The Buccaneer - A Tale

Nor were Sir Willmott's slumbers of long duration; before the sun had

risen, he was up and a-foot. Having let himself down from his window and

out at the postern-gate, he took the path that led in the direction of

Gull's Nest Crag.

The night had been wild and stormy; the freshness and freedom of the air

now compensated for the turmoil that had passed; but the ocean's

wrathfulness was still unappeased, and Burrell listened to its roarings

while it lashed the beach with its receding waves, like a war-horse

pawing and foaming when the battle din has sunk into the silence that

succeeds the shout of victory, as if eager again to meet the shock of

death.

Suddenly he struck out of the usual track, across a portion of waste

land, the utmost verge of which skirted the toppling cliffs; and making

for himself a way through tangled fern, long grass, and prickly furze,

he strode on in a more direct line towards the dwelling of Robin Hays,

pursuing his course, heedless of the petty annoyances he encountered,

although his feet were frequently entangled among the stunts and stubs

that opposed his progress, with the air of one whose mind was evidently

bent on the fulfilment of some hazardous but important purpose. It was

so early that not a shepherd had unpenned his fold, nor a girl gone

forth to the milking: such cattle as remained at liberty during the

night, still slumbered on the sward; and the wily fox roamed with less

caution than was his wont, under the knowledge that no enemy was by to

watch his progress.

"I may reach Gull's Nest, and return," thought Burrell, "and that before

any in the house are astir." But, at the moment, a tall, lank figure,

moving with measured pace, yet nevertheless approaching rapidly, from

the very point towards which his steps were bent, arrested his

attention; and as it came nearer and nearer, he was much disconcerted at

the discovery that no other than the Reverend Jonas Fleetword, from whom

he anticipated a sharp rebuke for his absence from Lady Cecil's funeral,

was about to cross his path. He would have gladly hailed the approach of

Birnam wood, so it could have settled down between him and the reverend

Jonas; but as no place of refuge was at hand, he bethought himself of

the shield of patience, drew his cloak as closely as if he were about to

encounter a fierce north wind, and finally returned with much courtesy

the salutation of the preacher, whose apt and ready eloquence had

obtained for him the significant appellation of Fleetword. The locks of

the divine, according to the approved fashion, had been cropped closely

round his head, and his thin sharp visage looked of most vinegar-like

tinge and character, peering, as it now did, from beneath a

steeple-crowned hat of formal cut. He wore a black cloth cloak and

doublet, his Flemish breeches and hose were of the same sombre hue, and

his square-toed shoes were surmounted by large crape roses. Contrary,

as it would seem, to the custom of a disciple of the peace-loving

Saviour, he also wore a basket-handled sword, girded round his loins by

a broad strap of black leather. In truth, face, figure, and all

included, he was as harsh and ill-favoured a person as could have been

encountered even at that day,--one whose lips would have seemed to taint

the blessing to which he might have given utterance; and graceless as

Burrell undoubtedly was, there was excuse for the impatience he felt at

such an unlucky rencontre.