PART XIV.

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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXI. August, 1847. No. 2.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Love’s Last Supper

The Islets of the Gulf

The Darkened Hearth

Sophy’s Flirtation

The Widow and the Deformed

An Assiniboin Lodge

Review of New Books

Poetry and Fashion

Sonnet.—To Mary M. R. W.

The Last Tilt

Blind!

My Loved—My Own

The Wayside Dream

Sonnet

Thou’rt Not Alone

On a Sleeping Child

Stanzas for Music

Description of the Fashion Plate

Le Follet

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

[Illustration: Figures from J. P. Davis., Drawn with original scenery

& Engraved by Geo. B. Ellis.

THE TROUBADOUR.

_Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine._]

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXXI. PHILADELPHIA, DECEMBER, 1847. No. 6.

* * * * *

LOVE’S LAST SUPPER.

OR THE TRUE STORY OF A TROUBADOUR.

A PROVENÇAL BIOGRAPHY.

BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “THE YEMASSE,” “RICHARD HURDIS,” ETC.

In the first conception of the institution of chivalry it was doubtless

a device of great purity, and contemplated none but highly proper and

becoming purposes. Those very features which, in our more sophisticated

era, seem to have been the most absurd, or at least fantastic, were,

perhaps among its best securities. The sentiment of love, apart from its

passion, is what a very earnest people, in a very selfish period, cannot

so well understand; but it was this very separation of interests, which

we now hold to be inseparable, that constituted the peculiarity of

chivalry—the fanciful in its characteristics rendering sentiment

independent of passion, and refining the crude desire by the exercise

and influence of tastes, which do not usually accompany it. Among the

Provençal knights and troubadours, in the palmy days of their progress,

love was really the most innocent and the most elevated of sentiments.

It seems to have been nursed without guile, and was professed, even when

seemingly in conflict with the rights of others, without the slightest

notion of wrong doing or offence. It did not vex the temper, or impair

the marital securities of the husband, that the beauties of his dame

were sung with enthusiasm by the youthful poet; on the contrary, he who

gloried in the possession of a jewel, was scarcely satisfied with

fortune unless she brought to a just knowledge of its splendors, the

bard who alone could convey to the world a similar sense of the value of

his treasure. The narrative which we have gathered from the ancient

chronicles of Provence, and which we take occasion to say is drawn from

the most veracious sources of history, will illustrate the correctness

of these particulars.

One of the most remarkable instances of the sentiment of love, warmed

into passion, yet without evil in its objects, is to be found in the

true and touching history of Guillaume de Cabestaign, a noble youth of

Roussillon. Though noble of birth, Guillaume was without fortune, and it

was not thought improper or humiliating in those days that he should

serve, as a page, the knight whose ancestors were known to his own as

associates. It was in this capacity that he became the retainer of

Raymond, Lord of Roussillon. Raymond, though a haughty baron, was one

who possessed certain generous tastes and sentiments, and who showed

himself capable of appreciating the talents and great merits of

Guillaume de Cabestaign. His endowments, indeed were of a character to

find ready favor with all parties. The youth was not only graceful of

carriage, and particularly handsome of face and person, but he possessed

graces of mind and manner which especially commended him to knightly

sympathy and admiration. He belonged to that class of _improvisatori_ to

whom the people of Provence gave the name of troubadour, and was quite

as ready to sing the praises of his mistress, as he was to mount horse,

and charge with sword and lance in her defence and honor. His muse,

taking her moral aspect from his own, was pure and modest in her

behavior—indulging in no song or sentiment which would not fall

becomingly on the most virgin ear. His verses were distinguished equally

by their delicacy and fancy, and united to a spirit of the most generous

and exulting life a taste of the utmost simplicity and purity. Not less

gentle than buoyant, he was at once timid in approach, and joy-giving in

society; and while he compelled the respect of men by his frank and

fearless manhood, he won the hearts of the other sex by those gentle

graces which, always prompt and ready, are never obtrusive, and which

leave us only to the just appreciation of their value, when they are

withdrawn from our knowledge and enjoyment.

It happened, unfortunately for our troubadour, that he won too many

hearts. Raised by the Lord of Roussillon to the rank of gentleman usher

to the Lady Marguerite, his young and beautiful wife, the graces and

accomplishments of Guillaume de Cabestaign, soon became quite as

apparent and agreeable to her as to the meanest of the damsels in her

train. She was never so well satisfied as in his society; and her young

and ardent soul, repelled rather than solicited by the stern nature of

Raymond, her lord, was better prepared and pleased to sympathize with

the more beguiling and accessible spirit of the page. The tenderest

impressions of love, without her own knowledge, soon seized upon her

heart; and she had learned to sigh as she gazed upon the person that she

favored, long before she entertained the slightest consciousness that he

was at all precious to her eyes. He himself, dutiful as devoted, for a

long season beheld none of these proofs of favor on the part of his

noble mistress. She called him her servant, it is true, and he as such,

sung daily in her praises the equal language of the lover and the

knight. These were words, however, of specific and conventional meaning,

to which her husband listened with indifferent ear. In those days every

noble lady entertained a lover, who was called her servant. It was a

prerogative of nobility that such should be the case. It spoke for the

courtliness and aristocracy of the party; and to be without a lover,

though in the possession of a husband, was to be an object of scornful

sympathy in the eyes of the sex. Fashion, in other words, had taken the

name of chivalry; and it was one of her regulations that the noble lady

should possess a lover, who should of necessity be other than her lord.

In this capacity, Raymond of Roussillon, found nothing of which to

complain in the devotion of Guillaume de Cabestaign to Marguerite, his

wife. But the courtiers who gathered in her train were not so indulgent,

or were of keener sight. They soon felt the preference which she gave,

over all others, to our troubadour. They felt, and they resented it the

more readily, as they were not insensible to his personal superiority.

Guillaume himself, was exceeding slow in arriving at a similar

consciousness. Touched with a fonder sentiment for his mistress than was

compatible with his security, his modesty had never suffered him to

suppose that he had been so fortunate as to inspire her with a feeling

such as he now knew within himself. It was at a moment when he least

looked for it, that he made the perilous discovery. It was in the course

of a discussion upon the various signs of love—such a discussion as

occupied the idle hours, and the wandering fancies of chivalry—that she

said to him, somewhat abruptly,

“Surely thou, Guillaume, thou, who canst sing of love so tenderly, and

with so much sweetness, thou, of all persons, should be the one to

distinguish between a feigned passion and a real one. Methinks the eye

of him who loves truly, could most certainly discover from the eye of

the beloved one, whether the real flame were yet burning in her heart.”

And even as she spoke, the glance of her dark and lustrous eye settled

upon his own with such a dewy and quivering fire, that his soul at once

became enlightened with her secret. The troubadour was necessarily an

_improvisatore_. Guillaume de Cabestaign was admitted to be one of the

most spontaneous in his utterance of all his order. His lyre took for

him the voice which he could not well have used at that overpowering

moment. He sung wildly and triumphantly, inspired by his new and

rapturous consciousness, even while her eyes were yet fixed upon him,

full still of the involuntary declaration which made the inspiration of

his song. These verses, which embodied the first impulsive sentiment

which he had ever dared to breathe from his heart of the passion which

had long been lurking within it, have been preserved for us by the

damsels of Provence. We translate them, necessarily to the great

detriment of their melody, from the sweet South, where they had birth,

to our harsher Runic region. The song of Guillaume was an apostrophe.

Touch the weeping string!

Those whose beauty fires me;

Oh! how vainly would I sing

The passion that inspires me.

This, dear heart, believe,

Were the love I’ve given,

Half as warm for Heaven as thee,

I were worthy heaven!

Ah! should I lament,

That, in evil hour,

Too much loving to repent,

I confess thy power.

Too much blessed to fly,

Yet, with shame confessing,

That I dread to meet the eye,

Where my heart finds blessing.

Such a poem is beyond analysis. It was simply a gush of enthusiasm—the

lyrical overflow of sentiment and passion, such as a song should be

always. The reader will easily understand that the delicacy of the tune,

the epigrammatic intenseness of the expression, is totally lost in the

difficulty of subjugating our more stubborn language to the uses of the

poet. A faint and inferior idea of what was said, sung at this moment of

wild and almost spasmodical utterance, is all that we design to convey.

The spot in which this scene took place was amid the depth of umbrageous

trees, in the beautiful garden of Chateau Roussillon. A soft and

persuasive silence hung suspended in the atmosphere. Not a leaf stirred,

not a bird chirruped in the foliage; and however passionate was the

sentiment expressed by the troubadour, it scarcely rose beyond a

whisper—harmonizing in the subdued utterance, and the sweet delicacy of

its sentiment with the exquisite repose and languor of the scene.

Carried beyond herself by the emotions of the moment, the feeling of

Marguerite became so far irresistible that she stooped ere the song of

the troubadour had subsided from the ear, and pressed her lips upon the

forehead of her kneeling lover. He seized her hand at this moment and

carried it to his own lips, in an equally involuntary impulse. This act

awakened the noble lady to a just consciousness of her weakness. She at

once recoiled from his grasp.

“Alas!” she exclaimed, with clasped hands, “what have I done?”

“Ah, lady!” was the answer of the troubadour, “it is thy goodness which

has at length discovered how my heart is devoted to thee. It is thy

truth, and thy nobleness, dear lady, which I love and worship.”

“By these shalt thou know me ever, Guillaume of Cabestaign,” was the

response; “and yet I warn thee,” she continued, “I warn and I entreat

thee, dear servant, that thou approach me not so near again. Thou hast

shown to me, and surprised from me, a most precious but an unhappy

secret. Thou hast, too, deeply found thy way into my heart. Alas!

wherefore! wherefore!” and the eyes of the amiable and virtuous woman

were suffused with tears, as her innocent soul trembled under the

reproaches of her jealous conscience. She continued,

“I cannot help but love thee, Guillaume of Cabestaign, but it shall

never be said that the love of the Lady Marguerite of Roussillon was

other than became the wife of her lord. Thou, too, shall know me by love

only, Guillaume; but it shall be such a love as shall work neither of us

trespass. Yet do not thou cease to love me as before, for, of a truth,

dear servant, the affections of thy heart are needful to the life of

mine.”

The voice of the troubadour was only in his lyre. At all his events, his

reply has been only preserved to us in song. It was in the fullness of

his joy that he again poured forth his melody.

Where spreads the pleasant garden,

Where blow the precious flowers,

My happy lot hath found me

The bud of all the bowers.

Heaven framed it with a likeness,

Its very self in sweetness,

Where virtue crowns the beauty,

And love bestows completeness.

Still humble in possessions,

That humble all that prove her,

I joy in the affections,

That suffer me to love her;

And in my joy I sorrow,

And in my tears I sing her,

The love that others hide away,

She suffers me to bring her.

This right is due my homage,

For while they speak her beauty,

’Tis I alone that feel it well,

And love with perfect duty.

It does not appear that love trespassed in this instance beyond the

sweet but narrow boundaries of sentiment. The lovers met daily, as

usual, secretly as well as publicly, and their professions of attachment

were frankly made in the hearing of the world; but the vows thus spoken

were not articulated any longer in that formal, conventional phraseology

and manner, which, in fact, only mocked the passion which it affectedly

professed. It was soon discovered that the songs of Guillaume de

Cabestaign were no longer the frigid effusions of mere gallantry, the

common, stilt style of artifice and commonplace. There was life, and

blood, and a rare enthusiasm in his lyrics. His song was no longer a

thing of air, floating, as it had done, on the winglets of a simple

fancy, but a living and a burning soul, borne upward and forward, by the

gales of an intense and earnest passion. It was seen, that when the poet

and his noble mistress spoke together, the tones of their voices

mutually trembled as if with a strange and eager sympathy. When they

met, it was noted that their eyes seemed to dart at once into each

other, with the intensity of two wedded fires, which high walls would

vainly separate, and which, however sundered, show clearly that they

will overleap their bounds, and unite themselves in one at last. Theirs

was evidently no simulated passion. It was too certainly real, as well

in other eyes as their own. The world, though ignorant of the mutual

purity of their hearts, were yet quick enough to discern what were their

real sentiments. They saw the affections of which they soon learned,

naturally enough, to conjecture the worst only. The rage of rivals, the

jealousy of inferiors, the spite of the envious, the malice of the

wantonly scandalous, readily found cause of evil where in reality

offence was none. To conceive the crime, was to convey the cruel

suspicion, as a certainty, to the mind of him whom the supposed offence

most affected. Busy tongues soon assailed the ears of the Lord of

Roussillon, in relation to his wife. They whispered him to watch the

lovers—to remark the eager intimacy of their eyes—the tremulous

sweetness of their voices, and their subdued tones whenever they

met—the frequency of their meetings—the reluctance with which they

separated; and they dwelt with emphasis upon the pointed and passionate

declarations, the intensity and ardor of the sentiments which now filled

the songs of the troubadour—so very different from what they had ever

been before. In truth, the new passion of Guillaume had wrought

wondrously in favor of his music. He who had been only a clever and

dextrous imitator of the artificial strains of other poets, had broken

down all the fetters of convention, and now poured forth the most

natural and original poetry of his own, greatly to the increase of his

reputation as a troubadour.

Raymond de Roussillon hearkened to these suggestions in silence, and

with a gloomy heart. He loved his wife truly, as far as it was possible

for him to love. He was a stern, harsh man, fond of the chase, of the

toils of chivalry rather than its sports; was cold in his own emotions,

and with an intense self-esteem, that grew impatient under every sort of

rivalry. It was not difficult to impress him with evil thoughts, even

where he had bestowed his confidence; and to kindle his mind with the

most terrible suspicions of the unconsciously offending parties. Once

aroused, the dark, stern man, resolved to avenge his supposed wrong; and

hearing one day that Guillaume had gone out hawking, and alone, he

hastily put on his armor, concealing it under his courtly and silken

vestments, took his weapon, and rode forth in the direction which the

troubadour had taken. He overtook the latter after a while, upon the

edge of a little river that wound slowly through a wood. Guillaume de

Cabestaign approached his lord without any misgiving; but as he drew

near, a certain indefinable something in the face of Raymond, inspired a

feeling of anxiety in his mind, and, possibly, the secret consciousness

in his own bosom, added to his uneasiness. He remembered that it was not

often that great lords thus wandered forth unattended; and the path

which Raymond pursued was one that Guillaume had taken because of its

obscurity, and with the desire to find a solitude in which he might

brood securely over his own secret fancies and affections. His doubts

thus awakened, our troubadour prepared to guard his speech. He boldly

approached his superior, however, and was the first to break silence.

“You here, my lord, and alone! How does this chance?”

“Nay, Guillaume,” answered the other, mildly, “I heard that you were

here, and hawking, and resolved to share your amusement. What has been

your sport?”

“Nothing, my lord. I have scarcely seen a single bird; and you remember

the proverb—‘Who finds nothing, takes not much.’”

The artlessness and simplicity of the troubadour’s speech and manner,

for the first time, inspired some doubts in the mind of Raymond, whether

he could be so guilty as his enemies had reported him. His purpose, when

he came forth that morning, had been to ride the supposed offender down,

whenever he encountered him, and to thrust his boar-spear through his

body. Such was the summary justice of the feudal baron. Milder thoughts

had suddenly possessed him. If Raymond of Roussillon was a stern man,

jealous of his honor, and prompt in his resentment, he at least desired

to be a just man; and a lurking doubt of the motives of those by whom

the troubadour had been slandered, now determined him to proceed more

deliberately in the work of justice. He remembered the former confidence

which he had felt in the fidelity of the page, and he was not insensible

to the charm of his society. Every sentence which had been spoken since

their meeting, had tended to make him hesitate before he hurried to

judgment in a matter where it was scarcely possible to repair the wrong

which a rash and hasty vengeance might commit. By this time, they had

entered the wood together, and were now concealed from all human eyes.

The Lord of Roussillon alighted from his horse, and motioned his

companion to seat himself beside him in the shade. When both were

seated, and, after a brief pause, Raymond addressed the troubadour in

the following language:

“Guillaume de Cabestaign,” said he, “be sure I came not hither this day

to talk to you of birds and hawking, but of something more serious. Now,

look upon me, and as a true and loyal servant, see that thou answer

honestly to all that I shall ask of thee.”

The troubadour was naturally impressed by the stern simplicity and

solemnity of this exordium. He was not unaware that, as the knight had

alighted from his steed, he had done so heavily, and under the

impediment of concealed armor. His doubts and anxieties were necessarily

increased by this discovery, but so also was his firmness. He left that

much depended upon his coolness and address, and he steeled himself,

with all his soul, to the trial which was before him. The recollection

of Marguerite, and of her fate and reputation depending upon his own,

was the source of no small portion of his present resolution. His

reflections were instantaneous; there was no unreasonable delay in his

answer, which was at once manly and circumspect.

“I know not what you aim at or intend, my lord, but, by heaven! I swear

to you that, if it be proper for me to answer you in that you seek, I

will keep nothing from your knowledge that you desire to know!”

“Nay, Guillaume,” replied the knight, “I will have no conditions. You

shall reply honestly, and without reserve, to all the questions I shall

put to you.”

“Let me hear them, my lord—command me, as you have the right,” was the

reply of the troubadour, “and I will answer you, with my conscience, as

far as I can.”

“I would then know from you,” responded Raymond, very solemnly, “on your

faith, and by your God, whether the verses that you make are inspired by

a real passion?”

A warm flush passed over the cheeks of the troubadour; the pride of the

artist was offended by the inquiry. That it should be questioned whether

he really felt what he so passionately declared, was a disparaging

judgment upon the merits of his song.

“Ah! my lord,” was the reply, expressed with some degree of

mortification, “how could I sing as I do, unless I really felt all the

passion which I declare. In good sooth, then, I tell you, love has the

entire possession of my soul.”

“And, verily, I believe thee, Guillaume,” was the subdued answer of the

baron; “I believe thee, my friend, for unless a real passion was at his

heart, no troubadour could ever sing as thou. But, something more of

thee, Guillaume de Cabestaign. Prithee, now, declare to me the name of

the lady whom thy verses celebrate.”

Then it was that the cheek of our troubadour grew pale, and his heart

sunk within him; but the piercing eye of the baron was upon him. He had

no moment for hesitation. To falter now, he was well assured, was to

forfeit love, life, and every thing that was proud and precious in his

sight. In the moment of exigency the troubadour found his answer. It was

evasive, but adroitly conceived and expressed.

“Nay, my lord, will it please you to consider? I appeal to your own

heart and honour—can any one, without perfidy, declare such a secret?

Reveal a thing that involves the rights and the reputation of another,

and that other a lady of good fame and quality? Well must you remember

what is said on this subject by the very master of our art, no less a

person than the excellent Bernard de Ventadour. He should know—what

says he?”

The baron remained silent, while Guillaume repeated the following verses

of the popular troubadour, whose authority he appealed to:

“The spy your secret still would claim,

And asks to know your lady’s name;

But tell it not for very shame!

“The loyal lover sees the snare,

And neither to the waves nor air,

Betrays the secret of his fair.

“The duty that to love we owe,

Is, while to her we all may show,

On others nothing to bestow.”

Though seemingly well adapted to his objects, the quotation of our

troubadour was unfortunate. There were yet other verses to this

instructive ditty, and the Baron of Roussillon, who had listened very

patiently as his companion recited the preceding, soon proved himself to

have a memory for good songs, though he never pretended to make them

himself. When Guillaume had fairly finished, he took up the strain after

a brief introduction.

“That is all very right and very proper, Guillaume, and I gainsay not a

syllable that Master Bernard hath written; nay, methinks my proper

answer to thee lieth in another of his verses, which thou shouldst not

have forgotten while reminding me of its companions. I shall refresh thy

memory with the next that follows.” And without waiting for any answer,

the baron proceeded to repeat another stanza of the old poem, in very

creditable style and manner for an amateur. This remark Guillaume de

Cabestaign could not forbear making to himself, though he was conscious

at the same time that the utterance of the baron was in singularly slow

and subdued accents—accents that scarcely rose above a whisper, and

which were timed as if every syllable were weighed and spelled, ere it

was confided to expression. The verse was as follows:

“We yield her name to those alone,

Who, when the sacred truth is shown,

May help to make the maid our own.”

“Now, methinks,” continued the baron, “here lieth the wisdom of my

quest. Who better than myself can help to secure thee thy desires, to

promote thy passion, and gain for thee the favor of the fair? Tell me,

then, I command thee, Guillaume, and I promise to help thee with my best

efforts and advice.”

Here was a dilemma. The troubadour was foiled with his own weapons. The

quotation from his own authority was conclusive against him. The

argument of Raymond was irresistible. Of his ability to serve the young

lover there could be no question; and as little could the latter doubt

the readiness of that friendship—assuming his pursuit to be a proper

one—to which he had been so long indebted for favor and protection. He

could excuse himself by no further evasion; and having admitted that he

really and deeply loved, and that his verses declared a real and living

passion, it became absolutely necessary that our troubadour, unless he

would confirm the evident suspicions of his lord, should promptly find

for her a name. He did so. The emergency seemed to justify a falsehood;

and, with firm accents, Guillaume did not scruple to declare himself

devoted, heart and soul, to the beautiful Lady Agnes de Tarrascon, the

sister of Marguerite, his real mistress. At the pressing solicitation of

Raymond, and in order to render applicable to this case certain of his

verses, he admitted himself to have received from this lady certain

favoring smiles, upon which his hopes of future happiness were founded.

Our troubadour was persuaded to select the name of this lady, over all

others, for two reasons. He believed that she suspected, or somewhat

knew of the mutual flame which existed between himself and her sister;

and he had long been conscious of that benevolence of temper which the

former possessed, and which he fondly thought would prompt her in some

degree to sympathize with him in his necessity, and lend herself

somewhat to his own and the extrication of Marguerite. After making his

confession, he concluded by imploring Raymond to approach his object

cautiously, and by no means to peril his fortunes in the esteem of the

lady he professed to love.

But the difficulties of Guillaume de Cabestaign were only begun. It was

not the policy of Raymond to be satisfied with his simple asseverations.

The suspicions which had been awakened in his mind by the malignant

suggestions of his courtiers, were too deeply and skillfully infixed

there, to suffer him to be soothed by the mere statement of the supposed

offender. He required something of a confirmatory character from the

lips of Lady Agnes herself. Pleased, nevertheless, at what he had heard,

and at the readiness and seeming frankness with which the troubadour had

finally yielded his secret to his keeping, he eagerly assured the latter

of his assistance in the prosecution of his quest; and he, who a moment

before had coolly contemplated a deliberate murder, to revenge a

supposed wrong to his own honor, did not now scruple to profess his

willingness to aid his companion in compassing the dishonor of another.

It did not matter much to our sullen baron that the victim was the

sister of his own wife. The human nature of Lord Raymond of Roussillon,

his own dignity uninjured, had but little sympathy with his neighbor’s

rights and sensibilities. He promptly proposed, at that very moment, to

proceed on his charitable mission. The castle of Tarrascon was in sight;

and, pointing to its turrets, that rose loftily above the distant hills,

the imperious finger of Raymond gave the direction to our troubadour,

which he shuddered to pursue, but did not dare to decline. He now began

to feel all the dangers and embarrassments which he was about to

encounter, and to tremble at the disgrace and ruin which seemed to rise,

threatening and dead before him. Never was woman more virtuous than the

Lady Agnes. Gentle and beautiful, like her sister Marguerite, her

reputation had been more fortunate in escaping wholly the assaults of

the malignant. She had always shown an affectionate indulgence for our

troubadour, and a delighted interest in his various accomplishments; and

he now remembered all her goodness and kindness only to curse himself,

in his heart, for the treachery of which he had just been guilty. His

remorse at what he had said to Raymond, was not the less deep and

distressing from the conviction that he felt, that there had been no

other way left him of escape from his dilemma.

We are bound to believe that the eagerness which Raymond of Roussillon

now exhibited was not so much because of a desire to bring about the

dishonor of another, as to be perfectly satisfied that he himself was

free from injury. At the Castle of Tarrascon, the Lady Agnes was found

alone. She gave the kindest reception to her guests; and, anxious to

behold things through the medium of his wishes rather than his doubts

and fears, Raymond fancied that there was a peculiar sort of tenderness

in the tone and spirit of the compliments which she addressed to the

dejected troubadour. That he was disquieted and dejected she was soon

able to discover. His uneasiness made itself apparent before they had

been long together; and the keen intelligence of the feminine mind was

accordingly very soon prepared to comprehend the occasion of his

disquiet, when drawn aside by Raymond at the earliest opportunity, she

found herself cross-examined by the impatient baron on the nature and

object of her own affections. A glance of the eye at Guillaume de

Cabestaign, as she listened to the inquiries of the suspicious Raymond,

revealed to the quick-witted woman the extent of his apprehensions, and

possibly the danger of her sister. Her ready instinct and equally prompt

benevolence of heart, at once decided all the answers of the lady.

“Why question me of lovers,” she replied to Raymond, with a pretty

querulousness of tone and manner, “certainly, I have lovers enow, as

many as I choose to have. Would you that I should live unlike other

women of birth and quality, without my servant to sing my praises, and

declare his readiness to die in my behalf?”

“Ay, ay, my lady,” answered the knight, “lovers, I well know, you

possess; for of these, I trow, that no lady of rank and beauty such as

yours, can or possibly should be without; but is there not one lover

over all whom you not only esteem for his grace and service, but for

whom you feel the tenderest interest, whom, in fact, you prefer to the

full surrender of your whole heart, and were this possible or proper, of

your whole person?”

For a moment the gentle lady hesitated in her answer. The question was

one of a kind to startle a delicate and faithful spirit; but, as her

eyes wandered off to the place where the troubadour stood trembling—as

she detected the pleading terror that was apparent in his face—her

benevolence got the better of her scruples, and she frankly admitted

that there really was one person in the world for whom her sentiments

were even thus lively, and her sympathies thus broad and active.

“And now, I beseech you, Lady Agnes,” urged the anxious baron, “that you

deal with me like a brother who will joy to serve you, and declare to me

the name of the person whom you so much favor?”

“Now, out upon it, my Lord of Roussillon;” was the quick and somewhat

indignant reply of the lady, “that you should presume thus greatly upon

the kindred that lies between us. Women are not to be constrained to

make such confession as this. It is their prerogative to be silent when

the safety of their affections may suffer from their speech. To urge

them to confess, in such cases, is only to compel them to speak

unnecessary falsehoods. And know I not you husbands all—you have but a

feeling in common; and if I reveal myself to you, it were as well that I

should go at once and make full confession to my own lord.”

“Nay, dearest Lady Agnes, have no such doubt of my loyalty. I will

assure you that what you tell me never finds its way to the ear of your

lord. I pray thee do not fear to make this confession to me; nay, but

thou must, Agnes,” exclaimed the rude baron, his voice rising more

earnestly, and his manner becoming passionate and stern, while he

grasped her wrist firmly in his convulsive fingers, and drawing her

toward him, added, in the subdued but intense tones of half-suppressed

passion, “I tell thee, lady, it behooves me much to know this secret.”

The lady did not immediately yield, though the manner of Raymond, from

this moment, determined her that she would do so. She now conjectured

all the circumstances of the case, and felt the necessity of saving the

troubadour for the sake of her sister. But she played with the excited

baron awhile longer, and when his passion grew so impatient as to be

almost beyond his control, she admitted, as a most precious secret,

confided to his keeping only that he might serve her in its

gratification, that she had a burning passion for Guillaume de

Cabestaign, of which he himself was probably not conscious. The

invention of the lady was as prompt and accurate as if the troubadour

had whispered at her elbow. Raymond was now satisfied. He was relieved

of his suspicions, turned away from the Lady of Tarrascon, to embrace

her supposed lover, and readily accepted an invitation from the former,

for himself and companion, to remain that night to supper. At that

moment the great gates of the castle was thrown open, and the Lord of

Tarrascon made his appearance. He confirmed the invitation extended by

his wife; and, as usual, gave a most cordial reception to his guests. As

soon as an opportunity offered, and before the hour of supper arrived,

the Lady Agnes contrived to withdraw her lord to her own apartments, and

there frankly revealed to him all that had taken place. He cordially

gave his sanction to all that she had done. Guillaume de Cabestaign was

much more of a favorite than his jealous master; and the sympathies of

the noble and the virtuous, in those days, were always accorded to those

who professed a love so innocent as, it was justly believed by this

noble couple, was that of the Lady Marguerite and the troubadour. The

harsh suspicions of Raymond were supposed to characterize only a coarse

and brutal nature, which, in the assertion of its unquestionable rights,

would abridge all those freedoms which courtliness and chivalry had

established for the pleasurable intercourse of other parties. A perfect

understanding thus established between the wife and husband, in behalf

of the troubadour, and in misleading the baron, these several persons

sat down to supper in the rarest good humor and harmony. Guillaume de

Cabestaign recovered all his confidence, and with it his inspiration. He

made several improvisations during the evening, which delighted the

company—all in favor of the Lady Agnes, and glimpsing faintly at his

attachment for her. These, unhappily, have not been preserved to us.

They are said to have been so made as to correspond to the exigency of

his recent situation; the excellent Baron Raymond all the while

supposing that he alone possessed the key to their meaning. The Lady

Agnes, meanwhile, under the approving eye of her husband, was at special

pains to show such an interest in the troubadour, and such a preference

for his comfort, over that of all persons present, as contributed to

confirm all the assurances she had given to her brother-in-law in regard

to her affections. The latter saw this with perfect satisfaction; and

leaving Guillaume to pass the night where he was so happily entertained,

he hurried home to Roussillon, eager to reveal to his own wife, the

intrigue between her lover and her sister. It is quite possible that, if

his suspicions of the troubadour were quieted, he still entertained some

with regard to Marguerite. It is not improbable that a conviction that

he was giving pain at every syllable he uttered entered into his

calculations, and prompted what he said. He might be persuaded of the

innocence of the parties, yet doubtful of their affections; and though

assured now that he was mistaken in respect to the tendency of those of

Guillaume, his suspicions were still lively in regard to those of his

wife. His present revelations might be intended to probe her to the

quick, and to gather from her emotions, at his recital, in how much she

was interested in the sympathies of the troubadour.

How far he succeeded in diving into her secret, has not been confided to

the chronicle. It is very certain, however, that he succeeded in making

Marguerite very unhappy. She now entertained no doubt, after her

husband’s recital, of the treachery of her sister, and the infidelity of

her lover; and though she herself had permitted him no privilege,

inconsistent with the claims of her lord, she was yet indignant that he

should have proved unfaithful to a heart which he so well knew to be

thoroughly his own. The pure soul itself entirely devoted to the beloved

object, thus always revolts at a consciousness of its fall from its

purity and its pledges; and though itself denied—doomed only to a

secret worship, to which no altar may be raised, and to which there is

no offering but the sacrifice of constant privation—yet it greatly

prefers to entertain this sacred sense of isolation, to any enjoyment of

mere mortal happiness. To feel that our affections are thus isolated in

vain; that we have yielded them to one who is indifferent to the trust,

and lives still for his earthly passions, is to suffer from a more than

mortal deprivation. Marguerite of Roussillon passed the night in extreme

agony of mind, the misery of which was greatly aggravated by the

necessity, in her husband’s presence, of suppressing every feeling of

uneasiness. But her feelings could not always be suppressed; and when,

the next day, on the return of the troubadour from Tarrascon, she

encountered him in those garden walks which had been made sacred to

their passion by its first mutual revelation, the pang grew to

utterance, which her sense of dignity and propriety in vain endeavored

to subdue. Her eyes brightened indignantly through her tears; and she

whose virtue had withheld every gift of passion from the being whom she

yet professed to love, at once, but still most tenderly, reproached him

with his infidelity.

“Alas! Guillaume,” she continued, after telling him all that she had

heard, “alas! that my soul should have so singled thine out from all the

rest, because of its purity, and should find thee thus, like all the

rest, incapable of a sweet and holy love such as thou didst promise. I

had rather died, Guillaume, a thousand deaths, than that thou shouldst

have fallen from thy faith to me.”

“But I have not fallen—I have not faltered in my faith, Marguerite! I

am still true to thee—to thee only, though I sigh for thee vainly, and

know that thou livest only for another. Hear me, Marguerite, while I

tell thee what has truly happened. Thou hast heard something, truly, but

not all the truth.”

And he proceeded with the narrative to which we have already listened.

He had only to show her what had passed between her lord and himself, to

show how great had been his emergency. The subsequent events at

Tarrascon, only convinced her of the quick intelligence, and sweet

benevolence of purpose by which her sister had been governed. Her

charitable sympathies had seen and favored the artifice in which lay the

safety equally of her lover and herself. The revulsion of her feelings

from grief to exultation, spoke in a gust of tears, which relieved the

distresses of her soul. The single kiss upon his forehead, with which

she rewarded the devotion of the troubadour, inspired his fancy. He made

the event the subject of a sonnet, which has fortunately been preserved

to us.

MARGUERITE.

That there should be a question whom I love,

As if the world had more than one so fair!

_Would’st know her name, behold the letters rare,_

_God-written, on the wing of every dove!_

Ask if a blindness darkens my fond eyes,

That I should doubt me whither I should turn;

Ask if my soul, in cold abeyance lies,

That I should fail at sight of her to burn.

That I should wander to another’s sway,

Would speak a blindnesss worse than that of sight,

Since here, though nothing I may ask of right,

Blessings most precious woo my heart to stay.

High my ambition, since at heaven it aims,

Yet humble, _since a daisy’s all it claims_.

The lines first italicized embody the name of the lady, by a periphrasis

known to the Provençal dialect, and the name of the daisy, as used in

the closing line, is Marguerite’s. The poem is an unequivocal

declaration of attachment, obviously meant to do away with all adverse

declarations. To those acquainted with the previous history, it unfolds

another history quite as significant; and to those who knew nothing of

the purity of the parties, and who made no allowance for the exaggerated

manner in which a troubadour would be apt to declare the privileges he

had enjoyed, it would convey the idea of a triumph inconsistent with the

innocence of the lovers, and destructive of the rights of the injured

husband. Thus, full of meaning, it is difficult to conceive by what

imprudence of the parties, this fatal sonnet found its way to the hands

of Raymond of Roussillon. It is charged by the biographers, in the

absence of other proofs, that the vanity of Marguerite, in her moments

of exultation—greater than her passion—proud of the homage which she

inspired, and confident in the innocence which the world had too

slanderously already begun to question—could not forbear the temptation

of showing so beautiful a testimony of the power of her charms. But the

suggestion lacks in plausibility. It is more easy to conceive that the

fond heart of the woman would not suffer her to destroy so exquisite a

tribute, and that the jealousy of her lord, provoked by the arts of

envious rivals, conducted him to the place of safe-keeping where her

treasure was concealed. At all events, it fell into his hands, and

revived all his suspicions. In fact, it gave the lie to the artful story

by which he had been lulled into confidence, and was thus, in a manner,

conclusive of the utter guilt of the lovers. His pride was outraged as

well as his honor. He had been gulled by all upon whom he had

relied—his wife, his page, and his sister. He no longer doubted

Marguerite’s infidelity and his own disgrace; and breathing nothing but

vengeance, he yet succeeded in concealing from all persons the

convictions which he felt, of the guilt which dishonored him, and the

terrible vengeance which he meditated for its punishment. He was a cold

and savage man, who could suppress, in most cases, the pangs which he

felt, and could deliberately restrain the passions which yet occupied

triumphant places in his heart and purpose. It was not long before he

found the occasion which he desired. The movements of the troubadour

were closely watched, and one day when he had wandered forth from the

castle, seeking solitude, as was his frequent habit, Raymond contrived

to steal away from observation, and to follow him out into the forest.

He was successful in his quest. He found Guillaume resting at the foot

of a shady tree, in a secluded glen, with his tablets before him. The

outlines of a tender ballad, tender but spiritual, as was the character

of all his melodies, were already inscribed upon the paper. The poet was

meditating, as usual, the charms of that dangerous mistress, whose

beauty was destined to become his bane. Raymond threw himself upon the

ground beside him.

“Ah! well,” said he, as he joined the troubadour, “this love of the Lady

Agnes is still a distressing matter in thy thoughts.”

“In truth, my lord, I think of her with the greatest love and

tenderness,” was the reply of Guillaume.

“Verily, thou dost well,” returned the baron; “she deserves requital at

thy hands. Thou owest her good service. And yet, for one who so greatly

affects a lady, and who hath found so much favor in her sight, methinks

thou seek’st her but seldom. Why is this, Sir Troubadour?”

Without waiting for the answer, Raymond added, “But let me see what thou

hast just written in her praise. It is by his verses that we understand

the devotion of the troubadour.”

Leaning over the poet as he spoke, as if his purpose had been to possess

himself of his tablets, he suddenly threw the whole weight of his person

upon him, and, in the very same moment, by a quick movement of the hand,

he drove the _couteau de chasse_, with which he was armed, and which he

had hitherto concealed behind him, with a swift, unerring stroke deep

down into the bosom of the victim. Never was blow better aimed, or with

more energy delivered. The moment of danger was that of death. The

unfortunate troubadour was conscious of the weapon only when he felt the

steel. It was with a playful smile that Raymond struck, and so innocent

was the expression of his face, even while his arm was extended and the

weight of his body was pressing upon Guillaume, that the only solicitude

of the latter had been to conceal his tablets. One convulsive cry, one

hideous contortion, and Guillaume de Cabestaign was no more. The name of

Marguerite was the only word which escaped him with his dying shriek.

The murderer placed his hand upon the heart of the victim. It had

already ceased to beat.

“Thou wilt mock me no more!” he muttered fiercely, as he half rose from

the body now stiffening fast. But his fierce vengeance was by no means

completed. As if a new suggestion had seized upon his mind, while his

hand rested upon the heart of the troubadour, he suddenly started and

tore away the garments from the unconscious bosom. Once more he struck

it deeply with the keen and heavy blade. In a few moments he had laid it

open. Then he plunged his naked hand into the gaping wound, and tore out

the still quivering heart. This he wrapped up with care, and concealed

in his garments. With another stroke he smote the head from the body,

and this he also concealed, in fragments torn from the person of his

victim. With these proofs of his terrible revenge, he made his way,

under cover of the dusk, in secret to the castle. What remains to be

told is still more dreadful—beyond belief indeed, were it not that the

sources of our history are wholly above discredit or denial. The cruel

baron, ordering his cook into his presence, then gave the heart of the

troubadour into his keeping, with instructions to dress it richly, and

after a manner of dressing certain favorite portions of venison, of

which Marguerite was known to be particularly fond. The dish was a

subject of special solicitude with her husband. He himself superintended

the preparation, and furnished the spices. That night, he being her only

companion at the feast, it was served up to his wife, at the usual time

of supper. He had assiduously subdued every vestige of anger, unkindness

or suspicion from his countenance. Marguerite was suffered to hear and

see nothing which might provoke her apprehensions or arrest her

appetite. She was more than usually serene and cheerful, as, that day

and evening, her lord was more than commonly indulgent. He, too, could

play a part when it suited him to do so; and, like most men of stern

will and great experience, could adapt his moods and manners to that

livelier cast, and more pliant temper, which better persuade the

feminine heart into confidence and pleasure. He smiled upon her now with

the most benevolent sweetness; but while he earnestly encouraged her to

partake of the delicacy specially put before her, he himself might be

seen to eat of any other dish. The wretched woman, totally unsuspicious

of guile or evil, undreaming of disaster, and really conscious of but

little self-reproach, ate freely of the precious meat which had been

placed before her. The eyes of Raymond greedily followed every morsel

which she carried to her lips. She evidently enjoyed the dish which had

been spiced for her benefit, and as she continued to draw upon it, he

could no longer forbear to unfold the exultation which he felt at the

entire satisfaction of his vengeance.

“You seem very much to like your meats to-night, Marguerite. Do you find

them good?”

“Verily,” she answered, “this venison is really delicious.”

“Eat then,” he continued, “I have had it dressed purposely for you. You

ought to like it. It is a dish of which you have always shown yourself

very fond.”

“Nay, my lord, but you surely err. I cannot think that I have ever eaten

before of any thing so very delicious as this.”

“Nay, nay, Marguerite, it is you that err. I _know_ that the meat of

which you now partake, is one which you have always found the sweetest.”

There was something now in the voice of the speaker that made Marguerite

look up. Her eyes immediately met his own, and the wolfish exultation

which they betrayed confounded her and made her shudder. She felt at

once terrified with a nameless fear. There was a sudden sickness and

sinking of her heart. She felt that there was a terrible meaning, a

dreadful mystery in his looks and words, the solution of which she

shrunk from with a vague but absorbing terror. She was too well

acquainted with the sinister expression of that glance. She rallied

herself to speak.

“What is it that you mean, my lord? Something dreadful! What have you

done? This food—”

“Ay, this food! I can very well understand that you should find it

delicious. It is such as you have always loved a little too much. It is

but natural that you should relish, now that it is dead, that which you

so passionately enjoyed while living. Marguerite, the meat of that dish

which you have eaten was once the heart of Guillaume de Cabestaign!”

The lips of the wretched woman parted spasmodically. Her jaws seemed to

stretch asunder. Her eyes dilated in a horror akin to madness. Her arms

were stretched out and forward. She half rose from the table, which she

at length seized upon for her support.

“No!” she exclaimed, hoarsely, at length. “No! no! It is not true. It is

not possible. I will not—I dare not believe it.”

“You shall have a witness, Marguerite! You shall hear it from one whom,

heretofore, you have believed always, and who will find it impossible

now to lie. Behold! This is the head of him whose heart you have eaten!”

With these dreadful words, the cruel baron raised the ghastly head of

the troubadour, which he had hitherto concealed beneath the table, and

which he now placed upon it. At this horrible spectacle the wretched

woman sunk down in a swoon, from which, however, she awakened but too

quickly. The wan and bloody aspect of her lover, the eyes glazed in

death, but full still of the tenderest expression, met her gaze as it

opened upon the light. The savage lord who had achieved the horrid

butchery stood erect, and pointing at the spectacle of terror. His

scornful and demoniac glance—the horrid cruelty of which he continued

to boast—her conscious innocence and that of her lover—her complete

and deep despair—all conspired to arm her soul with a courage which she

had never felt till now. In the ruin of her heart she had grown reckless

of her life. Her eye confronted the murderer.

“Be it so!” she exclaimed. “As I have eaten of meat so precious, it fits

not that inferior food should ever again pass these lips! This is the

last supper which I shall taste on earth!”

“What! dare you thus shamelessly avow to me your passion?”

“Ay! as God who beholds us knows, never did woman more passionately and

truly love mortal man, than did Marguerite of Roussillon the pure and

noble Guillaume de Cabestaign. It is true! I fear not to say it now!

Now, indeed, I am his only and forever!”

Transported with fury at what he heard, Raymond drew his dagger, and

rushed to where she stood. But she did not await his weapon.

Anticipating his wrath, she darted headlong through a door which opened

upon a balcony, over the balustrade of which, with a second effort, she

flung herself into the court below. All this was the work of but one

impulse and of a single instant Raymond reached the balcony as the

delicate frame of the beautiful woman was crushed upon the flag-stones

of the court. Life had utterly departed when they raised her from the

ground!

* * * * *

This terrible catastrophe struck society every where with consternation.

At a season, when not only chivalry, but the church, gave its most

absolute sanction to the existence and encouragement of that strange

conventional love which we have sought to describe, the crime of Raymond

provoked an universal honor. Love, artificial and sentimental rather

than passionate, was the soul equally of military achievement and of

aristocratic society. It was then of vast importance, as an element of

power, in the use of religious enthusiasm. The shock given to those who

cherished this sentiment, by this dreadful history, was felt to all the

extremities of the social circle. The friends and kindred of the

lovers—the princes and princesses of the land—noble lords, knights and

ladies, all combined, as by a common impulse, to denounce and to destroy

the bloody-minded criminal. Alphonso, King of Arragon, devoted himself

to the work of justice. Raymond was seized and cast into a dungeon. His

castle was razed to the ground, under a public decree, which scarcely

anticipated the eager rage of hundreds who rushed to the work of

demolition. The criminal himself was suffered to live; but he lived

either in prison or in exile, with loss of caste and society, and amidst

universal detestation!

Very different was the fate of the lovers, whom man could no more harm

or separate. They were honored, under the sanction of Alphonso, with a

gorgeous funeral procession. They were laid together, in the same tomb,

before the church of Perpignan, and their names and cruel history were

duly engraven upon the stone raised to their memory. According the

Provençal historians, it was afterward a custom with the knights of

Roussillon, of Cerdagne, and of Narbonnois, every year to join with the

noble dames and ladies of the same places, in a solemn service, in

memory of Marguerite of Roussillon, and William of Cabestaign. At the

same time came lovers of both sexes, on a pilgrimage to their tomb,

where they prayed for the repose of their souls. The anniversary of this

service was instituted by Alphonso. We may add that romance has more

than once seized upon this tragic history, out of which to weave her

fictions. Boccaccio has found in it the material for one of the stories

of the Decameron, in which, however, while perverting history, he has

done but little to merit the gratulation of Art. He has failed equally

to do justice to himself, and to his melancholy subject.

* * * * *

SONNET.—TO MARY M. R. W.

Both when the morning and the evening dews

Moisten the earth, I pray thee, lady, seek

Some lofty hill, whence many a swelling peak

May be descried far in the distance. Views

Like these shall tune thy spirit, and infuse

Thoughts worthy of immortal life: thy cheek

Shall glow with rosier healthfulness; thy meek

And dove-like eyes shall drink in tints and hues

Like those of heaven; and when the magic play

Of colors, shifting o’er the mountain-side,

Has mingled with thy fancy; when the ray

Of rising or of setting sun has dyed

Thy inmost soul with splendor—come away—

For then thou shalt be almost deified.

T. E. V. B.

* * * * *

THE LAST TILT.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

At twilight, through the shadow, fled

An ancient, war-worn knight,

Arrayed in steel, from head to heel,

And on a steed of white;

And, in the knight’s despite,

The horse pursued his flight:

For the old man’s cheek was pale,

And his hands strove at the rein,

With the clutch of frenzied pain;

And his courser’s streaming mane

Swept, disheveled, on the gale.

_“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_

_Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_“Seven!”

_Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_

_On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_

_Of his echoing feet_

_Fell—like lead—on the ear—_

_As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier._

The old knight heard the mystic clock;

And the sound, like a funeral bell,

Rang in his ears till their caverns were full

Of the knoll of the desolate knell.

And the steed, as aroused by a spell,

Sprang away with a withering yell,

While the old man strove again,

But each time, with feebler force,

To arrest the spectral horse

In its mad, remorseless course,

But, alas! he strove in vain.

_“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_

_Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_ “Eight!”

_Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_

_On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_

_Of his echoing feet_

_Fell—like lead—on the ear—_

_As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier._

The steed was white, and gaunt, and grim,

With lidless, leaden eyes

That burned with the lurid, livid glare

Of the stars of Stygian skies;

And the wind, behind, with sighs,

Mimicked his maniac cries,

While through the ebony gloom, alone,

Wan-visaged Saturn gazed

On the warrior—unamazed—

On the steed whose eye-balls blazed

With a lustre like his own.

_“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_

_Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_ “Nine!”

_Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_

_On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_

_Of his echoing feet_

_Fell—like lead—on the ear—_

_As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier._

Athwart a swart and shadowy moor

The struggling knight was borne,

And far away, before him, gleamed

A light like the gray of morn;

While the old man, weak, forlorn,

And wan, and travel-worn,

Gazed, mad with deathly fear:

For he dreamed it was the day,

Though the dawn was far away,

And he trembled with dismay

In the desert—dark and drear.

_“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_

_Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_“Ten!”

_Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_

_On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_

_Of his echoing feet_

_Fell—like lead—on the ear—_

_As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier._

In casque and cuirass, white as snow,

Came, merrily, over the wold,

A maiden knight, with lance and shield,

And a form of manly mould,

And a beard of woven gold,

When—suddenly!—behold!

With a loud defiant cry,

And a tone of stern command,

The ancient knight, with lance in hand,

Rushed, thundering, over the frozen land,

And bade him “Stand! or die!”

_“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_

_Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_“Eleven!”

_Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_

_On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_

_Of his echoing feet_

_Fell—like lead—on the ear—_

_As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier._

With his ashen lance in rest,

Careered the youthful knight,

With a haughty heart, and an eagle eye,

And a visage burning bright—

For he loved the tilted fight—

And, under Saturn’s light,

With a shock that shook the world,

The rude old warrior fell—and lay

A corpse—along the frozen clay!

As with a crash the gates of day

Their brazen valves unfurled.

_“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_

_Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_“Twelve!”

_Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_

_On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_

_Of his echoing feet_

_Fell—like lead—on the ear—_

_As he left the dead Year on his desolate bier._

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but

Travelers must be content. As You Like It.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”

“MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 252._)

PART XIV.

She’s in a scene of nature’s war,

The winds and waters are at strife;

And both with her contending for

The brittle thread of human life.—Miss Gould.

Spike was sleeping hard in his berth, quite early on the following

morning, before the return of light, indeed, when he suddenly started

up, rubbed his eyes, and sprang upon deck like a man alarmed. He had

heard, or fancied he had heard, a cry. A voice once well known and

listened to, seemed to call him in the very portals of his ear. At first

he had listened to its words in wonder, entranced like the bird by the

snake, the tones recalling scenes and persons that had once possessed a

strong control over his rude feelings. Presently the voice became

harsher in its utterance, and it said,

“Stephen Spike, awake! The hour is getting late, and you have enemies

nearer to you than you imagine. Awake, Stephen, awake!”

When the captain was on his feet, and had plunged his head into a basin

of water that stood ready for him in the state-room, he could not have

told, for his life, whether he had been dreaming or waking, whether what

he had heard was the result of a feverish imagination, or of the laws of

nature. The call haunted him all that morning, or until events of

importance so pressed upon him as to draw his undivided attention to

them alone.

It was not yet day. The men were still in heavy sleep, lying about the

decks, for they avoided the small and crowded forecastle in that warm

climate, and the night was apparently at its deepest hour. Spike walked

forward to look for the man charged with the anchor-watch. It proved to

be Jack Tier, who was standing near the galley, his arms folded as

usual, apparently watching the few signs of approaching day that were

beginning to be apparent in the western sky. The captain was in none of

the best humors with the steward’s assistant; but Jack had unaccountably

got an ascendency over his commander, which it was certainly very

unusual for any subordinate in the Swash to obtain. Spike had deferred

more to Mulford than to any mate he had ever before employed; but this

was the deference due to superior information, manners, and origin. It

was common-place, if not vulgar; whereas, the ascendency obtained by

little Jack Tier was, even to its subject, entirely inexplicable. He was

unwilling to admit it to himself in the most secret manner, though he

had begun to feel it on all occasions which brought them in contact, and

to submit to it as a thing not to be averted.

“Jack Tier,” demanded the captain, now that he found himself once more

alone with the other, desirous of obtaining his opinion on a point that

harrassed him, though he knew not why; “Jack Tier, answer me one thing.

Do you believe that we saw the form of a dead or of a living man at the

foot of the light-house?”

“The dead are never seen leaning against walls in that manner, Stephen

Spike,” answered Jack, coolly, not even taking the trouble to uncoil his

arms. “What you saw was a living man; and you would do well to be on

your guard against him. Harry Mulford is not your friend—and there is

reason for it.”

“Harry Mulford, and living! How can that be, Jack? You know the port in

which he chose to run.”

“I know the rock on which you chose to abandon him, Capt. Spike.”

“If so, how could he be living and at the Dry Tortugas? The thing is

impossible!”

“The thing is so. You saw Harry Mulford, living and well, and ready to

hunt you to the gallows. Beware of him, then; and beware of his handsome

wife!”

“Wife! the fellow has no wife—he has always professed to be a single

man!”

“The man is married—and I bid you beware of his handsome wife. She,

too, will be a witness ag’in you.”

“This will be news, then, for Rose Budd. I shall delight in telling it

to _her_, at least.”

“’Twill be _no_ news to Rose Budd. She was present at the wedding, and

will not be taken by surprise. Rose loves Harry too well to let him

marry, and she not present at the wedding.”

“Jack, you talk strangely! What is the meaning of all this? I am captain

of this craft, and will not be trifled with—tell me at once your

meaning, fellow.”

“My meaning is simple enough, and easily told. Rose Budd is the wife of

Harry Mulford.”

“You’re dreaming, fellow, or are wishing to trifle with me!”

“It may be a dream, but it is one that will turn out to be true. If they

have found the Poughkeepsie sloop-of-war, as I make no doubt they have

by this time, Mulford and Rose are man and wife.”

“Fool! you know not what you say! Rose is at this moment in her berth,

sick at heart on account of the young gentleman who preferred to live on

the Florida Reef rather than to sail in the Molly!”

“Rose is not in her berth, sick or well; neither is she on board this

brig at all. She went off in the light-house boat to deliver her lover

from the naked rock—and well did she succeed in so doing. God was of

her side, Stephen Spike; and a body seldom foils with such a friend to

support one.”

Spike was astounded at these words, and not less so at the cool and

confident manner with which they were pronounced. Jack spoke in a

certain dogmatical, oracular manner, it is true, one that might have

lessened his authority with a person over whom he had less influence;

but this in no degree diminished its effect on Spike. On the contrary,

it even disposed the captain to yield an implicit faith to what he

heard, and all so much the more because the facts he was told appeared

of themselves to be nearly impossible. It was half a minute before he

had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to continue the discourse.

“The light-house boat!” Spike then slowly repeated. “Why, fellow, you

told me the light-house boat went adrift from your own hands!”

“So it did,” answered Jack, coolly, “since I cast off the painter—and

what is more, went in it.”

“You! This is impossible. You are telling me a fabricated lie. If you

had gone away in that boat, how could you now be here? No, no—it is a

miserable lie, and Rose is below!”

“Go and look into her state-room, and satisfy yourself with your own

eyes.”

Spike did as was suggested. He went below, took a lamp that was always

suspended, lighted, in the main cabin, and, without ceremony, proceeded

to Rose’s state-room, where he soon found that the bird had really

flown. A direful execration followed this discovery, one so loud as to

awaken Mrs. Budd and Biddy. Determined not to do things by halves, he

broke open the door of the widow’s state-room, and ascertained that the

person he sought was not there. A fierce explosion of oaths and

denunciations followed, which produced an answer in the customary

screams. In the midst of this violent scene, however, questions were

put, and answers obtained, that not only served to let the captain know

that Jack had told him nothing but truth, but to put an end to every

thing like amicable relations between himself and the relict of his old

commander. Until this explosion, appearances had been observed between

them; but, from that moment, there must necessarily be an end of all

professions of even civility. Spike was never particularly refined in

his intercourse with females, but he now threw aside even its

pretension. His rage was so great that he totally forgot his manhood,

and lavished on both Mrs. Budd and Biddy epithets that were altogether

inexcusable, and many of which it will not do to repeat. Weak and silly

as was the widow, she was not without spirit; and on this occasion she

was indisposed to submit to all this unmerited abuse in silence. Biddy,

as usual, took her cue from her mistress, and between the two, their

part of the wordy conflict was kept up with a very respectable degree of

animation.

“I know you—I know you, now!” screamed the widow, at the top of her

voice; “and you can no longer deceive me, unworthy son of Neptune as you

are! You are unfit to be a lubber, and would be log-booked for an

or’nary by every gentleman on board ship. You, a full-jiggered seaman!

No, you are not even half-jiggered, sir; and I tell you so to your

face.”

“Yes, and it isn’t _half_ that might be tould the likes of yees!” put in

Biddy, as her mistress stopped to breathe. “And it’s Miss Rose you’d

have for a wife, when Biddy Noon would be too good for ye! We knows ye,

and all about ye, and can give yer history as complate from the day ye

was born down to the present moment, and not find a good word to say in

yer favor in all that time—and a precious time it is, too, for a

gentleman that would marry pretthy, _young_ Miss Rose! Och! I scorn to

look at ye, yer so ugly!”

“And trying to persuade me you were a friend of my poor, dear Mr. Budd,

whose shoe you are unworthy to touch, and who had the heart and soul for

the noble profession you disgrace,” cut in the widow, the moment Biddy

gave her a chance, by pausing to make a wry face as she pronounced the

word “ugly.” “I now believe you capasided them poor Mexicans, in order

to get their money; and the moment we cast anchor in a road-side, I’ll

go ashore, and complain of you for murder, I will.”

“Do, missus, dear, and I’ll be your bail, will I, and swear to all that

happened, and more too. Och! yer a wretch, to wish to be the husband of

Miss Rose, and she so young and pretthy, and you so ould and ugly!”

“Come away—come away, Stephen Spike, and do not stand wrangling with

women, when you and your brig, and all that belongs to you are in

danger,” called out Jack Tier from the companion-way. “Day is come; and

what is much worse for you, your most dangerous enemy is coming with

it.”

Spike was almost livid with rage, and ready to burst out in awful

maledictions; but at this summons he sprang to the ladder, and was on

deck in a moment. At first, he felt a strong disposition to wreak his

vengeance on Tier, but, fortunately for the latter, as the captain’s

foot touched the quarter-deck, his eye fell on the Poughkeepsie, then

within half a league of the Swash, standing in toward the reef, though

fully half a mile to leeward. This spectre drove all other subjects from

his mind, leaving the captain of the Swash in the only character in

which he could be said to be respectable, or that of a seaman. Almost

instinctively he called all hands, then he gave one brief minute to a

survey of his situation.

It was, indeed, time for the Swash to be moving. There she lay, with

three anchors down, including that of the schooner, all she had, in

fact, with the exception of her best bower, and one kedge, with the

purchases aloft, in readiness for hooking on to the wreck, and all the

extra securities up that had been given to the masts. As for the

sloop-of-war, she was under the very same canvas as that with which she

had come out from the Dry Tortugas, or her three top-sails, spanker, and

jib; but most of her other sails were loose, even to her royals and

flying-jibs, though closely gathered into their spars by means of the

running gear. In a word, every sailor would know, at a glance, that the

ship was merely waiting for the proper moment to spread her wings, when

she would be flying through the water at the top of her speed. The

weather looked dirty, and the wind was gradually increasing, threatening

to blow heavily as the day advanced.

“Unshackle, unshackle!” shouted Spike to the boatswain, who was the

first man that appeared on deck. “The bloody sloop-of-war is upon us,

and there is not a moment to lose. We must get the brig clear of the

ground in the shortest way we can, and abandon every thing. Unshackle,

and cast off for’ard and aft, men.”

A few minutes of almost desperate exertion succeeded. No men work like

sailors, when the last are in a hurry, their efforts being directed to

counteracting squalls, and avoiding emergencies of the most pressing

character. Thus was it now with the crew of the Swash. The clanking of

chains lasted but a minute, when the parts attached to the anchors were

thrust through the hawse-holes, or were dropped into the water from

other parts of the brig. This at once released the vessel, though a

great deal remained to be done to clear her for working, and to put her

in her best trim.

“Away with this out-hauler!” again shouted Spike, casting loose the

main-brails as he did so; “loose the jibs!”

All went on at once, and the Swash moved away from the grave of the poor

carpenter with the ease and facility of motion that marked all her

evolutions. Then the top-sail was let fall, and presently all the upper

square-sails were sheeted home, and hoisted, and the fore-tack was

hauled aboard. The Molly was soon alive, and jumping into the seas that

met her with more power than was common, as she drew out from under the

shelter of the reef into rough water. From the time when Spike gave his

first order, to that when all his canvas was spread, was just seven

minutes.

The Poughkeepsie, with her vastly superior crew, was not idle the while.

Although the watch below was not disturbed, she tacked beautifully, and

stood off the reef, in a line parallel to the course of the brig, and

distant from her about half a mile. Then sail was made, her tacks having

been boarded in stays. Spike knew the play of his craft was short legs,

for she was so nimble in her movements that he believed she could go

about in half the time that would be required for a vessel of the

Poughkeepsie’s length. “Ready about,” was his cry, therefore, when less

than a mile distant from the reef—“ready about, and let her go round.”

Round the Molly did go, like a top, being full on the other tack in just

fifty-six seconds. The movement of the corvette was more stately, and

somewhat more deliberate. Still, she stayed beautifully, and both Spike

and the boatswain shook their heads, as they saw her coming into the

wind with her sails all lifting and the sheets flowing.

“That fellow will fore-reach a cable’s length before he gets about!”

exclaimed Spike. “He will prove too much for us at this sport! Keep her

away, my man—keep the brig away for the passage. We must run through

the reef, instead of trusting ourselves to our heels in open water.”

The brig was kept away accordingly, and sheets were eased off, and

braces just touched, to meet the new line of sailing. As the wind stood,

it was possible to lay through the passage on an easy bowline, though

the breeze, which was getting to be fresher than Spike wished it to be,

promised to haul more to the southward of east, as the day advanced.

Nevertheless, this was the Swash’s best point of sailing, and all on

board of her had strong hopes of her being too much for her pursuer,

could she maintain it. Until this feeling began to diffuse itself in the

brig, not a countenance was to be seen on her decks that did not betray

intense anxiety; but now something like grim smiles passed among the

crew, as their craft seemed rather to fly than force her way through the

water, toward the entrance of the passage so often adverted to in this

narrative.

On the other hand, the Poughkeepsie was admirably sailed and handled.

Everybody was now on deck, and the first lieutenant had taken the

trumpet. Capt. Mull was a man of method, and a thorough man-of-war’s

man. Whatever he did was done according to rule, and with great system.

Just as the Swash was about to enter the passage, the drum of the

Poughkeepsie beat to quarters. No sooner were the men mustered, in the

leeward, or starboard batteries, than orders were sent to cast loose the

guns, and to get them ready for service. Owing to the more leeward

position of his vessel, and to the fact that she always head-reached so

much in stays, Capt. Mull knew that she would not lose much by luffing

into the wind, or by making half boards, while he might gain every thing

by one well directed shot.

The strife commenced by the sloop-of-war firing her weather bow-gun,

single-shotted, at the Swash. No damage was done, though the fore-yard

of the brig had a very narrow escape. This experiment was repeated three

times, without even a rope-yarn being carried away, though the gun was

pointed by Wallace himself and well pointed, too. But it is possible for

a shot to come very near its object and still to do no injury. Such was

the fact on this occasion, though the “ship’s gentleman” was a good deal

mortified by the result. Men look so much at success as the test of

merit, that few pause to inquire into the reasons of failures, though it

frequently happens that adventurers prosper by means of their very

blunders. Capt. Mull now determined on a half board, for his ship was

more to leeward than he desired. Directions were given to the officers

in the batteries to be deliberate, and the helm was put down. As the

ship shot into the wind, each gun was fired, as it could be brought to

bear, until the last of them all was discharged. Then the course of the

vessel was changed, the helm being righted before the ship had lost her

way, and the sloop-of-war fell off again to her course.

All this was done in such a short period of time as scarcely to cause

the Poughkeepsie to lose any thing, while it did the Swash the most

serious injury. The guns had been directed at the brig’s spars and

sails, Capt. Mull desiring no more than to capture his chase, and the

destruction they produced aloft was such as to induce Spike and his men,

at first, to imagine that the whole hamper above their heads was about

to come clattering down on deck. One shot carried away all the weather

fore-topmast rigging of the brig, and would no doubt have brought about

the loss of the mast, if another, that almost instantly succeeded it had

not cut the spar itself in two, bringing down, as a matter of course,

every thing above it. Nearly half of the main-mast was gouged out of

that spar, and the gaff was taken fairly out of its jaws. The fore-yard

was cut in the slings, and various important ropes, were carried away in

different parts of the vessel.

Flight under such circumstances, was impossible, unless some

extraordinary external assistance was to be obtained. This Spike saw at

once, and he had recourse to the only expedient that remained; which

might possibly yet save him. The guns were still belching forth their

smoke and flames, when he shouted out the order to put the helm hard up.

The width of the passage in which the vessels were was not so great but

that he might hope to pass across it and to enter a channel among the

rocks, which was favorably placed for such a purpose, ere the

sloop-of-war could overtake him. Whither that channel led, what water it

possessed, or whether it were not a shallow _cul de sac_, were all facts

of which Spike was ignorant. The circumstances, however, would not admit

of an alternative.

Happily for the execution of Spike’s present design, nothing from aloft

had fallen into the water, to impede the brig’s way. Forward, in

particular, she seemed all wreck; her fore-yard having come down

altogether, so as to encumber the forecastle, while her top-mast, with

its dependent spars and gear, was suspended but a short distance above.

Still, nothing had gone over the side, so as actually to touch the

water, and the craft obeyed her helm as usual. Away she went, then, for

the lateral opening in the reef just mentioned, driven ahead by the

pressure of a strong breeze on her sails, which still offered large

surfaces to the wind, at a rapid rate. Instead of keeping away to

follow, the Poughkeepsie maintained her luff, and just as the Swash

entered the unknown passage, into which she was blindly plunging, the

sloop-of war was about a quarter of a mile to windward, and standing

directly across her stern. Nothing would have been easier, now, than for

Capt. Mull to destroy his chase; but humanity prevented his firing. He

knew that her career must be short, and he fully expected to see her

anchor; when it would be easy for him to take possession with his boats.

With this expectation, indeed, he shortened sail, furling

top-gallant-sails, and hauling up his courses. By this time, the wind

had so much freshened, as to induce him to think of putting in a reef,

and the step now taken had a double object in view.

To the surprise of all on board the man-of-war, the brig continued on,

until she was fully a mile distant, finding her way deeper and deeper

among the mazes of the reef without meeting with any impediment! This

fact induced Capt. Mull to order his Paixhan’s to throw their shells

beyond her, by way of a hint to anchor. While the guns were getting

ready, Spike stood on boldly, knowing it was neck or nothing, and

beginning to feel a faint revival of hope, as he found himself getting

further and further from his pursuers, and the rocks not fetching him

up. Even the men, who had begun to murmur at what seemed to them to be

risking too much, partook, in a slight degree, of the same feeling, and

began to execute the order they had received to try to get the launch

into the water, with some appearance of an intention to succeed.

Previously, the work could scarcely be said to go on at all; but two or

three of the older seamen now bestirred themselves, and suggestions were

made and attended to, that promised results. But it was no easy thing to

get the launch out of a half-rigged brig, that had lost her fore-yard,

and which carried nothing square abaft. A derrick was used in common, to

lift the stern of the boat, but a derrick would now be useless aft,

without an assistant forward. While these things were in discussion,

under the superintendence of the boatswain, and Spike was standing

between the knight-heads, conning the craft, the sloop-of-war let fly

the first of her hollow shot. Down came the hurtling mass upon the

Swash, keeping every head elevated and all eyes looking for the dark

object, as it went booming through the air above their heads. The shot

passed fully a mile to leeward, where it exploded. This great range had

been given to the first shot, with a view to admonish the captain how

long he must continue under the guns of the ship, and as advice to come

to. The second gun followed immediately. Its shot was seen to ricochet,

directly in a line with the brig, making leaps of about half a mile in

length. It struck the water about fifty yards astern of the vessel,

bounded directly over her decks, passing through the main-sail and some

of the fallen hamper forward, and exploded about a hundred yards ahead.

As usually happens with such projectiles, most of the fragments were

either scattered laterally, or went on, impelled by the original

momentum.

The effect of this last gun on the crew of the Swash was instantaneous

and deep. The faint gleamings of hope vanished at once, and a lively

consciousness of the desperate nature of their condition succeeded in

every mind. The launch was forgotten, and, after conferring together for

a moment, the men went in a body, with the boatswain at their head, to

the forecastle, and offered a remonstrance to their commander, on the

subject of holding out any longer, under circumstances so very

hazardous, and which menaced their lives in so many different ways.

Spike listened to them with eyes that fairly glared with fury. He

ordered them back to their duty in a voice of thunder, tapping the

breast of his jacket, where he was known to carry revolvers, with a

significance that could convey but one meaning.

It is wonderful the ascendency that men sometimes obtain over their

fellows, by means of character, the habits of command, and obedience,

and intimidation. Spike was a stern disciplinarian, relying on that and

ample pay for the unlimited control he often found it necessary to

exercise over his crew. On the present occasion, his people were

profoundly alarmed, but habitual deference and submission to their

leader counteracted the feeling, and held them in suspense. They were

fully aware of the nature of the position they occupied in a legal

sense, and were deeply reluctant to increase the appearances of crime;

but most of them had been extricated from so many grave difficulties in

former instances, by the coolness, nerve and readiness of the captain,

that a latent ray of hope was perhaps dimly shining in the rude breast

of every old sea-dog among them. As a consequence of these several

causes, they abandoned their remonstrance, for the moment at least, and

made a show of returning to their duty; though it was in a sullen and

moody manner.

It was easier, however, to make a show of hoisting out the launch, than

to effect the object. This was soon made apparent on trial, and Spike

himself gave the matter up. He ordered the yawl to be lowered, got

alongside, and to be prepared for the reception of the crew, by putting

into it a small provision of food and water. All this time the brig was

rushing madly to leeward, among rocks and breakers, without any other

guide than that which the visible dangers afforded. Spike knew no more

where he was going than the meanest man in his vessel. His sole aim was

to get away from his pursuers, and to save his neck from the rope. He

magnified the danger of punishment that he really ran, for he best knew

the extent and nature of his crimes, of which the few that have been

laid before the reader, while they might have been amongst the most

prominent, as viewed through the statutes and international law, were

far from the gravest he had committed in the eyes of morals.

About this time the Señor Montefalderon went forward to confer with

Spike. The calmness of this gentleman’s demeanor, the simplicity and

coolness of his movements, denoted a conscience that saw no particular

ground for alarm. He wished to escape captivity, that he might continue

to serve his country, but no other apprehension troubled him.

“Do you intend to trust yourself in the yawl, Don Esteban?” demanded the

Mexican quietly. “If so, is she not too small to contain so many as we

shall make altogether?”

Spike’s answer was given in a low voice; and it evidently came from a

very husky throat.

“Speak lower, Don Wan,” he said. “The boat would be greatly overloaded

with all hands in it, especially among the breakers, and blowing as it

does; but we may leave some of the party behind.”

“The brig _must_ go on the rocks, sooner or later, Don Esteban; when she

does, she will go to pieces in an hour.

“I expect to hear her strike every minute, señor; the moment she does we

must be off. I have had my eye on that ship for some time, expecting to

see her lower her cutters and gigs to board us. _You_ will not be out of

the way, Don Wan; but there is no need of being talkative on the subject

of our escape.”

Spike now turned his back on the Mexican, looking anxiously ahead, with

the desire to get as far into the reef as possible with his brig, which

he conned with great skill and coolness. The Señor Montefalderon left

him. With the chivalry and consideration of a man and a gentleman, he

went in quest of Mrs. Budd and Biddy. A hint sufficed for them, and

gathering together a few necessaries they were in the yawl in the next

three minutes. This movement was unseen by Spike, or he might have

prevented, it. His eyes were now riveted on the channel ahead. It had

been fully his original intention to make off in the boat, the instant

the brig struck, abandoning not only Don Juan, with Mrs. Budd and Biddy

to their fates, but most of the crew. A private order had been given to

the boatswain, and three of the ablest bodied among the seamen, each and

all of whom kept the secret with religious fidelity, as it was believed

their own personal safety might be connected with the success of this

plan.

Nothing is so contagious as alarm. It requires not only great natural

steadiness of nerve, but much acquired firmness to remain unmoved when

sudden terror has seized on the minds of those around us. Habitual

respect had prevented the crew from interfering with the movements of

the Mexican, who not only descended into the boat with his female

companions uninterrupted, but also took with him the little bag of

doubloons which fell to his share from the first raising of the

schooner. Josh and Jack Tier assisted in getting Mrs. Budd and Biddy

over the side, and both took their own places in the yawl, as soon as

this pious duty was discharged. This served as a hint to others near at

hand; and man after man left his work to steal into the yawl, until

every living being had disappeared from the deck of the Swash, Spike

himself excepted. The man at the wheel had been the last to desert his

post, nor would he have done so then, but for a signal from the

boatswain, with whom he was a favorite.

It is certain there was a secret desire among the people of the Swash,

who were now crowded into a boat not large enough to contain more than

half their number with safety, to push off from the brig’s side, and

abandon her commander and owner to his fate. All had passed so soon,

however, and events succeeded each other with so much rapidity, that

little time was given for consultation. Habit kept them in their places,

though the appearances around them were strong motives for taking care

of themselves.

Notwithstanding the time necessary to relate the foregoing events, a

quarter of an hour had not elapsed, from the moment when the Swash

entered this unknown channel among the rocks, ere she struck. No sooner

was her helm deserted than she broached-to, and Spike was in the act of

denouncing the steerage, ignorant of its cause, when the brig was

thrown, broadside-to, on a sharp, angular bed of rocks. It was fortunate

for the boat, and all in it, that it was brought to leeward by the

broaching-to of the vessel, and that the water was still sufficiently

deep around them to prevent the waves from breaking. Breakers there

were, however, in thousands, on every side; and the seamen understood

that their situation was almost desperately perilous, without shipwreck

coming to increase the danger.

The storm itself was scarcely more noisy and boisterous than was Spike,

when he ascertained the manner in which his people had behaved. At

first, he believed it was their plan to abandon him to his fate; but, on

rushing to the lee-gangway, Don Juan Montefalderon assured him that no

such intention existed, and that he would not allow the boat to be cast

off until the captain was received on board. This brief respite gave

Spike a moment to care for his portion of the doubloons; and he rushed

to his state-room to secure them, together with his quadrant.

The grinding of the brig’s bottom on the coral, announced a speedy

breaking up of the craft, while her commander was thus employed. So

violent were some of the shocks with which she came down on the hard bed

in which she was now cradled, that Spike expected to see her burst

asunder, while he was yet on her decks. The cracking of timbers told him

that all was over with the Swash, nor had he got back as far as the

gangway with his prize, before he saw plainly that the vessel had broken

her back, as it is termed, and that her plank-sheer was opening in a way

that threatened to permit a separation of the craft into two sections,

one forward and the other aft. Notwithstanding all these portentous

proofs that the minutes of the Molly were numbered, and the danger that

existed of his being abandoned by his crew, Spike paused a moment, ere

he went over the vessel’s side, to take a hasty survey of the reef. His

object was to get a general idea of the position of the breakers, with a

view to avoid them. As much of the interest of that which is to succeed

is connected with these particular dangers, it may be well to explain

their character, along with a few other points of a similar bearing.

The brig had gone ashore fully two miles within the passage she had

entered, and which, indeed, terminated at the very spot where she had

struck. The Poughkeepsie was standing off and on, in the main channel,

with her boats in the water, evidently preparing to carry the brig in

that mode. As for the breakers, they whitened the surface of the ocean

in all directions around the wreck, far as the eye could reach, but in

two. The passage in which the Poughkeepsie was standing to and fro was

clear of them, of course; and about a mile and a half to the northward,

Spike saw that he should be in open water, or altogether on the northern

side of the reef, could he only get there. The gravest dangers would

exist in the passage, which led among breakers on all sides, and very

possibly among rocks so near the surface as to absolutely obstruct the

way. In one sense, however, the breakers were useful. By avoiding them

as much as possible, and by keeping in the unbroken water, the boat

would be running in the channels of the reef, and consequently would be

the safer. The result of the survey, short as it was, and it did not

last a minute, was to give Spike something like a plan; and when he went

over the side, and got into the boat, it was with a determination to

work his way out of the reef to its northern edge, as soon as possible,

and then to skirt it as near as he could, in his flight toward the Dry

Tortugas.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

BLIND!

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.