While the headstrong Cavalier was confined in "the strong room" of Cecil Place, he had ample leisure to reflect upon the consequences of his rashness, and to remember the caution he had received from Major Wellmore on the night of their first meeting—to be guarded in his expressions, where danger might arise from a single thoughtless word. He surveyed the apartment with a careless look, as if indifferent whether it were built of brick or of Portland stone, glanced upon the massive bars of the iron-framed windows, and scarcely observed that the walls were bare of tapestry, and that dampness and decay had mottled the plastering into a variety of hues and shades of colour. His lamp burned brightly on the table; the solitary but joyous light seemed out of place; he put it therefore aside, endeavouring to lessen its effect by placing it behind a huge worm-eaten chair, over which he threw his cloak. Thus, almost in darkness, with a mind ill at ease, brooding on the events of the day, which had perhaps perilled his life, although life had now become of little value, we leave him to his melancholy and self-reproachful thoughts, and hasten to the chamber of Constance Cecil.

It has already appeared that an early and a close intimacy had subsisted between her and Walter De Guerre; but we must leave it to Time, the great developer, to explain the circumstances under which it originated, as well as those by which it was broken off.

Lady Frances Cromwell had left her friend in what she considered a sound slumber; and sought her dressing-room only to change her garments, so that she might sit with her during the remainder of the night. Barbara, however, had hardly taken the seat the lady had quitted, when her mistress half arose from the bed, and called her by name in so hollow a voice that the poor girl started, as if the sound came from a sepulchre.

"The night is dark, Barbara," she said, "but heed it not; the good and the innocent are ever a pure light unto themselves. Go forth with courage and with faith, even to the Gull's Nest Crag; tell Robin Hays that Walter De Guerre is a prisoner here, and that, unless he be at liberty before sunrise, he may be a dead man, as surely as he is a banned one; for some covert purpose lurks under his arrest. Tarry not, but see that you proceed discreetly, and, above all, secretly. It is a long journey at this hour; the roan pony is in the park, and easily guided—he will bear you along quickly;—and for security—for you are timid, Barbara—take the wolf-hound."

Barbara had long known that a servant's chief duty is obedience, yet she would just then have done errand to any one rather than to Robin Hays; she however replied,—

"Please ye, mistress, the roan pony is easy to guide, if you happen to be going the way he likes, and that is, ever from the park to the stable, from the stable to the park; otherwise, like the Israelites of old, he is a stiff-necked beast, whom I would rather eschew than commune with. And the wolf-hound, my lady, behaves so rudely to little Crisp, holding him by the throat in an unseemly fashion, and occasionally despoiling him of a fragment of his ears, toes, or tail, as it pleasures him, that I had rather take black Blanche if you permit me—she can soon find Crisp or Robin either."

"As you please, Barbara; only silence and hasten."

"My mistress," thus ran Barbara's thoughts as she wended on her way through the night, "is a wonderful lady; so good, so wise, so rich, yet so unhappy! I wouldn't be a lady for the world!—it is hard fate enough to be a woman, a poor, weak woman, without strength of limb or wisdom of head; and, withal, a fond heart, yet afraid and ashamed to show its fondness. If I was my lady, and my lady I, instead of sending my lady to tell Robin Hays to let the poor gentleman out, I'd just go and let him out myself, or send my lady (supposing her the maid Barbara) to let him out, without telling anybody about it. And I am sure she loves that poor gentleman; and yet she, wise, good, rich, and wonderful, is just going, in the very teeth of her affections, to marry that black Burrell! I am very happy that I'm not a lady, for I'd die, that I would ten times over, sooner than marry any one I didn't love. It will kill her, I know—I feel it will: yet why does she marry him? And she keeps such deep silence too.—Down, pretty Blanche, and do not rouse your sleek ears: your ears, Blanchy, are lady's ears, and so ought to hear nothing frightening—and your eyes, Blanche, are lady's eyes, and should never see any thing disagreeable.—What ails thee, doggy? Nay, wag ye'r tail, and do not crouch so; 'tis but the shadow of a cow, I think.—How my heart beats!"

The beating of the maiden's heart accelerated her speed, and she ran with hasty and light footsteps a considerable distance before either dog or girl paused for breath. At length they did pause, and Barbara saw with much satisfaction, that she had left far behind the shadow which caused Blanche and herself so much alarm. She reached the Gull's Nest without any misadventure, and now her object was to draw Robin forth from the hostelry without entering herself. Through a chink in the outer door (the inner being only closed on particular occasions) she discovered Robin and his mother, and one or two others—strangers they might be, or neighbours—at all events she did not know them. Presently Crisp stretched his awkward length from out its usual coil, and trotted to the door, slowly wagging his apology for tail, as if perfectly conscious of the honour of Blanche's visit. Miss Blanche, in her turn, laid her nose on the ground and snorted a salutation that was replied to by a somewhat similar token from master Crisp. Robin, who was the very embodyment of vigilance, knew at once there was something or someone without, acquainted and on friendly terms with his dog, and he quietly arose and opened the door without making any observation to his companions. He was, indeed, astonished at perceiving Barbara, who put her finger on her lip to enjoin silence. He immediately led her to the back of the house, where none of the casual visiters could see them, and she communicated her lady's message quickly but distinctly. She would have enlarged upon the danger, and expatiated on the interest she took in the cause of the Cavalier, had Robin permitted her, but she saw he was too much distressed at the magnitude of the information to heed the details, however interesting they might have been at any other time.

"But I don't understand it," at length murmured Robin; "I can't see it: how could he possibly suffer Sir Willmott Burrell to place him in confinement?"

"It was not he at all," replied Barbara; "it was Major Wellmore, and he is at the Place now."

"Death and the devil!" exclaimed Robin, at the same instant pressing his back against the wall beside which he stood: it instantly gave way, and Barbara was alone—alone in that wild and most dreary-looking place.

She summoned Blanche, but Blanche was far away over the cliffs, exploring, under Crisp's guidance, the nooks and intricacies of the hills and hollows. She would have called still louder, but her quick eye discerned not now a shadowy figure, but Sir Willmott Burrell himself, within a distance of two or three hundred yards, and approaching towards her. She was concealed from his sight by a projection of the cliff: but this she never considered, alive only to the feelings his appearance at once suggested. She had noted the spot where Robin had disappeared, and, urged by terror, flung herself against the same portion of the wall, with such success, that it gave way before her, replacing itself so suddenly that, in an instant, the light of the bright stars in the blue heavens was shut out, and she stood in total darkness, within the recess that had so mysteriously opened to receive her.

When she became a little collected, she distinctly heard the sound of voices at no great distance, and groping about in the same direction, discovered a narrow flight of stairs, which she immediately descended, imagining that she was following the course which Robin had pursued. Her progress was soon arrested by a door, which she attempted to shake, but in vain; she leaned against it, however, or rather sank down upon the steps, worn out by fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. She could not have lain there a moment, when the door opened, and Robin literally sprang over her in his haste to re-ascend. She started from her position on perceiving before her the well-remembered figure of the Buccaneer, who was about to mount also, evidently with as much eagerness, though with less activity, than Robin Hays.

The sight of a stranger at their most secret entrance, even though that stranger was a woman, sent Hugh Dalton's hand to the pommel of his sword, but it was as quickly stayed by Robin's cry of, "It is Barbara."

The Buccaneer had just time to catch the fainting form of his daughter in his arms, and the wild and reckless seaman was so overpowered by the unexpected meeting, that he thought not of inquiring how she had obtained admittance. We have observed that women in the inferior ranks of society continue much briefer time in hysterics, swoons, and such-like, than the highborn and well educated, who know how to make the most of all matters of the kind. Barbara rapidly revived, and as rapidly urged Robin to heed her message, and to take her away, informing him in the same breath, that she had pushed against that portion of the wall where he had so strangely disappeared, because she had seen Sir Willmott Burrell approaching the spot with determined speed.

"Listen at the secret door," exclaimed the Buccaneer. "When he cannot find you above, he will seek you at the only entrance he knows of: I need not say, answer not the sign."

"Robin, Robin!" ejaculated Barbara, "take me, oh! take me with you!—You are not, surely, going to leave me in this horrid place, and with a stranger too!"

Poor Dalton! what painful and powerful emotions convulsed his heart and features!—"a stranger!"—a stranger, indeed, to his own child!

Robin quitted the place without replying to her entreaty; and when the Buccaneer spoke, it was in that low and broken voice which tells of the soul's agony.

"Why call me stranger?" he said, approaching, and tenderly taking her hand; "you have seen me before."

"Yes, good sir, the night previous to my dear lady's death—it is an ill omen to see strangers for the first time where there is death. I thank you, sir, I will not sit. May I not go after Robin?"

"Then you prefer Robin to me?"

"So please ye, sir; I have known Robin a long, long time, and he knows my father: perhaps you, too, may know him, sir; you look of the sea, and I am sure my father is a sailor. Do you know my father?"

The gentle girl, forgetting her natural timidity under the influence of a stronger principle, seized the hand of the Buccaneer, and gazed into his face with so earnest and so beseeching a look, that if Robin had not returned on the instant, the Skipper would have betrayed the secret he was so anxious to preserve until (to use his own expression) "he was a free man, able to look his own child in the face."

"He is at the entrance, sure enough," said Robin; "but it will occupy him longer to climb the rocks than it did to descend them; we can take the hollow path, and be far on the road to Cecil Place before he arrives at the summit."

"But what can we do with her?—She must not longer breathe the air of this polluted nest," argued Dalton, all the father overflowing at his heart; "if we delay, Burrell may see her: if so, all is over."

"I can creep along the earth like a mocking lapwing," she replied. "Let me but out of this place, I can hide in some of the cliff-holes—any where out of this, and," she whispered Robin, "away—above all things away—from that fearful man."

"To Cecil Place at once then, Captain; the delay of half an hour may seal his doom. I will place Barbara in a nook of the old tower, where nothing comes but bats and mice; and, as it overlooks the paths, she can see from it the road that Burrell takes, and so avoid him when returning."

Dalton looked at Barbara but for a moment, then suddenly clasping her with rude energy to his bosom, he darted up the stairs, holding open the door at the top, so that he might see her forth in safety.

The terrified girl passed tremblingly before him; and wondered not a little at the strong interest the wild seaman manifested towards her. Only one way of accounting for it occurred to her simple mind—that he had known her father;—the idea was strengthened, when she heard him murmur, "Thank God! she breathes once more the uncontaminated air of heaven!" He strode a few hasty steps forward, then turned back, and said emphatically to Robin,—

"Place her in safety, as you hope for salvation!"

"And am I to stay by myself in this horrid place, Robin?" inquired Barbara, as he seated her in the window of a portion of the old tower, from whence a large extent of country was visible, steeped in the pale moonlight.

"Fear nothing," he replied; "I must away: only do not leave this until you see—which you can easily do by the light of the bright moon—Sir Willmott Burrell take his departure."

"And will that rude old sailor help the young gentleman from his confinement?"

"He will, he will."

"One word more, Robin, and then my blessing be with you! Did he know my father?"

"He did."

"But one syllable more: Did he love him?"

"So truly, that he loves you as if you were his own child."

"Then," thought Barbara, in the fulness of her innocence, "I am happy—for no one is loved, even by the wicked, who is not good."

Her clear eye observed that Robin took the same path as the Buccaneer; though, had she not known them, she could hardly have recognised their figures, because of some disguise they must have suddenly assumed. They had scarcely faded from her sight, when she discovered the tall person of Burrell standing at no great distance on the brow of the cliff, and apparently surveying the adjacent landscape. He rapidly approached the Gull's Nest; and soon after she heard the shrill voice of Mother Hays, protesting over and over again, that "Robin had been there not twenty, not fifteen—no, not ten minutes past;—that she had searched every where, and that he was nowhere to be found;—that she had not seen Hugh Dalton for a long, long time; and that, to the best of her belief, he had not touched the shore for many a day;—that the men within were good men, honest men—one in particular, who would be happy to serve him, as he seemed so earnest to see Robin—Jack, true Jack Roupall, a tried, trusty man:—could he be of any service, as that ne'er-do-good, Robin, was out of the way ever and always when he was wanted? To be sure, she could not even give a guess at any thing his honour might want; but perhaps Jack might do instead of Robin." It occurred to Burrell at the moment, that Roupall might serve his purpose even better than Robin Hays, for he was both a strong and a desperate man; and he bade the old woman send him forth; telling her at the same time, and in a significant tone, that he was well acquainted with the talents and character of her guest.

The fragment of the tower in which Barbara was perched was a small projecting turret-room, standing on the top of a buttress, and had been, doubtless, used in the early ages, as a species of sentry-box, from which a soldier could command a view of the country and the coast. It was with feelings of extreme terror that she perceived Burrell and Roupall close beneath her, standing so as to be concealed from the observation of any passenger who might go to or from the dwelling. She drew her dark cloak over her head and face, leaving only an opening to peep through, anxious to avoid, by every means in her power, the hazard of a discovery. She could gather from the conversation between the two, that Burrell was describing to Roupall something that he must do, and offering him a large reward for its completion; she listened eagerly, and heard them frequently speak of Cecil Place and Walter De Guerre. Her attention, however, was soon drawn away by the appearance of a third person—unseen by the others—creeping round a projecting corner, like a tiger about to spring upon its prey, and then crouching close to the earth. The form was that of a slight youth, clad in a tight-fitting doublet and vest, and, it would seem, armed only with a dagger, which, however, he carried unsheathed, and so openly that the moonbeams danced upon its polished point, as lightning on a diamond, whenever he changed its position in his hand (which he did more than once). He crept on so silently that neither were at all aware of his approach, but continued talking and bargaining as before. Barbara felt that danger was at hand; and yet, had she the inclination, she had not the power to speak, but sat breathlessly and tremblingly awaiting the result. Suddenly, but still silently, as though the figure were a phantom, and the dagger air-drawn, the boy rose from the ground, and held the weapon as if irresolute whether to strike or not. The manner in which he stood fully convinced Barbara Iverk that Burrell was the object of some intended attack—she tried to shriek, but the voice choked in her throat. As rapidly as this mysterious being had risen from, he sank into his former crawling attitude, and disappeared. All this occurred in much less time than has been occupied in relating it, and the poor maiden almost thought she had been deceived by some supernatural appearance. She was soon aroused from her painful state of voiceless terror by the words of Burrell, who now spoke more loudly than at first.

"I will give him his liberty this very night, which of course, under the circumstances I have mentioned, he cannot fail to consider a most deep obligation—an act of disinterested generosity. I will give it him secretly, of course; and you meet him on his exit. As we go along, I will settle the where—and then—the matter is easily concluded."

"Very easily for you, doubtless," retorted Roupall; "you had ever the way, master, of keeping your neck out of the noose. How much of the coin did you say?"

Barbara did not hear the reply.

"Why it's only one more. Is he young?"

"Yes."

"I don't like young customers. It's a charity to put the old out of the way; for, be they ever so well off, they must be sick and weary of the world. But the young—I don't like it, master."

"Pshaw! it's only saving him in time from that which gives old men trouble; and life can go but once: besides, I will not stand for the matter of a few broad-pieces. I care not if I make the sum half as much more, provided it be done safely."

"Will you give me your note of hand to it?"

"Do you take me for a fool?—or did you ever know me to break my word?"

"I never took ye for the first, Sir Willmott, and, as to the other, we've had no business between us lately. Half as much more, you said?"

"Half as much more."

"Well, it is but one, and then—ah! ah! ah!—I'll reform and turn gentleman. No, d—n it, I hate gentlemen, they're so unprincipled; but you must double—double or quits."

"Jack Roupall, you are an unconscionable scoundrel."

"By the lady-moon, then, there be a pair of us."

Burrell muttered some reply that Barbara did not hear, but again the grating voice of Roupall ascended.

"Double or quits; Lord, ye needn't be so touchy about a little word of familiarity—such fellowship makes all men equal."

"Well then, double, if so it must be; only remember, Roupall, there is some difference between the employer and the employed," was the knight's answer. And the high-born and the low-born ruffian walked away together; and the bright beams of the holy moon and the unsullied stars fell upon them as gently, as if they had been good and faithful ministers of the Almighty's will.

The two leading features of Barbara Iverk's character were, fidelity and affection; all her feelings and actions were but various modifications of these great principles—in every sense of the word, she was simple-minded. After the men had departed for some time, still she could hardly bring herself to understand or believe the nature or extent of the crime they meditated.

It was surely a most singular manifestation of God's providence, she thought, which placed her there, that she might overhear, and it might be prevent the great wickedness of those evil men. She descended from the window with haste, but with caution also, for the stones crumbled from beneath her feet as she moved along. She had scarcely set her foot on the grass turf, when the dog was at her side, whining and fawning with delight at again meeting with her friend and mistress. Barbara crossed the wild country, and gained the park-wall without encountering any danger. When there, she paused breathlessly under an oak, and would have given worlds to see and speak to her friend Robin. Amid the deepness of night, and among the foliage of the trees, she thought she discerned the figure of a person creeping beneath the boughs—now in shadow, and now casting his own shadow upon what had shadowed him. This appearance terrified her so exceedingly that she did not gain courage to proceed, until she saw that he turned into a distant path; she then stole slowly along under the shelter of the wall, and when she came to a small gate which opened into the park, within view of the mansion, she pushed through it, and just gained the lawn, when the sound of a pistol, and a flash through the darkness, terrified her so much, that she fell, faint and exhausted, on the sward.