Captain Mayne Reid (continued 11)

On getting close up to the cliff over which the stream was precipitated, he paused for an instant on the edge of the seething cauldron; then, taking a fresh hold of the white, wan form that lay helpless over his arm, he glided behind the sheet of foaming water, and suddenly disappeared from the sight—like a river-demon of Eld, bearing off to his subaqueous cavern some beautiful victim, whom he had succeeded in enticing to his haunt, and entrancing into a slumber more fatal than death.

In a few seconds the hideous hunchback reappeared upon the bank, no longer embarrassed by his burden; and hearing the whistle once more skirling along the cliffs, he faced down stream, and walked rapidly in the direction of his canoe.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirty Nine.

A New Job for Chakra.

Chakra, on reaching the crest of the cliff, found Jacob Jessuron in a state of impatience bordering upon torment. The Jew was striding back and forth among the trees, at intervals striking the ground with his umbrella, and giving utterance to his favourite exclamatory phrases—“Blesh my soul!” and “Blesh me!”—with unusual volubility.

Now and then also could be heard the Teutonic ejaculation, “Ach!” proving that his soul was under the influence of some unpleasant passion, that was vexing him even to torture.

“Wha’s de trouble, Massr Jake?” inquired the myal-man, scrambling over the edge of the rock. “Dar’s something go wrong, a ’pose, from de way you hab soun’ de signal? A hear de whissel fo’ time.”

“There ish something wrong—a great deal ish wrong—s’help me, there ish! What hash kept you, Shakra?” he added, with a show of vexation.

“Golly, Massr Jake, a war asleep; da’s wha’ d’layed me.”

“How, then, hash you heard the signal four times?”

The query appeared slightly to puzzle Chakra.

“O—a—de signal fo’ time,” stammered he, after a pause of reflection. “Wa, ye see, a hear de fuss time in ma sleep—den de second time he wake me—de third a got to ma feet; and when de fo’th—”

The Jew—either satisfied with the explanation, or too much hurried to hear the end of it—interrupted Chakra at “de fo’th.”

“It ish no time for talk when Mount Welcome ish in flames. You knowsh that, I supposhe?”

Chakra hesitated, as if considering whether to make a negative or affirmative reply.

“Of course you knowsh it. I needn’t haf ashked. Who wash it? Adam hash been there. Wash it him?”

“Ole Adam hab a hand in dat ere bizness, a b’lieve.”

“You knowsh it, Shakra; and I knowsh another that hash had a hand in it. That ish not my bishness, nor what I hash come here about. There ish worse than that.”

“Wuss, Massr Jake?” inquired the myal-man, with an air of feigned surprise. It might have been real. “Wuss dan dat? Hab de young man no come back?”

“Ach! that ish nothings. There ish far worse—there ish danger: s’help me, there ish!”

“Danger! Wha from, Massr Jake?”

“Firsh tell me where ish Adam now? I want him, and all his fellish.”

“He am gone back to de mountains.”

“Ach! Gone back, you shay? How long ish he gone? Can you overtake him, Shakra?”

“Possab’e a mout; dey won’t trabbel fass. Dey am too hebby load fo’ dat. But wha’ fo’ you want ole Adam, Massr Jake?”

“Bishness of the greatesht importance. It ish life and death. Blue Dick hash been over to Mount Welcome. He hash heerd shtrange news—ach! terrible news! A messhenger who came in from the Saffana road hash brought the newsh of many dishagreeable things—among the resht that my Shpaniards haf been made prisoners by Cubina and thish ungrateful villain of a Vochan. They are accushed of murdering the Cushtos. Blesh my soul!”

“What harm dat do you, Massr Jake? Wha’s de danger?”

“Danger! Dosh you not see it, Shakra? If theesh hunters ish brought to trial, do you supposhe they would hold their tongues? S’help me, no! They will turn Shtate’s efidence; and then I should be exshposed—arreshted—ruined! Oh! why hash I ever trushted theesh clumshy fellish with a bishness of such importance?”

“Dey am clumsy fellas, jess as you say, Massr Jake.”

“Ach! it ish too late to shpeak of regretsh. It ish necessary to take some shteps to prevent thish terrible mishfortune. You musht go after Adam, and find him thish instant—thish instant, Shakra.”

“All right, Massr Jake. A do whatebber you bid me, nebba fear. A soon track up Adam; but wha d’ye want me say to de ole nigga when a hab foun’ ’im?”

“You needn’t shay anything—only bring him back with you to the Shumbé Rock. I shall wait there for you till you come. Don’t keep me long in sushpense, Shakra. Make all the shpeed in your power. If you don’t get back before sunrishe, all will be losht! I’ll be ruined—I will, s’help me!”

“Nebba fear, Massr Jake. A woan lose a minnit. A doan tink dat ere ole nigga’s got far ’way jess yet. A soon obertake ’im. A go atter him at once. Whugh!”

As Chakra uttered the exclamation, he turned on his heel, and was about to start up the mountain, in the direction of the Jumbé Rock, near which he would have to pass on his way towards the haunt of the black robbers.

“Shtay!” cried the Jew, “I’she going with you ash far ash the Shumbé Rock. I may ash well wait there ash anywhere elshe. It ish no ushe my going home now. S’help me! I cannot resht till thish thing ish settled. And now, when I thinksh of it, you may ash well let Adam know for what he ish wanted—so ash he may come prepared. Say to him he ish to go shtraight to Mount Welcome—that ish, where it ushed to be. He’sh not to show hishelf there, but prosheed along the road, till he meets the Cushtos’ body, and them that ish with it. Then he ish to find some way to rescue the Shpaniards, an’ let them eshcape to me. You musht go along with Adam and hish men, elshe they may shpoil all. He musht bring his fellish well armed; you may shtand in need of them all. The messenger said there were some negroes from the eshtate of Content. Theesh won’t signify. They will all run away ash soon as you show yourselves; but the others may be inclined to make fight. There ish Cubina, and the young raschal of an Englishman, besides that giant Quaco, and the messenger hishself. You thinksh you can manage them, Shakra?”

“Sure ob dat.”

“You musht take them by an ambushcade.”

“P’raps we kill some o’ dem.”

“Ash many ash you like. Only make shure to get the Shpaniards off.”

“Be no great harm to kill dem too—atter de fool dey hab made ob demselves, lettin’ dem fellas take um pris’ner dat a way. Whugh!”

“No, no, goot Shakra!—we mushn’t kill our friendsh—we may need them again. You may promish Adam goot pay for the shob. I don’t care for the cosht, so long as it ish clefferly done.”

“All right, Massr Jake; leab dat to me an’ Adam. We do de ting clebberly ’nuf, I’se be boun’.”

And with this assurance Chakra strode off up the mountain, the Jew having set the example by starting forward in advance of him.

Volume Three—Chapter Forty.

Dead, or Asleep?

On beholding what he believed to be the dead body of his cousin, the grief of Herbert Vaughan proclaimed itself in a wild cry—in tones of the bitterest agony. He flung his gun upon the rock—knelt down by the side of the corpse—raised her head upon his arm, and, gazing upon that face, in death beautiful as ever, drew it nearer to his own, kissed the cold, unconscious lips—kissed them again and again, as though he had hopes that the warmth of his love might re-animate the fair form over which he was bending.

For some time his frenzied caresses were continued—their fervour unchecked by the presence of his rude companions who stood around. Respecting the sanctity of his grief, all observed a solemn silence. Nor word nor sound escaped the lips of any one. Sobs alone proceeded from Cubina. The Maroon had also cause to sorrow at that sad spectacle—but these were not heard. They were drowned by a more powerful voice—the melancholy monotone of the cataract—that had been speaking incessantly since the creation of the world.

It was a long time before the heart of Herbert consented to his discontinuing those cold but sweet kisses—the first he had ever had; the last he was destined to have—from those pale lips; long before he could withdraw his supporting arm from beneath that beautiful head, whose shining tresses lay dishevelled along the rock.

The torch held in the hands of Cubina was burning to its base. Only when warned by its flickering light, did the chief mourner rise once more to his feet; and then making a feeble signal to those who stood around, he moved in solemn silence towards the entrance of the grotto.

His gesture was understood, and promptly obeyed. By the authority of his greater grief he had become master of the mournful ceremonies now to be observed.

The Maroons, quietly crossing their arms under the inanimate form, raised it from the rock; and, following him who had given them their silent direction, they bore it to the hut—there placing it upon the cane couch. With instinctive delicacy all retired upon the completion of their task, leaving Herbert and Cubina alone with the body.

An interval elapsed before either essayed to speak. Both were under the influence of a profound grief, that almost stifled reflection, Cubina was the first to have other thoughts, and to give expression to them.

“Santa Virgen!” said he, in a voice husky with emotion, “I know not how she has died, unless the sight of Chakra has killed her. It was enough to have done it.”

The suggestive speech received no other answer than a groan.

“If the monster,” continued the Maroon, “has used other violence, I see no trace of it. There is no wound—no appearance of anything that should have produced death. Poor young creature!—there’s something dark inside her lips—but it’s not blood—”

“O God!” cried Herbert, interrupting the speaker with a fresh paroxysm of grief. “Two corpses to be carried home to the same house—father and daughter on the same day—in the same hour: both the victims of villainy. O God!”

“Both victims of the same villain, I have my belief,” rejoined Cubina. “The same hand that has laid low the Custos, if I mistake not, has been at the bottom of this horrible crime. Chakra is but the weapon. Another has dealt the blow—you know who, Master Vaughan?”

Herbert was hindered from making reply. A dark form appearing in the door, distracted the attention of both from the theme of their conversation.

Quaco had heard the melancholy tidings; and, relieved from his duty by the canoe, had hurried back to the hut. He it was who now appeared in the doorway, filling it from post to post—from step to lintel.

Neither his chief nor Herbert offered any remark. Quaco’s presence did not surprise them. It was natural he should come to the hut—if only to satisfy his curiosity. Weighted with their sorrow, neither took any notice of his arrival, nor of his movements after he had entered the hut—which he did without waiting to be invited.

Having stepped inside, the colossus stood for some moments by the couch, gazing down upon the sweet, silent face. Even on his features was depicted an expression of sorrow.

Gradually this became more subdued, or rather appeared to undergo a total change—slowly but surely altering to an expression of cheerfulness.

Slight at first, and imperceptible on account of the large scale upon which Quaco’s features were formed, the expression was every moment becoming more pronounced; until at length it attracted the notice of the others, notwithstanding the abstraction caused by their poignant grief.

Both observed it at the same instant, and to both it caused a feeling of annoyance—amounting almost to indignation.

“Lieutenant,” said Cubina, addressing his subaltern in a tone of reproach, “it is not exactly the time for being gay. May I ask you what is making you smile, while others around you are overwhelmed with sorrow?”

“Why, cappen!” rejoined Quaco, “I can’t see what yar all a-grievin’ ’bout. Can’t be the Custos: since, sartinly, you’ve got over grievin’ for him long afore this!”

The reply—grotesque in character, and almost jovial in the manner of its delivery—could not fail still further to astonish those to whom it was addressed. Both started on hearing it; and for some moments bent their eyes on the speaker in an expression of wonder, mingled with indignation.

Had Quaco gone mad?

“In the presence of death, sir,” said the young Maroon captain, directing a severe glance upon his lieutenant, “you might lay aside that merry mood, too common with you. It ill becomes you—”

“Death, do ye say, cappen?” interrupted Quaco; “who’s gone dead here?”

There was no reply to this abrupt interrogatory. Those to whom it was addressed were too much taken by surprise to say a word.

“If you mean the young buckra lady,” continued Quaco, “I’d give all the barbecued hog I ever owned nebber to be more dead than she jess now. Dead, i’deed? nonsense dat: she only sleep!”

Herbert and Cubina started from their seats, each uttering a cry of astonishment, in which might be detected the accents of hope.

“Who’s got a piece o’ lookin’-glass!” continued Quaco, turning his glance interrogatively around the hut. “Good,” he exclaimed, as the sparkle of a piece of broken mirror came under his eyes; “here’s the thing itself!

“Now, lookee hyar!” resumed he, taking the bit of glass from the place where it had been deposited, and rubbing its surface with a piece of rag: “you see thar’s ne’er a speck upon it?”

The others, still held silent by surprise, made answer only by nodding their assent.

“Wal, now,” continued Quaco, “watch me a bit.”

Placing the smooth surface of the mirror to the mute lips, he held it there for a minute or more; and then, turning, he raised it up, and held it close to the light of the lamp.

“Ye see,” he cried, triumphantly pointing to a white filmy bloom that appeared upon the glass, partially obscuring its sheen, “that’s her breath! She no gone dead, else how she hab breath?”

His listeners were too excited to make reply. Only by exclamations did they signify their assent to the truth of his hypothesis.

“Ho!” exclaimed Quaco, suddenly dropping the bit of glass, and clutching hold of a phial that lay upon the floor—now for the first time noticed.

“What we got here?” continued he, drawing the cork with his teeth, and thrusting the neck up his wide nostril. “Sleepin’ draugh’! I thought so. So this is the spell that’s put the young buckra lady to rest. Well, there’s another that’ll wake her, if I can only find it. It’s boun’ be hya, somewheres about; and if I can git my claws on it, I’ll make this hya young creatur’ talk to ye in less than ten minutes!”

So saying, the colossus commenced searching around the hut, looking into the numerous chinks and crannies with which both walls and roof were provided.

Restrained by surprise, blended with hopeful anticipation, neither Herbert nor Cubina offered to interrupt his actions, by word or gesture. Both remained in their respective places—silently but anxiously awaiting the event.

Volume Three—Chapter Forty One.

Quaco Turned Myal-Man.

To Herbert Vaughan it was a moment of tumultuous emotions—joy springing up in the midst of utter woe. That his cousin still breathed he could not doubt; that she lived he was only too ready to believe. Though mystified beyond measure by what appeared the perfect semblance of death, the words of Quaco had given him some clue to a remarkable mystery—at the same time inspiring him with the belief that in that motionless form the soul was yet present. Her breathing upon the mirror had made him sure of it.

The mystery to which Quaco’s speeches had introduced him was that of myalism. In this the Maroon lieutenant claimed to have skill almost equalling the regular professors of the art. In addition to being Cubina’s deputy on all important occasions, Quaco was the doctor of the band; and in his medical experience he had picked up some knowledge of the system of Obeah—more especially of the trick by which, in the belief of the ignorant, a dead body can be brought to life again—that dread secret of the Coromantee charlatan, known in the West Indies as myalism.

“Only a sleep-spell,” said Quaco, still continuing his search; “nothin’ more than that—a draught given her by the myal-doctor. I know it well enough; and I knows what’ll make all right again; though ’ithout that she’d come to of herself. A-ha! hyar it is! hyar’s the anecdote!”

A small bottle glistened between his fingers; which in another instant was uncorked and brought in contact with his nostrils.

“Yes, dis is the stuff that’s a-goin’ to countrack that spell. In ’less ’n ten minutes’ time you see her wake up, brisk as ebber she been in her life. Now, young master, if you jess hold up the young lady’s head while I spill a drop or two down her throat—It must go down to do her good.”

Herbert, with joyful willingness, obeyed the request; and the beautiful head once more received the support of his arm.

Quaco, with all the gentleness of which his huge, coarse fingers were capable, parted the pale lips; and, inserting the neck of the phial, poured out a portion of its contents into the mouth of the sleeper. This done, he held the bottle for some minutes to her nostrils; and then, laying it aside, he commenced chafing her hands between his own broad, corrugated palms.

With heart wildly beating, and eyes alternately scanning the face of Quaco and the countenance of the silent sleeper, Herbert made no effort to conceal his terrible solicitude.

It would have been far more terrible, but for the confident manner of the negro, and the triumphant tone in which he predicted the result.

Scarce five minutes had elapsed from the time of administering the antidote—to Herbert they appeared fifty—when the bosom of the sleeper was seen to swell upward; at the same time that a sigh, just audible, escaped from her lips!

Herbert could no longer restrain his emotions. With a cry of supreme joy, he bent his face nearer to that of the young girl, and pressed his lips to hers, at the same time gently murmuring her name.

“Be quiet, young master!” cautioned Quaco, “else you may keep her longer from wakin’ up. Hab patience. Leave the anecdote to do its work. ’Tan’t goin’ to be very long.”

Herbert, thus counselled, resumed his former attitude; and remained silently but earnestly gazing upon the beautiful face, already showing signs of re-animation.

As Quaco had predicted, the “anecdote” was not long in manifesting its effects. The bosom of the young girl began to rise and fall in quick spasmodic motion, showing that respiration was struggling to return; while, at shorter intervals, sighs escaped her, audible even amidst the sounds, so similar, heard from without.

Gradually the undulations of the chest became more regular and prolonged, and the lips moved in soft murmuring—as when one is endeavouring to hold converse in a dream!

Each instant these utterances became more distinct. Words could be distinguished; and, among others, one that filled the heart of Herbert with happiness indescribable—his own name!

Despite the prudent counsel of Quaco, he could no longer restrain himself; but once more imprinting a fervent kiss upon the lips of his beloved cousin, responded to her muttering by loudly pronouncing her name, coupled with words of love and exclamations of encouragement.

As if his voice had broken the charm—dispelling the morphine from out her veins—the eyes of the young girl all at once opened.

The long, crescent-shaped lashes displayed through their parting those orbs of lovely light, brown as the berry of the theobroma, and soft as the eyes of a dove.

At first their expression was dreamy—unconscious—as if they shone without seeing—looked without recognising.

Gradually this appearance became changed. The spark of recognition betrayed itself fast spreading over pupil and iris—until at length, it kindled into the full flame of consciousness.

Close to hers was the face of which she had been dreaming. Looking into hers were those eyes she had beheld in her sleep, and with that same glance with which, in her waking hours, they had once regarded her—that glance so fondly remembered!

Again was it fixed upon her; but no longer in silence, and unexplained. Now it was accompanied by words of love—by phrases of endearment—spoken with all the wild abandon of an impassioned heart.

“Herbert! cousin!” she exclaimed as soon as speech was restored to her. “It is you? Where am I? No matter, since you are by me. It is your arm that is around me?”

“Yes, dearest cousin—never more to part from this sweet embrace. Oh, speak to me! Tell me that you live!”

“Live? Ah! you thought me dead? I thought so myself. That horrid monster! He is gone? I see him not here! Oh! I am saved! It is you, Herbert? you who have delivered me from worse than death?”

“Mine is not the merit, cousin. This brave man by my side—it is he to whom we are both indebted for this deliverance.”

“Cubina! and Yola?—poor Yola? She, too, has escaped? Oh! it is a fearful thing. I cannot comprehend—”

“Dearest cousin! think not of it now. In time you shall understand all. Know that you are safe—that all danger is past.”

“My poor father! if he knew—Chakra alive—that fearful monster!”

Herbert was silent, Cubina, at the same time, withdrawing from the hut to give some orders to his followers.

“Ah, cousin, what is that upon your breast?” inquired the young girl, innocently touching the object with her fingers. “Is it not the ribbon you took from my purse? Have you been wearing it all this time?”

“Ever since that hour! Oh, Kate! no longer can I conceal the truth. I love you! I love you! I have heard. But tell me, dearest cousin!—with your own lips declare it—do you return my love?”

“I do! I do!”

Once more Herbert kissed the lips that had given utterance to the thrilling declaration.

In that kiss two loving souls were sealed for ever!

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Two.

The Rescue.

On starting off from the Duppy’s Hole, it had been the intention of the Jew to wait by the base of the Jumbé Rock for the return of Chakra with the robbers. Before arriving at the rock, a better plan presented itself.

In the absence of Chakra—which might be a prolonged one—it occurred to him that he might profitably pass the interval of time by making a reconnoissance of Mount Welcome and its precincts.

Before parting from Chakra, therefore, a new place of rendezvous was arranged between them—at a particular place upon the mountain slope, only a short distance from the rear of the garden.

This point being settled, Chakra continued on after the home-returning bandits; while his fellow-conspirator, facing down the mountain, proceeded towards the valley of Mount Welcome.

He soon came upon the path habitually used in the ascent and descent of the mountain. Only for a short distance did he follow it, however. He conjectured that a pursuit would be already set on foot; and, apprehensive of encountering the pursuers, he preferred making his approach to the house by working his way through the woods, where no path existed. By this means he should advance more slowly, but with greater safety.

Favoured by an occasional flash from the smouldering fires—seen at intervals through the trees—he had no difficulty in guiding himself in the right direction; and in due time he arrived at the rearward of the garden.

Crouching behind the wall, and looking cautiously over its top, he could command a full view of the grounds—no longer containing a grand house, but only a smouldering mass of half-consumed timbers.

There was still sufficient flame springing up amidst the smoke to reveal to the eyes of Jessuron a terrible tableau.

Under the light could be seen a number of human figures grouped around an object resembling a rude bier. On this lay the body of a white man, whose ghastly visage—ghastlier under the glare of the unnatural light—betokened it to be a corpse.

A white man stood beside it, bent over the body, and looking thoughtfully on the face. Jessuron recognised in this individual the overseer of the estate. The others were blacks—both men and women—easily known as the domestics and field slaves of the plantation.

At a short distance from these was another group—smaller in individual numbers, but equally conspicuous.

Two men lay along the grass in attitudes that showed them to be fast bound. They were white men, in colonial phraseology, though their complexions of dark olive were but a shade or two lighter than those of the negroes who surrounded them. Jessuron easily identified them as his own employés, the Cuban caçadores.

Some three or four black men stood around them, apparently acting as guards. The costume, arms, and accoutrements of these last—but quite as much their bold, upright bearing—proclaimed them to be men of a different caste from the negroes who encompassed the corpse. They were the Maroons whom Quaco had left in charge of the prisoners.

As soon as Jessuron had finished making these observations, he returned to the place of rendezvous, where he was soon joined by Chakra and the robbers. The latter, on their homeward route, having halted for a rest not far beyond the Jumbé Rock, were there overtaken by the myal-man, and brought instantaneously back.

The report of Jessuron was delivered to Chakra, who, along with Adam and his followers, advanced to the garden wall, and became himself a spectator of the scene already described.

The circumstances suggested the necessity of immediate action. It was evident that Cubina and the main body of the Maroons had gone off in pursuit of the incendiaries at once. No account was made of the presence of the plantation negroes, and the weak guard of the Maroons that had been left could be easily overpowered.

Such were the reflections of Chakra and Adam, acted upon almost as soon as conceived; and, leaving Jessuron to await their return, they and their followers crept forward through the shrubbery of the garden.

A volley from their guns, fired from an ambush, was heard shortly after. It caused most of the Maroon guard to fall dead by the side of their prisoners, at the same time putting to flight the people of the plantation, with their overseer at their head.

Nothing then remained but to relieve the captives from their cords; and this being readily accomplished, both robbers and caçadores retreated up the mountain.

On nearing the Jumbé Rock, the confederates once more separated. Adam and his followers continued on towards their mountain home, while Chakra, accompanied by the Jew, and followed by Manuel and Andres, proceeded in the direction of the Duppy’s Hole.

It was the design of Jessuron that the two Cubanos should remain in that safe asylum—as guests of the Coromantee—until such time as he might find an opportunity for shipping them back to the country whence they had come.

Chakra’s consent to this arrangement had not yet been obtained, and it was to this end that the Jew was now on his errand—for the second time that night—to the sombre solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Three.

Down the Mountain.

The midnight hour had passed ere the lovers forsook the solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.

From mingled motives Herbert had lingered on that wild spot. He feared the dread development which he knew must take place on their return to Mount Welcome. What a terrible blow to that young bosom, now in the full enjoyment of earth’s supremest happiness! He knew the fatal truth could not loner be concealed; nevertheless, he was desirous of keeping it back as long as possible—at least until his cousin had further recovered from the shock which her spirit had that night sustained.

In concert with Cubina, he had spent some time in reflecting how this temporary concealment might be effected.

Only one way suggested itself—to conduct his cousin to the house of the overseer; there to remain until, as she might suppose, her rather could receive the news of the conflagration that had occurred, and return home again.

The young girl knew that the mansion was burnt down. Its blaze was before her eyes when they ceased to see—lighting her ravisher along the forest path. The roof that had sheltered her childhood was a ruin. She knew all that.

It was therefore but natural that a temporary home should be sought elsewhere, and in the house of the overseer. She could have no suspicion of any design in their taking her thither.

Neither Herbert nor Cubina knew whether the corpse of the Custos had yet reached its destination. Quaco, on hurriedly parting with it, had given no orders, either to the bearers or the Maroons left in charge of the two prisoners, to move forward.

The funeral cortège might still be upon the road, where it had been left by Herbert and Cubina.

If so, it might be possible for them to pass the ruined dwelling, and reach the house of the overseer, without any news of the assassination being communicated to her—the only one likely to be profoundly affected by that dread disaster.

Once under the roof of Mr Trusty, means could be taken to keep silent the tongues of those who should be brought in contact with her.

Such was the scheme, hastily concerted between Herbert and Cubina; and which they now proceeded to execute, by conducting the young creole out of the Duppy’s Hole and commencing their descent towards the valley of Mount Welcome.

Only the two accompanied her. The Maroons, under their lieutenant, Quaco, remained behind; and for an important purpose—the capturing of Chakra.

Cubina would himself have stayed, but for a certain impatience once more to enjoy the company of his beloved Yola, who had been left among the other domestics of the desolated establishment.

The Maroon captain had perfect confidence—both in the skill of his lieutenant, and the courage of his followers. He could trust them for an affair like that; and as he parted from the Duppy’s Hole he had very little doubt that by daybreak, or perhaps before that time, Chakra would be the captive of Quaco.

Slowly Herbert and his cousin moved down the mountain. The moon, now shining sweetly upon the perfumed path, favoured their descent; but there was no need—no desire for haste. Cubina kept ahead, to secure them from surprise or danger. The young girl walked side by side with Herbert, leaning upon his arm—that strong arm, once so freely and affectionately promised. The time had arrived when that offer was accepted and welcomed—a proud time for the young Englishman—a happy time, as he walked on, thrilled by the touch of that round arm softly pressing his own—at times more heavily leaning upon him, not from any physical weakness on the part of his companion, but rather out of the pure fondness of her affection.

The strength of the young Creole had become almost restored—the effects of the narcotic having completed disappeared. She had also recovered from the prostration of spirit which it had produced—perhaps all the sooner from the cheering presence of him who was by her side.

The terrible sufferings she had endured were succeeded by a happiness tranquil and profound. She now knew that Herbert loved her: more than once within the hour had he given her that sweet assurance.

On her part there was no coyness—not a shadow of coquetry. She had responded to his vows by a full, free surrender of her heart.

And her hand? Was it still free?

Herbert sought an answer to this question as they passed onward—only indirectly, and with all the delicacy that circumstances would permit.

Was it true, what he had heard, that a promise had been given to Smythje?

With downcast eyes the young girl remained for some moments without vouchsafing any reply. Her trembling arm betrayed the painful struggle that was agitating her bosom.

Presently the storm appeared to have partially subsided. Her features became fixed, as if she had resolved upon a confession; and in a firm, but low, murmured voice, she made answer,—

“A promise! yes, Herbert, wrung from me in my darkest hour—then, when I thought you cared not for me—when I heard that you also had made such promise—to another. Oh, Herbert! oh, cousin! believe me it was against my will; it was forced from me by threats, by appeals—”

“Then it is not binding!” eagerly interrupted the lover. “There was no oath—no betrothal between you? Even if there had been—”

“Even if there had been!” cried the young girl, repeating his words—the hot Creole blood mounting suddenly to her cheeks, while her eyes expressed a certain determination. “There was no oath. Even if there had been, it could no longer bind me. No! After what has occurred this night—in the hour of danger deserted by him—no, no! After that, I could never consent to be the wife of Mr Smythje. Rather suffer the charge of perjury, from which my own conscience would absolve me, than to fulfil that promise. Rather shall I submit to the disinheritance which my father threatens, and which upon his return he will doubtless execute. Yes, death itself, rather than become the wife of a coward!”

“How little danger of that disinheritance!” thought Herbert. “How shall I tell the fearful tidings? How reveal to her that she is at this moment the mistress of Mount Welcome? Not yet—not yet!”

For a while the young man remained silent, scarce knowing how to continue the conversation.

She noticed his air of thoughtful abstraction. It guided her to unpleasant conjectures.

“Cousin! are you angry with me for what I have said? Do you blame me—”

“No—no!” cried Herbert, impressively; “far from it. By the conduct of this man—woman, I should call him, were it not for disgracing the name—by his behaviour to you, you would be released from the most solemn of oaths—much more a mere promise given against your will. It was not of that I was thinking.”

“Of what, Herbert?”

As she put this question she leant towards him, and gazed into his eyes with a look of troubled inquiry.

The young man was puzzled for a reply. His thoughtful silence was evidently causing her uneasiness that each moment increased. Her glances betokened some painful suspicion.

She did not wait for his answer; but, in a voice that trembled, put the additional interrogative,—

“Have you made a promise?”

“To whom?”

“Oh, Herbert! do not ask me to pronounce the name. You must know to whom I allude.”

Herbert was relieved by the interrogatory. It changed the current of his thoughts, at the same time giving him a cue for something to say.

“Ha! ha!” laughed he; “I think, cousin, I comprehend you. A promise, indeed! Nothing of the sort, I assure you; though, since you have been good enough to make confession, neither shall I conceal what has passed between her to whom you refer and myself. There was no love between us—at least, none upon my side, I can assure you, cousin. But, I will confess that, stung by what I fancied was your coldness to me—misled by a thousand reports, now happily found to be false—I had nearly committed myself to the speaking of a word which no doubt I should have rued throughout all the rest of my life. Thank fortune! circumstances have saved me—saved us both, may I say?”

“Oh, happiness! Herbert—Herbert! then you will be mine—mine only?”

Yielding to the promptings of an all-absorbing passion, the young creole gave utterance to this bold interrogatory.

“Dearest Kate!” replied the lover, half delirious with joy, “my heart is yours—all yours. My hand—oh, cousin, I scarce dare to offer it! You are rich—grand—and I—I poor—penniless—even without a home!”

“Alas! Herbert, you know not. Were I rich—ten times as rich as you, believe me, you would be welcome to all. But no. Perhaps I may be poor as yourself. Ah me! you do not know; but you shall. I shall conceal nothing. Know, then, dearest cousin, that my mother was a quadroon, and I am only a mustee. I cannot inherit my father’s property, except by will; and not even that till an act is obtained from the Assembly. That is the errand upon which my father is gone. But whether he succeed or not, matters not now. Too surely will he disinherit me; for never shall I consent to become the wife of the man he has commanded me to many—never!”

“Oh, cousin!” cried Herbert, enraptured by the emphatic tone in which she had declared her determination, “if you consent to become mine, I care not for your riches. Your heart is the wealth I covet—that will be enough for me. What matters it even should we both be poor? I am young. I can work. I can strive. We may yet find friends, or, if not, we can do without them. Be mine!”

“Yours for any fate!—for life, Herbert! for life!”

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Four.

An Orphan.

These earnest utterances of love exchanged between the two cousins were suddenly interrupted. Sounds of woe broke upon the stillness of the night, and in the same place as before.

They had arrived within view of what was once the mansion of Mount Welcome.

Through the foliage that fringed the path, they could see glancing some remnants of red light, here and there flickering into a faint blaze. Now and then, as they descended the slope, they had heard the crash of falling timbers, as they gave way under the wasting fire.

A murmur of human voices, too, had reached their ears; but only as of men engaged in an ordinary conversation; or, at all events, not exhibiting excitement beyond what might be expected at the finale of such a scene as had there transpired.

All at once abruptly breaking upon this comparative tranquillity—at the same time interrupting the dialogue of the lovers—were heard utterances of a far different import: the cries of men, the screaming of women, shots, and loud shouting!

All these sounds appeared to proceed from the spot that but a few hours before had echoed to the clangour of a chorus equally diabolical in its accents.

Cubina, who had been moving some paces in advance, sprang instantly back upon the path; and, with troubled look, stopped in front of the lovers.

“What can it mean?” asked Herbert, equally showing signs of apprehension.

“The robbers! Master Vaughan! They have returned; but for what purpose I cannot guess. It must be they. I know that voice, louder than the rest. Do you hear it? ’Tis the voice of the brigand Adam! Crambo! I’ll silence it some day ere long—maybe, this very night. Hark! there’s another, still louder and wilder. Ho! that, too, I can distinguish. It’s the hellish shriek of Chakra!”

“But why should they have come again? They took everything a robber would care for. What can have brought them back? There is nothing—”

“There is!” cried Cubina, with a quick gesture, as though the solution had just then presented itself to his mind. “There is Yola!” As he said this he faced around, as if about to rush towards the fray, still strepitant—its noise rather on the increase.

For an instant he appeared to be undecided; though not from any fear of going forward.

No, it was another thought that had caused that indecision; which was soon made manifest by his words.

“Master Herbert Vaughan!” he exclaimed, in a tone of appeal; “I have helped you to rescue your sweetheart. Mine is in danger!” The young Englishman stood in no need of this appeal. Already he had disengaged his arm from that of his cousin, and stood ready for action.

“Oh, Herbert!” cried the young girl, in wild accents of distress; “there is fearful danger! Oh, you must not go. Oh, do not leave me!”

Cubina looked as if regretting the challenge he had thrown out.

“Perhaps you had better not?” said he, with no sarcasm meant by the words. “There is danger, but you must not share it. Your life now belongs to another. I did not think of that, Master Vaughan.”

“In the eyes of that other,” replied Herbert, “my life would be worthless, as it would to myself, were I to play the poltroon. Brave Cubina! I cannot fail you now. Dear Kate! it is Yola who is in danger—Yola, to whom we are both indebted. But for her I should not have known that you loved me; and then we should both—”

“Ah! Yola in danger!” interrupted the young Creole, her affection for her maid half stifling the fear for her beloved. “Oh, Herbert! go if you will, but let me go with you. I should die if you returned not. Yes, yes; if death comes to you, it shall be mine also. Herbert, do not leave me behind!”

“Only for a moment, Kate! I shall soon return. Fear not. With right on our side, the brave Cubina and I can conquer a score of these black robbers. We shall be back before you can count a hundred. There! conceal yourself in these bushes, and wait for our coming. I shall call out for you. Behind the bushes you will be safe. Not a word, not a movement, till you hear me calling your name.”

As he uttered these admonitions, the brave young man gently guided his cousin into the thicket. Causing her to kneel down in a shaded covert, he imprinted a hurried kiss upon her forehead, and then hastily leaving her, followed Cubina towards the fight.

In a few seconds they ran down to the garden wall, and passed rapidly through the wicket-gate, which they found standing open; on through the garden, and straight towards the place from which they imagined the sounds had proceeded.

Strange enough, these had ceased as abruptly as they had risen—the cries of the men, the screaming of the women, the shots, and the loud shouting!

All, as if by a simultaneous signal, had become silent; as though the earth had opened and swallowed not only the noises, but those who had been causing them!

Unheeding the change, Herbert and Cubina kept on; nor came to a stop until they had passed the smoking remains of the mansion, and stood upon the platform that fronted it.

There halted they.

There was still some fitful light from the burning beams; but the beams of the moon told a truer tale. They illumined a tableau significant as terrible.

Near the spot was a stretcher, on which lay the corpse of a white man, half uncovered, ghastly as death could make it. Close to it were three others, corpses like itself, only that they were those of men with a black epidermis.

Herbert easily identified the first. It had been his companion on that day’s journey. It was the corpse of his uncle.

As easily did Cubina recognise the others. They were, or had been, men of his own band—the Maroons—left by Quaco to guard the prisoners.

The prisoners! where were they? Escaped?

It took Cubina but little time to resolve the mystery. To the practised eye of one who had tied up many a black runaway, there was no difficulty in interpreting the sign there presented to his view.

A tangle of ropes and sticks brought to mind the contrivances of Quaco for securing his captives. They lay upon the trodden ground, cast away, and forsaken.

The caçadores had escaped. The affair had been a rescue!

Rather relieved by this conjecture, which soon assumed the form of a conviction, Herbert and Cubina were about returning to the place where they had left the young Creole—whom they supposed to be still awaiting them.

But they had not calculated on the bravery of love—much less upon its recklessness.

As they faced towards the dark declivity of the mountain, a form like a white-robed sylph was seen flitting athwart the trunks of the trees, and descending towards the garden wall. On it glided—on, and downward—as the snow-plumed gull in its graceful parabola.

Neither was mystified by this apparition. At a glance both recognised the form, with its soft, white drapery floating around it.

Love could no longer endure that anxious suspense. The young Creole had forsaken her shelter, to share the danger of him she adored.

Before either could interfere to prevent the catastrophe, she had passed through the wicket—a way better known to her than to them—and came gliding across the garden, up to the spot where they stood.

An exclamation of joy announced her perception that her lover was still unharmed.

Quick as an echo, a second exclamation escaped from her lips—but one of a far different intonation. It was a cry of wildest despair—the utterance of one who suddenly knew herself to be an orphan. Her eyes had fallen upon the corpse of her father!

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Five.

An Involuntary Suicide.

On seeing the dead body of her father, Kate Vaughan sank to the earth beside it; not unconsciously, but on her knees, and in an agony of grief. Bending over it, she kissed the cold, speechless lips—her sobs and wilder ejaculations following each other in rapid succession.

Only the face of the corpse was uncovered. The camlet cloak still shrouded the body, and its gaping but bloodless wounds. She saw not these; and made no inquiry as to the cause of her father’s death. The wasted features, now livid, recalled the disease under which he had been suffering previous to his departure. It was to that he had succumbed; so reasoned she.

Herbert made no attempt to undeceive her. It was not the time to enter into details of the sad incident that had transpired. The most mournful chapter of the story was now known—the rest need scarce be told: Kate Vaughan was fatherless.

Without uttering a word—not even those phrases of consolation so customary on such occasions, and withal so idle—the young man wound his arms round the waist of his cousin, gently raised her to an erect attitude, and supported her away from the spot.

He passed slowly towards the rear of the ruined dwelling.

There was still enough light emitted from the calcined embers to make plain the path—enough to show that the little summer-house in the garden still stood there in its shining entirety. Its distance from the dwelling-house had saved it from the conflagration.

Into this Herbert conducted his protégée, and, after placing her on a settee of bamboos, which the kiosk contained, seated himself in a chair beside her.

Yola, who had once more appeared upon the scene, followed them, and flinging herself on the floor, at her young mistress’s feet, remained gazing upon her with sympathetic looks, that evinced the affectionate devotion of the Foolah maiden.

Cubina had gone in search of the overseer, and such of the domestics as might still have concealed themselves within a reasonable distance.

The Maroon might have acted with more caution, seeing that the second attack of the robbers had unexpectedly been made. But he had no fear of their coming again. The escape of the prisoners explained their second appearance—the sole object of which had been to rescue the caçadores.

For a while the three individuals in the kiosk appeared to be the only living forms that remained by the desolated mansion of Mount Welcome. The return of the robbers had produced even a more vivid feeling of affright than their first appearance; and the people of the plantation—white as well as black—had betaken themselves to places of concealment more permanent than before. The whites—overseer, book-keepers, and all—believing it to be an insurrection of the slaves, had forsaken the plantation altogether, and fled towards Montego Bay.

Among these panic-struck fugitives, or rather at the head of them, was the late distinguished guest of Mount Welcome—Mr Montagu Smythje.

On being left alone, after the departure of the pursuing party, he had made a rapid retreat towards the stables; and there, by the assistance of Quashie, had succeeded in providing himself with a saddled horse.

Not even staying to divest himself of his sacchariferous envelope, he had mounted and ridden at top speed for the port, announcing his fixed determination to take the first ship that should sail for his “deaw metwopolis.”

Smythje had seen enough of Jamaica, and its “queeole queetyaws,” and more than enough of “its howid niggaws.”

Cubina, returning with Quashie—who again, imp-like, had started up in his path—the only living being the Maroon could discover, announced the fact that Mr Smythje was no longer on the ground.

From those who occupied the kiosk, the intelligence elicited no response. Notwithstanding the many jealous pangs he had cost Herbert Vaughan, and the important part he had played in the history of the young Creole’s life, the great lord of Montagu Castle was no longer regarded even as a unit in the situation. Neither spoke of him—neither gave a thought to him. With perfect indifference, both Herbert and his cousin listened to the report that he was no longer on the ground.

But there was at that very moment one upon the ground who might have been better spared—one whose proximity was a thousand times more perilous than that of the harmless Smythje.

As we have said, Cubina had no apprehensions about the return of the robbers; but there was a danger near, and equally to be dreaded—a danger of which neither he nor any of the others could have had even the slightest suspicion.

The Maroon had delivered his report at the kiosk, and with Quashie attending on him, had gone back to the spot where the dead body still rested. He had gone thither to ascertain which of his own men had fallen in the late struggle, and also the better to acquaint himself with the direction which the robbers might have taken.

Just as he had turned his back upon the kiosk, a human figure—gliding so softly that it might have been mistaken for a shadow—passed through the wicket-gate in the rear of the garden, and, with stealthy step, advanced in the direction of the summer-house.

Notwithstanding an ample cloak in which the figure was enveloped, its contour could be distinguished as that of a woman—one of boldly-developed form.

The blaze of the still-burning timbers was no longer constant. At intervals some piece—losing its equilibrium under the effect of the consuming fire—would fall with a crushing sound; to be followed by a fresh glare of light, which would continue for a longer or shorter period of time, according to the circumstances that created it.

Just as the silent figure, approaching along the path, had arrived within a few paces of the summer-house, one of these sudden coruscations arose, lighting up not only the interior of the summer-house, but the whole enclosure to its furthest limits.

Under that light, had anyone been looking rearwards across the garden, they would have beheld a beautiful face—beautiful, yet disfigured by an expression of mingled rage and pain, that rendered it even hideous. It was the face of Judith Jessuron.

It is not necessary to explain why she was there. The fire of jealousy was still burning in her breast—more furiously, more bitterly than ever.

In another instant she had placed herself in a position that commanded a view of the interior of the kiosk.

What she saw there was not calculated to extinguish the fearful fire that consumed her. On the contrary, like the collision of the falling timbers, it had the effect of stirring it to increased strength and fierceness.

Kate Vaughan had raised herself from her reclining position, and was sitting upright on the bamboo settee. Herbert was by her side, also seated. Their bodies were in contact—the arm of the young man softly encircling the waist of his cousin. It would have been evident to the most uninterested observer that their hearts were equally en rapport; that between them was a tie—the strongest on earth—the tie of mutual love!

It needed no reasoning on the part of Judith Jessuron to arrive at this conclusion.

The tableau was typical. It was a picture that required no explanation, nor did she who looked upon it ask for any.

She did not even stay to notice the brown-skinned damsel, who seemed to be guarding the entrance of the kiosk; but, springing past her, she stood in a defiant attitude in the presence of the lovers.

“Herbert Vaughan!” cried she, in a tone of bitter abandonment; “traitor! perjured villain! you have been false to me—”

“It is not true, Judith Jessuron!” cried the young man, interrupting her, and, as soon as he had recovered from his surprise, springing to his feet. “It is not true. I—I never intended—”

“Ha!” screamed the Jewess, her rage apparently becoming more fierce at the attempted explanation; “never intended what?”

“Never intended to marry you. I never gave you promise—”

“False!” cried Judith, once more interrupting him. “No matter now—it is all past; and since you never intended to marry me, she at least will never be your wife!”

The action that followed rendered the menace of the mad woman too easily intelligible.

As she gave utterance to it she passed her hand under the mantle in which her figure was enveloped; and, as she drew it forth again, a shining object appeared between her fingers.

It was a pistol, with silver sheen and ivory handle—small, but large enough to take life at such close quarters.

It was presented as soon as drawn, but not at Herbert Vaughan. It was towards his companion that its muzzle was pointed!

Scarce a second passed before the report was heard; and, for a time, the kiosk was filled with smoke.

When this cleared away, and the shining light once more penetrated the apartment, a woman was seen extended on the floor, her form quivering in the last throes of life. In another instant it was motionless—a corpse!

The shot had proved fatal; but the victim was not Kate Vaughan, but Judith Jessuron!

The transposition was due to the Foolah maid. Seeing the life of her mistress in such imminent peril, she had sprung up from her seat by the door; and, bounding forward with the supple quickness of a cheetah, had seized the wrist of the intended murderess, with the intention of averting her aim, and, in doing so, had directed it upon herself.

It was by accident, therefore, and not from design on the part of Yola, that Judith Jessuron thus terminated her life by an involuntary suicide.

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Six.

Quaco in Ambush.

The Maroon captain, before leaving the Duppy’s Hole, had given official orders to his lieutenant about the capture of Chakra. There could no longer be any question of the absence of the myal-man from his haunt. The Maroons had continued their search after the discovery in the cave, still thinking that he might be concealed somewhere in the wood. The bushes were well beaten—the trees, where it was possible for a man to have climbed, were all scrutinised; and the search had ended without their finding any other trace of the Coromantee than what had been already discovered.

Beyond doubt, Chakra had gone abroad—though in what direction, no one could guess; and to have attempted tracking him at night, and through a pathless forest, would have been labour lost.

The correct scheme for capturing him was for the Maroons to remain in the Duppy’s Hole, against his return; and, by keeping in ambuscade until he should have re-crossed the lagoon, they would have him, as it were, in a trap.

This was the plan chosen—with the execution of which Quaco was intrusted.

Indeed, the initiatory steps had been taken already: for ever since the search by torchlight had been abandoned, Quaco and his men had been placed in ambush.

Cubina perceived the error he had committed in causing the search to be made.

Chakra might have been upon the cliff above, where he could not have failed to see the light of the torches.

If so, there would not be the slightest hope of his returning for that night. After witnessing such an invasion of his secret haunt, his caution would be upon the qui vive—enough to hinder him from venturing down into the Duppy’s Hole, notwithstanding the attractive lure he had there left behind him.

Cubina thus reflected with regret—with chagrin. The capture of Chakra had now become an object of primary importance.

After all, the apprehension that he had seen the torches, or in any way become aware of the intrusion of strangers upon his solitary domain, may have been an idle one. If so, then he would be certain to come back. The presence of his prisoner was earnest of his return, and at no distant period of time.

To make sure of his capture, the Maroon captain had himself planned the ambush. Quaco and his men were placed under the great tree—where the myal-man was accustomed to moor his craft. Some of them were stationed on the tree, among its branches, with the design that they should drop upon the shoulders of the Coromantee, as soon as he should arrive at his anchorage.

The canoe itself was to be left at the bottom of the stairway, after being taken thither by the Maroon captain and his two companions, on their departure from the place. All this was done as designed.

Before parting from the canoe, Cubina had taken the precaution to place it in the exact position in which it had been left by Chakra: so that the latter could have no suspicions that the craft had been used during his absence.

These arrangements having been completed, Quaco and his comrades—Cingües among the number—from their station by the edge of the lagoon, with eyes bent alternately upon the water and the face of the cliff, awaited the coming of the Coromantee.

The Maroons were armed with guns, loaded and primed. Not that they intended to kill Chakra. On the contrary, Cubina’s orders were to capture him. Criminal as was the outlawed myal-man, it was not their province to decide upon his criminality—at least, not so far as to the depriving him of his life. Free as was the licence enjoyed by these mountain rovers, there were laws around them by which even they were bound to abide. Besides, there would be no danger of his escaping from the punishment that was his due. They knew that Chakra’s capture would be but the prelude to his execution.

They had a different reason for being attentive to their arms. It was just possible the Coromantee might not return alone. They knew he had been in the company of others—Adam and his band of desperate robbers. These confederates might come back along with him. In that case, the quiet scheme of their capture might be transformed into a sanguinary encounter.

It was not necessary all should keep awake. One-half of the little band were appointed sentinels, while the others went to sleep.

The lieutenant himself was among the number of those who were entitled to the latter privilege: since for two days and nights he had scarce slept a wink.

Speedily surrendering himself to the drowsy god, Quaco indulged in a profound slumber—snoring in such fashion, that, but for the louder intonation of the waters surging through the gorge below, his huge nostrils would have betrayed his presence to the expected Chakra—even before the latter should have set foot in his canoe.

As it was, however, the roaring of the cataract quite drowned the nasal music of the sleeping Quaco, and his companions suffered him to snore on.

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Seven.

The Doom of Destiny.

Until daybreak was Quaco permitted to continue his snoring and his slumber. Up to that time, no Chakra appeared; but just as the red aurora began to tinge the tops of the forest trees, a dark form was distinguished upon the summit of the cliff, just over the tree stairway.

It had scarce made its appearance, when another was seen coming forward by its side; and, in the rear of both, another—and then a fourth.

All four halted for a moment upon the brow of the precipice. Whether they were in conversation could not be told. Likely they were, but their voices could not be heard above the mutterings of the moving water.

Presently, he who had first made his appearance commenced descending the cliff, followed by the others, apparently in the same order in which they had arrived upon its edge.

Cingües had already shaken Quaco from his slumbers. The other sleepers had also been aroused by their companions; and, perceiving the numbers of the enemy, had grasped their guns with a firmer hold.

Though the day had now dawned, none of the four shadowy figures, outlined against the façade of the cliff, could be identified. The dark rock and the bramble hindered them from being fairly seen. Not even when they had reached the bottom of the stair could they be recognised: for there also the frondage afforded them cover.

It was only after the two foremost had entered the canoe, and the craft was seen gliding out into the open water, that Quaco could tell who were the two individuals thus seeking the solitude of the Duppy’s Hole.

“Chakra!” said he, in a whisper to Cingües. “The t’other? Prince! if my eyes don’t bamboozle me, it’s your old acquaintance, the penn-keeper!”

To the Fellatah this piece of information was superfluous: he had already recognised the well-known features of the man who had so deeply injured him.

The memory of all his wrongs rushed into his heart, accompanied by a thirst for vengeance—keen, irresistible.

With a wild cry—and before Quaco could interpose—he raised his piece and fired.

The young African was a marksman of unerring aim; and but for the upraised arm of Quaco, that had disturbed the level of that deadly tube, the hours of Jacob Jessuron would have been numbered.

And numbered they were. Despite the interruption—despite the accident that guided that leaden missile far wide of its mark—destiny had determined upon having its victim.

Neither of the occupants of the canoe appeared to have been wounded; but as the smoke cleared away, it could be seen that the shot had not passed them without effect. Chakra’s hands were empty; the paddle had been struck by the bullet; and, carried clean out of them, was now seen on the surface of the water, fast gliding towards the gorge!

A shrill cry escaped from the lips of the Coromantee. He alone understood the danger to which this accident had exposed him. He alone knew of the whirl that threatened to overwhelm both himself and his companion.

Instantly he threw himself upon his knees, and, with an arm extended on each side of the canoe, and his body bent down to the gunwale, he commenced heating the water with his broad palms. His aim was to prevent the craft from being drawn into the centre of the current.

For some moments this strange struggle was kept up—the canoe just holding its own—making way neither upwards nor downwards.

The Maroons watched the movement with mute surprise; and no doubt would have continued to do so, but that the two men left by the bottom of the stairway—perhaps stirred by a like curiosity—had rushed forward to the edge of the water, and thus permitted their faces to be seen. At the same instant were they recognised by one who had an old account to settle with them.

“The jack Spaniards!” cried Quaco, surprised beyond measure at the sight of his ci-devant prisoners. “They have got loose from our guard. Fire upon them, comrades! Don’t let them escape a second time!”

The stentorian voice of the Maroon lieutenant, audible above all other sounds, at once awakened the caçadores to a sense of their dangerous situation; and, like a brace of baboons, they commenced sprawling up the tangled stairway.

Too late had they taken this resolution. Before they had got a third of the way to the summit, half-a-dozen triggers were pulled; and their bodies, one after the other, fell with a heavy plunge into the water below.

Meanwhile Chakra, in the canoe, had kept up his life and death struggle, now going against the current—and now the watery element appearing to prevail.

For the moment the Maroons could not have decided that strife. They were engaged in re-loading their guns; and the Coromantee was left free to continue his struggles without interruption.

Chakra’s bitterest enemies could scarce have desired to bring that scene to a speedy termination. No avenger need have wished his victim in a more terrible situation than were he and his confederate at that moment.

The former, acting under the instinct of self-preservation, had not yet given way to despair; while the terrified look of the latter, who appeared to have already succumbed to it, might have restrained his deadliest foe from interference.

Between the long, sinewy arms of Chakra and the strength of the current, it was difficult to decide which would conquer. For many minutes the forces appeared to be equally balanced. But the strength of the man was declining, while that of the element remained the same. In the end, the waters must prevail. Chakra at length appeared to become convinced of this; and cast round him a glance of mingled inquiry and despair.

At that moment an idea seemed to strike him—some thought, perhaps, that promised him a chance of escape.

All at once he desisted from his hopeless efforts to stay the canoe, as if some resolution had suddenly become fixed; and, turning towards his companion, he bent down, apparently with the intention of whispering to him. His wild, dark look, however, declared his design to be far different.

When fairly within reach, he threw out his long arms with a sudden jerk, and, clutching the Jew by both shoulders, drew him up into his embrace, like some gigantic spider seizing upon its prey.

Suddenly changing his hold, he grasped an arm and limb; and, raising the body high in air, with an immense muscular effort, he projected it clear over the gunwale of the canoe.

One shriek from the Jew—emitted in the extremest accent of grief—was heard simultaneously with the plunge; and then the body of the unfortunate man disappeared beneath the dark waters of the lagoon.

His hat and umbrella alone floated on the surface, both rapidly carried along by the current.

The wretched creature rose again, but not to discover any chance of saving himself from destruction. The only gratification he could have drawn from his temporary emergence was to perceive that his false confederate must perish as well as himself.

Chakra had hoped that by lightening the canoe he might contend more successfully with the current; but it soon became evident that his hopes would prove vain.

In disembarrassing himself of his compagnon du voyage he had lost way; and, before he could recover it, the canoe was sucked into a charybdis, from which even the power of the paddle could not have extricated it.

In less than ten seconds the craft entered the embouchure of the gorge, gliding downward with the velocity of an arrow.

It was but a despairing effort on the part of its occupant to seize upon a tree that grew horizontally from the rocks; though in his despair Chakra clutched it. Even had the bush been firmly rooted, his strength would not have sustained him against the fierce, resistless flood.

But it was not. The roots gave way; and, in another instant, the Coromantee and his canoe were precipitated an hundred feet sheer among the black rocks below!

His confederate had preceded him only by two seconds of time; and the dead bodies of both came once more in close contact—circling round and round, amidst the frothy spume that creamed over the cauldron below!

Volume Three—Chapter Forty Eight.

Conclusion.

On the morning that succeeded the occurrence of these tragic events, one entering at the great gate of Mount Welcome estate, and directing his eye up the long, palm-shaded avenue, would have beheld but a mass of black, smoking ruins.

On any other morning, twelve months after, the eye of a person looking in the same direction, would have been gladdened by a sight far different. Smiling in all its splendour, at the end of that vegetable vista, once more could be seen the proud mansion of Mount Welcome—renaissant in every respect—its stone stairway still standing—its white walls and green-jalousied windows looking as if they had sprung, phoenix-like, from the flames—every item of the architecture so closely in imitation of the former structure, that even the eye of an old acquaintance could have detected no trace of the transformation.

Outside, everything appeared as before. It was only upon entering the mansion that you might perceive a change, and this chiefly relating to its occupancy and ownership. Instead of a stout, red-faced, and somewhat plebeian personage, of over forty years old, you would see in the present proprietor of Mount Welcome a youth of noble mien, by age scarce claiming the privileges of manhood, but in aspect and demeanour evidently fit for the performance of its duties—deserving to be the master of that aristocratic mansion.

Near him—oh! certain to be near him—there is one upon whom the eye rests with still greater interest; one who had graced the old mansion—yet more gracing the new—the daughter of its former proprietor, the wife of its present one.

She has not even changed her name—only her condition. Lilly Quasheba is no longer Miss but Mrs Vaughan!

Both these personages may be seen seated in that great hall, with floor as smooth and furniture as resplendent as ever.

It is the hour after breakfast, and also, as of yore, the hour when the post may be expected. Not that either cared to look abroad for that diurnal messenger—more welcome to those around whom Hymen has not yet wound his golden chain.

Equally indifferent were these two happy individuals to the actions of the outside world: neither cared for its news. Their love, still in the fresh flush of its honeymoon, was world enough for them; and what interest could either feel in the arrival of the mail?

But the post has no respect either for indifference or anxiety. It is transmitted alike to the grave and the gay. It brings joy to the heart heavy laden, and sorrow to that which the moment before its arrival may have been bounding with bliss.

In that great hall in the mansion of Mount Welcome there were two bosoms brimful of bliss, or a feeling near akin to it. Nay, why should we say akin to it, since they were two hearts in the enjoyment of a mutual love? If that be not bliss, there is no other—either on earth or in heaven.

Without any attempt at concealment, the eyes of both betrayed their mutual delight. Gazing on each other, in sweet reciprocal admiration, they saw not that dark form—rudely centaurean—that approached up the long avenue.

Had they seen it, it would have created no surprise. It was only the post-boy, Quashie, on his shaggy cob, returning from the Bay.

After this speculative peroration, the reader may be apprehensive of some dire development springing from the letter-bag slung over the shoulders of the darkey.

Nothing of the kind. There was a letter, but not one that might be unwelcome. But for the post-mark, it might have remained for hours unopened.

But the impress was peculiar. It was African. The letter was stamped with the name of a port near the mouth of the Gambia. It was addressed to “Herbert Vaughan, Esquire, Mount Welcome, Jamaica.”

The young planter broke the seal, and rapidly ran over the contents of the letter.

“From your brother, Cubina,” said he, though he knew that he imparted no information by this. “He writes to say he is coming back again to Jamaica.”

“Oh! I am so glad of that! I knew he would never live contented among those wild people, notwithstanding he has been made a prince over them; but Yola—”

“She comes with him, of course. It is not likely he would leave her behind. She longs for her island-home again. I don’t wonder, dearest Kate. There is one spot on the earth hallowed beyond all others—the spot where heart meets heart in the free confession of a mutual love. No wonder the African maiden should desire to return to it. Human nature is everywhere the same. To me this Island is the elysium of earth!”

“Ah! to me also!”

On giving utterance to this mutual confession, the young husband and wife bent towards each other, and pressed lips as fervently as if they had never been married!

After this fond embrace, Herbert continued the reading of the letter.

“Oh!” exclaimed he, when he had perused another portion of the epistle; “your brother wants to know whether he can either become our tenant or purchase that piece of land that lies beyond the Jumbé Rock. The old king has given him a capital to start with, and he wants to turn coffee-planter.”

“I am glad he has such intentions. Then he will settle down, and be near us.”

“He must not be permitted to purchase it. We shall present it to him, since we have enough without it. What say you, Kate? It is yours, not mine to give.”

“Ah!” returned the young wife, in a tone of playful reproach, “do not distress me with those sad souvenirs. You know that I gave it to you when I might have believed myself its mistress; and—”

“Stay, dearest. Do not you distress me by such an appeal! You were its rightful owner, and should have been. Even had we not become joint proprietors, I could never have thought of dispossessing you. Say, then, that the land shall be Cubina’s!”

A repetition of that sweet embrace pronounced the consent of both to the proposal of Cubina.

Herbert resumed the reading of the letter. “Good heavens!” cried he, on finishing its perusal, “what a singular story! The captain of the slaver, who brought Yola’s brother over to Jamaica, has been back again to the coast. What a terrible retaliation!”

“What, dear Herbert?”

“Only that they have eaten him!”

“Oh, merciful Father!”

“Sad and terrible though it be, it is true; else Cubina would not have written it. Hear what he says:—

“‘Jowler’—that was the name of the slaver’s captain—‘presented himself before old Foolah-foota, in search of a fresh cargo of slaves. The king, already apprised of the skipper’s treason to Cingües, instantly ordered him to be seized; and, without trial or other formality, caused him to be chopped to pieces upon the spot. He was afterwards cooked and eaten, at the grand national feast, which was held on the celebration of my nuptials with the princess Yola. Crambo! it was a painful scene; and one might have felt sympathy for the unfortunate wretch, had he been anything else than a dealer in human flesh; but, under that reflection, I stood by without feeling any great desire to interfere in his behalf. In fact, my Fellatah father-in-law was so furious, I could not have saved the wretch from a fate which, after all, was perhaps not more than he deserved; and to which, no doubt, the poor victims he had carried across the Atlantic would have been only too glad to have seen him consigned.’”

“It is well,” said Kate, with a thoughtful air, “that Cubina has determined upon leaving a land where, I fear, such scenes are too common. I shall be so happy to see them both once more in our dear, beautiful Island. And you, Herbert, I am sure, will rejoice at their return.”

“Most certainly I shall. Ah, Kate! did it ever occur to you how much we are indebted to them?”

“Often, Herbert—often. And were it not that I am a firm believer in destiny, I should fancy that but for them—”

“Nonsense, Kate!” playfully interrupted the young husband. “None of your Creole superstitions. There is no such thing as destiny. It was not that which ruled my heart to believe you the fairest thing in creation—but because you are so. Don’t be ungenerous to Cubina and Yola. Give them all the credit that is due to them. Say frankly, love, that but for them you might have become Mrs Smythje, and I—I—”

“Oh, Herbert! speak not of the past. Let that be buried in oblivion, since our present is everything we can desire!”

“Agreed! But for all that, dearest, do not let us forget the gratitude we owe to Cubina and his dark-skinned bride. And to prove it to them, I propose something more than giving them the piece of land. Let us build them a house upon it; so that upon their arrival they may have a roof to shelter them.”

“Oh, that would be a pleasant surprise for them!”

“Then we shall bring it about. What a lovely morning! Don’t you think so, Kate?”

As Herbert put this interrogatory, he glanced out through the open jalousies.

There was nothing particularly fine about the morning—at least, for Jamaica, but Kate saw with Herbert’s eyes; and just then, to the eyes of both, everything appeared couleur-de-rose.

“Indeed, a beautiful morning!” answered the young wife, glancing inquiringly towards her husband.

“What say you, then, to a little excursion, à pied?”

“I should be delighted, Herbert. Where do you think of going?”

“Guess now!”

“No—you must tell me.”

“You forget. According to Creole custom, our honeymoon is to last for twelve months. Until that be terminated, you are to be master, sweet Kate. Where would you most like to go?”

“I have no choice, Herbert. Anywhere. In your company it is all the same to me. You must decide.”

“Well, then, dearest, since you leave it to me, I declare for the Jumbé Rock. Its summit overlooks the piece of land we intend presenting to our brother, Cubina. While we are there we can select the site for his house. Is it agreeable to you?”

“Dearest Herbert,” replied the young wife, entwining her arm around that of her husband’s, and gazing fondly into his eyes—“the very place I was thinking of.”

“Why of it? Tell me, Kate!”

“Shame, Herbert! Must I tell you? You know that I have told you before.”

“Tell me again. It gives me pleasure to hear you speak of that hour.”

“Hour! scarce a minute was it, and yet a minute worth all the rest of my life! A minute in which I learnt that the language of your eyes was truer than that of your tongue! But for that belief, Herbert, I might, indeed, have yielded to despair. The memory of that sweet glance haunted me—sustained me through all. Despite all, I continued to hope!”

“And I, too, Kate. That remembrance is as dear to me as it can be to you. Let us seek the hallowed spot.”

An hour after, and they stood upon the Jumbé Rock, on that spot so consecrated in their hearts.

Herbert appeared to have forgotten his purpose. Not a word was said about Cubina or the site of his dwelling. Not a word of the Happy Valley, or the unpleasant recollections it was calculated to call up. All the past appeared to be forgotten, except that one sweet scene; and on this were concentrated the thoughts of both—their words as well.

“And you loved me then?” inquired he, only to enjoy the luxury of an affirmative answer. “You loved me then?”

“Oh, Herbert! how could I help loving you? Your eyes were so beautiful then!”

“What! Are they not so now?”

“How cruel to ask the question! Ah! far more beautiful now! Then I beheld them only with anticipation; now I look into them with the consciousness of possession. That moment was pleasure—this is ecstasy!”

The last word was perfectly appropriate—not a shade too strong to express the mutual feeling that existed between Herbert Vaughan and his cousin-wife. As their rounded arms became entwined, and their young bosoms pressed fondly together, both believed that even in this unhappy world ecstasy may exist.

The End.

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Volume 1 Chapter 1

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Volume 1 Chapter 2

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Volume 1 Chapter 3

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Volume 1 Chapter 4

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Volume 1 Chapter 5

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Volume 1 Chapter 6

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Volume 1 Chapter 7

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Volume 1 Chapter 8

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Volume 1 Chapter 9

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Volume 1 Chapter 10

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Volume 1 Chapter 11

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Volume 1 Chapter 12

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Volume 1 Chapter 13

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Volume 1 Chapter 14

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Volume 1 Chapter 15

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Volume 1 Chapter 16

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Volume 1 Chapter 17

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Volume 1 Chapter 18

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Volume 1 Chapter 19

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Volume 1 Chapter 20

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Volume 1 Chapter 21

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Volume 1 Chapter 22

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Volume 1 Chapter 23

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Volume 1 Chapter 24

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Volume 1 Chapter 25

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Volume 1 Chapter 26

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Volume 1 Chapter 27

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Volume 1 Chapter 28

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Volume 1 Chapter 29

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Volume 1 Chapter 30

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Volume 1 Chapter 31

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Volume 1 Chapter 32

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Volume 1 Chapter 33

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Volume 1 Chapter 34

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Volume 1 Chapter 35

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Volume 2 Chapter 1

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Volume 2 Chapter 2

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Volume 2 Chapter 3

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Volume 2 Chapter 4

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Volume 2 Chapter 5

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Volume 2 Chapter 6

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Volume 2 Chapter 7

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Volume 2 Chapter 8

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Volume 2 Chapter 9

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Volume 2 Chapter 10

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Volume 2 Chapter 11

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Volume 2 Chapter 12

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Volume 2 Chapter 13

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Volume 2 Chapter 14

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Volume 2 Chapter 15

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Volume 2 Chapter 16

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Volume 2 Chapter 17

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Volume 2 Chapter 18

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Volume 2 Chapter 19

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Volume 2 Chapter 20

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Volume 2 Chapter 21

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Volume 2 Chapter 22

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Volume 2 Chapter 23

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Volume 2 Chapter 24

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Volume 2 Chapter 25

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Volume 2 Chapter 26

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Volume 2 Chapter 27

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Volume 2 Chapter 28

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Volume 2 Chapter 29

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Volume 2 Chapter 30

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Volume 2 Chapter 31

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Volume 2 Chapter 32

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Volume 2 Chapter 33

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Volume 2 Chapter 34

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Volume 2 Chapter 35

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Volume 2 Chapter 36

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Volume 3 Chapter 1

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Volume 3 Chapter 2

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Volume 3 Chapter 3

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Volume 3 Chapter 4

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Volume 3 Chapter 5

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Volume 3 Chapter 6

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Volume 3 Chapter 7

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Volume 3 Chapter 8

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Volume 3 Chapter 9

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Volume 3 Chapter 10

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Volume 3 Chapter 11

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Volume 3 Chapter 12

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Volume 3 Chapter 13

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Volume 3 Chapter 14

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Volume 3 Chapter 15

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Volume 3 Chapter 16

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Volume 3 Chapter 17

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Volume 3 Chapter 18

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Volume 3 Chapter 19

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Volume 3 Chapter 20

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Volume 3 Chapter 21

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Volume 3 Chapter 22

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Volume 3 Chapter 23

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Volume 3 Chapter 24

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Volume 3 Chapter 25

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Volume 3 Chapter 26

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Volume 3 Chapter 27

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Volume 3 Chapter 28

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Volume 3 Chapter 29

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Volume 3 Chapter 30

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Volume 3 Chapter 31

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Volume 3 Chapter 32

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Volume 3 Chapter 33

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Volume 3 Chapter 34

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Volume 3 Chapter 35

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Volume 3 Chapter 36

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Volume 3 Chapter 37

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Volume 3 Chapter 38

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Volume 3 Chapter 39

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Volume 3 Chapter 40

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Volume 3 Chapter 41

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Volume 3 Chapter 42

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Volume 3 Chapter 43

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Volume 3 Chapter 44

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Volume 3 Chapter 45

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Volume 3 Chapter 46

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Volume 3 Chapter 47

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Volume 3 Chapter 48

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