UNDER GROUND, BUT NOT YET DEAD AND BURIED--THE PROSPECT ANYTHING BUT
PLEASANT.
When my recollection returned I found myself in the dark, but where, I
knew not. My head ached, and my brain reeled. I sat up for a moment to
collect my senses, but the effort was too painful--I fell back, and
remained in a state of half-stupor. Gradually I recovered, and again
sat up. I perceived that I had been lying on a bed of straw, composed
of two or three trusses apparently. I felt with my extended arms on
each side of me, but touched nothing. I opened my eyes, which I had
closed again, and tried to pierce through the obscurity, but in vain--
all was dark as Erebus. I then rose on my feet, and extending my hands
before me, walked five or six steps on one side, till I was clear of the
straw, and came to a wall. I followed the wall about twenty feet, and
then touched wood; groping about, I found it was a door. I then made
the circuit of the walls, and discovered that the other side was built
with bins for wine, which were empty, and I then found myself again at
the straw upon which I had been laid. It was in a cellar no longer
used--but where? Again I lay down upon the straw, and, as it may be
imagined, my reflections were anything but pleasing. "Was I in the
power of McDermott or Melchior?" I felt convinced that I was; but my
head was too painful for long thought, and after half an hour's
reflection, I gave way to a sullen state of half-dreaming, half-stupor,
in which the forms of McDermott, Kathleen, Melchior, and Fleta, passed
in succession before me. How long I remained in this second species of
trance I cannot say, but I was roused by the light of a candle, which
flashed in my eyes. I started up, and beheld Melchior in his gipsy's
dress, just as when I had taken leave of him.
"It is to you, then, that I am indebted for this treatment?" replied I.
"No, not to me," replied Melchior. "I do not command here; but I knew
you when they brought you in insensible, and being employed in the
castle, I have taken upon myself the office of your gaoler, that I
might, if possible, serve you."
I felt, I knew, this to be false, but a moment's reflection told me that
it was better at present to temporise.
"Who then does the castle belong to, Melchior?"
"To Sir Henry de Clare."
"And what can be his object in treating me thus?"
"That I can tell you, because I am a party concerned. You remember the
little girl, Fleta, who left the gipsy camp with you--she is now
somewhere under your care?"
"Well, I grant it; but I was answerable only to you about her."
"Very true, but I was answerable to Sir Henry; and when I could only say
that she was well, he was not satisfied, for family reasons now make him
very anxious that she should return to him; and, indeed, it will be for
her advantage, as she will in all probability be his heir, for he has
satisfactorily proved that she is a near relative."
"Grant all that, Melchior; but why did not Sir Henry de Clare write to
me on the subject, and state his wishes, and his right to demand his
relative? and why does he treat me in this way? Another question--how
is it that he has recognised me to be the party who has charge of the
little girl? Answer me those questions, Melchior, and then I may talk
over the matter."
"I will answer the last question first. He knew your name from me, and
it so happened, that a friend of his met you in the coach as you were
coming to Ireland: the same person also saw you at the post-house, and
gave information. Sir Henry, who is a violent man, and here has almost
regal sway, determined to detain you till you surrendered up the child.
You recollect, that you refused to tell his agent, the person whose
address I gave you, where she was to be found, and, vexed at this, he
has taken the law into his own hands."
"For which he shall smart, one of these days," replied I, "if there is
law in this country."
"There is a law in England, but very little, and none that will harm Sir
Henry in this part of the country. No officer would venture within five
miles of the castle, I can assure you; for he knows very well that it
would cost him his life; and Sir Henry never quits it from one year's
end to the other. You are in his power, and all that he requires is
information where the child may be found, and an order for her being
delivered to him. You cannot object to this, as he is her nearest
relative. If you comply, I do not doubt but Sir Henry will make you
full amends for this harsh treatment, and prove a sincere friend ever
afterwards."
"It requires consideration," replied I; "at present, I am too much hurt
to talk."
"I was afraid so," replied Melchior; "that was one reason why I obtained
leave to speak to you. Wait a moment."
Melchior then put the candle down on the ground, went out, and turned
the key. I found, on looking round, that I was right in my conjectures.
I was in a cellar, which, apparently, had long been in disuse.
Melchior soon returned, followed by an old crone, who carried a basket
and a can of water. She washed the blood off my head, put some salve
upon the wounds, and bound them up. She then went away, leaving the
basket.
"There is something to eat and drink in that basket," observed Melchior;
"but I think, Japhet, you will agree with me, that it will be better to
yield to the wishes of Sir Henry, and not remain in this horrid hole."
"Very true, Melchior," replied I; "but allow me to ask you a question or
two. How came you here? where is Nattee, and how is it, that, after
leaving the camp, I find you so reduced in circumstances, as to be
serving such a man as Sir Henry de Clare?"
"A few words will explain that," replied he. "In my early days I was
wild, and I am, to tell you the truth, in the power of this man; nay, I
will tell you honestly, my life is in his power; he ordered me to come,
and I dare not disobey him--and he retains me here."
"And Nattee?"
"Is quite well, and with me, but not very happy in her present
situation; but he is a dangerous, violent, implacable man, and I dare
not disobey him. I advise you as a friend, to consent to his wishes."
"That requires some deliberation," replied I, "and I am not one of those
who are to be driven. My feelings towards Sir Henry, after this
treatment, are not the most amicable; besides, how am I to know that
Fleta is his relative?"
"Well, I can say no more, Japhet. I wish you well out of his hands."
"You have the power to help me, if that is the case," said I.
"I dare not."
"Then you are not the Melchior that you used to be," replied I.
"We must submit to fate. I must not stay longer; you will find all that
you want in the basket, and more candles, if you do not like being in
the dark. I do not think I shall be permitted to come again, till
to-morrow."
Melchior then went out, locked the door after him, and I was left to my
meditations.