Sir Oliver was one of a score of men who were rescued from the sea by the crew of the Spanish vessel9 that had sunk the Swallow; another was Jasper Leigh, the skipper. All of them were carried to Lisbon, and there handed over to the Court of the Holy Office. Since they were heretics all — or nearly all — it was fit and proper that the Brethren of St. Dominic should undertake their conversion10 in the first place. Sir Oliver came of a family that never had been famed for rigidity11 in religious matters, and he was certainly not going to burn alive if the adoption12 of other men’s opinions upon an extremely hypothetical future state would suffice to save him from the stake. He accepted Catholic baptism with an almost contemptuous indifference13. As for Jasper Leigh, it will be conceived that the elasticity14 of the skipper’s conscience was no less than Sir Oliver’s, and he was certainly not the man to be roasted for a trifle of faith.
No doubt there would be great rejoicings in the Holy House over the rescue of these two unfortunate souls from the certain perdition that had awaited them. It followed that as converts to the Faith they were warmly cherished, and tears of thanksgiving were profusely16 shed over them by the Hounds of God. So much for their heresy17. They were completely purged18 of it, having done penance19 in proper form at an Auto20 held on the Rocio at Lisbon, candle in hand and sanbenito on their shoulders. The Church dismissed them with her blessing21 and an injunction to persevere22 in the ways of salvation23 to which with such meek24 kindness she had inducted them.
Now this dismissal amounted to a rejection25. They were, as a consequence, thrown back upon the secular26 authorities, and the secular authorities had yet to punish them for their offence upon the seas. No offence could be proved, it is true. But the courts were satisfied that this lack of offence was but the natural result of a lack of opportunity. Conversely, they reasoned, it was not to be doubted that with the opportunity the offence would have been forthcoming. Their assurance of this was based upon the fact that when the Spaniard fired across the bows of the Swallow as an invitation to heave to, she had kept upon her course. Thus, with unanswerable Castilian logic27 was the evil conscience of her skipper proven. Captain Leigh protested on the other hand that his action had been dictated28 by his lack of faith in Spaniards and his firm belief that all Spaniards were pirates to be avoided by every honest seaman29 who was conscious of inferior strength of armaments. It was a plea that won him no favour with his narrow-minded judges.
Sir Oliver fervently30 urged that he was no member of the crew of the Swallow, that he was a gentleman who found himself aboard her very much against his will, being the victim of a villainous piece of trepanning executed by her venal33 captain. The court heard his plea with respect, and asked to know his name and rank. He was so very indiscreet as to answer truthfully. The result was extremely educative to Sir Oliver; it showed him how systematically35 conducted was the keeping of the Spanish archives. The court produced documents enabling his judges to recite to him most of that portion of his life that had been spent upon the seas, and many an awkward little circumstance which had slipped his memory long since, which he now recalled, and which certainly was not calculated to make his sentence lighter36.
Had he not been in the Barbados in such a year, and had he not there captured the galleon37 Maria de las Dolores? What was that but an act of villainous piracy38? Had he not scuttled39 a Spanish carack four years ago in the bay of Funchal? Had he not been with that pirate Hawkins in the affair at San Juan de Ulloa? And so on. Questions poured upon him and engulfed40 him.
He almost regretted that he had given himself the trouble to accept conversion and all that it entailed41 at the hands of the Brethren of St. Dominic. It began to appear to him that he had but wasted time and escaped the clerical fire to be dangled43 on a secular rope as an offering to the vengeful gods of outraged44 Spain.
So much, however, was not done. The galleys47 in the Mediterranean were in urgent need of men at the time, and to this circumstance Sir Oliver, Captain Leigh, and some others of the luckless crew of the Swallow owed their lives, though it is to be doubted whether any of them found the matter one for congratulation. Chained each man to a fellow, ankle to ankle, with but a short length of links between, they formed part of a considerable herd48 of unfortunates, who were driven across Portugal into Spain and then southward to Cadiz. The last that Sir Oliver saw of Captain Leigh was on the morning on which he set out from the reeking49 Lisbon gaol50. Thereafter throughout that weary march each knew the other to be somewhere in that wretched regiment51 of galley46-slaves; but they never came face to face again.
In Cadiz Sir Oliver spent a month in a vast enclosed space that was open to the sky, but nevertheless of an indescribable foulness52, a place of filth53, disease, and suffering beyond human conception, the details of which the curious may seek for himself in my Lord Henry’s chronicles. They are too revolting by far to be retailed54 here.
At the end of that month he was one of those picked out by an officer who was manning a galley that was to convey the Infanta to Naples. He owed this to his vigorous constitution which had successfully withstood the infections of that mephitic place of torments55, and to the fine thews which the officer pummelled and felt as though he were acquiring a beast of burden — which, indeed, is precisely56 what he was doing.
The galley to which our gentleman was dispatched was a vessel of fifty oars57, each manned by seven men. They were seated upon a sort of staircase that followed the slope of the oar31, running from the gangway in the vessel’s middle down to the shallow bulwarks58.
The place allotted59 to Sir Oliver was that next the gangway. Here, stark60 naked as when he was born, he was chained to the bench, and in those chains, let us say at once, he remained, without a single moment’s intermission, for six whole months.
Between himself and the hard timbers of his seat there was naught61 but a flimsy and dirty sheepskin. From end to end the bench was not more than ten feet in length, whilst the distance separating it from the next one was a bare four feet. In that cramped62 space of ten feet by four, Sir Oliver and his six oar-mates had their miserable63 existence, waking and sleeping — for they slept in their chains at the oar without sufficient room in which to lie at stretch.
Anon Sir Oliver became hardened and inured64 to that unspeakable existence, that living death of the galley-slave. But that first long voyage to Naples was ever to remain the most terrible experience of his life. For spells of six or eight endless hours at a time, and on one occasion for no less than ten hours, did he pull at his oar without a single moment’s pause. With one foot on the stretcher, the other on the bench in front of him, grasping his part of that appallingly65 heavy fifteen-foot oar, he would bend his back to thrust forward — and upwards66 so to clear the shoulders of the groaning67, sweating slaves in front of him — then he would lift the end so as to bring the blade down to the water, and having gripped he would rise from his seat to throw his full weight into the pull, and so fall back with clank of chain upon the groaning bench to swing forward once more, and so on until his senses reeled, his sight became blurred68, his mouth parched69 and his whole body a living, straining ache. Then would come the sharp fierce cut of the boatswain’s whip to revive energies that flagged however little, and sometimes to leave a bleeding stripe upon his naked back.
Thus day in day out, now broiled70 and blistered71 by the pitiless southern sun, now chilled by the night dews whilst he took his cramped and unrefreshing rest, indescribably filthy72 and dishevelled, his hair and beard matted with endless sweat, unwashed save by the rains which in that season were all too rare, choked almost by the stench of his miserable comrades and infested73 by filthy crawling things begotten74 of decaying sheepskins and Heaven alone knows what other foulnesses of that floating hell. He was sparingly fed upon weevilled biscuit and vile76 messes of tallowy rice, and to drink he was given luke-warm water that was often stale, saving that sometimes when the spell of rowing was more than usually protracted77 the boatswains would thrust lumps of bread sodden78 in wine into the mouths of the toiling79 slaves to sustain them.
The scurvy80 broke out on that voyage, and there were other diseases among the rowers, to say nothing of the festering sores begotten of the friction81 of the bench which were common to all, and which each must endure as best he could. With the slave whose disease conquered him or who, reaching the limit of his endurance, permitted himself to swoon, the boat-swains had a short way. The diseased were flung overboard; the swooning were dragged out upon the gangway or bridge and flogged there to revive them; if they did not revive they were flogged on until they were a horrid82 bleeding pulp83, which was then heaved into the sea.
Once or twice when they stood to windward the smell of the slaves being wafted84 abaft85 and reaching the fine gilded86 poop where the Infanta and her attendants travelled, the helmsmen were ordered to put about, and for long weary hours the slaves would hold the galley in position, backing her up gently against the wind so as not to lose way.
The number that died in the first week of that voyage amounted to close upon a quarter of the total. But there were reserves in the prow87, and these were drawn88 upon to fill the empty places. None but the fittest could survive this terrible ordeal89.
Of these was Sir Oliver, and of these too was his immediate90 neighbour at the oar, a stalwart, powerful, impassive, uncomplaining young Moor91, who accepted his fate with a stoicism that aroused Sir Oliver’s admiration92. For days they exchanged no single word together, their religions marking them out, they thought, for enemies despite the fact that they were fellows in misfortune. But one evening when an aged45 Jew who had collapsed93 in merciful unconsciousness was dragged out and flogged in the usual manner, Sir Oliver, chancing to behold94 the scarlet95 prelate who accompanied the Infanta looking on from the poop-rail with hard unmerciful eyes, was filled with such a passion at all this inhumanity and at the cold pitilessness of that professed96 servant of the Gentle and Pitiful Saviour97, that aloud he cursed all Christians in general and that scarlet Prince of the Church in particular.
He turned to the Moor beside him, and addressing him in Spanish —
“Hell,” he said, “was surely made for Christians, which may be why they seek to make earth like it.”
Fortunately for him the creak and dip of the oars, the clank of chains, and the lashes98 beating sharply upon the wretched Jew were sufficient to muffle99 his voice. But the Moor heard him, and his dark eyes gleamed.
“There is a furnace seven times heated awaiting them, ) my brother,” he replied, with a confidence which seemed to be the source of his present stoicism. “But art thou, then, not a Christian4?”
He spoke100 in that queer language of the North African seaboard, that lingua franca, which sounded like some French dialect interspersed101 with Arabic words. But Sir Oliver made out his meaning almost by intuition. He answered him in Spanish again, since although the Moor did not appear to speak it yet it was plain he understood it.
“I renounce102 from this hour,” he answered in his passion. “I will acknowledge no religion in whose name such things are done. Look me at that scarlet fruit of hell up yonder. See how daintily he sniffs103 at his pomander lest his saintly nostrils104 be offended by the exhalations of our misery105. Yet are we God’s creatures made in God’s image like himself. What does he know of God? Religion he knows as he knows good wine, rich food, and soft women. He preaches self-denial as the way to heaven, and by his own tenets is he damned.” He growled106 an obscene oath as he heaved the great oar forward. “A Christian I?” he cried, and laughed for the first time since he had been chained to that bench of agony. “I am done with Christians and Christianity!”
“Verily we are God’s, and to Him shall we return,” said the Moor.
That was the beginning of a friendship between Sir Oliver and this man, whose name was Yusuf-ben-Moktar. The Muslim conceived that in Sir Oliver he saw one upon whom the grace of Allah had descended107, one who was ripe to receive the Prophet’s message. Yusuf was devout108, and he applied109 himself to the conversion of his fellow-slave. Sir Oliver listened to him, however, with indifference. Having discarded one creed110 he would need a deal of satisfying on the score of another before he adopted it, and it seemed to him that all the glorious things urged by Yusuf in praise of Islam he had heard before in praise of Christianity. But he kept his counsel on that score, and meanwhile his intercourse111 with the Muslim had the effect of teaching him the lingua franca, so that at the end of six months he found himself speaking it like a Mauretanian with all the Muslim’s imagery and with more than the ordinary seasoning112 of Arabic.
It was towards the end of that six months that the event took place which was to restore Sir Oliver to liberty. In the meanwhile those limbs of his which had ever been vigorous beyond the common wont113 had acquired an elephantine strength. It was ever thus at the oar. Either you died under the strain, or your thews and sinews grew to be equal to their relentless114 task. Sir Oliver in those six months was become a man of steel and iron, impervious115 to fatigue116, superhuman almost in his endurance.
They were returning home from a trip to Genoa when one evening as they were standing117 off Minorca in the Balearic Isles118 they were surprised by a fleet of four Muslim galleys which came skimming round a promontory119 to surround and engage them.
Aboard the Spanish vessel there broke a terrible cry of “Asad-ed-Din”— the name of the most redoubtable120 Muslim corsair since the Italian renegade Ochiali — the Ali Pasha who had been killed at Lepanto. Trumpets121 blared and drums beat on the poop, and the Spaniards in morion and corselet, armed with calivers and pikes, stood to defend their lives and liberty. The gunners sprang to the culverins. But fire had to be kindled122 and linstocks ignited, and in the confusion much time was lost — so much that not a single cannon123 shot was fired before the grappling irons of the first galley clanked upon and gripped the Spaniard’s bulwarks. The shock of the impact was terrific. The armoured prow of the Muslim galley — Asad-ed-Din’s own — smote124 the Spaniard a slanting125 blow amidships that smashed fifteen of the oars as if they had been so many withered126 twigs127.
There was a shriek128 from the slaves, followed by such piteous groans129 as the damned in hell may emit. Fully34 two score of them had been struck by the shafts130 of their oars as these were hurled131 back against them. Some had been killed outright132, others lay limp and crushed, some with broken backs, others with shattered limbs and ribs133.
Sir Oliver would assuredly have been of these but for the warning, advice, and example of Yusuf, who was well versed134 in galley-fighting and who foresaw clearly what must happen. He thrust the oar upward and forward as far as it would go, compelling the others at his bench to accompany his movement. Then he slipped down upon his knees, released his hold of the timber, and crouched135 down until his shoulders were on a level with the bench. He had shouted to Sir Oliver to follow his example, and Sir Oliver without even knowing what the manoeuvre136 should portend137, but gathering138 its importance from the other’s urgency of tone, promptly139 obeyed. The oar was struck an instant later and ere it snapped off it was flung back, braining one of the slaves at the bench and mortally injuring the others, but passing clean over the heads of Sir Oliver and Yusuf. A moment later the bodies of the oarsmen of the bench immediately in front were flung back atop of them with yells and curses.
When Sir Oliver staggered to his feet he found the battle joined. The Spaniards had fired a volley from their calivers and a dense140 cloud of smoke hung above the bulwarks; through this surged now the corsairs, led by a tall, lean, elderly man with a flowing white beard and a swarthy eagle face. A crescent of emeralds flashed from his snowy turban; above it rose the peak of a steel cap, and his body was cased in chain mail. He swung a great scimitar, before which Spaniards went down like wheat to the reaper’s sickle141. He fought like ten men, and to support him poured a never-ending stream of Muslimeen to the cry of “Din! Din! Allah, Y’Allah!” Back and yet back went the Spaniards before that irresistible142 onslaught.
Sir Oliver found Yusuf struggling in vain to rid himself of his chain, and went to his assistance. He stooped, seized it in both hands, set his feet against the bench, exerted all his strength, and tore the staple143 from the wood. Yusuf was free, save, of course, that a length of heavy chain was dangling144 from his steel anklet. In his turn he did the like service by Sir Oliver, though not quite as speedily, for strong man though he was, either his strength was not equal to the Cornishman’s or else the latter’s staple had been driven into sounder timber. In the end, however, it yielded, and Sir Oliver too was free. Then he set the foot that was hampered145 by the chain upon the bench, and with the staple that still hung from the end of it he prised open the link that attached it to his anklet.
That done he took his revenge. Crying “Din!” as loudly as any of the Muslimeen boarders, he flung himself upon the rear of the Spaniards brandishing146 his chain. In his hands it became a terrific weapon. He used it as a scourge, lashing147 it to right and left of him, splitting here a head and crushing there a face, until he had hacked148 a way clean through the Spanish press, which bewildered by this sudden rear attack made but little attempt to retaliate149 upon the escaped galley-slave. After him, whirling the remaining ten feet of the broken oar, came Yusuf.
Sir Oliver confessed afterwards to knowing very little of what happened in those moments. He came to a full possession of his senses to find the fight at an end, a cloud of turbaned corsairs standing guard over a huddle150 of Spaniards, others breaking open the cabin and dragging thence the chests that it contained, others again armed with chisels151 and mallets passing along the benches liberating152 the surviving slaves, of whom the great majority were children of Islam.
Sir Oliver found himself face to face with the white-bearded leader of the corsairs, who was leaning upon his scimitar and regarding him with eyes at once amused and amazed. Our gentleman’s naked body was splashed from head to foot with blood, and in his right hand he still clutched that yard of iron links with which he had wrought153 such ghastly execution. Yusuf was standing at the corsair leader’s elbow speaking rapidly.
“By Allah, was ever such a lusty fighter seen!” cried the latter. “The strength of the Prophet is within him thus to smite154 the unbelieving pigs.”
Sir Oliver grinned savagely155.
“I was returning them some of their whip-lashes — with interest,” said he.
And those were the circumstances under which he came to meet the formidable Asad-ed-Din, Basha of Algiers, those the first words that passed between them.
Anon, when aboard Asad’s own galley he was being carried to Barbary, he was washed and his head was shaved all but the forelock, by which the Prophet should lift him up to heaven when his earthly destiny should come to be fulfilled. He made no protest. They washed and fed him and gave him ease; and so that they did these things to him they might do what else they pleased. At last arrayed in flowing garments that were strange to him, and with a turban wound about his head, he was conducted to the poop, where Asad sat with Yusuf under an awning156, and he came to understand that it was in compliance157 with the orders of Yusuf that he had been treated as if he were a True–Believer.
Yusuf-ben-Moktar was discovered as a person of great consequence, the nephew of Asad-ed-Din, and a favourite with that Exalted158 of Allah the Sublime159 Portal himself, a man whose capture by Christians had been a thing profoundly deplored160. Accordingly his delivery from that thraldom161 was matter for rejoicing. Being delivered, he bethought him of his oar-mate, concerning whom indeed Asad-ed-Din manifested the greatest curiosity, for in all this world there was nothing the old corsair loved so much as a fighter, and in all his days, he vowed162, never had he seen the equal of that stalwart galley-slave, never the like of his performance with that murderous chain. Yusuf had informed him that the man was a fruit ripe for the Prophet’s plucking, that the grace of Allah was upon him, and in spirit already he must be accounted a good Muslim.
When Sir Oliver, washed, perfumed, and arrayed in white caftan and turban, which gave him the air of being even taller than he was, came into the presence of Asad-ed-Din, it was conveyed to him that if he would enter the ranks of the Faithful of the Prophet’s House and devote the strength and courage with which Allah the One had endowed him to the upholding of the true Faith and to the chastening of the enemies of Islam, great honour, wealth and dignity were in store for him.
Of all that proposal, made at prodigious163 length and with great wealth of Eastern circumlocution164, the only phrase that took root in his rather bewildered mind was that which concerned the chastening of the enemies of Islam. The enemies of Islam he conceived, were his own enemies; and he further conceived that they stood in great need of chastening, and that to take a hand in that chastening would be a singularly grateful task. So he considered the proposals made him. He considered, too, that the alternative — in the event of his refusing to make the protestations of Faith required of him — was that he must return to the oar of a galley, of a Muslim galley now. Now that was an occupation of which he had had more than his fill, and since he had been washed and restored to the normal sensations of a clean human being he found that whatever might be within the scope of his courage he could not envisage165 returning to the oar. We have seen the ease with which he had abandoned the religion in which he was reared for the Roman faith, and how utterly deluded166 he had found himself. With the same degree of ease did he now go over to Islam and with much greater profit. Moreover, he embraced the Religion of Mahomet with a measure of fierce conviction that had been entirely167 lacking from his earlier apostasy168.
He had arrived at the conclusion whilst aboard the galley of Spain, as we have seen, that Christianity as practised in his day was a grim mockery of which the world were better rid. It is not to be supposed that his convictions that Christianity was at fault went the length of making him suppose that Islam was right, or that his conversion to the Faith of Mahomet was anything more than superficial. But forced as he was to choose between the rower’s bench and the poop-deck, the oar and the scimitar, he boldly and resolutely169 made the only choice that in his case could lead to liberty and life.
Thus he was received into the ranks of the Faithful whose pavilions wait them in Paradise, set in an orchard170 of never-failing fruit, among rivers of milk, of wine, and of clarified honey. He became the Kayia or lieutenant171 to Yusuf on the galley of that corsair’s command and seconded him in half a score of engagements with an ability and a conspicuity172 that made him swiftly famous throughout the ranks of the Mediterranean rovers. Some six months later in a fight off the coast of Sicily with one of the galleys of the Religion — as the vessels173 of the Knights174 of Malta were called — Yusuf was mortally wounded in the very moment of the victory. He died an hour later in the arms of Sir Oliver, naming the latter his successor in the command of the galley, and enjoining175 upon all implicit176 obedience177 to him until they should be returned to Algiers and the Basha should make known his further will in the matter.
The Basha’s will was to confirm his nephew’s dying appointment of a successor, and Sir Oliver found himself in full command of a galley. From that hour he became Oliver–Reis, but very soon his valour and fury earned him the by-name of Sakr-el-Bahr, the Hawk of the Sea. His fame grew rapidly, and it spread across the tideless sea to the very shores of Christendom. Soon he became Asad’s lieutenant, the second in command of all the Algerine galleys, which meant in fact that he was the commander-in-chief, for Asad was growing old and took the sea more and more rarely now. Sakr-el-Bahr sallied forth in his name and his stead, and such was his courage, his address, and his good fortune that never did he go forth to return empty-handed.
It was clear to all that the favour of Allah was upon him, that he had been singled out by Allah to be the very glory of Islam. Asad, who had ever esteemed178 him, grew to love him. An intensely devout man, could he have done less in the case of one for whom the Pitying the Pitiful showed so marked a predilection179? It was freely accepted that when the destiny of Asad-ed-Din should come to be fulfilled, Sakr-el-Bahr must succeed him in the Bashalik of Algiers, and that thus Oliver–Reis would follow in the footsteps of Barbarossa, Ochiali, and other Christian renegades who had become corsair-princes of Islam.
In spite of certain hostilities180 which his rapid advancement181 begot75, and of which we shall hear more presently, once only did his power stand in danger of suffering a check. Coming one morning into the reeking bagnio at Algiers, some six months after he had been raised to his captaincy, he found there a score of countrymen of his own, and he gave orders that their letters should instantly be struck off and their liberty restored them.
Called to account by the Basha for this action he took a high-handed way, since no other was possible. He swore by the beard of the Prophet that if he were to draw the sword of Mahomet and to serve Islam upon the seas, he would serve it in his own way, and one of his ways was that his own countrymen were to have immunity182 from the edge of that same sword. Islam, he swore, should not be the loser, since for every Englishman he restored to liberty he would bring two Spaniards, Frenchmen, Greeks, or Italians into bondage183.
He prevailed, but only upon condition that since captured slaves were the property of the state, if he desired to abstract them from the state he must first purchase them for himself. Since they would then be his own property he could dispose of them at his good pleasure. Thus did the wise and just Asad resolve the difficulty which had arisen, and Oliver–Reis bowed wisely to that decision.
Thereafter what English slaves were brought to Algiers he purchased, manumitted, and found means to send home again. True, it cost him a fine price yearly, but he was fast amassing184 such wealth as could easily support this tax.
As you read Lord Henry Goade’s chronicles you might come to the conclusion that in the whorl of that new life of his Sir Oliver had entirely forgotten the happenings in his Cornish home and the woman he had loved, who so readily had believed him guilty of the slaying185 of her brother. You might believe this until you come upon the relation of how he found one day among some English seamen186 brought captive to Algiers by Biskaine-el-Borak — who was become his own second in command — a young Cornish lad from Helston named Pitt, whose father he had known.
He took this lad home with him to the fine palace which he inhabited near the Bab-el-Oueb, treated him as an honoured guest, and sat through a whole summer night in talk with him, questioning him upon this person and that person, and thus gradually drawing from him all the little history of his native place during the two years that were sped since he had left it. In this we gather an impression of the wistful longings187 the fierce nostalgia189 that must have overcome the renegade and his endeavours to allay190 it by his endless questions. The Cornish lad had brought him up sharply and agonizingly with that past of his upon which he had closed the door when he became a Muslim and a corsair. The only possible inference is that in those hours of that summer’s night repentance191 stirred in him, and a wild longing188 to return. Rosamund should reopen for him that door which, hard-driven by misfortune, he had slammed. That she would do so when once she knew the truth he had no faintest doubt. And there was now no reason why he should conceal192 the truth, why he should continue to shield that dastardly half-brother of his, whom he had come to hate as fiercely as he had erstwhile loved him.
In secret he composed a long letter giving the history of all that had happened to him since his kidnapping, and setting forth the entire truth of that and of the deed that had led to it. His chronicler opines that it was a letter that must have moved a stone to tears. And, moreover, it was not a mere193 matter of passionate194 protestations of innocence195, or of unsupported accusation196 of his brother. It told her of the existence of proofs that must dispel197 all doubt. It told her of that parchment indited198 by Master Baine and witnessed by the parson, which document was to be delivered to her together with the letter. Further, it bade her seek confirmation199 of that document’s genuineness, did she doubt it, at the hands of Master Baine himself. That done, it besought200 her to lay the whole matter before the Queen, and thus secure him faculty201 to return to England and immunity from any consequences of his subsequent regenade act to which his sufferings had driven him. He loaded the young Cornishman with gifts, gave him that letter to deliver in person, and added instructions that should enable him to find the document he was to deliver with it. That precious parchment had been left between the leaves of an old book on falconry in the library at Penarrow, where it would probably be found still undisturbed since his brother would not suspect its presence and was himself no scholar. Pitt was to seek out Nicholas at Penarrow and enlist202 his aid to obtain possession of that document, if it still existed.
Then Sakr-el-Bahr found means to conduct Pitt to Genoa, and there put him aboard an English vessel.
Three months later he received an answer — a letter from Pitt, which reached him by way of Genoa — which was at peace with the Algerines, and served then as a channel of communication with Christianity. In this letter Pitt informed him that he had done all that Sir Oliver had desired him; that he had found the document by the help of Nicholas, and that in person he had waited upon Mistress Rosamund Godolphin, who dwelt now with Sir John Killigrew at Arwenack, delivering to her the letter and the parchment; but that upon learning on whose behalf he came she had in his presence flung both unopened upon the fire and dismissed him with his tale untold203.
Sakr-el-Bahr spent the night under the skies in his fragrant204 orchard, and his slaves reported in terror that they had heard sobs205 and weeping. If indeed his heart wept, it was for the last time; thereafter he was more inscrutable, more ruthless, cruel and mocking than men had ever known him, nor from that day did he ever again concern himself to manumit a single English slave. His heart was become a stone.
Thus five years passed, counting from that spring night when he was trepanned by Jasper Leigh, and his fame spread, his name became a terror upon the seas, and fleets put forth from Malta, from Naples, and from Venice to make an end of him and his ruthless piracy. But Allah kept watch over him, and Sakr-el-Bahr never delivered battle but he wrested206 victory to the scimitars of Islam.
Then in the spring of that fifth year there came to him another letter from the Cornish Pitt, a letter which showed him that gratitude207 was not as dead in the world as he supposed it, for it was purely208 out of gratitude that the lad whom he had delivered from thraldom wrote to inform him of certain matters that concerned him. This letter reopened that old wound; it did more; it dealt him a fresh one. He learnt from it that the writer had been constrained209 by Sir John Killigrew to give such evidence of Sir Oliver’s conversion to Islam as had enabled the courts to pronounce Sir Oliver as one to be presumed dead at law, granting the succession to his half-brother, Master Lionel Tressilian. Pitt professed himself deeply mortified210 at having been forced unwittingly to make Sir Oliver so evil a return for the benefits received from him, and added that sooner would he have suffered them to hang him than have spoken could he have foreseen the consequences of his testimony211.
So far Sir Oliver read unmoved by any feeling other than cold contempt. But there was more to follow. The letter went on to tell him that Mistress Rosamund was newly returned from a two years’ sojourn212 in France to become betrothed213 to his half-brother Lionel, and that they were to be wed15 in June. He was further informed that the marriage had been contrived214 by Sir John Killigrew in his desire to see Rosamund settled and under the protection of a husband, since he himself was proposing to take the seas and was fitting out a fine ship for a voyage to the Indies. The writer added that the marriage was widely approved, and it was deemed to be an excellent measure for both houses, since it would weld into one the two contiguous estates of Penarrow and Godolphin Court.
Oliver–Reis laughed when he had read thus far. The marriage was approved not for itself, it would seem, but because by means of it two stretches of earth were united into one. It was a marriage of two parks, of two estates, of two tracts215 of arable216 and forest, and that two human beings were concerned in it was apparently217 no more than an incidental circumstance.
Then the irony218 of it all entered his soul and spread it with bitterness. After dismissing him for the supposed murder of her brother, she was to take the actual murderer to her arms. And he, that cur, that false villain32! — out of what depths of hell did he derive219 the courage to go through with this mummery? — had he no heart, no conscience, no sense of decency220, no fear of God?
He tore the letter into fragments and set about effacing221 the matter from his thoughts. Pitt had meant kindly222 by him, but had dealt cruelly. In his efforts to seek distraction223 from the torturing images ever in his mind he took to the sea with three galleys, and thus some two weeks later came face to face with Master Jasper Leigh aboard the Spanish carack which he captured under Cape42 Spartel.
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1
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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2
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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3
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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4
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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5
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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6
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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7
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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8
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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9
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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10
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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11
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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12
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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13
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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14
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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15
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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16
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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17
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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18
purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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19
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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20
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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21
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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22
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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23
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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24
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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25
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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26
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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27
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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28
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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29
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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30
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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31
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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32
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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33
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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34
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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35
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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36
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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37
galleon
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| n.大帆船 | |
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38
piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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39
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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40
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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42
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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43
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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44
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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45
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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46
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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47
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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48
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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49
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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50
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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51
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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52
foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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53
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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54
retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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55
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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56
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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57
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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59
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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61
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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62
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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63
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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64
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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65
appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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66
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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67
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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68
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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69
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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70
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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71
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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72
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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73
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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74
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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75
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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76
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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77
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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78
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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79
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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80
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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81
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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82
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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83
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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84
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
abaft
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| prep.在…之后；adv.在船尾，向船尾 | |
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86
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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87
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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89
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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90
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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91
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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92
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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93
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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94
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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95
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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96
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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97
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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98
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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99
muffle
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| v.围裹；抑制；发低沉的声音 | |
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100
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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101
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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103
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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104
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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105
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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106
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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107
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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108
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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109
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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110
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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111
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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112
seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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113
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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114
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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115
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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116
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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117
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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118
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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119
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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120
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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121
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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122
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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123
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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124
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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125
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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126
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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127
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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128
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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129
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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130
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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131
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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132
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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133
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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134
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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135
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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137
portend
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| v.预兆，预示；给…以警告 | |
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138
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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139
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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140
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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141
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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142
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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143
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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144
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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145
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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147
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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148
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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149
retaliate
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| v.报复，反击 | |
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150
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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151
chisels
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| n.凿子，錾子( chisel的名词复数 )；口凿 | |
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152
liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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153
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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154
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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155
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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156
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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157
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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158
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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159
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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160
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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162
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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163
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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164
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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165
envisage
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| v.想象，设想，展望，正视 | |
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166
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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168
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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169
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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170
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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171
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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172
conspicuity
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| 显著的 | |
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173
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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174
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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175
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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176
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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177
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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178
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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179
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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180
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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181
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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182
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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183
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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184
amassing
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的现在分词 ) | |
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185
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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186
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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187
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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188
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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189
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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190
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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191
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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192
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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193
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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194
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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195
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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196
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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197
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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198
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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200
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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201
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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202
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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203
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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204
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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205
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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206
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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207
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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208
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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209
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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210
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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211
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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212
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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213
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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214
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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215
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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216
arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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217
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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218
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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219
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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220
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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221
effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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222
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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223
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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