“You didn’t know it?” I cried, astonished.

“Why, I’m not a saint, Bold,” he said, “but I’m not so bad as that.  Vetch told Sir Richard that his uncle had burned the will among some old papers by mistake, and was afraid to confess it, but he tells me now ’twas he stole it and hid it, and says that if I attempt to interfere with him he’ll produce it and turn us out of our property—­which is yours, Bold; and swear that he stole it at Sir Richard’s request.  And then I called him a villain to his face, and said I would go instantly back to Spanish Town and proclaim him for the scoundrel he is, and he laughed and said I should never get there alive.

“But his horse was standing by; he had just come in from riding; and before he knew what I was about I was in the saddle and galloped off.  In my hurry I took the wrong road.  The horse carried me into the forest and stumbled over a root, and down I went, and lay dazed for a time, and when I got up I wandered about, utterly lost, and fell among these niggers.  You know the rest.”

I fell silent, thinking of Vetch’s villainy, and of the extremity of peril in which Lucy lay.  That she would willingly wed him I did not for a moment believe; but in her helpless position I feared what she might be compelled to do under constraint.

“I know we have treated you very ill,” said Cludde.

“I was not thinking of that,” I said, interrupting him.  “You can make amends, Cludde.”

“And I will, Bold, on my honor I will, as soon as ever we get back to England.”

“Before then,” I said. “’Twill be too late then.  You must help me to save Mistress Lucy.”

“But what can we do?  Her birthday is on Friday—­”

“On Friday?” I said, to test his knowledge.

“Yes, Vetch told me so.  She will be of age then, and even supposing we could escape his people we could not get to Spanish Town and back in time.  I only wish we could do something.  I would give a great deal to see Vetch get his deserts.”

“We must get help from Spanish Town:  we must do something ourselves—­you and I and the niggers.  We must attack the house.”

“’Tis impossible.  He has a score of cut-throat ruffians in his pay.”

“At the house?”

“A dozen or so at the house, the rest about the plantations and on the road, to guard against surprise from Spanish Town or any of the settlements.”

“Will you help me loyally, if I can find some means of rescuing Lucy?” I asked, for Cludde’s attitude to me was so altered that I was not without suspicion of his sincerity.

“With all my heart; but we can do nothing.”

“At present I see no way,” I sorrowfully admitted; “but help her we must.  Good heavens!  Can we leave her at his mercy, and not make an effort on her behalf?  We may fail, but let us at least do what men may do.”