The Buccaneer - A Tale

"The black-eyed boy has not been near the house all day," added

Springall, "and my own belief is, that he's no he, but a woman in

disguise. My faith on it, Jeromio's in the secret, as sure as my name is

Obey Springall! Jeromio understands all manner of lingoes, and would be

likely to consort with any foreigners for filthy lucre: he has ever

ventures of his own, and this is one."

"There may be wisdom in thy giddy pate," observed the Buccaneer

thoughtfully. "God help me! dangers and plots gather thickly around, and

my wits are not brightening with my years."

"Marry, it's no woman," observed Mother Hays; "I could not be

deceived--it's a dark-browed boy," lowering her voice, "very like what

Prince Charlie was, as I remember him, but with rather a Jewish look for

a Christian prince."

"Robin," said Dalton, taking the Ranger aside, "if this most loathsome

marriage cannot be stayed--if what I mean to do should fail--my daughter

must seek another home and another protector. Were Miss Cecil to become

the wife of Sir Willmott Burrell, under their roof Barbara should not

bide--the kite's nest is a bad shelter for the ring-dove."

"Where would you take her?--who would protect her?" inquired Robin

earnestly.

"Faith, I know not. I'll to Sir Robert Cecil this day--speak to him

about some matters of our own, and then be guided by circumstances as to

the disposal of my daughter.--My daughter! that word sends the blood to

and from my heart in cold and then in hot gushing streams! But, Robin,

you must not tarry; close watch shall be set for this dangerous imp, to

prevent farther mischief; and if Springall's conjecture should be

right--yet it is most wild, and most improbable!--What disguise will you

adopt in this pursuit of our heedless friend?"

"As yet, I know not; I must suit it to the times and to the persons I

encounter; a pedlar's will do me best at present; a pack is a fitting

nook for concealment. Dear Captain, look well to Jeromio; he never meant

you honest."

"I believe you are right, Robin; and yet why should I quarrel with men's

honesty? they have as good a right to label mine with the foul word

'spurious.' This damning thing within my breast, that saints call

conscience, how it has worked me lately! Poison is nothing to it: but it

will soon be over, if the boy were safe, and my own Barbara would but

pray for me, after the fashion of her mother." He paused, then striking

his forehead violently, as if to banish thought, continued, "You go to

London straight?"