DERRICK CARVER.
From these thoughts he was recalled to what was going on by Rodomont,
who called out, “Here is one of the murtherous villains who attacked
your Highness. Will it please you to question him?”
Philip turned at the words, and by the light of the torches which were
held towards him, was enabled to examine the captive. The man, whose
hands were tied behind his back by a belt, was of middle height, and
rather powerful frame, and seemed to be decently attired; but his
garments were sullied with blood, which flowed from several bodily
wounds, as well as from a deep gash across the temple. His head was
uncovered, and his matted black locks were dabbled in gore. His
features, which were strongly marked, and remarkably stern in
expression, were of a ghastly hue; but notwithstanding the smarting of
his wounds and evident faintness from loss of blood, his looks were
resolute and his black eyes blazed fiercely. He did not quail in the
least before the searching and terrible glance fixed upon him by the
Prince.
“Do any of you know this man?” demanded Philip, after regarding him
stedfastly for a short space.
“By the body of Saint Alphonso, which reposes at Zamora! I should blush
to avow myself acquainted with the felon hound,” rejoined Rodomont. “But
luckily I have never seen him before; and everyone else appears to be in
the same predicament. How art thou called, fellow? Speak out, or the
thumb-screw shall force the truth from thee.”
“Torture would not make me speak,” replied the man, firmly. “But I have
no desire to conceal my name. It will profit you little to know it. I am
called Derrick Carver, and I am of Brightelmstone, in Sussex.”
“Derrick, thou art most appropriately named Carver,” rejoined Rodomont;
“but instead of carving his Highness, as was thine atrocious design,
thou shalt thyself be carved by the knife of the executioner.”
“By whom wert thou instigated to this attempt?” demanded Philip. “Some
greater hand than thine own is manifest in the design.”
“A far greater hand,” rejoined Derrick Carver. “The hand of Heaven is
manifest in it.”
“Deceive not thyself, insensate villain,” rejoined Rodomont. “’Tis the
Prince of Darkness who hath inspired the black design. He has deserted
thee, as he deserts all his servants.”
“I am no bond slave of Satan, but a faithful servant of the Most High,”
said Carver. “It was Heaven’s wish that I should fail; but though my
sword has been turned aside, there are others left that shall find the
tyrant out.”
“There is clearly some conspiracy on foot,” said Osbert, who by this
time had joined the Prince. “I have my own suspicions at its author,
which I will presently communicate to your Highness. But that these are
hired assassins is certain. By their own showing, they were to have a
hundred rose-nobles each for the deed.”
“Said I not right that Beelzebub was at the bottom of it?” cried
Rodomont. “A hundred rose-nobles! Is that the sum for which thou hast
bartered thy soul, thou damnable Derrick? Wert thou to be paid in
_French_ coin—ha! Carver?”
“Your suspicions tend the same way as mine own, I perceive, Sir,”
observed Osbert.
“Mine tend towards the French Ambassador, M. de Noailles,” rejoined
Rodomont. “I speak it openly. I’ll be sworn this attempt is his
excellency’s contrivance.”
“Like enough,” said Philip. “But the truth must be wrung from that
villain’s lips.”
“Nothing can be extorted from me, seeing I have nothing to confess,”
rejoined Derrick Carver, boldly. “I cannot answer for the motives that
actuated those engaged with me, but my own were righteous in intent. I
meant to free the Protestant Church from its deadliest enemy, and my
country from subjection to Spain. I have failed; but, I say again,
others will not fail, for there are many to take my place. The blood of
the saints will not be shed in vain, but will cry out incessantly for
vengeance.”
“Peace, blasphemer!” exclaimed Rodomont, “or we will have thy tongue
plucked forth.”
“Hear me out, and then deal with me as you list,” said Derrick Carver.
“I am no hired assassin. Scarce half an hour ago I was lamenting the
perilous condition of the Church and the realm, when I heard that the
enemy of both was in Southampton, almost unattended. Those who told me
this designed to slay him, and I unhesitatingly joined them, without fee
or promise of reward, being moved thereto, as I deemed, by a divine
impulse. That is all I have to say.”
“Let him be kept in some place of security till he can be further
interrogated,” said the Prince. “And let the clothes of the villain who
fell by my hand be searched to see whether there are any papers about
him that may lead to the discovery of his employer.”
“It shall be done,” replied Rodomont. “As to this Derrick Carver, he
shall be clapped in the dungeon below the Bar-gate, the strongest prison
in Southampton, and if we have to put him to the question, ordinary and
extraordinary, we will have the truth from him. But your Highness may
take my word for it, ’tis a _French_ design.”
“I thank you for your zeal, good Master Bittern,” said Philip, “and in
consideration of the services you have rendered me, I am content to
overlook the freedom of speech in which you indulged a little while
since. But I must enjoin you to be more careful in future.”
“I shall not fail,” replied Rodomont, bowing respectfully. “My excuse
is, that I knew not whom I was addressing. Your Highness may ever count
on my loyalty and devotion,” he added, placing his hand upon his heart.
At this juncture the priest, who had officiated in the little chapel of
the Domus Dei during Philip’s visit to it, entered the court with his
assistants, and after inclining himself reverently before the Prince,
proceeded to congratulate him on his miraculous preservation.
Replying in suitable terms, Philip declared he was so fully convinced of
Heaven’s interposition in his behalf, that he desired at once to offer
up thanks for his providential deliverance, and prayed the holy father
to accompany him to the chapel for that purpose.
The priest readily assented, and led the way to the sacred edifice, into
which, after a brief delay, Philip, with Osbert and the rest of the
assemblage, including even Derrick Carver, were admitted.
Again the tapers were lighted at the altar, and again the Prince knelt
down before it; but this time there was no fair devotee beside him to
distract his thoughts, and his prayers were full of fervour and
gratitude.
It was a strange and solemn scene, and impressed even Rodomont and his
companions, whom recent events had served to sober.
The demeanour of Derrick Carver was stern and unmoved; but when the
priest uttered a heartfelt prayer for the Prince’s deliverance, he could
not repress a groan. As Osbert looked round at this moment, he fancied
he could discern, within the deep recess of the doorway, the figure of
Constance Tyrrell. If it were so, however, she had vanished before the
others quitted the chapel.
His devotions over, Philip arose, and in taking leave of the priest,
promised the holy man an offering to Saint Julian, the patron saint of
the chapel. He then bowed to the others, and declining further
attendance, passed forth with Osbert, and proceeding to the quay,
entered the boat which was waiting for him, and returned to the
“Santissima Trinidada.”
At the same time Derrick Carver was conveyed by Rodomont and the others
to the Bar-gate, and locked up in one of the gloomiest cells of its
subterranean dungeon.
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