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Smuggler

<h3>VOL. III.</h3> <h1>THE SMUGGLER.</h1> <h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> It was two o'clock when Sir Robert Croyland left his daughter; and Edith, with the aid of her maid, soon recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen. At first she hardly knew where she was, or what had taken place. All seemed strange to her; for she had never fainted before; and though she had more than once seen her sister in the state in which she herself had just been, yet she did not apply what she had witnessed in others to explain her own sensations. When she could rise from the sofa, where her father had laid her, and thought and recollection returned, Edith's first inquiry was for Sir Robert; and the servant's answer that he had been gone a quarter of an hour, was at first a relief. But Edith sat and pondered for a while, applying herself to call to mind all the last words which had been spoken. As she did so, a fear came over her--a fear that her meaning might have been mistaken. "No!" she murmured, at length--"no! I said, but--he must have heard it.--I cannot break those vows--I dare not; I would do anything to save him--oh, yes, doom myself to wretchedness for life; but I cannot, unless Henry gives me back my promise.--Poor Henry! what right have I to make him suffer too?--Yet does he suffer?--But a father's life--a father's life! That must not be the sacrifice!--Leave me, Caroline--I am better now!" she continued aloud; "it is very foolish to faint in this way. It never happened to me before." "Oh dear, Miss Edith! it happens to every one now and then," said the maid, who had been in her service long; "and I am sure all Sir Robert said to you to-day, was enough to make you." "Good heaven!" cried Edith; in alarm, "did you hear?" "I could not help hearing a part, Miss Edith," answered the maid; "for in that little room, where I sit to be out of the way of all the black fellows, one hears very plain what is said here. There was once a door, I believe, and it is only just covered over." For a moment, Edith sat mute in consternation; but at length demanded, "What did you hear? Tell me all, Caroline--every word, if you would ever have me regard you more." "Oh, it was not much, Miss!" replied the maid; "I heard Sir Robert twice say, his life depended on it--and I suppose he meant, on your marrying young Mr. Radford. Then he seemed to tell you a long story; but I did not hear the whole of that; for I did not try, I can assure you, Miss Edith; and then I heard you say, 'To save you, my father, I would do anything--I will do anything, but--' and then you stopped in the middle, because I suppose you fainted." Edith put her hands before her eyes and thought, or tried to think; for her ideas were still in sad confusion. "Leave me now, Caroline," she said; "but, remember, I expect that no part of any conversation you have overheard between me and my father, will ever be repeated." "Oh dear, no, Miss Edith," replied the woman, "I would not on any account;" and she left the room. We all know of what value are ordinary promises of secrecy, even in the best society, as it is called. Nine times out of ten, there is one dear friend to whom everything is revealed; and that dear friend has others; and at each remove, the bond of secrecy is weaker and more weak, till the whole world is made a hearer of the tale. Now Edith's maid was a very discreet person; and when she promised not to reveal what she had heard, she only proposed to herself, to tell it to one person in the world. Nor was that person her lover, or her friend, or her fellow-servant; nor was she moved by the spirit of gossip, but really and truly by a love for her young lady, which was great, and by a desire to serve her. Thus, she thought, as soon as she had shut the door, "I will tell it to Miss Zara, though; for it is but right that she should know how they are driving her sister to marry a man she hates, as well she may. Miss Zara is active and quick, and may find some means of helping her." The maid had not been gone a minute, when she returned with the short note which Sir Robert Croyland had left; and as she handed it to her young mistress, she watched her countenance eagerly. But Edith took it, read it, and gazed upon the paper without a word. "Pray, Miss Edith," said the maid, "are you likely to want me soon; for I wish to go up to the village for something?" "No, Caroline--no," answered Edith, with an absent air; "I shall not want you;" and she remained standing with the paper in her hand, and her eyes fixed upon it. The powers by which volition acts upon the mind, and in what volition really consists, are mysteries which have never yet, that I have seen, been explained. Yet certain it is, that there is something within us which, when the intellectual faculties seem, under the pressure of circumstances, to lose their functions, can by a great effort compel them to return to their duty, rally them, and array them, as it were, against the enemy by whom they have been routed. Edith Croyland made the effort, and succeeded. She had been taken by surprise, and overcome; but now she collected all the forces of her mind, and prepared to fight the battle over again. In a few minutes, she became calm, and applied herself to consider fully her own situation. There were filial duty and tenderness on one side--love and a strong vow on the other. "He has gone to tell Mr. Radford that I have consented," was her first distinct thought, "but his having mistaken me, must not make me give that consent when it is wrong. Were it myself alone, I would sacrifice all for him--I could but die--a few hours of misery are not much to bear--I have borne many. But I am bound--Good God! what an alternative!" But I will not follow her thoughts: they can easily be conceived. She was left alone, with no one to counsel, with no one to aid her. The fatal secret she possessed was a bar to asking advice from any one. Buried in her own bosom, the causes of her conduct, the motives upon which she acted, must ever be secret, whatever course she pursued. Agony was on either hand. She had to choose between two terrible alternatives: on the one hand a breach of all her engagements, a few years, a few weeks, perhaps, of misery, and an early death--for such she knew must be her fate: and, on the other, a life, with love certainly to cheer it, but poisoned by the remembrance that she had sacrificed her father. Yet Edith now thought firmly, weighed, considered all. She could come to no determination. Between two such gulfs, she shrank trembling from either. The clock in the hall, with its clear, sharp bell, struck three; and the moment after, the quick sound of horses' feet was heard. "Can it be my father?" she thought. "No! he has not had time--unless he has doubted;" but while she asked herself the question, the horses stopped at the door, the bell rang; and she went on to say to herself, "perhaps it is Zara. That would be a comfort indeed, though I cannot tell her--I must not tell her all." The old Hindoo opened the door, saying "Missy, a gentleman want to see you--very fine gentleman." Edith could not speak; but she bowed her head, and the servant, receiving that token as assent, turned to some one behind him and said, "Walk in, sir." For a moment or two, Edith did not raise her eyes, and her lips moved. She heard a step in the room, that made her heart flutter; she heard the door shut; but yet for an instant she remained with her head bent, and her hands clasped together. Then she looked up. Standing before her, and gazing intently upon her, was a tall handsome man, dressed in the splendid uniform of the dragoons of that time, and with a star upon his left breast--a decoration worn by persons who had the right to do so, more frequently in those days than at the present time. But it was to the face that Edith's eyes were turned--to the countenance well known and deeply loved. Changed though it was--grave where it had been gay, pale where it had been florid, sterner in the lines, once so full of gentle youth--still all the features were there, and the expression too, though saddened, was the same. He gazed on her with a look full of tenderness and love; and their eyes met. On both of them the feelings of other years seemed to rush with overpowering force. The interval which had since occurred, for a moment, was annihilated; the heart went back with the rapid wing of Memory, to the hours of joy that were gone; and Leyton opened wide his arms, exclaiming, "Edith! Edith!" She could not resist. She had no power to struggle. Love, stronger than herself, was master; and, starting up, she cast herself upon his bosom, and there wept. "Dear, dear girl!" he said, "then you love me still,--then Digby's assurance is true--then you have not forgotten poor Harry Leyton--then his preserving hope, his long endurance, his unwavering love, his efforts, his success, have not been all in vain!--Dear, dear Edith! This hour repays me for all--for all. Dangers and adversities, and wounds, and anguish of body and of mind, and sleepless nights, and days of bitter thought--I would endure them all. All?--ay, tenfold all--for this one hour!" and he pressed her closer and closer to his heart. "Nay, Harry--nay," cried Edith, still clinging to him; "but hear me, hear me--or if you speak such words of tenderness, you will break my heart, or drive me mad." "Good heaven!" exclaimed Leyton, unclasping his arms, "what is it that you say? Edith--my Edith--my own, my vowed, my bride! But now, you seemed to share the joy you gave,--to love, as you are loved; and now----" "I do love you--oh! I do love you!" cried Edith, vehemently; "add not a doubt of that to all I suffer. Ever, ever have I loved you, without change, without thought of change. But yet--but yet--. I may have fancied that you have forgotten me--I may have thought it strange that you did not write--that my letters remained unanswered; but still I loved, still I have been true to you." "I did write, my Edith. I received no letters," said Leyton, sadly; "we have both been wronged, my dear girl. My letters were returned in a cover directed in your own hand: but that trick I understand--that I see through. Oh, do not let any one deceive you again, beloved girl! You have been my chief--I might say my only thought; for the memory of you has mingled with every other idea, and made the whole your own. In the camp and in the field, I have endured and fought for Edith; in the council and in the court, I have struggled and striven for her; she has been the end and object of every effort, the ruling power of my whole mind. And now, Edith--now your soldier has returned to you. He has won every step towards the crowning reward of his endeavours; he has risen to competence, to command, to some honour in the service of his country; and he can proudly say to her he loves, Cast from you the fortune for which men dared to think I sought you--come to your lover, come to your husband, as dowerless as he was when they parted us; and let all the world see and know, that it was your love, not your wealth, I coveted--this dear hand, that dear heart, not base gold, that I desired. Oh, Edith, in Heaven's name, cast me not now headlong down from the height of hope and joy to which you have raised me, for fear a heart and spirit, too long depressed, should never find strength to rise again." Edith staggered back and sank down upon the sofa, covering her eyes, and only murmuring--"I do love you, Harry, beyond life itself.--Oh, that I were dead!--oh, that I were dead!" There was a terrible struggle in Henry Leyton's bosom. He could not understand the agitation that he witnessed; had it borne anything like the character of joy, even of surprise, all would have been clear; but it was evidently very different. It was joy overborne by sorrow. It was evidently a struggle of love with some influence, perhaps not stronger, yet terrible in its effect. He was a man of quick decision and strong resolution--qualities not always combined; and he overcame himself in a moment. He saw that he was loved--still deeply, truly loved; and that was a great point. He saw that Edith was grieved to the soul--he saw that he himself could not feel more intensely the anguish she inflicted than she did, that she was wringing her own heart while she was wringing his, and felt a double pang; and that was a strong motive for calmness, if not for fortitude. Her last words, "I wish I were dead!" restored him fully to himself; and following her to the sofa, he seated himself beside her, gently took her hand in his, and pressed his lips upon it. "Edith," he said--"my own dear Edith, let us be calm! Thank you, my beloved, for one moment of happiness, the first I have known for years; and now let us talk, as quietly as may be, of anything that may have arisen which should justly cause Henry Leyton's return to make Edith Croyland wish herself dead. Your uncle will not be long ere he arrives; I left him on the road; and it is by his full consent that I am here." "Oh no, Harry--no!" said Edith, turning at first to his comment on her words, "it is not your return that makes me wish myself dead; but it is, that circumstances--dark and terrible circumstances--which were only made known to me an hour before your arrival, have turned all the joy, the pure, the almost unmixed joy, that I should have felt at seeing you again, into a well of bitterness. It is that I cannot, that I dare not explain to you those circumstances--that you will think me wrong, unkind--fickle, perhaps,--perhaps even mad, in whatsoever way I may act." "But surely you can say something, dear Edith," said her lover; "you can give some hint of the cause of all I see. You tell me in one breath that you love me still, yet wish you were dead; and show evidently that my coming has been painful to you." "No, no, Harry," she answered, mournfully, "do not say so. Painful to me?--oh, no! It would be the purest joy that ever I yet knew, were it not that--But why did you not come earlier, Harry? Why, when your horse stood upon that hill, did you not turn his head hither? Would that you had, would that you had! My fate would have been already decided. Now it is all clouds and darkness. I knew you instantly. I could see no feature; I could but trace a figure on horseback, wrapped in a large cloak; but the instinct of love told me who it was. Oh! why did you not come then?" "Because it would have been dishonest, Edith," answered Leyton, gravely. "Your uncle had been my father's friend, my uncle's friend. In a kindly manner he invited me here some time ago, as a perfect stranger, under the name of Captain Osborn. You were not here then; and I thought I could not in honour come under his roof, when I found you were here, without telling him who I really was. He appointed this day to meet me at Woodchurch at two; and I dared not venture, after all that has passed between your family and mine, to seek you in his dwelling, ere I had seen and explained myself to him. I knew you were here: I gazed up at these windows with a yearning of the heart that nearly overcame my resolution----" "I saw you gaze, Harry," answered Edith; "and I say still, would that you had come.--Yet you were right.--It might have saved me much misery; but you were right. And now listen to the fate that is before me--to the choice I have to make, as far as I can explain it--and yet what words can I use?--But it must be done. I must not leave anything unperformed, that can prevent poor Edith Croyland from becoming an object of hatred and contempt in Henry Leyton's eyes. Little as I can do to defend myself, I must do it." She paused, gazed up on high for a moment, and then laid her hand upon his. "Henry, I do love you," she said. "Nay, more, I am yours, plighted to you by bonds I cannot and I dare not break--vows, I mean, the most solemn, as well as the ties of long affection. Yet, if I wed you, I am miserable for life. Self-reproach, eternal self-reproach--the most terrible of all things--to which no other mental or corporeal pain can ever reach, would prey upon my heart for ever, and bear me down into the grave. Peace--rest, I should have none. A voice would be for ever howling in my ear a name that would poison sleep, and make each waking moment an hour of agony. I can tell you no more on this side of the question; but so it is. It seems fated that I should bring misery one way or another upon him who is dearest to me." "I cannot comprehend," exclaimed Leyton, in surprise. "Your father has heard, I suppose, that I am here, and has menaced you with his curse." "Oh, no!" answered Edith; "far from it. He was here but now; he spoke of you, Henry, as you deserve. He told me how he had loved you and esteemed you in your young days; how, though angry at first at our rash engagement, he would have consented in the end; but--there was a fatal 'but,' Henry--an impediment not to be surmounted. I must not tell you what it is--I cannot, I dare not explain. But listen to what he said besides. You have heard one part of the choice; hear the other: it is to wed a man whom I abhor--despise--contemn--whose very look is fearful to me; to ask you to give me back the vows I plighted, in order--in order," and she spoke very low, "that I may sacrifice myself for my father, that I may linger out a few weeks of wretchedness, and then sink into the grave, which is now my only hope." "And do you ask me, Edith?" inquired Leyton, in a sad and solemn tone--"do you, Edith Croyland, really and truly ask me to give you back those vows? Speak, beloved--speak; for my heart is well nigh bursting." He paused, and she was silent; covering her eyes with her hands, while her bosom heaved, as if she were struggling for breath. "No, no, no, Harry!" she cried, at length, as if the effort were vain, "I cannot, I cannot! Oh, Harry, Harry! I wish that I were dead!" and, casting her arms round his neck, she wept upon his breast again. Henry Leyton drew her closer to him with his left arm round her waist; but pressed his right hand on his brow, and gazed on vacancy. Both remained without speaking for a time; but at length he said, in a voice more calm than might have been expected, "Let us consider this matter, Edith. You have been terrified by some means; a tale has been told you, which has agitated and alarmed you, which has overcome your resolution, that now has endured more than six years, and doubtless that tale has been well devised.--Are you sure that it is true?--Forgive this doubt in regard to one who is near and dear to you; but when such deceits have been practised, as those which we know have been used to delude us, I must be suspicious.--Are you sure that it is true, I say? "Too true, too true!"' answered Edith, shaking her head, mournfully--"that tale explains all, too,--even those deceits you mention. No, no, it is but too true--it could not be feigned--besides, I remember so many things, all tending to the same. It is true--I cannot doubt it." Sir Henry Leyton paused, and twice began to speak, but twice stopped, as if the words he was about to utter, cost him a terrible struggle to speak. At length he said, "And the man, Edith--the man they wish you to marry--who is he?" "Ever the same," answered Edith, bending down her head, and her cheek, which had been as pale as death, glowing like crimson--"the same, Richard Radford." "What! a felon!" exclaimed Leyton, turning round, with his brows bent; "a felon, after whom my soldiers and the officers of justice are now hunting through the country! Sir Robert Croyland must be mad! But I tell you, Edith, that man shall never stand within a church again, till it be the chapel of the gaol. Let him make his peace with Heaven; for if he be caught--and caught he shall be--there is no mercy for him on earth. But surely there must be some mistake. You cannot have understood your father rightly, or he cannot know----" "Oh! yes, yes!" replied Edith; "he knows all; and it is the same. Ay, and within four days, too--that he may take me with him in his flight." "Ere four days be over," answered her lover, sternly, "he shall no more think of bridals." "And what will become of my father, then!" said Edith, gazing steadily down upon the ground. "It is I--I that shall have done it. Alas, alas! which way shall I turn?" There was something more than sorrow in her countenance; there was anguish--almost agony; and Sir Henry Leyton was much moved. "Turn to me, Edith," he said; "turn to him who loves you better than life; and there is no sacrifice that he will not make for you, but his honour. Tell me, have you made any promise?--have you given your father your consent?" "No," answered Edith, eagerly; "no, I have not. He took my words as consent, though ere they were half finished, the horror and pain of all I heard overcame me, and I fainted. But I did not consent, Harry--I could not consent, without your permission.--Oh, Harry, aid and support me!" "Listen to me, my beloved," replied Leyton; "wealth, got by any means, is this man's object. I gather from what you say, that your father has some cause to dread him--give up to him this much-coveted fortune--let him take it--ay, and share Henry Leyton's little wealth. I desire nothing but yourself." "Alas, Henry, it is all in vain!" answered Edith; "I have offered it--I knew your noble, generous heart. I knew that wealth would make no difference to him I loved, and offered to resign everything. My father, even before he came hither, offered him my sister--offered to make her the sacrifice, as she is bound by no promises, and to give her an equal portion; but it was all refused." "Then there is some other object," said her lover; "some object that may, perhaps, tend even to more misery than you dream of, Edith. Believe me, my beloved--oh! believe me, did I but see how I could deliver you--were I sure that any act of mine would give you peace, no sacrifice on my part would seem too great. At present, however, I see nothing clearly--all is darkness and shadow around. I know not, that if I give you back your promise, and free you from your vow, that I shall not be contributing to make you wretched. How, then, am I to act? You are sure, dear one, that you have not consented?" "Quite sure," answered Edith; "and it so happened, that there was one who heard my words as well as my father. He, indeed, took them as consent, and hurried away to Mr. Radford, without giving me time to recover and say more. Read that, Harry," and she put the note her father had left into his hands. "It is fortunate you were heard by another," replied Leyton. "Hark! there is your uncle's carriage coming.--Four days, did he say--four days? Well, then, dear Edith, will you trust in me? Will you leave your fate in the hands of one who will do anything on earth for your happiness?--and will you never doubt, though you may be kept in suspense, that I will so act as to deliver you, if I can, without bringing ruin on your father." "It is worse than ruin," answered Edith, with the tears rolling down her cheeks--"it is death. But I will trust to you, Henry--I will trust implicitly. But tell me how to act--tell me what I am to do." "Leave this matter as it is," answered her lover, hearing Mr. Croyland's carriage stop at the door;--"your father has snatched too eagerly at your words. Perhaps he has done so to gain time; but, at all events, the fault is his, not yours. If he speaks to you on the subject, you must tell the truth, and say you did not consent; but in everything else be passive--let him do with you what he will--take you to the altar, if he so pleases; but there must be the final struggle, Edith. There you must boldly and aloud refuse to wed a man you cannot love. There let the memory of your vows to me be ever present with you. It may seem cruel; but I exact it for your own sake. In the meantime, take means to let me know everything that happens, be it small or great--cast off all reserve towards Digby; tell him all, everything that takes place; tell your sister, too, or any one who can bear me the tidings. I shall be nearer than you think." "Oh, Heaven, how will this end!" cried Edith, putting her hand in his--"God help me, Harry--God help me!" "He will, dear girl," answered Leyton--"I feel sure he will. But remember what I have said. Fail not to tell Digby, or Zara, or any one who can bear the tidings to me, everything that occurs, every word that is spoken, every step that is taken. Think nothing too trifling. But there is your uncle's voice in the passage. Can you not inform him of that which you think yourself bound not to tell me? I mean the particulars of your father's situation." "No; oh no!" replied Edith--"I dare tell no one, especially not my uncle. Though kind, and generous, and benevolent, yet he is hasty, and he might ruin all. Dared I tell any one on earth, Henry, it would be you; and if I loved you before--oh, how I must love you now, when instead of the anger, or even heat, which I expected you to display, you have shown yourself ready to sacrifice all for one who is hardly worthy of you." Leyton pressed her to his bosom, and replied, "Real love is unselfish, Edith. I tell you, dearest, that I die if I lose you; yet, Edith Croyland shall never do what is wrong for Henry Leyton's sake. If in the past we did commit an error, if I should not have engaged you by vows without your parent's consent--though God knows that error has been bitterly visited on my head!--I am still ready to make atonement to the best of my power; but I will not consent that you should be causelessly made miserable, or sacrifice yourself and me, without benefit to any one. Trust to me, Edith--trust to me." "I will, I will!" answered Edith Croyland; "who can I trust to else?" Mr. Croyland was considerate; and knowing that Sir Henry Leyton was with his niece--for his young friend had passed him on the road--he paused for a moment in the vestibule, giving various orders and directions, in order to afford them a few minutes more of private conversation. When he went in, he was surprised to find Edith's face full of deep grief, and her eyes wet with tears, and still more when Leyton, after kissing her fair cheek, advanced towards him, saying, "I must go, my dear friend, nor can I accept your kind invitation to stay here to-night. But I am about to show myself a bold man, and ask you to give me almost the privilege of a son--that is, of coming and going, for the four or five next days, at my own will, and without question." "What's all this?--what's all this?" cried Mr. Croyland; "a lovers' quarrel?--Ha, Edith? Ha, Harry?" "Oh, no," answered Edith, giving her uncle her hand; "there never can be a quarrel between me and Henry Leyton." "Well, then, what is it all?" exclaimed Mr. Croyland, turning from one to the other. "Mystery--mystery! I hate mystery, Harry Leyton.--However, you shall have your privilege; the doors shall be open. Come--go--do what you like. But if you are not a great fool, you will order over a post-chaise and four this very night, put her in, and be off for Gretna Green. I'll give you my parental benediction." "I am afraid, my dear sir," answered Leyton, "that cannot be. Edith has told me various things since I saw her, which require to be dealt with in a different way. I trust, that in whatever I do, my conduct will be such as to give you satisfaction; and whether the result be fortunate or otherwise, I shall never, till the last hour of life, forget the kindness you have shown me. And now, my dear sir, adieu for the present, for I have much to do this night." Thus saying, he shook the old gentleman's hand, and departed with a heavy heart and anxious mind. During his onward ride, his heart did not become lighter; his mind was only more burdened with cares. As long as he was in Edith's presence, he had borne up and struggled against all that he felt; for he saw that she was already overwhelmed with grief, and he feared to add to it; but now his thoughts were all confusion. With incomplete information--in circumstances the most difficult--anxious to save her he loved, even at any sacrifice on his own part, yet seeing no distinct means of acting in any direction without danger to her--he looked around him in vain for any resource; or, if he formed a plan one moment, he rejected it the next. He knew Edith's perfect truth, he knew the quiet firmness and power of her mind too well to doubt one tittle of that which she had stated; and though at first sight he thought the proofs he possessed of Mr. Radford's participation in the late smuggling transaction were quite sufficient to justify that person's immediate arrest, and proposed that it should take place immediately, yet the next moment he recollected what might be the result to Sir Robert Croyland, and hesitated how to act. Then, again, he turned his eyes to the circumstances in which Edith's father was placed, and asked himself, what could be the mystery which so terribly overshadowed him? Edith had said that his life was at stake; and Leyton tortured his imagination in vain to find some explanation of such a fact. "Can he have been deceiving her?" he asked himself more than once. But then, again, he answered, "No, it must be true! He can have no ordinary motive in urging her to such a step; his whole character, his whole views are against it. Haughty and ostentatious, there must be some overpowering cause to make him seek to wed his daughter to a low ruffian--the son of an upstart, who owed his former wealth to fraud, and who is now, if all tales be true, nearly bankrupt,--to wed Edith, a being of grace, of beauty, and of excellence, to a villain like this--a felon and a fugitive--and to send her forth into the wide world, to share the wanderings of a man she hates! The love of life must be a strange thing in some men. One would have thought that a thousand lives were nothing to such a sacrifice. Yet, the tale must be true; this old man must have Sir Robert's life in his power. But how--how? that is the question. Perhaps Digby can discover something. At all events, I must see him without delay." In such thoughts, Sir Henry Leyton rode on fast to Woodchurch, accomplishing in twenty minutes that which took good Mr. Croyland with his pampered horses, more than an hour to perform; and springing from his charger at the door of the inn, he was preparing to go up and write to Sir Edward Digby, when Captain Irby, on the one hand, and his own servant on the other, applied for attention. "Mr. Warde is up stairs, sir," said the servant; "he has been waiting about half an hour." But Leyton turned to the officer, asking, "What is it, Captain Irby?" "Two or three of the men, sir, who have been taken," replied Captain Irby, "have expressed a wish to make a statement. One of them is badly wounded, too; but I did not know how to act till you arrived, as we had no magistrate here." "Was it quite voluntary?" demanded the young officer; "no inducements held out--no questions asked?" "Quite voluntary, sir," answered the other. "They sent to ask for you; and when I went, in your absence, they told me what it was they desired; but I refused to take the deposition till you arrived, for fear of getting myself into a scrape." "It must be taken," replied the colonel. "Of whatever value it may be judged hereafter, we must not refuse it when offered. I will come to them in a moment, Irby;" and entering the house, but without going up stairs, he wrote a few lines, in the bar, to Sir Edward Digby, requesting to see him without delay. Then, calling his servant, he said, "Tell Mr. Warde I will be with him in a few minutes; after which, mount yourself, and carry this note over to Harbourne House, to Sir Edward Digby. Give it into his own hand; but remember, it is my wish that you should not mention my name there at all. Do you know the place?" "Yes, sir," replied the man; and, leaving him to fulfil his errand, the colonel returned to the door of the house, to accompany Captain Irby. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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