occurred
also several of the ordinary casualties that attend such
encounters--casualties which always excited in my mind a strong
feeling of regret, that the revenue of the country could not be
assured by other and less hazardous expedients. No life was, however,
lost, and we made no prisoners. To my great surprise I caught, at the
beginning of the affray, a glimpse of the bottle-green coat, drab
knee-cords, with gaiter continuations, of the doctor. They, however,
very quickly vanished; and till about a week afterwards, I concluded
that their owner had escaped in a whole skin. I was mistaken.

I had passed the evening at the house whither my steps were directed
when I escorted Mary Ransome home, and it was growing late, when the
servant-maid announced that a young woman, seemingly in great trouble,
after inquiring if Lieutenant Warneford was there, had requested to
see him immediately, and was waiting below for that purpose. It was, I
found, Mary Ransome, in a state of great flurry and excitement. She
brought a hastily-scribbled note from Dr Lee, to the effect that
Wyatt, from motives of suspicion, had insisted that both he and
Ransome should be present at the attempt near Hurst Castle; that the
doctor, in his hurry to get out of harm's way, had attempted a leap
which, owing to his haste, awkwardness, and the frosty atmosphere and
ground, had resulted in a compound fracture of his right leg; that he
had been borne off in a state of insensibility; on recovering from
which he found himself in Wyatt's power, who, by rifling his pockets,
had found some memoranda that left no doubt of Lee's treason towards
the smuggling fraternity. The bearer of the note would, he said,
further explain, as he could not risk delaying sending it for another
moment--only he begged to say his life depended upon me.

'Life!' I exclaimed, addressing the pale, quaking girl; 'nonsense!
Such gentry as Wyatt are not certainly particular to a shade or two,
but they rarely go that length.'

'They will make away with father as well as Dr Lee,' she shudderingly
replied: 'I am sure of it. Wyatt is mad with rage.' She trembled so
violently, as hardly to be able to stand, and I made her sit down.

'You cannot mean that the scoundrel contemplates murder?'

'Yes--yes! believe me, sir, he does. You know the _Fair Rosamond_, now
lying off Marchwood?' she continued, growing every instant paler and
paler.

'The trader to St Michael's for oranges and other