LOST.
Carna was known all over the neighbourhood of the villa as the best and
kindest of nurses, always ready to help in cases of sickness, and able to
command the services of the household physician where her own medical
skill was at fault. It was therefore with no surprise that the morning
after the consultation, recorded in the last chapter, she was told that
her help was wanted in a case of urgent need. The woman who had brought
the message was a stranger. She was the daughter, she said, of an old
woman living at Uricum, a small hamlet about four miles from the villa.
She had happened to come the day before on a visit to her mother, and
found her very ill; they had no medicines in the house, and indeed should
not have known how to use them if they had. Would the lady come, and, if
she thought proper, bring the physician with her? The place mentioned was
on the limits of the district with which Carna was acquainted. It could
only be approached by a path through the forest; and the girl had not
visited it more than two or three times in her life. She had a vague
remembrance, however, of the patient’s name. On sending for the physician,
it was found that he was out, having been called away, Carna was told, to
a case which, he had said before starting, would probably occupy him for
the greater part of the day. On hearing this, she made up her mind to
start without waiting for him. The illness was very probably of a simple
kind, though it might be violent in degree. Very likely it was a case in
which the nurse would be more wanted than the doctor. She provided herself
with two or three simple remedies which she learnt to employ in the
ordinary maladies of the country, of which feverish colds were the most
common, and started, taking with her as companion and protector a stately
Milesian dog, or mastiff, who was always delighted to play the part of a
guard in her country walks. Her own pet dog, a long-haired little
creature, something of the Spanish kind, whom she had intended to leave at
home, contrived to free himself from the custody to which he had been
assigned, and stealthily followed her, cunningly keeping out of sight till
the party had gone too far for him to be conveniently sent back. He then
showed himself with extravagant gestures of contrition, was tenderly
reproached, pardoned, and allowed to go on.
During the walk the messenger was curiously silent, and answered all
Carna’s questions about her mother and her affairs in the very briefest
fashion. All that could be got from her was that she lived on the main
land, about twenty miles inland, in a northerly direction, and that since
her marriage, now twenty years ago, she had seen very little of her
mother. When they reached the outskirts of the hamlet she pointed out her
mother’s house, and, making an excuse that she had an errand for a
neighbour, disappeared. Carna, seeing nothing but a certain surliness of
temper, possibly only shyness, in her companion, went on without
suspicion. She reached the house, and knocked at the door. There was no
answer. She knocked again. Still all was silence. Looking a little more
closely at the place she could see no signs of habitation, no smoke, for
instance, making its way out of the thatch (for chimneys did not yet
exist, at least, in the poorer dwellings). The next thing was to peep in
at the window, a wooden lattice, which had been left partially open. The
room into which she looked was perfectly bare.
A suspicion rushed into her mind that she had been tricked, and that
danger of some unknown kind was at hand. The strange sympathy which often
makes the dog so quick to understand the feelings of man, made the big
mastiff, Malcho, uneasy. With a low growl, showing uneasiness rather than
fear or anger, he ranged himself at her side.
As she stood considering what was next to be done, a party of six men, one
of whom led a horse, issued from the wood which bordered the little garden
of the cottage.
“Can you tell me where I shall find one Utta, who, I am told, is sick, and
wishful to see me? Can it be that I have mistaken the house?”
“Utta, my lady,” said one of the party, “is not to be found any more. She
died a week since.”
“But,” said Carna, with rising anger, “a woman, who said that she was her
daughter, told me, not more than two hours ago, that she was sick, and
desired to see me. Why have I been brought here for nothing?”
“Pardon me, lady,” returned the first speaker, in a tone in which respect
and command were curiously blended, “but you have not been brought for
nothing. You have a better work to do than ministering to a sick old
woman.”
As he spoke he moved forwards. But he had not taken two steps before the
great dog, who had been watching the speakers, we might say almost
listening to their talk with the most eager attention, sprang furiously at
him, and laid him prostrate on the ground. His companions rushed to rescue
their leader from the dog and to seize the girl. They did not accomplish
either of their objects with impunity. The gallant creature turned from
one assailant to another with a strength and a fury which made him a most
formidable antagonist, and he had inflicted some frightful wounds before
he was made senseless by repeated blows from the weapons of the
assailants. Nor was Carna overpowered without a struggle. Weapons she had
none, except a little dagger, meant for use in needlework, which hung at
her side; but she used this not without effect. She clenched her fist, and
dealt two or three blows, of which her antagonists bore the marks upon
their faces for days to come. Finally she wrenched herself from the grasp
of the assailants as a last resource, and endeavoured to fly, but it was a
hopeless effort. Before she had run more than a few yards she was
overtaken. Her captors used no more violence than they could help.
Probably had they been less unwilling to hurt her, she could not have
resisted so long. Finding her so strong and so determined, they were
obliged to bind her hands and feet; but they did this with all the
gentleness compatible with an evident resolve to make her bonds secure. In
the midst of her terror and distress Carna could not help observing with
astonishment that the cords which they used were of silk. Then finding
herself absolutely helpless, she said—
“Do not bind me as though I were a slave. On the faith of a Christian, I
will not attempt to escape.”
“Lady, we trust you,” said the leader of the party, and at the same time
directed one of his companions to unbind the ropes. “Be comforted,” he
went on; “we do not intend you harm; on the contrary, high honour is in
store for you.”
[Illustration: The Capture of Carna.]
Carna was scarcely reassured by these mysterious words, but she had now
recovered her calmness. Summoning up all her courage—and it was far beyond
even the average of a singularly fearless race—she intimated to her
captors that she was ready to follow them without further delay. They
mounted her upon the horse, which, as has been said, one of them was
holding, and started in a northerly direction. Two of the party had been
so severely injured by the hound, that they were obliged to stay behind.
One of the others held the bridle of the horse, and led him forward at an
ambling pace; the others followed behind.
The way of the party lay entirely along rough forest-paths which seemed
from their appearance, often grown over as they were with branches and
creepers, to be but seldom traversed. Night had fallen some hours before
they reached the northern coast of the island. Their way had lain in a
north-westerly direction, and they emerged near to the arm of the sea now
known as Fishbourne Creek. Here they found a rowing boat in waiting.
Carna’s captors now handed over their charge to the boat party, which was
under the command of the young chief whom we know by the name of Ambiorix.
He received his prisoner with a dignified civility, made her as
comfortable as he could with rugs and wraps in the stern of the boat, and
then gave orders to start. The journey across the channel, which we now
know as the Solent, occupied some hours, though the night was calm, and
the ebbing tide mostly in the rowers’ favour, the shortest route not being
taken, but a north-westerly direction still followed. The morning was just
beginning to break when the coast was reached near the spot where
Lymington now stands. The party hurriedly disembarked, put the girl on a
rough litter which they had with them in the boat, and carried her to a
dwelling some half-mile inland, and surrounded by the woods which here
almost touched high-water mark. Carna found a tolerable chamber allotted
to her, where she was waited upon by an elderly woman who seemed bent on
doing everything that she could for her comfort. The girl was of the
elastic temper which soon recovers itself even under the most depressing
circumstances. She had the wisdom, too, to feel that, if she was to help
herself, she must keep up her strength to the very best of her power. She
did not refuse the simple but well-cooked meal which her attendant served
to her, after she had enjoyed the refreshment of a bath. And then
overpowered by the fatigue of a journey which had lasted not much less
than twenty-four hours, she sank into a deep sleep.
It was dark when her attendant gently roused her and told her that in an
hour she would be required to resume her journey, in which, as Carna heard
with some pleasure, she was herself to be her companion. A start was made
about three hours before midnight, and the journey was continued till an
hour before dawn. This plan was followed till their destination was
reached. The party was evidently careful to keep its movements secret.
Their way lay as before, by woodland paths, leading them through the
district now known as the New Forest. They travelled but slowly, more
slowly indeed than they had done on the island, for the paths were still
rougher, and, in fact, almost undistinguishable. Carna, too, was the only
one of the company that had a horse, and her female attendant, who was
neither young nor active, could manage but a few miles at a time. It was
the morning of the second day after they had left the coast before they
reached the edge of the great forest known as the Natanleah. Some five
miles to the west lay Sorbiodunum, now Salisbury. This was a Roman town of
some importance, and had of course to be avoided by the party, who,
indeed, were anxious, as Carna could gather from a few scattered words
that were let drop in her presence, as to the way in which the rest of
their journey was to be accomplished. The country was open, cultivated,
and comparatively populous, the inhabitants being, for the most part,
thoroughly Latinized. Two Roman roads, too, had to be crossed before their
destination was reached.
The day was spent as usual in concealment and repose. An hour after
nightfall the party started. They had now managed to procure another horse
for Carna’s attendant; and as the ground was fairly level, unenclosed,
and, at that time of year, unencumbered by crops, they moved rapidly
onwards. The moon had now risen, and Carna, for the first time, could at
least see where they were going. She was still, however, at a loss to know
what part of the country they had reached. At midnight a halt was called,
and the leader of the party proceeded to blindfold the captive’s eyes. But
if he wanted to keep her in ignorance of the locality, he was a little too
late. The girl’s quick sight had caught a glimpse in the distance of the
huge circle of earth walls, now known as Amesbury. She had never seen the
place, but it was known to her in the chronicles of her people. There, as
she had read with a patriotism which all her Roman surroundings had not
been able to quench, her countrymen had more than once held at bay the
legions of Rome. She knew roughly the situation of the famous camp of the
Belgæ, and she was sure that these massive fortifications, just seen for a
moment in the moonlight, could be none others than those of which she had
read so often.
When the bandage was removed, she found herself in a chamber larger and
more comfortably furnished than any she had hitherto occupied on her
journey. Part of the palace of one of the old kings of the Belgæ was still
standing, and the travellers had taken up their quarters in it. The
Amesbury camp was indeed as safe a place as they could have chosen. It was
a spot which no Roman, much less a Briton living under Roman protection,
would care to visit. The whole countryside believed that it was haunted by
the spirits of the great chiefs and warriors who had been buried within
its precincts, and of the slaves who had been killed to furnish them with
service and attendance in the unseen world. The scanty remnant who still
clung to the Druid faith found their account in encouraging these
superstitions. More than one appearance had been arranged to terrify
sceptical or curious persons who had been rash enough to visit the vast
circle of embankments. For many years before the time of our story the
enclosure had been untrodden except by the few who were in the secret of
the Druid initiation. Here, then, the party waited securely with their
prisoner till the time should come for the solemn visit to _Choir Gawr_,
the Great Temple, known to us by the name of Stonehenge.