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Lesio.—“Hast heard the news, Vesca?”
Vesca.—“What news?”
L.—The Pole's escaped, and carried with him my master's daughter.”

V.—“The Saints! you jest, Lesio!”
L.—“'Tis true as the cross. My master has ta'en horse and half a
score of followers and spurred in pursuit.”
V.—“Heaven grant he catch them not.”
L.—“Amen!”

An alarm—discovery—result—pursuit.

We will now return to Lafitte, whom we left
lying in troubled sleep on one of the rude benches
in the cave upon which he had thrown himself, after
having, with a severe struggle between his passions
and desire to act honourably towards his fair captive,
decided upon giving her and her lover their
freedom, and convey them to Port au Prince in the
morning. His sleep though deep, was still tortured
with dreams.

A fourth time he dreamed. He was upon the
deck of his vessel, contending hand to hand with an
officer. At length he disarmed him, and passed his
cutlass through his breast, from which the blood
flowed as he drew out the steel. He uttered a cry
of horror! It was the bosom of Constanza! A loud
voice rung in his ears, which sounded like a chorus
of triumph at the fatal deed. He sprung to his feet,

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and the cry “To arms—to arms!” rung loudly
in his ears.

“To arms, señor,” shouted his lieutenant—“a
boat is in the passage—we may be surprised!”

“The outlaw, shouting to the men who slept
about him to arm and follow, hastened to the
terrace, where two or three of the buccaneers had
collected.

“Awake the crew in the schooner,” he shouted.
“Where is the guard? Ho! there! Ho! the guard!
where is he?” he sternly demanded.

His commands, issued in the cavern, had been
followed by a hasty and simultaneous rising of
the sleeping crew, who had not heard the alarm
given by Théodore, who, leaving a recess within
the cavern where he slept, had gone forth to stand
his watch, when the boat of the fugitives in the
passage caught his quick eye, and he instantly
flew to communicate his discovery to Lafitte.

There was now a bustle of preparation on board
the schooner, when Lafitte gave orders to the crew
to ascend to the platform and defend it. Having
lost so many men in the severe fight of the previous
night, he did not wish to expose the lives of his men
needlessly.

“Up! who is that lagger there?” he demanded,
as the form of the guard lying on the quarter-deck
caught his eye.

“It is Diego, señor—he is dead, or dead drunk,”
replied one of the men.

“Drunk? Throw him down the hatches, and
leave him to the knives of the enemy, if there be
any.”

“Théodore, how do you make that boat? you
said you saw her in the passage;” he inquired,
turning quickly to the youth: “I can see nothing.”

“Look sir! there! just beyond the farthest rock

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—see! she has a sail, which I did not before discover—
she must have set it since.”

“That boat is not approaching,” replied Lafitte,
after looking for a moment in the direction indicated
by Théodore, “she is outside, and standing to the
south. What can it mean?”

“Whoever it is, señor, they seem to have been
ashore on mischief!” said one of the crew. “Here
is Gil also drunk or dead.”

The pirate turned as he spoke, and saw the body
of the guard, insensible where he had fallen.

“Ho! a light here. He is warm,” he said, placing
his hand upon him. “Faugh! he breathes like
a distillery. Up, brute, up!” he cried fiercely; but
the drunkard remained immoveable. With an execration,
the chief raised him from the ground with
an iron grasp upon his throat, and hurled him over
the precipice into the sea.

“Say you the watch is drunk too?” he inquired,
as the waters closed over the body of his victim.

“Yes sir, as dead as the guard;” replied the man
whom he addressed.

“By the holy cross! I would like to know what
this means!” he shouted.

“Diable! Now I think, señor,” said one of the
men; “somebody stepped on my hand while I was
asleep, and I afterward dreamed of hearing a boat
leave the schooner.”

“Fool! dolt! dreaming idiot! there may have
been good cause for your dream—you deserve to
be swung from the yard arm,” he said, striking the
man with the hilt of his cutlass. “But why do I
dally—light that match—depress that piece Theodore,
if you see the boat.”

“Yes, señor!” replied the youth in a voice which
had lost its former animation. He now began to
suspect whom the boat contained, having, as the
man spoke of his dreams, cast his eyes over the

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terrace and discovered that the schooner's boat was
gone. Obeying the command of his chief, he levelled
the gun high over the true mark which was
now visible as the white sail of the boat gleamed in
the rising moon—while his bosom beat with apprehension
lest his good intention should be unsuccessful.

The chief seized the match and fired the piece,
the report of which reverberated among the cliffs,
and died away like distant thunder along the caverned
shores of the bay.

“A useless shot—they still move on,” he exclaimed.
“See! the white sail glances in the
moonlight. Do better than that.” The gun was
eagerly depressed and fired by Lafitte himself, with
no better result, and in a few moments the object of
their attention and alarm, was entirely invisible in
the haze and darkness of the sea.

“I would give my right hand to know what this
means!” said the pirate musingly.

“The schooner's boat is gone sir!” said one of
the men hastily.

“Gone!” he exclaimed, springing to the verge of
the terrace—“Gone indeed! hell and devils! it is
so!” he shouted, as apparently a new thought flashed
across his mind. “That light here!” and seizing
a lamp from one of his men, he rushed through the
long passage into the inner cavern with rapidity,
and entered the chamber recently occupied by his
prisoners.

It was silent and deserted. He looked into every
recess—sprung through the breach into the opposite
room, and called upon their names, yet the
echoes of his own voice and footsteps only replied.
Again he traversed the apartments, scaled the walls
and searched every niche and corner of the room,
before he was thoroughly convinced of the flight of
his captives. Then he dashed the lamp upon the

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pavement, and muttered between his clenched teeth
deep execrations.

For several minutes he paced the cavern like a
madman; gradually he became calmer and spoke:

“They have escaped me then! she whom I
worshipped has doubted my faith—no! no!” he
added quickly, “she has not; it was he—he! I
will pay him back this deed. Curse, curse the
fates that are ever crossing me! Here I have been
humbling my passion to his—schooling my mind to
virtuous resolves, for the happiness of this woman
who despises me. For the bliss of this titled fool
who doubts my word, I have let slip the fairest
prize that ever fell into the possession of man. But
the charm is broken—now will I win her! There
are now no terms between him and me. I will
pursue him to the death, and her I will win and
wear. She shall yet become the bride of the detested
outlaw.”

“Ho!” he shouted, without having formed any
decisive plan to pursue with regard to the fugitives—
“Cast off and make sail on the schooner—spring!
we must overhaul that boat. Lively! men, lively!”
he added, as hastily issuing from the cavern, he energetically
repeated his orders for immediately getting
under weigh.

The morning sun shone upon the sails of the pirate's
schooner, many leagues from the point of her
departure, crowding all sail and standing towards
the south and east as the most probable course taken
by those of whom Lafitte was in pursuit.

The outlaw was upon the deck which he had
not quitted since the schooner left the basin, his eager
eye scanning the faint lines of the horizon.

“Do you see nothing yet, Théodore?” he inquired
of his young protege, whom he had sent aloft—
“See you nothing?”

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“No, señor, the sun is just lifting the haze from
the water—you can see better from the deck.”

“Sail ahead!” shouted a man on the forecastle.

“I see it,” cried Théodore, “as the haze rises—
it is ahead, just off St. Marc's town. If it is the
boat we seek it is useless to pursue it, as it has at
least two leagues the start of us, and unless we take
her out from under the guns of the town we must
give her up.”

“If it were from under the guns of the Moro, I
would take her out,” exclaimed the buccaneer chief.
“Set the fore top mast studding sail—we will
yet reach them before they get under the land,” he
added, bringing his spy-glass to his eye.

“It is the boat!” he exclaimed joyfully after a
moment's scrutiny; “I would know my little gig as
far as I could see her. It is the fugitives! they
have hauled their wind and are passing the port no
doubt for Port au Prince.”

“Now favour me, hell or heaven, and I will yet
have my revenge!” he added through his shut teeth;
and under additional sail the pirate dashed on after
the boat of the fugitives.

Théodore descended to the deck after the discovery
of the boat, with a thoughtful brow and a gravity
unusual to his years and to the individual, who
was naturally gay and light hearted, while a vein of
delicacy, high moral sentiments, and an honourable
feeling in spite of his education formed the basis of
his character. Perhaps, however—although gratitude
in every shape should be a virtue; perhaps, it
was shaded by a grateful attachment to his benefactor
which influenced him to do that against which
his heart and judgment revolted. Sometimes he
had modified his obedience to the instructions of his
friend and chief, and occasionally he had dissuaded

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him from insisting upon the act, or when this was
impossible to appoint some other agent. Whenever
he thought his own presence would diminish the
amount of human suffering, he would often with the
hope of doing good when evil was intended, overcome
his own repngnance, and himself voluntarily
become the agent of the outlaw.

Knowing the character of his protegé, and desiring
when he parted from Constanza to render her
situation as comfortable as circumstances would admit
of, Lafitte had appointed his young friend to
the pleasing and congenial duty of protecting her to
Kingston. How he executed this task is well
known.

In the fair Castillian he had taken a deep and
lively interest; and her helpless situation, her extreme
beauty and gentleness had captivated him
and made him, if not her lover, her enthusiastic devotee.
Her image was ever present in the waking
hours of the romantic youth, and he could never
picture a paradise without filling it with angels
whose bright faces were only some beautiful modification
of that of the Spanish maiden.

When the shipwreck of the brig again threw her
into the power of Lafitte, knowing his impulsive
character, Théodore trembled for her happiness.
In the silence of his own bosom he had sworn that
he would protect her from insult, even to the shedding
of the blood of his benefactor. When he discovered
the absence of the boat and her escape, his
heart leaped with joy, and the darkness of the night
alone kept him from betraying his emotion upon his
tell-tale features.

Appearing to second Lafitte's anxiety to overtake
them, he did all in his power to retard the preparations
for commencing the pursuit. During the dark
hours of the morning as he leaned over the

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quarter-rail watching with a trembling heart the indistinct
horizon, fearing to look lest he should discover the
boat, yet by a kind of fascination constantly keeping
his eyes wandering over the water, his thoughts
were busy in devising means to prevent the recapture
of the lovers.

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