There was brandy in the house,—in the sitting-room which was close at their hand, and the key of the little press which held it was in her pocket.  It was useless, she thought, to refuse him; and so she told him that there was a bottle partly full, but that she must go to the next room to fetch it him.

“We’ll go together, my darling,” he said.  “There’s nothing like good company.”  And he again put his hand upon her arm as they passed into the family sitting-room.

“I must take the light,” she said.  But he unhooked it himself, and carried it in his own hand.

Again she went to work without trembling.  She found the key of the side cupboard, and unlocking the door, handed him a bottle which might contain about half-a-pint of spirits.  “And is that all?” he said.

“There is a full bottle here,” she answered, handing him another; “but if you drink it, you will be drunk, and they will catch you.”

“By Heavens, yes; and you would be the first to help them; would you not?”

“Look here,” she answered.  “If you will go now, I will not say a word to any one of your coming, nor set them on your track to follow you.  There, take the full bottle with you.  If you will go, you shall be safe from me.”

“What, and go without money!”

“I have none to give you.  You may believe me when I say so.  I have not a dollar in the house.”

Before he spoke again he raised the half empty bottle to his mouth, and drank as long as there was a drop to drink.  “There,” said he, putting the bottle down, “I am better after that.  As to the other, you are right, and I will take it with me.  And now, young woman, about the money?”

“I tell you that I have not a dollar.”

“Look here,” said he, and he spoke now in a softer voice, as though he would be on friendly terms with her.  “Give me ten sovereigns, and I will go.  I know you have it, and with ten sovereigns it is possible that I may save my life.  You are good, and would not wish that a man should die so horrid a death.  I know you are good.  Come, give me the money.”  And he put his hands up, beseeching her, and looked into her face with imploring eyes.

“On the word of a Christian woman I have not got money to give you,” she replied.

“Nonsense!”  And as he spoke he took her by the arm and shook her.  He shook her violently so that he hurt her, and her breath for a moment was all but gone from her.  “I tell you you must make dollars before I leave you, or I will so handle you that it would have been better for you to coin your very blood.”

“May God help me at my need,” she said, “as I have not above a few penny pieces in the house.”

“And you expect me to believe that!  Look here!  I will shake the teeth out of your head, but I will have it from you.”  And he did shake her again, using both his hands and striking her against the wall.

“Would you—murder me?” she said, hardly able now to utter the words.

“Murder you, yes; why not?  I cannot be worse than I am, were I to murder you ten times over.  But with money I may possibly be better.”

“I have it not.”

“Then I will do worse than murder you.  I will make you such an object that all the world shall loathe to look on you.”  And so saying he took her by the arm and dragged her forth from the wall against which she had stood.

Then there came from her a shriek that was heard far down the shore of that silent sea, and away across to the solitary houses of those living on the other side,—a shriek, very sad, sharp, and prolonged,—which told plainly to those who heard it of woman’s woe when in her extremest peril.  That sound was spoken of in Bermuda for many a day after that, as something which had been terrible to hear.  But then, at that moment, as it came wailing through the dark, it sounded as though it were not human.  Of those who heard it, not one guessed from whence it came, nor was the hand of any brother put forward to help that woman at her need.

“Did you hear that?” said the young wife to her husband, from the far side of the arm of the sea.

“Hear it!  Oh Heaven, yes!  Whence did it come?”  The young wife could not say from whence it came, but clung close to her husband’s breast, comforting herself with the knowledge that that terrible sorrow was not hers.

But aid did come at last, or rather that which seemed as aid.  Long and terrible was the fight between that human beast of prey and the poor victim which had fallen into his talons.  Anastasia Bergen was a strong, well-built woman, and now that the time had come to her when a struggle was necessary, a struggle for life, for honour, for the happiness of him who was more to her than herself, she fought like a tigress attacked in her own lair.  At such a moment as this she also could become wild and savage as the beast of the forest.  When he pinioned her arms with one of his, as he pressed her down upon the floor, she caught the first joint of the forefinger of his other hand between her teeth till he yelled in agony, and another sound was heard across the silent water.  And then, when one hand was loosed in the struggle, she twisted it through his long hair, and dragged back his head till his eyes were nearly starting from their sockets.  Anastasia Bergen had hitherto been a sheer woman, all feminine in her nature.  But now the foam came to her mouth, and fire sprang from her eyes, and the muscles of her body worked as though she had been trained to deeds of violence.  Of violence, Aaron Trow had known much in his rough life, but never had he combated with harder antagonist than her whom he now held beneath his breast.

“By—I will put an end to you,” he exclaimed, in his wrath, as he struck her violently across the face with his elbow.  His hand was occupied, and he could not use it for a blow, but, nevertheless, the violence was so great that the blood gushed from her nostrils, while the back of her head was driven with violence against the floor.  But she did not lose her hold of him.  Her hand was still twined closely through his thick hair, and in every move he made she clung to him with all her might.  “Leave go my hair,” he shouted at her, but she still kept her hold, though he again dashed her head against the floor.

There was still light in the room, for when he first grasped her with both his hands, he had put the lamp down on a small table.  Now they were rolling on the floor together, and twice he had essayed to kneel on her that he might thus crush the breath from her body, and deprive her altogether of her strength; but she had been too active for him, moving herself along the ground, though in doing so she dragged him with her.  But by degrees he got one hand at liberty, and with that he pulled a clasp knife out of his pocket and opened it.  “I will cut your head off if you do not let go my hair,” he said.  But still she held fast by him.  He then stabbed at her arm, using his left hand and making short, ineffectual blows.  Her dress partly saved her, and partly also the continual movement of all her limbs; but, nevertheless, the knife wounded her.  It wounded her in several places about the arm, covering them both with blood;—but still she hung on.  So close was her grasp in her agony, that, as she afterwards found, she cut the skin of her own hands with her own nails.  Had the man’s hair been less thick or strong, or her own tenacity less steadfast, he would have murdered her before any interruption could have saved her.

And yet he had not purposed to murder her, or even, in the first instance, to inflict on her any bodily harm.  But he had been determined to get money.  With such a sum of money as he had named, it might, he thought, be possible for him to win his way across to America.  He might bribe men to hide him in the hold of a ship, and thus there might be for him, at any rate, a possibility of escape.  That there must be money in the house he had still thought when first he laid hands on the poor woman; and then, when the struggle had once begun, when he had felt her muscles contending with his, the passion of the beast was aroused within him, and he strove against her as he would have striven against a dog.  But yet, when the knife was in his hand, he had not driven it against her heart.

Then suddenly, while they were yet rolling on the floor, there was a sound of footsteps in the passage.  Aaron Trow instantly leaped to his feet, leaving his victim on the ground, with huge lumps of his thick clotted hair in her hand.  Thus, and thus only, could he have liberated himself from her grasp.  He rushed at the door, and there he came against the two negro servant-girls who had returned down to their kitchen from the road on which they had been straying.  Trow, as he half saw them in the dark, not knowing how many there might be, or whether there was a man among them, rushed through them, upsetting one scared girl in his passage.  With the instinct and with the timidity of a beast, his impulse now was to escape, and he hurried away back to the road and to his lair, leaving the three women together in the cottage.  Poor wretch!  As he crossed the road, not skulking in his impotent haste, but running at his best, another pair of eyes saw him, and when the search became hot after him, it was known that his hiding-place was not distant.

It was some time before any of the women were able to act, and when some step was taken, Anastasia was the first to take it.  She had not absolutely swooned, but the reaction, after the violence of her efforts, was so great, that for some minutes she had been unable to speak.  She had risen from the floor when Trow left her, and had even followed him to the door; but since that she had fallen back into her father’s old arm-chair, and there sat gasping not only for words, but for breath also.

At last she bade one of the girls to run into St. George, and beg Mr. Morton to come to her aid.  The girl would not stir without her companion; and even then, Anastasia, covered as she was with blood, with dishevelled hair, and her clothes half torn from her body, accompanied them as far as the road.  There they found a negro lad still hanging about the place, and he told them that he had seen the man cross the road, and run down over the open ground towards the rocks of the sea-coast.  “He must be there,” said the lad, pointing in the direction of a corner of the rocks; “unless he swim across the mouth of the ferry.”  But the mouth of that ferry is an arm of the sea, and it was not probable that a man would do that when he might have taken the narrow water by keeping on the other side of the road.

At about one that night Caleb Morton reached the cottage breathless with running, and before a word was spoken between them, Anastasia had fallen on his shoulder and had fainted.  As soon as she was in the arms of her lover, all her power had gone from her.  The spirit and passion of the tiger had gone, and she was again a weak woman shuddering at the thought of what she had suffered.  She remembered that she had had the man’s hand between her teeth, and by degrees she found his hair still clinging to her fingers; but even then she could hardly call to mind the nature of the struggle she had undergone.  His hot breath close to her own cheek she did remember, and his glaring eyes, and even the roughness of his beard as he pressed his face against her own; but she could not say whence had come the blood, nor till her arm became stiff and motionless did she know that she had been wounded.

It was all joy with her now, as she sat motionless without speaking, while he administered to her wants and spoke words of love into her ears.  She remembered the man’s horrid threat, and knew that by God’s mercy she had been saved.  And he was there caressing her, loving her, comforting her!  As she thought of the fate that had threatened her, of the evil that had been so imminent, she fell forward on her knees, and with incoherent sobs uttered her thanksgivings, while her head was still supported on his arms.

It was almost morning before she could induce herself to leave him and lie down.  With him she seemed to be so perfectly safe; but the moment he was away she could see Aaron Trow’s eyes gleaming at her across the room.  At last, however, she slept; and when he saw that she was at rest, he told himself that his work must then begin.  Hitherto Caleb Morton had lived in all respects the life of a man of peace; but now, asking himself no questions as to the propriety of what he would do, using no inward arguments as to this or that line of conduct, he girded the sword on his loins, and prepared himself for war.  The wretch who had thus treated the woman whom he loved should be hunted down like a wild beast, as long as he had arms and legs with which to carry on the hunt.  He would pursue the miscreant with any weapons that might come to his hands; and might Heaven help him at his need as he dealt forth punishment to that man, if he caught him within his grasp.  Those who had hitherto known Morton in the island, could not recognise the man as he came forth on that day, thirsty after blood, and desirous to thrust himself into personal conflict with the wild ruffian who had injured him.  The meek Presbyterian minister had been a preacher, preaching ways of peace, and living in accordance with his own doctrines.  The world had been very quiet for him, and he had walked quietly in his appointed path.  But now the world was quiet no longer, nor was there any preaching of peace.  His cry was for blood; for the blood of the untamed savage brute who had come upon his young doe in her solitude, and striven with such brutal violence to tear her heart from her bosom.

He got to his assistance early in the morning some of the constables from St. George, and before the day was over, he was joined by two or three of the warders from the convict establishment.  There was with him also a friend or two, and thus a party was formed, numbering together ten or twelve persons.  They were of course all armed, and therefore it might be thought that there would be but small chance for the wretched man if they should come upon his track.  At first they all searched together, thinking from the tidings which had reached them that he must be near to them; but gradually they spread themselves along the rocks between St. George and the ferry, keeping watchman on the road, so that he should not escape unnoticed into the island.

Ten times during the day did Anastasia send from the cottage up to Morton, begging him to leave the search to others, and come down to her.  But not for a moment would he lose the scent of his prey.  What! should it be said that she had been so treated, and that others had avenged her?  He sent back to say that her father was with her now, and that he would come when his work was over.  And in that job of work the life-blood of Aaron Trow was counted up.

Towards evening they were all congregated on the road near to the spot at which the path turns off towards the cottage, when a voice was heard hallooing to them from the summit of a little hill which lies between the road and the sea on the side towards the ferry, and presently a boy came running down to them full of news.  “Danny Lund has seen him,” said the boy, “he has seen him plainly in among the rocks.”  And then came Danny Lund himself, a small negro lad about fourteen years of age, who was known in those parts as the idlest, most dishonest, and most useless of his race.  On this occasion, however, Danny Lund became important, and every one listened to him.  He had seen, he said, a pair of eyes moving down in a cave of the rocks which he well knew.  He had been in the cave often, he said, and could get there again.  But not now; not while that pair of eyes was moving at the bottom of it.  And so they all went up over the hill, Morton leading the way with hot haste.  In his waist-band he held a pistol, and his hand grasped a short iron bar with which he had armed himself.  They ascended the top of the hill, and when there, the open sea was before them on two sides, and on the third was the narrow creek over which the ferry passed.  Immediately beneath their feet were the broken rocks; for on that side, towards the sea, the earth and grass of the hill descended but a little way towards the water.  Down among the rocks they all went, silently, Caleb Morton leading the way, and Danny Lund directing him from behind.

“Mr. Morton,” said an elderly man from St. George, “had you not better let the warders of the gaol go first; he is a desperate man, and they will best understand his ways?”

In answer to this Morton said nothing, but he would let no one put a foot before him.  He still pressed forward among the rocks, and at last came to a spot from whence he might have sprung at one leap into the ocean.  It was a broken cranny on the sea-shore into which the sea beat, and surrounded on every side but the one by huge broken fragments of stone, which at first sight seemed as though they would have admitted of a path down among them to the water’s edge; but which, when scanned more closely, were seen to be so large in size, that no man could climb from one to another.  It was a singularly romantic spot, but now well known to them all there, for they had visited it over and over again that morning.

“In there,” said Danny Lund, keeping well behind Morton’s body, and pointing at the same time to a cavern high up among the rocks, but quite on the opposite side of the little inlet of the sea.  The mouth of the cavern was not twenty yards from where they stood, but at the first sight it seemed as though it must be impossible to reach it.  The precipice on the brink of which they all now stood, ran down sheer into the sea, and the fall from the mouth of the cavern on the other side was as steep.  But Danny solved the mystery by pointing upwards, and showing them how he had been used to climb to a projecting rock over their heads, and from thence creep round by certain vantages of the stone till he was able to let himself down into the aperture.  But now, at the present moment, he was unwilling to make essay of his prowess as a cragsman.  He had, he said, been up on that projecting rock thrice, and there had seen the eyes moving in the cavern.  He was quite sure of that fact of the pair of eyes, and declined to ascend the rock again.

Traces soon became visible to them by which they knew that some one had passed in and out of the cavern recently.  The stone, when examined, bore those marks of friction which passage and repassage over it will always give.  At the spot from whence the climber left the platform and commenced his ascent, the side of the stone had been rubbed by the close friction of a man’s body.  A light boy like Danny Lund might find his way in and out without leaving such marks behind him, but no heavy man could do so.  Thus before long they all were satisfied that Aaron Trow was in the cavern before them.

Then there was a long consultation as to what they would do to carry on the hunt, and how they would drive the tiger from his lair.  That he should not again come out, ............