"I'll send you up in a moment," said Robin, in a kind voice. "Your

daughter, Barbara----"

"Ay, that it is, that it is," muttered the Buccaneer; "my own, own

child!--the child of one who, I bless God, never lived to know that she

wedded (for I wedded her in holy church, at Dominica) a wild and wicked

rover. Our love was sudden and hot, as the sun under which we lived; and

I never left her but once from the time we became one. I had arranged

all, given up my ship and cargo,--and it was indeed a cargo of

crimes--at least, I thought so then. It was before the civil wars; or I

had again returned to England, or traded, no matter how. I flew to her

dwelling, with a light heart and a light step. What there? My

wife,--she who had hung so fondly round my neck and implored me not to

leave her,--was stretched on a low bamboo bed--dead, sir--dead! I might

have known it before I entered, had I but remembered that she knew my

step on the smooth walk, fell it ever so lightly, and would have met

me--but for death! And there too sat a black she-devil, stuffing my

infant's mouth with their vile food. I believe the hag thought I was

mad; for I caught the child in my arms, held it to my heart while I bent

over my wife's body, and kissed her cold, unreturning--for the first

time unreturning--lips; then flung myself out of the accursed

place,--ran with my burden to the shipowners, who had parted with me

most grudgingly,--and was scudding before the wind in less than twelve

hours, more at war with my own species than ever, and panting for

something to wreak my hatred on. At first I wished the infant dead, for

I saw her pining away; but at last, when she came to know me, and lift

up her innocent hands to my face--I may confess it here--many and many a

night have I sat in my cabin looking on that sleeping child, till my

eyes swam in a more bitter brine than was ever brewed in the Atlantic.

Particular circumstances obliged me to part with her, and I have never

regretted her being with poor Lady Cecil--only I should have liked her

to pray as her mother did. Not that I suppose it will make any

difference at the wind-up,--if," he added, doubtingly, "there be indeed

any wind-up. Hugh Dalton will never be really himself till he can look

that angel girl straight in the face, and ask her to pray for him, as

her mother used." Dalton was too much affected to continue, and both his

auditors respected his feelings too much to speak. At length he said,

"But this gloom will never do. Come, Robin, give us a song, and let it

not be one of your sad ones."




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