when zeppa, as related in a previous chapter, staggered up the mountain side with richard rosco in his arms, his great strength was all but exhausted, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded at last, before night-fall, in laying his burden on the couch in his cave.
then, for the first time, he seemed to have difficulty in deciding what to do. now, at last, the pirate was in his power—he could do to him what he pleased! as he thought thus he turned a look of fierce indignation upon him. but, even as he gazed, the look faded, and was replaced by one of pity, for he could not help seeing that the wretched man was suffering intolerable anguish, though no murmur escaped from his tightly-compressed lips.
“slay me, in god’s name, kill me at once, zeppa,” he gasped, “and put me out of torment.”
“poor man! poor rosco!” returned the madman in a gentle voice, “i thought to have punished thee, but god wills it otherwise.”
he said no more, but rose hastily and went into the bush. returning in a few moments with a bundle of herbs, he gathered some sticks and kindled a fire. a large earthenware pot stood close to the side of the cave’s entrance—a clumsy thing, made by himself of some sort of clay. this he filled with water, put the herbs in, and set it on the fire. soon he had a poultice spread on a broad leaf which, when it was cold, he applied to one of the pirate’s dreadfully burnt feet. then he spread another poultice, with which he treated the other foot.
what the remedy was that zeppa made use of on this occasion is best known to himself; we can throw no light on the subject. neither can we say whether the application was or was not in accordance with the practice of the faculty, but certain it is that rosco’s sufferings were immediately assuaged, and he soon fell into a tranquil sleep.
not so the madman, who sat watching by his couch. poor zeppa’s physical sufferings and exertion had proved too much for him; the strain on his shattered nerves had been too severe, and a burning fever was now raging within him, so that the delirium consequent on disease began to mingle, so to speak, with his insanity.
he felt that something unusual was going on within him. he tried to restrain himself, and chain down his wandering, surging thoughts, but the more he sought to hold himself down, the more did a demon—who seemed to have been especially appointed for the purpose—cast his mental fastenings adrift.
at last he took it into his head that the slumbering pirate had bewitched him. as this idea gained ground and the internal fires increased, the old ideas of revenge returned, and he drew the knife which hung at his belt, gazing furtively at the sleeper as he did so.
but the better nature within the man maintained a fierce conflict with the worse.
“he murdered my son—my darling orley!” murmured the madman, as he felt the keen edge and point of his knife, and crept towards the sleeper, while a fitful flicker of the dying fire betrayed the awful light that seemed to blaze in his eyes. “he carried me from my home! he left marie to die in hopeless grief! ha! ha! ha! oh god! keep me back—back from this.”
the noise awoke rosco, who sat up and gazed at zeppa in horror, for he saw at a glance that a fit of his madness must have seized him.
“zeppa!” he exclaimed, raising himself with difficulty on both hands, and gazing sternly in the madman’s face.
“ha!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly throwing his knife on the ground within rosco’s reach, “see, i scorn to take advantage of your unarmed condition. take that and defend yourself. i will content myself with this.”
he caught up the heavy staff which he was in the habit of carrying with him in his mountain rambles. at the same instant rosco seized the knife and flung it far into the bush.
“see! i am still unarmed,” he said.
“true, but you are not the less guilty, rosco, and you must die. it is my duty to kill you.”
he advanced with the staff up-raised.
“stay! let us consider before you strike. are you not a self-appointed executioner?”
the question was well put. the madman lowered the staff to consider. instantly the pirate made a plunge at and caught it. zeppa strove to wrench it from his grasp, but the pirate felt that his life might depend on his retaining hold, and, in his extremity, was endued with almost supernatural strength. in the fierce struggles that ensued, the embers of the fire were scattered, and the spot reduced to almost total darkness. during the unequal conflict, the pirate, who could only get upon his knees, was swept and hurled from side to side, but still he grasped the staff with vice-like power to his breast. even in that fearful moment the idea, which had already occurred to him, of humouring his antagonist gained force. he suddenly loosed his hold. zeppa staggered backward, recovered himself, sprang forward, and aimed a fearful blow at his adversary, who suddenly fell flat down. the staff passed harmlessly over him and was shattered to pieces on the side of the cave.
“ha! ha!” laughed the pirate lightly, as he sat up again, “you see, zeppa, that providence is against you. how else could i, a helpless cripple, have held my own against you? and see, the very weapon you meant to use is broken to pieces. come now, delay this execution for a little, and let us talk together about this death which you think is due. there is much to be said about death, you know, and i should like to get to understand it better before i experience it.”
“there is reason in that, rosco,” said zeppa, sitting down on the ground by the side of the pirate, and leaning his back against the rock. “you have much need to consider death, for after death comes the judgment, and none of us can escape that.”
“true, zeppa, and i should not like to face that just now, for i am not fit to die, although, as you truly say, i deserve death. i have no hesitation in admitting that,” returned the pirate, with some bitterness; “i deserve to die, body and soul, and, after all, i don’t see why i should seek so earnestly to delay the righteous doom.”
“right, rosco, right; you talk sense now, the doom is well deserved. why, then, try to prevent me any longer from inflicting it when you know it is my duty to do so?”
“because,” continued the pirate, who felt that to maintain the conflict even with words was too much for his exhausted strength, “because i have heard that god is merciful.”
“merciful!” echoed zeppa. “of course he is. have you not heard that his mercy is so great that he has provided a way of escape for sinners—through faith in his own dear son?”
“it does not, however, seem to be a way of escape for me,” said the pirate, letting himself sink back on his couch with a weary sigh.
“yes, it is! yes, it is!” exclaimed zeppa eagerly, as he got upon the familiar theme; “the offer is to the chief of sinners, ‘whosoever will,’ ‘turn ye, turn ye, for why will ye die?’”
“tell me about it” said rosco faintly, as the other paused.
zeppa had delayed a moment in order to think for his disordered mind had been turned into a much-loved channel, that of preaching the gospel to inquiring sinners. for many years he had been training himself in the knowledge of the scriptures, and, being possessed of a good memory, he had got large portions of it by heart. gathering together the embers of the scattered fire, he sat down again, and, gazing thoughtfully at the flickering flames, began to point out the way of salvation to the pirate.
sleep—irresistible sleep—gradually overcame the latter; still the former went on repeating long passages of god’s word. at last he put a question, and, not receiving an answer, looked earnestly into the face of his enemy.
“ah! poor man. he sleeps. god cannot wish me to slay him until i have made him understand the gospel. i will delay—till to-morrow.”
before the morrow came zeppa had wandered forth among the cliffs and gorges of his wild home, with the ever-increasing fires of fever raging in his veins.
sometimes his madness took the form of wildest fury, and, grasping some bush or sapling that might chance to be near, he would struggle with it as with a fiend until utter exhaustion caused him to fall prostrate on the ground, where he would lie until partial rest and internal fire gave him strength again to rise. at other times he would run up and down the bills like a greyhound, bounding from rock to rock, and across chasms where one false step would have sent him headlong to destruction.
frequently he ran down to the beach and plunged into the sea, where he would swim about aimlessly until exhaustion sent him to the shore, where he would fall down, as at other times, and rest—if such repose could be so styled.
thus he continued fighting for his life for several days.
during that time richard rosco lay in the cave almost starving.
at first he had found several cocoa-nuts, the hard shells of which had been broken by zeppa, and appeased his hunger with these, but when they were consumed, he sought about the cave for food in vain. fortunately he found a large earthenware pot—evidently a home-made one—nearly full of water, so that he was spared the agony of thirst as well as hunger.
when he had scraped the shells of the cocoa-nuts perfectly clean, the pirate tried to crawl forth on hands and knees, to search for food, his feet being in such a state that it was not possible for him to stand, much less to walk. but zeppa had long ago cleared away all the wild fruits that grew in the neighbourhood of his cave, so that he found nothing save a few wild berries. still, in his condition, even these were of the utmost value: they helped to keep him alive. another night passed, and the day came. he crept forth once more, but was so weakened by suffering and want that he could not extend his explorations so far as before, and was compelled to return without having tasted a mouthful. taking a long draught of water, he lay down, as he firmly believed, to die.
and as he lay there his life rose up before him as an avenging angel, and the image of his dead mother returned with a reproachful yet an appealing look in her eyes. he tried to banish the one and to turn his thoughts from the other, but failed, and at last in an agony of remorse, shouted the single word “guilty!”
it seemed as if the cry had called zeppa from the world of spirits—to which rosco believed he had fled—for a few minutes afterwards the madman approached his mountain-home, with the blood still boiling in his veins. apparently he had forgotten all about the pirate, for he was startled on beholding him.
“what! still there? i thought i had killed you.”
“i wish you had, zeppa. it would have been more merciful than leaving me to die of hunger here.”
“are you prepared to die now?”
“yes, but for god’s sake give me something to eat first. after that i care not what you do to me.”
“miserable man, death is sufficient for you. i have neither command nor desire to torture. you shall have food immediately.”
so saying, zeppa re-entered the bush. in less than half-an-hour he returned with several cocoa-nuts and other fruits, of which rosco partook with an avidity that told its own tale.
“now,” said zeppa, rising, when rosco had finished, “have you had enough?”
“no,” said the pirate, quickly, “not half enough. go, like a good fellow, and fetch me more.”
zeppa rose at once and went away. while he was gone the fear of being murdered again took possession of rosco. he felt that his last hour was approaching, and, in order to avoid his doom if possible, crawled away among the bushes and tried to hide himself. he was terribly weak, however, and had not got fifty yards away when he fell down utterly exhausted.
he heard zeppa return to the cave, and listened with beating heart.
“hallo! where are you?” cried the madman.
then, receiving no answer, he burst into a long, loud fit of laughter, which seemed to freeze the very marrow in the pirate’s bones.
“ha! ha!” he shouted, again and again, “i knew you were a dream, i felt sure of it—ha! ha! and now this proves it. and i’m glad you were a dream, for i did not want to kill you, rosco, though i thought it my duty to do so. it was a dream—thank god, it was all a dream!”
zeppa did not end again with wild laughter, but betook himself to earnest importunate prayer, during which rosco crept, by slow degrees, farther and farther away, until he could no longer hear the sound of his enemy’s voice.
now, it was while this latter scene had been enacting, that orlando and the faithful negro set out on their search into the mountain.
at first they did not speak, and ebony, not feeling sure how his young master relished his company, kept discreetly a pace or two in rear. after they had crossed the plain, however, and begun to scale the steep sides of the hills, his tendency towards conversation could not be restrained.
“does you t’ink, massa orley, that hims be you fadder?”
“i think so, ebony, indeed i feel almost sure of it.”
thus encouraged, the negro ranged up alongside.
“an’ does you t’ink hims mad?”
“i hope not. i pray not; but i fear that he—”
“hims got leettle out ob sorts,” said the sympathetic ebony, suggesting a milder state of things.
as orlando did not appear to derive much consolation from the suggestion, ebony held his tongue for a few minutes.
presently his attention was attracted to a sound in the underwood near them.
“hist! massa orley. i hear somet’ing.”
“so do i, ebony,” said the youth, pausing for a moment to listen; “it must be some sort of bird, for there can be no wild animals left by the natives in so small an island.”
as he spoke something like a low moan was heard. the negro’s mouth opened, and the whites of his great eyes seemed to dilate.
“if it am a bird, massa, hims got a mos’ awful voice. mus’ have cotched a drefful cold!”
the groan was repeated as he spoke, and immediately after they observed a large, sluggish-looking animal, advancing through the underwood.
“what a pity we’s not got a gun!” whispered ebony. “if we’s only had a spear or a pitchfork, it’s besser than nuffin.”
“lucky that you have nothing of the sort, else you’d commit murder,” said orlando, advancing. “don’t you see—it is a man!”
the supposed animal started as the youth spoke, and rose on his knees with a terribly haggard and anxious look.
“richard rosco!” exclaimed orley, who recognised the pirate at the first glance.
but rosco did not reply. he, too, had recognised orley, despite the change in his size and appearance, and believed him to be a visitant from the other world, an idea which was fostered by the further supposition that ebony was the devil keeping him company.
orlando soon relieved him, however. the aspect of the pirate, so haggard and worn out, as he crawled on his hands and knees, was so dreadful that a flood of pity rushed into his bosom.
“my poor fellow,” he said, going forward and laying his hand gently on his shoulder, “this is indeed a most unexpected, most amazing sight. how came you here?”
“then you were not drowned?” gasped the pirate, instead of answering the question.
“no, thank god. i was not drowned,” said orley, with a sad smile. “but again i ask, how came you here?”
“never mind me,” said rosco hurriedly, “but go to your father.”
“my father! do you know, then, where he is?” cried orlando, with sudden excitement.
“yes. he is up there—not far off. i have just escaped from him. he is bent on taking my life. he saved me from the savages. he is mad—with fever—and stands terribly in need of help.”
bewildered beyond expression by these contradictory statements, orlando made no attempt to understand, but exclaimed—
“can you guide us to him?”
“you see,” returned the pirate sadly, “i cannot even rise to my feet. the savages were burning me alive when your father came to my rescue. the flesh is dropping from the bones. i cannot help you.”
“kin you git on my back?” asked ebony. “you’s a good lift, but i’s awful strong.”
“i will try,” returned rosco, “but you will have to protect me from zeppa if he sees me, for he is bent on taking my life. he thinks that you were drowned—as, indeed, so did i—the time that you were thrown overboard without my knowledge—mind that, without my knowledge—and your father in his madness thinks he is
commissioned by god to avenge your death. perhaps, when he sees you alive, he may change his mind, but there is no depending on one who is delirious with fever. he will probably still be in the cave when we reach it.”
“we will protect you. get up quickly, and show us the way to the cave.”
in a moment the stout negro had the pirate on his broad shoulders, and, under his guidance, mounted the slightly-marked path that led to zeppa’s retreat.
no words were spoken by the way. orlando was too full of anxious anticipation to speak. the negro was too heavily weighted to care about conversation just then, and rosco suffered so severely from the rough motions of his black steed that he was fain to purse his lips tightly to prevent a cry of pain.
on reaching the neighbourhood of the cave the pirate whispered to ebony to set him down.
“you will come in sight of the place the moment you turn round yonder cliff. it is better that i should remain here till the meeting is over. i hear no sound, but doubtless zeppa is lying down by this time.”
the negro set his burden on the ground, and rosco crept slowly into the bush to hide, while the others hurried forward in the direction pointed out to them.
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