Varney the Vampyre 113The Return of the Resuscitated Man, and the Robbery at Anderbury House
18
Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 113
The Return of the Resuscitated Man, and the Robbery at Anderbury House
RymerEnglish
The morning after the occurrences that took place in the bone-house of Anderbury, broke dimly and obscurely over the ocean in the neighbourhood of that town. For leagues away, as far as the eye could reach, there was a haziness in the atmosphere which the fresh wind that blew did not dissipate.
There was a white light rising in the horizon, which did not cast the warm glow over the bosom of the ocean as it sometimes does; it was dull, cold, and cheerless; there was nothing that could be called beautiful.
The waves dashed about, and came tumbling over each other, their crests now and then covered with foam, which was swept off by the fresh breeze that blew over the ocean. It was just daylight.
There was nought in the landscape save the water and the sky—nothing else to be seen for miles. Yes, there was one object, and that was a boat washed to and fro by the waves as it sat on the bosom of the sea, wafted hither and thither, as the waves impelled the boat, which appeared to be empty, for no oar was used, and no human form was visible.
But that boat, so lonely, and left to its own guidance, or rather that of the waves, contained a living being; it was he who had striven so hard to escape from the baron on the preceding evening.
He sat alone in the bottom of the boat; he was fatigued—he was shivering from the cold. The great exertions he had undergone were followed by a reaction; but he knew not where he was, or in which direction to pull, or where the shore lay.
How long he lay in this helpless condition it is not known; but he occasionally lifted his eyes upwards and across the sea, to watch which way the vessels sailed, and if any should come in sight.
The scene was one of singular desolation and dreariness, in which nothing could be seen that could cheer the eye or gladden the mind of man. Now and then, to be sure, a gleam of sunlight would cross the dreary water, but it seemed to enliven only a small spot, and that but for a very short time, for it soon again became obscure.
There was the dreary ocean with its leaden-coloured sky, and then the boat at the mercy and direction of the wind and waves, both of which seemed in no placid humour, though not absolutely squally.
A vessel from Cherbourg, with brandies, for the port of London, was sailing direct for the mouth of the Thames, making for the Foreland, where it would have to round the point, and then enter the mouth of the river.
There were three or four men and a couple of boys on board; when they came near the boat,—
“Boat, ahoy!” shouted the man on the look out; “boat ahoy!”
No answer was returned to the shout, and the men on board shouted too, and crowded to the side of the vessel to see what was going on, and who was in the boat. The captain came up; he had been in the cabin, but hearing the shout, he came on deck to see what was the matter.
“What is the matter?” inquired the captain, looking around.
“Boat on the starboard,” said one of the men; “nobody in it, I think; she seems to be drifting.”
The captain looked at the boat for some minutes attentively, when one of the men said,—
“Perhaps some wreck, and the boat has been swept away by the waves, or the crew hadn’t time to get into her, or something of the sort.”
“No,” said the captain, “she’s not a ship’s boat—a shore boat, that’s what it is, lads. She’s got washed out, or somebody’s drowned, upset, or rolled out.”
“Something of the sort, I dare say, sir.”
“Well, we needn’t heave to for her—she’s no service to us, and we can’t spare time.”
“I think there’s some one in her.”
“But the boat’s drifting,” said the captain; “but she’s coming this way, and that will be the easiest way to ascertain the truth of our conjectures.”
They steered the vessel so as to meet the boat, which the sea was beating towards them; and in about twenty minutes or half an hour, they came within a couple of score yards of the boat, when they could plainly perceive that some one was sitting in the bottom of the boat.
“Hilloa!” shouted the captain; “boat ahoy!—ahoy!”
The man who was in the boat looked up, and seeing the vessel, he answered the cheer.
“Throw him a rope,” said the captain to one of the men who were standing by.
A rope was made fast to the vessel, and then it was thrown by a strong arm to the boat, and came right athwart it, and was immediately made fast by the man who was in it.
He then began immediately to haul up the rope, and so draw his boat up alongside of the vessel, and then he came on deck.
“How now, shipmate, what do you do out at sea in such a cockle-shell as that?”
“Nothing,” replied the other.
“Nothing! Well, you have come a long way to do that. What induced you to come to sea, or were you driven out, or how was it you came here?”
“I was driven out against my will,” replied the man; “I was rowing about shore, when I fell asleep, thinking myself safe, having secured the boat, as I believed, safely enough.”
“Ay, ay,” said the captain; “and so you found out, when you awoke, your mistake?”
“I did. My moorings had broken away, which was only a boat-hook and a rope; the tide coming up, lifted the boat hook out, and I have been out to sea ever since, and don’t know where I am.”
“Why that must have been last night,” said the captain.
“Last night it was,” said the stranger.
“You have been to sea all night then?” added the captain, taking a long gaze at the stranger.
“Indeed, I have, and I am quite cold and hungry. I had nothing with me. I rowed some time in hopes of getting in shore again, but unfortunately didn’t succeed. I suppose I got further out to sea, rather than nearer in shore.”
“Well, that is about the fact; you must be about fifteen miles out at sea,” said the captain; “you are a long pull away from shore, I can tell you, and how you will get back again, I don’t know; but, at all events, you are a very queer-looking fish, and I suppose your being out at sea all night, and no stores, makes you look as you do; though, upon my soul, I don’t know what to make of you; but you mustn’t starve. Here, lad, bring up some coffee and boiled pork. Can you eat any?”
“Thank you,” said the unfortunate being, “I can. I have been out for many hours.”
“Well, sit down, or rather go below, and eat; when you have done, come up, and we will tell you where the land lies, though I don’t know how you will keep it in sight for the life of me.”
The man then went below, where there was some coffee royal made for him—that is, coffee and brandy—and some salt pork was given to him, of which he partook most plentifully, apparently, while the captain muttered to himself,—
“Well, of all the odd-complexioned shore-going sharks as ever I saw, you are the oddest! D—d if I should think he was wholesome—there’s a great deal of the churchyard about him.”
“There isn’t a very agreeable look about him,” said one of the men; “but I suppose he has been so much frightened, that he looks more like a vampyre than anything else.”
“Aye; or a revivified corpse.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But that arises from his being so terrified and starved, as well as fatigued; exposure all night, all added together, has almost changed the current of his blood.”
The man came up now, having had sufficient provisions below, and had expressed himself much gratified with the coffee-royal to the cook, who, in his own mind, thereupon declared that he must be a Christian after all, though he had obtained by some means the complexion of a white negro.
“And now,” said the captain, “if you like to go with us to London, you shall go with us, for, as I said before, we cannot run into any port before we get there, for the wind is favourable and strong.”
“I would sooner get back by means of my boat,” replied the man, “if I were sure of making land.”
“You might, if you could keep in a straight course, but there is the difficulty; you cannot do so very well without a compass, and that you have not got.”
“No, indeed, I have not—though with it I have no doubt of being able to reach the land.”
“I have,” said the captain, “a small one below, a pocket compass; you shall have that, and see what can be done; and if you get ashore, it will have done some service at all events.”
“I shall be greatly obliged to you for your kindness,” said the stranger; “but I am wholly at a loss to know how I shall ever be able to repay your kindness.”
“Say nothing about that; we who get our bread upon the sea, know well the risks we all run, and therefore do not mind lending a hand to each other when in distress and trouble.”
“I will endeavour to save some one else in your line of life, if I cannot you,” replied the stranger, “and so, if it be possible, make some return.”
“Aye, that will do mate; do a Christian’s charity to any one whom you may cross, and I shall be well paid for my trouble.”
The boat was now brought up alongside the vessel, and, before the stranger embarked, the captain said to him, as he held the compass in his hand,—
“You must place this compass on one of the thwarts of your boat, shipmate.”
“I will.”
“A precious vessel she is, for a voyage out of sight of land; but, never mind, you are safe enough, unless a sea was to come and roll over you—but that’s neither here nor there. Mind you keep your boat’s head to the north-west, and, by so doing, you’ll make land at the nearest point from where we are now.”
“Thank you,” said the man.
“Moreover, you must pull so as to keep her head in the direction I tell you. It will be too long a pull for you to get there by rowing—you would get too tired to keep your seat, and you are unused to it, too.”
“I am obliged to you,” said the man; “if I get to shore safe, I shall be under great obligations to you. You will have saved my life.”
“I have ordered enough biscuit, and grog, and cold beef, to last you till night—you will get to shore before that time, I have every reason to believe. In five or six hours you ought to get there; but, in case of accidents, there is enough to last till night.”
“You have loaded me with obligations.”
“Say no more; be off with you and pull away from the vessel as quickly as you can; for we have slackened our speed for you.”
“Farewell; a pleasant voyage to you,” said the man.
“Good bye, and good luck go with you,” replied the captain. “Keep to the north-west, and all will be well; push off, and keep your eye on the compass.”
The man did as he was desired; laid the compass on one of the thwarts; took the oars in his hands, and began to row away with good will.
The crew of the vessel crowded to the side and witnessed the departure of the boat, and when she was a few hundred yards off, the sails were spread, and the vessel ploughed through the waves, leaving the boat behind, a mere speck on the sea, diminishing each moment.
But yet while the boat was within hailing distance, the captain said to the crew,—
“Give him a cheer—he may meet with a score of accidents before he reaches shore, any one of which will be sufficient to destroy him.”
The crew obeyed, and gave a loud shout to the boat, and the captain added his own voice; the cheering huzzah reached the boat, for the occupant elevated his oar, and returned it. The solitary cheer was borne to the vessel faintly but distinctly; however, they gave him one cheer more, and then pursued their way over the trackless waters.
The boat pursued its course for some distance, until it was too far from the vessel to be seen, and then, slackening his pace, he contented himself with merely keeping the boat’s head in the direction which he had been told, and in which he knew the land lay.
There was no hurry and desire to reach the land, but merely to keep where he was; and when any vessel hove in sight, he pulled so as to keep clear of her and out of hail; and there were a great many who passed near him, and would have aided him had he required any; but that did not seem to be his object.
Midday was passed, and the sun began to decline towards the west, when the boat was gradually brought nearer and nearer in shore.
Not only was the shore visible, but the very houses might be counted, and yet he would not come ashore, but appeared to be awaiting the sinking of the sun before the boat chose to seek the protection of the land.
It was about sun-set that the provisions, which were given by the captain of the vessel, were now consumed, and that while they were being eaten, the occupant of the boat sat still with his eyes fixed upon the town, which was every moment becoming hidden in the approaching denseness of the night; and, at length, could not be distinguished, save by the existence of numerous lights, that shewed the precise position in which it lay.
Darkness now came on, and nothing was to be seen on the ocean whatever, and he remained yet longer at sea; but at length there was no danger of being noticed; he gradually rowed his boat in shore and secured it.
Then jumping ashore, he wandered about the town from one place to another, and, finally, he determined to make his way to Anderbury House.
“There is, at least, plenty of everything there,” he muttered; “and, though there are plenty of servants, yet, in so large a place, there is ample room to secret oneself, and plenty to be had for the trouble of taking it.”
He came to a small public-house, which he entered, with the view of resting a short time, and of ascertaining what was going on in the town.
There were several people seated in the public-room, and he now seated himself up in one corner of the room, unobserved by anybody.
“Well, well,” said one; “there is more than one strange thing of late that has happened. The baron has given some very handsome entertainments.”
“Aye, so he has,” said one.
“And more than that, they say he’s going to keep ’em up till he gets a wife; though I cannot tell why he should leave them off then, because women like that sort of thing too well to make any objection to its being carried on after marriage.”
“The baron is very right; if he carried it on then, he would be watched by his wife, who would take good care to rate him for any attention he might pay to any of the ladies; and, therefore, it would only be keeping up the means for being scolded to keep up the balls.”
“Ay, it would only be getting into hot water, and keeping the kettle boiling on purpose.”
“He would,” said another man, “merely be keeping the entertainments on for the purpose of showing off his wife and her self-will, as well as her power over him, and showing them all how she could rule a man—a very favourite pastime with married women, who, when they have a partner who don’t like fighting and quarrelling, and who does love peace and quietness, know how to give it him.”
“I think better of the baron, who, I think, is a man who wouldn’t stand much of that.”
“Ah, you don’t know what an upas-tree a woman can become, when she pleases.”
“Well,” said another, “the strangest thing that I know of is the loss of Bill Wright’s boat.”
“Oh! what was that? I have heard something about it, though I can’t say I have heard the rights of it yet. What was it all about, eh?”
“Why, he says, when he went to bed, he left his boat safe enough moored to other boats and afloat. Bill says he’ll swear she couldn’t get clear without help; but she did get clear, and there is nothing to be seen of it now, at all events, and poor Bill is in a devil of a way about it, too, I can tell you, and good reason enough.”
“Yes. Bill will scarce be able to get another boat, unless some good friend should give him one, and that is scarce likely, I think as times go.”
“There’s no ball at Anderbury House, to-night, I believe,” said one of the visitors.
“None, that I know of.”
“No, there is none,” said another, “because I know of several who have got leave of absence; so they are short-handed there, and they would not be so if they had anything particular going on, for the baron does the thing handsomely.”
“So he does.”
The stranger listened to all this conversation very quietly, for some time, muttering to himself,—
“That is well. It will suit my purpose very well. I will go and see how the land lies in that quarter. I have objects in view, and some of the valuables to be found there, at all events, will aid my projects, and assist in my comfort, and I may as well have them from there as anywhere else; besides, I know more of that place. It suits my taste to do so, and will be somewhat in the shape of revenge.”
Calling for his reckoning, which he paid, he left the house, and proceeded towards Anderbury House.
It was now nine o’clock or a little later. No one was about, or scarcely any, and those few the moving figure endeavoured to avoid. He turned out of the usual paths, and walked over the fields and unfrequented ways, keeping near the hedge-rows, until he came to the bounds of the grounds of Anderbury House.
Here he paused, and bethought himself of the best means of entering the house unseen and unsuspected by any one, else his object would be defeated.
However, after a few moments’ thought, he determined to proceed, and, for that purpose, he made for a spot where the fence was low, and ran by some trees that had been cut down and grew bushy.
Having reached there, he, by aid of the branches, contrived to get over into the grounds, and then made his way swiftly towards a plantation that ran up close to the house, and by means of which he hoped to reach the house, and perhaps to enter it.
Silently he made his way into the plantation, and just as he reached it, he saw the moon rise in the east; it was just rising above the horizon.
“Thanks,” he muttered, looking towards the luminary, “thanks you did not appear before; but now you are welcome, for I can keep under cover of the trees, and the deeper the shadow, the safer I am from observation.”
This was right enough.
The moon rose full, but not bright, for some clouds seemed to intervene, or rather some thin vapours, which gave her a strange colour, and, at the same time, increased her apparent size; but she rose rapidly, and as she rose that would wear off, and she would resume her silvery appearance and usual diameter.
He was now safe in the plantation, but, at the same time, it would require some caution not to be discovered, for, at times, even the plantations formed beautiful evening walks, in which many of the inhabitants of Anderbury House had indulged at various times, and especially when there was what was termed a family party.
On a moonlight night, when there were several members of the family who knew the grounds well, then they would find ample amusement in wandering about.
However, there was no such parties on this evening, and as it followed, he ran no danger. Lightly, therefore, he crept forward, making no sounds save such as it was impossible to avoid.
The foot fall upon dried leaves—the cracking of sticks, and the rustling of the smaller under-growth, when he came in contact with it.
“How I shall be able to pass the open spaces, I know not,” he muttered; “but I have passed worse spots than this, and I may be pretty confident I shall succeed in escaping detection on this occasion; however, it shall be tried. There are few who are about—all is quiet and still—the very watch dogs are quiet and asleep.”
He crept onward now until he came within some hundred and fifty yards of the house itself, when he paused and listened, but hearing nothing, he again came forward and approached to within a few score yards of the house, when he was suddenly arrested by the sound of voices.
He paused and listened; it was a female voice spoke near; she was evidently speaking to a man.
“Now, William,” she said, “do you really believe you can get in without making any noise?”
“I am sure of it, providing you leave the window open, and the rope there.”
“Yes, yes, I will. Well, that room is empty; pull off your shoes, and creep out of the door; don’t let it bang together, or it may alarm some one.”
“Yes, yes; I’ll take care.”
“Well, then, remain in the passage or room until I come to you; but should you be disturbed, you can hide yourself in any of the closets, or go up stairs, which will bring you to the floor on which is my room.”
“I’ll take care; but don’t forget the rope, and to leave the window open.”
“I’ll not forget. I’ll throw the rope on one side, so as to hang among the vine leaves, so that it will not be detected by any one accidentally coming this way, though that is very unlike, indeed.”
“I understand; for the matter of that, I think the vine is strong enough to bear me without the rope.”
“I would not have you make the attempt lest you fall, and are killed, William; be sure you do not make the trial; what a thing it would be if you were discovered, and all were to come out—I should be ruined.”
“Never fear that; I will take care, both for your sake as well as my own.”
“Then good bye.”
Some words were then uttered in a whisper, the import of which he did not hear, but it continued for a minute or two, and then the female said,—
“Wait here a few minutes, and you will see me come to yon window, and let down the rope; and then begone as quickly as you can.”
“Never fear for me; I will wait here until I see you at the window, and then I will leave.”
The female figure he saw glide quickly away, and he watched it until she was out of sight, and then he watched for the signal also. He could see the form of the male figure, who stood within about three or four yards from the spot where he was concealed.
Then, after a time, he saw the female figure come to the window indicated by her, and then throw the rope out of it, and cause it to hang down by the side, or among the leaves of the vine, so that it could not be seen, except it were looked for.
When this was done, and the figure saw the female had withdrawn, he turned from the spot, and walked hastily away further in the plantation, and when he was quite out of hearing, and the stranger could no longer hear his footsteps among the dried rubbish in the wood, he walked cautiously forward to the edge of the grounds, and then gazed up at the house, and listened carefully to ascertain if there was any sound at all indicative of the vicinity of any human being.
Hearing none, he assumed another attitude, and prepared to make a dart forward to the window, as he muttered,—
“The coast is clear, and it will be hard, indeed, if I do not now succeed. Once in the house, I will soon secure myself, and the contents of some of the baron’s drawers—some of his gold will be mine.”
Again taking a cautious survey, and, being perfectly satisfied that he was unobserved, he dashed across towards the root of the vine, and, in a moment more, he had seized the end of the rope; but he heard the sound of footsteps. What to do he could not tell, but sprang up a few feet, and buried himself among the leaves of the vine, which were very luxuriant.
The footsteps were heard closer and closer, until he could perceive the very female who had thrown the rope out of the window stop within a few inches of him, and then seize hold of the very rope he had been about to seize.
Her object was to ascertain if the rope was low enough to be reached; and, when she had adjusted it to her mind, she exclaimed, in a low voice, to herself,—
“Ah! that will do; he will easily find it, I dare say; and it will be all right. Nobody will see it.”
Having satisfied herself of that, she left the spot, and returned the same way she came. It was an awkward situation as anyone could well indulge in without discovery.
“It was a very narrow escape,” he muttered. “I had no idea of her coming back in that way; I never dreamed of such a thing. But no matter; I believe I am quite safe now; if not, I shall have some other escape. She must have been next to blind not to see me.”
However, he got down, and then pulled down the rope straight; and, by the help of that and the vine, he then pulled himself up to the window, into which he speedily got, and found himself in an empty room.
Here he paused, to ascertain if he could hear any one moving about; but he heard nothing, and at once proceeded to feel his way, cautiously, along to the door, which he approached with a cat-like step.
Opening the door, he paused to listen, before he ventured into the landing to which it opened; but, finding the coast clear, he went through that, and then into the next room, which was apparently a store room, being filled with a variety of things of a miscellaneous character, and which were only of occasional use in the house.
This he closed, and went up stairs, where he came to a suite of servants’ bed-rooms, and thence he walked about from room to room, until he came to a portion of the house he recognised, and then he made direct for the baron’s own room.
“There,” he muttered, “I am likely to meet with what I want; and the carpets are soft, and give no noise. I can sleep for a short time, if I will.”
He made at once for the baron’s sleeping room, which he opened and entered. It was empty, and he at once closed the door; then he made an instant search about for a place of concealment; and, having found one, he began to make a search for some other matters, that were not of the same, but a more valuable character in the market.
However, he found out the drawers and depositories; but he was unable to open them, because they were locked; and he must wait until the baron had gone to sleep, and then, taking his keys, he would be able to help himself, without any difficulty, to what he most desired.
He had scarcely made this determination, before he was alarmed by the footsteps of the baron, as he ascended the stairs. This produced a necessity for instant concealment; and he immediately flew to the spot which he had chosen; and, scarcely had he done so, before the room-door was opened, and in walked the baron himself, who brought in a light with him.
He remained walking about some time, examining a variety of matters, but appeared as though he never intended to go to sleep. There was every probability of his discovering the place of concealment; which was easily done, had he but turned his head, or moved his hand, under certain circumstances; but, as fortune willed it, the baron did not.
It was near an hour before the baron sought the repose he might have taken, but for the dominion of the spirit of restlessness; and it was even then some time before he fell into a sound slumber, apparently being engaged in deep thought.
However, he did fall asleep, and the tongue of Morpheus spoke loudly—like some human beings, through the nose; and then it was the hero of Anderbury church-yard stole from his concealment, and began to examine the chamber.
“Where are his keys, I wonder?” he thought. “He must carry them about him; but he must have left them somewhere in his clothes; and if I can obtain, and use them, without making any noise, it will be fortunate.”
He found the keys, though not without making a slight jingle with them, but that caused no motion on the part of the baron, who lay snoring in his bed.
He stole to the drawers, and the key fitted; he quietly unlocked it and drew it open.
“Fortune befriends me,” he muttered.
At that moment the baron turned in his bed and heaved a deep sigh, and appeared for a minute or two restless, and as if on the point of waking up.
The intruder, however, stopped short in his depredations, and paused, and then crouched down, lest the sleeper might open his eyes, and, by a momentary glance, detect him.
Suddenly he spoke, but indistinctly—very indistinctly, and yet loudly enough. The stranger started—he thought himself detected; but he found that the baron was only dreaming. He drew nearer to him, and listened to what he said.
“Ha!” sighed the baron; “she is very beautiful—very beautiful. Ha! her form and face are perfection!”
He paused, and again went on, but too indistinctly. A word or two was heard plain enough now and then, but it was impossible to form any sense of them—they had no connection with one another.
“She is very beautiful,” again muttered the baron in his sleep. “She is lovely—amiable—what a wife!”
Then he again fell into a train of half-mumblings, from which nothing could be gathered.
“Heavens, what a prize!” exclaimed the baron, and again he relapsed, but appeared more composed and quiet.
“I would he were nine fathoms deep below the level of the sea,” muttered the robber; “and then I should not be bothered by him. Sleep, or let it alone,” he exclaimed, between his teeth. “It would almost be safest to kill——and yet, one cry might bring the whole household upon me.”
Turning to the door, he ascertained that it was locked. He turned the key, and, in doing so, made a noise with the lock which had the effect of causing the baron to start in his sleep.
“What was that?” he muttered, in sleepy accents. “I thought I heard the door go; but it can’t. I locked it—I remember very well I locked it.”
After this speech he fell fast asleep.
“Another escape,” muttered the intruder, who rose from his crouching posture, and setting the door open, so that he could, in case of an accident, make his escape from the room.
Then he again turned towards the drawers, and began to help himself to the contents, when he accidentally struck the keys, which fell with a clash to the floor. In an instant the baron started up on his elbow, and pulled aside the curtain, to see what was the cause of the disturbance.
In a moment the light was put out, and the intruder had assumed a motionless posture; but it was too late to escape the quick eye of the baron, who instantly jumped up, exclaiming, as he laid his hand upon a pistol, which he had under his pillow, and cocked it,—
“Ah! robber—assassin! Stand, or I fire!”
The sound of the cocking of the pistol was quite enough. It came distinctly to the ear, and suggested the idea of more than ordinary danger with it; and he dashed past, heedless of the command of the baron, who called upon him to stand.
The baron fired, and in an instant the house was filled with a stunning report, which echoed and re-echoed from room to room, filling the inmates with wonder and alarm.
The sensation produced by the sound was of that description that can hardly be described. To be awaked from a sound sleep by such a dreadful, stunning report, which carried such a sense of danger with it, that they remained in an alarming stupor for nearly the space of a minute, until, indeed, they were aroused by the shouts of the baron, was rather terrifying.
Hardly had the stunning and deafening report died away, when the baron leaped from his bed to ascertain if his shot had taken effect.
The intruder heeded not the commands or the shot of the baron, for he dashed out of the room at his utmost speed, making his way towards the lower portion of the house, that offering greater facilities for escape.
The baron, as soon as he had recovered from his first surprise, jumped out, and seizing a heavy cane that was lying across one of the chairs, he rushed after the flying figure, shouting and calling to his people to get up.
“Robbers! thieves!” he shouted. “Here, help—help to secure the robbers who are in the house.”
The intruder made for the lower stairs, but was closely followed by the baron, who could just see the dusky form of the object of his pursuit before him; but now, in the lower rooms, where there was no light at all, the shutters being up, he missed him.
The robber had taken advantage of the darkness, and doubled upon his pursuer, and hastened up stairs with the view of reaching the place where he entered.
In doing this, however, he was met by one of the men who was coming down. There was no time for deliberation, and he dashed up, regardless of the blow the man aimed at him, who said,—
“Here you are. Here goes for one on ’em.”
As, however, the battle is said not always to be with the strong, so in this instance he was unable to accomplish his object, for the blow, by the agility of the robber, was evaded, and the result was, that the serving man was suddenly whirled down the stairs, and being once on the descent, he did not stop until he got to the bottom.
“Murder! murder!” shouted the unhappy individual, as he rolled down stair after stair, until his cries were stilled by a violent concussion of the head.
In the meantime the stranger rushed up stairs at a headlong speed, until he attained the landing which led to the room at the window of which he entered. Securing the door behind him, and then getting out of the window, and seizing the rope, he began to descend very rapidly, fearing he would be intercepted by those below.
He slipped down the rope rather than let himself down, and before he had got half way down, he met with an impediment, which, however, quickly gave way, and they both came down plump to the earth together.
“My God! my God!” exclaimed a man’s voice, in great terror and tribulation. “What’s that? what’s that? Mercy—mercy! I didn’t mean to do any wrong.”
The stranger heeded not the words of the terrified swain, who, it would appear, had begun to ascend to reach the dormitory of his fair but frail one, when his flame was so unceremoniously quenched in the way we have related, but dashed away from the spot, and was speedily lost in the plantation, whither the unfortunate individual when he had sufficiently recovered his senses, and released his head from the imprisonment of his hat, soon after betook himself, thankful the affair was no worse.
