



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The School Friends
Nothing New
By WHG Kingston
Illustrations by E. Evans
Published by George Routledge and Sons, London.

The School Friends, by WHG Kingston.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE SCHOOL FRIENDS, BY WHG KINGSTON.

BOOK I--THE SCHOOL FRIENDS; NOTHING NEW.

CHAPTER I.

Lance Loughton and Emery Dulman were brought up together at Elmerston
Grammar-School.  They were both in the upper or sixth form; but Lance
was nearly at the head, while Emery was at the bottom, of the form.
They were general favourites, though for different causes.  Lance was
decidedly best liked by the masters.  He was steady, persevering, and
studious, besides being generous, kind-hearted, and brave--ever ready to
defend the weak against the strong, while he would never allow a little
boy to be bullied by a big one if he could help it.  Emery had talents,
but they were more showy than solid.  He was good-natured and full of
life and spirits, and having plenty of money, spent it freely.  He was,
however, easily led, and had in consequence done many foolish things,
which got him into trouble, though he managed, on the whole, to maintain
a tolerably good character.

Lance and Emery were on friendly terms; and Lance, who thought he saw
good qualities in his companion, would gladly have won his confidence,
but Emery did not like what he called Lance's lectures, and there was
very little or no interchange of thought between them.  Without it real
friendship can scarcely be said to exist.  They were, however, looked
upon as school friends, and certainly Lance would at all times have been
ready to do a friendly act for Emery.

Emery was somewhat of a fine gentleman in his way.  His father was a
tradesman in the place, and wished his son to assist him in his
business, but Emery often spoke of entering the army or one of the
liberal professions.  He therefore considered himself equal to those
whose fathers held a higher social grade than his own.  His father's
style of life encouraged him in this.  Mr Dulman had a handsome house,
and gave dinners and parties; and at elections took a leading part, and
entertained the proposed member and his friends, and indeed sometimes
talked of entering Parliament himself, and altogether did a good deal to
excite the envy of his less successful fellow-townsmen.

Emery constantly invited Lance to his house, and was really flattered
when he came; for Lance's father, who had died when he was very young,
was a lieutenant in the navy; and his widowed mother, though left with
only her pension to depend on, was a lady by birth and education.
Lance, however, very frequently refused Emery's pressing invitations.

"I never met such a stay-at-home fellow as you are," exclaimed the
latter, when on one occasion Lance had declined attending a gay party Mr
and Mrs Dulman were about to give.  "We shall have half the
neighbourhood present--Mr Perkins, our member, and I don't know how many
other grandees--and we want some young fellows like you, who can dance
and do the polite.  Mother says I must get you, for we don't know what
to do for proper partners for the young ladies."

"I should have been happy to make myself useful," answered Lance,
laughing; "but I am no great dancer, and my poor mother is so unwell
that I cannot leave her."

"Oh, she has got little Maddie Hayward to look after her, so I will come
and get her to let you off."

"I beg that you will not make the attempt," answered Lance, more gravely
than he had hitherto spoken.  "My mother is seriously ill; besides I
have work to do, and any time I can spare I must devote to her."

"Oh, but a little gaiety will do you good, and you can cheer her up with
an account of the party," persisted Emery.

Lance was, however, firm, and he returned in a thoughtful mood to his
humble little cottage in the outskirts of the town.

A sweet fair face met him at the jessamine-covered porch--that of a girl
three or four years younger than himself.  It would not have been
surprising had he preferred her society to that of the fine ladies his
friend had spoken of, though he certainly was not conscious that this
had in any degree influenced him.

Madelene Hayward was indeed a lovely young creature, sweet-tempered and
good as she was beautiful.  She was the orphan child of a distant
relative of Lieutenant Loughton.  Having been left, when still an
infant, utterly destitute, she had been adopted by the kind-hearted
officer at his wife's earnest wish, and brought up as their daughter,
although their own scanty means might have excused them in the eyes of
the world had they declined the responsibility.

Mrs Loughton had devoted herself to Maddie's education, and the young
girl repaid her with the most tender love.  Some time before this Mrs
Loughton's old servant had married, and Maddie had persuaded her not to
engage another in her place, consenting only that a woman should come in
to light the fires and do the rougher work which she was less able to
perform.  While Mrs Loughton was well, she herself attending to what was
necessary, Maddie's duties were not very heavy, but since her illness
they had of necessity much increased.

Though she tried not to let Lance discover how hard she worked, he knew
that her attendance on his mother must occupy the chief part of her
time.  His aim was therefore to relieve her as much as possible.  Where
there is a will there is a way.  He soon learned to clean his shoes, and
purchasing needles and thread and worsted, to mend his clothes and darn
his socks; and Maddie was surprised to find one morning that his bed was
made and his room set to rights, when she was sure that Dame Judkin had
not gone into it.  She found him out at last, and reproachfully asked
why he had not given her his torn coat to mend, and a pair of socks
which she had discovered darned in a curious fashion.

"I wanted to try if I could not do it," he answered, smiling.  "Just
look at that sleeve--I defy it to tear again in the same place."

"Perhaps so, but as every one can see that there has been a rent, I
shall be accused of being a very bad tailoress, and I am afraid you will
find an uncomfortable lump in the heel of your socks.  Do, dear Lance,
bring the next pair requiring mending to me, and I will find time to dam
them."

Few could fail to admire Madelene Hayward.

"How is our mother?" asked Lance, taking her hand, as he found her
waiting for him in the porch of their little cottage.

"She has at last dropped off to sleep; but she has been in much pain all
the day," answered Maddie.  "And, O Lance!  I sometimes fear that she
will not recover.  Yet our lives are in God's hands, and we can together
pray, if He thinks fit, that hers may be preserved for our sakes--I
cannot say for her own, as I am sure, resting on the merits of Him who
died for sinners, she is ready to go hence to enjoy that happiness He
has prepared for those who love Him."

"But, Maddie, do you really think mother is so ill?" asked Lance, with
an anxious look.  "I know that when she is taken, the change to her must
be a blessed one; but, Maddie, what would become of you?"

He spoke in a tone which showed the grief which Madelene's announcement
had caused him.

"I have not thought about myself," she answered quietly.  "My wish was
to prepare you for what I dread may occur, and to ask you to join your
prayer with mine that God will in His mercy allow her to remain longer
with us.  He can do all things, and the prayer of faith availeth much."

"I am sure it does," said Lance.  "I will pray with you.  I have too
often prayed as a matter of form, but now I can pray from the bottom of
my heart."

The young people lifted up their hearts and voices as they stood
together, hand in hand, in the porch, which was hid by a high hedge from
the passers-by.

They noiselessly entered the cottage.  Mrs Loughton was still sleeping.
Perhaps even then Lance realised the fact that Maddie was more to him
than any other being on earth, and he mentally resolved to exert all his
energies to procure the means of supporting her, should she be deprived
of her present guardian.

They sat together in silence lest their voices might awaken Mrs
Loughton.  Maddie had resumed her work, while Lance had placed his books
on the table; but his eyes scarcely rested on them--he was thinking of
the future.

Mrs Loughton at length awoke.  She appeared revived by her sleep, the
most tranquil she had enjoyed for many a day.  After this, to the joy of
Maddie and her son, she rapidly got better, and with thankful hearts
they saw her restored to comparative health.

Lance had no foolish pride, but he had refrained from asking any of his
schoolfellows, especially those who, like Emery, lived in fine houses,
to enter his mother's humble cottage.  One day, however, Emery overtook
him as he was returning from home.  On reaching the cottage, his
companion pulled out his watch, observing that it was tea-time, and
saying in an off-hand way, "I daresay your mother will give me a cup,
for I am fearfully thirsty."

Lance, without downright rudeness, could not refuse to ask him in.

The widow received her guest with the courtesy of a lady, though, more
acquainted with the world than her son, she saw defects in the manners
of his companion which he had not discovered.  She was not pleased,
either, with the undisguised admiration Emery bestowed on Maddie, and
was very glad when Lance, bringing out his books, observed, "Now, old
fellow, I have got to study, and you ought to be doing the same, and
though I don't want to turn you out, you will excuse me if I set to
work."

Maddie got up to remove the tea-things, and Mrs Loughton took her work;
so that Emery, finding that the young lady was not likely to listen to
his fine speeches, at length, greatly to their relief, wished them good
evening.

CHAPTER TWO.

Emery had certainly not received the slightest encouragement to pay
another visit to his schoolfellow's abode.  He, however, fancied himself
desperately smitten with the beauty of Madelene Hayward, and after this
very frequently sauntered by the cottage, or whenever he could make an
excuse to accompany Lance, he walked with him towards his home, in the
hopes of being again invited in.  Lance, however, sturdily refused to
understand his hints, and managed, generally without churlishness, to
get rid of him.

Emery, however, met Maddie one day when out walking alone, and with a
self-assurance of which no gentleman would have been guilty, in spite of
her evident annoyance, accompanied her till just before she arrived at
home.

Lance felt more angry than he had ever before been when he heard what
had occurred, and the next day cautioned Emery not to repeat the
offence, telling him very plainly that his mother did not wish to see
him again at her cottage.

Emery, who stood somewhat in awe of Lance, looked foolish; but trying to
conceal his vexation, muttered a sort of apology, and walked hurriedly
away.

Emery had some time before made the acquaintance of a person who had for
a year or so been residing at Elmerston, where he had acted as one of
the inferior agents in the last election contest.  Sass Gange had been a
seaman.  He was a long-tongued fellow, with an assumed sedate manner,
which gained him the credit of being a respectable man.

Sass having been employed by Mr Dulman, Emery became acquainted with
him, and he had ever since taken pains to gain the confidence of the
lad, with considerable success.  Emery always found himself a welcome
guest at Sass Gange's lodgings, when the old sailor was wont to indulge
him in a pipe of tobacco and a glass of ale, while he spun long yarns
about his adventures at sea.

After leaving Lance, Emery made his way to Sass Gange's lodgings.

"What is up now, Master Emery?" asked the old sailor as the lad threw
himself into an arm-chair before the fire.  "You look out of sorts
somehow."

"With good reason too, I should think," exclaimed Emery.  "I have taken
it into my head to admire a beautiful young creature; and though my
father is rolling in wealth, and I suppose I shall come in for a good
share of it one of these days, I have just been told that I must keep
away from the house, and if they had their will, never see her again."

"Well, take a blow, lad, and it will calm your spirits, and we will then
talk the matter over," said old Sass, handing a pipe which he had just
charged, and filling up a tumbler with ale.

"Now tell me all about it."

Emery gave his own version of what had just occurred.

"Don't be cast down, Master Emery," said old Sass, "I will help you if I
can.  I have no reason to love that young Loughton, and he is at the
bottom of it, depend upon that.  If she was his sister, he would not be
so very particular; but that's not what I was going to say.  I once
served under Lieutenant Loughton, and, thanks to him, my back more than
once got a scoring which it has not forgotten yet.  I vowed vengeance,
but had no opportunity of getting it; and as the lieutenant is gone,
why, I shall have a pleasure in paying the son what I owed the father.
We must bide our time, though; but it will come if we are on the watch,
depend upon that."

Emery, instead of being shocked at these remarks, listened to them
eagerly.

The rest of the conversation need not be repeated.

"I must go now," said Emery, "for we have a grand party at our house
to-night, and I must be at home in time to dress."

Mr Dulman's party was the grandest he had ever given.  The member for
the borough with all his family was there, and he had persuaded a number
of his friends to come and honour Mr Dulman, by whose means he had
gained his election.  All the magnates of the town were also present, so
that Elmerston had never before seen a more brilliant assemblage.

Mr Dulman exerted himself to the utmost to make the party go off well,
and poor Mrs Dulman did her best, though she always felt overwhelmed
with the responsibilities of the new position in which she was placed,
and awed by the great people.  Emery, though not a bad-looking young
man, felt too much abashed to appear to advantage, in spite of his
off-hand manner among his ordinary associates; and though he made many
efforts to do the polite to his father's guests, he as often failed from
awkwardness, and would have felt much happier smoking his pipe and
drinking beer with old Sass.

During the evening, as Mr Dulman went into the hall, a letter was put
into his hand by a messenger who had been waiting to see him.  He
retired to a corner to read it.  His usually ruddy countenance turned
deadly pale.  He hurriedly thrust it into his pocket.

"I will attend to the matter to-morrow," he said, in as firm a voice as
he could command.  "It's impossible to do so now."

He went to the supper-room, and rapidly drinking off three or four
glasses of wine, hastened back to his guests.  Many of them, however,
remarked his agitated and absent manner, while some of his acquaintances
observed that old Dulman had been over-fortifying himself for his
arduous duties.

As soon as his guests were gone he shut himself up in his room, and
spent the remainder of the night, with the fatal letter before him,
making calculations.  Before the rest of the family were up he had left
the house, and was off by the first train to London.

The next day it was whispered that Mr Dulman, who was known to have
speculated largely in railway shares, was ruined.  People said that he
had only love of ostentation to thank for what had occurred, and few
pitied him.

His fine house and furniture were sold, but his estate did not yield a
penny in the pound.

Ashamed of again showing his face at Elmerston, he sailed for Australia,
leaving his wife and younger children living in a mean cottage in the
neighbourhood, a small allowance having been made to them by the
creditors, while Emery was sent to seek his fortune in London.

About the same time Sass Gange, for reasons best known to himself,
finding it convenient to leave the town, went up also to London, where,
with the character of a highly respectable and confidential man, through
the influence of some of his political friends, he obtained a situation
as porter in the large West End draper's establishment of Messrs Padman
and Co.  Sass was not a man to allow his talents to remain under a
bushel.  By means of his persuasive eloquence, he soon induced the
confiding Mr Padman to place the most unbounded confidence in his
honesty and devoted attention to business.  When the cash received
during the day was sent to the bank by one of the clerks, Sass was
invariably ordered to follow, to be ready to assist him should he be
waylaid by pickpockets, and to see that he faithfully deposited the
amount as directed.  Sass did not know how much was carried, but he
guessed that at times it must be a considerable sum.

CHAPTER THREE.

Sass Gange had been for some time in the employment of Messrs Padman,
when one day as he entered the shop he saw behind the counter his former
Elmerston acquaintance, Emery Dulman, busily engaged in serving a
customer.  Emery did not recognise him, nor did he just then wish to be
recognised, so he passed quickly on to deliver the parcels he had just
brought in.  He observed, however, that Emery was even better dressed
than usual--that he wore a fashionably-cut black suit, a neck-cloth of
snowy whiteness, a gold ring on his finger, and a somewhat large gold
watch-chain, ostentatiously exhibited.  As he was repassing, Emery
looked up, when Sass gave him an almost unperceived wink, and turning
away his head, hurried on.

"I hope that he will have the sense not to tell any one that we are
acquainted," he thought.  "I must let him know where I live, and he will
soon be coming to have a talk over old times."

Sass might have been pretty sure that Emery was not likely to tell any
one that they were acquainted; indeed, that young gentleman's chief
pleasure was boasting to his new associates of his highly-connected and
fashionable friends, and bewailing the hard fate which had compelled him
to become a draper's assistant.  Some were inclined in consequence to
treat him with respect, but many of the older hands laughed at his
folly, and having discovered who his father was, observed that he was
fortunate in obtaining so good a situation in a business for which he
ought to be well suited.

Sass soon found an opportunity of letting Emery know where he lived, and
the next day received a visit from him, when the usual pipe and ale were
prepared for his entertainment.

"Curious that we should meet again, Master Emery, in this big city,"
observed Sass.  "We all have our `ups and downs,' and you have had one
of the `downs' lately, so it appears.  Well, I have had them in my time.
I never told you that I got my education, such as it is, at Elmerston
Grammar-School, and I might have been a steady-going burgess, with pink
cheeks and a fat paunch, if I had stuck to business.  But I had no fancy
for that sort of life; so one morning, taking French leave of school,
and father and mother, and brothers and sisters, I went off to sea.
When I came back some years afterwards, all who were likely to care for
me were dead or scattered; so I set off again, and knocked about in all
parts of the world till about two or three years ago, when, having a
little money in my pocket, and thinking I should like a spell on shore,
I found my way back to the old place.  I made myself useful, as you
know, to the grandees; and as I did not wish to go to sea again just
then, one of them got me this situation.  Though I can't say it's much
to my taste, I intend to stick to it as long as it suits me."

"I don't see anything very tempting in the life you have led," observed
Emery.

"I have not told you much about its pleasures, the curious countries I
have visited, and the strange adventures I have met with," answered
Sass.  "For my part, I would not have missed them on any account."
"When you come to hear about them, you will have a fancy for setting off
too, or I am much mistaken.  With a young companion like you I should
not mind taking another trip, and enjoying myself for a few years more
afloat, instead of leading the dull life you and I are doomed to in
London."

Such was the style of conversation with which the old rogue entertained
his credulous young guest.  The adventures he described were highly
entertaining, garnished as they were by his fertile imagination, and
Emery began to wonder how he could consent to remain on shore when so
delightful an existence might be led by going off to sea.

Emery, however, had not got over his fancy for trying to assume the airs
of a fine gentleman.  On Sundays, though he went with his employer's
family and the rest of the young men in the establishment to church, as
soon as dinner was over it was his delight to saunter out into the Park,
and loll over the railings round the drive with a gold-headed cane in
his hand, watching the gay people as they drove past in their carriages.
Occasionally he would lift his hat as if returning a bow from a lady,
or he waved his hand as if recognising a gentleman acquaintance.  Some
might have considered him only foolish; but he was undoubtedly acting a
lie, and trying to deceive those around him.  He was besides wasting
time given for higher purposes.

Unhappily, not only such as he, but many others waste time, without for
a moment considering their guilt, and that they will some day be called
to account for the way in which every moment of their lives has been
spent.

In time Emery formed a number of acquaintances, mostly silly lads like
himself, and inclined to consider him a remarkably fine fellow; several
were vicious, and they, as vicious people always wish to make others
like themselves, tried to induce him to accompany them to see something,
as they called it, of London life.  He at first feebly declined, but at
length yielded; and though such scenes, it must be said to his credit,
were not to his taste, he was over-persuaded again and again, and soon
found that the greater part of his wages were spent at theatres,
dancing-rooms, and other places to which he and his companions resorted.
His employer, finding that he was out late at night, spoke to him on
the subject.  He excused himself with a falsehood, saying that he had
gone to visit a friend of his father's, who had just come up to town,
promising that he would not again break through the rules of the
establishment.  After this he was very exact in his conduct, and again,
in consequence, rose in the estimation of his employer.  He had, indeed,
an attraction to keep him at home.  Mr Padman possessed a daughter, a
pretty, good-humoured young lady; and though she was considerably older
than Emery, he took it into his head that she was not insensible to his
personal appearance and gentlemanly manners.  Whenever he had an
opportunity, he offered his services to attend on her; and as he made
himself useful, and he was quiet and well-behaved, they were frequently
accepted, while Miss Madelene Hayward was, happily perhaps, soon
forgotten.

Thus a year or more went by.  Poor Emery might under proper guidance
have become a useful member of society, as all people are who do their
duty in the station of life for which they are fitted; but he wanted
what no one can do without--right religious and moral principles.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Mr Dulman did not fall alone.  The bank at Elmerston, which had made him
large advances, got into difficulties, and though its credit was
bolstered up for some time, it ultimately failed, and many of the people
in the place suffered.  Among others of small means who had cause to
mourn the wicked extravagance and folly of their ambitious townsman, was
Mrs Loughton.  Some cursed him in their hearts, loudly exclaiming
against his extravagance, which had brought ruin on themselves and their
families.  Mrs Loughton bore her loss meekly.  The sum of which she had
been deprived she had saved up, by often depriving herself of
necessaries, to assist in starting her dear Lance in life.  This was
indeed a great trial.  Lance entreated her not to mourn on his account.
He was not even aware that she had saved so much money, and only
regretted that she should not have it to benefit herself and Maddie.  He
had for long determined to go forth into the world, trusting, with God's
help, to his own industry and perseverance to make his way.  He was
ready to take any situation which offered, or to do anything which was
thought advisable.  All he desired was to perform his duty in that
station of life to which he might be called, and to be able to assist
his mother and Maddie.  To secure their happiness and comfort was his
great aim; for himself; independent of them, he had no ambition.  He was
aware that talent, such as his master considered he possessed, with
honesty, industry, and zeal, must, should he get his foot on the ladder,
enable him to rise higher.  Still, metaphorically speaking, he was
content to secure his position on the ground where he stood, while he
refrained from withdrawing his attention, by looking up at the prize at
the top.

"By thinking only of the prize, and not duly employing the means to
obtain it, many a man has slipped off the ladder, and, crushed by his
fall, has failed again to reach it," the Doctor observed to him one day.
"Go on as you propose, my boy, and never trouble yourself about the
result; God blesses honest efforts when His assistance is sought.  I do
not advise you to remain at Elmerston.  Seek your fortune in London.
You may have a much harder struggle to endure than you would here, but
you will come off victorious, and gain ultimately a respectable
position."

Such was the tenor of the remarks of his late master to Lance, during a
visit he paid him, after he had left school.  His mother agreed with
what had been said.

"I should grieve to part with you, Lance; but as I am sure it will be
for your advantage, it must be done, and we shall have the happiness of
seeing you down here when you can get a holiday."

"That will indeed be great!" murmured Maddie, who had not before spoken.

She was in the habit of looking at the bright side of things, and
thought more of the joyful meeting than of the long, long time they must
be separated.

"I will write to your uncle Durrant, and ask him what he can do,"
continued Mrs Loughton.  "My brother is kind and generous, and though he
has a large family, and I fear his salary from the Government office he
holds is but small, yet I am sure he will do his utmost to assist you."

"I ought to be at work without delay, mother," said Lance; "so pray
write as you propose to uncle Durrant."  He cast a glance at Maddie, and
added, "I'll do my best to employ my time profitably while I am at home.
You know that I am happier here than I can be anywhere else."

"Yes," said Maddie, "I am sure there is no happier place than this."

The letter to Mr Durrant was written, and while waiting for an answer,
Lance spent much of the time not occupied in study in the garden, very
frequently with Maddie as his companion.  He had from his boyhood been
accustomed to cultivate it, and he was anxious to leave it in the most
perfect order possible.  It was pleasant to sit reading with Maddie by
his side, but pleasanter still to be working in the fresh air among
sweet flowers, receiving such assistance as she could give, and talking
cheerfully all the time.

The expected answer from Mr Durrant came in the course of a few days.
"I lost no time in looking for a situation for Lance, and I was able,
from the report I received from the Doctor, to speak confidently of
him," he wrote.  "I have obtained one in the office of my friend Mr
Gaisford, a highly respectable solicitor in the city, who, knowing
Lance's circumstances, will attend to his interests, and advance him
according to his deserts."

"It appears very satisfactory, and we should be truly grateful to your
uncle," observed Mrs Loughton.  "You are to go to his house.  You will
have a long walk into London every day, but that, he says, will be good
for you.  He does not speak about salary, but as, from what I
understand, you are to take up your abode with him, I hope that you will
receive sufficient to repay him."

"I would rather live in a garret on bread and water, than be an expense
to my uncle, who can with difficulty support his large family," observed
Lance; "and so I will thankfully take any office where I can get enough
to maintain myself, even in the most humble way."

"Well, well, dear Lance, your uncle and I will settle that," said Mrs
Loughton.  "He wishes you to go up the day after to-morrow."

"So soon?" exclaimed Maddie; "his things will scarcely be ready."

"I must not delay a day longer than can be helped," said Lance firmly;
"I am eager to begin real work, whatever that may be."

"You will always do what is right," said Maddie.  "And I will ask Mrs
Judkin to come and help me iron your things," and she ran out of the
room, it might possibly have been to hide the tears rising in her eyes.

Maddie was still very young; she had not before parted from Lance, even
for a day, and had as yet experienced none of the trials of life.  She
would have felt the same had Lance been her brother; she scarcely
recognised the fact that he was not.

The day of parting came.  Mrs Loughton was unable to leave the house.
She clasped her boy to her heart, and blessed him, committing him to the
charge of One all able and willing to protect those who confide in His
love.  Maddie, attended by Mrs Judkin, whose husband wheeled his
portmanteau, accompanied Lance to the railway station, and her last
tender, loving glance still seemed following him long after the train
had rushed off along its iron way.

Perhaps now for the first time he realised how completely his future
hopes of happiness depended on her.  With manly resolution, and firm
confidence in the goodness of God, he prepared, as he had often said he
would, to do his duty.

He safely reached his uncle's house, where he received a kindly welcome
from his aunt and a number of young cousins.  They looked at him
approvingly; he was likely to become a favourite with them.

"I think you will get on with Gaisford," said his uncle after the
conclusion of dinner.  "He is an honest man, and a Christian, and feels
that he has responsibilities which many are not apt to acknowledge.  I
will say no more about him.  You tell me you wish to do your duty; and
therefore all I can say to you is, to try and ascertain what that duty
is, and to do it."

At an early hour the next morning Mr Durrant accompanied his nephew to
Mr Gaisford's office.  The principal had not arrived.  His head clerk
scrutinised Lance from under his spectacles for a few seconds.
Apparently satisfied, his countenance relaxed.

"We can find work for him," he observed, after Lance had been duly
introduced; "and as you have to be at your office you can leave him
here, and the time need not hang heavily on his hand till Mr Gaisford
arrives."

Mr Durrant, promising to call for his nephew on his way home, hurried
off.

Lance had at once a draft placed before him to copy.  He wrote a clear,
bold hand.  Mr Brown, the head clerk, watched him for a minute.

"That will do--go on," he said, and returned to his seat.

The draft was finished just as Mr Gaisford arrived.  The clerk took it
in his hand, telling Lance to follow him to their principal's room.
While introducing him, he placed it on the table, and withdrew.

Mr Gaisford, a middle-aged man, slightly grey, with a pleasant
expression of countenance, having glanced over the paper, turned round
and addressed Lance kindly.

"Sit down," he said.  "Your uncle has told me something about you, but I
should like to hear more.  Where were you at school?"

Lance told him.

"You were the head boy, I understand."

He then asked what books he had read, and a variety of other questions,
to which Lance answered modestly and succinctly.  He then handed the
paper back to Lance, to give it to Mr Brown, who would find him
something more to do.

"This is written as well as it could be," he observed.  "I always like
to have my work well done, and I can depend upon your doing it to the
best of your ability."

"That is what I wish to do," said Lance, taking the paper and bowing as
he left the room.

He had plenty of work during the morning.  Mr Brown asked him to come
out and take a chop with him at one o'clock.

The head clerk was never long absent from the office, as he might be
wanted, and he made it a rule never to keep clients waiting longer than
he could help.

"Time is money, my young friend," he observed.  "We should never
squander other people's time more than our own."

Lance worked hard till his uncle arrived just at the usual hour for
closing the office.  Mr Gaisford had gone away some time before.

"He has done very well, sir," observed Mr Brown as Mr Durrant entered;
"and what is more, I feel sure he will do as well every day he is here."

He and his uncle walked home together.  Mr Durrant told him that his
employer promised to give him a salary at once should the head clerk
make a favourable report of him.

"That he will do that, I am confident, from what he has said."

Lance felt very happy, and wrote home in good spirits, giving a
satisfactory account of the commencement of his career in London.

He generally accompanied his uncle to and from the office, but he soon
learned to find the way by himself.  He always went directly there and
back, refraining from wandering elsewhere to see the great city which to
him was still an unknown land.  He was very happy in his new home, and
on his return each day he was greeted by his young cousins with shouts
of pleasure.  Lance was never tired of trying to amuse them.

With intense satisfaction Lance received his first quarter's salary.  He
took it immediately to his uncle.

"This should be yours, sir," he said, "though I fear it is not
sufficient to repay you for the expense to which you have been put on my
account."

His uncle smiled.

"I think you must settle that with your aunt; and if she finds her
household expenses much increased, you shall pay the difference: to the
room you occupy you are welcome."

Lance received back the greater portion of the sum he placed in his
aunt's hands, and immediately forwarded it to his mother.

The balance from next quarter, however, was somewhat less, as he had to
pay for a few articles of clothing.  His mother begged that he would not
send her any more, as she was sure he would soon require considerable
additions to his wardrobe.  He, however, resolved to be very economical,
and with the assistance of Mr Brown, who knew where everything was to be
got the cheapest and best, he found that he still had a fair sum left to
forward for the use of the loved ones at Elmerston.

"Pay ready money," observed his friend the clerk.  "Owe no man anything;
it's a golden rule, and assists to give a good digestion in the day, and
sound sleep at night."

Some time after this Mr Gaisford sent for Lance into his room, and put a
document into his hand.

"Here, my young friend," he said, "are your articles.  Your mother is a
widow with limited means, and has, moreover, not only brought you up
well, but supported an orphan relative, so I understand.  Such as she
has claims on one like me, who am a bachelor with an ample fortune.
Such claims I must recognise, for I am sure God does, whatever the rest
of the world may think.  I say this to set you at your ease about the
matter.  You have done your duty hitherto, and I am sure you will
continue to do it.  Your salary will be increased from the commencement
of this quarter."

Lance's heart was too full to thank his kind benefactor as he wished.
He tried to express his gratitude; at all events, Mr Gaisford understood
him.

From that time forward it was evident that he rose still more in the
estimation of one who was a keen judge of character.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Lance had been more than a year in London, and having been frequently
sent with papers to clients in all directions, he learned his way about
the City and West End.

During the first autumn vacation, as it was soon after his arrival, he
had not gone home.  He was looking forward to a visit before the close
of the following summer.  He kept up, however, a frequent correspondence
with his mother and Maddie.  His greatest pleasure was receiving their
letters.

Mr Brown continued his friend, as at first, and took pains to initiate
him into the mysteries of his profession.

He was one evening in the West End, near the Park, having been sent
after office hours to a client's house with the draft of a will.  He had
performed his commission, and had just left the house, when he
encountered a young man, dressed in the height of the fashion, with a
gold-headed cane in his hand.  The other stopped and looked at him,
exclaiming as he did so--

"Upon my word, I believe you are Lance Loughton!" and Lance recognised
his former schoolfellow.

"What!  Dulman?" he said, unconsciously scanning him from head to foot.
"I did not know what had become of you; I thought you were engaged in
business somewhere."

"Hush, hush, my dear fellow! let me ask you not to call me by that
odious name.  I am Emery Delamere on this side of Temple Bar.  I had
been sent to call on a lady of fashion about a little affair of my
employers, and embraced the opportunity of taking a stroll in the Park,
in the hopes of meeting some of my acquaintances.  You, I conclude, are
bound eastward; so am I.  We will proceed together, though I wish you
had got rid of a little more of your rustic appearance.  And now tell me
all about yourself.  Where are you?  Who are you employed with?  What
are your prospects?"

As soon as Emery's rattling tongue would allow him to answer, Lance
briefly gave him the information he asked for.

"Very good, better than I had thought, for I am inclined to envy you.
At the same time, the dull existence you are compelled to lead would not
have suited my taste.  However, you were always better adapted to
plodding work than I am," he answered, with a slight degree of envy in
his tone.  "But I suppose you have managed to see something of London
life; if not, let me have the pleasure of initiating you.  What do you
say, shall we go to the theatre?  I have tickets for the Haymarket, but
it's a dull house, I prefer Drury Lane; and though I ought to be in at
ten o'clock according to rule, I can easily explain that I was detained
by Lady Dorothy, and had to wait for an omnibus."

"I am much obliged to you for your kind intentions, but I have no wish
to go to a theatre, and beg that you will not on my account be late in
returning home, and especially that you will not utter a falsehood as
your excuse."

"Falsehood! that's a good joke," exclaimed Emery; "you use a harsh term.
We should never be able to enjoy ourselves without the privilege of
telling a few white lies when necessary, ha! ha! ha!  Why, my dear
Lance, you seem as ignorant of the world as when you were at Elmerston."

"I knew the difference between right and wrong, as I do now," answered
Lance gravely, "and I regret to hear you express yourself as you are
doing.  I was in hopes that the misfortunes you met with would have
tended to give you more serious thoughts.  Excuse me for saying so, but
I speak frankly, as an old friend, and I pray that you may see things in
their true light."

"Really, Lance, you have become graver and more sarcastic than ever,"
exclaimed Emery, not liking the tenor of his companion's remarks.  "I
only wished to find some amusement for you; and since you don't wish to
be amused, I will not press you further to come with me.  I myself do
not care about going to the theatre, and will walk home with you as far
as our roads run together."

Lance thanked him, and hoping to be able to speak seriously to him of
the sin and folly of the conduct he appeared to be pursuing, agreed to
his proposal.

Though Emery would rather have had a better dressed companion, yet
recollecting that Lance was a gentleman by birth, he felt some
satisfaction in being in his society; for notwithstanding his boastings
of the fashionable friends he possessed, he knew perfectly well that
none of those whose acquaintance he casually made were real gentlemen.

"You appear to be better off than I am in some respects, Lance," he
observed.  "For though I stand high in the opinion of my employer, and,
I flatter myself, still higher in that of his daughter, a very charming
girl I can assure you, they are not equal in social position to your
relatives; and as you know, my desire has always been to move in a good
circle, and maintain a high character among the aristocracy."

Though Lance could not help despising the folly of poor Emery, he felt
real compassion for him as he continued to talk this sort of nonsense.

"Now, Emery," he said, "we have been schoolfellows, and you will excuse
me for speaking freely to you.  Would it not be wiser to accept the
position in which you are placed, to work on steadily to gain a good
name among those with whom you are associated, instead of aping the
manners and customs of people who enjoy wealth and undoubtedly belong to
a higher social grade than you do.  You will be far more respected, even
by them, if you are known to be looked up to by those of your own
station in life.  I speak from experience: I am treated with kindness
and attention, not only by all the clerks in the office, and their
friends whom I occasionally meet, but by the head clerk himself, not
because I am the son of a naval officer, but simply because I work hard,
and try to do whatever work is given me as well as possible.  Besides,
my old friend, we should have a higher motive for all our actions.
Remember God sees us; and though we may give our earthly masters
eye-service, we cannot deceive Him.  Yet we should be influenced by a
higher motive than that, not by fear alone, but by love and gratitude to
Him who has given us life and health, and all the blessings we enjoy,
and the promise of everlasting happiness if we will accept the offer He
so graciously makes us, and become reconciled to Him, through faith in
the great sacrifice--His Son offered upon the cross for us, His
rebellious and disobedient creatures.  Pray seek for grace to realise
the great fact that we are by nature and conduct rebels, vile and foul--
that if trusting to our own strength, we are in the power of our great
enemy Satan, who is always trying to lead us astray--and that we have no
claim whatever to God's love and protection while here on earth, or to
enjoy the happiness of heaven when we leave this world--that there is
but one state of existence for which, if we die in rebellion, we can be
fitted, that is, to associate for ever with the fallen angels justly
cast out from His glorious presence."

Lance spoke with deep earnestness, holding Emery lightly by the arm.  He
might never, he felt, have another opportunity of putting the truth
before him.

Emery suddenly snatched his arm away.

"I really don't like the sort of things you have been saying," he
exclaimed, "and I don't know what authority you have for talking to me
thus.  I did not know what you were driving at when you began to talk,
or I should not have listened so patiently, I can tell you.  I asked you
in a friendly way to come and enjoy a little harmless amusement with me,
and you in return first give me a grave lecture, such as some one might
expect from a Solon, rather than from a lawyer's clerk, and then preach
a sermon, which might be all very well if thundered out by the
Archbishop of Canterbury from the pulpit, but really, when uttered by
one young fellow to another, is simply ridiculous.  I hope, for your
sake, that you don't pester your brother scribes, and that head clerk
you speak of, with such balderdash, or favour your principal with an
occasional discourse in the same strain.  We are old schoolfellows, as
you have remarked, so you will not be offended at what I say.  Ah! ah!
ah!  Good evening to you, friend Solon; should we meet again, I hope you
will recollect such an address as you have just given me is not to my
taste.  I have to go south; you go north, I fancy;" and Emery, swinging
round his cane, and cocking his hat on one side, sauntered off,
whistling a popular street air to show his unconcern.

Lance was too much hurt and astonished at the effect his earnest and
faithful remarks had produced to say anything.  He stood irresolute for
a minute, feeling much inclined to run after Emery, and to entreat him
not to take what he had said thus amiss.  Just then he saw that his old
schoolfellow was joined by another youth of a similar appearance, and
the two went into a tobacconist's together.  It would be hopeless, he
felt, to attempt saying anything more.  He therefore hastened homewards,
hoping that he might before long have another opportunity of again
speaking seriously to Emery.

CHAPTER SIX.

Emery had been sent by his employer on a commission of some importance.
On his return he gave a highly satisfactory account of the way he had
performed it.  He had risen, in consequence of his address and supposed
abilities, high in the favour of Mr Padman, who placed perfect
confidence in his zeal and honesty.  He was always prepared beforehand
with a sufficient excuse when he intended to be late out, or to break
through any of the rules of the establishment.  He was utterly
regardless of the truth Lance had put before him, that God at all times
sees us, and that those who deceive their fellow-men are sure, misled by
Satan, to be discovered at last, and left to the consequences of their
sin.

Emery, proud of what he considered his cleverness, and trusting to the
confidence Mr Padman placed in him, became bolder in his proceedings.
"There was no young man," he said to himself, "so much thought of as he
was;" and believing that Miss Padman also looked on him with a
favourable eye, he determined to propose to marry her.  He consulted old
Sass, who, seeing no reason to doubt his success, advised him to try his
chance.  If he failed, Sass, knowing his secret, thought that he might
take advantage of it.  If he succeeded, he himself would certainly
benefit by the influence he had gained over the young gentleman.  Emery
had to wait some time for the desired opportunity of speaking alone to
Miss Padman.  That young lady, however, did not hold her father's
shopman in the high estimation he had flattered himself.  Others had
taken care to whisper that Emery was not as correct in his conduct as he
professed to be, and she thought her father unwise in placing so much
confidence in him.  When, therefore, he at length made her an offer, she
replied that she considered him very presumptuous, and begged him to
understand that she had no more regard for him than for the boy who
swept out the shop, or for any one else in the establishment; and having
discovered how he deceived her father, she should put Mr Padman on his
guard.  As the young lady was perfectly cool and decided, Emery had
discernment enough to perceive that her decision was final, and as is
often the case with weak natures, any better feeling he might have
entertained for her was turned into hatred.

As there was no one else to whom he could express his anger and
vexation, he called as soon as he could leave the shop on Sass Gange.

"Well, it was a toss up, I thought, from the first, and you have lost,"
observed the old man.  "However, Master Emery, don't be cast down, there
is as good fish in the sea as out of it.  If the girl threatens you, as
you say, I would advise you to cut the concern altogether.  You will get
disrated, depend upon it, and be worse off.  Make hay while the sun
shines.  Now, my lad, I don't want you to do anything that would get you
into trouble, but there is nothing worth having without some risk.  You
have often said you would like a new sort of life instead of the humdrum
counter-jumping work you have got to do.  What do you say to making a
start for South America or the Pacific?  You might lead a jolly life
among the natives, with nothing to do and lots of pretty girls to make
love to, who would not treat you like Miss Padman, that I can tell you."

Thus the old sailor ran on, describing in overdrawn colours, with a
large admixture of fable, the life he had himself led in his early days.
He did not say how he had seen his companions, some murdered, and the
rest dying of disease, or that he himself had narrowly escaped with his
life.

Emery listened eagerly.  He had felt how unsatisfactory was the life he
was trying to lead, the constant rebuffs of those into whose society he
tried to thrust himself, and the hopelessness of succeeding in his
foolish aims, and Satan was of course ready to suggest that he might
find far greater enjoyment in something new.

"It will be capital fun!" he exclaimed at last; "but I have spent every
shilling of my salary, and am in debt to a pretty considerable amount to
some who look upon me as Mr Padman's future son-in-law, and to others
who have taken me to be a young man of fortune; and if I were to sell my
whole wardrobe, I don't suppose it would fetch enough to pay for a good
sea outfit and my passage."

"So I thought," said Gange; "and as I have a notion that you have been
shamefully treated by Miss Padman, if I were you, I would help myself in
a way I can suggest to you, and the loss will fall upon her more than on
her father, who is an old donkey, and it will do him no harm either.
The chances are that he will send you to-morrow to pay the receipts of
the shop into the bank, and as business is brisk just now, it's likely
to be a good round sum.  I shall be sure to be sent to look after you,
to see that no one picks your pockets, or knocks you down, or makes off
with it.  Now, then will be the time to fill your purse, and have some
cash to spare for me.  I won't be very hard on you.  To say the truth, I
have had a little business of my own on hand, and have made up my mind
to cut and run, so you won't have me here as your friend much longer if
you stay.  Come, what do you say? a free and independent life, with
plenty of money in your pocket; or hanging on here, to be snubbed by
Miss Padman, and jeered at by the other fellows at your ill luck.  She
is sure to tell them, and the chances are there is some one she likes
better than you."

The unhappy youth listened to all the old tempter said, instead of at
once seeking for grace to put away temptation and to say, "Get thee
behind me, Satan."  He consented to all Sass had proposed.

"That's right!" said the old sailor, "I like your spirit, my boy; I will
help you, depend on me.  You had better get your portmanteau packed with
all your best things, and just carry it down the first thing in the
morning.  You can tell the house-porter that you are going away for a
day; he will not ask questions, and I will send a man to bring it here."

All other arrangements were speedily made.  Sass had evidently thought
the matter over, and Emery was impressed by what he fancied the clever
way all risks had been provided against.

Emery went home.  He felt too nervous to sleep soundly, and rising,
lighted a candle and packed up his portmanteau, keeping out his best
things, in which to dress in the morning.  If questions were asked, he
would say that his mother was ill, and that he intended to ask leave to
go home in the evening.  The thoughts of the sinfulness of the act he
was about to commit did not trouble him so much as the fear of possible
detection.  Still, the plan proposed by Sass was so feasible, and the
arrangements he had made so perfect, that he had great hopes all would
go right.  He thought the matter over and over.  Sometimes the remarks
made by Lance would force themselves upon him, but he put them away,
muttering, "That's all old women's nonsense, I am not going to be
prevented from doing what I like by such stuff."  Dressing, and putting
all the small articles of value he possessed into his pockets, as soon
as he thought the porter would be opening the house he carried down his
portmanteau, observing to the man as he did so, that he had had a sad
letter the previous night, and should be compelled to start for home as
soon as he could get leave from Mr Padman.  In a short time the porter
sent by Sass appeared, and he got it sent off without any questions
being asked.  He then went back to his room, and afraid of going to bed
again with the risk of oversleeping himself, sat down in a chair by his
bedside.  Not having slept a wink during the night, his head soon
dropped on his chest.  His dreams were troubled--he felt a fearful
pressure round his neck--it seemed that a cap was drawn over his eyes--
the murmuring sound of numberless voices rang in his ears--he was
standing on the platform at Newgate, the drop was about to fall beneath
his feet.  He had once witnessed such a scene, and gazed at it with
indifference, moving off among the careless throng with the remark "Poor
wretch! he has got what he deserved."  Could it be possible that he
himself was now standing where he had seen the unhappy culprit launched
into eternity.  He awoke with a start, and found to his satisfaction
that he had been only dreaming.  His eyelids were heavy, his eyes
bloodshot.  He washed his face in cold water, and endeavoured to laugh
off the recollection of his dream while he brushed his hair and arranged
his cravat.  He went down-stairs and joined his companions in the
breakfast-room.  They rallied him on his rakish look.  He talked in his
usual affected way, managing, however, to bring in the falsehood he had
already uttered about his mother's illness.  It would assist, he hoped,
to account for his not returning from the bank.

After a good breakfast he went with apparent diligence to business,
waiting with anxious trepidation to be summoned by Mr Padman to convey
the money received to the bank.  Sometimes, as Lance's words, and the
recollection of his horrid dream, would intrude, he almost hoped that
some one else would be selected; then he thought of, his debts, and the
consequence of Miss Padman's communication to her father, and the sneers
of his companions, and he resolved to carry out the plan proposed by
Sass Gange.

The expected summons came.  He received nearly 400 pounds, with the
usual directions.

"I need not tell you to be careful, Dulman, and keep out of crowds,"
said Mr Padman as he gave him the money.

Emery, buttoning up his coat, replied, with a forced smile, that he need
have no fear on that score, though it was with difficulty that he
prevented his knees from knocking together as he walked away.

He hastened out of the house.  As he expected, before getting far, on
looking back, he saw Sass Gange following at his heels.  Would it not be
safer, after all, to pay the money in?  Miss Padman might relent; and
should he be captured, the dreadful dream of the morning might be
realised.  "Pooh! they don't hang for such things as that," he said to
himself.

Directly afterwards he felt Sass's hand laid on his shoulder.

"Have you a goodish sum, my lad?" he asked.

"Seldom have had more at one time," answered Emery.

"Then come along, don't let us lose the chance."  Sass called a cab, and
forced his dupe into it.  They drove away to Gange's lodgings.

He ran in and brought down Emery's portmanteau, and a sea-bag with his
own traps.  The cabman was ordered to drive to Euston Square station.
Sass had a railway guide; he had been consulting it attentively; they
might catch a train starting for Liverpool.

"Is it most in notes or gold?" asked Sass.

"About a third in gold, the rest in bank-notes, with a few cheques,"
said Emery.

"Hand me out the gold, then, it will suit me best," said Sass.  "I will
be content with that as my share.  You can get rid of the notes better
than I can."

Sass promised double fare to the cabman if he would drive faster.

Emery wanted to keep some of the gold for himself, but Sass insisted on
having the whole of it.  He made Emery pay the fare.  They had three
minutes to spare.

"You take our tickets," said Sass, "second class for me, there are no
third, and a first for yourself.  We had better be separate; and if by
any chance we are traced thus far, it will help to put them off the
scent."

Emery having no gold, took out a bank-note for ten pounds.  He felt
somewhat nervous as the booking-clerk examined it.  It was all right,
however, and he received his change, and going on to the next shutter
took a ticket for his companion.

"All right," said Gange, "get in, and sit at the further side, and
pretend to be sleepy or drunk, only keep your face away from the light.
Your portmanteau is ticketed for Liverpool.  Good-bye, my lad, till we
stop on the road, and I will come and have a look at you."

Gange disappeared.  Off went the train, and Emery's brain whirled round
and round, even faster than the carriage seemed to be moving.  He tried
not to think, but in vain.

The other seats were filled, but he had not dared to look at his
companions.  He heard them laughing and talking.  A board was opened,
and dice rattled, still he did not look up.  Cards were produced.

"Will any other gentleman join us?" asked a man sitting opposite to the
seat, next to him.  He caught Emery's eye.  "Will you, sir," he added in
a bland voice.  "We play for very moderate stakes."

Emery knew something about the game proposed.  It would have been better
for him had he been ignorant of it altogether.  A game of cards would
enable him to turn his thoughts from himself.  He agreed to play.  He
knew that he did not play well, but to his surprise he found himself
winning.  The stakes were doubled.  He still won.  He thought that his
companions were very bad players.  Again the stakes were increased, he
still occasionally won, but oftener lost.  He had soon paid away all his
gold, and was compelled to take out one of the notes which he had
stolen; that quickly went, and another, and another.  He felt irritated,
and eager to get back the money he had lost; he had won at first, why
should he not again?  His companions looked calm and indifferent, as if
it mattered very little if the luck turned against them.

When they came to a station, they shut up the board, and put the cards
under their railway rugs.

Emery had lost fifty pounds of the stolen money.  He felt ready for any
desperate deed.  Two of the men got out at the next large station.
Could he have been certain that the money was in the possession of the
remaining man, he would have seized him by the throat, and tried to get
it back.

The man kept eyeing him sternly, as if aware of his thoughts.  Just
before the train started, he also stepped out, carrying the board
concealed in his rug.

"You have been a heavy loser, I fear," said a gentleman in the seat near
the door.  "I would have warned you had I thought you would have lost so
much, but it will be a lesson to you in future.  I am convinced, by
their movements, that those were regular card-sharpers.  It's too late
now, but you may telegraph from the next station to try and stop them."

As this remark was made, it flashed into Emery's mind that some one
might telegraph to Liverpool to stop him.  He scarcely thought about his
loss, but dreaded that his agitation might betray him.  The gentleman
naturally thought it arose from his being cheated of so much money.
Emery tried to look unconcerned.

"A mere trifle," he said, forcing a laugh, "I will try and catch the
rogues, though."

However, when he reached the next station, remembering Sass Gange's
caution, he was afraid to leave his seat.

"I might lose the train," he said, "and business of importance takes me
to Liverpool."

"As you think fit," observed the gentleman, "but you will now have
little chance of recovering your money."

Emery was thankful when the train again moved on.

Sass Gange had not appeared at either of the stations.

Liverpool was at length reached.  He looked about expecting to see Sass,
but he was nowhere to be found.  His own portmanteau was in the
luggage-van, but the sailor's bag was not with it.

Where to go he could not tell.  His eye caught the name of a hotel.  He
took a cab and drove to it.

It was too late to change any notes that night; but he determined in the
morning, as early as possible, to get rid of those evidences of his
guilt.  In the meantime, he went to bed utterly miserable.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Mr Padman became anxious when neither Emery nor Sass Gange returned at
the expected time.  On sending to the bank he found that no money had
been paid in.  He made inquiries if they had been seen, and learned that
Emery had sent for his portmanteau in the morning.  He at once
despatched a messenger to Gange's lodgings.  Gange had left with his bag
in the afternoon.  Mr Padman immediately suspected the truth.  He sent
to the police, and to each of the railway stations.  Lance's master, Mr
Gaisford, was his lawyer.  He hurried to consult him as to what other
steps it would be advisable to take.  Lance was in the room receiving
instructions about a draft, and not being told to withdraw, remained.
With sincere grief he heard of Emery's guilt.

"He comes from Elmerston, do you know him?" asked Mr Gaisford, turning
to Lance.

"Yes," said Lance, "he was a schoolfellow, and I saw him but a few days
ago.  I have also frequently seen the man who is supposed to have
accompanied him."

"If we can find out where they have gone to I will send you down with an
officer and a warrant.  It will save much trouble, and you will be able
at once to identify them, and the sooner they are captured the less
money they will have spent."

The number of the cab happened to consist but of two figures; a
fellow-lodger of Sass had remarked it, and heard him order the cabman to
drive to Euston Square station.  A clue was obtained in the course of a
few hours, and a telegraph message sent to stop the fugitives.  Before
Emery had reached Liverpool, Lance and the officer, having warrants for
his and Gange's apprehension, were on their way.

The cunning old sailor, however, having obtained all the gold as his
share, had quitted the train and gone off to Hull, leaving his unhappy
dupe to follow his own devices.  The Liverpool police being on the
look-out for an old man and a young one allowed Emery to pass, though
not altogether unnoticed; and when Lance and the London officer arrived,
the latter, suspecting the true state of the case, inquired if a young
man of Emery's appearance had arrived alone.  The hotel which he had
driven to was at once discovered, and he was still in bed when the
officer, followed by Lance, entered the room.  He awoke as the door
opened.  As the officer, turning to Lance, asked, "Is that the man?"
Emery gazed at Lance with a look of the most abject terror, unable to
utter a word.

"Yes, I am sorry to say he is Emery Dulman," said Lance, his voice
choking with emotion.

The usual form of arrest was gone through.  The officer examined his
clothes, and found the pocket-book with the remainder of the stolen
notes.

"Is this your doing, Lance?" asked Emery, at length making an effort to
speak.

"No, it is not; I wish that I could have prevented you from committing
the crime, and I am anxious, to serve you as far as I have the power,"
answered Lance; "I advise you to confess everything, and to restore the
money to your employer."

The unhappy youth was allowed to dress, and while at breakfast told
Lance everything that had occurred.  Of Sass Gange he could say nothing,
except that he believed he had entered a second-class carriage.

The wretched Emery, instead of enjoying the liberty and pleasure he had
anticipated, as he sat waiting for the train, with his hands between his
knees and his head bent down, looked the very picture of misery and
despair.

"I have been befooled and deceived by every one--right and left!" he
murmured, evidently wishing to throw blame on others rather than to
condemn himself.  "Mr Padman shouldn't have given the money to me to
carry to the bank, and he ought to have known what an old rascal that
Sass Gange is.  To think that the villain should have played me so
scurvy a trick, and have gone off and left me in the lurch!  Then to
have lost so much money to these cheating card-sharpers.  I expected
only to meet gentlemen in a first-class carriage.  I would punish them
for robbing me if I could catch them--that I would, and they would
deserve it!  And now to have you, Lance, whom I looked upon as a friend,
ferret me out and assist to hand me over to prison, and for what you can
tell to the contrary, to the hangman's noose, if the matter is proved
against me.  I wish that I was dead, that I do.  If I had a pistol, I'd
shoot myself, and get the affair settled at once!" he exclaimed, jumping
up and dashing his fists against his forehead.

Lance did his utmost to calm the unhappy youth.  "My poor Emery, Satan
has duped you as he dupes all those who listen to his agents, or to the
evil suggestions of their own wicked hearts.  `All our hearts are
deceitful, and desperately wicked above all things,' the Bible tells us.
Notwithstanding which, had you sought for strength from God's Holy
Spirit, you would assuredly have resisted the temptations thrown in your
way.  I have ever been your friend, and I wish to remain so.  You
remember the line in our Latin Grammar--`A true friend is tried in a
doubtful matter.'  As a friend, I rejoice that through God's mercy you
have been arrested in the downward course you had commenced.  It must
have led to your utter destruction.  Think what you would have become
old Sass Gange as your counsellor and guide.  You will have much that is
painful to go through--from that you cannot escape; but thank our loving
Father in heaven for it.  Far better is it to suffer a light affliction
here for a short season, than to be eternally cast out.  Never--let me
entreat you--again utter the impious threat of rushing into the presence
of your Maker; but turn to Him with a penitent heart, seeking
forgiveness for all your sins through the one only way He has
appointed--faith in our crucified Saviour: and oh! believe me, He will
not deny you, for He has promised to receive all who thus come to Him.
He has said, `Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as
snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'  Text
upon text I might bring forward to prove God's readiness to forgive the
greatest of sinners.  Trust Him.  Throw yourself upon His mercy.  Do not
fear what man can do to you.  Submit willingly to any punishment the
just laws of our country may demand you should suffer.  Not that
imprisonment or any other punishment you may receive can atone for the
sin you have committed in God's sight--not if you were to refund every
farthing of the sum you stole.  As the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth
from all sin, so through that precious blood alone can the slightest as
well as the deepest shade of sin be washed away.  I say this now, Emery,
in case I should be prevented from speaking again to you on the subject.
Reflect, too, on the condition in which you would have been placed had
you committed this crime a few years ago, for then an ignominious death
on the scaffold would have been your inevitable doom, and bless God that
you will now be spared to prove the sincerity of your repentance in some
new sphere of life."

Happy would it be for criminals if they had, when placed as Emery Dulman
now was, faithful friends like Lance Loughton to speak to them.  Emery
now and then, as Lance was addressing him, looked up, but again turned
aside his head with an expression of scorn on his lips.  Lance, however,
was too true a Christian, and too sincerely desirous of benefiting his
former acquaintance, to be defeated in his efforts to do so.  Again and
again he spoke to him so lovingly and gently that at length Emery burst
into tears.  "I wish that I had listened to you long ago, when you
warned me of my folly, and it would not have come to this," he
exclaimed.  "I will plead guilty at once, and throw myself on the mercy
of my employer whom I have robbed."

"I do not know whether he will be inclined to treat you mercifully.  It
may be considered necessary, as a warning to others, to punish you
severely," answered Lance.  "But, my dear Emery, I am very sure that our
Father in heaven, whom you have far more grievously offended, will, if
you come to Him in His own appointed way, through faith in the Great
Sacrifice, with sincere repentance, not only abundantly pardon you, but
will inflict no punishment, because the punishment justly your due has
been already borne by the Just and Holy One when He died on the Cross
for sinners."

The officer, looking at his watch, interrupted Lance by saying that it
was time to start.  Emery was conveyed to the station, and in a short
time they were on their way back to London.

The officer made inquiries at the different stations, and at length
discovered the one at which Gange had left the train.  He sent to London
for another officer to follow on his track.

Emery was conveyed to prison.  He was tried, convicted, and sent to gaol
for twelve months' imprisonment.  Old Sass, however, was too cunning to
be caught, and got off to sea.

Lance obtained leave frequently to visit his unhappy schoolfellow, who,
now left to his own reflections, listened to him attentively when with
gentle words he impressed on him the truths he had hitherto derided.
Before he left the prison Emery became thoroughly and deeply convinced
that he was an utterly lost sinner, and that so he would have been, had
he not been guilty of the crime for which he was suffering, or the
countless others he had committed which his memory conjured up.  Often
had he cried, "Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!"  That prayer had been
heard, and he now knew that God is merciful, and that He has given good
proof of His mercy by sending Jesus, the pure and sinless One, to suffer
on the cross for every one who will trust to that sufficient atonement
which He thus made for sin.

"God as a Sovereign with free grace offers pardon to rebellious man,"
said Lance.  "He leaves us with loving gratitude to accept it, and if we
reject His mercy, justly to suffer the consequence of that rejection,
and to be cast out for ever from His presence."

"I see it!--I understand!--I do accept His gracious offer, and from
henceforth, and with the aid of His Holy Spirit, will seek to obey and
serve Him," said Emery.  "And I feel thankful that all this has come
upon me, for I might never otherwise have learned to know Him in whom I
can now place all my trust and love."

At the end of Emery's term of imprisonment, with the help of Mr
Gaisford, Lance was able to procure him a passage to Australia, where he
had in the meantime learned that his father had obtained a situation of
trust, and would be able to find employment for his son.

Lance went on as he had begun, and as soon as he was out of his articles
his loving and faithful Maddie became his wife, his mother having the
happiness of seeing him the partner of his former employer before she
was called to her rest.

He heard frequently from Emery, who, ever thankful for the mercies shown
him by his heavenly Father, continued with steady industry to labour in
the humble situation he had obtained.

A decrepit beggar one day came to Lance's door with a piteous tale of
the miseries he had endured, and Lance, ever ready to relieve distress,
visited him at the wretched lodging where a few days afterwards he lay
dying.  He there learned that the unhappy man was Sass Gange.  Lance
told him that he knew him.  Sass inquired for Emery.

"I'm thankful I did not help to bring him to the gallows," he murmured.
"The way I tempted the lad has laid heavier on my conscience than
anything I ever did, and I've done a good many things I don't like to
think about."

Lance endeavoured to place the gospel before the old man, but his heart
was hard, his mind dull.  In a few days he died.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.

BOOK II--ALONE ON AN ISLAND.

CHAPTER I.

The _Wolf_, a letter-of-marque of twenty guns, commanded by Captain
Deason, sailing from Liverpool, lay becalmed on the glass-like surface
of the Pacific.  The sun struck down with intense heat on the deck,
compelling the crew to seek such shade as the bulwarks or sails
afforded.  Some were engaged in mending sails, twisting yarns, knotting,
splicing, or in similar occupations; others sat in groups between the
guns, talking together in low voices, or lay fast asleep out of sight in
the shade.  The officers listlessly paced the deck, or stood leaning
over the bulwarks, casting their eyes round the horizon in the hopes of
seeing signs of a coming breeze.  Their countenances betrayed ill-humour
and dissatisfaction; and if they spoke to each other, it was in gruff,
surly tones.  They had had a long course of ill luck, as they called it,
having taken no prizes of value.  The crew, too, had for some time
exhibited a discontented and mutinous spirit, which Captain Deason, from
his bad temper, was ill fitted to quell.  While he vexed and insulted
the officers, they bullied and tyrannised over the men.  The crew,
though often quarrelling among themselves, were united in the common
hatred to their superiors, till that little floating world became a
perfect pandemonium.

Among those who paced her deck, anxiously looking out for a breeze, was
Humphry Gurton, a fine lad of fifteen, who had joined the _Wolf_ as a
midshipman.  This was his first trip to sea.  He had intended to enter
the Navy, but just as he was about to do so his father, a merchant at
Liverpool, failed, and, broken-hearted at his losses, soon afterwards
died, leaving his wife and only son but scantily provided for.

Tenderly had that wife, though suffering herself from a fatal disease,
watched over him in his sickness, and Humphry had often sat by his
father's bedside while his mother was reading from God's Word, and
listened as with tender earnestness she explained the simple plan of
salvation to his father.  She had shown him from the Bible that all men
are by nature sinful, and incapable, by anything they can do, of making
themselves fit to enter a pure and holy heaven, however respectable or
excellent they may be in the sight of their fellow-men, and that the
only way the best of human beings can come to God is by imitating the
publican in the parable, and acknowledging themselves worthless, outcast
sinners, and seeking to be reconciled to Him according to the one way He
has appointed--through a living faith in the all-atoning sacrifice of
His dear Son.  Humphry had heard his father exclaim, "I believe that
Jesus died for me; O Lord, help my unbelief!  I have no merits of my
own; I trust to Him, and Him alone."  He had witnessed the joy which had
lighted up his mother's countenance as she pressed his father's hand,
and bending down, whispered, "We shall be parted but for a short time;
and, oh! may our loving Father grant that this our son may too be
brought to love the Saviour, and join us when he is summoned to leave
this world of pain and sorrow."

Humphry had felt very sad; and though he had wept when his father's eyes
were closed in death, and his mother had pressed him--now the only being
on earth for whom she desired to live--to her heart, yet the impression
he had received had soon worn off.

In a few months after his father died, she too was taken from him, and
Humphry was left an orphan.

The kind and pious minister, Mr Faithful, who frequently visited Mrs
Gurton during the last weeks of her illness, had promised her to watch
over her boy, but he had no legal power.  Humphry's guardian was a
worldly man, and finding that there was but a very small sum for his
support, was annoyed at the task imposed on him.

Humphry had expressed his wish to go to sea.  A lad whose acquaintance
he had lately made, Tom Matcham, was just about to join the _Wolf_, and,
persuading him that they should meet with all sorts of adventures,
offered to assist him in getting a berth on board her.  Humphry's
guardian, to save himself trouble, was perfectly willing to agree to the
proposed plan, and, without difficulty, arranged for his being received
on board as a midshipman.

"We shall have a jovial life of it, depend upon that!" exclaimed Matcham
when the matter was settled.  "I intend to enjoy myself.  The officers
are rather wild blades, but that will suit me all the better."  Harry
went to bid farewell to Mr Faithful.

"I pray that God will prosper and protect you, my lad," he said.  "I
trust that your young companion is a right principled youth, who will
assist you as you will be ready to help him, and that the captain and
officers are Christian men."

"I have not been long enough acquainted with Tom Matcham to know much
about him," answered Humphry.  "I very much doubt that the captain and
officers are the sort of people you describe.  However, I daresay I
shall get on very well with them."

"My dear Humphry," exclaimed Mr Faithful, "I am deeply grieved to hear
that you can give no better account of your future associates.  Those
who willingly mix with worldly or evil-disposed persons are very sure to
suffer.  Our constant prayer is that we may be kept out of temptation,
and we are mocking God if we willingly throw ourselves into it.  I would
urge you, if you are not satisfied with the character of those who are
to be your companions for so many years, to give up the appointment
while there is time.  I would accompany you, and endeavour to get your
agreement cancelled.  It will be better to do so at any cost, rather
than run the risk of becoming like them."

"Oh, I daresay that they are not bad fellows after all!" exclaimed
Humphry.  "You know I need not do wrong, even though they do."

The minister sighed.  In vain he urged Humphry to consider the matter
seriously.

"All I can do, then, my young friend, is to pray for you," said Mr
Faithful, as he wrung Harry's hand, "and I beg you, as a parting gift,
to accept these small books.  One is a book above all price, of a size
which you may keep in your pocket, and I trust that you will read it as
you can make opportunities, even though others may attempt to interrupt
you, or to persuade you to leave it neglected in your chest."

It was a small Testament, and Harry, to please the minister, promised to
carry it in his pocket, and to read from it as often as he Could.

Humphry having parted from his friend, went down at once to join the
ship.

Next day she sailed.  Humphry at first felt shocked at hearing the oaths
and foul language used, both by the crew and officers.  The captain, who
on shore appeared a grave, quiet sort of man, swore louder and oftener
than any one.  Scarcely an order was issued without an accompaniment of
oaths; indeed blasphemy resounded throughout the ship.

Matcham only laughed at Humphry when he expressed his annoyance.

"You will soon get accustomed to it," he observed.  "I confess that I
myself was rather astonished when I first heard the sort of thing, but I
don't mind it now a bit."

So Humphry thought, for Matcham interlarded his own conversation with
the expressions used by the rest on board; indeed, swearing had become
so habitual to him, that he seemed scarcely aware of the fearful
language which escaped his lips.

By degrees, as Matcham had foretold, Humphry did get accustomed to the
language used by all around, which had at first so greatly shocked him.
Though he kept his promise to the minister, and carried the little
Testament in his pocket, he seldom found time to read it.

He wished to become a sailor, and he applied himself diligently to learn
his profession; and as he was always in a good temper and ready to
oblige, the captain and officers treated him with more respect than they
did Matcham, who was careless and indifferent, and ready to shirk duty
whenever he could do so.  Matcham, finding himself constantly abused,
chose to consider that it was owing to Humphry, and, growing jealous,
took every opportunity of annoying him.  Humphry, however, gained the
good-will of the men by never swearing at them, or using the rope's-end:
this the officers were accustomed to do on all occasions, and Matcham
imitated them by constantly thrashing the boys, often without the
slightest excuse.

As the ship sailed on her voyage, the state of affairs on board became
worse and worse.  On one occasion the crew came aft, complaining that
their provisions were bad, and then that the water was undrinkable, when
the captain, appearing with pistols in his hands, ordered them to go
forward, refusing to listen to what they had to say.  Another time they
complained that they were stinted in their allowance of spirits, when he
treated them in the same way.  They retired, casting looks of defiance
at him and the officers.  On several occasions, when some of the men did
not obey orders with sufficient promptitude, Humphry saw them struck to
the deck by the first and second mates without any notice being taken by
the captain.  The officers, too, quarrelled among themselves; the first
officer and the second refused to speak to each other; and the surgeon,
who considered that he had been insulted, declined intercourse with
either of them.  The younger officers followed their bad example, and
often and often Humphry wished that he had listened to the advice of his
friend Mr Faithful, and had inquired the character of his intended
companions before he joined the ship.

At the first port in South America at which the _Wolf_ touched, the
surgeon, carrying his chest with him, went on shore, and refused to
return till the mates had apologised.  As this they would not do, she
sailed without him; and although the men might be wounded, or sickness
break out, there was now no one on board capable of attending to them.
Such was the condition of the _Wolf_ at the time she was thus floating
becalmed and alone on the wide ocean.

CHAPTER TWO.

Harry Gurton stood gazing on the glassy sea till his eyes ached with the
bright glare, his thoughts wandering back to the days of his happy
childhood, when he was the pride and delight of his beloved father and
mother.  He had come on deck only to breathe a purer air than was to be
found below.

Soon after leaving the coast of South America a fever had broken out on
board, and several of the crew lay sick in their berths.  Their
heartless shipmates, afraid of catching the complaint, took little care
of them.  Humphry could not bear to see them suffer without help, and
from the first had done his best to attend on them.  He constantly went
round, taking them water and such food as he could induce the cook to
prepare.

Tom Matcham was the only officer who had as yet been struck down by the
fever.  He lay in his berth tossing and groaning, complaining of his
hard lot.  The officers, who were annoyed by his cries, often abused
him, telling him roughly not to disturb them.

"The cruel brutes!  I will be revenged on them if I ever get well,"
exclaimed Matcham.

In vain Humphry tried to pacify him.

"Don't mind what they say, Tom," he observed.  "I hope you may get well;
but if you were to die, it would be dreadful to go out of the world with
such feelings in your heart.  I remember enough about religion to know
that we should forgive those who injure us.  If you will let me, I will
try to say some of the prayers which my mother taught me when I was a
child, and I will pray with you.  I have got a Testament, and I should
like to read to you out of it."

"I can't pray, and I don't want to hear anything from the Testament,"
answered Tom gloomily.

"It would be very dreadful if you were to go out of the world feeling as
you now do," urged Humphry.

"What! you don't mean to say you think I am going to die!" exclaimed Tom
in an agitated voice.

"I tell you honestly, Tom, that you seem as bad as the two poor fellows
who died last week," said Humphry.

"Oh, you are croaking," groaned Tom, though his voice faltered as he
spoke.

After talking for some time longer without being able to move him,
Humphry was compelled to go forward to attend to some of the other men.

In the first hammock he came to lay Ned Hadow, one of the oldest, and
apparently one of the most ruffianly of the crew.  He seemed, however,
to be grateful to Humphry for his kindness; and he acknowledged that if
it had not been for him, he should have been fathoms down in the deep
before then.

"I hope, however, that you are getting better now," said Humphry.

"Thanks to you, sir, I think I am," answered Ned.  "I don't want to die,
though I cannot say I have much to live for, nor has any one else aboard
this ship, except to be abused and knocked about without any chance of
gaining any good by the cruise."

"Perhaps we may do better by and by," observed Humphry.

"I have no hopes of that while such men as the captain and his mates
have charge of the ship.  Take my advice, Mr Gurton, if you have a
chance, get out of her as fast as you can.  You will thank me for
warning you--it is the only way I have to show that I am grateful to you
for your kindness."

Hadow's remarks made no deep impression upon Humphry, but he could not
help occasionally recollecting them.

After visiting the other sick men, he went on deck to keep his proper
watch; then, weary with his exertions, he turned into his berth to
obtain the rest he so much needed.

He was awakened by hearing the cry of "All hands shorten sail!"  He
quickly sprang on deck.

A gale had suddenly sprung up.  The ship was heeling over, and ploughing
her way through the seething waters.  The crew flew aloft.  The loftier
sails were taken in, and the top-sails were being closely reefed, when
another blast, more furious than the former, struck the ship, and two
poor fellows were hurled from the lee-yard-arm into the foaming waters.
There was a cry from the crew, and several rushed to lower a boat--
Humphry among them.

"Hold fast!" cried the captain; "let the fellows drown; you will only
lose your lives if you attempt to save them."

Still the men persisted, showing more humanity than they had exhibited
in attending to their sick shipmates, when the captain swore that he
would shoot any one who disobeyed him.  Though spare spars and
everything that could float had been hove overboard, the poor fellows in
the water could no longer be seen.

The crew, with gloomy looks, assembled forward, muttering threats which
did not reach the officers' ears.

The change of weather had the effect of restoring some of the sick men
to health, though several died.  Among the first to appear on deck was
Ned Hadow.  He still looked weak and ill--the shadow of his former self.
He was changed in other respects, and Humphry observed that he was
quiet in his behaviour, and no longer swore in the way he had been
accustomed to do.

Matcham remained in his berth.  He seemed a little better, though he
still refused to listen to Humphry when he offered to read the Bible to
him, and when asked the reason, replied, "Because I am not going to let
those fellows suppose that I am afraid to die.  They would be sneering
at me, and calling me a Methodist; and I don't intend to die either, so
I don't see why I should bother myself by having religion thrust down my
throat."

"If you are not going to die, I suppose the case is different," answered
Humphry.  "Still, I know that if you were, the Bible is the best book to
read.  I wish that I had read it oftener myself."

"If I can get hold of it, I will take care that neither you nor I am
troubled with it in future," answered Matcham.  "You have teased me too
much about it already.  I wish you would just try what the captain or
mates would say to you if you were to bother them."

Humphry put his little Testament into his pocket, determining that his
messmate should not get hold of it.  Still, much as he valued the book
as a gift from his old friend, he looked upon it, as many other people
do, as a book to be reverenced, and to be read in times of sickness or
trouble; but he had little notion of the value of an open Bible, to be
studied with prayer every day in the week, to serve as a light to his
feet and a lamp to his path, and to guide him in the everyday affairs of
life.

Humphry, wishing Matcham good evening, went on deck.

As he looked ahead, he saw in the distance a small island rising like a
rock out of the blue ocean.  The ship was standing towards it.  The sun,
however, was just then setting, and in a short time it was concealed
from sight by the mists of night.  As he was to keep the first watch
with the third mate, he went down and took some supper.  When he
returned on deck, he found that the sky was overcast with clouds, and
that the night was excessively dark.  He could scarcely distinguish the
man at the helm or the officer of the watch.

"Is that you, Gurton?" asked the third mate.  "The orders are to heave
to in an hour, so as not to run past the island we saw at sunset, as the
captain wishes to examine it to-morrow morning.  Go forward, and see
that the look-outs are keeping their eyes open; the reefs may run
further off the land than we think for."

"Ay, ay, sir," answered Humphry, making his way along the deck.

Having spoken to the men as directed, he stood for some minutes trying
to pierce the thick gloom, and as he was sure no danger could be seen
till the ship was close upon it, he resolved to return aft, and advise
the mate to heave her to sooner than he had been ordered.

When just abreast of the fore-rigging, he suddenly felt his arms
pinioned behind him, and a gag thrust into his mouth.  At the same time
a voice whispered in his ear, which he recognised as Ned Hadow's, "Do
not cry out--no harm is intended you; what we do is for your good."  The
next instant he felt himself lifted off his feet and placed in the
fore-rigging, up which a man on either side forced him to ascend.  He
soon reached the top.

"He will be safer in the cross-trees," said one of the men, and he was
compelled to ascend till he got there.  "We must make you fast where you
are," whispered Hadow, compelling Humphry to sit down on the
cross-trees, and lashing him to the rigging.  "If you will promise not
to cry out, we will remove the gag from your mouth; if not, you must be
content to bear it for some time longer.  Here, press my hand if you
promise to do as I tell you--I can trust to your word."

Humphry was very anxious to get rid of the gag, which hurt him, and
pressed the hand placed in his.  The gag was immediately taken out of
his mouth.

"Whatever sounds you hear, or whatever you see, don't cry out, as you
value your life," whispered Hadow.

The next moment Humphry was left alone.  He sat wondering why he had
been thus treated.  Hadow could certainly not have intended to injure
him; at the same time, he could not help fearing that the crew
contemplated some dreadful act of mutiny, and that Hadow had contrived
to get him up there to keep him out of harm's way.  Nothing could he see
but the tall mast above his head tapering towards the dark sky, and the
yard and ropes immediately below him.  All on deck seemed quiet, no
voices reached his ear.

The moments passed slowly by.  Suddenly a loud shriek rent the air,
followed by a heavy groan; then came the flash and report of a pistol--
another, and another followed.  Now rose fierce shouts and cries from
many voices, loud thundering blows, and the clash of cutlasses.  A
desperate fight was going on.  He no longer had any doubt that the
officers had been attacked, and were struggling for their lives.

Suddenly, as they began, all sounds of strife ceased, though he could
now distinguish the voices of the crew shouting to each other.

The helm during the contest had been deserted, and the ship had come up
to the wind.  It seemed a relief to him to hear the boatswain's voice
ordering the crew to brace up the yards.  The ship was then hove to.

No one, however, came to release him.  If his friend Hadow had fallen in
the strife, what would be his fate when the rest of the crew discovered
him?  The dreadful certainty forced itself upon his mind, that the
officers had been overcome.  He heard the men moving about the deck, and
talking in loud voices to each other; but though he listened eagerly, he
could not ascertain what was said.

Hour after hour passed by.  No one came aloft to release him.

Notwithstanding the fearful anxiety he felt, he at length dropped off
into forgetfulness; but his dream were troubled, and full of the horrors
which had just occurred.

CHAPTER THREE.

"It was well I thought of lashing you securely, or you would have fallen
and been killed," said a voice in Humphry's ear.

Consciousness returned.  He recognised Ned Hadow.

"It will be wise in you not to ask any questions, Mr Gurton," he
whispered.  "Just be sure that you are wide awake, and I will cast off
the lashings.  I have done the best I could for you.  The men did not
ask you to join them because they believed you would not, nor do I
either.  I am too grateful to you for what you have done for me to wish
you to be among them.  They have now possession of the ship, and intend
to keep it.  As we shall be at daybreak close in with the island we saw
last night, they give you your choice of being put on shore there, or
taking the oath of fidelity to them, and joining their cause.  As I said
before, I don't suppose you will hesitate about the matter."

"Indeed I will not," answered Humphry; "whether or not the island is
inhabited or means of subsistence can be found on it, I would rather be
put on shore than remain an hour longer than I can help on board the
ship, after what I fear has taken place."

"As I said, Mr Gurton, you must ask no questions," repeated Hadow.  "I
wish I could go with you, but I am sworn to stay by the rest.  I would
give anything to be out of the ship, but it is too late now to draw
back; though, as I have heard it said, that hell with sinners often
begins on earth, so it has begun with me.  Yes, Mr Gurton, I almost wish
that I had been carried off by the fever instead of living on, to become
what I now am.  I was bad enough before, but I am a thousand times worse
now.  There is no one on board I can say this to, and I cannot help
saying it to you."

"Surely you could manage to come on shore with me," said Humphry.  "Your
messmates will probably release you from any oath you have taken if you
wish it."

"They will not do that, sir, they will not do that," answered Hadow in a
despairing tone.  "I am bound hand and foot to them; their fate,
whatever that is, must be mine.  You must not stay up here longer.  I
will cast off the lashings now, but you must take care, as your arms
will be stiff after being bound so long, that you don't fall.  I will
hold you till you get the use of them."

Saying this, Ned cast off the rope, and grasping Humphry round the body,
assisted him to get on his legs; then, after he had stood for a minute
or two, helped him to descend the rigging.

On reaching the foretop, Hadow told him to wait there till he should
come for him.

"I don't want you to go among the crew," he said in a low voice.  "I
have got four men whom you looked after in their sickness, who have
agreed to pull you on shore, which we hope to reach as soon as there is
light enough to land.  The boat is already in the water, and we are
stowing her with things which we think will be useful to you.  As you
saw nothing of what happened, even should you be taken off the island
some time or other, you cannot swear against any one.  All you know is
that you were lashed in the rigging, and were put on shore the same
night before daybreak.  If any one asks you questions on deck, that is
what you must say to them--you understand me?"

Humphry replied that he did understand, and, suspecting that his safety
depended on his answer, said that he would do as Ned advised.

"Well, then, stay here till I come for you," and Ned disappeared down
the rigging.

Harry had not long to wait when he again heard his voice.

"All is ready," he whispered.  "We took the bearings of the island
before dark, and can steer a straight course for it.  Don't speak to any
one.  Follow me into the boat; she is waiting under the forechains; you
will find a rope by which you can lower yourself into her."

Humphry followed Ned without ever stepping on deck, and took his seat
near him in the stern of the boat, which noiselessly shoved off from the
ship's side.  The crew bent to their oars, while Ned steered by a boat
compass lighted by a lantern at his feet.

Humphry breathed more freely when he felt himself out of the ship.  Yet
what a fate was to be his.  To be left alone on an island where he might
have to spend long, long years, cut off from all intercourse with his
fellow-creatures.  Yet anything was better than having to associate with
the wretched men on board the _Wolf_.

They soon lost sight of the ship, and the boat made her way across the
dark water, the island not being yet visible ahead.

"Are they all dead, have none been spared?" asked Humphry at length, yet
half fearing to speak on the subject which occupied his thoughts.

"I told you, Mr Gurton, to ask no questions," answered Ned in a hollow
voice.  "The sooner you put all thoughts of what happened last night out
of your head the better.  Just think of what you have got to do.  You
will have to keep your wits awake where you are going, depend on that.
I wish we could stop to help you, but we have promised to be back as
soon as we have landed your things.  All I can tell you is, that there
is said to be water, and you will probably find cocoa-nut and
bread-fruit trees, and other roots and fruits; and as we have put up
lines and hooks, and a gun and ammunition, and a couple of harpoons, and
lines for catching seals, it will be your fault if you do not manage to
find as much food as you want."

"But how shall I be able to live all alone by myself on the island?"
said Humphry with a sigh.

"Better to be all alone than food for the sharks, I have a notion,"
observed one of the men who overheard him.

Humphry made no further remark.  He now felt more than ever certain that
a fearful tragedy had been enacted, and that he ought to be thankful to
get out of the company of the perpetrators.  Yet he was sorry to leave
Hadow among them, for he had observed, he thought, the signs of
something better in him than in his companions, rough and ignorant as he
was.

As day dawned the island appeared ahead, rising out of the blue water
with black rocks piled one upon another, and some hills of considerable
elevation.  Humphry observed also a deep sandy bay between the rocks,
but an encircling coral reef intervened, over which, even on that calm
morning, the sea broke in masses of foam.

They pulled along till the bay opened out more clearly, and just in
front was a cascade, which came tumbling down the rocks.  A narrow piece
of dark water was seen between the masses of foam which danced up on
either side of it.

"There is a passage," exclaimed Ned.  "Give way, my lads, and we shall
get through it without difficulty."

The men bent to their oars, and the boat, dashing between the two walls
of foam, was in a short time floating on the calm surface of a lagoon.
Pulling up the bay, they reached a small sandy beach, though the dark
rocks which everywhere rose up around it gave the place a gloomy aspect.

The boat was hauled up, and the men quickly landed the various articles
which Ned had secured for Humphry's benefit.

He and Humphry searching about soon found a level spot on one side of
the bay where the ground looked capable of cultivation.

"This will do for you, my lad," said Ned.  "And as I found some papers
of seed in the captain's cabin, I put them into one of the casks; though
I don't know what they are, maybe if you sow them they will come up, and
supply you with vegetables."

The men now brought up all the things from the boat.  They all wished
him good luck and a happy life on the island, and then hurried back to
the boat.

"I only wish I could stop with you, that I do!" exclaimed Ned with some
feeling, as he wrung Humphry's hand.  "I dare not say `God bless you!'
but I hope He will, that I do with all my heart," and Ned ran down to
join his companions, who were already shoving off the boat.  He would
not have been sorry if they had gone without him.

Humphry watched them going down the bay.  They passed through the reef,
and pulled out to sea till the boat was lost to sight, though he could
distinguish the ship hove to in the offing waiting for her return.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Humphry sat down on his chest, feeling very forlorn.  Here he was on a
desert island, a mere speck in the ocean, hundreds of miles away perhaps
from any place inhabited by civilised man.  He might perhaps never be
able to make his escape, or again hold intercourse with his
fellow-creatures.  All alone, without speaking, without exchanging an
idea with another human being, he might have to drag out a weary
existence; and then, should sickness overtake him, have to lie down and
breathe out his life, leaving his bones to whiten in the sun.

He had read Robinson Crusoe, but then his case was very different to
that of the far-famed voyager.  Robinson Crusoe had the companionship of
Friday, and his island was fertile and smiling, and he had goats and
fowls and other animals to cheer him or to serve him as food.  He would
have to go in search of fish and birds for his daily food, and as yet
was uncertain whether any were to be found, though at present he did not
fear starvation, as he had the salted beef and pork and biscuits with
which Ned had supplied him.  But then when they were gone, how should he
live?

"It won't do to indulge in these thoughts," he exclaimed to himself,
suddenly starting up.  "I must think about building a house in the first
place; and then as soon as I can prepare the ground I will put in the
seed, and, as I hope, some may produce good edible vegetables, I shall
have a variety in diet and keep myself in health."

As he began to examine the articles which had been brought on shore, he
found a large roll of canvas.  It was part of an old sail.

"This Ned must have intended to serve as a tent till I can put up a more
substantial building.  I am much obliged to him, and I need not be in
any great hurry about building my house."

He spoke his thoughts aloud on nearly all occasions.  It gave him some
relief to hear his own voice.

"I must get some poles for the tent, though; and no spars, I see, have
been brought on shore."

He looked out an axe, and sticking it in his belt, set out to search for
what he wanted.

"I shall not lose my way in this new kingdom of mine, that's one
advantage in having it of moderate size; and if I climb to the top of
the hill, I shall be able to sing with Robinson Crusoe, `I am lord of
all I survey,'--ah, ah, ah!" and he laughed for the first time for many
a day.

There was nothing to excite his risibility on board.  He felt his
spirits rising.

"Stay!" he exclaimed suddenly.  "What an ungrateful wretch I am!  Here
have I been saved from a great danger, and placed in safety, at all
events for the present, and yet I have not uttered one word of thanks to
Him who has preserved me."

He knelt down, and lifted up his heart as well as he could to God.

"Careless, worthless fellow that I have been! yet God promises to hear
all those that come to Him, not trusting to themselves or to their own
good deeds, but to the perfect and complete atonement Jesus Christ made
for their sins on the cross, so I know that He will hear me; and I am
sure, though I am unworthy of His care, that He put it into the hearts
of those men to bring me on shore instead of throwing me overboard, or
what would have been worse, keeping me among them."

He felt his heart much lighter when he rose from his knees.

He then, carefully observing the appearance of the rocks, that he might
find his way back without difficulty, proceeded on his expedition.
Clambering over them, he came to more level ground covered with various
bushes, and soon reached a hill-side on which grew a number of trees,
palms and others, with the names of which he was unacquainted.  He
looked in vain for cocoa-nuts, not being aware that the trees are only
generally found on the level shore to which the nuts have been borne by
the wind and tides of the ocean from other islands.  He cut two stout
poles for uprights, and a longer one for a ridge-pole, and shouldering
them, returned to his camp.

"I shall want a fire, though," he thought, as he got back, and throwing
them down he again set out to get fuel.

This he had no difficulty in finding among the brushwood, and with the
aid of his axe he quickly made up a number of <DW19>s.

"I shall not be obliged to have a fire burning all night to keep off
wild beasts, that is another comfort," he observed.  "But it will be
cheerful to sit by when it grows dark.  I shall not find the time hang
heavily on my hands for some days to come, that's another comfort."

His first thought was to do the most necessary work.  Having brought the
<DW19>s to his camp, he next put up his tent.

This accomplished, as soon as he sat down to rest he began to feel
hungry.  He rummaged in a small cask, which contained a number of
miscellaneous articles, and discovered a tinder-box.  He had soon a fire
blazing in front of his tent.  He had prudently made it up at a
sufficient distance to prevent the risk of the flames reaching the
canvas.  While he stayed his hunger with some biscuit, he prepared a
piece of beef, which he spitted and placed before the fire on two small
sticks, such as he had read of people doing under similar circumstances.
He turned the meat on the spit, which grew blacker and blacker.

"I think it must be done now," he said at length, taking it off.

When he cut it with his knife, he found it almost as hard as wood.  He
attempted to eat a few mouthfuls, but he could scarcely get them down.

"This won't do," he said.  "I must get some water, to enable me to
swallow this dry food."

On searching for something to hold the water, he found a saucepan, and
on his way with it to the cascade it occurred to him that he might have
cooked his beef much better by boiling.  "I must try that way for
dinner," he thought.

A draught of pure water greatly refreshed him.  He returned to the camp
with his saucepan filled.  He put it on at once with a small piece of
meat in it, recollecting that salted beef requires a long time to boil,
and he hoped to have better success in his second attempt at cooking.

He now made a survey of the articles his shipmates had left with him.
There was enough beef and pork to serve him for many months, but he
regretted to find that the bread would not last him nearly so long.

"I must try and find some substitute for it," he said, "and economise it
in the meantime.  I would rather have had much more bread and less meat,
as I hope to catch some fish and kill some birds.  However, I need not
go hunting till I have put my home to rights."

Then he thought of his seeds.  He had no spade, however, to dig the
ground; so going to the wood he shaped one, which he hoped would answer
the purpose, out of the stem of a small tree.  It did better than
nothing, but he would have been very glad of an iron spade.  He at once
began to dig up the ground.  It was covered thickly with grass with long
roots, but the soil was rather sand than earth.  "I must dig all this
up," he said, "or they will soon sprout up again, and destroy the seed."
So he marked out a small plot, carefully throwing the roots and grass
into a heap.  It then struck him that if they were scattered about on
the ground in the sun they would more quickly dry, and he might then
burn them, and the ashes would contribute to fertilise the ground.

He worked away till he felt quite weary.  He then went back to his fire
to see how the beef was boiling.  As it was not yet done, after resting
a short time he returned to his digging.  It was a very long operation,
but after labouring for four or five hours he found that he had dug up
almost ten square yards of ground.  "It is thoroughly done, though there
is not much of it, and that's a satisfaction," he said.  He thought,
however, even when the ashes of the grass were mixed with it, it would
scarcely be sufficiently fertile for the seeds.  "I will go into the
woods and collect rotten leaves, and with the ashes of my fire I hope in
time to make the soil good."  This was a wise thought, but the sun was
already getting low, and he determined to wait till the next day to do
so.  "It will be better to have a small piece of good ground than to dig
up the whole plot, and I will only put in a few seeds at first, to see
how they answer; so that if some fail, I may try a different way of
cultivating them.  I shall, at all events, have work enough.  How sad it
would have been if I had had nothing to do but to sit still and bemoan
my hard fate.  I may not, after all, find my life so miserable alone as
I had expected, that's another comfort."

With these reflections he went back to his fire, and now, to his
satisfaction, he found that his beef was thoroughly boiled.  Ned had
forgotten to put in any salt or mustard, but as the beef was salt in
itself, that did not signify.  It reminded him, however, that if he shot
any birds or caught fish, he should require some.  That made him resolve
to try and look for it amongst the rocks, or to try and manufacture it
from salt water, as he had read of being done.  He had been accustomed
to read a good many books of travels before he came to sea, and he now
found the advantage of having done so, by being reminded of the various
ways people, when placed in situations similar to his, had been enabled
to support existence.  This contributed to keep up his spirits, as it
made him have no doubts of obtaining food.  His only dread was that he
might meet with an accident, or might fall ill, when there would be no
one to help him.

"Well, well, I ought not to trouble myself about that either," he said.
"I must pray to God to preserve me, and do my best not to run any
unnecessary risk."

He then recollected the dreadful complaint, the scurvy, which had
already attacked some of the crew of the _Wolf_.

"That is brought on by people living too exclusively on salt provisions.
I must try to find some roots or herbs till the seeds come up; and
then, if they produce vegetables, as I hope they will, I need not be
anxious about that."

Such were his cogitations during his meal.  Having finished, he hung up
the remainder of his beef in his tent, to serve as breakfast for the
next morning, and then went back to the fountain to enjoy a draught of
pure water.

He felt but little inclined to do any more work, and the sun had not set
when he recollected that he had not yet read from his Testament.  He
took it from the pocket of his jacket, which hung up in his tent, and
sat down to read.  He read on for some time, feeling his spirits greatly
refreshed, till, by the increasing darkness, he found that the sun had
gone down, and that it was time to prepare for rest.  Ned had thrown a
bed into the boat and a blanket.

"Few people left on a desert island as I am have enjoyed so luxurious a
couch as this is," thought Humphry, as he laid himself down after
offering up his prayers, as he had been accustomed to do before he came
to sea.  Since then, shame, and the indifference which arises from it,
had prevented him ever kneeling in prayer.  He now, left all alone as he
was, felt that prayer was his greatest comfort; though he had no
fellow-creature to talk to, he had the privilege of speaking to his
Maker.  He had not been reading his Testament without gaining
enlightenment.  He had learned that he must come to God in His appointed
way--through Jesus Christ; that he had no right to approach Him in any
other way.

He had scarcely placed his head on the bundle of clothes which he had
rolled up to make a pillow, and drawn his blanket round him, than he
fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE.

It seemed but a moment afterwards that Humphry heard some birds
chirruping, and opening his eyes, he found that it was already daylight.
He instantly sprang up, recollecting that though the days were long, he
had plenty of work to do.  He first knelt down and earnestly offered up
a prayer for protection and guidance.

The water in the bay looked bright and clear.  Throwing off his clothes
and plunging in, he enjoyed a refreshing swim.  The warm air soon dried
him, for Ned, as may be supposed, had not thought of providing him with
towels.  As he sat on a rock for a few moments to rest, he saw a dark
object floating by in the water, then a triangular fin rose above it,
and he observed a pair of fierce-looking eyes gazing up at him.  He
shuddered, for he recognised the sailor's enemy, the shark.  How
mercifully he had been preserved!  Had he remained in a few minutes
longer the monster might have seized him.  He must be cautious in future
how he bathed.  He might find, however, some quiet pool into which no
shark could enter.

After recovering himself he returned to the camp, and lighted a fire to
cook his breakfast, which consisted of salt beef and biscuit.  He
thought he should like some tea.  He searched in his cask of stores, and
to his satisfaction he discovered a large bagful, and another of cocoa.
This showed him more than ever how thoughtful his friend had been.  He
knew, however, that he must husband it carefully.  Having brought water
from the fountain, he made a little, which he found very refreshing.
After draining off the liquid he put the leaves carefully by, to serve
for another time.  With this, and some of the cold beef and biscuit, he
made a hearty meal.  Then taking his spade in his hand he set to work to
dig up more ground.  He enriched it also with rotten leaves which he
collected, and with the ashes of the grass and roots which he dug up and
burned.

He had already spent nearly two days on the island.  "I shall forget how
time passes if I don't take some note of it," he thought.  "I must
follow Robinson Crusoe's plan, and notch a stick."  He at once went and
cut a long one.  He made a notch to show the day he had landed, and
another for that which was then passing.  He then smoothed off the end,
and carved the date--"20th November 1812."  "I will cut a notch every
morning, directly I am up, and then I shall not run the risk of missing
a day by forgetting to mark it."

He was surprised to find how soon Sunday came round.  On board the
_Wolf_ that sacred day had only been observed by the men being allowed
to mend their clothes; or if they were not so employed, they used to sit
idly gambling or singing ribald songs.  Humphry had been considering all
the previous day how he should spend it.  "We are told by God in the
Bible to do no work, and to make it a day of rest.  I am sure that I
ought to obey Him, though it may seem important to me to get my house up
or to dig more ground.  I will therefore obey His commands, and leave
the rest to Him."

He rose at the usual hour, and went to wash at the waterfall, where he
found that he could take a shower-bath, which was cooler and more
refreshing than even a dip in the sea.  He came back to breakfast, and
then taking out his Testament, read for a long time with deep interest.
While so employed, it occurred to him that he would learn portions by
heart.  This amply occupied his mind, and afforded him so much
satisfaction, that he determined every morning to commit a verse to
memory that he might think of it while he was at work.  He began at the
"Sermon on the Mount" on Monday morning, so that by the end of another
week he had learned six verses.

While waiting for the result of his gardening operations, he began
putting up his house.  As he had the greater portion of the summer of
the Southern hemisphere before him, he was in no hurry about this; so
during a portion of each day he went out with his gun to shoot birds, or
sat on a rock with a line catching fish.  He never failed to kill as
many birds as he wanted for food, or to catch as many fish as he could
eat.  He fitted one of his harpoons, and kept it ready for use in case
any seals appeared, though he suspected that if they visited the island
at all, they would not come till the winter season.

He had gone on increasing his garden, and putting in more seeds.
Greatly to his delight those he first sowed now appeared above ground.
He watered them regularly, and the plants rapidly increased in size.
Some were evidently cabbages, while others put forth roots with tubers;
others, again, greatly resembled spinach.

He had now got up his house, and had dug a garden sufficiently large for
his wants.  The soil, by being watered every day, became even more
fertile than he had expected.

CHAPTER SIX.

Several weeks thus passed away before he thought of exploring his
island.

His stores had during this time visibly diminished.  He therefore saw
the necessity of laying in a store of food which might serve him when he
could not obtain it either by his gun or fishing-lines.

During bad weather, when the sea breaking over the reef washed into the
bay, he was frequently unable to catch fish.  He thought over various
ways of preserving them.  "I might dry some in the sun, and salt others;
but I suspect they would keep better and be more palatable if I could
smoke them."

He found salt in the hollows of the rocks as he had expected, but it
required much time and labour to collect.  One of his small casks was
now empty.  A fine day, when the fish bit freely, enabled him to catch a
large number, and he made his first experiment.  He had already got a
large pile of salt, though it was somewhat sandy, but he thought that
would not signify.  He cut off the heads and tails of the fish, then
rubbed the salt thoroughly into them, and packed them away in layers,
with salt between each.  It took him three or four days' fishing to fill
his cask, when all the salt was expended.  He then stowed it away in a
dry part of his hut, hoping that he had now secured food to last him for
several weeks.

He next tried drying some in the sun, but did not succeed to his
satisfaction.  He afterwards, however, built a smoking-house, and cured
a considerable number in it, though they were less palatable than those
preserved with salt.

These tasks finished, one day, being prevented from fishing by a gale of
wind, he set out on his proposed expedition, taking his gun, with some
provisions in a wallet he had manufactured for the purpose.

He made his way towards the nearest hill, and then struck down a valley
which led to the sea.  Between it and the bay a high ridge of rocks
extended, so he continued his course along the shore in an opposite
direction.  He had not gone far before he came to another ridge which he
had to surmount, the coast becoming wilder and wilder as he advanced,
instead of improving, as he had hoped it might do.  At last he reached
what he took to be the southern end of the island.  Looking back he saw
the <DW72> of the single high hill which composed its chief feature.  He
had now great difficulty in proceeding.  The cliffs which faced the sea
were almost perpendicular, and the rocks over which he climbed were
extremely rough.  He proceeded cautiously, knowing the fearful position
in which he would be placed should he meet with an accident.  He saw,
however, at a little distance off, a number of wild-fowl circling round
the cliffs.  He was certain that they had come there for the purpose of
laying their eggs.  Could he reach the spot, he might obtain a pleasant
addition to his larder.

After great labour he reached the spot, when he found himself among
hundreds of birds, many of them already sitting.  They screeched and
quacked and scolded, pecking at his legs as he got among them.  Without
ceremony he quickly filled his wallet with eggs.

"This will serve me as a poultry-yard for a long time to come," he
thought.  "I will not kill any of the old birds, but will wait till the
young ones are hatched, as they are likely to be more palatable than
their parents.  In the meantime, I will supply myself with eggs."

It was now time for him to commence his return home.  He felt very tired
when he reached his hut, for he had not taken so long a walk since
landing on the island.  To preserve his eggs, he covered them over with
the grease which remained in the pot after he had boiled his pork, and
then packed them away in cool, dry sand.

Every day he had reason to be thankful that he had read so much, for
recollecting the various methods by which others had supported
themselves, he was able to supply himself with food.

His garden yielded him a daily meal of either sweet potatoes, yams,
cabbages, or other vegetables.  He now caught more fish than at first,
and also from his poultry-yard obtained a good supply of young fowls.

His shoes were wearing out, and he was desirous of catching some seals,
from the skins of which he might manufacture others to supply their
place.  At last he saw several sporting in the bay.  He at once got his
harpoon ready, and took post on a rock, expecting that one would before
long approach him.  He was not disappointed Darting his weapon, he
struck the animal, which swam off, dragging out the line at a rapid
rate.  He found that he had made a mistake, and was nearly losing his
line and harpoon as well as the seal.  Fortunately, just as it neared
the end, he got a turn round a projecting piece of rock.  The poor seal
plunged and tumbled, and swam back to the rock to ascertain, it seemed,
what had hurt it.  He drew in the slack, and was thus able to secure it
more completely.  After a time its struggles ceased, and he dragged it
to the beach.  He here took off the skin, with which he hoped to make
several pairs of shoes, while the flesh supplied him with a dinner of
fresh meat for a couple of days; the other portions he salted, in store
for future use.  Stretching the hide on the ground, he dressed it with a
ley formed by mixing the ashes of his fire with water.  This he found
would not answer completely, and after searching in the forest he
discovered some bark which formed a strong tan.

The seals now came on shore in large numbers.  Recollecting that their
skins would be of value should a ship come to the island, he determined
to capture as many as he could.  Arming himself with a thick club, he
attacked them when asleep on the beach, and every day succeeded in
knocking over a considerable number.  This gave him abundant occupation;
and continuing his experiments he succeeded in perfectly preserving the
skins.  When at length the creatures took their departure, his hut was
nearly filled with the result of his industry.

Day after day went rapidly by, and had he not been careful in notching
his stick, he would soon have lost all count of time.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Three years had passed away since Humphry landed on the island.  He was
startled one calm day, when fishing from a rock in the bay as he caught
sight of his own countenance in the water, to observe how changed he had
become.  Instead of the laughing, careless, broadly-built boy with the
ruddy face, which he once was, he had grown into a tall, thin young man,
with a sunburnt countenance, its expression grave and thoughtful.  He
was not melancholy, however, nor did he ever feel out of spirits; but he
had of course been thrown back on himself, while his mind was constantly
occupied.  He had but one book to read, but that book, above all price,
had given him ample subjects for reflection.  "What should I have done
without this?" he often said to himself, as he opened the book with a
prayer that what he was about to read might enlighten his mind.

"I have heard people talk of reading their Bibles, but though I have
read nothing but my Testament for three years, I every day find
something fresh and interesting in it."

He had often made excursions to the top of the hill, whence he could
obtain a view over the surrounding ocean.

It had been raining heavily during the previous day.  No seals were to
be caught on shore, nor fish in the water.  Taking his gun, he set off,
intending to go over the hill to get a shot at some wild-fowl.  The wind
had greatly increased; and wishing to obtain a view of the ocean with
its huge foam-covered billows rolling around, he climbed to the top of
the hill.  As he reached it, his eye fell on a ship driving before the
gale towards the rocky shore.  Two of her masts were gone; the third
fell while he was looking at her.  Nothing could now save her from
destruction, for even should her anchors be let go, they were not likely
to hold for a moment.  He considered whether he could render any
assistance to the unhappy people on board.  Too truly he feared that he
could be of no use.  Still he would do his best.  Hurrying home, he
procured the only rope he possessed, and a spar, and with these on his
shoulder he hastened towards the spot at which, considering the
direction the ship was driving, he thought she would strike the shore.
He had scarcely reached it when he saw the ship driving on towards him
on a mountain sea.  The next instant down she came, crashing on a reef
of rocks far away from where he stood, the foaming sea dashing over her.
Several poor wretches were carried off the deck, now driven towards
him, but directly afterwards carried back by the retiring surf.  He
could distinguish but one alone still clinging to a portion of the
wreck, all the others had in a few minutes disappeared.  As long as that
man remained, he could not tear himself from the spot.

Several hours passed by; still the man clung on, having secured himself
apparently by a lashing.  The storm seemed to be abating.  Humphry took
off his shirt, and fastening it to the end of a spar, waved it, to show
the shipwrecked seaman that help was at hand if he could reach the
shore.  It was observed at length.  The man, casting off the lashings,
lowered himself into the water, and struck out for land.  Humphry
prepared his rope.  Fixing the spar deep in the sand, and securing one
end of the rope to it, he stood ready to plunge in, with the other end
round his waist, to drag the man on shore should he get within his
reach.  How anxiously he watched!  Nearer and nearer the man came.  Now
he was seen floating on his back, now he struck out again.  A sea
rolling in bore him on, but as it receded it threatened to carry him off
once more.  Now was the moment.  Humphry dashed into the surf.  The
man's strength had almost failed when Humphry grasped him, and hauling
himself up by the rope dragged the man out of the surf, sinking down
exhausted by his side the instant he was out of its reach.

Humphry was the first to recover.

"If you are strong enough to accompany me to the other side of the
island, friend, where I have my home, we will set off at once; but if
not, I will go back and get some food for you," he said.

"I shall soon be better," answered the man.  "I think I could walk.
Have you a companion with you?"

"No," answered Humphry, surprised at the question; "I am all alone."

"That's strange!  What, isn't there a young lad somewhere about the
island?"

"No," said Humphry.  "I have been here three years and have seen no
human being."

The man gazed into his countenance with a look of astonishment.

"What is your name, then?" he asked.

Humphry mentioned it.

"You Mr Gurton!" he cried, pressing his hand.  "I suppose it must be;
and don't you know me?"

Humphry looked into the man's face.  It was covered with a thick beard,
and his tangled hair hung over his shoulders.

"You must be Ned Hadow; yet I should not have known you more than you
know me.  I am indeed thankful that you have been saved.  But where have
you been all the time?"

"Greater part of it living on shore," answered Ned.  "After we landed
you, we took three or four prizes; but not being able to navigate the
ship, we put into a convenient harbour in an island inhabited by
savages.  There we remained, living among them much as they did.
Several of our men were killed; and at last, finding that the savages
intended to cut us all off, we put to sea again.  We had been knocking
about for some time, and used up all our provisions, when we fell in
with the gale which drove the ship on yonder rocks."

Ned insisted that he could walk across the island, and with Humphry's
help he was able to accomplish the journey, though nearly exhausted at
the end of it.  Humphry then made him lie down in his bed, while he
prepared some soup and other food.

Next day Ned somewhat recovered; and in the course of a week, owing to
Humphry's constant attention, he looked more like his former self.

"It's very dreadful to think that all the others have perished, but I am
truly thankful that you have been sent to be my companion," said
Humphry.  "You little thought when you acted so kindly towards me by
saving my life, and getting me put on shore here, that I should ever in
any way be able to repay you."

"I did not, Mr Gurton; but I feel that I am such a worthless fellow that
my life was not worth preserving."

"We are all worthless, Ned: that's what the book I read every day tells
me, and I am convinced of it when I look into my own heart, and know how
people in the world are generally acting."

"What! have you got that book still, Mr Gurton?" asked Ned.

"Yes, indeed I have, and I shall be glad to read it to you, Ned," said
Humphry.

"I shall like to hear it, sir, for I have not heard anything like a good
word since you used to read it to me when I was sick.  I had almost
forgotten there is a God in heaven.  I remembered that, however, when I
was clinging to the wreck, and expecting every moment to be in His
presence."

"It's the best thing to read God's Word, and to be guided by it, when we
expect to live.  I hope you may be spared many years, even though we
never get away from this island, and that book will serve us better than
any other companion who could join us."

Humphry, instead now of reading his Testament to himself, read it daily
to Ned, and even while they were at work he used to repeat portions he
had learned by heart.

Though Ned could not read, he gained in time a good knowledge of the
book, and his dark soul by degrees becoming enlightened, he understood
clearly at length God's plan of salvation, and cheerfully accepted it.

"You see, Ned, all things are ordered for the best," said Humphry one
day, "and you must be convinced that God loves us, however little we may
have loved Him.  If I had remained on board the privateer, I should have
become, as I was fast doing, like the rest of the unhappy crew.  Though
I thought it very dreadful to be left all alone on the island, I now
feel that it has been the greatest blessing to me.  God in His mercy
also saved you, though you would have preferred remaining among the
savages.  Now you are happy in knowing the glorious truth that the blood
of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin; and though we may both of us
wish to be once more among our fellow-men, we can live contentedly here
till He thinks fit to call us out of this life."

"I hope He may take me before any ship comes to the island, for if I
once fell among the sort of men I have lived with all my life, I should
soon again be as bad as they are," said Ned with a sigh.

"Not if you sought help and protection from God's Holy Spirit," answered
Humphry, "and prayed that He would keep you out of temptation."

Ned was surprised to find how much Humphry had done during the time he
had been alone on the island.  He assisted him in all his undertakings,
and they together caught enough seals to fill another large storehouse.

At last, after two years had thus passed away, Ned, who had been fishing
down the harbour, came hurrying back.  His countenance was grave, and he
looked much agitated.

"I have been watching a vessel standing in for the island.  She has hove
to, and is sending a boat on shore.  The time has come, Mr Gurton, when
we must part.  I dare not go back into the world, and have made up my
mind to remain here.  You are young, and have many years before you, and
I would advise you to go, and all I ask is that you will think of me and
pray for me."

This announcement made Humphry even more agitated than Ned.  He hurried
to the spot where the boat could be seen.

She made her way up the harbour.  Humphry and his companion went down to
meet her.  An officer-like looking man stepped on shore, accompanied by
another in dark clothes.  They seemed much surprised at seeing Humphry
and Ned.

"What! are you Englishmen?" asked one of the strangers.  "We only
discovered the island this morning, and had no expectation of finding it
inhabited."

Humphry explained that they were the only inhabitants; that he had been
left there some years before, and, pointing to Ned, said, "This man was
afterwards wrecked on the coast, and he alone was saved from his ship."

"I am Captain Summers of the _Hope_, now lying in the offing.  This
gentleman is the Reverend Mr Evans, a missionary, whom I am conveying to
an island where he is about to settle.  What is your name?" asked the
officer.

Humphry told him.

"And my name is Tom Martin," said Ned coming forward, greatly to
Humphry's surprise.

"Well, my friends, it seems but a barren island.  I wonder how you have
managed to live here so long."

Humphry briefly explained the various means by which he had procured
food, and leading the way to the garden, showed them the perfect
cultivation into which it had been brought.  He then invited Captain
Summers and Mr Evans into his hut.  His Testament lay open on the table.
The latter took it up, observing--

"I am glad to see, my young friend, that you have not been deprived of
God's Word during your long stay here."

"It has indeed been my great solace and delight," answered Humphry.
"Without it I should have been miserable."

"Well, my friends, I shall be most happy to receive you both on board my
ship; and as I hope to sail for England in the course of a few months,
you will then be able to return home."

Humphry thanked the captain for his offer, which he gladly accepted.
Ned looked very grave.

"I am much obliged to you, sir," he said, "and though I shall be sorry
to part from Mr Gurton, I am very sure that I had better stay where I am
till God thinks fit to call me from this world.  I have lived too long
among savages, and worse than savages, to go back again and live with
civilised people.  If Mr Gurton will leave me his Testament, which he
has taught me to read, and his gun and harpoons, it's all I ask."

"No, my friend," observed Mr Evans, "man is not made to live alone.  If,
as I hope from what you say, you have learned to love Jesus Christ, you
should try to serve Him, and endeavour to do good among your
fellow-creatures.  Now, as I am going to settle in an island inhabited
by savages, I shall be very glad of your assistance, and if you already
understand their language, which I have to learn, you may speak to them,
and tell them of Him who died for them, that they may be reconciled to
Him.  You will thus be showing your love for Him far more than by living
a life of solitude, even although you spend your days in reading His
Word.  Remember it is not only those who hear the Word of God, but those
who hear and do it, who are His disciples."

"You are right, sir," exclaimed Ned, brightening up.  "My only fear if I
left this was to find myself among those who would lead me back into bad
ways, but I will gladly go with you--that I will, sir."

As the captain was anxious to see the island, Humphry undertook to guide
him and Mr Evans to the top of the hill, whence they could obtain a view
over the whole of it.  Before setting out, Humphry showed them the store
of seal-skins.

"I shall be sorry to leave these behind," he observed, "and if you can
receive them on board, they will assist to pay my passage."

"As to that, my friend," answered the captain, "I will very gladly send
my boats to take them off, and you shall pay freight for them; but you,
I am very sure, will be able to work your passage, and I hope you will
find they will sell for some hundred pounds in England."

"Part of them belong to my companion," observed Humphry.

"No, no, Mr Gurton," said Ned.  "They are all yours.  Not a shilling of
their value will I touch, except enough to give me a new rig-out, as I
am not fit to accompany Mr Evans in these tattered old clothes of mine."

"Set your mind at rest about that," said the captain.  "You shall be
welcome to a thorough fit out, suitable for the task you are about to
undertake, and your friend Mr Gurton will require the money more than
you will."

Captain Summers, according to his promise, loaded his own boat with
seal-skins, and sent her off to the ship with orders for the long-boat
to come ashore and carry off the remainder.  Meantime he and Mr Evans
paid their intended visit to the hill-top.

On their return Humphry took the first opportunity of drawing Ned aside,
and asking why he had not given his right name.

"I did give my right name, Mr Gurton," he answered.  "Ned Hadow was
merely a purser's name which I took when I entered on board the _Wolf_,
because you see, sir, I had run from a man-of-war.  Now I know better, I
would only tell the truth; and so, please, call me Tom Martin in future,
and I am ready to stand the consequences."

Humphry and his companion were kindly received on board the _Hope_, when
the good captain supplied them with new suits of clothes, which they
indeed much required.

The _Hope_ continued her voyage.

How different was the life led on board her to that on board the _Wolf_!
Captain Summers and his officers were Christian men.  The crew were
kindly treated; not an oath escaped the lips of any of the men, while
all did their duty with cheerfulness and alacrity.

The voyage was prosperous.  At the end of three weeks the _Hope_ dropped
her anchor in the harbour of a fine island where Mr Evans was to remain.

A native missionary, who had been sent there a year before, came off to
receive him, and brought him the satisfactory intelligence that a large
number of the natives were anxiously looking out for his arrival.

Some days were spent in landing his property, and assisting him in
putting up his house, while an abundance of fresh provisions was brought
off by the natives to the ship.

Humphry parted from his old friend with the less regret from feeling
sure that he would be well occupied, and free from the temptations he
dreaded.

"We shall meet again, I trust, as Captain Summers has offered me a berth
as third mate of the _Hope_ on her next voyage, which he expects to make
to these seas," said Humphry, as he bade him farewell.

"If we don't meet here, we shall in another world, sir.  And bless you,
Mr Gurton, for pointing out to me the way to it," said Tom, as he wrung
Humphry's hand, and tears burst from his eyes.

The _Hope_ had a prosperous voyage home, during which Humphry did his
utmost to fit himself for the duty he was to undertake.  He had no ties
in England, so he gladly again sailed in the _Hope_.  Captain Summers
having sold the seal-skins for a good price, judiciously invested the
proceeds for him.

Humphry had the satisfaction of meeting his old friend Ned, or rather Mr
Martin, as he was now called, and of finding that he had been of the
greatest service to Mr Evans.  He never returned to England, but died at
his post, labouring to the last in spreading the gospel among the
natives.

Humphry won the regard of Captain Summers by his steadiness and good
conduct, and at the end of his third voyage he married his daughter, and
soon afterwards obtained the command of a ship.  When at length he was
able to quit the sea and live on shore, he often used to relate to his
children, among his many adventures, how he spent five years of his life
alone on an island.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.

BOOK III--THE BROTHERS; A TALE OF THREE LIVES.

CHAPTER I.

Many years ago, while King George the Third sat on the tranquil throne
of England, and before the First Napoleon became Emperor of France,
Gilbert Maitland, the youngest of Farmer Maitland's three sons, was one
autumn evening, mounted on his shaggy pony, riding through the New
Forest.  He had set out from the town of Christchurch to return to his
father's house, which was situated between it and Lymington.  The
shadows of the trees grew longer and longer, till they disappeared
altogether in the general gloom, as the sun sank, into the
leaden- foam-topped waves of the English Channel, which could
here and there be seen from the higher ground through the openings of
the trees on his right.  The wind howled and whistled, and the dry
leaves and twigs, blown off by the south-westerly gale, came flying by
even faster than he galloped, while the clouds gathering thickly
overhead increased the darkness.

Gilbert was not altogether comfortable in his mind.  He had gone,
contrary to his father's wish, to pay a visit to Dick Hockley, whose
acquaintance he had formed while at school at Christchurch, and whom Mr
Maitland considered an unfit companion for one of his boys.  Mr Hockley
held a small farm, and though it was badly cultivated, he had become
wealthy, and had built a good house, and rode a fine horse, and lived in
a style much above his position.  He was, indeed, more than suspected of
being connected with one of the many gangs of daring smugglers who at
that time carried on their illicit traffic on the coast of Hampshire and
Dorsetshire.  Dick, a bold, rough fellow, two or three years older than
Gilbert, boasted openly that he had already engaged in several smuggling
enterprises.

Gilbert was fascinated by the accounts his acquaintance gave him of the
risks he had run, the excitement of being chased, and the triumphant
satisfaction of landing a valuable cargo, and conveying it, escorted by
a large body of armed men, under the very noses of the Revenue officers,
into the interior.  Gilbert's great ambition was to join in one of these
expeditions; whenever he could get an opportunity, he rode over to see
his friend, and to listen to his long yams.

His father had at first cautioned him against any intimacy with a person
of so doubtful a character as young Hockley, and then, finding that his
warnings were of no avail, had positively prohibited Gilbert from
associating with him.

He had grumbled greatly at this, when one day, Mr Maitland being away
from home, in the hearing of his sister Mary and his two elder brothers
Hugh and Arthur, he declared that he would go, notwithstanding what his
father said.

"Dick is an honest fellow, and he has asked me to come, and I don't see
why father has a right to stop me," he exclaimed.

"Father has forbid you to go, as he does not approve of young Hockley,
and at all events it is your duty to obey him," said Mary.  "Pray,
Gilbert, do not go; it will vex father so much."

"I will tell you what, Gilbert," exclaimed Hugh, "if you are going to
play any tricks of the sort, I will lash your hands behind you, and shut
you up in your room till father comes back.  I am the eldest, and it is
my business to keep order while he is away."

"You had better not try to lay hands on me, or it will be the worse for
you," exclaimed Gilbert, dashing out of the room.

"I don't think he will dare to go," said Hugh, resuming his studies,
which had thus been interrupted.

Arthur, who was also sitting with his books before him, had not spoken.

They were both reading hard.  Hugh had sometime before left school with
great credit, having gained numerous prizes, and an exhibition which
would enable him at his own earnest desire to go to college, where he
hoped that with the talents he was supposed to possess he should make
his way to a good position in life.  He had a fine constitution, was
strongly built, and neither study nor bodily exercise ever seemed to
fatigue him; so that with the resolution and clear intellect he
possessed, he had every prospect of succeeding.

Arthur, though studious, was delicate, and had been kept back somewhat
by ill health.  Neither of them had any taste for farming pursuits, and
their father, who was proud of their talents, was anxious, as far as he
was able, to give them the means of following the course in life they
had marked out for themselves.  He and his ancestors, sturdy yeomen of
the upper class, the pith and marrow of the English population, for many
generations had held the farm he occupied; and as he wished it to
continue in his family, he had determined that his younger son Gilbert
should become a farmer.  Gilbert was what is often called a
fine-spirited lad, but unfortunately he had been allowed to have his own
way, and in consequence, frequently exhibited a determination not to
submit to control.  He had also never known a mother's tender and
watchful care, for Mr Maitland had been deprived of his wife soon after
Gilbert's birth, and perhaps this circumstance may have prevented him
from restraining the child's temper, or punishing him when guilty of
faults, as strictly as his better judgment would have prompted him to
do.

Mr Maitland, an upright man, proud of his old family, and satisfied with
his position, did not wish to rise out of it, though he was ready to
allow his sons to run forward as far as they could in the race of life.
He held the laws in respect, and, an exception to many around him, was
strongly opposed to the smugglers and their illicit traffic.  He would
never allow them to deposit any of their goods on his property, and the
active part he took in assisting the Revenue officers gained him much
ill-will from the contraband traders.

Gilbert had scarcely left the room when Arthur got up, saying in his
gentle way--

"I will try and persuade him to obey father, and not to go off to
Christchurch.  If he wants a ride, I will accompany him to Lymington,
where there is to be a review of the Foreign Legion; or if he has a
fancy for fishing, we will take our rods, and try and get some tench for
father's supper."

"Oh, do get him to do that!" said Mary.  "Father likes them better than
anything else, and I will try and cook them nicely for him."

Arthur, leaving his darling books, hastened out after Gilbert.  Mary
hoped he might find him, and prevent him committing the act of
disobedience he threatened.  She loved all her brothers, and the two
elder treated her with tenderness and respect.  She was a kind-hearted,
good-tempered, and intelligent girl, in every way worthy of their love,
and possessed of a considerable amount of beauty.  She came next to Hugh
in age, but she and Arthur were more generally companions, as they
agreed in most of their tastes.  Hugh was already a young man, and
though he had no objection to a gallop through the forest, he devoted
the greater part of his time, even when at home, to study.  He had
determined to make his way in the world, and he knew that only by steady
application could he hope to do so.

Mary now sat at the window, busily plying her needle, and refraining
from speaking lest she might interrupt him, though she wanted to talk to
him about Gilbert, whose general conduct had of late given her great
anxiety.  She could not help thinking that it would be better if he were
to be sent to a distance, and thus be separated from his present
companions.  Neither she nor Arthur liked to tell their father what they
knew about him, but she thought that Hugh might do so, and might suggest
the plan which had occurred to her.

Arthur, after some time, came back.  He had searched everywhere for
Gilbert, but had been unable to find him, his saddle was not in the
harness-room, nor his pony in the stable; it was evident that he had
ridden off somewhere.

In the evening Mr Maitland came back, and inquired for Gilbert.  His
other children were unwilling to say that they feared he had gone to
Christchurch, for they hoped he might have taken a ride in some other
direction.  Night came on, and still he did not appear.  Mr Maitland
inquired whether any of them could tell where Gilbert had gone.  At last
Mary confessed that he had said he should ride over to see Dick Hockley;
but that she hoped, from her and his brothers' remonstrances, that he
would have refrained from doing so.

Hour after hour passed away, and Mr Maitland, at first angry, became
anxious about him.  The night was too dark to permit of any one going
out to search for him; indeed, as there were numerous ways through the
forest by which he could come, he might be easily missed.  Midnight
arrived, and he was still absent Mr Maitland now became seriously
alarmed, and he, with Hugh and Arthur, went out in different directions
from the house, listening anxiously, in the hopes of hearing the sound
of his pony's footsteps, but the roaring and whistling of the wind in
the trees drowned all other noises.  At length they re-entered the
house, Mr Maitland sent the rest of the family to bed, but sat up
himself watching for Gilbert's return.

CHAPTER TWO.

Gilbert knew his way, and that he could trust his little forest-bred
pony to carry him safe home; so he gave it the rein, and let it gallop
along the open glade, though the gloom was often so dense that he could
not see a yard beyond the animal's head.  He had got some distance, and
had just crossed another road, when he heard the sound of horses' hoofs
behind him.  There were several.  They came on at a rapid rate.  Who the
horsemen were he could not tell.  The sounds increased.  He put his
little forester at its swiftest gallop, but his pursuers were soon at
his heels, and a stentorian voice shouted to him to stop, with the
threat of a pistol-bullet through his head.  He pulled up, feeling that
all hopes of escape were vain.

"Who are you? what are you after here?" shouted the same voice, and two
men galloping up seized his rein.  "What business takes you out at this
time of night, youngster?" asked one of the men.

"I am going home," answered Gilbert.

"Where is your home?" said one of the men, drawing a pistol from his
belt; "answer truly, or I will send a bullet through you!"

"I am going to the house of Mr Maitland, my father," answered Gilbert,
more frightened than he had ever before been in his life.

"Mr Maitland! you will not go there to-night!" exclaimed the man, with a
loud curse.  "Why, he is the fellow who before brought the soldiers down
upon us, and this youngster has been sent out to learn where we are
going, and will be setting the dragoons from Lymington on our heels.  If
Mr Maitland ever falls into our hands, he will find we have a heavy
score to settle with him."

These remarks were interlarded with numerous fierce oaths, which need
not be repeated.

The men now turning round the pony's head, led Gilbert back, swearing at
him in a way which made his blood curdle, and fancy that they intended
to shoot him or knock his brains out.

They had not got far when Gilbert saw a long line of horsemen riding two
and two, in close order, crossing the road.  They appeared to have heavy
packages on their saddles, and were armed with blunderbusses and swords.
Gilbert's conductors seemed to be watching for some one to come up.
After the horsemen came a line of waggons, with an armed man sitting in
front of each and another behind, while a horseman rode on either side.
There seemed to be no end of them, one following close upon the other.
Gilbert counted a hundred or more.  At last another band of horsemen
appeared.  One of Gilbert's captors called to a man riding among them
whom he addressed as "Captain," and told him of the way they had found
Gilbert, and their suspicions.

"Bring him along with you," was the answer, "we will have a talk by and
by with him."

Gilbert's captors joined the ranks, and the party of smugglers continued
to make their way by unfrequented paths through the forest.  He now
recollected hearing that a strong force of military had been sent down
to Lymington to assist the Revenue officers, and every moment he
expected to see the smugglers attacked.  They, however, seemed to have
no dread of being interfered with, but rode on, laughing and joking with
the utmost indifference.  From the remarks Gilbert overheard, he found
that they had taken good care to mislead the military, who were waiting
far behind them, near the coast, under the belief that the intended run
of contraband goods had not yet been landed.  At length the smugglers
reached a spot where their large band was to break up into separate
parties who were to branch off in various directions, some with silks
and ribbons to go even as far as London, others to different towns,
while a portion of the goods were to be stored in hiding-places in the
forest.  A large party of mounted men still remained after the waggons
had gone off.  Among them were those who had seized Gilbert.

"Well, Captain, what shall we do with this young viper; he is a son of
old Maitland's, and there is no doubt has been after mischief."

"Do?" answered the person addressed, a big dark-bearded man, clothed
like his companions in rough seafaring costume.  "The easiest way would
be to leave him here to frighten the crows," and he looked up at the
overhanging branch of a tree.

Gilbert felt ready to drop from his pony with terror.

"Oh, don't, don't hang me!" he cried out; "I did not want to do you any
harm.  If you will let me go, I will not say a word about what I have
seen."

"Very likely?" growled the Captain, "but you knew that a cargo was to be
run, and were galloping off to bring the dragoons down on us."

"I knew that a cargo was to be run, because Dick Hockley told me so; but
I was not going to fetch the dragoons, for I did not even know where
they were."

"A very likely story; and if Dick Hockley has been chattering to you, he
will have to answer for it," observed the Captain.  "However, bring the
lad along.  We will hear what Master Dick has to say for himself."

The troop, with Gilbert in their midst, now rode back by the way they
had come towards the coast.

Gilbert supposed that they were about three miles from Christchurch,
when, turning to the left, they came in sight of one of the numerous
small farms which existed in those days in the forest, consisting of
several straw-thatched mud buildings.  Here he was told to tumble off
his pony, which was led away, while he was conducted into a small inner
room in the cottage.  The window, high up near the roof, was closed by a
shutter from the outside.  The only furniture was a truckle-bed and a
stool.  The cottage apparently belonged to one of the men who had
captured him, for Gilbert heard him inviting the rest to partake of the
provisions he placed before them.  They were all engaged in eating and
drinking and talking loudly for some time.  He heard the Captain at last
say--

"We will now go and hear what account Master Dick has to give us about
this youngster, and if he has been trying to play us a trick, he must be
shipped off out of the way."

Gilbert could not tell whether the smuggler referred to Dick or to
himself, though as it was very evident they would not scruple to use
violence if they thought it necessary for their own safety, he felt very
uncomfortable.

At last, from the sounds he had heard, he supposed that most of the men
had mounted their horses and ridden off.  Feeling tired, he groped his
way to the bed, on which he threw himself, and in spite of his anxiety,
was soon asleep.

He was awakened by the entrance of his host, bringing him some bread and
cheese, and a jug of milk.

"There," he said, "you must be hungry by this time, youngster.  It's
more than you deserve, though."

"How long am I to be kept here?" asked Gilbert.

"I again tell you I did not want to do any one harm; on the contrary, I
think you smugglers very fine fellows."

The man laughed.

"It does not matter what you think; if Dick cannot give a good account
of you, you will be sent across the seas, that I can tell you."

Saying this, the man left the room.  Gilbert was very hungry, so he ate
the bread and cheese, and drank up the milk.  By the light which came
through a small chink in the shutter and under the door he saw that it
was daytime; but hour after hour passed on, and he was still a prisoner.

CHAPTER THREE.

Mr Maitland became seriously anxious when morning dawned and Gilbert did
not return.  Calling up Hugh and Arthur, he told them to mount their
ponies, and ride in the direction Gilbert was most likely to have taken;
and as soon as the farm servants arrived, he sent them out to search the
forest far and near.  He himself, after consulting Mary, mounted his
horse, and rode off to Christchurch, to ascertain from Dick Hockley
whether Gilbert had paid him a visit.

He found the young man lolling over a gate smoking.

"Your son, Mr Maitland? what, has not he got home?" he exclaimed in
unfeigned surprise.  "Yes, he paid me a visit yesterday.  He is an old
schoolfellow, you know, and I am always happy to see him.  He and I are
very good friends, and there is no reason we should not be that I know
of."

"That is not to the point," said Mr Maitland, sternly.  "You acknowledge
that he paid you a visit.  I wish to know when he left you."

"Somewhere about five o'clock, as far as I recollect," answered young
Hockley; "and as he was as sober as a judge, I should think his forester
ought to have carried him home in a couple of hours at the outside."

Mr Maitland continued to cross-question Dick.

"I tell you he left me at five o'clock, and I know nothing more about
him," was the only answer he could obtain.  Mr Maitland was at length
convinced that young Hockley knew nothing more than he said about his
son.  He made inquiries in the neighbourhood, and ascertained from two
or three people that they had seen a lad resembling Gilbert in
appearance riding towards the forest.  He gained, however, a piece of
information; it was that a large cargo of goods had been run that
evening from the well-known lugger, the _Saucy Sally_, and had been
conveyed with a strong escort inland, under the command of her daring
captain, Slippery Rogers, who was so called from the way in which he
managed on all occasions to elude the Revenue cruisers afloat, and the
Government officers and soldiers sent in pursuit of him on shore.

"It's lucky you did not fall in with them, Mr Maitland," observed his
informant.  "They have vowed vengeance against you; and it would fare
ill with you if they were to get you into their power."

"I am not afraid of them, or any ruffians like them!" said Mr Maitland.
"I shall do what I consider right; and try to rid the country of such
pests as these outlaws have long been to it.  It is a disgrace to those
who should know better, and who yet encourage them by buying their
goods, and refusing to give evidence when they are caught.  They not
only deprive the king of his just dues, but injure legitimate trade, and
encourage a general lawlessness among the whole population of the coast.
However, I must hasten off, and try and find out what has become of my
poor boy."

On making further inquiries, Mr Maitland ascertained the route the
smugglers had taken, and became convinced that Gilbert must have crossed
their path, and probably fallen into their hands.  He accordingly called
on the two neighbouring magistrates, and deposed, to his belief, that
violence had been offered to his son by the smugglers.  He gave
information also to the Revenue officers, who promised all the
assistance they could afford.

Having done all he could, hoping that Gilbert might in the meantime have
arrived there, he set off home.  Mary met him at the gate.  Gilbert had
not been seen.  Hugh and Arthur had come back, and had gone out again to
renew the search.  The whole day was spent in searching for the missing
one, but no trace of him could be discovered.

Day after day passed by, and Mr Maitland could gain no tidings of the
son, who, notwithstanding his disobedience, he loved truly, as the last
gift of his affectionate wife.

Many weeks afterwards Gilbert's pony was found in the neighbourhood of
the farm with its saddle on its back.

Arthur, from overstudy, it was supposed, fell ill, and his life was
despaired of.  Poor Mr Maitland feared he should lose him also.  He had
not unhappily the consolation of true religion.  He was a just and
upright man in his own sight, and in that of his neighbours, and fully
believed that he deserved the favours of God on earth, and merited
heaven when he should be called hence.  When the time of trial came,
there was something wanting.  He could not look up to God as his loving,
tender Father, and go confidently to Him in prayer for support, or say
truly, "Thy will be done."

Hugh had gone to college, where from the first he exhibited the talents
which had gained him credit during his school career, and his tutor
wrote word that he was among the most promising young men in the
University.  He avoided all unnecessary expenses, and being of a
thoroughly independent spirit, kept aloof from those who would have
drawn him away from his studies.  His aims were, however, worldly; the
human intellect he held in the highest estimation, and was satisfied
that by his unaided efforts he could do as he desired.  He was sober,
moral, and economical, because he was convinced that should he be
otherwise he would injure his prospects.  Hugh Maitland was therefore
looked upon as an excellent young man, and perhaps few were more
convinced that such was the case than himself.  He wrote home deeply
regretting Arthur's illness, hoping that the doctor's skill and Mary's
watchful care would bring him round, and sympathising with his father in
his grief that no tidings had been received of Gilbert.

"I am still convinced, however," he observed, "that had he met with foul
play, or by any accident lost his life, his body would have been found,
and I have hopes that he will still turn up.  Perhaps, as he had been
reading Robinson Crusoe, he may have taken it into his wise head to run
off to sea, though I should have supposed that he would have sent a line
to inform us of his romantic proceeding.  Tell Arthur to keep up his
spirits, and not to say die."

Mary watched over Arthur with the most loving care, and through God's
mercy he gradually recovered his strength, and was able to resume his
studies.  The doctor warned him, however, that he must not slick to them
too closely, and advised him to take constant rides with his sister, and
be in the open air as much as possible.

"If you will be guided by me, my young friend, you will give up your
intention of going to college, and assist your father on his farm," he
observed.  "You will find it a more healthy life than the one you
propose, and probably get as strong as you can wish."  Arthur began to
consider whether it was not his duty to follow the doctor's advice.
Mary hoped that he would do so, as he would then live at home with her.
Mr Maitland promised every encouragement, remarking--

"Now I have lost poor Gilbert, there is no one else to keep on the farm
when I am gone, or to afford a home to Mary."

This latter argument weighed greatly with Arthur.  He had had indeed no
definite aim in his wish to go to college; he might perhaps become a
master in a school, or take pupils at the university, or should he get a
fellowship, obtain a living, but he had never thought even in that case
of the duty of striving to win souls for Christ.  Of the gospel and its
requirements he had a very imperfect knowledge.  Possessing a more
gentle and loving spirit than Hugh, he thought it would be pleasant to
go about among the poor, to try and make them moral and good, and
relieve them in distress.  There were very few cottagers in their
neighbourhood who required much assistance.  When any of them were sick,
he and Mary had found much satisfaction in carrying them food and
delicacies which they were unable to procure, and in helping them
sometimes with money from their own scanty means.

During the summer long vacation Hugh did not come home, having gone with
some young men who had engaged him to read with them.  When he returned
at Christmas, Arthur's resolution of becoming a farmer was somewhat
shaken.  Hugh put before him so many of the advantages a hard-working
man with good talents might obtain at the university, that his desire to
try his fortune there revived.  He had continued his studies for several
hours every day, and now Hugh being able to assist him, he set to work
with renewed vigour during the long winter evenings.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Gilbert scarcely knew how long he had been a prisoner when he heard a
voice which he recognised as Dick's.  For some time he could not make
out what was said.

"I will have a talk with him," he at length heard Dick observe.

Some more remarks were made when the door opened, and he found Dick
standing outside.

"Why, Gilbert, they have treated you somewhat scurvily; but it was for
your good, lad, and no one is more anxious about that than I am," said
Dick.  "Come along, and have some dinner, and we will talk matters
over."

They repaired to the kitchen, where an ample meal, with no lack of
spirits, was placed on the table.  Gilbert did justice to it, and Dick
plied him with liquor, which he drank off without considering its
strength.

"I must tell you, Gilbert, that your father is in a tremendous taking
about you," continued Dick.  "If you were to go back, I should not be
surprised if you found yourself turned out of house and home.  He came
to me this morning, and accused me of spiriting you away.  I told him
that I knew nothing about you, which was the fact.  Now as matters have
come to the worst, you are not likely to have a pleasant home even if
you do go back, let me advise you to put the plan we have often talked
about into execution, and come and have a trip with me to sea.  Captain
Rogers sails in the _Saucy Sally_ to-night, and I promised to go along
with him.  We will have a jolly time of it; you will only have to swear
that you will never reveal anything you see or hear about the doings of
the smugglers.  I told him that you were as true as steel, and that I
would answer for you."

Dick said much more to the same effect.  At another time Gilbert might
have refused to leave his kind father and sister and brothers, even with
only the intention of making a pleasure-trip, for he was not yet
hardened in vice, but the spirits he had drunk had taken effect.  He had
committed the sin of wilful disobedience to his father's commands, and
was thus easily deceived by his treacherous companion, who persuaded him
that that kind father was too angry to forgive him, and that he would be
henceforth an outcast from home.  Such is the way Satan always tries to
deceive erring people, both young and old, and to persuade them that
their heavenly Father is not at all times ready to blot out their
offences if they come to Him seeking forgiveness according to the way He
has appointed through the all-sufficient atonement of His Son.

His false friend had fully calculated on gaining over the unhappy
Gilbert, and had told his host to get a pony ready for him.  As soon as
evening approached they mounted and rode to the banks of the
Christchurch river, near which the _Saucy Sally_ lay moored.  Though a
notorious smuggler, as she had then no contraband in her, she could not
be touched by the Revenue officers.  Most of her numerous crew were
already on board; Others were preparing to go off.

"Come!" said Dick, "we will soon be among the fine fellows," and sending
back their ponies by a lad who came for the purpose, he and Gilbert
jumped into a punt, and paddled alongside.

Gilbert was welcomed by Captain Rogers, who had been expecting him.

"Glad to see you, lad!" he said, shaking him by the hand, "and hope we
shall have a pleasant cruise together."

Gilbert did not suspect that that slippery fellow had an object in
getting him to join his gang.  It was that he might revenge himself on
Mr Maitland, whom he hated heartily.  Rogers thought also that by
getting Gilbert among them it might prevent him for the future from
interfering in their illegal traffic as he had hitherto done.

The _Saucy Sally_ was the longest boat of her class ever built--so it
was said--measuring one hundred and twenty feet from her bowsprit end to
the extremity of her outrigger.  She had a large cuddy forward, and
another aft, while the whole of the midship portion was open for the
stowage of casks, of which she could carry from between two and three
thousand.  She pulled forty oars, and carried an enormous spread of
canvas; so that in calms, light winds, or gales she could easily give
the go-bye to any of the king's cruisers who might chase her.

The _Saucy Sally_ was soon gliding swiftly out to sea.  She had got some
distance from the land, when a light breeze springing up, her sails were
hoisted, and away she sped at a rate no ordinary vessel could equal
towards the French coast.  Gilbert, who had often longed to take a trip
in the craft he had so much admired, was delighted with the way in which
she sailed, and Dick took care to keep him amused, getting several of
the men to recount some of the daring and hazardous adventures in which
they had been engaged.  Gilbert thought the life of a bold smuggler
about the finest and most exciting he could wish for.

They soon reached the French coast.  Dick invited Gilbert to go on
shore, and introduced him into scenes of vice of which before he had had
no experience.  The _Saucy Sally_ was detained some days taking in her
cargo.  The whole of this time was spent by Dick and Gilbert on shore,
in company with several other profligate young men.

"Well, you have seen something of life," observed Dick, as they were
once more on board.  "You will find it somewhat slow work when you go
back to help your father on his farm--eh, lad?"

"I cannot go back," answered Gilbert gloomily; "I should like to assist
in running our cargo.  There is excitement in that sort of work which
suits my fancy."

"I admire your spirit, lad!" exclaimed Captain Rogers, who overheard
him.  "If you stick by us, we will stick by you, and you shall have a
share in the profits of our Venture; I know I can trust you, from what I
have seen of you.  Wherever there is danger, I shall expect you to be
near to help me," and Slippery Rogers shook Gilbert's hand warmly.

On the voyage back to England a bright look-out was kept for any Revenue
cruisers which might be on the watch.  Twice the _Saucy Sally_ was
chased.  Once, as a thick fog lifted, she found herself close to a
Revenue bruiser, from which several shots struck her, killing one man
and wounding two; but notwithstanding, with the help of oars and sails,
she managed to get away.  The _Saucy Sally_ reached the English coast at
night, and Captain Rogers threw up a signal, to let his friends on shore
know of his arrival.  A signal, to show that all was right, was
returned.  The _Saucy Sally_ ran in, and boats coming to her, in a
wonderfully short time the whole of her cargo was landed.

"Come!" said Dick to Gilbert, "if you wish to see all the fun, you must
assist in conveying our cargo inland," and he gave him a brace of
pistols and a short gun, such as the rest were armed with.

Dick then told Gilbert to mount a horse, over the back of which a couple
of ankers were slung, and he found himself riding along in company with
a large gang of smugglers similar to those he had met with a short time
before.  He was now thoroughly involved with the smugglers, and less
than ever could he venture, so he thought, to go home.  Captain Rogers
and Dick felt that they had got him securely in their toils, and that
they could make use of him as an instrument to do whatever they might
require.

They had got some distance inland when a halt was called, a scout having
come back with the information that danger was ahead.  A consultation
was held among the leaders, who determined to push on, and if necessary,
to fight their way.  Dick and Gilbert, and others on horseback, were
summoned to the front.  Advancing for half a mile, they saw drawn up a
strong body of mounted Revenue officers.  The smugglers with oaths
ordered them to get out of their way, and on their refusing, rode boldly
forward, firing as they advanced.  The Revenue officers fired in return.

"Make use of your weapon, Gilbert!" cried Dick, seeing that his
companion hesitated to attempt killing his fellow-countrymen engaged in
the performance of their duty.  "Are you chicken-hearted, lad?  I
thought better of you."

Thus taunted, Gilbert raised his piece.  One of the officers was seen to
fall from his saddle.  More smugglers coming up, the Revenue men,
finding themselves far outnumbered, retreated, carrying off two or three
wounded companions.  One smuggler had been killed, and several slightly
wounded.  The smugglers dashed on, the dead man being put into one of
the waggons, and without further hindrance reached their destination.

"You did that well," said Dick to Gilbert; "I saw you bring the fellow
down; should not be surprised that you killed him."

Gilbert shuddered.  Had he really been guilty of the death of a
fellow-creature? if so, all hope of ever returning home was gone; he
would be hunted as a murderer, and murder, he had often heard, was sure
to be discovered.

Dick saw the effect his remark had produced, and tried to laugh it off.

"Why, my good fellow, such things happen every day, and it's no use
being downcast about it," he observed.  "You can take up your old
quarters at Deadman's Farm till the _Saucy Sally_ sails again; and then
if you have a fancy for it, we will make a longer trip.  The skipper
intends to try his luck on another part of the coast, as this little
affair will probably make the forest too hot for us for a time.  We
shall be back again, however, when it blows over, depend upon that."

Gilbert lay concealed for about a week.  He had time for reflection, and
had he dared, he would have gone back.

"It's too late now, though; it's too late!" he groaned out, and had
recourse to the brandy-bottle to stifle conscience.

He was once more on board the lugger, and from henceforth for several
years was the constant associate of the smugglers.  During the time he
paid several visits to the neighbourhood of Christchurch; but he was so
completely changed in appearance that even had he met any of his old
acquaintances, they would not have recognised him.  He had long ceased
to be called by his own name, having assumed another, by which he was
known among his associates.  Dick Hockley and Slippery Rogers, and
others who were acquainted with his secret, kept it for their own
objects, and under his assumed name he became known as one of the most
daring and desperate of the band.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Hugh had returned to college.  It was again summer.  Arthur studied
harder than ever during every spare moment.  He assisted his father as
far as he could, but Mr Maitland saw that his heart was not in the work,
and he more than once observed--

"I am afraid, Arthur, you will make no hand at farming."

"I will do my best, at all events," was Arthur's reply.  He frequently,
as before, rode out with Mary.  They were sometimes joined by Harry
Acton, a young man who had lately taken a farm in the neighbourhood, and
who seldom failed when he met them to turn his horse's head round, and
accompany them on their ride.  He was intelligent and well educated, and
Arthur liked him from the first.  Mary gave no opinion, but she did not
object to his accompanying them.  Mr Maitland, after hearing Arthur's
report, invited Mr Acton in to tea, and seemed favourably impressed with
him.  He only thought him rather grave, and was surprised that a young
man accustomed to country life should not take any interest in races or
sporting, and had even declined to join the hunt.

"Life is too short for idle amusement," Harry observed to Mary one day.
"I have abundance of exercise in attending to my farm, and I feel that I
am responsible to God for the proper employment of my time."

Mary thought that a little amusement now and then could not be wrong.

"Relaxation from business for our mental or bodily health may not be
so," answered Harry; "but when I reflect that I am responsible to God
for every moment of my life, I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to
spend time in pursuits which do not tend to honour and glorify Him."

Mary had never heard such language used before; and though she had
already learned to like him too much to quarrel with him, she was
disposed to think him somewhat puritanical.

Still Harry Acton came and came again, and Mary looked forward to his
visits with pleasure.  Serious as his remarks were sometimes, he talked
well on numerous subjects, and she confessed that he was very agreeable.
Arthur liked him more and more, and was thankful to have found a
companion who could enter into his feelings and views.

Mary and Arthur had ridden over one day to Lyndhurst, and were passing
through, that picturesque village, when they saw a large number of
people collected on the green beneath the wide-spreading trees which
bounded one side of it.  Approaching, they saw a person mounted on a
small platform, which raised him above the assemblage.  He was of a
tall, commanding figure; and as he stood bareheaded, it was seen that
his hair was slightly tinged with grey, thrown back from off his high
and expansive forehead.  He was giving out a hymn in a clear, full
voice, which reached even to the distance they were from him.

"He is a Methodist of some sort," observed Arthur.  "I suppose, Mary,
you do not wish to stop and hear him."

"I should be sorry to pass by without ascertaining whether what he is
saying is worth listening to," answered Mary.  "I like the tone of his
voice, and I remember learning that hymn from our poor mother."

It was "Rock of Ages cleft for me."

The young people drew near to the outside of the circle formed round the
preacher.  Though thus at some distance, every word he uttered was
distinctly heard.  The hymn concluded, in which a number of people
joined, he offered up a short prayer that the blessing of God's Holy
Spirit might convey the words he spoke to the hearts of his hearers, and
he implored them to reflect that they had immortal souls which must live
for ever in happiness unspeakable or in immeasurable woe.

"And yet what claim have we to the bliss and glory of heaven?" he asked.
"We have none.  Every man is vile and outcast, full of disobedience,
utterly sinful--ay, a rebel against God!  Unregenerate man lives in open
rebellion against his Maker.  As well might a rebel taken in arms
against his lawful sovereign demand pardon by right, as man, till
reconciled to God, claim to be admitted to heaven.  Men virtually
acknowledge this when they profess a hope of going there by their
performance of good works, by their penances, by the confession of their
sins to other sinful mortals, by their sacrifices to Him who has said
that He takes no delight in the blood of bulls and of goats."

He continued, with text upon text, to prove the utter depravity of human
nature, and man's lost condition.  He pointed to the state of society in
all countries, people of all classes, to the hearts of each of his
hearers, compelling them to search within, and many with horror felt
that they were utterly lost.  Then suddenly he pointed to the blue
canopy of heaven, undimmed by a single cloud, and spoke of the
unapproachable purity and holiness of God, in whose sight even the
heavens are not clean; of heaven His dwelling-place, where all is peace
and joy and love and holiness and purity, surpassing human
comprehension.  He spoke, too, of the might, the awful majesty and
immutable justice of the Divinity, who can by no means look upon
iniquity, who considers every departure from His exact and strict law as
sin, who allows no such sins as small sins, and considers the least
infraction of one of His laws as sinful.

"But I have not yet finished the catalogue of God's attributes," he
continued.  "He is a God of mercy: He is a God of love; though He hates
sin, He loves the sinner, and that love caused Him to form the glorious
plan by which His justice and mercy can both be satisfied--by which
sinful and rebellious man can become reconciled and fit to inhabit a
pure heaven, in which nothing vile and undefiled can enter.  That plan I
would now with swelling heart unfold to you.  That gospel plan which God
sent down His well-beloved Son, not only to declare to sinful man, but
to carry out.  Christ Himself announced it when He said, `God so loved
the world, that He sent His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth
in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.'  Yes, God could not
pass over sin; but in His infinite grace and mercy He allowed His
only-begotten Son, all pure and holy and obedient, to be punished
instead of unholy and rebellious man.  He might have sent an angel, but
then man would have given to that angel the love and reverence and
obedience which is due to Himself alone.  Christ left not one particle
of the work to be done by man, graciously allowing man to take hold of
it through a living faith, producing love and gratitude and adoration
towards Him who accomplished it.  Yet even thus sinful man was not left
to his own unaided efforts.  When Christ rose, the first-fruits from the
dead, He promised, ere He ascended, to sit at the right hand of God,
there to be man's great High Priest, Mediator, and Intercessor--to send
one to dwell with, to enlighten, support, and comfort, to urge and to
enable man to take advantage of that salvation which He had completely
wrought out.  Oh, my friends! rebels though you are, that gracious,
loving God asks you to be reconciled to Himself.  He has done the whole
work for you.  You cannot undo a single act, or unsay a single idle
word; every evil thought is registered against you.  But all, all will
be blotted out--`Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as wool;'
`The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin!'  Oh! let me urge you
to take advantage of that blood shed for you on Calvary.  Accept without
a moment's delay our loving Father's gracious offer of reconciliation.
Only have faith that Jesus died for _you_--that He bore _your_ sins upon
the accursed tree--that He nailed them there, and put them out of God's
sight, and give Him your willing, loving obedience!  Seek in His Word
with faithful prayer to learn His will, and His Holy Spirit will
enlighten your minds, enable you to comprehend what you read or hear,
and will aid you in obeying His commands."

Mary and Arthur were among the most attentive of those assembled round
the preacher.

Much more he said.  Another hymn was raised, a prayer offered.

Mary had sat with her eyes on the ground.  She looked up, and saw Harry
Acton by her side.

"I rejoice that you have been here," he said.  "I will, with your leave,
accompany you home."

Mary said, "Pray do."

"It is humbling to our human pride to be called on to acknowledge that
we are outcast and rebellious sinners," he remarked, "but it is a truth
all must be convinced of before they can understand the value of God's
plan of salvation."

"I do feel it most deeply," murmured Mary; "and had I gone away without
hearing the gospel part of the address, I should indeed have been most
miserable."

Arthur made no remark, but as soon as he reached home, producing a
Bible, he asked Acton to help him to refer to many of the passages which
had been quoted.

"Remember, Arthur, we must not only search the Scriptures, but search
them diligently, with earnest prayer for enlightenment," observed Harry.

They did so.  Mr Maitland was from home, and the three thus sat together
without interruption, searching, as Harry remarked, "whether these
things were so."  It was the commencement of a new era in the lives of
the brother and sister.  No longer legalists and formalists, as they had
hitherto been, they became true and humble followers of Jesus, and found
a happiness and contentment they had hitherto not known.

CHAPTER SIX.

Mr Maitland gladly allowed Mary to accept Harry Acton, who had asked her
to become his wife.  Arthur, on this, entreated his father to allow him
to go to college.

"I would rather that one of my own sons should have taken the farm after
me; but as Harry seems willing to occupy your place, and as I am afraid
you will never give your heart to the business, I must let you follow
the bent of your inclination," answered Mr Maitland.

Arthur at once, therefore, went to college.  As his father could make
him but a small allowance, he entered as a sizar.  He worked, however,
so diligently, that though he did not possess the brilliant talents of
Hugh, he made good progress.  Hugh had not only supported himself, but
when he left the university, had saved sufficient to enter as a law
student at Lincoln's Inn.  Having not only eaten his way through his
terms, but studied hard all the time, he was at length called to the
Bar, and was shortly afterwards engaged as junior counsel in a case
relating to the purchase of a property in his own county.  His senior
counsel having been taken ill, the cause remained in his bands.  Having
frequently been in the house about which the dispute had arisen--he was
well acquainted with the locality--he brought forward witnesses to prove
what he knew to be the truth.  He had thus an opportunity of exhibiting
his powers as a speaker, and triumphantly won.  He had no lack after
this of briefs, and in a short time became known among the solicitors on
the circuit as a rising barrister, in whose hands they could safely
commit the causes of their clients.

Mr Maitland was proud of his son's success, and welcomed him whenever he
could spare time for a visit.

Between Hugh and Harry Acton there was, however, no sympathy.  Hugh
looked upon Harry as a very worthy young man, to whom he was happy
enough to see his sister married, but thought him somewhat weak, and too
much absorbed in his religious notions.  Harry, on the other hand,
considered Hugh a hard, worldly man, whose sole aim was to push his way
in the world, forgetful of all higher spiritual matters.  Still they
were very good friends, and Harry took every opportunity of putting the
truth in a loving and affectionate way before Hugh.

"Very good," answered Hugh one day to some of his remarks, "but life is
short, and those never get on who waste time on subjects which interfere
with their lawful pursuits.  I want to be a judge some day, and when I
am not studying law cases or my briefs, I must take a little relaxation,
and should break down if I attended to the matters that interest you."

"But, my dear Hugh, agreeing that life is short, I argue that for that
very reason we should employ it in a way to prepare ourselves for the
event which must occur at its termination.  Its very brevity proves to
me that it is only a portion, and a very small one, of our existence,
and that it is given us to prepare for another and a holier state of
existence.  As we employ it here, so shall we be better fitted for that
higher, and what may be most glorious, state."

"Very well argued, Harry!" said Hugh; "I will consider more than I have
hitherto done the plan which you say the Bible contains for man's
redemption from the sinful and rebellious condition in which you argue
he lives here below."

Harry had more than once clearly placed God's scheme of salvation before
Hugh, who had listened to it with a dull, if not inattentive ear.

Hugh, however, went back into the world to enjoy its amusements, and to
attend to his legal duties, and did not allow Harry's remarks to trouble
him.

Arthur, meantime, took his degree, and as soon as he was of age, entered
the ministry.  He had, however, no interest, and was not likely to
obtain preferment.  He was, indeed, indifferent to it, provided he could
have the opportunity of preaching the gospel, and winning souls for
Christ.  His worldly acquaintances declared that he had no high or lofty
aims, and Hugh pitied him for being content to go through life as a
humble drudge.  His Christian friends considered his aims were as noble
and lofty as any human being could possess.  His earnest desire was to
gain subjects for his Master's kingdom.  He was ready to preach the
gospel at all times, and in all places, wherever he could get men to
listen.  He felt as earnest when pressing one poor lost sinner to accept
the truth and be saved, as when addressing a large multitude, hanging on
his words; and he made his way into hospitals with that object in view,
looking upon the souls of the humble and wretched as of as much value in
God's sight as those of the rich and powerful.  He was at length
appointed chaplain to the prison of the county gaol, a post which many
would consider as among the least hopeful for winning souls.  Arthur
Maitland performed his duties in no perfunctory way; he entered upon
them with all the zeal which the love of souls can alone excite,
influenced by God's Holy Spirit.  Here, month after month, he laboured
with untiring energy.  Unhappily, the prison cells were at that time
always full; and many who entered them in dark ignorance, went forth
rejoicing in that risen Saviour, against whose loving laws they had long
been rebels.  Arthur would seldom even allow himself a short visit to
Mary and her husband, much as they rejoiced whenever he was able to
come.

Mr Maitland continued, as heretofore, engaged in his agricultural
pursuits, and as stern an opponent of the smugglers as before; he was,
indeed, more than ever incensed against them, on account of a fearful
outrage which had lately been committed on a Custom-house officer
residing at a neighbouring village.  This officer, Bursey by name, had
been always a conscientious and zealous servant of Government.  He had
mortally offended the smugglers by his activity.  On this account Mr
Maitland held him in much esteem, and had constantly afforded him
support.  On a dark night in winter, Mr Bursey, after he had retired for
some hours to bed, was aroused by a loud rapping at the door.  On
looking through the casement of his chamber, he perceived two men, whose
countenances he could not distinguish because of the gloom of midnight.
He inquired their business, when one of them informed him that he had
discovered a large quantity of smuggled goods in a barn at no great
distance, to which he and his companion would lead him on the promise of
a certain reward.  A bargain was immediately struck, and Mr Bursey,
telling his wife what had occurred, and that he would soon be back,
unsuspicious of danger, hastily clothed himself, and descended unarmed
into the passage; and on opening the door, his brains were instantly
dashed out on the threshold.  The other inmates of the house were
aroused, but before they could reach the hall door the murderers had
fled.  There could be no doubt that some members of the daring smugglers
who had so long infested the neighbourhood were guilty of the murder,
but who they were it seemed hopeless to discover.  Every effort was made
to trace them; Mr Maitland was among the most active engaged in the
search.  Hitherto, however, the culprits had escaped, and it was
supposed that they had left the country.

All hopes of finding them had been abandoned.  At first Mr Maitland,
knowing the feeling of hatred he had excited against himself, though a
brave man, thought it prudent to avoid riding to any distance from home
after nightfall.  By degrees, however, he grew less cautious; and if
business called him out, he did not hesitate to delay to any hour that
was convenient.  He had one day gone to Christchurch, and it was
somewhat late before he mounted his horse to return home.  The friend he
was visiting had begged him to stop till the next morning.

"If you fancy that I fear the smugglers, set your mind at rest; I am not
likely to be attacked, and my mare will give them the go-bye if they
attempt to do so."

He set off.  Darkness came on, and a storm of thunder and lightning that
had long been brewing broke over his head.  While passing through a
thick part of the forest, four men suddenly sprang out on him, and a
couple of bullets whistled by his head.  Putting spurs to his horse, he
was dashing on, when his bridle was seized, and he was dragged from his
saddle.  A heavy blow on the head almost stunned him, but he retained
sufficient consciousness to distinguish the voice of another man who had
suddenly rushed up.

"Who have you got there?" asked the new-comer.

"Old Maitland, and we will give him his deserts," replied one of the men
with a fierce oath.

"Hold! hold! don't kill him!" cried the man.

It was too late.  One of the ruffians let the butt end of his pistol
fall with a tremendous blow, which made the unfortunate farmer fall
helpless to the ground.  A cry of horror echoed through the forest.

The murderers, satisfied that they had performed their deed of
vengeance, hastened from the spot.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Harry Acton and his wife anxiously sat up till a late hour, waiting the
return of Mr Maitland.  When he did not appear the next morning, his
son-in-law rode over to Christchurch to inquire for him.  Harry became
alarmed on hearing that he had left that place, and hastened to the
nearest magistrate.  A search was at once made in all directions.  Mr
Maitland's body was at length found.  It was evident how he had been
killed, and it was at once suspected that some of the gang of smugglers
who had murdered Bursey were guilty of the deed.  While the party were
waiting for a cart to convey the body to Christchurch, a man was caught
sight of among the trees in the distance.  On finding that he was
observed, he took to flight.  He was chased, and at length overtaken.
His dress showed that he was a seaman, probably a smuggler, his
countenance was haggard, his eyes bloodshot.  He made no attempt to
defend himself, though he had a brace of pistols in his belt, and they
were both loaded.  As he was being dragged along, blood was observed on
his coat, and blood had flowed from the victim's head.  His name was
asked.

"Geoferey Marwood," he answered promptly.

"What do you know about the death of this man?" he was next asked.

"I did not kill him," he answered.

"You will have a hard job to prove to the contrary," observed one of his
captors, as they dragged the unhappy man along.

Mr Maitland's body was conveyed to Christchurch, where an inquest was
held, when a verdict of murder was returned against Geoferey Marwood,
and others not in custody.  He, notwithstanding, protested his
innocence, and accused four others of being guilty of the crime.
Warrants were therefore issued for their apprehension, while he was
conveyed to Winchester gaol to await his trial.  Notwithstanding his
protestations of innocence, it was generally supposed in the
neighbourhood that Marwood was guilty of the murder of Mr Maitland, and
that he had accused the other men in the hopes of prolonging his own
life while search was being made for them.  Though, however, they for a
considerable time evaded the officers of justice, the whole were at
length apprehended and conveyed to gaol.  For many weeks the wretched
man known as Geoferey Marwood lay in the felon's cell.  Arthur Maitland
frequently visited him, though he could not do so without horror as the
supposed murderer of his father.  Yet his sense of duty overcame all
other considerations, and he endeavoured to address him as he would have
done any other prisoner.  The man, however, seemed to have hardened his
heart, and to have an utter indifference to his fate.

"I have said that I did not kill the old man; but if it is proved that I
did it, they will hang me, I suppose, and there will be another man less
in the world.  It is no matter, for I have nothing to live for; if I
had, I should not have been taken in the way I was."

"But you have a soul, and that must live for ever," urged Arthur.  "If
you die impenitent, still refusing to accept God's offer of mercy, which
He holds out even to the worst of sinners, that soul must spend eternity
in misery unspeakable, cast out from His presence."

Arthur then read to him the account of the Crucifixion, and of the
Saviour's gracious promise to the penitent thief.

"Great as is the crime that you are accused of, even if guilty, though
man may not pardon you, God has promised to do so if you turn to Him and
accept His offer.  `The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin,'"

"I tell you I am not guilty of that crime," answered Marwood.  "I have
done a number of things I wish that I had not; but if they choose to
hang me, they may--that's all I have to say about it."

Still, although Arthur had seldom met with a prisoner who appeared more
hardened or more indifferent to his fate, he persisted in visiting him,
and placing before him the truths of the gospel.

He had endeavoured to show him what sin is, how hateful it is in God's
sight, and he had warned him that God is a God of justice, and can by no
means overlook iniquity.  He had faithfully placed before him the
fearful condemnation which he would bring down upon himself if dying
impenitent.  He now spoke to him of God's long-suffering and kindness,
of His mercy, and readiness to forgive.  He inquired whether he
remembered a fond mother and kind father whom he had offended.

"Surely when you did so, and went back to them and expressed your
sorrow, they received you again, and forgave you."

"I never remember my mother," answered the prisoner.  "My father was a
good man, but he was stern, and because I disobeyed him and joined some
wild companions, I was told that he would not forgive me, and so I ran
off and kept out of his way.  I found out afterwards that he thought me
dead.  It was too late then to go back, for I had done so many things
which he would have condemned that I could not face him."

Just at that moment the warders arrived at the door to conduct him to
the court.  His trial was about to commence.  He and the other four men
accused of the murder of Mr Maitland were placed in the dock.  The
junior counsel for the prosecution was Hugh Maitland.  As had occurred
at the commencement of his career, his senior counsel was unable, on
account of sudden illness, to attend.  His private feelings, as well as
his professional interest, induced him to exert all his talents to
procure the condemnation of the prisoners, whom he believed to be
guilty.  Every effort had been made to obtain proof against them.  Of
this they well knew.

Evil-doers, though often faithful to each other while success attends
them, are frequently, for the sake of saving their own lives, ready to
betray each other.

One of the men had offered to turn king's evidence.  Hugh brought him
forward as a witness.

The trial went on.  The evidence contributed to fix the guilt on all the
prisoners.  That, however, of their traitorous companion was crushing.
The jury were convinced that Marwood was guilty, as well as the three
others.  The blood on his coat, and his having been found in the
neighbourhood, left no doubt on their minds, notwithstanding all the
counsel of the accused could say in their favour.  The jury brought in a
verdict of "guilty."  The judge was about to pronounce sentence, when
one of the condemned men claimed to be heard.  He acknowledged that he
and his three companions were the murderers of Mr Maitland, and that
though he had not struck the fatal blow, he had been assisting; but that
Marwood, though he had arrived at the moment, had no notion of their
intention, but, on the contrary, had interfered and endeavoured to stop
them.  This evidence was considered of so much value, that though the
judge condemned the whole to death, he recommended Marwood to mercy.

In those days a brief time only was allowed between sentence and
execution.  The three other prisoners knew that they had no hope of
escaping, and Arthur felt it his duty to warn Marwood that the
Government were so determined to put an end to the smuggler's traffic,
and to punish all who fell into their hands, that he must not entertain
much expectation of being reprieved.

"I care not for my life; but of this crime, as I have always said, I am
innocent, and would die a thousand deaths rather than suffer for it," he
answered.  "And tell me, sir, who was that lawyer that appeared against
me.  I heard his name; it is one I once well knew."

"He is a barrister of high talent, the eldest son of the murdered man."

The prisoner, who was now in the condemned cell, lifted his manacled
hands, exclaiming, involuntarily it seemed--

"My brother appear against me!  God have mercy on him, for through him I
have been unjustly condemned.  As there is a God in heaven, whom I have
so often blasphemed, I tell you again that I am guiltless of the crime
for which I am condemned!"

Arthur was too much agitated to speak for a moment.

"You the brother of Hugh Maitland?" he exclaimed, "I am his brother.  We
had but one other brother, Gilbert, who lost his life when a mere lad;
so we believed, and long mourned him as dead."

"Arthur!  Arthur!" exclaimed Gilbert, for he was indeed the prisoner.
"I recognise your features, although I had not till now done so.  Can
you believe me guilty of our father's death?  I confess to countless
crimes, but of that I am innocent."

Arthur at length recovered himself.  From several circumstances which
Gilbert brought to his memory, he was thoroughly convinced that he was
indeed his brother.

"I before hoped that you might escape death, and now that I am convinced
that you are innocent, I must use every exertion to prevent the risk of
the reprieve not reaching Winchester in time to stay your execution."

Arthur hastened away in search of Hugh, who was on the point of starting
for London.  The calm, self-confident barrister sunk almost fainting
into a chair when he heard Arthur's account.  He, however, soon
recovered his self-possession.

"If Gilbert is innocent, I am guilty of fratricide, and shall have
contributed to bring disgrace on our family!" he exclaimed.

Together they set out for London.  A reprieve, which had hitherto been
refused, was granted.

It was on the very morning that the execution of the prisoners was to
take place.  An accident might delay them.  It was daylight before they
reached the gaol.  They found the Governor in a state of agitation, for
one of the prisoners had escaped.  He was greatly relieved on finding
that it was the man for whom they had brought a reprieve.

"One difficulty is got over," he observed; "but I should have had to
keep him here, for he and another were accused, by that fellow who
turned king's evidence, and who hopes to get the promised reward, of
being implicated in Bursey's murder."

The two brothers looked at each other.  Hugh could scarcely restrain his
feelings; a sense of bitter shame predominated, however, for the
disgrace he had hoped to escape might still fall on his family.  Arthur
earnestly prayed that the information might be false, and that his
unhappy brother was innocent.  The prisoner was supposed to have made
his way to Southampton, and to have escaped on board a foreign-bound
ship.

Several months passed away; it was the autumn.  Arthur had gone to spend
some days with Mary and her husband.  He had ridden over to call on some
friends at Christchurch.  A heavy equinoctial gale was blowing from the
south-west.  As he was returning along the coast, wishing to obtain a
view of the stormy sea, now covered with foaming waves, he observed a
large lugger, under a press of sail, standing towards the shore.  A
number of people were collected on the beach, and he guessed, from the
light waggons and horses of which he had caught sight, that preparations
were being made for running a cargo of smuggled goods, then often done
in open day, the Revenue officers being either enticed away or bribed
not to interfere.

The danger a vessel must encounter venturing in at that time appeared
fearfully great.  He could not bring himself to leave the spot.  The
reason of the lugger's attempting the hazardous experiment, however, was
evident.  In the offing appeared a sloop-of-war, and one, he knew, had
been sent to cruise after smugglers.  From remarks he overheard, he
discovered that the lugger was the _Saucy Sally_, commanded by Slippery
Rogers.  Every moment the gale was increasing, and the surf came rolling
with greater and greater force upon the beach.  Those on shore threw up
a signal to show that landing was impossible, but the fearless crew of
the lugger pushed madly on.  One instant she appeared with her broad
spread of canvas swelling to the gale; the next, surrounded by the
fierce waves dashing up madly around her, she lay shattered to fragments
on the shingly beach, her crew struggling vainly in the surf.  Some few
amid the wreck, and casks and bales, which formed her cargo, were washed
on shore, but the greater number were carried out far beyond human reach
by the receding waves.  Of those who were saved, several were fearfully
injured, some breathed their last as they were dragged out of the water.
Arthur offered that assistance which the rough men were little able to
afford.  He had sent off for a surgeon, and having attended to two of
the sufferers, hastened to the side of a third, who seemed to have
received some severe injuries.  As he knelt down he recognised the
countenance of his unhappy brother Gilbert, who, opening his eyes, fixed
them on his face.

"We obtained a reprieve," said Arthur.  "Why did you escape? you knew I
had gone to obtain it."

"I did not trust to the king's mercy; and as I had the opportunity, I
determined to avail myself of it," answered Gilbert in a feeble voice.

"Our king is a merciful sovereign; he has ever shown a readiness to
forgive when his sense of justice will allow him," answered Arthur.
"But oh! how much more merciful is our Father in heaven; and His justice
having been amply satisfied by the willing sacrifice of His dear Son,
who died for sinners, He is abundantly ready to forgive the sinner who
trusts to that full atonement made for his sins!  I speak thus, dear
Gilbert, for I fear your time on earth is short."

"I know it is," answered Gilbert.  "Oh! continue to speak as you have
begun.  I knew myself to be a guilty, outcast sinner before I left the
prison.  What you had said to me sunk into my heart.  It was for your
sake and for Hugh's more than my own that I escaped; and I came back in
the lugger resolved not to participate in the profits of the
enterprise."

Arthur sighed.

"Those who associate with evil-doers share in their doings," he was
compelled to remark, but he dwelt not on that subject.

"My dear brother," he continued, "we are all sinners in the sight of a
pure and holy God, who cannot look upon iniquity; but He in His love and
mercy has provided a fountain in which all our sins, however black,
however foul, can be washed away; and He tells us in His Word that
though they be red like crimson, they shall become as white as snow, and
though they be as scarlet, they become as wool--that He will put them as
far from us as the east is from the west.  To that fountain which flowed
from the side of Jesus when He hung on the cross, offering himself up as
a full and sufficient sacrifice in God's sight for the sins of all who
trust in Him, let me urge you to turn your eyes; believe in that loving
Saviour that He died for you, as well as for other sinners; that His
heart yearns toward you; that He desires you to come to Him and be
saved."

"I remember, Arthur, that you said this to me in prison; but I hardened
my heart.  I was strong and well, and feared not death," answered
Gilbert, with a deep sigh.  "I can do nothing to merit heaven--it's too
late now, it's too late."

"It is never too late," exclaimed Arthur.  "The arms of Jesus are ever
ready to receive all who come to Him in simple faith, trusting to His
merits alone, and not to any merits of their own, or anything they ever
can do to deserve His favour; banish such a thought from your mind.  By
His free grace He gives us salvation: remember the thief on the cross;
he simply turned his dying eye on his crucified Lord, acknowledging that
He was the Son of God, and the same answer Jesus gave to him He will
give to you if you believe on Him.  Remember, too, how the Israelites in
the wilderness, bitten by the fiery serpents, were told to look on the
serpent of brass, the emblem of healing held up by Moses, and no sooner
did they look than they were healed.  How merciful, how loving, how
gracious, is our Father in heaven, who, knowing the frailty of poor
human beings, has thus provided so simple, so easy, and yet so
all-sufficient a means by which they may be saved."

Arthur, animated by love for his brother's soul, continued thus to plead
with him, for he dreaded lest he might die in the attempt to move him.
He would have pleaded, however, in the same way with any other sufferer,
for he knew the value of human souls.

At length several of the people assembled round him, and charitably
offered to convey the injured man to a cottage at some little distance
from the beach.

"Let me be taken there," whispered Gilbert; "there is another I should
wish to see, to ask her forgiveness for all the pain and sorrow I have
caused her, but do not leave me."

A litter was speedily formed with a couple of spars and a piece of sail,
and Gilbert being placed on it, four fishermen conveyed him towards the
cottage, Arthur walking by his side, still holding his hand.  The men
seeing that Arthur was a clergyman, were not surprised at the attention
he paid to the dying man, nor did they suspect the relationship.

"I am praying for you," whispered Arthur; "and oh, let me entreat you to
pray for yourself."

"I am trying to do so, but I find it hard.  My faith is weak--too weak I
fear to avail me," gasped the dying man.

"Though it be but like a grain of mustard seed, He has promised that it
shall remove mountains," answered Arthur.

The cottage, happily the abode of Christian people, was reached.  The
sufferer was placed on a bed prepared for him by the good woman of the
house, and Arthur immediately sent off a messenger to summon Mary and
her husband, as well as a surgeon, in the hopes that his skill might
benefit his brother.  Anxiously he watched the livelong night by the
side of Arthur's couch, and it was with joy unspeakable that towards
morning he heard him whisper, "God has answered my prayer; I believe
that His Son Jesus Christ died for me, the just for the unjust, and that
through His merits my numberless sins are put away."  Soon afterwards
the surgeon arrived.  After examining Gilbert, he took Arthur aside.
"The injuries the poor fellow has received are such as I fear no human
skill can remedy.  I will do my best, but I can give no hopes of his
recovery; he is a fitter subject for your care than mine, though these
smugglers are such ruffians that I do not suppose you will be able to do
much with him."

"We are all by nature rebels to God," answered Arthur, endeavouring to
conceal his feelings.  "I will, as you advise, remain with the poor man,
and follow the directions you give."

The surgeon told Arthur what he advised and took his departure, and
Arthur hastened back to his brother.  Mary and her husband arrived early
in the morning.  Gilbert, though too weak to speak, knew his sister, and
showed by signs that he understood what she said.  He pressed her hand,
and a smile lighted up his countenance when she assured him that she had
never ceased to pray for him, and to feel the same affection for him as
of yore.

"Those prayers have been answered, have they not?" said Arthur bending
over his brother, and he repeated the last words Gilbert had uttered, "I
believe that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin."  Again a
bright look passed across Gilbert's countenance, and holding the hands
of the loving ones kneeling by his side, his spirit passed away.  One of
his last requests had been that he might be buried with his hapless
companions who had been rescued from the waves.  It was complied with,
and no one besides those who were with him at his death knew that the
shipwrecked smuggler was Gilbert Maitland.

Oh that the young could see the fearful termination of the broad road
they are tempted by Satan to follow, ere they take the first downward
step along it!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.

BOOK IV--THE IVORY TRADER; A TALE OF AFRICA.

CHAPTER I.

To the north of the Cape of Good Hope Colony, beyond the Great Orange
River, an extensive level region exists, known as the Kalahara Desert.
Here no running streams are found to fertilise the plain, and often for
miles and miles together, not a well nor pool is to be discovered, from
which the weary traveller can quench his burning thirst.  Yet destitute
as it is of water, it is in many parts covered with grass, and an
immense variety of creeping plants; while in some places large patches
of bushes, and even trees, find nourishment in the seeming arid soil,
and countless multitudes of wild animals, especially those which require
but little water, or can go many days together without drinking, roam
over its trackless wilds.

This region passed, a fertile country is found, thickly populated by
dark-skinned tribes, who till of late years have had no intercourse with
white men.  Here an almost countless number of rivers and streams are
found, some flowing into the mighty Zambesi, and others into Lake Ngami.

Notwithstanding the dangers which must be encountered in crossing the
vast Kalahara Desert, from the scarcity of water, the intense heat, the
wild beasts, the savage people who inhabit its borders, and more than
all, from the attacks of the Tsetse fly, whose poisonous bite speedily
destroys cattle and horses, white traders from the colony occasionally
traverse it, for the purpose of obtaining ivory from the natives.

A tilted waggon belonging to one of these traders, dragged by a span of
fourteen oxen, was slowly moving across the wide-extending plain.  On
the box sat a Hottentot driver, his whip in hand, with lash of
prodigious length, reaching even to the leading animals shouting out at
the same time strange sounds to urge them on.  A dozen dark-skinned men,
some clad in jacket and trousers, and broad-brimmed hats, but others
having merely a cloth or kilt round their loins, moved along by the side
of the waggon.  A few were seated on oxen, and the rest marched on foot,
mostly with arms in their hands.  Among those on foot was a young lad,
whose dark skin showed that he was an African, though his features had
somewhat of the Asiatic character.  He was dressed more in the English
fashion than the other black men, though his firm step and independent
air proved that young Kibo was well accustomed to traverse the desert
wilds.  Ahead of the caravan stalked, with spear in hand, the Bechuana
guide Masiko, whose people inhabit the region to the south of the
desert, over all parts of which, from his earliest youth, he had
wandered.  His only garment was a cotton scarf, or plaid of a dark
colour, thrown over his shoulders and wound round his waist, so as to
form a kilt reaching to his knees, his woolly head and his feet being
without covering.  Two horses without saddles followed the waggon,
secured to it by thongs of hide, and several spare oxen kept pace with
the vehicle, ready to supply the places of any of the team which might
knock up on the road.

Two white persons mounted on strong horses brought up the rear of the
caravan.  One Mr Robert Vincent, the owner of the waggon and its varied
contents, was a strongly-built man of middle age, his countenance well
tanned by African suns; the other a lad of about fifteen years of age
apparently, who, from his slightly-built figure, looked scarcely capable
of enduring the fatigues, of the journey before him.

The bright sun shining down from the cloudless sky shed a peculiar glare
over the whole scene, the atmosphere quivering with heat.  Here and
there a few bushes rose above the surface, and broke the ocean-like
horizon; but so exactly did they resemble one another, that to even the
well-practised eye of the trader, they were useless as landmarks to
direct his course.  He had, therefore, entirely to depend on the
guidance of Masiko, to conduct the caravan to the different water-holes
and wells on the road across the desert.

Already both men and beasts were suffering greatly from thirst, for at
the last halting-place no water had been obtained, and there was a fear
that the oxen would break down altogether, unless they should soon reach
the wells which the guide assured him would be found ahead.

"Had I supposed we should have found water so scarce on this route, I
would have left you at Mr Warden's station till my return, Martin,"
observed Mr Vincent to the lad by his side.  "But I wanted to give you
an insight into the dealing of the natives, for which no small amount of
experience is required, that you may be able to help me in my business,
and be competent in a few years to take charge of a trading expedition
yourself."

"I shall be very glad if I can be of assistance to you, father,"
answered Martin.  "I already feel myself the better for the dry air of
the desert.  I was very happy with Mr Warden, and should have been
content to remain and help him and his wife in the numerous duties they
have to perform."

"He is a good man, no doubt, Martin," observed the trader; "but his is
not a money-making calling, and it is not one I should wish you to
follow."

"If you had not wanted me to help you, father, from what I learned and
saw while I was with Mr Warden, I would rather have become a missionary
like him than be of any other profession," answered young Martin.

"Oh! you must put such foolish ideas out of your head, Martin.  It is
very well for those who are paid for it, and are not fit for anything
better, but I want my son to be a man of the world, to make money, and
to become some day one of the leading merchants of Cape Town."

Young Martin made no reply.  On his father's previous journey from the
Cape, Martin had accompanied him, but, unaccustomed to travelling, he
had fallen sick, and had been left at the Missionary-station of Mr
Warden.  Though the trader looked upon the illness of his son as a great
misfortune, young Martin had good reason soon to believe it the happiest
event of his life.  He there for the first time became practically
acquainted with the glorious truths of the gospel: he learned that man
is a sinner, and by nature a rebel against God, and that through the
atonement and mediation of Jesus Christ can he alone become reconciled
to Him.

This truth brought home to his own heart, he at once comprehended the
importance of the efforts which Mr Warden, and the missionary-band
engaged with him, were making to carry the gospel of love and mercy
among the savage hordes by whom they were surrounded; he knew it to be
the only means by which their natures could be changed, and they can
become not only civilised members of society, but, what is of far more
consequence, heirs of eternal life.  He therefore, rejoicing in the
blessings he had himself received, felt an earnest desire to engage in
the glorious work of carrying the same blessings to the dark-skinned
races of that land, long so deeply plunged in ignorance.

Though his health had been completely restored, he would therefore far
rather have remained with the missionary than have taken the journey to
which his father summoned him.  But he had learned that obedience to
parents is among the first duties of a Christian; and thus, after he had
frankly expressed his wish to remain, when his father still desired his
company, he had no longer hesitated to obey his summons.

He was accompanied by Kibo, the son of a chief of one of the tribes to
the north of the desert, whom Mr Vincent purposed visiting.  Kibo had
been carried away from his home into slavery by the great Matabele
leader Moselekatse, in one of his marauding expeditions against the
territory inhabited by the lad's tribe four or five years before this.

During a visit Mr Warden had paid to Moselekatse, he had seen young
Kibo, then apparently on the point of death, and inducing the chief to
give him his liberty, had carried him to the Missionary-station, where
recovering, he was instructed in the truths of Christianity.  The lad
became a true and earnest convert, and his heart yearned to visit his
parents and friends, and to tell them the good news he had heard.  Mr
Warden, believing him to be confirmed in the faith, had consented to his
accompanying Martin, in the hopes that by his means his tribe might be
induced to receive a missionary of the gospel among them.

The trader and his son rode on for some time in silence, the former
indeed was beginning to feel too anxious about the chances of finding
water at the end of the day's journey to talk much.  Already many hours
had passed since they had left the last water-holes.  Although there was
still a sufficient supply in the leathern bottles carried in the waggon
to prevent them and their men from feeling much inconvenience from
thirst, both horses and oxen were already suffering from want of the
moisture so necessary to enable them to swallow their food.  They had
stopped as usual during the heat of the day; but though there was an
abundance of grass, it was so dry that it crumbled in the hand, and the
poor animals as they chewed it turned it about in their mouths, in a
vain endeavour to get it down their throats.

Robert Vincent had ordered his men to inspan or harness the cattle at an
earlier hour than usual, hoping by pushing on to gain the promised pool
before nightfall; but the oxen, already fatigued by their previous long
journey, were unable to move as fast as usual, in spite of all the
efforts of their driver.

The trader, at length losing patience, rode on by the side of the guide,
and inquired when they were to reach the pool he had spoken of.

"Not till after the sun has sunk far beyond yonder distant line, unless
the oxen move faster than they are now doing," answered the guide,
pointing to the western horizon.

The trader shouted to the driver.  Again and again he made his huge whip
crack, as he struck his team in succession, but without effect; nothing
would induce the poor animals to hasten their steps.

"I am much inclined to ride forward, and try and find out the wells
myself," said Mr Vincent to his son.  "I am not quite sure that our
guide is not playing us false.  If I thought so, I would shoot him
through the head.  It is wiser to trust to one's own sagacity than to a
treacherous guide."

"O father! do not use violence," exclaimed Martin.  "Gentle words and
kindness will have more effect in keeping him faithful.  I have no fear
about him, for he has long been known to Mr Warden, who has perfect
confidence in him."

"Why do you think he should have confidence in him, Martin?" asked his
father.

"Because, though he was once a fierce savage, he has become a faithful
Christian, and as such would be ready to sacrifice his own life rather
than risk ours when he has promised to serve us."

"I am afraid the fellows are all much alike," observed Mr Vincent.  "The
only way of making them faithful is not to pay them till the journey is
over.  I only hope he and young Kibo will answer your expectations.  For
my part, I have found the heathen black men as trustworthy as the
whites."

"Yes, father," said Martin, "because in too many instances the whites
are merely nominal Christians.  Mr Warden has shown me the difference
between a real and nominal Christian, and it is of the first I speak.
All men are fallible, and even in them we cannot hope to find
perfection, but still they can be trusted to do their best."

"Well, well, Martin, when you know more of the world, perhaps you will
change your opinion," remarked the trader in an indifferent tone.
"However, water must be found; and as we have still yearly an hour's
daylight, we may even yet reach it if we push on before dark."

The trader and his son rode on, though their weary steeds did not move
as fast as they wished.

"What is that?" exclaimed the elder Vincent, pointing to an object
moving among the dry grass some distance ahead.  "A lion; we must put a
shot into him, or he will be paying the cattle a visit to-night."

Spurring on his horse, he galloped forward, followed by Martin.

"Don't fire, father!" cried Martin, "it is a human being."

Martin was right.  They soon discovered that the object they had seen
was an old bushwoman, although, but for the scanty clothing which
covered her wretchedly thin and diminutive body, she might have been
mistaken for some wild animal.  She seemed dreadfully frightened, as if
expecting instant death.  Martin by speaking to the old woman somewhat
reassured her.

"Water must be near, and she will know where to find it," observed his
father; "so she must come with us whether she likes it or no, and act as
our guide."

The poor creature was soon made to understand what she was required to
do, while Martin assured her that she should receive no harm, and should
be well rewarded.  Still this poor wanderer of the desert, accustomed
all her life to ill-treatment, seemed to doubt the motives of her
captors, and turned her head about, as if meditating an escape.
Knowing, however, that she could not outstrip the horses, she walked
quietly on, every now and then looking up and imploring the strangers
not to hurt her.  Her husband, her sole companion, she said, was in the
neighbourhood, and would be wondering what had become of her.

"Show us the water, and you shall return to him when you wish," said the
elder Vincent.

She replied that it would take nearly an hour to reach it.

"Look out then for the waggon, Martin, or it may pass us; for on this
hard ground even Masiko may fail to see our tracks."

Martin did as he was told, and, greatly to his relief, at length met the
caravan.

It moved forward for some time.  Martin could nowhere see his father.
Masiko made him feel anxious, by hinting that the old woman might, under
the pretence of looking for water, have enticed him among a band of her
own people, notorious, he said, for their treachery.  Martin on this
would have ridden forward, had he not received directions to bring on
the caravan.

The sun was nearly touching the western horizon, when, to his great
relief, he at length caught sight of his father's horse in the distance.
At the same instant the cattle began to move on faster than they had
hitherto done.

"Water! water!" shouted the thirsty people, and the whole party rushed
forward ahead of the waggon.  Martin, who led the way, could see no
pool.  The old woman, however, was on her knees, scraping the sand from
a hole, out of which she began to ladle with a little cup a small
quantity of water into three or four ostrich eggs, carried in a net at
her back.

"I am afraid our poor oxen will not be much the better for this
discovery," observed Martin when he reached his father.

"Wait a bit, our men will soon dig more wells, though it may be some
hours before we shall have water sufficient for the animals," was the
answer.

The men as they came up commenced digging with their hands in the soft
sand a number of holes some distance apart.

As soon as the waggon arrived, the order was given to outspann.  Fires
were lighted, the neighbouring bushes affording sufficient fuel, and all
the usual preparations for camping were made.

Martin did not forget the old bushwoman, and with his father's leave
gave her, to her no little astonishment and delight, a piece of meat and
a bunch of beads, and two or three other trifling articles.

The people were employed for several hours in cleaning out the sand from
the holes, for as fast as they dug, it again rolled down and filled them
up.  Gradually, however, the water oozed out from the sides, and towards
morning there was a sufficient quantity to afford a little to each of
the thirsty horses and oxen.

Directly the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky the oxen were
inspanned, and the journey recommenced.  On search being made for the
old bushwoman, it was discovered that she had decamped.  Mean and
wretched though she was, she had rendered an essential service to the
strangers, but she probably thought them as treacherous as they had
supposed her to be.

CHAPTER TWO.

For several hours the weary oxen dragged on the waggon, slightly
refreshed by the limited amount of water they had obtained, and at
length they began to show signs of thirst.  Masiko confessed that he
knew of no pool within the distance of another day's journey, and as the
heat had been excessive, he could not be certain that water would be
found in it.  It was a question whether the oxen could get as far
without drinking.  Noon was approaching, and it would have been worse
than useless to attempt moving on while the sun was overhead.  Again
they outspanned.  The men sat down to sleep in the limited shade the
waggon afforded; but the poor animals had to stand out in the full glare
of the hot sun, turning their heads in the direction whence came a light
breeze, which prevented the atmosphere being altogether insupportable.

They had halted about a couple of hours, when two objects were seen
moving across the boundless plain towards them.  They proved to be the
little, yellow-skinned, shrivelled old bushwoman, and a man of the same
hue, and as scantily dressed as herself.  They came without hesitation
up to the waggon.  Martin hastened forward, and in a kind tone thanked
them for coming to the camp, assuring them that they were welcome and
would be protected.

"Can you show us where we can find water?" he asked.

Their reply convinced him that Masiko was right, and that there was none
to be found nearer than he had said.  They, however, told him that if he
would accompany them a short distance, they would point out where to
obtain what would answer the purpose of water.  As his father was asleep
in the waggon, Martin did not wish to disturb him, and therefore called
Kibo, who had meantime been speaking to the bushman and his wife.

"Do you think they can be trusted, Kibo?"  Martin asked.

"Yes, good people; no do harm," answered the lad in broken English.

"Then we will go with them."

Martin, saddling his horse, called two of the most trustworthy men to
follow on the spare horses, while Kibo mounting another, they set out in
company with the little bushman and his wife.

They had proceeded some distance, when the latter pointed out a creeping
plant, with long leaves and a thin, delicate stalk, spreading over the
ground in various directions.  Both the man and his wife had stones in
their hands with which they struck the ground at various spots, at about
equal distances from the centre of the plant, and then made signs to the
people who had accompanied them to dig, setting the example themselves.
After throwing out the sand to the depth of a foot and a half they came
to a tuber, three or four times as large as an ordinary turnip; and at
each spot where they had struck a similar one was procured.  On breaking
open one of the tubers, it was found to be full of juice.

"These very good, me remember them before," observed Kibo.

Martin and the Hottentot loaded their horses with as many of the tubers
as they could carry, perceiving at once what a rich treat they would
prove to the thirsty and starving cattle.

Having first fed their own animals, they quickly returned with their
prize to the camp, accompanied by the bushman and his wife.  Martin
having rewarded them, they expressed their readiness to show where more
tubers could be found.  The riding oxen having been fed, another party
was despatched to obtain a further supply.  On their return they were
able, as soon as the heat of the day was over, to proceed on to the
northward.

"Though I was inclined to look with contempt on those poor little
wretches, father, see how useful they have been to us," observed Martin.
"It goes to prove, as Mr Warden says, that none of the human race
should be despised; and debased as they may be, they are capable of
improvement, and have immortal souls which we should value not less than
those of our other fellow-creatures."

"As to that, my boy, I doubt whether you would ever make anything out of
those wretched little bush-people.  Well, well! you have got a number of
new notions into your head.  However, when we reach the Makololo, you
will have other things to occupy your thoughts; they are sharp fellows,
and we shall have to keep our eyes open when dealing with them."

Martin knew that it would be his duty to assist his father to the best
of his abilities, and he promised to do so.

They moved on till dark, and started again at dawn, no water having been
found.  Had it not been for the roots which God has caused to grow in
this arid desert to supply the wants of His creatures, the oxen must
have perished.

Just as they were about to outspann after their morning's journey, the
little bushman beckoned to Martin, and intimated that he could lead them
to a place where another production of nature could be found which would
assist to sustain the cattle.

Martin, summoning three men to attend him with their oxen, and some
large nets used to carry fodder, followed his volunteer guide, who, to
show his confidence, left his wife with the waggon.

The country over which they passed was even more barren and arid than
any he had yet seen.

At length, after travelling several miles, some large green objects were
seen, which, to his surprise and delight, he discovered were a species
of water-melon.

The Hottentots immediately rushed at them; the first man cut a huge
slice with his axe, but no sooner did he put his mouth to it than he
cast it aside with a look of disgust and bitter disappointment.  The
cattle, however, passing by several, began greedily eating others they
came to.  Meantime the little guide, after tasting two or three which he
threw down, pointed to some which he signified were good.  Martin now
found that some were intensely bitter, while others were sweet and full
of juice; this, however, could only be ascertained by tasting each.

The party having now satisfied their own thirst, collected as many of
the sweet melons as their animals could carry, and returned with them to
the camp.

"That bushman is a serviceable little fellow," observed Mr Vincent.  "I
have often seen both the tubers and the melons, but I have never found
them before in this part of the desert.  The latter seldom last long
after the rains, as not only do the natives of the desert collect them,
but elephants, and rhinoceroses, and even lions and hyenas, come from a
distance to devour them.  It was probably in consequence of the arid
character of the surrounding desert that the patch to which the bushman
took you has escaped a visit from them."

Martin begged that he might be allowed to reward his guide, who seemed
well satisfied with an axe and several other useful articles, as well as
some beads which he received.

"You should have waited till they can be of no further use before giving
them presents," observed his father.  "Depend upon it, they will be off
before long; and it Masiko, as I suspect, has lost his way, we shall be
in no small difficulty."

Martin hoped that their new friends would prove faithful, though as the
waggon moved on during the afternoon they said something which made him
suspect that their wanderings did not extend much further to the north.
They, however, accompanied the caravan to the end of the day's journey;
but when morning broke they were nowhere to be seen, they had gone off,
as the old woman had before, without being observed by the watch, who
had probably been slumbering at the time.

Here a whole day was spent, that both men and beasts might obtain that
rest they so much required.

Again the caravan was on the move.  Masiko urged that they should push
on as rapidly as possible, for he could not say when they might next
reach water.  But a small supply remained in their skin bottles.

The horses and cattle were again suffering greatly.  First one of the
oxen in the team fell, then another, and another; and though their
places were supplied by the spare animals, the waggon continued to move
on at an unusually slow pace.

The last drop of water in the skins was exhausted, and even some of the
men accustomed to desert travelling declared they could go no further.

The sun was striking down on their heads with intense force.  The men's
lips were parched, their eyes bloodshot.  The animals moved on with open
mouths, lowing piteously in their sufferings.  The trader began to fear
that the whole party would knock up.  In that case, his only hope of
saving his own life and that of his son would be to abandon them with
his waggon and goods, and to gallop forward, on the chance of finding
water.

They had ridden some distance ahead of the caravan, when Martin, who was
a short way in front of his father, shouted out, "Water! water!"
pointing as he spoke to a beautiful lake in the distance, its waters,
curled by the breeze, shining with intense lustre in the bright sun.  On
the further shore trees were seen reflected clearly on the surface,
while among them appeared a number of elephants cooling themselves by
throwing water over their bodies.

"We need no longer fear losing our animals, for they will have water
enough now to drink their fill," observed Martin as his father overtook
him.

Mr Vincent did not answer, but anxiously gazed at the sheet of water.
"I know of no lake hereabouts, and it is too important an object not to
be known to all who have ever travelled across the desert; yet my eyes
cannot be deceived," he remarked.

"Shall I ride back and tell the people?" asked Martin.

"Wait till we have ascertained how far off the water is," said his
father; "you may only disappoint them."

"Surely it cannot be very far off, or we should not see those elephants
so clearly," remarked Martin.

They now put their horses into a trot, the poor animals were too much
fatigued to gallop.

Just then the seeming elephants began to move, and suddenly, instead of
elephants, a herd of zebras crossed their path, scampering over the
ground.  The next instant the lake had disappeared, and they found
themselves on the borders of an immense expanse of salt, covering the
ground as far as the eye could reach to the north and west.  On looking
behind them, however, they saw both their cattle and men moving rapidly
towards the spot, as if they too had been deceived.  Bitter was their
disappointment when they discovered their mistake.  Two of the poor
animals dropped and died, now another, and now a fourth; still "Forward!
forward!" was the cry.  Masiko asserted that water would be at length
reached, though it might be some hours' journey ahead.  Thus encouraged,
even those who had hitherto been most inclined to despair exerted
themselves.

"If this is to endure much longer, I fear that I shall be unable to
stand it," observed Martin to Kibo, who was riding by his side.  "Should
I die, you will promise me, Kibo, to remain with my father, and to do
your best to serve him, and try and get him back safely to Mr Warden's.
Perhaps if I die he will be more ready to listen to him than he was
during his last visit, and to think that is a great consolation to me.
Oh, how willingly would I give up my life to save his, and much more, to
enable him to learn the glorious truths which have brought joy to my
heart!"

The sun was rapidly sinking in the west.  They had left the salt expanse
some way behind; still the country was as dry and inhospitable as ever.
Masiko, at Mr Vincent's order, had pushed on ahead of the caravan.
Suddenly he was seen to wave his spear, and to point with it to a clump
of trees, then to rush forward.  Mr Vincent, with Martin and Kibo,
followed him eagerly.

CHAPTER THREE.

Water was found in the bed of what had once been a running river.  The
men eagerly rushed forward, and lapped up the refreshing liquid,
followed by the horses and oxen.  It was with difficulty that those
yoked to the waggon could be restrained from dragging it in with them,
so eager were they to quench their burning thirst.

The party here encamped, for there were all things requisite--water,
grass, and wood.

Masiko now knew where he was, and he urged his companions to fill all
their water-skins, for this pool would soon be dried up, and they had a
wide desert track to traverse before they could reach the country of the
Makololo.

The next morning, having secured as much water as they could carry, the
party proceeded on their journey.

Day after day they travelled on, often suffering greatly from thirst and
hunger, and dreading the loss of more of the cattle.

At length a stream of running water was crossed flowing to the east, and
the caravan reached the borders of a dense forest, through which a path
had to be cut with axes.  Beyond it, far off in the east, hills were
seen rising out of the plain.

Several ruined villages were passed, the plantations near them overrun
with weeds and brushwood; while many skeletons of their unhappy
inhabitants lay scattered about, telling plainly how they had been
attacked by their cruel foes before they had time to escape, and had
been remorselessly slaughtered, while the remainder probably had been
carried off into slavery.

Such scenes met their sight day after day through what otherwise would
have been a smiling country.

Several more of the oxen had died.  Scarcely enough survived to drag on
the waggon.

Ahead lay a level waste covered by scrub.  Masiko urged Mr Vincent to
wait till nightfall to cross it.  He was afraid, he said, that it might
be infested by the tsetse, which does not attack cattle at night.  The
trader, however, was eager to proceed, as he was now near the
termination of his journey, and he thought that Masiko was mistaken.
Martin suggested that one of the oxen should be sent on first, and that
if that was not bitten the rest should follow.  His father, however,
seemed to have abandoned his usual caution, and insisted on proceeding.

They had not proceeded far across the scrub when several of the
dangerous flies were seen on the animals.  It was too late to turn back.
They must now push on in the hopes that some might escape, which they
might do if not severely bitten.  The horses might possibly be saved by
galloping on, should the dangerous spot not be of any great extent.  Mr
Vincent therefore directed Martin and Kibo, with two of the men, to push
forward with the horses while he himself remained with the waggon.

It was already late in the day before the scrub was passed.  Riding on
for some distance, Martin and his companions crossed a small stream and
encamped on a grassy spot, where they hoped to be safe from further
attacks of the deadly tsetse.  Examining the horses, however, they found
that all had been bitten, while there was no hope that any of the oxen
would have escaped.

The disease caused by the bite might not show itself for several days,
and the animals might have strength to drag the waggon to the end of the
journey; but if bitten, death would certainly be the consequence.

It was late at night before the waggon arrived.  Mr Vincent was much out
of spirits, for he anticipated the loss of all his oxen.  It was the
more important, therefore, that they should push on, and the next
morning they were again on their journey.

At length the bank of another large river was reached Several villages
were seen on the opposite side, the dwellings composed of conical-shaped
reed-thatched huts surrounded by circular clay walls.  The inhabitants,
on observing the waggon, came across in their canoes to welcome the
trader, who had before been to their country.  They were clothed with
skins of animals round their loins and others thrown loosely over their
shoulders.

All were eager to ascertain what Mr Vincent had brought; but he could
not commence trading until visited by their chief, who would first claim
his own dues and make purchases of such articles as he wanted for
himself.

The waggon was soon surrounded by natives, who appeared disposed to be
friendly.

While Mr Vincent was speaking to them they announced that their chief,
Kanenge, was coming across the river.  In a short time, a tall man,
dressed like his people, except that the skins he wore were handsomer
and that feathers ornamented the fillet round his head, landed from a
canoe and came up to the waggon.  Mr Vincent saluted him, shaking hands
in the usual fashion.  The chief then taking his seat on the ground,
they discussed the business which had brought the trader to the country.
One had plenty of goods, the other an abundance of ivory.  The chief
was as eager to trade as any of his people, and appeared incapable just
then of thinking of anything else.  Every now and then, however, his eye
turned towards young Kibo.  At length he remarked how like the lad was
to his own tribe.  Mr Vincent then told him how he had been captured by
Moselekatse's people some years before, and had been redeemed by the
missionary.  Kanenge listened with intense interest, and calling to the
boy, addressed him.  As Kibo replied, the chief's before somewhat stern
countenance became animated and eager.  He continued putting questions
to Kibo, to which the boy replied, and then eagerly asked several in
return.  At length, with a cry of delight, the chief sprang up, and
pressing young Kibo in his arms, exclaimed--

"My heart was moved when I saw him.  I knew him to be of my own people,
but I dared not believe that he was the child I loved, and whom I had
lost so long ago.  White man, I will load your waggon with tusks.  You
shall take them to the good missionary chief who has sent me back my
boy; or if he will come here with a waggon himself, he and his people
shall be fed as long as they will remain."

Thus the father endeavoured to express his gratitude to the missionary
who had preserved his son, and to those who had brought him back.  Mr
Vincent, however, did not put full confidence in his promises.  He
replied that he should be happy to convey his messages to the
missionary; but that as he had come to trade, he must purchase tusks for
himself, though he would carry as many as he had room for, if sent as a
present.

The chief offered to convey the trader's goods over the river, and to
float the waggon across it, while the cattle and horses would pass over
by swimming, to his village.  This was accomplished the next day.
Kanenge appropriated several huts for the accommodation of his visitors,
in one of which they took up their residence, in another their goods
were stored, while their attendants inhabited the remainder.

Trade was now commenced, and everything appeared to be going on
prosperously.  Scarcely, however, had these arrangements been made than
Masiko and their driver came with the intelligence that several of the
oxen were sickening from the effects of the tsetse-bites.  No cure was
known.  The most healthy had already perished.  In a few days it was
found that all the cattle, as well as the horses, had been bitten by the
deadly insect.

Martin tried to console his father by pointing out how much worse it
would have been had they perished on the journey, in which case the
waggon and its contents must have been deserted, and they themselves
would in all probability have lost their lives.  The trader, however,
was inclined to look at things in a gloomy light.

Though fresh oxen might be procured in the country, it would require
some time to break them in, while their cost would swallow up a
considerable portion of his profits.

Mr Vincent himself was ill, and in a few days he was attacked with
fever, while several of his men were suffering from the same complaint.

Martin now felt thankful that he had accompanied his father, and while
he attended him with the most devoted care, he did his utmost to take
his place in carrying on trade with the natives.  His father appeared
well pleased with the way he transacted business, when he each day
reported the progress he had made, and gradually their store-hut became
filled with elephant-tusks.

"Ah, Martin, you will become a first-rate trader," he observed; "and I
hope we shall soon recover our losses.  As soon as I am well we must
push further to the eastward, where I hear there are large supplies of
ivory.  In the meantime we must get fresh oxen broken in."

"I am thankful to be able to assist you, father," answered Martin; "but
I must not pride myself on my dealings with the natives.  We are now
with a friendly chief who treats us fairly, but I understand the people
among whom you propose going are likely to behave in a very different
way; besides which, the country is exposed to the inroads of hostile
tribes, and should they hear that such a prize as our waggon full of
goods is in the neighbourhood, they will attack us in the hopes of
carrying it off."

"We need not be afraid of them; we have a dozen muskets, besides our
rifles and pistols, and may keep a whole host of enemies at bay,"
observed Mr Vincent.  "Kanenge will send a party of his men, and
probably, if I ask him, come himself to assist us."

Martin had now to tell his father that two of their own people were
already dead, and that several others were so ill that there was little
hope of their recovery.

Kibo came every day to the hut, and brought presents of provisions from
his father.  Martin asked him if he felt happy at being once more among
his relations and own people.  Kibo shook his head.

"No, very sorry," he answered, speaking partly in broken English and
partly in his native tongue.  "My father is kind and glad to have me
with him; but he knows nothing of the true God, and wants me to follow
the bad ways of my people, which he thinks right ways.  I tell him that
God wishes men to be happy, and to live at peace, and to do good to each
other and not harm, and to love their enemies, and to trust to Him, and
to worship Him only; and that all men are bad by nature and constantly
doing wrong, and that it is only by trusting to Jesus Christ, who was
punished instead of them, that God will forgive them their sins and put
them away out of His sight.  My father says he cannot understand how
this can be, and that now I have come to live among my people, I must
believe what they do, and live as they do.  I tell him I cannot believe
the lies Satan has invented to deceive them, and that I must not follow
their ways, which are the bad ways Satan has taught them; and so I have
asked my father to let me go back with you and try to persuade Mr Warden
to come here, or to send another missionary to teach the people about
Jesus Christ, and how He wishes men to live."

Martin was truly glad to hear Kibo say this, and he urged him to
persevere in trying to obtain leave to return, promising to beg Mr
Vincent to assist him.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Two months had passed by, the waggon was half loaded with ivory, and Mr
Vincent had partly recovered from his fever; but all his oxen were dead,
and so were nearly half the men he had brought with him.  Many of the
natives had also died, and great numbers were suffering.  It was evident
that the low-lying region now occupied by Kanenge and his tribe,
intersected as it was by numerous rivers, with swamps in all directions,
was very unhealthy.  Martin was thankful when his father proposed moving
eastward to a higher region.

Kanenge had supplied oxen, which the trader's surviving followers had
been engaged for some time in breaking in.  The chief also, confiding in
the firearms with which he and his people were to be furnished, agreed
to accompany him.

The waggon and goods were transported across the river, and accompanied
by Kanenge, with nearly a hundred men, the trader's party commenced
their journey in the proposed direction.  Mr Vincent being too weak to
walk, was carried in a sort of palanquin, while the rest of the party
marched on foot.

After travelling for upwards of a week, the country greatly improving in
appearance, they reached a steep hill, up which the waggon was slowly
dragged, till at length they found themselves on a wide extent of
elevated ground, high above the plain, which stretched away to the
southward.  Here the air felt pure and comparatively bracing, and Martin
at first hoped that his father would recover his strength.

Still, after some days had passed, observing how weak and ill he
remained, he could not help fearing that his days were numbered.  Should
his father die, he would indeed have been in a forlorn condition had he
not learned to trust to One who rules all things for the best.  He was,
therefore, far more anxious about his father than about himself.  Each
evening, when they encamped, he sat by his side, and having read a
portion of Scripture, he endeavoured to turn his father's thoughts to a
future state of existence.

"What, do you think I am likely to die?" asked Mr Vincent one day.  "Why
do you talk so much about heaven?"

"We have seen many of our companions die, my dear father, and we know
how uncertain life is in this country, as it is indeed in all parts of
the world, and at all events we should live prepared to quit this life
at any moment.  Christ has said that we must enter the kingdom of heaven
here, we must become His subjects while we are on earth, we must be
reconciled to God now, we must be born again; and therefore it is that I
am so anxious you should accept His gracious offers, though at the same
time I pray that you may be restored to health and strength."

At first Mr Vincent turned a deaf ear to what his son said, but by
degrees his hard heart softened, he saw how earnest and affectionate
that son was, and he could not help being aware of his own increasing
weakness.

Although he at first thought himself getting better, the disease had
taken too strong a hold of him to be thrown off.  Martin at length had
the infinite satisfaction of finding that his father now listened with
deep attention to God's Word when he read it.

"My dear boy," he said one day, "I now know myself to be a rebel to God,
and grievously to have sinned against His pure and holy laws; and I
earnestly desire to accept the gracious offer of mercy which He holds
out through the atoning blood of Christ, according to His plan of
salvation, which you have so clearly explained to me.  I do not know
whether I shall live or die, but I pray for grace that I may ever
continue faithful to Him who has redeemed me with His precious blood."

Martin burst into tears on hearing his father thus express himself--they
were tears of joy--and he felt the great load which had hitherto
oppressed him removed from his heart.

The natives came in to trade, but Mr Vincent was utterly unable to do
anything.  Had it not been for Martin, who was assisted by Kibo and
Masiko, no trade could have been carried on.

At length most of the tusks in the neighbourhood were bought up, and as
Mr Vincent had still some goods remaining, he wished to move further on.
He was, however, still so ill that he agreed, at the suggestion of his
son, to entrust the goods to Kanenge, who promised faithfully to take
care of them till his return.  He accordingly determined to set out at
once, hoping that the air of the desert would restore him to health, and
the preparations for the journey being completed, the waggon, with its
valuable load of ivory, descended to the plain.  Kanenge, with most of
his men, escorted it; while Martin and Kibo remained with Mr Vincent,
who, should he feel stronger, was to follow the next day on a litter.

Martin's spirits now revived, and he began to hope that, the journey
being commenced, his father would ultimately recover.  His chief sorrow
was with regard to Kibo.  The Makololo chief positively refused to allow
him to return.  Martin entreated him to remain true to his faith,
instead of falling into the ways of his tribe.  "Try and instruct them,
my dear Kibo," he said.  "Young as you are you may be the means of
spreading the glorious truths of the Gospel among them."

"You pray for me then," said Kibo.  "I poor boy, I very weak, I do
nothing by myself."

"We are all very weak and helpless in God's work," said Martin.  "If you
seek the aid of the Holy Spirit, you will have strength given you."

"Ah, yes," said Kibo; "I no trust to myself, and then I strong and do
much."

This conversation took place at the door of the hut.

Martin thought he heard his father call to him.  He ran to the side of
his couch.  Mr Vincent put forth his hand to take that of his son.

"Bless you, my boy," he whispered; "the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth
from all sin."

Martin put his arm under his father's head.  The trader's eyes fixed to
the last on his boy, the film of death stole over them, and ere a few
minutes had passed he had ceased to breathe.

Kibo left his friend for a time to indulge his grief alone, while he
sent off a message to inform Kanenge of Mr Vincent's death.

Towards evening the next day, instead of the chief, who was expected,
Masiko made his appearance.  Martin was thankful to have a Christian at
such a time with him.

Martin had chosen a spot under a wide-spreading tree for his father's
grave, and Masiko, who had brought some presents to repay the natives,
had it dug.

Here the white trader was buried by his orphan son and his two
dark-skinned Christian friends.

Kibo had gone back to the village to order Kanenge's people to prepare
for their departure that night, he having received intelligence that a
party of their enemies were on the move and approaching the
neighbourhood.

Darkness had set in, yet Martin was unwilling to leave the spot till,
assisted by Masiko, he had covered the grave over with a thick roof of
branches to prevent its being disturbed by savage animals.

He was thus engaged when loud shrieks and cries from the village reached
their ears.  His impulse was to hasten towards it to find Kibo, that
they might, if the placed was attacked, escape together.

"Don't go," exclaimed Masiko, grasping Martin's hand; "you cannot help
him, and will be killed or taken prisoner with the rest."

At that instant several figures were observed rushing towards them.

"Come," exclaimed Masiko, dragging Martin forward in the direction the
waggon had taken.  "The enemy will not dare to attack our party armed
with guns, and if we can reach them we shall be safe."

Martin, though anxious to discover his friend, could not help feeling
that it would be unwise to return to the village, probably already in
the hands of the enemy.  He therefore hastened on with his faithful
companion, trusting that they would outstrip the foe.  He could only
hope that Kibo had made his escape, and that he would rejoin them at the
waggon.  This it was probably the object of the marauding party to have
surprised.

They had many miles of rough country to traverse; but, though weary,
Martin was unwilling to stop and rest, as it was important to warn
Kanenge of what had occurred, that he might move the waggon to a greater
distance, or if his force was sufficient, pursue the enemy.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Just as day broke, Martin and his companion approached the camp.  The
chief, observing Martin's clothes torn, and his and Masiko's limbs
scratched by the bushes through which they had passed, inquired in an
anxious tone why they had come without his son and the rest of his
people.  Masiko then briefly described what had occurred, and said that
they had hurried on to warn him of the threatened danger.

"I know that you would not willingly have deserted your friend," said
the chief to Martin.

"No, indeed, I would not," answered Martin; "and had not Masiko
prevented me, I would have returned at all risks to the village to try
and discover him.  I was in hopes that he might have escaped, and would
have followed us.  If he does not appear, I am even now ready to return
to try and find him."

The chief uttered an exclamation which showed his grief, and said--

"Too probably he and all with him were surrounded by the enemy, and were
either killed or were carried off as prisoners.  If there were a
possibility of his being alive, I would follow him; but our enemies
would not have attacked the place unless with a very large number of
fighting men, against whom my people would have no chance of success.  I
also promised your father to defend the waggon and his property with my
life, and if I pursue the enemy I shall leave that defenceless."

"I will sacrifice the waggon and all its contents rather than allow Kibo
to be carried away into slavery," exclaimed Martin.

"I know your friendship for my son, but it would be useless," said
Kanenge.  "If the enemy were to see a party outnumbering them
approaching, they would put their captives to death and take to flight.
I am better acquainted with the ways of my country than you are.  Our
first business is to take the waggon to a place where it will be safer
than here, and I will at the same time send out scouts to learn what has
happened."

Kanenge now gave orders to have the oxen yoked to the waggon and the
march to begin.  He had one of the oxen saddled for Martin to ride, who,
wearied with his long run, more than once dropping asleep, nearly fell
of.

After travelling some distance, a broad stream was reached, with an
island in the centre and a village on the opposite side.  Signals being
made, the natives came across with several canoes.  The waggon was
quickly unloaded, when it and the goods were carried over to the island.

Kanenge assured Martin that they would be perfectly safe, as the enemy,
having no canoes, could not attack them.

Shortly afterwards the scouts who had been sent out arrived, accompanied
by one of the men who had been left in the village, and who was bleeding
from several wounds.  He had a sad account to give.  The enemy,
numbering upwards of a thousand men, had secretly approached the
village, and almost surrounding it before they were discovered, had
rushed upon the defenceless inhabitants, killing, as usual, all who
opposed them, and making the rest prisoners.  The man confessed that he
and his companions had been completely surprised, but that they had all
fought bravely; and not till he had seen Kibo surrounded by enemies and
carried off, and he himself had been wounded, did he take to flight.
All the rest had been shot down.

Martin had eagerly listened to what the man said, and hoping from the
account he heard that Kibo was alive, he resolved to attempt his
release.  He proposed, therefore, as soon as he had rested, to follow
the enemy; and should he overtake them, to go boldly into their camp,
and to try and redeem his friend.  They might possibly be content to
receive in exchange the remainder of the goods in the waggon, and if
not, he should be ready to offer as many tusks as they might demand.  He
could not devote them to a more satisfactory purpose.  He should like to
have returned to Mr Warden with a waggon full of tusks, that he might
for the future be no cost to him, but he would willingly sacrifice the
whole could he regain his friend.

On explaining his plan to Kanenge, the chief replied that though he and
Masiko, being strangers, might be allowed to enter the enemy's camp,
should any of the Makololo go, they would be immediately killed.

Masiko, though well aware of the risk that he would run by putting
himself in the power of the cruel savages bent on making slaves of all
they could capture, without hesitation agreed to accompany Martin.

"God will take care of us, we are doing what is right, we must leave the
rest to Him," he observed.

After a short sleep, Martin and Masiko got ready to set out.

Kanenge selected twelve of his most tried warriors to escort them till
they should reach the neighbourhood of the enemy's camp.  The Makololo
were then to remain in ambush, to assist in any way which might be found
practicable.

Among the stores was an English flag which Mr Vincent had been
accustomed to hoist on a high pole above his waggon when prepared to
trade with the natives.  This Martin fixed to a staff with the intention
of unfurling it on approaching the enemy.

Martin and his companions were some distance on their journey before
daybreak.  They hurried on till fatigue and hunger compelled them to
halt.  After breakfasting and taking a short rest they again proceeded.
In vain they endeavoured to obtain information as to the movements of
the enemy.  No inhabitants were to be seen.

They passed, however, several villages which had been burned, and saw
numerous bodies of men, women, and even of children, shot down while
attempting to escape.  Some of the men also had evidently been killed
while fighting for their homes.

Masiko told Martin that the object of this raid, as well as of
numberless others, had been solely to procure slaves to sell to the
slave-dealers, who sent up parties many miles to the interior from the
east coast.

"Unless the Christian people of your country and others unite to put a
stop to the cruel traffic, there will be no peace or happiness for poor
Africa," he observed.

At length a spot where a village had lately stood was reached.  The
remains of the huts were still smouldering, and it was evident that the
enemy had not long quitted it.  Numerous dead bodies lay about, shot
through by bullets, showing that the enemy had firearms supplied by the
white slave-dealers to enable them to carry out their nefarious
undertaking.  One man was found still breathing.  The Makololo showed
very little feeling for his sufferings, but Masiko stooping down, poured
some water from his leathern bottle into his mouth, which somewhat
revived him.  The wounded man then told Masiko that the village having
been surprised at night, most of the inhabitants had been carried off,
and he supposed that the enemy could not be many miles off.

The sufferer's life was ebbing fast, and in a few minutes he ceased to
breathe.  Most of those killed were old men and old women, not
considered worth carrying off as slaves; or, sadder still, several
infants, who, incapable of enduring the fatigues of the journey, had
been torn from their mother's arms and dashed lifeless on the ground.

Martin, unaccustomed to such scenes, felt sick at heart as he
contemplated the spectacle, though the Makololo warriors regarded it
with indifference.  Too often, probably, they had treated their enemies
in a similar manner.

The party now proceeded with the greatest caution, as it was difficult
to ascertain how far off the enemy might have got.  At any moment they
might overtake them.  Not a single native could be seen from whom they
could gain intelligence.

No guide, however, was required to show them the way, as it was too
clear by the dead bodies of men and women who had been wounded in the
attack, and had sunk down from loss of blood, and frequently by those of
very young children, whose weight had prevented their mothers from
walking as fast as their cruel captors required.

Martin was anxious as soon as possible to overtake the enemy, that he
might have a less distance to send back for the ransom which might be
demanded for Kibo.  He was therefore much disappointed when night again
came on, and his party were compelled to encamp.  They were fortunate in
finding a spot near a pool, with high rocks and trees round it, where
they could venture to light a fire and cook their provisions without the
risk of being seen by the enemy.

The usual sounds heard at sunset in an African forest had ceased, and
were succeeded by the silence which reigns at night.  Martin's
companions too, who had hitherto been talking to each other, had thrown
themselves on the ground to sleep.  He was about to follow their
example, when a cry, which seemed to come from a distance, reached his
ears.  He listened attentively.  It was repeated.  He asked Masiko if he
had heard anything.  Masiko said that he had, but that it was the cry of
a wild beast.  Martin was almost sure it was a human voice, and that it
came from the direction the enemy had taken.  Anxious to ascertain if
they were in their neighbourhood, Martin begged Masiko to accompany him.
Taking their guns, they made their way through the wood, the light from
the moon enabling them to do so.

After passing through the wood, they ascended a slight elevation, whence
they could distinguish in the distance the light of several fires, while
a murmur, proceeding from a large number of human voices, reached their
ears.  There could be no longer any doubt that they were close to the
enemy's camp, and that the cry they had heard was that of some
unfortunate captive being beaten, or perhaps put to death.

On this Martin and Masiko returned to their companions, resolved to set
out by daybreak, and to try and reach the marauders' camp before the
march was commenced.  Martin was so occupied with the thoughts of what
he had to do in the morning that it was long before he could go to
sleep.  On one thing he was resolved, that he would not allow Masiko to
run the risk of being seized by the robbers or carried off with the rest
of their captives.  Masiko, though very unwilling to let him go alone,
at length consented to remain with the rest in their place of
concealment till Martin's return.

CHAPTER SIX.

Before daybreak Martin and Masiko set out, the latter insisting on
accompanying him as far as he could venture without the risk of being
discovered.

The sounds which proceeded from the camp showed that the people were
already astir, and Martin leaving his gun with Masiko, who remained
concealed behind a thick clump of trees, proceeded alone, taking only
the slender staff round which his flag was rolled.

He kept himself, as he proceeded, as much as possible under shelter, as
his object was to get as far as he could into the camp without being
discovered.  As the people were engaged in their various occupations--
some collecting cattle, others lighting fires to cook their food, while
many had not yet even risen from the ground--he succeeded better than he
had anticipated.  Seeing some huts before him, he guessed that they were
occupied by the chief of the band and his attendants.  Though a number
of people began to press round him, he advanced boldly forward till he
got in front of the largest of the huts, when, unfurling his flag, he
stood quietly waiting to see what would happen.  No one in the meantime
attempted to interfere with him, while the countenances of the people
exhibited astonishment rather than anger.  He had not long to wait
before the chief made his appearance at the door of one of the huts,
evidently too much surprised at what he saw to utter a word.  Martin,
taking advantage of his silence, pointed to the flag and inquired if he
knew to what nation it belonged.  The chief made no reply.

"I must tell you then," said Martin.  "It is that of a great people who
have more power than all the tribes of Africa put together; yet powerful
as they are, they wish to be friends with all people, and to do them
good.  You will understand, therefore, that I come to you as a friend,
and as such I wish to talk to you, and to arrange a matter which has
brought me here."

The chief, at length recovering a little from his surprise, put out his
hand and told Martin that though he had never seen that flag before, nor
did he know the nation of whom he spoke, he was welcome.  "Probably," he
added, "some of the people in the camp who have travelled to the sea may
have heard of the great nation."  Just then a man came forward and
addressed the chief in a low tone.  Martin did not hear what was said.
The chief seemed somewhat agitated, and at length inquired of Martin
whether any of the big canoes of his countrymen were in the
neighbourhood, and what force he had with him.  Martin did not say that
no English ships were likely to be in the interior of Africa, nor that
probably he was the only Englishman within many hundred miles of him,
but he replied cautiously that he had come on an embassy of peace, and
that he could not suppose the chief would refuse him the simple request
he had to make.

"My countrymen," he added, "are, as I have said, powerful, and lovers of
peace, and yet when they are compelled to go to war they never reduce to
slavery those they conquer, but wish them to be as free as they are
themselves.  Yet they know how to punish those who ill-treat the
helpless."

"Your countrymen may be a great people, but they seem to have very
different notions to mine," observed the chief.  "As yet, however, I do
not understand your object in paying me a visit."

"That is the point I am coming to," answered Martin in as firm a tone of
voice as he could command.  "You and your people have lately attacked a
village in which were some of my friends, and have carried them off to
sell as slaves.  One of them is an especial friend of mine.  He is also
of my religion, and understands my language, and I cannot allow him to
be carried away to live among strangers.  As I told you, I came here on
a peaceable errand, and all I demand is that you should set a price on
my friend, and if you will allow him to accompany me I will send you the
goods you demand."

The chief, on hearing this speech, looked greatly relieved, and after
consulting with several of his headmen, asked Martin to point out the
friend of whom he spoke.

Martin replied that he would, and was forthwith conducted to the part of
the camp where the unfortunate slaves, who had by this time got ready to
commence their march, were assembled.  The men were generally chained in
parties of six together, with heavy manacles on their hands; while the
women were secured two and two with ropes round their waists, they
having often to carry loads in addition to their children, who clung to
their backs.  The boys were manacled in the same way as the men; while
the younger girls, though fastened together to prevent their running
away, were allowed to travel without loads, not from any feeling of
mercy on the part of their captives, but that they might appear to
better advantage on their arrival at the slave-market.  Some of the men
who had apparently been refractory were secured by having their necks
fixed in forks at the end of heavy poles, the fork being secured by iron
pins bolted in at the broader end so as to prevent them from slipping
out their necks.  Two or three dozen of the stronger men were thus
fastened together two and two, some having also chains round their
wrists.  A number of men--some armed with spears and swords, and others
with muskets--stood ready to prevent the possibility of the captives
escaping.

Martin hurried to the spot where the boys were collected, eagerly
scanning the faces of the young captives.  He had passed by a number,
among whom he in vain searched for Kibo.  There was one more group a
little further on, still sitting or lying down.  The reason of this was
at once apparent.  One of the poor lads being unable to rise, his
companions in misfortune were kicking and pinching him to make him get
up, with the exception of one, who was endeavouring to protect him from
their cruelty.  In that one, though deprived of his English clothes and
naked like the rest, Martin recognised his friend Kibo.  He was so
engaged in his generous efforts to protect the sufferer that he did not
at first observe Martin approaching.  Kibo, at length seeing Martin,
uttering a cry of joy, endeavoured to spring forward, but his chain
quickly checked him.  The other lads on this ceased tormenting their
companion, and gazed with astonishment at the stranger and his flag.
Martin, speaking in English, told Kibo why he had come to the camp, and
advised him not to say who he was lest the chief should increase the
amount he might demand for his ransom.

"There is my friend," he then said, turning to the headman who had
accompanied him.  "You see, as I told you, that he speaks my language,
and you will now believe that everything else I have told you about him
is true.  Set him at once at liberty, and I will send the goods as soon
as I return to the camp."

Greatly to his joy, Martin saw Kibo's manacles knocked off, and they
stood together grasping each other's hands.  Kibo, however, did not move
from the spot, but casting his eyes towards the poor lad on the ground,
he said, "Can you get him set free too? he is sick already, and will die
if made to travel with the rest.  I have been telling him about Jesus
Christ, and he says how much he wishes to know Him better, and that he
would come to this country and teach people to be happy.  Oh, how
grieved I should be if he were to die and not know more about Him!"

Martin at once pointed out the sick lad to the headmen, and told them
that if they would knock off his chains and carry him to their chief, he
would pay a ransom for him as well as for his friend.  As the savages
saw that this would be a clear gain, well knowing that the lad would die
if compelled to march with the rest, they at once complied; and Martin
grasping Kibo by the hand, followed by a couple of men carrying the poor
lad, returned to the hut, in front of which the chief was seated smoking
his pipe, and surrounded by several persons.  One of these, though his
skin was as brown as that of the rest, had European features, and was
dressed in shirt and trousers, and Martin rightly conjectured that he
was an agent of the slave-dealers on the coast, and had instigated the
raid which had unhappily been so successfully carried out.  Martin had
brought a list of his remaining goods, and the chief appeared satisfied
with those he offered in exchange for Kibo and the other lad.  He was in
hopes that the matter would quickly be settled, when the white man
advised the chief to refuse the articles offered and to insist on having
tusks instead.  Martin had been too long accustomed to deal with the
natives to yield at once, or to acknowledge that he had any tusks.

"I tell you truly that I offer you all my remaining goods," he answered.
"If you will send messengers to receive them, I promise to send them to
you as soon as I can get back to my camp."

The chief, instigated by the slave-dealer, insisted on having tusks,
finally agreeing, however, to receive twelve for Kibo and two for the
poor sick lad, who, he remarked, was not likely to be of much use to any
one.  He would probably not have allowed his captives to go free until
he had received the tusks, but when Martin promised on the faith of his
flag to send them, even the slave-dealer advised him to consent,
observing that Englishmen, though he hated them from his heart, always
fulfilled their promises.  Martin, thankful that his enterprise had thus
far succeeded, set out with Kibo, accompanied by fourteen men, who were
to go a part of the distance and there to wait till the arrival of the
tusks.  On consideration of receiving payment, they agreed to carry the
poor lad whose freedom Martin had obtained.  As they approached the spot
where he had left his companions, he and Kibo hurried forward to give
them warning.  Their joy at seeing their chief's son was very great, and
they declared that Martin ought to be made a chief himself.  Martin,
committing the two rescued lads to the charge of the Makololo, urged
them to hasten on to Kanenge, while he followed with Masiko, as he was
anxious to separate the hostile natives as soon as possible, fearing
that either one or the other might be guilty of some act of treachery.
He advised those who had come from the camp to remain at the spot where
he left them till his return.  The men begged that he would leave his
flag, as no one, they observed, would then venture to attack them, and
it would be an additional proof that he intended to fulfil his promise.
This he gladly agreed to do.  He then set out with Masiko, and travelled
on with all speed, supported by the feeling that he had succeeded in his
undertaking, and by his wish to fulfil his promise.  For many miles the
country was desolate, and no food was to be obtained.  In the evening,
however, they overtook their companions, who had sufficient for their
wants.  Kibo gave a good report of his friend Telo, who by his
directions had been carried on a litter.

"I have promised that you, Martin, will take him with you to the
missionary, who will instruct him in the religion of which I have been
telling him.  He says that as all his friends have been killed or
carried off as slaves he will gladly go with you."

"But I must get you also to go with me, if your father will let you,"
said Martin.  "You will then learn English, and obtain more knowledge of
the Bible; and you may some day return to this country with a white
missionary, to whom you may act as interpreter, and be able to instruct
your people in the truths of the Gospel."

Kibo, who had not been attracted by the examples of savage life he had
witnessed, gladly promised to try and obtain his father's leave to
return with Martin.  He did this more willingly as he found with regret
that Kanenge was in no way disposed to listen to him when he tried to
explain the Gospel, and he hoped that a missionary would be more
successful.  The discussion of their plans for the future occupied them
during the remainder of their journey.  Kanenge received his son with
joy, and expressed his warmest gratitude to Martin for bringing him
back.  Though he confessed that a very high price had been demanded for
his liberation, he seemed rather flattered than otherwise by it, and
insisted on replacing the tusks taken from Martin's store.  He showed,
however, that he was still the savage by observing that Martin had been
over-generous in rescuing poor Telo, who was not worth the two tusks he
had promised.  Martin did not consider it necessary to argue the point,
merely replying that he would give them from his own store.

As soon as he had rested, leaving Kibo with Kanenge to look after Telo,
he and Masiko set out, attended by several men carrying the tusks he had
promised as a ransom for the two young blacks.  He also selected a
number of articles to distribute among the party who had escorted him
from the camp.  He found them anxiously waiting his return, and in fear
of being attacked on their march to overtake the rest of their party.
No sooner had they received the tusks and presents than they hurried
off, and Martin and Masiko returned in safety to Kanenge's camp.  In a
short time Kanenge managed to obtain as many tusks as Martin had paid
for his son's ransom, with several in addition, which he presented as a
gift.  Martin having thus, greatly to his satisfaction, rescued Kibo
from slavery, was anxious to rejoin Mr Warden as soon as possible.

Still, eager as he was to set out, he determined not to go, if possible,
without his friend.  He had frequent conversations with Kibo on the
subject.

Martin went to the chief, who again expressed his gratitude to him for
rescuing his son.

"Yes," said Martin, "I, it is true, redeemed him from slavery, but that
was only the slavery which binds the body; you wish to bring back his
soul into slavery, which is ten thousand times worse than that from
which I saved him.  If he remains with you, and follows your customs, he
will be Satan's slave.  Allow him to return with me, and in a few years
I trust that he will come back and be able to show you and your people
how you may be free indeed, and enjoy the blessings which my religion
can alone give you.  You acknowledge that I have been the means of
rescuing him from your enemies; I have a right, therefore, to entreat
that you will allow him to accompany me."

For a considerable time Kanenge did not speak.  A great struggle was
taking place within him.  At length he answered--

"He shall go with you, my son.  You have said what is true; only,
remember your promise, that he is to return here to see me ere I die."

Martin again assured Kanenge that should God spare his life, Kibo would
return with a white missionary to instruct him and his people, and then
hastened away to communicate to his friend the joyful intelligence.

Preparations for their departure were now made, and the waggon being
well loaded, Martin and his two young companions, with Masiko as
conductor, set out on his journey southward across the desert.  The
Hottentot driver and four of his men survived, while several of the
Makololo gladly undertook to fill the places of the others and to form
the necessary escort.  Kanenge accompanied them for a couple of days on
their journey, urging Martin to come back with Kibo, and promising to
give him a warm reception.

The journey across the desert was performed without an accident.  Martin
had no intention of following the life of a trader, having far higher
aims in view.  He without difficulty disposed of his waggon and its
valuable cargo, and with Mr Warden's assistance, invested the proceeds,
which were sufficient not only to supply his very moderate wants for the
present but for the future.  He at once began diligently to prepare
himself for the important duties of a missionary, Kibo and Telo
following his example.  The three young men were in the course of a few
years fitted to go forth on their destined work, and were the means of
bringing many in that long-benighted region out of Nature's darkness
into the glorious light of the Gospel.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The School Friends, by W.H.G. Kingston

*** 