nt
made his young companion upbraid him as the most merciless of human
kind; "ha! I wonder how he got there? I heard that some how or other he
was in limbo at Cecil Place; he wanted to make an escape, I suppose, and
so took to the old earth. Ay, ay! look your last on the bright sun,
that's laughing at man and man's doings--you'll never mount to where it
shines, I trow."

Sir Willmott Burrell--for Roupall had not been deceived either as to the
identity of the person, or the motive which led him to seek refuge in
the Gull's Nest--had effected an almost miraculous escape, considering
how closely he was guarded, a few hours before, and secreted himself in
the very chamber where he had left poor Fleetword to starvation, little
imagining that he was standing on the threshold of retributive justice.
He had caught at flight, even so far, as a sort of reprieve; and was
forming plans of future villany at the very moment the train was fired.
God have mercy on all sinners! it is fearful to be cut off without time
for repentance. Sir Willmott had none. In the flower of manhood, with a
vigorous body and a skilful mind, he had delighted in evil, and panted
for the destruction of his fellows. His face, upon which the glare of
the garish fire danced in derision of his agony, was distorted, and
terrible to look upon: brief as was the space allotted to him, each
moment seemed a year of torture. As the flames rose and encircled their
victim, his cries were so dreadful, that Springall pressed his hands to
his ears, and buried his face in the sand; but Roupall looked on to the
last, thinking aloud his own rude but energetic thoughts.

"Ah! you do not pray, as I have seen some do! Now, there come the
Ironsides," he added, as those grave soldiers drew up on a projection of
the opposite cliff, which, though lower than the ruined Gull's Nest,
commanded a view of the cavern and its sole inmate; "there they come,
and just in time to see your departure for your father the devil's land.
You don't even die game! What an end one of those Ingy chiefs would ha'
made of it on such a funeral pile; but some people have no feeling--no
pride--no care for what looks well!"

At that instant the Preacher Fleetword, who had accompanied the troops,
stood a little in advance of the Protector himself. Cromwell had a
curiosity to inspect the resort of the Buccaneers; and, perfectly
unconscious of Sir Willmott's escape, was petrified with horror and
astonishment o