THE RETURN OF THE RESUSCITATED MAN, AND THE ROBBERY AT ANDERBURY HOUSE.
The morning after the occurrences that took place in the bone-house
of Anderbury, broke dimly and obscurely over the ocean in the
neighbourhood of that town. For leagues away, as far as the eye could
reach, there was a haziness in the atmosphere which the fresh wind that
blew did not dissipate.
There was a white light rising in the horizon, which did not cast the
warm glow over the bosom of the ocean as it sometimes does; it was
dull, cold, and cheerless; there was nothing that could be called
beautiful.
The waves dashed about, and came tumbling over each other, their crests
now and then covered with foam, which was swept off by the fresh breeze
that blew over the ocean. It was just daylight.
There was nought in the landscape save the water and the sky—nothing
else to be seen for miles. Yes, there was one object, and that was
a boat washed to and fro by the waves as it sat on the bosom of the
sea, wafted hither and thither, as the waves impelled the boat, which
appeared to be empty, for no oar was used, and no human form was
visible.
But that boat, so lonely, and left to its own guidance, or rather that
of the waves, contained a living being; it was he who had striven so
hard to escape from the baron on the preceding evening.
He sat alone in the bottom of the boat; he was fatigued—he was
shivering from the cold. The great exertions he had undergone were
followed by a reaction; but he knew not where he was, or in which
direction to pull, or where the shore lay.
How long he lay in this helpless condition it is not known; but he
occasionally lifted his eyes upwards and across the sea, to watch which
way the vessels sailed, and if any should come in sight.
The scene was one of singular desolation and dreariness, in which
nothing could be seen that could cheer the eye or gladden the mind of
man. Now and then, to be sure, a gleam of sunlight would cross the
dreary water, but it seemed to enliven only a small spot, and that but
for a very short time, for it soon again became obscure.
There was the dreary ocean with its leaden-coloured sky, and then the
boat at the mercy and direction of the wind and waves, both of which
seemed in no placid humour, though not absolutely squally.
• • • • •
A vessel from Cherbourg, with brandies, for the port of London, was
sailing direct for the mouth of the Thames, making for the Foreland,
where it would have to round the point, and then enter the mouth of the
river.
There were three or four men and a couple of boys on board; when they
came near the boat,—
“Boat, ahoy!” shouted the man on the look out; “boat ahoy!”
No answer was returned to the shout, and the men on board shouted too,
and crowded to the side of the vessel to see what was going on, and who
was in the boat. The captain came up; he had been in the cabin, but
hearing the shout, he came on deck to see what was the matter.
“What is the matter?” inquired the captain, looking around.
“Boat on the starboard,” said one of the men; “nobody in it, I think;
she seems to be drifting.”
The captain looked at the boat for some minutes attentively, when one
of the men said,—
“Perhaps some wreck, and the boat has been swept away by the waves, or
the crew hadn’t time to get into her, or something of the sort.”
“No,” said the captain, “she’s not a ship’s boat—a shore boat, that’s
what it is, lads. She’s got washed out, or somebody’s drowned, upset,
or rolled out.”
“Something of the sort, I dare say, sir.”
“Well, we needn’t heave to for her—she’s no service to us, and we can’t
spare time.”
“I think there’s some one in her.”
“But the boat’s drifting,” said the captain; “but she’s coming this
way, and that will be the easiest way to ascertain the truth of our
conjectures.”
They steered the vessel so as to meet the boat, which the sea was
beating towards them; and in about twenty minutes or half an hour,
they came within a couple of score yards of the boat, when they could
plainly perceive that some one was sitting in the bottom of the boat.
“Hilloa!” shouted the captain; “boat ahoy!—ahoy!”
The man who was in the boat looked up, and seeing the vessel, he
answered the cheer.
“Throw him a rope,” said the captain to one of the men who were
standing by.
A rope was made fast to the vessel, and then it was thrown by a strong
arm to the boat, and came right athwart it, and was immediately made
fast by the man who was in it.
He then began immediately to haul up the rope, and so draw his boat up
alongside of the vessel, and then he came on deck.
“How now, shipmate, what do you do out at sea in such a cockle-shell as
that?”
“Nothing,” replied the other.
“Nothing! Well, you have come a long way to do that. What induced you
to come to sea, or were you driven out, or how was it you came here?”
“I was driven out against my will,” replied the man; “I was rowing
about shore, when I fell asleep, thinking myself safe, having secured
the boat, as I believed, safely enough.”
“Ay, ay,” said the captain; “and so you found out, when you awoke, your
mistake?”
“I did. My moorings had broken away, which was only a boat-hook and a
rope; the tide coming up, lifted the boat hook out, and I have been out
to sea ever since, and don’t know where I am.”
“Why that must have been last night,” said the captain.
“Last night it was,” said the stranger.
“You have been to sea all night then?” added the captain, taking a long
gaze at the stranger.
“Indeed, I have, and I am quite cold and hungry. I had nothing with me.
I rowed some time in hopes of getting in shore again, but unfortunately
didn’t succeed. I suppose I got further out to sea, rather than nearer
in shore.”
“Well, that is about the fact; you must be about fifteen miles out at
sea,” said the captain; “you are a long pull away from shore, I can
tell you, and how you will get back again, I don’t know; but, at all
events, you are a very queer-looking fish, and I suppose your being
out at sea all night, and no stores, makes you look as you do; though,
upon my soul, I don’t know what to make of you; but you mustn’t starve.
Here, lad, bring up some coffee and boiled pork. Can you eat any?”
“Thank you,” said the unfortunate being, “I can. I have been out for
many hours.”
“Well, sit down, or rather go below, and eat; when you have done, come
up, and we will tell you where the land lies, though I don’t know how
you will keep it in sight for the life of me.”
The man then went below, where there was some coffee royal made for
him—that is, coffee and brandy—and some salt pork was given to him,
of which he partook most plentifully, apparently, while the captain
muttered to himself,—
“Well, of all the odd-complexioned shore-going sharks as ever I saw,
you are the oddest! D—d if I should think he was wholesome—there’s a
great deal of the churchyard about him.”
“There isn’t a very agreeable look about him,” said one of the men;
“but I suppose he has been so much frightened, that he looks more like
a vampyre than anything else.”
“Aye; or a revivified corpse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that arises from his being so terrified and starved, as well as
fatigued; exposure all night, all added together, has almost changed
the current of his blood.”
The man came up now, having had sufficient provisions below, and had
expressed himself much gratified with the coffee-royal to the cook,
who, in his own mind, thereupon declared that he must be a Christian
after all, though he had obtained by some means the complexion of a
white negro.
“And now,” said the captain, “if you like to go with us to London, you
shall go with us, for, as I said before, we cannot run into any port
before we get there, for the wind is favourable and strong.”
“I would sooner get back by means of my boat,” replied the man, “if I
were sure of making land.”
“You might, if you could keep in a straight course, but there is the
difficulty; you cannot do so very well without a compass, and that you
have not got.”
“No, indeed, I have not—though with it I have no doubt of being able to
reach the land.”
“I have,” said the captain, “a small one below, a pocket compass; you
shall have that, and see what can be done; and if you get ashore, it
will have done some service at all events.”
“I shall be greatly obliged to you for your kindness,” said the
stranger; “but I am wholly at a loss to know how I shall ever be able
to repay your kindness.”
“Say nothing about that; we who get our bread upon the sea, know well
the risks we all run, and therefore do not mind lending a hand to each
other when in distress and trouble.”
“I will endeavour to save some one else in your line of life, if I
cannot you,” replied the stranger, “and so, if it be possible, make
some return.”
“Aye, that will do mate; do a Christian’s charity to any one whom you
may cross, and I shall be well paid for my trouble.”
The boat was now brought up alongside the vessel, and, before the
stranger embarked, the captain said to him, as he held the compass in
his hand,—
“You must place this compass on one of the thwarts of your boat,
shipmate.”
“I will.”
“A precious vessel she is, for a voyage out of sight of land; but,
never mind, you are safe enough, unless a sea was to come and roll over
you—but that’s neither here nor there. Mind you keep your boat’s head
to the north-west, and, by so doing, you’ll make land at the nearest
point from where we are now.”
“Thank you,” said the man.
“Moreover, you must pull so as to keep her head in the direction I tell
you. It will be too long a pull for you to get there by rowing—you
would get too tired to keep your seat, and you are unused to it, too.”
“I am obliged to you,” said the man; “if I get to shore safe, I shall
be under great obligations to you. You will have saved my life.”
“I have ordered enough biscuit, and grog, and cold beef, to last you
till night—you will get to shore before that time, I have every reason
to believe. In five or six hours you ought to get there; but, in case
of accidents, there is enough to last till night.”
“You have loaded me with obligations.”
“Say no more; be off with you and pull away from the vessel as quickly
as you can; for we have slackened our speed for you.”
“Farewell; a pleasant voyage to you,” said the man.
“Good bye, and good luck go with you,” replied the captain. “Keep to
the north-west, and all will be well; push off, and keep your eye on
the compass.”
The man did as he was desired; laid the compass on one of the thwarts;
took the oars in his hands, and began to row away with good will.
The crew of the vessel crowded to the side and witnessed the departure
of the boat, and when she was a few hundred yards off, the sails were
spread, and the vessel ploughed through the waves, leaving the boat
behind, a mere speck on the sea, diminishing each moment.
But yet while the boat was within hailing distance, the captain said to
the crew,—
“Give him a cheer—he may meet with a score of accidents before he
reaches shore, any one of which will be sufficient to destroy him.”
The crew obeyed, and gave a loud shout to the boat, and the captain
added his own voice; the cheering huzzah reached the boat, for the
occupant elevated his oar, and returned it. The solitary cheer was
borne to the vessel faintly but distinctly; however, they gave him one
cheer more, and then pursued their way over the trackless waters.
[Illustration: The man returns the cheer from his boat.]
• • • • •
The boat pursued its course for some distance, until it was too far
from the vessel to be seen, and then, slackening his pace, he contented
himself with merely keeping the boat’s head in the direction which he
had been told, and in which he knew the land lay.
There was no hurry and desire to reach the land, but merely to keep
where he was; and when any vessel hove in sight, he pulled so as to
keep clear of her and out of hail; and there were a great many who
passed near him, and would have aided him had he required any; but that
did not seem to be his object.
Midday was passed, and the sun began to decline towards the west, when
the boat was gradually brought nearer and nearer in shore.
Not only was the shore visible, but the very houses might be counted,
and yet he would not come ashore, but appeared to be awaiting the
sinking of the sun before the boat chose to seek the protection of the
land.
It was about sun-set that the provisions, which were given by the
captain of the vessel, were now consumed, and that while they were
being eaten, the occupant of the boat sat still with his eyes
fixed upon the town, which was every moment becoming hidden in the
approaching denseness of the night; and, at length, could not be
distinguished, save by the existence of numerous lights, that shewed
the precise position in which it lay.
Darkness now came on, and nothing was to be seen on the ocean whatever,
and he remained yet longer at sea; but at length there was no danger of
being noticed; he gradually rowed his boat in shore and secured it.
Then jumping ashore, he wandered about the town from one place to
another, and, finally, he determined to make his way to Anderbury House.
“There is, at least, plenty of everything there,” he muttered; “and,
though there are plenty of servants, yet, in so large a place, there is
ample room to secret oneself, and plenty to be had for the trouble of
taking it.”
He came to a small public-house, which he entered, with the view of
resting a short time, and of ascertaining what was going on in the town.
There were several people seated in the public-room, and he now seated
himself up in one corner of the room, unobserved by anybody.
“Well, well,” said one; “there is more than one strange thing of
late that has happened. The baron has given some very handsome
entertainments.”
“Aye, so he has,” said one.
“And more than that, they say he’s going to keep ’em up till he gets a
wife; though I cannot tell why he should leave them off then, because
women like that sort of thing too well to make any objection to its
being carried on after marriage.”
“The baron is very right; if he carried it on then, he would be watched
by his wife, who would take good care to rate him for any attention
he might pay to any of the ladies; and, therefore, it would only be
keeping up the means for being scolded to keep up the balls.”
“Ay, it would only be getting into hot water, and keeping the kettle
boiling on purpose.”
“He would,” said another man, “merely be keeping the entertainments
on for the purpose of showing off his wife and her self-will, as well
as her power over him, and showing them all how she could rule a
man—a very favourite pastime with married women, who, when they have
a partner who don’t like fighting and quarrelling, and who does love
peace and quietness, know how to give it him.”
“I think better of the baron, who, I think, is a man who wouldn’t stand
much of that.”
“Ah, you don’t know what an upas-tree a woman can become, when she
pleases.”
“Well,” said another, “the strangest thing that I know of is the loss
of Bill Wright’s boat.”
“Oh! what was that? I have heard something about it, though I can’t say
I have heard the rights of it yet. What was it all about, eh?”
“Why, he says, when he went to bed, he left his boat safe enough moored
to other boats and afloat. Bill says he’ll swear she couldn’t get clear
without help; but she did get clear, and there is nothing to be seen of
it now, at all events, and poor Bill is in a devil of a way about it,
too, I can tell you, and good reason enough.”
“Yes. Bill will scarce be able to get another boat, unless some good
friend should give him one, and that is scarce likely, I think as times
go.”
“There’s no ball at Anderbury House, to-night, I believe,” said one of
the visitors.
“None, that I know of.”
“No, there is none,” said another, “because I know of several who have
got leave of absence; so they are short-handed there, and they would
not be so if they had anything particular going on, for the baron does
the thing handsomely.”
“So he does.”
The stranger listened to all this conversation very quietly, for some
time, muttering to himself,—
“That is well. It will suit my purpose very well. I will go and see
how the land lies in that quarter. I have objects in view, and some of
the valuables to be found there, at all events, will aid my projects,
and assist in my comfort, and I may as well have them from there as
anywhere else; besides, I know more of that place. It suits my taste to
do so, and will be somewhat in the shape of revenge.”
• • • • •
Calling for his reckoning, which he paid, he left the house, and
proceeded towards Anderbury House.
It was now nine o’clock or a little later. No one was about, or
scarcely any, and those few the moving figure endeavoured to avoid.
He turned out of the usual paths, and walked over the fields and
unfrequented ways, keeping near the hedge-rows, until he came to the
bounds of the grounds of Anderbury House.
Here he paused, and bethought himself of the best means of entering
the house unseen and unsuspected by any one, else his object would be
defeated.
However, after a few moments’ thought, he determined to proceed, and,
for that purpose, he made for a spot where the fence was low, and ran
by some trees that had been cut down and grew bushy.
Having reached there, he, by aid of the branches, contrived to get over
into the grounds, and then made his way swiftly towards a plantation
that ran up close to the house, and by means of which he hoped to reach
the house, and perhaps to enter it.
Silently he made his way into the plantation, and just as he reached
it, he saw the moon rise in the east; it was just rising above the
horizon.
“Thanks,” he muttered, looking towards the luminary, “thanks you did
not appear before; but now you are welcome, for I can keep under
cover of the trees, and the deeper the shadow, the safer I am from
observation.”
This was right enough.
The moon rose full, but not bright, for some clouds seemed to
intervene, or rather some thin vapours, which gave her a strange
colour, and, at the same time, increased her apparent size; but she
rose rapidly, and as she rose that would wear off, and she would resume
her silvery appearance and usual diameter.
He was now safe in the plantation, but, at the same time, it would
require some caution not to be discovered, for, at times, even the
plantations formed beautiful evening walks, in which many of the
inhabitants of Anderbury House had indulged at various times, and
especially when there was what was termed a family party.
On a moonlight night, when there were several members of the family
who knew the grounds well, then they would find ample amusement in
wandering about.
However, there was no such parties on this evening, and as it followed,
he ran no danger. Lightly, therefore, he crept forward, making no
sounds save such as it was impossible to avoid.
The foot fall upon dried leaves—the cracking of sticks, and the
rustling of the smaller under-growth, when he came in contact with it.
“How I shall be able to pass the open spaces, I know not,” he muttered;
“but I have passed worse spots than this, and I may be pretty confident
I shall succeed in escaping detection on this occasion; however, it
shall be tried. There are few who are about—all is quiet and still—the
very watch dogs are quiet and asleep.”
He crept onward now until he came within some hundred and fifty yards
of the house itself, when he paused and listened, but hearing nothing,
he again came forward and approached to within a few score yards of the
house, when he was suddenly arrested by the sound of voices.
He paused and listened; it was a female voice spoke near; she was
evidently speaking to a man.
“Now, William,” she said, “do you really believe you can get in without
making any noise?”
“I am sure of it, providing you leave the window open, and the rope
there.”
“Yes, yes, I will. Well, that room is empty; pull off your shoes, and
creep out of the door; don’t let it bang together, or it may alarm some
one.”
“Yes, yes; I’ll take care.”
“Well, then, remain in the passage or room until I come to you; but
should you be disturbed, you can hide yourself in any of the closets,
or go up stairs, which will bring you to the floor on which is my room.”
“I’ll take care; but don’t forget the rope, and to leave the window
open.”
“I’ll not forget. I’ll throw the rope on one side, so as to hang
among the vine leaves, so that it will not be detected by any one
accidentally coming this way, though that is very unlike, indeed.”
“I understand; for the matter of that, I think the vine is strong
enough to bear me without the rope.”
“I would not have you make the attempt lest you fall, and are killed,
William; be sure you do not make the trial; what a thing it would be if
you were discovered, and all were to come out—I should be ruined.”
“Never fear that; I will take care, both for your sake as well as my
own.”
“Then good bye.”
Some words were then uttered in a whisper, the import of which he did
not hear, but it continued for a minute or two, and then the female
said,—
“Wait here a few minutes, and you will see me come to yon window, and
let down the rope; and then begone as quickly as you can.”
“Never fear for me; I will wait here until I see you at the window, and
then I will leave.”
The female figure he saw glide quickly away, and he watched it until
she was out of sight, and then he watched for the signal also. He could
see the form of the male figure, who stood within about three or four
yards from the spot where he was concealed.
Then, after a time, he saw the female figure come to the window
indicated by her, and then throw the rope out of it, and cause it to
hang down by the side, or among the leaves of the vine, so that it
could not be seen, except it were looked for.
When this was done, and the figure saw the female had withdrawn,
he turned from the spot, and walked hastily away further in the
plantation, and when he was quite out of hearing, and the stranger
could no longer hear his footsteps among the dried rubbish in the wood,
he walked cautiously forward to the edge of the grounds, and then gazed
up at the house, and listened carefully to ascertain if there was any
sound at all indicative of the vicinity of any human being.
Hearing none, he assumed another attitude, and prepared to make a dart
forward to the window, as he muttered,—
“The coast is clear, and it will be hard, indeed, if I do not now
succeed. Once in the house, I will soon secure myself, and the contents
of some of the baron’s drawers—some of his gold will be mine.”
Again taking a cautious survey, and, being perfectly satisfied that he
was unobserved, he dashed across towards the root of the vine, and,
in a moment more, he had seized the end of the rope; but he heard the
sound of footsteps. What to do he could not tell, but sprang up a few
feet, and buried himself among the leaves of the vine, which were very
luxuriant.
The footsteps were heard closer and closer, until he could perceive the
very female who had thrown the rope out of the window stop within a few
inches of him, and then seize hold of the very rope he had been about
to seize.
Her object was to ascertain if the rope was low enough to be reached;
and, when she had adjusted it to her mind, she exclaimed, in a low
voice, to herself,—
“Ah! that will do; he will easily find it, I dare say; and it will be
all right. Nobody will see it.”
Having satisfied herself of that, she left the spot, and returned the
same way she came. It was an awkward situation as anyone could well
indulge in without discovery.
“It was a very narrow escape,” he muttered. “I had no idea of her
coming back in that way; I never dreamed of such a thing. But no
matter; I believe I am quite safe now; if not, I shall have some other
escape. She must have been next to blind not to see me.”
However, he got down, and then pulled down the rope straight; and, by
the help of that and the vine, he then pulled himself up to the window,
into which he speedily got, and found himself in an empty room.
Here he paused, to ascertain if he could hear any one moving about; but
he heard nothing, and at once proceeded to feel his way, cautiously,
along to the door, which he approached with a cat-like step.
Opening the door, he paused to listen, before he ventured into the
landing to which it opened; but, finding the coast clear, he went
through that, and then into the next room, which was apparently a
store room, being filled with a variety of things of a miscellaneous
character, and which were only of occasional use in the house.
This he closed, and went up stairs, where he came to a suite of
servants’ bed-rooms, and thence he walked about from room to room,
until he came to a portion of the house he recognised, and then he made
direct for the baron’s own room.
“There,” he muttered, “I am likely to meet with what I want; and the
carpets are soft, and give no noise. I can sleep for a short time, if I
will.”
He made at once for the baron’s sleeping room, which he opened and
entered. It was empty, and he at once closed the door; then he made an
instant search about for a place of concealment; and, having found one,
he began to make a search for some other matters, that were not of the
same, but a more valuable character in the market.
However, he found out the drawers and depositories; but he was unable
to open them, because they were locked; and he must wait until the
baron had gone to sleep, and then, taking his keys, he would be able to
help himself, without any difficulty, to what he most desired.
He had scarcely made this determination, before he was alarmed by the
footsteps of the baron, as he ascended the stairs. This produced a
necessity for instant concealment; and he immediately flew to the spot
which he had chosen; and, scarcely had he done so, before the room-door
was opened, and in walked the baron himself, who brought in a light
with him.
He remained walking about some time, examining a variety of matters,
but appeared as though he never intended to go to sleep. There was
every probability of his discovering the place of concealment; which
was easily done, had he but turned his head, or moved his hand, under
certain circumstances; but, as fortune willed it, the baron did not.
It was near an hour before the baron sought the repose he might have
taken, but for the dominion of the spirit of restlessness; and it was
even then some time before he fell into a sound slumber, apparently
being engaged in deep thought.
However, he did fall asleep, and the tongue of Morpheus spoke
loudly—like some human beings, through the nose; and then it was the
hero of Anderbury church-yard stole from his concealment, and began to
examine the chamber.
“Where are his keys, I wonder?” he thought. “He must carry them about
him; but he must have left them somewhere in his clothes; and if I can
obtain, and use them, without making any noise, it will be fortunate.”
He found the keys, though not without making a slight jingle with them,
but that caused no motion on the part of the baron, who lay snoring in
his bed.
He stole to the drawers, and the key fitted; he quietly unlocked it and
drew it open.
“Fortune befriends me,” he muttered.
At that moment the baron turned in his bed and heaved a deep sigh, and
appeared for a minute or two restless, and as if on the point of waking
up.
The intruder, however, stopped short in his depredations, and paused,
and then crouched down, lest the sleeper might open his eyes, and, by a
momentary glance, detect him.
Suddenly he spoke, but indistinctly—very indistinctly, and yet loudly
enough. The stranger started—he thought himself detected; but he found
that the baron was only dreaming. He drew nearer to him, and listened
to what he said.
“Ha!” sighed the baron; “she is very beautiful—very beautiful. Ha! her
form and face are perfection!”
He paused, and again went on, but too indistinctly. A word or two was
heard plain enough now and then, but it was impossible to form any
sense of them—they had no connection with one another.
“She is very beautiful,” again muttered the baron in his sleep. “She is
lovely—amiable—what a wife!”
Then he again fell into a train of half-mumblings, from which nothing
could be gathered.
“Heavens, what a prize!” exclaimed the baron, and again he relapsed,
but appeared more composed and quiet.
“I would he were nine fathoms deep below the level of the sea,”
muttered the robber; “and then I should not be bothered by him. Sleep,
or let it alone,” he exclaimed, between his teeth. “It would almost be
safest to kill——and yet, one cry might bring the whole household upon
me.”
Turning to the door, he ascertained that it was locked. He turned the
key, and, in doing so, made a noise with the lock which had the effect
of causing the baron to start in his sleep.
“What was that?” he muttered, in sleepy accents. “I thought I heard the
door go; but it can’t. I locked it—I remember very well I locked it.”
After this speech he fell fast asleep.
“Another escape,” muttered the intruder, who rose from his crouching
posture, and setting the door open, so that he could, in case of an
accident, make his escape from the room.
Then he again turned towards the drawers, and began to help himself
to the contents, when he accidentally struck the keys, which fell
with a clash to the floor. In an instant the baron started up on his
elbow, and pulled aside the curtain, to see what was the cause of the
disturbance.
In a moment the light was put out, and the intruder had assumed a
motionless posture; but it was too late to escape the quick eye of the
baron, who instantly jumped up, exclaiming, as he laid his hand upon a
pistol, which he had under his pillow, and cocked it,—
“Ah! robber—assassin! Stand, or I fire!”
The sound of the cocking of the pistol was quite enough. It came
distinctly to the ear, and suggested the idea of more than ordinary
danger with it; and he dashed past, heedless of the command of the
baron, who called upon him to stand.
The baron fired, and in an instant the house was filled with a stunning
report, which echoed and re-echoed from room to room, filling the
inmates with wonder and alarm.
[Illustration: The baron fires upon the intruder.]
The sensation produced by the sound was of that description that
can hardly be described. To be awaked from a sound sleep by such a
dreadful, stunning report, which carried such a sense of danger with
it, that they remained in an alarming stupor for nearly the space of a
minute, until, indeed, they were aroused by the shouts of the baron,
was rather terrifying.
Hardly had the stunning and deafening report died away, when the baron
leaped from his bed to ascertain if his shot had taken effect.
The intruder heeded not the commands or the shot of the baron, for he
dashed out of the room at his utmost speed, making his way towards the
lower portion of the house, that offering greater facilities for escape.
The baron, as soon as he had recovered from his first surprise, jumped
out, and seizing a heavy cane that was lying across one of the chairs,
he rushed after the flying figure, shouting and calling to his people
to get up.
“Robbers! thieves!” he shouted. “Here, help—help to secure the robbers
who are in the house.”
The intruder made for the lower stairs, but was closely followed by the
baron, who could just see the dusky form of the object of his pursuit
before him; but now, in the lower rooms, where there was no light at
all, the shutters being up, he missed him.
The robber had taken advantage of the darkness, and doubled upon his
pursuer, and hastened up stairs with the view of reaching the place
where he entered.
In doing this, however, he was met by one of the men who was coming
down. There was no time for deliberation, and he dashed up, regardless
of the blow the man aimed at him, who said,—
“Here you are. Here goes for one on ’em.”
As, however, the battle is said not always to be with the strong, so
in this instance he was unable to accomplish his object, for the blow,
by the agility of the robber, was evaded, and the result was, that the
serving man was suddenly whirled down the stairs, and being once on the
descent, he did not stop until he got to the bottom.
“Murder! murder!” shouted the unhappy individual, as he rolled down
stair after stair, until his cries were stilled by a violent concussion
of the head.
In the meantime the stranger rushed up stairs at a headlong speed,
until he attained the landing which led to the room at the window of
which he entered. Securing the door behind him, and then getting out
of the window, and seizing the rope, he began to descend very rapidly,
fearing he would be intercepted by those below.
He slipped down the rope rather than let himself down, and before he
had got half way down, he met with an impediment, which, however,
quickly gave way, and they both came down plump to the earth together.
“My God! my God!” exclaimed a man’s voice, in great terror and
tribulation. “What’s that? what’s that? Mercy—mercy! I didn’t mean to
do any wrong.”
The stranger heeded not the words of the terrified swain, who, it
would appear, had begun to ascend to reach the dormitory of his fair
but frail one, when his flame was so unceremoniously quenched in the
way we have related, but dashed away from the spot, and was speedily
lost in the plantation, whither the unfortunate individual when he
had sufficiently recovered his senses, and released his head from the
imprisonment of his hat, soon after betook himself, thankful the affair
was no worse.