Captain Mayne Reid (continued 10)

Ere the full name of the victim threatened with this horrid fate had passed from his lips, the menace of the myal-man was interrupted.

The interruption was caused by a sound proceeding from the little clump of bushes close to where Chakra stood.

It sounded exactly as if some one had sneezed—for it was that in reality. Cynthia had sneezed.

She had not done so intentionally—far from it. After what she had heard, it was not likely she would have uttered any sound to proclaim her presence.

At that instant she would have given all she possessed in the world—all she ever hoped to possess, even the love of Cubina—to have been miles from the spot, within the safe kitchen of Mount Welcome—anywhere but where she then was.

Long before the conversation between the Jew and Chakra had come to a close, she had made up her mind never to see the myal-man again—never willingly. Now an encounter appeared inevitable: he must have heard the sneeze!

The wretched woman reasoned aright—he had heard it.

A fierce “whugh!” was the ejaculation it called forth in response; and then the myal-man, turning suddenly in the direction whence it appeared to have proceeded, stood for a short time silent, and listening.

“By golly!” said he, speaking aloud; “dat ’ere soun’ berry like a ’neeze! Some ob dem ’ere trees ha’ been a-takin’ snuff. A’d jess like know wha’ sort ob varmint made dat obstropolus noise. It wan’t a bush—dat’s sartin. Nor yet wa’ it a bird. What den? It wan’t ’t all onlike de ’neeze ob a nigga wench! But what wud a wench be a-doin’ in tha? Da’s what puzzles me. Lookee hya!” added he, raising his voice, and addressing himself to whoever or whatever might have produced the noise; “les’s hear dat ag’in, whosomebber you be! Take anodder pince ob de snuff—louder dis time, so a can tell whedder you am a man or whedder you be femmynine.”

He waited for a while, to see if his speech would elicit a response; but none came. Within the copse all remained silent, as if no living thing was sheltered under its sombre shadows.

“You wan’t ’neeze agin,” continued he, seeing there was no reply; “den, by golly, a make you, ef you am what a ’speck you is—someb’dy hid in dar to lissen. No snake can’t a ’neeze dat way, no’ yet a lizzart. You muss be eyder man, woman, or chile; an’ ef you be, an’ hab heerd wha’s been say, by de great Accompong! you life no be worth—Ha! ha!”

As he entered upon this last paragraph of his apostrophe he had commenced moving towards the copse, which was only six paces from his starting-point. Before the speech was completed he had passed in among the bushes; and, bending them over with his long, ape-like arms, was scrutinising the ground underneath.

The exclamation was called forth by his perceiving the form of a woman in a crouching attitude within the shadow.

In another instant he had seized the woman by the shoulder, and with a quick wrench jerked her into an erect position.

“Cynthy!” he exclaimed, as the light fell upon the countenance of the mulatta.

“Yes, Chakra!” cried the woman, screaming ere she spoke; “it’s me, it’s me!”

“Whugh! Wha’ you do hya? Youb been lissenin’. Wha’ fo’ you lissen?”

“Oh, Chakra! I did not intend it. I came here—”

“How long you been hya? Tell dat quick!”

“Oh, Chakra—I came—”

“You hya ’fore we came in’ de glade. Needn’t axe dat. You no kud git hya atterwad. You heer all been said? You muss hab heer it.”

“Oh, Chakra, I couldn’t help it. I would have gone—”

“Den you nebba hear nodder word more. Won’t do let you go now. You come hya; you stay hya. You nebba go out ob dis ’pot. Whugh!”

And giving to the monosyllable an aspirate of fierceness, that caused it to sound more like the utterance of a wild beast than a human being, the monster threw out his long dark arms, and rushed towards his intended victim.

In another instant his long muscular fingers were clutched round the throat of the mulatta, clamping it with the tightness and tenacity of an iron garotte.

The wretched creature could make no resistance against such a formidable and ferocious antagonist. She tried to speak; she could not even scream.

“Chak-r-a, de-ar Chak-r-r-a,” came forth in a prolonged thoracic utterance, and this was the last articulation of her life.

After that there was a gurgling in her throat—the death-rattle, as the fingers relaxed their long-continued clutch—and the body, with a sudden sound, fell back among the bushes.

“You lie da!” said the murderer, on seeing that his horrid work was complete. “Dar you tell no tale. Now for de Duppy Hole; an’ a good long sleep to ’fresh me fo’ de work of de morrer night. Whugh!”

And turning away from the image of death he had just finished fashioning, the fearful Coromantee pulled the skirts of his skin mantle around him, and strode out of the glade, with as much composure as if meditating upon some abstruse chapter in the ethics of Obi.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chakra Trimming his Lamp.

Day was dawning when the tiger Chakra returned to his lair in the Duppy’s Hole. With him night was day, and the dawn of the morn the twilight of evening.

He was hungry: having eaten only a morsel of food since starting out on his awful errand, just twenty-four hours ago.

The remains of a pepper-pot, still unemptied from the iron skillet in which it had been cooked, stood in a corner of the hut.

To warm it up would require time, and the kindling of a fire. He was too much fatigued to be fastidious; and, drawing the skillet from its corner, he scooped up the stew, and ate it cold.

Finally, before retiring to rest, he introduced into his stomach something calculated to warm the cold pepper-pot—the “heel-tap” of a bottle of rum that remained over from the preceding night; and then, flinging himself upon the bamboo bedstead, so heavily that the frail reeds “scrunched” under his weight, he sank into a profound slumber.

He lay upon his hunched back, his face turned upward. A protuberance on the trunk of the tree, of larger dimensions than that upon his own person, served him for a bolster—a few handfuls of the silk cotton laid loosely upon it constituting his pillow.

With his long arms extended loosely by his side—one of them hanging over until the murderous fingers rested upon the floor—and his large mouth, widely agape, displaying a double serrature of pointed, shining teeth, he looked more like some slumbering ogre than a human being.

His sleep could not be sweet. It was far from being silent. From his broad, compressed nostrils came a sonorous snoring, causing the cartilage to heave outward, accompanied by a gurgling emission through his throat that resembled the breathing of a hippopotamus.

Thus slumbered Chakra throughout the livelong day, dreaming of many crimes committed, or, perhaps, only of that—the sweetest crime of all—which was yet in abeyance.

It was near night when he awoke. The sun had gone down—at least, he was no longer visible from the bottom of the Duppy’s Hole—though some red rays, tinting the tops of the trees upon the summit of the cliff, told that the orb of day was still above the horizon.

Extended on his couch, Chakra saw not this. His hut was dark, the door being shut close; but through the interstices of the bamboos he could see to some distance outside, and perceived that twilight was fast deepening among the trees. The cry of the bittern, coming up from the lagoon, the shriek of the potoo, heard through the sough of the cataract, and the hoot of the great-eared owl—all three true voices of the night—reaching his ears, admonished him that his hour of action had arrived.

Springing from his couch, and giving utterance to his favourite ejaculation, he set about preparing himself for the adventure of the night.

His first thought was about something to eat, and his eyes fell upon the skillet, standing where he had left it, near the middle of the floor. It still contained a quantity of the miscellaneous stew—enough for a meal.

“Woan do eat um cold,” he muttered, proceeding to kindle a fire, “not fo’ de second time. Gib me de ager chills, it wud. Mus’ fortify de belly wi’ someting warm—else a no be fit to do de work dat am to be done.”

The kindling of the fire, the warming up of the pepper-pot, and its subsequent consumption, were three operations that did not take Chakra any very great amount of time. They were all over just as the darkness of night descended over the earth.

“Now fo’ get ready de signal,” soliloquised he, moving about over the floor of his hut, and looking into crannies and corners, as if in search of some object.

“As de good luck hab it, dar be no moon to-night—leastways, till atter midnight. Atter den a doan care she shine as bright as de sun hisseff. Dare be plenty ob dark fo’ Adam to see de signal, and plenty fo’ de odder bizzness at Moun’ Welc’m’. Dar’ll be light ’nuf ’bout dat ere ’fore we takes leab o’ de place. Won’t dat be a blaze? Whugh!

“Wha hab a put dat ere tellemgraff lamp?” said he, still searching around the hut. “I’se fo’got all ’bout wha it am, so long since a use de darned ting. Muss be un’er de bed. Ya—hya it am!”

As he said this, he drew from under the bamboo bedstead a gourd shell, of nearly egg shape, but of the dimensions of a large melon. It had a long, tapering shank—part of the fruit itself, where the pericarp narrowed towards its peduncle—and through this a string had been passed, by which the gourd could be suspended upon a peg.

Holding it by the handle, he raised the shell to the light of his lard lamp, already kindled, and stood for some time silently inspecting it.

The gourd was not perfect—that is, it was no longer a mere empty shell, but a manufactured article, containing within a most singular apparatus. On one side appeared a hole, several inches in diameter, and cut in a shape nearly pyramidal, the base being above the thick end of the oval, and the apex, somewhat blunt, or truncated, extending towards the shank.

Up to the level of the opening the shell was filled with lard, in the middle of which appeared a wick of silk cotton staple; and behind this were two hits of broken looking-glass, set slanting to each other.

The whole apparatus bore some resemblance to a reflecting lamp; and that was in reality the purpose for which the rude contrivance had been constructed.

After a careful examination, its owner appeared to be satisfied that it was in good order; and having “trimmed” it, by adding a little fresh lard, and straightening up the wick, he set the lamp aside, and proceeded with the preparation of some other paraphernalia necessary for the night’s expedition.

A stick, some four feet in length, and a piece of strong cord, were the next articles procured; and these were also put on one side.

To these succeeded a long-bladed knife, and a stout pistol, with flint lock, which the Coromantee loaded and primed with great care. Both were stuck behind a belt which he had already buckled around his ribs, under the skin kaross.

“A doan ’ticipate,” said he, as he armed himself with these formidable weapons, “dar a-gwine be much need fo’ eider ob ’em. Dar ain’t nob’dy down dar am like show fight. Dat ere gran’ buckra ob late come to Moun’ Welc’m’ de say he be ’fraid ob de shadda ob danger; an’ as fo’ de brack folks, de look ob dese weapon be suffishient fo’ dem. Ef dat woan do, den a trow off my mask. De sight ob ole Chakra, dat dribe ’em into fits. Dat send ebbery nigga on de plantashun into de middle ob next week. Whugh!”

Another weapon appeared to be wanting, in the shape of a large black bottle, containing rum. With this the Coromantee soon supplied himself, drawing one out from its secret hiding-place, and holding it before the light, to make sure that it was full.

“Dis bottle,” said he, as he thrust it into a pouch in his kaross, “I hab kep fo’ dis ’pecial ’casion; it am de bess weapon fo’ my puppos. When dem fellas get dar dose ob de rum, dar’ll be no back out in ’em den. Golly!” he added, glancing out, and seeing that it was now quite dark, “a muss be gone fro’ hya. By de time ole Adam sees de tellemgraff, an’ gets ’cross dem ’ere mountains, it be late ’nuf for de bizness to begin.”

Finishing with this reflection, the sable conjuror took up his “telegraphic apparatus,” and, stepping over the threshold, hurried away from the hut.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Eight.

Setting the Signal.

The short tropic twilight had passed, and night had descended upon the Island of Jamaica. It promised to be a night of deepest darkness. The moon would not rise before midnight; and even then she might not be seen, as the canopy was covered with a thick curtain of black cumulus clouds, through which neither star nor speck of blue sky was visible.

Alike lay valleys and mountains shrouded in amorphous darkness; and even the Jumbé Rock—the highest and most conspicuous summit for miles around—was wrapped in complete obscurity. Its vitreous flanks no longer sparkled in the light, since there was none; and its dark mass was so dimly outlined against the equally sombre background of the sky, as to be invisible from the valley below.

The form of a man, groping his way up the narrow ravine that debouched upon the summit of the rock, could not have been distinguished, much less the black hue of his skin, the deformity that marked his figure, or the hideous aspect of his countenance. And yet a man so characterised climbed up there, about half-an-hour after the going down of the sun.

It need scarce be said that that man was Chakra, the Coromantee. Who else would be seeking the Jumbé Rock at that hour?

What was his errand up there? Let the sequel declare.

On setting foot upon the platform, he undid the knot that fastened the skin mantle over his shoulders; and then taking off the garment, he spread it out upon the rock.

The stick he had brought up with him he placed along one edge, and there made it fast with some pieces of string. When this was accomplished, he lifted both stick and cloak from the rock, and, proceeding to the palm, he laid the stick transversely across the stem, at about the height of his own hand, and then lashed it fast to the tree.

The kaross now hung down the stem, in a spread position, the transverse stick keeping it extended to its full width.

While arranging it thus, Chakra evidently had an eye to the direction—that is, the plane represented by the spread garment had one face fronting the valley of Mount Welcome and the cultivated lowlands between that and Montego Bay, while the reverse side was turned towards the “black grounds” of Trelawney—a tract of wild country in which not a single estate, plantation, or penn had been established, and where no such thing as a white settlement existed. In this solitude, however, there were black colonies of a peculiar kind; for that was the favourite haunt of the absconded slave—the lurking-place of the outlaw—the retreat of the runaway.

There, even might the assassin find an asylum, secure from the pursuit of justice. There had he found it: for among those dark, forest-clad mountains more than one murderer made his dwelling.

Robbers there were many—even existing in organised bands, and holding the authorities of the Island at defiance.

All these circumstances were known to Chakra; and some of the robbers, too, were known to him—some of the fiercest who followed that free calling.

It was to communicate with one of these bands that the preparations of the myal-man were being made. Chakra was preparing the signal.

Satisfied that the skin cloak was extended in the proper direction, the Coromantee next took up his reflector-lamp; and having attached it against that side of the kaross facing towards the mountains, he took out his flint, steel, and tinder, and, after striking a light, set the wick on fire.

In an instant the lamp burned brightly, and the light, reflected from the bits of looking-glass, might have been seen from the back country to the distance of many miles; while, at the same time, it was completely screened from any eye looking from the side of the plantations. The projecting edges of the calabash hindered the rays from passing to either side; while the interposed disc of the spread kaross further prevented the “sheen” that otherwise might have betrayed the presence of the signal.

It was not meant for the eyes of honest men in the direction of Montego Bay, but for those of the robbers among the far hills of Trelawney.

“Jess de sort ob night fo’ dem see it,” muttered the myal-man, as with folded arms foe stood contemplating the light. “De sky brack as de Debbil’s pitch-pot. Ole Adam, he sure hab some ’un on de look-out. De sure see ’im soon.”

Chakra never looked more hideous than at that moment.

Stripped of the ample garment, that to some extent aided in concealing his deformity a scant shirt, of coarse crimson flannel, alone covering the hunch; most part of his body naked, exposing to the strong light of the reflector his black corrugated skin; the aspect of his ferocious features compressed by the snake-encircled turban upon his temples, the long-bladed knife and pistol appearing in his waist-belt—all combined to produce a fearful picture, that could not fail to strike terror into whoever should have the misfortune to behold it.

Standing immovable under the glare of the lamp, his misshapen figure projected across the surface of the summit platform, he might easily have been mistaken for a personification of the fiend—that African fiend—after whom the rock had been named.

In this situation he remained, observing perfect silence, and with his eyes eagerly bent upon the distant mountains, dimly discernible through the deep obscurity of the night. Only for a few minutes was this silence preserved, and the attitude of repose in which he had placed himself.

“Whugh!” he exclaimed, dropping his arms out of their fold, as if to set about some action. “I know’d dey wud soon see um. Yonner go’ de answer!”

As he spoke, a bright light was seen suddenly blazing up on the top of a distant eminence, which was suddenly extinguished.

After a short interval another, exactly similar, appeared in the same place, and in a similar manner went out again; and then, when an equal interval had elapsed, a third.

All three resembled flashes produced by powder ignited in a loose heap.

The moment the third response had been given to his signal, the Coromantee stepped up to his reflector and blew out the light.

“Dar’s no use fo’ you any mo’,” said he, apostrophising the lamp; “dar am some danger keepin’ you dar. B’side, it am a gettin’ cold up hya. A want my ole cloak.”

So saying, he took down the reflector, and after it the kaross; and, separating the latter from the piece of stick, he once more suspended the garment around his shoulders. This done, he moved forward to the front of the platform; and dropping his legs over, sat down upon the edge of the rock.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Cry of the Solitaire.

From the spot where he had seated himself, the mansion of Mount Welcome was in view—that is, it would have been, had it been daytime, or even a moonlight night. As it was, however, darkness veiled the whole valley under its opaque shadows; and the situation of the house could only have been guessed at, had it not been for the light streaming through the jalousied windows. These revealed its position to the eyes of the Coromantee.

More than one window showed light—several that were side by side giving out a strong glare. These Chakra knew to be the side windows of the great hall, or drawing-room. Its front windows could not be seen from the Jumbé Rock: since they faced towards the valley and not to the mountain.

The myal-man knew all this. A forty years’ residence on the estate of Mount Welcome had rendered perfectly accurate his knowledge of the topography of the place.

So much light shining out suggested the idea of cheerfulness, as if company were entertained within.

“Whugh!” ejaculated Chakra, as his eye caught the lights. “Doan look berry much like dey war grievin’. Dey can’t hab heer’d o’ dat ’fair yet. P’raps de hab take de body to de plantashun ob Content? Leetle dey know down dar wha’s been done. Leetle dey dream dat de proud masser ob dat ere Buff am jess at dis minnit a cold corpus. Da’s no house ob mournin’. Dar’s feas’in a-gwine on da’, a be boun’? Nebba mind! Nebba mind! Patience, ole nigga! maybe you come in fo’ share ob dem wittle ’fore he gits cold; and maybe you hab share of the dishes on which de wittle am sa’v’d up—de forks, an’ de ’poons, and de silber plate generumly. Daat will be a haul. Whugh!

“But wha’ care I fo’ de forks an’ de ’poons? Nuffin! Dar’s but one ting a care fo’, an’ dat am more dan silber, more na gold, more na Moun’ Wele’m, itseff! Dat am de Lilly Quasheba. Whugh! A hab lub her fo’ many long year—lub her more’n ebba; yes, a lub her wi’ de whole ’trength ob my soul. Once a git dat bewfu’ gal in dese arms, a no care for de forks and de ’poons. Ole Adam be welc’m take all dem rubbish.

“No,” continued he, after a pause, apparently relenting of his liberality; “dat no do, neider. A soon need boaf de forks and de ’poons. A’ll want him fo’ de housekeepin’. A’ll want de silber an’ de gold to buy odder ting. Muss hab m’ share ’long wi’ de ress.

“Wha am de bess place take my wife to?” muttered the intended husband, continuing the same strain of reflections. “Muss leab de Duppy Hole. Dat place no longer safe. Too near de ole plantashun. Boun’ to be a debbil ob a rumpus atter she carried ’way—daat are ef dey b’lieve she am carried away. Guess a know de way make um b’lieve diff’rent. Nebba mind. A know how manage dat!”

At this moment the reflections of the Coromantee were interrupted by a sound that caused him to draw his legs up on the rock, and assume an attitude as if about to spring to his feet.

At the repetition of the sound, he started up, and rapidly re-crossed to the opposite side.

At the point where the upward path debouched upon the platform, he stopped to listen.

For the third time the sound was repeated.

There was nothing strange in it—at least, to ears familiar with the voices of a Jamaica forest. It was the call of a common yet peculiar bird—the solitaire. The only thing strange was to hear it at that hour of the night. It was not the time when the soft and flute-like note of the solitaire should fall upon the ear of the forest wanderer. Hearing it at that hour was by no means strange to Chakra. It was not that which had startled him from his seat, and caused him to cross quickly to the other side of the platform. On the contrary, it was because he knew that what he had heard was not the note of the solitaire, but a counterfeit call from his confederate, Adam!

Chakra’s private slogan was different—more mournful and less musical. It was an imitation of that melancholy utterance heard at night from the sedgy shores of the dark lagoon—the cry of the wailing bittern.

With a small reed applied to his lips, the Coromantee produced an exact imitation of this cry, and then remained silent, awaiting the result.

At the bottom of the ravine could be heard a murmur of voices, as if several men were together, talking in guarded tones. Following this came a sound of scratching against the stones, and a rustling of branches, each moment becoming more distinct. Shortly after, the form of a man emerged out of the shadowy cleft, stepping cautiously upon the platform. Another followed, and another, until six in all stood upon the summit of the rock.

“Dat you, brodder Adam?” said Chakra, stepping forward to receive the first who presented himself at the head of the sloping path.

“Ya—ya! Am it Chakra?”

“Dat same ole nigga.”

“All right, kommarade. We’ve see yar signal as soon as it war hoisted. We wan’t long a comin’, war we?”

“Berry quick. A didn’t ’speck ye fo’ half an hour mo’.”

“Well, now we’re hya, what’s the game? I hope dar’s a good big stake to play for! Our stock of stuff wants remplenishin’ berry badly. We haven’t had de chance of a job fo’ more dan a month. We’re a’most in want o’ wittles!”

“Wittles!” exclaimed the myal-man, laying a scornful emphasis on the word. “Dar’s a ting for ye do dis night dat’ll gib ye mo’ dan wittle—it gib you wealth—ebbery one ob ye. Whugh!”

“Good!” ejaculated Adam, simultaneously with a chorus of like exclamations; “glad to hear dat ere bit o’ intelligence. Am it dat ere little job you speak me ’bout last time I see you? Dat it, ole humpy?”

“Dat same,” laconically answered Chakra, “only wi’ dis diffurence,” added he; “dat a call um de big job in’tead of de little un.”

“Big or little,” rejoined the other, “we’ve come ready to do it—you see we hab?”

The speaker, who appeared to be the leader of the party who accompanied him, pointed to the others as he made this remark.

The hint was scarce regarded by Chakra. Notwithstanding the murky gloom that enveloped the forms of Adam and his companions, the myal-man could see that they were all armed and equipped, though in the most varied and uncouth fashions. The weapons of no two were alike. One carried an old musket, red with rust; another a fowling-piece, in like condition. Others were provided with pistols, and nearly all had long knives, or machetés. Thus provided, it was scarce probable that the job for whose execution Chakra had summoned them could be one of a pacific character.

Had a light been thrown upon the group that surrounded Chakra, it would have revealed a collection of faces, each provided with a set of features but little less sinister than those of Chakra himself. In not one of them would have been found a line indicative of either peace or mercy—for it was the band of the black robber Adam, celebrated as the most notorious cut-throats in the Island.

Chakra expressed no surprise at seeing them armed, nor felt any. He had expected it; and the flourish which their leader had made of this fact was only intended to make manifest that they were ready for the ordinary requirements of their vocation.

Eagerly willing were they for the extremest action; but, in order to make more certain of their compliance, Chakra thought it prudent to ply them with a little rum.

“Ma frien’s,” said he, in an affectionate tone, “you hab had de fatigue ob a long walk troo de darkness ob de night. A hab got hya a leetle drop ob someting dat’s berry good fo’ keep de cold out ob you. ’Pose we all take a wet from dis bottle?”

To this proposition there was a general assent, expressed in varied phraseology. There was no teetotaller in that crowd of worthies.

Chakra had not thought of providing himself with either drinking-cup or calabash; but the want was scarcely felt. The robbers each in turn refreshed himself directly from the neck of the bottle, until the rum ran out.

“Well, ole humpy,” said Adam, drawing Chakra aside, and speaking in that familiar phrase that betokened a thickness of thieves between them. “I suppose the chance you spoke ’bout hab come round at las’?”

“Da’s a fack, brodder Adam. It hab come now.”

“De great buckra gone from home?”

“He gone from home, and gone to home, ha! ha!”

“Come, dat’s a riddle. What you mean by gone to home?”

“To ’im long home. Da’s wha’ I mean.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Adam; “you don’t say the Cussos—”

“Nebber mind ’bout the Cussus now, brodder Adam. Dat you know all ’bout atter wards. It am the Cussus’ silber plate dat consarn you now; and dar’s no time to was’e in p’laverin’. By de time we gets down da, an’ puts on de masks, dey’ll be a-gwine to bed. Better dey wa’ gone to bed; but by dat time, you see, de moon ’ud be up, an’ fo’ all dese clouds mout shine out. Dat, as you know, won’t nebba do. We must ’ticipate de risin’ ob de moon.”

“True enuf. All right! I’m ready, and so are de rest.”

“Den foller me, all ob you. We can plan de mode ob ’tack as we trabbel ’long. Plenty ob time fo’ dat, when we find out how de land lie down below. Foller me!”

And with this injunction, the Coromantee commenced descending the ravine, followed by Adam and his band of burglars.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty.

A Sad Procession.

On that same evening, about half-an-hour before sunset, a singular procession was seen moving along the Carrion Crow Road, in the direction of Mount Welcome. Its slow progress, with the staid looks and gestures of those who composed the procession, betokened it to be one of a melancholy character.

A rude litter, carried upon the shoulders of four men, confirmed this impression; more especially when the eye rested upon a human form stretched along the litter, and which could easily be identified as a dead body, notwithstanding the camlet cloak that covered it.

There were ten individuals forming this funeral cortège; though all were not mourners. Two were on horseback, a little in advance of the rest. Four followed, carrying the litter; while close behind these came four others, two and two—the foremost pair being lashed arm and arm to one another—each also with his hands tied behind his back, and both evidently prisoners. The two that brought up the rear appeared to be guarding them.

The individuals composing this mournful procession may be easily identified.

The two riding in advance were Herbert Vaughan and the Maroon captain; the horses they bestrode being the same that had passed over that road the day before, carrying the Custos and his negro attendant. The prisoners were the Spanish caçadores—their guards, Quaco and the before-mentioned attendant; while the four men bearing the body were slaves belonging to the plantation of Content.

It need scarce be added that the corpse, stretched stark and stiff upon the litter, was all that remained of the grand Custos Vaughan.

Strictly describing them, not one of the procession party could be called a mourner. None of them had any reason to be greatly aggrieved by the fate that had befallen the owner of Mount Welcome—not even his relative. Notwithstanding this absence of a cause for grief, the faces of all—the prisoners excepted—wore a look of decent gravity becoming the occasion.

Perhaps the nephew would have more keenly felt the situation—for now that his uncle was no more, every spark of hostility had become extinguished—perhaps he might even have mourned, but for certain circumstances that had just come to his knowledge; and which had the effect not only to counteract within his heart all tendency towards sorrow, but almost to overpower it with joy.

It was only with an effort, therefore, that he could preserve upon his features that expression of sadness, due to the melancholy position in which he was placed.

Despite the presence of death, his heart was at that moment filled with a secret satisfaction—so sweet that he could not deny himself its indulgence. The source of this satisfaction may be easily traced. It will be found in the information communicated to him by the Maroon captain. During their journey of the preceding day, their vigil of the night, and, still further, their long, slow march of that morning, Cubina had made known to him many circumstances of which he had been hitherto ignorant; among other items of intelligence, one of the most interesting that language could have imparted.

It need scarce be said what this was. It may be guessed at by recalling the conversation between the Maroon and his mistress Yola, occurring at the last tryst under the ceiba—that part of it which related to the Lilly Quasheba. Though Cubina’s knowledge was only second-hand, it was sufficiently definite to inspire Herbert with hope—something more than hope; and hence that secret joy whose outward manifestation he found it difficult to suppress.

Every word of the conversation that had passed between the Maroon and his mistress—every word that referred to her mistress—Cubina had been compelled to repeat over and over again; till Herbert knew it as well as if he had been present during the dialogue. No wonder he was not in a condition to feel very profoundly for the sad fate that had befallen his uncle—hitherto only known to him as a relative harsh and hostile.

Other secrets had Cubina disclosed to him—among the rest, the true character of his patron, Jessuron—which Herbert had already begun to suspect, and which was now revealed to him in all its hideous wickedness. The history of the Foolah prince—hitherto unknown to Herbert—besides his own experiences during the last twenty-four hours, was sufficient to confirm any suspicion that might point to Jacob Jessuron. Though it was plain that the two prisoners in the custody of Quaco had not actually assassinated the Custos, it was equally clear that such had been their intention, anticipated by a death of another kind. This both Cubina and Herbert conjectured to have proceeded from the same hand—the hand of Herbert’s ci-devant host.

The phrase is appropriate. Long before Herbert had heard one half of Cubina’s disclosures, he had resolved never more voluntarily to set foot in the Happy Valley—much less return to seek shelter under the roof of Jessuron.

If he should hereafter have aught to do with the Israelite, it would be in the course of justice; as avenger of the death of his murdered relative. That Loftus Vaughan was the victim of assassination neither he nor the Maroon for a moment doubted. The conversation which the latter had listened to between Chakra and the Jew—and which, unfortunately, at the time he had not clearly comprehended—was no longer mysterious; only its motive remained so. The deed itself had now furnished the terrible interpretation.

Neither Herbert nor Cubina had any idea of permitting the matter to drop. An event of such fearful significance called for the fullest investigation; and they were now proceeding with the preliminary step—carrying the body to Mount Welcome, in order that the authorities might be called together, and an inquest instituted.

How different were the feelings of Herbert from those he experienced on his former and first approach to the mansion of his haughty relative! He was now the victim of emotions so varied and mingled as to defy description!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty One.

The Abduction.

To Chakra, viewing them from the summit of the Jumbé Rock, the well-lighted windows of Mount Welcome had proclaimed the presence of company within the mansion. In this, however, the Coromantee was mistaken. In the past such an appearance might have had that signification, or up to a very late period—that is, up to the date of the arrival of the distinguished Smythje. Since the latter had become the guest of Mount Welcome, however, the illumination of the mansion with chandelier and candelabra was not only not unusual, but had been the nightly practice.

This was Mr Vaughan’s pleasure; which, in his absence, the house steward had injunctions to carry out. The grand hall was only lit up as usual, its lustrous floor glistening in the brilliant light, while the profusion of cut glass and silver plate sparkled upon the sideboards, loudly proclaiming the opulence of the planter. There was no strange company present—none expected—no one who did not belong to the family, except Mr Smythje; and he could scarcely be considered a stranger. Rather might he be regarded—for the time at least—as the master of the mansion: since in that charge had the Custos left him.

The only individuals occupying this splendid apartment were Smythje and the young mistress of Mount Welcome—both yet ignorant of what had occurred upon the Savanna Road—that fearful event which had left Kate Vaughan a fatherless orphan, at the same time depriving her of the proud title we have just bestowed upon her.

Yola, her attendant, went and came at intervals, and Thoms occasionally presented himself in the apartment, in obedience to a summons from his master.

Notwithstanding the absence of company, Smythje was in full evening dress—body-coat, breeches, silk stockings, and pumps, with silver buckles. It was his custom to dress, or be dressed, every evening—a custom so scrupulously observed, that had there been no one in the house except the negro domestics of the establishment, Smythje would have appeared in full fashionable costume all the same. With him the exigencies of fashion were as rigorous as to a holy friar would be the observances of his religion.

The gentleman was in high spirits—merry, indeed; and, strange to say, his companion was less melancholy than of late. No doubt this had given him his cue for mirth.

Why she had been enabled to escape from her habitual dejection was not known to Smythje; but he was fain to attribute the improvement in her spirits to the near prospect of that pleasant ceremony which in a few days must indubitably take place. In a week, or a fortnight at most, Mr Vaughan might be expected back; and then it was understood by all—tacitly by the young lady herself—that the union of Mount Welcome and Montagu Castle should be no longer delayed.

Smythje had even begun to talk of the wedding trousseau; of the honeymoon tour—which was to extend to the grand metropolis; and as Kate, at his request, seated herself to the harp, suggesting a musical conversation, he commenced enlarging upon the theme of the grand “opwa,” and its attractions—so dear and delightful to himself.

This sort of talk, upon other occasions, had invariably the effect of making his listener more sad; but, strange to say, on that evening, it produced no such a disagreeable consequence. Kate’s fingers flitted over the strings of the instrument, drawing music from them that was far from melancholy.

In truth, the young creole was not listening to the couleur de rose descriptions of the “metwopolis,” and its “opwa,” which Smythje was so strenuously endeavouring to impart to her.

Though seated by the harp, and striking mechanically upon its trings, she was dwelling upon thoughts of a far different character—thoughts suggested by some further intelligence which Yola had communicated to her, and which was the true source of that joy—perhaps but a transitory gleam—that overspread her countenance.

Little did Kate Vaughan suspect that the corpse of her father—lying cold and lifeless upon a stretcher, and surrounded by strange mourners—was at that moment scarce five miles distant from where she sat, and slowly approaching the now masterless mansion of Mount Welcome!

Little did she suspect, while making that music for Smythje, that, from another direction, monsters in human form were moving towards that mansion—their dark shadows projected across the glare of the window-lights—now stationary, now flitting stealthily onward—at each progressive movement drawing nearer and nearer to the walls!

She saw not these shadowy, demon-like men—had no suspicion either of their approach or intent—an intent which comprehended robbery, rapine of a far more fearful kind—murder, if need be.

Neither its mistress, neither Smythje, nor any one else of Mount Welcome, saw or suspected this mysterious circumvallation, until the movement had been successfully executed.

Not a word of warning, not a sign or gesture, was given to the occupants of the apartment, until, with wild, unearthly yells, half-a-dozen fiend-like forms—men of horrid aspect—some with black masks, others with naked visage even more hideous to behold—burst into the grand hall, and commenced the work of pillage.

One, of gigantic size, masked from crown to throat, and wrapped in an ample covering of skin—though not sufficient to conceal the deformity of a hunched back—rushed directly up to where the fair musician was seated; and, dashing the harp to one side, seized upon her wrist before she could disengage herself from her chair.

“Whugh!” came the ejaculation, in loud aspirate, from behind the mask, “I’se got ye at lass, ma Lilly Quasheba—atter many’s de yea’ ob longin’ fo’ hab ye. Ef de quaderoom, ya mudder, she ’cape an’ ’corn me, I’se take care de dauter doan’ get de same chance. You come ’long wi’ me!”

And as the ravisher pronounced these words, he commenced dragging his shrieking victim across the room towards the stair entrance.

Smythje’s half irresolute interposition was of no avail. With one sweep of his long, flail-like arm, he in the skin cloak sent the exquisite sprawling upon the floor.

The terrified Cockney no longer thought of resistance; but after scrambling awhile over the polished planks at length succeeded in gaining his feet. Then, without waiting to receive a second knock-down, he shot out through the open doorway, and, descending the stone stairs, in a couple of skips, disappeared in the darkness below.

Meanwhile the alarm had been communicated to the kitchen and all over the house. Shouts of surprise were succeeded by screams of terror. The domestics came running in from all directions; but a shot or two from the muskets and pistols of the black burglars, fired for the purpose of increasing the confusion, scattered the whole establishment of servants, Thoms among the rest, and sent them in full flight towards the sugar-works and negro village beyond.

In less than a score of seconds, Adam and his confederates had the mansion to themselves.

It was but the work of a few minutes to fling, open the buffets and sideboards, and plunder them of their most valuable contents. In less than a quarter of an hour the black burglars had finished their “job,” and were ready to depart.

While his confederates were thus engaged, Chakra had secured his victim at the bottom of the front stairway, where he was impatiently awaiting the completion of the pillage. Though determined upon having his share of the booty, he cared less for that than for the gratification of that wicked desire that had so long possessed his savage soul—so long by circumstances restrained.

Notwithstanding his eagerness for this demoniac indulgence, he still possessed a certain degree of prudence. As soon as Adam and his associates made their appearance, loaded with spoils, he placed his prisoner under the charge of one of the robbers, and, commanding the others to follow him, rapidly re-ascended the stairway, and once more entered the plundered apartment.

In an incredibly short space of time the harp, the chairs, the ottomans, and other articles of light furniture, were piled up in the middle of the floor; the jalousies were wrenched from their fastenings, flung upon the heap, and then set on fire.

Quick as tinder the dry wood blazed up; and in five minutes the noble mansion of Mount Welcome was in flames!

In five minutes more, under the red glare, flung far out into the distant fields, the robbers were seen, slowly and laboriously seeking concealment within the shadows beyond—six of them burdened with shining utensils that gave back the gleam of the blazing mansion; while the seventh, the most formidable figure of all, carried in his arms an object of a far different kind—the body of a beautiful woman—the fainting form of Lilly Quasheba!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Two.

Burglars! Robbers! Murderers!

In solemn pace the procession which accompanied the corpse of Custos Vaughan moved silently on along the lonely road. The Jumbé Rock was now in sight, encarmined by the last rays of the sinking sun. Beyond lay Mount Welcome—a house to which the sad cortège was about to carry the cue for wailing and desolation.

Ah! little dreamt they who composed it that the demon was already there before them—if not of death, of a doom equally as dark!

Could Herbert only have known that at that moment the beautiful being he loved with his whole heart, and now more than ever—she who loved him, was struggling in the arms!

No matter. The terrible truth will reach him but too soon. It will meet him on his way. In another hour the sweet dreams in which, throughout that long day, he has been indulging, will meet with a dread dissipation.

At a turning of the road there stood several gigantic trees, offering a grand canopy of foliage. Under these the party halted, by the joint command of Herbert and Cubina, who at the same moment dismounted from their horses.

It was not the shade that had tempted them, for the sun had now gone down; nor yet that the bearers might obtain rest; the men were strong, and the wasted form was far from being a heavy burden. It was not for that reason that the halt had been ordered, but on account of a thought that had suggested itself to Herbert, and which was approved of by Cubina.

It was the apprehension of the dread impression which their arrival might produce at Mount Welcome—of course, on her whose father’s corpse they were carrying.

They had stopped to consider what was best to be done.

A plan soon suggested itself. A messenger could be sent forward upon one of the horses to communicate the sad tidings to Trusty, the overseer, and through him the melancholy news might be more gradually made known to her whom it most concerned.

Herbert would have gone himself, but was hindered by certain delicate considerations, based on the conflicting emotions that were stirring within him.

It mattered little who should bear the melancholy tidings to Trusty; and the negro attendant was finally chosen.

The man received his instructions; and, having mounted his own horse, rode off at such speed as the darkness, now down upon the earth, would permit.

For another hour the party remained in the place where they had halted, to give time for the messenger to execute his commission. Then, once more taking the road, they moved forward at a slow pace, Herbert alongside Cubina—now a-foot, and leading the horse upon which he had hitherto ridden.

Quaco alone guarded the prisoners; a duty to which the Maroon lieutenant was quite equal, and which he had rendered the more easy of accomplishment, by pressing into his service a piece of rope, attached round the neck of the one that was nearest, and which, held halter-fashion in his hand, enabled him to prevent either of them from straying in the darkness. Neither, however, made any attempt to escape, knowing as both did, that the slightest movement in that direction would cost them a “thwack” from a stout cudgel—an additional implement carried in the hands of Quaco.

In this way the cortège had proceeded for some half-mile or so beyond its last resting-place, when it was again brought to a halt by the orders of those in the lead.

The cause of this interruption was declared to all of the party at once. All heard the hoof-strokes of a horse coming rapidly along the road, and from the opposite direction to that in which they were moving.

Going, as he appeared to be, at full gallop, in five minutes more, or in half the time, the horseman should be in their midst.

Was he a stranger? Or could it be their own messenger coming back? He had not been directed to return. It was deemed sufficient for him to see Mr Trusty, and make known the news which he had been entrusted to communicate.

It was not without a feeling of surprise therefore, as the horseman dashed forward upon the ground, and pulled up in front of the procession, that Herbert and Cubina recognised the returned attendant.

He left them no time to speculate on the mystery of his re-appearance. The white froth upon the flanks of his steed, shining through the gloom, told of fast riding; while the stammering and terrified accents in which the man proclaimed the purpose of his return rendered more startling the news he had come to communicate.

Mount Welcome was, at that moment, attacked by a band of burglars, robbers, and murderers!

There were men in masks, and men without them—equally terrible to look upon. They were plundering the great hall, had murdered Mr Smythje, were ill-treating the young mistress of the mansion, and firing guns and pistols at every one who came in their way!

The messenger had not stayed to see Mr Trusty. He had learnt all this from the domestics, who were hurrying in flight from the mansion. Confounded by the shouting and shots he had himself heard, and thinking that the likeliest chance of assistance would be found in the party he had just left—and which he believed to be much nearer—he had galloped back along the road.

These were the main facts of the attendant’s story—not communicated, however, with any regard to sequence, but in the most incoherent manner, and liberally interspersed with exclamations of alarm.

It was a fearful tale, and fell with a terrible effect upon the ears of those to whom it was told—Herbert and Cubina.

Burglars—robbers—murderers! Mr Smythje killed! The young mistress of Mount Welcome in the act of being abused! and Yola? she, too—

“Quaco!” cried the Maroon captain, rushing to the rear, and addressing himself to his lieutenant, “think you our men can hear us from here? Sound your horn on the instant: your blast is stronger than mine. There is trouble at Mount Welcome. We may need every man of them. Quick—quick!”

“The devil!” cried Quaco, dropping his hold of the halter, and raising the horn to his mouth, “I’ll make them hear, if they’re in the Island of Jamaica. You keep your ground, ye pair of John Crows!” he added, as he held the horn an inch or two from his lips. “If either of you budge a foot out of your places, I’ll send a brace of bullets through your stinkin’ carcadges, and stop you that away. See if I don’t!”

And with this emphatic admonition, the colossus applied the horn to his mouth, and blew a blast that might have been heard for miles.

In echoes it rang from the sides of the Jumbé Rock, and from many a peak lying far beyond. So loud and shrill rang it, that one might almost have believed in Quaco’s affirmation: that it could be heard to the extremities of the Island!

At all events, it was heard by some not so far off: for scarce had its echoes ceased to reverberate, when half-a-dozen similar sounds, proceeding from different directions, and apparently from different distances, came back in response.

Cubina waited not to hear their repetition.

“Enough,” cried he, “there are half-a-dozen of them anyhow. That will no doubt be enough. You, Quaco, stay here till they come up, and then follow to Mount Welcome. Sound again, to direct them; and see that these two murderous villains don’t escape you.”

“Hadn’t I better put a brace of bullets through them?” naïvely inquired Quaco. “It’ll save trouble if I do that! What say you, Capen Cubina?”

“No, no, Quaco! Justice will settle accounts with them. Bring them on along with you; and follow as soon as our men get up!”

Before Quaco could offer any further suggestions, the Maroon captain had mounted the messenger’s horse—Herbert having already leaped into the saddle of the other—and both, without further speech, rode forward as fast as their steeds could carry them.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Three.

Dread Conjectures.

Observing a profound silence, the two young men pressed forward. Neither liked to put question to the other. Each dreaded the answer the other might make—each was thinking only of the danger of her who was dearest to him.

They urged on their steeds with equal eagerness, for both were alike interested in the dénouement of the dreadful drama at that moment being enacted at the mansion of Mount Welcome.

Their reflections were similar, and similarly painful.

They might be too late! Ere they could arrive upon the scene, the stage might be deserted—the tragedy played out—the players gone!

It needed not these thoughts to stimulate them to increased speed: they were already riding as if life or death rested on the issue.

They had neared the flank of the Jumbé mountain, and were heading for the ridge that separated the estates of Montagu Castle and Mount Welcome.

At this point the road debouched from the forest, and the ridge came in sight. At the same instant, a cry escaped from the lips of Cubina, as with a quick wrench he drew his horse to a halt.

Herbert echoed the cry of his comrade—at the same time imitating his action.

Neither thought of questioning the other. Both had halted under the same impulse. The evil omen had been seen simultaneously by both.

Over the summit of the ridge a yellow light glared, halo-like, against the sky.

“Fire!” exclaimed Cubina. “Just over Mount Welcome! Santa Madre! the mansion is in flames!”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Herbert; “we shall be too late!”

Not another word passed between the two horsemen. Stirred by the same instinct, they renewed their gallop; and silently, side by side, urged their horses up the hill.

In a few minutes they had attained the summit of the ridge, whence they could command a full view of the valley of Mount Welcome.

The mansion was in flames.

There was no further utterance of surprise: that was past. It was scarce a conjecture which Cubina had pronounced, on seeing that glare against the sky, but a conviction; and the crackling sounds which had assailed their ears, as they were riding upward to the crest of the ridge, had fully confirmed the event before their eyes looked on the fire itself.

There was no more a mansion of Mount Welcome. In its place a blazing pile—a broad sheet of flame, rising in gigantic jets to the sky, crowned with huge sparks and murky smoke, and accompanied by a continuous roaring and crackling of timbers, as if fiends were firing a feu-de-joie in the celebration of some terrible holocaust.

“Too late!—too late!” muttered both the horsemen in the same breath; and then, with despair on their faces and black fear in their hearts, they once more gave rein to their steeds; and, riding recklessly down the slope, galloped on towards the conflagration.

In a few seconds’ time they had crossed the inclosures, and halted in front of the blazing pile; as near to it as their frayed steeds would consent to carry them. Both at the same instant sprang from their saddles; and, with guns grasped and ready to defend themselves against whatever enemy, approached nearer and nearer to the building.

No one appeared in front of the house. They hurried round to the rear: no one was there. Equally deserted were the grounds and the garden. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere—not a voice to be heard, except their own, as they called aloud; and this only feebly, through the hissing and roaring of the flames.

Back and forth rushed the two men in eager haste, going round and round the house, and exploring every spot that might be expected to conceal either friend or foe. But in spite of their most eager search, and the constant summons of their shouts, not a creature appeared, and no response reached them.

For a moment they paused to consider.

It was evident the conflagration had been going on for some time. The upper storey—which was but a framework of light timber—was now nearly consumed, and only the stonework below left standing. Over this the larger beams had fallen—no longer emitting flame, but lying transversely upon each other, charred, red, and smouldering.

On finding no one near the dwelling, Cubina and Herbert made for the works. These were all standing untouched; and it was evident that no attempt had been made to fire them. Only the mansion had been given to the flames.

On arriving among the out-buildings, the two men again raised their voices; but as before, without receiving a reply.

Here everything was dark and silent as the tomb—a silence more impressive by contrast with the awe-inspiring sounds of the conflagration raging at a distance. Neither in the curing-house, nor the mill, nor the mash-house, nor the stable, could anyone be discovered. Not an individual to be seen, not a voice to respond to their oft-repeated halloos.

On rushed they to the negro cabins. Surely there someone would be found? All could not have fled through fear of the robber-band?

As the two men turned in the direction of the negro village, a figure started up in the path—having just emerged out of the bushes. In that semblance to the imp of darkness, seen under the distant glare of the conflagration, Herbert recognised his old acquaintance Quashie.

Quashie had already identified him.

“Oh, young massr!” cried the darkey, as he rose to his feet; “de Buff am a-blazin’! It be all burn up!”

“Crambo! tell us something we don’t know!” impatiently demanded Cubina. “Who has set it on fire? Do you know that!”

“Did you see the incendiaries?” hurriedly added Herbert.

“See who, massr?”

“Those who set the house on fire?” inquired Herbert, still speaking with anxious haste.

“Yes—massr, I seed dem—when dey first rush up de front ’tairway.”

“Well—speak quickly—who and what were they? What were they like?”

“Law, massr, dey war like so many debbils. Dey were nigga men, an’ some had mask on dar faces. Folks say it war de Maroon ob de mountains. Black Bet she deny dat, and say no. She say ’twar some robbers of de mountains, an’ dat dey come fo’ carry off—”

“Your young mistress? Miss Vaughan? Where? where?” interrupted Herbert, gasping out the unfinished interrogatory.

“And Yola, my lad! have you seen her?” added Cubina.

“No, genlums,” replied Quashie; “I seen neider de young missa, no’ de brown gal Yola. Dey war boaf up in de great hall. I no go up dar myseff. I’se afeard dey’d kill dis chile ef he go up da. I stayed down below, till I see Mr ’Mythje a comin’ down de stair. Lor—how de did streak it down dem dere stone step! He run in under de arch below. I guess he go hide dere. Den I took to ma heels, ’long wif de oder folk; an’ we all go hide in de bushes. Massa Thom an’ de house people dey all run for de woods—dey none o’ em nebber come back yet.”

“Oh, heavens!” exclaimed Herbert, in a voice of anguish; “can it be possible? You are sure,” said he, once more appealing to the darkey, “you are sure you saw nothing of your young mistress?”

“Nor of Yola?” asked the Maroon, equally as distressed as his companion.

“I decla’ I didn’t—neider o’ ’em two,” emphatically exclaimed Quashie. “See yonner!” he added, pointing towards the burning pile, and speaking in an accent of alarm. “Golly! dey a’n’t gone ’way yet—de robbers! de robbers!”

Herbert and Cubina, who, while in conversation with Quashie, had been standing with their backs towards the fire, faced suddenly round. As they did so, they perceived several dark forms moving between them and the bright background of the flames; their shadows projected in gigantic outlines up to the spot where the spectators stood. There were about half-a-dozen in all—just about the number at which Quashie had roughly estimated the incendiaries.

Both sprang forward, regardless of consequences, resolved upon knowing the worst; and, if their apprehensions should prove true, determined upon death or vengeance.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Four.

Smythje Still Living.

With their pieces cocked, and ready for instant execution, Cubina and Herbert were pressing to get within range, when the notes of a horn, sounded by one of the men before the fire, came swelling upon their ears.

The sounds were re-assuring. Cubina knew the signal of his lieutenant, and they were now near enough to recognise the colossal Quaco standing in the glare of red light, surrounded by some half-dozen of his comrades.

Quaco had left the corpse upon the road, and the prisoners well guarded by a couple of his followers; and, thinking he might be wanted at Mount Welcome, had hurried forward close upon the heels of the horsemen.

This accession of strength might have proved useful had the enemy been upon the ground. Where were the robbers—the incendiaries—perhaps the murderers? Where was Miss Vaughan? Where the maid Yola?

Had they escaped among the domestics, or—?

The alternative thought was too horrible for utterance. Is either Herbert nor Cubina could trust themselves to give speech to it. Only in their minds did the interrogatory shape itself: had they perished in the flames?

Fearful as was the thought, it could not fail to be entertained; and, in the solemn silence which the reflection produced, all stood hopelessly gazing upon the ruthless fire that was fast reducing the noble mansion to a shapeless and smouldering ruin.

At that moment the stillness was interrupted by a voice proceeding from an unexpected quarter. It appeared to come from out the great arched vault under the stone stairway, from a corner shrouded in comparative darkness. It was partly an exclamation—partly a groan.

Quaco was the first to seek an explanation. Seizing a faggot that still flared, he rushed under the archway, regardless of the scorching heat.

Herbert and Cubina quickly followed, and all three stood within the vault.

Quaco waved the torch in front of his body, to illuminate the place.

The eyes of all three simultaneously rested upon an object that, at any other time, might have elicited from them peals of laughter.

In the corner of the vault stood a half-hogshead, or large tub—its head covered with a heavy lid. Near the upper edge a square hole had been sawed out; so that a hand containing a quart measure might be inserted, without the necessity of raising the lid. Inside, and directly opposite this opening, appeared the face of a man, with ample whiskers and moustaches; which face, despite the bedaubment of something that resembled treacle or tar, was at once identified as that of the aristocratic Smythje!

“Mr ’Mythje!” cried Quashie, who had followed the others under the archway. “I seed him—.”

“Fact, ma fwends, it’s nawbody else but maself,” interrupted the ludicrous image within the hogshead, as soon as he recognised his ancient deliverer, Quaco. “Aw took wefuge here fwom those howid wobbers. Be so good as waise the wid, and pawmit me to get out of this queeaw situation. Aw was afwaid aw should be dwowned. Ba Jawve! aw bwieve it’s tweakle?”

Quaco, endeavouring to suppress his laughter, lost no time in throwing up the lid, and extracting the sufferer from his sweet, though unpleasant position—for it was, in reality, a hogshead of molasses into which the terrified Smythje had soused himself, and in which, during the continuance of the tragedy enacted over his head, he had remained buried up to the neck!

Placed upright upon his legs on the flagged floor of the vault, glistening from neck to heel with a thick coat of the slimy treacle, the proud proprietor of Montagu Castle presented even a more ludicrous appearance than when Quaco had last seen him upon the summit of the hollow stump.

The latter, recalling this scene to memory, and unrestrained by other sentiments, could no longer restrain himself from giving way to loud laughter, in which Quashie, equally free from sorrow, took part.

With Herbert and Cubina it was not the moment for mirth; and, as soon as Smythje had been fairly deposited on his feet, both eagerly questioned him as to the circumstances that had transpired.

Smythje admitted having fled—at the same time making an awkward attempt to justify himself. According to his own account, and the statement was perfectly true, it was not till after he had been overpowered and struck down, that he betook himself to flight. How could he do otherwise? His antagonist was a giant, a man of vast magnitude and strength.

“A howid queetyaw,” continued Smythje; “a queetyaw with long arms, and a defawmity—a pwotubewance upon his shawders, like the haunch of a dwomedawy!”

“And what of Kate, my cousin?” cried Herbert, interrupting the exquisite, with contemptuous impatience.

“Aw—aw—yes! yaw cousin—ma paw Kate! A feaw the wobbers have bawn her off. A know she was bwought outside. Aw heard haw scweam out as they were dwagging’ haw down the staiw—aw—aw—.”

“Thank Heaven, then!” exclaimed Herbert; “thank Heaven, she still lives!”

Cubina had not waited for the whole of Smythje’s explanation. The description of the robber had given him his cue: and, rushing outside, he blew a single blast upon his horn—the “assembly” of his band.

The Maroons, who had scattered around the ruin, instantly obeyed the signal, and soon stood mustered on the spot.

“Upon the scent, comrades,” cried Cubina. “I know the wild boar that has been making this havoc. I know where the monster makes his den. Crambo! Ere an hour passes over his head, he shall answer for this villainy with his accursed life. Follow me!”

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Five.

On the Track of the Destroyer.

As Cubina pronounced this command, he faced towards the mountain, and was hastening to gain the wicket in the garden wall, when an object came before his eyes that caused him to halt. Amidst the gloom, it was a sight that gave him joy.

He was not the only one to whom it brought gladness. Among the Maroons that had come with Quaco was one who had been suffering anguish equally with Herbert and Cubina—one who had equal cause for grief—if not for the loss of sweetheart or cousin, for that which should be dear as either—a sister.

A sister for whose sake he had crossed the wide ocean—had been sold into slavery—robbed by ruthless men—branded as a felon—chastised by the cruel scourge—had suffered every indignity which man could put on man. In this individual may be identified the young Foolah prince—the unfortunate Cingües.

What was it that gave Cubina joy—shared thus by Cingües?

It may be easily guessed. It was the sight of a female form, recognised by both—the sweetheart of the one, the sister of the other—Yola!

The girl was at that moment seen coming through the wicket-gate. Once inside, she made no stop, but hastened across the garden towards the group of men.

In another instant she was standing between her brother and lover, sharing the embrace of both.

Her story was soon told, and by all listened to with breathless attention—by Herbert Vaughan with emotions that wrung blood-drops from his heart. It was short, but far too long for the impatience of apprehension and revenge.

The girl had been in one of the chambers as the robbers entered the great hall. Regardless of consequences, she had rushed out among them. Like Smythje, she had been struck down, and lay for some minutes insensible, unconscious of what was transpiring.

When her senses returned, and she could look around her, she perceived that her young mistress was no longer in the room. The monsters were at that moment in the act of setting fire to the mansion.

A scream outside directed her. She recognised the voice of her mistress.

Springing to her feet, she glided through the open door, and down the stairway. The robbers were too much occupied—some with their booty, others with their scheme of incendiarism; they either did not observe or did not think it worth while—further to molest her.

On getting outside, she saw her young mistress borne off in the arms of a huge, misshapen man. He wore a mask over his face; but, for all this, she could tell that it was the same individual she had seen upon the preceding night in company with the Jew. The masked man, whose attention seemed wholly engrossed by his precious prize, went off alone, leaving the others to continue their work of plunder and devastation.

The African maid, in her native land habituated to similar scenes, with a quick instinct perceived the impossibility of rescuing her mistress at that moment; and, abandoning the idea of making an idle attempt, she determined to follow and ascertain to what place the robber was taking her. She might then return to Mount Welcome, and guide those who would be sent upon the pursuit.

Gliding silently along the path, and taking care not to show herself, she had kept the robber in view, without losing sight of him for a moment. The darkness was in her favour, as also the sloping path—enabling her to see from below, while she was herself in little danger of being seen.

In this way had she followed the robber up the declivity of the mountain, and in an oblique direction across it, still keeping close behind him; when all at once, and to her astonishment, she saw him suddenly disappear into the earth—bearing her young mistress upon his arm—like some monstrous fiend of the other world, who had stolen a sweet image of this, and was carrying her to his dread home in the regions of darkness.

Notwithstanding the supernatural fear with which the sudden disappearance had inspired her, the bold maiden was not deterred from proceeding to the spot.

Both her terror and astonishment were in some degree modified when she looked over a cliff, and saw the sheen of water at the bottom of a dark abysm yawning beneath her feet. In the dim light, she could trace something like a means of descent down the face of the cliff, and this at once dispelled all idea of the supernatural.

She made no attempt to follow further. She had seen enough to enable her to guide the pursuit; and, instantly turning back upon the path, she hastened down the declivity of the mountain.

She was thinking of Cubina and his Maroons—how soon her courageous sweetheart with his brave band would have rescued her unfortunate mistress—when at that moment, in the light of the flickering fire, she recognised the very image that was occupying her thoughts.

Her story was communicated in hurried phrase to Cubina and his comrades, who, without losing a moment of time, passed through the wicket-gate, and, with all the speed in their power, commenced ascending the mountain road.

Yola remained behind with Quashie and the other domestics, who were now flocking around the great fire, looking like spectres in the flickering light.

Cubina required no guide to conduct him. Forewarned by that wild conversation he had overheard, as well as by the events of the preceding day, he had already surmised the author of that hellish deed. More than surmised it: he was satisfied that, whatever head had planned, the hand that had perpetrated it was that of Chakra, the Coromantee.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Six.

Too Late.

Eager as hounds upon a fresh trail—quick as young, strong limbs could carry them—pressed the pursuers up the steep path that led to the Duppy’s Hole.

Words could but feebly express the agony rankling in the heart of Herbert Vaughan. He knew not Chakra in person; but a full description of him, morally as well as physically, had been imparted to him by Cubina on the day before. It was not strange he should tremble with fear for the fate of her who was now in the power of a monster so fell and fiend-like—not strange that his soul should be filled with anguish.

That conditional phrase—“We may be too late!”—spoken as he urged his horse along the road; repeated as he came within sight of the burning mansion—once more found utterance on his lips; but now more emphatically and with a far more fearful significance.

His was a situation to stir the soul to its profoundest depths. Even had the victim of the vile abduction been no more than his cousin, he could not have failed to feel keenly the danger that threatened her.

But now that he viewed Kate Vaughan in another and very different light—certain, from what Cubina had told him, that she reciprocated his love—under the influence of this sentiment, his distress was tenfold greater. So late, too, had he become possessed of that knowledge—so sweet had been the ecstasy it produced—that the sudden revulsion was all the more dreadful to endure.

While murmuring the words “We may be too late,” he dare scarce trust himself to give thought to the form of danger whose dread was thus hypothetically predicted.

Cubina, though, perhaps, a little less anxious than before, was equally earnest in the pursuit; and, indeed, every one of the Maroon band showed to some extent the feelings of painful apprehension that actuated their leader, whom they knew to be the friend of the young Englishman. No one showed a disposition to lag. All were alike eager to aid in the rescue of the unfortunate young lady, known to most of them, and honoured by those to whom she was known.

The horses had been left behind. On the steep and tangled path, they would have been only an encumbrance.

Perhaps, never before, by man on foot, had that path been traversed in so short a space of time. There was no delay on account of the darkness. As if by Divine favour, the moon had opportunely arisen, just as they were passing through the wicket-gate, and by her light they were able to proceed without pause or interruption. No stop was made anywhere, till the pursuers stood upon the edge of the Duppy cliff, and looked down into that dark abysm, where they hoped to find the spoiler and his victim.

Scarce a moment there, either. One after another they descended the tree stairway, Cubina going first, Herbert next, the others following, with like rapidity.

With the instinct of trained hunters all made the descent in silence. Only on arriving at the bottom of the cliff did an exclamation escape from the lips of their chief—Cubina.

The sight of a canoe, drawn up under the bushes, had elicited this exclamation—which expressed surprise mingled with disappointment.

Herbert saw the canoe almost at the same instant of time, but without drawing the inference that had caused Cubina to utter that cry. He turned to the latter for an explanation.

“The canoe!” whispered Cubina, pointing down to the little craft half hidden under the leafy branches.

“I see it,” said Herbert, also speaking in a whisper. “What does it signify?”

“They have gone out again.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Herbert, in an accent of anguish, the more expressive from the low tone in which the words were uttered. “If that be so, then we are too late—she is lost!—lost!”

“Patience, comrade! Perhaps it is only Chakra himself who has gone out; or, maybe, some one of the robbers who have been helping him, and who may be expected to return again. In any case, we must search the valley and make sure. Step into the canoe! You can’t swim in your clothes, while my fellows are not embarrassed in that way. Here, Quaco! get your guns aboard this cockle-shell, and all of you take to the water. Swim silently. No splashing, do you hear? Keep close under the cliff! Swim within the shadow, and straight for the other side.”

Without more delay the guns were passed from hand to hand, until all were deposited in the canoe. Cubina and Herbert had already stepped into the frail craft, the former taking possession of the paddle.

In another instant the little vessel shot out from the bushes, and glided silently under the shadow of the cliff.

Some half-dozen human forms, their heads just appearing above the surface of the water, followed in its wake—swimming with as little noise as if they had been a brood of beavers.

There was no need to direct the canoe to its old landing-place under the tree. Cubina knew that this had been chosen for concealment. Instead of going thither, he made for the nearest point of the opposite shore. On touching land he stepped out, making a sign to his fellow-voyager to imitate his example.

The Maroons waded out the moment after; and once more getting hold of their guns, followed their captain and his companion—already on their route to the upper cascade.

There was no path from the point where they had landed; and for some time they struggled through a thicket almost impervious. There was no danger, however, of their losing the way. The sound of the falling water was an infallible guide; for Cubina well remembered the proximity of the hut to the upper cascade, and it was for this point they were making.

As they advanced, the underwood became easier to traverse; and they were enabled to proceed more rapidly.

There was something lugubrious in the sound of the cataract. Cubina was painfully impressed by it, and equally so his companion. It sounded ominous in the ears of both; and it was easy to fancy sighs of distress, wild wailings of a woman’s voice, mingling with the hoarser tones of the torrent.

They reached at length the edge of the opening that extended for some distance beyond the branches of the cotton-tree. The hut was before their eyes. A light was shining through the open door. It cast its reflection across the ground shadowed by the great tree, till it met the surface silvered by the moon. Though faint, and apparently flickering, the light gave joy to the eyes that beheld it. It was evidence that the hut was occupied.

Who but Chakra could be there? And if Chakra, there too must be his victim.

Oh! was she his victim? Had the rescue arrived too late?

Cubina’s bosom was filled with sad forebodings. Herbert’s heart was on fire. It was with difficulty that either could control his emotion to approach with that caution that prudence required.

Making a sign to his followers to stay among the trees, the Maroon captain, with Herbert by his side, crept up towards the cotton-tree.

Having got fairly under its shadow, they rose to their feet, and, with the silence of disembodied spirits, glided close up to the entrance of the hut.

In another instant the silence was broken by both. A simultaneous cry escaped them as they arrived in front of the open door and looked in. It was a cry that expressed the extreme of disappointment. The hovel was empty!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Seven.

The Corpse of a Cousin.

Yes, the temple of Obi was untenanted, save by those dumb deities that grinned grotesquely around its walls.

To ascertain this fact it was not necessary to enter within the shrine of the Coromantee Pantheon. Nevertheless, Cubina and Herbert, as if moved by a mechanical impulse, rushed inside the door.

They looked around with inquiring glances. There were signs of late occupation. The lighted lamp was of itself sufficient evidence of this. Who save Chakra could have lit it? It was a lamp of lard, burning in the carapace of a tortoise. It could not have been loner alight: since but little of the lard was consumed.

There was no doubt that Chakra had been there, with his captive. That added nothing to the knowledge they possessed already: since Yola had witnessed their descent into the Duppy’s Hole.

But why had the robber so suddenly forsaken this apparently safe retreat? That the lamp was left burning betokened a hasty departure. And whither could he have gone?

“Oh, where?—oh, where?” distractedly interrogated Herbert.

Cubina could make no answer. He was equally astonished at not finding the Coromantee within his hut.

Had he once more gone out from the Duppy’s Hole? The position of the canoe gave colour to this conjecture. But why should he have done so? Had he caught sight of that agile girl gliding like a shadow after him? and, becoming suspicious that his retreat might be discovered, had he forsaken it for some other at a greater distance from the scene of his crime?

In any case, why should he have left in such haste, not staying to put out the light—much less to carry with him his peculiar Penates?

“After all,” thought Cubina, “he may still be in the Duppy’s Hole. The canoe may have been used by some one else—some confederate. Chakra might have seen his pursuers crossing the lagoon, or heard them advancing through the thicket, and, taking his captive along with him, may have hastily retreated into some dark recess among the trees.”

His sudden abandonment of the hovel rendered this view of the case the more probable.

Quick as came the thought, Cubina once more rushed out of the hut, and summoning his men around him, directed them to procure torches and search every corner of the wood. Quaco was despatched back to the canoe, with orders to stay by it, and prevent any chance of escape in that direction.

While the Maroons proceeded to procure the torchwood, their chief, accompanied by Herbert, commenced quartering the open ground in search of any trace which Chakra might have left. By the edge of the water, where the trees stood thinly, the moon afforded ample light to favour the investigation.

On advancing towards the cascade, an object came under the eyes of Cubina that caused him to utter a quick ejaculation. It was something white that lay by the side of the cauldron into which the stream was precipitated. Within the pool itself were broad flakes of white foam floating upon the water; but this was not in the water, but above it, on one of the boulders; and all the more conspicuous from the black colour of the rock.

Herbert had seen the white object at the same instant of time, and both simultaneously ran forward to examine it.

A scarf!

It bore evidence of ill-usage. It was tossed and torn, as if it had fallen from someone who had been struggling!

Neither could identify the scarf, but neither doubted to whom it had belonged. Its quality declared it to have been the property of a lady. Who else could have owned it but she for whom they were in search?

Cubina appeared to pay less attention to the scarf than to the place in which it lay. It was close up to the cliff, on the very edge of the pool into which the stream was projected.

Behind this pool, and under the curved sheets of the falling water, a sort of ledge ran across, by which one could pass under the cascade.

Cubina knew this: for, while on his hunting excursions, he had gone under it. He knew, moreover, that, half way across, there was a large cave or grotto in the cliff, several feet above the water in the pool.

As the scarf was found lying upon the ledge that conducted to this grotto, the circumstance caused the Maroon to remember it, at the same time that it guided him to the conjecture that Chakra might be there. Alarmed by their approach, there was nothing more likely than for the Coromantee to have chosen the cave for his place of retreat—the last place where anyone, not aware of its existence, would have thought of looking for him.

These reflections cost Cubina scarce two seconds of time. Quick as the conjecture had shaped itself, he ran back to the hut; and, seizing a torch, which one of his men had prepared, he hurried back towards the cascade.

Then, signing to Herbert, and one or two others to follow him, he glided under the canopy of falling waters.

He proceeded not rashly, but with due caution. There might be others within the cave besides Chakra! His robber confederates might be there; and these the Maroon knew to be desperate characters—men of forfeit lives, who would die before suffering themselves to be captured.

With his drawn macheté in one hand, and the torch in the other, Cubina advanced silently and stealthily towards the entrance of the grotto. Herbert was close behind, grasping his double-barrelled gun, in readiness to fire, in case resistance should be offered from within.

Holding the torch in advance of him, Cubina entered first, though Herbert, anxious and eager, was close upon his heels.

The glare of the torch was reflected back from a thousand sparkling stalactites, and for a while the sight of both was bewildered.

Soon, however, their eyes became accustomed to the dazzling coruscation; and then a white object, lying along the floor of the cave, seen by both at the same instant, caused them to utter a simultaneous cry—as they did so, turning to each other with looks of the most painful despair.

Between two large masses of stalagmite was the body of a woman, robed in white. It was lying upon its back, stretched out to its full length—motionless; apparently dead!

They needed not to pass the torch over that pale face to identify it. It was not necessary to scrutinise those wan, silent features. On first beholding the prostrate form, too easily had Herbert rushed to the sad conclusion—that it was the corpse of his cousin!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Eight.

The Sleep-Spell.

During all this time where was Chakra?

As soon as he had seen the mansion of Mount Welcome fairly given to the flames, the Coromantee, bearing its young mistress in his arms, hurried away from the spot. Outside the garden wicket he made stop: only for a moment, which was spent in a hasty consultation with the chief of the black bandits.

In the brief dialogue which there took place between them, Adam was enjoined to carry the whole of the booty to his mountain home, where Chakra promised in due time to join him. The Coromantee had no intention to resign his share of the spoils; but just then he was in no mood for making the division. He was at that moment under the influence of a passion stronger than the love of plunder.

Adam was only too eager to accede to these terms; and the confederates parted company—the robber and his followers at once shouldering their booty, and setting out for their forest dwelling among the far mountains of Trelawney.

Like the tiger who has killed his prey—and, not daring to devour it on the spot, bears it to his jungle covert—so Chakra, half dragging, half carrying Kate Vaughan, proceeded up the mountain path in the direction of the Duppy’s Hole.

Lifeless as the victim of the ferocious beast appeared the form of Lilly Quasheba, hanging supple and unconscious over the arm of the human monster—equally ferocious.

Her screams no longer fell upon the ear. Her terror had exhausted her strength. Syncope, resembling death, had succeeded.

It continued, happily for her, during the whole of the transit up the mountain. The wild forest path had no terrors for her: neither the descent into the dank solitudes of the Duppy’s Hole. In the traverse over that dark lagoon, she was not frightened by the scream of the startled night bird, nor the threatening roar of the close cataract. She knew no fear, from the moment she was earned away in the arms of a hideous monster, on a path lighted by the blaze of the roof under which she had been born and reared: she experienced no feeling of any kind, until she awoke to consciousness in a rude triangular hut, lit by a feeble lamp, whose glare fell upon a face hitherto well-known—the face of Chakra, the myal-man.

His mask had been removed. The Coromantee stood before her in all his deformity—of soul as of person.

Terror could go no further. It had already produced its ultimate effect. Under such circumstances reproach would have been idle; indignation would only have been answered by brutal scorn.

Though she might not clearly comprehend her situation, the young Creole did not think she was dreaming. No dream could be so horrid as that! And yet it was difficult to believe that such a fearful scene could be real!

O God! it was real. Chakra stood before her—his harsh voice was ringing in her ears. Its tone was mocking and exultant.

She was upon the bamboo bedstead, where the myal-man had placed her. She had lain there till, on her senses returning, she discovered who was her companion. Then had she started up—not to her feet, for the interposition of the Coromantee had hindered her from assuming an erect position, but to an attitude half reclining, half threatening escape. In this attitude was she held—partly through fear, partly by the hopelessness of any attempt to change it.

The Coromantee stood in front of her. His attitude? Was it one of menace? No! Not a threat threw out he—neither by word nor gesture. On the contrary, he was all softness, all suppliance—a wooer!

He was bending before her, repeating vows of love! Oh, heavens! more fearful than threats of vengeance!

It was a terrible tableau—this paraphrase of the Beast on his knees before Beauty.

The young girl was too terrified to make reply. She did not even listen to the disgusting speeches addressed to her. She was scarce more conscious than during the period of her syncope.

After a time, the Coromantee appeared to lose patience. His unnatural passion chafed against restraint. He began to perceive the hopelessness of his horrid suit. It was in vain to indulge in that delirious dream of love—in the hope of its being reciprocated—a hope with which even satyrs are said to have been inspired. The repellent attitude of her, the object of his demoniac adoration—the evident degoût too plainly expressed in her frightened features—showed Chakra how vain was his wooing.

With a sudden gesture he desisted, raising himself into an attitude of determination that bespoke some dreadful design—who knows what?

A shrill whistle pealing from without prevented its accomplishment, or, at all events, stayed it for the time.

“’Tam de signal ob dat ole Jew!” muttered he, evidently annoyed by the interruption. “Wha he want dis time ob de night? ’Pose it somethin’ ’bout dat ere loss book-keeper? Wa! a know nuffin ’bout him. Dere ’tam ’gain, and fo’ de tree time. Dat signify he am in a hurry. Wha’s dat? Foth time! Den da be some trouble, sa’tin. Muss go to him—muss go. He nebba sound de signal fo’ time ’less da be some desp’rate ’casion fo’ do so. Wonder what he want!”

“Nebba mind, Lilly Quasheba!” added he, once more addressing his speech to his mute companion. “Doan bex yaseff ’bout dis interupshun. De bisness ’tween you ’n me ’ll keep till a gets back, an’ den, p’raps, a no find you so ob’tinate. You come—you ’tay out hya—you muss no be seen in dis part ob de world.”

As he said this, he seized the unresisting girl by the wrist, and was about leading her out of the hut.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, suddenly stopping to reflect; “dat woan do, neider. De ole Jew mussn’t know she hya—no account. She mout run back in de shanty, darfur she muss be tied. An’ den she mout ’cream so he hear her, darfur she muss be gagged.”

Still holding her wrist in his grasp, he looked around the hut as if in search of the means to put this design into execution.

“Ha!” he ejaculated, as if inspired by some new thought, “what hab a been bodderin’ ma brains ’bout? Dar’s a better plan dan eider tyin’ or gaggin’—better dan boaf put togedder! De sleepin’ draff. Da’s de berry ting keep her quiet. Wha’s de bottle, a wonder? Dar um be.”

With this, he stretched forth his disengaged hand, and drew something out of a sort of pocket cut in the palm-leaf thatch. It appeared to be a long narrow phial, filled with a dark-coloured fluid, and tightly corked.

“Now, young missa!” said he, drawing out the cork with his teeth, and placing himself as if intending to administer a draught to his terrified patient; “you take a suck out ob dis hya bottle. Doan be ’feerd. He do no harm—he do you good—make you feel berry comf’able, I’se be boun’. Drink!”

The poor girl instinctively drew back; but the monster, letting go her wrist, caught hold of her by the hair, and, twisting her luxuriant tresses around his bony fingers, held her head as firmly as if in a vice. Then, with the other hand, he inserted the neck of the phial between her lips, and, forcing it through her teeth, poured a portion of the liquid down her throat.

There was no attempt to scream—scarce any at resistance—on the part of the young creole. Almost freely did she swallow the draught. So prostrate was her spirit at that moment, that she would scarce have cared to refuse it, even had she known it to be poison!

And not unlike to poison was the effect it produced—equally quick in subduing the senses—for what Chakra had thus administered was the juice of the calalue, the most powerful of narcotics.

In a few seconds after the fluid had passed her lips, the face of the young girl became overspread with a death-like pallor—all through her frame ran a gentle, tremulous quivering, that bespoke the sudden relaxation of the muscles. Her lithe limbs gave way beneath her; and she would have sunk down upon the floor, but for the supporting arm of the weird conjuror who had caused this singular collapse.

Into his arms she sank—evidently insensible—with the semblance rather of death than of sleep!

“Now, den!” muttered the myal-man, with no sign of astonishment at a phenomenon far from being strange to him—since it was to that same sleeping-spell he was indebted for his professional reputation—“now, den, ma sweet Lilly, you sleep quiet ’nuff ’till I want wake you ’gain. Not hya, howsomedever. You muss take you nap in de open air. A muss put you wha de ole Jew no see you, or maybe he want you fo’ himself. Come ’long, disaway!”

And thus idly apostrophising his unconscious victim, he lifted her in both arms, and carried her out of the hut.

Outside he paused, looking around, as if searching for some place in which to deposit his burden.

The moon was now above the horizon, and her beams were beginning to be reflected feebly, even through the sombre solitude of the Duppy’s Hole. A clump of low bushes, growing just outside the canopy of the cotton-tree, appeared to offer a place of concealment; and Chakra was proceeding towards them, when his eye fell upon the cascade; and, as if suddenly changing his design, he turned out of his former direction, and proceeded towards the waterfall.