In the smugglers’ cave were Oliver Menaida and the party of Preventive men, not under his charge, but under that of Wyvill. This man, though zealous in the execution of his duty, and not averse, should the opportunity offer, of paying off a debt in full with a bullet, instead of committing his adversary to the more lenient hands of the law, shared in that failing, if it were a failing, of being unable to do anything without being primed with spirits, a failing that was common at that period, to coast-guards and smugglers alike. The latter had to be primed in order to run a cargo, and the former must be in like condition to catch them at it. It was thought, not unjustly, that the magistrates before whom, if caught, the smugglers were brought, needed priming in order to ripen their intellects for pronouncing judgment. But it was not often that a capture was effected. When it was, priming was allowed for the due solemnization of the fact by the captors; failure always entitled them to priming in order to sustain their disappointment with fortitude. Wyvill had lost a brother in the cause, and his feelings often overcame him when he considered his loss, and their poignancy had to be slaked with the usual priming. It served, as its advocates alleged, as a great stimulant to courage; but it served also, as its deprecators asserted, as a solvent to discipline.

Now that the party were in possession of the den of their adversaries, such a success needed, in their eyes, commemoration. They were likely, speedily, to have a tussle with the smugglers, and to prepare themselves for that required the priming of their nerves and sinews. They had had a sharp struggle with the sea in rounding Pentyre Point, and their unstrung muscles and joints demanded screwing up again by the same means.

The Black Prince had been discerned through the falling darkness drawing shoreward with the rising tide; but it was certain that for another hour or two the men would have to wait before she dropped anchor, and those ashore came down to the unloading.

A lantern was lighted, and the cave was explored. Certainly Coppinger’s men from the land would arrive before the boats from the Black Prince, and it was determined to at once arrest them, and then await the contingent in the boats, and fall on them as they landed. The party was small, it consisted of but seven men, and it was advisable to deal with the smugglers piecemeal.

The men, having leisure, brought out their food, and tapped the keg they had procured at the Rock. It was satisfactory to them that the Black Prince was apparently bent on discharging the cargo that night and in that place, thus they would not have to wait in the cave twenty-four hours, and not, after all, be disappointed.

“All your pistols charged?” asked Wyvill.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Then take your suppers while you may. We shall have hot work presently. Should a step be heard below, throw a bit o’ sailcloth over the lantern, Samson.”

Oliver was neither hungry nor thirsty. He had both eaten and drunk sufficient when at the station. He therefore left the men to make their collation, prime their spirits, pluck up their courage, screw up their nerves, polish their wits, all with the same instrument, and descended the slope of shingle, stooped under the brow of rock that divided the lower from the upper cave, and made his way to the entrance, and thence out over the sands of the cove. He knew that the shore could be reached only by the donkey-path, or by the dangerous track down the chimney—a track he had not discovered till he had made a third exploration of the cave. Down this tortuous and perilous descent he was convinced the smugglers would not come. It was, he saw, but rarely used, and designed as a way of escape only on an emergency. A too-frequent employment of this path would have led to a treading of the turf on the cliff above, and to a marking of the line of descent, that would have attracted the attention of the curious, and revealed to the explorer the place of retreat.

Oliver, therefore, went forward toward the point where the donkey-path reached the sands, deeming it advisable that a watch should be kept on this point, so that his party might be forewarned in time of the approach of the smugglers.

There was much light in the sky, a fantastic, mysterious glow, as though some great conflagration were taking place and the clouds over head reflected its flicker.

There passed throbs of shadow from side to side, and as Oliver looked he could almost believe that the light he saw proceeded from a great bonfire, such as was kindled on the Cornish Moors on Midsummer’s Eve, and that the shadows were produced by men and women dancing round the flames and momentarily intercepting the light.

Then ensued a change. The rose hue vanished suddenly, and in its place shot up three broad ribbons of silver light; and so bright and clear was the light that the edge of the cliff against it was cut as sharp as a black silhouette on white paper, and he could see every bush of gorse there, and a sheep—a solitary sheep.

Suddenly he was startled by seeing a man before him, coming over the sand.

“Who goes there?”

“What—Oliver! I have found you!” the answer was in his father’s voice. “Oh, well, I got fidgeted, and I thought I would come and see if you had arrived.”

“For heaven’s sake, you have told no one of our plans?”

“I—bless you, boy—not I. You know you told me yourself, before going to the station, what you intended, and I was troubled and anxious, and I came to see how things were turning out. The Black Prince is coming in; she will anchor shortly. She can’t come beyond the point yonder. I was sure you would be here. How many have you brought with you?”

“But six.”

“Too few. However, now I am with you, that makes eight.”

“I wish you had not come, father.”

“My boy, I did not come only on your account. I have my poor little Ju so near my heart that I long to put out if only a finger to liberate her from that ruffian, whom by the way I have challenged.”

“Yes—but I have stepped in as your substitute. I shall, I trust, try conclusions with Coppinger to-night. Come with me to the cave I told you of. We will send a man to keep guard at the foot of the donkey path.”

Oliver led the way; the sands reflected the illumination of the sky, and the foam that swept up the beach had a rosy tinge. The waves hissed as they rushed up the shore, as though impatient at men speaking and not listening to the voice of the ocean, that should subdue all human tongues, and command mute attention. And yet that roar is inarticulate, it is like the foaming fury of the dumb, that strives with noise and gesticulation to explain the thoughts that are working within.

In the cave it was dark, and Oliver lighted a piece of touchwood as a means of observing the shelving ground, and taking his direction, till he passed under the brow of rock and entered the upper cavern.

After a short scramble, the dim yellow glow of light from this inner recess was visible, when Oliver extinguished his touchwood and pushed on, guided by this light.

On entering the upper cave he was surprised to find the guards lying about asleep, and snoring. He went at once to Wyvill, seized him by the arm and shook him, but none of his efforts could rouse him. He lay as a log, or as one stunned.

“Father! help me with the others,” said Oliver in great concern.

Mr. Menaida went from one to the other, spoke to each, shook him, held the lantern to his eyes; he raised their heads; when he let go his hold, they fell back.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Oliver.

“Humph!” said old Menaida, “I’ll tell you what this means. There is a rogue among them, and their drink has been drugged with deadly night-shade. You might be sure of this—that among six coast-guards one would be in the pay of Coppinger. Which is it? Whoever it is, he is pretending to be as dead drunk and stupefied as the others, and which is the man, Noll?”

“I cannot tell. This keg of brandy was got at the Rock Inn.”

“It was got there and there drugged, but by one of this company. Who is it?”

“Yes,” said Oliver, waxing wrathful, “and what is more, notice was sent to Coppinger to be on his guard. I saw the sexton going in the direction of Pentyre.” “That man is a rascal.”

“And now we shall not encounter Coppinger. He will be warned and not come.”

“Trust him to come. He has heard of this. He will come and murder them all as he did Wyvill.”

Oliver felt as though a frost had fallen on him.

“Hah!” said old Menaida. “Never trust anyone in this neighborhood; you cannot tell who is not in the pay or under the control of Coppinger, from the magistrate on the bench to the huckster who goes round the country. Among these six men, one is a spy and a traitor. Which it is we cannot tell. There is nothing else to be done but to bind them all, hand and foot. There is plenty of cord here.”

“Plenty. But surely not Wyvill.”

“Wyvill and all. How can you say that he is not the man who has done it? Many a fellow has carried his brother in his pocket. What if he has been bought?”

Old Menaida was right. He had not lived so many years in the midst of smugglers without having learned something of their ways. His advice must be taken, for the danger was imminent. If, as he supposed, full information had been sent to Captain Cruel, then he and his men would be upon them shortly.

Oliver hastily brought together all the cord of a suitable thickness he could find, and the old father raised and held each Preventive man, while Oliver firmly bound him hand and foot. As he did not know which was shamming sleep, he must bind all. Of the six, five were wholly unconscious what was being done to them, and the sixth thought it advisable to pretend to be as the rest, for he was quite aware that neither Oliver nor his father would scruple to silence him effectually did he show signs of animation.

When all were made fast, old Mr. Menaida said:

“Now, Noll, my boy, are you armed?”

“No, father. When I went from home I expected to return. I did not know I should want weapons. But these fellows have their pistols and cutlasses.”

“Try the pistols. There, take that of the man Wyvill. Are you sure they are loaded?”

“I know they are.”

“Well, try.”

Oliver took Wyvill’s pistol, and put in the ramrod. “Oh yes, it is loaded.”

“Make sure. Draw the loading. You don’t know what it is to have to do with Coppinger.”

Oliver drew the charge, and then, as is usual, when the powder has been removed, blew down the barrel. Then he observed that there was a choke somewhere. He took the pistol to the lantern, opened the side of the lantern and examined it. The touch-hole was plugged with wax.

“Humph!” said Mr. Menaida. “The man who drugged the liquor waxed the touch-holes of the pistols. Try the rest.”

Oliver did not now trouble himself to draw the charges; he cocked each man’s pistol and drew the trigger. Not one would discharge. All had been treated in like manner.

Oliver thought for a moment what was to be done. He dared not leave the sleeping men unprotected, and he and his father alone were insufficient to defend them.

“Father,” said he, “there is but one thing that can be done now: you must go at once, fly to the nearest farmhouses and collect men, and, if possible, hold the donkey path before Coppinger and his men arrive. If you are too late, pursue them. I will choke the narrow entrance, and will light a fire. Perhaps they may be afraid when they see a blaze here, and may hold off. Anyhow, I can defend this place for a while. But I don’t expect that they will attack it.”

Mr. Menaida at once saw that his son’s judgment was right, and he hurried out of the cave, Oliver holding the light to assist him to descend, and then he made his way over the sands to the path, and up that to the downs.

No sooner was he gone than Oliver collected what wood and straw were there, sailcloth, oilcloth, everything that was combustible, and piled them up into a heap, then applied the candle to them, and produced a flame. The wood was damp and did not burn freely, but he was able to awake a good fire that filled the cavern with light. He trusted that when the smugglers saw that their den was in the possession of the enemy they would not risk the attempt to enter and recover it. They might not, they probably did not, know to what condition the holders of the cave were reduced.

The light of the fire roused countless bats that had made the roof of the cave their resting-place, and they flew wildly to and fro with whirr of wings and shrill screams.

Oliver set to work with all haste to heap stones so as to choke the entrance from the lower cave, by which he anticipated that the smugglers would enter, should they resolve on so desperate a course. But owing to the rapid inclination, the pebbles yielded, and what he piled up rolled down. He then, with great effort, got the boat thrust down to the opening, and by main force drew it partly across. It was not possible for him completely to block the entrance, but by planting the boat athwart it, he could prevent several men from entering at once, and whoever did enter must scramble over the bulwarks of the boat.

All this took some time, and he was thus engaged, when his attention was suddenly arrested by the click of a pistol brought to the cock. He looked hastily about him, and saw Coppinger, who, unobserved, had descended by the chimney, and now by the light of the fire was taking deliberate aim at him. Oliver drew back behind a rock.

“You coward!” shouted Captain Cruel. “Come out and be shot.”

“I am no coward,” answered Oliver. “Let us meet with equal arms. I have a cutlass.” He had taken one from the side of a sleep-drunk coast-guard.

“I prefer to shoot you down as a dog,” said Coppinger.

Then holding his pistol levelled in the direction of Oliver, he approached the sleeping men. Oliver saw at once his object: he would liberate the confederate. He stepped out from behind the rock, and immediately the pistol was discharged. A bat fell at the feet of Oliver. Had not that bat at the moment whizzed past his head and received the ball in its soft and yielding body, the young man would have fallen shot through his head.

Coppinger uttered a curse, and put his hand to his belt and drew forth his second pistol. But Oliver sprang forward, and with a sweep of his cutlass caught him on the wrist with the blade as he was about to touch the trigger. The pistol fell from his hand, and a rush of blood overflowed the back of the hand.

Coppinger remained for one minute motionless. So did Oliver, who did not again raise his cutlass. But at that moment a harsh voice was heard crying, “There he is, my men, at him; beat his brains out. A guinea for the first man who knocks him over,” and from the further side of the boat, illumined by the glare from the fire, were seen the faces of Mr. Scantlebray, his brother, and several men, who began to scramble over the obstruction.

Then, and then only in his life, did Coppinger’s heart fail him. His right hand was powerless; the sharp blade had severed the tendons, and blood was flowing from his wrist in streams. One pistol was discharged, the other had fallen. In a minute he would be in the hands of his deadly enemies.

He turned and fled. The light from the fire, the illumined smoke, rose through the chimney, and by that he could run up the familiar track, reach the platform in the face of the cliff, thence make his way by the path up which he had formerly borne Judith. He did not hesitate, he fled, and Oliver, also without hesitation, pursued him. As he went up the narrow track, his feet trod in and were stained with the blood that had fallen from Coppinger’s wounded arm, but he did not notice it—he was unaware of it till the morrow.

Coppinger reached the summit of the cliffs. His feet were on the down. He ran at once in the direction of Othello Cottage. His only chance of safety lay there. There he could hide in the attic, and Judith would never betray him. In his desperate condition, wounded, his blood flowing from him in streams, hunted by his foes, that one thought was in him—Judith—he must go to Judith. She would never betray him, she would be hacked to death rather than give him up. To Judith as his last refuge!