On the 11th of November, two of the villains, surprised by the colonists’ arrival, fired at Herbert, and one of them returned, boasting of having killed one of the inhabitants of the island; but he returned alone. His companion, as is known, fell by Cyrus Harding’s dagger.
Ayrton’s anxiety and despair may be imagined when he learnt the news of Herbert’s death. The settlers were now only four, and, as it seemed, at the mercy of the convicts. After this event, and during all the time that the colonists, detained by Herbert’s illness, remained in the corral, the pirates did not leave their cavern, and even after they had pillaged the plateau of Prospect Heights, they did not think it prudent to abandon it.
The ill-treatment inflicted on Ayrton was now redoubled. His hands and feet still bore the bloody marks of the cords which bound him day and night. Every moment he expected to be put to death, nor did it appear possible that he could escape.
Matters remained thus until the third week of February. The convicts, still watching for a favourable opportunity, rarely quitted their retreat, and only made a few hunting excursions, either to the interior of the island, or the south coast.
Ayrton had no further news of his friends, and relinquished all hope of ever seeing them again. At last, the unfortunate man, weakened by ill-treatment, fell into a prostration so profound that sight and hearing failed him. From that moment, that is to say, since the last two days, he could give no information whatever of what had occurred.
“But, Captain Harding,” he added, “since I was imprisoned in that cavern, how is it that I find myself in the corral?”
“How is it that the convicts are lying yonder dead, in the middle of the enclosure?” answered the engineer.
“Dead!” cried Ayrton, half rising from his bed, notwithstanding his weakness.
His companions supported him. He wished to get up, and with their assistance he did so. They then proceeded together towards the little stream.
It was now broad daylight.
There, on the bank, in the position in which they had been stricken by death in its most instantaneous form, lay the corpses of the five convicts!
Ayrton was astounded. Harding and his companions looked at him without uttering a word. On a sign from the engineer, Neb and Pencroft examined the bodies, already stiffened by the cold.
They bore no apparent trace of any wound.
Only, after carefully examining them, Pencroft found on the forehead of one, on the chest of another, on the back of this one, on the shoulder of that, a little red spot, a sort of scarcely visible bruise, the cause of which it was impossible to conjecture.
“It is there that they have been struck!” said Cyrus Harding.
“But with what weapon?” cried the reporter.
“A weapon, lightning-like in its effects, and of which we have not the secret!”
“And who has struck the blow?” asked Pencroft.
“The avenging power of the island,” replied Harding, “he who brought you here, Ayrton, whose influence has once more manifested itself, who does for us all that which we cannot do for ourselves, and who, his will accomplished, conceals himself from us.”
“Let us make search for him, then!” exclaimed Pencroft.
“Yes, we will search for him,” answered Harding; “but we shall not discover this powerful being who performs such wonders, until he pleases to call us to him!”
This invisible protection, which rendered their own action unavailing, both irritated and piqued the engineer. The relative inferiority which it proved was of a nature to wound a haughty spirit. A generosity evinced in such a manner as to elude all tokens of gratitude, implied a sort of disdain for those on whom the obligation was conferred, which in Cyrus Harding’s eyes marred, in some degree, the worth of the benefit.
“Let us search,” he resumed, “and God grant that we may some day be permitted to prove to this haughty protector that he has not to deal with ungrateful people! What would I not give could we repay him, by rendering him in our turn, although at the price of our lives, some signal service!”
From this day, the thoughts of the inhabitants of Lincoln Island were solely occupied with the intended search. Everything incited them to discover the answer to this enigma, an answer which could only be the name of a man endowed with a truly inexplicable, and in some degree superhuman power. In a few minutes, the settlers re-entered the house, where their influence soon restored to Ayrton his moral and physical energy.
Neb and Pencroft carried the corpses of the convicts into the forest, some distance from the corral, and buried them deep in the ground.
Ayrton was then made acquainted with the facts which had occurred during his seclusion. He learnt Herbert’s adventures, and through what various trials the colonists had passed. As to the settlers, they had despaired of ever seeing Ayrton again, and had been convinced that the convicts had ruthlessly murdered him.
“And now,” said Cyrus Harding, as he ended his recital, “a duty remains for us to perform. Half of our task is accomplished, but although the convicts are no longer to be feared, it is not owing to ourselves that we are once more masters of the island.”
“Well!” answered Gideon Spilett, “let us search all this labyrinth of the spurs of Mount Franklin. We will not leave a hollow, not a hole unexplored! Ah! if ever a reporter found himself face to face with a mystery, it is I who now speak to you, my friends!”
“And we will not return to Granite House until we have found our benefactor,” said Herbert.
“Yes,” said the engineer, “we will do all that it is humanly possible to do, but I repeat we shall not find him until he himself permits us.”
“Shall we stay at the corral?” asked Pencroft.
“We shall stay here,” answered Harding. “Provisions are abundant, and we are here in the very centre of the circle we have to explore. Besides, if necessary, the cart will take us rapidly to Granite House.”
“Good!” answered the sailor. “Only I have a remark to make.”
“What is it?”
“Here is the fine season getting on, and we must not forget that we have a voyage to make.”
“A voyage?” said Gideon Spilett.
“Yes, to Tabor Island,” answered Pencroft. “It is necessary to carry a notice there to point out the position of our island and say that Ayrton is here in case the Scotch yacht should come to take him off. Who knows if it is not already too late?”
“But, Pencroft,” asked Ayrton, “how do you intend to make this voyage?”
“In the Bonadventure.”
“The Bonadventure!” exclaimed Ayrton. “She no longer exists.”
“My Bonadventure exists no longer!” shouted Pencroft, bounding from his seat.
“No,” answered Ayrton. “The convicts discovered her in her little harbour only eight days ago, they put to sea in her, and—”
“And?” said Pencroft, his heart beating.
“And not having Bob Harvey to steer her, they ran on the rocks, and the vessel went to pieces.”
“Oh, the villains, the cut-throats, the infamous scoundrels!” exclaimed Pencroft.
“Pencroft,” said Herbert, taking the sailor’s hand, “we will build another Bonadventure—a larger one. We have all the iron-work—all the rigging of the brig at our disposal.”