The Buccaneer - A Tale

"My poor old mother!" thought Robin Hays, "she does excellently well as

a mother for me; but think of such as Barbara calling her by such a

title!" And he whistled on his way, though not "for want of thought;"

his feelings and affections were divided between Barbara Iverk and

Walter De Guerre.

We must now proceed with Hugh Dalton a second time to Cecil Place. His

interview with the baronet was of a nature very different from that

with which our narrative commenced. Sir Robert seemed as if the weight

of a hundred years had been pressed upon his brow; indeed, Time could

not have so altered any man. It was not the deed of Time that made the

eye vigilant, even in its dimness--the hand, though trembling almost to

palsy, fumble with the sword-handle--that racked the poor, withering,

and shrinking brain, within its multiplied cabinets, by a thousand

terrors--such was not the work of Time. How different was his, from the

hoary, but holy age, that ushers an aged, and it may be a worn, but

godly and grateful spirit, to an eternity of happiness!--when the

records of a good man's life may be traced by the gentle furrows that

nature, and not crime, has ploughed upon the brow--the voice, sweet,

though feeble, giving a benison to all the living things of this fair

earth--the eye, gentle and subdued, sleeping calmly within its

socket--the heart, trusting in the present, and hoping in the future;

judging by itself of others, and so judging kindly (despite experience)

of all mankind, until time may have chimed out his warning notes!

A thousand and a thousand times had Sir Robert cursed the evil destiny

that prompted him to confess his crime to his daughter; and his curses

were more bitter, and more deep, when he found that Sir Willmott Burrell

had played so treacherous a part, and inveigled him under total

subjection.

"And is it Sir Willmott Burrell who is to procure me a free pardon and

an acknowledged ship? Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" growled

Dalton, as he sat opposite the enfeebled baronet: his hands clenched,

his brows knit, and his heart swelling in his bosom with contending

feelings. "Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" he repeated. "And so,

Sir Robert Cecil, you have sold your soul to the devil for a mess of

pottage, a mess of poisoned pottage! You have not, you say, the poor

power of obtaining the most trifling favour for yourself. But I say

again, Look to it; for, by the God in heaven, I will have my suit or my

revenge."