Front matter (continued 3)

"All lightee," he said; "just what me hopee."

With his knife he cut the tough withes that held the bamboos in their places, and pulled out three of the bars.

"Come along," he said; "no time to lose."

Jack scrambled out, but in trying to stand upright gave a sharp exclamation of pain. Percy crawled out more slowly; he tried to stand up, but could not. The Chinaman caught him up and threw him on his shoulder.

"Come along quickee," he said to Jack; "if takee village, kill evely one." He set off at a run. Jack followed as fast as he could, groaning at every step from the pain the movement caused to his bruised body.

They went to the side of the village opposite to that at which the attack was going on. They met no one on the way, the inhabitants having all rushed to the other side to repel the attack. They stopped at a small gate in the wall, the Chinaman drew back the bolts and opened it, and they passed out into the country. For an hour they kept on. By the end of that time Jack could scarcely drag his limbs along. The Chinaman halted at length in a clump of trees, surrounded by a thick undergrowth.

"Allee safee here," he said, "no searchee so far; here food;" and he produced from a wallet a cold chicken and some boiled rice, and unslung from his shoulder a gourd filled with cold tea.

"Me go back now, see what happen. To-mollow nightee come again—bringee more food." And without another word he went off at a rapid pace.

Jack moistened his lips with the tea, and then turned to his companion. Percy had not spoken a word since he had been released from the cage, and had been insensible during the greater part of his journey. Jack poured some cold tea between his lips.

"Cheer up, Percy, old boy, we are free now, and with luck and that good fellow's help we will work our way down to Canton yet."

"I shall never get down there; you may," Percy said feebly.

"Oh, nonsense! you will pick up strength like a steam-engine now. Here, let me prop you against this tree. That's better. Now drink a drop of this tea; it's like nectar after that filthy water we have been drinking. Now you will feel better. Now you must try and eat a little of this chicken and rice. Oh, nonsense! you have got to do it. I am not going to let you give way when our trouble is just over.

"Think of your people at home, Percy, and make an effort for their sakes. Good heavens! now I think of it, it must be Christmas morning. We were caught on the second, and we have been just twenty-two days on show. I am sure that it must be past twelve o'clock, and it is Christmas-day. It is a good omen, Percy. This food isn't like roast beef and plum-pudding, but it is not to be despised, I can tell you. Come, now, take some; that's a good fellow."

A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE.—XII.

Percy made an effort, and ate a few mouthfuls of rice and chicken, then he took another draught of tea, and lay down, and was almost immediately asleep.

Jack ate his food slowly and contentedly till he finished half the supply, then he too lay down, and, after a short but hearty thanksgiving for his escape from a slow and lingering death, fell asleep. The sun was rising when he awoke. He opened his eyes and sat up.

"Well, Percy, how do you feel this morning?" he asked cheerily.

"I feel too weak to move," Percy replied languidly.

"Oh, you will be all right when you have sat up and eaten breakfast," Jack said "Here you are; here is a wing for you, and this rice is as white as snow, and the tea is first-rate. I thought last night after I lay down that I heard a murmur of water, so after we have had breakfast I will look about and see if I can find it. We should feel like new men after a wash. You look awful, and I am sure I am just as bad."

The thought of a wash cheered Percy far more than that of eating, and he sat up and made a great effort to do justice to breakfast. He succeeded much better than he had done the night before, and Jack, although he pretended to grumble, was satisfied with his companion's progress, and finished off the rest of the food. Then he set out to search for water.

He had not very far to go. A tiny stream, a few inches wide and two or three inches deep, ran through the wood from the higher ground. After throwing himself down and taking a drink he hurried back to Percy.

"It is all right, Percy, I have found it. We can wash to our hearts' content; think of that, lad."

Percy could hardly stand, but he made an effort, and Jack half carried him to the streamlet. There the lads spent hours. First they bathed their heads and hands, and then stripping, lay down in the stream and allowed it to flow over them; then they rubbed themselves with handfuls of leaves dipped in the water; and when they at last put on their rags again they felt like new men.

Percy was able to walk back to the spot they had quitted, with the assistance only of Jack's arm. The latter, feeling that his breakfast had by no means appeased his hunger, now started for a search through the wood, and presently returned to Percy laden with nuts and berries.

"The nuts are sure to be all right; I expect the berries are too. I have certainly seen some like them in native markets, and I think it will be quite safe to risk it."

The rest of the day was spent in picking nuts and eating them. Then they sat down and waited for the arrival of their friend. He came two hours after nightfall with a wallet stored with provisions, and told them that he had regained the village unobserved. The attack had been repulsed, but with severe loss to the defenders as well as to the assailants. Two of their guards had been among the killed.

The others had made a great clamour over the escape of the prisoners, and had made a close search throughout the village and immediately round it, for they were convinced that their captives had not had the strength to go any distance. He thought, however, that although they had professed the greatest indignation, and had offered many threats as to the vengeance the government would take upon the village, they would not trouble themselves any further in the matter.

They had already reaped a rich harvest from the exhibition, and would divide among themselves the share of their late comrades. Nor was it at all unlikely that, if they were to report the matter to the authorities, they would themselves get into serious trouble for not having handed over the prisoners immediately after their capture.

A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE.—XIII.

For a fortnight the old pilot nursed and fed the two midshipmen. He had already provided them with native clothes, so that if by chance any villagers should catch sight of them they would not recognize them as the escaped white men.

At the end of that time both the lads had almost recovered from the effects of their sufferings. Jack, indeed, had picked up from the first, but Percy for some days continued so weak and ill that Jack had feared that he was going to have an attack of fever of some kind.

His companion's cheery and hopeful chat did as much good for Percy as the nourishing food with which their friend supplied them; and at the end of the fortnight he declared that he felt sufficiently strong to attempt to make his way down to the coast.

The pilot acted as their guide. When they inquired about his wife, he told them carelessly that she would remain with her kinsfolk, and would travel on to Canton and join him there when she found an opportunity. The journey was accomplished at night, by very short stages at first, but by increasing distances as Percy gained strength.

During the daytime the lads lay hid in woods or jungles, while their companion went into a village and purchased food, they struck the river many miles above Canton, and the pilot, going down first to a village on its banks, bargained for a boat to take him and two women down to the city.

The lads went on board at night and took their places in the little cabin, formed of bamboos and covered with mats, in the stern of the boat, and remained thus sheltered not only from the view of people in boats passing up or down the stream, but from the eyes of their own boatmen.

After two days' journey down the river without incident, they arrived off Canton, where the British fleet was still lying while negotiations for peace were being carried on with the authorities at Pekin. Peeping out between the mats, the lads caught sight of the English warships, and, knowing that there was now no danger, they dashed out of the cabin, to the surprise of the native boatmen, and shouted and waved their arms to the distant ships.

In ten minutes they were alongside the Perseus, when they were hailed as if restored from the dead.

The pilot was very handsomely rewarded by the English authorities for his kindness to the prisoners, and was highly satisfied with the result of his proceedings, which more than doubled the little capital with which he had retired from business. Jack Fothergill and Percy Adcock declare that they have never since eaten chicken without thinking of their Christmas fare on the morning of their escape from the hands of the Chinese pirates.

THE BLACK DEATH.

FROM "ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND."

[Sir Walter Somers, a young knight who had distinguished himself under the Black Prince at Crecy and Poitiers, married Edith Vernon; and, during a lull in the fighting with France, settled down in his castle at Westerham. He had a deadly enemy in a knight who was a relation of his wife's, and whom he had thwarted in an attempt made on her in order to inherit the property.

The terrible plague known in history as the Black Death (1348-49), which carried off two-thirds of the population of England, breaks out. When the plague reaches the village, Sir Walter goes down with his faithful retainer Ralph to comfort the frightened people.]

They found the village in a state of panic. Women were sitting crying despairingly at their doors. Some were engaged in packing their belongings in carts ready for flight. Some wandered aimlessly about, wringing their hands, while others went to the church, whose bells were mournfully tolling the knell of the departed.

Walter's presence soon restored something like order and confidence; his resolute tone cheered the timid and gave hope to the despairing. Sternly he rebuked those preparing to fly, and ordered them instantly to replace their goods in their houses. Then he went to the priest and implored him to cause the tolling of the bell to cease.

"There is enough," he said, "in the real danger present to appal even the bravest, and we need no bell to tell us that death is among us. The dismal tolling is enough to unnerve the stoutest heart, and if we ring for all who die, its sounds will never cease while the plague is among us; therefore, father, I implore you to discontinue it.

"Let there be services held daily in the church, but I beseech you strive to cheer the people rather than to depress them, and to dwell more upon the joys that await those who die as Christian men and women than upon the sorrows of those who remain behind. My wife and mother will soon be down in the village and will strive to cheer and comfort the people, and I look to you for aid in this matter."

The priest, who was naturally a timid man, nevertheless nerved himself to carry out Walter's suggestions, and soon the dismal tones of the bell ceased to be heard in the village.

Walter despatched messengers to all the outlying farms, desiring his tenants to meet him that afternoon at the castle, in order that steps might be taken for common aid. An hour later Dame Vernon and Edith came down and visited all the houses where the plague had made its appearance, distributing their soups, and by cheering and comforting words raising the spirits of the relatives of the sufferers.

The names of all the women ready to aid in the work of nursing were taken down, and in the afternoon at the meeting at the castle the full arrangements were completed. Work was to be carried on as usual in order to occupy men's minds, and prevent them from brooding over the awful effects of the plague.

Information of any case that occurred was to be sent to the castle, where soups and medicines were to be obtained. Whenever more assistance was required than could be furnished by the inmates of a house, another woman was to be sent to aid. Boys were told off as messengers to fetch food and other things as required from the castle.

So, bravely and firmly, they prepared to meet the pestilence; it spread with terrible severity. There was scarcely a house which did not lose some of its inmates, while in others whole families were swept away. All day Walter and his wife and Dame Vernon went from house to house. Although they could do nothing to stay the progress of the pestilence, their presence and example supported the survivors, and prevented the occurrence of any of the panic and disorder which in most places accompanied it.

THE BLACK DEATH.—II

The castle was not exempt from the scourge. First some of the servants were seized, and three men and four women died. Walter himself was attacked, but he took it lightly, and three days after the seizure passed into a state of convalescence.

Dame Vernon was next attacked, and expired six hours after the commencement of her illness. Scarcely was Walter upon his feet than Ralph, who had not for a moment left his bedside, was seized, but he too, after being at death's door for some hours, turned the corner. Lastly Edith sickened.

By this time the scourge had done its worst in the village, and three-fifths of the population had been swept away. All the male retainers in the castle had died, and the one female who survived was nursing her dying mother in the village. Edith's attack was a very severe one.

Walter, alone now,—for Ralph, although convalescent, had not yet left his bed,—sat by his wife's bedside a prey to anxiety and grief; for although she had resisted the first attack, she was now, thirty-six hours after it had seized her, fast sinking. Gradually her sight and power of speech failed, and she lay quiet and motionless, and it seemed as if life had already departed.

Suddenly Walter was surprised by the sound of many heavy feet ascending the stairs. He went out into the ante-room to learn the cause of this strange tumult, when five armed men, one of whom was masked, rushed into the room. Walter caught up his sword from the table.

"Ruffians!" he exclaimed, "how dare you thus dishonour the abode of death?"

Without a word the men sprang upon him. For a minute he defended himself against their attacks, but he was still weak; his guard was beaten down, and a blow felled him to the ground.

"Now settle her!" the masked man exclaimed, and the band rushed into the adjoining room. They paused, however, at the door at the sight of the lifeless figure on the couch.

"We are saved that trouble," one said; "we have come too late."

The masked figure approached the couch and bent over the figure.

"Yes," he said, "she is dead, and so much the better."

Then he returned with the others to Walter.

"He breathes yet," he said. "He needs a harder blow than that you gave him to finish him. Let him lie here for a while, while you gather your booty together; then we will carry him off. There is scarcely a soul alive in the country round, and none will note us as we pass.

"If we killed him here his body would be found with wounds upon it, and even in these times some inquiry might be made; therefore it were best to finish him elsewhere. When he is missed it will be supposed that he went mad at the death of his wife, and has wandered out and died, maybe in the woods, or has drowned himself in a pond or stream. Besides, I would that before he dies he should know what hand has struck the blow, and that my vengeance, which he slighted and has twice escaped, has overtaken him at last."

THE BLACK DEATH.—III.

After ransacking the principal rooms and taking all that was valuable, the band of marauders lifted the still insensible body of Walter, and carrying it downstairs flung it across a horse. One of the ruffians mounted behind it, and the others also getting into their saddles, the party rode away.

They were mistaken, however, in supposing that the Lady Edith was dead. She was indeed very nigh the gates of death, and had it not been for the disturbance would assuredly have speedily entered them. The voice of her husband raised in anger, the clash of steel, followed by the heavy fall, had awakened her dazed senses.

Consciousness had at once partly returned to her, but as yet no power of movement. She had heard the words of those who entered her chamber as if they were spoken afar off.

More and more distinctly she heard their movements about the room, but it was not until silence was restored that she came to herself completely. Then with a sudden rush the blood seemed to course through her veins, her eyes opened, and her tongue was loosed, and with a scream she sprang up and stood by the side of her bed.

She hurried into the next room. A pool of blood on the floor showed her that what she had heard had not been a dream. Snatching up a cloak of her husband's which lay on a couch, she wrapped it round her, and with hurried steps made her way along the passages until she reached the apartment occupied by Ralph. The latter sprang up in bed with a cry of astonishment.

He had heard but an hour before from Walter that all hope was gone, and thought for an instant that the figure he saw was an apparition from the dead. The ghastly pallor of the face, the eyes burning with a strange light, the wild hair and disordered appearance of the lady might well have alarmed one living in even less superstitious times. Ralph was beginning to cross himself hastily and to mutter a prayer, when he was recalled to himself by the sound of Edith's voice.

"Quick, Ralph!" she said, "arise and clothe yourself. Hasten for your life. My lord's enemies have fallen upon him and wounded him grievously, even if they have not slain him, and have carried him away. They would have slain me also had they not thought I was already dead. Arise and mount, summon everyone still alive in the village, and follow these murderers. I will pull the alarm-bell of the castle."

Ralph sprang from his bed as Edith left. He had heard the sound of many footsteps in the knight's apartments, but had deemed them those of the priest come to administer the last rites of the church to his dying mistress. Rage and anxiety for his master gave strength to his limbs. He threw on a few clothes and rushed down to the stables, where the horses stood with great piles of forage and pails of water before them, placed there two days before by Walter when their last attendant died. Without waiting to saddle it Ralph sprang upon the back of one of the animals, and taking the halters of four others started at a gallop down to the village.

THE BLACK DEATH.—IV.

His news spread like wildfire; for the ringing of the alarm-bell of the castle had drawn all to their doors and prepared them for something strange. Some of the men had already taken their arms and were making their way up to the castle when they met Ralph. There were but five men in the village who had altogether escaped the pestilence; others had survived its attacks, but were still weak. Horses there were in plenty. The five men mounted at once, with three others who, though still weak, were still able to ride.

So great was the excitement that seven women, who had escaped the disease, armed themselves with their husbands' swords and leaped on horseback, declaring that, women though they were, they would strike a blow for their beloved lord, who had been as an angel in the village during the plague.

Thus it was scarcely more than ten minutes after the marauders had left the castle before a motley band, fifteen strong, headed by Ralph, rode off in pursuit, while some of the women of the village hurried up to the castle to comfort Edith with the tidings that the pursuit had already commenced. Fortunately a lad in the fields had noticed the five men ride away from the castle, and was able to point out the direction they had taken.

At a furious gallop Ralph and his companions tore across the country. Mile after mile was passed. Once or twice they gained news from labourers in the field of the passage of those before them, and knew that they were on the right track.

They had now entered a wild and sparsely inhabited country. It was broken and rolling, so that although they knew that the men they were pursuing were but a short distance ahead they had not yet caught sight of them. They hoped that, having no reason to dread any immediate pursuit, these would soon slacken their pace. This expectation was realized, for on coming over a brow they saw the party halted at a turf-burner's cottage in the hollow below.

Three of the men had dismounted; two of them were examining the hoof of one of the horses, which had apparently cast a shoe or trodden upon a stone. Ralph had warned his party to make no sound when they came upon the fugitives. The sound of the horses' hoofs was deadened by the turf, and they were within a hundred yards of the marauders before they were perceived; then Ralph uttered a shout, and brandishing their swords the party rode down at a headlong gallop.

The dismounted men leaped to their saddles and galloped off at full speed, but their pursuers were now close upon them. Ralph and two of his companions, who were mounted upon Walter's best horses, gained upon them at every stride. Two of them were overtaken and run through.

The man who bore Walter before him, finding himself being rapidly overtaken, threw his burden on to the ground just as the leader of the party had checked his horse and was about to deliver a sweeping blow at the insensible body.

With a curse at his follower for ridding himself of it, he again galloped on. The man's act was unavailing to save himself, for he was overtaken and cut down before he had ridden many strides; then Ralph and his party instantly reined up to examine the state of Walter, who was found to be still breathing, and the two survivors of the band of murderers continued their flight unmolested.

THE WHITE SHIP.

FROM "THE REIGN OF TERROR"

[Harry Sandwith was acting as companion to the sons of a great French noble when the Revolution broke out. The marquis and his wife were massacred by the mob. Their sons, in trying to make their escape from the country, were seized and put to death. Harry Sandwith found himself left in charge of the two daughters, who, accompanied by an old nurse, travelled with him in disguise to Nantes. Here they lived in seclusion for a time, Harry trying to obtain a passage for them in a smuggling craft.

Nantes is in the hands of the Revolutionists, who, under the direction of the infamous Carrier, the Commissioner from Paris, are massacring wholesale all suspected of hostility. There is much illness and distress in the town, and the ladies by their kindness to the sick win the hearts of some of the sailors, so that, finally, arrangements for escape are made.

Before they can be carried out, however, the girls are seized and thrown into prison. The ordinary modes of execution being found too slow to clear the prisons of the numbers of those brought in daily under the charge of being aristocrats, Carrier organized what are known in history as the Noyades. He procured a number of boats, and had them moored in the middle of the stream. The prisoners—men, women, and children—were placed on board. Holes were cut in the bottom to cause the craft to sink, while troops lined the river and fired with artillery and musketry at those who endeavoured to swim to shore.

Harry, hearing of this infamous design, and learning which craft the girls were to be placed on, determines to effect their rescue. He is taken on board the boat at night, and with the assistance of the sailors prepares the hatchway of the cabin as a means of escape. The sailors then row off, and leave him to himself.]

When left alone Harry blew out the other candles, but left that in the lantern burning, and threw himself down on the locker and thought over every detail of the work for the next day. As he had said, the great danger was of Virginie struggling and being too frightened to follow his instructions. Certainly he could fasten a rope round her, but even then it might be difficult to manage her. The next danger was, that other persons might cling to the hatchway. Harry felt the long knife which was concealed in his breast.

"God grant I may not have to use it!" he said; "but, if it must be, I shall not hesitate. They would simply destroy us without saving themselves, that is certain. Therefore I am justified in defending the girls, as I would against any other enemy."

He knelt down and prayed for some time. Then he replaced the piece they had cut out from the hatch, fixed the beams beneath it, and lay down again. He was worn out by the excitement of the day, and in spite of his anxiety about the morrow he presently fell off to sleep.

It was long before he woke. When he did so, he looked through one of the auger-holes into the hold and saw the light streaming down the open hatchway, and could tell that the sun was already up.

He ate the food which Marthe had put into his pocket just as he was starting; saw that the bundles of corks were ready at hand, and the ropes attached to them so placed that they could be fastened on in an instant. Then there was nothing to do but to wait.

The time passed slowly. Presently he heard the sound of drums and bugles, and knew that the troops were taking up their positions on the quays. At last—it seemed many hours to him—he heard the splash of oars, and presently felt a slight shock as a boat ran alongside the lugger. Then there were voices, and the sound of feet above as persons mounted on to the deck. There was a scraping noise by the lugger's side, and immediately afterwards another bump as the second boat took the place of the first.

This, as far as Harry could hear, did not leave the lugger. There was a great hum of talking on deck, principally in women's voices, and persons so often stepped on the hatch, that Harry was glad the beams gave a solid support to it.

THE WHITE SHIP.—II.

Half an hour passed, as well as Harry could judge; then the boom of a cannon was heard, and immediately two men leapt down into the hold, knocked the six plugs out of their place, and climbed up on deck again. There was again the scraping noise, and Harry knew the boat had pushed off this time for good. He watched the six jets of water for a minute or two. Then saying to himself, "It is time," he knocked the beams from their ledges, allowed the square of wood to fall, lifted the hatch, and pushed it off its combing, and clambered on to the deck with the corks and ropes.

There were some fifty persons on board, for the most part women and children, but with two or three men among them. They were gathered near the stern, and were apparently watching the scene ashore with astonishment. He hurried aft, having no fear that at this distance from the shore his figure would be recognized from the rest, and if it were it mattered not. Two or three turned round as the supposed sailor came aft, exclaiming:

"What does this mean? Why are we put here on board these white ships? What are they going to do with us?"

"Alas, ladies!" he said, "they have put you here to die; they have bored holes in the ships' bottoms, and in a few minutes they will sink. It is a wholesale execution."

As he began to speak one of the ladies in the stern pushed her way through the rest.

"Oh, Harry, is it you!" she exclaimed as he finished. "Is it true, are we to die together?"

"We are in God's hands, Jeanne, but there is hope yet. Bring Virginie forward with me."

At Harry's first words a panic had seized all around; one or two ran to the hatchway and looked down into the hold, and screamed out that the water was rushing in; then some cried to the distant crowd to send to save them; others ran up and down as if demented; while some threw themselves on their knees.

But the panic soon passed away. All had for weeks looked death in the face; and though the unexpected form in which it appeared had for the moment shaken them, they soon recovered. Mothers clasped their daughters to their breasts for a last farewell, and then all with bowed heads kneeled and listened in silence to an old man who began to pray aloud.

Jeanne, without another word, had taken Virginie's hands and accompanied Harry forward to the fore part of the deck.

"Jeanne, I am going to try to save you and Virginie, but everything depends upon your being cool and brave. I need not urge you, because I am sure of you. Virginie, will you try to be cool for Jeanne's sake and your own? If you do not we must all die together."

"What are we to do, Harry?" Jeanne said steadily; while Virginie clung to her sister, sobbing bitterly.

"Fasten this bundle of corks between Virginie's shoulders, high up—yes, there."

THE WHITE SHIP.—III.

While Jeanne was doing this, Harry fastened a rope to a ring in the side of the hatch; then he tied the corks on to Jeanne's shoulders, and adjusted the third bundle to his own.

"Now, Jeanne," he said, "I will tell you what we are to do. You see this hatch; when the vessel sinks it will float, and we must float on our backs with our faces underneath it, so that it will hide us from the sight of the wretches on shore. Even if they put out in boats to kill any who may be swimming or clinging to spars, they will not suspect that there is anyone under this. We may not succeed; an accident may betray us, but there is a possibility. At any rate, dear, we shall live or die together."

"I am content," Jeanne said quietly.

"You know, Jeanne," Harry said, putting his hands on the girl's shoulders, "that I love you. I should never have told you so until we had got home if it hadn't been for this; but though I have never said it, you know I love you."

"I know, Harry; and I love you too with all my heart—so much, that I can feel almost happy that we are to die together."

As Jeanne finished speaking, there was a sudden crash. Impatient at the length of time the vessels were in sinking, those ashore had opened fire with cannons upon them, and the shot had struck the lugger just above the water.

With a little cry Virginie fell senseless on the deck.

"That's the best thing that could have happened," Harry said as Jeanne stooped over her sister. "Lie down on the deck, dear, or you may be struck; they are firing with muskets now. I am going to lie down too," he said in answer to her look, "but I shall first twist this cord round Virginie so as to keep her arms by her side, otherwise when the water touches her she may come to her senses and struggle. That's all right."

Then he lay down on the deck between the girls, with his head against the hatch and holding the rope.

"Put your head on my shoulder, Jeanne, and I will put my arm round you. I will hold Virginie the same way the other side. Hold tight by me for a moment as we sink. I may have to use my arms to get the hatch over our faces. Do not breathe while you are under the water, for we shall, no doubt, go down with the lugger, although I shall try to keep you afloat. When you are under the hatch you will find you will float with your mouth well out of water, and will be able to breathe; the corks will keep you up."

"I understand, Harry; now let us pray until the time comes."

Shot after shot struck the lugger, then Harry felt her give a sudden lurch. There was a wild cry, and the next moment she went down stern first. She was so nearly even with the water when she sank that there was less downward suck than Harry had expected, and striking out with his feet his head was soon above the surface.

The cord had kept the hatch within a couple of feet of him, and with some difficulty, owing to the buoyancy of the corks, he thrust himself and the girls under it. The tarpaulin was old and rotten, and the light penetrated in several places, and Harry could see that, in the position in which they were lying, the faces of both girls were above the water.

It was useless to speak, for their ears were submerged; but a slight motion from Jeanne responded to a pressure of his arm, and he knew that she was sensible, although she had not made the slightest motion from the moment the vessel sank.

THE WHITE SHIP.—IV.

Virginie had not, as he feared would be the case, recovered her senses with the shock of the immersion, but lay insensible on his shoulder. He could see by the movement of Jeanne's lips that she was praying, and he too thanked God that He had given success to the plan so far, and prayed for protection to the end.

With every minute that passed his hopes rose; everything had answered beyond his expectation. The other victims had apparently not even noticed what he was doing, and therefore had not, as he feared might be the case, interfered with his preparations, nor had any of them striven to gain a hold on the hatchway.

The sinking of the vessel, and the tearing up of the water by the shot, would render the surface disturbed and broken, and decrease the chances of the floating hatch attracting attention. After ten minutes had passed he felt certain that they must be below the point where the troops were assembled.

The tide was running out strong, for the time for the massacre had been fixed at an hour which would ensure the bodies being swept down to the sea. Half an hour would, he thought, take them past the bend, where their friends would be waiting for them.

The time seemed endless, for although Harry felt the coldness of the water but little for himself, he knew that it must be trying indeed for Jeanne. As far as he could see her face it was as white as her sister's; but he had hold of one of her hands now, and knew that she was still conscious.

At last he heard the sound of oars. It might not be one of the friendly boats; but the probability was that it was one or other of them. Had they seen any other fisherman's boat near the point, they would have rowed high up so as to intercept the hatch before it reached the stranger. Harry could not hear voices; for although the water had conveyed the sound of the oars a considerable distance, he could hear no sound in the air.

The oars came nearer and nearer, and by the quickness with which the strokes followed each other he knew that two boats were at hand. Then the hatch was suddenly lifted, and as Harry raised his head above water there was a loud cheer, and he saw Adolphe and Pierre, one on each side, stretch out their arms to him.

The girls were first lifted into Pierre's boat, for Jeanne was as unable to move as her sister; then Harry was dragged in, the rough sailors shaking his hand and patting him on the shoulder, while the tears ran down their cheeks.

As soon as Jeanne was able to sit up she began to chafe one of Virginie's hands, while Harry took the other.

"Take off her shoes, Pierre, and soak a cloth with the hot water and put it to her feet."

But with all these efforts it was not until they were close to Pierre's village that Virginie opened her eyes. When they arrived at the little causeway the two girls were wrapped up in the peasants' cloaks which Pierre had brought with him. Jeanne took Harry's arm, while Adolphe lifted Virginie and carried her up. Henriette was standing at the door as Jeanne staggered in with Harry.

"That is right, Mademoiselle. Thank God who has brought you safe through the danger. Now, do not stop a moment, but come in here and get into bed, it is all ready for you. The blankets have been before the fire until the moment you landed; they will soon give you warmth. And do you, Monsieur Sandwith, hurry up to the loft and get on dry clothes."

[Finally they succeeded in getting on board a smuggling lugger, and arrived safely in England.]

THE CHILD'S RETURN.

FROM "WITH WOLFE IN CANADA."

[Squire Linthorne's son had married the daughter of an ex-sergeant in the army, who kept a lodging-house at Southampton. He had married her in defiance of his father, and in spite too of the sergeant, who would not give his consent to the marriage unless the squire also gave his approval. The young couple had fallen into poverty.

The squire, who always intended finally to forgive his son, travelled on the Continent, and on his return found a letter from his dying son, dated from a place in the south of France. He travelled there post-haste, but arrived too late; his son and his young wife were both dead. A child had been born, but had been taken away by the wife's father, who had been with them at the last.

The squire had tried every means to obtain a clue to the whereabouts of his granddaughter, but had failed, and had settled down a solitary and broken-hearted man on his estate near Sidmouth. In the meantime the sergeant, who was ignorant that the squire had ever at heart forgiven his son, and who believed that he had refused to come to see him even on his death-bed, had brought up the child.

After the death of his daughter he had travelled the country with a peep-show, taking the little one with him. When she was five or six years old he had placed her with a school-mistress at Sidmouth, considering that although it would be terrible to him to part with her, it was but right that the squire should at least have the opportunity of taking his granddaughter to live with him. John Petersham, the squire's old butler, undertook to introduce the little girl to his master.]

That evening the squire was sitting by himself in the great dining-room. The curtains were drawn and the candles lighted, for it was late in September, and the evenings were closing in fast, and the squire was puzzling over John Petersham's behaviour at dinner.

Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passing around him, he had been struck with the old butler's manner; that something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quiet and methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in the service. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was already supplied; he had started nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even thought that he had seen tears in his eyes; altogether he was strangely unlike himself.

Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John had with almost unnecessary earnestness declared there was nothing. Altogether the squire was puzzled.

Presently the door of the room quietly opened. The squire did not look up. It closed again as quietly, and then he glanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child was standing there—a girl with soft smooth hair and large eyes and a sensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing. Her hands were clasped before her, and she was standing, in doubt whether to advance.

There was something so strange in this apparition in the lonely room that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashed across him vaguely that there was something familiar to him in the face and expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and at the same instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was a connection between the appearance of the child and the matter he had just been thinking of—John Petersham's strange conduct. He was still looking at her when she advanced quietly towards him.

"Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."

A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair back.

"Can it be true," he muttered, "or am I dreaming?"

"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now, "I am Aggie Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me, grampa said I was to give you this and then you would know;" and she held out a miniature on ivory of a boy some fourteen years old, and a watch and chain.

"I do not need them," the squire said in low tones, "I see it in your face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long. Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her towards him and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed down his cheeks.

THE CHILD'S RETURN.—II.

"I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn't know about you, and grampa—that's my other grandpapa, you know—did not know you wanted me; but now he knows he sent me to you. He told me I was to come because you were lonely; but you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a quiver in her voice.

"Oh! he will be lonely now!"

"But where did you come from, my dear, and how did you get here, and what have you been doing all these years?"

"Grampa brought me here," the child said. "I call him grampa, you know, because I did when I was little, and I have always kept to it; but I know, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought me here, and John—at least he called him John—brought me in. And I have been living for two years with Mrs. Walsham down in the town, and I used to see you in church, but I did not know that you were my grandpapa."

The squire, who was holding her close to him while she spoke, got up and rang the bell, and John opened the door with a quickness that showed that he had been standing close to it, anxiously waiting a summons.

"John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand; this is the happiest day of my life!"

The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever since John Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two, first came to the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his father, who had held the same post before him.

"God be thanked, squire!" he said huskily.

"God be thanked, indeed, John!" the squire rejoined reverently. "So this was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you poured out my wine. How could you keep the secret from me?"

"I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh letting it out, and only the thought that it was better the little lady should tell you herself, as we had agreed, kept it in. Only to think, squire, after all these years! but I never quite gave her up. I always thought somehow that she would come just like this."

"Did you, John? I gave up hope years ago. How did it come about, John?"

"Mrs. Walsham told me as I came out of church to-day that she wanted to speak to me, so I went down, and she told me all about it, and then I saw him—"

John hesitated at the name, for he knew that perhaps the only man in the world against whom his master cherished a bitter resentment was the father of his son's wife.

"It seems he never saw your advertisements, never knew you wanted to hear anything of the child, so he took her away and kept her. He has been here off and on all these years. I heard of him often and often when I had been down into Sidmouth, but never dreamt it was him. He went about the country with a box on wheels with glasses—a peep-show they call it."

The squire winced.

"He is well spoken of, squire," John said, "and I am bound to say he doesn't seem the sort of man we took him for at all. He did not know that you wanted to have her, but he thought it his duty to give her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs. Walsham, and never told her till yesterday who she was. Mrs. Walsham was quite grieved at parting with her, for she says she is wonderfully quick at her lessons, and has been like a daughter with her for the last two years."

THE CHILD'S RETURN.—III.

The child had sat quietly down in a chair and was looking into the fire while the two men were speaking. She had done what she had been told to do, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next. Her quick ear, however, noticed that John Petersham spoke of her old grandfather as though he needed to be excused for something, and she was moved to instant anger.

"Why do you speak like that of my grampa?" she said, rising to her feet and standing indignantly before him. "He is the best man in the world, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don't like him I can go away to him again. I don't want to stay here, not one minute.

"You may be my grandpapa," she went on, turning to the squire, "and you may be lonely, but he is lonely too, and you have got a great house and all sorts of nice things, and you can do better without me than he can, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor grampa!" and her eyes filled with sudden tears as she thought of him tramping on his lonely walks over the hills.

"We do not mean to speak unkindly of your grandfather, my dear," the squire said gently. "I have never seen him, you know, and John has never seen him but once. I have thought all these years bitterly of him, but perhaps I have been mistaken. He has ever been kind and good to you, and, above all, he has given you back to me, and that will make me think differently of him in future. We all make mistakes, you know, and I have made terrible mistakes, and have been terribly punished for them. I daresay I have made a mistake here; but whether or no, you shall never hear a word from me against the man who has been so kind to you."

"And you will let me see him sometimes, grandpapa?" the child said, taking his hand pleadingly. "He said if you said no I must do as you told me, because somehow you are nearer to me than he is, though I don't know how that can be; but you won't say that, will you? for, oh! I know he is so lonely without me, and I should never be happy thinking of him all alone, not if you were to be ever so kind to me and to give me all sorts of grand things."

"No, my dear, I certainly shall not say so. You shall see him as often as you like."

"Oh, thank you, grandpapa!" she exclaimed joyfully, and she held up her face to kiss him.

The squire lifted her in his arms and held her closely to him.

"John," he said, "you must tell Mrs. Morcombe to get a room ready for my grand-daughter at once, and you had better bring the tea in here, and then we will think of other things. I feel quite bewildered at present."

THE BLACK HOLE OF CALCUTTA.

FROM "WITH CLIVE IN INDIA."

[In 1756, when the British footing in India was by no means assured, Calcutta was attacked by a native prince or nabob, Suraja Dowlah, with a force of 50,000 men. The whole British force in Calcutta numbered 140 men, including sepoys, and the governor was a weak and incompetent man. The defences of the town were quite useless owing to the fact that buildings of all sorts had been allowed to be put up outside the fort. It was a simple matter for the enemy to take possession of these and so command both fort and town.

Mr. Drake, the governor, and Captain Michin, commander of the forces, were cowardly enough to desert their charge and seek safety on board a man-of-war in the harbour. Upon this a civilian, Mr. Holwell, was elected by the Europeans to take command of the town, and Charlie Marryat, a young officer, is put in command of the troops.]

With daybreak the attack recommenced, but the garrison all day bravely repulsed every attempt of the enemy to gain a footing. The fire from the houses was, however, so severe, that by nightfall nearly half the garrison were killed or wounded. All day the signals to the fleet were kept flying, but not a ship moved.

All night an anxious watch was kept, in hopes that at the last moment some returning feeling of shame might induce the recreants to send up the boats of the ships. But the night passed without a movement on the river, and in the morning the fleet were seen still lying at anchor.

The enemy recommenced the attack even more vigorously than before. The men fell fast, and, to Charlie's great grief, his friend Mr. Haines was shot by a bullet as he was standing next to him. Charlie anxiously knelt beside him.

"It is all over with me," he murmured. "Poor little Ada. Do all you can for her, Marryat. God knows what fate is in store for her."

"I will protect her with my life, sir," Charlie said earnestly.

Mr. Haines pressed his hand feebly in token of gratitude, and two or three minutes later breathed his last.

By mid-day the loss had been so heavy that the men would no longer stand to their guns. After a consultation with his officers Mr. Holwell agreed that further resistance was hopeless. The flag of truce was therefore hoisted, and one of the officers at once started for the nabob's camp, with instructions to make the best terms he could for the garrison. When the gates were opened the enemy, seizing the opportunity, rushed in in great numbers, and as resistance was impossible the garrison laid down their arms. Charlie at once hurried to the spot where Ada was anxiously awaiting news with the only other European lady who had not escaped. Both were exhausted with weeping.

"Where is papa, Captain Marryat?" Ada asked.

Charlie knew that the poor girl would need all her strength for what she might have to undergo, and at once resolved that, for the present at least, it would be better that she should be in ignorance of the fate of her father. He therefore said that for the present Mr. Haines was unable to come, and had asked him to look after her.

It was not until five o'clock that the nabob entered the fort. He was furious at hearing that only five lacs of rupees had been found in the treasury, as he had expected to become possessed of a much larger sum. The whole of the Eurasians, or half-castes, and natives found in the fort were allowed to return to their homes. Mr. Holwell was then sent for, and after the nabob had expressed his resentment at the small amount found in the treasury, he was dismissed, the nabob assuring him of his protection.

Mr. Holwell returned to his English companions, who, one hundred and forty-six in number, including the two ladies, were drawn up under the verandah in front of the prison. The nabob then returned to his camp.

THE BLACK HOLE.—II.

Some native officers went in search of a building where the prisoners could be confined, but every room in the fort had already been taken possession of by the nabob's soldiers and officers.

At eight o'clock they returned with the news that they could find no place vacant, and the officer in command at once ordered the prisoners into a small room, used as a guard-room, eighteen feet square. In vain the Europeans protested that it was impossible the room could contain them, in vain they implored the officer to allow some of them to be confined in an adjoining cell.

The wretch was deaf to their entreaties. He ordered his soldiers to charge the prisoners, and these, with blows of the butt-ends of the muskets and prods of the bayonets, were driven into the narrow cell.

Charlie's servant, Tim Kelly, kept close to his master. Mr. Haines' native servant, Hossein, who would fain have shared his master's fortunes, was forcibly torn from him when the English prisoners were separated from the natives.

The day had been unusually hot. The night was close and sultry, and the arched verandah outside further hindered the entrance of air, and this, with the heavy fumes of powder, created an intolerable thirst. Scarcely were the prisoners driven into their narrow cell, where even standing wedged together there was barely room for them, than cries for water were raised.

"Tim, my boy," Charlie said, "we may say good-bye to each other now, for I doubt if one will be alive when the door is opened in the morning."

On entering, Charlie, always keeping Ada Haines by his side, had taken his place against the wall farthest from the window, which was closed with iron bars.

"I think, yer honour," Tim said, "that if we could get nearer to the window we might breathe a little more easily."

"Ay, Tim; but there will be a fight for life round that window before long. You and I might hold our own if we could get there, though it would be no easy matter where all are struggling for life, but this poor little girl would be crushed to death. Besides, I believe that what chance there is, faint as it may be, is greater for us here than there.

"The rush towards the window, which is beginning already as you see, will grow greater and greater; and the more men struggle and strive, the more air they require. Let us remain where we are. Strip off your coat and waistcoat, and breathe as quietly and easily as you can. Every hour the crowd will thin, and we may yet hold on till morning."

This conversation had been held in a low voice. Charlie then turned to the girl.

"How are you feeling, Ada?" he asked cheerfully. "It's hot, isn't it?"

"It is dreadful," she panted, "and I seem choking from want of air; and oh, Captain Marryat, I am so thirsty!"

"It is hot, my dear, terribly hot, but we must make the best of it; and I hope in a few days you will join your mamma on board ship. That will be pleasant, won't it?"

"Where is papa?" the girl wailed.

"I don't know where he is now, my child. At any rate we must feel very glad that he's not shut up here with us. Now take your bonnet off and your shawl. We must be as quiet and cheerful as possible. I'm afraid, Ada, we have a bad time before us to-night. But try to keep cheerful and quiet, and above all, dear, pray God to give you strength to carry you through it, and to restore you safe to your mamma in a few days."

THE BLACK HOLE.—III.

As time went on the scene in the dungeon became terrible. Shouts, oaths, cries of all kinds, rose in the air. Round the window men fought like wild beasts, tearing each other down, or clinging to the bars for dear life, for a breath of the air without. Panting, struggling, crying, men sank exhausted upon the floor, and the last remnants of life were trodden out of them by those who surged forward to get near the window.

In vain Mr. Holwell implored them to keep quiet for their own sakes. His voice was lost in the terrible din. Men, a few hours ago rich and respected merchants, fought now like maddened beasts for a breath of fresh air. In vain those at the window screamed to the guards without, imploring them to bring water. Their prayers and entreaties were replied to only with brutal scoffs.

Several times Charlie and Tim, standing together against the wall behind, where there was now room to move, lifted Ada between them, and sat her on their shoulders in order that, raised above the crowd, she might breathe more freely. Each time, after sitting there for a while, the poor girl begged to come down again, the sight of the terrible struggle ever going on at the window being too much for her.

Hour passed after hour. There was more room now, for already half the inmates of the place had succumbed. The noises, too, had lessened, for no longer could the parched lips and throats utter articulate sounds. Charlie and Tim, strong men as they were, leaned utterly exhausted against the wall, bathed in perspiration, gasping for air.

"Half the night must be gone, Tim," Charlie said, "and I think, with God's help, we shall live through it. The numbers are lessening fast, and every one who goes leaves more air for the rest of us. Cheer up, Ada dear, 'twill not be very long till morning."

"I think I shall die soon," the girl gasped. "I shall never see papa or mamma again. You have been very kind, Captain Marryat, but it is no use."

"Oh, but it is of use," Charlie said cheerfully. "I don't mean to let you die at all, but to hand you over to mamma safe and sound. There, lay your head against me, dear, and say your prayers, and try and go off to sleep."

Presently, however, Ada's figure drooped more and more, until her whole weight leaned upon Charlie's arm.

"She has fainted, Tim," he said. "Help me to raise her well in my arms, and lay her head on my shoulder. That's right. Now you'll find her shawl somewhere under my feet; hold it up and make a fan of it. Now try to send some air into her face."

By this time not more than fifty out of the hundred and forty-six who entered the cell were alive. Suddenly a scream of joy from those near the window proclaimed that a native was approaching with some water. The struggle at the window was fiercer than ever. The bowl was too wide to pass through the bars, and the water was being spilt in vain; each man who strove to get his face far enough through to touch the bowl being torn back by his eager comrades behind.

THE BLACK HOLE.—IV.

"Tim," Charlie said, "you are now much stronger than most of them. They are faint from the struggles. Make a charge to the window. Take that little shawl and dip it into the bowl or whatever they have there, and then fight your way back with it."

"I will do it, yer honour," said Tim, and he rushed into the struggling group. Weak as he was from exhaustion and thirst, he was as a giant to most of the poor wretches who had been struggling and crying all night, and, in spite of their cries and curses, he broke through them and forced his way to the window.

The man with the bowl was on the point of turning away, the water being spilt in the vain attempts of those within to obtain it. By the light of the fire which the guard had lit outside, Tim saw his face.

"Hossein," he exclaimed, "more water, for God's sake! The master's alive yet."

Hossein at once withdrew, but soon again approached with the bowl. The officer in charge angrily ordered him to draw back.

"Let the infidel dogs howl," he said. "They shall have no more."

Regardless of the order, Hossein ran to the window, and Tim thrust the shawl into the water at the moment when the officer, rushing forward, struck Hossein to the ground: a cry of anguish rising from the prisoners as they saw the water dashed from their lips. Tim made his way back to the side of his master. Had those who still remained alive been aware of the supply of water which he carried in the shawl they would have torn it from him; but none save those just at the window had noticed the act, and inside it was still entirely dark.

"Thank God, yer honour, here it is," Tim said; "and who should have brought it but Hossein. Shure, yer honour, we both owe our lives to him this time, for I'm sure I should have been choked by thirst before morning."

Ada was now lowered to the ground, and a corner of the folded shawl was placed between her lips, and the water allowed to trickle down. With a gasping sigh she presently recovered.

"That is delicious," she murmured. "That is delicious."

Raising her to her feet, Charlie and Tim both sucked the dripping shawl, until the first agonies of thirst were relieved. Then tearing off a portion in case Ada should again require it, Charlie passed the shawl to Mr. Holwell, who, after sucking it for a moment, again passed it on to several standing round. In this way many of those who would otherwise have succumbed were enabled to hold on until morning.

Presently the first dawn of daylight appeared, giving fresh hopes to the few survivors. There were now only some six or eight standing by the window, and a few standing or leaning against the walls around. The room itself was heaped high with the dead.

It was not until two hours later that the doors were opened and the guard entered, and it was found that of the hundred and forty-six English people inclosed there the night before, only twenty-three still breathed. Of these very few retained strength to stagger out through the door. The rest were carried out and laid in the verandah.

When the nabob came into the fort in the morning, he ordered Mr. Holwell to be brought before him. He was unable to walk, but was carried to his presence. The brutal nabob expressed no regret for what had happened, but loaded him with abuse on account of the paucity of the treasure, and ordered him and his friends to be placed in confinement.