give him in charge of Capting
Montague. But if ye try to _prewent_ the escape bein' attempted, Henry
will take the bloody way of it--for I tell _you_ his birse is up, an' no
mistake."

"How many men are to be with Gascoyne?" asked Thorwald, who, had he not
been naturally a stupid man, must have easily seen through this clumsy
attempt to blind him.

"Just four," answered Bumpus; "an' I'm to be one of 'em."

"Well, Bumpus, I'll take your advice. I shall be at the Long Point
before twelve, with a dozen niggers, and I'll count on you lending us a
hand."

"No, ye mustn't count on that, Mr Thorwald. Surely it's enough if I
run away and leave the others to fight."

"Very well, do as you please," said Thorwald, with a look of contempt.

"Good day, Mr Thorwald. You'll be sure to be there?"

"Trust me."

"An' you'll not say a word about it to nobody?"

"Not a syllable."

"That's all square. You'll see the boat w'en ye git there, and as long
as ye see that boat yer all right. Good day, sir."

John Bumpus left Thorwald's house chuckling, and wended his way to the
widow's cottage, whistling the "Groves of Blarney."

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE AMBUSH--THE ESCAPE--RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE--AND CONCLUSION.

An hour before the appointed time Ole Thorwald, under cover of a dark
night, stole out of his own dwelling with slow and wary step, and
crossed the little plot of ground that lay in front of it with the sly
and mysterious air of a burglar, rather than that of an honest man.

Outside his gate he was met in the same cautious manner by a
dark-skinned human being, the character of whose garments was something
between those of a sailor and a West India planter. This was Sambo,
Thorwald's major-domo, clerk, overseer, and right-hand man. Sambo was
not his proper name, but his master, regarding him as being the
embodiment of all the excellent qualities that could by any possibility
exist in the person of a South Sea islander, had bestowed upon him the
generic name of the dark race, in addition to that wherewith Mr Mason
had gifted him on the day of his baptism.

Sambo and his master exchanged a few words in low whispers, and then
gliding down the path that led from the stout merchant's house to the
south side of the village, they entered the woods that lined the shore,
like two men bent on a purpose which might or might not be of the
blackest possible kind.

"I don't half like this sort of work, Sambo," observed T