About a mile from the house the road crossed a stream by a steep old-fashioned Gothic bridge. He was just entering one end of this, when up at the other sprang, as if from the earth, a tiny half-clad gipsy girl. She waved a shawl and shrieked aloud. The horse swerved, but could not stop in time, and next moment the animal and its rider had gone headlong over the parapet, and lay dead--to all appearance--near the stream below.

The girl dashed down after them, wrenched open the man's coat, tore out some papers, and waving them aloft, went shouting along the avenue back to Grayling House.

"My dear child," said Lyle, as soon as he had scanned the papers, "how ever can I reward you?"

"You were good to granny," was all the girl said.

Lyle at once sent off to the relief of the wounded man, but made him prisoner, for the letter he held was the emissary's instructions.

He was back again next day at Berwick. There he heard that the _Firefly_ was in harbour, but had discovered no trace of the smuggling lugger, though she had been south as far as the Humber.

"No," cried Lyle, exultingly showing the papers, "because the villain Bland has gone north, and my children are captive on an island on the west coast of Scotland."

A council of war was held that evening, and it was determined that the sloop-of-war should sail in search of the smuggler on the very next day.

"She may not be there yet," said the bold, outspoken commander of the _Firefly_. "We may overhaul her, or meet her on her way back. And it will be best, I think, for you to come with us."

And so it was agreed.

The capture or destruction of the smuggler and Bland had for years defied both custom and cruisers in his fleet lugger, but if Captain Pim of His Majesty's sloop-of-war was to be believed, the _Sea-horse_ lugger's days were numbered, and those of her captain as well.

Away went the _Firefly_, but long before she had ever left harbour the smuggler had left his prizes--viz, Leonard and Effie, on Lighthouse Island, and gone on a cruise on his own account, his object being to complete his cargo from among the western islands, where smuggling was rife in those days, and at once make sail for France, going round by Cape Wrath for safety's sake, as was his wont.

As for the result of the visit of his emissary to Grayling House he had not the slightest fear.

The _Firefly_ encountered fearful weather. Summer though it was, she took nearly a fortnight to reach Wick, and then had to lie in for repairs for days. After sailing she was overtaken by a gale of wind from the south, which blew her far into the North Sea.

Now it was the custom of Captain Bland, in making his voyages, to keep a long way off the coast, and out of the way of shipping. Had it not been for the gale of wind that blew the _Firefly_ out of sight of land, this ruse would once again have served his purpose aright. As it was, early one morning his outlook descried the sloop-of-war on the weather bow.

Well did Bland know her. He had been often chased by her in days gone by. It was evident enough to the smuggler now that his emissary had been captured or turned traitor; so his mind was made up at once.

"Ready about!" was the order.

The _Sea-horse_, in a few minutes, was cracking on all sail, on her way back to the island, Bland having determined to remove his little prisoners therefrom, and sail south with them to France, in spite of every risk and danger.

Both vessels were fleet and fast, but if anything, the lugger could sail closer to the wind.

Several times during the long chase, which lasted for days, the _Firefly_ got near enough to try her guns, but not near enough for deadly aim. The shots fell short, or pa.s.sed harmlessly over the smuggler.

The last day of the chase was drawing to a close. The island was already visible, when suddenly Bland altered his plans and tactics, seeing that the _Firefly_ would be on him before he could cast anchor, and effect a shipment of the little hostages. He put about, and bore bravely down upon the cruiser, and despite her activity crossed her stern, and poured a broadside of six guns into her. Down went a mast, and the wheel was smashed to atoms.

Bland waited no longer. He had done enough to hang him, and night was coming on.

Night and storm!

Yonder was the gleam of the lighthouse, however, and he did not despair.

It grew darker and darker, and just as he was abreast of the lighthouse, and bearing down towards it, the storm came on in all its fury, and twenty minutes afterwards the _Sea-horse_ was a wreck. His hands took to the boats, or were swept from the decks, leaving him to lie buried under the wreck just as Leonard found him.

On the arrival of the _Firefly_, the little wanderers were so overjoyed to see their father, and he to have them safe once more, that the wild escapade of which they had been guilty was entirely forgotten between them.

The old lighthouse-keeper and his wife detailed the circ.u.mstances of the wreck of the lugger, but singularly enough they forgot to mention the saving of the life of Bland himself. He was therefore supposed by Captain Pim to be drowned.

So ended the wonderful adventures of Leonard and Effie as amateur gipsies.

But about a week after they arrived at home, to the inexpressible joy of old Peter, to say nothing of the poodle dog, the cat, and all their pets at the Castle Beautiful, after binding papa down to keep a secret, Leonard told him all the rest about Captain Bland, who, Effie a.s.sured him with tears in her eyes, had been so, _so_ kind to them both.

But long before this Bland was safe in France, and for a time he sailed no more on British coasts. The seas around them being, as he expressed it, too hot to hold him, he determined to let them cool down a bit, so he took his talents to far-off lands, where we may hear of him again.

Book 2--CHAPTER ONE.

IN DISTANT LANDS.

ON MOORLAND AND MOUNTAIN.

"Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth of the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed, And the shepherd tends his flocks as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny sh.o.r.es, To me hae the charm o' yon wild mossy moors."

Burns.

Scene: The parlour of an old-fashioned hotel in the Scottish Highlands.

It is the afternoon of an autumn day; a great round-topped mountain, though some distance off, quite overshadows the window. This window is open, and the cool evening breeze is stealing in, laden with the perfume of the honeysuckle which almost covers a solitary pine tree close by.

There is the drowsy hum of bees in the air, and now and then the melancholy lilt of the yellow-hammer--last songster of the season. Two gentlemen seated at dessert. For a time both are silent. They are thinking.

"Say, Lyle," says one at last, "you have been staring unremittingly at the purple heather on yon hill-top for the last ten minutes, during which time, my friend, you haven't spoken one word."

Lyle laughed quietly, and cracked a walnut.

"Do you see," he said, "two figures going on and on upwards through the heather yonder?"

"I see what I take to be a couple of blue-bottle flies creeping up a patch of crimson."

"Those blue-bottles are our boys."

"How small they seem!"

"Yet how plucky! That hill, Fitzroy, is precious nearly a mile in height above the sea-level, and it is a good ten miles' climb to the top of it. They have the worst of it before them, and they haven't eaten a morsel since morning, but I'll wager the leg of the gauger they won't give in."

"Well, Lyle, our boys are chips of the old blocks, so I won't take your bet. Besides, you know, I am an Englishman, and though I know the gauger is a kind of Scottish divinity, I was unaware you could take such liberties with his anatomy as to wager one of his legs."

"Seriously talking now, Fitzroy, we are here all alone by our two selves, though our sons are in sight; has the question ever occurred to you what we are to do with our boys?"

"No," said Fitzroy, "I haven't given it a thought. Have you?"

"Well, I have, one or two; for my lad, you know, is big enough to make his father look old. He is fifteen, and yours is a year or two more."

"They've had a good education," said Fitzroy, reflectively.

"True, true; but how to turn it to account?"