"No; meet me at Ian Davey's boathouse at sunset. Let Ned keep an eye on yon two."

Chapter XXIX.

THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

The springtide sun set ruddily and frostily across the Sound; and as the fiery ball hung for a moment on the western sh.o.r.e, a broad pathway like a pathway of rippling blood, or deep-tinged, running gold, went in a line from Ian Davey's boatyard to the Cornish coast.

"An omen!" cried Dan, seeing with the eye of the superst.i.tious sailor.

"We sail to wealth over a golden sea."

Nick shook his head. "The colour is not yellow enough for my liking.

Is the boat ready?"

"Ay."

"Then let us be going whilst the breeze holds easterly."

Ian Davey's lad came out of the boathouse with a pair of oars on his shoulders. He went down to a little fisher boat that rocked gently against the end of the wooden jetty. The two sailor-men followed him.

The mast was stepped, and they pushed out from the sh.o.r.e, the two men rowing and the lad steering. As soon as they were far enough out to catch the breeze the sail was set, and the little craft went bowling along over the fast-darkening sea. The oars were shipped, and Dan fell to musing. He tried to recollect the occasion of his last visit to the Cornish village from which his family had sprung, and was astonished to find that, in the sum of ten thousand leagues of travel since manhood, the little journey he was now taking did not once enter. He stroked his red beard, perplexed at the oddity of the whole thing. He pictured the steep, cobbled street leading up from the sh.o.r.e, and peeped into every remembered window in the row of rude thatched cottages. Slowly he recalled the names of old boy and girl companions who had played with him around the doorstep of his grandfather's house. For half the voyage the object which had prompted it was forgotten. The journey was as silent as a secret journey should be. It began in twilight and ended in darkness. The keel of the boat grated on the soft sand. Dan and Nick Johnson stepped out.

"How long will ye be?" asked Davey's lad.

Dan pondered. "Ye cannot get back without us; 'twill be a matter of hard rowing against the wind. I have been thinking. This place is hallowed soil to me, and my feet have not trodden it for thirty years.

Bide thou here to-night; I will find thee supper and a pallet. There are many folk with whom I would fain speak now that I am here. Keep a still tongue concerning us: we will speak for ourselves. Tie up thy boat, and ask for John Pengelly. If he be dead, ask for any of his children; they will entertain thee for my sake."

Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. He stood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then he made for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and the faint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretched across the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, and pulled the latch string.

"Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengelly that speaks."

"Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly,"

came the answer.

Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold.

A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight, and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genial warmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood into flame.

"Close the door, friend," said the fisherman.

"I have a comrade on the threshold."

"Then bring him in."

Nick entered, apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town, and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose.

"Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but the wife shall set meat and drink before you."

"We are fresh from eating and drinking," said Dan, "and have but looked in for a little chat, seeing that ye were not abed."

"Say your say, friends."

Dan did so, in his own roundabout fashion. He casually mentioned his voyages to the West, a theme of unfailing interest to any man dwelling on the sh.o.r.es of Plymouth Sound. Then he came to the real reason for his visit. He described the two sailors he had met in Plymouth. The fisherman had never seen them. Dan had guessed as much, but he wanted to be sure. Then he sketched Basil. The fisherman sat upright in a moment.

"I know him," he cried. "He has been amongst us, off and on, for more than a month. I'll take you to him."

But Dan would not trouble any one to do that.

"He knows me well enough," he replied, "and I would rather take him by surprise. We had a jolly time together last Christmas."

So the fisherman pointed out where Basil was staying, and his two callers took their leave, promising to look in upon him again in the morning.

Apart from the row of cottages stood the house in which Brother Basil was staying. At one time the place had made some pretensions to smartness. It was stone-built throughout and tiled. In the rear was an orchard of apple-trees; and a herb garden, now choked with weeds, separated the front of the house from the roadway. The place was in the occupation of a widow woman, whose late husband had once been a man of some means.

The night was sufficiently starlit for a sailor to pick his way with certainty, and the two men went rapidly forward. The gate in the fence stood ajar, and Dan went first to spy out the land. The front window was heavily shuttered, an unusual precaution to take on a fine night.

Putting his eye to a c.h.i.n.k, the sailor could just discern the shadowy outline of a man seated at a table. A rushlight stood beside him, and apparently he was reading. Pa.s.sing on to the door, he found that the latch-string was pulled in through the latch-hole; the door was secure.

Steadily, Dan pressed against it; it was firm as the wall, no play to and fro on latch and hinge. "Bolted," he muttered, and stole back to the fence, in whose shadow Nick was still standing. He whispered his report, and the two consulted together for a moment. Then both went round to the orchard, stole through a gap in the straggling hedge, and came over the gra.s.s to the rear of the house. A light shone through the unshuttered window.

"Ah!" exclaimed Dan, "this looks more like the home of honest people.

Yon thief in front is bolted and barred. I warrant me the widow hath not pulled in her latch-string. We must open and enter. To knock would be to give warning to our man, who hath ears that gather sound quicker than doth a rabbit's."

"How will the widow take our incoming?" asked Nick. "We be two strangers, and night hath fallen. Should she cry out, we are undone; for the fishers would come upon us, and maybe lay us low without a chance to explain our errand. Thy monk-man, too, is a guest of the village. Should he sound an alarm, 'twould go hard with us if the neighbours took us for thieves and him for an honest man."

Dan paused. "Shrewdly spoken, comrade. But there is no time to go round the place and prove that we be honest Protestants and good sailors, whilst the little man is a thieving Papist and murderous traitor. We should cause clamour enough to give him warning and time for escape. We will get within. Thou wilt stay with the widow, and keep her from doing us a mischief. I will see to my man alone."

"If thou shouldst want help?"

"I will cry out for it quickly enough."

As Dan predicted, the latch-string still hung out. A gentle pull, and the well-used door swung open. The widow was in her kitchen, raking together the red embers on the hearth preparatory to going to bed. The noise of her sc.r.a.ping was sufficient to cover up the sounds at the door, and Dan was at her side, his fingers on her lips, ere she was aware of his presence.

"Sh!" he whispered in warning; "not a sound, good mother. We are friends, but thou art in danger; thy life depends on thy silence."

The poor woman paled, and shook in every limb. Dan whispered rea.s.suringly, and removed his hand from her mouth.

"G.o.d 'a mercy!" she gasped.

Nick brought forward a stool and gently placed her upon it.

"Have no fear," he said; "I will stay with thee."

"Who are ye?"

"Friends and protectors, mother; honest sons of Devon, who have discovered a deadly plot. Lean thou on my shoulder."

Nick's whispers were soothing, his face was honest; the widow's brain was bewildered. She believed him, and clung to him in white terror.

Dan saw that she was safe from any hysterical screaming, enjoined silence on both, and pa.s.sed on towards the parlour where Basil was sitting. He paused for a moment to draw his sword, then tip-toed to the door. Leaning against the oaken post, he heard the rustling of paper. He set his teeth; there was a flash of light; the door had been opened and shut again, and the sailor and the Spanish agent stood face to face.