“You did not expect to find him here, did you, lady?” “Why, no; but I thought we should surely meet him. However, he will soon be here. It is past the time he set.” “For meeting us at the castle, lady, not here.” “Pshaw! What do you take me up so quickly for, Mary? You make me quite nervous.” “Dear lady, pray do not pay any attention to what I say. I suppose I am a little timid. At all events, I can not help wishing we had not come here alone.” “Well, to tell the plain truth, Mary, I begin to wish so myself. But it is too late to cry now. He will not be long after this. Ah! What’s that? A man! A stranger!” Yes, as the last words addressed to her companion fell from her lips she was startled by a quick footfall behind her; and on looking around she beheld a man advancing rapidly toward her, and presently she saw that he was not alone. There was another, and another; aye, and still another, four of them in all; and a more rough and villainous set she had never seen. In fact, the foremost man--he who seemed to be the leader of the others--was the very worst-looking, the most wicked and cruel looking human being she had ever set eyes upon. He was a man tall and stout, dressed in the garb of the sea, though the material was rich and costly. The velvet was of the finest; the silk and satin seemingly of the softest; a massive gold chain around his neck was attached to his watch, while a large diamond of purest water sparkled in the silken kerchief loosely knotted at his throat. His face reminded her of a wild beast, and nothing else. His full beard, long, thick and shaggy, and the mass of hair that covered his head, were like the mane of a lion in color and character. His eyes, gleaming beneath the overhanging brows, were bright like fire and black as coals. In an instant Cordelia thought of Ralph Tryon, the pirate chief. Percy had described him to her minutely, and here he certainly was. With a low, faint cry, and with her two hands clasped over her bosom, she started back, but she could not move far in that direction, as the edge of the platform was directly behind her. “Sweet lady,” the man said, his voice hoarse, as voices are apt to be that have been long used to rising above the roar of the tempest, “I trust you are not afraid of me.” He bowed as he spoke, and looked at her with an expression which she could not translate, though it appeared to her one of cruel malevolence. She noticed now that he carried his right hand pushed inside the bosom of his vest, and she remembered what she had heard of his being wounded in that arm. “Lady!” he pursued, after a lengthy pause, “have you no word for me? May I not be permitted to hear the sweet music of your voice?” “Sir!” our heroine returned, struggling with all her might to speak calmly, or at least coherently--“who are you? Why have you thus placed yourself in my way? What would you with me?”