The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, August 08, 1894, Image 1
\) m a atti
THE S?MTKB WATCHMAN, Established April, 1850.
lBe Just and Fear not-Let all the Ends thou Aims't at, be thy Country's, thy God's and Truth's."
THE TRUE SOUTHRON, Established Jane, 1266
Consolidated Ah?:. 2,1881.
SUMTER, S. C, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 1894.
New Series?Y 1. XIV. So. 2.
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CHAPTER "VTEL
thomas becomes bich.
Fer many months we heard no more of
De Garcia or of Isabella de Siguenza.
Both bad vanished; leaving no sign, and
we searched for them in vain. As for me,
I fell back into my former way of life of
assistant to Fonseca, posing before the
world as his nephew. Bat it came about
that from the night of my duel with the
murderer my master's health declined
steadily through the action of a wasting
disease of the liver which baffled all skill,
so that within eight months of that time
he^iay almost bedridden and at the point
of death. His mind indeed remained
quite clear, and on occasions he would even
receive those who came to consult him,
reclining on a chair and wrapped in his
embroidered robe. Bat the ?and of death
lay on him, and he knew that it was so.
As the weeks went by he grew more and
more attached to me till at length, had I
been his son; h?0%ld ndfcave treated me
)n, w^k? for m v^part I.j
At length wbWne h?a^grown very fee-1
ble he expressed a desire to see a notary.,
The nsan he named was sent for and re
mained closeted with him for an hour or ?
more, when he left for awhile to return!
with several of his clerks, who accom-i
panied him to my master's room, from
whence I was excluded. Presently they
air went away, bearing some HamhTitentw
with them.
That evening Fonseca sent torme. I
found him very weak, but cheerful and
full of talk.
"Come,here, nephew," he said. "I have
had a busy??.y-. I have been busy all my
life through, and it would noi be well to
grow idle at the last. Do you know what
I have been doing this day?"
I shook my head.
"Iwill tell you. I have "been making
my will?there is something-to leave--not
so very much, but'still something."
uDo not talk of wills," I said. "I trust
that you may live for many years. *?
He laughed. "You must think badly
of my case, nephew, when you think that
I can be dece^e^^us. I am about to
die, as you ?how "w??;; ?n^v"Tao "not fear
death. My life, has jbeen prosperous, but.
not happy, for it was blighted m its spring'
?no matter lio^er. The-story is an old one e
and not worth telling. Moreover, which
ever way it bad read, it had all been one
now in the hour of death. Nephew, lis
ten. Except certain sums,that I have giv
en to be spent in charities?not in masses,
mind you?I have left you all I possess. "
"You have left it to me!" I said,, as
tonished.
"Yes, nephew, to you. Why not? I
have no relations living, and I have learn*
ed to love you, I who thought that I could
never again care for any man or woman
or child, I ara grateful to you, who have
proved to me that my heart is not dead.
Take what I give you as a mark of my
gratitude."
Now I began to stammer my thanks,
but he stopped me "The sum that you
will inherit, nephew, amounts in all to
about 5,000 gold pesos, or perhaps 12,000
of your English pounds,, enough for a
young man to begin life on, even with a
wife. Indeed there in England it may well
be held a great fortune, and I think that
your betrothed's. father will make no more
objection t?you a? a ??n*in-law; also j
there is this^ouse and all that it contain*.
The library and the silver arc valuable,
and you w l do well to keep them And
now one word m?re.- If your conscience
will let you, abandon the pursuit of De
^?ftjffiu Xft^f ' ymrr ?Qrtu^_and go with J
it to England, wedtnat maid whom you
desire, and follow after happiness in what
ever way seems-best to you. , Who-are you
that ' you should mete .out Vengeance on
this knave De Garcia? Let him be, and
he will avenge'himself upon himself. Oth
erwise you may undergo: much toil and
danger and m the end lose love and life
and fortune at a blow."
"But I have sworn to kill him," I an
swered, "and how can I break so solemn
an oath? How could I sit at home in peace
beneath the borden of such shame?"
*'I do not know. It is not for me to
You must do as you wish, but
'it it may happen that you
greater nhftmret than this.
It ttefMB, *n& he:has es
pili yoft ase wise.
Now bend down and kiss me and bid me
farewell. I do not desire that you should
see me die, and my death is near. I can
not ten if we shall meet again when in
your turn you have laid as I lie now, or
if we shape our course for different stars.
If so, farewell forever."
Then I leaned down and kissed him on
th?1 forehead, and as I did so I wept, for
not till this hoar did I learn how truly I
had come to love him, so truly that it
seemed to me as though my father lay
there dying.
'Weep not, "he said, "for all our life
is but a parting. Once I had a son like
you, and ours was the bitterest of fare
wells. Now I go to seek for him again
who could not come back to me, so weep
not because I die. Goodby, Thomas Wing
field! May God prosper and protect youl
Now gol'
So I went weeping, and that night, be
fore the dawn, all was over.
J buried Andres de Fonseca, but with
no pomp, for he had said that he wished
as little money as possible spent upon his
dead body, and returned to the house to
meet the notaries. Then the seals were
broken and the parchments read, and I
was put in full possession of the dead
man's wealth, and having deducted such
sums as were payable for dues, legacies
and fees the notaries left me, bowing
humbly, for was I rich? Yes, I was
rich. Wealth had come to me without ef
fort, and I had reason to desire it, yet
this was the saddest night that I had pass
ed since I set foot in Spain, for my mind
was filled w:th doubts and sorrow, and,
moreover, my loneliness got a hold of me.
But sad as it might be it was destined to
seem yet more sorrowful before the morn
ing, for as I sat making a pretense to
eat, a servant came to me, saying that a
woman waited in the outer room who had
asked to see his late master. Guessing
thai; this was some client who had not
heard of Fonseca's death, was about to
order that she . should be dismissed, then
bethought methat I might be of service
to her or a the least forget some of my
own trouble in listening to hers. So I
bade them bring her in. Presently she
came, a tall woman wrapped in a dark
cloak that hid her face. I bowed and mo
tioned to her to be seated, when suddenly
she started and spoke.
"I asked to see Don Andres de Fonse
ca, " she said in a low, quick voice. ''You
are not he, senor. "
4-Andres de Fonseca was buried today,"
I answered. "I was his assistant in his
business and am his heir. If I can serve
yon in any way, I am at your disposal. "
u You are young?very young, ' ' she mur
mured confusedly, 4'and the matter is .o
terrible and urgent. How can I trust you F ' '
"It is for you to judge, se?ora.''
She thought awhile, then drew off her
cloak, displaying the robes of a nun.
"'Listen," she said. "I must do many a
penance for this night's work, and very
She thought awhile,- then threw of her
cloak.
hardly have I won leave to come "hither
upon an errand of mercy. Now, I cannot
go back empty handed, so I must trust
yon. But first swear by the blessed Motfcsr
of God that you will not betray nie.
4iI giro you my word," I answered. "If
that is not enough, let us end this talk. ' '
"Do not be angry with me, " sheplead
ed. "I have not left my convent walls for
many years, and I am distraught with
'grief. I seek a poison of the deadliest. I
will pay well for it "
"I am not the tool of murderers, " I an
swered. "For what purpose do you wish
the poison?"
\ "Oh, I must tell you?yet how can I?
In our convent there dies tonight a woman
young and fair?almost a girl indeed?
' Whohas ;broken the vows she took. She
dies tonight with her babe?thus, O God,
fthus!?*y "being "built alive into the foun
dations, of the house she has disgraced. It
is the judgment that has been passed upon
her?judgment without forgiveness or re
prieved I am the abbess of this convent?
ask not its name or mine?and I love this
sinner as though she were my daughter. I
have obtained this much of mercy for her
because of my faithful services to the
church and by secret influence?that when
I give her the cup of water before the work
is done I may mix poison with it and touch
the lips of the babe with poison, so that
their end is swift. I may do this and yet
have no.sin upon my soul. . ! have my par
don under seal. Help me,' then, to be an
innocent murderess and tosavo this sin
ner from her last agonies on earth. "
I cannot set down the feelings with
which I listened, to this tale of horror, for
words could not carry them. I stood aghast,
seeking an an s ver, and a dreadful thought
entered my mind.
-*Is this woman named Isabella de Sig
nenza?" I asked.
"That name was hers in the world,"
she answered, "though how you know it
1 cannot .cues?.
"Wo "know many things m this house,
mother. Say, now, can this Isabella bo
saved by money or by interest?"
"It is impossible. Her sentence has been
confirmed by the tribunal of mercy. She
must die and within two hours. Will you
not give me the poison?"
"I cannot give it unless I know its pur
pose, mother. This may be a barren tale,
and the medicine might be used in such a
fashion that I should fall beneath the law.
At one price only can I give it, and that
is that I am there to see it used."
She thought awhile and answered: "It
maybe done, for as it chances the word
ing of my absolution will cover it. But
you must come cowled as a priest, that
those who carry out the sentence may
know ; nothing. Still others will know,
and I warn you that should you speak of
the matter you yourself will meet with
misfortune. The church avenges itself on
those who betray ita secrete, sen or. "
"As one day its secrets will avenge
themselves upon the churcli, ' ' I answered
bitterly. -'And now let me seek a fitting
drug?one that is swift, yet not too swift,
lest your hounds should see themselves
baffled of their prey before all their devil
try is done. Here is something that will
do the work," and I held upa vial that
I drew from a case of such medicines.
"Come, veil yourself, mother, and let us
be gone upon this 'errand of mercy.' "
She obeyed, and presently we left the
house and walked swiftly through the
crowded streets till we came to the ancient
part of the city along the river's edge.
Here the woman led me to a wharf wherv
a boat was in waiting for her. We enter
ed it and were rowed for a mile or more
up the stream till the boat halted at a
landing place beneath a high wall. Leav
ing it, we came to a door in the wall on
which my companion knocked thrice.
Presently a shutter in the woodwork was
drawn, and a white face peeped through
the grating and spoke. My companion
answered in a low voice, and after some
delay the door was opened, and I found
myself in a large walled garden planted
with orange trees. Then the abbess spoke
to me.
"I have led you to our house." she said.
"If you know where you arc and what its
name may be, for our own sake, I pray you,
forget it when you leave these doors. "
I made no answer, but looked round in
the dim and dewy garden.
Here it was doubtless that De Garcia
had met this unfortunate who must die
this night. A walk of a. hundred paces
brought us -to another door in the wall of
a long, low building of Moorish style.
Here the knocking and the questioning
were repeated at more length. Then the
door was opened, and I found myself in a
passage, ill lighted, long- and narrow, in
the depths of which I could see the figures
of nuns flitting to and fro like bats in a
! tomb. The abbess walked down the pas
sage till she came to a door on the right,
which she opened. It led into a cell, and
here she left me in the dark. For 10 min
utes or more I staid there, a prey to
thoughts that I had rather forget. At
length the door opened again, and she
came in, followed by a tall priest whose
face I could not see, for he was dressed in
the white robe and hood of the Dominicans,
that left nothing visible except his eyes.
"Greeting, my son," ho said when he
had scanned me for awhile. "The mother
abbess has told me of your errand. You
are full young for such a task. "
"Were I old I should not love it better,
father. You know the case. I am asked
to provide a deadly drug for a certain
merciful purpose. I have provided that
drug, but I must be there to see that it is
put to proper use."
44You a;:e very cautious, my son. The
church is no murderess. This woman
must die because her sin is flagrant, and
of late such wickedness has become com
mon. Therefore after much thought and
prayer and many searchings to find a
means of mercy she is condemned to death
by those whose names are too high to be
spoken. I, alas, am here to see the sen
tence carried out with a certain mitigation
which has been allowed by the mercy of
her chief judge. It eeems that your pr?s
enee is needful to this act of love; there
fore I suffer it. The mother abbess has
warned you that evil dogs the feet of those
who reveal the secrets of the church. For
your own sake>, lepras? yoja to lay that
warning^) best III ? |
"I am no babbler, father, so the caution
is not needed. One word more. This visit
should be well feed;. the medicine is cost
ly."
-Fear not, physician," the monk an
swered, with a note of scorn in his voice.
"Name your sum; it shall be paid to you."
"I ask no money, father. Indeed I
would pay much to be far away tonight.
I ask only that I may be allowed to speak
'with this girl before she dies."
-'What!" he said, starting. "Surely you
are not that wicked man? If so, you are
bold indeed to risk the sharing of her fate. "
"No, father, I am not that man. I nev
er saw Isabella de Siguen za except once,
and I have never spoken to her. I am not
the man who tricked her, but I know
him. He is named Juan do Garcia.
"Ah," he said quickly, "she would never
tell his real name, even under threat of
torture. Poor erring soul, she could be
faithful in her unfaith. Of what would
you speak to her?"
"I wish to ask her whither this man has
gone. He is my enemy, and I would fol
low him as I have already followed him
far. He has done worse by me and mine
than by this poor girl even. Grant my re
quest, father, that I may be able to work j
my vengeance on him, and with mine the
church's also."
! " -Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord.
"I will repay.' Yet it may be, son, that
th? Lord will choose you as the instru
ment of his wrath: An opportunity shall
be given you to speak with her. Now put
on this dress"?and he handed me a white
Dominican hood and robe?"and follow
me."
"First," I said, "let me give this medi
cine to the abbess, for I will have no hand
in its administering. Take it, mother, and
when the time comes pour the contents of
the vial into a cup of water. Then, hav
ing touched the mouth and tongue of the
babe with the fluid, give it to the mother
to drink, and be sure that she does drink
it. Before the bricks arc built up about
them both will sleep sound, never to wake
again."
"I~will do it,"-' murmured .fhe abbess.
"Having absolution, I will be bold and do
it for love and mercy's sake!"
"Your heart is soo soft, sister. J us tice
is mercy," said the monk, with a sigh.
"Alas, for the frailty of tho flesh that wars
against the spiriti"
Then I clothed myself in* the ghastly
looking dress, and they took lamps and
motioned to me to follow them.
CHAPTER IX.
THE PASSIKCr.OF ISABELLA DE SIGUEXZA.
Silently we went down the lonj passage,
and as wo went I saw the eyes of. the'dwell
ers in this Irving tomb watch us pass
through tho gratings of the?r cell doors.
Little wonder that the woman about to die
had striven to escape from such a homo
back to the world of life and love! Yet for
that crime she must perish. Surely God
will remember the doings of such men as
these priests and the nation that fosters
them. And indeed he does remember, for
where is the splendor of Spain today, and
where are the cruel rites she gloried in?
Here in England their fetters are broken
forever, and in striving to bind them fast
upon us free Englishmen she is broken
also, never to be whole again.
At the far end of a passage we found a
stair, down which we passed. At its foot
was an iron bound door that the monk un
locked and locked again upon the farther
side. Then came another passage hol
lowed in the thickness of the wall, and a
second door, and we were in the place of
death.
It was a vault low and damp, and the
waters of the river washed its outer wall,
for I could hear their murmurings in the
silence. Perhaps the place may have
measured 10 paces in length by 8 broad.
For the rest its roof was supported by mass
ive columns, and on one side there was a
second door that led to a prison cell. At
the farther end of this gloomy den that
was dimly lighted by torches and lamps
two men with hooded heads and draped in
coarse black gowns were at work silently
mixing lime that sent up a hot stoam
upon the stagnant air. By their sides
were squares of dressed stone ranged neat
ly against the end of the vault, and before
them was a niche cut in the thickness of
the wall itself, shaped like a large coffin
set upon its smaller end. In front of this
niche was placed a massive chair of chest
nut wood. I noticed also that two other
such coffin shaped niches had been cut in
this same wall and filled in with similar
blocks of whitish stone. On the face of
each was a date graved in deep letters.
One had been sealed up some 30 years be
fore and one hard upon a hundred.
These men were the only occupants of
the vault when wc entered it, but present
ly a sound of soft and solemn singing
stole down the second passage. Then the
door was opened, the mason monks ceased
laboring at the heap of lime, and the sound
of singing grew louder, so that I could
catch the refrain. It was that of a Latin
hymn for the dying. Next through the
open door came the choir, eight veiled
nuns walking two by two, and ranging
themselves on either side of the vault they
ceased their singing. After th^m follow
ed the doomed woman, guarded by two
more nuns, and last of all a priest bearing
a crucifix. This man wore a black robe,
and his thin, half frenzied face was un
covered. All these and other things I no
ticed and remembered, yet at the time it
seemed to me that I saw nothing except
the figure of the victim. I knew her again,
although I had seen her but once in the
moonlight. She was changed indeed; her
lovely face was fuller, and the great, tor
mented eyes shone like stars against its
waxen pallor, relieved by the carmine of
her lips alone. Still it was the same face
that some months before I had seen lifted
in entreaty to her false lover. Now her
tall shape was wrapped about with gravo
clothes, over which her black hair stream
ed, and in her arms she bore a sleeping
babe that from time to time she pressed
convulsively to her breast
On the threshold of her tomb Isabella
de Siguenza paused and looked round wild
ly as though for help, scanning each of the
silent watchers to find a friend among
them Then her eye fell upon the niche,
and the heap of smoking lime, and the
men who guarded it, and she shuddered
and would havo fallen had not those who
attended her led her to the chair and plac
ed her in it?a living corpse.
Now the dreadful rites began. The Do
minican father stood before her and recit
ed her offense and the sentence which
had been passed upon her, which doomed
her "to be left alone with God and the
child of your sin, that he may deal with
you as he sees fit." [Lest such cruelty
should seem impossible and unprecedent
ed, the writer may mention that in the mu
seum of the city of Mexico he has seen the
desiccated body of a young woman which
was found immured in the walls of a reli
gious building. With it is the body of an
infant. Although the exact cause of her
execution remains a matter of conjecture,
there can be no doubt as to the manner
of her death, for in addition to other evi
dences the marks of the rope with which
her limbs were bound in life are distinct
ly visible. Such in those days were the
mercies of religion!]
To all of this she seemed to pay no heed
nor to the exhortation that followed. At
length he ceased, with a sigh, and turning
to me said:
"Draw nearer to this sinner, brother,
and speak with her before it is too late. "
Then he bade all present gather them
selves at the far end of the vault that our
talk might not be overheard, and they did
so without wonder, thinking doubtless
that I was a monk sent to confess the
doomed woman.
So I drew near, with a beating heart,
and bending over her I spoke in her ear.
"Listen to me, Isabella de Siguenza!" I
said, and as I uttered the name she start
ed wildly. "Where is that De Garcia who
deceived and deserted you?"
"How have you learned his true name?"
she answered. *'Not even torture would
have wrung it from me. as you know."
"I am no monk, and ? know nothing. I
am that man who fought with De Garcia
on the night when you were taken, and
who would have killed him had you not
eeized me."
"At the least I saved him?that is my
comfort nowl"
"Isabella de Siguenza," I said, "lam
your friend, the best you ever had and the
last, as you shall learn presently. Tell me
where this man is, for there is that be
tween us which must be settled."
44If you are my friend, weary me no
more. I do not know where he is. Months
ago he went whither you will scarcely fol
low, to the farther Indies, but you will
never find him there."
"It may be that I shall, and if it should
so chance, say, have you any message for
this man?"
4'None?yes, this: Tell him how we
died, his child and his wife. Tell him that
I did my best to hide his name from the
priests lest some like fate should befall
him."
4'Is that all?"
"Yes?no, it is not all. Tell him that I
passed away loving and forgiving."
"My time is short," I said. *'Awake
and listen." For having spoken thus she
seemed to be sinking into a lethargy. "I
was the assistant of that Andres dc Fonse
ca whose counsel you put aside to your
ruin, and I have given a certain drug to
the abbess yonder. When she offers you
the cup of water, sec that you drink and
drink deep, you and the child. If so. none
shall ever die more happily. Do you un
derstand?"
44 Yes, yes," she gasped, "and may bless
ings rest upon you for the gift Now I am
no more afraid, for I havo long desired to
die?it was the way I feared. "
4 4 Then farewell, and God be with you,
unhappy woman. "
"Farewell," she answered softly, 44but
call me not unhappy who am about to dio
thus easily with that I love." Andeho
glanced at the sleeping babe.
Then I drew back and stood with bent
head, speaking no word. Now the Domin
ican motioned to all to take the places
where they stood before and asked her,
4 'Erring sister, have you aught to say be
fore you are silent forever?"
"Yes," she answered in a clear, sweet
voice that never even quavered, so bold
had she become since she learned that her
death would be swift and easy. "Yes, I
have this to say?that I go to my end with
a clean heart, for If I have sinned it is
against custom and not against God. I
broke the vows indeed, but I was forced to
take those vows, and therefore they did
not bind. I was a woman born for light
and love, and yet I was thrust into the
darkness of this cloister, there to wither
dead in life. And so I broke the vows, and
I am glad that I have broken them, though
it has brought me to this. If I was de
ceived and my marriage is no marriage be
fore the law, as they tell me now, I knew
nothing of it; therefore to me it is still
valid and holy, and on my soul there rests
no sin. At the least I have lived, and for
some few hours I have been wife and
mother, and it is as well to die swiftly in
"Erring sister, have you aught to say be
fore you are silent forevert"
this cell that your mercy has prepared as
more slowly in those above. And now for
you?I tell you that your wickedness
shall find you out, you who dare to say to
God's children, 'Ye shall not love,' and
to work murder on them because they will
not listen; It shall find you out, I say,
and not only you, but the church you serve.
Both priest and church shall be broken to
gether and shall be a scorn in the mouths
of men to come."
"She is distraught," said the Domini
can as a sigh of fear and wonder went
round the vault, "and blasphemes in her
madness. Forget her words. Shrive her,
brother, swiftly, ere she adds to them."
Then the black robed, keen eyed priest
came to her, and holding the cross before
her face began to mutter I know not what.
But she arose from the chair and thrust
the crucifix aside.
''Peace!" she said. "I will not be shriv
en by such as you. I take my sins to God
and not to you?you who do murder in
the name of Christ!"
Tho fanatic heard, and a fury took him.
"Then go unshriven down to hell, you
-and he named her by ill names and
struck her in the face with the ivory cru
cifix.
The Dominican bade him cease his re
vilings angrily enough, but Isabella do
Siguenza wiped her bruised, brow and
laughed aloud a dreadful laugh to hear.
"Now I see that you are a coward also, "
she said. -'Priest, this is my last prayer,
that you may also perish at the hands of
fanatics and more terribly than I die to
night."
Then they hurried her into tho place
prepared for her, and she spoke agaim
"Give me to drink, for wo thirst, my
babe and I!"
Now I saw the abbess enter that passage
whence the victim had been led. Presently
she came back bearing a cup of water in
her hand and with it a loaf of bread, and
I knew by her mien that my draft was in
the water. But of what befell afterward
I cannot say certainly, for I prayed the
Dominican to open the door by which we
had entered the vault, and passing through
it I stood dazed with horror at some dis
tance. Awhile went by, I do not know
how long, till at length I saw tho abbess
standing before me, a lantern in her hand,
and she was sobbing bitterly.
"AU is done," she said. "Nay, have no
fear, the draft worked well. Before ever
a stone was laid mother and child slept
sound. Alas for her soul who died unre
pentant and unshriven!"
"Alas for the souls of all who have
shared in this night's work," I answered.
"Now, mother, let me hence, and may we
never meet again!"
So soon as I could clear my mind some
what of all that I had seen and heard in
that dreadful vault I began to consider the
circumstances in which I found myself.
First, however, I inquired secretly and
diligently as to the truth of the statement
that De Garcia had sailed for the Indies,
and to be brief, having the clew, I discov
ered that two days after the date of the
duel I had fought with him a man an
swering to De Garcia's description, though
bearing a different name, had shipped
from Seville in a carak bound for the Ca
nary islands, which carak was there to I
await the arrival of the fleet sailing for
Hispaniola. Indeed from various circum
stances I had little doubt that the man
was none other than De Garcia himself,
which, although I had not thought of it
before, was not strange, seeing that then,
as now, the Indios were the refuge of half
the desperadoes and villains who could no
longer live in Spain. Thither then I made
up my mind to follow him, consoling my
self a little by the thought that at least I
should see new and wonderful countries, J
though how new and wonderful they were
I did not guess.
Now, it remained for me to dispose of
the wealth which had come to me sudden
ly. While I was wondering how I could
place it in safety till my return I heard
by chance that-the Adventuress of Dart
mouth, the same ship in which I had come
to Spain a year before, was again in the
port of Cadiz, and I bethought me that the
best thing I could do with the gold and
other articles of value would bo to ship
them to England, there to be held in trust
for me. So, having dispatched a message
to my friend, the captain of the Adventur
ess, that I had freight of value for him, I
made preparations to depart from Seville
with such speed as I might, and to this !
end I sold my benefactor's house, with
many of the effects, at a price much below
their worth. The most of the books and
plate, together with some other articles, I
kept, and packing them in cases I caused
them to be transported down the river to
Cadiz, to the care of those same agents to j
whom I had received letters from the Yar- *
mouth merchante.
This being done, I followed thither my
self, taking the bulk of my fortune with
me in gold, which I hid artfully in nu
merous packages._1
I came to Cadiz in safety and without
loss of any cf my goods or gold, and tak
ing boat proceeded on board the Adven
turess, where I found her captain, whose
name was Bell, in good health and very
glad to see me. What pleased me more,
however, was that he had three letters for
me, one from my father, one from my sis
ter Mary and one from my betrothed, Lily
Bozard, the only letter I ever received from
her. The contents of these writings were ?
not altogether pleasing, however, for I
learned from them that my father was in
broken health and almost bedridden, and
indeed, though I did not know it for
many years after, he died in Ditchingham
church upon the very day I received his
letter. It was short and sad, and in it he
said he sorrowed much that he had allowed
me to go upon my mission, since he should
see me no more and could only commend
me to the care of the Almighty and pray
him for my safe return. As for Lily's let
ter, which, hearing that the Adventuress
was to sail for Cadiz, she had found means
to dispatch secretly, though it was not
short, it was sad also, and told me that so
soon as my back was turned on homo my
brother Geoffrey had asked her in mar
riage from her father, and that they pushed
the matter strongly, so that her life was
made a misery to her, for my brother way
laid her everywhere, and her father did not
cease to revile her as an obstinate jade
who would fling away her fortune for the
sake of a penniless wanderer.
"But," it went on, "be assured, sweet
heart, that unless they marry me by force,
as they have threatened to do, I will not
budge from my promise. And, Thomas,
should I be thus wedded against my will I
shall not be a wife for long, for though I
am strong I believe that I shall die of
shame and sorrow. It is hard that I should
be thus tormented, and* for one reason
only, that you are not rich. Still I have
good hope that things may better them
selves, for I see that my brother Wilfred is
much inclined toward your sister Mary,
and though he also urges this marriage on
me today she is a friend to both of us and
may be in the way to make terms with
him before she accepts his suit." Then
the writing ended with many tender words
and prayers for my safe return.
Now, all this news gave me much cause
for thought.
Meanwhile I did this: Going to a nota
ry, I caused him to prepare a deed which I
translated into English. By this deed I
vested all my fortune, except .200 pesos
that I kept for my own use, in three per
sons, to hold the same on my behalf till I
came to claim it. These three persons
were my old master, Dr. Grimstone of
Bungay, whom I knew for the honestest
of men; my sister, Mary Wingfield, and my
betrothed, Lily Bozard. I directed them
by this deed, which for greater validity I
signed upon the ship and caused to be wit
nessed by Captain Bell and two other
Englishmen, to deal with the property ac
cording to their discretion, investing not
less than half of it in the purchase of lands
and putting the rest out to interest, which
interest, with the rent of the lands, was to
be paid to the said Lily Bozard for her
own use for so long as she remained un
married.
Also with the deed I executed a will by
which I devised the most of my property
to Lily Bozard, should she be unmarried
at the date of my death, and the residuo
to my sister Mary. In the event of the
marriage or death of Lily, then the whole
was to pass to Mary and her heirs.
These two documents being signed and
sealed, I delivered them, together with all
my treasure and other goods, into the keep
ing of Captain Bell, charging him solemn
ly to hand them and my possessions to Dr.
Grimstone of Bungay, by whom he would
be liberally rewarded. This he promised
to do, though not until he had urged me
almost with tears to accompany them my
self.
With the gold and deeds 1 sent several
letters, to my father, my sister, my broth
er, Dr. Grimstone, Squire Bozard and last
ly to Lily herself. In these letters I gave
an account of my life and fortunes since I
had come to Spain, for I gathered that
others which I had sent had never reached
England, and told them of my resolution
to follow Garcia to the ends of the earth.
''Others," I wrote to Lily, "may think
me a madman thus to postpone or per
chance to lose a happiness which I desire
above anything on earth, but you wh? un
derstand my heart will net blame me.
however much you may grieve for my de
cision. I could never be happy even at
your side if I abandoned my search now.
First must come the toil and then the rest:
first the sorrow and then the joy. Do not
fear for me. I feel that I shall live to re
turn again, and if I do not return at least
I am able to provide for you in such fash
ion that you need never be married again?*
your will. While De Garcia lives I must
follow him."
And here I may state that those letters
and everything else that I sent came safely
to Yarmouth.
And now Lily wept?first for joy be
cause of my good fortune and then for sor
row because I had not come with my treas
ure, and when he had seen all and heard
the deeds read by virtue of which Lily was
a rich woman whether I lived or died the
squire, her father, swore aloud and said
that b .5 had always thought well of me and
kissed his daughter, wishing her joy of her
luck. In short, all were pleased except my
brother, who left the house without a word
and straightway took to evil courses. But
all talked loudly of my madness because I
would not abandon t he chase of my enemy,
but chose to follow him to the far Indies,
though Squire Bozard took comfort from
the thought that whether I lived or died
the money was still his daughter's. Only
Lily spoke up for ine, saying:: "Thomas
has sworn an oath, and he does well to
keep it, for his honor is at stake. Now I
go to wait until he comes to me in this
world or the Dext. "
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Tb?tt Tired Feeling which ie so common
and so overpowering, ie entirely driven off by
Hood's Sarsaparille, the best blood purifier.
Hood's Sarsaparilla overcomes weakness.
Highest of all in Leavening Power.?Latest U. S. Gov't Report
ABSOLUTE!*' PURE