A WATCH IN THE NIGHT.
I was able to get a little of the brandy between Lucille’s lips, and she
revived somewhat, opening her eyes. She caught sight of Sir George, and
then she seemed to sleep again. When she awoke a second time and saw me
standing near her, fright struggled with surprise in her look, so that I
could not see whether she realized where she was.
She murmured that she was cold. I called to Simon and had him get my
tinder box from my coat. With the flint and steel I kindled the burnt
linen to a glow, and soon was blowing to a flame some dry sticks. Then
Sir George, Simon and I set about gathering driftwood, verily like three
school boys at a bonfire, until we had a goodly pile on the sand,
sending out a genial warmth. It was a welcome heat, for we were chilled
by the water, and Lucille was trembling as one with ague. We carried her
to the blaze, and I wrapped my dry jacket about her, so that with the
comfort of the fire, some color returned to her cheeks.
“Where am I?” she asked, passing her hand over her brow.
“With me,” said Sir George, quickly.
“God forbid,” spoke Lucille in an instant, and those few words gave me
hope.
Sir George motioned to Simon, who ran to the raft, bringing back with
him his master’s sword. Seeing that the wind lay in that direction, I
hastened to where I had cast my blade. It was gone, as was my gun. I
knew then that Simon must have hidden them when he came ashore. Lucille
was watching us.
She rose from her reclining position, and, seeing Sir George armed, and
me without a sword, she ran between us.
“Hold!” she cried. “Add not murder to your other crimes, my lord.”
“Murder,” he exclaimed; “it would not be murder to slay in fair combat.
It is but the execution of justice on a traitor.”
“Traitor?” spoke Lucille, questioningly, while her head was lifted
proudly in the air, and her voice rang with scorn. “Who is the traitor,
when he stands face to face with you, my lord, chief of all traitors.
For you were traitor to a defenseless woman. Captain Amherst is no
traitor, but a true and honorable gentleman, and--and--I love him!”
Then, being a woman, Lucille’s spirit gave way, and she wept bitterly. I
turned my head aside, for sometimes a woman’s tears are sorrowful to
look upon. However, she soon regained her composure.
A sudden silence fell upon us all. When Lucille had said “I love him,” I
looked at Sir George, and he at me. Now such had been the turn of events
of late, that I knew not what to think.
Had Lucille planned to sail with her former lover? Was she true to me,
or a fickle jade, blown this way and that, like many women? These things
I much desired to hear the truth of. But yet she had said of me, “I love
him.”
“Madame,” I said, and at the formal word Lucille glanced, half
frightened at me, “strange events have come to pass between us since
last we met. You were my promised wife when I sailed against St. Johns.
I returned to be cast into prison on a foul charge, but not before one
had met me with the words that you were his wife, and that I had no
right to your love, nor you to mine.”
“His wife?” began Lucille, and Sir George smiled at the trick he had
played.
“Oh, of the falsity of that I soon learned,” I went on, “for I met
Nanette in Boston. But no sooner do I learn you are not wedded to Sir
George Keith than I hear that you have sailed with him. Perchance you
have since thought better of your troth to me, and are, even now, his
wife.”
“His wife? Never!” cried Lucille.
“No,” said Sir George slowly, “not my wife, but----”
I would have leaped at him, unarmed though I was, and though he held his
sword so that I must have run upon it, had not Lucille grasped my arm.
“Not--not--oh, my God, not his----” I could not finish for Lucille’s
hand was over my mouth.
The next instant I had my answer. For she placed her arms about my neck,
and before him, before the man I believed she had cast me aside for, she
kissed me full on the lips, and spoke my name.
“Edward!”
“Lucille!” I cried. “Lucille!” And the love in my heart surged up as do
the waters at flood tide. “Then God has given you back to me, after all.
Speak, love, are you mine, all mine; or has he any claim on you?” and I
passed my arm about her, and looked at Sir George, as he stood there,
sword in hand.
“Edward,” said Lucille, and she clung to me as a frightened bird might
nestle, “most grievous has been my plight, and cruelly has Sir George
Keith treated a defenseless maid, yet I will do him this justice. Though
ever did he protest his love in burning words, almost to insult, yet, as
I stand before you both, he gave me no dishonor. And for this I thank
him, that I am restored to you, my love, true as when he lured me away.
So that while he remains not entirely guiltless, the great shame is not
upon him.”
“I thank you, madame,” spoke Sir George, bowing low, his hand on his
sword, “most graciously do I thank you,” and his words became bitter,
while his face grew cold and stern. “My poor love for you, poor in that
’tis all I have, is but my plea for that which I have done. I pray your
forgiveness, though, perchance, I do not merit it. I would do again all
that I have done, aye, a thousand times, if I stood but one chance of
success, of even winning one loving word from you, madame.
“But you have spurned my love, as is your right, though once it was not
so.”
Lucille shrank closer to me at that, and the words pierced me with a
jealous anger. He saw his advantage and went on:
“Once you thought it no great task to smile with me. My words did not
turn you from me then. That was----”
“Oh, my lord, I pray you to cease,” implored Lucille and Sir George
became silent.
“Your pardon, madame,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “enough of
that, then. But though I have lost your love, I cannot, as I am a
gentleman and a soldier, let the matter rest there. My enemy shall not
thus easily steal you from me. I have two quarrels with him now from
divers causes. Of the one he knows well. Of the other--well, I am ever
willing to draw swords for a fair face,” and he bowed with mock
courtesy.
“I would be weak, indeed,” he added, “did I give you up now after what I
have gone through, and say to him, ‘welcome. Take my love from me. Take
also your life which, of right, belongs to the King and to me, and go in
peace!’ Nay, I have blood in my veins, not water.
“Three several times have I stood before you, Sir Francis Dane,” and he
turned to address me. I marked that Lucille started at the name he gave
me. “Three times you dared me to draw sword. Each time I held my hand,
though my blade was ready. But I waited, for even bitter as my hate was,
I had laid plans that might remove you from my path without need of open
action on my part. I failed, you best know how and why. But think not
that you will escape me, for the score is too heavy to forget now.”
Sir George moved toward me, and I thought at first he meant to attack
me, for I had no sword. I put Lucille behind me, and then he seemed to
see I had no weapon. Simon said something to his master in a low tone.
Sir George turned angrily, and, in another instant the sailor was
running across the sands. Presently he returned, bearing my sword and
gun, which he handed me without a word of explanation.
“I pray your pardon,” said Sir George, “I saw not that your sword was
gone. Now that you have it, let us to work to see who shall kill the
other,” and he laughed such a cold, heartless, mirthless laugh that
Lucille shuddered.
“Bah,” he went on, “what does it matter, after all. But come, ’tis cold
standing idle after a bath in the sea, and I would be gone.”
He laughed again, perchance at the notion of going anywhere on the
watery, sandy waste.
“Ha! Ha! Gone. Yes, I would be away, far away from here, had not the
Eagle proved such a sorry craft.”
He swung his sword about him in a circle so that the point enscribed a
little furrow in the sand.
Lucille looked on with horror in her eyes.
“Have no fear, love,” I said. “It will soon be over.”
“But how?” she asked.
“God knows,” I said.
“On guard!” cried Sir George.
But now a difficulty arose. The sun had gone down, though we had not
observed it, and it rapidly became dusk. So that when we would have
walked off a little way, out of sight of Lucille, to place ourselves, it
was too dark for sword play. Sir George remarked it.
“Why, it is night,” he said, “and there is need of light for what we
have before us. However, to-morrow will be another day. There is little
likelihood that our quarrel will cool in the darkness.”
“Not on my side, my lord,” I answered, bowing.
“Enough, then. We will wait till sunrise. I will go with Simon to
another part of the beach. We will meet again in the morning, and may
the best sword win.”
“Say rather, may the right win,” was my reply, but he only laughed.
“Well, then,” he went on, “good-night, madame, and you also, Sir
Francis, though ’tis more like to be a bad one for all of us and for
you, madame. I would we had some small shelter, or some food for you,
but the poor Eagle’s wings are broken.”
We looked to where the boat had been, but it was gone.
“Stay,” I said, remembering my saddle bags. “There is no need of hunger,
at least, if Simon will go and bring what is on Kit’s back. We had
better eat while we have the chance.”
I told the sailor what to fetch, adding some instructions about tying
the mare more securely.
Presently Simon returned, and we threw more wood on the fire. Then I
gave Sir George and his man some of the biscuits and bacon, which I had
purchased at my last stopping place. The meat we roasted before the
blaze on sharpened sticks, eating it smoking hot. I prepared some for
Lucille, giving them to her on a clean washed piece of drift-wood, that
served for a platter.
Surely no stranger band ever gathered about a camp fire on that lonely
Atlantic coast. Had any one seen us eating together he would have said
that we were ship-wrecked, but, for all that, merry adventurers, so well
did the outward semblance conceal the bitter passions within. For there
was in our hearts love, hate, fear, distrust, anger and envy, yet none
of us betrayed by so much as a word while we were eating that there was
aught but friendliness among us. Thus had so little a thing as hunger
made us forget strong passions for a time.
The fire crackled, the waves beat upon the sands with thunderous noise,
and we four sat there. How many and how varied were the thoughts in each
of our minds.
For myself I rejoiced that I had found Lucille again, and found her with
my love in her heart. Of the duel to take place on the morrow I gave
little heed. For I had confidence in my sword and arm, though, as it
afterward proved, I needed all my skill. Then I went back over my
wanderings and my adventures since I had first ridden to Salem.
Of the others’ thoughts I could but guess. I fancied Sir George was very
bitter of heart, and that he had great hate for me, though as to the
rightful cause for it I differed from him. Lucille, rather than the
death of his brother, was his reason now for wishing to kill me.
When I recall all that happened to us both, knowing of the great passion
which swayed him, as a blast does a sturdy tree, I can, in some measure,
put myself in his place and know that he was sorely tempted. For he,
too, loved Lucille.
And of the thoughts of Lucille. She must have much hidden away in her
heart, but what cared I so long as she loved me. I looked at her while
the fire light played its shadows over her features. How thin and worn
she had become since I saw her last. What must she have gone through. I
was in impatience to hear from her all that had to do with her voyage on
the Eagle.
As for Simon he seemed to be eating more than he was thinking.
So we sat thus silent, while the moon came peeping up from beneath the
sea, silvering the dancing waves. Lucille drew my coat closer about her,
for it was chilly, and she sighed, mayhap at what had gone before,
perchance at what was yet to come; for who knows a woman’s thoughts?
It was growing late when I rose from my position by the fire. Sir George
and Simon followed my example, and I helped Lucille to her feet. She was
so weak that I put my arm about her waist to support her. Sir George
turned away as if to view the moon, and I knew it was because it burned
his heart to see me with her. But I was glad that it was so, for he had
caused me much suffering, and this was some balm for it.
I picked up my flint-lock, and made as if to move off, Lucille and I up
the beach. I had noticed an overhanging rock a quarter of a mile off,
that I thought would serve as some protection from the night dew. Sir
George, followed by Simon, walked off in the opposite direction. When
they had gone a little way Sir George halted and retraced his steps.
“A word, Sir Francis,” he called to me.
I left Lucille and went back.
“There will be need of but little ceremony about our affair in the
morning,” he said coldly. “Yet that no doubt may linger in your mind I
will say that Simon is oath-bound to me not to raise a hand in the
matter, no matter how it may go. You need fear no treachery, for he will
keep his distance. So, if you kill me, Simon, though he is ever ready to
stand between me and death, will not renew the quarrel. To this I have
sworn him.
“If you should fall in the combat I will see that you have such burial
as the place affords. Which courtesy I make bold to ask of you on my
part. Is it agreed?”
“Yes, my lord,” I replied.
To talk thus of death.
“And that is all, I believe,” said Sir George, turning away. “I will
meet you here at sunrise. And--and perhaps it would be as well not to
awaken her. You understand?”
“Perfectly, my lord.”
“Then good-night, Sir Francis.”
“Good-night, my lord.”
We parted, and thus began the vigil of the night.