The Buccaneer - A Tale

Nought is there under heaven's wide hollownesse

That moves more dear compassion of mind,

Than beautie brought t'unworthie wretchednesse

Through envious snares or fortune's freaks unkinde.

* * * * * * *

To think how causeless of her own accord

This gentle damzell, whom I write upon,

Should plonged be in such affliction,

Without all hope of comfort or reliefe.

SPENSER

"I am driven to it, I am driven to it!" repeated Sir Willmott Burrell,

as he attired himself in his gayest robes, while his eyes wandered

restlessly over the dial of a small clock that stood upon the

dressing-table. "No one has seen her--and I have forced Constantia to

wed at six, instead of seven. Once wed--why, there's an end of it; and

if the worst should come, and Zillah persecutes me still, I can but

swear her mad, and this will terminate her fitful fever." He placed a

small pistol within his embroidered dress, and girded his jewelled sword

more tightly than before. "The minutes linger more tardily than ever,"

he continued: "full fifteen to the time.--Would it were over! I am

certain Cromwell would not interfere, if once she was my wife; he loves

her honour better than the Jew's."

Again he drew forth the pistol and examined it, and then replaced it as

before--again girded his sword; and having drunk copiously of some

ardent spirit, a flask of which had been placed near him, he descended

to the library.

The only person in the apartment was Sir Robert Cecil: he was leaning,

in the very attitude in which we first met him, against the high and

dark chimney-piece of marble; but, oh, how altered! His hand trembled

with emotion as he held it to Sir Willmott, who took it with that air

of easy politeness and cordiality of manner he could so well assume.

"The hour is nearly arrived," said the old man, "and you will become the

husband of my only child. Treat her kindly--oh, as you ever hope to have

children of your own, treat her kindly: be to her what I ought to have

been--a protector! Sir Willmott, I cannot live very long; say only that

you will treat her kindly. Whatever I have shall be yours: you will be

kind, will you not?" And he looked at Sir Willmott with an air of such

perfect childishness, that the knight imagined his mind had given way.

"Sit down, my good sir; compose yourself--you are much agitated--I pray

you be composed."

"Broad lands are a great temptation," continued Sir Robert, with the

same appearance of wavering intellect--"Broad lands and gold are great

temptations, and yet they do not make one happy. Stoop your

head--closer--closer--there:--now I will tell you a secret, but you must

not tell it to Constantia, because it would give her pain--I have never

been happy since I possessed them! Stop, I will tell you all, from

beginning to end. My brother, Sir Herbert--I was not Sir Robert then--my

brother, I say----"