"Morgan could forbear no longer. He turned quickly to his men and said, in a loud voice, which might be heard by the unseen watchers overhead, `My torch has gone out. Crawl back, one of you, to the rest and bring another, for if the castle is to be fired to-night--'

"There was a startled movement above, which told him his object had been gained. The voices grew silent, and the footsteps moved suddenly. For a moment his two companions did not comprehend what had happened. But it flashed on them soon enough, and they were ready for the emergency.

"One of the two suddenly lit a small ball of hemp saturated in some inflammable substance, which he had carried with him, and, fixing it on to the point of his sword, held it up to the boards above, at the same time that the other drew his pistol and pointed it at Morgan's head.

"Not a word was said, and not one of the three stirred, until a sharp crackling of the wood above told its own tale. The soldier still held up his brand till the place was well alight. Then withdrawing it, and beckoning to his companion, he began to retreat towards the mouth of the cave, saying as he did so, with a mocking laugh--

"`Farewell, master traitor, I doubt not your business keeps you where you are. We shall miss your company.'

"Morgan did not hear them. He sprang desperately towards the now blazing boards. But it was too late to stay the fire, and the heat and falling embers drove him back.

"Still he could not go, but stayed there half suffocated, determined at least not to desert his post while a glimmer of hope remained.

"In a few moments there was a crash and a shower of sparks at his feet.

The trap-door had fallen in.

"Heedless of the peril or the pain, he sprang once more at the opening, and this time, how he knew not, succeeded in lifting himself into the blazing apartment. Many a time had he been there before in happier days.

"He rushed across to the door and out into the great hall of the castle.

Not a man was there to stop him. He heard voices and shouts outside, but the castle seemed to have been left to its fate. There was yet time, thought he, before the flames reached so far, to rush up to his lady's room and save her.

"He sprang up the staircase. Halfway up he saw a figure before him, ascending too. He called, and the man turned suddenly. Morgan knew him in a moment. It was Fulke himself. The old Royalist, seeing himself pursued by a soldier in the dress of a Roundhead, concluded the enemy had already entered his castle, and with the fury of a desperate man, drew his sword and threw himself upon the stranger. Morgan had no time to hesitate. The delay of a moment might cost his lady her life.

"With a rapid pa.s.s of his sword, he struck Fulke across the arm, and as the weapon dropped from the old soldier's hand, Morgan rushed past, on towards the lady's chamber.

"Another obstacle still awaited him. This time it was a groom unarmed, who encountered him. He too, defenceless as he was, sprang wildly upon the intruder to dispute the pa.s.sage. But Morgan put him by with the flat of his sword and crying--

"`Look to your master below. I will see to the lady,' darted on.

"After that it was all like a dream. He was dimly conscious of rushing down those steps shortly after, with a precious burden in his arms. How he struggled through the smoke and fire, or how he kept his feet on that tottering staircase, no one knows. It's enough to say he struggled forward down the stairs and across the hall as far as the outer door, where some one s.n.a.t.c.hed his unharmed burden from his arms and carried her to a place of safety, where already her father, tended by his faithful servant, was recovering consciousness.

"The courtyard by this time was crowded with troopers, Royalist and Roundhead, and above the roar of the flames and the crashing of falling roofs there rose the report of guns and the clash of swords. Morgan, half stunned and like a man in a dream, was standing propped up against a tree a helpless spectator of the scene, when suddenly one of his own men rushed up to him and saluted.

"`The colonel, sir, is dead. He was under yonder wall as it fell. The men, sir, look to you for orders.'

"Morgan sprang to his feet like one electrified.

"`Call the men off,' he cried hoa.r.s.ely, `instantly--without another blow, and bring the prisoners to the camp--to me. Lose not a moment, friend.'

"The order was obeyed. The Roundheads were glad enough to get clear of the tottering walls without being too particular as to who escaped and who was captured.

"Among the prisoners who next morning were reported to the captain as safe were Fulke, his daughter, and one manservant.

"Morgan's heart failed him. He could not, dared not see them. He ordered them to be kept in safe custody, and, meanwhile, summoned two of his most trusty soldiers to receive orders respecting them.

"That night a small boat was brought round to the bottom of yonder cliff, where you see the little creak, sir. And in it Fulke and the young lady and their servant were rowed secretly to W--, where a fishing-boat waited to carry them to Ireland. That's the story, sir."

"And what became of Morgan?" said I.

"No one heard of him after this affair, sir. And they do say he was punished as a traitor. But whatever the end of him was, he never repented his night's work at the burning of Fulke Castle."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.

A GRANDFATHER'S YARN.

Sub-Chapter I.

"When I was a young fellow," began my grandfather--

There was a general silence and a settling of ourselves in our seats, as the wavering voice of the old man uttered these magical words.

No one had asked him to tell a story, some of us had almost forgotten that he was sitting there in his big chair, one of the group which crowded round his own Christmas fire at Culverton Manor.

He was an old, old man, was my grandfather. The proverbial "threescore years and ten" was an old story with him, and even the "fourscore"

awarded to the strong was receding into the distance. Yet there he sat, in his old straight-back chair, hale and bright, as he looked round on us his descendants, sons and daughters grey-haired already, grandchildren, who some of them were staid heads of families themselves, and the little group of great-grandchildren, who knew as well as any one that when their father's grandfather began to talk of "the days when he was young," it was worth their while to hold their peace and p.r.i.c.k up their ears.

"When I was a young fellow," began my grandfather, stroking his old grizzled moustache, "I was a cornet in the Buffs. It was in the year-- heigho! my memory's getting rusty!--it was in the year 1803, I believe, when every one was expecting the French over, and I was quartered with my regiment at Ogilby. Ogilby is an inland town, you know, thirty miles from here; and as there was not much immediate danger of Bonaparte dropping in upon us there without good warning, we had a lazy rollicking time of it in that bright little place.

"We young officers, boys that we were, thought it a fine thing to live as grand gentlemen, and spend our pay half a dozen times over in all sorts of extravagances. And, I recollect with sorrow, I was as bad as any of them.

"Our colonel was an easy-going old soldier, who had been a wild blade himself once, and held that it was little use looking too sharply after us, so he didn't look after us at all; and we in consequence did just as we pleased.

"Sometimes we invited all the gentry round to feast with us at mess, and pledged our pay months in advance to load the table with the most costly delicacies. At other times we would sally forth, and out of sheer mischief organise a riot in the town, and end the night with broken heads, and now and then in the lock-up. And when we were tired of this, we got up I know not what gaieties to pa.s.s the time.

"As I said, I was as bad as any of them--worse perhaps. For I had had a good home and careful training, and knew all the time I was joining in the excesses of my comrades that I was a fool and a prodigal, and a traitor to my better self. And yet I went in, and might have gone on to the end of the chapter, had not an event happened to me which served to pull me up short.

"One evening that winter our festivities culminated by a grand entertainment given by the officers of our mess to all the countryside.

Compared with this, our former efforts in the same direction had been mere child's play. We had hired the largest a.s.sembly room in the town, and decorated it regardless of all expense. The wine merchants and confectioners for miles round had been exhausted to furnish our supper, and the tailors and milliners driven nearly distracted over our toilets.

Ogilby had never seen such a brilliant entertainment, and the officers of the Buffs had never achieved such a triumph.

"I was among the last to leave the gay scene, and as I stepped out into the chill winter air, and called for my horse, the clock of the church was striking four. My man had to help me to my saddle, for, what with the sudden change of air, added to the excesses of the evening, I was not steady enough to do it myself. My man was the son of an old tenant of my father's, and as he had known me from childhood, I was used to allowing him more familiarity than most gentlemen allow to their servants. I was, therefore, not surprised when, on reaching my quarters, after helping me to alight, he stopped a moment to speak to me before I entered the house.

"`By your leave, Master Hal,' said he, saluting, `I thought you might like to know there is bad news from Culverton.'

"`How?' I demanded, scarcely taking in what he said.

"`Bad news, begging your honour's pardon. I had it in a letter from Phoebe, the dairymaid at the Vicarage, who your honour may know is my sweetheart, or rather I am hers; and by your--'

"`Sirrah, man, drop your sweetheart and come to your news! What is it?'

"`It is news of the squire, Master Hal!' said the man, seriously.

"`My father!' I exclaimed, suddenly sobered by the name.

"`He is ill, please your honour. He had a stroke a week ago, and Phoebe says his life is despaired of.'