Hugh Maitland, now close upon his fortieth year, had for full half his life been a bold and successful smuggler. Never, as yet, had he been arrested. Not only had the secret cove afforded him safe hiding from the king’s cruisers, but the mass of the people, high and low, whom he had furnished abundantly and cheaply with many a luxury of life, had been his friends, tried and true, in the hour of need. At length, however, an enemy with whom he was powerless to contend had laid its unsparing hand upon him. He was dying. A round shot, from the bow gun of a revenue cutter, had struck the quarter-rail of his brig, knocking therefrom a splinter, which had entered his side. Two surgeons had been with him until within a few minutes of the time when we look in upon him, and had promised to call again during the day, but not with the hope of saving him. Death was sure, and close at hand. The dying chief lay upon a comfortable bed, in a rear apartment on the ground floor of the cottage, and near him were two persons--his wife, Margery, and his son, Percy. Margery Maitland was of middle age; a tall, handsome woman of dark complexion, her hair black as a raven’s wing, with a pair of full, bright, restless eyes to match. She had loved her husband better than anything else on earth. Her marriage had cost her friends and position, and she had prized the thing gained accordingly. She had been a faithful and devoted companion of his home life, making that home as pleasant and attractive to him as she could. Perhaps if his life had been entirely passed at home she might not have made it quite an elysium for him; but let that pass. With regard to her love for her son--of that anon. Percy Maitland had entered upon the sixteenth year of his life. He looked old for his age. Neither in form nor in feature did he resemble his father or his mother. He was tall, like his mother, and, like her, handsome, and there the likeness ended. He was of a light, ruddy complexion; his hair, floating about his shapely head in wavy masses, was a rich, golden auburn in color; his eyes were blue as sapphires; his brow high, broad and full, with the lower features in symmetrical keeping. The whole face, in short, was a picture of manly beauty. It was a face to admire, a face to love, and, above and beyond all, it was most emphatically a face to trust. Falsehood and deceit, treachery and cunning, together with all the baser passions and instincts of human nature, were as foreign to that face as is darkness to the full blaze of noonday. His youth gave ample promise of a strong and vigorous manhood. Whatever may have been the feelings of the mother toward her son, his father had loved him with a love bordering on passion.