My grandfather asking, “What hour is it?” stretched out his hand to a press beside him and drew forth a pistol, and set this by him on the arm of his chair.

“Midnight!” I answered, glancing at the clock.

“Bradbury should have returned,” he said. “Go to the door, lad, and ask who knocks.”

I hurried to the door, and to my question “Who’s there?” my Uncle Charles replied, “I, to be sure, nephew. Pray open the door!”

“Let him come in,” my grandfather said. “I bade him keep away. Yet let him in.”

I drew the bar and opened the door, and instantly was thrust aside. There entered, indeed, my uncle; there entered with him Blunt, Thrale, Mistress Barwise and her man and sons; and at their heels there came a surging crew, striving so one to precede the other that they blocked the doorway momentarily; cursing, struggling, contending, they came on,—all the old rogues of Rogues’ Haven, and with them seamen of Blunt’s crew. Fired with drink, disorderly they came, with clatter of shoes, roar of voices, sounding above the very wind; all so intent upon their purpose—all so covetous for plunder, that though they flung me back against the wall, they passed me by. I realised that Oliver was by me; that his hands gripped my arms, and pulled me back, when I would have struggled to reach my grandfather; he was growling thickly, “Get away! Now’s your chance! Get away! They’re mad with drink. God knows what they’ll do.”

“I’ll stay here,” cried I. “Don’t hold me, Oliver! What of Miss Milne?”

“Locked in her room or fled the house. I’ve not heard or seen her. They’ve been looting. Get away!”

I shook my head; his strong hands held me back against the wall; I must stand and watch, nor bear a hand to aid my grandfather. He needed none, for though they burst in with a rush after my uncle, they paused, and fell to silence, seeing the old man sitting grimly in his chair. Charles, slipping from them, held himself behind his father’s chair; the rogues crowding about the hearth approached no nearer.

My grandfather roared out in so full and strong a tone that for the shock of it they fell back from him, “What in the devil’s name is this? Have ye gone mad? Why d’ye come bursting into my room in the dead of night? Speak, some of ye! Charles, what is this?”

“I do assure you,” said my uncle clearly, “I have no part in this.”

“No part,” the woman Barwise jeered. “Ay, then, no share in what we’ve come for, and what we’ll surely have.” She thrust herself forward, her face enflamed; she pointed her skinny hand at my grandfather and cried:

“D’ye hear me? What we’re going to have! What we’ve waited for too long. What you took when you was pirate, and sunk English ships, and murdered—what you stole!”

He broke out with a bellow of anger, “Mutiny, hey? Mutiny! Thinking me dead or dying. Thinking now you’ll take what you never had the courage to take—ay, and you’ve all grown old waiting for. Mutiny! Hey, you dogs? Mark me, you dogs—am I broken? Am I broken yet?”

And then it seemed that the will of the man triumphed over the wreck of his body. Watching him from the wall, I saw him rise up from his chair, his hand gripping his pistol; I saw his eyes blaze and his face take colour; I saw the old rogues cower and break before him,—only the Barwise sons and the men who had never sailed with him yet held their ground; and Blunt watched unfaltering. He laughed upon them trembling before him; he pointed his pistol at Thrale, and the fellow quivered like a leaf, and seemed the palsied dotard, while the master was yet strong.

“Hey, Thrale,” my grandfather mocked him, “you were bold with drink when you came in; but you never had the heart of a man. You’d slit a throat in the dark; you’d no stomach for a red deck, and you’d vomit at the smoke of powder—rogue! Hey, Barwise,—hey, your woman took you, for you’d not the heart to refuse her. Ay, you’re drunk now, and you thought you were brave, but you sweat for terror. Mistress, you were a bold wench once, and you did many things in your thieves’ kitchen at Shadwell a man would shudder for the very thought of. Hey, you rogues, mutiny is it? Mutiny? You’d rob me—murder me—thinking me sick and weak? D’ye mind a night off Malabar? Roger Quirk it was—he’d a mind to be master of my ship. And he came sneaking into my cabin in the night, thinking to find me sleeping, and some of you were shuddering in the dark at his back, and ready to call him captain, and sail under him, if so be he murdered me. But Roger Quirk died; at midnight he died, and it’s midnight now. Hey, Roger Quirk led you then; who leads you now?”

They answered nothing; Charles leaned indolently against his father’s chair. My grandfather grinned at the cowering rogues; he pointed at Mistress Barwise, “Is it old Bess Barwise? D’ye shelter behind her skirts? Blunt—you, why the devil do you break into my house in the night? Answer me!”

But Mr. Blunt met him boldly, “I’m no servant of yours, Craike,” he said. “I’ve no cause to fear you. Nor have I ever feared.”

“Ay, you were cabin-boy on my last cruise, and profited by it.”

“And kept my eyes and ears open. And know what you put away. More, I’ve a right to come into the house when I will, and I’ve come. You’ve profited by me. Your son’s profited. Your cellars are stocked with my cargoes. I’ll not go out of this house to-night till I have what I’ve come for. Where’s the loot? That’s what you’ll hand over to us before we go to-night”—and suddenly swung round, and called to his seamen, “Where’s the boy?”

The seamen were upon me instantly; Oliver was thrust aside, cursing most foully. Two fellows gripped me and dragged me forward, ranging me a prisoner before my grandfather and Blunt. Said Blunt coolly, “Here’s one who’ll make you speak. Hark’ee, Craike, you tell us where the loot is, or the lad’ll suffer for it. Have you told him, Craike, where it’s hid? Have you? Then, by the Lord, he’ll tell us!”

“Loose the boy!” my grandfather said, quietly, “Hands off the boy!”

“Not till you say where the stuff’s hid. He’ll go down to my ship to-night, except you speak. D’ye hear me, Craike?”

My grandfather’s right hand shot up suddenly from the fold of his gown. His pistol blazed; I heard Blunt scream; I saw him fall and writhe, and struggle on the floor. My grandfather was roaring, “Loose the boy! Loose him!”—and as the seamen recoiled before him, his hand had dragged me from them, and pulled me in beside him. And a great cry arose among them all; and silence fell as suddenly—silence save for the crying of the winds about the house. I snatched my pistol from my tail-pocket and thrust it into his hand; he advanced slowly, and they fell back from him; he towered above them—a man above wolves. I could picture him so upon the deck of his own ship in battle or in storm, or mutineers so cowering before him; peril could be of no account to such a man—no, though he knew himself upon the shores of the eternal sea; though all the night seemed burthened with his sins; though his enemies were all about him, menacing in the house, or risen from the sea, he blenched in no way. The huge figure, the face suffused, the eyes aflame, the head thrown proudly back, the mocking laughter on his lips.

He cried to them, “Would you threaten me, rogues? Would you come like carrion crows about a dying beast? Think you that I am dying—think you? Hey, but I’ve whipped you many’s the time, when you’ve thought to put me from command of my ship, and set another in my place! Hey, and men have died, and backs have run red—hey, and I’ve won; always I’ve won! Blunt would have robbed me! Take your man! You! You!”—pointing to two fellows of Blunt’s crew. “Pick him up and take him out of here. D’ye hear me?”—the pistol quivering in his grasp.

The seamen cowered; bent low, took up Blunt’s body, and so bore him forth—their shipmates slouching after. I heard the muttering of their voices and the clatter of their shoes sound away down the corridor. Mistress Barwise and the old rogues would have scuttled after, but my grandfather roared out, “Stay! I’ve words for your ears—for you who have robbed me. Stay!”Shuddering, pale-faced, the rogues stood eyeing him,—the old brown men peering like so many ghosts from the dark by the door, the dying candles casting only a dim light, the leaping flame reflected in the puddle of blood where Blunt had lain. My grandfather faced them still, laughing upon them. The wind came rolling up, and struck the house; the crying of the wind was as the crying of many voices; the rushing of the wind as the onrush of the sea. He ceased to laugh; staring at him, while my uncle, white to the lips and wide-eyed, watched him from the hearth, I saw him stagger. The pistols dropped from his hands. He fell with a crash across the hearth.