I THE BARB OF AN ARROW.

Otago Witness, Issue 2864, 3 February 1909, Page 77

I THE BARB OF AN ARROW.

(BEING PASSAGES IN THE LIFEHISTORY OF ANTONY PENTWICK, CONVICT.) B? Ror Bridges. II.— THE HUT BY THE SEA. I am not able to pay credit to Captain Hugh Clinton, of the 63i*d, that we escaped not from Van Diemen's Land despite a well-thought scheme and cunning agents. Yet, having in mind the ancient fcaw of paying the devil his <3ue, I would here commend the zeal with which this ofSeer served his Majesty the King when his Majesty's interests Jiappily coincided with his own. In this instance his zeal was fired by a grudge of some standing against Antony - Pentwich ; but, being aided solely by broken-headed young John Vimpany and a poor company of privates, ho had been no "match for Antony Pentwleh had he not found an ally in Antony Pejitwich himself. ■On that night when we rode forth from the house of Mr Vimpany, my master, we sped far and- fa=t. Gad ! 'twas a race for liberty, and msdly we rode, a-clatter-ing down the road to Sorell, up hill, down dale, and after us came, galloping apace. Clinton and his men. We heard their shouts as they forced on their hoises at the stnrt ; but when we were nearin-g the tovrns'up we left them a space behind ; still we swept through the narrow, straggling horse-lines without drawing rein, until we reached a low little dramshop by the roadway. Pentwich had ridden till then in silence, nor had I, with the heat of the chase upon me, desire of waiting time or breath, but came after him, riding as silently. But before '.he ruin-shop he pulled up, crying to me to draw rein a whit ; then, leaping from his horse, beat hard and fast upon the door. On the instant it was opened, and I caught sight of a visage, besotted, purpling, unshorn, ajraanst -the candlegleam, and heard the bottles rattle and the glasses chink, aotd voices mutter and growl within. Antony Pentwich spoke a few words in a low tone, and, drawing to the door cautiously after hum, the man stepped out into IJie road. i "You're late in comin', Mr Pentwich," ba mumbled. "Mornin 1 , they said, and it's night now." • < "The place! the place!" demanded Pentwich. "Rouse you, for we're followed, and 'twould be ha)rd with you, my friend, if we were taken in your com- , pany." "Ride by the track ten miles," the man said sullenly. "They'll meet you by the way, if so be as they aren't tired o' > waitin'." j Pentwich flung him a coin, and sprang j to saddle none 'too soon, fo. ws heard the \ thud of theiT horses' hoofs. a,nd the click j and clatter of stones and the clink of steel as they came riding hard upon js through the township. Then we galloped ; at madder pace down the slope, vind pressed our horres to the creek ford ; but ! the water was swollen with winter rains, j and went down i*award in a surging flood, and with so wild a sound tint- our i horses would- not take the stream, j Topping the hill cams Clinton and his ! pack, and, seeing us defined distinctly against the moon-gleam on the waters, a ; fair mark, their pieces sang, and. though i busied with a swerving horse, I heard i the parlous whis-tle of a bullet by my e^r. I Their shots left us unscathed, f.nd did us service where whip and bit had failed, j for my horse plunged forward *.t the ' volley, and. landing deep, was borne j down a space by the flood, with me clinging about his neck, till, finding footing, he bore me, dripping and chilled, tip the i opposite bank. Anxious for Pentwich, I j turned, and saw that his hor?e h. 1 carried him to midstream and was swimming bravely. Now had our nuisuers reached , the brim, and in the trouble thnt they ! met our safety lay, for their horses would , not take the s-tream, and, striving with the struggling brutes, they had no chance ; to load an-d end our business with t ball, j A -tall fellow, by spur and whip forced ! his horse into the water, and drove splash- j ing afteT Pentwich in midstream, and, i judging the current well, came up with j him. As I stood, careless of musket ball, j with heart ajump, I saw them meet, grapple,^ part instantly, and while Pentwich rode streaming with water up the bank, the private's horse floundered into the shallow with empty saddle. | Antony Pentwich wiped his knife with ' deliberation upon his horse's mane, and- j slipped it to sheath by his side ; then rode on sullenly, and though I shuddered j at the deed and trembled for my neck, I ■ rode after him in haste, for the bullets j flew about us. We rode a mad race up , an easy slope, and, crossing the hill brow, ; took a narrow track, yet did not check j our speed till we crossed the Ironstone . bridge, for the night was lit with the j moon, and we ha-d no fear to be brushed' J from our saddles by the outstretched i Loughs, nor to break our horses' knees | over logs in treacherous holes. We heard no sound of our pursuers now. nor when we drew rein, and Pentwich, leaping • down, placed his ear to the giouaid, could he discern the thud of their horses' , hoofs upon the track. I "We have a good start," he said, as h© . mounted one e^ m-o-re. "It is well,"' I answered, '"for I heard . them say that you'd toke ship along the coast ; and if they got ahead they'd keep a close look-out for us." "So," he muttered, '-they know." and was sileni till we had covered a mile or more. "That r.:.-i],"' be ciieJ at length, as we

rods side by side on the win dang track "whose saddle I emptied will wash v] on the rocks towards the sea — a whit tin cooler for his wetting and the blood I Ie from his shoulder." He glanced at me, seeking my though" I upon the matter, but I made no answer yet though in my mind I had pardenee him the deed, I was youth enough to b< averse to bloodshed, and I i*ejoieed thai the fallen, man should have a chance o: living. "A long ride's before us, I take it— friend Rick — what's your name boy?' •he cried a moment later. "It's escapee i my mind, though friend Vimpany did cat . you by it several times to-night." j "Staveley," I answered, j '"Ah ! Staveley — what t,hink you of oui i chances for escape?" j "They lie with your friends,"- I said ; j "and if our horses are good 'we'll be well ( along the coast by morning." I '"Before then, P.ick, we'll be met by some friend of our friends — money avoids the ceremony of introduction, Rick — and , we'll lie snugly hid till our ship is sighted ; — if she be not at anchor In some bay awaiting us." j "I*ll be gilad to be .=afe away," I said. ! "Glad ! Ay, boy, for I take it you've ' no precious thing, no tie, no friend, to hojd you in tnis place." ! "Naj-," he went on. "nor a memory of a visioued hope to haunt you, with its shadowy imagine shutting out all thought ] of happiness to come or good to be retrieved. Rick, my boy, d:d you but know ' ' i He ended suddenly, and laug.b-cd. i "Why am I thus bounteous of con- . fidcrces," he said, "when I have known i you but an hour's space or to?" i "And I have b?en at bes.t a poor clerk," I told him, "and you a gentleman." ! The night rang with his -wild laughter. , "And we be brother-convicts, both."' he cried. "The arrow is a leveller i' faith. Its brand is our common possession, Rick. You were ">" . "A former," I said doggedly. | "And I a rook, a cheat, a swindler, a j b'ackleg! But I'm of none of those 1 trades now, friend Rick. Only i convict." ; "I guessed much of what you had been," I told him, "from what pasrod between { you and Miss Denver at dinner." ! He cut his horse savagely over the flank, and rods ahead. J In silence we went for about two miles' j space, over sandy soil, between the lines of trees, by the track ths colonists nad cleared from holding to holding. So we ! came up when the moon was at the full to a hill, and as we topped it we met a chill sea wind in our face.s and heard the surf boom nigh at hiirh, so that we knew we were by the coast" j As we drew rein to breathe our horses, a figure moved out of the shadow towards us, and when it came out into the moonlight I marvelled that it was a woman — j nay, a mere girl, for her hair Mas yet uni bound ; but she carried herself bravely. I "Who are you, girl?" Pentwich cried. : "And what do you here?" i "I know your Woe, Antony Pentwich," she said. "I do not ask your recognition — I do not wibh it." J I saw him reel in his saddle. I heard him mutter, "My God !" but, recovering, j he a.=ked, '"Who sent you?" I "Iti is my mission to take you to my gracdfather"s hut," she answered. "I'll i take your bridies ; it's not very far," and | grasped his rein and mine. j Without a word more she led us down a steep incline into a gullj' that a fire had . dewed of brush, until we came out into a | flatter country that was thinly scrubbed j with wattles and ti-trce ; but she brought I us through the brake b%- a narrow path, until we rode close by the sea. We went | for about a half-mile along the coast, up ; to a headland, wlme I caught a gleam of . light. So she led us presently to a highi pnltd fenr-e before a hut. "Get down," sho said : "I'll lead your hoises where they'll not be found." j "It would go ill with anyone to be in possession of the saddles ;tnd bi idles, and should ths King's officers come this way," I told her. ; "You need not fear fiom us.'* the gill ' said quietly, and we sprang down. i The gate was barred heavily, and at our , krocking a great bloodhound leaped l against the ba.rs, baying loud and d-eep. j Th'B girl put her hands to her mouth ar.-d ; gave an odd, echoing call, whereat we j heard the house door open, and a thin voice quavered, "Is that you, Kate?" "I," the girl called back. "Open the ! gate!" She led the horses away, while we waited until we heard a footstep shuffling over the giound, and saw a gleam of j light piercing the chinks between the I thick slabs of the gate, while the dog 1 raved madly. j "Down, Chains, down!" quavered the thin voice within, and the de,* was silent j on the instant. The bar was drawn back, ; and the gats opened, "swinging a lantern | up to look at us, an old man htocd, blink1 ing, a weird, gnomish figure, with a beard [ that fell in line with his middle, thougli ; that was no great space, for he was bent | ni,jh double. I noted even then in the lantern light the nose that .hooked down over the- mumbling, toothless jaws, and tha sunken, blinking eyes that shone and hid in their narrow slits alternately like a ship's lights at sea. All this I saw, lor the oddity of the man compelled it. The great hound ciouohed at his feet, giowling low and deep, but Antony Pentwich went boldly forward. "Simon Welby,'' he said, "you know me." Tile eld man barred the way ; and his thin claws caressed the great dcy 3 '\s head. "You. Antony Pentwich. I know," he snajed ; "but who ih this that corner with you? Thi'ir messenger said that you came alone." ! "My se-rvant," Pentwich said, whereat I started. "Have you so small a memory of me, Welby, or grown doting, that you had thought to see me ride unattended 2"'

J THE LIVER'S WORK. c By " Regulator." t The liver may bs described as an exceedingly complicated chemical laboratory, k The blood which «nters the liver through i the portal vein is loaded with the products 'j of the digestion of food. These products * j the liver deals with in such a manner that c ; the composition of the blood when it leaves fc the liver is very much changed, a, sort of f secondary digestion having taken place in the liver. Bile has teen man uf act u red out of the blood ; uric acid, which is prac- ~ tically insoluble, has been converted into urea, which is completely soluble. A sub1 i stance called glycogen has been made from 1 I the aug-ax in the blood and stored in the liver for future use, v and various other J transformations 'have taken place. The I liver also removes from the blood red corj puscies whioh are worn out and are of no further utility. The liver makes and extracts from the 1 blood two or three pounds of bile every day. The bile is delivered into the intear tinges, and acts as a, natural eathai-tie, . besides assisting in the digestion of fatty ' ( food and retarding the decomposition of 1 such food as it passes along- the intestines. I- ' The g-lycogen formed is retained in the liieiv *nd is again converted into sugar, which is supplied to the blood graduaJly. aiul in such quantity as may be necessary for tha blood's enrichment. I Now, if the liver fails to do its work ' : thoroughly, it follows that the bleed, mii ste-ad of having its substance dealt with : and cleansed in the manner described, is , ' carried by the veins to every part of the , i bady in a condition which is inimical tc i tho welfare of the body. In other words, j the blood is laden with biliary poisons, and it ie the presence of these biliary poisons j ! in the bleed which causes us to suffer from 1 indigestion, biliousness, sick headache, general debility, anasmia, and jaundice. If the liver properly performs its functions i the blood distributed ie pure, and nourishes the nerve 3, instead of being laden with ! poisons which irritate the whole nervous j system and give rise to the disorders named. A wonderful remedy in cases of diseasa or inactivity of the liver is found in | Warner's Sa.fe Cure, which for 30 years has I pro\ed its efficacy continuously, even when I treatment by all other means had failed. I Sufferers from a disordered liver should lose no time in availing themselves of the , relief to be obtained from this -valuable specific. In addition to the regular 5s and 2s 9d bottles of Warner's Safe Cure, a concentrated foun of the medicine is now issued at 2s 6d j>er bottle. Warner's Safe Cure ' (V° 1 l Centra * ed) is not compounded with alcohol, and contains tfie same number of i dos~3 as the &3& 3 bottle of Warner's Safe I Cure. H. H. Warner and Co. (Limited). Melbourne, Victoria. I His voice was light, supercilious, foppish, and old Welby crackled forth, into laughter. | "Come in, Mr Antony Pentwich, Esq., gentleman, latr o' London," he piped. "Com© in, Mr Antony Pentwich's valet, late of . Down, Chains!" for the dog sprang up and mouthed at us. j Pentwioh put his hand fearlessly upon | the great brute's head, and though I thought to see his hand-bones crunched 'I in its jaws, the dog squatted upon its haunches, ceasing to mutter, and when he ( walked within it rose up, and moved by his side, fawning on. him. I followed at respectful distance. ''Go within and dry 'cc by the fire, Mr Pentwich and valet," old Welby cried. "I'll wait till the girl comes back* — igo in, go in." I I saw as we entered the house that it i v as stoutly built of stripped logs in double lows, that the door was loopholed, and studded with fat iron nails, and that a ' great bar hung to secure it. "A very fort," s-aid I as we went in. The hut was parted oil into three rooms, tlie door opening into the living room, j which had a- broad fireplace at the other end, wherein a fire roared lustily. A ( lew pieces hung fiom the wal) and pistols in leather holbteis ; the furniture was ■ roughly made of gun wood, but the room was clem, and thick skins of kangaroo J and opossum, padded chairs, ard couch for comfort. There was no ornament save that a dull miniature of a pale-faced woman looked mildly from the wall. I Pentwich'h quick ej-e fell on it. I "Welby's daughter!" he said refiec- ; tivelv. "A white soul from such a stock." ] "Who is tho man Welby?" I asked. I Pentwkh laughed. "Of all the villians i the most villainous," ho said. "Grown past his trade of thief — receiver, rather, i having escaped ths gallows so long, he 1 became conscience-stricken le^t through his j failing ju<J;^ment lie should swing for it, and so he decided to quit his native land by ship lest he quit it by Tope." '"But the woman?" I asked, pointing to the picture, "and the girl?" "His daughter," he went on, sitting • down by the fire and Testing his chin ! upon his hand. "I know not in what wise she had at all times lield herself aloof from any of his venture*, if indeed ] she ever knew of them, and so remained I unspotted to her wedding day. She marJ ried respectably. I say respectably, for j 'twas a Methodist she wed, a tradesman of small deals and large religion. i\]io was \ man enough to take the girl he fancied, from whatever stock, and man enough, | too, to hold his respected father-in-law at ' a distance." I Ha peered towards the door to see if j Welby were coming, then lay back indolently in his chair, watching the steam ' ri=o from his sodden clothes. '. J "Two children were born to them — this [ girl and a boy — by the way, I believe I am directly culpable for the latt-er's down- ' ' fall."' Hi.? voice was careloss yet, ar.d sank | ccHly. and. v.v.tchin^ him, I saw the lines j about hU lips diawn deeper. i "The father died ; the mother di-e<l a twelvs-monlh after; down swooped sole ' relation Welby and took bc-th childien, ar.d in his dishonest soul I believe he in- ! tended well by them. Certainly their - schooling was 'good, and while the old " spider sat secure and chuckled at un- < fu.^pkious runners, the two grew up respec table. I (

He mouthed the last word oddly. ~\ • "» "And with his grandaire's tainted gold in pocket came young Stephen Enderby upon the town. I met him, was of some slight service to him, while his money lasted was his friend." Be broke off. "He's somewhere in this land," he said. "God forgive me !" And he stared dully into the fire.

"That is why Welby chose this place, I take it, for the girl would be near her brother."

I sat silent, marvelling at the man whose companion fate had made me — I, who, too, was come of Wesleyan stock, and was courted reputable till that goosequill slip. He tunned to me again, and held me with his eves.

"You think me happy, Rick," he said, "that I am free again and have chance of fleeing this evil lviod. Ay, Rick, were I as you and stained by sc small an error, I'd go as gladly, but never more to have hope of happiness by mir.e own sin, from which I never may be quit' !" Hj ceased abruptly, and paced to and fro, while Chains, the dog, moved witlii

"I was s-unk deeply in the slough of> evil," he said, staying his step at tla^t.' "I had been utterly submerge!, but, that' her white hand cauirht me, held' me' a breathing space in the pure air, and I would lwve bieathed but that the mire clung heavily and drew me back ! Yet, having breathed that air, I am tatmted ever by its memory, and, sunken as I am, I yet would breathe it mere, though knowing in my he-art it may not be." Again he turned away, walking now towards the wall opposite the door, and bc^an angering the logs. I watched him dully a few moirents, then dozed off, for I was weary with our long ride, and knew that it was lov.'r past midni^lit. I had heard the wind rising up fiercely from the soa, and a sudden icy blast blew in and roused me. '

Pentwich was laaiohins lightly, while the logs which his touch had loosened . swung back to their place. "I've -seen this trick in London." Again 'his hand 1 j played with the logs, and they reVblved^ J ! leaving a space by which /the dip l\ 'wind blew in. He swung them ha.eiMy hkclc to their place just as Old,, W«)£>y.,,and ,(he," girl reached the door ; and when they entered was pacing up and down with the areat dog niarchins; at his side. Old Welby drew him apart, and then began to talk in low tones, white stupidly I sat by the fiie, gazing with dull eyes upon the girl. I saw that fehe boasted a supple, shapely body, with a well-turned head and wealth of red-brown hair ; and that she was simply clad in blue blouse and skirt— a strange discord with the man and the house. She kept hea- eyes steadilyXaverted from Antony Pentw ich while he discoursed apart, but she looked on me kindly. "You are weary," she said. "I'll get you food and a blanket before the fire."

I thanked her, and she lingered close to me. She glanced quickly and furtively at the two, ar.d, "seeing them intent, bdnt her head down to me.

"You are escaDing with him?" she whispered. I nodded, wondering. ■ > - i, -> !

"Was prison so hard?" she -went on>/. watching them lest they should turn 1 and' hear ; "or was your master fo harsh that you must ride off with that man? Better that you should rot in any gaol or bear the hardest slavery than have dealing with Antony Pentwich. I know him, for he wrecked another's soul — my brother ; and whate'er be your offence, be sure he'll drag you lower." iShe ceiiPed suddenly, for the two turned to the fire.

"Hafete to get. Mr Pentwich food, Kate, my girl," Old Welby said, and as the girl busied herself in taking bread and meat from the cupboard, Pentwich and he sat down by the fire facing each other.

'•This is an odd place, Antony Pentwich — an odd place for you and me to hob-nob," old Welby cried, his gnome's face wrinkling and puckering as his jaws parted in a squeaking laugh. "A different •flower bed for you, my butterfly, to fly

"And for you, my spider, to weave in," Antony Pentwioh retorted softly. Welby regai-ded him evilly. "Were it not for my weaving, Antony Pentwich," he sneered, "the butterfly had never escaped the webs of Governoi Arthur. A great man, tliis Ai-thur — a foeman worthy of me in my prime, but not now — not now — not now," and he quavered off into weak laughter. "I run no risks now, Antony Pentwich' — not for you, nor for any man. I'm an honest farmer, landowner, sheep-owner, Alntony Pentwich, and I mn no riskb." "I scarr ely exjected you ever to tell the truth, Welby," Pentwich said, looking at him curiously, "j et 'twould be interesting to know how you do live in. this place." Old Welby wrinkled and puckered. "A big grant they gave me," he said, "and I bought more, and I started a store in Hobart Town, andi I bought sheep, and hor.-es, and rum, and cattle, and I dealt in 'em all, and made good price; and there's a many rent tl:e land I bought with my money, Antony Pentwich — oh, I a many." "Yet you live here, Welby," Pentwich said, eyeing him as one would a loathsome, crawling thing. "Here in a hut by the .sea, miles from" anywhere — a hut built to stand a siege, with a back door to slip out by quickly." Weiby cast him a hideous look. "There will come a time, Welby, when Arthur will inquire a bit deeper into your affairs, for he's sweeping the 'island" cl«ar of rangers " , ' "And 'scaped oonvicts," "anappe'd t-ne old man venomously. "I warn you,

Antony Pentwich, I take no risks foi you." "There are none. To-morrow, unlesr you've told me false — and it's quite possible — the brig is at anchor ir the bay, and we'll be abroad at dawn ; and you, honest man, free to keep your sheep." While thus they fenced across the fire, I dozed afresh. I yras aroused — log as I was — by the knocking or the gate. I started up with them all ; I caught the pistol from my pocket; I slipped wit! Pentwich into "the shadow of the inner loom, while knocking at the gate went on, and the dog never ceased to bark. "They are on us," I whispered to PentT^ich.

"Who's there?" old Welby called, cautiously unbarring the door, and. a low: voice answered.

"Steve ! Steve!" the girl cried out, and dashing open the dooi she ran forth. We still hung in the shadow as into the room, while old Welby cursed and gibbered, ::aniß a raggrd, miserable figure ot a man. He was young, though his beai<l grew thick aaid wild ; he was haggard, and starved to a shadow ; his eyes burnt with tiis fever 'of famine. I saw his rags, and. knew 'that yellow livery of shame but all too wetl, though the arrow barbs were .cub ayrav^ and I guessed that he had , broke^, gaol. The girl came with him, .treepii'fj silently. >f w "'Gaol-bird! " old Welby cried. "What the devil brings you here'?"

The young man sank half-fainting on a chair, and th-e girl put her arms protecting ly about him.

"lb was my doing," she said, hei eyes aflame. "I let hiir know long since that I, his sister, was in this place ; I bribed his gaolers to let me see him when we were in Hobart Town these months since. I told him of this place "

"Out of this house," .Welby cried, menacing the sunken starveling with clenched fists.

"Shame on you!" cried the girl, dashing his hand aside ; "shame on you ! ' True, he comes with no stolen money in his purse to pay for shelter, as that man Pentwich, out he's your blood — your blood, I , say ; and if evil is in him, remember what '."'manner of man you axe. Aye, mouth^at me and curse, but I tell you it is ..the •e-vjl of your blood that has corrupted: I'-vrhatl, was good in him; and for tihait- ret Vain to gibe and curse at him." ■> \ Old Welby had grown strangely calm. JI1 "How came you here, Stephen by?" he said. "What have you done? Speak!"

The young man scarce raised » his leaden ej'es. "They flogged me," he whispered ; "tore my back to ribbons with their whips — see," and he tore his rags from his shoulders, and showed -the cat marksred and unhealed.

"And then?"

"Then the devil rose up in me ; and scarce was I turned loose than I struck the man that flogged me down."

"Then?"

"They flogged me again ; shut me underground. Then they took me out into the roads to break stone. With my hammer I cracked a warder's skull instead, and got away."

The girl threw her hands up to her face, and stagc^ered back against the wall, moaning d*ully, while Pentwich clutched at me, reeling like a drunken man, and muttering, "Oh. God! Oh, God!" ' 'Old W'elby clutched fiercely at the 'j'oung man's arm. "l r ou killed him !" he screamed. "I do not know ; Ido not care." "When <!-d this happen?" "A month ago. I've been bushing it since."

"You poor, mad fool, to come sneaking here. They'll have had. the place watched — far out as it is ; they'll come here — and I'll not have you found beneath my roof, wastrel — not beneath my roof. Out of the house."

He lifted his hands to strike the cowering figure on the chair ; but white as death stepped Antony PenLwich between. '"No more of this, Weiby," lie said, and; at his fierce command the old man drew back. '"Stephen Knderby ! Stephen Enderby — do you not know me?" JOndorby looked up nt him, recognised him, recoiled, and struck at him wildly. '"Too well," .he cried. "A curse upon you, Antony Pentwich; a curse upon you!"

Pentwieh turned to Welby. "He remains here this night," he ordered. "1

insist."

"You. dare! You dare!" the old wretch cried, beside himself with rage and terror. "What if I split on you."

"You dare not, Welby," Pentwich said t carelessly. "Enderby, you have no cause : to trust me .in aught ; yet if I tell you that I 'shall talce you with me from this place, and put you in a new country for a new life, would you have confidence enough in me to believe and follow me?"

Kate Enderby sprang between them, afire with scorn. "Not if he die a hundred deaths, Antony Pentwich !" cried! &he. "He shall not leave this place with such a thing as you. It is you, and you only, who have made him what he is — • look on your handiwork, and be i-ejoiced. He is sunk deep in shame ; but I tell you you shall not lose him utterly his soul — • I tell you, I, his sister."

Before her fiery aiiger he slunk back, and lowering his head turned without a word more to his seat by the fire.

We passed the remaindetr of the nigiht on a heap of skins by the fire, Pentwicb and I, and when once I woke it was to find Pentwich sitting staring still into the dying fire andi to hear the sobbing of tho. igirl within. But soon all sounds died out before the gale that blew up fiercely from/ the sea, and beat upon the hut till it* timbers shook, creaking a discord to th^. "warring of the wind. I woke at dawn^ and sprang up. I opened the shutters, that served in place of glass, and by eran^ ing my neck caught a glimpse of the bay;j .and ghostlike and dim through the morning light I saw riding at anchor a brig-..' "You are served well, sir," I said, drowfi ing back, as Antony Peatwich came to mjj side.