They were just passing under the great arch when a distant cry, or tumult of cries, brought them back to the party.
“What on earth is that!” cried one and another, as a fearful shouting and screaming arose, far away in the direction of the little town. Henrietta came flying from her hidden seat, terrified by the same sounds. In another minute, the church bells were clanging, and the alarm bell in the market-place rang out half-a-dozen times, and then stopped.
“Something is the matter: let us go home,” said Margaret.
The young men said they would see the damsels safe to the house, and then go and learn whether there was a fire which they could help to put out.
“No, no, Richard!” Margaret was whispering, when a footman came running up, with Lady Carewe’s commands that everybody should return that instant. The house was to be shut up and barricaded; for it was too probable that a band of pirates had landed.
“Pirates! In England!” whispered Margaret to her husband. “What can the man mean?”
“He may be right, my love. Come home!” said Richard; and the whole party returned to the mansion, as if they were racing for sport.
The great door was open before they had mounted the steps. Lady Carewe met them in the hall, prepared to direct their movements.
“The defences of the house are good,” she said. “One of the servants, and one of you young men, will suffice to guard us here. The others will, I am sure, hasten to the town, to learn what the mischief really is, and do their best to mend it. Here are your arms, my dear boys. A draught of wine, and then no delay!”
She handed the wine-cup to John Eliot, saying with a smile that Mr. Knightley should be served last, as he was not going forth. She claimed him to act as garrison. Margaret here seized and kissed her aunt’s hand. Richard remonstrated in favour of Harry,—his mother’s only son: but her mind was made up: she declared that the horses were waiting, and hurried away the three young men, with all the out and indoor-servants that could be mustered.
But for the care that the trembling children required, all who remained behind would have spent the time in looking and listening for signs from the town. Lady Carewe did not insist on even the youngest going to bed. She encouraged them to eat, she let little Lucy and Kitty hide their faces in her bosom; and she roused Nathanael’s spirit by discoursing of the honour to brave men of living in troubled times, if they found out their own proper duty, and did it well. The boy had looked half-anxious and half-frightened while in the hall; but his eyes shone in the firelight as he asked his aunt whether she and all of them were living in troubled times now.
“What think you of this night, Nathanael? At the year’s end I will ask you what you think of this very year. Yes, our country is in trouble; and it will be in days of trouble to come that every brave man will have hard things to do and to bear. Thou art like thy father, my boy, as I see thee now. Only be like thy father when it comes to thy turn to be tried, and we shall have one happiness, whatever comes to pass.”
“I wish there was something that I could do,” the boy sighed, looking round him.
“There is something, at this moment,” the aunt declared. “Learn for us whether anything can be seen or heard from the top of the house. Richard and Margaret are probably on the leads. Find them, and bring us the news. You know the way to the leads?”
“I will find it out,” said the boy, stoutly, while his sisters trembled in the good aunt’s embrace.
Richard and Margaret were silent when Nathanael joined them. The cries from below had struck them dumb. There was not much to be heard now; the lights seemed to be all collected on the beach, and the confusion was subsiding. By the time the boy was turning to go down, the tramp of horses was heard, and Richard hailed from the lea.
“Pirates!” was the reply. “A crew of Turks, the people say. They are off. They were gone before the country could rise.”
When the party were collected round the fire, it was midnight: but nobody thought of going to bed. These pirates had landed at the fishermen’s place, and in the fishermen’s manner; and before the poor people could collect their wits, or consult, the tawny strangers from Tunis had cowed them all. John Eliot told the news, without preface, that they had carried off twenty-six children.
A shriek from the little girls showed him how indiscreet he had been: and he tried to make up for it. He assured them that the pirates were all gone; and if they were not, he would take care of everybody that was under his roof. He was master here, the young gentleman was pleased to say; and every guest of his was as safe as the king himself. However, the ruffians were far enough off by this time. He had himself seen their boats scudding away to their ship; and the ship must be now almost out of sight.
“But they may come back!” said some one.
“This is the last place now that they will ever visit,” John declared. “No devil in hell would come a second time within hearing of the agony of those mothers. I never thought . . . .”
Lady Carewe interrupted him by rising, and saying,
“We will pray for all who are in sorrow and in fear:” and then there was silence till the servants came in for worship. A watch was afterwards appointed for the night; and all the rest went to their beds. How much anybody slept was never inquired.
In the morning, John Eliot and his groom rode away for Buckinghamshire,—to inform Mr. Hampden and his friends of the outrage. At Port Eliot all was tumult. Nothing could now be done, or could have been done from the first, in the way of rescue of the poor captives. There was no guard in the bay,—no defence along the coast. The repeated petitions of the Cornish people to Government had been utterly neglected, till they entreated to be allowed to provide for their own defence with the money claimed by the king for the purpose; and this request was treated as insolence and disobedience, if not rank treason.
There was something of what the Court would