Having bound him in a peculiarly tight and nautical manner, Dick once more went to his accomplices at the door, and returned with a hammer and chisel, and a large stone. The latter he placed on the table, and, directing Gascoyne to raise his arms—which were not secured below the elbows—and place his manacles on the stone, he cut them asunder with a few powerful blows, and removed them.

“The darbies ain’t o’ no use, you see, as we ye got you all safe with the ropes. Now, Mister Gascoyne, I’m agoin’ to heap one more indignity on ye. I’m sorry to do it, d’ye see; but I’m bound for to obey orders. You’ll be so good as to sit down on the bed, for I ain’t quite so long as you—though I won’t say that I’m not about as broad—and let me tie this napkin over yer mouth.”

“Why?” exclaimed Gascoyne, again starting and looking fiercely at the boatswain; “this, at least, must be unnecessary. I have said that I am willing to submit quietly to whatever the law condemns me. You don’t take me for a woman or a child, that will be apt to cry out when hurt?”

“Certainly not; but as I’m goin’ to take ye away out o’ this here limbo, it is needful that I should prewent you from lettin’ people know that yer goin’ on your travels; for I’ve heerd say there’s some o’ yer friends as is plottin’ to help you to escape.”

“Have I not said already that I do not wish to escape, and therefore will not take advantage of any opportunity afforded me by my friends?—Friends! I have no friends! Even those whom I thought were my friends have not been near my prison all this day.”

Gascoyne said this bitterly, and in great anger.

“Hush!” exclaimed Dick; “not quite so loud, mister pirate. You see there is some reason in my puttin’ this on your mouth. It’ll be as well to let me do it quietly, else I’ll have to get a little help.”

He pointed to the three stout men who stood motionless and silent in the dark recess.

“Oh, it was cowardly of you to bind my arms before you told me this,” said Gascoyne, with flashing eyes. “If my hands were free now—”

He checked himself by a powerful effort, and crushed back the boastful defiance which rose to his lips.

“Now, I’ll tell ye wot it is, Mister Gascoyne,” said Dick Price, “I do believe yer not such a bad feller as they say ye are, an’ I’m disposed to be marciful to ye. If ye’ll give me your word of honour that you’ll not holler out, and that you’ll go with us peaceably, and do wot yer bid, I’ll not trouble you with the napkin, nor bind ye up more than I’ve done already. But,” (here Dick spoke in tones that could not be misunderstood,) “if ye won’t give me that promise, I’ll gag ye and bind ye neck and heels, and we’ll carry ye out o’ this shoulder high. Now, wot say ye to that?”

Gascoyne had calmed his feelings while the boatswain was speaking. He even smiled when he replied— “How can you ask me to give my word of honour? What honour has a pirate to boast of, think you?”

“Not much, pr’aps,” said Dick; “howsomdever, I’ll be content with wot’s left of it; and if there ain’t none, why, then, give us yer word. It’ll do as well.”

“After all, it matters little what is done with me,” said Gascoyne, in a resigned voice. “I am a fool to resist thus. You need not fear that I will offer any further resistance, my man. Do your duty, whitever that may be.”

“That won’t do,” said Dick, stoutly; “ye must promise not to holler out.”

“I promise,” said Gascoyne, sternly. “Pray cease this trifling, and if it is not inconsistent with your duty, let me know where I am to be taken to.”

“That’s just wot I’m not allowed for to tell. But you’ll find it out in the coorse of time. Now, all that you’ve got to do is to walk by my side, and do wot I tell ye.”

The prisoner made no answer. He was evidently weary of the conversation, and his thoughts were already wandering on other subjects.

The door was now unlocked by one of the three men who stood near it. As its hinges creaked, Dick shut the lantern, and threw the cell at once into total darkness. Taking hold of Gascoyne’s wrist gently, as if to guide, not to force him away, he conducted him along the short passage that led to the outer door of the prison. This was opened, and the whole party stood in the open air.

Gascoyne looked with feelings of curiosity at the men who surrounded him, but the night was so intensely dark that their features were invisible. He could just discern the outlines of their figures, which were enveloped in large cloaks. He was on the point of speaking to them, when he remembered his promise to make no noise, so he restrained himself, and followed his guard in silence.

Dick and another man walked at his side—the rest followed in rear. Leading him round the out-skirts of the village, towards its northern extremity, Gascoyne’s conductors soon brought him to the beach, at a retired spot, where was a small bay. Here they were met by one whose stature proved him to be a boy. He glided up to Dick, who said in a low whisper—

“Is all ready?”

“All right,” replied the boy.

“The ooman aboard?”

“Ay.”

“Now, Mr Gascoyne,” said Dick, pointing to a large boat floating beside the rocks on which they stood, “you’ll be so good as to step into that ’ere boat, and sit down beside the individual you see a-sittin’ there in the stern-sheets.”

“Have you authority for what you do?” asked Gascoyne, hesitating.

“I have power to enforce wot I command,” said Dick, quietly. “Remember yer promise, mister pirate, else—”

Dick finished his sentence by pointing to the three men who stood near—still maintaining a silence worthy of Eastern mutes; and Gascoyne, feeling that he was completely in their power, stepped quickly into the boat, and sat down beside the “individual” referred to by Dick, who was so completely enveloped in the folds of a large cloak as to defy recognition. But the pirate captain was too much occupied with his own conflicting thoughts and feelings to bestow more than a passing glance on the person who sat at his side. Indeed it was not surprising that Gascoyne was greatly perplexed by all that was going on at that time; for he could not satisfactorily account to himself for the mystery and secrecy which his guards chose to maintain. If they were legitimate agents of the law, why these muffled oars with which they swept the boat across the lagoon, through the gap in the coral reef and out to sea? And if they were not agents of the law, who were they, and where were they conveying him?

The boat was a large one, half-decked, and fitted to stand a heavy sea and rough weather. It would have moved sluggishly through the water had not the four men who pulled the oars been possessed of more than average strength. As soon as they passed the barrier reef, the sails were hoisted, and Dick took the helm. The breeze was blowing fresh off the land, and the water rushed past the boat as she cut swiftly out to sea, leaving a track of white foam behind her. For a few minutes the mass of the island was dimly seen rising like a huge shade on the dark sky, but soon it melted away and nothing remained for the straining eyes to rest upon save the boat with its silent crew and the curling foam on the black sea.

“We’ve got him safe now, lads,” said Dick Price, speaking, for the first time that night, in unguarded tones, “you’d better do the deed. The sooner it’s done the better.”

While he was speaking one of the three men opened a large clasp knife and advanced towards Gascoyne.

“Father,” said Henry, cutting the rope that bound him, “you are free at last!”

Gascoyne started, but before he had time to utter the exclamation of surprise that sprang to his lips, his hand was seized by the muffled figure that sat at his side.

“Oh! Gascoyne, forgive us—forgive me!” said Mary Stuart in a trembling voice. “I did, indeed, know something of what they meant to do, but I knew nothing of the cruel violence that these bonds—”

“Violence!” cried Dick Price, “I put it to yourself, Mister Gascoyne, if I didn’t treat ye as if ye wos a lamb?”

“Wot a blissin’ it is for a man to git his mouth open agin, and let his breath go free,” cried Jo Bumpus, with a deep sigh. “Come, Corrie, give us a cheer—hip! hip! hip!—”

The cheer that followed was stirring and wonderfully harmonious, for it was given in a deep bass, and a shrill treble, with an intermediate baritone “Ho!” from Jakolu.

“I know it, Mary, I know it;” said Gascoyne, and there was a slight tremor in his deep voice as he drew his wife towards him, and laid her head upon his breast. “You have never done me an evil turn—you have done me nothing but good—since you were a little child. Heaven bless you, Mary!”

“Now, father,” said Henry, “I suppose you have no objection to make your escape?”

“No need to raise that question, lad,” said Gascoyne, with a perplexed smile. “I am not quite clear as to what my duty is now that I am free to go back and again give myself up.”

“Go back!—free!” exclaimed John Bumpus in a tone of withering sarcasm. “So, Mister Gascoyne, ye’ve got sich an oncommon cargo o’ conceit in ye yet, that you actually think ye could go back without so much as ‘By your leave!’”

While Jo was speaking he bared to the shoulder an arm that was the reverse of infantine, and, holding it up, said slowly—

“I’ve often had a sort o’ desire, d’ye see, to try whether this bit of a limb or the one that’s round Mrs Stuart’s waist is the strongest. Now if you have any desire to settle this question, just try to shove this boat’s head up into the wind—that’s all!”

This was said so emphatically by the pugnacious Bumpus that his companions laughed, and Corrie cheered in admiration.

“You see,” observed Henry, “you need not give yourself any concern as to this point, you have no option in the matter.”

“No, not a bit o’ poption in it wotiver—though wot that means I ain’t rightly sure,” said Dick Price.

“Perhaps I ought to exercise my parental authority over you, Henry,” said Gascoyne, “and command you to steer back to Sandy Cove.”

“But we wouldn’t let him, mister pirate,” said Dick Price, who, now that his difficult duties were over, was preparing to solace himself with a pipe; an example that was immediately followed by Bumpus, who backed his friend by adding—

“No more we would.”

“Nay, then, if Henry joins me,” said Gascoyne, “I think that we two will not have a bad chance against you three.”

“Come, that’s good! so I count for nothing,” exclaimed Corrie.

“Ha! stick up, lad,” observed Bumpus. “The niggers wot you pitched into at the mouth o’ yon cave didn’t think that—eh! didn’t they not?”

“Well, well, if Corrie sides with you I feel that my wisest course is to submit. And now, Henry,” said Gascoyne, resuming his wonted gravity of tone and demeanour, “sit down here and let me know where we are going to and what you mean to do. It is natural that I should feel curious on these points even although I have perfect confidence in you all.”

Henry obeyed, and their voices sank into low tones as they mingled in earnest converse about their future plans.

Thus did Gascoyne, with his family and friends, leave Sandy Cove in the dead of that dark night, and sail away over the wide waste of the great Pacific Ocean.

Reader, our tale is nearly told. Like a picture, it contains but a small portion of the career of those who have so long engaged your attention, and, I would fain hope, your sympathy. The life of man may be comprehensively epitomised almost to a point, or expanded out ad infinitum. He was born, he died, is its lowest term. Its highest is not definable.

Innumerable tomes, of encyclopaedic dimensions, could not contain, much less exhaust, an account of all that was said and done (and all that might be said about what was said and done) by our ci-devant sandal-wood trader and his friends. Yet there are main points, amid the little details of their career, which it would be unpardonable to pass over in silence. To these we shall briefly refer before letting the curtain fall.

There is a distant isle of the sea, a beautiful spot, an oceanic gem, which has been reclaimed by the Word of God, from those regions that have been justly styled “the dark places of the earth.” We will not mention its name; we will not even indicate its whereabout, lest we should furnish a clue to the unromantic myrmidons of the law, whose inflexible justice is only equalled by their pertinacity in tracking the criminal—to his lair!

On this beautiful isle, at the time of our tale, the churches and houses of Christian men had begun to rise. The natives had begun to cultivate the arts of civilisation, and to appreciate, in some degree, the inestimable blessings of Christianity. The plough had torn up the virgin soil, and the anchors of merchant-ships had begun to kiss the strand. The crimes peculiar to civilised men had not yet been developed. The place had all the romance and freshness of a flourishing infant colony.

Early one fine morning, a half-decked boat rowed into the harbour of this isle, and ran alongside the little quay, where the few natives who chanced to be lounging there were filled with admiration at the sight of five stalwart men who leaped upon the rocks, an active lad who held the boat steady, and a handsome middle-aged woman, who was assisted to land with much care by the tallest of her five companions.

There were a few small bales of merchandise in the boat. These being quickly tossed ashore, one of the natives was asked to shew the way to the nearest store, where they might be placed in safe keeping.

This done; the largest man of the party, who was clad in the rough garments of a merchant captain, offered his arm to the female, who was evidently his wife, and went off in search of the chief magistrate of the settlement, leaving his companions to look after the boat and smoke their pipes.

The handsome stranger introduced himself to the magistrate as Mr Stuart; stated that he intended to settle on the island as a general merchant, having brought a few bales of merchandise with him; that he had been bred an engineer and a shipwright, and meant also to work at his old trade, and concluded by asking for advice and general information in regard to the state of trade on the island.

After having obtained all the information on these subjects that the magistrate could give, insomuch that that functionary deemed him a perfect marvel of catechetical wisdom and agreeable address,—the stalwart stranger proceeded to inquire minutely into the state of religion and education among the natives and settlers, and finally left the charmed magistrate rejoicing in the belief that he was a most intelligent philanthropist, and would be an inestimable acquisition to the settlement.

A small trading store was soon built. The stranger was not a rich man. He began in a humble way, and sought to eke out his subsistence by doing the ordinary work of a wright. In this latter occupation he was ably assisted by his stout son, Henry; for the duties of the store were attended to chiefly by the lad Corrie, superintended by Mr Stuart.

The mysterious strangers were a source of much gossip and great speculation, of course, to the good people of Green Isle, (as we shall style this gem of the Pacific, in order to thwart the myrmidons of the law!) They found them so reserved and uncommunicative, however, on the subject of their personal affairs, that the most curious gossip in the settlement at last gave up speculating in despair.

In other respects, the new family were noted for kindliness and urbanity. Mrs Stuart, especially, became an intimate friend of the missionary who dwelt there, and one of his hardest-working parishioners. Mr Stuart also became his friend; but the stern gravity of countenance, and reserved, though perfectly well-bred and even kindly manner of the stranger forbade close intimacy. He was a most regular attender at church, not only on Sundays but at the weekly prayer-meetings and occasional festivals, and the missionary noticed that his Bible looked as if it were a well-thumbed one.

At first the two seamen, whom people soon found out, were named respectively Jo and Dick, wrought in the wright’s workshop, and at all kinds of miscellaneous jobs; besides making frequent and sometimes long voyages in their boat to the neighbouring islands. As time flew by things seemed to prosper with the merchant. The keel of a little schooner was laid. Father, and son, and seamen (as well as the native servant, who was called Jako) toiled at this vessel incessantly until she was finished—then, Henry was placed in command of her, Jo and Dick were appointed first and second mates, two or three natives completed the crew, and she went to sea under the somewhat peculiar name of the Avenger.

This seemed to be the first decided advance in the fortunes of the new family. Business increased in a wonderful way. The Avenger returned again and again to the Green Isle laden with rich and varied commodities for the successful merchant. In course of time the old store was taken down, and a new one built; the Avenger was sold, and a large brig purchased, the rather pretty name of which—“Evening Star”—was erased, and the mysterious word Avenger put in its place. Everything, in short, betokened that Mr Stuart was on the high road to fortune.

But there were some mysteries connected with the merchant which sorely puzzled the wisest heads in the place, and which would have puzzled still wiser heads had they been there. Although it soon became quite evident to the meanest capacity that Mr Stuart was the richest man on the island; yet he and his family continued to occupy the poor, shabby, little, ill-furnished cottage which they had erected with their own hands when they first landed, and although they sold the finest silks and brocades to the wives and daughters of the other wealthy settlers, they themselves wore only the plainest and most sombre fabrics that consisted with respectability.

People would have called them a family of misers, but for their goodness of character in other respects, and for the undeniable fact that they were by far the most liberal contributors to the church and to the poor—not only in their own island, but in all the other islands around them.

Another thing that puzzled the mercantile men of the place extremely was the manner in which Mr Stuart kept his books of business. They soon began to take note that he kept two ledgers and two distinct sets of books—the one set small, the other set very bulky. Some of the more audacious among his customers ventured to peep over his shoulder, and discovered that the small set contained nothing but entries of boats made, and repairs to shipping executed, and work connected exclusively with the shipwright department of his business—while the large books contained entries of those silks, and sugars, and teas, and spices, etcetera, which turned so much gold into his coffers.

It thus became evident to these men of business that the merchant kept the two departments quite separate, in order to ascertain the distinct profits on each. They were the more amazed at this when they considered that the shipwright work must necessarily be a mere driblet, altogether unworthy the attention of one so wealthy. But that which amazed them most of all was, that such a man, in such circumstances, could waste his time in doing with his own hands the work of an ordinary mechanic—thus (as they concluded) entailing on himself the necessity of devoting much of the night to his more lucrative concern.

These long-headed men of business little knew the man. They did not know that he was great in the highest sense of the term, and that, among other elements of his greatness, he possessed the power of seizing the little things—the little opportunities—of life, and turning them to the best account; that he not only knew what should be done, and how to do it, but was gifted with that inflexible determination of purpose to carry out a design, without which knowledge and talent can never accomplish great things. The merchant did not, as they supposed, work late at night. He measured his time, and measured his work. In this he was like many other men in this struggling world; but he stuck to his time and to his work, in which respect he resembled the great few whose names stand prominent on the page of history.

In consequence of this, Mr Stuart wrought with success at both departments of his business, and while in the one he coined thousands, in the other he earned more than the average wages of a working man.

The Avenger was erratic and uncertain in her voyages. She evidently sailed to the principal islands of the South Seas, and did business with them all. From one of these voyages, Henry, her captain, returned with a wife—a dark-haired, dark-eyed, ladylike girl—for whom he built a small cottage beside his father’s, and left her there while he was away at sea.

It was observed by the clerks in Mr Stuart’s counting-room, that their chief accountant, Mr Corrie, was a great letter writer—that when one letter was finished, he invariably began another, and kept it by him, adding sheet after sheet to it until the Avenger returned and carried it off. Once Mr Corrie was called hurriedly away while in the act of addressing one of these epistles. He left it lying on his desk, and a small, contemptible, little apprentice allowed his curiosity so far to get the better of him, that he looked at the address, and informed his companions that Mr Corrie’s correspondent was a certain Miss Alice Mason!

Of course, Mr Corrie received voluminous replies from this mysterious Alice; and, if one might judge from his expression on reading these epistles, (as that contemptible little apprentice did judge,) the course of his love ran smoother than usual; thus, by its exceptionality, proving the truth of the rule.

Years passed away. The merchant’s head became grey, but his gigantic frame was as straight and his step as firm as ever. His wife, strange to say, looked younger as she grew older! It seemed as if she were recovering from some terrible illness that had made her prematurely old, and were now renewing her youth. The business prospered to such an extent that, by becoming altogether too wonderful, it ceased to be a matter of wonder altogether to the merchants of the Green Isle. They regarded it as semi-miraculous—the most unprecedented case of “luck” that had ever been heard of in the annals of mercantile history.

But the rich merchant still dwelt in the humble, almost mean, cottage, and still wrought as an engineer and shipwright with his own hands.

In the little cottage beside his own there were soon seen (and heard) three stout children, two boys and a girl, the former being named respectively Gascoyne and Henry, the latter, Mary. It is needless to say that these were immense favourites with the eccentric merchant.

During all this time there was a firm in Liverpool which received periodical remittances of money from an unknown source. The cashier of that firm, a fat little man, with a face like a dumpling and a nose like a cherry, lived, as it were, in a state of perpetual amazement in regard to these remittances. They came regularly, from apparently nowhere, were acknowledged to nobody, and amounted, in the course of time, to many thousands. This firm had, some years previously, lost a fine vessel. She was named the Brilliant; had sailed for the South Sea islands with a rich cargo, and was never more heard of. The fat cashier knew the loss sustained by this vessel to a penny. He had prepared and calculated all the papers and sent duplicates on board, and as he had a stake in the venture he never forgot the amount of the loss sustained.

One day the firm received a remittance from the Unknown, with a note to the following effect at the foot of it:– “This is the last remittance on account of the Brilliant. The value of the cargo, including compound interest, and the estimated value of the vessel, have now been repaid to the owners.”

The fat cashier was thunderstruck! He rushed to his ledger, examined the account, calculated the interest, summed up the whole, and found it correct. He went home to bed and fell sound asleep in amazement; awoke in amazement; went back to the office in amazement; worked on day after day in amazement; lived, and eventually died, in a state of unrelieved amazement in regard to this incomprehensible transaction!

About the same time that this occurred Mr Stuart entered his poor cottage, and finding his wife there, said—

“Mary, I have sent off the last remittance to-day. I have made amends for that evil deed. It has cost me a long and hard struggle to realise the thousands of pounds that were requisite; for some of the goods had got damaged by damp in the cavern of the Isle of Palms, but the profits of my engineering and shipwright business have increased of late, and I have managed to square it all off with interest. And now, Mary, I can do no more. If I knew of any others who have suffered at my hands I would restore what I took tenfold—but I know of none. It therefore remains that I should work this business for the good of mankind. Of all the thousands that have passed through my hands I have not used one penny. You know that I have always kept the business that has grown out of the labour of my own hands distinct from that which has been reared on the stolen goods. I have lived and supported you by it, and now, through God’s blessing, it has increased to such an extent that I think we may afford to build a somewhat more commodious house and furnish it a little better.”

“As for the mercantile business—it must go on. It has prospered and still prospers. Many mouths are dependent on it for daily bread. I will continue to manage it, but every penny of profit shall go in charity as long as I live. After that, Henry may do with it as he pleases. He has contributed largely to make it what it is, and deserves to reap where he has sown so diligently. Do you think I am right in all this, Mary?”

We need scarcely remark that Mary did think it all right, for she and Gascoyne had no differences of opinion now.

Soon after this, Corrie went off on a long voyage in the Avenger. The vessel touched at San Francisco, and, while there, some remarkable scenes took place between Jo Bumpus and a good-looking woman whom he called Susan. This female ultimately went on board the Avenger, and sailed in her for Green Isle.

On the way thither they touched at one of the first of the South Sea islands that they came in sight of, where scenes of the most unprecedented description took place between Corrie and a bluff old gentleman named Ole Thorwald, and a sweet, blue-eyed, fair-haired, maiden named Alice Mason!

Strange to say this fair girl agreed to become a passenger in the Avenger; and, still more strange to say, her father and Ole Thorwald agreed to accompany her, also an ancient piece of animated door-matting called Toozle and a black woman named Poopy, whose single observation in regard to every event in sublunary history was, “Hee! hee!”

On reaching Green Isle, Corrie and Alice were married, and on the same day Bumpus and Susan were also united. There was great rejoicing on the occasion; Ole Thorwald and Dick Price distinguished themselves by dancing an impromptu and maniacal pas de deux at the double wedding!

Of Captain Montague’s future career we know nothing. He may have been killed in the wars of his country, or he may have become an admiral in the British navy, for all we know to the contrary. One thing only we are certain of, and that is, that he sailed for England in the pirate schooner, and seemed by no means to regret the escape of the pirate captain!

Years rolled away. The head of Gascoyne became silvery white, but Time seemed impotent to subdue the vigour of his stalwart frame, or destroy the music of his deep bass voice. He was the idol of numerous grandchildren as well as of a large circle of juveniles, who, without regard to whether they had or had not a right to do so, styled him “Grandfather.”

Little did these youngsters think, as they clambered over his huge frame, and listened with breathless attention to his wild stories of the sea, that “grandfather” had once been the celebrated and much-dreaded Durward, the pirate!

Nothing would induce Gascoyne to take a prominent part in the public affairs of his chosen home; but he did attempt to teach a class of the very smallest boys and girls in the missionary’s Sunday school, and he came, in time, to take special delight in this work.

He was never so happy as when telling to these little ones the story of redeeming love. In the choice of subjects for his class, he was somewhat peculiar as well as in his manner of treating them. He was particularly emphatic and earnest, used to fill his little hearers with awe, when he spoke of the danger of sin and the importance of resisting its beginnings. But his two favourite themes of all—and those which dwelt most frequently on his lips—were, “God is Love,” and, “Love is the fulfilling of the law.”