{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_42555/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_42555","id":"gutenberg_42555","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42555","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Ireland -- Fiction","Irish -- Foreign countries -- Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"BY THE BARROW RIVER\n\n  AND OTHER STORIES\n\n\n\n\n  [Illustration: Yours faithfully Edmund Leamy]\n\n\n\n\n  BY THE BARROW RIVER\n  AND OTHER STORIES\n\n  BY\n  EDMUND LEAMY\n  AUTHOR OF \"IRISH FAIRY TALES,\" ETC.\n  WITH A FOREWORD BY KATHARINE TYNAN\n\n  _WITH PORTRAIT_\n\n  DUBLIN:\n  SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER\n  MIDDLE ABBEY STREET\n  1907\n\n\n\n\n  PRINTED BY\n  SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER,\n  MIDDLE ABBEY STREET,\n  DUBLIN.\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nEdmund Leamy was the beau-ideal of a chivalrous Irish gentleman,\npatriot, and Christian. During a friendship extending over many years,\nI never knew him fall short in the slightest particular of the faith I\nhad in him. His nature was poetic and romantic in the highest degree.\nThrough sunny and cloudy day alike he was Ireland's man, and his faith\nin her ultimate destiny was never shaken. I have never known a nature\nmore lofty or more lovable. Long years of weak health and suffering,\nunder which most people would have sunk, could not alter his noble\nnature. He kept his great, loving, true heart to the last. Even if\nthings were sad enough for him, it was happiness if they were well with\nfriends and neighbours. He did not know what it was to have a grudging\nthought. The experiences which usually make middle-age a period\nof disillusionment came to him as to other men, yet he was never\ndisillusioned; he had the heart of an innocent and trusting boy till the\nday he died. To be sure there was one by his hearth who helped to keep\nhis illusions fresh; and his burden of ill-health was lightened for him\nby God's mercy through the same bright and devoted companionship. He was\nIreland's man; all he did was for Ireland. He could not have written a\nline of verse or prose for the English public, however sure he might\nbe of its suffrage and reward. He wrote a great deal for Ireland, and\nalthough, I believe, he reached his highest development as an orator, an\norator, alas, sorely hampered by physical weakness, yet his stories and\nhis poems have so much of the personality of the man, the fresh, honest,\nand sweet personality, that it has been thought well to rescue just a\nhandful from his many writings in Irish journals extending over a number\nof years. He had not the leisure to make himself exclusively a literary\nman. He was always in the thick of the fight; it would have broken his\nheart to be otherwise. But the work he has left, especially his fairy\ntales and dramatic stories, with their wealth of colour and their\nimaginativeness, give some earnest of the work he might have done. His\nbook of _Irish Fairy Tales_, which has long been out of print, has been\nrepublished in a worthy form; and I am sure the present volume, which\nshows his fancy in a different vein, which contains a set of stories\nthat have not been brought together before, will also be welcome to his\ncountrymen. Were I to write his epitaph it would be--\"Here lies a white\nsoul!\"; and if I had to name the virtue paramount in him it would be\nCharity, which in him included Faith and Hope.\n\n  KATHARINE TYNAN.\n  ST. PATRICK'S DAY, 1907.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                            PAGE\n  BY THE BARROW RIVER                          1\n  \"BENDEMEER COTTAGE\"                         17\n  A NIGHT WITH THE RAPPAREES                  26\n  \"WORSE THAN CREMONA\"                        39\n  MAURYA NA GLEANNA, OR REVENGED AT LAST      50\n  STORY OF THE RAVEN                          64\n  THE SPECTRES OF BARCELONA                   78\n  THE BLACK DOG                              103\n  THE GHOST OF GARROID JARLA                 112\n  TRUE TO DEATH                              125\n  \"THE LIGHT THAT LIES IN WOMAN'S EYES\"      136\n  DEATH BY MISADVENTURE                      146\n  A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD                    154\n  A VISION OF THE NIGHT                      164\n  THE PRETTY QUAKERESS                       175\n  MY FIRST CASE                              200\n  A VISION OR A DREAM?                       221\n  FROM THE JAIL TO THE BATTLEFIELD           234\n  ALL FOR A WOMAN'S EYES                     241\n  THE RUSE OF MADAME MARTIN                  268\n\n\n\n\nNOTE.\n\n\nAmongst the stories here given is the last story the author ever wrote,\n\"The Ruse of Madame Martin.\" It was written in France during his last\nillness and is now for the first time published. It is one of the\nfreshest and raciest in the volume. It has a vivacious sense of\nactuality as well as delightful humour, and it shows that the author's\ntalent was at its brightest when death came to extinguish it.\n\n\n\n\nBY THE BARROW RIVER.\n\n\n\"There are some who see and cannot hear, and some who hear and do not\nsee, and some who neither see nor hear, and you are one of these last,\nDermod, son of Carroll.\"\n\nThe speaker was a man of about forty years, a little above the medium\nheight, of well-knit frame, of a sanguine complexion. His bushy brows,\nshaded pensive eyes, that one would look for in a poet or a dreamer\nrather than in a soldier, yet a soldier, Cathal, son of Rory, was, and\none of the guards of Cobhthach Cael, the usurper, who reigned over\nLeinster; it was in the guard-room in the outer wall of the Fortress\nof Dun Righ that he addressed these words to one of his companions, a\nstripling of twenty, but of gallant bearing.\n\n\"But what did you see or hear, O Cathal?\" said another of the guards,\nwho numbered altogether some six or seven. \"They say of you, Cathal,\nthat the wise woman of the Sidhe came to you the night you were born and\ntouched your eyes and ears, and that you can see and hear what and when\nothers cannot see or hear.\"\n\n\"What matters it what I see or hear? What matters it what is seen or\nheard, Domhnall, son of Eochy, when the king is blind and deaf, and\nthose about him also?\" answered Cathal.\n\n\"Why say you blind and deaf, O Cathal?\"\n\n\"Was it not but the last night,\" replied Cathal, \"when the men of\nLeinster were gathered at the banquet, and when the King of Offaly rose\nup and the cry of _Slainthe_ sounded through the hall like the boom of\nthe waves on the shore of Carmen, that the king's shield groaned on the\nwall and fell with a mighty clangour, and yet they heard and saw not,\nand pursued their revelry. But seeing this, and that they had not\nperceived, I rose and restored the shield to its place on the wall.\"\n\n\"And what else did you see, O son of Rory?\"\n\n\"What else did I see? Was I not keeping watch on the ramparts of a\nnight, when the young moon was coming over the woods, and looking at\nherself in the waters of the Barrow, and did I not see the Lady Edain\nin her grinan looking out and waving her white arm--whiter than the\nmoon--and did I not hear her moaning, as the wind moans softly on a\nsummer night through the reeds of the river, and, as I listened and\nwatched, did I not see coming to the banks of the river, a woman with a\ngreen silken cloak on her shoulders, who sat down opposite the dun, and\nshe was weaving a border, and the lath, or rod, she was weaving with was\na sword of bronze?\"\n\n\"And what do you read from that, O Cathal, son of Rory?\"\n\n\"What do I read from that? War and destruction I read from that,\nDomhnall, son of Eochy--war and destruction; for when a king's shield\nfalls from the wall it means that his house will fall, and the woman\nweaving with the sword was the long, golden-haired woman of the\nSidhe--dangerous to look on is she, Domhnall, son of Eochy, for whiter\nthan the snow of one night, is her form gleaming through her dress, and\nher grey eyes sparkle like the stars, and red are her lips and thin, and\nher teeth are like a shower of pearls, and dangerous is she to listen\nto, Domhnall, for less sweet are the strings of the harp than the sound\nof her voice; and she comes on the eve of battles, and she weaves the\nfate of those who will fall; and she sat on the banks of the Barrow,\nflowing brightly beneath the young moon, and when she will be seen there\nagain it will be red with blood.\"\n\n\"But the Lady Edain, was she talking to the woman of the Sidhe, Cathal,\nson of Rory?\"\n\n\"Evil betide you for your evil tongue, son of Eochy, mention not again\nthe name of the Lady Edain with that of the woman of the Sidhe, or it is\nagainst the stone there, at the back of your heart, that the point of my\njavelin will strike,\" and Cathal's soft eyes blazed with anger.\n\n\"Far be it from me to say or think evil of the Lady Edain, Cathal,\" said\nDomhnall, \"but you said the Lady Edain was looking from her bower when\nthe green-cloaked woman of the Sidhe came to the Barrow bank?\"\n\n\"But she did not see her, Domhnall. No! no! she did not see the\ngreen-cloaked woman, for who so sees her weaving spells, his hour is\ncome. No no! my little cluster of nuts did not see her, Domhnall, and if\nshe were moaning 'twas moaning she was for the youth that is gone away\nfrom her--for the young hero, Ebor, who is away with Prince Labbraidh,\nthat is king by right, although you and I, are the guards of King\nCobhthach Cael here to-night. Oh, no, Domhnall, son of Eochy, my little\ncluster of nuts did not see the woman of the Sidhe, for her life is\nyoung and it is before her. I remember well, Domhnall, son of Eochy, the\nnight the dun was attacked, when I was as young as Dermod, the son of\nCarroll, sitting there beside you, and when I caught the little girsha\nfrom the flames, and she lay on the hollow of my shield--this very\nshield against the wall here, Domhnall, and did it not gleam like gold,\nay, like the golden boss on the king's own shield, because of the golden\nringlets, softer than silk, that were dancing like sunbeams round her\nlittle face, and did she not look up at me and smile, Domhnall, son of\nEochy, and the dun all one blaze. And, since then, wasn't she to me\ndearer than my own, and have I not watched over her, and do you tell me\nnow that she saw the woman of the Sidhe?\"\n\n\"Not so, Cathal, not so, son of my heart,\" said Domhnall, \"but you saw\nthe woman of the Sidhe,\" said he, \"and what does it mean for you?\"\n\n\"Death,\" said Cathal, \"death, Domhnall, did I not tell you it means\ndeath for whosoever see her! But I am a soldier as you are, Domhnall,\nand my father before me, and his father, and his father again died in\nthe battle; and why should not I, and no man can avoid his fate,\nDomhnall? But the colleen of the tresses!--why should she die now,\nDomhnall, why should she die now?\" and Cathal spoke fiercely, \"but woe\nthat she should be here to-night, where she has been for many a year\nlike a bird in a cage--and sure never bird had a voice so sweet--and\nruin and destruction coming as swift as the blue March wind comes across\nthe hills.\"\n\n\"The king will keep her here, Domhnall,\" he went on, answering himself;\n\"for did not the Druid Dubthach, dead and gone now--and evil follow him\nand sorrow feed on his heart wherever he is--tell him that so long as\nthe Lady Edain was kept a prisoner--ay, a prisoner, that's what she is\nin the grinan--and so long as she remained unwedded, the dun would be\nsecure against all assault; but love found its way into the grinan,\nDomhnall, and the Lady Edain gave her heart to Ebor, son of Cailt\u00e9,\nthough never a word she spoke to him; but he is gone, gone away with the\nexiled prince--gone, he who should be here to-night when the black ruin\nis marching towards the dun! But she did not see the woman of the Sidhe,\nDomhnall. No! no! don't say she saw the woman of the Sidhe!\" and Cathal\nbent his head down on his hands, and for a moment there was silence.\n\nThen he started:\n\n\"Do you not hear, Domhnall--do you not hear?\" and all the guards\nstrained their ears.\n\nIn through the bare stone wall of the guardroom, a sound stole almost as\nsoft as a sigh; then it increased, and a melody as lulling as falling\nwaters in the heart of the deep woods fell on their ears, and, one by\none, the listeners closed their eyes, and, leaning back on the rude\nstone benches, were falling into a pleasant slumber. Suddenly a brazen\nclangour roused them. Cathal's shield had fallen from the wall on to the\nstone floor. The bewitching music had ceased, and they were startled to\nfind that the \"candle upon the candlestick,\" which gave light to the\nroom, had burned down half an inch. They must have been asleep for at\nleast half-an-hour. Cathal started up, and, bidding his comrades stuff\ntheir ears if they heard the music again, he went out and mounted to the\nrampart. Within it all was silent, and silent all without. The midsummer\nmoon, with her train of stars, poured down a flood of light almost as\nbright as that of day. The Barrow River shone like a silver mirror, and\nflowed so slowly that one might almost doubt its motion, and there was\nnot air enough stirring to make the smallest dimple upon its surface.\nCathal followed its course until it was lost in the forest that some\ndistance below stretched away for miles on either side of the river.\nBetween the forest and the dun, close to the latter, was the little\ntown, or burgh, with its thatched houses, in which dwelt the artificers\nof the king. There too, all was silent, and as far as Cathal's eye could\nsee there was nothing stirring in any direction. He made the circuit of\nthe rampart, pausing only when he came to the grinan of the Lady Edain.\nIt was on such another night, only then the moon was not so full, he had\nseen her at her open casement--on just such another night he had seen\nsitting on the Barrow banks, the woman of the Sidhe. The casement was\nclosed, and there was no sign of the Lady Edain. But coming from the\nwoods along the bank, what was that gleaming figure? Cathal did not need\nto ask himself. It was that of the woman of the Sidhe, and now she sits\nupon the bank, and begins her task of weaving, and he notes the sparkle\nof the points of the sword as she plies it in her work. And as he looks,\nhe sees, or thinks he saw, the Barrow river change to a crimson hue; but\nthe moon still shone from a cloudless sky, and he knows that he is the\nvictim of his imagination, and that its waters are silver bright.\n\nBut he knew also that this second coming of the woman of the Sidhe\nbetokens that before the moon rise again--perhaps before this moon\nset--the river would be crimson with the blood of heroes, and yet King\nCobhthach sleeps, fancying himself secure, in his dun, and there is no\none to pay heed to Cathal's warnings or visions, except, perhaps, some\nof his comrades in the guard-room. And when the moon arose again what\nwould have been the fate of the Lady Edain--his little cluster of nuts.\nA groan escaped the lips of Cathal as the question framed itself in his\nthought. He could touch with his spear the casement within which she lay\nsleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of the young lover far away. For a moment\nthe thought leaped to his mind that he should scale the grinan, force\nopen the casement, and carry out the Lady Edain anywhere from the doomed\ndun; but her maids, sleeping next her, would be terrified, and cry out\nand spoil his plot, and the Lady Edain might see the woman of the Sidhe,\nand nothing then could save her. With a heavy heart he retraced his\nsteps, and, coming over the guard-house, he descended and entered the\nguard-room. His companions were fast asleep. He strove to rouse them,\nbut failed. Some spell had fallen on them, and even while making the\neffort he himself was smitten with the desire of sleep. The lids closed\non his eyes as if weighted with lead. He sank down on the stone bench\nbeside Domhnall, the son of Eochy, and faintly conscious of weird music\nin his ears, he, too, fell into a deep slumber.\n\nThe Lady Edain, even at the very moment when Cathal was looking towards\nher casement, was tossing uneasily on her embroidered couch. Her maids\nlay sleeping around her. She had been dreaming--dreaming that she was\nwandering with her lover through a mossy pathway, lit with moonlight,\nin the heart of the woods. And when her heart was full of happiness\nlistening, as she thought, to the music of his voice, suddenly through\nthe wood burst out on the pathway an armed band, and Ebor had barely\ntime to poise his spear when he fell pierced to the heart. She awoke\nwith a scream. There was light enough coming through the slits in the\ncasement to permit her to see that her maids were sleeping peacefully.\nYet, she was only half satisfied that she had been dreaming. She rose\nfrom her couch, and, flinging a green mantle over her, fastening it with\na silver brooch, stepped softly to the casement, and, opening it, leaned\nout. Her golden tresses fell to her feet, some adown her breast, others\nover her shoulders, and as she sat there, in the full splendour of the\nmoon, one might well believe that it was the beautiful golden-haired,\ngreen-robed woman of the Sidhe that had seated herself in the maiden's\nbower. The soft influence of the moon descended upon the heart of Lady\nEdain, and subdued its tumult. She glanced at the lucent waters of the\nsilent river, and along its verduous banks, but she saw no vision of the\nwoman of the Sidhe, for love had blinded her eyes to all such sights;\nelse she was doomed. Then she looked up at the moon, now slowly sailing\nacross the edge of the forest, and the thought came to her heart, which\nhas come to the lover of all ages and all countries, that the same moon\nwas looking down on him who was far away, and, perhaps, even at that\nmoment he, too, was gazing at it, and thinking how it shone on the\nBarrow river; then her eyes rested on the line which divided the forest\nfrom the fields that lay between it and the dun, and she saw the track\nover which her lover had passed out into the forest on that fatal day\nwhen he set out with Prince Labraidh into banishment.\n\nAnd even as she watched she thought she saw something emerge from the\nforest and come in the direction of the dun. After a while she caught\nthe glint of weapons, and saw it was a horseman approaching--some\nwarrior, doubtless, seeking the hospitality of Dun Righ. She watched as\nthey came along, horse and man, casting their shadows on the grass. They\ncame right up under the rampart of the dun farthest from where she was,\nand near to the door that led past the guardroom.\n\nWhile she was idly speculating whom he might be, she heard a strain of\nmusic that seemed to creep along the rampart like a slow wind across the\nsurface of a river. She looked in the direction from which it seemed to\ncome, and then she saw a muffled figure somewhat bent, and saw gleaming\nin his hands a small harp, while over his shoulder were two spears.\n\nImmediately the thought of the harper, Craiftine, who had gone away with\nthe banished prince, came to her mind. Perhaps he had come back, sent by\nher lover to bring a message!\n\n\"Only Craiftine,\" she said to herself, \"could win from strings such\nmusic as she now was listening to,\" and while she listened a soft\nlanguor crept through her frame, and, leaning her head upon her hand,\nfelt as if she were falling asleep, but the music at once changed, and\nit breathed now like the wind blowing over the fountain of tears on the\nisland of the Queen of Sorrow in the far western seas, and sorrow filled\nher heart, and the tears, welling up into her eyes, banished sleep\nfrom them, and, raising herself up, she looked straight at the harper\napproaching.\n\nYes, it was Craiftine! His bent head and stooping shoulders betrayed him\nand his bardic cloak. He came on, still playing, until he stood on the\nrampart facing the casement.\n\nThen the cloak was flung off. The stooping figure became erect, and in\nthe shining moonlight Edain beheld her warrior-lover, Ebor!\n\nMaking a gesture to her to draw back, he placed his two spear shafts\nagainst the casement, and in a second he was in the room, and the Lady\nEdain was in his arms.\n\nHe looked around him and saw the sleeping maidens.\n\n\"We need not fear their awakening,\" he said softly. \"All in the dun,\neven the guards, are under the spell of the strain of slumber. Craiftine\ncame hither a while ago, and reduced all to sleep, save Cathal, son of\nRory, the captain of the guard, but he, too, now is under its spell. He\nlent me his harp, which, even in my hands, retains some of its power.\nBut we have no time to spare. Array yourself quickly. My horse is below\nthe rampart; we have not a moment to lose.\"\n\nEdain needed no word to urge her. In a second she was ready. In another\nEbor was carrying her in his arms across the spear shafts to the\nrampart.\n\nLetting himself down and then standing on the horse's back, he caught\nher descending, placed her on the steed before him, and swifter than\nlight galloped off to the shelter of the forest.\n\nBut, alas, for Ebor, as they rode away he glanced towards the banks of\nthe shining river, and he saw the woman of the Sidhe weaving her fateful\nspells.\n\nThe pathways of the silent forest were well known to Ebor, and he rode\non with his charge over pleasant mossy ways, reminding Edain of those\nwhich she had seen in her dream. They had gone not more than a quarter\nof a mile when she, who had been prattling merrily to Ebor, uttered a\nfrightened cry:\n\n\"Oh, Ebor, look; there are armed men!\"\n\n\"They are friends, Edain,\" he replied, \"friends, and now my bonnie bride\nis safe at last.\"\n\nThey had come to a wide glade. It was crowded with warriors, and through\nthe trees wherever the moonlight fell, Edain caught a glimpse of figures\nand the glint of arms. Ebor jumped from his horse, and taking the Lady\nEdain in his arms lifted her gently down. A warrior, of stately mien\nand wearing the golden helmet of a king, advanced towards them.\n\n\"A hundred thousand welcomes, Edain,\" he cried, as he clasped her in his\narms.\n\nIt was her kinsman, Labraidh, the rightful King of Leinster, who had\ncome back to claim his own. Labraidh had been across the seas seeking\nallies. On his return, he landed at the mouth of the Slaney, and, by\nforced marches through the woods, had come hither. Unwilling to risk his\ncousin's life by making an assault on the dun while she was still in it,\nhe easily yielded to the entreaties of his harper, Craiftine, and of\nEbor to allow them to undertake the task of effecting the escape of\nEdain. He had known of old the skill of Craiftine and the courage and\naddress of Ebor, and did not doubt their success. And now that Edain was\nfree he determined to push on at once, and try the hazard of an assault\non the dun. But first he led the Lady Edain to his tent, where his wife,\nthe Lady Moriadh and her women were, and entrusting her to Moriadh's\ncare, he returned and put himself at the head of his troops, and gave\nthem their orders to push on as quickly as possible until they came to\nthe edge of the forest, within view of the dun. Ebor was at the prince's\nside, happy in the knowledge that the Lady Edain was safe, and too full\nof the desire of battle to give even a moment's thought to the vision of\nthe woman of the Sidhe. When they arrived at the edge of the forest they\nhalted for a while. They could see the ramparts plainly, and that no\none was moving on them. The moon had by this time gone down over the\nforest, and in the east there was the first faint grey streak of dawn.\nThen the prince drew out his forces into three battalions. The centre he\ncommanded in person, that to the right was under Ebor, and it was to\nmove along the river bank and make the assault in that direction. The\nthird battalion was to push round the fortress to the left. Orders were\ngiven that no trumpets were to be sounded and no shout raised until the\ntroops were face to face with the foe.\n\nThe garrison not dreaming of the near approach of Labraidh, who was not\nknown to be in Erin, was buried in sleep almost as deep as that which\nsealed the lids of Cathal and his comrades in the guard-room. The\nramparts were scaled without much difficulty, and it was not until they\nhad passed within the inner wall and had surrounded the house of the\nusurper that their presence was discovered, and then only when they\nbegan to batter in the door. The noise was followed by the cry, \"to\narms!\" which rang through the whole fortress. It was heard by the\nwarriors in the other houses, who, hastily arming themselves, burst out.\nA desperate hand-to-hand struggle took place, but surprise had given\ncomplete advantage to the assailants. They hemmed round the now\ndesperate garrison with a ring of steel, growing ever narrower as their\nranks were thinning. Soon the cry of fire was raised. The king's house\nwas ablaze. He in front of it was fighting desperately, but one by one\nhis men were falling round him. The roar of the flames, which had now\nspread to the other houses, mingled with the cries of the warriors\nand the clangour of stricken shields. Prince Labriadh again and again\npressed forward to engage Cobhthach, but the tide of battle swept them\napart. To save the dun had become impossible, and Cobhthach determined\nif he could to cut his way out. By desperate efforts he drove those who\nwere in front of him back against the inner rampart, and before they\ncould recover succeeded in leaping on it. He was perceived by Ebor, who,\nguessing his design, leaped, by the aid of the handles of his spears, on\nthe rampart, and called on Cobhthach to turn and fight like a warrior\nand not run like a coward, and he launched a javelin against him which\nglanced off the helmet of Cobhthach. But Cobhthach stayed not, and Ebor\nlaunched the second with a surer aim, which, striking Cobhthach through\nthe back, pierced his heart as he was endeavouring to spring to the\nouter wall, and the usurper fell dead in the intervening ditch. Ebor was\non the point of again descending into the dun when his eye caught the\nsight of a figure on the river bank. It was the woman of the Sidhe, no\nlonger weaving, but dabbling her hands in the waters of the river that\nwere now running red with blood. A cold chill seized his heart, for he\nthought of the Lady Edain, and he knew that his hour had come. But he\nwould die fighting. He turned round, and coming against him along the\nrampart was Cathal, son of Rory. The latter hurled his spear, to which\nEbor presented his shield, but it had been hurled with such force that\nit pierced the shield, and entered into the vitals of Ebor. His only\nweapon now was his sword, and as Cathal, son of Rory, pressed on him,\nhe, with all his remaining strength, drove it into Cathal's side; but\nthe effort exhausted his last strength, and he fell back dead, and\nCathal, son of Rory, fell dead beside him, and the woman of the Sidhe\nstill continued dabbling her hands in the crimson waters of the Barrow\nriver.\n\n\n\n\n\"BENDEMEER COTTAGE.\"\n\n\nSome years ago I was on a visit with a friend in the county of Wicklow,\nwhose house was situated in one of the most delightful valleys of \"the\ngarden of Ireland.\" It was when the lilac and the laburnum were in full\nbloom and the air was sweet with scent. The weather was delightful, and\nI spent most of my time out of doors, taking long walks over the hills\nand through the hedgerows, musical with the songs of birds and soon to\nbe laden with the perfume of the hawthorn.\n\nIn the course of my rambles I chanced one day to pass a rusty iron gate\nfastened by an equally rusty chain, the base of which was partially\nconcealed by tall, rank grass, showing that it had not been opened for a\nlong time. The gate was hung upon two stone piers covered with lichen.\nOn the top of one was a stone globe. That which had surmounted the\nother had been removed, or had fallen off through the action of time\nand weather. From the gate a pathway once gravelled, but now almost\novergrown with grass, led up through a fair-sized lawn to a long,\none-storied cottage, stoutly built, the windows and door of which were\nfaced with stone, which, like that of the piers, was also stained with\nlichen. The grass, pushed itself high over the threshold of the door and\nalmost reached the windowsills. The slates on the roof appeared to be\nnearly all perfect, but were covered with brown or grey patches of moss\nor lichen. A few of the slates had fallen away and exposed part of a\nrafter. On the lawn, as doubtless was the case when the cottage was\ninhabited, a number of sheep were browsing. In the centre of it was a\nnearly circular piece of water, fenced by a wire railing. Towards this\npond the ground dipped gently, both from the roadside and from the\nside immediately fronting the cottage. The gate pierced a long, high\nhedgerow, and this it was, perhaps, that caused me stop to look over\nit to see what lay beyond. The silent, almost grim desolation of the\ncottage was a curious and striking contrast to the cheerful aspect of\nall the others which I had seen in the neighbourhood, and this it was\nthat tempted me to cross a stile that was close to the gate and stroll\nup to the cottage. The windows had been barred up with timber that was\ngiving way in some places. The door, which was of oak, was firm and well\nsecured, and over it I noticed a stone on which were carved some words,\nof which at first, owing to the incrustation of lichen, I was able only\nto distinguish the letters \"ottage.\" By the aid of the ferule of my\nwalking stick I succeeded in clearing off the lichen so as to enable\nme to decipher the inscription. It was \"Bendemeer Cottage.\" The name\nbrought to my mind the familiar and delightfully melodious lines of\nMoore:--\n\n    \"There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream,\n      And the nightingale sings round it all the day long.\"\n\nAnd even while the echo of the melody was floating in my memory, my ear\ncaught the faint whisper of gliding water. I passed round the cottage\nand saw a gentle stream close to a hedgerow, and between the cottage,\nand near the stream, were a mass of tangled rose-bushes, which had long\nceased to flower, and were pushing forth only a few weak leaves.\n\n\"And this was their bower of roses,\" said I, \"in the days long gone; and\nwhere are they who enjoyed its fragrance? Whither have they departed,\nand why has the blight fallen on the bloom?\"\n\nIt was an idle question for there was none to answer it. I passed round\nthe cottage again and again. A few moments before I was unaware of its\nexistence, and already it had begun to exercise a fascination on me.\n\n\"Is there,\" said I, \"anyone in a far away land asking his heart 'Are the\nroses still bright by the Bendemeer?'\" for I doubted not that the name\nwas given to the stream as well as to the cottage.\n\nI turned home slowly and thoughtfully, and scarcely heard the blackbirds\ntrolling out their rich notes in the silence of the evening. The sight\nof a ruined homestead--a sight, alas! so frequent in many parts of\nIreland, has always had a deep effect on me, for I cannot help conjuring\nup the crackling fire upon the hearthstone lighting the faces of happy\nchildren, and of speculating on the fate which awaited them when its\nlight was quenched and they were scattered far and wide across the seas.\nBut this desolate cottage whose name was so suggestive of youth and\nbloom, and love and happiness, was like a ruined tombstone raised over\ndead hopes--a mockery of their vanity.\n\nThat evening I questioned my friend as to its history. He knew nothing\nof it, though he had lived twenty years not far from it, and he rallied\nme on my sentimental mood, and suggested that its former inhabitants had\ngot tired of it, that probably they had found some thorns amongst its\nroses.\n\n\"They were sentimental people like yourself,\" he said. \"Probably town\nbred, and that's what made them give it such an absurd name, and they\nsoon tired of love in a cottage.\"\n\nMy friend was an extremely good-hearted, generous fellow, ever ready to\nhelp another in distress; but he was prone to regard any one who would\nsorrow over what he called imaginary woes as little better than a\nsimpleton. I saw there was no information to be gained from him, and I\ncould hardly look for any sympathy from him with my desire to procure\nit. But the desire, instead of abating, increased, and I found myself\nagain and again taking the direction of the lonely cottage. But day\nafter day I saw only the sheep browsing on the lawn, and heard only the\nmurmur of the stream; and I was about giving up all hope of learning\nits history, when it chanced that one evening I fell in with an old\nshepherd, who, as I was crossing the stile on to the road, was coming\ntowards it. He saluted me in the friendly way so common until recently\nwith people of his class. I acknowledged his salute with equal\nfriendliness. He remarked on the fineness of the weather, and seeing\nthat he was inclined to be communicative, I resolved to continue the\nconversation. I thought he was about to cross the stile, but instead he\npursued the road leading to my friends' house.\n\n\"That's a lonely cottage over there,\" said I tentatively.\n\n\"Oh, then, you may well call it lonely,\" said he, \"but I mind the time\nwhen it was one of the brightest cottages ye'd see in a day's walk in\nthe whole of the county Wicklow.\"\n\n\"That must have been a long time ago,\" I rejoined.\n\n\"Ay, thin, it is. It's fifty years ago or more. 'Twas about the time\nthat poor Boney was bet at Waterloo. Sure I mind it well. I was only a\ngorsoon then, yer honour, but 'twas often and often I did a hand's turn\nfor the lady, and sure 'twas the rale illegant lady she was, yer honour,\nwith her eyes that wor as blue as the sky above us this blessed and holy\nevenin', and her smile was as light and as bright as the sunbeams, and\nher voice was sweeter nor the blackbird that's singin' this minit in the\nelm beyant there, only twice as low.\"\n\n\"And how long was she living there, and was she married?\"\n\n\"Troth thin, she was married, or at laste the poor crater thought she\nwas, and her husband was an illegant man, too. He was taller nor yer\nhonour, but twice as dark. He was a foreigner of some kind, but his name\nwas English, or sounded like it. It was Duran. And sure 'twas happy\nenough they seemed to be, although there were no childre, and they wor\nlivin' there more nor three years, your honour, and you couldn't tell\nwhich of thim was fonder of the other. And the cottage, yer honour,\nt'was all covered with roses, and sure, 'tis myself that many a time\ntrimmed the rosebushes that ye might see up by the strame at the back of\nthe cottage, where the summer-house was. And did ye mind the pond in\nfront of it, yer honour?\"\n\n\"I did,\" I replied.\n\n\"Well then 'twasn't a pond at all, yer honour but a quarry hole, and\nnothing would do the young mistress but that a lake should be made out\nof it, and didn't myself help to dam up the strame to let the water run\ninto the hollow ye see in the field, and a purty little lake it made,\nto be sure. Ay, sure, 'tis I mind it well, for a few days after 'twas\nfinished, the news kem in that Boney was bet.\"\n\n\"And did they live there long after that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Little more nor two years, yer honour, for the lake was made the first\nyear they wor there. But sure, 'tis the quare story it was, but no one\nminds it about here now but myself. The neighbours' childre, that wor\nchildre wud me are all dead and gone, and sure they were foreigners,\nand they didn't mix nor make with anyone outside their own two selves,\nand till the cross kem they were as happy as the day's long.\"\n\n\"And what was the cross?\"\n\n\"Oh, then, meself doesn't rightly know the ins and outs of it, yer\nhonour; but ye see the way it was--one day when the master was away in\nDublin, there drove up to the door a dark woman, that was more like a\ngipsy than anything else, and with big goold rings in her ears, and\nmyself chanced to be in the garden behind the house trimmin' them same\nrose bushes, an' I only heard an odd word or two. But as far as I could\nhear, the dark woman, she was saying that the poor darlin' lady had no\nright to call herself Mrs. Duran at all, for that he was ayther promised\nto marry her, or was married to her, meself didn't rightly know till\nafter, for I was only a gorsoon then, yer honour, and didn't know much\nabout it; but when the strange woman went away, and I went into the\ncottage to ask the mistress if she had any more for me to do, she was as\nwhite as a ghost, she, that used always to be bloomin' like one of the\nroses ye'd see in them hedges there in the month of June. Well, yer\nhonour, she told me she wouldn't want anythin' till mornin', and sure\nmeself never set eyes on her alive again.\"\n\n\"Why, what happened?\"\n\n\"What happened is it, yer honour? Sure there never was a mournfuller\nstory. The master kem home that night, but there was no sign of the\npoor mistress. I heard long after that she had left a letter, but I\nnever heard tell of what was in it. Well, sure, he was nearly out of his\nmind, and then when there was no sign of her comin' back he went away to\nforeign parts, and myself thought he'd never come back ayther, but he\ncame home one mornin' and he went on livin' in the cottage as he did\nbefore when they wor together. The only one, barrin' an old woman of a\nservant, that he ever let about the house, was myself, for ye see, yer\nhonour, he knew the poor young mistress had a likin' for me, and he used\nto employ me in lookin' after the roses and keepin' the summer house in\norder, where I often saw himself and herself sitting together, and often\nit was he sat there lookin' as lonesome as a churchyard in the night,\nyer honour, and sure 'twas hardly a word he ever spoke. And then I\nknew that he was as fond as ever of the poor mistress, and that 'twas\nthinkin' of her all the time he was. And didn't myself see her picture\nin his bedroom, and ye'd think 'twas smilin' at ye she was out o' the\nframe, and then I knew the strange woman had wronged her and him.\"\n\n\"And how long did he live there alone?\"\n\n\"Sure, that's the quarest part of the story, yer honour. Ye see, when\nthe poor mistress was gone he didn't mind the lake, and the water began\nto sink into the ground, and then there kem one dry summer when all\nthe strames in the country ran dry. It was the driest summer I ever\nremember, and the grass was as thin and as brown as my old coat, and as\nlittle nourishin', and sure one mornin' we noticed somethin' under the\nshallow water of the lake, and what was it but the body of the poor\nmistress? And after that when we buried her in the churchyard beyond the\nhill there, the poor master left the place and the cottage was shut up,\nfor no one would live in it, and the fields around it were tuk by Mr.\nToole that had a farm next to it, and 'tis in the hollow where you might\nsee the sheep browsin' this minnit the poor lady was found.\"\n\n\n\n\nA NIGHT WITH THE RAPPAREES.\n\n(_From the Memoirs of an Officer of the Irish Brigade._)\n\n\nIt was towards the end of October in the year before the Battle of\nFontenoy, and a few months before I joined one of the flocks of\n\"the Wild Geese\" in their flight to France, that I fell in with the\nexperience which I am now about to relate. I had been staying for a few\ndays with a friend in the west of the County of Cork, and I had started\nfor home in full time, as I had hoped, to reach it before nightfall.\nMy shortest way, about five miles, lay across the mountains. It was\nfamiliar to me since I was a child, and I felt sure I could make it out\nin dark as well as in daylight. When I started a light wind was blowing.\nSome dark clouds were in the sky, but the wind was not from a rainy\npoint, and I was confident that the weather would keep up. When,\nhowever, I had traversed half the way, the wind changed suddenly and\na light rain began to fall. I pushed on more quickly, yet without\nmisgiving, but before I had gone a half-mile further the mountain was\nsuddenly enveloped in mist that became denser at every step. I could\nscarcely see my hand when I stretched it out before me. The mossy\nsheep-track beneath my feet was scarcely distinguishable, and now and\nagain I was almost tripped up by the heather and bracken that grew high\nat either side.\n\nI found it necessary to move cautiously and very slowly; yet,\nnotwithstanding my caution, I frequently got tangled in the heather, but\nsucceeded in regaining the path. I continued on until I judged that I\nhad made another half-mile from the spot in which I was first surrounded\nby the mist. How long I had been making this progress it was difficult\nfor me to estimate, but I became aware that the night had fallen, and I\nwas no longer able to distinguish anything even at my feet. I began to\ndoubt whether I was on the proper path, for sheep tracks traversed the\nmountain in all directions. It occurred to me to turn into the bracken\nand try to make the best shelter I could. The bracken here grew to a\nheight of nearly three feet, and some of the stalks were thick and\nstrong. I had often amused myself when a child twining the stalks\ntogether, and making them into a cosy house, and often escaped thereby\nfrom a heavy summer shower. The mere recollection of my childish efforts\nlightened my heart, though I was conscious enough that the experiment I\nwas about to make was not likely to be very successful. But I set to,\nand tore up some of the bracken, and began to twist it around the\nstanding clumps so as to form a roof, but when I had gone on a few feet\nfrom the track I felt the ground slipping from my feet. I caught hold\nof a clump of bracken only to pull it from the roots, and to find myself\nsliding down I knew not whither. Stones were rumbling by my side, but\nfortunately none of them touched me, and quicker than I can tell it I\nwas lying prone on the earth. I stretched out my hands, and found level\nground as far as I could reach on either side. I struggled till I\nregained my feet. I was dazed for a while, but when I fully recovered\nmyself I was utterly perplexed as to what I was to do. After the\nexperience which I had had I was afraid to move either to the right or\nleft. I stood still, and I am not ashamed to say that I could distinctly\nhear the beating of my heart. The mist still enveloped me, so I was\nunable to see anything. Suddenly I thought I heard the sound of voices,\nbut set that down to my imagination, for I knew there was no house\nwithin miles of me. I listened, however, with the utmost eagerness, and\nagain I heard the voices.\n\nI was about to shout when the mist a little in advance of me was\nbrightened, as if a light were thrown on it. Instinctively I advanced\nin the direction of the luminous haze, when I felt myself caught by the\nneck by a firm grasp, and I was flung forward. My feet slipped on some\nprojection, and I fell headlong.\n\nWhen I managed to raise myself I saw I was in a dwelling of some\nkind, partially lighted by the blaze of a turf fire. Several men were\npresent, and I distinctly saw the flash of firearms. There was at once a\nconfusion of voices, and I was pulled to my feet by one of the men, who\npresented a horse-pistol at my head.\n\n\"Shoot him! He is a Sassenach spy!\" came in a hoarse chorus from the men\naround the fire.\n\n\"No Sassenach am I,\" I answered back, endeavouring to shake myself free\nfrom the grip of the man who held me.\n\n\"And who are you? And whence come you?\" he asked, fiercely.\n\n\"Frank O'Mahony,\" I said, \"the son of Shaun O'Mahony, of the Glen.\"\n\n\"Let me look at him,\" cried an old woman, whom I had not previously\nnoticed, and she shook off the grip of my captor and brought me towards\nthe fire.\n\nWith a corner of her shawl she rubbed my face, and then she caught me in\nher arms.\n\n\"Ah, then, 'tis Frank--Frank O'Mahony,\" said she. \"Shure I nursed your\nmother, avourneen, on my knee. But 'tis no wondher the boys didn't know\nyou, for your own mother wouldn't know you with the wet clay of the\nmountain plastered over your face, and 'tis you are welcome, Frank\navourneen, in daylight or in dark, and shure no true Rapparee need close\nthe doore again your father's son.\"\n\nWhen the old woman had done speaking, the man who had seized me clasped\nmy hand.\n\n\"Frank, my boy,\" said he, \"you're welcome--welcome as the flowers of\nMay. Make room for him there, comrades; don't you see the boy is cowld\nand wet.\"\n\nAnd they made a place for me, and the old woman brewed a steaming jug of\npoteen, and she said to the others that I wasn't to be asked a question\nuntil I had taken some of her mountain medicine.\n\nHardly had I taken the medicine when I felt pretty comfortable, and then\nwhen I got time to look about me I saw I was in something like a cave of\nlarge dimensions, half of which was in shadow owing to the imperfect\nlight.\n\nAbout half-a-dozen men came in shortly after my arrival, and then the\nwhole force numbered thirty.\n\nWhen all who had been expected had come, the captain, who was the man\nwho had seized me said--addressing me:--\n\n\"Help and comfort we always got from your father, Frank O'Mahony. Ah,\nand if the truth were known, my boy, he spent many a night on the hills\nwith the Rapparees. May Heaven be his bed to-night. You are over young\nyet, but still not too young to strike a blow for Ireland. There isn't a\nman here who wouldn't die for you if necessary.\"\n\n\"I hope to strike a blow for Ireland,\" I said, \"but word has come from\nmy uncle, Colonel O'Mahony, that he wishes me to go to France and join\nhim.\" \"God bless the Colonel, wherever he is,\" said the captain, \"he'll\nnever miss the chance, but would to God he was with us at home. The\nbest--the best and the bravest have gone away from us.\"\n\n\"What are you saying, man,\" said the old woman, suddenly confronting\nhim. \"There's not a colonel nor a general in the whole French army a bit\nboulder or braver than our own Rapparees.\"\n\n\"We do our best, Moira asthoreen,\" said the captain, laying his hand on\nher shoulder, \"but the men who are gone away are winning fame for the\nold land, God bless them all. For sure their thoughts are always with\npoor Ireland, and every blow they strike they strike for her, and their\npride in the hour of victory is because their own old land hears of it.\"\n\n\"Ay, and every blow the Rapparees strike, they strike for her, too,\"\nsaid Moira, \"and 'tis no living there would be no living at all at all\nfor poor people here at home if it weren't for the boys, and--come there\nnow, Jem Mullooney, and give us a stave about my bowld Rapparees. Yes,\nyou can do it when you like, and I bet Master Frank here never heard\nit.\"\n\nI admitted I never had, and I cordially joined in the chorus which\nfollowed, and endorsed Moira's demand.\n\nMoira, apparently delighted to hear me backing up her demand, said:\n\n\"Musha, good luck to the mist that brought you here, Master Frank,\" said\nshe, \"and sure that same mist has often proved a great friend to the\nRapparees.\"\n\nThe men had seated themselves around the cave as best they could, some\non bunches of heather, some on sods of turf, some on roots of trees\nroughly shaped into a seat. The captain, a few others and myself, were\nsitting close to the fire.\n\nJem Mullooney was nearly opposite me. The firelight flashing in his\ndirection, enabled me to catch a full view of his face, and a fine face\nit was, though a little too long. You knew at a glance you could trust\nyour life with him, but he looked like a pleased boy when he was\nimportuned to give us the song.\n\nClearing his throat with the least taste of Moira's medicine, he\nstruck out in a rich voice, to a rattling air, accompanying himself\noccasionally with dramatic gestures, the following song:--\n\n          \"THE RAPPAREES.\n\n    \"Thirty troopers in the glen,\n    Thirty, stalwart fearless men;\n    All alert and cool and steady;\n    Sabres loose and carbines ready,\n    But who are moving through the trees?\n    Bang! Bang! they are the Rapparees!\n\n              CHORUS:\n\n      Bang! Bang! they are the Rapparees!\n\n    \"Twenty troopers in the glen----,\n    That volley emptied saddles ten?\n    Twenty troopers gain the hill----,\n    'Halt,' their captain cries 'until\n    We breathe our horses.' 'If you please,\n    You'll first ask leave of the Rapparees.'\n\n              CHORUS:\n\n      'You'll first ask leave of the Rapparees.'\n\n    \"The heather seems alive to-night;\n    Muskets flash a-left, a-right.\n    Troopers ten are scurrying fast\n    As clouds before the winter blast,\n    And empty ten more saddle trees.\n    'Tis you can shoot, my Rapparees.\n\n              CHORUS:\n\n      ''Tis you can shoot, my Rapparees.'\"\n\nThe applause which followed the song had barely ceased, when a low\nwhistle was heard from outside.\n\n\"Open!\" cried the captain of the Rapparees.\n\nThe barrier closing the entrance to the cave was removed, and a man\ncovered with perspiration, and almost fainting for want of breath,\nrushed in.\n\n\"Two troops of infantry left Adamstown Barracks three hours ago.\nShaun-na-cappal was with them.\"\n\n\"Shaun-na-cappal!\"\n\n\"Yes! They made for the red lanes, and ought to be in the glen by this.\"\n\nAnother low whistle was heard, when the door was again opened, and a lad\nburst in.\n\n\"The sojers are in the glen, captain, and the clouds are going and the\nmoon is coming.\"\n\n\"Well, my lads,\" said the captain, \"our retreat is discovered. They\nthink they will catch us here like rats in a trap. Perhaps we can set\none for them. Bar the entrance. Pile up everything; make it as firm as\nyou can.\"\n\nThe men set to work with a will, and their task was soon completed. The\ncaptain, having surveyed it, said:\n\n\"That will do, men. They won't burst in that in a hurry. We have a means\nof escape, which I have hitherto kept to myself. Get a few picks and\nloosen the hearth stone. That will do. Lift it up now, boys, and leave\nit in the centre of the floor.\"\n\nThe men did as they were bidden, and when the stone had been set down,\nthe captain, catching up one of the flaming brands, held it over the\nopening discovered by the removal of the hearth stone. It was large\nenough to allow a man to go down through it.\n\n\"Nine or ten steps,\" said the captain, \"lead to a narrow passage,\nthrough which by stooping a man can make his way. It is not more than\nfifty yards long. The outlet is blocked by a bank of earth; but just\nthere the passage is wide and high enough to allow two men to stand\nabreast and erect. A hole can easily be cut or dug through this bank.\n\n\"You, O'Donovan,\" he said, turning sharply to one of the Rapparees,\n\"will know, once you are outside, where you are--close to the stream\nthat runs down to the glen. Take a dozen men with you, turn to the left,\nand five minutes will bring you to the heathery height above the left of\nthe track leading to this cave. And you, Mullooney,\" said the captain\nto the singer of \"The Rapparees,\" \"take a score of men with you, and\nmake for the right. You'll have a bit of climbing at first, but in ten\nminutes you should be able to get down to the right bank of the track.\nBe all of you as wary as foxes, and let not a sound escape from any of\nyou, even if you see the enemy coming right up to the door of the cave,\nand none of you are to fire a shot until you see a flaming brand flung\nout by us who will remain here to defend the cave against assault, but\nwhen you see the lighted brand, blaze away! If they waver, down on them\nlike thunderbolts. When you beat them off, you will find us here, if\nnot, we shall be at the sally gap two hours from this. Now go!\"\n\n\"Would you like to go or stay, Frank?\" said the captain, turning to me.\n\n\"I should like to go,\" I replied.\n\n\"All right, my lad. Look to him, O'Donnell, and take this Frank,\" said\nhe, handing me a musket, \"it has never missed fire.\"\n\nThe two bodies of men descended in single file. The air of the passage\nwas remarkably pure, and we made our way without difficulty. Then there\nwas a halt of a few minutes while the foremost men were forcing a\npassage. One by one we passed out, and found ourselves knee-deep in the\nheather. A brawling stream ran down a few feet below us. O'Donovan and\nhis men crept along by the stream. We, with O'Donnell at our head,\nclambered up through the heather, and in about ten minutes we were\nlying snugly concealed within fifteen yards of the rock in which was\nthe cave entrance.\n\nWe were lying at right angles to it, and about twelve feet above the\nopen space in front of the rock. It was from this very height I had\nfallen an hour before. Opposite us the ground was about the same\nelevation as ours, and in the cover of the heather which crowned it,\nO'Donovan and his men were to ensconce themselves.\n\nThe moon was shining, and for about twenty yards we had a full view of\nthe pathway leading to the cave. At that distance it took a sharp turn.\nI had barely time to make these observations, when we saw the moonlight\nglint on the level arms of the advancing troops. In a few seconds\nthey were against the face of the rock. With the soldiers was a tall,\nwiry-looking man, dressed in a long frieze coat that went to his heels.\n\n\"Where is the entrance?\" cried the captain of the troops. \"I can find\nnone.\"\n\n\"There,\" came the answer in a hoarse whisper.\n\n\"There, behind those furze bushes.\"\n\n\"Come, my lads,\" said the captain, \"clear away those bushes.\"\n\nThe soldiers began to work. Our fingers were impatient. The desire to\nfire grew upon me, when suddenly from the cave came a flash, a report,\nand the tall man in the frieze coat fell without a moan. Another shot\nand another and two soldiers were struck down.\n\n\"Quick, my lads, quick! Bring a canister, and we'll blow the door in or\nout.\"\n\nThe soldiers advanced with the canister, and were about to set it down\nat the cave's mouth. Only then was hurled out the red brand, the signal\nfor firing.\n\nWe poured a volley into their midst, O'Donovan's men firing at the same\ntime, while single firing was kept up from the cave.\n\nThe troops were staggered; their captain was shot dead. They paused for\na moment; then, as they turned to run, a second volley laid low more\nthan half their number.\n\n\"Down on them!\" cried O'Donnell.\n\nWe hurled ourselves down into the path. O'Donovan's men as eager, but\nwith a view to cutting off all hope of retreat, had rushed down on the\nother side so as to meet them retreating. Caught between the two forces,\nthe soldiers clubbed their muskets and fought desperately. Not more than\nfour or five escaped. Desisting from the pursuit, we returned to the\ncave.\n\nOur captain and the men with him had, in the meantime, removed the\nbarrier and were standing outside. We were all curious to see the\nopening through which the captain fired, and through which he threw the\nlighted brand. No one except himself had known of it. It was a fissure\nin the rock which had been closed up with clay and moss, and which the\ncaptain, when we left the cave, dug out with a bayonet.\n\nIn the meantime some of our men were examining the fallen enemy, and\nfound five that were wounded only. These were borne into the cave and\nplaced under the charge of the old woman, the captain saying that a\nlarge body of troops were sure to come out next day who would take them\naway.\n\nThere was one object that attracted universal attention--the corpse of\nShaun-na-cappal. He had fallen on his back; a bullet had pierced his\nthroat; from the round hole the blood was still flowing. His mouth\ngrinned horribly, and we felt it a relief when a dark cloud covered the\nmoon, which had been shining down on the upturned face and open eyes.\nThe captain having given his orders, and having arranged for the next\nmeeting with his followers they dispersed, and he, having given some\ninstructions to Moira with regard to the wounded, set out, taking me\nalong with him. We found shelter that night in a little shebeen about\ntwo miles away from the cave.\n\nAnd that is the story of my first night with the Rapparees.\n\n\n\n\n\"WORSE THAN CREMONA.\"\n\n(_A Story of the days of the Irish Brigade._)\n\n\nTowards the end of October, in the year 1704, a man of middling height,\nwith a face rather thin and long, was seated at a table on which were\nspread some military maps. Over these he had been poring for some time.\nWhen he looked up from them, his dark, eager eyes revealed a nature\nalert, resourceful and vigorous. One glance at him, as he looked\nstraight before him, was sufficient to convince every observer that here\nwas a man accustomed to command by the right of genius. The military\ncostume in which he was dressed betrayed no evidence of high rank. It\nwas, it must be confessed, plain almost to the verge of sloveliness, and\nthe breast of his doublet was stained with snuff. Beside him on the\ntable was a golden snuff-box, on the lid of which, set in brilliants,\nwas a portrait of the Emperor Leopold\u00a0I. of Austria, and to this he\nfrequently had recourse, even while studying the maps most carefully.\n\nHe was alone. The room in which he was sitting looked in the direction\nof the camp of the allies, then besieging Landau, and from it a good\nview could be had of the fortress. The siege had lasted longer than\nhad been anticipated, and no one chafed more at the delay than the\nsubject of our sketch. His one desire was to be for ever rushing from\nbattlefield to battlefield. Rapid in action as in decision, he found the\ntime hang heavily on his hands. While the siege was in progress he had\nbeen considering the possibility of engaging in some other enterprise\nwhich might redound to the honour of his Emperor, and at the same time\nadd to his own glory.\n\nHe pushed the maps away from him, rose from his chair, and taking\na large pinch of snuff, moved towards the window and stood a while\nwatching the operations of the siege. A knock at the door attracted his\nattention.\n\n\"Enter!\"\n\n\"The Governor of Freiburg awaits the pleasure of your Highness,\" said\nthe person who entered, evidently an officer of rank, who was, in fact,\nan aide-de-camp to his Highness.\n\n\"I am ready to see him,\" was the reply.\n\nHis Highness took another heavy pinch of snuff.\n\nA tall, military looking man, somewhat over middle age, and of resolute\ncountenance, entered. He made a low bow and then drew himself erect.\n\n\"Be seated,\" said his Highness, as he himself resumed his chair. The\nGovernor of Freiburg obeyed.\n\n\"You bring news of Brissach, Governor?\"\n\n\"Yes, your Highness.\"\n\n\"Your informant?\"\n\n\"My valet, your Highness. He has been a soldier, and possesses a\nkeen power of observation. He succeeded in getting into the Old Town\nseveral times on the pretence of purchasing wines. The French are busy\nstrengthening the fortifications, but discipline is lax, and as there\nare over twelve hundred labourers employed in the works there is\nconsiderable disorder in the town.\"\n\n\"Good. What is the strength of the garrison?\"\n\n\"Only four battalions, your Highness, and six independent companies.\"\n\n\"Any Irish among them?\" and his Highness again had recourse to his\nsnuff-box.\n\n\"None, sir.\"\n\n\"Sure?\"\n\n\"Certain, your Highness.\"\n\n\"So much the better. Those fighting devils upset the best laid plans, as\nI learned to my cost at Cremona. And pardieu, they can fight!\" And\nPrince Eugene of Savoy, for it was he, shook his head, causing some of\nthe snuff he was taking to fall down, and increase the stain on his\ndoublet.\n\n\"But, let me see. Four battalions and six independent companies. What\ntime are the gates open in the morning?\"\n\n\"At daybreak, your Highness. Many of the labourers live outside the\ntown.\"\n\nPrince Eugene remained silent for a few moments.\n\n\"Then,\" he said, as he rapped the lid of his snuff-box, \"you should be\nable to surprise Brissach Old Town. We may also make an attempt on the\nNew Town. You will command the expedition--\" a slight flush of pleasure\nexhibited itself on the Governors face--\"I shall place at your disposal\n4,000 picked men from the German and Swiss infantry, and 100 cavalry;\nwith that force you should be able to possess yourself of Old Brissach\nand hold it.\"\n\nThe Governor of Freiburg bowed as if in assent, but could not help\nremembering that only the year before, King Louis of France had employed\n40,000 men and 160 guns in the reduction of the two Brissachs.\n\n\"You shall have under you,\" continued the Prince, dabbing at\nthe same time his nostrils with snuff, \"some capable officers,\nincluding the Lieutenant-Colonel of the Regiment of Bayreuth and the\nLieutenant-Colonel of the Regiment of Osnabruck, who shall be Governor\nof the town.\"\n\n\"He regards it as good as taken,\" thought the Governor, and he did not\nfeel too happy at the thought. There is so much chance in war.\n\n\"These mornings lend themselves to such an enterprise,\" continued the\nPrince, again resorting to the snuff-box, for it had become a habit with\nhim to punctuate, as it were, his sentences with a pinch of snuff. \"The\nfog lies low upon the river until some hours after sunrise.\"\n\n\"He thinks of everything,\" said the Governor to himself.\n\n\"And,\" added the Prince, \"you will hear from me by to-morrow as to the\ntime for your attempt.\"\n\nThe Governor of Freiburg accepted this as a dismissal, and saluting\nPrince Eugene, passed from the room.\n\nThe morning of the 10th of November was fixed for the attempt on the\ntown. That day had been selected because it had come to the ears of the\nGovernor of Freiburg, whom we know was to command the expedition, that\na large quantity of hay requiring many carts to convey it, was to be\nbrought into the magazine at Brissach. The hay was to be coming from a\nconsiderable distance, and the carters in charge would travel all night,\nand endeavour to arrive at the town as soon as, if not earlier than, the\ngates would be opened.\n\nThat this was their intention the Governor, who was well served by his\nspies, had also learned. The opportunity was too good to be lost. Over\n50 waggons had been requisitioned, and each would be attended by at\nleast two peasants. The entering of so many waggons into the town would\nnecessarily cause some distraction, and if it were possible, under the\ncover of darkness, to follow close on them, the Germans and Swiss, might\nhope to pour in after them without let or hindrance of any kind, as\ndiscipline had become very much relaxed.\n\nWhen the day came, fortune proved even kinder than the Governor of\nFreiburg had hoped. A thick, dark fog was over the river, and hung like\na pall over the two Brissachs, so that those in the new town, on the\nFrench bank of the Rhine, could not see their neighbours on the German\nbank, nor could their neighbours see them. And it was through this fog,\nthat what might be called the advance guard of the waggons made their\nway into the town.\n\nIt was then eight o'clock in the morning. The reveille had sounded long\nbefore. The garrison were preparing for breakfast, and the labourers had\ngone to work in the fortifications. There were, however, owing to the\nthick fog, but few people about the streets, and the sentries at the\ngate were watching, with no very keen interest, the lumbering hay\nwaggons passing in.\n\nSeveral of the peasants who had followed them, other than the drivers,\nstood inside the gates in an aimless fashion as if their task had been\ncompleted.\n\nAttracted by the rumble of the carts, the Overseer of the workmen on the\nfortifications, a tall, brawny looking fellow, came towards the gate,\nand seeing the group of idle peasants mistook them for some of his\nlabourers, and asked them why they were not at work. He received no\nanswer. He then addressed himself particularly to one who was a little\nin advance of the others, and who had a keen eye and appeared to be a\nman of intelligence.\n\n\"Why are you not at work?\"\n\nThe man accosted, did not at once answer, and the Overseer had to step\nback and make way for an incoming waggon.\n\n\"Why are you not at work, I say?\" he repeated angrily.\n\nStill no answer, and the Overseer thought he detected in the faces of\nthe other peasants something like a grin. His temper at the best was not\nangelic, and this suspicion proved too much for him.\n\n\"By G----, I'll teach you how to talk,\" and before the astonished\npeasant could lift a hand to defend himself, down came the blackthorn\non his shoulders with a rapidity that showed that the Overseer was well\nversed in the _argumentum baculinum_. Instead of answering, the peasant\nrushed to the nearest hay waggon, and crying out some word in German,\nthrust his hand into the hay, drew out a loaded musket, aimed at the\nOverseer, fired point blank and missed. A blow of the blackthorn sent\nthe peasant down. In the meantime others of the peasants had crowded\nround the Overseer, who, while with every blow he felled an assailant,\nkept crying, \"To arms, to arms!\"\n\nBut suddenly the hay was swept from the waggons, and from each a number\nof armed men sprang out. The Overseer, unable to withstand so many foes,\nhaving succeeded in getting round one of the carts, made a rush for the\nsedge on the river.\n\nThe enemy, in an excess of folly, fired at the sedge, and the bullets\nwhizzed through it, cutting it just above his head, but the report of\nthe muskets was heard through the town, and the whole garrison turned\nout. A rush was made for the gate, inside of which there were now some\nhundreds of the enemy. The Overseer, seeing the troops coming out,\nquitted his retreat and joined them, and threw himself into the midst of\nthe desperate hand-to-hand conflict, in which both sides were at once\nengaged. Many a stout German went down with a cracked skull before the\nwielder of the blackthorn. At length, after a stubborn resistance, the\nenemy were driven out and pursued some distance, the Governor of\nFreiburg covering their retreat with the cavalry. They left behind\nthem nearly two hundred dead, including the Lieutenant-Colonel of the\nregiment of Osanbruch and the Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment of\nBayreuth, and several majors and captains.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBad news travels fast, but the Governor of Freiburg determined that he\nhimself would be the bearer of it to the Prince. It was an unpleasant\ntask, but he thought it better that he should be the first to carry it,\nso that rumour might have no time to make out a worse case against him\nthan his conduct of the affair warranted.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn the following day he found the Prince alone, as on the former\noccasion, and in the same apartment.\n\n\"You have taken Brissach?\" said the Prince, with an eager glance.\n\nThe Governor flushed.\n\n\"After a stubborn fight we were driven out, your Highness.\"\n\n\"You were inside the gate?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Details. Briefly!\" And the Prince rapped the lid of his snuff-box\nsharply.\n\nThe Governor told what the reader has already learned.\n\nSeveral times during the brief narrative the Prince's thumb, dipped into\nthe box, and small showers of snuff fell on his doublet.\n\n\"How many were inside the gate when the rascal with the stick came up?\"\n\n\"About forty, your Highness.\"\n\n\"And they were unable to disarm him, or take him without firing and\nraising the garrison?\"\n\nThe Governor did not reply.\n\n\"Who was the idiot who fired the first shot?\"\n\n\"The Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment of Bayreuth.\"\n\nThe Prince looked hard at the Governor, who almost shrank before the\nfierce gaze.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"Dead, your Highness. He fell fighting.\"\n\n\"The fate was too good for him.\"\n\nThe Prince made a gesture of dismissal. The Governor bowed, and was on\nthe point of withdrawing.\n\n\"Stay,\" said the Prince. \"Did you chance to hear the name of the prodigy\nwhose single blackthorn foiled the attempt made by four thousand of the\nbest troops in the Imperial service?\"\n\n\"He is called, your Highness, the Sieur O'Byrne.\"\n\n\"O'Byrne! O'Byrne! an Irishman!\" exclaimed the Prince.\n\nThe Governor bowed.\n\n\"But you told me there were no Irishmen in Brissach.\"\n\n\"There was only one.\"\n\n\"Only one!\" The Prince arrested his thumb as he was lifting up a pinch\nof snuff. He made a gesture of dismissal and the Governor retired.\n\n\"Only one,\" the Prince repeated when he was alone. \"If there had been a\nhundred it is more than probable the Governor of Freiburg would never\nhave found his way back from Brissach.\"\n\nThe Prince made up for his interrupted pinch, and dabbed at both\nnostrils as he moved to the window. The cannonade, which had been going\non for some hours, had ceased, but a puff of smoke from the trenches,\nfollowed by a report, showed that the firing was kept up in a desultory\nfashion. The Prince's eyes rested for a second on the portrait of the\nEmperor on his snuff-box. \"The loss of Brissach,\" he said half aloud,\n\"was a severe blow to the Emperor. I had recovered it for him if it were\nnot for that infernal Irishman with his blackthorn. Pardieu, but it is\nworse than Cremona!\" And the Prince, of whom it has been written that\nhis \"passion was for glory and his appetite for snuff,\" flicking up the\nlid of the precious box, scooped up between finger and thumb what was\nleft, and as he sniffed the fragrant but strong powder, \"I must get more\nsnuff,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\nMAURYA NA GLEANNA.\n\nOR REVENGED AT LAST.\n\n\nDuring the year of the '98 Centennial celebrations, it chanced that I\nwas staying on a short visit with a friend in the county of ----, whose\nresidence was not far from one of the battlefields of the rebellion. Our\ntalk turned one day upon '98, and I asked him if he knew if any stories\nof the period were still current in the neighbourhood. He said he was\nnot himself familiar with any. He was not belonging to the county, and\nhad been residing in it only a few years. But he promised to find out if\nany of the servants or workpeople could give me any information. That\nevening he informed me there was an old man helping in the garden,\nnow almost past his work, who was at one time a schoolmaster, and had\noriginally come from the county of Antrim, and who had some stories of\nthe rising in the North. The next day I made the old man's acquaintance,\nand from him took down the story of Maurya na Gleanna:--\n\n\"I wasn't more nor nine or ten years old when I first saw Maurya na\nGleanna, and although I'm over seventy years now I can see her face just\nas if she was standing there foreninst me. She would have been very tall\nif it were not for a stoop in her shoulders. Her face was rather long,\nher cheeks shrunken and almost yellow. Her hair (and there was plenty\nof it) was tied up in a wisp at the back of her head, and was gray\nalmost to whiteness, while her eyebrows were as dark as the night. Her\nlips were full and might have once been red, but the colour had left\nthem and they looked dry and blanched. Her eyes were as black as a coal\nwith a red heart that would blaze up for a moment and then become dull.\n\n\"She had come into the glen many years before. She had wandered into it\nof a wild March morning--a Patrick's morning, too, it was--when the snow\nlay deep in the glen, and you could hardly see a bit of green for miles\naround.\n\n\"The snow was in a drift against Jack M'Guinness's door when she knocked\nat it just after the break of day. There was hardly one astir in the\nhouse at the time, but when the knock was repeated the servant-man got\nup and went to the door and opened it; before he could question the\nwoman he saw standing outside, she had stepped across the threshold.\n\n\"Her hair was then, so they afterwards told me, as white as when I first\nsaw her, but there was some colour in her cheeks, nor had it left her\nlips. A kerchief covered her head, and a shawl thrown over her shoulders\nwas fastened above her breast by a skewer that had been beaten into the\nsemblance of a pike, and which served to keep in its place a bunch of\nshamrocks. Her head-dress and shoulders were thickly coated with snow,\nwhich clung to her dress that stopped short at her ankles. Her feet were\nbare.\n\n\"The man said afterwards that the blaze of her eyes nearly blinded him,\nand took the word out of his mouth.\n\n\"She laid her left hand upon his shoulder, and touching the shamrock\nwith one of the fingers of her right hand, she whispered in a tone\nsuggestive of mystery:\n\n\"'Is there green upon your cape?'\n\n\"'Twas then a few years after the troubles, but the servant boy had been\none of the United men, and had fought at Ballinahinch. He knew the words\nof the rebel song, but as he didn't reply at once, she whispered again:\n\n\"'Is there green upon your cape?'\n\n\"For answer he took her hand, while a strange feeling came over him that\nshe was something 'uncanny,' and he gave her the 'grip' that showed he\nwas a United man. She returned it.\n\n\"'Who is there?' cried Jack M'Guinness, who came out of his room into\nthe kitchen, having heard the door open.\n\n\"He started back a step when he saw the blazing eyes and tall figure\n(for the stoop had not fallen on her then).\n\n\"'Is there green upon your cape?' she asked him eagerly, almost\nfeverishly.\n\n\"'Ah, my poor woman, the day is over I'm afeard,' he said softly, for,\nwith a keener perception than that of the servant boy, he saw the poor\ncreature was demented.\n\n\"'Over! over!' she cried, almost hysterically, 'it will never be over\nuntil he--he that you know--sure everybody knows him--until he, Red\nMichil of the Lodge, comes to his own, his own, you know, the three\nsticks, two standin' straight and one across. Red Michil, with the brand\nof Cain and the curse of God on him. An' isn't this a purty posy?' and\nshe took the bunch of shamrocks from her breast and held it up to Jack\nM'Guinness.\n\n\"'A purty posy it is, my girl,' said he, falling in with her humour;\n'but shake the snow from yourself and come near the fire. Blow up the\nturf, Shane,' and he turned to the servant boy, 'and let the girl warm\nherself.'\n\n\"'Ay, sure enough, it's the purty posy,' the girl continued, 'but hadn't\nI trouble enough finding it, with the snow here, there and everywhere,\nevery step I took goin' deeper than the rest; but I didn't mind the\nsnow, why should I? Sure his face was colder when I saw it last, and his\nwindin' sheet was as white.'\n\n\"'Sit down, achorra, and the good woman will be up in a few minutes and\nwill give ye something to warm ye.'\n\n\"'Ay, then! 'tis cowld ye think I am, and maybe I am cowld, too; an' I\ngets tired sometimes; but there's a fire in my heart always--a fire\nthat'll niver go out--niver go out, I tell ye, until Michil of the\nLodge comes to his own.' And then the poor thing sat down by the hob,\nand the boy blew up the turf till the blaze lighted the whole kitchen,\nand the pewter on the dresser flashed back the ruddy rays. And when\nthe heat began to spread about the room, the head of the poor, tired\ncreature dropped on her breast and she fell into a deep sleep.\n\n\"This was the first coming of Maurya to the Glen, and that's the way the\nstory was told to me. For, as I told you, it was before my time. She was\ntreated kindly by Jack M'Guinness and his wife, who took to the poor\ngirl, and would have kept her with her if she could, but Maurya couldn't\nbe induced to spend more than a few days in any place.\n\n\"Who she was, or why she came to the glen, or where she came from nobody\nin the glen knew.\n\n\"The women said it was love trouble that drove the poor thing wandering,\nand that her question about the green upon the cape showed that the\nlover had fallen a victim on the scaffold, or in the field, in the\nstruggle in '98.\n\n\"There wasn't a family in the glen that hadn't sent a man to\nBallinahinch, and not a few sent more than one, and there wasn't a\nhearth in the glen where poor Maurya didn't find a welcome.\n\n\"But she was always roaming. After a night's rest she went 'scouting,'\nas she used to say, hoping to catch Red Michil to bring him to his\nown--'the three sticks.'\n\n\"And so in the first light of the morning she used to go out and ramble\nover the hills, living any way she might, and coming back and seeking\nhospitality--now in one house, now in another, in the glen.\n\n\"'I didn't see any signs of him to-day,' she used to say, on entering\nthe house which she had come to for her night's lodging. 'I didn't see\nany signs of him to-day, but, please God, I soon will. Red Michil won't\nescape me, never fear.'\n\n\"And this mode of life Maurya continued for years. The colour faded from\nthe cheeks and from the lips, and the tall form began to stoop, and they\nnoticed that she didn't ramble so far as she had been wont to do. She\nhad always been very gentle in her manner, but at times, and when she\nseemed oblivious to everything passing round her, the flame would flash\nfrom her eyes, and she would leave her seat by the fire, and despite\nremonstrance, no matter what the weather or the hour, would start out on\nher quest for Red Michil. Over and over again, some of her women friends\ntried to get her story from her, not so much through curiosity as\nthrough a belief that it might lighten the burden on her heart if she\nwould confide her sorrow to some one.\n\n\"But they could get nothing from her but a denunciation of Red Michil of\nthe Lodge; but who he was, or what he had done, they could not find out\nfrom her.\n\n\"There was one house in the glen to which she came oftener than to any\nother, and that was Shane O'Donnell's, an uncle of mine. I don't mind\nsaying it now (said the schoolmaster), but Shane had a little shanty\nupon the hills, beyond the glen, where he carried on, in a small way,\nthe manufacture of the mountain dew. You'd hardly know the hut from the\nheather. It was in a little dip on the side of a hill, just deep enough\nfor the walls, and until you were almost atop of it you could hardly\ndistinguish the roof from the heather, and no wonder, for it was\nthatched with scraws, with the heather roots in them. The only thing\nthat betrayed its existence was the occasional smoke from the hole in\nthe roof that was the excuse for the absence of a chimney. Thither\nMaurya na Gleanna often went, and there she was always welcome. Although\nher wits were generally wandering, she was always able to lend a hand in\nhousehold matters, and in the cabin I've mentioned she used to boil the\npotatoes and cabbage, and do other cooking what was necessary.\n\n\"The hut itself was little more than an excuse. It covered the descent\ninto a cave, in which was carried on the manufacture of poteen, and this\nwas reached through an opening which was disclosed when the hearthstone\nwas lifted up.\n\n\"The smoke from the operations below came up through an aperture close\nto the hearthstone, and was carried off with that of the fire in the\nhut, so that anyone who might drop into the hut would not suspect\nanything. It was a shepherd's hut and nothing more.\n\nI was occasionally called on to assist in making the poteen, and at this\ntime Maurya na Gleanna had been regularly employed as cook, that is to\nsay, whenever the men were at work Maurya was sure to come there, and\nboil the potatoes and make the stirabout, and sometimes, too, a bit of\nmountain mutton found its way into the pot.\n\nWell, it happened one day Maurya was boiling a bit of mutton, and myself\nwas sitting near the fire, when Maurya said:\n\n\"It was a quare dhrame I had last night, Shamey.\"\n\n\"What was it, Maurya?\" I asked, for all of us, young and old, used to\nhumour her.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said she, \"do you see them three legs to the pot that's\nboilin' there before you?\"\n\n\"I do,\" said myself, \"why wouldn't I?\"\n\n\"Well, then, Shamey, and mind you, I didn't tell this to anyone but\nyourself, I dreamt last night them three legs to the pot were the three\nsticks; and rayson that out for me if you can, for I can't. I think\nsometimes my poor head is goin', Shamey.\"\n\nI knew what she meant by \"the sticks,\" but, of course, I couldn't guess\nthe meaning of her dream.\n\n\"I don't know, Maurya,\" said I. \"I don't know what it means.\"\n\n\"Ah, then, how could you, Shamey?\" said she. \"Sure you never supped\nsorrow, and I hope you never will, avick, and 'tis only them that has\nsupped it year after year that could tell poor Maurya what she wants to\nknow.\"\n\nAnd she swung the crane from which the pot was hanging out from the\nburning turf.\n\n\"Do you see the three legs of it, Shamey?\" she asked.\n\n\"I do, Maurya,\" said I.\n\n\"They are red now from the fire,\" said she. \"And he was red--Red Michil,\nyou know--and I dreamt last night that they were the three sticks. But\ndhrames are foolish, and there's no use minding them, Shamey. And how\ncould they be the three sticks? Sure, you couldn't hang a mouse on them,\ncould you, Shamey, let alone Red Michil?\"\n\nThough I was used to Maurya, I was beginning to feel frightened, sitting\nthere alone with her, while as she spoke she became excited in a way\nthat I know would frighten me now as it did then. She hardly raised her\nvoice as she spoke, but you heard something--something that was like\nringing through it, and the veins on her arms, that were bare, began to\nswell, and her eyes flared in a way that would almost burn the very soul\nout of you.\n\nShe swung the pot back over the blazing peat again, and examined its\ncontents, and I took my chance of stealing out of the hut.\n\nI had hardly got outside the door when I saw a number of soldiers making\nstraight for it. I darted back.\n\n\"The soldiers are coming!\" I cried down through the hole through which I\nhave mentioned the smoke from the still below used to escape.\n\nI shouted twice. Then I heard the words 'All right,' and I knew that the\nmen below would be able to manage their escape, and perhaps destroy all\nevidence of their trade should the soldiers discover their retreat,\nwhich to me at this time seemed a most unlikely thing.\n\n\"The soldiers are comin', did ye say?\" cried Maurya, when I had finished\nspeaking to the others. \"Are ye sure, Shamey, 'tisn't the yeos?\" And her\nwhole frame was quivering with excitement.\n\n\"It's the soldiers, Maurya,\" said I, \"and I think the gauger is with\nthem, and there is another man along with them, with a cast in his eye.\nHe is sandy complexioned, and has red hair that's getting grey.\"\n\n\"Shamey,\" she cried, \"Shamey!\" and she caught me in her arms. \"Look\nat me. Am I tremblin' like a lafe? I think my dhrame is comin' true\nsomehow--but how, Shamey? how, tell me?\"\n\nI was so frightened I couldn't reply, and before Maurya could say\nanother word, three or four soldiers entered the hut, and with them two\nmen in civilian dress.\n\nI drew into a corner. Maurya took no notice of them, and seemed to be\ntaken up with her cooking, her back turned to the intruders.\n\n\"What have you brought us here for?\" asked the officer who was in\ncommand of the military, and who was one of the soldiers who had entered\nthe hut.\n\n\"This man was my informant,\" replied the Excise officer, to whom the\nquestion had been addressed.\n\n\"That's not enough for me,\" rejoined the officer. \"I hope we have not\ncome here on a wild goose chase. We have had too much of that sort of\nsport lately,\" said he, somewhat bitterly.\n\n\"Tell that woman to swing the pot from the fire, captain, yer honour,\"\nsaid the man whom the gauger had described as his informant, and who was\nthe man with the cast in his eye and the sandy complexion.\n\nThe captain requested Maurya to do so, but she took no notice.\n\n\"Do it yourself,\" said the captain, addressing the informer.\n\nThe latter approached the fire. As he did so, Maurya slunk back towards\nthe side wall of the big chimney, and in the same direction the informer\nswung the crane, so that the pot came almost against her.\n\nThe informer, without saying a word, kicked the peats from the\nhearthstone, and I knew then that he was acquainted with our secret. The\nhearthstone fitted very tight into its casing, and unless one had been\npreviously informed he could never suspect that it was removable. The\ninformer begged the help of the soldiers to lift it, and two of them at\ndifferent corners having with some difficulty inserted the points of\ntheir bayonets succeeded in raising it, and the others coming to their\naid, it was quickly removed, and an open space, showing a ladder was\ndisclosed.\n\n\"Go before us,\" said the officer, addressing the informer.\n\n\"I didn't undertake to do that,\" said the wretch, trembling in every\nlimb.\n\n\"We'll go, captain,\" said one of the soldiers, and, bayonet in hand,\nhe descended, followed by three of his comrades. Then the informer,\nplucking up some courage, began to descend. Suddenly the noise of\nshouting and the report of a musket shot was heard, and the informer,\nwhite with fear, was climbing up again.\n\n\"Go down and be d----d to you,\" cried the officer, \"and make way for my\nmen!\"\n\n\"Oh, captain, darling, save me.\"\n\nThey were the last words he ever spoke. The crane was flung back from\nthe wall right over the hole. As quick as thought the heavy pot was\nloosened from it, and it fell with a sickening thud on the informer's\nhead. A squirt of blood struck the wall just beside my head.\n\n\"Seize that woman,\" cried the astonished officer.\n\n\"Shamey! Shamey!\" shouted Maurya to me, her whole face as bright as if\nall her sorrow had left her. \"Shamey, my dhrame came true.\"\n\nI never saw Maurya na Gleanna again. I heard that they said (and sure\nthey were right, and they were wrong at the same time), that she didn't\nknow what she was doing, and they put her in an asylum somewhere.\n\n\"But did you,\" said I, \"ever find out who Red Michil was, and was he the\ninformer?\"\n\n\"I didn't then, till years after,\" said the old gardener, \"and then I\nlearned it by accident like. Maurya na Gleanna, as we called her, was\none Mary M'Kenna, and at the time of the troubles, she was, everybody\nsaid, one of the most beautiful girls in all Ulster. And it seems she\nwas in love with a boy called Pat Gallagher, who was one of the \"United\nMen,\" and he was in love with her, as many another man was also. And\nsure amongst them was the one she called Red Michil, whose mother, who\nwas a widow woman, kept the lodge at the front gate of Pennington Hall\nin the County of Antrim. And Red Michil pursued her, but 'twas the\nback of her hand she gave him, and to take revenge on her and on Pat\nGallagher, who took her fancy, he informed on him, and made up a charge\nagainst him, and Gallagher was tried by court-martial and hanged,\nand the poor creature wouldn't leave until he was at the foot of the\ngallows, and when she was taken away they saw that her mind was gone.\n\nHer relatives did their best to look after her, but they were poor, and\nso she rambled off from them till she found her way to our glen. Red\nMichil, when he had wreaked his vengeance, sank lower and lower. He\nbecame a common informer, and then, when the hangings were all over, he\nsecured employment under the Revenue as a scenter-out of illicit stills,\nand, as he had some experience of the trade himself, he was well up in\nthe expedients which the potheen makers were wont to adopt in order to\nevade the agents of the law. He was thus an instrument in working out\nhis own fate, and after long, weary years, poor Maurya na Gleanna had\nher revenge at last.\n\n\n\n\nSTORY OF THE RAVEN.\n\n\nWhen I was a lad of about nineteen summers, proceeded Brother Mailcoba,\nI happened to be on a visit to my uncle, who was a _Brughfer_, and whose\nhouse was on the road leading from _Baile atha Cliath_ (Dublin) to Tara.\nMy uncle, who was a widower, had met with a serious accident, and he\nwas laid up in the house of the leech (physician) who lived about a\nquarter of a mile away, and in his absence the duty of attending to the\ntravellers who might seek the hospitality of the _Brugh_ fell on me.\n\nThe duty had been light enough for many days, for, though the great Fair\nof Tara was close at hand, the weather was most unseasonable. The heavy\nrains had beaten the ripening corn to the ground, and the road was\nsodden, and it seemed at times as if all the winds had been let loose\nand met in conflict, snapping in their struggle the leafy trees that\nfell with a crash on hill and in valley, and their outstretched limbs,\ncumbering the roads, made them almost impassable for man or beast.\nDuring those days of rain and storm the sun never showed himself, and\nthe night came almost as quickly as in the wintertide, and men said that\nthe seasons had changed, and that ruin threatened the land. Yet no one\nknew why it should be so, for the king was good and generous, and while\nhe maintained his own dignity, and insisted on his dues, his hand was\nopen as the doors of his hospitality, and to no man, simple or gentle,\nwas justice denied.\n\nNight after night, when the day was drawn into the mouth of darkness, I\nkindled the light on the lawn to guide the wayfarers who might seek food\nand shelter, but night after night passed over, and no one came.\n\nAt length there was a day when the rain no longer fell, and the\nwinds, which had gone back to the hollows of the mountains, no longer\nblustered. But sullen clouds covered the sky, and the night, as chill\nas if the breath of winter was on it, crept early under them. I had lit\nthe light upon the lawn, and had come in and closed the door, and was\nsitting facing the fire of pine logs that smouldered upon the hearth.\nThe servants of the _Brugh_ were in the outhouses attending to cattle,\nor discharging other duties, and I was quite alone, for even the raven,\nwho was my usual companion, was out in the barn watching the milking\nof the cows. I was thinking of going up to the house of the leech to\ninquire for my uncle, when, suddenly, I heard the sound of chariot\nwheels coming up the beaten road to the door of the _Brugh_. I had\nhardly opened the door when I saw in the light cast from the \"candle in\nthe candlestick\" two horses covered with foam, and I distinguished in\nthe seat of the chariot two figures muffled up against the weather; but\nI had no difficulty in recognising one as that of a lady.\n\n\"The blessing of God be on you,\" said the man.\n\n\"God and Mary be with you,\" I replied, \"and _cead mile failte_.\"\n\nThe servants had heard the chariot approaching, and were ready to take\nthe horses to the stable as the guests stepped from the car. The first\noffices of hospitality having been discharged, and father and daughter,\nfor such they were, having refreshed themselves from the fatigues of\ntheir journey, and partaken of the fare that had soon been set before\nthem, took their places by the fire. The man was rather old, and wore\nthe dress of a chief; he and his daughter were going to the great fair\nat Tara to witness the games and contests. The maiden was the fairest I\nhad ever seen, her face as beautiful as a flower, and when she lifted,\nas she did occasionally, her long, dark lashes from her eyes, they were\nas stars shining in a dark pool in the woodland.\n\n\"I fear, Brother Mailcoba,\" said the Abbot, \"that thou wert over-given\nto the vanities of this world at that time. The beauties you speak of\nare transient, and perish.\"\n\n\"So shall the stars perish, Father, that to the brief life of man seem\neternal; but, nevertheless, we may admire their lustre in the dusk of\nthe summer night, and then I was young, and all that was beautiful\nseemed to me to be good.\"\n\n\"Would it were so,\" said the Abbot, \"but proceed with your story.\"\n\nWe had not been long seated together, continued Brother Mailcoba, when I\nheard a halting step coming towards the door, and as I turned my ear I\ncaught the twang of chords.\n\n\"It is a harper who comes,\" said the lady in a sweet, low voice that was\nalmost timid. You will forgive me, Father, for saying that I thought her\nvoice was as musical as any harp ever sounded.\n\n\"You were very young then, brother,\" replied the Abbot with a smile.\n\"And remembering your youth, we forgive you.\"\n\nWe gave the harper his meed of greeting, continued Brother Mailcoba. He\nwas lame, and old, and seemingly weak of sight, but the lady laid on his\narm her hand, that was as soft and as white as a white cloud against a\nblue sky----\n\n\"Brother, brother,\" put in the Abbot with a mild deprecatory gesture.\n\nAnd she brought him towards her, continued Brother Mailcoba, not heeding\nthe interruption, and made him take the seat beside hers.\n\nWhen I opened the door to admit the harper, the raven, who had finished\nhis self-imposed task in the cowhouse, hopped in and took up his perch\non the rafter, and eyed the company in the most critical manner. He\nhad only one eye, having lost the other in a scrimmage with one of\nthe cats, but this, instead of detracting from, rather added to,\nthe solemnity of his gaze. At the harper's heels, sniffing in the\nfriendliest way, came the house dog, Bran, who stretched himself before\nthe fire.\n\nThe harper made only a very slight repast, and when it was finished\nthe lady begged him to soothe the night with song. He, nothing loth,\nproceeded to comply, and, after coaxing the strings to follow him, began\nto sing of the wooing of Lady Eimer by Cuchullin. But suddenly the old\nman, the maiden's father, started like one aroused from sleep.\n\n\"Have you no other song,\" he cried, \"no song of battle, of burning, or\nof voyages across the seas, that tell how heroes fight and fall? Sing of\nCuchullin when he stood alone against the hosts of Connaught in the\nbattle armour drest, or when he met Ferdiah at the ford, but waste not\nyour time and ours with the story of his love-sick fits.\"\n\nThe harper paused, the maiden's lashes hid her eyes, and a blush like\nthat which follows the grey light of the dawn stole to her cheeks. The\nharper was about to make reply when the raven, from the rafter, and\nbehind where we were sitting, croaked, \"_Grob! grob!_\"\n\n\"A soldier is coming,\" said the old harper.\n\nI noticed that the maiden cast a furtive glance at the door, which I\nhastened to open, expecting, of course, to see a soldier, for the raven\nnever lied.\n\n\"But was not that a Druidic superstition, and unworthy of the credence\nof a Christian?\" queried the Abbot.\n\n\"May be so, father,\" replied Brother Mailcoba, \"but they say the ravens\nare very knowledgeable birds, and in my boyhood I was taught to believe\nin them, and so was the harper.\"\n\n\"But you were deceived on this occasion,\" said the Abbot.\n\n\"I thought so,\" said Brother Mailcoba, \"when, as I opened the door a\nmonk entered with his robe and cowl, but still the raven croaked '_grob!\ngrob!_'\"\n\nAfter the usual salutations the newcomer sat down to the table and he\nate like as one who had long fasted. I mention this only because it\nseemed to justify the character in which he presented himself, but the\nraven kept fidgeting on the rafter, and fixing his single eye on the new\nguest, croaked \"_grob! grob!_\" in a fretful, almost angry voice.\n\nWhen his repast was finished, the monk took a seat on a bench near the\nharper, but, so that he had a full view of the lady, although he was\npartly concealed from her father. His cowl almost concealed his face,\nbut what was visible of it suggested youth and comeliness. It was\nnatural, perhaps, that he should excite the curiosity of the maiden, but\nI must confess I was surprised to find her lashes lifting so frequently\nand her eyes turning towards him, and once or twice I thought those of\nthe monk responded to the questioning glances of the maiden.\n\n\"I fear thou wert uncharitable, Brother Mailcoba,\" said the Abbot.\n\n\"Not so, father, as the event proved.\" By this time the maiden's father,\novercome by the weary journey and the hospitality, had fallen into\na slumber. The harper, too, who was hurt by the rebuff which he had\nreceived, seemed rather somnolent, and he sat back against the couch\nwith eyes almost closed, but his fingers strayed across his harp as\nif he were playing in his sleep, and the numbers stole out clearly if\nfaintly, and if the spirit of music ever come and move the hand of the\nharper it must have led his across the strings that night. I know not\nhow the others felt, indeed, I forgot their existence for the time. I\nwas under a spell. It seemed to me as if my body was inert, and as if my\nlistening soul was borne on sounds that would not stay, but would steal\nout like a bird from an opened cage seeking on happy wings the lustrous\nwoodland. Suddenly I was brought to myself by the snarl of the hound and\nthe hoarse voice of the raven croaking.\n\n\"_Carna, carna! Grob, grob! Coin, coin!_\"\n\n\"There are wolves about,\" cried the harper, starting up. \"Listen to the\nraven.\"[1]\n\n      [1] Our Celtic ancestors believed that the raven was gifted with\n      the power, among others, of describing the quality and character\n      of any person or animal approaching the house. If a soldier is\n      coming it cries \"_grob, grob_\"; if a layman, \"_bacach, bacach_\";\n      if one in holy orders, \"_gradh, gradh_!\" etc; if wolves, as\n      above.\n\nThe hound kept on snarling as the raven croaked, but he made no move\nfrom the fire. I thought I heard a light, quick step on the path, but\nthe hounds around the sheepfold were baying so furiously that I was not\nsure. However, I went to the door, and as I was about to open it, it was\nstruck rapidly as if by one in haste. When I had drawn it half back, a\ntall, athletic looking man with a huge cloak wrapped about him almost\nrushed in. He was scant of breath, as if he had been running, and I\nnoticed that his cloak was torn in several places. This he quickly cast\noff, and darting a glance around him from restless and glittering eyes\ntook his seat.\n\nI noticed the harper eyeing him curiously, and I thought I saw the\nmaiden shrink. The monk, too, seemed more curious than was hospitable or\npolite. I gave the stranger the usual welcome, but his response was\nbrief, and so was his salutation to the other guests, and their replies,\nand indeed, during the time that I was busying myself in getting him\nsome refreshment, the silence of the _Brugh_ was broken only by the\ncroaking of the raven, \"_Carna! carna! Coin! coin!_\" and the\nsnarls and smothered yelp of Bran. I was quite puzzled by the raven.\nFirst he announced a soldier instead of a cleric, and secondly, at\nhis call of \"_wolves! wolves!_\" which had no longer any meaning, for\nif there were wolves abroad they must have been scared away by the\nwatchdogs, who ceased barking as I closed the door after admitting the\nnew guest.\n\nI had seen many a man eating in my time, but never saw I one who ate so\nravenously. I replenished his platter several times before his hunger\nwas satisfied, and indeed I was kept so busy that I had not time to pay\nattention to the other guests. When at length I was able to do so I\nnoticed the old chief was still slumbering, and that the harper had\nchanged places with the monk, and the latter was sitting beside, or\nrather close to the maiden, and indeed I thought I saw him drawing his\narm hastily away.\n\n\"I fear, brother, your story is far from edifying,\" said the Abbot.\n\n\"Well, maybe I was wrong,\" continued Brother Mailcoba, \"and perhaps\nit was the glow from the pine logs that caused the maiden's face to\nlook like a red rose. I think it was for the purpose of distracting\nmy attention that the harper began to play a low, sweet melody. I\nrecognised its first notes as those of the 'Song of Clumber.'\"\n\n\"Not that, not that!\" suddenly exclaimed the last come guest fixing his\nglittering eyes on the harper. The vehemence of the exclamation and\nthe harsh tones in which it was uttered caused general surprise. The\nstranger noticing this appeared somewhat confused, and he endeavoured to\nexplain himself by saying--\"It was too early yet for slumber, and that\nfor his part he preferred that sleep should come to him naturally than\nthat it should be brought by song.\"\n\n\"It seems to me,\" quoth the harper, sadly, \"that I can please no one to\nnight.\"\n\n\"Say not so,\" said the maiden softly, \"and perhaps now,\"--and she\nglanced at her sleeping parent--\"you might sing us of Lady Eimer.\"\n\nThe harper's face lighted up with pleasure, and soon under the skilful\nfingers the harp gave out a witching strain, the accompaniment of his\nsong. When it ended the maiden slipped a gold brooch of exquisite\nworkmanship into his hand. Nor did he go without reward from the monk\nand the stranger, as I must still call the last-comer.\n\nBy this time the night was pretty far advanced, and as the travellers\nhad stated that it was their intention to start early in the morning,\nI reminded them that their couches were ready. The last-comer took the\nhint at once, and sought the couch that was nearest to the door. The\nmaiden and the monk seemed loth to go. The former pretended--for I fear\nit was but a pretence--that she was unwilling to disturb her father,\nbut, after a while, the old man roused himself, and looked about him.\n\n\"_Carna, carna! Coin, coin!_\" croaked the raven from the rafters.\n\n\"There must be wolves at hand,\" said the old chief.\n\nA long-drawn, low growl came from Bran, as if in response.\n\n\"That can hardly be,\" I said, \"for the watchdogs without are silent.\"\n\n\"I never knew a raven to be wrong yet,\" replied the chief, \"but let the\nshepherds look to it. I had better lie down. We must start a little\nafter daybreak. I want to be at Tara early.\"\n\nThe old man and his daughter retired, and if my eyes did not deceive\nme, those of the maiden rested longer on the monk as she bade him\n\"good-night\" than was altogether seemly. The harper, who was very old,\nalso betook himself to rest, and only the monk and myself remained\nsitting by the fire.\n\n\"It is not likely that any more travellers will come to-night,\" I said\nto the monk, \"so I think I had better look to the lawn light, and go to\nbed, as I wish to be up to see the old chief and the maiden off.\" And I\nadded, \"I suppose you will not start early?\"\n\n\"I have not quite made up my mind on that point,\" he replied, \"but I\nthink I shall also retire, as it is not fair to keep you up any longer.\nBut let me go with you to the lawn; I should like to see what the night\nis doing, and what is the promise of the morrow.\"\n\nOf course, I accepted his offer. We went on to the lawn together, and\nwhen the light was supplied with fresh fuel, returned. As we were coming\ntowards the door, the monk remarked the chariot which had brought the\nchief and his daughter, and that, although well constructed, it would\nrequire a powerful horse to draw it.\n\n\"There are two horses,\" I answered; \"splendid animals, that could fly\naway with it. Perhaps, I had better look at them, to see if they are\nall right,\" and I went towards the stable.\n\n\"They are, indeed, splendid animals,\" said the monk, who looked at them\nwith a critical eye, as he took the candle from my hand that he might\nview them better, and he evinced an interest in, and a knowledge of,\nhorseflesh that surprised me not a little, seeing that he was a poor\nmonk, that was forced to make his journeys on foot. After bolting the\nstable door we returned to the house, and shortly after the monk, who\nrefused to join me in a beaker of mead, although I urged he would sleep\nall the better for it, went to his couch, and when I had finished my\nbeaker, I followed his example, and was soon fast asleep.\n\nI slept soundly, as was my wont, but at daybreak I was awakened by the\nfrantic yelping of the hounds, while the raven, flapping his wings in\nwild shouts of excitement, croaked \"_Grob grob! Carna, carna! Coin!\ncoin!_\" I felt the cold air of the morning on my face, and the grey\nlight came through the open door. I leaped from my couch, and looked\nabout me. The harper was sound asleep, so also was the old chief, but\nthe couch which the maiden had occupied was vacant, as was that of the\nmonk, and the stranger was nowhere to be seen.\n\nI rushed out, the stable door was open, and the chariot had disappeared.\nIn the stable was a monk's robe and cowl. The hounds were still yelping\nin the distance, but not frantically as at first, and I pushed on\ntowards them. I met them returning with bloody mouths, and in a few\nseconds one of the shepherds followed with a huge coat, torn almost to\ntatters, and stained with blood. It was the remains of the great coat\nwhich the stranger had worn the night before!\n\n\"And the stranger?\" asked the Abbot.\n\n\"The bloody mouths of the hounds supplied the answer, at least so said\nthe harper, when I related to him what had happened. The stranger was a\nman wolf, who was allowed to assume human form by night, but had to take\nthat of the wolf by day.[2] He must have slept till daybreak, and not\nbeing able to escape from the neighbourhood of the _Brugh_ in human\nshape, fell a prey to the hounds.\"\n\n      [2] This belief was common in the old days in Ireland, and wolf\n      stories still survive in the Celtic romances which have come\n      down to us.\n\n\"And what of the monk?\" queried the Abbot.\n\n\"He was no more a monk than I was. When I related what had happened to\nthe old chief, he tore his hair, and declared that his daughter had been\ncarried off by a soldier with no more land or possession than would fit\non the edge of his sword. He had persistently wooed the maiden, but\nhad been rejected by the father, so that the story of Lady Eimer had a\nspecial significance for her. The father threatened to have vengeance;\nhe would go to Tara and see the High King, and carry his complaints to\nhim. He begged for the loan of a chariot, which, of course, I supplied\nhim with, and he set off for Tara. A few days after the great fair\nbegan, and I went to it. I hardly think that the chief carried out his\nthreat, or if he complained to the king the king must have induced him\nto make the best of it, for as I was going round the course, on the day\nof the chariot race, I saw seated in the Queen's pavilion, amongst the\nladies of the court, the maiden who had sought the hospitality of the\n_Brugh_, but who was now the wife of a gallant soldier, and, I must\nconfess, that I shared her exultation when, in the last rush home, the\nchariot that was guided by her soldier husband swept past the winning\npost, amidst the thunderous plaudits of the multitude of the men of\nErinn. So you see, Father, the raven was right after all.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPECTRES OF BARCELONA.\n\n(_From the Memoirs of an Officer of the Irish Brigade_).\n\n\nI was little over twenty when, as one of \"The Wild Geese,\" I entered, in\nthe year 1695, the infantry regiment of the Honourable Charles Dillon,\nwho was serving under the Marquis de Sylvestre, then conducting a\ncampaign against the Spaniards in Catalonia. I was travel-stained and\nweary when towards the close of a May evening I arrived in camp, and,\nhaving shown my credentials, I was directed to the quarters of the Irish\nregiment, and very glad I was to receive the hospitality of the mess,\nI need not say that they gave me _Cead mile failte_. Every recruit to\ntheir ranks seemed to bring with him some of the atmosphere of the home\nwhich so many of them were destined to see nevermore--the home which\noften rose before them in a vision on battle eves, and to which they so\noften returned in their dreams. After the first fervent welcome was\nover, and after the many enquiries as to how affairs were in Ireland,\nthey began to recount the services of the regiment, and to sing the\npraises of their gallant colonel. They spoke of battles and sieges of\nwhich I had never heard, but in which they had participated, and in all\nof which Colonel Dillon had taken a distinguished part. Many of them\nbore on their persons evidences of fierce encounters, but they said\nnothing in praise of themselves; 'twas all of the colonel, who was, they\nsaid, as beloved by every man serving under him as he was esteemed by\nthe great generals of the army of King Louis. These enconiums naturally\nheightened my desire to meet Colonel Dillon.\n\nI informed my new comrades that I was the younger son of a County Mayo\nfamily, who were friends of the colonel's, and that I brought with me\nletters of recommendation from his kinsmen, the Lallys of Tullenaghdaly.\n\n\"You come well credited, young gentleman,\" said the senior sergeant,\nwhose name, I learned later, was O'Kelly, a man of forty or thereabouts,\nwhose right cheek was marked by a sabre slash, and whose left sleeve was\nempty (I heard afterwards that he had lost his arm the previous year\nat the capture of Palamos from the Spaniards), \"and you are sure of a\nhearty welcome from our colonel; but let me tell you, without offence,\nthat if you came with nothing but your sword you would be equally sure\nof a cordial welcome, for our colonel esteems his men for their valour,\nand not for birth or connections, and if I may say it, without boasting,\nwherever he leads we follow, and will, boys, to the end. Here's to the\ncolonel!\"\n\nEvery man rose to his feet. There was a clinking of glasses, and a\ncheer that nearly lifted the roof off the tent.\n\nI joined heartily in the toast, and made an indifferent attempt to take\npart in the chorus of a song which followed, but my eyelids began to\nfeel very heavy, and, notwithstanding my efforts, were closing on my\neyes.\n\nThis was noticed by my comrades, and one of them got up, and, putting\nhis arm around me as tenderly as if I were a child, said:--\n\n\"You're tired out, my lad. Come with me, you can't see the colonel\nto-night; he is dining with the Marquis; but, to-morrow when you are\nrefreshed, I'll take you to his quarters.\"\n\nI bade my new friends a sleepy good-night, and remembered nothing till I\nheard the _reveille_ sound the next morning. I started up to find myself\nlying in a tent with a half-dozen others. For a moment I was a little\nbewildered. I rubbed my eyes. The bugle had ceased, and I heard the\nvoices of the birds saluting the bright May morning. The curtain of the\ntent had been withdrawn, and the bright light and the sweet air came in.\n\n\"You can lie there as long as you like,\" said one of my comrades.\n\"There's no need for you to get up yet.\"\n\nBut I was eager to be up and about. It was a glorious morning. The sun\nshone from a cloudless sky, and the tents, stretching far, were flashing\nin its light. Everywhere was stir and motion, and many salutations of\ncomrade to comrade resounded on all sides.\n\nI was delighted with the scene, the well-ordered tents with wide streets\nbetween, the flags and bannerets fluttering in the brisk morning air,\nthe bustling soldiers, the neighing horses, the fanfare of the trumpets.\nIt was just the scene to captivate the heart of a youth. Here was all\nthe glorious pageantry of war untarnished, and that buoyant sense of\nlife that forbade all thoughts of disaster or defeat, and their woeful\nconsequences.\n\n\"That tent yonder,\" said one of my comrades, who was drying his hair\nafter dipping his head in a bucket of water, \"with the French standard\nover it is the tent of the Lieutenant-General, the Marquis de Sylvestre,\nand that to the right of it at the end of our lines is the colonel's.\nThe Marshal, the Duke de Noailles ought to be in command, but he is ill,\nand the marquis takes his place.\"\n\nJust then Sergeant O'Kelly came up to me.\n\n\"I am glad to see you looking so fresh, young gentleman,\" said he, \"this\nmorning. We shall have breakfast soon, and after it you shall call on\nthe colonel. The marquis intends to inspect all the troops to-day, and\nwe must be early on parade. Hard work is expected in a day or two, and\nas the colonel is likely to be very busy you had better see him as soon\nas possible.\"\n\nAbout nine o'clock I presented myself at the colonel's tent, and\nlearned that he had just finished breakfast.\n\nI handed my letters to the guard, and requested him to send them to\nthe colonel. He called one of the colonel's servants and gave him the\nletters. In a few seconds the servant returned, and ushered me into the\npresence of his master.\n\nYoung as I was I was surprised at his youth. He hardly looked his\ntwenty-five years, and he was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen.\nHe looked every inch a soldier--tall, well-knit and with an indefinable\nsuggestion of strength and activity in his shapely figure. I bowed as I\nentered, and before I had well lifted up my head his hands were on my\nshoulders.\n\n\"You're welcome, my lad,\" said he in the cheeriest voice, \"and you are\nnot a day older than I was when I joined, and you are from the old\ncountry, too. Well, I wish 'twas in my power to do something for you\nfor your people's sake and for your own; but, you see, since the new\nformation of the Irish army of King James in the French service many\nIrish gentlemen who had served as officers at home in the Williamite\nwars, have been reduced; some even to the rank of privates, and not a\nfew are in my regiment in that category, and it would be invidious of me\nwere I to put a youth like you above them; but, _courage mon camarade_,\nthere are stirring times before us, and Dillon's regiment is sure to be\nfound where the bullets fall thickest and where ranks are thinned, and\na gentleman is sure of promotion if he be put beyond caring for it.\"\n\nHere the colonel paused for a second, and looking full in my eyes,\nadded, \"if he win his spurs.\"\n\nI confess I was a little disappointed. I had hoped that, backed up as I\nwas by my family connections and my letters of recommendation, I would\nhave obtained the post of ensign. The colonel doubtless noticed my\ndisappointment.\n\n\"You were in camp last night?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, colonel.\"\n\n\"With whom did you stay?\"\n\n\"In Sergeant O'Kelly's tent,\" I replied.\n\n\"Sergeant O'Kelly!\" he exclaimed. \"By right of service and of valour,\nsince he came to France, he should be captain. He was one in Ireland;\nhe has not grumbled at his reduction.\"\n\nI felt the rebuke.\n\n\"I shall be glad to serve under him, colonel,\" I said.\n\n\"Good, my lad. You will serve under a gallant Irish gentleman, and it\nwill not be his fault if he does not give yon a thousand chances of 'a\nbed on the field of honour.' \"Death or Victory\" is the motto of the\nregiment.\"\n\nAn officer riding up to the tent announced that the lieutenant-general\nwas waiting for the colonel.\n\n\"_Au revoir, mon camarade_,\" as he held out his hand to me, adding, with\na laugh, \"perhaps you have not yet caught up this foreign lingo, which\nwould hardly pass current in the County Mayo. So _slan leat_.\"\n\nThe colonel vaulted lightly into his saddle, and many an admiring eye\nfollowed him as he rode with tossing plumes towards the tent of the\nLieutenant-General, the Marquis de Sylvestre.\n\nI returned to that of Sergeant O'Kelly.\n\n\"Well, young gentleman, you saw the colonel, and what did he say to you\nand what do you think of him.\"\n\n\"I think he is worth fighting with,\" I replied, \"and worth dying with,\nand he said--well he said that in serving under you I should serve under\na gallant Irish gentleman who would give me every chance of death or\nglory.\"\n\nThe sergeant drew himself up.\n\n\"My faith, lad, the colonel himself will give it you, but I am proud to\nhave you with me.\"\n\nFor the next week we were kept very busy. The colonel was a strict\ndisciplinarian, and his men were exercised for several hours every day.\nI quickly picked up a fair knowledge of my duties, and it was with\na certain self-confidence I heard the news that we were ordered to\nrevictual Ostalric which had been captured from the Spaniards a year or\ntwo previously. The task was easily accomplished, as the enemy retired\non our approach, but when returning towards the evening, our regiment,\nwhich formed the rearguard, was suddenly attacked by over three thousand\n_miquelets_ or _guerillas_. They seemed to have sprung out of the\nground, and charged us with the utmost fury; but our men, facing round,\nwere as steady as a rock against which the wave dashes impotently. Some\nof the guerillas impaled themselves on our bayonets, and a well-directed\nvolley threw their front ranks into confusion.\n\nOur colonel, who had been riding in front, dashed round and put himself\nat our head.\n\n\"Charge, boys!\" and quick as the flash of his sword in the sun, he was\nin the midst of the enemy.\n\nWe followed him with a ringing cheer. I was half beside myself with\nexcitement. The rattle of the musketry and the smell of powder were\nintoxicating. Suddenly I was blinded. A warm spurt that I knew\ninstinctively was the blood of a wounded comrade hit me in the eyes. I\nput up my hand; then I felt a sharp pang, and remember nothing more of\nthe combat.\n\nI learned afterwards that it lasted only a few minutes. The _miquelets_\nwere driven off, leaving many dead and wounded on the field, and they\nvanished almost as quickly as they had appeared.\n\nWe had only two killed and three or four wounded, of which I was one. I\nwas hit in the breast.\n\nWhen I came to myself I was in hospital, and learned that the colonel\nhad been frequent in his inquiries, as had also O'Kelly, who had\ndistinguished himself in the repulse of the enemy.\n\nMy wound was rather serious; however, I expected to be up and about in\na few months. But in this I was disappointed, for when it was nearly\nhealed, owing to my headstrong ways, as I insisted on leaving my bed too\nsoon, it broke out afresh, so it came to pass that I missed several\nengagements, notably the raising of the siege of Palamos by the Duke of\nVendome, in which our regiment took part, defeating the combined Spanish\nand English forces, and the subsequent defeat of the Spanish cavalry\nunder the Prince of Hesse Darmstadt, who had fought at the Boyne. Like\nevery other Irishman I would have given one of my eyes for a blow at the\nEnglish enemy; but the day was to come.\n\nWell, well; all this was a good many years ago. I was a stripling then.\nI am an old man now; but I am not writing a history of my life, and,\nindeed, I began this story not intending to speak much of myself, but\nonly to relate a curious incident which made a very deep impression\non me that time has not yet wholly effaced, but old men are apt to be\ngarrulous, and old soldiers like to talk of the\n\n    \"Battles, fortunes and sieges through which they have passed.\"\n\nWhile I was lying ill of my wound outside Ostalric, I was attended by\none of the men of Dillon's regiment who also had been wounded, though\nslightly, in the affair, and who I learned afterwards had begged\npermission to attend me as a special favour. He was as tender to me as\na woman could have been, but he was curiously reserved, seldom speaking\nexcept when spoken to, and there was a sad look in his eyes which\nscarcely left them even when he smiled, which he rarely did, provoked by\nsome sally of mine. He was a brave man they told me afterwards--they who\nthemselves were brave--fought like a devil, they said, and was never\nwounded except in that affair of Ostalric, and that was when trying to\nsave me, who was nearly trampled to death when I fell.\n\nWell, in time I recovered my full health and strength, and rejoined my\nregiment along with my kind attendant, whose name, by the way, was Ryan,\nfrom the borders of Limerick and Tipperary, and I was in time to take\npart in the reduction of Barcelona in the year 1697.\n\nIt was one of the most difficult tasks of the French commander, the Duke\nof Vendome. The fortifications were so strong as to be deemed almost\nimpregnable, and were defended by at least two hundred and forty pieces\nof artillery. The garrison consisted of eleven thousand regular troops\nand four thousand militia, and there was also one thousand five hundred\ncavalry, and it was well supplied with munitions of war. A complete\ninvestment was impracticable owing to the compass of the walls and the\noutlying very strong fortress of Monjuich, situated on a lofty hill,\ncommanding the town and port and a large extent of the plain. Moreover,\nthe Count de Velasco lay encamped about six miles outside the town with\na force mustering, all told, about twenty thousand men, mostly composed,\nit is true, of irregulars and guerillas. The French troops did not\namount to quite thirty thousand men, including the marines landed from\nthe fleet.\n\nWe approached the town on the 13th of July, Vendome having the day\nbefore surprised and routed the Count de Velasco, and on our approach\nthe Spaniards abandoned the Convent of the Capuchins, which was some\ndistance from the walls, and the Duke of Vendome ordered our regiment to\noccupy it, and that night I found myself for the first time in my life\nin a convent cell, having Ryan as my comrade.\n\nThe cell was small, and bore evidence not very agreeable of its recent\noccupation by the Spanish soldiery, but Ryan, who persisted in treating\nme as if he were my servant, soon set to work, cleaned it out, and\nbrought in some hay and made comfortable beds for himself and me in\nopposite corners of the cell. It was quite bare of furniture of any\nkind, but this we did not miss, as we were to use it only for sleeping\nquarters.\n\nWe turned in about half-past ten, and I was soon sound asleep. I was\nawakened by a shout from Ryan:\n\n\"Did you see it? Did you see it?\"\n\n\"See what?\" I answered bewildered.\n\nThe moon was shining in through the window and the cell was half in\nlight and half in shadow. The moonlight fell on Ryan's share of it.\nI saw that he was sitting up and that his usually dark face was very\npale, and there was a wild gleam in his eyes.\n\n\"What was it?\" I repeated.\n\n\"Oh nothing! What a fool I am. I had a horrible nightmare. I am sorry\nfor disturbing you.\"\n\n\"Well, you did startle me, I confess,\" said I. He lay down again, and I\ndid likewise, and slept without interruption until morning. I thought no\nmore of the incident of the previous night, although I could not help\nnoticing that my companion's face looked rather haggard.\n\nOur second night in the cell passed, for me, very quietly, and Ryan said\nnothing to suggest that it was otherwise with him. The third night the\nincident of the first night was repeated. Ryan started up, shouting:\n\n\"Did you see it? Did you see it?\"\n\nI jumped from my bed and struck a light. The cell was, of course, empty,\nthe door fast closed.\n\n\"I am afraid you are ill, comrade,\" said I, and as I went towards him I\ncould see the perspiration in large beads on his forehead, and he was\ntrembling like a scared child.\n\n\"Yes, yes, I must be getting ill, I suppose--but you saw nothing?\" he\nadded eagerly.\n\n\"Of course I saw nothing,\" I replied. \"What was there to see?\"\n\n\"And--and you saw nothing on the wall there?\" He pointed his hand\ntowards one of the walls of the cell.\n\n\"Nothing. Wake up, man. You are still dreaming.\"\n\nHe shuddered like one feeling a sudden chill, and then he said:\n\n\"It's very foolish of me, and I'm sorry to be such a trouble to you.\"\n\n\"Oh, that is nothing,\" I said. \"You had better see the doctor in the\nmorning.\"\n\nThe next day there was no time to see the doctor. We were early under\narms, and marched several miles in the direction of Llobregat on a\nreconnoitring expedition. The day was very warm, and a good part of the\nway was rough, and when we returned to our quarters in the evening, I,\nfor one, was pretty well tired out, and Ryan confessed to me that he\nwas also; but I suspected that a hardened soldier such as he, was not\nfatigued by the march, and that want of rest and the disturbance of the\nprevious nights were what had done him up.\n\n\"I expect to sleep well to-night,\" he said, as we extinguished our\nlights.\n\n\"And I also,\" said I.\n\nBut we were to be disappointed. Towards midnight a terrific thunderstorm\nburst over the town and our camp, and the rain came down in torrents.\nNevertheless our battalions in the trenches, which had been opened\nthe night before, were pushing on their work. The enemy suspecting\nthis turned on them the fire of forty pieces of cannon, which,\nnotwithstanding the tempest, were very well served, and gave the quietus\nto not a few of our men. The booming of the guns and the peals of\nthunder made sleep impossible. Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning\nillumined the cell.\n\n\"My God! my God! Do you see him now?\" cried Ryan in a tone of agony.\n\nI was spellbound. I couldn't answer.\n\nThere, standing between Ryan and me, was the figure of a Capuchin\nmonk in his brown habit and cowl, and holding up in his hand a plain\nunfigured cross that in the lightning gleamed like fire. I saw the\nfigure only for a second or two. It retreated towards the door and\nvanished.\n\n\"Look at the wall, look at the wall!\" cried Ryan, hoarsely.\n\nI looked, and on the wall appeared a cross, also without a figure, but\nthis too disappeared in a second.\n\nThe roar of the tempest still continued, and the booming of the guns.\nSleep now was out of the question. I got up and dressed myself. Ryan,\nwho appeared unable to speak or move, lay back in his bed, his eyes\nclosed. I roused him up.\n\n\"Tell me, did you see him, did you see him?\" he whispered, clutching\nconvulsively my arm.\n\n\"Let us get up and go down to the guard room,\" I said. \"The day is\nbreaking, and we are not likely to sleep any more, and you are ill.\"\n\nRyan dressed himself, and we went down, he more dead than alive, to the\nguard room. His illness was manifest to all, and he was quickly restored\nby portion of the contents of a brandy flask which seemed to work\nwonders with him.\n\nWe did not sleep in the cell again, and the weather being very warm we\nwere not sorry when sometime after we were ordered to the outlying posts\nof the left wing of our army.\n\nBefore we quitted the convent I paid a visit, in the daytime, to the\ncell. There was nothing about it to suggest a ghostly visitant; but, on\nlooking at one of the end walls, I noticed the faint sign of a cross. I\nwas considerably startled by it, but on closer examination, I discovered\nit was such a mark as anything placed against a wall for a long time\ngenerally leaves, less through its own action as to that of the\natmosphere, on the uncovered portion of the walls. But it did seem a\nlittle strange that it should be on the very part of the wall on which\nI had seen the vision of a cross. Perhaps, I said to myself, Ryan\nhad noticed this mark, and it worked in some way on his disordered\nimagination. But this could not explain the vision as seen by myself,\neither of the cross or of the Capuchin, and it was with a feeling\nakin to awe that I left the cell for the last time, wondering whether\nanything would ever occur which might throw a light on the mystery.\n\nRyan, who shared the bivouac with me, had begged me not to mention to\nanyone what he fancied (as he put it) he had seen, for I had not told\nhim that I had seen anything, and, after my promise to this effect, he\nnever alluded to the matter; but I noticed that, henceforth, he became,\neven for him, unusually reserved, and that there was a deep seated\ntrouble in his eyes; but he continued to be attentive, more attentive,\nif possible, to me than before.\n\nFor some weeks we lay close to the outposts, chafing under the\ninactivity to which we were condemned. Meanwhile, the trenches were\nbeing pushed forward, and, at intervals, we saw the flash and heard the\nroar of the cannon from the ramparts; but this after a time ceased to\nhave much interest for us. Occasionally there were rumours of an attempt\nabout to be made by the enemy to revictual Barcelona, where provisions\nhad run low; but they came to nothing, and they no longer served to\nrouse any hope of a brush with the Spaniards.\n\nAt last, however, the scouts brought us the news that nearly the whole\nof the enemy's cavalry were moving from the side of Llobregat, covering\na large convoy, which they hoped to be able under the protection of\nthe guns of Fort Monjuich, to take safely into the town. The Duke at\nonce despatched a large body of troops to intercept the convoy, but,\nunfortunately, as we thought, we were not of the number, and expected\nanother idle day at our posts. But our troops had hardly moved out\nagainst the enemy when from a mountain in the rear of the posts a large\nbody of Spanish infantry swept down like a torrent, while from around\nits base appeared several hundred cavalry. Their object, of course, was\nto effect a diversion. They could not have hoped for a surprise; still,\nI confess, they came on so suddenly and so swiftly, that we had but just\ntime to be ready to receive them.\n\nWe repelled their first fierce onset. They came on again and again, but\nunder the steady fire of our men, aided by the fire from the French\nregiment under Colonel Solre, they at last gave way and broke, the\ncavalry galloping off down the valley and the infantry climbing the hill\nlike goats, but with our colonel at our head we climbed up after them,\npausing only to fire and bring them down in dozens. Foremost in the\nascent was Ryan. With difficulty I kept within view of him, and when at\nlength I reached the top of the mountain with several others, I found\nhim lying thoroughly exhausted, and in his eyes was the wild look which\nI had noticed on the occasion of the apparitions. His musket was some\npaces from him.\n\nFortunately close to where he was lying was a mountain spring of\nperfectly cool, clear water. I filled my shako with it, and put it\nto his lips. The draught revived him and I sat down beside him, glad\nenough of the rest. Ryan continued silent and so did I, gazing down\non the magnificent panorama that lay stretched before me--the wide,\nfar-reaching plains, the camp and the beleaguered town all framed in the\nblue gleaming waters of the Mediterranean. Away in the distance to the\nfar right a cloud of dust and smoke and an incessant rattle of musketry\nbetrayed the whereabouts of the conflict between our troops and the\nSpanish cavalry. On the mountain the firing had ceased, except for\na stray shot. The escaped Spaniards had fled precipitately down its\nopposite side. Our colonel ordered the recall to be sounded, and with\nthe light hearts of victors we stepped down the mountain to our posts,\ncounting on our way some hundreds of killed of the enemy.\n\nThe attack on the convoy was successful. The Spanish cavalry were put to\nflight, though not until after a sturdy resistance, and the convoy fell\ninto our hands. This decided the fate of the siege, for the next day\nnegotiations for the surrender of Barcelona were opened up, and on that\nvery day the Marshal the Duke de Vendome rode down to our posts and\npublicly thanked Colonel Dillon and the Irish regiment for their\nservices and complimented them on their matchless valour, and, indeed,\nto the last day of his life the gallant Duke never missed saying a good\nword for the soldiers of the Irish Brigade, and he insisted that no one\nhad better opportunities of knowing what they could do in the face of an\nenemy.\n\nFor several days Ryan continued very silent and was almost morose,\nbut on the day before that on which the enemy were to march out from\nBarcelona he found me as I was lying by a small stream at the base of\nthe mountain up which we had chased the Spaniards, and enjoying what to\nme then was a novel luxury--a pipe.\n\n\"Would you mind coming up a bit of the mountain,\" said he to me gravely,\n\"I want to speak to you.\"\n\nThe request seemed strange as the nearest soldiers were several yards\naway from where we were, but I rose and followed him. When we had\nascended about thirty or forty yards he sat down under a bush and I\nbeside him. I waited for him to speak.\n\n\"I saw him again,\" he said, \"when I came up here the other day. I had\njust reached the spot where you found me. I aimed, as I thought, at the\nback of a flying Spanish trooper. He whom I took for the trooper turned\nround. It was he.\"\n\n\"Who?\" I asked, although I anticipated the answer.\n\n\"The Capuchin!\" and Ryan trembled as he said the word.\n\n\"I cannot bear it any longer. I must confess at last. God grant I have\nnot done you irreparable wrong.\"\n\n\"Me!\"\n\n\"You! You are one of the Browns of the County Mayo; the youngest son of\nthat Captain Brown, who, when he was not much older than you, fought\nagainst Cromwell and lost his patrimony, but who afterwards, having been\nan exile with Charles\u00a0II. regained it, though not till several years\nafter the Restoration.\"\n\n\"And what do you know of him or his family?\" I asked curiously.\n\n\"Not much more than I have told you,\" he replied, to my surprise,\n\"except that your father went abroad again, and died not long after you\nwere born.\"\n\n\"That is so,\" I said.\n\n\"Your mother had not received a communication from him for some time\nprior to his death.\"\n\n\"But how do you know that?\"\n\n\"Let me go on,\" he replied, \"I shall be the sooner finished. He died in\nMadrid, and he sent home papers and valuables through a Spanish Capuchin\nmonk, who was visiting Ireland on a mission, which, I understood, was\npart political and part religious.\"\n\n\"From whom did you learn this?\"\n\n\"From himself.\"\n\n\"The monk?\"\n\n\"Yes. He was riding by where I lived on a lonely, bare spot, that you\nmay chance to have heard of, Knockcreggan. The night was bad, dark, and\nwild; the road couldn't be worse. It was like the bed of a torrent, huge\nstones and boulders everywhere. Just opposite the door of my cabin the\nhorse stumbled and fell. I heard a cry, and went out and found the\nprostrate monk bleeding badly from a wound over his temple. I brought\nhim in, put him down on a truss of straw, and bandaged him as well as I\ncould.\n\n\"After a while, for he was at first unconscious, he spoke faintly, and\nasked for 'more light.' I made a blazing fire of turf, and lit a couple\nof candles--all I had.\n\n\"'I know I am dying,' he said, 'are you a Catholic?' I told him I was.\n\n\"'I am a monk,' he said 'a Spanish Capuchin monk. I want you to swear\non this cross that you will do what I ask you; it being only an act of\ncharity,' and he held up the cross which had been hidden in the breast\nof his riding coat.\n\n\"It blazed, my God! as I saw it blaze in the cell the night of the\nstorm,\" and Ryan shuddered, although we were then in the full light of\nthe evening, and the bustling camp below us. \"I took the oath on the\ncross,\" Ryan went on to say, \"to carry to the captain's widow--your\nmother--two parcels, one of papers, which the monk told me, while of\nthe greatest importance to your family were of no use to strangers; and\nanother containing some gold and valuable jewels.\n\n\"'You will be well paid for your trouble, I know,' the monk said to me;\n'but promise me again on the cross that you will deliver both these\nparcels safe and sound, and will not touch coin or jewel. If you do, I\nwarn you, you will be struck dead when you least expect it, and by an\ninvisible and supernatural hand. But tell no one of your mission.'\n\n\"The monk died that night. I sent for the neighbours, and we waked him\nand buried him, and I thought of setting out for your mother's house,\nbut the weather grew worse and worse, and the roads were impassable.\n'Twas unlucky for me. I meant well, and intended to do what I promised,\nbut the temptation came to me to look at the purse, and when I saw the\ngold and the jewels shining, the temptation came to me to keep 'em--who\nwould be the wiser, and I was poor? I was living alone there on the side\nof the Knock, and here was a fortune in my hands. Well, the temptation\ngrew stronger, and I yielded. I kept the money, and went to Dublin and\nspent it, and I sold the jewels, and when the money got for them was\nnearly all gone, the troubles broke out and the Viscount raised the\nregiment for the young colonel, and I joined it. And 'tis many and\nmany's the time I've looked death in the face since, and he passed me\nby. And when I saw you I thought I'd try and make up for my crime some\nlittle bit, and that I'd guard and give my life for you.\"\n\nI was so amazed at the story that I did not speak for a moment or two\nafter he had concluded.\n\n\"Will you forgive me, for God's sake?\"\n\n\"The papers,\" I said. \"What about the papers?\"\n\n\"I have them here,\" he said, \"here!\" And with his bayonet point he\nripped open the lining of his coat and produced a bundle of papers in a\nleathern wrapper. \"I never opened them. I could not read. I don't know\nwhat is in them. I thought they might be of use some day, and that I\ncould give them up to the rightful owner, as I am doing now.\"\n\nI took the papers like one in a dream. I rose without another word, and\nwent down the mountain. I sought out a sequestered spot where I was sure\nto be uninterrupted, opened the package and read. Well, it boots nothing\nto anyone now to know what was in them. There were family secrets which,\nif revealed at the time, would have changed the current of many lives,\nincluding my own; but it could serve nothing but a selfish purpose of my\nown were I to reveal them now; so having read the papers, and dropped a\ntear over the handwriting of him who was my father, I tore the papers\ninto bits, set them alight, and waited until every vestige was consumed.\n\nRyan avoided me for the next few days, but if I had any resentment\nagainst him it died out. I might still have taken advantage of the\ninformation given by the papers, but deliberately decided not to do so.\nAs for the money and the trinkets--well, they were gone, and Ryan had\nsuffered terribly, was still suffering, had risked his life and shed his\nblood at Ostalric to save mine.\n\nWe did not meet again until we entered Barcelona, the enemy having\nmarched out. That night it chanced that both he and I were ordered for\nduty on the ramparts as sentries. Before our time came I went to him,\nand holding out my hand, said, \"Ryan, I forgive you with all my heart,\nand forget.\"\n\n\"But _he_ won't,\" he replied with a slight tremor.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" I said, \"you have confessed your wrong-doing, and all is\nover. You shall never see him again.\"\n\nThe clock of the cathedral had sounded midnight. The officers went their\nrounds, and I from my station was looking down on the port and out\nover the Mediterranean, scarcely stirring beneath the stars. The clock\nsounded one. All was quiet. Two o'clock struck. Suddenly I heard fierce\nvoices of challenge given in Spanish. I was on the alert, but could see\nnothing. The voices appeared to be in the air, and to come close to the\nramparts. I shook myself to see if I were wide awake, but the voices\ncontinued. Then I heard the sentries challenging \"Qui vive?\" one after\nanother. I too challenged. A musket shot rang through the night. The cry\nto arms was raised, and the ramparts were quickly crowded with officers\nand men. In the east the day was breaking. Its full light was soon\non the ramparts. Men looked curiously at each other. The sentries\nquestioned, all repeated the same story. They heard the voices, as they\nthought, of Spanish soldiers, and had replied by challenging.\n\nWho fired the shot?\n\nThere was not much need to ask. Ryan was lying dead close to one of the\nbatteries. His musket, which had been exploded, lay beside him. Even in\ndeath his face wore the scared look of a man who had seen a dreadful\nvision. I shuddered as I looked at him, and thought of the threat of\nthe Capuchin of the \"invisible and supernatural hand.\" I kept my own\ncounsel. I myself never heard anything after that night, but others did,\nor thought so, and this fact is attested by Captain Drake, of Drakerath,\nin the county of Meath, who was of our regiment, and one of the coolest\nand bravest officers of the brigade, and who has set forth in his\nmemoirs that he, while on night duty on the ramparts, thought he saw\nand heard the Spectre of Barcelona.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACK DOG.\n\n\n\"Did you ever see a ghost, Tim?\"\n\n\"No, then; I don't mane to say I ever see a ghost, nor I don't mane to\nsay that I didn't nayther; but maybe I see more than any of ye ever\nsaw in your born days,\" said old Tim Kerrigan, as he stooped over the\nhearth, and, picking up a sod of turf, put the fire to his dhudeen.\n\nHis listeners were a group of light-hearted youngsters (of whom I was\none), who turned in to old Tim's one Christmas Eve a good many years\nago, and who, seated round the fire, were trying to coax him to tell\nthem some of his supernatural experiences, which, if Tim were to be\nrelied on, were as numerous as they were varied. Tim, at the time, was\nan old man of about five-and-seventy, still hardy and supple; but his\nbrown face--\"brown as the ribbed sea-sand\"--was full of wrinkles. Over\nthese wrinkles he appeared to us, youngsters, to have wonderful power.\nHe had a trick of pursing, and withdrawing, and inflating his lips\nbefore answering any question put to him, with the result that the\nwrinkles appeared to close in and to open out after the manner of the\nbellows of a concertina, and when, at the same time, he contracted his\nforehead, and brought his shaggy, grey eyebrows down over his bright,\nlittle, brown eyes, they peered out from under them in such a way as to\nbear a curious resemblance to those of a rabbit peeping out under the\nedge of his burrow.\n\n\"Troth and maybe I did,\" repeated Tim, \"see more nor any of ye ever saw,\nand maybe more than wud be good for any of ye to see, ayther.\"\n\n\"Oh, we don't doubt you, Tim,\" said I, putting in a word to mollify him;\n\"But that was a long time ago, for none of _them_ things are going about\nnow.\"\n\n\"Ar'n't they!\" said Tim. \"How mighty clever some people thinks they\nare.\" And he took three or four strong whiffs of his dhudeen and sent\na blue cloud of pungent smoke through the room.\n\n\"Did ye ever hear of the black dog?\" said he.\n\n\"No,\" said we in chorus.\n\n\"No; and I suppose none of ye would believe in it?\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed, Tim, we'd believe anything you'd tell us.\"\n\n\"Well, I know ye are all dacent boys,\" said Tim, \"an', seein' the night\nthat it is, I don't mind tellin' ye, but I hope that none of ye will\nmeet the likes of it. And, be the same token, 'twas a Christmas Eve,\ntoo, it happened, before any of ye was born. I was only a gorsoon myself\nthen, but I remember it as if 'twas only last night. Ould Hegarty lived\nup in the big house on the hill with the grove around it. 'Tis little\nbetter nor a ruin now, with the jackdaws nesting in the chimneys and\nthe swallows buildin' in the drawin'-room, where the quality used to be.\nOuld Hegarty, when I first saw him, was a fine, splendid-lookin' man, as\nstraight as a pikestaff. He had a free hand and an open house to them\nthat he thought was good enough for him, but he was as hard as flint to\nthe poor. There was a poor widow that lived in a cabin where the railway\nis now, bad luck to it, and she had an only son, a poor angashore of a\nfellow that didn't rightly know what he was doin', and one fine day me\nbould Hegarty caught him stealin' a few turnips for his ould mother, an'\nnothin' wud do Hegarty but to put the law agin' him, and the poor boy\nwas transported, and sure the luck was that he wasn't hanged, bekase\nthey'd hang you then for stealin' a tinpenny bit. And sure the night the\nassizes was over myself seen the poor lone widow up at ould Hegarty's\ndoorstep, an' she cursin' him, and, says she, 'May the black dog follow\nye night and day till the hour of yer death,' and she was down on her\ntwo knees, and her poor grey hairs was streamin' in the wind. And out\nkem Hegarty with his ridin' whip in his hand, and he lashed her wud it\nuntil the welts on her shoulders wor as thick as yer fingers. 'Do yer\nworst, Hegarty,' sez she, 'but the curse of the widow and the orphan is\non ye, and the black dog will follow ye to your dyin' day,' and the poor\ncrather got up and she staggered away, an' sure before a fortnight was\nover they buried her in the churchyard beyant. He murdhered her, as\nsure as ye're sittin' there, but there was no one to take the law agin\nhim; an', sure, if there was 'twud be no use, for the likes of him could\ndo what they liked in them times wud the poor people. But, for all that,\nthey say he hadn't an easy day nor night from that out, and in daylight\nor dark he always thought he saw a black dog following him. He wouldn't\nsleep by himself if he got the world full of goold, and he always had\nhis servant-man--one, Jim Cassidy--to sleep wud him. An', sure, Jim\nhimself tould me that Hegarty wud often start up out of his sleep and\ncry out, 'Cassidy, Cassidy, Cassidy, turn out the dog!' But Cassidy let\non to me that he never seed the dog, though he used to make believe as\nif he wor huntin' him out of the room, but he said whenever he did that\nhe used to hear a dog howlin' outside for all the world like a banshee.\"\n\n\"Well, this went on for a year or two, and me bould Hegarty that used to\nhave a face, from eatin' and dhrinkin', as red as a turkey-cock's gills,\ngrew as white an' as thin as a first coat of whitewash, and he'd never\ngo home in the night, after playin' cards up at the club-house, without\nhavin' one or two friends along with him, and he used to keep them\nplayin' and dhrinkin' in his own house till cock-crow, and then he used\nto get a bit easy in his mind, and Cassidy tould me he could get a few\nhours' sleep.\"\n\n\"But one night as myself was comin' home late from buryin' of ould\nMichil Gallagher, that was drowned on a rough night down near the bar,\nwhen the hooker struck again' the Pollock Rock, who should I come up\nwith but Hegarty, and a couple of other spree-boys along with him. A\nwild night it was, too, wud the moon, that was only half full, tearin'\nevery now and thin through the clouds that was as black as my hat, and\nsure 'twas they wor laughin' and shoutin', as if the dhrink wor in 'em,\nand, faix, maybe myself had a dhrop in, too, but sure that's neither\nhere nor there. Well, myself followed on, keepin' at a civil distance,\nas was the best of me play, an' it wasn't long till they wor passin' the\nchurchyard, where the poor ould widow was buried, an' just then the moon\ntore out through a cloud, an' may I sup sorrow to my dyin' day, if I\ndidn't see a black dog comin' boundin' over the gate of the churchyard,\nan' every leg on him as big as my arm, an' his two eyes blazin' in his\nhead like two live coals. Well, faix, meself felt all at once as if a\nlump of ice was slidderin' down the small of me back, till I was almost\nas cowld as a corpse, God save the mark; but for all that I kept\nfollyin' on, an' didn't I see the black naygur of a dog sniff in' and\nsniffin' at Hegarty's heels. I don't rightly know whether Hegarty\nnoticed him or no, but he began shoutin' louder than ever, and the divel\ntake me, Lord forgive me for cursin', if I ever heard such swearin' in\nmy life as he was going' on wud, and the play-boys that were wud him\nwor nearly as bad as himself. Well, as soon as he got to his house, an'\nthey all went inside, may I never draw another breath if I didn't see\nthe black dog vanishin' in a flame of blue fire that nearly blinded me\neyes like a flash of lightnin'; and when I kem to myself again, what\nshould I see on the doorstep but the ould widow herself--and sure as she\nwas dead and buried over a year before, it must have been her ghost I\nsaw--an' she down on her two knees, an' she cursin' away as meself seed\nher the night ould Hegarty horsewhipped the poor crather. Well, of\ncoorse, meself didn't meddle or make wud her, and I hurried home as fast\nas I could, an' I never tould what I seen to man or mortal.\n\n\"Well, the next day the talk was all over the place that Hegarty was in\na ragin' fever, an' the best of doctors wor brought down from Dublin to\ntry an' cure him, but 'twas worse an' worse he was gettin', an' at last\nhe got so bad that they had to tie him down, an' Cassidy had to watch\nhim night an' day, an' the poor boy was nearly worn out like an ould\nshoe, an' he asked me to come an' help him.\n\n\"I didn't like the job, at all; but Cassidy was an ould friend of mine,\nan' we wor naybour's childre, so by dint of persuasion he got meself to\nconsint, an' sure 'twas the hard time we had between us. Every minute\nHegarty used to start up and cry out:\n\n\"'Hunt him away! Hunt him away; his nails are in my throat! His eyes are\nscorchin' me! I'm burnin'! I'm burnin'!'\n\n\"The Lord save us, but 'twas awful to listen to him.\n\n\"'Hunt him out! Cassidy, hunt him out, or I'll horsewhip you as I\nhorsewhipped the widow, an' 'tis her curse is on me, the ould hag. Hunt\nhim out!'\n\n\"And we had to pretend we wor huntin' him out, an' daylight or dark we\nused to hear a long howl outside that wud make your flesh creep.\n\n\"Well, begob, we wor almost wasted to a thread watchin' him, an' we\ncould hardly get a wink of sleep; but one night the two of us were\ndozin' by the side of the bed when all of a sudden we heard glass\ncrashin', an' before we had time to rub our eyes wud our fists what\nshould we see but the black dog who had burst in through the window, an'\nhe in gores of blood an' his eyes blazin' like wildfire, and before we\ncould stir a foot he was up on the bed an' he tarin' the throat out of\nould Hegarty.\n\n\"'The Lord between us an' all harm!' says Cassidy, an' he caught up the\npoker an' he hot the dog a belt that ought to have broken every rib in\nhis body. 'Ye divil get out of that,' says he, an' I gave him another\nthwack, an', wud a screech that would waken the dead an' that made every\nhair of our heads stand up like bristles, the black dog jumped out\nthrough the windy, an' he tuk the whole sash along wud him, an' ye'd\ntake yer oath for a minnit that the whole house was on fire, an' there\nwas a smell of brimstone that would knock ye down. An' when we kem to\nourselves an' looked at ould Hegarty, there he was stiff and stark, an'\nthe blue mark of the dog's teeth across his windpipe. We called up the\nhouse an' sent for the docthors, an' they kem, an' they said 'twas\nsomethin' or the other was the matter wud him that killed him; but\nCassidy an' meself knew betther nor they, but we kept our tongues quiet,\nfor what was the good of talkin' agin them docthors? Well, we waked him,\nthough sorrow the wan kem to the wake barrin' the playboys who kem to\nhave a look at him, an' he was buried up in the churchyard, and not far\nfrom the poor widow ayther, an' when ye are goin' home to-night take my\nadvice and go round by the hill-road, and don't pass by the churchyard,\nthough 'tis your shortest way home, for as sure as ye do ye might meet\nwud the black dog who is always about on Christmas Eve, for that was\nwhen ould Hegarty bet the poor widow wud his horsewhip, and maybe if the\ndog met any one of yees he'd do to ye what he did to ould Hegarty.\"\n\nPerhaps we didn't believe Tim's story, but whether or no we all went by\nthe hill road, and though many a year is past and gone since Tim told\nthe story there is not one who heard it, who for love or money would\npass by that churchyard on a Christmas Eve, and it might after all be no\nharm if those who read the story as I tell it now, and who dwell in the\nplace that knows old Tim no more, should take his advice as we did, and\nfollow the hill road. It is longer than the road by the churchyard, but\nthere is an old saying that the longest way round is the shortest way\nhome.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOST OF GARROID JARLA.\n\n\nIn fulfilment of a promise of many years standing, I went to pay a visit\nto an old schoolfellow in the Christmas of the year 185--, and who then\nresided within a few miles of the hill called Knock Cord Na Gur, in the\nQueen's County. He was a retired naval surgeon, named Lynam, to whom a\nsubstantial residence and farm had been left by an uncle whom he had\nnever seen, and who had been a bachelor, as was my friend, the doctor.\nIt was a lonely place for him to settle down in, but he had been for\nover twenty years roving in his ship all over the world, and he was\ntired of voyages, and he found, or professed to find, this comparatively\nlonely spot an agreeable retreat. Besides his housekeeper, his only\nservant was one Terry Brennan, who was at once coachman, gardener,\nvalet, and butler. The farm was pasture, and this the doctor let on\neasy terms to the neighbouring tenants, and as he was ever ready on an\nemergency to give his medical services, he was very popular for miles\nround. He loved a book, a pipe, and could brew a glass of punch which\nwould \"satisfy an admiral,\" as he was wont to boast, for this appeared\nto him to be the highest proof of its efficacy and quality; but,\nalthough he had read much, and travelled far and wide, he was as\nsuperstitious as the most unlettered sailor, and firmly believed in\nspiritual visitants, and had many a strange story of what he himself\nhad seen of the dead returning.\n\nHe met me at the station with an ordinary outside car, which he was\ndriving, having left Terry at home to have everything ready on our\narrival.\n\nWe had some miles to go. Night had already fallen a few hours before,\nand the sky above was as black as ink. We made our way, driving\ncautiously, all right, until, after going for about an hour, a bend in\nthe road brought us in view of a light, not more than half-a-mile ahead.\n\n\"That is the house,\" said the doctor. \"We'll be there in five minutes.\"\n\nThe announcement was very welcome to me, as I was cold and very hungry,\nand I was about to make some reply, when my companion suddenly\nexclaimed:--\n\n\"By ----, there is the light on the Knock.\"\n\nAnd I saw a second light higher up than the first, and at some distance\nto the right of it, but it vanished in a second.\n\nThe doctor's tone was startling.\n\n\"What is it?\" I queried.\n\n\"Quiet, pet; quiet, Molly; easy, girl.\" The doctor was speaking to the\nmare and did not answer my question. \"Hold on to the car. By heaven,\nwe're over!\"\n\nI felt the car was being overturned. I was flung out on to the side of\nthe road, and as I was recovering myself I heard the mare, who had in\nsome way broken from the harness, clattering down the hill.\n\nI had fallen on the grassy margin near the ditch and escaped unhurt. The\ncar tumbled into it without touching me.\n\n\"Are you hurt?\" said the doctor, who was by my side as I was lifting\nmyself up.\n\n\"No,\" I replied, \"and you?\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said, but I detected a tremor in his voice.\n\n\"Are you sure?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, yes! Come, let us get on--away from here.\"\n\nI was on my feet. \"What is it, Lynam?\"\n\n\"Do not ask. Come!\" and the doctor caught my arm and hurried me along.\nI saw he was labouring under some great emotion and forebore to speak.\nWe reached the gate leading up to the house. It was open, and in two\nminutes we were at the hall door. That, too, was open, and on the steps\nstood a man holding a lamp out from above his shoulder, and who seemed\nframed by the doorway. It was Terry.\n\n\"Doctor, darlint, did you see him?\"\n\n\"Where's the mare?\"\n\n\"She's in the yard, doctor. She has not a scratch on her, but there's a\nlather on her all over.\"\n\n\"Go and rub her down, put her up, and come back as soon as you can.\"\n\nThe doctor's tone had become calm again.\n\nThe excitement caused by this incident had made me forget the hunger\nand the cold, but when I entered the doctor's cosy room with its bright\nlog fire glowing in the hearth and inhaled my first breath of the warm\ntemperature I shuddered, and the doctor, noticing my discomfiture,\nuncorked a bottle of champagne and poured out a tumblerful. I observed\nthat his hand shook as he presented it to me, and also that he appeared\nstrangely put about.\n\nI tossed off the wine and then accompanied the doctor to my room, and\nmade myself ready for dinner.\n\nWhen I came down again to the dining-room the doctor was standing with\nhis back to the fire, looking still, as I thought, a little distrait.\n\nBut he brightened up at once, and saying: \"I'm sure you must be hungry\nafter your long journey,\" he rang the bell for dinner.\n\nIt was brought in by the housekeeper in response to the summons, and\nshortly after Terry appeared dressed in the orthodox waiter fashion.\n\nOur talk during dinner was chiefly about old times and old\nacquaintances. The wine, which was excellent, was done full justice\nto by both of us, and by the time dinner was over we were in the best\npossible humour with ourselves and all the world.\n\nThen when the cloth had been removed, and Terry brought in the\n\"materials,\" the doctor set himself to brew two stiff tumblers of punch.\nThis task accomplished, we lit our pipes, and as often happens with\nsmokers, we relapsed for a while into silence.\n\nWe were rudely interrupted by Terry, who pushed in the door without\nknocking, and who cried out excitedly:\n\n\"Doctor! doctor! you're wanted. Michael Cassidy's cart is overturned at\nthe trough below, God save us from all harm, although the horse was only\nwalking, and he's lying under it, and his boy, who was along with him,\nhas come up for you.\"\n\n\"Get the lamp at once, Terry, and Jack,\" said the doctor, addressing me,\n\"on with your coat, I may need your help.\"\n\nIn a few seconds, preceded by Terry with the lamp, and accompanied by\nCassidy's boy, we were hurrying down to the scene of the accident.\n\nWe found the cart upset in the middle of the road, and lying across the\nbody of poor Cassidy.\n\nTerry set down the lamp, and the four of us lifted up the cart and\nturned it over into the ditch, close to where our car was lying. The\ndoctor examined the prostrate man, Terry holding the light for him.\n\n\"Dead!\" cried the doctor. \"Dead! My God, it's awful.\"\n\nThe blood in my veins became icy cold. I felt I was not only in the\npresence of death, but in the presence of a mystery still more weird if\nthat were possible.\n\n\"What is it, Lynam?\" I whispered hoarsely.\n\n\"That is the rattle of a cart coming along, Terry?\" said the doctor, not\nheeding my question.\n\n\"It is, doctor.\"\n\n\"Show them the light.\"\n\nTerry held out the light in the direction of the approaching cart. It\nbelonged to one of the neighbours. When the cart came up to where we\nwere standing around the corpse it halted. A few words were sufficient\nto explain what had happened, and the owner of the cart agreeing we\nlifted the corpse on to the cart and it was taken home.\n\nThe doctor, Terry and I returned towards the house. Not a word was\nspoken by any of us until we were within a few yards of the hall door.\n\n\"Look, doctor, look!\" cried Terry, \"the light is on the Knock again!\"\n\nI turned round and looked towards the Knock, which rose to the left\nabout a quarter of a mile from the house. I saw a blue flame that\nquivered for a moment like a flame in the wind, and then went out.\n\n\"Let us go in,\" said the doctor, \"he has got his victim to-night.\"\n\nWe entered the hall and I turned into the doctor's room followed by him.\nI felt like one in a dream. But the room was bright and cheerful, and\nthe logs were blazing merrily on the hearth. I flung myself into a\nchair. The doctor had closed the door, and was standing near me.\n\n\"I am sorry, Jack,\" he said, in a serious tone, \"that your visit has\nbegun so unpropitiously, but let us forget what has occurred and make a\npleasant night of it,\" and he pulled a chair close to mine and sat down.\n\nHe lit a pipe. I followed his example, and we puffed away for a while in\nsilence, but my curiosity got the better of me.\n\n\"Look here, Lynam, old man,\" I said. \"There is some mystery about this\nbusiness of to-night. Our car was upset, as far as I know without any\ncause, and it was the same in the case of Cassidy's cart. What is it all\nabout, and what did you mean by talking of 'a victim?'\"\n\n\"It is a mystery,\" he began, \"but you saw the light on the Knock\nto-night?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And that is very strange. The only two about here who have seen it--at\nleast in our time--are Terry and myself. I saw it first on Christmas Eve\nten years ago--the first Christmas Eve after my coming. I have seen it\non three Christmas Eves since, and each time I saw it a man has been\nfound dead where we found Cassidy to-night.\"\n\nThe doctor spoke in low, measured tones, and a creepy feeling came over\nme as I listened.\n\n\"But what connection can there be between the light and the dead man on\nthe road?\" I asked.\n\n\"It is a curious story,\" he replied. \"It was told to me by Terry. I\ndoubted it at first, but my own eyes bore witness before to-night to the\ntruth of part, at least of it. But I had better begin by telling you\nwhat Terry told me. It seems that in the old times--three hundred years\nago or thereabouts--there was on the Knock-Cord-Na-Gur a strong castle,\nin which dwelt one of the offshoots of the Fitzgeralds, who was known\nas Garroid Jarla, or Garrett the Earl. He was a man of unrestrained\npassions, who knew no law save his own will. He was practised in every\nkind of devilry, and was dominated by a lust for blood and gold. Murder\nwas his chief delight. He was surrounded by a band of villains as\nunscrupulous and as bloodthirsty as himself. His name was a name of\nterror for miles around, and many a blackened rafter and blood stained\nhearth bore witness to his infamous cruelties. Yet, for all that, he\ncould be seemingly courteous, and could easily deceive an unsuspecting\nstranger into the belief that he was of a friendly and hospitable\ndisposition.\n\n\"And it was his wont, especially at Christmas time, to intercept\ntravellers who happened to be passing along the road which we have just\nleft, and, after a courteous inquiry as to their destination, to bid\nthem stay the night with him at his castle. Invariably he stationed\nhimself on the spot where the drinking trough is, of which you heard\nTerry speak, and which, perhaps, you may have noticed when he held the\nlamp as I was seeing to poor Cassidy.\"\n\n\"I saw something like a stone trough,\" I said, \"but did not take\nparticular notice of it.\"\n\n\"That was the trough,\" continued the doctor. \"It was not there at the\ntime I am speaking of. It was placed there long after the so-called earl\nhad gone to his account. The times were troublous times, and many a\nbelated traveller was glad of the invitation to spend the night at the\ncastle on the hill. Poor and rich were welcome there. The poor traveller\nset out the next day with the pleasant recollection of a hospitable\nnight, carrying everywhere he went a good word for his host, Garroid\nJarla, but for the traveller who had money about him, his night in the\ncastle was his last. He was never seen or heard of again. But when the\nearl was killed, and the castle sacked, the only record of his treachery\nwas a heap of bones and decaying corpses in a cellar under the\ndiningroom, the only entrance to which was a trap door, over which the\nunsuspecting victim sat while he was enjoying the earl's hospitality.\n\n\"Garroid Jarla had many enemies, but not one whom he hated more than\nRory O'Moore, who then dwelt in the Castle of Cluin Kyle, and who, at\nthe head of the Rapparees, was carrying fire and sword into the English\nterritories. There was a price then on the head of Rory, fifteen\nthousand pounds of our money now, and many a plot and plan was framed\nand laid to entrap the dauntless Irish captain. Garroid Jarla determined\nat any cost to secure the blood money, and tried, again and again, to\nentice one of Rory's followers, by the offer of a large bribe, to betray\nhis master, but without success. Still he persisted, and, at last, he\ngained, or thought he had, one over to his interests. The renegade\npersuaded Garroid that he was desirous of avenging a grievous personal\nwrong he had suffered at the hands of Rory, and that he was willing to\ngive his life to accomplish his destruction.\n\n\"Garroid's hunger for gold induced him to believe that with it he could\npurchase a man's soul, and, therefore, he gave ready credence to Rory's\nretainer, whose name was Teague O'Moore, and Teague humoured Garroid to\nthe top of his bent, and denounced Rory in all the moods and tenses. One\nnight he came to Garroid, and told him that his chance of overcoming his\nenemy, Rory, had arrived. Rory, he said, had come to Cluin-Kyle, after\nsome desperate and successful fighting, and was holding high revel in\nthe castle. There was no watch kept, as Rory felt perfectly secure for\nthat night at least, and, therefore, he might easily be surprised about\nmidnight, and Teague undertook that he would see that the castle gates\nwere unlocked, and as for signal he would place a lighted candle in the\npostern window.\n\n\"Garroid eagerly embraced the proposal, and decided to attempt the\nsurprise of Rory's castle, and, calling his retainers around him, he\nmade a feast, believing that men fought better if their stomachs were\nnot too empty, and that as there was stern and bloody work before them,\nthey would be all the better prepared for it if they imbibed some\ndraughts of _usquebaugh_. Teague remained until the party seated at\nsupper had begun to enjoy themselves, and then having taken care to see\nthat the window of the room opposite which Garroid was seated was not\ncurtained, he took his leave to go, as Garroid thought, to Cluin-Kyle;\nbut Teague, having passed out of the castle, entered the wood that\nskirted the ford of Dysartgalen. He had not gone far through the fallen\nleaves that strewed his path when he was challenged.\n\n\"'God and Our Lady and Rory O'Moore,' was his reply.\n\n\"'All right, pass on.'\n\n\"'Is the captain here?' said Teague.\n\n\"'Here,' answered a stalwart Rapparee.\n\n\"'I want your best marksman, captain.'\n\n\"'Come hither, Shan Dhu,' said the captain.\n\n\"A man stepped forward with musket on shoulder.\n\n\"'Follow me,' said Teague, 'and you captain and your men keep close to\nour heels. When you hear the shot rush straight for the castle. If the\nbullet does its work the castle is yours.'\n\n\"Teague and the marksman went ahead. They passed unnoticed within the\nouter walls, and advanced close to the uncurtained window.\n\n\"'That candle that you see,' said Teague to the marksman, 'is in a line\nwith Garroid Jarla. Snuff it and you kill him.'\n\n\"The marksman took a cautious aim.\n\n\"'Bang!' A crash of glass, a fierce yell.\n\n\"'Oh, Captain!' cried Teague, with a wild shout, that made the night\ntremble. The Rapparees burst in on the startled revellers. But, as the\nlatter had their weapons ready to hand, a desperate conflict ensued, and\nit is said that, until the last of his followers was slain, Garroid\nJarla remained sitting where he had been shot, and that his face was\nblack as coal, while his eyes gleamed like fire. The Rapparees sacked\nthe castle before they left for Cluin-Kyle with the news of the tyrant's\ndeath.\n\n\"The next day the peasantry entered the ruined castle, and, finding the\nbody of their arch-enemy, Garroid Jarla, they dragged it to the Ford of\nDysartgallen, and, having cut it in quarters, they flung them into the\nriver, and believed they had got rid, once and for all, of the ruthless\ntyrant of their homes.\n\n\"But in this, according to Terry's story,\" said the doctor, \"they were\nmistaken. For, time after time, Garroid Jarla appeared at the very\nspot where he used to meet travellers during his life, and whomever he\naccosted never saw the morning break again.\n\n\"At last a friar coming this way heard of the apparitions and their\nfatal results, and he bade the people bring a stone trough, and place\nit on the spot, and this trough was fed with water from a running\nstream, and the friar blessed the water, so that no evil spirit could\ncome near it. And after this, for generations, no one ever saw the ghost\nof Garroid Jarla. But in the dark days of Ninety-eight, a band of Yeos,\ncoming along the road, broke the trough, and turned away the stream from\nit, and ever since then it is dry, and of no service to man or beast,\nand ever since then at irregular intervals, but always on Christmas Eve,\nthe ghost reappears and claims a victim, and when he appears a light\nburns on the Knock. And that is Terry's story,\" said the doctor, and he\nshook the ashes from his pipe.\n\n\"Have you ever seen the ghost?\" I asked.\n\n\"I have seen the light on the Knock,\" he replied, \"and I have seen the\ndead men. You saw the light on the Knock to-night; you also have seen a\ndead man. Do you doubt,\" said he, looking me straight in the face, \"that\nhe is one of Garroid Jarla's victims?\"\n\n\"Perhaps, after all, doctor,\" said I, \"there are more things in heaven\nand earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.\"\n\n\"It is getting late,\" said the doctor, \"and I am sure you must be\ntired.\"\n\nI was tired, and yet when I turned in I could not sleep. On that night\nand many a night since I was haunted by the ghost of Garroid Jarla.\n\n\n\n\nTRUE TO DEATH.\n\n\n\"Death!\" The speaker was a tall, sinewy, athletic man, from twenty-eight\nto thirty years of age. The single word came from his lips short and\nsharp as a pistol shot. He looked around upon his auditors, who watched\nhis hard-set features in silence. A group of a dozen peasants stood\nbefore him, the youngest not more than twenty, the oldest a man of sixty\nyears, above the average height, thin, cadaverous looking, with hollow,\nsunken eyes, black as night, that contrasted strangely with the\nprominent, grey, bushy eyebrows. Deep lines, traced by suffering and\nbitter thought, furrowed his ample brow, and long, lank, white hair came\ndown almost to his shoulders. His eyes rested upon the speaker, whose\nface became blanched under the terrible and earnest gaze that was\nfastened upon him. Though dressed in peasant garb, it was easy to\nsee that the young man's life was not always spent in the peaceful\noccupation of the peasantry; a scar on his right cheek told a story of\nconflict, while the deep bronze that stained his face was suggestive of\ntravel in other lands. Born on the southern coast, his earlier years\nwere spent in the precarious pursuit of fishing, and just as he crossed\nthe threshold of manhood, an adventurous spirit prompted him to join\nsome of his comrades who sailed with a French captain bound from the\nShannon for Brest. He pursued the sea-faring life for a year or two,\nwhen, falling in at one of the French ports with a detachment of the\nIrish Brigade, then battling under the _Fleur-de-lis_, he took service\nin it, and fought in several engagements, until a bullet in the breast\nincapacitated him for the duties of a soldier's life. Returning to\nIreland, he found the peasantry engaged in the great agrarian struggle\nwhich produced the \"Whiteboys.\" His military and adventurous spirit, as\nwell as his sympathy with his class, invested the conspiracy with a\npeculiar attraction for him. He became a member of it, and before many\nmonths had passed was the leader of the organisation in his district.\nHis superior ability, and his power of swift and keen judgment,\ncommanded the respect and confidence of his followers. On many a night\nbefore this on which our story opens, the terrible sentence of death had\nfallen from his lips, but never before had his comrades observed the\ndeathlike pallor that was in his face to-night. The scene was a weird\none. A long, low-roofed cave, of irregular shape, not more than twelve\nfeet at the widest, and narrowing towards the aperture, which was scarce\nlarge enough to allow of one man at a time crouching on his hands and\nknees; a small opening in the roof, through which a hand might be\nthrust, allowed the escape of the smoke from the pine logs, blazing in\nthe further end of the cave. As the flame leaped up and down, a thousand\nshadows and flickering lights danced on roof, and floor, and walls,\nflitting fantastically, bringing into occasional prominence, the\nfeatures of the group. As the speaker uttered the single word, a log,\ndisplaced by the action of the fire, blazed fiercely, and threw its\nlight upon his face. In the searching light every lineament was clearly\nportrayed, and the twitching of his mouth, and the white look that\nchased the bronze from his cheek, became plainly visible to the eyes of\nhis followers.\n\n\"It is well,\" said the old man. \"When shall we meet again?\"\n\nThe question was addressed to the leader. All eyes were fastened on him\nas he said with unusual slowness:\n\n\"This night fortnight.\"\n\n\"Too long,\" cried the old man, with a fierce cry that had a hard\nmetallic ring in it as it struck against the walls of the cave.\n\n\"Too long,\" murmured the others.\n\nThe leader looked around, scanning the faces of each one closely.\n\n\"Too long,\" repeated the old man, in deeper tones.\n\n\"Well, this night week, be it,\" said the leader.\n\n\"Agreed,\" came the response.\n\nAnd one by one the party left the cave, save the old man and the leader.\nThe old man moved to the aperture, peered out, and waited until the\nlast of his comrades had disappeared. He then turned back, and, standing\nwith folded arms before his companion, said to him:\n\n\"We chose you to be our leader because we knew you were brave, and we\nbelieved you to be true; you have never failed us up to this.\"\n\n\"Then why do you doubt me now?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said the old man gravely, \"there was a white look in your\nface to-night, which was the sign of either fear or treachery; you\nare too brave for fear; then what did it mean? You have decreed swift\ndoom to the petty tyrants; why did you seek to-night to postpone the\nexecution of the arch tyrant? You know the wrong he has done our\npeople--ay, the nameless outrages which he has inflicted upon their\nhonour, yet you sought to gain for him the long day, for him who would\nstring us up at short shrift. What does it mean?\" And the old man's\ntones became fiercer. \"Is it true what they whisper of you, that the\nnut-brown hair and the bright eyes and the red mouth of his daughter\nhave caught you in the net, and that your arm is no longer free, and\nthat your heart is unmanned? Look at me! I am old, and worn, and\nwithered. I was once young like you. I knew what it was to love, and\nthe sweetest maid that ever stepped down the mountain side, bright and\nsparkling as a streamlet in the sun, was the girl of my heart. Forty\nyears ago the green carpet was laid over her in the old churchyard, and\na week after there was a bullet in the heart of him who was the father\nof the man you want to save. Ah! You cannot know, God grant you may\nnever know what forty years of sorrow and bitterness are to the heart\nof man. Yet you would save him, who follows in the footsteps of his\nfather--him who, as I have told you, has done us nameless wrong. Beware!\nI am old and you are young; you are strong and I am weak, but I can\nstrike a traitor yet.\"\n\nAs the old man spoke these last words, he had drawn himself up to his\nfull height, his right arm was lifted, and the clenched fist drove\nthe nails into the palm of his hand. Suddenly it fell to his side,\nand turning from his companion he sought the opening of the cave and\ndisappeared in the night. The leader stood alone. The light from the\npine logs began slowly to die out, shadows clothed the walls of the cave\nand advanced along the floor, and save a small pool of red light below\nand a faint flickering glow on the roof above, everything was in\ndarkness. Still the leader remained with his arms crossed, motionless;\nvarious thoughts disturbed his heart, thoughts of the old days when he\nwas a fisher lad; thoughts of the bivouac and the battle, of the stories\nof the camp fire, of the long yearning in foreign fields for his own old\nisland home, of the oppression of the people, of the loyalty of his\nfollowers, of their faith in him, of the brave work he had hoped to do\nfor them, and then of the sweet face of the girl that he knew never\ncould be his, but for whose sake he would have plucked his eyes out and\ngone through a thousand deaths. He knew the old man had spoken truly; he\nknew that her father was one of the bitterest and most hated of the\noppressors of his people, and yet he had to confess to himself that for\nher sake he had sought to gain for him the long day. The last flickering\nembers were almost dead. Suddenly he became aware of the darkness\naround, and with an effort, bracing himself up, he sought to chase the\nharassing thoughts away from him and left the cave.\n\nThe cave was by the sea-shore; it was far up on the cliffs, its entrance\nwas concealed by a projecting rock, and was known to very few. A rugged\nascent scarcely safe to even the most practised feet, and dangerous to\nany but a man of the firmest nerves, led up to it from the beach. When\nthe leader stepped through the outlet the strong sea breeze restored him\nto himself. He descended cautiously until he reached the strand. To the\nright lay his home. For a moment he turned in that direction, but only\nfor a moment, and then he went the opposite way. After walking for a\nquarter of an hour he again ascended the cliff, and reaching the table\nland advanced with quick steps until he found the road. Having gone\nthree or four hundred yards, a light piercing far through the darkness\nfrom the window of a square building, that looked half fortress and half\nmansion, caught his eyes. There was a wild stir in his heart, and the\nblood rushed fiercely through his veins. He walked like one fascinated.\nHe knew not what he thought; he only felt that if with every forward\nstep death should grip him by the throat he should still go on. At last\nhe stood almost close enough to the lighted windows to touch them with\nhis hand. He looked into the room which was on the ground floor.\nPictures and books and embroidery were there; a bright fire sparkled on\nthe hearth, candles fixed against the walls made the room almost as\nlight as day. There was no one visible. Just as he was about to turn\naway in despair the door opened and a radiant girl entered. She advanced\ntowards the fireplace, shuddered a little as if cold, and stretched her\nsoft white hands over the blaze, and the ruddy glow stained the white\nlilies on her cheeks. Something like a sob stuck in his throat, and\nwhen a moment after her father entered the room, and the Whiteboy chief\nremembered the sentence in the cave, with a moan, like that of a dumb\nanimal in pain, he staggered helplessly away and sought his home.\n\nThe morning broke cold and grey, but soon the level lights of the winter\nsun came into the room where he had spent a sleepless night. He rose\nfrom his bed, and dressing himself opened the little window and looked\nout upon the sea. The chill breeze of the morning, odorous with the\nbrine of the ocean, filled the room. Hours passed and he still watched\nthe glancing billows keen and cold, and thought of the Shannon river and\nhis voyage to Brest and the escape that was open to him, and he sank\ninto himself and thought and thought. Then looking out again he saw on\nthe strand below, moving along with pain, the old man of the cave, and\nhis heart was divided, and once more he remembered the oppressions of\nhis people.\n\n\"They trust me,\" he said, \"and what am I to her? What am I to her?\" he\ncried out passionately, \"she does not know of my existence. I am one of\nthe crowd that her father treats even worse than dogs, and whom she,\nwith all her graciousness, scarcely deigns to recognise. Ay! there you\ngo, old man, with your load of sorrow, greater than mine; and yet 'tis\nhard, 'tis hard to think of it, that I should be the one to pronounce\nhis doom.\"\n\nWearily he closed the window and left the room and went down by the sea,\nand watched its ebbing and its flowing with sinking heart. The following\nnight found him equally restless. How the week passed he did not know,\nbut the night came when he was to meet his followers again in the cave.\nA week before he was a man of thirty years, looking resolute and brave\nsave for the white look that momentarily came into his face as he\npronounced the terrible sentence; to-night he looked old and haggard,\nand the ruddy light from the blazing logs served only to make his face\nlook ghastly. The doom had been decreed. To-night was to decide who was\nto carry it into execution. Hitherto the executioner had been selected\nby lot. To-night it was proposed the same course should be followed. All\nappeared to agree, when the old man lifted his voice and said:\n\n\"We have chosen this man as our leader; we have been faithful to him in\ncarrying out his orders; we have placed our necks within the gallows\nnoose; some of us have stepped up the gallows stair and died without\nbetraying him, when by betraying him they could have saved their lives.\nThe time has come when he should prove his fidelity to us by taking this\ndeed upon himself.\"\n\nWhen the old man had ceased speaking there was perfect silence. In the\nuncertain light it was impossible to discern clearly the features of the\nleader. But he spoke no word. An indistinct muttering from the followers\nscarcely broke the silence. Then a stout strapping fellow stepped to the\nfront and said:\n\n\"No! I believe in our leader. Up to this it has always been decided by\nlot. It fell to me twice. I wished it fell to someone else; but when it\nfell on me I did it. I don't see why the captain should not have the\nsame chance as the rest of us.\"\n\nA chorus of approval answered this little speech.\n\n\"Well, then, comrades,\" said the leader, \"are you all satisfied that it\nshould go by lot?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" was the answer, while the old man stood with folded arms and\nremained silent.\n\n\"Then let it be by lot,\" said the leader.\n\nThis course having been determined upon, a pebble was produced for every\nman present. One was a white pebble; the others were of various colours.\nThe man who drew the white pebble was to be the executioner. The pebbles\nwere placed in a small hole in the side of the cave, not touched by the\nlight of the fire, and too high, even if there was most perfect light to\nallow anyone to see its contents. The old man was the first to try his\nfate, and kept the pebble which he drew close in his clenched fist; the\nothers followed, and each also kept the pebble in his closed fist. The\nlast to draw was the leader. The old man, stirring the logs with his\nfeet, said as the blaze lit up the cave--\n\n\"Now, let us show our hands,\" and every man displayed the pebble upon\nhis level palm.\n\nThe white was in the leader's hand. He had no sooner shown it than his\nfingers closed over it with a convulsive grasp that might have crushed\nit into powder.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, with a strident voice, \"the lot has decided I'm to be\nthe executioner. I shall answer for the discharge of my duty with my\nlife.\"\n\n\"To-night,\" hissed the old man between his teeth.\n\n\"Yes, to-night,\" was the reply, cold, and brief and fierce.\n\nThe conspirators filed out of the cave; the last to leave was the\nleader.\n\nThe new moon had just broken through the clouds, which flung their dark\nshadows on the sea. He gained the strand, conscious that his comrades\nwere watching him. He took the direction of the doomed house; he moved\nalong like a man whose heart was dead within him. He crossed the lawn,\nhe advanced to the window; the lights were burning in the room as they\nhad burned on that other night. The father and the daughter sat, side by\nside, in front of the cheerful fire, her arm round his neck, and from\nthe movements of her lips, the light upon her face, and the pleasant\nlaughter in her eyes, the chief knew she was talking fondly. In a moment\nof madness he lifted his pistol, and aimed it at her father's head. Just\nthen the girl drew back, rose from her chair, and standing up to her\nfull height, displayed all her freshening beauty.\n\n\"God bless you, darling!\" he sobbed; and when he was found dead outside\nthe window, with a bullet from his own pistol in his heart, the boys\nknew that he was \"True to them to the Death.\"\n\n\n\n\n\"THE LIGHT THAT LIES IN WOMAN'S EYES.\"\n\n(_A Story of '98_).\n\n\nNora O'Kelly was just nineteen years of age--tall, lissome, with cheeks\nlike an apple blossom, hair as brown as a ripe beechnut glowing in the\nsunset, lips like rowan-berries in the warm August days, and eyes like\ntwin stars looking at themselves in a woodland pool--a girl to dream\nabout in one's sleep, to rave about when awake.\n\nThis is high praise of a sweet Irish colleen, the critical reader may\nsay, but it was not half high enough for half the boys whose heads she\nturned when she and they were young. Alas! they--the admired and the\nadmirers--have long since passed away, and are all now in noteless\ngraves, for the little story, if story it can be called, which is set\ndown here, is a story of a hundred years ago, when the war clouds\nhovered over the land, and from out their dark bosoms flashed the\nlightnings that rived many a home and made many places desolate.\n\nShe was a farmer's daughter in the county Kildare, who lived not far\nfrom Naas. Her life had been uneventful until her mother died when she\nwas little over sixteen. Since then, she, the only child, had been the\nsolace of her father. He, as is the way with fathers, would have kept\nher always by him; and in the happiness which her loving companionship\nbrought him, he persuaded himself that she was perfectly happy under his\nroof, and that her thoughts never wandered away from it and him.\n\nBut as the wind bloweth where it lists, so love wanders at its own sweet\nwill. Sometimes it will steal in through the guarded gates of palaces;\nsometimes it will creep in through the crannies of the mud-wall cabins;\nno place is secure from it; the walled town is as defenceless against\nits assault as the open plain. It marches down through centuries, the\noverthrow of kingdoms and of nations cannot hinder its buoyant step, and\nonce in a way it came knocking at the heart of sweet Nora O'Kelly.\nShe did not at once understand the summons--what young girl sweet and\ninnocent as she ever does? But she heard the knocking at her heart all\nthe same, and when she looked through the windows of her eyes she saw,\nor thought she saw, young Larry O'Connor looking straight at her with\nsuch a look as she had never seen in a boy's eyes before, and she felt\nas if she were walking on air, and that her heart was one sweet song\nthat could not find a word to interpret its music.\n\nOh! for the delicious dream that comes to a happy privileged youth or\nmaiden once in a lifetime, and that is, no matter what the sceptics and\nthe scoffers say, sometimes realised, and this was the dream that had\ninvaded Nora's heart and taken complete possession of it.\n\nBut Larry O'Connor was poor; one of half a dozen children who had to\nlive out of a farm not half as large as that of Nora's father, and she\nwas his only child. Her father also, like many men of property, thought\nchiefly of it, and was utterly averse to change, and he had nothing but\nhard words for the emissaries of the French Government as he said and\nthought, who were going about the country, inculcating subversive ideas\nin the minds of the young generation.\n\nConscious of the growing unrest amongst the people, Mr. O'Kelly\nrecognised, but not until after a long struggle with himself that it was\ndesirable he should settle Nora in life. She was young, beautiful and\nattractive, and he had means greater than his station. He had discovered\nfor himself that young Captain Anthony of the Yeos, the son of his\nlandlord, had been smitten by his daughter's charms. And though very\nloath to think of her leaving himself once or twice, perhaps oftener, it\ncrossed his mind that if she were to leave him she could do no better\nthan become Captain Anthony's wife. He was a gentleman to the manner\nborn, though a little self-willed and occasionally passionate--failings\ncommon enough in these days when his class, a minority of the people\nwas in the ascendant, with scarcely anyone to question them, save some\nfierce peasant seeking 'the wild justice of revenge.'\n\nYoung Anthony was a good-looking youth, with an air of distinction which\ngoes far to capture woman's hearts. He had first met Nora O'Kelly at a\nball given by his father to his tenants, and had danced with her on that\noccasion twice or thrice. Nora met him with the freedom of a maiden who\nlooked upon him as above her in station, and she regarded his courtesy\ntowards her as a delicate compliment due from his superior position\nrather than to herself. Her frankness did not deceive him for a moment.\nThere was that in her eyes--that which is in the eyes of every maiden of\nguiless heart--which told more plainly than words can tell that he was\nno more to her than a gracious stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow.\n\nBut this only added fuel to the fire kindled in his heart, her beauty,\nas marvellous, though happily not so fleeting, as that of the white rose\nwhich wins the heart of the wayfarer through the hedgerows in the days\nof June. A good-looking young fellow as he was, enjoying a high social\nposition, many longing eyes had bent upon him, and he had no doubt that\nhe could easily find a lady of his own station who would be willing to\nshare his fortunes as his wife. But he had hitherto kept himself aloof\nfrom the snares of love, and now unwittingly he had fallen over head and\nears into it. He did not know this for a considerable time. He had, it\nis true, directed his steps often towards Nora's house, on one pretence\nor another to see her father, but really to catch a glimpse of her. But\nhe was seldom successful, as Nora had no desire whatever to come in his\nway, and hardly ever gave him a moment's thought. Indeed, her whole mind\nwas constantly filled with the vision of Larry O'Connor, who was just as\nconstantly thinking of her, though neither of them had yet spoken of\nlove.\n\nBut Captain Anthony, although conscious of a growing interest in\nNora, did not suspect that he was really in love with her, and, as a\nconsequence, had not formed any 'intentions' concerning her. If he had\nit would doubtless never have occurred to him that, in case he ventured\nto offer his hand to her, he would meet with a refusal. But all at once,\nin the most unexpected manner, he made the discovery that his heart was\nin her keeping. Riding by the boreen leading up to her father's house in\nthe twilight of an April evening he caught a glimpse of two figures\nmoving up the boreen close together. One he knew at a glance, it was\nNora; the other he found to be Larry O'Connor. There was nothing very\nremarkable in this, for the farms of the two families were joined, and\nas neighbour's children they might naturally be on friendly terms, but\nthe sight smote the heart of Anthony like a sword thrust, and something\nlike hatred for O'Connor was stirred up in him. He rode on home slowly,\ngnawed at by jealous pangs. The face of Nora was before his vision in\nall its radiant beauty. The soft, sweet caressing voice which won all\nhearts was in his ear, but now it was whispering, he had no doubt, words\nof love into another's, and that other one wholly unworthy of her, a\nmere peasant, for Captain Anthony prided himself on his gentility,\nalthough he was only a descendant of a Cromwellian trooper. In\nanother mood he might perhaps have classed Nora's father in the same\ncategory, but now his eyes were suddenly opened to her worth, and the\npossibility--nay, the likelihood of losing her made her appear still\nmore precious. He made no attempt to shake himself free from his\ntorment. He surrendered himself all that night to it, the next day he\ncame to the rash determination as it proved to go straight to Mr.\nO'Kelly and ask for Nora's hand. He had no doubt at all of his consent,\nand he tried to persuade himself that Nora's heart was still free, and\nthat she would scarcely refuse him who might choose amongst so many.\nWhen he arrived at the house he was disappointed to find that Mr.\nO'Kelly had gone to Dublin, and would not be back till late, but Nora\nwas at home. He took a sudden resolve, he would see her and propose to\nher there and then.\n\nNora at the time was in the garden, and when the message was brought\nto her that Captain Anthony desired to see her in the absence of her\nfather, she came wondering what the captain could want, and without the\nfaintest suspicion of his purpose. She received him in the parlour,\noffered him a chair, she herself remaining standing. For a second\nCaptain Anthony stood as if irresolute--then he plunged straight into\nthe heart of the business.\n\n\"I came to find your father, Nora. I have found you. I want to know,\"\nhere he looked imploringly at her, \"can I keep you for ever?\"\n\nNora flushed crimson, and a startled look stole into her eyes. She\nhardly knew what interpretation to put on such language, but before she\ncould say a word the captain rushed on impetuously--\"I mean it, Nora, I\nlove you--yes, love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?\"\n\nA look of great distress came over Nora's face. Startling as the\nproposal was, all the more so because of its brevity and plainness, the\nevident sincerity of it appealed to her more strongly even than the\nhonour of it. She held out her hand while the tears came to her eyes.\n\n\"It is impossible, captain; I love another.\"\n\nThe captain's face became white. He ignored the proffered hand, and\nbowing stiffly left the room and the house. When he had ridden about a\nquarter of a mile he crossed into the fields and put his horse to the\ngallop until both horse and rider were well nigh exhausted. It was the\nmeans almost instinctively adopted by him to try and subdue the tumult\nof his soul.\n\nFrom that day forward Anthony was a changed man. To the passion of\njealousy was added a feeling of deepest humiliation. To have been\nrefused by the daughter of one of his tenants in favour of a pauper\npeasant youth was maddening, for though Nora had not mentioned\nO'Connor's name, Anthony had no doubt that it was him she meant. But any\ndoubt he might have had was dispelled, for again it chanced he saw the\ntwo lovers together, and he was witness, without their knowledge, of a\ntender parting that still further added to his torments. The feeling,\nakin to hatred which was stirred up on the first occasion developed into\nactual hatred. But about this time there were some anxieties that came\nas a distraction to the mind of the disappointed suitor. Rumours of an\nintended rising had become persistent, and a few weeks was to prove\ntheir truth. On the 23rd day of May Michael Reynolds stopped the mail\ncoaches, and on the following morning he made the attack on Naas.\nAmongst his followers was Larry O'Connor, wearing for a favour a green\nrosette, which had been made for him by Nora, who, deeply as she loved\nhim, was proud to see him go forth to battle for his native land. But we\nare not writing history, and will not detain the reader by a description\nof the battle of Naas. Information of the intended attack had been given\nto the authorities, and a strong garrison was posted in the town, and\nafter a gallant effort to dislodge it, Reynolds was forced to order his\nmen to retreat. O'Connor, armed with a pike, had fought desperately by\nhis leader's side until the last moment. Then he, too, quitted the field\nand got separated from the rest of his companions. As soon as the\ninsurgents were seen to be in retreat, the Fourth Dragoon Guards, the\nAncient Britons, and the Mounted Yeos, were let loose after them. The\nlatter were commanded by Captain Anthony. It was no quarter for anyone\nthey overtook, whether armed or unarmed. O'Connor finding himself alone,\ncrossed the fields as fast as he could, but still keeping his pike.\nThe pounding of a horse close behind him and a bullet whizzing by his\near caused him to turn round. It was a dragoon, who also had become\nseparated from his troop. He had drawn his long sabre and made a cut at\nO'Connor as he came up. The latter caught the sword on the guard of his\npike. After a combat of a few seconds the dragoon was unhorsed with a\nfatal gash in his throat, and O'Connor, having possessed himself of his\nsword, and the horse galloped away in the direction of his home. He was\nwithin a few yards of the boreen leading up to O'Kelly's farm house,\nwhen he caught sight of Nora. She was down at the road waiting for\ntidings of the battle. O'Connor reined in his horse. At that moment\nround a bend of the road appeared Captain Anthony, his horse covered\nwith foam.\n\n\"Surrender, you rebel, or I will shoot you.\"\n\nHe held the pistol out before him. O'Connor crying, \"Go back, Nora\ndarling!\" urged his horse forward, raising his sword the while. But\nAnthony fired and the bullet struck O'Connor in the sword arm, which\nfell helpless. In a second Anthony had gripped O'Connor, and in the\nstruggle the two men rolled off their horses. Anthony was on top, and\nhe drew a second pistol from his belt. Before he could use it his hand\nwas seized.\n\nIt was Nora. Her assistance enabled O'Connor to regain his feet.\n\n\"By G----, I'll make him swing on this very spot!\" cried Anthony,\nfoaming with passion.\n\n\"Thank God! Captain Anthony, I've saved you from committing murder!\"\n\nFor a moment his eyes met Nora's. Their deep, soft, tender influence,\nand the soft, low, sweet voice fell like a happy calm on his soul. For a\nsecond a fierce, wild longing to clasp her in his arms took possession\nof him, and all his heart's love went out to her. Then there was the\nnoise of galloping horses below the bend of the road.\n\nTurning to O'Connor, Captain Anthony said gently, \"The Yeos are coming,\nsave yourselves.\"\n\nAnd Larry and Nora went down the boreen together.\n\n\n\n\nDEATH BY MISADVENTURE.\n\n\n\"Superstitious?\" Well, I confess I am a little. I would rather not sit\ndown at table with twelve others, and I think that no really good host\nshould expose his guest to such a predicament. I have, indeed, made one\nof thirteen at dinner on more than one occasion, and was not a penny the\nworse, nor, as far as I can recall, was anyone else. But all the same, I\ndon't like the number. And I would rather see two magpies than one any\nday, and I don't like to hear the 'tick' of the death watch at night.\n\nI would rather not pass a churchyard alone after dark, but then I don't\nlike churchyards even in the daytime, and would avoid them if I could. I\nwas once induced to make one at a seance of Spiritualists, and sat for\nat least half an hour, with five or six others, round a table in the\ndark, vainly hoping for a glimpse of a spirit from the other world, or\nfor a sound of the rapping, the system of telegraphy said to be employed\nby its denizens, but I neither saw nor heard anything.\n\nThe reader will gather from this that I am like nine out of ten of his\nacquaintances in matters of this kind. I am not a convinced sceptic as\nto supernatural visitations, and, on the other hand, I am not a believer\nin them. All I know is that I had never seen anything to bring me in\ntouch, real or imaginary, with the other world until a certain night in\nthe first days of the month of September, over twenty years ago, when I\nwas staying at one of the most charming seaside resorts on the eastern\ncoast of Ireland.\n\nThe weather was simply delightful. The breath of summer seemed still to\nlinger in the leaves, almost as many as they are in June, and which had\nhardly begun to put on their autumn tints. The sea for days had been\nlike a mill-pond. The tide glided in and out almost imperceptibly, and\nonly in the still night could one hear its soft sighing voice.\n\nI was lodged in a 'furnished house' close to the sea. My rooms were very\nbright, and offered splendid views of sea and mountain, and of the rich\nfoliage that crowned the hills that rose up, gently sloping, almost from\nthe strand.\n\nThe house was furnished after the fashion of many seaside houses let\nfor the season, and idle during the winter months. The furniture was\nindifferent, but sufficient. But of this I had not taken much notice. I\nwas easily satisfied, and moreover I spent most of my time out of doors.\nBut there came a day when the sky was covered with black clouds, from\nwhich the rain poured down unceasingly, and the sea was hidden in a\nmist.\n\nI had smoked and read for two or three hours, and then got up, stretched\nmy legs and walked about my sitting room. And for the first time, I\nthink, I paid serious attention to the pictures on the walls. With one\nexception, they were all photographs. This exception was the allegorical\nrepresentation of Hope--a beautiful female figure. The others were\nphotos of family groups, churches, etc., and they suggested in an\nunmistakeable way a \"job lot\" at an auction.\n\nThis suggestion set me speculating on the fortunes of their former\nowner. And what encouraged me in this was the character of the largest\nphotograph. It was a wedding group, evidently taken just after the\narrival from church. The persons forming it stood on the steps of a\nrather fine house, over the porch of which the word 'Welcome' was formed\nin rosebuds. There were in the group about twenty persons in all. The\nbride, with a bouquet in her hand, was standing beside the bridegroom,\non the top step, and both came out very well in the photo, and as the\ncentral figures, of course they naturally excited more interest than the\nothers. The bride was tall, shapely and decidedly good-looking, while\nthe bridegroom, on the other hand, was stumpy, thick-necked, and of an\nill-favoured countenance, and apparently much older than the bride. Was\nit a match of love or convenience? How did it fare with the two standing\nhere side by side, whose future life till death would them part were\nlinked together for good or ill, for happiness or misery?\n\nAn idle question, the reader may say, but then it was in an idle hour I\nput it to myself. As I turned from this photo to the others, it occurred\nto me that all of them were somehow connected. There were photos of two\ncountry churches, one with a tower and steeple recently erected at the\ntime the picture was taken if one might judge from the clearly defined\nlines of masonry, and the low size of the firs and yews planted round\nit. The other had a square tower and was almost concealed by ivy, and\na glimpse was given of the churchyard and of some of the tombstones,\nincluding a fine Celtic cross. In one or other of these I decided the\nmarriage had taken place. In the new church doubtless, for the photo\nwas mounted on a grey toned card, as was that of the wedding group.\nMoreover, both were from the same photographic studio of Grafton-street,\nDublin. The photo of the old church was by a different artist, and was\nmounted differently. The remaining photos were of the Madeleine, the\nPlace de la Concorde, the tomb of Napoleon, and the Louvre--souvenirs,\nno doubt, of the honeymoon spent in Paris, and there was one of a pretty\ncottage, which was, I surmised, the first home of the newly married\ncouple. In this way I explained satisfactorily to myself all the\npictures, save that of the old church, with the glimpse of the\ngraveyard. Then it seemed to me that I had arrived at the end of the\nstory, and so I gave it up and returned to my lounge, my book and my\npipe.\n\nThat evening a friend from town dropped in after dinner and spent a few\nhours with me. I went down to the station to see him off by the last\ntrain, which went about eleven o'clock. Returning alone in a starless\nnight, and with the damp breath of the sea fog clinging to my face, and\nthe long, low moan of the ocean falling upon my ears, a 'creepy' feeling\ncame over me. I was like one rescued from a harassing but unseen enemy\nwhen I got back into the shelter of my lodgings, and had closed and\nbolted the door.\n\nI went almost straight to my bedroom, and I found myself leaving the gas\nlighting, an unusual circumstance with me. After a while I fell asleep,\nand began, as I thought, to dream. It seemed to me as though I was\nsitting alone in the sittingroom downstairs, and that I was looking\ncuriously at the pictures, tracing from them again the little history\nalready given. Then my eyes rested steadily on the picture of the old\nchurch, and then I thought that the picture itself had vanished, and\nthat I was actually standing at the gate of the churchyard. Over the\nchurch and the little cemetery the morning was breaking, and the grass\nand leaves appeared to be quite wet as if the heavy rain had only just\nceased. Then, when about to move away from the gate, I saw a white, and\nat first, shadowy figure standing by the Celtic cross in the graveyard.\nIn a few seconds it seemed to become a defined and substantial form. It\nwas that of a lady of about thirty years of age. She wore about her\nhead drapery similar to that on the head of the allegorical picture of\nHope, which, as I have said, was among the pictures in the sitting-room,\nbut the face was different--it was that of the bride! Then I saw the\nfigure leave the cross and pass out by another gate than that at which I\nwas standing and go along the road. I felt myself drawn after it, and it\nseemed to me that both it and I flew rather than walked, so swiftly did\nwe pass over the road.\n\nWe must have gone some miles when the figure stopped in front of a\nrose-clad cottage, identical with the cottage in the photo.\n\nThe figure entered the cottage, and I thought I should see it no more.\nBut in a second the exterior of the cottage disappeared, and I saw\ninstead a bedroom, in which a woman was lying. It was the face and\nfigure which I had followed. The face was pale, and she appeared ill and\nsuffering. By the bed was a man, whose back was at first towards me, but\nsoon he moved and I saw that he was the image of the bridegroom. The\nwoman raised herself uneasily on the pillow. Her eyes were wide and\nglistening, and she made a gesture towards a table at the head of the\nbed, on which were two or three medicine bottles. The man, in reply to\nher gesture, poured out something from one of the bottles into a cup and\nput it to her lips. She appeared to drink it all, and then, lying back\nquietly on the pillow, seemed to fall into a deep sleep.\n\nI awoke, and knew I had been dreaming--to my great surprise, found\nmyself in my dressing-gown in the sitting-room, to which I must have\nmade my way during my sleep.\n\nI started up, shivering with cold, and forgetting all about the dream,\nwent up to my bedroom and was soon asleep.\n\nHowever, when I awoke the dream came back to me, and so persistently\nthat I determined to find out something about the photos, which had now\na keener interest for me than before.\n\nI questioned my landlady. She was unable to give me any information save\nwhat I had already guessed, that they had been bought at an auction at\none of the Dublin salerooms, but she had no idea who the owner was, or\nwho were the people in the group. She remembered that a former lodger\nhad remarked that the old church was some church near Dublin, but she\ncould not say which.\n\nHere was something of a clue, and I determined to pursue it. I took the\nphoto from the frame, and the next time I went to Dublin showed it to a\nmonument maker in Brunswick Street. He at once told me the church was\nSt. M----s, a few miles outside the city. I asked if it were he who had\nput up the Celtic cross. He said he had not, but adding it was the work\nof another sculptor who lived near Glasnevin.\n\nI went to the sculptor whom he named, and showed him the photo. At once\nhe recognised the cross at a glance. It had been erected to the memory\nof Mrs. A---- D----, who had died a few years after her marriage. Her\ndeath was, he said, the result of a misadventure, she having accidently\ntaken the wrong medicine.\n\n\"Did she take it herself?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes, that was the evidence at the inquest. The husband was dreadfully\ncut up about it. It was he who put up the cross, one of the finest that\never left a Dublin yard,\" said my informant, with an air of professional\ntriumph.\n\n\"But for all that,\" he continued, \"he got married within a few months\nafter his wife's death, and then,\" he added reflectively, \"it is often\nthe way, the greater the grief in the beginning the sooner it is got\nover.\"\n\nA question not to be decided this side of the grave if the whole of my\ndream might not have been true so much having proved itself so.\n\n\n\n\nA MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD.\n\n\nSome years ago when I was making a tour through the Basque provinces I\nfell in with another tourist who had been wandering through them for\nsome months in the endeavour to become acquainted with the manners,\ncustoms and language of the peasantry. He was an Irishman, and had been\nseeking evidence in support of the theory that there was not only a\nclose affinity between the Basque and the early Irish or Celtic tongue,\nbut also that there were close resemblances between the life, habits,\nand customs of the Basques and the Irish who had not fallen under\nforeign influence; and he stoutly maintained that the founder of the\nFueros, and of all rights and privileges which the Basques had so long\nenjoyed, was an exiled Irish Prince, and, in support of his assertion,\nhe told me a romantic story which he had taken down from the lips of a\nBasque peasant, and which I believe is still current in some of the\nprovinces.\n\nAlthough I did not assent to his views, yet being half Spanish myself,\nI could not help feeling an interest in his researches, and I was\nattracted by the earnestness with which he pursued them. But apart from\nthis he was an exceedingly genial and pleasant companion; we soon became\nfast friends, and when at length we parted he carried away a promise\nfrom me to visit him in his home, which was situated on the south coast\nof Ireland. \"They say it was built by a Spaniard,\" he told me, \"and it\nhas something of a foreign air about it. It is not quite a palace, you\nknow,\" he added, \"but it will serve a pair of old bachelors like you and\nme.\" And so it came to pass that I found myself one midsummer night\nabout twenty years ago at Rochestown House, some distance inland from\nthe head of a beautiful little bay not many miles from the town of\nKinsale.\n\nAlthough I had lived in England for many years I had never been to\nIreland before, and, I confess I had allowed myself to be misled into\nthe belief that it was in a disturbed state, and so was agreeably\nsurprised to learn from my friend O'Driscoll, that the country was 'as\npeaceful as a duck in a pond,' as he put it, and that there was nothing\nmore dangerous to a bachelor like myself than the eyes of the girls,\nwhich he insisted were even brighter than those of Spain--a heresy which\nI felt bound to challenge.\n\nI shall not waste time by a lengthened description of Rochestown House,\nfor, in sooth, it did not call for one. It was a long, irregular\nbuilding. The rooms were fairly large and well lit. The only occupants\nof the house were my friend and three or four servants, and it was but\nplainly furnished. The room which had been allocated to me had just what\nwas requisite in it, save for a few charming pictures which O'Driscoll\nhad brought back with him from Spain, and which were pleasant reminders\nof that romantic land; and a very beautiful inlaid card table, which\nseemed out of place in the company of the plainer furniture. A few rugs\ndisposed here and there, emphasised rather than hid the bareness of\nthe floor; but the room was, nevertheless, very cheerful, and from the\nwindow there were delightful views of land and sea. Yet it was in this\nroom that looked so cheerful on a lovely summer's evening, I was to\nundergo the most thrilling experience of my life.\n\nAfter dinner O'Driscoll and I strolled towards the sea. The night was\nfine though sultry, and as we returned to the house about eleven o'clock\nthe appearance of the heavens heralded the approach of a thunderstorm.\nWe had so many things to talk about that it was long after midnight\nbefore I retired to my room.\n\nI felt no inclination to sleep, owing, perhaps, to the sultriness of the\nair, and I dropped into an armchair close to the fireplace, and from\nthis position I commanded a full view of the room. I lit a cigar, and\nthen, lifting up a small handbag which was within reach, opened it to\nget a book which I had been reading--it was one of Exaguoriaz's plays. A\nlittle ivory-handled revolver lay on top of it, which I had been induced\nto bring over with me owing to the rumours of the disturbed condition of\nthe country. I smiled as I looked at it, for it seemed likely to be of\nlittle use if I were attacked by any of the stalwart fellows whom I had\nseen when strolling with O'Driscoll down through the village on our way\nto the sea. I laid it on the table beside me, and, lying back in the\narmchair, was soon immersed in the play; after a little while a strange\nfeeling crept over me. I shook myself, as if by so doing I could free\nmyself from it, and, dropping the book, looked round the room. It was\nfully lighted by a lamp. I could see into every corner. Lying back in\nthe chair once more I puffed away at my cigar, and watched, after the\nfashion of smokers, the blue-white wreaths slowly circling upwards to\nthe ceiling.\n\nNot more than half a dozen had floated up when I heard a noise of\nscratching inside the wainscot. \"It is a rat,\" I thought, and my eyes,\nresting on the lower part of the wainscot directly in front of me, saw\npeering from a small hole which I had not hitherto observed, the blazing\neyes, of what seemed to me a small rat. A little startled, and I fear a\nlittle frightened, I caught up the volume which I had been reading, and\nflung it in the direction of the intruder. The eyes disappeared, and I\nheard a scurrying away inside the wainscot; and then only did I feel\ninclined to laugh at myself for allowing such a trifling incident to\nmake any impression on me.\n\nI was about to leave the chair to pick up the book when a flash of\nlightning, which came in through the slits in the shutter, almost took\nmy sight away, and a peal of thunder followed sounding at first remote,\nbut coming with every discharge nearer and nearer, until it seemed to\npour forth its full power directly over the house. Then, as if its force\nwere spent, it passed with a faint rumbling and muttering, and finally\ndied away. I expected to hear the rain falling, but none fell, and the\nroom had become so sultry that I decided to open the window, in the hope\nof an inrush of cooler air.\n\nJust as I had placed my hand on the bar that fastened the shutter, I\nthought I heard a long, deep-drawn sigh. I turned and looked about, but\nsaw nothing, and I felt vexed with myself for allowing my imagination\nto play tricks with me. Again I heard the sigh, and I must confess\nsomething like a creepy feeling came over me. I retired from the window\nwithout opening it, went back to my chair, and taking up my revolver\nsat in such a position as to be able to keep the whole room under\nobservation; but I saw nothing, and except the ticking of the clock and\nthe chiming of the quarters, heard nothing.\n\nAt length it struck two. Again I saw the eyes peering at me from the\ncorner opposite to that from which I had dislodged them, at the far end\nof the wall. Instinctively I pointed the revolver at them, and would, I\nbelieve, have fired but that a low thrill of laughter fell upon my ear.\n\nI started as if I had been hit. Seated at the little card table of which\nI have spoken was a woman, beautifully dressed, whose face was concealed\nby a large fan. Her elbow rested on the table, and her arm, bare to\nshoulder from wrist, was circled by a bracelet of emeralds and diamonds.\nA ring was on one of her fingers. It was an opal set in brilliants. I\ncould see a coil of hair above the fan which the lady flirted lightly,\nand evidently her head was bent the better to conceal her face.\n\nI took all this in at a glance, and for a second was spell-bound. I\ndropped my hand and the revolver fell from it to the floor. Then her\nhead was swiftly raised, there was the gleam of a white forehead--a\nflash of wondrous eyes, such eyes as I have never seen, such as I\nknow I shall never see in this life again. Their lustre was simply\nindescribable, and they possessed a mysterious attraction that seemed to\ndraw my soul through breathless lips. I was divided between desire and\nundefinable fear. Perhaps it was owing to this conflict of emotions that\nmy senses became confused. I had no doubt but that I was still sitting\nin the chair gazing at the bewitching apparition, and yet it seemed as\nif I were looking at myself or my double advancing over the floor, and\nfinally kneeling at the feet of the lady. But the advancing figure,\nlike me in every other respect, was attired as a Spanish gallant of the\nsixteenth century, and then the recollection flashed on me that I had\nappeared in a somewhat similar costume at a fancy dress ball a year or\ntwo before, and I found myself engaged in that curious yet familiar\nmental struggle of one who, escaping from a dream, questions himself as\nto whether he be dreaming.\n\nSuddenly a lightning flash, more vivid than any that had preceded it,\nwas followed by a roll of thunder almost deafening. I could no longer\ndoubt but that I was awake. The lightning had so dazzled me that for\na second I no longer saw anything, but as the last faint echo of the\nthunder died away I saw myself or my other self kneeling at the feet of\nthe lady.\n\nI made an effort to cry out, but I was like one in a nightmare; my voice\nrefused to utter any cry, and then in accents that seemed to melt into\nmy soul I heard the words:\n\n\"Then you have come at last, life of my soul?\"\n\n\"Did you doubt it, dearest of the dear?\"\n\nBoth sentences were spoken in Spanish. Suddenly, like an inspiration, I\nremembered the portrait of the young cavalier which bore, it was said, a\nstriking resemblance to me, and whose costume I had copied for the fancy\ndress ball. It had belonged to my mother's family, and there was a vague\ntradition that the young fellow had accompanied Don Juan D'Aguila on a\nSpanish expedition to Ireland in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and had\nfallen in that country. It was he, then, whom I had mistaken for myself.\n\nAnd now he was bending over the white hand, and he kissed it again and\nagain. I had recovered from my first shock, and so lifelike was it all\nthat I became embarrassed when the wondrous eyes of the beautiful woman\nfor a second rested on mine. I rose from the chair, feeling like an\nintruder, but before I could move a step, swift as light a sword-blade\ndescended on the youth's neck. The severed head fell with a thud upon\nthe floor. An ear-piercing scream, which has never since left my memory\nfollowed. Once more the lightning's radiance blinded me, and, after a\ndeep-mouthed roar, the rage of the thunderstorm again seemed to spend\nitself above the house, that trembled as if it had been stricken.\n\nIn a half-defiant mood I rushed to the shutters and flung them open. The\ngrey light of the morning had already come, and faint streaks of gold\nwere shining in the east. I turned from the window and looked for the\nmurdered man and the lady of the wondrous eyes--I was the sole occupant\nof the room!\n\nA loud, swift, 'Rap! rap! rap!' at the door, and a cry of \"Open, for\nGod's sake!\" brought me to it. I undid the bolt, and O'Driscoll tumbled\nin pale as a ghost.\n\n\"What was it?\" he gasped--\"that awful scream? It came from here.\"\n\nI knew not what to answer, and said aimlessly:--\"There is no one here\nsave myself.\"\n\nO'Driscoll opened the window, and the cool fragrant air calmed both him\nand me. \"I was dreaming, I suppose,\" he said, \"but you have not been to\nbed!\" He had not until then perceived that I was fully dressed.\n\n\"Oh, I remained up reading,\" I replied.\n\n\"And did you hear nothing?\" he asked.\n\n\"The thunder, of course,\" I answered lightly, but I suppose there must\nhave been something in my manner that betrayed me, for my eye had just\nfallen on a faded brown stain close to the card table and flowing away\nfrom it--first a blotch and then three or four trickles--which I knew to\nbe blood stains.\n\nO'Driscoll advanced towards me, put his hand on my shoulder, and looking\ninto my eyes asked earnestly, \"Did you hear the scream?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"And did you see anything?--I know you did.\"\n\nThere was no longer any reason for hesitating to avow that I had seen\nsomething. \"Sit down,\" I said. He dropped into an armchair. I sat on the\nside of the bed and told him of my vision as I have set it down here. He\nlistened without comment until the end, and then he said: \"So it's true,\nafter all.\"\n\n\"What?\" I asked.\n\nHis story was brief. Some years previous he was in the garden giving\ndirections to an old gardener who had known the place all his life, and\nwhen he came to a certain corner, \"That,\" said the gardener, to\nO'Driscoll, \"is where they found the skeletons years agone.\"\n\n\"What skeletons?\" asked O'Driscoll.\n\n\"There was a man whose head had been cut off, for 'twas lying beside his\nribs, and there were three fingers that they said were lady's fingers,\nfor on one of them was a gold ring with a jewel in it, and people used\nto say,\" the gardener added, \"that sometimes on a wild stormy night,\nwhen there was thunder, that the ghosts of a gentleman and a lady used\nto be seen about the house, but he himself had never seen them, nor had\nhe known anyone who had seen them.\"\n\nMy friend not unreasonably concluded that the story of that apparition\nwas an invention subsequent to the discovery of the skeletons, and had\ngiven no credence to it. Since he had become tenant of the house there\nhad been many nights of thunderstorm as fierce as, if not fiercer than,\nthat which had just passed, but he had never seen anything and never\nheard anything until he heard the piercing scream that had brought him\nto my door.\n\nWe talked long over the matter then and many times afterwards, and could\nfind no solution of the mystery; but I could not help asking myself, as\nI do now, if the apparition were not in the nature of a message from the\ndead to tell the true story of the fate of my kinsman whom in appearance\nI so much resembled, and who, we had believed, had fallen in the Spanish\nexpedition to Ireland, three hundred years before.\n\n\n\n\nA VISION OF THE NIGHT.\n\n\nOne wild, stormy night over twenty years ago I entered a second-class\nsmoking carriage in the last train from Dublin to Bray. So wild was the\nnight that it was with great difficulty my cab horse had been able to\ndrag along his rumbling vehicle through the streets swept clear of\npedestrians by the blinding sheets of rain. The station was, except for\none or two porters, completely deserted. I arrived just as the train,\nwhich was almost empty, was about to start, and I entered a carriage\nwith two compartments, in neither of which was there any other\npassenger. All the windows were closed, and for the few seconds before\nthe train started I enjoyed the luxury of the quiet that contrasted so\npleasantly with the storm that was howling outside. But as soon as the\ntrain had moved out from the station the rain began to rattle like hail\nagainst the windows, and I could hear the wind strike the carriages, and\nthe oil lamps in the roof flash and flicker, so that I expected them\nevery moment to go out. I was muffled up to the throat, and was solacing\nmyself with a cigar and the thought of the bright fire that I knew would\ngreet me on arriving at my destination, and helped to raise my feelings.\nI was staying at Bray in the house of my sister, who, however, was with\nher husband in Scotland, and would not return for some days, and the\nonly other occupant of the house besides myself was an old woman who\nacted as housekeeper for me. She would have gone to bed long before my\narrival, but I knew from experience that she would take care to leave\nfor me in the parlour a cheery fire and a comfortable supper.\n\nI took no note of the stations at which we stopped, and it is only a\nconjecture on my part that it was at a station about half way between\nDublin and Bray that an old gentleman entered the compartment in which I\nwas. As he came in, a cold blast of air swept into the carriage, and\nmade little whirlpools of the sawdust that had been spread on the floor.\nI shivered as the icy blast caught me, but I was almost ashamed of my\nweakness, well-clad as I was, when I looked at the old gentleman who sat\nopposite me. He was thinly clad in an ill-fitting coat; his face was wan\nand haggard; his slouched hat was shining with wet; and the rain was\nstreaming from his white beard that descended to his breast. He took off\nhis hat and shook and squeezed it. I then noticed that his white hair\nwas scant. His brow was furrowed by many wrinkles. His eyebrows were\nwhite and bushy. His eyes were light blue, the lightest, I think, I had\never seen, and they were very mild--mild almost to sadness. I made some\nremark upon the weather. My fellow traveller answered in a weak, thin\nvoice that it 'was cold, very cold, and cut to the bone like a knife.'\nI felt somehow that the old gentleman was poor and miserable. Indeed,\nhe shivered visibly several times. He did not appear in a mood for\nconversation, and I continued to smoke in silence till we reached Bray.\nHere the porters opened the door, and I stepped out. I gave my hand to\nthe old gentleman and helped him to alight, for which he thanked me in a\nmild voice. The station, as that of Dublin had been, was deserted but\nfor the porters. The old gentleman and myself were the only passengers.\nI went down to the van to get some heavy luggage and give it in charge\nof the porters as there was no chance of getting it brought to my house\nthat night. When I had seen to this I left the station. I saw no sign of\nmy fellow-traveller and supposed he had gone his way. I could not help\nthinking of him as I pursued mine, and I was irritating myself with the\nquestion whether he might not have been in need of some help which I\ncould have given him. But I ceased to think of him and his needs when I\nreached the esplanade.\n\nThe storm was sweeping the spray from the roaring waves right up against\nthe faces of the houses, and the night was so intensely dark and most of\nthe lamps having been blown out, it was with difficulty I kept the path.\nMy house was half way between the railway station and Bray Head. A few\nsteps led up to the door. The fierce wind almost carried me up the\nsteps, and when by means of my latch-key I opened the door it swept\ninwards with a bang against the wall, and the pictures hanging in the\nhall were lifted up and fell back with a succession of slaps loud as\npistol shots. With the utmost difficulty I pressed back the door. I was\nso cold and drenched with the rain and spray that I did not wait to lock\nit, but closed it securely. Flinging off my overcoat I hurried into\nthe parlour where a light was burning and a bright fire blazing. I was\nshivering from head to foot. Having taken off my boots that were damp, I\nflung myself into the armchair in front of the fire.\n\nThe influence of the fire quickly asserted itself, and a feeling of\npleasant languor crept over me, although the wind that buffeted the\nwindows and made them rattle moaned like a soul in pain. Soon the sound\nseemed to grow fainter and fainter, and I felt the lids closing on my\neyes, and was half conscious that sleep was gently dulling my senses,\nwhen suddenly a cold blast of air chilled the room, and the loud booming\nof the sea sounded almost at my ear. I jumped up and turned towards\nthe parlour door. It was open, and on the threshold stood my fellow\ntraveller. Although I was wide awake I looked upon him as if he were a\nspectre, and I found it impossible to utter a word. His hat was in his\nhand, and his white hair fell over his face, and from his long beard the\nrain was dripping. He advanced towards me timidly, and, bowing low,\nsaid--\n\n\"I hope you will forgive me, sir. I am a stranger here, and I know not\nwhere to seek a bed to-night. I followed you aimlessly, but when you\ncame up the steps and entered your house, and I found myself alone with\nthe sea and the wind and the night, I knew not what to do. I felt the\nneed of being near some human being, and I crept up to your door,\nintending to pass the night against it, the other houses were all\nso cold and dark. I was standing for a few minutes when a flash of\nlightning showed me the latch-key which you had forgotten to remove. An\nimpulse, impossible to resist, overcame me. I opened the door as softly\nas I could, taking advantage of a lull in the storm, and entered the\nhall. I would have remained there, but the light that shone from your\nroom tempted me, and I pushed open the door. It was wrong, I know; but I\nam old and lonely and somewhat fearsome, and you'll forgive me.\"\n\nI recovered my composure as the old man was speaking, and there was so\ndeep a pathos in his voice, and he swayed so as he spoke, that a feeling\nof compassion took possession of me, to the exclusion of all other\nfeelings. I forgot completely the strangeness of the situation, and\ntaking the old man by the hand I led him to the chair which I had just\noccupied, and placed before him the decanter. It seemed to me that a\nstrange glitter troubled the soft blue eyes. He poured out a tumblerful\nand drained it in a breath. Taking another chair I sat at the side of\nthe fire, lit a cigar, and handed one to my companion. Smoking, as every\nlover of the weed knows, is conducive to silence, and my mind soon\nbecame lazily occupied in watching the smoke-wreath from my cigar mingle\nwith that of my companion. He spoke not, and after a while I noticed\nthat he had ceased to smoke, and that the cigar was going out, as\nhis right hand, in the fingers of which he was holding it, remained\nmotionless on his knee. His head had dropped on his breast, and his\nheavy breathing satisfied me that he was asleep.\n\nI began to feel as if I were in a dream that was not all a dream. I was\nconscious of the blue smoke rising from my cigar. It floated away from\nme like a mist. After a while the mist cleared, and I thought I saw a\nstream slowly gliding through woodland ways, and I followed it till it\npassed by the foot of a noble ash tree, that bent down and spread its\nlower branches half across it. And beneath the ash and against its trunk\nI saw a youth and a maiden sitting side by side. She held his hand in\nhers. His lips were moving, and he was whispering something that filled\nher eyes with a light as of summer stars. Her little mouth opened like a\nrosebud yielding to the sun, as if to answer him, when suddenly a deeper\nshadow than that cast by the bending branches of the ash fell upon the\nlovers. The youth was dragged to the ground, and as the maiden shrieked,\na knife was driven into his throat by a man whose face I could not see.\nI strove to cry out, but my voice failed me. I struggled as if a great\nweight were pressing me down. At last I shook myself free with the wild\nscream ringing in my ears. I looked around. My companion was sitting in\nhis chair, apparently in deep sleep. The half consumed cigar had dropped\nfrom his hands. I felt so shaken by what I had seen, or dreamed, that I\nwas about to awaken him when a new horror took away my powers of action.\nSitting on the ground close to my companion and with his head resting\nupon the old man's knees, was the figure of the murdered youth whom I\nhad seen slain beneath the ash tree. His eyes were open and staring, his\nface was wan and white. In his throat was a jagged gash, and around the\nedges were seams of clotted blood. His fingers were slashed and bloody,\nas if he had struggled hard with his murderer. I looked from the dead\nman to the sleeper. He was breathing lightly, and a smile like that of a\nchild parted his lips. But as I continued to look at him I noticed that\nthey began to twitch convulsively, then his whole frame shook as if a\nfierce tempest of passion were raging in his heart. He started from his\nchair--the dead man fell upon the floor. I rushed instinctively, and yet\nwith a horrible dread, to lift him up, but as I was stretching out my\nhands for that purpose I felt myself gripped by the throat by the skinny\nhands of the old man. His eyes that I had thought so mild had a hard\nglitter in them, and his haggard face was convulsed with passion. It\ncost me a great effort, although I was young and strong, to loose his\ngrip, but at length I flung him back on his chair. He sat for a second\nlike one dazed. Then he raised his hands in supplication, and the tears\nstole from his eyes, that were again as mild looking as when I first saw\nthem.\n\n\"I was dreaming. I--I thought--I thought--but that was long ago, and\nyou'll forgive me.\"\n\nI didn't quite know how to answer him, I was not sure that I had not\nbeen, was not dreaming myself. The dead youth was, of course, only a\nghastly vision, and, perhaps, the old man's hands had been already on my\nthroat when I fancied I saw the deed of murder under the ash tree. It\nseemed to me useless to seek any explanation from my unbidden guest, who\nbegan to appear to me uncanny.\n\n\"I'll go, I'll go,\" he said as I kept looking towards him, \"the morning\nwill soon be here now. I am not afraid of the morning, only of the\nnight--the black night, for then it all comes back to me, and I see them\nas I saw them on that evening so long ago. Hundreds of years ago, I\nthink, since they and I were young. And now I am old, so old.\"\n\n\"Who are they? When was it?\" I asked, scarcely indeed, expecting any\nserious answer, but it seemed to me as if I kept the unhappy man at\narm's length by talking to him. I felt I could crush him with a blow,\nbut I suppose it was owing to the shock which I had undergone in the\nhideous dream from which his attack had roused me that made me afraid\nof him, for afraid I was.\n\nI had thought that at farthest only a few hours had passed since I\nentered the parlour, but the stranger was nearer the truth. The morning\nwas almost at hand. Through the chinks of the shutters a grey light\nbegan to show itself. I flung them back, pulled up the blind, and could\nsee the sea still raging, but the wind had died away, and in the east\nthere was a faint rose-coloured streak.\n\nWhen I turned back the old gentleman was pouring himself out a glass of\nwhisky. His hand trembled as he lifted it to his lips. When he had set\ndown the tumbler, having drained it, he said:\n\n\"The morning has come. You are very good, I go. I was wrong; but I knew\nnot what I was doing, and I have suffered.\"\n\nI no longer feared him. As the light of the morning increased I saw\nonly the haggard, worn old man, whose face was itself a witness of long\nsuffering, and I felt a great pity for him. There was some bread and\nbutter and cold meat on the sideboard, which had been left there by the\nhousekeeper the night before. I pointed to it. He said he would take a\nlittle bread. I pressed him to eat some meat, but he refused. Then, as\nhe turned to leave the room, I put my hand in my pocket and produced\nsome silver. A faint flush stole into his wasted face, and I saw I had\noffended him. I apologised. He thanked me for my kindness in offering\nit to him, and also for my hospitality, and begged me to forgive him for\nhis intrusion and the trouble he had caused. With a low bow he left the\nroom. I followed, but he had opened the hall door himself and passed out\non to the esplanade without looking back.\n\nI returned to the parlour, and flinging myself into the chair began\nto recall the events of the night, and had been for some time vainly\nspeculating on them when I was disturbed by the housekeeper entering the\nroom to make arrangements for breakfast.\n\nShe saw at a glance that I had not been to bed. I did not like to\ncommunicate my experience to her, but the day following I saw in the\ndaily papers the account of the escape of a lunatic from the Dundrum\nCriminal Lunatic Asylum. The description, save as to the clothes,\ntallied with that of the old man. There was a further announcement\nstating that he had been found wandering in the direction of Enniskerry,\nand had been brought back to the asylum.\n\nIt so happened that I knew one of the physicians that attended the\nDundrum Institution, and when I met him a few days after, without giving\nhim any hint of my acquaintance with the object of my inquiry, asked him\nwhat he knew concerning the old man, and suggested that my curiosity had\nbeen aroused solely by the account of the escape which appeared in the\nnewspapers.\n\n\"It is a very sad story,\" he said. \"The old man has been confined for\nover forty years for a terrible crime committed when he was a young man\nof about five-and-twenty. He was enamoured of a lady, whose love he\nbelieved he had secured. She had accepted him, and they were to have\nbeen married in a few months. Rumours were brought to him that the lady\nwas listening to the whispers of another suitor. He soon discovered that\nthe rumours were well founded. The fiercest jealousy completely took\npossession of him, and undoubtedly deprived him of his senses, he one\nday surprised the pair, sitting together beneath a tree on the banks of\na stream not far from the lady's house, beside which he and she had\noften wandered before their vows were plighted. Stung to ungovernable\nrage by this sight, he killed the young man, gashing his throat with\na knife in the most shocking manner. The lady was unharmed; but the\ntragedy took away her reason, and she died within a few months of the\ndreadful occurrence. The murderer made no attempt to deny his crime; on\nthe contrary, he talked about it freely to anyone who would listen. He\nwas tried, and, of course, convicted; but the Lord Lieutenant, being\nsatisfied that the wretched man was insane, commuted his sentence, and\nit was ordered that he should be kept in confinement during Her\nMajesty's pleasure. As a rule he is very gentle, but sometimes--and\nalways at night--he becomes very violent, and the attendants have to be\non their guard against him.\"\n\n\"It is, indeed,\" said I, \"a sad story.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRETTY QUAKERESS.\n\n\nI was just about twenty years of age. I had entered Trinity three years\nbefore, and had fallen in with a Roystering set. In those days the\nfights between the college lads and the townsfolk were more frequent and\nfurious than they have been of recent years, and I took my share of the\ncuts and bruises that were almost always the portion of the combatants\non either side. On one occasion when we had a pretty stiff battle with\nthe butcher boys from around St. Patrick's, I was felled by a blow. In\nthe crush I was unable to rise, and would have been in a fair way of\nbeing trampled out of existence but for the gallant exertions of one of\nmy companions, Jack Langrishe. He fought like a devil, and, knocking\nover his nearest foes, cleared a space which enabled me to get up.\n\nJack, in trying to save me, got an ugly cut on his left arm, which cost\nhim some trouble. The butchers were put to flight, and Jack carried off\nas a trophy a villainous looking knife which he had captured from one of\nhis assailants. Intimate as we had been before, the service which he had\nrendered to me made us just sworn friends for life, and I felt bound to\ndo him any service it was in my power to render him.\n\nIt was not long, however, until Jack's outrageous conduct brought him\ninto collision with the college authorities. Having gone near blowing up\none of the college porters, by slipping in the most playful manner, a\nsmall bag of powder into his coat pocket, Jack was sent down to the\ncountry, and I missed his companionship for several months; but, indeed,\nI had pretty well forgotten him when just about the 1st of December,\n1759, I received a letter from him, saying that he was running up to\ntown for a few days, and that he would put up at the \"Robin Hood\" in\nDame-street, and would be glad if I could call on him there on the\nevening of the 1st of December, and dine and make a night of it. He told\nme to be sure to ask for Mr. Sugrue. Jack gave me no hint as to why he\nhad adopted another's name; but this did not surprise me very much. I\nsuspected he was up to one of his old tricks.\n\nWhen the evening of the 1st of December arrived I left my rooms in\ncollege and walked leisurely across Dame Street, stopping for a few\nminutes at King William's Statue to watch a match of fisticuffs between\na chairman and a driver of a hackney coach, in which the chairy got the\nbest of it.\n\nI reached the \"Robin Hood\" just in time to witness the arrival of\nthe coach from Kilkenny, which should have brought Jack. I saw the\npassengers descend from the coach; but although I scanned their faces as\nclosely as the light of the lanterns and that coming from the windows\nand open door of the tavern allowed, I could see no trace of Jack. \"He\nmust have missed the coach,\" said I to myself, and I went on up towards\nthe top of the street. Then it occurred to me that as he was coming\nunder an assumed name he might have taken some other mode of conveyance,\nas he would be well known to the guard and the driver of the coach, so I\nretraced my steps, and entering the tavern inquired for Mr. Sugrue.\n\n\"He's just come, sir,\" said the waiter.\n\n\"How did he come?\" I asked carelessly.\n\n\"By the Kilkenny coach.\"\n\n\"Curious I did not notice him,\" thought I.\n\n\"Yes, sir; he's in No. 4 Room, sir, first floor to your right, and will\nbe happy to see you, if you're the gentleman that was to call for him,\nsir.\"\n\nI knocked at the door of No. 4.\n\n\"Come in,\" said a gruff voice, very unlike Jack's.\n\nI pushed open the door and entered, and found myself in the presence of\nan old man wearing spectacles, and having a curious resemblance to one\nof the Deans of Trinity.\n\n\"What the devil is up with you, Langrishe?\"\n\n\"Sugrue, Tom, if you love me,\" said Jack in his natural voice.\n\n\"And what is it all about, Jack?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, I'm as ravenous as a hawk, and mind, there's not to be\na word about business till we're in the middle of the third bottle. The\nport here is first rate. But my mind is never equal to business until I\nhave fairly moistened my palate.\"\n\nJack had secured a private room, and it was evident that he had ordered\nthe dinner beforehand, for it left nothing to be desired.\n\nI felt there was no use in pressing him for any explanation until the\ntime arrived when he would be willing to give it, but I could not help\nlooking curiously now and then at his remarkable get up.\n\n\"I knew 'twould surprise you, Tom,\" said Jack, evidently delighted.\n\n\"It has, I must confess,\" said I.\n\nJack gave me little opportunity of questioning him, as he insisted on my\ngiving him full information of all that had happened in college during\nhis enforced absence. Of course, I was nothing loth to tell him, having\na lad's delight in narrating the various pranks and scrapes in which I\nhad taken part, and I rather think we had got well into the fifth bottle\nwhen he said unexpectedly;\n\n\"Tom, my boy, I'm ready now.\"\n\n\"Who is she, Jack?\"\n\n\"You are out, Tom,\" said Jack, severely.\n\n\"So is that medallion portrait, Jack, which has just escaped from your\nclerical coat.\"\n\nJack caught up the medallion, and looking at it fondly, rose to his not\nover steady feet.\n\n\"Tom,\" he said, \"fill!\"\n\nI filled.\n\n\"Here's to the flower of all maidens for beauty; the incomparable! the\ndivine! Dorothy Jacob. Dorothy of my soul and heart.\"\n\n\"She's a Quaker, then,\" said I.\n\n\"She's a goddess, sir.\"\n\nAnd when we had drunk her health as often as there were letters in her\nname, which proceeding was the result of what Jack called \"a sweet\nsuggestion of his own,\" I gathered from him, not without some effort,\nthe following particulars regarding the lady and how he became\nacquainted with her. I do not, of course, attempt to give them in Jack's\nown words, for he was frequently breaking out into exclamations about\nher beauty, and as frequently insisting on my once more drinking her\nhealth.\n\nDorothy's father was a merchant of Kilkenny. She was his only child. Her\nmother had died young, and she was left in the care of a maiden aunt,\nwho had died a few years previous to Jack's first meeting with the young\nlady.\n\nThe father was a very wealthy merchant, whose riches were partly\ninherited and partly acquired. He was desperately fond of his money, but\nstill fonder of his daughter. He knew that he was growing old and always\ndreaded the day when she might leave him for another. He had kept her\nvery much to himself and allowed her to see very little company.\n\nShe was very beautiful, so beautiful, as I afterwards discovered, as to\nfully justify Jack's panegyric. And many an amorous eye was cast upon\nher as she passed with her father through the streets on her way to\nchurch or market, for he seldom allowed her to go out alone. But the\nmaiden never returned a glance, and did not seem to know how many hearts\nshe was setting on fire.\n\nJack Langrishe lived with his uncle a few miles outside the town of\nKilkenny, and was a frequent visitor to the town, and to the club which\nwas the resort of all the young bloods and bucks of the day.\n\nHe had heard from them of the pretty Quakeress, had seen her several\ntimes, and since he had been sent down from college had fallen over head\nand ears in love with her.\n\nOver and over he had heard the bucks suggesting that she should be\ncarried off. But Jack always indignantly denounced any suggestion of the\nkind, and with such heat that he had in consequence to cross swords with\none or two of his club associates, and with such effect that he came to\nbe regarded as too formidable an antagonist to be trifled with.\n\nAbductions were common enough then, to be sure, although the Government\nmade strong efforts to put them down, and for that reason, there was, in\nthe opinion of most of the young bloods, an added argument in favour of\nthem. But Jack Langrishe had an argument of his own. It was, \"That a\nwoman that was worth winning could be won, and that the man who could\nnot win her was unworthy of her,\" and he used to add, \"that any yokel\nwith sufficient force at his back might effect an abduction, but that a\ngentleman unaided should be able to capture a woman's heart.\"\n\nWhereupon his companions concluded that Jack Langrishe was very much in\nlove with the pretty Quakeress, and was a fool for his pains.\n\nJack knew he was in love, and was not quite sure that he was not a fool,\nfor he had watched the comings and goings of the lady, and although he\nthrew himself in the way as much as possible he had never obtained the\nslightest glance of recognition.\n\nBut fortune, which always favours the brave, sometimes favours the\nfaithful.\n\nOn a certain fair day in Kilkenny old Jacob and his daughter were coming\ndown the street towards their house, and Jack Langrishe by a fortunate\naccident, was coming in the opposite direction, when suddenly, up\nthrough a by-street almost in line with the place at which father and\ndaughter had arrived, a spirited young horse, which had broken away from\nits groom, came galloping madly and was almost down on the old man when\nJack threw himself between. The old man staggered back into the arms of\nhis daughter and Jack fell under the horse's hoofs.\n\nSome onlookers rushed to his assistance and picked up Jack, apparently\nhelpless, and he uttered a groan which would stir a heart of iron. The\nrascal all the time was no more hurt than you or I, but he caught a\nglimpse of the pale, questioning face of the maiden, and he thought he\nhad discovered a way to her heart.\n\nThe old man, having recovered from his fright, could not refuse to thank\nhis deliverer, although he was eager to get away from the crowd that was\npressing around him and his fair charge.\n\n\"Oh, he's murdered, sir--he's murdered, Mr. Jacob,\" said one of the\ncrowd.\n\n\"Don't you think we ought to bring him home, father?\" whispered Dorothy\nin the old man's ear.\n\nThe whispered suggestion brought the old man to himself as if a cold\nshower bath had unexpectedly fallen upon him.\n\n\"No, child; prithee, heed me. The young man must have friends. See, they\nknow who he is.\"\n\nThe last remark was justified by an observation from one of the persons\nwho were lifting up Jack, and who said:\n\n\"He's young Mr. Langrishe, of the Grange.\"\n\n\"Let's take him to the club.\"\n\n\"We better take him to the doctor's,\" said another; and to the\ndoctor's--which, fortunately, was close at hand, otherwise Jack, as the\nrogue afterwards confessed to me, would not have been able to stand it\nany longer--he was brought.\n\nHis kind, but somewhat rough, aiders and sympathisers came very much\nnearer by their excited efforts to carry him through the crowd, which\nwas pressing on them with all kinds of inquiries, doing him a greater\nharm than they imagined the runaway colt had done him. The doctor,\nwho was the apothecary of the town, felt all Jack's limbs, while that\ngentleman groaned as if every bone in his body was broken. But the\nastute disciple of \u00c6sculapius having shaken his head, solemnly declared\nthat he was very badly bruised, and that there might be possibly some\ninternal complications.\n\nHe gave Jack a restorative which worked wonders. It caused him not only\nto regain his full consciousness, but had almost the effect of making\nhim use some very vigorous language, but as he felt this would have been\nout of character, he discreetly checked himself.\n\nHe was taken to the hotel, the Ormond Arms, where he spent that night\nand the next day and night, and then allowed himself to be taken home to\nhis uncle's at the Grange.\n\nOld William Jacob called several times at the hotel, and was profuse in\nhis thanks to the preserver of his life, and also conveyed the thanks of\nhis daughter. Mistress Dorothy. Jack had lingered, hoping that the old\ngentleman would bring the damsel to see him, but finding his hopes were\nvain, he became well enough to be removed.\n\nAfter lying up at home for a week or more, Jack returned into the town,\nand by well contrived \"accident\" he met the pretty Quakeress as she was\nwalking alone. As he approached he affected not to see her, and wore the\nwoe-begone expression of an invalid. He kept looking up towards the sky\nin an apparently aimless sort of a way, until he came within a few feet\nof her. Then he suddenly dropped his eyes, and found, as he expected,\nthat she was looking at his face.\n\nShe flushed all over as she saw that she was detected. Jack endeavoured\nto pretend that he was quite surprised at seeing her, and walking as if\nhe would pass on, when he was just in front of her he lifted his hat,\nand was about to address her when her father appeared unexpectedly\nbeside her, but fortunately Jack was able to convert the salute which he\nintended for the lady into a courteous recognition of the old gentleman,\nwhile with a covert glance he was able to convey to her that she was\nincluded in it.\n\n\"How dost thou do, friend?\" said the old gentleman, \"I am very pleased\nto see thee able to be about again.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir, you are very kind,\" said Jack, \"I was about to call on\nyou to inquire if you had completely recovered from the shock.\"\n\nThey had moved along as they were talking, and the merchant's warehouse\nwas close at hand. He felt that he couldn't well refuse to ask Jack to\ncome in with him, but if he could he would have avoided doing so.\n\nHe had a hearty dread of the young bloods and bucks of the time, and he\nwould not, if possible, have allowed his precious Dorothy to make the\nacquaintance of any of them.\n\nBut then, this was an exceptional case, he said to himself. The young\nman had saved his life, and, in doing so, had met with a serious injury.\nAnd it would not have been gracious if, meeting him accidentally so\nclose to his own house, he had not asked him in.\n\nJack, quite innocent of the old gentleman's thoughts, and learning them\nonly after from the little Quakeress, gladly accepted the invitation.\n\nHe spent an hour with them that evening, and had the satisfaction of\npersuading himself that he was not quite unacceptable to the maiden.\nHe did not fail to perceive that the old gentleman found his company\nsomewhat irksome, but his motto always was, \"Make hay while the sun\nshines,\" and he saw it shining out of the maiden's eyes.\n\nWhen he had at last to leave, he did so, assuring the old gentleman that\nit would give him the greatest pleasure to call again, and spoke quite\nlike one who was yielding to an invitation.\n\nBut the old gentleman had given no invitation, and when Jack was gone\nhe warned his daughter of the danger of having any connection with\ngentlemen of Jack's stamp.\n\nIt is not necessary to go over the conversation between father and\ndaughter, which she subsequently retailed to Jack, and which he repeated\nto me. Enough to say, that Jack resolved on calling, and that the old\ngentleman finally received him with such coldness, and always alone,\nthat Jack, except for the glance of the young girl's eye through the\npartially drawn curtain of the glass door that separated the living-room\nfrom the shop and counting house, might as well have met him in the\nstreet. He saw there was little use of continuing visits of this kind.\n\nWhenever Jack entered the shop, he found the fair Dorothy, acting under\nher father's orders, escaping from it. He continued, nevertheless, to\ncorrespond with her through the aid of an old domestic, who quickly\ndiscovered the character of the relation between Jack and her young\nmistress, and whose almost withered heart had a green spot in it, in\nwhich bloomed the flower of sympathy with the passion of youthful\nlovers.\n\nBut this did not satisfy Jack. He longed for a sight of his lady love,\nwho was kept a close prisoner in the house by her father, who suspected\nJack's intentions, and saw in him a possible robber of his daughter's\naffections.\n\nAt length, after a good deal of cogitation, he hit upon the expedient\nof adopting the disguise in which I saw him. It was so perfect that his\nmost intimate friends could not penetrate it, and as he was a first rate\nmimic, he never allowed his voice to betray him, and in order to prevent\nany possibility of suspicion, he had in his own proper character set\nout for Dublin, and when a few days after, he returned disguised to\nKilkenny, it was as an antiquarian who had come down to spend some\nweeks there, in studying its ruins. He secured lodgings in the house of\nan old lady not far from the Quaker's place of business, which he found\nit necessary to visit every day to make some trivial purchase, such as\ngloves, hat bands, kerchiefs, etc.\n\nThe old Quaker, suspecting nothing, saw him come in day after day, and\nnever thought it necessary to ask Dorothy to retire. On the contrary, he\noften quitted the shop, leaving Dorothy talking to the clerical looking\nold gentleman, and she and Jack continued to have some very agreeable\ntalk together.\n\nJack had urged his suit with considerable success, but he could not\ninduce the lady to take the only step by which his hopes could be\nrealised--namely, to run away with him; for it was quite certain the\nold man would never consent to his marriage with his daughter.\n\nJack had almost begun to despair when he learned that the old gentleman\nwas about to visit Dublin, accompanied by Dorothy, for the purpose of\nattending a private, but very important, meeting of the Society of\nFriends in reference to the harsh treatment to which some members of\nthat body had been subjected by the authorities.\n\nJack also learned that they intended to put up at the \"Robin Hood,\" at\nwhich the coach from Kilkenny used to set down, and he took care to\ninform the old man that his business in Kilkenny was at an end, and that\nhe intended to set out for Dublin on the day which the Quaker had fixed\nfor his journey. The old man, still wholly unsuspicious, expressed\nhimself delighted that he and his daughter should have him as a\ncompanion on the journey to Dublin, and so it came to pass that they\nwere fellow-passengers.\n\nBut Jack, although of course, well satisfied with the opportunity of\nspending a few hours in the society of Dorothy, had not been able to\nhope for anything definite coming from it, and it was chiefly for the\npurpose of talking over the matter and getting my advice that he had\nasked me to dinner with him.\n\nI suggested carrying the girl off, and as she liked Jack I did not\nhesitate to offer my services. But Jack was adverse to this, as he was\nunwilling to do violence to the young lady's feelings. At length, after\ntalking over all kinds of expedients, Jack, tired after his journey and\nsomewhat somnolent from his potations, retired to his room, and I made\nthe best of my way back to college, and awoke next morning to find\nmyself lying in my clothes on the hearthrug, while my cap and boots and\ncane were placed in the nicest order on the quilt of my undisturbed bed.\n\nIt was four of the clock in the afternoon of the next day when I called\nagain on Jack. He was in pretty good spirits. The old man had gone out\nto attend the meeting, and Jack contrived to have an interview with\nthe maiden, who was nothing loth. But, all the same, he was unable to\nget her consent to elope with him, although the opportunity was most\nfavourable. Still she showed some signs of relenting. Anyway, she no\nlonger resented the suggestion as something wholly unnatural.\n\n\"The old man has just returned,\" said Jack to me. \"His business here is\nconcluded, and he intends to start for home to-morrow, and if she does\nnot give way before then I am afraid I'll either have to give her up or\ncarry her off.\"\n\nJack could get no other opportunity of speaking to the lady that\nevening, and so after dinner he altered his appearance so as to make\nhimself look less clerical, and we went off to Smock Alley Theatre\ntogether.\n\nThe coach was to set out for Kilkenny at two o'clock the next afternoon,\nand I had promised to call on Jack about noon. I had slept almost up to\nthat hour, when, having hurriedly dressed myself, I rushed off to keep\nmy appointment, I found the college gate closed and a number of the\nstudents clamouring to get out; but the Dean was standing with his back\nto it, flanked at either side by the college porters.\n\n\"What's up?\" said I to one of the nearest students.\n\n\"There's an insurrection in the streets. The Ormond and the Liberty Boys\nand the butchers are up, and the Viceroy is frightened out of his wits;\nand the Lord Mayor won't act and there's general ructions all over the\ncity.\"\n\nI didn't wait to hear any more. I rushed back to my room. The window\nwas two stories high, but it looked on the street.\n\nTo tie the bedclothes together was the work of a minute. I fastened one\nend of the \"rope\" to the leg of the bed, which was close to the window,\nand dropped the other over the window sill. It did not come within\nseveral feet of the ground, and under other circumstances I would have\nhesitated to descend it; but a yelling excited crowd was rushing along\nthe street, and I could hear the hoarse murmur of multitudinous voices\nfrom the direction of the Green and the quays, and, spurred by the\nexcitement, I slid down the rope, and was caught in the arms of a\nstalwart Ormond Boy.\n\nThere was, of course, no love lost between the Ormond Boys and the\nstudents; but my rescuer having deposited me on the ground, pushed\nahead, and I heard him joining in the cry that was rising from a\nthousand throats: \"To the Parliament House! To the Parliament! To hell\nwith Rigby! Down with the English!\"\n\nI was almost carried off my feet by the rush of the crowd into College\nGreen. Here all further progress was arrested. The Green was packed,\nand the crowd surged up the steps against the doors of the Houses\nof Parliament. Hackney coaches and chairs were overturned in all\ndirections; but right in front of the entrance to the House of Commons\nwas the Kilkenny Coach, by which Jack Langrishe's friends were to\ntravel.\n\nI pushed my way by the most strenuous efforts up towards this, and just\ngot beside it to find Jack minus his wig and clerical coat which had\nbeen torn into ribbons, handing out Mistress Dorothy Jacob and her\ntrembling father.\n\n\"A chair! a chair for the lady!\" cried out half a dozen of the\ncrowd; but the cry was in vain. The chairs were, as I have said, all\noverturned, and even if this had not been so, a new excitement had\narisen which had diverted the attention of the crowd from the lady and\nturned it on her father. The old gentleman had the misfortune to bear a\nstriking resemblance to the then member for Maryborough, who was a thick\nand thin supporter of the Government, and was believed to be in favour\nof merging the Irish in the English Parliament.\n\nRigby, who was the Viceroy's secretary, had given notice of a motion in\nfavour of empowering the Lord Lieutenant to call Parliament together\nin certain emergencies without the usual notice, and the people got it\ninto their heads that this was a clever attempt to pass an Act of Union\nwithout giving them an opportunity of expressing an opinion on the\nquestion.\n\nIt was this fear that had brought them into the streets. They swarmed\nfrom every lane and alley of the Liberties, and they held possession\nnot only of the Green, but also of all the approaches to it, and some\none amongst them suggested that while they should make way for the\nmembers of Parliament who desired to enter the House that they should\nadminister an oath to every one of them that he would vote against every\nattempt to take away the Parliament.\n\nThe proposition was received with acclamation. The first M.P. who put in\nan appearance after it was adopted was Rowley. When called on to take\nthe oath he at first refused.\n\n\"Pull the wig off of him!\"\n\n\"Bring him to the Liffey. Let's wash the English taste off of him!\"\n\n\"To hell with Rigby! Down with Bedford!\" (Bedford was the Lord\nLieutenant). \"Swear him! Swear him!\"\n\nFinding expostulation useless, Rowley took the oath amid deafening\ncheers, and was allowed to pass on.\n\nIt was shortly after this incident that the Quaker and his daughter were\ntaken out of the coach. The coach should have gone down Parliament\nStreet, but the crowd which had been up at the Castle all the morning,\nturned back to the Green on the news that the M.P.s were assembling, and\nliterally bore it on with them.\n\nWhen the likeness between the Quaker and the member for Maryborough was\ndiscovered by one of the crowd, and when his supposed name was called\nout----\n\n\"Swear him! Swear the old thief. Swear him!\" was heard on all sides.\n\nThe poor old Quaker, frightened out of his life and trembling in every\nlimb, could not make head or tail of what was going on. But when at last\none of the crowd produced a Testament, and, thrusting it into the old\nman's face, said: \"Swear, an' be damned to ye,\" he answered in a\nquavering voice: \"Friend, I do not swear!\"\n\n\"But you'll have to swear,\" answered a dozen gruff voices.\n\n\"But he won't have to swear,\" cried out Jack Langrishe, who was\nsupporting the lovely Dorothy, and at the same time endeavouring to\nafford some protection to her father.\n\n\"And who the devil are you?\" shouted out a score of voices.\n\n\"I'm an Irishman, boys, that's going to stand by a young lady and an old\nman if all Dublin stood against me.\"\n\n\"The divel doubt but ye have an Irish heart in ye.\"\n\n\"He has then.\"\n\n\"And now,\" said Jack, encouraged by these remarks, \"now listen to me. Ye\nare all mistaken. This honest gentleman isn't the man ye take him for at\nall.\"\n\n\"Will you swear that?\"\n\n\"Ay, will I.\"\n\n\"And will you say. 'To hell with Rigby and the Union?'\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said Jack. For Jack, like most of us young fellows\nin those days, thought an Irish Parliament was worth fighting and worth\ndying for.\n\n\"You are a True-blue and no mistake. Let the old gentleman go,\" came in\nchorus from the crowd.\n\nI had got up close to Jack and his fair charge. With a knowing look to\nme and a word of explanation to her, he asked me to take care of her,\nand then he put his arm inside that of the old man, who still seemed\nhalf dazed with fright. We endeavoured to make our way towards the\nrailing, and hoped to be able to slip back to the \"Robin Hood.\"\n\nBut the crowd kept surging round us, and it grew more excited every\nminute.\n\n\"Who's in the carriage? Out with him--out with him!\"\n\nThe cry was occasioned by a carriage that was endeavouring to force its\nway towards the entrance of the House.\n\nIn the press, Jack, myself, and our charges were borne towards it.\n\nAn old gentleman, with a periwig tied with red ribbon, put his head out\nthrough the window.\n\n\"Damn you, who are you? Why do you hesitate?\" yelled the angry crowd.\n\nThe gentleman made an effort to speak.\n\n\"Oh, he stutters; give him time, boys.\"\n\n\"Come now, old stutterin' Bob, who are you?\"\n\n\"I--I'm Lord In--Inchiquin, b-b-boys! O'B--Brien's my n-name!\"\n\n\"A cheer for him, boys, he's all right. Pass in, your lordship, an' good\nluck to ye.\"\n\nAnd as Lord Inchiquin passed in we endeavoured to follow in his wake.\n\nBut another shout arose and the crowd was swaying like a tumultuous sea.\n\n\"He's the Lord Chancellor!--the bloody English Chancellor, ould Bowes!\nSwear him, boys, swear him! Out with ye, and take the oath.\"\n\nThe disgusted Chancellor had no option but to comply, and having done\nso, was passing on towards the House.\n\n\"Don't let him go,\" cried out one who appeared to possess some authority\nwith the crowd; \"hold on to him. Here's the Chief Justice, and we'll\nmake ould Bowes take oath before him.\"\n\nThis proposition delighted the crowd, and they hauled \"ould\" Bowes back\nand confronted him with the Chief Justice.\n\n\"Swear before the Chief Justice, ye ould English naygur, that you won't\ntake our Parliament over to England,\" and again the luckless Chancellor\nwas compelled to swear.\n\n\"Here's ould Anthiny Malone, boys. Oh! ould Tony, are you there? Tony\nthe great \"Patriot\" that was agin the Government till they stopped your\nmouth with a pension. Oh, ye're there, Tony! Swear him, boys; swear\nhim!\"\n\n\"Hould on till I shake hands with ye, Tony,\" cried out another of the\nringleaders, as he dipped his hand in the kennel and then thrust it\ninto that of the \"Patriot.\"\n\n\"Ye might call it dirty, Tony, I suppose, but it's not half as dirty as\nyer own since ye handled the Government goold.\"\n\nThis sally was received with shouts of delight.\n\n\"Be the holy! who's that? It's ould Prendergast!\"\n\nThe exclamation was caused by the appearance of a face out of the House\nof Lords. It was that of Sir Thomas Prendergast, who was very obnoxious\nto the people. He only peeped out to see what was going on, but before\nhe could pull back he was caught by the nose and led out to the kennel,\nand was rolled and rolled again until he was all mud from head to foot.\n\n\"Let's go inside, boys. What do we want stoppin' here?\" was then blurted\nout by one of the ringleaders, but the crowd which had rushed up to the\nHouse of Lords when Prendergast showed himself had already begun to make\nits way in, and soon the whole of it began to set in that direction.\nThe only thing for Jack and myself was to allow ourselves to be carried\nalong with it. Dorothy clung to my arm with feverish anxiety. As for the\nold man he seemed as if he were scared out of his wits.\n\nRough as the crowd was it endeavoured to avoid the lady. Still she\nmust have suffered considerably as we squeezed through the doorway. We\narrived to find the seats of the House of Lords in possession of the\nmob, and the Peers crowding up behind the chair.\n\nLord Farnham was in the act of taking the oath, in succession to his\nfather, who had recently died, when the crowd broke in and interrupted\nthe ceremony.\n\n\"You must take the oath from us!--you must take the oath from us!\"\n\nThe rush of the crowd and the angry cries completely nonplussed the new\nlord. He looked helplessly at the Chancellor and at his brother Peers,\nand hardly knowing what he did, he followed the words of the oath as\nadministered to him by one of the ringleaders of the mob.\n\nThis performance provoked loud plaudits. Then for want of something\nelse to do, the crowd began to stand on the seats and tables, and force\nthemselves up towards the chair. The Chancellor and the other peers and\nsome ladies had retreated behind the throne.\n\n\"Oh! there's Biddy Simpson--there's Biddy, boys!\"\n\n\"Arrah, where else wud I be, thin?\" replied Biddy, who was an old lady\nwell known for the sharpness of her tongue in the Ormond Market.\n\n\"Put Biddy in the chair, boys! Put Biddy in the chair!\" and amidst\nringing cheers Miss Biddy Simpson was placed in the chair.\n\n\"Pipes and tobacco, pipes and tobacco, for Biddy Simpson!\"\n\nThe pipes were got, and Biddy stuck one in her mouth and lit it amid\nfrantic yells, and the crowd began to indulge in all kinds of antics.\nSnatches of songs and speeches, interlarded with oaths, were only half\nheard in the din. It was a motley crowd. Peers, members of the House of\nCommons, University students, and half the men and women from the\nLiberties, and some ladies who had come down to see Lord Farnham take\nthe oath, were all mixed up in the wildest disorder.\n\nHow long this was likely to go on no one could surmise, when suddenly\none of the ringleaders cried out:\n\n\"Let's burn the records! Let's burn the records! To the House of\nCommons!--To the House of Commons!\"\n\nThe cry was taken up and the crowd began to force its way out and make\nfor the House of Commons.\n\n\"Are ye goin' to desert me, ye thieves, afther ye made a lord o' me?\"\nshouted Biddy, but the crowd had found a new purpose, and emptied out of\nthe House of Lords as quickly as it had poured into it.\n\nBut for nearly an hour after, Jack and I and old Jacob and Dorothy\nremained where we were, and then, when the military, acting on the\norders of the Lord Lieutenant, had partially cleared the streets--for\nthe Lord Mayor had refused to interfere with the people--we made our\nway, not without some difficulty, to the \"Robin Hood.\"\n\nDorothy, for all her mild manners, was a brave little woman, and\nappeared little the worse of the ordeal through which she had passed.\n\nNot so with her father. He was almost prostrated from fright and\nexcitement. Jack persuaded him to take some brandy, and this restored\nhim a little.\n\nWhen he was able to collect himself sufficiently to speak, he caught\nJack's hand, and he said in the simplest tone:\n\n\"Friend, this is the second time I owe thee my life, and now I also owe\nthee my daughter's.\"\n\nI thought it would be just as well if I came away, and so it proved,\nfor on that very night when I was sitting down at the fire in my room\nthinking over the events of the day, the door was suddenly flung open,\nand in rushed Jack Langrishe.\n\n\"Old fellow, I'm the luckiest dog in the world!\"\n\nAnd I think he was, for the old man had at last given his consent, and\nJack Langrishe found in Dorothy Jacob one of the sweetest and best\nlittle wives in the whole of Ireland.\n\n\n\n\nMY FIRST CASE.\n\n\nI had just been admitted a solicitor, and had been induced to start\npractice, or, rather, to look for it, in a town in one of the midland\ncounties, where I had been persuaded there was a good opening for an\nattorney, the name by which members of my profession were then generally\nknown. It was in the good old days before examinations became the stiff\nordeals that they have been for many years, and I must confess that my\nattendance in the office where I was supposed to be serving my time was\nnot as regular as it might have been. However, with a fair share of\nassurance, which the old clerk in my master's office impressed on me was\nthe chief secret of success, I opened my office, put a brass plate on\nthe door, and installed as my clerk a young fellow of twenty-one or\nthereabouts, who had had some slight experience in the business of a\ncountry office. Day followed day, and the hoped for client never came.\nMy clerk spent the time writing text--\"this indenture,\" and \"whereas,\"\nand other important words, which would figure in the deeds he expected\none day to be called on to engross--but he at least had the satisfaction\nof drawing a salary, not a very large one, it is true, but it was\nsomething. As for me, I confess I was beginning to get heartily weary of\nwaiting, and to feel almost ashamed of the brass plate on the door.\n\nSometimes a step sounding in the hall would set my heart fluttering;\nbut this only announced a lady who wanted to know did we want eggs, or\ncabbage, or other articles of commerce. This, of course, was dreadfully\ndisappointing; still, it was consoling to know that someone had found\nthe house.\n\nIt was more assuring when one or two came in to know if \"Torney Brown\nwas in,\" although that was the name of a rival practitioner long\nestablished in the town. It gave my clerk the opportunity of stating, in\nimpressive tones, \"No, this is 'Torney Malone's office,\" which he and I\nflattered ourselves was an excellent advertisement, and would some day\nhave good results. Then came one day, a long, gawky-looking countryman\nto know when the Quarter Sessions were coming on, and what time had he\nfor issuing a process. This was downright cheering. I asked him into my\nown office and made him sit down. I wrote out the date of the sessions\nand the last day for service on a sheet of notepaper with my address\nprinted on it at the top. This induced him to tell me his case, in\nwhich, I need not say, I became deeply interested. It was a simple\ncase of trover of a saddle, but I think I made as much out of it as\nif it were a question involving a thousand pounds. I examined and\ncross-examined him, like, I persuaded myself, an old hand, and felt\ncertain that I had deeply impressed my client, for so I loved to think\nhim. At last apparently satisfied, he rose to go.\n\n\"Well, good evenin' to ye now, yer honour, and good luck, and myself\n'ill come again before Thursday,\" as he moved towards the door.\n\nThen he hesitated for a second, and looking back he asked:\n\n\"Aren't you 'Torney Brown, yer honour?\"\n\nI felt nettled, but controlling myself said quietly:\n\n\"No, I'm Mr. Malone, as you'll see by the notepaper you have in your\nhand.\"\n\nHe looked a little sheepishly at the notepaper, and then said as he\nmoved off:\n\n\"Well, yer a very civil gentleman, anyhow.\"\n\nThursday came, but my client did not turn up. The sessions day came, and\nalthough I had no business I thought I ought to put in an appearance in\ncourt. Amongst the first cases called was that in which my client, as\nI have called him, was plaintiff--his attorney was Mr. Brown. I fear I\nwent back to my office in rather better humour that I otherwise would\nhave done, when the barrister, as the County Court Judge was called\nthen, dismissed the case, and with costs, against \"my client.\"\n\nAfter this, weeks passed and no one came near the office, and I began\nto long even for the step of the vegetable woman, but towards dusk one\nOctober evening, just as I was about thinking of leaving the office,\nwhere I had been sitting before the fire whiling away the time with\na novel, my clerk came in with a gleeful face to inform me that a\ngentleman desired to see me on legal business. My heart jumped into my\nmouth. I quickly hid the novel, put on my most professional appearance,\nseated myself at my desk, began to write, and was so engaged when the\ngentleman was shown in.\n\nHe was a man, I should say of five and forty, and had all the appearance\nof a country gentleman. I handed him a chair, which he took, and asked\nhim what I could do for him.\n\nHis business was quickly explained. His aunt, an old lady, who resided\nwith him, was dying, and desired to make her will. She wished to leave\neverything to her nephew--the gentleman who was consulting me, and who\ngave his name as Mr. George Ralph Jephson, \"but my aunt calls me Ralph,\"\nhe added. \"So I suppose,\" he said, \"it will not take you much time to\nprepare a will leaving everything to me? I should wish you, also, to\ncome out with me and witness the execution of it. I suppose your clerk\ncould come also?\"\n\nI replied that I would prepare the will according to his instructions in\na few moments. I took down the name of the intending testatrix and his\nown information as to the nature of her property. Half a dozen lines\nwere quite sufficient to dispose of it, as it was all to go, without any\nreservation or condition, to the one person. I got my clerk to make out\na clean copy, and when this was done, he and I, and Mr. Jephson got into\nthe latter's dog cart, which a small boy was holding outside the office\ndoor.\n\nOf Mr. Jephson I knew nothing, save that he had recently taken the house\nand demesne of Longfield, which had been untenanted for many years,\nowing to a tragedy that had taken place there, and it was said that he\nhad come from Dorsetshire. His house was about nine miles outside the\ntown, but the road was good and the horse a fast goer, and we did it in\na little over the hour. A short, winding avenue led up to the house,\nwhich looked gloomy, as the only light visible escaped through the\nfanlight over the door.\n\nThis, when he pulled up, was opened in answer to Mr. Jephson's knock\nby an old, rather slatternly woman. He showed my clerk and me into the\ndining-room, where a bright fire was burning, and, requesting us to be\nseated, said he would go up to see if the lady were ready to receive us.\nHe returned in a few moments, ushered us up the stairs, and, turning\ndown the right corridor pushed in a door that was not fastened.\n\nThe room, which was not over-well furnished for so pretentious a house,\nwas lighted by two candles. On a bed raised not more than a foot from\nthe ground, and placed in a corner behind the door, lay a woman of\nat least seventy years old. She was very small, and her face had a\nvery gentle expression, and, notwithstanding her advanced age, was\nwonderfully fair, and had but very few wrinkles. Her eyes were still\nbright, and it was evident she must have been a very pretty girl.\n\nThere was no one else in the room save Mr. Jephson, the clerk, and\nmyself, and the door was closed. I produced the draft will and said,\naddressing myself to the lady:\n\n\"You wish to make your will?\"\n\n\"Yes; oh, yes.\"\n\n\"And you wish to leave everything to your nephew?\"\n\n\"Yes, to Ralph--to Rafy--everything.\"\n\n\"Then please listen, madam, while I read this, it is very short.\"\n\n\"Bring the candle nearer your face and let me look at you,\" she said.\n\nThe request surprised me, but I could not well refuse it.\n\n\"No, no, you are not like him, my----Rafy; but he had blue eyes like\nyours----blue eyes, and you could see the gold glint in his hair.\"\n\nThis speech perplexed me. Mr. George Ralph Jephson, who was standing\nin the shadow behind me, although inclined very much to grey now, had\nevidently had very dark hair, while his eyes were of a deep, almost dark\ngrey.\n\n\"May I read the will?\"\n\n\"Is everything given to Rafy?\"\n\n\"Yes; listen----\n\n\"I, Eleanor Glasson, devise and bequeath all the property, real and\npersonal, I die seized and possessed of, or to which I may become\nentitled to in expectancy, reversion, or remainder, to my dear nephew,\nGeorge Ralph Jephson.\"----\n\n\"Say to Rafy; write Rafy. Will not that do?\" interrupted the old lady\nin a tone of mingled tenderness and eagerness.\n\n\"But I had better put in his full name,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, then, read it again.\"\n\nI read.\n\n\"Not George! Ralph--Rafy. It is to Rafy.\"\n\n\"You see, she never called me George,\" said Mr. Jephson, in a low voice,\n\"tell her it is all right.\"\n\nBefore I could reply, the old woman said:\n\n\"Let me look at you again,\" and she laid her hand in mine. \"Bend down\nand let me look into your eyes. Ay, they are like Rafy's blue eyes. Will\nyou let me kiss you for his sake?\" and she put up her little wasted\nhands against my cheeks and kissed me. \"I knew you wouldn't wrong Rafy,\nwould you?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said I, much touched and somewhat confused, and then turning\nto Mr. Jephson, I said, \"There must be something wrong.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you had better come downstairs with me and I'll explain,\" said\nMr. Jephson in, I thought, a slightly agitated tone.\n\nWe went to the dining-room, and Mr. Jephson having carefully closed the\ndoor, stood with one elbow resting on the fireplace, and addressed me.\n\n\"Over thirty years ago a cousin of mine, another nephew of Miss\nGlasson's, whose name was Ralph, and of whom she was passionately\nfond, eloped with a girl beneath his position, and his father proving\nunforgiving the young couple went to the United States. A short time\nafter arriving there the news of his death by drowning came home. It\nnearly broke my aunt's heart, for she had favoured the marriage out\nof her love for Ralph, and now seemed to think she was in some way\nresponsible for his death. For a time she was bereft of her senses and\nwas under surveillance; when she recovered she seemed to give her whole\naffection to me, and insisted on my dropping the name of George and\ncalling myself Ralph, which I am entitled to do, as it is my second\nname. At times she used to speak of him to me and only to me, and she\nused to talk of the difference between his eyes and mine; of late she\nvery often speaks of him, and, as is often the way of old people,\nforgets he is dead, but I am the only Ralph in the family now, and it\nis to me that she intends to leave what she has.\"\n\n\"I should like to talk to the lady by myself if you see no objection,\"\nI said.\n\n\"I fear it would only excite her,\" he replied, with a faint suggestion\nof annoyance. \"I have told you everything she can tell. She is ready to\nsign the will if you will witness it.\"\n\n\"But if, as you say, she believes the other Ralph is still alive it\nappears to me it is to him she desires to leave the property.\"\n\n\"If that is your opinion and you will not accept my statement, I suppose\nthere is no more to be said,\" he answered rather gruffly.\n\nI rose to go and signalled to my clerk.\n\n\"You will let me offer you a glass of wine,\" he said; \"and I should be\nglad if you will stay and dine with me. Your drive home is a pretty long\none.\"\n\nI accepted the wine and some biscuits, as did also my clerk, and then,\nwhen I declared we were ready for the road, Mr. Jephson said he would\ndrive us himself.\n\nI thought it was rather strange he did not offer to send the coachman,\nas he had himself already covered the road twice that day. But as he and\nI sat in the dog-cart in front he volunteered an explanation. He did not\nwish, he said, his servants to know too much about his business. But\nthis appeared to me rather a curious explanation. There was nothing\nabout the business that required concealment, I said to myself.\n\n\"And that is the reason why I wished you to bring your clerk with you.\nI like to have discreet people, and not babblers about me, and I always\nmake it a point whenever I can to employ professional men.\"\n\nThis was intended, no doubt, as flattering, and I fear I was not above\nbeing pleased with it. I knew after that it was also intended as a hint\nthat he expected I would not speak about the business which had taken me\nto Longfield.\n\nWhen we arrived at my office he offered me a fee of five guineas; but I\nrefused this on the ground that the business in which he had employed me\nhad come to nothing. Saying good-night in a cordial way Mr. Jephson\ndrove away.\n\nIt would seem as if this case brought me luck. The very next day a\ndefendant in a rather bad assault case came in to engage my services.\nI appeared for him at the Petty Sessions and made what, I flattered\nmyself, was a very good defence. Anyhow, he was acquitted, and I had the\nsatisfaction of reading in the local paper, the \"Midland Gazette,\" \"that\nthe ingenious defence and the brilliant speech made by Mr. Malone on\nbehalf of the accused proves that he is a valuable acquisition to our\nlocal Bar.\"\n\nAfter this, business began to come in pretty rapidly, but, to my regret,\nmy clerk, who was very anxious to settle in Dublin, got the chance of a\nsituation in the then well-known firm of solicitors in Dame Street,\nMessrs. Wrexham & Co. I gave him, as he deserved, an excellent\ncharacter, which procured the place for him.\n\nHe had left me about a month, and something like two months had elapsed\nsince Mr. Jephson's visit, when I read in the obituary column of\nthe \"Irish Times\" the announcement of the death of Miss Glasson, of\nLongfield House, Co. ----. I had, of course, often thought of the little\nold woman of the sweet face and the undying love for Ralph of the blue\neyes, and I began to wonder if she had made any will and, if so, who\nwas the legatee. But, after all, the matter was one in which I had no\nconcern, yet I felt gratified somehow, that she did not execute the will\nwhich, acting on Mr. Jephson's instructions, I had prepared for her. I\naddressed myself to my increasing business and the matter soon passed\nfrom my mind.\n\nSome weeks after this announcement in the \"Times,\" my clerk one day\nbrought a card into my private office, saying:--\n\n\"The gentleman desires to see you, sir.\"\n\nI looked at the card. \"Mr. Wrexham.\" It was the name of the solicitor to\nwhom my first clerk had gone.\n\n\"Show him in,\" I said.\n\nMr. Wrexham, after a courteous salute, took the proffered chair and\nplunged into business at once.\n\n\"You are doubtless aware,\" he said, \"that Miss Glasson died at Longfield\nHouse a short time ago?\"\n\nI nodded assent.\n\n\"She was very wealthy; left about \u00a330,000. The whole goes by her will,\nto her nephew, John Ralph Jephson. My firm has, however, been instructed\nby Mrs. Ralph Jephson, the widow of another nephew who died two years\nago----\"\n\n\"Two years ago?\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes--we have been instructed by her to contest the will on the ground\nof undue influence. We have accordingly entered a _caveat_, but, to be\nfrank with you, I fear we have not much evidence to go on. We know that\nthe late Miss Glasson entertained a very strong affection for Ralph\nJephson, and always intended to make him her devisee and legatee--she\nhad no power to dispose of her property except by will--but she was\nliving with her nephew, George Ralph Jephson, and had been bedridden for\nsome time. He kept away every other relative from his house. He took\nthis place in Ireland, brought her hither, and it was not until\nthe announcement of her death that her other relatives knew of her\nwhereabouts. It chanced that your late clerk was given the draft\n_caveat_ to make a clean copy of it for lodgment in the office of the\nCourt, and the name attracting his attention he mentioned to my head\nclerk the scene he had witnessed in Miss Glasson's room. The clerk\nrelated the story to me, and that accounts for my presence here to-day.\nI fear,\" added Mr. Wrexham, after a pause, \"that a fraud has been\nperpetrated, and that the will for which probate is sought does not\nexpress the wishes of the deceased lady.\"\n\n\"Who prepared and witnessed the will?\" I asked.\n\n\"A solicitor and his clerk.\"\n\n\"And the solicitor?\"\n\n\"A young fellow named Devaney; he lives in the next county--do you know\nhim?\"\n\n\"He was admitted as a solicitor the same time as I.\"\n\n\"Mr. Jephson seems to have a preference for young practitioners,\" said\nMr. Wrexham, with a smile, and he added: \"Do you happen to know anything\nabout Devaney?\"\n\n\"Well, I have heard he does little business, and he is, I fear, addicted\nto drink. Otherwise he is a good fellow.\"\n\n\"Just the kind of man to be made the innocent instrument of a fraud; and\nnow I feel certain that a fraud has been committed on the poor lady who\nis dead and on the relatives whom she wished to benefit, and, of course,\nyour evidence is all-important. I could, of course, have written and\nsent you a subpoena, but I thought it more courteous to wait on you\nmyself. The case is listed for the day after to-morrow, when I hope it\nwill be convenient for you to be in Dublin.\"\n\nI confess I should have preferred that my evidence were dispensed\nwith, but I had no doubt that in some way or other a fraud had been\nperpetrated, and the sweet face and the recollection of the poor dead\nlady's trust in me appealed irresistibly to me.\n\nWhen the case came on I saw for the first time the widow of Ralph\nJephson. Beside her sat her daughter. She was rather _petite_,\nexceedingly pretty, and her face bore an unmistakeable likeness to her\ndead grand-aunt. I was taken with her at once, and, I must confess, I\nfound it very difficult to keep my eyes away from the quarter where she\nwas seated.\n\nThe evidence against the validity of the will was, except mine and my\nclerk's, very slight. It was deposed to by the servants who had been in\nthe employment of the deceased that she always spoke of making Ralph\nJephson her sole heir, but these servants had left the employment more\nthan two years ago. They had to admit, on cross-examination, that Mr.\nGeorge Ralph Jephson was sometimes called Ralph, but they denied that\nthey had ever heard the testatrix so describe him.\n\nI deposed to what I have already stated, but I was unable to say that I\nconsidered the testatrix had not testamentary capacity. I could only say\nI believed she wished to leave her property to Ralph, and not to George\nRalph, Jephson.\n\nThis brought the judge down on me, and he asked me why, if that was so,\nI didn't carry out her intentions? That it was my duty to do so. I had\nnot seen it in that light, and felt very uncomfortable as I left the\nwitness-box.\n\nThen came the witnesses for the defence. Mr. George Ralph Jephson swore\nhis aunt had habitually called him Ralph; that occasionally she called\nhim George; and had frequently promised to leave him everything, and\nthat it was by her directions he went on both occasions for a solicitor.\nWhat he told Mr. Malone about his cousin Ralph was, he believed, true,\nand he was surprised to learn now for the first time that he had not\nbeen drowned, as was reported, and had only recently died.\n\nThen came a servant whom I recognised as the woman who had opened the\ndoor for me. She wore mourning, and scarcely lifted her veil as she\nkissed the book. She gave her evidence nervously, and she began by\nexplaining that she was never in a courthouse before. She swore she\nattended deceased, and that the latter had frequently said that she\nwould leave everything to her nephew, Mr. George Ralph Jephson; that\nsometimes deceased--but that was only lately, a few weeks before she\ndied--rambled about little Rafy, as she called him, that was drowned.\nAs far as she could judge, the lady was in her right mind.\n\nMr. Devaney, solicitor, proved that he attended with a will prepared on\nthe directions of Mr. Jephson, and which left everything to him. He had\nnever seen testatrix before. He had no reason to doubt that she knew\nwhat she was doing. He read the will slowly for her. It was very short,\nand she said she understood it thoroughly, and she added that she wished\nto leave everything she had in the world to her nephew there, pointing,\nas she did so, to Mr. Jephson, who was standing at the side of the bed\nnear witness.\n\nMr. Devaney's clerk gave similar evidence, and it appeared as if there\nwas no more to be said. But Mr. Daunt, Q.C., who had let the previous\nwitnesses off, I thought, rather easily, proceeded to cross-examine the\nclerk very closely.\n\n\"You had never seen the testatrix before, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"But you took a good look at her when you did see her?\"\n\n\"Well, I looked, of course, but I did not notice her very much--there\nwas not very much light.\"\n\n\"Oh! there was not very much light,\" said Mr. Daunt, steadying his\nspectacles and fixing his gaze on the clerk. \"How much light?\"\n\n\"One candle.\"\n\n\"Only one candle when the testatrix was making her mark! Was that the\nreason she gave for not signing her name in full?\"\n\n\"No. She said when Mr. Devaney asked her if she would sign her name,\nthat she did not know how to write, but that she thought her mark would\ndo.\"\n\n\"Did not know how to write!\" interrupted the judge. \"I thought testatrix\nwas a lady of position.\"\n\n\"So she was, my lord,\" said Mr. Daunt.\n\n\"And did you take particular notice of the testatrix?\" said counsel,\naddressing the witness.\n\n\"Well, not particular. I mean, I did not notice very much of her; but I\nnoticed her hand and her finger when she was making her mark.\"\n\n\"Oh, you did! Tell the Court and the jury what you noticed,\" said Mr.\nDaunt, catching the edges of his gown and pulling them forward.\n\n\"I noticed that her hands were very coarse for a lady, I thought, my\nlord,\" said the witness looking up towards the judge. \"And I saw that\nher forefinger had a deep mark along it, as if it had been badly cut or\ncrushed some time or other.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said Mr. Daunt, leaning forward and looking the clerk full in\nthe face. \"Do you think you would know the testatrix if you saw her\nagain?\"\n\nA buzz of excitement ran through the crowd.\n\n\"If I saw her again? Sure she's dead.\"\n\n\"Sure she's dead,\" said Mr. Daunt, echoing him; \"but if she wasn't, do\nyou think you could recognise her?\"\n\n\"I think I might.\"\n\n\"And if you saw the hand and the finger would you recognise them?\"\n\n\"I would.\"\n\n\"Are you sure of that?\"\n\n\"I--I--well, I am sure. I believe I would.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Daunt,\" put in the judge, \"this is an extraordinary course you\nare taking. The plea you have put in on behalf of your client is undue\ninfluence.\"\n\n\"Quite so, my lord; but the case is an extraordinary one, and I ask your\nlordship to bear with me for a moment in the interests of justice.\"\n\nThe judge nodded.\n\n\"My lord,\" continued Mr. Daunt, \"would your lordship be good enough to\nrequest the witness, Agnes Marvel,\" that was the name of the servant who\nhad been examined--\"to come forward?\"\n\n\"But, my lord,\" said Mr. Star, Q.C., who was on the opposite side,\n\"this is quite irregular. My learned friend had an opportunity of\ncross-examining Agnes Marvel when she was in the witness-box.\"\n\n\"I shall call her forward, and then, if Mr. Daunt puts any question to\nwhich you take exception, I shall be happy to hear you, Mr. Star.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my lord,\" said Mr. Star, as he resumed his seat.\n\n\"I do not intend to ask any questions,\" said Mr. Daunt. \"So my learned\nfriend need not have been in such a hurry to interpose.\"\n\n\"Come forward, Agnes Marvel!\" said the crier.\n\nThe woman came and stood near the clerk who was giving evidence.\n\n\"Lift up your veil, madam,\" said Mr. Daunt.\n\nShe did so with trembling hands which were encased in black cotton\ngloves.\n\n\"Now, will you be good enough to remove your gloves.\"\n\n\"What is the meaning of this?\" said Mr. Star, Q.C., jumping up.\n\n\"My lord, I make this request on my responsibility as counsel.\"\n\n\"Where is the objection, Mr. Star?\" said the judge.\n\nThe woman removed her gloves. Her face as she did so became deathly\nwhite, and without a word of warning she fell back, and would have\nfallen on the witness-table if the crier, who was standing near her,\nhad not caught her in his arms.\n\nThere were cries of \"Water!\" and \"Take her out into the air!\"\n\n\"Perhaps, my lord,\" said Mr. Star, \"an adjournment of the court would be\nagreeable, as it is near luncheon time.\"\n\n\"What do you say to that, Mr. Daunt?\" asked the judge.\n\n\"May I ask the witness one more question, my lord.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Did you, witness, see that woman's hand?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Was that the hand that signed the will?\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\nThe excitement in court was now intense.\n\n\"I think,\" said the judge, \"we should go on. Bring in that woman if she\nhas recovered,\" he continued, addressing a policeman.\n\nThe woman was brought in.\n\n\"Now,\" said the judge, turning towards Mr. Daunt, \"you may repeat your\nquestion; but first let me warn this woman. Agnes Marvel?\"\n\n\"Yes, my lord.\"\n\n\"The question which counsel is now about to put concerns you. Listen to\nit.\"\n\nMr. Daunt repeated the question, and the clerk answered it as before.\n\n\"Do you think you could recognise the features?\"\n\n\"Now that I look at them I believe I do; but I won't be positive.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said Mr. Daunt, \"may I recall Mr. Malone?\"\n\n\"For what, Mr. Daunt?\"\n\n\"That he may describe the appearance of the lady whom he saw----\"\n\n\"My lord! my lord!\" interrupted Agnes Marvel, \"if ye promise not to hang\nme I'll tell the truth. 'Twas I signed the will--'twas I signed it, and\nthere's the man that tempted me,\" and she pointed to where Mr. George\nRalph Jephson had been seated, but in the excitement he had succeeded in\nescaping.\n\nThere is no need to pursue the narrative further. Suffice it to say that\nthe false will was set aside, and luckily, one made some years previous,\nand which was in the custody of a solicitor in England, was forthcoming.\nBy this all the property of the late Miss Glasson was bequeathed in\ntrust to Ralph Jephson and his children in equal portions should he\npredecease testatrix. The whole, therefore, fell to Miss Blanche\nJephson.\n\nBut it may be interesting to state that Mr. Daunt was as much surprised\nat the _denouement_ as anyone else. He had intended to put only a few\nquestions to Mr. Devaney's clerk as a matter of form, but the statement\nof the latter that the testatrix had said she had never written a line\nin her life aroused his curiosity, and when the clerk described the\nfinger of testatrix a light suddenly flashed on his mind that made his\nway clear. With the acuteness and habit which come from long practice,\nhe had taken note of the witness, Agnes Marvel, as she came to the stand\nto take the oath. She had, of course, to remove the glove from her right\nhand before taking the book in it, and he saw the disfigurement of the\nforefinger. Seeing that he had no case otherwise, he determined to\nhazard everything on the chance that Agnes Marvel had signed the will\nand not Miss Glasson.\n\n\n\n\nA VISION OR A DREAM\n\n\nI never had a decided opinion one way or the other on the subject of\nghosts--that is to say, I was never able to affirm my belief in them,\nnor was I willing, on the other hand, to deny that occasionally they\nvisited the glimpses of the moon. Nothing, however, would induce me\nto spend a night in a churchyard, and indeed, it would cost me a\nconsiderable effort to pass by one on a country road after nightfall if\nI chanced to be alone. The fact is, I suffered for many years, and from\nmy earliest childhood from the effects of a morbid imagination. I had,\nwhen little over six years old, received a terrible shock by the suicide\nof a neighbour. I had often seen him pass by the door of the house in\nwhich we lived. He was, as well as I remember, an engineer, and he had a\nrather peculiar cast of countenance, which had made a deep impression on\nme. I did not see him lying dead, but I followed a crowd mainly composed\nof women which attended the coffin, as it was being borne on the\nshoulders of four men, to the house of the deceased. When the coffin was\ntaken inside the door the crowd remained for a long time outside, and of\ncourse the fatal deed formed the sole topic of conversation. I was close\nto three or four women who were listening to another who was giving\na most graphic description of the manner in which the unhappy man\nhad taken his life. The details were probably the offspring of her\nimagination, but they sank into my mind and the recollection of them\ncost me hours and nights of the bitterest agony--an agony indeed,\nimpossible to describe. I have not forgotten them yet, though close on\nhalf a century has passed away.\n\nI was, as I have mentioned, only about six years old at the time, and I\nwas sent to bed every night about eight o'clock. I slept at the top of\nthe house, and in the same room one of the servants also slept. I have\nno recollection of having, prior to the time I speak of, felt any fear\nwhen left alone in the room in the dark, but the night on which I heard\nthe account of the suicide was to open a new experience for me, and to\nleave a mark upon my mind and character which has never been wholly\neffaced.\n\nI remember well, as if it were only last night, hearing the footfalls of\nthe servant as she descended the stairs after having put me to bed. I\ncan remember, too, the noises in the street, the sound of feet and the\nvoices talking, when suddenly in the dark, and close to my face, I saw\nthe face of the dead man! I have purposely omitted the details of the\nsuicide, nor do I wish to describe here the face as I saw it. Let it\nsuffice to say that it was exactly in the condition as described by the\nwoman in the crowd. It was the peculiar face which I had been accustomed\nto see, only hideously marred by wounds.\n\nI screamed as it came close to me--screamed as if my life was in my\nthroat--screamed and screamed, but no help came. I was at the top of a\nhigh house and the door was closed. I covered my head with the clothes\nuntil I was almost smothered. I closed my eyes fast to shut out the\nhorrid sight as I hoped, but only to see it more clearly. Sometimes\nthe face, while preserving the likeness to the peculiar face of the\nengineer, as I was wont to see it when he was alive, seemed to spread\nitself out and then contract, and every lineament of it seemed to be in\nconvulsive motion. The pressure of the clothes and the suffocating heat\nforced me at length to lift them up, and again I screamed--screamed like\na wild animal in agony. At last I was heard. Someone came quickly up the\nstairs. The door was flung open, and the candle lighted. It was the\nservant.\n\n\"My God! What's the matter?\" she exclaimed, as she saw me trembling as\nif I were in a fit and covered with perspiration.\n\nI tried to explain as well as I could, and she endeavoured to soothe me.\nShe remained by my side until I fell into a disturbed sleep. And for\nmonths after she, by the doctor's orders, who was called in next day,\nsat in the room until I slept. And for many years, until I became almost\na man, I never ventured to sleep except in a lighted room.\n\nBut whenever I was alone, either at night time, or at day time, I was\nliable to see the faces such as I have since read in De Quincey's volume\nhaunt the dreams of opium eaters. I have often started back shuddering\nfrom these faces, which have appeared suddenly in front of me when going\nby myself along a country road, even in the broad noon-day, when the sun\nwas shining. And when people often expressed surprise that I never could\nbe induced to visit a wake-house, they little knew that I could do so\nonly at the price of being haunted for months by what I saw there,\nwhenever I found myself alone.\n\nI have narrated all this chiefly because it may serve in some degree to\naccount for the phenomena which I witnessed under the circumstances I am\nabout to describe.\n\nAbout twenty years ago I paid a long promised visit to a friend, Gerald\nF----, who then lived in one of the counties bordering on Dublin, but\nwho has since died.\n\nHe was engaged to be married to a very handsome girl, a Miss R----, whom\nhe had met in London, but who was residing with her aunt not many miles\nfrom Creeve house, my friend's residence. The wedding was to take place\na few months subsequent to my visit. The marriage promised to be full of\nhappiness. The girl was as gracious as she was beautiful, and my friend\nGerald was in every way worthy of her. Both were very well off. The\ngirl, an orphan, had been well provided for by her parents, and had\nlarge expectations from her aunt. The young couple were deeply in love\nwith each other, and Gerald was constantly driving over to her aunt's\nresidence, and often took his fianc\u00e9e for a drive through the charming\ncountry roads.\n\nMy visit was made in compliance with a promise which I had made long\nbefore the engagement took place, and which Gerald had frequently\nreminded me of. I came down to him not knowing of the engagement, and so\nwhen I heard the news I could not help remarking to him that my visit\nwas rather ill-timed. But Gerald replied that he was delighted to see\nhis old friend and to be able to talk over his own good fortune with\nhim, and talk he did, I must say, to his heart's content. But one day he\nsaid he feared he was boring me when we were together, and that I must,\non the other hand, find it rather dull to be left alone, as I often was,\nwhen he was away in the company of his fianc\u00e9e.\n\nI interrupted him by saying that I rejoiced in his happiness and to hear\nhim speak of it, and that as I loved the country and was fond of books I\nwas able to pass my time very pleasantly in the glorious summer weather\nwe were having.\n\nAnd the time undoubtedly slipped away very agreeably, until one evening,\nabout three weeks after my arrival, I was reclining on the lawn in front\nof the house under the shadow of a fine ash that flung its branches over\nthe little rippling stream that wound through the lawn, and thinking\nmyself as happy as Horace used to be in a similar situation, when the\nsound of a very fast galloping horse came suddenly down the avenue.\n\nI had barely time to turn round when the horse pulled up before the\nhall-door, and I saw it was Gerald's trap, and that he, white as a\nsheet, had one arm twined round Miss R----'s waist, with her head\nresting against his breast. I rushed up, and the look of unutterable\nagony in Gerald's eyes satisfied me, without even the sight of the blood\nupon Miss R----'s face, that a terrible tragedy had occurred.\n\nOf course the first thing to be done was to remove the lady into the\nhouse. This was done, and the doctor was at once sent for, although the\nslightest observation satisfied us all that his services were of no\navail. The poor girl was dead!\n\nGerald was at first too distracted to be able to give a coherent account\nof what had happened; but when he was calm enough to speak the story was\nsoon told.\n\nHe and Miss R---- were driving together past Creveen Wood when a shot\nwas fired. The lady was on the side from which it was fired, and she was\nstruck and killed instantly. The horse, frightened by the report, had\ngalloped on frantically making for home. Gerald made no attempt to stay\nit, as his sole thought was the wounded girl who had fallen beside him.\nFortunately the gate leading into the avenue was open, and it was a\npretty wide one, and the horse galloped through it without coming in\ncontact with the piers.\n\nThe doctor arrived, and he was followed by the police, word having been\nsent to the neighbouring barrack. The former was, of course, no use,\nand the latter, after having heard what Gerald had to say went off to\nthe plantation, but were unable to find any trace that would help them\nin the discovery of the assassin.\n\nI need not dwell upon the details of the funeral, or upon Gerald's\ncondition of mind, or the terrible sad nights which followed that of\nthe tragedy. I remained up for several nights with Gerald, and indeed,\nnearly exhausted myself. The doctor, however, at last insisted that I\nshould have some rest, and about a week after the dreadful occurrence I\nwithdrew to my own room for the night.\n\nI tried to sleep the moment I got into bed, but sleep kept away from me.\nI had put out the light and was tossing from side to side, when right in\nthe dark in front of me was outlined a face! The strain upon my nerves\nhad brought back the old haunting visions! The suddenness with which it\nappeared and its closeness startled me and brought the old dread back to\nme, although it was many years since I had suffered and I had become\nvery strong.\n\nThere was nothing objectionable in the face. It was that of a young\nman about eight and twenty, and it bore something more than a faint\nresemblance to that of my friend Gerald. I tried instinctively the trick\nof closing my eyes, but only to see it, if possible more clearly, but as\nI looked at it, it began to recede from me, and to fall back towards the\nwall. Then I perceived that it was no longer only a face that presented\nitself; there was the figure of a man. He was dressed in dark grey\ntweed, rather the worse of wear, and looked like one who had received a\nmilitary training. I had never seen the face before, but this did not\nsurprise me, as my imagination had been wont to play me curious tricks\nin this way.\n\nI began to think of other men whom I had known, and to bring their faces\nbefore me in the hope of blotting this one out, which, as I have said,\ncaused me to feel as in the old nights of terror I was wont to feel, but\njust as I appeared to be on the point of succeeding the vision became\nmore vivid, and again advanced up to the bedside, and then I noticed\nthat in its right hand it carried a gun. Soon after it vanished, and I\nfell into a tolerably sound sleep, and slept late into the next day.\n\nIn about a fortnight after, Gerald, whom I had scarcely ever left except\nat bedtime, was coming to himself, and I found I could go out for an\noccasional stroll. And one day my steps involuntarily turned in the\ndirection of Creveen Wood. Nothing had in the meantime turned up to\nelucidate the mystery. A reward had been offered, but no information was\nforthcoming, and all hope of discovery was abandoned.\n\nI had come close to the plantation without being aware of it, but on\nrecognising it I made an effort to turn back, but I was prevented doing\nso by an irresistible impulse which drove me forward. I entered the\nplantation, and after straying through it for some time my foot knocked\nagainst something hard, which emitted a peculiar sound. This caused me\nto look down to see what it was that I had struck against. I found it\nwas a piece of metal. I picked it up and examined it carefully, and it\nseemed to be the portion of the lock of a gun.\n\nSwift as a lightning flash came the recollection of what at the time had\nmade no perceptible impression on my mind. The lock of the gun in the\nhand of the figure which I had seen in the vision was imperfect!\n\nA strange excitement took possession of me, and I felt that if I could\nonly find the original, if he existed, of that vision I should find the\nassassin of Miss R----.\n\nGerald's heart was bent on his discovery, and in one of our talks\ntogether he made me promise to help him in the search. I gave the\npromise to soothe him, believing at the time I made it that there was\nlittle or no likelihood that I could assist him.\n\nI put the piece of metal in my pocket and returned to Creeve House.\n\nGerald, who had been able to leave his room, had come down to the study,\nand as I entered it I found him turning over the pages of an album of\nportraits.\n\nI went over and sat down beside him, and congratulated him on his\nimproved appearance. He shook his head sadly, and then, hoping to turn\nhis thoughts from their object, which I had no doubt of, I put my\nfinger on the album.\n\n\"Who is this?\" said I.\n\nIt was the figure of an old lady.\n\n\"She was an aunt of mine.\"\n\nI turned over the leaf, and the next portrait was that of the man I had\nseen in the vision! For a moment I held my breath; then bending down\nover the album, that my face might not betray me, I asked:\n\n\"Who is this?\"\n\n\"A half-brother, Frank L----,\" he answered. \"He was my mother's son by\nher first husband. Mother was a widow when she married father.\"\n\nI burned to ask another question, but feared I might betray myself.\n\n\"She was very fond of him,\" he went on, \"as fond as she was of\nme--fonder, I sometimes think, because he did not turn out too well. He\nwas a soldier, and left his regiment under rather cloudy circumstances;\nbut I don't know the particulars.\"\n\n\"He looks somewhat like you,\" I ventured to observe.\n\n\"More like mother, I should say,\" he replied.\n\n\"And where is he now?\"\n\n\"I don't know. He was, when I last heard of him, lodging in Kingstown\nor Blackrock. I don't know much about him. We were never friends. He\nalways resented mother's second marriage, and, I fear, hated me in\nconsequence.\"\n\nThen Gerald spoke of some other indifferent subject, and I did not\ndesire to bring him back to the one uppermost in my mind. But as he\ntalked the question shaped itself--\"Was Frank L---- the assassin, and if\nso what could have been his motive?\"\n\nA few days after I left Creeve House as Gerald was nearly himself again.\nI found, however that the strain of attending him, and the anxiety, and\nthe vision, and the haunting question ever putting itself to me, had\ntaxed me more than I had thought, and I determined to spend a few days\nat the sea-side, and I found a couple of rooms that suited me in one of\nthe houses on the Bray Esplanade not far from the \"Head.\"\n\nI took the rooms, put in my luggage, and went to Dublin for a few hours\nto transact some private business. It was near ten at night when I\nreturned. I found my landlady very much perturbed. The gentleman who had\noccupied the rooms I had taken had, as she thought, gone away finally,\nbut two or three days of his tenancy were unexpired, and he returned\nunexpectedly that evening. If I did not mind, she said, I could have for\nthe night the room of another gentleman who was and would be absent for\nthree or four days.\n\nOf course I assented, and in a few minutes I was told the room was\nready.\n\nBeing rather tired I went up to it on receiving this information. I\nglanced around it, and was satisfied. I sat on a chair facing the\nchimney-piece, in order to take off my boots; and this done, I gazed\nabout more leisurely, and observed that over the mantle-place, in a\nrack, was suspended a gun. I went over towards it to examine it, as I am\ncurious in firearms, and discovered with a sharp surprise that the lock\nof the gun was broken.\n\nI hastily put my hand in my pocket, drew out the piece of metal which I\nhad picked up in Creeveen Wood. It fitted the fracture perfectly!\n\nFor a moment I felt like one dazed, and then I began to look around the\nroom as if in search of something, I knew not what. My eyes lighted on a\nportmanteau, bearing the initials \"F.L.\" \"Frank L----, by all that's\nwonderful,\" said I to myself.\n\nI flung myself undressed upon the bed. I couldn't sleep. There was gas\nin the room, and I kept it burning all night.\n\nWhen I met the landlady next morning I asked her, as if casually, who\nwas the tenant of my room.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. L----,\" she answered; \"he's been absent for some weeks, and may\nnot return for some time. He often stays away for over a month.\"\n\nWhat was I to do? I had no doubt whatever I had found the assassin!\n\nWas I to tell Gerald F----? Would he believe in my visions? Would he\nregard the piece of metal as a proof, and if he did believe it would he\nthank me for convicting his mother's son of the crime?\n\nNo. I wouldn't tell, at least until I had pursued the matter further.\nSo the next day I determined to cause some privately conducted\ninvestigations to be made concerning the recent career of Frank L----,\nbut before I had well set them on foot, and within a few days of my\ndiscovery in the seaside lodgings, came the news through the morning\npapers that the body of a man was found on the line between Salthill and\nKingstown, and from papers on him it turned out that he was a Mr.\nFrancis L----!\n\nGerald F----, I know, attended the funeral. A week subsequent to it\ncame the information from the private inquiry office which I had set in\nmotion that L---- had been paying attentions to Miss R---- in London,\nand her maid had stated that she believed he had made a proposal and had\nbeen rejected.\n\nL---- was dead and gone. There was no use in pushing the matter any\nfurther. Nothing could be gained by any disclosure I could make, and the\nonly question that troubled me, and sometimes troubles me now, is, was\nwhat I saw in Creeve House a vision or a dream?\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE JAIL TO THE BATTLEFIELD.\n\n\nEarly in the year 1743 a post-chaise, making for Dublin, was stopped\non the road near Castleknock by two highwaymen, one of whom held the\nhorses' heads, while the other, with pistol in hand, opened the coach\ndoor, and addressed its single occupant with the brief command: \"Your\nmoney or your life.\"\n\nThe occupant of the carriage, Mr. Vesey, deeming prudence the\nbetter part of valour, handed out his money-bags containing several\nhundred pounds and his watch, and was then allowed to proceed to his\ndestination. He at once acquainted the authorities; a vigorous search\nwas set on foot, and in a few days two brothers named Silvester and\nWilliam Keogh, who lived in the little village of Rathcoole, and who\nhad a very bad reputation were arrested. One of these, William, was\nidentified by Mr. Vesey as the man who had opened the door of the\ncarriage and had robbed him of his money and his watch. He was unable to\nidentify the other, who was, therefore, discharged from custody. William\nKeogh was put on his trial, and on the evidence of Mr. Vesey, convicted,\nand after sentence of death had been passed, was confined in old\nKilmainham Jail, where the sentence was to be carried out.\n\nA few days after the trial Mr. Vesey, who held a commission in the army,\nwas ordered off for foreign service. He attained the rank of captain,\nand his regiment formed part of the English column that had so nearly\nmade the field of Fontenoy \"a Waterloo.\" And when, before the impetuous\nonset of the Irish Brigade that almost invincible column broke,\nscattered, and fled, Captain Vesey lay with \"his back to the field and\nhis feet to the foe.\" Two balls had pierced him and a clubbed musket,\nwielded by a fierce Irish exile's arm, had reduced him to insensibility.\nBut he was not dead. Louis, when he saw that the field was won, gave\norders that the English wounded should be cared for as tenderly as\nhis own soldiers, and Captain Vesey was carried from the field to the\nhospital at Lille by an Irish soldier, of the regiment of Berwick, of\nthe name of Vaughan, who displayed towards him the greatest solicitude.\nCaptain Vesey received the utmost attention from the officers of the\nIrish Brigade at Lille, who, now that he was wounded and a prisoner\nin their hands, remembered only that he was their countryman. He soon\nbecame convalescent, and able to join the officers at mess. One evening\nwhen in the rooms of the Count de St. Woolstan, the conversation having\nturned on the incidents of the battle, an officer remarked that Captain\nVesey in all probability owed his life to the private who had carried\nhim off from the field when to all appearance he was dead. Captain\nVesey eagerly asked for the soldier's name, and said it was strange\nthat he had never looked to him for any recompense. Count de Woolstan\nundertook to find the soldier, and a few evenings later the latter\npresented himself at the count's quarters and was shown into the\npresence of Captain Vesey. The captain could hardly believe his eyes,\nbut if they did not deceive him, there before him stood William Keogh,\nwhom he had believed to be lying in a felon's grave in Kilmainham. He\nwas about to call him by his true name, when it occurred to him that\nthe recognition might be injurious to the man to whom he felt he was\nindebted for his life. He rose and thanked William _Vaughan_ warmly\nfor his kindness, and offered him twenty gold pieces, but the soldier\nrefused to take it. He was greatly agitated as he answered:\n\n\"No, Captain Vesey, I will never touch a penny of your money again.\"\n\n\"It would appear you have met before,\" remarked the count.\n\n\"We have,\" said Keogh, \"but Captain Vesey does not know all. I will tell\nyou.\"\n\nBut the count said he had no wish to become acquainted with the\nconfidence that was not intended for him. That he knew Vaughan only as a\ngood soldier and desired to know no more.\n\n\"And I pledge you my honour,\" said the captain, grasping Keogh by the\nhand, \"I shall never allude to you except as the man to whom I owe my\nlife.\"\n\nKeogh pressed the captain's hand warmly in his, and then, with the tears\nstarting to his eyes, he saluted the officers and left the room.\n\nA few months afterwards an exchange of prisoners was effected, and when\nCaptain Vesey was taking farewell of the gallant count, the latter\ninformed him that he had promoted Vaughan to the rank of sergeant.\nVaughan--or Keogh as we know him--asked for and was given the\nopportunity of saying good-bye to the captain, and he took a grateful\nfarewell.\n\nYears passed, and Captain Vesey had fought in India and America, when\nreturning to Europe the fortune of war again made him a prisoner in the\nhands of the French when the Duc de Richelieu captured Minorca. And for\nthe second time, Captain, or as he now was, Colonel Vesey, met with\nCount de Woolstan. Naturally enough they talked of former days, and the\ncolonel made inquiries concerning Vaughan, and he learned that shortly\nafter he (the colonel) had left Lille. Vaughan's brother had arrived\nfrom Ireland, joined Berwick's regiment and was killed at the battle of\nRaucoux. In that battle William was severely wounded and incapacitated\nfor further service, and he had become an inmate of the _Hotel des\nInvalides_.\n\nColonel Vesey, on being allowed to go on parole to Paris, sought out the\nold sergeant whose escape from the gallows had often been the cause of\ncurious but unsatisfactory conjecture. Keogh was delighted to see him,\nand, seated in one of the arbours in the garden of the Invalides, he\ntold him the story of his escape.\n\n\"They are all dead and gone now,\" said he, \"who assisted in it,\nand there is no longer need for secrecy. No one can be hurt by the\ndisclosure.\"\n\nHis story was briefly this: When he and his brother had taken the money\nthey put it into a canvas bag and hid it in a deep pool in the river\nLiffey below the Salmon Leap. There was a heavy weight attached to it to\nkeep it down, but it could be easily removed by a drag. When lying in\nhis condemned cell Keogh noticed that the jailer, who paid but little\nattention to the other prisoners awaiting execution, was particularly\nattentive to him, and one day the jailer entered the cell, and carefully\nclosing the door sat down on the stool, and asked him if he could do\nanything for him. Keogh replied that the only thing he could do was to\nget him off being hanged. After a pause the jailer asked:\n\n\"Have you the money?\"\n\n\"Every penny of it is safe,\" was the reply. \"And there is fifteen\nhundred pounds for a true friend.\"\n\nThe bait was tempting, and the jailer confessed he was in need of money.\nIf he could get that amount, he undertook to allow Keogh's brother,\nSylvester, to pass through his rooms, bring with him a rope ladder,\nthe key being left in the cell, and so the prisoner could escape at\nmidnight. But William would not hear of his brother being brought into\nthe plot, and suggested as an alternative that he, William, should get\nsick of jail fever, then a very common and often fatal disease; that he\nshould appear to die of it, and be sent out in a coffin.\n\nThe jailer caught at the suggestion, but said there must be a real\ncorpse, for there would have to be an inquest; and, he added, that in\nthat case there would only be a thousand pounds for himself as the\nremaining five hundred should be divided amongst necessary accomplices\non whom he could rely.\n\nAccordingly Keogh feigned illness, and made himself really sick by the\nuse of drugs with which the jailer supplied him. The prisoners in the\ncells at either side of him were removed, to be away from the contagion\nof the jail fever, from which Keogh was supposed to be suffering. At\nlength he was reported dead, and the night of his supposed death the\njailer introduced into his cell a corpse which had been dug up out of\nthe hospital fields. This was placed in Keogh's bed and the latter was\nlet out on the high road. The inquest was held and verdict found, the\njury not taking the trouble to view the corpse, deterred from so doing\nby fear of infection, and the brother Sylvester, the better to keep up\nthe deception, attended the funeral. William Keogh married a laundress\nin Paris and died about the year 1769, having by his gallant conduct\natoned for the crime of his youth, and he had the happiness of knowing\nthat he had not only obtained the forgiveness, but had also earned the\ngratitude of the man he had wronged.\n\n\n\n\nALL FOR A WOMAN'S EYES.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nIt was a little after midnight, in the last week of February, in the\nyear 1797.\n\nThree or four tallow candles, lighted fairly well that part of a\nlarge-sized room, in which stood a huge, old-fashioned four-poster bed,\non which old William Grierson lay dying.\n\nHe looked a man of seventy-five at least. The scant hair of his head was\nlike silver. His long, hatchet-like face was almost waxen in appearance,\nand remarkably free from wrinkles, and in the grey eyes shone some of\nthe old fire. But it was evident as he lay there that not only his hours\nbut his minutes were numbered. Between the midnight and the dawn seems\nto be the time chosen by the Messenger of Death to bring the last\nimperative, unavoidable summons, especially to the old whose footsteps\nhave lingered in the ways of life. It is, perhaps, kindly meant, for it\nis the time when the rational forces are weakest, and when the chief\ndesire--faint at best--is for repose.\n\nBy the bedside of the dying man were seated two persons. One was a youth\nwith one foot across the threshold of manhood. He was well-built,\nactive, good-looking, but his weak mouth suggested want of resolution,\nand the edges of his eyelashes, which concealed his dreamy eyes, were\nsuspiciously bright, as if tears had just visited them. He was the only\nson--the only child--of the dying man, and was here now, he knew, to\nreceive his father's last advice--his last blessing. The other was a man\nof fifty or thereabouts. He had a rugged, serious face, and by his dress\nand appearance would at once be taken for what he was--a Dissenting\nminister. He was seated towards the end of the bed. The young man sat\nbeside the pillow.\n\n\"I feel my last moments are come, Robby,\" he said faintly, \"and I would\nlike to give you my blessing before I go.\"\n\nSuppressing a sob, for the lad dearly loved his father, and was even\nmore dearly loved by him, because 'he was the child of his old age,'\nRobby knelt down beside the bed, and the dying father extended his thin,\nwasted hand, that was almost transparent, and laid it fondly on the head\nof the boy. The clergyman had also knelt down, and with his hands raised\nin supplication to heaven, he prayed silently in sympathy with the old\nman who was so soon to pass away from this fleeting world.\n\nIt was a scene and a moment to move less responsive hearts than that of\nyoung Robbie Grierson. He felt himself like one under some sacred spell,\nand at the touch of his father's hand his innermost and deepest feelings\nwere stirred.\n\n\"I am going home, Robbie,\" he said. \"I am going home where I hope to\nmeet the mother that bore ye and that ye never saw, and who gave her\nlife for ye, and before I go I want ye to promise me something, laddie.\nI want ye to promise me something--will ye do it, Robbie? Will ye\npromise it?\"\n\nRobbie bent his forehead until it touched the coverlet of the bed.\n\n\"I will promise, father.\"\n\n\"Blessed are those who honour their father and their mother, for their\ndays will be long in the land,\" murmured the clergyman, as if to\nhimself.\n\n\"Well, Robbie, the times are strange, and men are talking of revolution,\nand overthrowing governments, and of war that will be needed to bring\nall that about. I am a dying man, Robbie, and what do all their present\ncharges and revolutions seem to me. Ah, nothing more, lad, than the\ncrimples on the lake when the wind blows, or than the billows when the\nstorm rages--a boat or ship may go down with its load of souls, but when\nthe wind is at rest again, all is as before.\"\n\nThe tone of the speaker was so solemn, and the surroundings so dramatic,\nthat Robbie felt in no mood to question anything that was said, but\nlistened with pious and filial resignation.\n\n\"And now, Robbie, lad, I want ye to promise me, afore I go, that you\nwill not any longer meddle or make with politics, and that you will have\nnothing to do with any of these societies that, I hear, are being formed\nin this country, bound by oaths, they tell me. Will ye promise, Robbie,\nwill ye promise, lad. I am getting weak, Robbie, I want ye to promise me\nbefore I go, for your mother's sake and mine, laddie, and there's Mr.\nM'Clane there who will be your witness, Robbie.\"\n\nBut Robbie was silent and did not reply. The request had taken him by a\nsurprise so great that he knew not what to answer.\n\nRobert Grierson, with, as he believed, the tacit approval of his father,\nhad joined the Society of United Irishmen, and as he was well-educated,\nenthusiastic, and in a good position, for his father was known to be\nvery well off, and, besides his extensive farm, had a good round sum in\nthe bank, he easily acquired a rather prominent position, and was at the\nhead of one of the committees of councils into which his county was\ndivided. The society had become oath-bound, and Robbie, in view of his\nobligation as a member of it, knew not what to reply to his father's\nunexpected request.\n\n\"Honour your father and mother if your days will be long in the land.\"\n\nIt was the voice of the minister raised scarcely higher than a whisper.\n\n\"Will ye promise me, laddie, I'm flittin'? Will ye promise me, Robbie,\nbefore I go?\"\n\nRobert felt the hand on his relaxing. He lifted his own to catch it, and\nfound it cold. He looked on his father's face, and though he had not\nseen many die he felt the end was at hand.\n\n\"Will ye promise, Robbie?\" the voice was growing fainter.\n\n\"I promise.\"\n\n\"Kiss me, Robbie.\"\n\nThe son lifted himself up, bent over and kissed the wan lips of the\nfather.\n\n\"I die happy now, Robbie.\"\n\nThe tears blinded the youth's eyes. Brushing them away he looked his\nlast look on his dying father, who held one of his hands. The clergyman\nhad crept up and slipped his hand into the other.\n\nA little gasp, a little flicker of the eyes, and all was over. Old\nWilliam Grierson was no more.\n\nAt the funeral, a few days after, the whole countryside was present, for\nthe deceased had been held in high esteem, and there was much talk as to\nthe future of Robbie Grierson, who found himself so early in life master\nof a fine position, and even during the funeral procession of the father\nthose who were friends of the deceased were speculating as to the\nmarriage prospects of his son, for this is the way of the world.\n\nBut when the burial was over and done, Robbie Grierson set himself to\nwork earnestly at the farm, and kept himself aloof from his former\nassociates. He seemed to have become a wholly different being. He had\nbeen a bright, light-hearted youth, ready for all innocent fun and\nfrolic. Now he courted solitude and became almost morose. He declined\nall invitations to the meetings of the United Irish Society, giving\nnow one excuse and now another, until at last it became evident to\nthe members that he did not wish any longer to attend them. He was\nlooked upon as a very serious loss to their ranks, for he possessed\nconsiderable influence over a wide extent of country, and had been the\nmeans of attracting many recruits to the ranks of the brotherhood. What\nmade his loss still more serious in the eyes of the heads of the society\nwas that it appeared to be a defection, and, if such, it was likely to\nprove a tempting example to others who had looked up to Robert Grierson\nas one of the props of the society.\n\nHis conduct seemed inexplicable, for though not looked upon by his\nsuperiors as very resolute or masterful, he was believed to be sincere.\nAt length the explanation got about, which young Grierson himself, for\nsome reason or another, was reluctant to offer, and when the story of\nthe death came to be told, the utmost sympathy was felt with Grierson,\nand it was admitted by most that, under the circumstances, he could\nhardly be blamed for making the solemn promise which detached him from\nthe United Irishmen. But among them there were not wanting some who\nscoffed at Robert's respect for the promise which he had given to the\ndead, but the majority, it must be said, respected him for it, although\nthey considered it was unreasonable to exact it, and not binding on\nRobert.\n\nAvoiding, as far as possible, doing any violence to his feelings, the\nchief men of the district endeavoured to withdraw him from his solitary\ncourse, but in vain. They represented to him that a promise exacted\nunder such circumstances was not binding, for if it were, then the\nliving generations might always be bound by the dead, and that all\nprogress in human affairs would be arrested.\n\nBut Robert Grierson heeded them not, and he became apparently more\ndisconsolate, and what time he could spare from his business he spent\nwandering by the banks of the stream, broad and brown, and tossing up\nits tawny locks as it passed fretfully over the stones that here and\nthere interrupted its passage, and which formed the \"mearing\" between\nhis property and Mr. George Jephson, who was one of the chiefs of the\nUnited Irish Society in his district.\n\nA little story got abroad that there was another, or at least an\nadditional, reason for Robert Grierson keeping so much to himself. It\nwas said that he had been the suitor of a young lady in a position a\nlittle higher than his own, and that in the eyes of her parents his\nRepublican principles had proved an insuperable barrier to their union,\nand that with the object of bringing their romantic attachment to an\nend, the young lady had been sent away to England and was lost on the\nvoyage there, the vessel in which she sailed having been wrecked just\noutside Holyhead and all on board drowned.\n\nThe story was, in the main, true, and it was a cause of the most\npoignant grief to Robert Grierson that, having allowed his first love\nto go away from him rather than surrender his political principles, he\nnow felt himself coerced by his promise to his dead father to abandon\nthem, and, at least, to find it necessary for him to sever himself from\nthose who continued to be the exponents of those principles.\n\nBut love-stricken as Robert Grierson was, his heart had not been fatally\nwounded, and although the homely life he was now leading seemed to hand\nhim over a prey to melancholy, and although he persuaded himself that\nhe was utterly love-lorn and that his heart was secure from any new\nassaults of Cupid, he knew nothing of the power and the wiles of the\nmischievous son of Aphrodite, and never dreamt that the little archer\nhad the shaft fitted to the bow that would leave the whirring string\nonly to find a sure passage into his, Robert Grierson's heart.\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nOn an evening in May, 1797, Robert Grierson was strolling down by the\nbanks of the stream that bound his lands. The weather for weeks had been\nmild, and the country was dressed in the tender green that had not yet\ndrunk too deeply of the sunlight, unlike the leaves of mid-June, that\nhang so heavily and so listless in the still air. The stream was not\nyet as clear as it would be some weeks later, but it glared brightly\nenough as it flashed and swirled when the stones or boulders strove to\nstop its way, and even when it ran smooth and deep the rays of the sun,\ndescending in an almost cloudless sky, coloured its brown surface to a\ngolden hue.\n\nLike most romantic youths, Robert Grierson loved to converse with\nrivers. Their bickerings, their whispers, their mysterious murmurings\nand sobbings, their chafing at obstructions, and the soft fretting on\nthe banks when the way was clear had all become familiar to him, and all\nthese seemed to glide into his darker musings, \"and steal away their\nsharpness ere he was aware.\"\n\nHad anyone interrupted him as he strolled along and asked him what he\nwas thinking of, he would have found it difficult, if not impossible to\ngive a satisfactory reply. The thoughts of youth, as the poet tells us,\n\"are long, long thoughts,\" which is another way of saying it is given\nthem to indulge in indefinable longings. But whatever were the musings\nof Robert Grierson on this evening he was suddenly brought back to his\nsurroundings by a scream and a splash.\n\nAt the opposite side of the stream and knee-deep up to his fore-legs\nin it, was a pony, on which sat a lady, looking scared but gloriously\nbeautiful in the light of the setting sun.\n\n\"Oh, I'll be drowned! I'll be drowned!\"\n\nThere was no danger whatever. The pony had come down a boreen leading to\nthe river--to a watering place and knew what he was about. Not so the\nlady, whom Grierson saw was a stranger, and who was evidently afraid the\npony would carry her up mid-stream.\n\nGrierson without hesitation plunged in, and waded up to his neck for a\nshort distance until he swam by the pony's head. Assuring the lady that\nthere was no danger, he waited until the pony had slaked his thirst, and\nthen turning his head round led him back to the boreen.\n\nThe lady was profuse in her thanks, which Grierson protested were not at\nall deserved, but they were, nevertheless, very grateful to him, for\nthey were uttered in a voice the most musical he had ever heard. It was\nsoft, almost caressing, and there was, moreover, a flavour of a foreign\naccent which seems to claim a special tender consideration for the\nspeaker when she is a lady, young and beautiful, and a stranger.\n\nWith a final graceful wave of her hand, and shooting a Parthian glance\nfrom her dark eyes that went with unerring aim to Grierson's heart, she\nurged her pony forward, and rounding a bend of the boreen was quickly\nlost to view.\n\nGrierson stood gazing after her, like one whose gaze was fixed on a\nvision. It may be that the sun had sunk down behind the hills when she\nvanished, as it were, from his sight, but the very air seemed dark, the\nriver ran in shadows, and his clinging wet clothes helped to free him\nfrom the spell of enchantment under which he had been drawn.\n\nHe ought to have hastened home to change his clothing, but he went there\nslowly, rehearsing in his mind the little scene in which he had taken\npart. Never was face so fair, he whispered to himself; never was voice\nso sweet, never were eyes so bewitching. As he thought of them his very\nsoul seemed striving to escape from him to follow them.\n\nAlas, \"for the love that lasts alway!\"\n\nHad anyone dared on that morning to whisper to Robert Grierson that\nbefore the sun went down he would have completely forgotten his first\nlove, and become the bondslave of a woman's eyes, whose name he did not\nknow, and whom he had never seen, he would have regarded the prophecy\nas little better than an insult, or, at least, as a foolish, idle\nutterance. And now, as he was turning into his house, he felt that in\nmeeting so unexpectedly the fair unknown this evening he had met his\nfate.\n\nHe spent many hours that night thinking of her, and wondering who she\nwas. He surmised that she was a guest of his neighbour, Mr. ----, who,\nas we know, was a prominent member of the United Society, and Grierson\nwondered he had heard nothing of her before, but then he remembered that\nhe had kept himself so much aloof that very little gossip of any kind\nreached his ears.\n\nWhen he thought of the way in which she and he had met he could not\nhelp regretting that he had not the opportunity of rendering her a more\nsignal service, and he began spinning out romantic scenes in his mind--a\nhorse tearing madly along straight for a precipice, a shrieking maiden\nclinging to his mane, and at the last moment he, Robert Grierson,\nmanaging to seize the reins, stopping the horse, but falling as he did\nso, and becoming unconscious, and then when he woke up, feeling sore all\nover, not knowing where he was, for he found himself in a dimly lighted\nroom, and while he was still wondering a fair face bent softly over him,\netc., etc. Other scenes in which the incidents were varied, succeeded,\nuntil he fell asleep.\n\nWhen he woke the following morning, the fair vision of the previous\nevening came before his eyes, and he decided that he would endeavour to\nfind out who the lady was.\n\nThe news came to him unexpectedly. Mr. ---- came over to thank him for\nhimself and also on behalf of his guest. Grierson very naturally made\nlight of the business as a thing, so far as he was concerned, not worth\ntalking about; but Mr. ---- assured him that the young lady was very\ngrateful, and it would, he said, give him great pleasure if Grierson\nwould come over to his house that evening to supper. Grierson, after a\nlittle reluctance, which he felt bound to pretend owing to his having\nrefused so many former invitations from the same quarter, agreed to go,\nand that evening found him in the society of Rosette Neilan, who had\nlately come back from France, and who was an ardent admirer of that\ngallant people, and was full of enthusiasm for the cause of liberty.\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nLOVE'S TRIUMPH.\n\nThe only persons present at the supper were Mr. ----, his wife, Rosette,\nand Grierson, and it must be confessed that the young lady did all the\ntalking. Most of it was about her school days, and there were bright\nlittle sketches of French life and much, but not very much, of the army\nthat was sweeping over Europe, overthrowing old landmarks and breaking\nup dynasties. It was hardly to be wondered at that the others were\nlisteners. The lovely face of the speaker seemed to beam as she spoke.\nHer beautiful eyes were at times as still as a waveless sea, and as\ndeep, under the blue sky of a cloudless summer day. At times they\nflashed and sparkled as she became more interested in the subject of her\nconversation; her speech seemed to flow, as flows the song of the lark\nsinging and winging his way up until he is lost in the height, and\nthere was that _soup\u00e7on_ of a foreign accent to which we have already\nreferred, and to which we are half tempted to give the name of \"brogue,\"\nknowing how sweet what we call the \"brogue\" can be in a winsome Irish\ngirl's lips. Then there were the wonderful gestures that seemed, as it\nwere, to add colour and motion to her descriptions. It was simply a\ndelight to watch the play of her features, and as for Robert Grierson,\nhe seemed to himself as if he were under a spell, and in truth he was.\nIf Love had wounded him the previous evening, this night it succeeded in\nbinding him hand and foot; and, as he returned home, walking in the\nmoonlight by the stream, he seemed to hear, as it murmured by, the music\nof her voice.\n\nIt is hardly necessary to say that he made frequent opportunities of\nmeeting her. Mr. and Mrs. ---- gave him every facility. Mrs. ----,\nbecause she was, like most women, a bit of a matchmaker, and could\nsympathise still with a little love romance. That this was one she did\nnot doubt. Anyone with her opportunity would have found no difficulty\nin making this discovery, and she regarded the match in every way a\nsuitable one. Rosette was, indeed, almost penniless, while Robert\nGrierson had enough and to spare for both, with no relatives depending\non him, and she thought he ought to be proud to win for his wife so\nbeautiful and charming a girl as Rosette.\n\nAs for Mr. ----, he was glad of the intimacy which he saw springing\nup between the young couple, for other, though hardly as romantic,\nreasons. As for Rosette herself, she had been so much accustomed to\nadmiration that at first she accepted Robert Grierson's attentions as\na matter of course, but it was not very long until she felt that her\ninterest in him was becoming deeper, and her longing to meet him\nstronger.\n\nDuring their earlier meetings their talk was just such as might be\nexpected to take place between a handsome, brilliant, light-hearted,\nyoung lady, who assumed the airs of a queen, and a somewhat bashful\nyoung gentleman, who had felt his heart was under her feet, and who,\ndazed by her beauty and her will, could do barely more than listen and\nadmire. But when they had become more intimate her talk was of another\ncharacter. She began to speak much of France--of the Revolution--of the\ncause of Liberty.\n\nShe seemed to know by heart the wonderful story of the young Republic\nthat had started up half armed and caught hoary dynasties by the throat,\nand humbled them to the dust.\n\nAs she spoke the battlefields seemed to rise before her vision, and she\ndescribed the conflicts as if she had taken part in them, and on one\noccasion, after telling how a crowd of beardless boys, without shoes,\nand almost in tatters, had rushed the heights and sabred the Austrian\ngunners, she suddenly turned towards Grierson, and, with passionate\ngesture, exclaimed:\n\n\"Ah, if I were a man, I should be a soldier. But if I ever marry, I'll\nmarry only a soldier of liberty.\"\n\nShe and Grierson were standing on a knoll that rose over the river that\nflashed back the hues of the sunset.\n\nThey fell also on the face and figure of Rosette, and as Grierson\nlistened to her impassioned tones and watched her lovely face glowing\nwith transcendent beauty he felt she had only to lift her finger to\nbeckon him to destruction, and that he would have leaped in response\nlike a hound loosened from the leash.\n\n\"Ah, glorious France!\" she exclaimed, \"she had only to stamp her foot\nand out her children came swarming round her, begging her to let them go\nfight, conquer or die for her.\"\n\n\"But poor Ireland,\" and a wistful look came into her eyes, \"I come back\nto you only to find a race of slaves!\"\n\nAnd her voice, exultant a second before, sank as if burdened with great\nsorrow.\n\nThen, after a slight pause, she resumed.\n\n\"But I fear I should not have spoken this way, Mr. Grierson, and the\nevening is waning, and I had better return home.\"\n\n\"Not have spoken this way!\" Grierson exclaimed, \"as if I have any desire\nto find fault with your words or your thoughts; as if every word of\nyours does not find a home in my heart!\"\n\nAnd he caught her little hand and lifted it to his lips.\n\nShe permitted the caress, then gently withdrawing her hand she repeated:\n\"I had better return home.\"\n\n\"But why should you not speak to me and tell me everything?\" he cried\npassionately.\n\n\"Because--because,\" she stammered, \"you know you were once one--one of\nus, but you are so no longer.\"\n\n\"One of us!\" and he emphasised the last word.\n\n\"Oh, I mean,\" she replied with a slight toss of her head, rather\nsuggestive of disdain, \"you were once a soldier of liberty--but you are\nso no longer.\"\n\nFor a second he was puzzled, then his heart caught her meaning.\n\n\"You said you would marry only a soldier of liberty.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" she replied.\n\n\"And if I were one?\"\n\n\"But you are not! Look, the sun is sinking behind the hills already--the\nshadows are in the valley. I must return.\"\n\n\"But if I were a soldier of liberty once more. If I take the oath of the\nUnited Men?\"\n\n\"You took it, Robert Grierson.\"\n\n\"But you do not understand. You have not heard all.\"\n\n\"I understand. I have heard everything. You took the oath, and while men\nare arming everywhere, and the revolution that will make Ireland a\nRepublic like France and like America is setting into motion you are\nplaying the part of a truant and a dreamer.\"\n\n\"But my promise was given to the dying--I might almost say, dead.\"\n\n\"Then go amongst the graves and keep it.\"\n\n\"But this is too cruel, Rosette--Rosey--little Rose. Tell me, if I were\nto--to join the United ranks again, would you count me a soldier of\nliberty?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" she replied. \"Every Irish soldier of liberty is one now.\"\n\n\"And if I did would there be hope for me? You know what I mean,\nRosette.\"\n\n\"Green is the colour of the United Men,\" she answered, \"and you have\nheard, I'm sure, how, when Camille Desmoulines, in the gardens of the\nPalais Royal in the beginning of the Revolution, plucked a leaf from\none of the trees, he decked himself with it, crying out: 'Green is the\ncolour of hope.'\"\n\nHer eyelids drooped a little as he looked at her with an ardent gaze.\n\n\"And may I hope?\" he asked.\n\n\"If you wear the green.\" And she held towards him a leaf which she had\nplucked.\n\nHe took it and kissed it, and then? Well, it is enough to say that\nRobert Grierson once more wore the green, as the affianced lover of\nRosette.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nLA DONNA E MOBILE.\n\nThe announcement of her engagement to Robert Grierson was received with\ngreat pleasure both by Mr. and Mrs. ----, the latter from reasons\nalready mentioned, and by the former because it was accompanied with the\nassurance that the young man had been once more brought within the ranks\nof the United Society. But although this was so, and that he attended\ntheir meetings, he hardly displayed his former zeal, and there were\nsome who thought that his broken promise to his dead father weighed on\nhis mind. Perhaps it did. But it is not unlikely that love was also\nresponsible. And it happened that Rosette, who had been so fervent\nin the cause of liberty, and so eager to talk of it, since she had\nacknowledged her love for Robert and promised to be his bride, began to\nfind other and more tender subjects for conversation, and as these two\nyoung lovers, all in all to each other, strolled down the green laneways\nor by the banks of the winding stream under the blue skies of April, he\nas well as she were fain to forget that already the conflict had begun\nwhich was to decide whether the United Irish Society or the English\nGovernment were to be masters in Ireland. But at last the time arrived\nwhich brought them face to face with the fact that a rising was soon to\ntake place in Ulster, and that Robert Grierson would have to take his\npart in it.\n\nAnd now the lovers were in the sweet month of May, when, under other\ncircumstances, their hearts would rejoice with the joyous month of\nflowers. When they had plighted their troth only such a short time\nbefore they knew that the effort to throw off the British yoke was soon\nto be made, and they had seriously desired that the marriage was not to\ntake place until it was over. The issue then did not seem doubtful, for\nwere not the French coming to render assistance? and in a few weeks\nIreland would be free from the centre to the sea.\n\nBut now not a day passed without rumours of arrests of popular leaders,\nand the daily court-martials in Belfast and elsewhere. These, it must\nbe confessed, had little or no effect on Grierson, but they had a most\nunexpected effect on Rosette. A gloom seemed to settle on her spirits,\nfor at night she had fearful visions of gallowses, and of strangled\nmen, and in nearly every case the face of the victim bore a grotesque\nresemblance to that of her lover.\n\nShe endeavoured to conceal the apprehensions that preyed on her. But\nRobert coaxed her to tell him the cause of her unhappiness. It chanced\nthat they were standing together on the spot where they had plighted\ntheir mutual vows, and which naturally had become dear to both of them.\nAgain the sun was setting gloriously, and the stream shone and flashed,\nand from the green hedgerows there were some sweet, small voices singing\na farewell to the setting sun. But there was no longer the radiant face\nof Rosette. The sunset light only served to expose its unutterable\nsadness.\n\nGrierson had his arm round her waist.\n\n\"Tell me, darling, tell me, my own little Rosy, what is the trouble on\nyou?\"\n\n\"Oh, Robbie, Robbie!\" the tears came to her eyes, \"what brought me here?\nWhat brought me and you together?\"\n\n\"Why, darling, what do you mean? What brought you here except to make me\nthe happiest man in Ulster, or out of it.\"\n\n\"No, no, Robbie, love, you were happy till I came. You might be happy\nnow and always, but I--I have changed the current of your life. It might\nhave run on calmly as the stream below, flowing in an accustomed course,\nbut now----\"\n\n\"But no, darling, whatever be its course, it will run brighter than the\nstream runs on there so long as I have you with me, my own dear, darling\nlittle Rosette.\"\n\nAnd he drew her towards him and kissed her.\n\n\"But Robbie, don't you understand, dear. I have had such dreams, and of\nyou--oh, they have frightened my very soul!\"\n\n\"You silly darling. Do you not know that dreams go by contraries!\"\n\n\"Oh, but they come again and again.\"\n\n\"Then what were they, dearest? They will lose all their terror if you\ntell me,\" and thus he coaxed her story from her, and he kissed her and\nlaughed away her fears for the time, but it was only for the time. The\ndreams recurred--not always the same, however, for sometimes instead\nof the scaffold she appeared to see a battlefield heaped with dead,\nthe faces of most of the corpses gashed, and amongst them, always\nrecognisable by her, and she felt it was gashed almost out of\nrecognition--was that of Robert Grierson.\n\nThe result of these dismal dreams was that Rosette became thoroughly\nconvinced that her lover was destined to a fatal end unless, for she\ncould see no other alternative, he were to quit the country, and day\nafter day her spirits sank, and, do what he could, Robbie was unable to\ncheer her.\n\nAnd now the news arrived that the rising was determined on, and a few\ndays later it was followed by the news that Leinster was up.\n\nGrierson had to confess to himself that Rosette's forebodings had deeply\naffected him, and, moreover, as the moment for action approached, the\nscene at the deathbed of his father intruded itself frequently. His\nconscience seemed to goad him for having broken the promise so solemnly\ngiven, and at the next moment he felt that it never should have been\nexacted, and at all costs he knew he would have given it up a dozen\ntimes for Rosette's sake.\n\nBut here was Rosette now sorry that she had made him break it. But\nwithout doing so could he have won her? And then his memory summoned\nher up as she stood next him on that fateful evening.\n\nAt last Grierson received orders to join the forces under Munroe, and he\nand Rosette were once more going down by the stream. \"Would it be the\nlast time?\" his heart kept asking him, yet he strove to be cheerful, and\nhe talked of returning in a few months at the outside, and making his\nRosette his own bonny bride.\n\nRosette had, on her side, endeavoured to bear up bravely, but at last\nshe completely broke down.\n\n\"Oh, darling, darling, I've led you to your ruin--to your death.\nYes--yes, it is I who will have killed you. I would give my eyes out\nfor you, dearest!\"\n\n\"Keep them for me, darling! that will be better,\" Robbie answered, with\naffected gaiety, and he kissed the tears away.\n\n\"But Robbie, if you love me, if you love me, dearest, there is yet time\nto save yourself. I was wrong, Robbie, it was sinful of me to get you to\nviolate your solemn pledge to your dying father. I saw him in my dreams\nlast night, and his face was full of anger. Oh, Robbie, I've done wrong,\nand you--you are the victim.\"\n\nHe pressed her towards him, patted her cheek, remaining silent, thinking\nit better to let her speak without interruption.\n\nAt last, withdrawing herself from his arms, she returned a step or two\nand then fell on her knees. She stretched out her hands. \"Oh, Robbie,\nif you love me fly--fly to-night while there is yet time, when you are\nsafe beckon me to come to you, and I'll follow you if need be around the\nworld.\"\n\nRobbie bent down and tenderly lifted her up.\n\n\"Dearest, you will crush my heart if you talk in that way. But what you\nask is impossible. Be my own brave girl and banish these silly fears.\nYou would not have them brand me a coward or a traitor. I should be one,\nif not both, if I faltered or fled now when the summons has come. If I\ncould do so, dear, I know that when you and I would meet again I should\nbe ashamed to look into your eyes, counting myself, as I would be, a\nrenegade. No, dearest, I'll never bring that disgrace upon myself or on\nthe woman who has given me her love.\"\n\nAnd so till the night came he strove to soothe her and to cheer her\nheart--his own sad enough--but after the final adieu he set out for home\nfor the last time he was ever to visit it, with face set and conscious\nthat he was taking the only course that was open to him, but his heart\nwas dark with forebodings.\n\nThe next day he joined Munroe. Poor Rosette remained at home praying and\nweeping, anticipating always the worst, and unable to shake off the\nconviction that the day of her happiness had come to a close.\n\nAt last the terrible news arrived of the defeat of Munroe at\nBallinahinch and the dispersal of his forces. There was at first no\nword of Robert Grierson, and, of course, Rosette concluded that he was\nleft amongst the slain.\n\nThe following day, towards nightfall, a labourer who had been in\nRobert's employment, brought her the news that Robert was concealed in\nhis cabin a few miles away. Thither she sped that night to find Robert\nlying on a heap of clean straw rather badly wounded, but in fairly\ncheerful spirits.\n\nThere he remained for several days, and was rapidly gaining health, and\nRosette's hopes were reviving, and she again indulged the dream that she\nand Robert would be happy, for she had secured a promise from him which\nhe was now free to give--that, as soon as he was well enough, he would\nendeavour to escape to France, whither she would follow him.\n\nBut alas, it was only a dream. The bloodhounds were on his track. One\nmorning, just in the grey of dawn, Rosette was making her way close to\nthe cabin in which Robbie lay, when suddenly she was confronted by a\nsmall party of yeos. She turned and fled, pursued by a volley of oaths\nand villainous jests. Worse still, she was followed by one or two of the\nparty, and although she flew like a deer she was quickly overtaken, for\nher foot having caught in a briar she stumbled and fell.\n\nThe yeo picked her up, and then swore out: \"By ----, it's the\nFrenchwoman, and her lover cannot be far off.\"\n\nIn the meantime the approach of the yeos to the house had been\ndiscovered, and the owner had taken out Grierson to the haggard, and\nconcealed him effectually in a heap of turf which stood by the house.\nWithin a few minutes the yeos came, bringing Rosette along, her face\naflame with indignation.\n\n\"Search the house,\" cried the leader of the band. They did so. There was\nno one in it. \"Come, my man tell us at your peril where the traitor\nGrierson is?\"\n\n\"That's more than I know\" replied the owner of the house, to whom the\nquestion had been addressed.\n\n\"Well this wench can tell us, and shall tell us,\" cried one of the most\nruffianly of the gang, and he seized Rosette in such a manner as to\ncause her to scream out.\n\nSuddenly the clump of turf came tumbling about the yard, and with\nflashing eyes and white face Robert Grierson staggered out and made for\nthe ruffian.\n\n\"Unhand her, you coward,\" and he struck at his face. Weak as he was the\nblow was not without effect, and Rosette was free from the polluted\ngrasp.\n\nThere was something in the passion of Grierson that seemed to win the\nsympathy of the yeoman captain, who had been acquainted with Grierson.\n\n\"Come,\" he said, \"submit quietly to be bound and I pledge myself the\ngirl shall go away unmolested.\"\n\n\"Oh, Robbie, Robbie!\" was all poor Rosette could say, her whole frame\nshaking with sobs.\n\nWhen the yeos were ready to march with Grierson they first had a look\nround for the man of the house. But he fled when Robbie discovered\nhimself, and had run where he could not be found. The yeos, by way\nof revenge, set fire to the thatch. Rosette begged to be allowed to\naccompany the prisoner. Ordering the yeos to fall back from the latter,\nthe captain brought Rosette up to him.\n\n\"I would grant your request,\" he said kindly, \"but if you take my advice\nyou will go to your home. I might be able to protect you from insult,\nbut we shall transfer our prisoner to other hands.\"\n\nRobbie urged her to act on this suggestion--and she, promising that she\nwould visit him in prison, bringing Mr. ---- with her, on the following\nday, took a heartbroken farewell, striving to appear strong so as not to\ngive sport to the yeos.\n\nShe went to a little hill that commanded the road for nearly a mile,\ndown which the yeos and their prisoner went. As she watched him further\nand further away, the life-blood seemed to ebb from her heart, and when\nat last they rounded a curve that shut them out from view, poor Rosette\nutterly broke down and fell fainting to the ground.\n\nA week later the scaffold found a fresh victim in Robert Grierson. Poor\nRosette's love story was over. Her darkest dream had proved true.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RUSE OF MADAME MARTIN.\n\n\nNature was a little unkind to Danton Martin when it encased a great soul\nin a small body; and Love, which can also play fantastic tricks, had\nmated him with a wife fully a head over him and otherwise of ample\nproportions, of whom, not without reason, he was very proud. She was\nuncommonly handsome, had a fine figure, and knew how to make the most of\nit; and if at times he felt rebuked by Madame's superior size, there\nwas, by way of compensation, their only child, Lucille, who was just\nhome from the convent, and who was no taller than her father, and was a\nperfect copy of her mother's beauty. Her little face was as bright as a\nsummer day without its sameness, and its sparkling vivacity had turned\nthe heads of all the young fellows of Merploer; and when Monsieur Martin\nwas seated with his little Lucille beside him on the Place, on the days\non which the band played, and saw the many admiring glances cast in her\ndirection, he felt as proud as a king on his throne.\n\nNot, indeed, that he was a respector of kings, quite the contrary. He\nwas, as he asserted, a republican of the republicans. Did not, he would\nask, did not one of his ancestors take part in the storming of the\nBastille? Did not another dip his handkerchief in the blood of Monsieur\nVeto, and coming to later times, did not Martin p\u00e8re fall wounded in the\nfusilade of the _coup d'\u00e9tat_ of \"Napoleon the Little,\" and did he not\nquit France rather than live under a hated Empire, and return to it only\nwhen the Republic was once more built on the ruins of a throne? Alas,\nthere were not wanting some to hint that the wound was a myth, and that\nhe went to England solely to better himself, and came back only when he\nhad secured a competence, if not a fortune. Be this as it may, Martin\np\u00e8re married the daughter of a rich shipowner in Merploer, and as a\nproof of his republican faith he gave to his only son the name of\nDanton.\n\nDanton Martin did his best to live up to the great name, but it was no\neasy task in quiet times of peace and slow reform, and the republican\nsentiment of Merploer was sluggish if not almost stagnant.\n\nDanton Martin had his hours of despondency, and at times he would, in\nthe solitude of his dressing-room, but not always unperceived by Madame,\nstand before the mirror and, endeavouring to assume a leonine aspect,\nstrike his chest and recall the famous words which had been uttered at\nthe foot of the scaffold, \"Danton, no weakness!\"\n\nInspired by the great name and example, Danton Martin founded a\npolitical club in Merploer at \"Le Vieux Corsaire.\" Its object was to\ndisseminate true republican principles. Its motto \"The Republic One and\nIndivisible.\"\n\nEvery member of the club who saluted a fellow member was bound to follow\nup the salute with the aspiration \"Long live the Republic,\" to which the\ninvariable rejoinder was \"One and Indivisible.\"\n\nThis phrase had a special virtue in Danton Martin's eyes. By a Republic\nOne and Indivisible he meant one that should be supreme over the minds\nof all true Frenchmen, and that should brook no rival to its influence.\nTherefore what he styled the pretensions of the Church were to be beaten\ndown. Again and again he proclaimed these views at \"Le Vieux Corsaire,\"\nand as a public proof of his faith he caused the phrase to be inscribed\nround a head of Liberty carved in relief on a plaque over the front\nentrance to his villa, called after his little daughter \"Villa Lucille.\"\n\nBut, alas, there were not wanting some envious tongues to assert\nthat Danton Martin's republican principles went no further than his\nhall-door, and that inside the Villa Lucille the loud-voiced orator of\n\"Le Vieux Corsaire\" was as quiet as the proverbial church mouse.\n\nThere was something more than a grain of truth in this. Madame had not\ntroubled herself with her husband's views in politics until the laws\nsuppressing the religious congregations were set in motion. When,\nhowever, matters had proceeded so far that the good Sisters, by whom\nshe, and, subsequently, Lucille, had been educated, were turned out upon\nthe street, Madame's indignation knew no bounds.\n\n\"A nice kind of Republic your Republic is,\" she cried to Danton; \"it\nabandoned the provinces to Germany without striking a single blow to\nrecover them; and the only employment it can find for its army (which,\nwe are told, is the one hope of France) is to break into convents,\nand fling defenceless women into the street. Your Republic, one and\nindivisible, is splitting France in two. Never speak to me of it again!\"\n\nDanton winced, but was silent; he was weak enough to find extenuating\ncircumstances for Madame's indignation. Had she not been brought up, he\nsaid, by the Sisters, and what else could be expected from her?\n\nThe Martin marriage had been one of affection on both sides, and this\nwas the first dark cloud which had lowered over Villa Lucille, and it\nwas destined to become darker.\n\nLucille had a very dear school friend--Yolande de Lauvens--whose\nbrother, Henri, was a lieutenant in the Engineers; and Yolande having\nbeen on a long visit to Lucille, Henri had, thanks to Madame, who had a\nvery high opinion of the young lieutenant, many opportunities of seeing\nLucille, of course always in her mother's presence. The result was that\nthe young people fell in love. Monsieur Martin had perceived nothing of\nthis, and it was with genuine astonishment that he learned from Madame\nthat the lieutenant only waited his assent to become a suitor for his\ndaughter's hand. He had never even suspected such a thing. More than\nonce he had stated to his friends that he would take care that Lucille\nshould become the wife of a true Republican, and on several occasions at\nthe meetings at \"Le Vieux Corsaire\" he had declared that the Republic\ncould not thoroughly rely upon the army until the aristocrats among the\nofficers had been weeded out, and he would recall with glowing words the\nachievements of the armies of the First Republic, when the aristocrats\nhad fled and turned their arms against their country. Lieutenant de\nLauvens was an aristocrat, and on this matter Danton felt that he could\nnot give way. His reply to Madame's pleadings was summed up in the final\nsentence:\n\n\"Madame, the thing is impossible, and in this at least you shall find\nthat Danton Martin will show no weakness!\"\n\nDanton meant to be firm, but although Madame appeared to have accepted\nhis position as final, and Lucille said nothing, he was very unhappy,\nand day after day his unhappiness increased. For the first time,\nsomething had come between him and those whom he loved best in all the\nworld.\n\nIt was, perhaps, as well for him that he was able to find some\ndistraction in the preparations, which were being made on a grand scale,\nfor the reception of the Minister of Marine, who was coming to Merploer\non an approaching _f\u00eate_, and whose visit was to be the occasion of a\ndemonstration in force of true republicanism.\n\nOne of the features of the demonstration was a procession which should\npass twice along the boulevard, at the top of which stood a most\nconspicuous object--Villa Lucille, and Danton tried to encourage the\nhope that on the day of the procession the balcony would be graced by\nthe presence of Madame and Lucille. Once or twice he hinted as much to\nMadame, but she received the hint in chilling silence. Danton, however,\nstill hopeful gave orders that the balcony should be gaily decorated\nwith evergreens and trophies of tricolour flags.\n\nAt length the night preceding the great day arrived. Danton came home\nvery late, as he had been detained helping to perfect the arrangements\nfor the morrow.\n\nAssuming that all were asleep, he crept upstairs. At Lucille's room he\npaused, and, leaving his candle on the landing, he gently pushed open\nthe door that he might go in, as usual, to whisper good-night to her, as\nshe lay asleep in her little nest, under the guardianship of a Madonna,\nbefore whose shrine a small red lamp was always burning. To-night he was\nsurprised to find the room in utter darkness. The lamp must have gone\nout, he thought. He brought in his candle, and when by its light he saw\nthe room he was hardly able to suppress an exclamation of amazement. It\nhad undergone a complete metamorphosis. The dainty curtains had gone\nfrom the bed; the shrine had been removed, and also the pictures of the\nsaints from the walls. Instead of these were portraits of Danton and\nother Titans of the great Revolution, and over Lucille's bed was a lurid\npicture of the execution of Louis XVI.\n\nBending over the sleeping Lucille, he thought he noticed the trace of\ntears on her cheek. Utterly perplexed, he stole out of the room hoping\nto find some explanation from his wife, but she was snoring the snore of\nthe just; and on the bedroom wall facing the door was the legend\n\"Liberty, Fraternity, Equality--or Death.\"\n\nDanton did not dare to rouse Madame; and desirous of blotting out the\nwords that seemed to mock him, he blew out the candle and went to bed in\nthe dark.\n\nAfter about an hour he woke with a scream.\n\n\"What is the matter, Danton?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, ch\u00e9rie, I've had a nightmare.\"\n\n\"No weakness, Danton.\"\n\n\"No, ch\u00e9rie.\"\n\nMadame in a second or two was again snoring rhythmically, but to Danton\nsleep did not return so speedily. He had been dreaming of processions;\nthen he thought he was in a tumbrel on the way to execution, and that\nthe angry crowd with threatening gestures were hurling fierce oaths at\nhim, and turning to escape the sight he found himself face to face with\na fellow victim--it was Lucille! Although he knew now that it was only a\nnightmare, the horrible vision kept renewing itself, but merciful sleep\ncame to him at last, and, when he awoke again, it was the cheery voice\nof the bonne offering her usual good morning to Monsieur and Madame, as\nshe entered the bedroom with the _petit d\u00e9jeuner_.\n\n\"Good-morning, Julie,\" replied Madame; \"long live the Republic!\"\n\n\"One and indivisible,\" replied Julie, in a solemn voice.\n\nDanton rubbed his eyes, and he could hardly trust his ears. Julie was in\nthe costume of a drummer boy of the First Republic!\n\n\"Good-morning, mamma!\" sang a voice in the next room.\n\n\"Our birdie is awake,\" said Madame; and then, in a louder tone,\n\"Good-morning, dearest! Long live the Republic!\"\n\n\"One and indivisible,\" replied Lucille, and then, \"Good-morning, papa!\"\n\n\"Good-morning, ch\u00e9rie!\"\n\n\"Long live the Republic,\" said Lucille, gaily.\n\nFor the first time in his life the reply seemed to stick in Danton's\nthroat; but he got it out, \"One and indivisible!\" and he coughed as if\nhis coffee had gone against his breath. When he recovered he addressed\nhis wife, who had risen and pulled back the curtains of the balcony.\n\"Pray, Madame, will you be good enough to explain?\"\n\n\"The explanation is as simple as I hope it will be gratifying,\" said\nMadame, in the tone of a tragedy queen. \"The 'Republic, one and\nindivisible' has entered our house and taken possession of it. It has\nentered my bosom and taken possession of it. It has entered the bosom of\nLucille and taken possession of it, and never again shall it be said\nthat the Villa Lucille is divided against itself. Never again shall the\nscoffer say that the republicanism of Danton Martin stops outside his\nhall-door. We shall silence him to-day, Danton; we shall silence the\nscoffer to-day! You have asked that Lucille and I should appear on the\nbalcony when the procession passes. We shall be there--I, as the genius\nof Liberty and Lucille as a daughter of the Republic. See,\" continued\nMadame, as she moved towards a wardrobe, \"here are my helmet, lance, and\nshield, and I have also pink tights.\"\n\n\"Tights!\" Danton was hardly able to gasp out the word. The idea of\nMadame's ample figure in tights nearly took away his breath.\n\n\"Yes,\" Madame went on, as if she had not noticed his surprise; \"but I\nshall, of course, wear a little classic drapery out of respect for the\nprejudices of Lucille. But see how the helmet becomes me.\"\n\nShe opened the wardrobe, and Danton saw the gleam of polished armour.\nShe donned a helmet, slipped her left arm through a shield, and, taking\na lance in her right hand, stood with her back against the wall, under\nthe legend of \"Liberty, Fraternity, Equality--or Death.\"\n\nDanton could only look; he was speechless.\n\n\"Listen, Danton, listen; do you hear the cry? 'Vive le Drapeau Rouge!'\nIt is the workmen who are passing. You see I have arranged the tricolour\non the balcony, so that only the red shows.\"\n\n\"But, my God, Madame, the Drapeau Rouge!\"\n\n\"No weakness, Danton! No weakness!\"\n\n\"Rub-a-dub-a-dub!\"\n\n\"What is that?\" demanded Danton, as he heard the sound of a drum\ndownstairs.\n\n\"It is Julie practising the Carmagnole.\"\n\n\"The what? Are you all mad?\"\n\n\"There, the baker is ringing,\" said Madame, and passing by Danton, she\nwent towards the door and called out, \"Two loaves, Julie; two loaves.\"\n\n\"And is Julie going to the baker in that costume?\" shrieked Danton, and,\nattired in his pyjamas, he rushed downstairs.\n\n\"Mille diables!\" he yelled, as he pulled back Julie from the hall-door.\n\"To the kitchen, hussy.\"\n\nBut Julie, lightly tapping the drum, sped upstairs to her mistress.\n\n\"Good-morning, Monsieur,\" said the baker, \"long live the Republic.\"\n\n\"Two loaves,\" replied Danton. \"I am busy to-day, Monsieur,\" he added, to\nexplain his brusqueness and stop further conversation.\n\n\"Ah, yes, Monsieur Danton, you will soon have to go to the Mairie. I\nshall go up there myself when I shall have delivered my bread. It will\nbe a great day for the procession. 'Vive le Drapeau Rouge!'\" And the\nbaker waved his hand towards the balcony as Danton almost shut the door\nin his face.\n\nDanton flung the loaves on the table in the hall, and again hearing the\ntap of a drum, this time from above, he bounded upstairs and rushed into\nthe bedroom. There was Julie beating the drum, Lucille standing beside\nher in a white linen costume, sash a little below her knees, and wearing\na Phrygian cap. Next her, and towering over her, was majestic Madame.\nDanton was beside himself. Forgetting that he had no slippers on, he\nkicked viciously at the drum, as he yelled to Julie to leave the room.\n\n\"To your bedroom, mademoiselle,\" he cried to Lucille, who was only too\nglad to slip away. He confronted Madame, \"It is time to put an end to\nthis pantomime, Madame.\"\n\n\"Pantomime! They are quite in earnest in the street, Monsieur. Listen,\nthere is no mistaking the sincerity of that cry. Hear the workmen as\nthey pass, 'Vive le Drapeau Rouge.'\"\n\n\"And you have really folded the tricolour!\" exclaimed Danton, who,\nextreme as he was, was not yet prepared to substitute the red flag for\nthe tricolour.\n\n\"And why not,\" replied Madame; \"I think of your ancestors, Danton; of\nhim who dipped his handkerchief in the blood of Monsieur Veto; think of\nhim who----\"\n\n\"My ancestors be hanged!\" cried Danton.\n\n\"They richly deserved it, I have no doubt,\" replied Madame; \"but what\nwould they say at 'Le Vieux Corsaire' if they heard you speak in that\nfashion?\"\n\n\"But, Madame, you cannot mean to be present in that guise on the\nbalcony?\"\n\n\"Of course not, this is my robe de nuit. I have not yet put on the\ntights.\"\n\n\"But it is impossible for me to believe it, Madame.\"\n\n\"If seeing is believing, you will believe it, Monsieur, this costume\nwill do for the present,\" and Madame, without more ado, proceeded to\nunlock the glass door opening on the balcony, and was apparently in the\nact of stepping out when Danton managed to get between her and it.\n\n\"Madame! Madame! you cannot mean this! Augustine! Augustine! Ch\u00e9rie!\"\n\nThere was no mistaking the tenderness of his tone.\n\nMadame took her hand from the lock.\n\n\"Ah, Danton, Danton, why did you ever allow 'Le Vieux Corsaire' to come\nbetween you and me--married these twenty years. I, proud of my husband\nalways, and he, I think, had no reason to be ashamed of me.\"\n\n\"My love! My pride! My noble Augustine! Nothing shall come between us.\"\n\n\"But it has, Danton. Your 'Vieux Corsaire,' and your 'Drapeau Rouge,'\nand your 'mangeurs de pr\u00eatres'--you have brought it all between you and\nme and between our child and her happiness.\"\n\n\"Down with the 'Drapeau Rouge!' Augustine, let me disarrange that fatal\nflag,\" and he ran to the balcony, and, with a few deft and rapid tugs,\ndrew out the blue folds and the white folds from the festoon of bunting\nuntil the balcony was gay at every point with the hues of the orthodox\nand veritable tricolour. Then he rushed back into the room, his arms\noutspread, his eyes streaming, his breast panting, a little geyser and\nvolcano of emotion.\n\n\"Come to my bosom, my Augustine! Lucille, where art thou?\"\n\nLucille ran to him.\n\n\"Thy father is an ogre. Oh, no, no; no more! Thou shalt have thy\nlieutenant, the choice of thine own heart, my child, and thy father's\nblessing a thousand thousand times. Nothing shall come between us again,\nAugustine. Thy Danton is thine, and thine only--thine and Lucille's.\"\n\n\"Thou wilt not mind what they will say at the 'Vieux Corsaire,'\"\nmurmured Madame between her sobs.\n\n\"Vieux diable! Vieux sac-\u00e0-papier. No more cares thy Danton what\nthey say. Que mon nom soit fl\u00e9tri--l\u00e0 bas--que mes ch\u00e9ries soient\nheureuses!\"\n\n\"That's my good Danton,\" said Madame, wiping her eyes with her\nhandkerchief and disengaging her ample form from the little man's fond\nembrace.\n\n\"Then Madame will wear to-day the black passementerie instead of the\ncostume Ninth Thermidor,\" said Julie, the bonne, discreetly at the door.\n\n\"Yes, Julie, we will witness the procession this morning, clothed in our\nright clothes--and in our right mind, eh, my Danton.\"\n\n\"Mon chou!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was a wedding shortly afterwards at the Church of Notre Dame de\nMerploer which gave great scandal at the Vieux Corsaire. The ceremony\neven included a nuptial sermon from the cur\u00e9. But Danton Martin never\nturned up afterwards--then or ever again--to be scourged with the\nmerited scorn of his fellow philosophers. They agreed that he had fallen\nunder the tyranny of the \"jupon.\"\n\n\n\n\nSEALY, BRYERS & WALKER'S\n\nNewest Publications.\n\n\n  =Legends and Poems.= By John Keegan. Now First Collected. Edited by\n  the late Very Rev. J. Canon O'Hanlon, M.R.I.A. With Memoir by D. J.\n  O'Donoghue. Crown 8vo, cloth. 586 pages. 3s. 6d.\n\n  =By the Barrow River and other Stories.= By Edmund Leamy. With a\n  Foreword by Katharine Tynan. Portrait of Author. Crown 8vo, cloth.\n  3s. 6d.\n\n  =A Celtic Fireside.= Stories of Rural Irish Life. By Thomas M.\n  Flynn. Crown 8vo, paper cover. 1s.\n\n  =The Story of Our Lord for Children.= By Katharine Tynan. With\n  commendatory letter of His Eminence Cardinal Logue. Eight full page\n  illustrations. 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Small capitals have been changed to all capitals.\n\nErrors in punctuation and spacing have been corrected silently,\nbut in stories with a narrator where the quotation marks are partly or\nentirely missing, they have not been added. Also the following changes\nhave been made, on page\n\n   19 \"heartstone\" changed to \"hearthstone\" (the crackling fire upon\n      the hearthstone lighting the faces)\n   27 \"occured\" changed to \"occurred\" (It occurred to me to turn into)\n   69 \"tho\" changed to \"the\" (he should excite the curiosity of the\n      maiden)\n   70 \"tho\" and \"tbe\" changed to \"the\" (overcome by the weary journey\n      and the hospitality)\n   72 \"exclamed\" changed to \"exclaimed\" (suddenly exclaimed the last\n      come guest)\n  122 \"O'More\" changed to \"O'Moore\" (and Rory O'Moore,' was his reply.)\n  211 \"Glasson\" changed to \"Jephson\" (very strong affection for Ralph\n      Jephson)\n  239 \"Willaim\" changed to \"William\" (that he, William, should get\n      sick of jail fever).\n\nOtherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in\nspelling and hyphenation.","title":"By the Barrow River, and Other Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":70203}