more, he had saved him from dishonor and disgrace, but I felt none the less certain he would get no aid there. So I took £5 from Aunt Ally's cash-box, and putting them inside a blank letter, I directed it in a feigned hand, only adding the words, "from one who sympathises with learning and ability in distress," for he's proud of his learning, and rode like mad over the hills to get there before him; there I watched for him, and got a footmail to give him the letter, and came back as fast as I went.'

'Now, God bless you for it, Edward, you are a wild boy, but you have a good heart.'

'Boy! Man, you mean, Mary. I'm eighteen this summer.'

'I should not have thought you so old.'

'Aye, aye, you judge like the rest, because my carcase is not as big as Lumping Dick's the butcher boy's, and because you have known me as a child when you were a grown woman, you think I am to remain a child always.' And he petulantly shook back the masses of long dark hair that shadowed his wild but handsome countenance.

At this moment Johnson entered the room. His step was feeble and slow, but his countenance no longer bore the look of deep dejection that had in the morning characterized it. His eye brightened still more when he saw Mary.

'Now God bless you, Miss Waters, for thinking of my poor lambs,' said he. 'I scarcely dared to hope for them. I have brought food for them—see!' he added. 'I little dreamed anyone would have been here before me.'

'Sit down,' said Mary, rising; 'you are fatigued and weak. I must go now, as my grandfather will need me, but we will send you something to make your house more comfortable.'

'I shall not require it, Miss Mary: I have nearly five pounds here.'

'Why, how is that?'

'It was handed me this morning by a strange footman in Elverton, after the door was shut in my face of the only man I ever tamed my spirit to ask aid from: yes, the cowardly hypocrite that dared not deny me to my face, sent his lacquey to tell me he was unwell, and could not be disturbed by beggars. May the curse—'

'Stay!' said Mary, 'curse him not, leave his punishment to his Maker; but did not the agent take the five pounds for the rent?'

'No; he said there was a warrant and costs of suit that made it fourteen pounds more, and was going to send the bailiffs to turn me out this very evening; but a strange old seaman came forward and paid the amount. I should have been here sooner, but I went round to the village shop to buy food for the little ones.'

'You must allow me to have my way, Johnson,' said Mary. 'Sit down now and eat; then rest. You will need the little money you have, and more too, to recruit your health, for you must not dream of working again until you are strong. I will send what is necessary, and some one to mind the children; Edward, will you walk home with me?' and before the man could reply, not giving him time to utter a word of thanks, she took the arm of the youth and quitted the cottage. The man knelt down on the floor, and famishing as he was, prayed for a blessing on her head ere he touched the food that was there. Another had been a witness to this interview. Looking through the casement was the visage of the mariner, no longer stern, but moved with unutterable emotion, and tears, yes, tears trickling down his weather-beaten cheeks. This soon ceased, however, and a frown dark and terrible passed over his face; his powerful frame quivered, then settled down into one look of deep, determined, implacable resolve. He entered the hut, and laying the agent's receipt upon the chest, quitted without a word.

CHAPTER V.

THE CAPTURE.

The sun had set about an hour on the evening of the same day, when Mr. Lambert, with two stout attendants, set out from his residence on the outskirts of the village, and took his way through the intervening wood towards the sea shore. The two men with him were London officers, adepts at thief catching, resolute and determined; they were well armed, but bore no badge of their occupation outside. The agent had screwed his courage to the point of accompanying them, with some difficulty, but he was well aware that if they failed in capturing their man, he would have to encounter the nobleman's rage, and he feared the loss of his favor more than the chance of being shot or stabbed by Hunter; but he knew well it was an errand of no small danger he was upon; yet they were three to one, and he counted much upon the instructions he had given to Curly Tom; much also on Hunter's habit of drink, still he felt by no means easy and would have given much then to have been quietly in his bed; not so the officers; they were in high glee, the prospect of a desperate encounter being by men inured to deal with ruffians as they were, but small in comparison with the hope of a large reward.

They proceeded in silence, however—the agent, who was perfectly familiar with the way, leading. They soon emerged into the open country, and after a few miles began to ascend, and felt the keen air from the sea blow upon their faces—the path soon became rugged and uneven, but sloping towards the sea. In a short time they reached the beach. Here they dismounted and tied their beasts up under a shed, placed there for the purpose of drying fish. There was no moon, but it was a bright starlight night, and the tide was out. Creeping cautiously along, they skirted the base of a large cliff which projected far beyond low water mark, and against which the sea beat in fury when the tide was in; and keeping on its inner side; crept along until they reached the entrance of a cave. Not a word was spoken. Their instructions had been precise—for Lambert, who was born and had spent his earliest years there, knew every spot of the ground. They took their shoes off, and walking upon the hard sand which formed the ground, entered the pitchy darkness. Lambert going first, and knowing that a sound would be fatal—for they would have little chance in that narrow passage—he turned every angle as accurately as if it had been daylight, and the officers holding, one behind the other, followed stealthily along. Soon their path widened, and a glimmering light allowed them that the cavern was tenanted, or had been so. A few paces more, and they stopped. Some large masses of fallen rock here almost blocked up the path, leaving an opening so narrow as to require stooping to enter. Cautiously peeping through some spaces between the rocks, the agent and his myrmidons gazed upon a scene Salvator would have loved to paint. The cavern here expanded into a semicircular hall, stalactites hanging from its roof nearly to the ground. Here and there a niche and recess which seemed done by human art, but which in fact was Nature's handiwork, was seen, and every point of spar, from the lofty roof to the stalagmites below, was glittering in the light of a huge fire of brushwood fed by Curly Tom. A small rill of water trickled from a fissure in the rock above, and wound its way through the sand towards the sea. It was the very beau-ideal of a robber's cave. Its existence was known to few: only accessible at low water, the entrance had escaped notice, and the few that did find it were discouraged on entering by the long and tortuous way which led to this chamber, and did not track it far. The smoke found vent above, as the fire burnt clear and bright, and did not incommode the watchers.

Horace Hunter was pacing the cave with unsteady step, and with delight the officers saw that he was more than half intoxicated. No one could have recognized in the bloated countenance and reckless air of the hunted man, the gay and handsome young farmer of seven years before. There was still the same manly form and intelligent features, but the rich brown hair that then curled round his open brow, now wild and matted, only added to the desperate appearance of his sunken eyes and overhanging brows. Drink did not make him merry. On the contrary he was more bitter then than ever. Gloomy and ferocious as