his pistol at the head of the Buccaneer. Instantly Barbara, as with a
last effort, sprang from the arms of the Lady Cecil, and threw herself
on her father's bosom. The effort was not needed, for the weapon was
snatched from the villain's hand. He had now to encounter the reproof of
Colonel Jones.

"Sir Willmott, I thought I could have taken your word, that you had no
arms except your sword. I was mistaken."

"That fellow is the famous Buccaneer, Hugh Dalton, upon whose head a
price is set. Arrest him, Colonel Jones!" exclaimed Burrell, skilfully
turning the attention from himself to the Skipper, who stood embracing
the lifeless form of his daughter--gazing upon eyes that were now
closed, and upon lips parted no longer by the soft breath of as sweet a
maiden as ever was born of woman.

"Are you the Malignant of whom he speaks?" inquired the stern colonel.

"He is the unhappy father of that murdered girl," interposed Constantia.

"Whoever refuses to seize him deserves a traitor's death," reiterated
Sir Willmott.

The troopers stood with their hands on their swords, awaiting their
officer's commands.

The Buccaneer turned fiercely round, still pressing his child to his
bosom with one arm, and holding a pistol within the other hand.

"I am," he said in a bold and fearless, but not an arrogant tone, "I am
he whom that accursed villain names. But ye had better not rouse a
desperate man. Dare not to touch me; at your peril stay my course.
Colonel Jones, tell the Protector of England, that Hugh Dalton craves no
pardon now. This, this was my hope--my pride; for her I would have been
honest, and well thought of! Behold! she stiffens on my arm. She is
nothing now but clay! Yet, by the God that made her! no churlish earth
shall sully this fair form. She was as pure as the blue sea that cradled
her first months of infancy; and, mark ye, when the rays of the young
sun rest upon the ocean, at the morning-watch, by my own ship's side, in
the bosom of the calm waters, shall she find a grave. I will no more
trouble England--no more--no more! Gold may come dancing on the waves,
even to my vessel's prow, I will not touch it. Cromwell may take me if
he will, but not till I perform for my good and gentle child the only
rite that ever she demanded from me."

Even as the tiger-mother passes through an Indian crowd, bearing the
cherished offspring of her fierce but affectionate nature, which some
stray arrow has destroyed--terrible i