There was a visible fall in the countenances of the savages, who regarded this strange announcement as their death-warrant. Some of them even grasped their clubs and looked fiercely at their enemies, but a glance from Ole Thorwald quieted these restive spirits.

"Now, chiefs and warriors, I have two intentions in regard to you,"

continued Mr Mason. "The one is that you shall take your clubs, spears, and other weapons, and lay them in a pile on this mound, after which I will make you march unarmed before us half way to our settlement. From that point you shall return to your homes. Thus you shall be deprived of the power of treacherously breaking that peace which you know in your hearts you would break if you could.

"My second intention is that the whole of your tribe--men, women, and children--shall now a.s.semble at the foot of this mound and hear what I have got to say to you. The first part of this plan I shall carry out by force, if need be.--But for the second part--_I must have your own consent_. I may not force you to listen if you are not willing to hear."

At the mention of the women and children being required to a.s.semble along with them, the natives p.r.i.c.ked up their ears, and, as a matter of course, they willingly agreed to listen to all that the missionary had to say to them.

This being settled, and the natives knowing, from former experience, that the Christians never broke faith with them, they advanced to the mound pointed out and threw down their arms. A strong guard was placed over these; the troops of the settlement were disposed in such a manner as to prevent the possibility of their being recovered, and then the women and children were set free.

It was a noisy and remarkable meeting that which took place between the men and women of the tribe on this occasion; but soon surprise and expectation began to take the place of all other feelings as the strange intentions of the missionary were spoken of, and in a very short time Mr Mason had a large and most attentive congregation.

Never before had the missionary secured such an opportunity! His eccentric method of obtaining a hearing had succeeded beyond his expectations. With a heart overflowing with grat.i.tude to G.o.d he stood up and began to preach the Gospel.

Mr Mason was not only eccentric, but able and wise. He made the most of his opportunity. He gave them a _very_ long sermon that day; but he knew that the savages were not used to sermons, and that they would not think it long! His text was a double one--"The soul that sinneth it shall die," and "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."

He preached that day as a man might who speaks to his hearers for the first and last time, and, in telling of the goodness, the mercy, and the love of G.o.d, the bitter grief of his own heart was sensibly abated.

After his discourse was over and prayer had been offered up, the savage warriors were silently formed into a band and marched off in front of the Christians to the spot where Mr Mason had promised to set them free. They shewed no disinclination to go. They believed in the good faith of their captors. The missionary had, indeed, got them into his power that day. Some of them he had secured _for ever_!

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

SORROW AND SYMPATHY--THE WIDOW BECOMES A PLEADER, AND HER SON ENGAGES IN A SINGLE COMBAT.

There are times in the life of every one when the heart seems unable to bear the load of sorrow and suffering that is laid upon it;--times when the anguish of the soul is such that the fair world around seems enshrouded with gloom, when the bright sun itself appears to shine in mockery, and when the smitten heart refuses to be comforted.

Such a time was it with poor Frederick Mason when, after his return to Sandy Cove, he stood alone, amid the blackened ruins of his former home, gazing at the spot which he knew, from the charred remnants as well as its position, was the site of the room which had once been occupied by his lost child.

It was night when he stood there. The silence was profound, for the people of the settlement sympathised so deeply with their beloved pastor's grief that even the ordinary hum of life appeared to be hushed, except now and then when a low wail would break out and float away on the night wind. These sounds of woe were full of meaning. They told that there were other mourners there that night--that the recent battle had not been fought without producing some of the usual bitter fruits of war. Beloved, but dead and mangled forms, lay in more than one hut in Sandy Cove.

Motionless--hopeless--the missionary stood amid the charred beams and ashes, until the words "Call upon me in the day of trouble and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me," descended on his soul like sunshine upon ice. A suppressed cry burst from his lips, and, falling on his knees, he poured forth his soul in prayer.

While he was yet on his knees, a cry of anguish arose from one of the huts at the foot of the hill. It died away in a low, heart-broken wail.

Mr Mason knew its meaning well. That cry had a special significance to him. It spoke reproachfully. It said, "There is comfort for _you_, for where life is there is hope; but here there is _death_."

Again the word of G.o.d came to his memory, "Weep with them that weep."

Starting up hastily, the missionary sprang over the black beams, and hurried down the hill, entered the village, and spent the greater part of the remainder of that night in comforting the bereaved and the wounded.

The cause of the pastor's grief was not removed thereby, but the sorrow itself was lightened by sympathy, and when he returned at a late hour to his temporary home, hope had begun to arise within his breast.

The widow's cottage afforded him shelter. When he entered it Harry and his mother were seated near a small table on which supper was spread for their expected guest.

"Tom Armstrong will recover," said the missionary, seating himself opposite the widow and speaking in a hurried excited tone. "His wound is a bad one given by a war-club, but I think it is not dangerous. I wish I could say as much for poor Simon. If he had been attended to sooner he might have lived, but so much blood has been already lost that there is now no hope. Alas! for his little boy. He will be an orphan soon. Poor Harry's wife is distracted with grief. Her young husband's body is so disfigured with cuts and bruises that it is dreadful to look upon, yet she will not leave the room in which it lies, nor cease to embrace and cling to the mangled corpse. Poor, poor Lucy! she will have to be comforted. At present she must be left with G.o.d. No human sympathy can avail just now, but she must be comforted when she will permit any one to speak to her. You will go to her to-morrow, Mrs Stuart, won't you?"

As this was Mr Mason's first meeting with the widow since the Sunday morning when the village was attacked, his words and manner shewed that he dreaded any allusion to his own loss. The widow saw and understood this, but she had consolation for him as well as for others, and would not allow him to have his way.

"But what of Alice?" she said, earnestly. "You do not mention her.

Henry has told me all. Have you nothing to say about yourself--about Alice?"

"Oh! what can I say?" cried the pastor, clasping his hands, while a deep sob almost choked him.

"Can you not say that she is in the hands of G.o.d--of a loving _Father_?"

said Mrs Stuart, tenderly.

"Yes, yes, I can say that--I--have said that, but--but--"

"I know what you would say," interrupted the widow, "you would tell me that she is in the hands of pirates, ruthless villains who fear neither G.o.d nor man, and that, unless a miracle is wrought in her behalf, nothing can save her--"

"Oh! spare me, Mary; why do you harrow my broken heart with such a picture?" cried Mr Mason, rising and pacing the room with quick unsteady steps, while with both hands on his head he seemed to attempt to crush down the thoughts that burned up his brain.

"I speak thus," said the widow, with an earnestness of tone and manner that almost startled her hearers, "because I wish to comfort you.

Alice, you tell me, is on board the _Foam_--"

"On board the _pirate schooner_!" cried Henry almost fiercely, for the youth, although as much distressed as Mr Mason, was not so resigned as he, and his spirit chafed at the thought of having been deceived so terribly by the pirate.

"She is on board the _Foam_," repeated the widow in a tone so stern that her hearers looked at her in surprise. "And is therefore in the hands of Gascoyne, who will not injure a hair of her head. I tell you, Mr Mason, that she is _perfectly safe_ in the hands of Gascoyne."

"Of the pirate Durward!" said Henry, in a deep angry voice.

"What ground have you for saying so?" asked the widow, quickly. "You only know him as Gascoyne the sandal-wood trader, the captain of the _Foam_. He has been suspected, it is true, but suspicion is not proof.

His schooner has been fired into by a war vessel, he has returned the fire--any pa.s.sionate man might be tempted to do that. His men have carried off some of our dear ones. That was _their_ doing--not his. He knew nothing of it."

"Mother, mother," cried Henry, entreatingly, "don't stand up in that way for a pirate; I can't bear to hear it. Did he not himself describe the pirate schooner's appearance in this room, and when he was attacked by the _Talisman_ did he not shew out in his true colours, thereby proving that he is Durward the pirate?"

The widow's face grew pale and her voice trembled as she replied, like one who sought to convince herself rather than her hearer, "That is not _positive_ proof, Henry. Gascoyne may have had some good reason for deceiving you all in this way. His description of the pirate may have been a false one. We cannot tell. You know he was anxious to prevent Captain Montague from impressing his men."

"And would proclaiming himself a pirate be a good way of accomplishing that end, mother?"

"Mary," said Mr Mason solemnly, as he seated himself at the table and looked earnestly in the widow's face. "Your knowledge of this man and your manner of speaking about him surprises me. I have long thought that you were not acting wisely in permitting Gascoyne to be so intimate; for, whatever he may in reality be, he is a suspicious character, to say the best of him; and although _I_ know that you think you are right in encouraging his visits, other people do not know that; they may judge you harshly. I do not wish to pry into secrets--but you have sought to comfort me by bidding me have perfect confidence in this man. I _must_ ask what knowledge you have of him. How far are you aware of his character and employment? How do you know that he is so trustworthy?"

An expression of deep grief rested on the widow's countenance as she replied in a sad voice--"I _know_ that you may trust Gascoyne with your child. He is my oldest friend. I have known him since we were children. He saved my father's life long, long ago, and helped to support my mother in her last years. Would you have me to forget all this because men say that he is a pirate?"

"Why, mother," cried Henry, "if you know so much about him you _must_ know that, whatever he was in time past, he is the pirate Durward now."

"I do _not_ know that he is the pirate Durward!" said the widow in a voice and with a look so decided that Henry was silenced and sorely perplexed--yet much relieved, for he knew that his mother would rather die than tell a deliberate falsehood.

The missionary was also comforted, for although his judgment told him that the grounds of hope thus held out to him were very insufficient, he was impressed by the thoroughly confident tone of the widow and felt relieved in spite of himself.

Soon after this conversation was concluded the household retired to rest.

Next morning Henry was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of subdued voices in the room underneath his own. At first he paid no attention to these, supposing that, as it was broad daylight, some of their native servants were moving about.

But presently the sound of his mother's voice induced him to listen more attentively. Then a voice replied, so low that he could with difficulty hear it at all. Its strength increased, however, and at last it broke forth in deep ba.s.s tones.

Henry sprang up and threw on his clothes. As he was thus engaged the front door of the house opened; and the speakers went out. A few seconds sufficed for the youth to finish dressing; then, seizing a pistol, he hurried out of the house. Looking quickly round he just caught sight of the skirts of a woman's dress as they disappeared through the doorway of a hut which had been formerly inhabited by a poor native who had subsisted on the widow's bounty until he died. The door was shut immediately after.