Looking through a chink in the wall at the end of the hut, he beheld the stalwart form of the sandal-wood trader standing on the hearth of the hut, which was almost unfurnished,—­a stool, a bench, an old chest, a table, and a chair being all that it contained.  His mother was seated at the table, with her hands clasped before her, looking up at her companion.

“Oh! why run so great a risk as this?” said she earnestly.

“I was born to run risks, I believe,” replied Gascoyne, in a sad, low voice.  “It matters not.  My being on the island is the result of Manton’s villainy; my being here is for poor Henry’s sake and your own, as well as for the sake of Alice the missionary’s child.  You have been upright, Mary, and kind, and true as steel ever since I knew you.  But for that I should have been lost long ago—­”

Henry heard no more.  These words did indeed whet his curiosity to the utmost; but the shame of acting the part of an “eavesdropper” was so great that, by a strong effort of will, he drew back, and pondered for a moment what he ought to do.  The unexpected tone and tenor of Gascoyne’s remark had softened him slightly; but, recalling the undoubted proofs that he had had of his really being a pirate, he soon steeled his heart against him.  He argued that the mere fact of a man giving his mother credit for a character which everybody knew she possessed, was not sufficient to clear him of the suspicions which he had raised against himself.  Besides, it was impertinence in any man to tell his mother his opinion of her to her face.  And to call him “poor Henry,” forsooth!  This was not to be endured!

Having thus wrought himself up to a sufficient degree of indignation, the young man went straight to the door, making considerable noise in order to prepare those within for his advent.  He had expected to find it locked.  In this he was mistaken.  It yielded to a push.

Throwing it wide open, Henry strode into the middle of the apartment, and, pointing the pistol at Gascoyne’s breast, exclaimed: 

“Pirate Durward, I arrest you in the king’s name!”

At the first sound of her son’s approach, Mrs. Stuart bent forward over the table with a groan, and buried her face in her hands.

Gascoyne received Henry’s speech at first with a frown, and then with a smile.

“You have taken a strange time and way to jest, Henry,” said he, crossing his arms on his broad chest and gazing boldly into the youth’s face.

“You will not throw me off my guard thus,” said Henry, sternly.  “You are my prisoner.  I know you to be a pirate.  At any rate you will have to prove yourself to be an honest man before you quit this hut a free man.  Mother, leave this place, that I may lock the door upon him.”

The widow did not move, but Gascoyne made a step towards her son.

“Another step and I will fire.  Your blood shall be on your own head, Gascoyne.”