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Lafitte and Theodore—persuasion—a victory—change of
purpose.

When morning showed clearly the object of
their pursuit, the cry of the sailor, which made the
blood of Lafitte leap, sent the life-current of the
youth's veins back to his heart chilled and dead.

“What means that sad countenance, my young
child of the sea?” inquired Lafitte, playfully, as, in
pacing with an elastic step, fore and aft the quarter-deck,
he stopped and tapped lightly the shoulder
of the boy who was leaning thoughtfully against
the rigging, gazing upon the glimmering sail of the
boat diminished in the distance to a mere sparkle
upon the water.

“Want of sleep has paled you, Théodore. Go
below and turn in, and when the watch is next called
you shall once more become fair lady's page. Ha!
your blood mounts quickly to your cheek! Nay,
never be ashamed to be esquire of dames. It is the
best school of gallantry for a spirited youth! Silent,
sir page? and pale again!—but I crave your pardon,
my boy, I meant not to jest with you,” he

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added as the youth's emotion although from a different
cause than he imagined, visibly increased.

“You do not jest with me, señor, my more than
parent; but there is something weighs heavily upon
my spirits. I cannot throw it off!” he replied in a
serious and impressive tone of voice.

“What is it, Théodore? tell me freely. It
must indeed be heavy to chill you thus; you are not
wont to give room to sadness without cause—a deep
cause must there be for this. Tell me freely what
so saddens your spirit, you have never yet asked
favour of me in vain. Surrounded as I am by men
who fear, but love me not, there is happiness in
feeling that there is one whose attachment for me
is sincere.

“You have been a greater source of happiness to
me since first I took you from amidst the ocean
than words can express. Till then my heart was
like a wild vine running riot upon the dank earth;
but you, my child, have caught up at least one tendril,
and so trained, nourished and twined it about
your heart, unpromising as it may have seemed, it
bears some fruit of human affection.

“It tells too what the whole vine might have
become.” he continued sadly, “had it not been
trampled upon and laid waste by him who should
have cherished it, instead of being sought out and
nurtured by the hand of affection. To all but you
I am cast out as a loathsome and poisonous weed;
and if I did not know that one human breast knew
me better, I should be, if you can believe it, a much
worse man than I am. It is this little tendril your
love has nurtured which binds me to my species—
which makes me not forget that I am a man!”

“There is one other breast that does you equal
justice, señor?” said the boy inquiringly and with
embarrassment, as the outlaw turned away and
walked the deck in silence.

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“One other! what—whose?” none but the all-seeing
Virgin, who knows me by my heart, and not
by my actions, as men know me. It is the will, not
the deed, boy, which makes the guilt.”

“Father Arnaud whom you sent for to Havana
to confess the men, says differently,” remarked
Théodore.

“No matter what he said,” replied the chief hastily.
“The father was bigoted, and loved his wine
too well for his doctrine, to be seasoned with the
right spirit. It is the will—”

“Ha! we gain on the boat rapidly,” he said interrupting
himself, and looking out forward, and
then continued:

“It is the will, that stamps the guilt or innocence
of an action. If I, waking suddenly from a dream
discharge a pistol at the phantom which scared me,
and pierce your heart, I am absolved by heaven of
murder. I had not the will to slay you;—there is
no guilt involved in the act. But if I resolve to kill
you and place the dagger in my slave's hand, and
he strikes home the blow which releases your soul,
then I am guilty, though my hand struck not the
blow. No, no!” he added with energy, “I am not
so guilty before heaven as I seem. God is merciful.
I would rather He and all heaven should read
my heart than man—man! guiltiest of all, yet the
most unforgiving of guilt;” and his lip writhed with
a scornful smile as he spoke.

“But, señor,” inquired his companion, his mind
diverted from his anxiety for the fugitives by the
language of his friend—“you have been engaged
in scenes of strife and carnage; was not the blow
the agent of the will at such times?”

“Not always—no!” he replied, after a moment's
reflection, apparently appealing to memory—“with
but two exceptions have I voluntarily and

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deliberately spilled human life; for these I am accountable.
May God in his mercy, assoilzie me for them!
But am I accountable, strictly, for impulses which
are beyond my control—which are not truly my
own acts? Seldom have I done deeds of violence,
where I did not regret the fatality which impelled
me to do them—revolting at the act, of which at the
same time I felt the necessity.”

“Then you resolve all actions into one single
cause—irresistible fate—dividing them into three
kinds—accidental, impulsive, deliberative. But
shall we not change the subject sir?” he added abruptly,
as he thought of the fugitives.

“There is one, who regards you with the same
feelings I do; she—”

“She? Whom mean you? No, you do not mean
her!”

“I mean the Castillian.”

“Say you so, Théodore?” he said, grasping his
arm. “You have been much with her. Do you
know her heart?” and he looked steadily and eagerly
into his face.

“It is not of her heart I speak, señor, but of her
expressed opinions.” The pirate's brow changed,
but he listened in silence. “I have heard your
name frequently upon her lips, and never as the
world uses it. She spoke of you with interest.—”

“Ha!”

“The interest she would feel for a brother;” he
continued, without noticing the interruption. “She
asked me of your character, the tone of your mind,
and indeed all I knew of you.”

“And how did you speak of me to her?” he inquired
eagerly.

“As I can only speak of my benefactor,” he said
taking and warmly pressing his hand; “As I, and
no one else know you.”

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“Thank you, thank you, Théodore;” he said,
moved at the generous sincerity of the boy. “And
what said she further?”

“She alluded to her capture—to her interview
with you; and she spoke of and enlarged upon your
generous nature; she said she could never cease to
remember you with kindness, and that next to the
stranger count, you shared a place in her heart.”

“Said she so much?” he exclaimed, his eye
lighting with hope. “Prosper me Heaven! and she
may yet, voluntarily be mine!”

“But the Count D'Oyley, sir!” said Théodore
with emphasis.

Abruptly changing his tone and manner, which
were softened by his conversation with his young
friend he exclaimed almost fiercely—

“And what of him? Has he not outraged me?
has he not stolen off, when my plighted word that
he should have safe conduct to Port au Prince was
yet warm upon his ear? what shall bind me to
terms of courtesy to him? We gain upon them
bravely;” he added eagerly, as he turned in his
walk, and looked steadily ahead. “I almost fancy
I can see the mantilla of the maiden floating in
the breeze.”

“And what is your purpose with the lady sir, if
we recapture her?” inquired the youth with firmness
and respect.

Lafitte started at this abrupt question, and his
face flushed and paled again before he spoke.

“Purpose? purpose? purpose sure enough!” he
slowly articulated.

“Señor, you would not do the sweet lady harm?”

“Harm! what mean you sir?” he said, turning
fiercely upon the boy and grasping his cutlass hilt.

“Forgive me señor! but rather than so gentle a
creature should come to harm, I would be willing”

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he continued, mildly and firmly, “to pour out my
heart's best blood.”

“Do you dare me to my face, Théodore? do
you presume upon my affection, to use such language?
Know you that where deep love has been
planted, hate takes deeper root. Boy—boy, below!”
and his anger rising with his words, he struck
the youth violently upon the breast. He reeled
against the main-mast, but recovering himself, with
a face in which resentment and wounded feelings
struggled forcibly, he silently descended to the
cabin.

His captain paced the deck alone for awhile, with
agitation in his step and manner, and then hastily
followed him.

“Théodore, my son, my brother, forgive me that
blow! It was an angry one, and I would atone for
it. Oh! if you knew how I have been punished for
a blow like that given in a moment of passion in
early life, you would forgive and pity me.”

The youth rose from the table, where he sat with
his head leaning upon his hand, and threw himself
into the arms of his benefactor.

“Forgive you! It is all forgiven. Ungrateful
should I be to let this cancel all I owe you, my
more than parent. I spoke warmly for the lady,
for I feel much for her—so gentle! so lovely! and
then her whole soul wrapped up in her lover. Oh!
if you could see how their hearts are bound up in
one another—how pure and deep their love—how
fondly she doats on him; you would—I am sure
you would, like me, be willing to sacrifice even
your life to make them happy. For my sake,” he
continued warmly, “if you regard me—for her sake,
if you love her, pursue them no farther. Seek not
to capture them. Oh! let them go free, let them
be happy and their prayers will be for you; your

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name will be graven upon their hearts for ever, in
letters of gratitude. What is your purpose, if you
take them? It is true, they are almost in your
power; but let them go in peace. Stain not your
heart and hand with innocent blood, and far deeper
moral guilt. Let there be no more marks of crime
upon your brow; for oh! my benefactor, you cannot
possess her even as your wife without dark and
dreadful crime!” Observing that Lafitte remained
silent and moved by his appeal, the noble and youthful
advocate for innocence and love continued;

“You love her deeply,—intensely. I know it is
an honourable love you cherish. Let her still be
free, and such it will be always, and your soul sinless
of the crime I fear you meditate. But take
her once more captive, and you debase her to the
earth either as a bride or mistress. Your love will
turn to disgust; and hatred instead of gratitude
which now reigns there, will fill her breast for the
slayer of her lover, the violator, even with the sanction
of the Holy Church, of her honor, and plighted
troth.—Nay sir! please listen to me—it is for your
honor, from love to you, my best benefactor, I speak
so freely. Do you not remember, just before Constanza
left your vessel, I remarked how cheerfully
you smiled, and what a calmness dwelt upon your
brow, and how consciousness of doing right and
governing your own impulses, elevated and ennobled
the expression of your features?”

“I do, Théodore.”

“And were you not then happy—happier than
you had been before—happier than you have been
to-day?”

“I was—I was!”

“Was it not the victory over yourself, and the
resolutions which on bended knee you made to the
lady, that henceforward your course should be one
that she would feel proud to mark—Oh! was it not

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the calm confidence of rectitude, when you let the
maiden go free, and the resolution to win an honourable
name which thus restored peace to your bosom
and composure to your brow, and ennobled
you in your own mind with sentiments of self-respect?”

“It was—it was, my Théodore.”

“And were you not very happy; and did you not
feel better satisfied with yourself than ever in your
life before, when your eye dwelt upon the faint speck
indicating the fast disappearing vessel which contained
the being who had called up these holy and
honourable feelings?”

“Théodore, I did my boy!”

“Oh! then why will you throw away this cup of
happiness, when it is once more offered to your
lips? why will not my excellent benefactor create
for himself again, this happiness?” he said, taking
the passive hand of his friend and chief, and looking
up with an entreating smile in his face.

“I will Théodore, I will! you have conquered!”
exclaimed Lafitte, touched by the passionate and
affectionate appeal of his ardent young friend; and
yielding to his better feelings, he said, after a few
moments' affecting silence. “Théodore, you have
conquered—go to the deck and give what orders
you will.”

“Yet, for Constanza I will live; for her sake,”
he said mentally as the happy boy disappeared up
the companion-way—“I will become an honourable
man. Oh! that some good angel would help me
to do what I wish to do, but have not the power!
Bright spirit of my departed mother!” he said looking
upward calmly and thoughtfully, “if there is a
communication between saints and men, give me
thy assistance; temper my passions, allure me to
virtue, make me to abhor my present mode of existence
and refrain evermore from dying my hand

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in guilt. To thee, I offer my broken and subdued
spirit; I am in thy hand, take me and mould me
as thou wilt!”

“Sail ho!” shouted the lookout from the foretopmast
head. The cry was again repeated by the
officer of the deck at the entrance of the companion-way,
before the pirate moved from his statuelike
attitude.

“Where away, Théodore?” he quietly asked, as
he slowly ascended to the deck.

“Off the starboard quarter, sir. I have put the
schooner about?” he said inquiringly to his captain,
looking with sympathy into his pale face.

“It is well, Théodore!”

“The stranger, sir, is in a line with the boat. If
he should be one of our cruisers—”

“True boy, true; we must watch over their
safety. Alter her course again, we must see that
they come not to harm.”

In a few minutes the schooner was once more
under sail, standing for the boat which was now
about five miles ahead.

“What do you make her?” he hailed to the man
aloft.

“I can't see her very distinctly now sir, she is
almost in the sun's wake. There! now I make her
out sir—a large vessel, and very square-rigged. I
think she must be a man of war. I can't make her
hull yet, she's down, to her fore-yard, under the horizon.”

“We must look out, and not run into the lion's
den;” said Lafitte; “there is a stir I see among
the craft in the bay of St. Marc, as though they
suspected the wolf was abroad,” he continued with
a saddened smile. “Stir up the crew, Ricardo.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Forward there all! Be ready to
tack ship,” shouted Ricardo. “To your posts
men.” A momentary bustle ensued, and dispersed

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in different parts of the vessel, the crew remained
silently awaiting the next command of their officer.

The stranger gradually rose above the horizon,
and showed the majestic proportions of a large frigate,
standing close-hauled on the wind out of St.
Marc's channel. The boat containing the lovers,
was now within a mile of the ship of war.

“That is the French frigate señor, that passed us
the night we came out of the devil's punch bowl,”
said Ricardo. “See, she has the French ensign
flying at her peak.”

“Ha! it must then be the Count D'Oyley's frigate,”
said Lafitte. “So we shall in our turn, have
to play the fugitive.”

“No, señor,” said Théodore, “he will not pursue
us; but were it not as well to put about. See,
the boat steers for her.”

After watching with his glass for a long time, and
with much interest, Lafitte saw her run along side
of the stranger, who lay too and took the lovers on
board.

He then laid down the spy-glass, and giving in a
calm and measured tone, his orders to put about and
stand for Barritaria, with a melancholy expression
upon his fine features, he descended into his state-room,
leaving the command of the vessel for the remainder
of the day, to his lieutenant.

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