St. Aubyn would not disturb the repose of Ellen that night, or rather that morning, for the sun had risen before they retired, by mentioning the discovery of Charles amongst the shipwrecked mariners; but his own anxiety how best to break the matter to Ross and his wife would not allow him to sleep late, in spite of the fatigue he had undergone.

As soon as he was drest, he went to the cottage where Charles had been placed, and found him greatly recovered: he had been greatly exhausted during the storm, which had lasted longer at sea than at land: he had laboured with unceasing activity to save the ship, of which he was the commander, though he had not the rank of captain, and had not left her till all hope of her escaping was lost: he was also considerably bruised, for he would not embark in the boats, but had floated to land on a piece of timber. Rest, however, had in some measure recruited his strength, and though still languid, he hoped to be able to rise in the course of the day, and see what could be done to save his property, and that of his shipmates.

All this St. Aubyn learned from his valet, who sat by the young man, and prevented any one from approaching who might too suddenly have informed him his parents were so near.

St. Aubyn, however, now judged it proper this information should reach him: he went therefore to the little room where Charles lay—it was darkened as much as possible; and St. Aubyn sat down by his bed-side without being recognized. He inquired with great kindness for the health of the invalid, to which Charles replied he was better: "But surely," added he, "I have heard that voice before: even amid the horrors of last night, when it was so generously exerted in comforting me, and directing others for the comfort of my poor shipmates, it struck me as one deeply engraved on my memory, though I cannot recollect the name of its owner."

"It is a voice," said St. Aubyn, "you certainly have heard before: I recognize your's also, and know your name—it is Ross."

"It is, indeed," said Charles: "pray tell me your's, for it is cheering to think I am not quite amongst strangers."

"You will be convinced you are not, when I tell you my name is St. Aubyn."

"St. Aubyn? Lord St. Aubyn?"

"The same."

"Oh, how much do I owe to you!" exclaimed Charles: "I blush to remember my former ingratitude and folly."

"Speak no more of it—it is quite forgotten."

"Ah, my Lord, how good you are. But did you not say last night we were on the coast of Wales? Tell me, I beseech you, on what part of that coast. I begin to hope, knowing Lady St. Aubyn's former residence."

He paused breathless, with contending emotions.

"Lady St. Aubyn and myself," replied St. Aubyn calmly, "are on a visit to some friends in this neighbourhood. The storm of last night, and the hearing a ship was in distress, induced me to take out my servants and some others to see if we could be of any service to the unfortunate mariners. One of the friends we were with blessed me, and prayed that my undertaking might prosper. Her prayers were heard: they were the fervent supplication of a mother for her son, though then she knew not nor could believe he was implicated in the danger."

"Ah! Heavens!" exclaimed Charles, "it was my mother! Speak, my Lord, speak! Are we not at, or near Llanwyllan?"

"Be composed, and I will tell you."

"I am composed, and able to hear all."

"You are at Llanwyllan. Your father, mother, and Joanna, were obliged by the storm of last night to remain at Powis's: there I left them sleeping in peace, not knowing or imagining their son and brother was so near."

The tears ran down the cheeks of Charles, and his heart swelled high with thankfulness both to his earthly and heavenly preserver.

After a few minutes, for St. Aubyn was glad to see his emotions find a relief so desirable, and would not interrupt him, he grasped the hand which the Earl had given him, and would have said something expressive of his gratitude, but St. Aubyn prevented him by saying:

"Not a word on that score, Mr. Ross: mine was the impulse of mere humanity, and I rejoice truly that it led me to save a life so dear to friends greatly respected by me and Lady St. Aubyn. Make your mind easy. I hope in the course of the day you will be in a state to be placed beneath your father's roof; in the meantime I will prepare his mind, and those of your mother and sister, for a meeting so tender; and there is also another friend at Llanwyllan who will be glad to see you: your former playmate and youthful companion, Ellen, will rejoice in your safety. Be at rest; all will go well, and I trust even your property will go secured, for boats are already gone off to the wreck, and I have sent such persons as I can depend on, to see all that is saved protected from depredation."

"You are too good, my Lord; too good!" said Charles, quite overpowered.

"I must now leave you," said St. Aubyn: "our mutual friends will expect me, and I have an arduous task in prospect, for I dread the effect on the minds of your parents of the disclosure I must now make to them."

He now took his leave, directing every possible care to be taken of the invalid.

St. Aubyn waited till after breakfast to unfold to Ross and his wife the late events; when that meal was concluded, they talked of returning to the Parsonage, but he requested them not to go, for he had something of great consequence to tell them: he then in the gentlest and most judicious manner revealed to them the discovery of the night before, and they supported the communication better than he had expected.

The pious Ross lifted his eyes and heart to Heaven in thankfulness for his son's wonderful escape, while Mrs. Ross and Joanna sobbed upon each others bosom, and mingled tears with their expressions of joy and gratitude. Ellen dropt a tear of tender sympathy, and rejoiced, without fear of offending the no longer jealous St. Aubyn, in the safety of her early friend.

In the afternoon, Charles found himself able to rise, and St. Aubyn sent his carriage to convey him to the Parsonage, where Ellen and himself were ready to receive him, and to support the spirits of his venerable parents and tender sister.

They all bore the meeting with tolerable composure, and, the first emotions past, were eager to hear how Charles, whom they had supposed to be cruising near Gibraltar, happened to be exposed to the fury of a storm on the coast of North Wales.

He told them, that almost immediately after the date of the last letters he wrote to them, orders had been received for the return of the vessel he commanded to England, and after refitting at Falmouth to join a small squadron which was cruising off the coast of France: that on his return homeward he had fallen in with a French frigate, superior to his own in force, but which, after an obstinate battle, during which his own vessel had been much injured he had succeeded in taking; that he had put some of his own officers and men aboard the prize, and had taken some of the French and some Algerines, whom they had previously captured, on board his own ship; that the violence of the storm and the disabled state of his vessel, prevented him from making the port he wished to have done, and finally had driven him on that coast, the darkness of the night not allowing him to ascertain where-abouts he was: what was become of his prize he knew not, but as she was a better sailer than his own ship, it was probable she had reached some port on the coast of Cornwall in safety.

"And now, my dear mother," said Charles, "if we can but secure my chest, we shall find in it a snug little hoard of dollars, and a few pretty valuable jewels, which I intend to dispose of as a marriage portion for Joanna, if any body will have her," (and he glanced archly at Griffiths, whose tender solicitude about his sister had not escaped him) "and if not, I shall be entitled to a tolerable share of prize-money, for which I have fought hard, and will serve to make you and my father easy. To be sure I must stand a court-martial for the loss of his Majesty's ship, but that is only a matter of form, and I am sure that my men will bear witness I did all in my power to save her—and a pretty creature she was: I never wish to sail in a better, but she was not lost through my fault, so I must be contented."

They smiled at his sailor-like nonchalance, and were very glad to hear his sea-chest and all its contents were safely landed.

Amongst St. Aubyn's humane cares for his own countrymen, the unfortunate prisoners thus cast on a strange shore were not forgotten. He saw that their more immediate wants were supplied, and wrote to the proper persons in London to know what was to be their future lot, contenting himself in the meantime with having a slight guard kept over them; though of their attempting to escape in their present state, some wounded, all weak and helpless, there was not much probability.

One of the French captives turned out to be a Catholic priest, a venerable and respectable man, who had been for many years resident at Gibraltar, from whence, learning he might now with safety return to France, he had embarked in the vessel Charles Ross had captured, hoping to end his days where he had begun them, on the banks of the Garonne.

This circumstance had not been known till two days after the shipwreck, and the good Ross considering this unfortunate man as the servant of the same master, though speaking another language, and differing in many points of belief, had invited him to share his own table; and Mrs. Ross had, like the pious Shunamite, prepared for him "a little chamber with a bed," where he might be at rest.

On the evening of that day, the weather being extremely fine, Lady St. Aubyn and Joanna expressed a wish to walk to the sea-shore to look at the wreck, and see the place where Charles and his friends had landed.

All the more painful vestiges of the shipwreck had been removed, and the bodies of the unfortunate sailors which had floated on shore had been interred in the church-yard, where Griffiths had read the funeral service.

St. Aubyn and Charles had some little business relative to the survivors to transact, but they desired Griffiths to attend the ladies, and they would shortly follow. Mrs. Bayfield also wished to see the place where the shipwreck happened, and Ellen desired her little Constantine might go also, as she thought the sea air did him good. They set out therefore early in the evening, for the storm had cooled the air, and they wished to spend some time on the shore.

They soon reached the beach, and found the sea so calm, so beautiful, it seemed unlike the same element which had wrought such destruction the night before.

Griffiths pointed out to them the wreck, which, as it was now low water, appeared very near the shore, and shewed them the precise spot where Charles and the rest had landed.

They both shuddered and turned pale at the painful retrospection, and Joanna again expressed her thankfulness to St. Aubyn and Griffiths, whose exertions had saved them.

While they were walking up and down the beach, they met two or three of the English sailors, who were upon the look-out for any other articles the sea might have left upon the sands, and speaking to them received their thanks and blessings for the care and kindness they had experienced.

On a large piece of timber near the edge of the water sat one of the Algerines: he looked excessively weak and sickly, and as they approached him, he surveyed them with a look of gloomy despair.

"How ill that man looks," said Ellen to one of the sailors: "he seems likely to die."

"Yes, my Lady, and die he will, for he with difficulty crawled hither, he is so ill; and the woman where he lodges says he bewails himself all night, and takes no rest."

"Poor creature!" said Ellen: "he laments, doubtless, his native land, and the friends he has left behind."

"I believe, my Lady," replied the sailor, "he laments his crimes, for one of the French prisoners that speaks a little English tells me this fellow owns he has been a great sinner, and that he was bred a Christian, but renounced his religion and denied his God for the lucre of gain, amongst the Turks, and Mahometans, and such like."

"Horrible!" said Ellen: "are there such wretches?"

As she spoke, the poor miserable being approached her with feeble steps, and in French asked her if she would have the goodness to purchase a trinket he had to sell—all he had left of better days.

Ellen spoke French but imperfectly: she could read and understand it pretty well, but did not attempt to converse in it; she knew, however, what he said, and though her nature shuddered at a being of whom she had heard such a shocking account, endeavoured to answer him with civility: her voice, however, was low, and her accent not perfectly intelligible to the Algerine; and thinking she intended to accept his offer, he drew from his bosom a cross, composed of large rubies set in gold, and put it into her hand: he sighed heavily; and the sight of this ornament, which seemed to corroborate the story that this man had been bred a Christian, gave to Ellen a painful sensation: she endeavoured to make him understand that his wants should be relieved without his parting from the trinket, which she offered again to him.

At that moment Mrs. Bayfield, with the nurses and little Constantine, came towards them: she cast her eyes upon the Algerine—she trembled, again she looked; she caught the glance of his dark gloomy eyes, and the sound of his voice met her ears: instantly she exclaimed:

"That wretch!" and snatching the infant from his nurse, she folded him to her bosom and fled away, crying as she ran—"Come, my Lady, oh, come for God's sake! leave that monster: come, Miss Ross—run! fly! he will murder us all."

Wild and extraordinary as this panic seemed to Ellen, her feet involuntarily obeyed, and with the cross still in her hand, she suddenly fled from this poor sickly wretch, who, unable to follow, stood amazed at their apparently frantic demeanour.

Joanna and Griffiths ran after the Countess; though still no one knew the cause of this extraordinary alarm; and so eagerly did the affrighted Bayfield speed, that though encumbered with the child, and advanced as she was in years, they could not easily overtake her.

While they hastened on, each unable to account for the strange terror which had seized them all, they were met by St. Aubyn and Charles Ross, who, passing Bayfield at some little distance, were unobserved by her, and seeing Ellen and Joanna apparently terrified, ran by a shorter cut to meet them.

"What on earth has happened?" said St. Aubyn, seeing them pale and almost breathless. "Ellen! Joanna! what has happened? Has any one frightened you? Griffiths, what has alarmed them thus?"

"Indeed, my Lord," said Griffiths, "I am as ignorant as you are; the ladies were talking to the poor sick Turk on the shore, and Mrs. Bayfield on a sudden seized the child from his nurse, ran away, and called to us to follow, for we should be all murdered: Lady St. Aubyn and Joanna instantly obeyed, and I followed, but why, or what was the cause of the alarm, I am unable to imagine."

"I believe—I think," panted Ellen, "that Bayfield knew something of the man we were speaking to, for she trembled as she looked at him, and said he would murder us, or words to that effect."

"What is that in your hand, Ellen?" said St. Aubyn. "Heavenly powers! What is it?"

His limbs trembled, and he grew so pale, she thought he was fainting.

"It is a cross, my Lord," she replied, "a cross that the man—the Turk—offered to sell to me.—I forgot that I had it in my hand."

She gave it to him; he cast his eyes upon it and exclaimed:—

"That man! Where is he? Merciful heaven! Can it be!"

And suddenly recovering himself, he darted towards the place where the sick Algerine was slowly endeavouring to follow them.

"Go with him," said Ellen; "follow him, Charles; go, Mr. Griffiths: surely he cannot know this man; perhaps some mischief may ensue."

They instantly obeyed; and now Ellen and Joanna standing still and looking earnestly after St. Aubyn, saw him with the rapidity of lightning fly to the Algerine: what he said they could not hear, but with an action of the most eager impatience, they saw him with one hand tear the turban from the brow of the Turk, and with the other seized him violently by the collar, while the poor trembling wretch sunk prostrate on the ground before him. By this time Griffiths and Charles Ross had reached them. St. Aubyn spoke, and instantly they seized the Algerine, raised, or rather dragged him from the ground, but kept him from moving, though indeed to move far was not in his power.

Ellen, unable longer to restrain her impatience to learn the meaning of this scene, now hastened towards them, though trembling so much Joanna could scarcely support her. As they approached, St. Aubyn exclaimed in a voice hoarse with contending passions:—

"Come not here, my Ellen; let not purity like thine breathe the air contaminated by that monster!

"Robber! Murderer! Vile apostate from thy God!" he cried, with gestures almost frantic, to the shaking wretch before him. "The hand of vengeance has at length overtaken thee, and long and dreadful is the account thou now must render. Yes, look at me; I am the man you so deeply injured; I am St. Aubyn.

"Go, Ellen," again he cried, "leave us; Joanna, go with her; Griffiths, attend them; Charles and I are enough to secure this villain; besides here are sailors who will assist us."

Ellen obeyed in silence as fast as her terrors would permit, for now she no longer doubted of the cause of all this scene, which to Joanna and Griffiths appeared as if some sudden madness had seized first Bayfield and then St. Aubyn.