With their pieces cocked, and ready for instant execution, Cubina and
Herbert were pressing to get within range, when the notes of a horn,
sounded by one of the men before the fire, came swelling upon their
ears.
The sounds were re-assuring. Cubina knew the signal of his lieutenant,
and they were now near enough to recognise the colossal Quaco standing
in the glare of red light, surrounded by some half-dozen of his
comrades.
Quaco had left the corpse upon the road, and the prisoners well guarded
by a couple of his followers; and, thinking he might be wanted at Mount
Welcome, had hurried forward close upon the heels of the horsemen.
This accession of strength might have proved useful had the enemy been
upon the ground. Where were the robbers--the incendiaries--perhaps the
murderers? Where was Miss Vaughan? Where the maid Yola?
Had they escaped among the domestics, or--?
The alternative thought was too horrible for utterance. Is either
Herbert nor Cubina could trust themselves to give speech to it. Only in
their minds did the interrogatory shape itself: _had they perished in
the flames_?
Fearful as was the thought, it could not fail to be entertained; and, in
the solemn silence which the reflection produced, all stood hopelessly
gazing upon the ruthless fire that was fast reducing the noble mansion
to a shapeless and smouldering ruin.
At that moment the stillness was interrupted by a voice proceeding from
an unexpected quarter. It appeared to come from out the great arched
vault under the stone stairway, from a corner shrouded in comparative
darkness. It was partly an exclamation--partly a groan.
Quaco was the first to seek an explanation. Seizing a faggot that still
flared, he rushed under the archway, regardless of the scorching heat.
Herbert and Cubina quickly followed, and all three stood within the
vault.
Quaco waved the torch in front of his body, to illuminate the place.
The eyes of all three simultaneously rested upon an object that, at any
other time, might have elicited from them peals of laughter.
In the corner of the vault stood a half-hogshead, or large tub--its head
covered with a heavy lid. Near the upper edge a square hole had been
sawed out; so that a hand containing a quart measure might be inserted,
without the necessity of raising the lid. Inside, and directly opposite
this opening, appeared the face of a man, with ample whiskers and
moustaches; which face, despite the bedaubment of something that
resembled treacle or tar, was at once identified as that of the
aristocratic Smythje!
"Mr 'Mythje!" cried Quashie, who had followed the others under the
archway. "I seed him--."
"Fact, ma fwends, it's nawbody else but maself," interrupted the
ludicrous image within the hogshead, as soon as he recognised his
ancient deliverer, Quaco. "Aw took wefuge here fwom those howid
wobbers. Be so good as waise the wid, and pawmit me to get out of this
queeaw situation. Aw was afwaid aw should be dwowned. Ba Jawve! aw
bwieve it's tweakle?"
Quaco, endeavouring to suppress his laughter, lost no time in throwing
up the lid, and extracting the sufferer from his sweet, though
unpleasant position--for it was, in reality, a hogshead of molasses into
which the terrified Smythje had soused himself, and in which, during the
continuance of the tragedy enacted over his head, he had remained buried
up to the neck!
Placed upright upon his legs on the flagged floor of the vault,
glistening from neck to heel with a thick coat of the slimy treacle, the
proud proprietor of Montagu Castle presented even a more ludicrous
appearance than when Quaco had last seen him upon the summit of the
hollow stump.
The latter, recalling this scene to memory, and unrestrained by other
sentiments, could no longer restrain himself from giving way to loud
laughter, in which Quashie, equally free from sorrow, took part.
With Herbert and Cubina it was not the moment for mirth; and, as soon as
Smythje had been fairly deposited on his feet, both eagerly questioned
him as to the circumstances that had transpired.
Smythje admitted having fled--at the same time making an awkward attempt
to justify himself. According to his own account, and the statement was
perfectly true, it was not till after he had been overpowered and struck
down, that he betook himself to flight. How could he do otherwise? His
antagonist was a giant, a man of vast magnitude and strength.
"A howid queetyaw," continued Smythje; "a queetyaw with long arms, and a
defawmity--a pwotubewance upon his shawders, like the haunch of a
dwomedawy!"
"And what of Kate, my cousin?" cried Herbert, interrupting the
exquisite, with contemptuous impatience.
"Aw--aw--yes! yaw cousin--ma paw Kate! A feaw the wobbers have bawn her
off. A know she was bwought outside. Aw heard haw scweam out as they
were dwagging' haw down the staiw--aw--aw--."
"Thank Heaven, then!" exclaimed Herbert; "thank Heaven, she still
lives!"
Cubina had not waited for the whole of Smythje's explanation. The
description of the robber had given him his cue: and, rushing outside,
he blew a single blast upon his horn--the "assembly" of his band.
The Maroons, who had scattered around the ruin, instantly obeyed the
signal, and soon stood mustered on the spot.
"Upon the scent, comrades," cried Cubina. "I know the wild boar that
has been making this havoc. I know where the monster makes his den.
_Crambo_! Ere an hour passes over his head, he shall answer for this
villainy with his accursed life. Follow me!"
Volume Three, Chapter XXXV.