CHAPTER X. THE DEN OF THE WOLF.
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WILDE had accurately narrated what had
taken place between himself and Earle.
The sailor by almost superhuman efforts
had succeeded in coming up with
his opponent just as Wilde emerged half dead
with cold and exhaustion from the blinding
surf; had grappled with him, intent alone on
arresting his further progress; and the powerful
gamekeeper thus assailed by his mortal
foe, had just strength enough to draw his knife
and strike at Earle as the latter clutched him.
The knife passed through the fleshy part of
the sailor's arm, and inflicted a painful wound.
It was far from disabling him however, and
it was the darkness alone which saved Wilde.
He tore away from Earle as he struck,
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pushing back his opponent as he did so; then, with
a single bound, he disappeared in the gloom,
running rapidly over the sandy shore, which
gave back no sound, and enabled him to evade
his pursuer.
Earle had rushed after him, but all was in
vain. Wilde had vanished, and no sound indicated
the direction in which he had goue. In
ten minutes the sailor gave up the pursuit, and
stopped, panting and nearly exhausted from the
blood which he had lost from his wound.
He looked around him. All was dark. A
few lights glimmered in the village of Oldport.
He dared not venture there in his full uniform
of a captain in the French navy; and looking
for the bark which had brought him, he could
nowhere discover it.
“One thing only is left,” he muttered,—“to
go to my mother.”
And traversing the surge-lashed shore, along
the edge of the water, he reached the narrow
path running along the ledge of rocks—then
that which wound up the preipice to the hut of
the recluse.
No one but a sailor, sure-footed and accustoned
to work with hands and feet in the dark,
could have found his way safely up the dizzy
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path toward the summit. More than once he
passed near the very brink of the precipice;
a step out of the pathway, would have hurled
him a thousand feet down into the boiling
abyss. But he went on safely. No chamois
could have traversed the narrow way more
rapidly and surely. Soon he reached the last
and most dangerous point; passed it; reached
the summit, and hastened to the hut of the
recluse.
No light was visible. The spot seemed deserted.
Earle struck the door with his clenched hand.
It flew open, but within all was darkness and
silence.
He entered. A strange sinking of the heart
suddenly assailed him. Where was his mother?
Why this darkness and silence, instead of
her smile and warm greeting?
He went toward the narrow bed, and felt for
his mother there. She might be asleep.
The bed was vacant. The cold pillow was
round and unpressed.
She was gone!
Earle sat down, faint in body and mind. A
sombre foreboding siezed upon him. What was
the origin of this absence?
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Suddenly he rose with a hoarse cry.
“That man!—that wretch! He has probably
murdered her! He has discovered her!
He came here, I now remember, in search of
me! He sent to France to steal that proof of
his marriage! He has secured both obstacles
to his new marriage,—the record, and the person
of the first wife!”
Earle pressed both hands to his forehead, and
staggered.
What should he do?
With weak and uncertain steps, but a wild
excitement in his breast, he tottered out of the
hut, went toward the precipice, traversed the
dizzy brink with the instinct of a blind man, descended
the path, reached the shore, then,
scarce knowing what he did, he staggered on
toward the village.
All at once there rose before him in the darkness
a weird-looking object.
It was the hull of a wrecked vessel, turned
upward and fitted up as a rude dwelling. A
ray of moonlight as red as blood enabled him
to make out its surroundings. These were nets,
an old anchor, a coil of rope, and an old buoy.
The door was a hole scarce large enough for a
man to crawl into. It was open now, and Earle
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saw crouching over a few embers, a gigantic
figure.
Something in this figure struck him as familiar.
He tottered forward and looked in. The
figure raised its head. By the glimmer of the
embers Earle recognized Goliath.
The next moment he staggered to the doorway,
uttered a low cry, and fell forward into
the arms of the chief of the wolves, who had
recognized him, and drew him into his rude
dwelling, radiant with joy at his return.
“You be come up out of the foam, master!”
Earle tried to reply, but fainted.
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1871], Out of the foam: a novel. (Carleton, New York) [word count] [eaf517T].
