It was now very dark, as there was no moon, and the stars were often
obscured by the clouds, which were heavy and borne along by the wind,
which was very high. The light again appeared, and this time Edward
heard the clash of the flint against the steel, and he was quite
certain that it was somebody striking a light. He advanced very
cautiously, and arrived at a large tree, behind which he remained to
reconnoiter. The people, whoever they might be, were not more than
thirty yards from him; a light spread its rays for a moment or two, and
he could make out a figure kneeling and holding his hat to protect it
from the wind; then it burned brighter, and he saw that a lantern had
been lighted, and then again, of a sudden, all was dark: so Edward
immediately satisfied himself that a dark lantern had been lighted and
then closed. Who the parties might be, he of course had no idea; but he
was resolved that he would ascertain, if he could, before he accosted
them and asked his way.
"They have no dog," thought Edward, "or it would have growled before
this; and it's lucky that I have none either." Edward then crept softly
nearer to them: the wind, which was strong, blew from where they were
to where Edward stood, so that there was less chance of their hearing
his approach.
Edward went on his hands and knees, and crawled through the fern until
he gained another tree, and within ten yards of them, and from where he
could hear what they might say. He was thus cautious, as he had been
told by Oswald that there were many disbanded soldiers who had taken up
their quarters in the forest, and had committed several depredations
upon the houses adjacent to it, always returning to the forest as a
rendezvous. Edward listened, and heard one say--
"It is not time yet! No, no: too soon by half an hour or more. The
people from Lymington, who buy him what he wants, always bring it to
him at night, that his retreat may not be discovered. They sometimes do
not leave the cottage till two hours after dark, for they do not leave
Lymington to go there till it is dark."
"Do you know who it is who supplies him with food?"
"Yes, the people at the inn in Parliament-street--I forget the sign."
"Oh, I know. Yes, the landlord is a downright Malignant in his heart!
We might squeeze him well, if we dared show ourselves in Lymington."
"Yes, but they would squeeze our necks tighter than would be agreeable,
I expect," replied the other.
"Are you sure that he has money?"
"Quite sure; for I peeped through the chinks of the window-shutters,
and I saw him pay for the things brought to him; it was from a canvas
bag, and it was gold that he took out."
"And where did he put the bag after he had paid them?"
"That I can't tell, for, as I knew that they would come out as soon as
they were paid, I was obliged to beat a retreat, lest I should be seen."
"Well, then, how is it to be managed?"
"We must first tap at the door, and try if we can get in as benighted
travelers; if that won't do--and I fear it will not--while you remain
begging for admittance at the door, and keep him occupied, I will try
the door behind, that leads into the garden; and if not the door, I
will try the window. I have examined them both well, and have been
outside when he has shut up his shutters, and I know the fastenings.
With a pane out, I could open them immediately."
"Is there any body else besides him in the cottage?"
"Yes, a lad who attends him, and goes to Lymington for him."
"No women?"
"Not one."
"But do you think we two are sufficient? Had we not better get more
help? There is Broom, and Black the gipsy, at the rendezvous. I can go
for them, and be back in time; they are stout and true."
"Stout enough, but not true. No, no, I want no sharers in this
business, and you know how ill they behaved in the last affair. I'll
swear that they only produced half the swag. I like honor between
gentlemen and soldiers; and that's why I have chosen you. I know I can
trust you, Benjamin. It's time now--what do you say? We are two to one,
for I count the boy as nothing. Shall we start?"
"I am with you. You say there's a bag of gold, and that's worth
fighting for."
"Yes, Ben, and I'll tell you: with what I've got buried, and my share
of that bag, I shall have enough, I think; and I'll start for the Low
Countries, for England's getting rather too warm for me."
"Well, I shan't go yet," replied Benjamin. "I don't like your foreign
parts; they have no good ale, and I can't understand their talk. I'd
sooner remain in jolly old England with a halter twisted ready for me,
than pass my life with such a set of chaps, who drink nothing but
scheidam, and wear twenty pair of breeches. Come, let's be off; if we
get the money, you shall go to the Low Countries, Will, and I'll start
for the North, where they don't know me; for if you go, I won't stay
here."
The two men then rose up; and the one whose name appeared to be Will
first examined if the candle in his dark lantern burned well; and then
they both set off, followed by Edward, who had heard quite enough to
satisfy him that they were bent upon a burglary, if not murder. Edward
followed them, so as to keep their forms indistinctly in sight, which
was as much as he could do at twenty yards' distance; fortunately the
wind was so high that they did not hear his footsteps, although he
often trod upon a rotten stick, which snapped as it broke in twain. As
near as Edward could guess, he had tracked them about three miles, when
they stopped, and he perceived that they were examining their pistols,
which they took from their belts. They then went on again, and entered
a small plantation of oak-trees, of about forty years' growth--very
thick and very dark, with close underwood below. They followed each
other through a narrow path, until they came to a cleared place in the
middle of the plantation, in which there stood a low cottage,
surrounded with covert on every side, with the exception of some thirty
yards of land around it. All was still, and as dark as pitch; Edward
remained behind the trees, and when the two men again stopped, he was
not six feet from them. They consulted in a low tone but the wind was
so high that he could not distinguish what they said. At last they
advanced to the cottage, and Edward, still keeping within the trees,
shifted his position, so that he should be opposite the gable end of
the cottage. He observed one man to go up to the front door, while the
other went round to the door behind, as had been agreed. Edward threw
open the pan of the lock of the gun, and reprimed it, that he might be
sure, and then waited for what was to follow. He heard the man Will at
the front door, talking and asking for shelter in a plaintive but loud
voice; and shortly afterward he perceived a light through the chinks of
the shutters--for Edward was continually altering his position to see
what was going on in the front and in the back. At one time, he thought
of leveling his gun and killing one of the men at once; but he could
not make up his mind to do that, as a burglary, although intended, had
not yet been committed; so he remained passive until the attack was
really made, when he resolved that he would come to the rescue. After
some minutes of entreaty that they would open the door, the man in
front commenced thumping and beating against it, as if he would make
them open the door by force; but this was to attract the attention of
those within, and divert it from the attempts that the other was making
to get in behind. Edward was aware of this; he now kept his eye upon
what was going on at the back. Advancing nearer--which he ventured to
do now that both the men were so occupied--he perceived that the fellow
had contrived to open the window close to the back door, and was
remaining quite close to it with a pistol in his hand, apparently not
wishing to run the risk of climbing in. Edward slipped under the eaves
of the cottage, not six feet from the man, who remained with his back
partly turned to him. Edward then, finding he had obtained this
position unperceived, crouched down with his gun ready pointed.
As Edward remained in this position, he heard a shrill voice cry out,
"They are getting in behind!" and a movement in cottage. The man near
him, who had his pistol in his hand, put his arm through the window and
fired inside. A shriek was given, and Edward fired his gun into the
body of the man, who immediately fell. Edward lost no time in reloading
his gun, during which he heard the bursting open of the front door and
the report of firearms; then all was silent for a moment, excepting the
wailing of somebody within. As soon as his gun was reloaded, Edward
walked round to the front of the cottage, where he found the man who
was called Ben, lying across the threshold of the open door. He stepped
across the body, and, looking into the room within, perceived a body
stretched on the floor, and a young lad weeping over it.
"Don't be alarmed, I am a friend," said Edward, going in to where the
body lay; and, taking the light which was at the farther end of the
chamber, he placed it on the floor, that he might examine the state of
the person, who was breathing heavily, and apparently badly wounded.
"Rise up, my lad," said Edward, "and let me see if I can be of any use."
"Ah, no!" cried the boy, throwing back his long hair from his temples,
"he bleeds to death!"
"Bring me some water, quick," said Edward, "there's a good lad, while I
see where he is hurt."
The boy ran up to fetch the water, and Edward discovered that the ball
had entered the neck above the collar-bone, and that the blood poured
out of the man's mouth, who was choking with the effusion. Although
ignorant of surgery, Edward thought that such a wound must be mortal;
but the man was not only alive but sensible, and although he could not
utter a word, he spoke with his eyes and with signs. He raised his hand
and pointed to himself first, and shook his head, as if to say that it
was all over with him; and then he turned round his head, as if looking
for the lad, who was now returning with the water. When the lad again
knelt by his side, weeping bitterly, the man pointed to him, and gave
such an imploring look that Edward immediately comprehended what he
wished: it was to ask protection for the boy. It could not be
misunderstood, and could Edward do otherwise than promise it to the
dying man? His generous nature could not refuse it, and he said, "I
understand you; you wish me to take care of your boy when you are gone.
Is it not so?"
The man signified assent.
"I promise you I will do so. I will take him into my own family, and he
shall share with us."
The man raised his hand again, and a gleam of joy passed over his
features, as he took the hand of the lad and put it into that of
Edward. His eyes were then fixed upon Edward as if to scrutinize into
his character by his features, while the former bathed his temples and
washed the blood from his mouth with the water brought by the boy, who
appeared in a state of grief so violent as to paralyze his senses.
After a minute or two, another effusion of blood choked the wounded
man, who, after a short struggle, fell back dead.
"He is gone!" thought Edward, "and now what is to be done? I must first
ascertain whether the two villains are dead or not. Edward took a light
and examined the body of Ben, lying over the threshold of the door; the
man was quite dead, the ball having entered his brain. He was
proceeding round the outside of the cottage to examine the state of the
other man, whom he had shot himself; but the wind nearly blew out the
light, and he therefore returned to the chamber and placed it on the
floor, near to where the boy lay insensible over the corpse of the man
who had died in the arms of Edward; and then went out without a light,
and with his gun, to the other side of the cottage, where the other
robber had fallen. As he approached the man, a faint voice was heard to
say--
"Ben, Ben! some water, for the love of God! Ben, I'm done for!"
Edward, without giving an answer, went back to the room for the water,
which he took round to the man, and put it to his lips; he felt that he
was bound by humanity so to do to a dying man, scoundrel though he
might be. It was still dark, but not so dark as it had previously been,
for the late moon was just rising.
The man drank the water eagerly, and said, "Ben, I can speak now, but I
shan't long." He then pulled the basin toward him again, and after he
had drank, ho said, in broken sentences, "I feel--that I'm bleeding--to
death--inside." Then he paused. "You know the oak--struck by
lightning--a mile north--of this. Oh! I'm going fast. Three yards from
it south--I buried all my--money; it's yours. Oh! another drink!" The
man again attempted to drink out of the basin proffered by Edward, but
as he made the attempt, he fell back with a groan.
Edward perceiving that he was dead, returned to the cottage to look
after the lad, who still remained prostrate and embracing the corpse in
the chamber. Edward then reflected upon what had best be done. After a
time, he decided upon dragging away the body of the robber named Ben
outside of the threshold, and then securing the door. This, with some
trouble, he effected, and he then made fast the window that had been
forced open behind. Before he removed the boy, who lay with his face
buried on the corpse, and appeared to be in a state of insensibility,
Edward examined the corpse as it lay. Although plainly dressed, yet it
was evident that it was not the body of a rustic; the features were
fair, and the beard was carefully cut; the hands were white, and the
fingers long, and evidently had never been employed in labor. That the
body was that of some superior person disguised as a rustic, was
evident, and this was corroborated by the conversation which took place
between the two robbers. "Alas!" thought Edward, "the family of Arnwood
appear not to be the only people who are in disguise in this forest.
That poor boy! he must not remain there." Edward looked round, and
perceived that there was a bed in the adjoining room, the door of which
was open; he lifted up the boy, and carried him, still insensible, into
the room, and laid him on the bed. He then went for some more water,
which he found and threw into his face, and poured a little into his
mouth. Gradually the boy stirred, and recovered from his stupor, and
then Edward held the water to his mouth, and made him drink some, which
he did; and then, suddenly aroused to a recollection of what had
passed, the boy gave a shriek of woe, and burst into a paroxysm of
tears. This ended in convulsive sobbings and low moanings. Edward felt
that he could do no more at present, and that it would be better if he
was left for a time to give vent to his grief. Edward sat down on a
stool by the side of the orphan, and remained for some time in deep and
melancholy thought. "How strange," thought he at last, "it is, that I
should feel so little as I do now, surrounded by death, compared to
what I did when good old Jacob Armitage died! Then I felt it deeply,
and there was an awe in death. Now I no longer dread it. Is it because
I loved the good old man, and felt that I had lost a friend? No, that
can not be the cause; I may have felt more grief, but not awe or dread.
Or is it because that was the first time that I had seen death, and it
is the first sight of death which occasions awe? or is it because that
every day I have fancied myself on the battle-field, with hundreds
lying dead and wounded around me, in my dreamings? I know not. Poor old
Jacob died peaceably in his bed, like a good Christian and trusting,
after a blameless life, to find mercy through his Savior. Two of these
who are now dead, out of the three, have been, summoned away in the
height of their wickedness, and in the very commission of crime; the
third has been foully murdered, and out of three lying dead, one has
fallen by my own hand, and yet I feel not so much as when I attended
the couch, and listened to the parting words of a dying Christian! I
cannot account for it, or reason why; I only know that it is so, and I
now look upon death unconcerned. Well, this is a kind of preparation
for the wholesale murder and horrors of the battlefield, which I have
so long sighed for: God forgive me if I am wrong! And this poor boy! I
have promised to protect him, and I will. Could I fail my promise, I
should imaging the spirit of his father (as I presume he was) looking
down and upbraiding me. No, no, I will protect him. I and my brother
and sisters have been preserved and protected, and I were indeed vile
if I did not do to others as I have been done by. And now let me
reflect what is to be done. I must not take the boy away, and bury the
bodies; this person has friends at Lymington, and they will come here.
The murder has taken place in the forest: then I must let the intendant
know what has occurred. I will send over to Oswald; Humphrey shall go.
Poor fellow! what a state of anxiety must he and my little sisters be
in, at my not returning home! I had quite forgotten that, but it can
not be helped. I will wait till sunrise, and then see if the boy will
be more himself, and probably from him I shall be able to find out what
part of the forest I am in."
Edward took up the candle and went into the room in which he had laid
the boy on the bed. He found him in a sound sleep. "Poor fellow," said
Edward, "he has for a time forgotten his misery. What a beautiful boy
he is! I long to know his history. Sleep on, my poor fellow! it will do
you service."
Edward then returned to the other room, and recollected, or, rather,
was reminded, that he had had no supper, and it was now nearly dawn of
day. He looked into a cupboard and found plenty of provisions, and some
flasks of wine. "I have earned my supper," thought he, "and I will not,
therefore, deny myself." So ho brought out the viands and a flask of
wine, and made a hearty meal. "It is long since I have tasted wine,"
thought he, "and it maybe long ere I drink it again. I have little
relish for it now: it is too fiery to the palate. I recollect, when a
child, how my father used to have me at the table, and give me a stoup
of claret, which I could hardly lift to my lips, to drink to the health
of the king." The memory of the king raised other thoughts in Edward's
mind, and he again sunk into one of his reveries, which lasted till he
fell into a slumber. When he woke up, it was at the voice of the boy,
who in his sleep had cried out "Father!" Edward started up, and found
that the sun was an hour high, and that he must have slept some time.
He gently opened the cottage door, looked at the bodies of the two men,
and then walked out to survey the locality of the cottage, which he had
but faintly made out during the night. He found that it was surrounded
by a thicket of trees and underwood, so close and thick that there
appeared to him no outlet in any direction. "What a place for
concealment!" thought Edward, "but still these prowling thieves
discovered it. Why, troops of horse might scour the forest for months,
and never discover such a hiding-place." Edward walked round by the
side of the thicket, to find out the track by which the robbers had
entered when he followed them, and at last succeeded in doing so. He
followed the path through the thicket until he was clear of it, and
again in the forest; but the scenery outside was unknown to him, and he
had not an idea as to what part of the forest it was in. "I must
question the boy," thought Edward. "I will go back and wake him up, for
it is time that I was moving." As he was again turning into the
thicket, he heard a dog giving tongue, as if on a scent. It came nearer
and nearer to him, and Edward remained to see what it might be. In a
moment more, he perceived his own dog, Smoker, come bounding out of a
neighboring copse, followed by Humphrey and Pablo. Edward hallooed.
Smoker sprung toward him, leaping up, and loading him with caresses,
and in another moment he was in Humphrey's arms.
"Oh, Edward, let me first thank God!" said Humphrey, as the tears
started and rolled down his cheeks. "What a night we have passed! What
has happened? That dear fellow, Pablo, thought of putting Smoker on the
scent; he brought out your jacket and showed it to Smoker, and gave it
him to smell, and then led him along till he was on your footsteps; and
the dog followed him, it seems, although it has been round and round in
every direction, till at last he has brought us to you."
Edward shook hands with Pablo, and thanked him. "How far are we from
the cottage, Humphrey?"
"About eight miles, I should say, Edward; not more."
"Well, I have much to tell you, and I must tell it to you in few words
before I go farther, and afterward I will tell you all in detail."
Edward then gave a succinct narration of what had occurred, and, having
thus prepared Humphrey and Pablo for what they were to see, led the way
back through the thicket to the cottage inside of it. Humphrey and
Pablo were much shocked at the scene of slaughter which presented
itself to their eyes; and, after having viewed the bodies, they began
to consult what had best be done.
The proposal of Edward, that Humphrey should go over and make known the
circumstances to Oswald, that they might be communicated to the
intendant, was readily acceded to; and Pablo, it was agreed, should go
home and tell Alice and Edith that Edward was safe.
"But now, Humphrey, about this boy; we can not leave him here."
"Where is he?"
"He still sleeps, I believe. The question is, whether you should ride
over with the pony, or walk, and leave Pablo to return with the pony
and cart; for I will not take the boy away, or leave the house myself,
without removing the property which belongs to the boy, and of which I
will make inquiry when he awakes. Besides, there is money, by what the
robbers stated in my hearing, which of course must be taken care of for
him."
"I think it will be best for me to walk over, Edward. If I ride, I
should arrive too late in the afternoon for any thing to be done till
next morning, and if I walk I shall be in time enough; so that is
settled. Besides, it will give you more time to remove the boy's
property, which, as his father was in all probability a Malignant, and
denounced man, they might think right to secure for the government."
"Very true; then be it so. Do you start for the intendant's; and,
Pablo, go home and fetch the pony and cart, while I remain here with
the boy, and get every thing ready."
Humphrey and Pablo both set off, and then Edward went to waken the boy,
still lying on the bed.
"Come, you must get up now. You know that what's done can not be
undone; and if you are a good boy, and have read the Bible, you must
know that we must submit to the will of God, who is our kind father in
heaven."
"Ah me!" said the boy, who was awake when Edward went to him; "I know
well it is my duty, but it is a hard duty, and I am heartbroken. I have
lost my father, the only friend I had in the world; who is there to
love and to cherish me now? What will become of me!"
"I promised your father, before he died, that I would take care of you,
my poor fellow; and a promise is sacred with me, even if it were not
made to a dying man. I will do my best, depend upon it, for I have
known myself what it is to want and to find a protector. You shall live
with me and my brother and sisters, and you shall have all we have."
"Have you sisters, then?" replied the boy.
"Yes; I have sent for the cart to take you away from this, and to-night
you shall be in our cottage; but now tell me--I do not ask who your
father was, or why he was living here in secret, as I found it out by
what I overheard the robbers say to one another--but how long have you
lived here?"
"More than a year."
"Whose cottage is it?"
"My father bought it when he came, as he thought it safer so, that he
might not be discovered or betrayed; for he had escaped from prison
after having been condemned to death by the Parliament."
"Then he was a loyal man to his king?"
"Yes, he was, and that was his only crime."
"Then fear not, my good boy; we are all loyal as well as he was, and
will never be otherwise. I tell you this that you may safely trust to
us. Now, if the cottage was his, the furniture and property were his
also?"
"Yes, all was his."
"And it is now yours, is it not?"
"I suppose so," said the boy, bursting into tears.
"Then listen to me: your father is safe from all persecution now; he
is, I trust, in heaven; and you they can not touch, as you have done
nothing to offend them; but still they will take possession of your
father's property as soon as they know of his death, and find out who
he was. This, for your sake I wish to prevent them from doing, and have
therefore sent for the cart, that I may remove to my cottage every
thing that is of value, that it may be held for your benefit; some day
or another you may require it. The murder having been committed in the
forest, and I having been a witness and, moreover, having shot one of
the robbers, I have considered it right to send to the intendant of the
forest, to give him notice of what has taken place within his
jurisdiction. I do not think he is so bad a man as the rest; but still,
when he comes here, he may consider it his duty to take possession of
every thing for the Parliament, as I have no doubt such are his orders,
or will be when he communicates with the Parliament. Now this is a
robbery which I wish to prevent, by carrying away your property before
they come over, which they will to-morrow; and I propose that you shall
accompany me, with all that you can take away, or that may be useful,
this evening."
"You are very kind," replied the boy. "I will do all you wish, but I
feel very weak, and very unwell."
"You must exert yourself, for your own sake, my poor fellow. Come, now,
sit up and put all your own clothes together. Collect every thing in
this room, while I look about the house. And tell me, had not your
father some money? for the robbers said that they saw him counting it
out of a sack, through the chinks of the shutters, and that was why
they made the attack."
"Hateful money!" cried the boy. "Yes, he had, I believe, a great deal
of money; but I can not say how much."
"Now get up, and do as I request, my dear boy," said Edward, raising
him up in his arms; "when your grief is lessened, you may have many
happy days yet in store for you; you have a Father in heaven that you
must put your trust in, and with him you will find peace."
The boy rose up, and Edward closed the door of the chamber that he
might not see his father's corpse.
"I do put my trust in Heaven, good sir," replied the boy; "for it has
already sent me a kind friend in my distress. You are good, I am sure;
I see that in your face. Alas! how much more wretched would have been
my condition if you had not fortunately come to our assistance! too
late indeed to save my poor father, but not too late to succor and
console his child. I will go away with you, for I can not stay here."