until it was clear that nothing but a shifting of the wind or standing to at anchor could keep us off the opposite rocks.

Off Innishowen, as we crossed the mouth of the Foyle river, we fell on a shoal of terrible shallows, which spun the Gerona round like a top, and washed her in raging foam from stem to stern.

“Go and tell the Don he must either let go his anchors, or double the men at the oars,” said Ludar, when presently we had staggered out again into blacker water.

Word was given immediately to try the former, and the only two anchors we had were let over. For a moment or two, as the ship swung round, creaking in every joint, it seemed as if she would ride out the gale thus. But with a report like the crack of a gun, first one, then the other of her cables broke short at the gunwale, and we knew we had only lost time and water in the attempt.

Instantly the Don called upon his nobles to volunteer for the oars. Gallantly they responded; and occupied the after benches, while all the slaves rowed forward. Then, for an hour, the Gerona seemed to hold her own, and reeled across the bay on an eastward course.

But, presently, even the lordlings of Spain flagged, and once again we drove in, amid the thunder of surf, on an ever nearing shore.

“We should be near the Bann mouth,” said I. “To think of the last time we heard that thunder together!”

“We are clear of that,” said Ludar, quietly. “Tell the Don his lordlings must work harder if we are to weather the next point.”

I told the Don as much, hat in hand; and once again the gentles gathered themselves together and made a course for the labouring ship.

Ludar was breathing hard when I returned to his side.

“That may put us past Ramore,” said he. “In the bay beyond that lies Dunluce. If we be driven in there, Heaven help us indeed!”

“I would as soon perish there as anywhere else.”

“Talk not of perishing, fool, while a hope remains! Bid the Don cut away his poles forthwith. They are worse than useless now.”

So, one after another the stately masts of the Gerona went by the board, and the ease their going gave us, added to the fresh vigour of the rowers, helped us, as Ludar foretold, round the rough little head of Ramore.

No sooner had we passed it than the wind and current together got hold of us again and swept us in betwixt the islands of the Skerries and the mainland. Not even twice the number of rowers could have saved us then.

“Listen!” said Ludar presently.

I listened, and could hear ahead of me a thunder deeper and more awful than any we had yet passed.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My father’s castle,” said he. “We are going home with a vengeance now!”

Scarce a man remained at the oars. We could hear shouts of praying and cursing intermingled, as all hands crowded to the decks and gazed forward in the direction of that warning sound.

A lanthorn on the quarter-deck showed us the Don, standing there alone, bare-headed, in his steel breastplate, and sword in hand, quietly waiting the end. Beyond was a troubled crowd of doomed men, counting the moments and straining their eyes into the darkness.

Beside me, on the poop, Ludar stood erect and noble, with the half-defiant, half-triumphant gleam on his face, as, with hands still on the tiller, he listened to the fatal music of his old home ahead.

In the darkness we could see nothing but the white waste of breakers on to which we were driving.

Presently, as we were almost upon them, Ludar grasped my arm, and pointed high overhead.

There was a momentary gleam of light, and with it a glimpse of a rugged battlement at the rock’s edge.

“Dunluce! Dunluce!” he shouted, and let swing the now useless tiller.

Scarce a minute later the Gerona was in her death agony among the lashing breakers.

For a moment or two she held up bravely. Then with a mighty swirl she reared upward and hung quivering an instant in suspense.

Ludar’s hand and mine sought one another, and, as we waited thus, we could see above us the noble form of Don Alonzo, cool and impassive as a man on parade, saluting his King’s ensign for the last time.

Then all I remember was a great yell from the slaves at the poop, and the dull thunder of a broadside, as the Gerona fell crashing to her doom.

It was broad daylight when I opened my eyes and saw the sun struggling to break through the black clouds overhead. The thunder of waves still dinned in my ear, the salt wind was still on my lips, while a sharp pain at my shoulder, when I turned my head to look about me, told me that I was at least alive.

The pain was so acute that I closed my eyes again, and opened them not till I heard the sound of a harsh voice at my side.

What it said I know not, but some one turned me over with his foot, and brought from me a cry of agony which made him reel a pace or two back in consternation.

Then, just as I heard another voice, in plain English, say, “Great God, he lives!” all was dim again before my eyes. Once more the pain awaked me; and I found myself lying, I suppose, on some stretcher, being slowly borne on men’s shoulders up a steep path. I was too weak to do aught but groan, and my groans my bearers heard not. But at last the English voice said; “Halt, and set him down. He may be dead already and so save us the pains of carrying him further.”

’Twas a voice I knew; but the agony of my setting down made me forget whose, until once more bending over me, and putting back the hair from my brow, the fellow exclaimed:

“Why, this is—mercy on us!—if it be not him they called Dexter.”

“What!” cried another voice, “doth Neptunus yield us pearls? and on these inhospitable shores doth Arion indeed discover his lost ’prentice? hath the Hollander wings to carry—”

“A curse on thy tom-fooling tongue!” said the other. “Hath not the poor wretch had drenching enough, that you must spout thus on the top of him? Say, Humphrey Dexter, how fare you?”

“Is that you, Jack Gedge?”

“Sure enough.”

“And Ludar?”

The fellow gave a gasp, but said nothing. And, in the horror of that silence, I lost all care of life.

I must have been lying still in the same place when next, with a strange thrill of wonder, I lifted my eyes and saw, bent over me, the sweet face of my own Jeannette.

“Humphrey,” whispered she, as she kissed my wet brow, “is it indeed thou?”

“Ay, sweetheart,” said I.

And I forgot all else for a while.

Presently they carried me up to the top of the path, Jeannette walking with her hand in mine. And so, till before us rose a grim portal which I knew well to be the gate of Dunluce.

The sight of that familiar entry recalled to my mind the great burden on my heart.

“Jeannette,” said I, as she bent beside me. “What of Ludar?”

“We hope, dear Humphrey, thine is not the only life saved from the wreck.”

“Is he heard of? And the maiden—?” I asked.

“I know not. Till you named him just now, no one knew he was with you. But now the soldier and the poet have gone to seek news. And my dear mistress, I think, waits here.”

“She is here? How come you both in Dunluce?” I asked.

“The old McDonnell will not allow the maiden out of his sight, so dearly he loves her,” said Jeannette.

As soon as I was laid in a bed, and my broken arm set by the castle leech, I revived quickly. And as I did so, the load on my heart concerning Ludar grew so heavy, that not even the presence of Jeannette could banish it.

I begged to see the maiden.

’Twas wonderful to see her as she came in, stately and beautiful as ever, betraying only in the pallor of her cheeks the terrible anguish that possessed her.

She came and kissed me like a sister, and then, laying her hand in Jeannette’s, tears came to her eyes as she gave us joy of our happy meeting, after so much peril.

“Maiden,” said I, “we know no happiness while you stand thus desolate. But Ludar lives. As sure as I lie here, you shall find him, and we shall all thank Heaven together.”

Her face brightened.

“You have said as much before,” said she, “and it has come to pass. Yes, I will hope still.”

But her voice fell sadly with the words, and her face turned to the window, seaward.

Then she bade me tell her what had passed since we parted in London, and how Ludar and I came on the Gerona. And, hearing of all the chances that had befallen us, I think she took a little hope that all this buffetting and peril was not assuredly to end in loss.

But she said nothing. Only she kept her hand in Jeannette’s; and when I told her of the horrible scene on the bog by Killybegs, she shuddered, and muttered what, I fear, was a prayer for the soul of a dead man.

“But how come you in Dunluce?” I asked again, presently.

’Twas Jeannette who answered me.

“’Tis easily told, dear Humphrey. After Sir Turlogh departed for Dublin, leaving us in charge of this,”—here she shivered—“this Captain Merriman, my mistress and I kept our chambers, and durst not so much as venture beyond the door. Our good protectors—Heaven reward them!—had been banished the place; and but for a few of the O’Neill’s men, who stood in the way, we had not been safe where we were for a day.

“At last, one day, there came suddenly a messenger, purporting to be from the O’Neill, bidding the Captain send his daughter to him under an escort to Dublin. On this the Captain rudely broke into our chambers, and bade us there and then set out. What could two weak maids do? We could read treachery in his wicked eye, yet naught we could say or pretend could put him off; and there and then, without time so much as to speak a word to one another, we were marched forth, like prisoners, and mounted on our steeds.

“Just as we set forth, he came up to the leader of our party, and said in a whisper I could overhear: ‘Remember—the mistress to the house by the wood, and the little one to Dublin—and hands-off.’ Then all the villainy of the thing flashed on me in a moment. ‘Mistress,’ cried I, ‘we are betrayed!’ But before the words were out, a rough hand was laid across my mouth, and we were galloping. Nay, Humphrey,” said she, laying her hand gently on mine, “if thou start and toss like this, ’tis a sign my story doeth thee harm, and I will cease.”

“Would you have me lie still and hear all this?” cried I, in a fever.

“Yes, dear heart,” said she, and that so sweetly that I was forced to obey. “We were galloping away from Castleroe. For a whole day we galloped, till we were faint and ready to drop. Then, as we came to a wood, which I guessed to be the place where my mistress and I were to be parted, our leader suddenly reined in and turned to give an order to the man who held me. As he did so, four men sprang out from among the trees and a horrible fight ensued. In the midst of it, one of the new-comers advanced to me and said, ‘You are safe!’ and I knew it to be no other than the soldier Gedge himself.”

“And he who came to my side,” put in the maiden, smiling amid her heaviness, “said: ‘Let Diana shake off her clouds. Apollo himself hath come to lead her out into the Empyrean.’”

“God reward them both for this!” said I.

“Amen,” said Jeannette. “Two of the villains they slew and the other staggered away, as I fear, mortally wounded. ’Twas him you saw.

“As for us, our rescuers brought us here, where the McDonnell hath welcomed us, and, as you know, loveth my mistress as his own daughter. Yet, little thought we, as we looked out from the turret window at the storm last night, and prayed side by side for those at sea, that you, and—and Sir Ludar were coming to us on the wild waves!”

The day wore on, and still neither soldier nor poet nor any news came to comfort us.

Then I demanded to be taken to Sorley Boy McDonnell, and the maiden led my tottering steps to the great hall. There sat the old man, bare-headed and motionless, at the head of the empty table, with his sword laid out before him. “Is my son come?” demanded he, as we entered.

“Not yet, dear sire,” said the maiden, going to him.

“He is not far away, sir,” said I; “of that I am sure.”

“I know that,” said the old chief, half angrily. “The Banshee has been dumb since Alexander McDonnell fell. Why comes not Ludar? I grow impatient.”

Even as he spoke there came a knocking on the door, and a Scot entered hastily.

He brought news that in a hut a mile eastward of the castle a man had been found, who had been brought up from the shore, dead; and that, further east still, the bodies of—

Here Sorley Boy smote his fist on the table, and ordered the fellow to hold his peace.

“I want no news of the dead,” said he, wrathfully, “but of the living. Where is my son Ludar?”

The man slunk off chapfallen.

The maiden knelt beside the old man’s chair, and laid her white cheek on his rough sleeve. Jeannette drew me gently to a bench at the far corner of the hall, and bade me rest there beside her.

Thus, while the afternoon slowly wore into evening, and the storm without moaned itself to sleep, we sat there in silence.

About sundown, just as—despite the sweet presence at my side—I was growing drowsy with weariness and pain, Sorley Boy suddenly uttered an exclamation and rose to his feet. The maiden rose too. And as she stood, motionless but for the heaving of her bosom, the slanting rays of the sun caught her and kindled her face into a wondrous glow.

Jeannette’s gentle hand restrained me, as the old man, taking a step or two down the room as far as the end of the table, stood there facing the door. Then there fell on my ears a voice and the ring of a footstep in the courtyard without. Next moment, the door swung open and Ludar walked quietly in.

Jeannette led me softly from the place, and kept me cruelly pacing in the outer darkness for half-an-hour before she said:

“Art thou not going in to welcome thy friend, Humphrey?”

Need I say what passed, when at last we stood all four together in that great hall?

The old chief had taken his seat again at the table, and sat there solemn and impassive, as if all that had passed had been but the ordinary event of an afternoon. But the fire in his eye betrayed him, as now and again he half turned his head to the window where Ludar and the maiden stood gazing out across the waves.

“Humphrey, my brother,” said Ludar, when at last Jeannette and I drew near, “’tis worth a little storm to be thus in port at last, and to find you there too.”

“Ay, indeed,” said I. “And, as you see, there are more than I here to greet you.”

Then he stepped up to Jeannette and gazed in her face a moment, and kissed her on the brow.

“Thou art welcome to Dunluce, sister Jeannette,” said he.

Jeannette told me afterwards that she never felt so proud in her life as when Ludar’s lips touched her forehead, and she heard him call her sister.

’Twas not in me to complain that it should be so; for the ways of women are beyond my understanding.

Presently the old man rose from his seat, and without a word left us to ourselves. Ludar then narrated how, when the Gerona broke up, he had fallen near a broken oar, which held him up and enabled him to reach land almost without a bruise. For a long while he lay in the darkness, not knowing where he was; but when day broke, he found himself in the deep cave that goes under the castle, a prisoner there by the rising tide, and with no means of escape. For to stem the waves at the mouth was hopeless, and by no manner of shouting and calling could he make his presence known to anyone outside.

So all day, faint with hunger, he had perched on a ledge just beyond reach of the tide, and not till evening, when the wind, and with it the water, subsided, was he able to swim out and come to land at the foot of the very path up which, long months ago, he had led the party who recovered Dunluce for the McDonnells.

His story was scarce ended when a cheering without called us to the courtyard, where the news of the return of Sir Ludar had gathered the McDonnells, eager with shouts and music to welcome him.

But Ludar would by no means go out till his father arrived to command it. Then it did us, who loved him, good to see him stand there, with the maiden’s hand in his, receiving the homage of his clansmen.

While thus we stood, there was an uproar at the gate, as two men fought their way through the throng and approached us.

“Jove and the Muses grant their beloved son a soul to celebrate so notable a festival in the strains which it deserves!” cried the poet, shaking all over with emotion, and his eyes dim with tears. “Achilles hath his Briseïs; Odysseus his lost Penelope, and all four have to their hand an Orpheus (woe’s me! without his Eurydice), to chant their fortunes. Oh! my noble son of a wolf, and thou, my Hollander, how I rejoice to see you, and to hand to your arms the nymphs of whom one day, perhaps, it shall be accounted to their honour that they were nourished on the dews of Parnassus by the Muses’ most unworthy disciple.”

“A nice dry nurse you be!” said Jack Gedge. “’Tis a mercy the fair ladies have their ear-drums sound after half-a-year of your noisy buzzing in them. Sir Ludar, by your leave, captain, you hold in your hand what you gave me in charge to keep for you; so I owe you nought but my farewell.”

“Nay,” said Ludar. “By heaven, we are all debtors to you both, and shall compel you to own it. And since you both and my comrade here be Englishmen, let me tell you that, for your sakes, I shall salute your Queen’s ensign when I next see it.”

That night the poet related to me with much embellishment and flourish all that had passed since the maids left London, most of which I already knew, yet was not loth to hear again from his lips.

“Thank me no thanks, my Hollander,” said he, when once more I blessed him for the service he had done. “The poet’s glory cometh not from earth. I have, while I waited here, written an excellent and notable epic on the wars of the illustrious house of the McDonnells, the which I will even now rehearse thee for thy delectation. And when once more thou art returned to thy press, I reserve for thee the glory of imprinting three noble copies of the same on paper of vellum, to be bound after the manner of the Venetians, in white, with clasps of gold, to be given, one to my lord Sorley Boy, one to Sir Ludar, and one to thee, for thy private and particular delectation.”

Again I thanked him, and begged he would reserve the reading till to-morrow, when I should be more wakeful.

To which, marvelling much at my patience, he agreed.

“As for me,” said he, “naught falleth ill to the favourites of the Immortals. I owe no grudge to the day I took thee into my protection. As a printer, count on me as thy patron. As a man, call me thy friend. And if some day, at thy frugal fireside (for the which thou art already provided with the chiefest ornament), thou shouldst have a spare chair and platter, I will even deign to fill the one and empty the other now and again, in memory of this, our time of fellowship. Therefore count on me, my Hollander; and so, good-night.”

There is little more to be told. Of the crew of the doomed Gerona, the tide washed some hundreds, before many weeks were past, into a bay near the Causeway Headlands, east of Dunluce. Amongst them, Ludar and I discovered the body of Don Alonzo, calm and gentle in death, and buried him with what honour, we could in holy ground near the tomb of the McDonnells. A few cannon and guns we helped haul up and set on the walls of Dunluce, where they are to this day, much to the wrath of my Lord Deputy and his English Councillors.

Jack Gedge remains body servant to Sir Ludar McDonnell; where, if his trust be not so great as it was (now that his master and mistress are one), he is none the less faithful or joyous in his service.

As for the poet, he was true to his promise of visiting Jeannette and me at our frugal fireside. But this was not for many years after the promise was given.

As soon as my arm was healed and I could persuade Ludar to release me, I returned to London, to find the house without Temple Bar still empty, and Master Walgrave’s name still a caution to evil-doers. Despairing of seeing me and his type from Rochelle, he had sold himself to those firebrands Masters Udal and Penry; and by means of his secret press had given utterance to certain scandalous and seditious libels on the bishops and clergy of the Church, known by the name of Marprelate, his books. A merry chase he gave the beadle and pursuivants all over the country, dropping libels wherever he went, till at last he suddenly vanished and left them to whistle.

For Jeannette’s sake as well as my own I wandered far for news of him, and heard of him at last from Mistress Crane as having fled to Rochelle with all his family. Thither I wrote him of my welfare, and had a letter back bidding me, if I was still minded to serve him, meet him in Edinburgh. Thither, then, I took sail, and presently found him; and should you meet with any books imprinted by Robert Walgrave, Printer to the King’s Most Excellent Majesty in Edinburgh, know that the hand that set them in type was the same which now writes this true history.

In due season Mistress Walgrave and the little ones came northward too; and one glad day I wandered to the western coast, and there met Ludar and his fair bride, and with them my own sweet Jeannette, from whom I never parted more.

Ere this happy meeting took place, Sorley Boy McDonnell had ended his stormy days and was gathered to his fathers, and Sir James McDonnell, his son, became Lord of Dunluce.

Ludar dwelt quietly on his lands in Cantire, refusing allegiance to any crowned monarch, but loyal to the end to his wife, his clan, his comrade, and to the memory of those perils and chances which had made him and me brothers.

The End.