in vain that I reasoned, protesting (as I believed) that the
stranger was but a chance pirate cast ashore by misadventure; and as
vain that, his fears infecting me, I promised to go down and get rid of
the fellow on some pretence.

"No," he insisted, "the hour is come. I must face it: and what is more,
Paschal, I shall win. Another time I shall be no better prepared.
Bring him to my room and then go and tell my lady that I wish to speak
with her."

I did so. On ushering in the stranger I saw no more than the bow with
which the two men faced each other: for at once my Master signalled me
to run on my further errand. Having delivered my message at my lady's
door, I went down to the hall, and lingering there, saw her pass along
the high gallery above the dais towards my lord's room, with the hound
at her heels.

Thence I climbed the stair to my own room: locked the door and anon
unlocked it, to be ready at sudden need. And there I paced hour after
hour, without food, listening. From the courtyard came the noise of the
grooms chattering and splashing: but from the left wing, where lay my
Master's rooms, no sound at all. Twice I stole out along the
corridors and hung about the stair head: but could hear nothing, and
crept back in fear to be caught eavesdropping.

It was about five in the afternoon (I think), all was still in the
courtyard, when I heard the click of a latch and, running to the window,
saw the porter closing his wicket gate. A minute later, on a rise
beyond the wall, I spied the Moor. His back was towards the castle and
he was walking rapidly towards Market Jew: and after him padded my
lady's hound.

I hurried along the passages and knocked at my Master's door. No one
answered. I could not wait to knock again, but burst it open.

On the floor at my feet lay my Master, and hard by the window my
Mistress with her hands crossed upon a crucifix. My Master had no
crucifix: but his face wore a smile--a happier one than it had worn for
years.

[1] About 150,000 pounds in present money.

FROZEN MARGIT

_A Narrative of the sufferings of Mr. Obed Lanyon, of Vellingey-Saint
Agnes, Cornwall; Margit Lanyon, his wife; and seventeen persons (mostly
Americans) shipwrecked among the Quinaiult Tribes of the N.W. Coast of
America, in the winter of 1807-8. With some remarkable Experiences of
the said Margit Lanyon, formerly Pedersen. Written by the Survivor,
Edom Lanyon, sometime a Commander in