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THE WORKS OF STANLEY J. WEYMAN

VOL. XX

THE WILD GEESE


Thin Paper Edition of

Stanley J. Weyman's Novels

(Author's Complete Edition)

In 20 Volumes
Arranged Chronologically
With an Introduction in the First
Volume by Mr. Weyman

In clear type and handy size
To range with Henry Seton Merriman's Novels

Fcap. 8vo, Gilt Top, in Cloth and Leather

Vol.  1. The House of the Wolf.
 "    2. The New Rector.
 "    3. The Story of Francis Cludde.
 "    4. A Gentleman of France.
 "    5. The Man in Black.
 "    6. Under the Red Robe.
 "    7. My Lady Rotha.
 "    8. Memoirs of a Minister of France.
 "    9. The Red Cockade.
 "   10. Shrewsbury.
Vol. 11. The Castle Inn.
 "   12. Sophia.
 "   13. Count Hannibal.
 "   14. In Kings' Byways.
 "   15. The Long Night.
 "   16. The Abbess of Vlaye.
 "   17. Starvecrow Farm.
 "   18. Chippinge.
 "   19. Laid up in Lavender.
 "   20. The Wild Geese.

LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER & CO. and
LONGMANS GREEN & CO.




THE WILD GEESE



BY

STANLEY J. WEYMAN



LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER & CO.
(_For the United Kingdom_)
IN CONJUNCTION WITH CASSELL AND CO., LTD.; HODDER AND
STOUGHTON; METHUEN AND CO., WARD, LOCK AND CO., AND
LONGMANS GREEN & CO.
(_For the British Possessions and Foreign Countries_)
1911


1908 July    1st Edition
  "  Aug.    2nd Impression
  "  Oct.    3rd Impression
1910 July    4th Impression
  "  Nov.    5th Impression
1911 Mar.    6d. Edition
  "  Oct.    6th (Author's Complete Edition)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                            PAGE

    I. ON BOARD THE "CORMORANT" SLOOP                 1

   II. MORRISTOWN                                    15

  III. A SCION OF KINGS                              27

   IV. "STOP THIEF!"                                 42

    V. THE MESS-ROOM AT TRALEE                       57

   VI. THE MAÎTRE D'ARMES                            72

  VII. BARGAINING                                    90

 VIII. AN AFTER-DINNER GAME                         103

   IX. EARLY RISERS                                 119

    X. A COUNCIL OF WAR                             136

   XI. A MESSAGE FOR THE YOUNG MASTER               154

  XII. THE SEA MIST                                 171

 XIII. A SLIP                                       187

  XIV. THE COLONEL'S TERMS                          202

   XV. FEMINA FURENS                                218

  XVI. THE MARPLOT                                  235

 XVII. THE LIMIT                                    251

XVIII. A COUNTERPLOT                                268

  XIX. PEINE FORTE ET DURE                          285

   XX. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR                         301

  XXI. THE KEY                                      320

 XXII. THE SCENE IN THE PASSAGE                     336

XXIII. BEHIND THE YEWS                              350

 XXIV. THE PITCHER AT THE WELL                      368

XXV. PEACE                                          378




CHAPTER I

ON BOARD THE "CORMORANT" SLOOP


Midway in that period of Ireland's history during which, according to
historians, the distressful country had none--to be more precise, on a
spring morning early in the eighteenth century, and the reign of George
the First, a sloop of about seventy tons burthen was beating up Dingle
Bay, in the teeth of a stiff easterly breeze. The sun was two hours
high, and the grey expanse of the bay was flecked with white horses
hurrying seaward in haste to leap upon the Blasquets, or to disport
themselves in the field of ocean. From the heaving deck of the vessel
the mountains that shall not be removed were visible--on the northerly
tack Brandon, on the southerly Carntual; the former sunlit, with
patches of moss gleaming like emeralds on its breast, the latter dark
and melancholy, clothed in the midst of tradition and fancy that in
those days garbed so much of Ireland's bog and hill.

The sloop had missed the tide, and, close hauled to the wind, rode deep
in the ebb, making little way with each tack. The breeze hummed through
the rigging. The man at the helm humped a shoulder to the sting of the
spray, and the rest of the crew, seven or eight in number--tarry,
pigtailed, outlandish sailor men--crouched under the windward rail. The
skipper sat with a companion on a coil of rope on the dry side of the
skylight, and at the moment at which our story opens was oblivious
alike of the weather and his difficulties. He sat with his eyes fixed
on his neighbour, and in those eyes a wondering, fatuous admiration. So
might a mortal look if some strange hap brought him face to face with a
centaur.

"Never?" he murmured respectfully.

"Never," his companion answered.

"My faith!" Captain Augustin rejoined. He was a cross between a
Frenchman and an Irishman. For twenty years he had carried wine to
Ireland, and returned laden with wool to Bordeaux or Cadiz. He knew
every inlet between Achill Sound and the Head of Kinsale, and was so
far a Jacobite that he scorned to pay duty to King George. "Never? My
faith!" he repeated, staring, if possible, harder than ever.

"No," said the Colonel. "Under no provocation, thank God!"

"But it's _drôle_," Captain Augustin rejoined. "It would bother me
sorely to know what you do."

"What we all should do," his passenger answered gently. "Our duty,
Captain Augustin. Our duty! Doing which we are men indeed. Doing which,
we have no more to do, no more to fear, no more to question." And
Colonel John Sullivan threw out both his hands, as if to illustrate the
freedom from care which followed. "See! it is done!"

"But west of Shannon, where there is no law?" Augustin answered. "Eh,
Colonel? And in Kerry, where we'll be, the saints helping, before
noon--which is all one with Connaught? No, in Kerry, what with
Sullivans, and Mahonies, and O'Beirnes, that wear coats only for a
gentleman to tread upon, and would sooner shoot a friend before
breakfast than spend the day idle, _par ma foi_, I'm not seeing what
you'll be doing there, Colonel."

"A man may protect himself from violence," the Colonel answered
soberly, "and yet do his duty. What he may not do--is this. He may not
go out to kill another in cold blood, for a point of honour, or for
revenge, or to sustain what he has already done amiss! No, nor for
vanity, or for the hundred trifles for which men risk their lives and
seek the lives of others. I hope I make myself clear, Captain
Augustin?" he added courteously.

He asked because the skipper's face of wonderment was not to be
misread. And the skipper answered, "Quite clear!" meaning the reverse.
Clear, indeed? Yonder were the hills and bogs of Kerry--lawless,
impenetrable, abominable--a realm of Tories and rapparees. On the sloop
itself was scarce a man whose hands were free from blood. He, Augustin,
mild-mannered as any smuggler on the coast, had spent his life between
fleeing and fighting, with his four carronades ever crammed to the
muzzle, and his cargo ready to be jettisoned at sight of a cruiser. And
this man talked as if he were in church! Talked--talked--the skipper
fairly gasped. "Oh, quite clear!" he mumbled. "Quite clear!" he
replied. "But it's an odd creed."

"Not a creed, my friend," Colonel Sullivan replied precisely. "But the
result of a creed. The result, thank God, of more creeds than one."

Captain Augustin cast a wild eye at the straining, shrieking rigging;
the sloop was lurching heavily. But whether he would or no, his eye
fluttered back and rested, fascinated, on the Colonel's face. Indeed,
from the hour, ten days earlier, which had seen him mount the side in
the Bordeaux river, Colonel John Sullivan had been a subject of growing
astonishment to the skipper. Captain Augustin knew his world tolerably.
In his time he had conveyed many a strange passenger from strand to
strand: haggard men who ground their shoulders against the bulkhead,
and saw things in corners; dark, down-looking adventurers, whose hands
flew to hilts if a gentleman addressed them suddenly; gay young sparks
bound on foreign service and with the point of honour on their lips, or
their like, returning old and broken to beg or cut throats on the
highway--these, and men who carried their lives in their hands, and men
who went, cloaked, on mysterious missions, and men who wept as the
Irish coast faded behind them, and men, more numerous, who wept when
they saw it again--he knew them all! All, he had carried them, talked
with them, learned their secrets, and more often their hopes.

But such a man as this he had never carried. A man who indeed wore
outlandish fur-trimmed clothes, and had seen, if his servant's sparse
words went for aught, outlandish service; but who neither swore, nor
drank above measure, nor swaggered, nor threatened. Who would not dice,
nor game--save for trifles. Who, on the contrary, talked of duty, and
had a peaceful word for all, and openly condemned the duello, and was
mild as milk and as gentle as an owl. Such a one seemed, indeed, the
fabled "phaynix," or a bat with six wings, or any other prodigy which
the fancy, Irish or foreign, could conceive.

Then, to double the marvel, the Colonel had a servant, a close-tongued
fellow, William Bale by name, and reputed an Englishman, who, if he was
not like his master, was as unlike other folk. He was as quiet-spoken
as the Colonel, and as precise, and as peaceable. He had even been
heard to talk of his duty. But while the Colonel was tall and spare,
with a gentle eye and a long, kindly face, and was altogether of a
pensive cast, Bale was short and stout, of a black pallor, and very
forbidding. His mouth, when he opened it--which was seldom--dropped
honey. But his brow scowled, his lip sneered, and his silence invited
no confidence.

Such being the skipper's passenger, and such his man, the wonder was
that Captain Augustin's astonishment had not long ago melted into
contempt. But it had not. For one thing, a seaman had been hurt, and
the Colonel had exhibited a skill in the treatment of wounds which
would not have disgraced an experienced chirurgeon. Then in the Bay the
sloop had met with half a gale, and the passenger, in circumstances
which the skipper knew to be more trying to landsmen than to himself,
had maintained a serenity beyond applause. He had even, clinging to the
same ring-bolt with the skipper, while the south-wester tore overhead
and the gallant little vessel lay over wellnigh to her beam-ends,
praised with a queer condescension the conduct of the crew.

"This is the finest thing in the world," he had shouted, amid the roar
of things, "to see men doing their duty! I would not have missed this
for a hundred crowns!"

"I'd give as much to be safe in Cherbourg," had been the skipper's grim
reply as he watched his mast.

But Augustin had not forgotten the Colonel's coolness. A landsman, for
whom the trough of the wave had no terrors, and the leeward breakers,
falling mountain high on Ushant, no message, was not a man to be
despised.

Indeed, from that time the skipper had begun to find a charm in the
Colonel's gentleness and courtesy. He had fought against the feeling,
but it had grown upon him. Something that was almost affection began to
mingle with and augment his wonder. Hence the patience with which, with
Kerry on the beam, he listened while the Colonel sang his siren song.

"He will be one of the people called Quakers," the skipper thought,
after a while. "I've heard of them, but never seen one. Yes, he will be
a Quaker."

Unfortunately, as he arrived at this conclusion a cry from the
steersman roused him. He sprang to his feet. Alas! the sloop had run
too far on the northerly tack, and simultaneously the wind had shifted
a point to the southward. In the open water this had advantaged her;
but she had been allowed to run into a bight of the north shore and a
line of foam cut her off to the eastward, leaving small room to tack.
She might still clear the westerly rocks and run out to sea, but the
skipper saw--with an oath--that this was doubtful, and with a seaman's
quickness he made up his mind.

"Keep her on!--keep her on!" he roared, "you son of a _maudite mère_!
Child of the accursed! We must run into Skull haven! And if the men of
Skull take so much as an iron bolt from us, and I misdoubt them, I'll
keel-haul you, son of the _Diable_! I'll not leave an inch of skin upon
you!"

The man, cowering over the wheel, obeyed, and the little vessel ran up
the narrowing water--in which she had become involved--on an even keel.
The crew were already on their feet, they had loosened the sheet, and
squared the boom; they stood by to lower the yard. All--the skipper
with a grim face--stood looking forward, as the inlet narrowed, the
green banks closed in, the rocks that fringed them approached. Silently
and gracefully the sloop glided on, more smoothly with every moment,
until a turn in the passage opened a small land-locked haven. At the
head of the haven, barely a hundred yards above high-water mark, stood
a ruined tower--the Tower of Skull--and below this a long house of
stone with a thatched roof.

It was clear that the sloop's movements had been watched from the
shore, for although the melancholy waste of moor and mountain disclosed
no other habitation, a score of half-naked barefoot figures were
gathered on the jetty; while others could be seen hurrying down the
hillside. These cried to one another in an unknown tongue, and with
shrill eldritch voices, which vied with the screams of the gulls
swinging overhead.

"Stand by to let go the kedge," Augustin cried, eyeing them gloomily.
"We are too far in now! Let go!--let go!"

But the order and the ensuing action at once redoubled the clamour on
shore. A dozen of the foremost natives flung themselves into crazy
boats, that seemed as if they could not float long enough to reach the
vessel. But the men handled them with consummate skill and with equal
daring. In a twinkling they were within hail, and a man, wearing a long
frieze coat, a fisherman's red cap, and little besides, stood up in the
bow of the nearest.

"You will be coming to the jetty, Captain?" he cried in imperfect
English.

The skipper scowled at him, but did not answer.

"You will come to the jetty, Captain," the man repeated in his high,
sing-song voice. "Sure, and you've come convenient, for there's no one
here barring yourselves."

"And you're wanting brandy!" Augustin muttered bitterly under his
breath. He glanced at his men, as if he meditated resistance.

But, "Kerry law! Kerry law!" the man cried. "You know it well, Captain!
It's not I'll be answerable if you don't come to the jetty."

The skipper, who had fallen ill at Skull once before, and got away with
some loss, hoping that he might never see the place again, knew that he
was in the men's power. True, a single discharge of his carronades
would blow the boats to pieces; but he could not in a moment warp his
ship out through the narrow passage. And if he could, he knew that the
act would be bloodily avenged if he ever landed again in that part of
Ireland. He swore under his breath, and the steersman who had wrought
the harm by holding on too long wilted under his eye. The crew looked
other ways.

At length he yielded, and sulkily gave the order, the windlass was
manned, and the kedge drawn up. Fenders were lowered, and the sloop
slid gently to the jetty side.

In a twinkling a score of natives swarmed aboard. The man in the frieze
coat followed more leisurely, and with such dignity as became the owner
of a stone-walled house. He sauntered up to the skipper, a leer in his
eye. "You will have lost something the last time you were here,
Captain?" he said. "It is not I that will be responsible this time
unless the stuff is landed."

Augustin laughed scornfully. "The cargo is for Crosby of Castlemaine,"
he said. And he added various things which he hoped would happen to
himself if he landed so much as a single tub.

"It's little we know of Crosby here," the other replied; and he spat on
the deck. "And less we'll be caring, my dear. I say it shall be landed.
Here, you, Darby Sullivan, off with the hatch!"

Augustin stepped forward impulsively, as if he had a mind to throw the
gentleman in the frieze coat into the sea. But he had not armed himself
before he came on deck, the men of Skull outnumbered his crew two to
one, and, savage and half-naked as they were, were furnished to a man
with long sharp skenes and the skill to use them. If resistance had
been possible at any time, he had let the moment pass. The nearest
Justice lived twelve Irish miles away, and had he been on the spot he
would, since he was of necessity a Protestant, have been as
helpless--unless he brought the garrison of Tralee at his back--as a
churchwarden in a Synod of Cardinals. The skipper hesitated, and while
he hesitated the hatches were off, and the Sullivans swarmed down like
monkeys. Before the sloop could be made fast, the smaller kegs were
being tossed up, and passed over the side, a line was formed on land,
and the cargo, which had last seen the sun on the banks of the Garonne,
was swiftly vanishing in the maw of the stone house on the shore.

The skipper's rage was great, but he could only swear, and O'Sullivan
Og, the man in the frieze coat, who bore him an old grudge, grinned in
mockery. "For better custody, Captain!" he said. "For better custody!
Under my roof, _bien_! And when you will to go again there will be the
dues to be paid, the little dues over which we quarrelled last time!
And all will be rendered to a stave!"

"You villain!" the Captain muttered under his breath. "I understand!"
Turning--for the sight was more than he could bear--he found his
passenger at his elbow.

The Colonel, if his face went for anything, liked the proceedings
almost as little as the skipper. His lips were tightly closed, and he
frowned.

"Ay," Augustin cried bitterly--for the first instinct of the man who is
hurt is to hurt another--"now you see what it is you've come back to!
It's rob, or be robbed, this side of Tralee, and as far as the devil
could kick you beyond it! I wish you well out of it! But I suppose it
would take more than this to make you draw that long hanger of yours?"

The Colonel cast a troubled eye on him. "Beyond doubt," he said, "it is
the duty of a man to assist in defending the house of his host. And in
a sense and measure, the goods of his host"--with an uneasy look at the
fast-vanishing cargo, which was leaping from hand to hand so swiftly
that the progress of a tub from the hold to the house was as the flight
of a swallow--"are the house of his host. I do not deny that," he
continued precisely, "but----"

"But in this instance," the sea-captain struck in with a sneer,
contempt for the first time mastering wonder, "in this instance?"

"In this instance," the Colonel repeated with an unmistakable blush, "I
am not very free to act. The truth is, Captain Augustin, these folk are
of my kin. I was born not many miles from here"--his eye measured the
lonely landscape as if he compared it with more recent scenes--"and,
wrong or right, blood is thicker than wine. So that frankly, I am not
clear that for the sake of your Bordeaux, I'm tied to shed blood that
might be my forbears'!"

"Or your grandmother's," Augustin cried, with an open sneer.

"Or my grandmother's. Very true. But if a word to them in season----"

"Oh, d--n your words," the skipper retorted disdainfully.

He would have said more, but at that moment it became clear that
something was happening on shore. On the green brow beside the tower a
girl mounted on horseback had appeared; at a cry from her the men had
stopped work. The next moment her horse came cantering down the slope,
and with uplifted whip she rode in among the men. The whip fell twice,
and down went all the tubs within reach. Her voice, speaking, now Erse,
now Kerry English, could be heard upbraiding the nearest, commanding,
threatening, denouncing. Then on the brow behind her appeared in turn a
man--a man who looked gigantic against the sky, and who sat a horse to
match. He descended more slowly, and reached the girl's side as
O'Sullivan Og, in his frieze coat, came to the front in support of his
men.

For a full minute the girl vented her anger on Og, while he stood sulky
but patient, waiting for an opening to defend himself. When he obtained
this, he seemed to the two on the deck of the sloop to appeal to the
big man, who said a word or two, but was cut short by the girl. Her
voice, passionate and indignant, reached the deck; but not her words.

"That should be Flavia McMurrough!" the Colonel murmured thoughtfully,
"And Uncle Ulick. He's little changed, whoever's changed! She has a
will, it seems, and good impulses!"

The big man had begun by frowning on O'Sullivan Og. But presently he
smiled at something the latter said, then he laughed; at last he made a
joke himself. At that the girl turned on him; but he argued with her. A
man held up a tub for inspection, and though she struck it pettishly
with her whip, it was plain that she was shaken. O'Sullivan Og pointed
to the sloop, pointed to his house, grinned. The listeners on the deck
caught the word "Dues!" and the peal of laughter that followed.

Captain Augustin understood naught of what was going forward. But the
man beside him, who did, touched his sleeve. "It were well to speak to
her," he said.

"Who is she?" the skipper asked impatiently. "What has she to do with
it?"

"They are her people," the Colonel answered simply--"or they should be.
If she says yea, it is yea; and if she says nay, it is nay. Or, so it
should be--as far as a league beyond Morristown."

Augustin waited for no more. He was still in a fog, but he saw a ray of
hope; this was the Chatelaine, it seemed. He bundled over the side.

Alas! he ventured too late. As his feet touched the slippery stones of
the jetty, the girl wheeled her horse about with an angry exclamation,
shook her whip at O'Sullivan Og--who winked the moment her back was
turned--and cantered away up the hill. On the instant the men picked up
the kegs they had dropped, a shrill cry passed down the line, and the
work was resumed.

But the big man remained; and the skipper, with the Colonel at his
elbow, made for him through the half-naked kernes. He saw them coming,
however, guessed their errand, and, with the plain intention of
avoiding them, he turned his horse's head.

But the skipper, springing forward, was in time to seize his stirrup.
"Sir," he cried, "this is robbery! _Nom de Dieu_, it is thievery!"

The big man looked down at him with temper. "Oh, by G--d, you must pay
your dues!" he said. "Oh yes, you must pay your dues!"

"But this is robbery."

"Sure it's not that you must be saying!"

The Colonel put the skipper on one side. "By your leave," he cried,
"one word! You don't know, sir, who I am, but----"

"I know you must pay your dues!" Uncle Ulick answered, parrot-like. "Oh
yes, you must pay your dues!" He was clearly ashamed of his _rôle_,
however; for as he spoke he shook off the Colonel's hold with a pettish
gesture, struck his horse with his stick, and cantered away over the
hill. In a twinkling he was lost to sight.

"_Vaurien!_" cried Captain Augustin, shaking his fist after him. But he
might as well have sworn at the moon.




CHAPTER II

MORRISTOWN


It was not until the Colonel had passed over the shoulder above the
stone-walled house that he escaped from the jabber of the crowd and the
jeers of the younger members of this savage tribe, who, noting
something abnormal in the fashion of the stranger's clothes, followed
him a space. On descending the farther slope, however, he found himself
alone in the silence of the waste. Choosing without hesitation one of
two tracks, ill-trodden, but such as in that district and at that
period passed for roads, he took his way along it at a good pace.

A wide brown basin, bog for the most part, but rising here and there
into low mounds of sward or clumps of thorn-trees, stretched away to
the foot of the hills. He gazed upon it with eyes which had been
strained for years across the vast unbroken plains of Central Europe,
the sandy steppes of Poland, the frozen marshes of Lithuania; and
beside the majesty of their boundless distances this view shrank to
littleness. But it spoke to more than his eyes; it spoke to the heart,
to feelings and memories which time had not blunted, nor could blunt.
The tower on the shoulder behind him had been raised by his wild
forefathers in the days when the Spaniard lay at Smerwick; and, mean
and crumbling, still gave rise to emotions which the stern battlements
of Stralsund or of Rostock had failed to evoke. Soil and sky, the lark
which sang overhead, the dark peat-water which rose under foot, the
scent of the moist air, the cry of the curlew, all spoke of home--the
home which he had left in the gaiety of youth, to return to it a grave
man, older than his years, and with grey hairs flecking the black. No
wonder that he stood more than once, and, absorbed in thought, gazed on
this or that, on crag and moss, on the things which time and experience
had so strangely diminished.

The track, after zig-zagging across a segment of the basin that has
been described, entered a narrow valley, drained by a tolerable stream.
After ascending this for a couple of miles, it disclosed a view of a
wider vale, enclosed by gentle hills of no great height. In the lap of
this nestled a lake, on the upper end of which some beauty was
conferred by a few masses of rock partly clothed by birch-trees,
through which a stream fell sharply from the upland. Not far from these
rocks a long, low house stood on the shore.

The stranger paused to take in the prospect; nor was it until after the
lapse of some minutes, spent in the deepest reverie, that he pursued
his way along the left-hand bank of the lake. By-and-by he was able to
discern, amid the masses of rock at the head of the lake, a grey tower,
the twin of that Tower of Skull which he had left behind him; and a
hundred paces farther he came upon a near view of the house.

"Two-and-twenty years!" he murmured. "There is not even a dog to bid me
welcome!"

The house was of two stories, with a thatched roof. Its back was to the
slopes that rose by marshy terraces to the hills. Its face was turned
to the lake, and between it and the water lay a walled forecourt, the
angle on each side of the entrance protected by a tower of an older
date than the house. The entrance was somewhat pretentious, and
might--for each of the pillars supported a heraldic beast--have seemed
to an English eye out of character with the thatched roof. But, as if
to correct this, one of the beasts was headless, and one of the gates
had fallen from its hinges. In like manner the dignity of a tolerably
spacious garden, laid out beside the house, was marred by the proximity
of the fold-yard, which had also trespassed, in the shape of sundry
offices and hovels, on the forecourt.

On the lower side of the road opposite the gates half a dozen stone
steps, that like the heraldic pillars might have graced a more stately
mansion, led down to the water. They formed a resting-place for as many
beggars, engaged in drawing at empty pipes; while twice as many old
women sat against the wall of the forecourt and, with their drugget
cloaks about them, kept up a continual whine. Among these, turning
herself now to one, now to another, moved the girl whom the Colonel had
seen at the landing-place. She held her riding-skirt uplifted in one
hand, her whip in the other, and she was bare-headed. At her elbow,
whistling idly, and tapping his boots with a switch, lounged the big
man of the morning.

As the Colonel approached, taking these things in with his eyes, and
making, Heaven knows what comparisons in his mind, the man and the maid
turned and looked at him. The two exchanged some sentences, and the man
came forward to meet him.

"Sir," he said, not without a touch of rough courtesy, "if it is for
hospitality you have come, you will be welcome at Morristown. But if it
is to start a cry about this morning's business, you've travelled on
your ten toes to no purpose, and so I warn you."

The Colonel looked at him. "Cousin Ulick," he said, "I take your
welcome as it is meant, and I thank you for it."

The big man's mouth opened wide. "By the Holy Cross!" he said, "if I'm
not thinking it is John Sullivan!"

"It is," the Colonel answered, smiling. And he held out his hand.

Uncle Ulick grasped it impulsively. "And it's I'm the one that's glad
to see you," he said. "By Heaven, I am! Though I didn't expect you, no
more than I expected myself! And, faith," he continued, grinning as if
he began to see something humorous as well as surprising in the
arrival, "I'm not sure that you will be as welcome to all, John
Sullivan, as you are to me."

"You were always easy, Ulick," the other answered with a smile, "when
you were big and I was little."

"Ay? Well, in size we're much as we were. But--Flavia!"

The girl, scenting something strange, was already at his elbow. "What
is it?" she asked, her breath coming a little quickly. "Who is it?"
fixing her eyes on the new-comer's face.

Uncle Ulick chuckled. "It's your guardian, my jewel," he said. "No
less! And what he'll say to what's going on I'll not be foretelling!"

"My guardian?" she repeated, the blood rising abruptly to her cheek.

"Just that," Ulick Sullivan answered humorously. "Just that, my
darling. It's John Sullivan come back from Sweden. And, as I've told
him, I'm not sure that all at Morristown will be as glad to see him as
I am." At which Uncle Ulick went off into a peal of Titanic laughter.

But that which amused him did not appear to amuse his niece, She stood
staring at Colonel Sullivan as if she were far more surprised than
pleased. At length, and with a childish dignity, she held out her hand.

"If you are Colonel John Sullivan," she said, in a thin voice, "you are
welcome at Morristown."

He might have laughed at the distance of her tone. But he merely bowed,
and with the utmost gravity. "I thank you," he answered. And then,
addressing Ulick Sullivan, "I need not say that I had your
communication," he continued, "with the news of Sir Michael's death and
of the dispositions made by his will. I could not come at once, but
when I could I did, and I am here. Having said so much," he went on,
turning to the girl and looking at her with serious kindness, "may I
add that I think it will be well if we leave matters of business on one
side until we know one another?"

"Well, faith, I think we'd better," Ulick Sullivan replied. And he
chuckled. "I do think so, bedad!"

The girl said nothing, and when he had chuckled his fill restraint fell
upon the three. They turned from one another and looked across the
lake, which the wind, brisk at sea, barely ruffled. Colonel Sullivan
remarked that they had a little more land under tillage than he
remembered, and Ulick Sullivan assented. And then again there was
silence, until the girl struck her habit with her whip and cried
flippantly, "Well, to dinner, if we are to have dinner! To dinner!" She
turned, and led the way to the gate of the forecourt.

The man who followed was clever enough to read defiance in the pose of
her head and resentment in her shoulders. When a beggar-woman, more
importunate than the rest, caught hold of her skirt, and Flavia flicked
her with the whip as she would have flicked a dog, he understood. And
when the dogs in the court fell upon her in a troop and were kicked to
right and left, and when a babe, that, clothed in a single shift, was
crawling on hands and knees upon the threshold, was removed in the same
manner--but more gently--still he understood.

There were other dogs in the stone-paved hall; a hen too, finding its
food on the floor and strutting here and there as if it had never known
another home. On the left of the door, an oak table stood laid for the
mid-day meal; on the right, before a carved stone chimney-piece, under
which a huge log smouldered on the andirons, two or three men were
seated. These rose on the entrance of the young mistress-they were
dependants of the better class, for whom open house was kept at
Morristown when business brought them thither. And, so far, all was
well. Yet it may be that on the instant eyes which had been blind to
defects were opened by the presence of this stranger from the outer
world. For Flavia's voice was hard as she asked old Darby, the butler,
if The McMurrough was in the house.

"Faith, I believe not," said he. "His honour, nor the other quality,
have not returned from the fishing."

"Well, let him know when he comes in," she rejoined, "that Colonel John
Sullivan has arrived from Sweden, and," she added with a faint sneer,
"it were well if you put on your uniform coat, Darby."

The old butler did not hear the last words. He was looking at the
new-comer. "Glory be to God, Colonel," he said; "it's in a field of
peas I'd have known you! True for you, you're as like the father that
bred you as the two covers of a book! It's he was the grand gentleman!
I was beyond the Mahoney's great gravestone when he shot Squire Crosby
in the old church-yard of Tralee for an appetite to his breakfast! More
by token, he went out with the garrison officer after his second bottle
that same day that ever was--and the creature shot him in the knee--bad
luck to him for a foreigner and a Protestant--and he limped to his
dying day!"

The girl laughed unkindly. "You're opening your mouth and putting your
foot in it, Darby," she said. "If the Colonel is not a foreigner----"

"And sure he couldn't be that, and his own father's son!" cried the
quick-witted Irishman. "And if, bad luck, he's a Protestant, I'll never
believe he's one of them through-and-through d----d black Protestants
that you and I mean! Glory be to God, it's not in the Sullivans to be
one of them!"

The Colonel laughed as he shook the old servant's hand; and Uncle Ulick
joined in the laugh. "You're a clever rogue, Darby," he said. "Your
neck'll never be in a rope, but your fingers will untie the knot! And
now, where'll you put him?"

Flavia tapped her foot on the floor; foreseeing, perhaps, what was
coming.

"Put his honour?" Darby repeated, rubbing his bald head. "Ay, sure,
where'll we put him? May it be long before the heavens is his bed!
There's the old master's room, a grand chamber fit for a lord, but
there's a small matter of the floor that is sunk and lets in the
rats--bad cess to the dogs for an idle, useless pack. And there's the
Count's room would do finely, but the vagabonds have never mended the
thatch that was burned the last drinking, and though 'twas no more than
the width of a flea's leap, the devil of a big bowl of water has it let
in! The young master's friends are in the South, but the small room
beyond that has the camp truckle that Sir Michael brought from the ould
wars: that's dry and snug! And for the one window that's airy, sure,
'tis no drawback at this sayson."

"It will do very well for me, Darby," the Colonel said, smiling.

"Well," Darby answered, rubbing his head, "the Cross be between us and
harm, I'm not so sure where's another. The young masther----"

"That will do, Darby!" the girl cried impatiently. And then, "I am
sorry, Colonel Sullivan," she continued stiffly, "that you should be so
poorly lodged--who are the master of all. But doubtless," with an
irrepressible resentment in her voice, "you will be able presently to
put matters on a better footing."

With a formal curtsey she left them then, and retreated up the stairs,
which at the rear of the hall ascended to a gallery that ran right and
left to the rooms on the first floor.

Colonel Sullivan turned with Uncle Ulick to the nearest window and
looked out on the untidy forecourt. "You know, I suppose," he said, in
a tone which the men beside the fire, who were regarding him curiously,
could not hear, "the gist of Sir Michael's letters to me?"

Uncle Ulick drummed with his fingers on the window-sill. "Faith, the
most of it," he said.

"Was he right in believing that her brother intended to turn Protestant
for the reasons he told me?"

"It's like enough, I'm thinking."

"Does she know? The girl?"

"Not a breath! And I would not be the one to tell her," Uncle Ulick
added, with some grimness.

"Yet it may be necessary?"

Uncle Ulick shook his fist at a particularly importunate beggar who had
ventured across the forecourt. "It's a gift the little people never
gave me to tell unpleasant things," he said. "And if you'll be told by
me, Colonel, you'll travel easy. The girl has a spirit, and you'll not
persuade her to stand in her brother's light, at all, at all! She has
it fast that her grandfather wronged him--and old Sir Michael was
queer-tempered at times, God forbid I should say the other! The gift to
her will go for nothing, you'll see!"

"She must be a very noble girl."

"Devil a better has He made!"

"But if her grandfather was right in thinking so ill of his grandson?"

"I'm not saying he wasn't," Uncle Ulick muttered.

"Then we must not let her set the will aside."

Ulick Sullivan shrugged his shoulders. "Let?" he said. "Faith! it's but
little it'll be a question of that! James is for taking, and she's for
giving! He's her white swan, and to her mind, sleeping or waking, as
Darby says, he'd tread on eggs and sorra a chick the less! Let? Who's
to hinder?"

"You."

"It's easiness has been my ruin, and faith! it's too late to change."

"Then I?"

Uncle Ulick smiled. "To be sure," he said slily, "there's you,
Colonel."

"The whole estate is mine, you see, in law."

"Ay, but there's no law west of Tralee," Uncle Ulick retorted. "That's
where old Sir Michael made his mistake. Anywhere through the length and
breadth of old Ireland, if 'twas in the Four Courts themselves, and all
the garrison round you, you'd be on honour, Colonel, to take no
advantage. But here it would not be the cold shoulder and a little
unpleasantness, and a meeting or two on the ground, that's neither here
nor there--that you'd be like to taste. I'd not be knowing what would
happen if it went about that you were ousting them that had the right,
and you a Protestant. He's not the great favourite, James McMurrough,
and whether he or the girl took most 'd be a mighty small matter. But
if you think to twist it, so as to play cuckoo--though with the height
of fair meaning and not spying a silver penny of profit for yourself,
Colonel--I take leave to tell you, he's a most unpopular bird."

"But, Sir Michael," the Colonel, who had listened with a thoughtful
face, answered, "left all to me to that very end--that it might be
secured to the girl."

"Sorrow one of me says no!" Ulick rejoined. "But----"

"But what?" the Colonel replied politely. "The more plainly you speak
the more you will oblige me."

But all that Ulick Sullivan could be brought to say at that
moment--perhaps he knew that curious eyes were on their conference--was
that Kerry was "a mighty queer country," and the thief of the world
wouldn't know what would pass there by times. And besides, there were
things afoot--faith, and there were, that he'd talk about at another
time.

Then he changed the subject abruptly, asking the Colonel if he had seen
a big ship in the bay.

"What colours?" the Colonel asked--the question men ask who have been
at sea.

"Spanish, maybe," Uncle Ulick answered. "Did you sight such a one?"

But the Colonel had seen no big ship.




CHAPTER III

A SCION OF KINGS


The family at Morristown had been half an hour at table, and in the
interval a man of more hasty judgment than Colonel Sullivan might have
made up his mind on many points. Whether the young McMurrough was
offensive of set purpose, and because an unwelcome guest was present,
or whether he merely showed himself as he was--an unlicked cub--such a
man might have determined. But the Colonel held his judgment in
suspense, though he leaned to the latter view of the case. He knew that
even in England a lad brought up among women was apt to develop a
quarrelsome uncouthness, a bearishness, intolerable among men of the
world. How much more likely, he reflected, was this to be the case when
the youth belonged to a proscribed race, and lived, a little chieftain
among his peasants, in a district wild and remote, where for a league
each way his will was law. The Colonel made allowances, and, where need
was, he checked his indignation. If he blamed any one, he let his
censure rest on the easy temper of Uncle Ulick. The giant could have
shaken the young man, who was not over robust, with a single finger;
and at any time in the last ten years might have taught him a lifelong
lesson.

At their first sitting down the young man had shown his churlishness.
Beginning by viewing the Colonel in sulky silence, he had answered his
kinsman's overtures only by a rude stare or a boorish word. His
companions, two squireens of his own age, and much of his own kidney,
nudged him from time to time, and then the three would laugh in such a
way as to make it plain that the stranger was the butt of the jest.
Presently, overcoming the reluctant impression which Colonel John's
manners made upon him, the young man found his tongue, and, glancing at
his companions to bring them into the joke, "Much to have where you
come from, Colonel?" he asked.

"As in most places," the Colonel replied mildly, "by working for it, or
earning it after one fashion or another. Indeed, my friend, country and
country are more alike, except on the outside, than is thought by those
who stay at home."

"You've seen a wealth of countries, I'm thinking?" the youth asked with
a sneer.

"I have crossed Europe more than once."

"And stayed in none?"

"If you mean----"

"Faith, I mean you've come back!" the young man exclaimed with a loud
laugh, in which his companions joined. "You'll mind the song"--and with
a wink he trolled out,

    "In such contempt in short I fell,
      Which was a very hard thing,
    They devilish badly used me there,
      For nothing but a farthing.

"You're better than that, Colonel, for the worst we can say of you is,
you's come back a penny!"

"If you mean a bad one, come home," the Colonel rejoined, taking the
lad good-humouredly--he was not blind to the flush of indignation which
dyed Flavia's cheeks--"I'll take the wit for welcome. To be sure, to
die in Ireland is an Irishman's hope, all the world over."

"True for you, Colonel!" Uncle Ulick said. And "For shame, James," he
continued, speaking with more sternness than was natural to him.
"Faith, and if you talked abroad as you talk at home, you'd be for
having a pistol-ball in your gizzard in the time it takes you to say
your prayers--if you ever say them, my lad!"

"What are my prayers to you, I'd like to know?" James retorted
offensively.

"Easy, lad, easy!"

The young man glared at him. "What is it to you," he cried still more
rudely, "whether I pray or no?"

"James! James!" Flavia pleaded under her breath.

"Do you be keeping your feet to yourself!" he cried, betraying her
kindly manoeuvre. "And let my shins be! I want none of your guiding!
More by token, miss, don't you be making a sight of yourself as you did
this morning, or you'll smart for it. What is it to you if O'Sullivan
Og takes our dues for us--and a trifle over? And, sorra one of you
doubt it, if Mounseer comes jawing here, it's in the peat-hole he'll
find himself! Or the devil the value of a cork he gets out of me;
that's flat! Eh, Phelim?"

"True for you, McMurrough!" the youth who sat beside him answered,
winking. "We'll soak him for you."

"So do you be taking a lesson, Miss Flavvy," the young Hector
continued, "and don't you go threatening honest folk with your whip, or
it'll be about your own shoulders it'll fall! I know what's going on,
and when I want your help, I'll ask it."

The girl's lip trembled. "But it's robbery, James," she murmured.

"To the devil with your robbery!" he retorted, casting a defiant eye
round the table. "They'll pay our dues, and what they get back will be
their own!"

"And it's rich they'll be with it!" Phelim chuckled.

"Ay, faith, it's the proud men they'll be that day!" laughed Morty, his
brother. "Sure, when it comes!" with a wink.

"Fine words, my lad," Uncle Ulick replied quietly; "but it's my opinion
you'll fall on trouble, and more than'll please you, with Crosby of
Castlemaine. And why, I'd like to know? 'Tis a grand trade, and has
served us well since I can remember! Why can't you take what's fair out
of it, and let the poor devil of a sea-captain that's supplied many an
honest man's table have his own, and go his way? Take my word for it,
it's ruing it you'll be, when all's done."

"It's not from Crosby of Castlemaine I'll rue it!" James McMurrough
answered arrogantly. "I'll shoot him like a bog-snipe if he's sorra a
word to say to it! That for him, the black sneak of a Protestant!" And
he snapped his fingers. "But his day will soon be past, and we'll be
dealing with him. The toast is warming for him now!"

Phelim slapped his thigh. "True for you, McMurrough! That's the talk!"

"That's the talk!" chorussed Morty.

The Colonel opened his mouth to speak, but he caught Flavia's look of
distress, and he refrained. And "For my part," Morty continued
jovially, "I'd not wait--for you know what! The gentleman's way's the
better; early or late, Clare or Kerry, 'tis all one! A drink of the
tea, a peppered devil, and a pair of the beauties, is an Irishman's
morning!"

"And many's the poor soul has to mourn it--long and bitterly," the
Colonel said. His tender corn being trod upon, he could be silent no
longer. "For shame, sir, for shame!" he added warmly.

Morty stared. "Begorra, and why?" he cried, in a tone which proved that
he asked the question in perfect innocence.

"Why?" Colonel John repeated. And for a moment, in face of prejudices
so strong, and of prepossessions so deeply rooted, he paused. Then,
"Why?" he repeated. "Can you ask me when you know how many a life as
young as yours--and I take you to be scarcely, sir, in your
twenties--has been forfeit for a thoughtless word, an unwitting touch,
a look; when you know how many a bride has been widowed as soon as
wedded, how many a babe orphaned as soon as born? And for what? For
what, sir?"

"For the point of honour!" The McMurrough cried. Morty, for his part,
was dumb with astonishment. What talk was this!

"The point of honour?" the Colonel repeated, more slowly, "what is it?
In nine cases out of ten the fear of seeming to be afraid. In the
tenth--the desire to wipe out a stain that blood leaves as deep as
before!"

"Faith, and you surprise me!" Phelim cried with a genuine _naïveté_
that at another time would have provoked a smile. "You do indeed!"

"And Kerry'll more than surprise you," quoth The McMurrough rudely, "if
it's that way you'll be acting! Would you let Crosby of Castlemaine
call you thief?"

"I would not thieve!" the Colonel replied.

There was a stricken silence for a moment. Then The McMurrough sprang
to his feet, his querulous face flushed with rage, his arm raised. But
Ulick's huge hand dragged him down. "Easy, lad, easy," he cried,
restraining the young man. "He's your guest! He's your guest; remember
that!"

"And he spoke in haste," the Colonel said. "I withdraw my words," he
continued, rising and frankly holding out his hand. "I recognise that I
was wrong! I see that the act bears in your eyes a different aspect,
and I beg your pardon, sir."

The McMurrough took the hand, though he took it sullenly; and the
Colonel sat down again. His action, to say nothing of his words, left
Phelim and Morty in a state of amazement so profound that the two sat
staring as if carved out of the same block of wood.

If Colonel John noticed their surprise he seemed in no way put out by
it. "Perhaps," he said gently, "it is wrong to thrust opinions on
others unasked. I think that is so! It should be enough to act upon
them one's self, and refrain from judging others."

No one answered. But one thing was certain: whether he judged them or
not, they were all judging him, with such of their faculties as
remained to them. True, Flavia, save by a single frightened glance when
a quarrel seemed imminent, had not betrayed what she thought--nor now
betrayed what she was thinking. Her eyes were glued to her plate. But
the impression made on the others, not excepting the dependent buckeens
who sat at the board a little apart and took no part in the talk, was
so apparent that an onlooker must have laughed at their bewilderment.
Even Uncle Ulick, whom a steady good humour had steered clear of many a
brawl--so that a single meeting on Aghrim racecourse made up the tale
of his exploits--stared vacantly at his kinsman. Never before had he
heard any one question the right of an Irish gentleman to fight at
pleasure; and for the others whose blood was hotter and younger, for
the three Kerry Cocks, the Conclave had not been more surprised if a
Cardinal had risen and denounced the Papacy, nor an assembly of
half-pay captains been more astonished if one of their number had
denounced the pension system. The Colonel was a Sullivan and an
Irishman, and it was supposed that he had followed the wars. Whence,
then, these strange words, these unheard-of opinions? Morty felt his
cheek flush with the shame which Colonel John should have felt; and
Phelim grieved for the family. The gentleman might be mad; it was
charitable to think he was. But, mad or sane, he was like, they feared,
to be the cause of sad misunderstanding in the country round.

The McMurrough, of a harder and less generous nature than his
companions, felt more contempt than wonder. The man had insulted him
grossly, and had apologised as abjectly; that was his view of the
incident. And he was the first to break the silence. "Sure, it's very
well for the gentleman it's in the family," he said dryly. "Tail up,
tail down, 's all one among friends. But if he'll be so quick with his
tongue in Tralee Market, he'll chance on one here and there that he'll
not blarney so easily! Eh, Morty?"

"I'm fearing so, too," said Phelim pensively. Morty did not answer.
"'Tis a queer world," Phelim added.

"And all sorts in it," The McMurrough cried, his tone more arrogant
than before.

Flavia glanced at him, frowning. "Let us have peace now," she said.

"Peace? Sorrow a bit of war there's like to be in the present company!"
the victor cried. And he began to whistle, amid an awkward silence. The
air he chose was one well known at that day, and when he had whistled a
few bars, one of the buckeens at the lower end of the table began to
sing the words softly.

      It was a' for our rightful king
        We left fair Ireland's strand!
      It was a' for our rightful king
    We e'er saw foreign land, my dear,
        We e'er saw foreign land!

"My dear, or no, you'll be doing well to be careful!" The McMurrough
said, in a jeering tone, with his eye on the Colonel.

"Pho!" the man replied. "And I that have heard the young mistress sing
it a score of times!"

"Ay, but not in this company!" The McMurrough rejoined.

Colonel John looked round the table. "If you mean," he said quietly,
"that I am a loyal subject of King George, I am that. But what is said
at my host's table, no matter who he is, is safe for me. Moreover, I've
lived long enough to know, gentlemen, that most said is least meant,
and that the theme of a lady's song is more often--sunset than
sunrise!" And he bowed in the direction of the girl.

The McMurrough's lip curled. "Fair words," he sneered. "And easy to
speak them, when you and your d--d Protestant Whigs are on top!"

"We won't talk of Protestants, d--d or otherwise!" Colonel John
replied. And for the first time his glance, keen as the flicker of
steel, crossed The McMurrough's. The younger man's eyes fell. A flush
of something that might have been shame tinged his brow: and though no
one at table save Uncle Ulick understood the allusion, his conscience
silenced him. "I hope," the Colonel continued more soberly, "that a
good Protestant may still be a good Irishman."

"It's not I that have seen one, then!" The McMurrough muttered
churlishly.

"Just as a bad Protestant makes a bad Irishman," the Colonel returned,
with another of those glances which seemed to prove that the old man
was not quite put off.

The McMurrough was silenced. But the cudgels were taken up in an
unexpected quarter. "I know nothing of bad or good," Flavia said, in a
voice vibrating with eagerness, "but only, to our sorrow, of those who
through centuries have robbed us! Who, not content, shame on them! with
shutting us up in a corner of the land that was ours from sea to sea,
deny us even here the protection of their law! Law? Can you call it
law----"

"Heaven be between us and it!" old Darby groaned.

"Can you call it law," she continued with passion, "which denies us all
natural rights, all honourable employments; which drives us abroad,
divides son from father, and brother from brother; which bans our
priests, and forbids our worship, and, if it had its will, would leave
no Catholic from Cape Clear to Killaloe?"

The Colonel looked sorrowfully at her, but made no answer; for to much
of what she said no answer could be made. On the other hand, a murmur
passed round the board; and more than one looked at the stranger with
compressed lips. "If you had your will," the girl continued, with
growing emotion; "if your law were carried out--as, thank God! it is
not, no man's heart being hard enough--to possess a pistol were to be
pilloried; to possess a fowling-piece were to be whipped; to own a
horse, above the value of a miserable garron, were to be robbed by the
first rascal who passed! We must not be soldiers, nor sailors," she
continued; "nay"--with bitter irony--"we may not be constables nor
gamekeepers! The courts, the bar, the bench of our fatherland, are shut
to us! We may have neither school nor college; the lands that were our
fathers' must be held for us by Protestants, and it's I must have a
Protestant guardian! We are outlaws in the dear land that is ours; we
dwell on sufferance where our fathers ruled! And men like you,
abandoning their country, abandoning their creed----"

"God forbid!" the Colonel exclaimed, much moved himself.

"Men like you uphold these things!"

"God forbid!" he repeated.

"But let Him forbid, or not forbid," she retorted, rising from her seat
with eyes that flashed anger through tears, "we exist, and shall exist!
And the time is coming, and comes soon--ay, comes perhaps to-day!--when
we who now suffer for the true faith and the rightful King will raise
our heads, and the Faithful Land shall cease to mourn and honest men to
pine! And, ah"--with upraised face and clasped hands--"I pray for that
day! I pray for that day! I----"

She broke off amid cries of applause, fierce as the barking of wolves.
She struggled for a moment with her overmastering emotion, then, unable
to continue or to calm herself, she turned from the table and fled
weeping up the stairs.

Colonel John had risen. He watched her go with deep feeling; he turned
to his seat again with a sigh. He was a shade paler than before, and
the eyes which he bent on the board were dark with thought. He was
unconscious of all that passed round him, and, if aware, he was
heedless of the strength of the passions which she had unbridled--until
a hand fell on his arm.

He glanced up then and saw that all the men had risen, and were looking
at him--even Ulick Sullivan--with dark faces. A passion of anger
clouded their gaze. Without a word spoken, they were of one mind. The
hand that touched him trembled, the voice that broke the silence shook
under the weight of the speaker's feelings.

"You'll be leaving here this day," the man muttered.

"I?" the Colonel said, taken by surprise. "Not at all."

"We wish you no harm, but to see your back. But you'll be leaving
here."

The Colonel, his first wonder subdued, looked from one to another. "I
am sure you wish me no harm," he said.

"None, but to see your back," the man repeated, while his companions
looked down at the Colonel with a strange fixedness. The Celtic nature,
prone to sudden rage, stirred in them. The stranger who an hour before
had been indifferent to them now wore the face of an enemy. The lake
and the bog--ay, the secret grave yearned for him: the winding-sheet
was high upon his breast. "Stay, and it's but once in your life you'll
be sorry," the man growled, "and faith, that'll be always!"

"But I cannot go," the Colonel answered, as gently as before.

"And why?" the man returned. The McMurrough was not of the speakers,
but stood behind them, glowering at him with a dark face.

"Because," the Colonel answered, "I am in my duty here, my friends. And
the man who is in his duty can suffer nothing."

"He can die," the man replied, breathing hard. The men who were on the
Colonel's side of the table leant more closely about him.

But he seemed unmoved. "That," he replied cheerfully, "is nothing. To
die is but an accident. Who dies in his duty suffers no harm. And were
that not enough--and it is all," he continued slowly, "what harm should
happen to me, a Sullivan among Sullivans? Because I have fared far and
seen much, am I so changed that, coming back, I shall find no welcome
on the hearth of my race, and no shelter where my fathers lie?"

"And are not our hearths cold over many a league? And the graves----"

"Whisht!" a voice broke in sternly, as Uncle Ulick thrust his way
through the group. "The man says well!" he continued. "He's a
Sullivan----"

"He's a Protestant!"

"He is a Sullivan, I say!" Uncle Ulick retorted, "were he the blackest
heretic on the sod! And you, would you do the foul deed for a woman's
wet eye? Are the hearts of Kerry turned as hard as its rocks? Make an
end of this prating and foolishness! And you, James McMurrough, these
are your men and this is your house? Will you be telling them at once
that you will be standing between him and harm, be he a heretic ten
times over? For shame, man! Is it for raising the corp of old Sir
Michael from his grave ye are?"

The McMurrough looked sombrely at the big man. "On you be the risk," he
said sullenly. "You know what you know."

"I know that the seal in the cave and the seal on the wave are one!"
Ulick answered vehemently. "Whisht, man, whisht, and make an end! And
do you, John Sullivan, give no thought to these omadhauns, but come
with me and I'll show you to your chamber. A woman's tear is ever near
her smile. With her the good thought treads ever on the heel of the bad
word!"

"I have little knowledge of them," Colonel John answered quietly.

But when he was above with Uncle Ulick, he spoke. "I hope that this is
but wild talk," he said. "You cannot remember, nor can I, the bad days.
But the little that is left, it were madness and worse than madness to
risk! If you've thought of a rising, in God's name put it from you.
Think of your maids and your children! I have seen the fires rise from
too many roofs, I have heard the wail of the homeless too often, I have
seen too many frozen corpses stand for milestones by the road, I have
wakened to the creak of too many gibbets--to face these things in my
own land!"

Uncle Ulick was looking from the little casement. He turned and showed
a face working with agitation. "And you, if you wore no sword, nor
dared wear one? If you walked in Tralee a clown among gentlefolk, if
you lived a pariah in a corner of pariahs, if your land were the
handmaid of nations, and the vampire crouched upon her breast,
what--what would you do, then?"

"Wait," Colonel John answered gravely, "until the time came."

Uncle Ulick gripped his arm. "And if it came not in your time?"

"Still wait," Colonel John answered with solemnity. "For believe me,
Ulick Sullivan, there is no deed that has not its reward! Not does one
thatch go up in smoke that is not paid for a hundredfold."

"Ay, but when? When?"

"When the time is ripe."




CHAPTER IV

"STOP THIEF!"


A candid Englishman must own, and deplore the fact, that Flavia
McMurrough's tears were due to the wrongs of her country. Broken by
three great wars waged by three successive generations, defeated in the
last of three desperate struggles for liberty, Ireland at this period
lay like a woman swooning at the feet of her captors. Nor were these
minded that she should rise again quickly, or in her natural force. The
mastery which they had won by the sword the English were resolved to
keep by the law.

They were determined that the Irishman of the old faith should cease
to exist; or if he endured, should be _nemo_, no one. Confined to hell
or Connaught, he must not even in the latter possess the ordinary
rights. He must not will his own lands or buy new lands. If his son,
more sensible than he, "_went over_," the father sank into a mere
life-tenant, bound to furnish a handsome allowance, and to leave all
to the Protestant heir. He might not marry a Protestant, he might not
keep a school, nor follow the liberal professions. The priest who
confessed him was banished if known, and hanged if he returned. In a
country of sportsmen he might not own a fowling-piece, nor a horse
worth more than five pounds; and in days when every gentleman carried
a sword at his side, he must not wear one. Finally, his country grew
but one article of great value--wool: and that he must not make into
cloth, but he must sell it to England at England's price--which was
one-fifth of the continental price. Was it wonderful that, such being
Ireland's status, every Roman Catholic of spirit sought fortune
abroad; that the wild geese, as they were called, went and came
unchecked; or that every inlet in Galway, Clare, and Kerry swarmed
with smugglers, who ran in under the green flag with brandy and
claret, and, running out again with wool, laughed to scorn England's
boast that she ruled the waves?

Nor was it surprising that, spent and helpless as the land lay, some
sanguine spirits still clung to visions of a change and of revenge. A
few men, living in the vague remotenesses beyond the bridling Shannon
and its long string of lakes, or on the western shore where the long
rollers broke in spume and the French and Spanish tongues were spoken
more freely than English, still hoped for the impossible. Passing their
lives far from the Castle and the Four Courts, far even from the
provincial capitals, they shut their eyes to facts and dreamed of
triumph. The Sullivans of Morristown and Skull were of these; as were
some of their neighbours. And Flavia was especially of these. As she
looked from her window a day or two after the Colonel's arrival, as she
sniffed the peat reek and plumbed the soft distances beyond the lake,
she was lost in such a dream; until her eyes fell on a man seated
cross-legged under a tree between herself and the shore. And she
frowned. The man sorted ill with her dream.

It was Bale, Colonel John's servant. He was mending some article taken
from his master's wardrobe. His elbow went busily to and fro as he
plied the needle, while sprawling on the sod about him half a dozen
gossoons watched him inquisitively.

Perhaps it was the suggestive contrast between his diligence and their
idleness which irritated Flavia; but she set down her annoyance to
another cause. The man was an Englishman, and therefore an enemy: and
what did he there? Had the Colonel left him on guard?

Flavia's heart swelled at the thought. Here, at least, she and hers
were masters. Here, three hours west of Tralee--and God help the horse
on that road that was not a "lepper"--they brooked no rival. Colonel
John had awakened mixed feelings in her. At times she admired him. But,
admirable or not, he should rue his insolence, if he had it in his mind
to push his authority, or interfere with her plans.

In the meantime she stood watching William Bale, and a desire to know
more of the man, and through him of the master, rose within her. The
house was quiet. The McMurrough and his following had gone to a
cocking-match and race-meeting at Joyce's Corner. She went down the
stairs, took her hood, and crossed the courtyard. Bale did not look up
at her approach, but he saw her out of the corner of his eye, and when
she paused before him he laid down his work and made as if he would
rise.

She looked at him with a superciliousness not natural to her. "Are all
the men tailors where you come from?" she asked. "There, you need not
rise."

"Where I came from last," he replied, "we were all trades, my lady."

"Where was that?"

"In the camp," he answered.

"In Sweden?"

"God knows," he replied. "They raise no landmarks there, between
country and country, or it might be all their work to move them."

For a moment she was silent. Then, "Have you been a soldier long?" she
asked, feeling herself rebuffed.

"Twenty-one years, my lady."

"And now you have done with it."

"It is as his honour pleases."

She frowned. He had a way of speaking that sounded uncivil to ears
attuned to the soft Irish accent and the wheedling tone. Yet the man
interested her, and after a moment's silence she fixed her eyes more
intently on his work. "Did you lose your fingers in battle?" she asked.
His right hand was maimed.

"No," he answered--grudgingly, as he seemed to answer all her
questions--"in prison."

"In prison?" she repeated; "where?"

He cast an upward look at his questioner. "In the Grand Turk's land,"
he said. "Nearer than that, I can't say. I'm no scholar, my lady."

"But why?" she asked, puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Cut off," he said, stooping over his work.

Flavia turned a shade paler. "Why?" she repeated.

"'One God, and Mahomet His prophet'--couldn't swallow it. One finger!"
the man answered jerkily. "Next week--same. Third week----"

"Third week?" she murmured, shuddering.

"Exchanged."

She lifted her eyes with an effort from his maimed hand. "How many were
you?" she inquired.

"Thirty-four." He laughed drily. "We know one another when we meet," he
said. He drew his waxed thread between his finger and thumb, held it up
to the light, then looked askance at the gossoons about him, to whom
what he said was gibberish. They knew only Erse.

The day was still, the mist lay on the lake, and under it the water
gleamed, a smooth pale mirror. Flavia had seen it so a hundred times,
and thought naught of it. But to-day, moved by what she had heard, the
prospect spoke of a remoteness from the moving world which depressed
her. Hitherto the quick pulse and the energy of youth had left her no
time for melancholy, and not much for thought. If at rare intervals she
had felt herself lonely, if she had been tempted to think that the
brother in whom were centred her hopes, her affections, and her family
pride was hard and selfish, rude and overbearing, she had told herself
that all men were so; that all men rode rough-shod over their women.
And that being so, who had a better right to hector it than the last of
the McMurroughs, heir of the Wicklow kings, who in days far past had
dealt on equal terms with Richard Plantagenet, and to whom, by virtue
of that never-forgotten kingship, the Sullivans and Mahonies, some of
the McCarthys, and all the O'Beirnes, paid rude homage? With such
feelings Sir Michael's strange whim of disinheriting the heir of his
race had but drawn her closer to her brother. To her loyalty the act
was abhorrent, was unnatural, was one that could only have sprung, she
was certain, from second childhood, the dotage of a man close on
ninety, whose early years had been steeped in trouble, and who loved
her so much that he was ready to do wrong for her sake.

Often she differed from her brother. But he was a man, she told
herself; and he must be right--a man's life could not be ruled by the
laws which a woman observed. For the rest, for herself, if her life
seemed solitary she had the free air and the mountains; she had her
dear land; above all, she had her dreams. Perhaps when these were
realised--and the time seemed very near now--and a new Ireland was
created, to her too a brighter world would open.

She had forgotten Bale's presence, and was only recalled to every-day
life by the sound of voices. Four men were approaching the house. Uncle
Ulick, Colonel John, and the French skipper were three of these; at the
sight of the fourth Flavia's face fell. Luke Asgill of Batterstown was
the nearest Justice, and of necessity he was a Protestant. But it was
not this fact, nor the certainty that Augustin was pouring his wrongs
into his ears, that affected Flavia. Asgill was distasteful to her,
because her brother affected him. For why should her brother have
relations with a Protestant? Why should he, a man of the oldest blood,
stoop to intimacy with the son of a "middleman," the son of one of
those who, taking a long lease of a great estate and under-letting at
rack rents, made at this period huge fortunes? Finally, if he must have
relations with him, why did he not keep him at a distance from his
home--and his sister?

It was too late, or she would have slipped away. Not that Asgill--he
was a stout, dark, civil-spoken man of thirty-three or four--wore a
threatening face. On the contrary, he listened to the Frenchman's
complaint with a droll air; and if he had not known of the matter
before, his smile betrayed him. He greeted Flavia with an excess of
politeness which she could have spared; and while Uncle Ulick and
Colonel John looked perturbed and ill at ease, he jested on the matter.

"The whole cargo?" he said, with one eye on the Frenchman and one on
his companions. "You're not for stating that, sir?"

"All the tubs," Augustin answered in a passion of earnestness. "What
you call, every tub! Every tub!"

"The saints be between us and harm!" Asgill responded. "Are you hearing
this, Miss Flavia? It's no less than felony that you're accused of, and
I'm thinking, by rights, I must arrest you and carry you to
Batterstown."

"I do not understand," she answered stiffly. "And The McMurrough is not
at home."

"Gone out of the way, eh?" Asgill replied with a deprecatory grin. "And
the whole cargo was it, Captain?"

"All the tubs, perfectly!"

"You'd paid your dues, of course?"

"Dues, _mon Dieu_! But they take the goods!"

"Had you paid your dues?"

"Not already, because----"

"That's unfortunate," Asgill answered in a tone of mock condolence.
"Mighty unfortunate!" He winked at Uncle Ulick. "Port dues, you know,
Captain, must be paid before the ship slips her moorings."

"But----"

"Mighty unfortunate!"

"But what are the dues?" poor Augustin cried, dimly aware that he was
being baited.

"Ah, you're talking now," the magistrate answered glibly. "Unluckily,
that's not in my province. I'm made aware that the goods are held under
lien for dues, and I can do nothing. However, upon payment, of
course----"

"But how much? Eh, sir? How much? How much?"

Luke Asgill, who had two faces, and for once was minded to let both be
seen, enjoyed the Frenchman's perplexity. He wished to stand well with
Flavia, and here was a rare opportunity of exhibiting at once his
friendliness and his powers of drollery. He was surprised, therefore,
and taken aback, when a grave voice cut short his enjoyment.

"Still, if Captain Augustin," the voice interposed, "is willing to pay
a reasonable sum on account of dues?"

The magistrate turned about abruptly. "Eh?" he said. "Oh, Colonel
Sullivan, is it?"

"Then, doubtless, the goods will be released, so that he may perform
his duty to his customer."

Asgill had only known the Colonel a few minutes, and, aware that he was
one of the family, he did not see how to take it. It was as if treason
lifted its head in the camp. He coughed.

"I'd not be denying it," he said. "But until The McMurrough
returns----"

"Such a matter is doubtless within Mr. Sullivan's authority," the
Colonel said, turning from him to Uncle Ulick.

Uncle Ulick showed his embarrassment. "Faith, I don't know that it is,"
he said.

"If Captain Augustin paid, say, twenty per cent. on his bills of
lading----"

"_Ma foi_, twenty per cent.!" the Captain exclaimed in astonishment.
"Twenty--but yes, I will pay it. I will pay even that. Of what use to
throw the handle after the hatchet?"

Luke Asgill thought the Colonel either a fool or very simple. "Well,
I've nothing to say to this, at all!" he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"It's not within my province."

Colonel John looked at the girl in a way in which he had not looked at
her before; and she found herself speaking before she knew it. "Yes,"
she cried impulsively; "let that be done, and the goods be given up!"

"But The McMurrough?" Asgill began.

"I will answer for him," she said impulsively. "Uncle Ulick, go, I beg,
and see it done."

"I will go with you," Colonel Sullivan said. "And doubtless Mr. Asgill
will accompany us, and lend the weight of his authority in the event of
any difficulty arising."

Asgill's countenance fell, and he looked the uncertainty he felt. He
was between two stools, for he had no mind to displease Flavia or
thwart her brother. At length, "No," he said, "I'll not be doing
anything in The McMurrough's absence--no, I don't see that I can do
that!"

Colonel John looked in the same strange fashion at Flavia. "I have
legal power to act, sir," he said, "as I can prove to you in private.
And that being so, I must certainly ask you to lend me the weight of
your authority."

"And I will be d----d if I do!" Asgill cried. There was a change in his
tone, and the reason was not far to seek. "Here's The McMurrough," he
continued, "and he'll say!"

They all turned and looked along the road which ran by the edge of the
lake. With James McMurrough, who was still a furlong away, were the two
O'Beirnes. They came slowly, and something in their bearing, even at
that distance, awoke anxiety.

"They're early from the cocking," Uncle Ulick muttered doubtfully, "and
sober as pigs! What's the meaning of that? There's something amiss, I'm
fearing."

A cry from Flavia proved the keenness of her eyes. "Where is Giralda?"
she exclaimed. "Where is the mare?"

"Ay, what have they done with the mare?" Uncle Ulick said in a tone of
consternation. "Have they lamed her, I'm wondering? The garron Morty's
riding is none of ours."

"I begged him not to take her!" Flavia cried, anger contending with her
grief. Giralda, her grey mare, ascribed in sanguine moments to the
strain of the Darley Arabian, and as gentle as she was spirited, was
the girl's dearest possession. "I begged him not to take her!" she
repeated, almost in tears. "I knew there was danger."

"James was wrong to take her up country," Uncle Ulick said sternly.

"They've claimed her!" Flavia wailed. "I know they have! And I shall
never recover her! I shall never see her again! Oh, I'd rather--I'd far
rather she were dead!"

Uncle Ulick lifted up his powerful voice. "Where's the mare?" he
shouted.

James McMurrough shrugged his shoulders, and a moment later the riders
came up and the tale was told. The three young men had halted at the
hedge tavern at Brocktown, where their road ran out of the road to
Tralee. There were four men drinking in the house, who seemed to take
no notice of them. But when The McMurrough and his companions went to
the shed beside the house to draw out their horses, the men followed,
challenged them for Papists, threw down five pounds in gold, and seized
the mare. The four were armed, and resistance was useless.

The story was received with a volley of oaths and curses. "But by the
Holy," Uncle Ulick flamed up, "I'd have hung on their heels and raised
the country! By G--d, I would!"

"Ay, ay! The thieves of the world!"

"They took the big road by Tralee," James McMurrough explained sulkily.
"What was the use?"

"Were there no men working in the bogs?"

"There were none near by, to be sure," Morty said. "But I'd a notion if
we followed them we might light on one friend or another--'twas in
Kerry, after all!"

"'Twas not more than nine miles English from here!" Uncle Ulick cried.

"That was just what I thought," Morty continued with some hesitation.
"Just that, but----" And his eye transferred the burden to The
McMurrough.

James answered with an oath. "A nice time this to be bringing the
soldiers upon us," he cried, "when, bedad, if the time ever was, we
want no trouble with the Englishry! What's the use of crying over spilt
milk? I'll give you another mare."

"But it'll not be Giralda!" Flavia wailed.

"Sure it's the black shame, it is!" Uncle Ulick cried, his face dark.
"It's enough to raise the country! Ay, I say it, though you're
listening, Asgill. It's more than blood can stand!"

"No one is more sorry than myself," Asgill replied, with a look of
concern. "I don't make the laws, or they'd be other than they are!"

"True for you," Uncle Ulick answered. "I'm allowing that. And it is
true, too, that to make a stir too early would ruin all. I'm afraid you
must be making the best of it, Flavvy! I'd go after them myself, but
the time's not convenient, as you know, and by this they're in Tralee,
bad cess to it, where there's naught to be done. They'll be for selling
her to one of the garrison officers, I'm thinking; and may the little
gentleman in black velvet break his neck for him! Or they'll take her
farther up country, maybe to Dublin."

Flavia's last hopes died with this verdict. She could not control her
tears, and she turned and went away in grief to the house.

Meantime the hangers-on and the beggars pressed upon the gentry,
anxious to hear. The McMurrough, not sorry to find some one on whom to
vent his temper, turned upon them and drove them away with blows of his
whip. The movement brought him face to face with Captain Augustin. The
fiery little Frenchman disdained to give way, in a trice angry words
passed, and--partly out of mischief, for the moment was certainly not
propitious--Asgill repeated the proposal which Colonel John had just
made. The Colonel had stood in the background during the debate about
the mare, but thus challenged he stood forward.

"It's a fair compromise," he argued. "And if Captain Augustin is
prepared to pay twenty per cent----."

"He'll not have his cargo, nor yet a cask!" The McMurrough replied with
a curt, angry laugh. "Loss and enough we've had to-day."

"But----"

"Get me back the mare," the young man cried, cutting the Colonel short
with savage ridicule. "Get me back the mare, and I'll talk. That's all
I have to say."

"It seems to me," Colonel John replied quietly, "that those who lose
should find. Still--still," checking the young man's anger by the very
calmness of his tone, "for Captain Augustin's sake, who can ill bear
the loss, and for your sister's sake, I will see what I can do."

The McMurrough stared. "You?" he cried. "You?"

"Yes, I."

"Heaven help us, and the pigs!" the young man exclaimed. And he laughed
aloud in his scorn.

But Colonel John seemed no way moved. "Yes," he replied. "Only let us
understand one another"--with a look at Uncle Ulick which made him
party to the bargain--"if I return to-morrow evening or on the
following day--or week--with your sister's mare----"

"Mounseer shall have his stuff again to the last pennyworth," young
McMurrough returned with an ironical laugh, "and without payment at
all! Or stay! Perhaps you'll buy the mare?"

"No, I shall not buy her," Colonel John answered, "except at the price
the man gave you."

"Then you'll not get her. That's certain! But it's your concern."

The Colonel nodded, and, turning on his heels, went away towards the
house, calling William Bale to him as he passed.

The McMurrough looked at the Frenchman. He had a taste for tormenting
some one. "Well, monsieur," he jeered, "how do you like your bargain?"

"I do not understand," the Frenchman answered. "But he is a man of his
word, _ma foi_! And they are not--of the common."




CHAPTER V

THE MESS-ROOM AT TRALEE


If England had made of Ireland a desert and called it peace, she had
not marred its beauty. That was the thought in Colonel Sullivan's mind
as he rode eastward under Slieve Mish, with the sun rising above the
lower spurs of the mountain, and the lark saluting the new-born
radiance with a song attuned to the freshness of the morning. Where his
road ascended he viewed the sparkling inlet spread far to the
southward; and where the track dipped, the smooth slopes on either side
ran up to grey crags that, high above, took strange shapes, now of
monstrous heads, now of fantastic towers. As his sure-footed nag forded
the brown bog-stream, long-shanked birds rose silently from the pools,
and he marked with emotion the spots his boyhood had known: the shallow
where the dog-wolf--so big that it had become a fable--died biting, and
the cliff whence the sea-eagle's nest had long bidden him defiance.

Bale rode behind him, taciturn, comparing, perhaps, the folds of his
native Suffolk hills with these greener vales. They reached the hedge
tavern, where the mare had been seized, and they stayed to bait their
horses, but got no news. About eight they rode on; and five long Irish
miles nearer Tralee, though still in a wild and lonely country, they
viewed from the crest of a hill a piece of road stretched ribbon-like
before them, and on it a man walking from them at a great pace. He had
for companion a boy, who trotted beside him.

Neither man nor boy looked back, and it did not seem to be from fear of
the two riders that they moved so quickly. The man wore a loose drugget
coat and an old jockey-cap, and walked with a stout six-foot staff.
Thus armed and dressed he should have stood in small fear of robbers.
Yet when Colonel John's horse, the tread of its hoofs deadened by the
sod road, showed its head at his shoulder, and he sprang aside, he
turned a face of more vivid alarm than seemed necessary. And he crossed
himself.

Colonel John touched his hat. "I give you good morning, good man," he
said.

The walker raised his hand to his cap as if to return the salute, but
lowered it without doing so. He muttered something.

"You will be in haste?" Colonel John continued. He saw that the sweat
stood in beads on the man's brow, and the lad's face was tear-stained.

"I've far to go," the man muttered. He spoke with a slight foreign
accent, but in the west of Ireland this was common. "The top of the
morning to you."

Plainly he wished the two riders to pass on, but he did not slacken his
speed for a moment. So for a space they went abreast, the man, with
every twenty paces, glancing up suspiciously. And now and again, the
boy, as he ran or walked, vented a sob.

The Colonel looked about him. The solitude of the valley was unbroken.
No cabin smoked, no man worked within sight, so that the haste of these
two, their sweating faces, their straining steps, seemed portentous.
"Shall I take up the lad?" Colonel John asked.

Plainly the man hesitated. Then, "You will be doing a kindness," he
panted. And, seizing the lad in two powerful arms, he swung him to the
Colonel's stirrup, who, in taking him, knocked off the other's
jockey-cap.

The man snatched it up and put it on with a single movement. But
Colonel John had seen what he expected.

"You walk on a matter of life and death?" he said.

"It is all that," the man answered; and this time his look was defiant.

"You are taking the offices, father?"

The man did not reply.

"To one who is near his end, I suspect?"

The priest--for such he was--glanced at the weapon Colonel John wore.
"You can do what you will," he said sullenly. "I am on my duty."

"And a fine thing, that!" Colonel John answered heartily. He drew rein,
and, before the other knew what he would be at, he was off his horse.
"Mount, father," he said, "and ride, and God be with you!"

For a moment the priest stared dumbfounded. "Sir," he said, "you wear a
sword! And no son of the Church goes armed in these parts."

"If I am not one of your Church I am a Christian," Colonel John
answered. "Mount, father, and ride in God's name, and when you are
there send the lad back with the beast."

"The Mother of God reward you!" the priest cried fervently, "and turn
your heart in the right way!" He scrambled to the saddle. "The blessing
of all----"

The rest was lost in the thud of hoofs as the horse started briskly,
leaving Colonel John standing alone upon the road beside Bale's
stirrup. The servant looked after the retreating pair, but said
nothing.

"It's something if a man serves where he's listed," Colonel John
remarked.

Bale smiled. "And don't betray his own side," he said. He slipped from
his saddle.

"You think it's the devil's work we've done?" Colonel John asked.

But Bale declined to say more, and the two walked on, one on either
side of the horse, master or man punching it when it showed a desire to
sample the herbage. A stranger, seeing them, might have thought that
they were wont to walk thus, so unmoved were their faces.

They had trudged the better part of two miles when they came upon the
horse tethered by the reins to one of two gate-pillars, which stood
gateless beside the road. Colonel John got to his saddle, and they
trotted on. Notwithstanding which it was late in the afternoon when
they approached the town of Tralee.

In those days it was a town much ruined. The grim castle of the
Desmonds, scene of the midnight murder which had brought so many woes
on Ireland, still elbowed the grey Templars Cloister, and looked down,
as it frowned across the bay, on the crumbling aisles and squalid
graves of the Abbey. To Bale, as he scanned the dark pile, it was but a
keep--a mere nothing beside Marienburg or Stettin--rising above the
hovels of an Irish town. But to the Irishman it stood for many a bitter
memory and many a crime, besides that murder of a guest which will
never be forgotten. The Colonel sighed as he gazed.

Presently his eyes dropped to the mean houses which flanked the
entrance to the town; and he recognised that if all the saints had not
vouchsafed their company, the delay caused by the meeting with the
priest had done somewhat. For at that precise moment a man was riding
into the town before them, and the horse under the man was Flavia
McMurrough's lost mare.

Colonel John's eye lightened as he recognised its points. With a sign
to Bale he fell in behind the man and followed him through two or three
ill-paved and squalid streets. Presently the rider passed through a
loop-holed gateway, before which a soldier was doing sentry-go. The two
followed. Thence the quarry crossed an open space surrounded by dreary
buildings which no military eye could take for aught but a barrack
yard. The two still followed--the sentry staring after them. On the far
side of the yard the mare and its rider vanished through a second
archway, which appeared to lead to an inner court. The Colonel, nothing
intimidated, went after them. Fortune, he thought, had favoured him.

But as he emerged from the tunnel-like passage he raised his head in
astonishment. A din of voices, an outbreak of laughter and revelry,
burst in a flood of sound upon his ears. He turned his face in the
direction whence the sounds came, and saw three open windows, and at
each window three or four flushed countenances. His sudden emergence
from the tunnel, perhaps his look of surprise, wrought an instant's
silence, which was followed by a ruder outburst.

"Cock! cock! cock!" shrieked a tipsy voice, and an orange, hurled at
random, missed the Colonel's astonished face by a yard. The mare which
had led him so far had disappeared, and instinctively he drew bridle.
He stared at the window.

"Mark one!" cried a second roisterer, and a cork, better aimed than the
orange, struck the Colonel sharply on the chin. A shout of laughter
greeted the hit.

He raised his hat. "Gentlemen," he remonstrated, "gentlemen----"

He could proceed no further. A flight of corks, a renewed cry of "Cock!
cock! cock!" a chorus of "Fetch him, Ponto! Dead, good dog! Find him,
Ponto!" drowned his remonstrances. Perhaps in the scowling face at his
elbow--for William Bale had followed him and was looking very fierce
indeed--the wits of the --th found more amusement than in the master's
mild astonishment.

"Who the devil is he?" cried one of the seniors, raising his voice
above the uproar. "English or Irish?"

"Irish for a dozen!" a voice answered. "Here, Paddy, where's your
papers?"

"Ay, be jabers!" in an exaggerated brogue; "it's the broth of a boy he
is, and never a face as long as his in ould Ireland!"

"Gentlemen," the Colonel said, getting in a word at last. "Gentlemen, I
have been in many companies before this, and----"

"And by G--d, you shall be in ours!" one of the revellers retorted. And
"Have him in! Fetch him in!" roared a dozen voices, amid much laughter.
In a twinkling half as many young fellows had leapt from the windows,
and surrounded him. "Who-whoop!" cried one, "Who-whoop!"

"Steady, gentlemen, steady!" the Colonel said, a note of sternness in
his voice. "I've no objection to joining you, or to a little timely
frolic, but----"

"Join us you will, whether or no!" replied one, more drunken or more
turbulent than the rest. He made as if he would lay hands on the
Colonel, and, to avoid violence, the latter suffered himself to be
helped from his saddle. In a twinkling he was urged through the
doorway, leaving his reins in Bale's hand, whose face, for sheer wrath
and vindictiveness, was a picture.

Boisterous cries of "Hallo, sobersides!" and "Cock, cock, cock!"
greeted the Colonel, as, partly of his own accord and partly urged by
unceremonious hands, he crossed the threshold, and shot forward into
the room.

The scene presented by the apartment matched the flushed faces and the
wandering eyes which the windows had framed. The long table was strewn
with flasks and glasses and half-peeled fruit, the floor with empty
bottles. A corner of the table had been cleared for a main at hazard;
but to make up for this the sideboard was a wilderness of broken meats
and piled-up dishes, and an overturned card-table beside one of the
windows had strewn the floor with cards. Here, there, everywhere on
chairs, on hooks, were cast sword-belts, neckcloths, neglected wigs.

A peaceful citizen of that day had as soon found himself in a bear-pit;
and even the Colonel's face grew a trifle longer as hands, not too
gentle, conducted him towards the end of the table. "Gentlemen,
gentlemen," he began, "I have been in many companies, as I said before,
and----"

"A speech! Old Gravity's speech!" roared a middle-aged, bold-eyed man,
who had suggested the sally from the windows, and from the first had
set the younger spirits an example of recklessness. "Hear to him!" He
filled a glass of wine and waved it perilously near the Colonel's nose.
"Old Gravity's speech! Give it tongue!" he cried. "The flure's your
own, and we're listening."

Colonel John eyed him with a slight contraction of the features. But
the announcement, if ill-meant, availed to procure silence. The more
sober had resumed their seats. He raised his head and spoke.

"Gentlemen," he said--and it was strange to note the effect of his look
as his eyes fell first on one and then on another, fraught with a
dignity which insensibly wrought on them. "Gentlemen, I have been in
many companies, and I have found it true, all the world over, that what
a man brings he finds. I have the honour to speak to you as a soldier
to soldiers----"

"English or Irish?" asked a tall sallow man--sharply, but in a new
tone.

"Irish!"

"Oh, be jabers!" from the man with the wineglass.

But the Colonel's eye and manner had had their effect, and "Let him
speak!" the sallow man said. "And you, Payton, have done with your
fooling, will you?"

"Well, hear to him!"

"I have been in many camps and many companies, gentlemen," the Colonel
resumed, "and those of many nations. But wherever I have been I have
found that if a man brought courtesy with him, he met with courtesy at
the hands of others. And if he brought no offence, he received none. I
am a stranger here, for I have been out of my own country for a score
of years. On my return you welcome me," he smiled, "a little
boisterously perhaps, but I am sure, gentlemen, with a good intent. And
as I have fared elsewhere I am sure I shall fare at your hands."

"Well, sure," from the background, "and haven't we made you welcome?"

"Almost too freely," the Colonel replied, smiling good-humouredly. "A
peaceable man who had not lived as long as I have might have found
himself at a loss in face of so strenuous a welcome. Corks, perhaps,
are more in place in bottles----"

"And a dale more in place out of them!" from the background.

"But if you will permit me to explain my errand, I will say no more of
that. My name, gentlemen, is Sullivan, Colonel John Sullivan of Skull,
formerly of the Swedish service, and much at your service. I shall be
still more obliged if any of you will be kind enough to inform me who
is the purchaser----"

Payton interrupted him rudely. "Oh, d--n! We have had enough of this!"
he cried. "Sink all purchasers, I say!" And with a drunken crow he
thrust his neighbour against the speaker, causing both to reel. How it
happened no one saw--whether Payton himself staggered in the act, or
flung the wine wantonly; but somehow the contents of his glass flew
over the Colonel's face and neckcloth.

Half a dozen men rose from their seats. "Shame!" an indignant voice
cried.

Among those who had risen was the sallow man. "Payton," he said
sharply, "what did you do that for?"

"Because I chose, if you like!" the stout man answered. "What is it to
you? I am ready to give him satisfaction when he likes, and where he
likes, and no heel-taps! And what more can he want? Do you hear, sir?"
he continued in a bullying tone. "Sword or pistols, before breakfast or
after dinner, drunk or sober, Jack Payton's your man. D--n me, it shall
never be said in my time that the --th suffered a crop-eared Irishman
to preach to them in their own mess-room! You can send your friend to
me when you please. He'll find me!"

The Colonel was wiping the wine from his chin and neckcloth. He had
turned strangely pale at the moment of the insult. More than one of
those who watched him curiously--and of such were all in the room,
Payton excepted--and who noted the slow preciseness of his movements
and the care with which he cleansed himself, albeit his hand shook,
expected some extraordinary action.

But no one looked for anything so abnormal or so astonishing as the
course he took when he spoke. Nothing in his bearing had prepared them
for it; nor anything in his conduct which, so far, had been that of a
man of the world not too much at a loss even in the unfavourable
circumstances in which he was placed--circumstances which would have
unnerved many a one.

"I do not fight," he said. "Your challenge is cheap, sir, as your
insult."

Payton stared. He had never been more astonished in his life. "Good
L--d!" he cried. "You do not fight? Heaven and earth! and you a
soldier!"

"I do not fight."

"After that, man! Not--after----" He did not finish the sentence, but
laughed with uplifted chin, as at some great joke.

"No," Colonel John said between his teeth.

And then no one spoke. A something in Colonel John's tone and manner, a
something in the repression of his voice, sobered the spectators, and
turned that which might have seemed an ignominy, a surrender, into a
tragedy. And a tragedy in which they all had their share. For the
insult had been so wanton, so gross, so brutal, that there was not one
of the witnesses who had not felt shame, not one whose sympathy had not
been for a moment with the victim, and who did not experience a pang on
his account as he stood, mild and passive, before them.

Payton alone was moved only by contempt. "Lord above us, man!" he
cried, finding his voice again. Are you a Quaker? If so, why the devil
do you call yourself a soldier?"

"I am no Quaker," Colonel John answered, "but I do not fight duels."

"Why?"

"If I killed you," the Colonel replied, eyeing him steadily, "would it
dry my neckcloth or clean my face?"

"No!" Payton retorted with a sneer, "but it would clean your honour!"
He had felt the reprehension in the air, he had been conscious for a
few seconds that he had not the room with him; but the perception made
him only the more arrogant now that he felt his feet again. "It would
prove, man, that, unlike the beasts that perish, you valued something
more than your life!"

"I do."

"What?" Payton asked with careless disdain.

"Among other things, my duty." Payton laughed brutally. "Why, by the
powers, you _are_ a preacher!" he retorted. "Hang your duty, sir, and
you for a craven! Give me acts, not words! It's a man's duty to defend
his honour, and you talk of your neckcloth! There's for a new
neckcloth!" He pulled out a half-crown and flung it, with an insulting
gesture, upon the table. "Show us your back, and for the future give
gentlemen of honour--a wide berth! You are no mate for them!"

The act and the words were too strong for the stomachs of the more
generous among his hearers. A murmur, an undoubted murmur rose--for if
Payton was feared he was not loved; and the sallow-faced man, whose
name was Marsh, spoke out. "Easy, Payton," he said. "The gentleman----"

"The gentleman, eh?"

"Did not come here of his own accord, and you've said enough, and done
enough! For my part----"

"I didn't ask for your interference!" the other cried insolently.

"Well, anyway----"

"And I don't want it! And I won't have it; do you hear, Marsh?" Payton
repeated menacingly. "You know me, and I know you."

"I know that you are a better fencer and a better shot than I am,"
Marsh replied, shrugging his shoulders, "and I daresay than any of us.
We are apt to believe it, anyway. But----"

"I would advise you to let that be enough," Payton sneered.

It was then that the Colonel, who had stood silent during the
altercation of which he was the subject, spoke--and in a tone somewhat
altered. "I am much obliged to you, sir," he said, addressing the
sallow-faced man, "but I will cause no further trouble. I crave leave
to say one word only, which may come home to some among you. We are
all, at times, at the mercy of mean persons. Yes, sir, of mean
persons," the Colonel repeated, raising his voice and speaking in a
tone so determined--he seemed another man--that Payton, in the act of
seizing a decanter to hurl at him, hesitated. "For any but a mean
person," Colonel John continued, drawing himself up to his full height,
"finding that he had insulted one who could not meet him on even
terms--one who could not resent the insult in the manner
intended--would have deemed it all one as if he had insulted a
one-armed man, or a blind man, and would have set himself right by an
apology."

At that word Payton found his voice. "Hang your apology!" he cried
furiously.

"By an apology," the Colonel repeated, fixing him with eyes of
unmeasured contempt, "which would have lowered him no more than an
apology to a woman or a child. Not doing so, his act dishonours himself
only, and those who sit with him. And one day, unless I mistake not,
his own blood, and the blood of others, will rest upon his head."

With that word the speaker turned slowly, walked with an even pace to
the door, and opened it, none gainsaying him. On the threshold he
paused and looked back. Something, possibly some chord of superstition
in his breast which his adversary's last words had touched, held Payton
silent: and silent the Colonel's raised finger found him.

"I believe," Colonel John said, gazing solemnly at him, "that we shall
meet again." And he went out.

Payton turned to the table, and, with an unsteady hand, filled a glass.
He read disapprobation in the eyes about him, but he had shaken the
momentary chill from his own spirits, and he stared them down. "Sink
the old Square-Toes!" he cried. "He got what he deserved! Who'll throw
a main with me?"

"Thirty guineas against your new mare, if you like?"

"No, confound you," Payton retorted angrily. "Didn't I say she wasn't
for sale?"




CHAPTER VI

THE MAÎTRE D'ARMES


Beyond doubt Colonel John had got himself off the scene with a certain
amount of dignity. But with all that he had done and suffered in the
lands beyond the Baltic and the Vistula, he had not yet become so
perfect a philosopher as to be indifferent to the opinion held of him
by others. He was, indeed, as he retired, as unhappy as a more ordinary
man might have been in the same case. He knew that he was no craven,
that he had given his proofs a score of times. But old deeds and a
foreign reputation availed nothing here. And it was with a deep sense
of vexation and shame that he rode out of the barrack-yard. Why, oh
why! had he been so unlucky as to enter it? He was a man, after all,
and the laughter of the mess-room, the taunts of the bully, burned his
ears.

Nor were his spirits low on his account only. The cruelty of man to
man, the abuse of strength by those who had it, and the pains of those
who had it not, the crookedness of the world in which the weak go to
the wall--thoughts of these things weighed him down. But more, and more
to the purpose, he saw that after what had happened, his chances of
success in the enterprise which had brought him to town, and which was
itself but a means to an end, were lessened. It might not be possible
to pursue that enterprise any farther. This was a mortifying thought,
and accounted for the melancholy face with which he sought the inn, and
supped; now wishing that he had not done this or that, now pondering
how he might turn the flank of a misfortune which threatened to shatter
all his plans.

For if he was anxious to recover the mare, his anxiety did not rest
there. Her recovery was but a step to other things; to that influence
at Morristown which would make him potent for good; to that
consideration which would enable him to expel foolish councils, and
silence that simmering talk of treason which might at any moment boil
up into action and ruin a countryside. But he knew that he could only
get the mare from those who held her by imposing himself upon them; and
to do this after what had happened seemed impossible. The story would
be told, must be told: it would be carried far and wide. Such things
were never hid; and he had come off so ill, as the world viewed things,
he had cut so poor a figure, that after this he could hope for nothing
from his personal influence here or at Morristown. Nothing, unless he
could see himself right at Tralee.

He brooded long over the matter, and at length--but not until after his
meal--he hit on a plan, promising, though distasteful. He called Bale,
and made inquiries through that taciturn man; and next morning he sat
late at his breakfast. He had learned that the garrison used the inn
much, many of the officers calling there for their "morning"; and the
information proved correct. About ten he heard heavy steps in the
stone-paved passage, spurs rang out an arrogant challenge, voices
called for Patsy and Molly, and demanded this or that. By-and-by two
officers, almost lads, sauntered into the room in which he sat, and,
finding him there, moved with a wink and a grin to the window. They
leant out, and he heard them laugh; he knew that they were discussing
him before they turned to the daily fare--the neat ankles of a passing
"colleen," the glancing eyes of the French milliner over the way, or
the dog-fight at the corner. The two remained thus, half eclipsed as
far as the Colonel was concerned, until presently the sallow-faced man
sauntered idly into the room.

He did not see the Colonel at once, but the latter rose and bowed, and
Marsh, a little added colour in his face, returned the salute--with an
indifferent grace. It was clear that, though he had behaved better than
his fellows on the previous day, he had no desire to push the
acquaintance farther.

Colonel John, however, gave him no chance. Still standing, and with a
grave, courteous face, "May I, as a stranger," he said, "trouble you
with a question, sir?"

The two lady-killers at the window heard the words and nudged one
another, with a stifled chuckle at their comrade's predicament. Captain
Marsh, with one eye on them, assented stiffly.

"Is there any one," the Colonel asked, "in Tralee--I fear the chance is
small--who gives fencing lessons?--or who is qualified to do so?"

The Captain's look of surprise yielded to one of pitying comprehension.
He smiled--he could not help it; while the young men drew in their
heads to hear the better.

"Yes," he answered, "there is."

"In the regiment, I presume?"

"He is attached to it temporarily. If you will inquire at the Armoury
for Lemoine, the Maître d'Armes, he will oblige you, I have no doubt.
But----"

"If you please?" the Colonel said politely, seeing that Marsh
hesitated.

"If you are not a skilled swordsman, I fear that it is not one lesson,
or two, or a dozen, will enable you to meet Captain Payton, if you have
such a thing in your mind, sir. He is but little weaker than Lemoine,
and Lemoine is a fair match with a small-sword for any man out of
London. Brady in Dublin, possibly, and perhaps half a dozen in England
are his betters, but----" he stopped abruptly, his ear catching a
snigger at the window. "I need not trouble you with that," he concluded
lamely.

"Still," the Colonel answered simply, "a long reach goes for much, I
have heard, and I am tall."

Captain Marsh looked at him in pity, and he might have put his
compassion into words, but for the young bloods at the window, who, he
knew, would repeat the conversation. He contented himself, therefore,
with saying rather curtly, "I believe it goes some way." And he turned
stiffly to go out.

But the Colonel had a last question to put to him. "At what hour," he
asked, "should I be most likely to find this--Lemoine, at leisure?"

"Lemoine?"

"If you please."

Marsh opened his mouth to answer, but found himself anticipated by one
of the youngsters. "Three in the afternoon is the best time," the lad
said bluntly, speaking over his shoulder. He popped out his head again,
that his face, swollen by his perception of the jest, might not betray
it.

But the Colonel seemed to see nothing. "I thank you," he said, bowing
courteously.

And re-seating himself, as Marsh went out, he finished his breakfast.
The two at the window, after exploding once or twice in an attempt to
stifle their laughter, drew in their heads, and, still red in the face,
marched solemnly past the Colonel, and out of the room. His seat, now
the window was clear, commanded a view of the street, and presently he
saw the two young bloods go by in the company of four or five of their
like. They were gesticulating, nor was there much doubt, from the
laughter with which their tale was received, that they were retailing a
joke of signal humour.

That did not surprise the Colonel. But when the door opened a moment
later, and Marsh came hastily into the room, and with averted face
began to peer about for something, he was surprised.

"Where the devil's that snuff-box!" the sallow-faced man exclaimed.
"Left it somewhere!" Then, looking about him to make sure that the door
was closed. "See, here sir," he said awkwardly, "it's no business of
mine, but for a man who has served as you say you have, you're a d----d
simple fellow. Take my advice and don't go to Lemoine's at three, if
you go at all."

"No?" the Colonel echoed.

"Can't you see they'll all be there to guy you?" Marsh retorted
impatiently. He could not help liking the man, and yet the man seemed a
fool! The next moment, with a hasty nod, he was gone. He had found the
box in his pocket.

Colonel Sullivan smiled, and, after carefully brushing the crumbs from
his breeches, rose from the table. "A good man," he muttered. "Pity he
has not more courage." The next moment he came to attention, for slowly
past the window moved Captain Payton himself, riding Flavia's mare, and
talking with one of the young bloods who walked at his stirrup.

The man and the horse! The Colonel began to understand that something
more than wantonness had inspired Payton's conduct the previous night.
Either he had been privy from the first to the plot to waylay the
horse; or he had bought it cheaply knowing how it had been acquired;
or--a third alternative--it had been placed in his hands, to the end
that his reputation as a fire-eater might protect it. In any event, he
had had an interest in nipping inquiry in the bud; and, learning who
the Colonel was, had acted on the instant, and with considerable
presence of mind.

The Colonel looked thoughtful; and though the day was fine for
Ireland--that is, no more than a small rain was falling--he remained
within doors until five minutes before three o'clock. Bale had employed
the interval in brushing the stains of travel from his master's
clothes, and combing his horseman's wig with particular care; so that
it was a neat and spruce gentleman who at five minutes before three
walked through Tralee, and, attending to the directions he had
received, approached a particular door, a little within the barrack
gate.

Had he glanced up at the windows he would have seen faces at them;
moreover, a suspicious ear might have caught, as he paused on the
threshold, a scurrying of feet, mingled with stifled laughter. But he
did not look up. He did not seem to expect to see more than he found,
when he entered--a great bare room with its floor strewn with sawdust
and its walls adorned here and there by a gaunt trophy of arms. In the
middle of the floor, engaged apparently in weighing one foil against
another, was a stout, dark-complexioned man, whose light and nimble
step, as he advanced to meet his visitor, gave the lie to his weight.

Certainly there came from a half-opened door at the end of the room a
stealthy sound as of rats taking cover. But Colonel John did not look
that way. His whole attention was bent upon the Maître d'Armes, who
bowed low to him. Clicking his heels together, and extending his palms
in the French fashion, "Good-morning, sare," he said, his southern
accent unmistakable. "I make you welcome."

The Colonel returned his salute less elaborately. "The Maître d'Armes
Lemoine?" he said.

"Yes, sare, that is me. At your service!"

"I am a stranger in Tralee, and I have been recommended to apply to
you. You are, I am told, accustomed to give lessons."

"With the small-sword?" the Frenchman answered, with the same gesture
of the open hands. "It is my profession."

"I am desirous of brushing up my knowledge--such as it is."

"A vare good notion," the fencing-master replied, his black beady eyes
twinkling. "Vare good for me. Vare good also for you. Always ready, is
the gentleman's motto; and to make himself ready, his high recreation.
But, doubtless, sare," with a faint smile, "you are proficient, and I
teach you nothing. You come but to sweat a little." An observant person
would have noticed that as he said this he raised his voice above his
usual tone.

"At one time," Colonel John replied with simplicity, "I was fairly
proficient. Then--this happened!" He held out his right hand. "You
see?"

"Ah!" the Frenchman said in a low tone, and he raised his hands. "That
is ogly! That is vare ogly! Can you hold with that?" he added,
inspecting the hand with interest. He was a different man.

"So, so," the Colonel answered cheerfully.

"Not strongly, eh? It is not possible."

"Not very strongly," the Colonel assented. His hand, like Bale's,
lacked two fingers.

Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel
with a wrinkled brow. "Tut--tut!" he said, "and how long are you like
that, sare?"

"Seven years."

"Pity! pity!" Lemoine exclaimed. Again he looked at his visitor with
perplexed eyes. After which, "Dam!" he said suddenly.

The Colonel stared.

"It is not right!" the Frenchman continued, frowning. "I--no! Pardon
me, sare, I do not fence with _les estropiés_. That is downright! That
is certain, sare. I do not do it."

If the Colonel had been listening he might have caught the sound of a
warning cough, with a stir, and a subdued murmur of voices--all
proceeding from the direction of the inner room. But he had his back to
the half-opened door and he seemed to be taken up with the
fencing-master's change of tone. "But if," he objected, "I am willing
to pay for an hour's practice?"

"Another day, sare. Another day, if you will."

"But I shall not be here another day. I have but to-day. By-and-by," he
continued with a smile as kindly as it was humorous, "I shall begin to
think that you are afraid to pit yourself against a _manchot_!"

"Oh, la! la!" The Frenchman dismissed the idea with a contemptuous
gesture.

"Do me the favour, then," Colonel John retorted. "If you please?"

Against one of the walls were three chairs arranged in a row. Before
each stood a boot-jack, and beside it a pair of boot-hooks; over it,
fixed in the wall, were two or three pegs for the occupant's wig,
cravat, and cane. The Colonel, without waiting for a further answer,
took his seat on one of the chairs, removed his boots, and then his
coat, vest, and wig, which he hung on the pegs above him.

"And now," he said gaily, as he stood up, "the mask!"

He did not see the change--for he seemed to have no suspicion--but as
he rose, the door of the room behind him became fringed with grinning
faces. Payton, the two youths who had leant from the window of the inn
and who had carried his words, a couple of older officers, half a dozen
subalterns, all were there--and one or two civilians. The more grave
could hardly keep the more hilarious in order. The curtain was ready to
go up on what they promised themselves would be the most absurd scene.
The stranger who fought no duels, yet thought that a lesson or two
would make him a match for a dead-hand like Payton--was ever such a
promising joke conceived? The good feeling, even the respect which the
Colonel had succeeded in awakening for a short time the evening before,
were forgotten in the prospect of such a jest.

The Frenchman made no further demur. He had said what he could, and it
was not his business to quarrel with his best clients. He took his
mask, and proffered a choice of foils to his antagonist, whose figure,
freed from the heavy coat and vest of the day, and the overshadowing
wig, seemed younger and more supple than the Frenchman had expected. "A
pity, a pity!" the latter said to himself. "To have lost, if he ever
was professor, the joy of life!"

"Are you ready?" Colonel John asked.

"At your service, sare," the Maître d'Armes replied--but not with much
heartiness. The two advanced each a foot, they touched swords, then
saluted with that graceful and courteous engagement which to an
ignorant observer is one of the charms of the foil. As they did so, and
steel grated on steel, the eavesdroppers in the inner room ventured
softly from ambush--like rats issuing forth; soon they were all
standing behind the Colonel, the sawdust, and the fencers' stamping
feet as they lunged or gave back, covering the sound of their
movements.

They were on the broad grin when they came out. But it took them less
than a minute to discover that the entertainment was not likely to be
so extravagantly funny as they had hoped. The Colonel was not, strictly
speaking, a tyro; moreover, he had, as he said, a long reach. He was no
match indeed for Lemoine, who touched him twice in the first bout and
might have touched him thrice had he put forth his strength. But he did
nothing absurd. When he dropped his point, therefore, at the end of the
rally, and, turning to take breath came face to face with the gallery
of onlookers, the best-natured of these felt rather foolish. But
Colonel John seemed to find nothing surprising in their presence. He
saluted them courteously with his weapon. "I am afraid I cannot show
you much sport, gentlemen," he said.

One or two muttered something--a good day, or the like. The rest
grinned unmeaningly. Payton said nothing, but, folding his arms with a
superior air, leant, frowning haughtily, against the wall.

"_Parbleu_," said Lemoine, as they rested. "It is a pity. The wrist is
excellent, sare. But the pointing finger is not--is not!"

"I do my best," the Colonel answered, with cheerful resignation. "Shall
we engage again?"

"At your pleasure."

The Frenchman's eye no longer twinkled; his gallantry was on its
mettle. He was grave and severe, fixing his gaze on the Colonel's
attack, and remaining blind to the nods and shrugs and smiles of
amusement of his patrons in the background. Again he touched the
Colonel, and, alas! again; with an ease which, good-natured as he was,
he could not mask.

Colonel John, a little breathed, and perhaps a little chagrined also,
dropped his point. Some one coughed, and another tittered.

"I think he will need another lesson or two," Payton remarked, speaking
ostensibly to one of his companions, but loudly enough for all to hear.

The man whom he addressed made an inaudible answer. The Colonel turned
towards them.

"And--a new hand," Payton added in the same tone.

Even for his henchman the remark was almost too much. But the Colonel,
strange to say--perhaps he really was very simple--seemed to find
nothing offensive in it. On the contrary, he replied to it.

"That was precisely," he said, "what I thought when this"--he indicated
his maimed hand--"happened to me. And I did my best to procure one."

"Did you succeed?" Payton retorted in an insolent tone.

"To some extent," the Colonel replied, in the most matter-of-fact
manner. And he transferred the foil to his left hand.

"Give you four to one," Payton rejoined, "Lemoine hits you twice before
you hit him once."

Colonel John had anticipated some of the things that had happened. But
he had not foreseen this. He was quick to see the use to which he might
put it, and it was only for an instant that he hesitated. Then "Four to
one?" he repeated.

"Five, if you like!" Payton sneered.

"If you will wager," the Colonel said slowly, "if you will wager the
grey mare you were riding this morning, sir----"

Payton uttered an angry oath. "What do you mean?" he said.

"Against ten guineas," Colonel John continued carelessly, bending the
foil against the floor and letting it spring to its length again, "I
will make that wager."

Payton scowled at him. He was aware of the other's interest in the
mare, and suspected, at least, that he had come to town to recover her.
And caution would have had him refuse the snare. But his toadies were
about him, he had long ruled the roast, to retreat went against the
grain; while to suppose that the man had the least chance against
Lemoine was absurd. Yet he hesitated. "What do you know about the
mare?" he said coarsely.

"I have seen her. But of course, if you are afraid to wager her,
sir----"

Payton answered to the spur. "Bah! Afraid?" he cried contemptuously.
"Done, with you!"

"That is settled," the Colonel replied. "I am at your service," he
continued, turning to the Maître d'Armes. "I trust," indicating that he
was going to fence with his left hand, "that this will not embarrass
you?"

"No! But it is interesting, by G--d, it is vare interesting," the
Frenchman replied. "I have encountered _les gauchers_ before, and----"

He did not finish the sentence, but saluting, he assumed an attitude a
little more wary than usual. He bent his knees a trifle lower, and held
his left shoulder somewhat more advanced, as compared with his right.
The foils felt one another, and "Oh, va, va!" he muttered. "I
understand, the droll!"

For half a minute or so the faces of the onlookers reflected only a
mild surprise, mingled with curiosity. But the fencers had done little
more than feel one another's blades, they had certainly not exchanged
more than half a dozen serious passes, before this was changed, before
one face grew longer and another more intent. A man who was no fencer,
and therefore no judge, spoke. A fierce oath silenced him. Another
murmured an exclamation under his breath. A third stooped low with his
hands on his hips that he might not lose a lunge or a parry. For
Payton, his face became slowly a dull red. At length, "Ha!" cried one,
drawing in his breath. And he was right. The Maître d'Armes' button,
sliding under the Colonel's blade, had touched his opponent. At once,
Lemoine sprang back out of danger, the two points dropped, the two
fencers stood back to take breath.

For a few seconds the Colonel's chagrin was plain. He looked, and was,
disappointed. Then he conquered the feeling, and he smiled. "I fear you
are too strong for me," he said.

"Not at all," the Frenchman made answer. "Not at all! It was fortune,
sare. I know not what you were with your right hand, but you are with
the left vare strong, of the first force. It is certain."

Payton, an expert, had been among the earliest to discern, with as much
astonishment as mortification, the Colonel's skill. With a sudden
sinking of the heart, he had foreseen the figure he would cut if
Lemoine were worsted; he had endured a moment of great fear. But at
this success he choked down his apprehensions, and, a sanguine man, he
breathed again. One more hit, one more success on Lemoine's part, and
he had won the wager! But with all he could do he could no longer bear
himself carelessly. Pallid and troubled, he watched, biting his lip;
and though he longed to say something cutting, he could think of
nothing. Nay, if it came to that, he could not trust his voice, and
while he still faltered, seeking for a gibe and finding none, the two
combatants had crossed their foils again. Their tense features, plain
through the masks, as well as their wary movements, made it clear that
they played for a victory of which neither was confident.

By this time the rank and file of the spectators had been reinforced by
the arrival of Marsh; who, discovering a scene so unexpected, and
quickly perceiving that Lemoine was doing his utmost, wondered what
Payton's thoughts were. Apart from the wager, it was clear that if
Lemoine had not met his match, the Captain had; and in the future would
have to mend his manners in respect to one person present. Doubtless
many of those in the room, on whose toes Payton had often trodden, had
the same idea, and felt secret joy, pleased that the bully of the
regiment was like to meet with a reverse and a master.

Whatever their thoughts, a quick rally diverted them, and riveted all
eyes on the fencers. For a moment thrust and parry followed one another
so rapidly that the untrained gaze could not distinguish them or trace
the play. The spectators held their breath, expecting a hit with each
second. But the rally died away again, neither of the players had got
through the other's guard; and now they fell to it more slowly, the
Colonel, a little winded, giving ground, and Lemoine pressing him.

Then, no one saw precisely how it happened, whiff-whaff, Lemoine's
weapon flew from his hand and struck the wall with a whirr and a
jangle. The fencing-master wrung his wrist. "_Sacre!_" he cried,
between his teeth, unable in the moment of surprise to control his
chagrin.

The Colonel touched him with his button for form's sake, then stepped
rapidly to the wall, picked up the foil by the blade, and courteously
returned it to him. Two or three cried "Bravo," but faintly, as barely
comprehending what had happened. The greater part stood silent in sheer
astonishment. For Payton, he remained dumb with mortification and
disgust; and if he had the grace to be thankful for anything, he was
thankful that for the moment attention was diverted from him.

Lemoine, indeed, the person more immediately concerned, had only eyes
for his opponent, whom he regarded with a queer mixture of approval and
vexation. "You have been at Angelo's school in Paris, sare?" he said,
in the tone of one who stated a fact rather than asked a question.

"It is true," the Colonel answered, smiling. "You have guessed it."

"And learned that trick from him?"

"I did. It is of little use except to a left-handed man."

"Yet in play with one not of the first force it succeeds twice out of
three times," Lemoine answered. "Twice out of three times, with the
right hand. _Ma foi!_ I remember it well! I offered the master twenty
guineas, Monsieur, if he would teach it me. But because"--he held out
his palms pathetically--"I was right-handed, he would not."

"I am fortunate," Colonel John answered, bowing, and regarding his
opponent with kind eyes, "in being able to requite your good nature. I
shall be pleased to teach it you for nothing, but not now. Gentlemen,"
he continued, giving up his foil to Lemoine, and removing his mask,
"gentlemen, you will bear me witness, I trust, that I have won the
wager?"

Some nodded, some murmured an affirmative, others turned towards
Payton, who, too deeply chagrined to speak, nodded sullenly. How
willingly at that moment would he have laid the Colonel dead at his
feet, and Lemoine, and the whole crew, friends and enemies! He gulped
something down. "Oh, d--n you!" he said, "I give it you! Take the mare,
she's in the stable!"

At that a brother officer touched his arm, and, disregarding his
gesture of impatience, drew him aside. The intervener seemed to be
reminding him of something; and the Colonel, not inattentive, and
indeed suspicious, caught the name "Asgill" twice repeated. But Payton
was too angry to care for minor consequences, or to regard anything but
how he might most quickly escape from the scene of defeat and the eyes
of those who had witnessed his downfall. He shook off his adviser with
a rough hand.

"What do I care?" he answered with an oath. "He must shoe his own
cattle!" Then, with a poor show of hiding his spite under a cloak of
insouciance, he addressed the Colonel. "The mare is yours," he said.
"You've won her. Much good may she do you!"

And he turned on his heel and went out of the armoury.




CHAPTER VII

BARGAINING


The melancholy which underlies the Celtic temperament finds something
congenial in the shadows that at close of day fall about an old ruin.
On fine summer evenings, and sometimes when the south-wester was
hurling sheets of rain from hill to hill, and the birch-trees were
bending low before its blast, Flavia would seek the round tower that
stood on the ledge beside the waterfall. It was as much as half a mile
from the house, and the track which scaled the broken ground to its
foot was rough. But from the narrow terrace before the wall the eye not
only commanded the valley in all its length, but embraced above one
shoulder a distant view of Brandon Mountain, and above the other a peep
of the Atlantic. Thither, ever since she could remember, she had
carried her dreams and her troubles; there, with the lake stretched
below her, and the house a mere Noah's ark to the eye, she had cooled
her hot brow or dried her tears, dwelt on past glories, or bashfully
thought upon the mysterious possibilities of that love, of that joint
life, of that rosy-hued future, to which the most innocent of maidens
must sometimes turn their minds.

It was perhaps because she often sought the tower at sunset, and he had
noted the fact, that Luke Asgill's steps bore him thither on an evening
three days after the Colonel's departure for Tralee. Asgill had
remained at Morristown, though the girl had not hidden her distaste for
his presence. But to all her remonstrances The McMurrough had replied,
with his usual churlishness, that the man was there on business--did
she want to recover her mare, or did she not? And she had found nothing
more to say. But the most slavish observance on the guest's part, and
some improvement in her brother's conduct--which she might have rightly
attributed to Asgill's presence--had not melted her. She, who had
scarcely masked her reluctance to receive a Protestant kinsman, was not
going to smile on a Protestant of Asgill's past and reputation; on a
man whose father had stood hat in hand before her grandfather, and
whose wealth had been wrung from the sweat of his fellow peasants.

Be that as it might, Asgill did not find her at the tower. But he was
patient; he thought that she might still come, and he waited, sitting
low, with his back against the ruined wall, that she might not see him
until it was too late for her to retreat. By-and-by he heard footsteps
mounting the path; his face reddened, and he made as if he would rise.
Remembering himself, however, he sat down again, with such a look in
his eyes as comes into a dog's when it expects to be beaten. But the
face that rose above the brow was not Flavia's, but her brother's. And
Asgill swore.

The McMurrough understood, grinned, and threw himself on the ground
beside him. "You'll be wishing me in the devil's bowl, I'm thinking,"
he said. "Yet, faith, I'm not so sure--if you're not a fool. For it's
certain I am, you'll never touch so much as the sole of her foot
without me."

"I'm not denying it," the other answered sulkily.

"So it's mighty little use your wishing me away!" The McMurrough
continued, stretching himself at his ease. "You can't get her without
me; nor at all, at all, but on my terms! It would be a fine thing for
you, no doubt, if you could sneak round her behind my back! Don't I
know you'd be all for old Sir Michael's will then, and I might die in a
gutter, for you! But an egg, and an egg's fair sharing."

"Have I said it was any other?" Asgill asked gloomily.

"The old place is mine, and I'm minded to keep it."

"And if any other marries her," Asgill said quietly, "he will want her
rights."

"Well, and do you think," the younger man answered in his ugliest
manner, "that if it weren't for that small fact, Mister Asgill----"

"And the small fact," Asgill struck in, "that before your grandfather
died I lent you a clear five hundred, and I'm to take that, that's my
own already, in quittance of all!"

"Well, and wasn't it that same I'm saying?" The McMurrough retorted.
"If it weren't for that, and the bargain we've struck, d'you think that
I'd be letting my sister and a McMurrough look at the likes of you? No,
not in as many Midsummer Days as are between this and world without
end!"

The look Asgill shot at him would have made a wiser man tremble. But
The McMurrough knew the strength of his position.

"And if I were to tell her?" Asgill said slowly.

"What?"

"That we've made a bargain about her."

"It's the last strand of hope you'd be breaking, my man," the younger
man answered briskly. "For you'd lose my help, and she'd not believe
you--though every priest in Douai backed your word!"

Asgill knew that that was true, and though his face grew dark he
changed his tone. "Enough said," he replied pacifically. "Where'll we
be if we quarrel? You want the old place that is yours by right. And I
want--your sister." He swallowed something as he named her; even his
tone was different. "'Tis one and one. That's all."

"And you're the one who wants the most," James replied cunningly.
"Asgill, my man, you'd give your soul for her, I'm thinking."

"I would."

"You would, I believe. By G--d," he continued, with a leer, "you're
that fond of her I'll have to look to her! Hang me, my friend, if I let
her be alone with you after this. Safe bind, safe find. Women and fruit
are easily bruised."

Asgill rose slowly to his feet. "You scoundrel!" he said in a low tone.
And it was only when The McMurrough, surprised by his movement, turned
to him, that the young man saw that his face was black with
passion--saw, indeed, a face so menacing, that he also sprang to his
feet. "You scoundrel!" Asgill repeated, choking on the words. "If you
say a thing like that again--if you say it again, do you hear?--I'll do
you a mischief. Do you hear? Do you hear?"

"What in the saints' names is the matter with you?" The McMurrough
faltered.

"You're not fit to breathe the air she breathes!" Asgill continued,
with the same ferocity. "Nor am I! But I know it, thank God! And you
don't! Why, man," he continued, still fighting with the passion that
possessed him, "I wouldn't dare to touch the hem of her gown without
her leave! I wouldn't dare to look in her face if she bade me not!
She's as safe with me as if she were an angel in heaven! And you
say--you; but you don't understand!"

"Faith and I don't," The McMurrough answered, his tone much lowered.
"That's true for you!" When it came to a collision of wills the other
was his master.

"No," Asgill repeated. "But don't you talk like that again, or harm
will come of it. I may be what you say--I may be! But I wouldn't lay a
finger on your sister against her will--no, not to be in Paradise!"

"I thought you didn't believe in Paradise," the younger man muttered
sulkily, striving to cover the check he had received.

"There's a Paradise I do believe in," Asgill answered. "But never mind
that." He sat down again.

Strange to relate, he meant what he said. Many changes corrupt loyalty,
and of evil times evil men are the natural fruit. In nearly all
respects Asgill was as unscrupulous a man as the time in which he lived
and the class from which he sprang could show. Following in the steps
of a griping, miserly sire, he had risen to his present station by
oppression and chicanery; by crushing the weak and cajoling the strong.
And he was prepared to maintain his ground by means as vile and a hand
as hard. But he loved; and--strange anomaly, bizarre exception, call it
what you will--somewhere in the depths of his earthly nature a spark of
good survived, and fired him with so pure an ardour that at the least
hint of disrespect to his mistress, at a thought of injury to her, the
whole man rose in arms. It was a strange, yet a common inconsistency;
an inconstancy to evil odd enough to set The McMurrough marvelling,
while common enough to commend itself to a thinking mind.

"Enough of that!" Asgill repeated after a moment's pause. While he did
not fear, it did not suit him to break with his companion. "And,
indeed, it was not of your sister I was thinking when I said where'd we
be if we quarrelled. For it's not I'll be the cuckoo to push you out,
McMurrough, lad. But a man there is will play the old grey bird yet, if
you let him be. And him with the power and all."

"D'you mean John Sullivan?"

"I mean that same, my jewel."

The young man laughed derisively. He had resumed his seat by the
other's side. "Pho!" he said, "you'll be jesting. For the power, it's
but a name. If he were to use, were it but the thin end of it, it would
run into his hand! The boys would rise upon him, and Flavvy'd be the
worst of them. It's in the deep bog he'd be, before he knew where he
was, and never'd he come out, Luke Asgill! Sure, I'm not afraid of
him!"

"You've need to be!" Asgill said soberly.

"Pho! It takes more than him to frighten me! Why, man, he's a soft
thing, if ever there was one! He'll not say boh! to a goose with a
pistol in its hand!"

"And that might be, if you weren't such a fool as ye are, McMurrough!"
Asgill answered. "No, but hear me out, lad!" he continued earnestly. "I
say he might not harm you, if you had not the folly we both know of in
your mind. But I tell you freely I'll be no bonnet to it while he
stands by. 'Tis too dangerous. Not that I believe you are much in
earnest, my lad, whatever others may think--what's your rightful king
to you, or you to him, that you should risk aught? But whether you go
into it out of pure devilment, or just to keep right with your
sister----"

"Which is why you stand bonnet for it," McMurrough struck in, with a
grin.

"That's possible. But I do that, my lad, because I hope naught may come
of it, but just a drinking of healths and the like. So, why should I
play the informer and get myself misliked? But you--you may find
yourself deeper in it than you think, and quicker than you think, while
all the time, if the truth were told"--with a shrewd look at the
other--"I believe you've little more heart for it than myself."

The young man swore a great oath that he was in it body and soul, swore
it by the bones of his ten toes. But he laughed before the words were
out of his mouth. And "I don't believe you," Asgill said coolly. "You
know, and I know, what you were ready to do when the old man was alive,
and if it had paid you properly. And you'd do the same now, if it paid
you now. So what are the wrongs of the old faith to you that you should
risk all for them? Or the rights of the old Irish, for the matter of
that? But this being so, and you but half-hearted, I tell you, it is
too dangerous a game to play for groats. And while John Sullivan's
here, that makes it more dangerous, I'll not play bonnet!"

"What'll he know of it, at all, at all?" James McMurrough asked
contemptuously. And he took up a stone and flung it over the edge.

"With a Spanish ship off the coast," Asgill answered, "and you know who
likely to land, and a preaching, may be, next Sunday, and pike-drill at
the Carraghalin to follow--man, in three days you may have smoking
roof-trees, and 'twill be too late to cry 'Hold!' Stop, I say, stop
while you can, and before you've all Kerry in a flame!"

James McMurrough turned with a start. His face--but the light was
beginning to fail--seemed a shade paler. "How did you know there was
pike-drill?" he cried sharply. "I didn't tell you."

"Hundreds know it."

"But you!" McMurrough retorted. It was plain that he was disagreeably
surprised.

"Did you think I meant nothing when I said I played bonnet to it?"

"You know a heap too much, Luke Asgill!"

"And could make a good market of it?" Asgill answered coolly. "That's
what you're thinking, is it? And it's Heaven's truth I could--if you'd
not a sister."

"And a care for your own skin."

"Faith," Asgill answered with humorous frankness, "and I'm plain with
you, that stands for something in it. For it's a weary way west of
Athlone we are!"

"And the bogs are deep," McMurrough said, with a sidelong look.

"Maybe," Asgill replied, shrugging his shoulders. "But that I've not
that in my mind--I'm giving you proof, James McMurrough. Isn't it I am
praying you to draw out of it in time, for all our sakes? If you mean
nothing but to keep sweet with your sister, you're playing with fire,
and so am I! And we'd best see it's not carried too far, as it's like
to be before we know it. But if you are fool enough to be in earnest,
which I'll never believe, d'you think to overturn the Protestant
Succession with a few foreigners and a hundred of White-boys that
wouldn't stand before the garrison of Tralee? You've neither money nor
men nor powder. Half a dozen broken captains who must starve if there's
no fighting afoot, as many more who've put their souls in the priests'
hands and see with their eyes--these and a few score boys without a
coat to their backs or breeches to their nakedness--d'you think to oust
old Malbrouk with these?"

"He's dead!"

"He's not, my jewel; and if he be he's left more of his kidney. No; if
you must be a fool, be a fool with your eyes open! I tell you old
Ireland had her lesson thirty years back, and if you were Sarsfield
himself, and called on 'em to rise against the Saxon to-day, you'd not
find as many follow you as would take a sessions town!"

"You know a heap of things, Asgill," James McMurrough answered
disdainfully. But he looked his discomfiture.

"I do. And more by token, I know this!" Asgill retorted. He had risen
to depart, and the two stood with their faces close together. "This!"
he repeated, clapping one hand on the other. "If you're a fool, I'm a
bigger! By Heaven, I am! Or what would I be doing? Why, I'd be pressing
you into this, by the Lord, I would, in place of holding you back! And
then when the trouble came, as come it would, and you'd to quit, my
lad, and no choice but to make work for the hangman or beg a crust over
seas, and your sister 'd no more left than she stood up in, and small
choice either, it's then she'd be glad to take Luke Asgill, as she'll
barely look at now! Ay, my lad, I'd win her then, if it were but as the
price of saving your neck! There's naught she'd not do for you, and I'd
ask but herself."

James McMurrough stared at him, confounded. For Asgill spoke with a
bitterness as well as a vehemence that betrayed how little he cared for
the man he addressed--whether he swung or lived, begged or famished.
His tone, his manner, his black look, all made it plain that the scheme
he outlined was no sudden thought, but a plan long conceived, often
studied, and put aside with reluctance. For the listener it was as if,
the steam clearing away, he'd a glimpse of the burning pit of a
volcano, on the shelving side of which he stood. He shuddered, and his
countenance changed. A creature of small vanities and small vices,
utterly worthless, selfish, and cruel, but as weak as water, he quailed
before this glimpse of elemental passion, before this view of a soul
darker than his own. And it was with a poor affectation of defiance
that he made his answer.

"And what for, if it's as easy as you say, don't you do it?" he
stammered.

Asgill groaned. "Because--but there, you wouldn't understand--you
wouldn't understand! Still, if you must be knowing, there's ways of
winning would be worse than losing!"

The McMurrough's confidence began to return. "You're grown scrupulous,"
he sneered, half in jest, half in earnest.

Asgill's answer flung him down again. "You may thank your God I am!" he
replied, with a look that scorched the other.

"Well--well," McMurrough made an effort to mutter--he was thoroughly
disconcerted--"at any rate, I'm obliged to you for your warning."

"You will be obliged to me," Asgill replied, resuming his ordinary
manner, "if you take my warning, as to the big matter; and also as to
your kinsman, John Sullivan. For, I tell you, I'm afraid of him."

"Of him?" James cried.

"Ay, of him. Have a care, have a care, man, or he'll out-general you.
See if he doesn't poison your sister against you! See if he does not
make this hearth too hot for you! As long as he's in the house there's
danger. I know the sort," Asgill continued shrewdly, "and little by
little, you'll see, he'll get possession of her--and it's weak is your
position as it is, my lad."

"Pho!"

"'Tis not 'pho'! And in a week you'll know it, and be as glad to see
his back as I should be to-day!"

"What, a man who has not the spirit to go out with a gentleman!"

"A man you mean," Asgill retorted, showing his greater shrewdness, "who
has the spirit to say that he won't go out!"

"Sure, and I've not much opinion of a man of that kind," McMurrough
exclaimed.

"I have. He'll stand, or I'm mistaken, for more than'll spoil your
sport--and mine," Asgill replied. "I'd not have played the trick about
your sister's mare, good trick as it was, if I'd known he'd be here. It
seemed the height of invention when you hit upon it, and no better way
of commending myself. But I misdoubt it now. Suppose this Colonel
brings her back?"

"But Payton's staunch."

"Ah, I hold Payton, sure enough," Asgill answered, "in the hollow of my
hand, James McMurrough. But there's accident, and there's what not, and
if in place of my restoring the mare to your sister, John Sullivan
restored her--faith, my lad, I'd be laughing on the other side of my
face. And if he told what I'll be bound he knows of you, it would not
suit you either!"

"It would not," The McMurrough replied, with an ugly look which the
gloaming failed to mask. "It would not. But there's small chance of
that."

"Things happen," Asgill answered in a sombre tone. "Faith, my lad, the
man's a danger. D'you consider," he continued, his voice low, "that
he's owner of all--in law; and if he said the word, devil a penny
there'd be for you! And no marriage for your sister but with his good
will. And if Morristown stood as far east of Tralee as it stands
west--glory be to God for it!--I'm thinking he'd say that word, and
there'd be no penny for you, and no marriage for her, but you'd both be
hat in hand to him!"

McMurrough's face showed a shade paler through the dusk.

"What would you have me do?" he muttered.

"Quit this fooling, this plan of a rising, and give him no handle.
That, any way."

"But that won't rid us of him?" McMurrough said, in a low voice.

"True for you. And I'll be thinking about that same. If it is to be
done, it's best done soon--I'm with you there. He's no footing yet, and
if he vanished 'twould be no more than if he'd never come. See the
light below? There! It's gone. Well, that way he'd go, and little more
talk, if 'twere well plotted."

"But how?" The McMurrough asked nervously.

"I will consider," Asgill answered.




CHAPTER VIII

AN AFTER-DINNER GAME


Easiness, the failing of the old-world Irishman, had been Uncle Ulick's
bane through life. It was easiness which had induced him to condone a
baseness in his nephew which he would have been the first to condemn in
a stranger. And again it was easiness which had beguiled him into
standing idle while the brother's influence was creeping like
strangling ivy over the girl's generous nature; while her best
instincts were being withered by ridicule, her generosity abused by
meanness, and her sense of right blunted by such acts of lawlessness as
the seizure of the smuggling vessel. He feared, if he did not know,
that things were going ill. He saw the blighting shadow of Asgill begin
to darken the scene. He believed that The McMurrough, unable to raise
money on the estate--since he had no title--was passing under Asgill's
control. And still he had not raised his voice.

But, above all, it was easiness which had induced Uncle Ulick to
countenance in Flavia those romantic notions, now fast developing into
full-blown plans, which he, who had seen the world in his youth, should
have blasted; which he, who could recall the humiliation of Boyne Water
and the horrors of '90, he, who knew somewhat, if only a little, of the
strength of England and the weakness of Ireland, should have been the
first to nip in the bud.

He had not nipped them. Instead, he had allowed the reckless patriotism
of the young O'Beirnes, the predatory instincts of O'Sullivan Og, the
simulated enthusiasm--for simulated he knew it to be--of the young
McMurrough to guide the politics of the house and to bring it to the
verge of a crisis. The younger generation and their kin, the Sullivans,
the Mahoneys, the O'Beirnes, bred in this remote corner, leading a wild
and almost barbarous life, deriving such sparks of culture as reached
them from foreign sources and through channels wilder than their life,
were no judges of their own weakness or of the power opposed to them.
But he was. He knew, and had known, that it became him, as the Nestor
of the party, to point out the folly of their plans. Instead, he had
bowed to the prevailing feeling. For--be it his excuse--he, too, was
Irish! He, too, felt his heart too large for his bosom when he dwelt on
his country's wrongs. On him, too, though he knew that successful
rebellion was out of the question, Flavia's generous indignation, her
youth, her enthusiasm, wrought powerfully. And at times, in moments of
irritation, he, too, saw red, and dreamed of a last struggle for
freedom.

At this point, at a moment when the crisis, grown visible, could no
longer be masked, had arrived John Sullivan, a man of experience. His
very aspect sobered Uncle Ulick's mind. The latter saw that only a
blacker and more hopeless night could follow the day of vengeance of
which he dreamt; and he sat this evening--while Asgill talked on the
hill with The McMurrough--he sat this evening by the light of the
peat-fire, and was sore troubled. Was it, or was it not, too late? He
occupied the great chair in which Sir Michael had so often conned his
Scudery of winter evenings; but though he filled the chair, he knew
that he had neither the will nor the mastery of its old owner. If it
had not passed already, the thing might easily pass beyond his staying.
Meanwhile, Flavia sat on a stool on the farther side of the
blaze--until supper was on the board they used no other light--brooding
bitterly over the loss of her mare; and he knew that that incident
would not make things more easy. For here was tyranny brought to an
every-day level; oppression that pricked to the quick! The Saxons, who
had risen for a mere poundage against their anointed king, did not
scruple to make slaves, ay, real slaves, of a sister and a more ancient
people! But the cup was full and running over, and they should rue it!
A short day and they would find opposed to them the wrath, the fury,
the despair of a united people and an ancient faith. Something like
this Flavia had been saying to him.

Then silence had fallen. And now he made answer.

"I'm low at heart about it, none the less," he said. "War, my girl, is
a very dreadful thing." He had in his mind the words Colonel John had
used to him on that subject.

"And what is slavery?" she replied. There were red spots in her cheeks,
and her eyes shone.

"But if the yoke be made heavier, my jewel, and not lighter?"

"Then let us die!" she answered. "Let there be an end! For it is time.
But let us die free! As it is, do we not blush to own that we are
Irish? Is not our race the handmaid among nations? Then let us die!
What have we to live for? Our souls they will not leave us, our bodies
they enslave, they take our goods! What is left, Uncle Ulick?" she
continued passionately.

"Just to endure," he said sadly, "till better times. Or what if we make
things worse? Believe me, Flavvy, the last rising----"

"Rising!" she cried. "Rising! Why do you call it that? It was no
rising! It was the English who rose, and we who remained faithful to
our king. It was they who betrayed, and we who paid the penalty for
treason! Rising!"

"Call it what you like, my dear," he answered patiently, "'tis not
forgotten."

"Nor forgiven!" she cried fiercely.

"True! But the spirit is broken in us. If it were not, we should have
risen three years back, when the Scotch rose. There was a chance then.
But for us by ourselves there is no chance and no hope. And in this
little corner what do we know or hear? God forgive us, 'tis only what
comes from France and Spain by the free-traders that we'll be hearing."

"Uncle Ulick!" she answered, looking fixedly at him, "I know where you
get that from! I know who has been talking to you, and who"--her voice
trembled with anger--"has upset the house! It's meet that one who has
left the faith of his fathers, and turned his back on his country in
her trouble--it is well that he should try to make others act as he has
acted, and be false as he has been false! Caring for nothing himself,
cold, and heartless----"

He was about to interrupt her, but on the word the door opened and her
brother and Asgill entered, shaking the moisture from their coats. It
had begun to rain as they returned along the edge of the lake. She
dashed the tears from her eyes and was silent.

"Sure, and you've got a fine colour, my girl," The McMurrough said.
"Any news of the mare?" he continued, as he took the middle of the
hearth and spread his skirts to the blaze, Asgill remaining in the
background. Then, as she shook her head despondently--the presence of
Asgill had driven her into herself--"Bet you a hundred crowns to one,
Asgill," he said, with a grin, "cousin Sullivan don't recover her!"

"I couldn't afford to take it," Asgill answered, smiling. "But if Miss
Flavia had chosen me for her ambassador in place of him that's
gone----"

"She might have had a better, and couldn't have had a worse!" James
said, with a loud laugh. "It's supper-time," he continued, after he had
turned to the fire, and kicked the turfs together, "and late, too!
Where's Darby? There's never anything but waiting in this house. I
suppose you are not waiting for the mare? If you are, it's empty
insides we'll all be having for a week of weeks."

"I'm much afraid of that," Uncle Ulick answered, as the girl rose.
Uncle Ulick could never do anything but fall in with the prevailing
humour.

Flavia paused half-way across the floor and listened. "What's that?"
she asked, raising her hand for silence. "Didn't you hear something? I
thought I heard a horse."

"You didn't hear a mare," her brother retorted, grinning. "In the
meantime, miss, I'd be having you know we're hungry. And----"

He stopped, startled by a knock on the door. The girl hesitated, then
she stepped to it, and threw it wide. Confronting her across the
threshold, looking ghostly against the dark background of the night, a
grey horse threw up its head and, dazzled by the light, started back a
pace--then blithered gently. In a twinkling, before the men had grasped
the truth, Flavia had sprung across the threshold, her arms were round
her favourite's neck, she was covering its soft muzzle with kisses.

"The saints defend us!" Uncle Ulick cried. "It is the mare!"

In his surprise The McMurrough forgot himself, his rôle, the company.
"D--n!" he said. Fortunately Uncle Ulick was engrossed in the scene at
the door, and the girl was outside. Neither heard.

Asgill's mortification, as may be believed, was a hundred times deeper.
But his quicker brain had taken in the thing and its consequences on
the instant. And he stood silent.

"She's found her way back!" The McMurrough exclaimed, recovering
himself.

"Ay, lad, that must be it," Uncle Ulick replied. "She's got loose and
found her way back to her stable, heaven be her bed! And them that took
her are worse by the loss of five pounds!"

"Broken necks to them!" The McMurrough cried viciously.

But at that moment the door, which led to the back of the house and the
offices, opened, and Colonel John stepped in, a smile on his face. He
laid his damp cloak on a bench, hung up his hat and whip, and nodded to
Ulick.

"The Lord save us! is it you've brought her back?" the big man
exclaimed.

The Colonel nodded. "I thought"--he looked towards the open door--"it
would please her to find the creature so!"

The McMurrough stood speechless with mortification. It was Asgill who
stepped forward and spoke. "I give you joy, Colonel Sullivan," he said.
"It is small chance I thought you had."

"I can believe you," the Colonel answered quietly. If he did not know
much he suspected a good deal.

Before more could be said Flavia McMurrough turned herself about and
came in and saw Colonel Sullivan. Her face flamed hotly, as the words
which she had just used about him recurred to her; she could almost
have wished the mare away again, if the obligation went with her. To
owe the mare to him! Yes, she would have preferred to lose the mare!

But the thing was done, and she found words at last; but cold words. "I
am very much obliged to you," she said, "if it was really you who
brought her back."

"It was I who brought her back," he answered quietly, hurt by her words
and manner, but hiding the hurt. "You need not thank me, however; I did
it very willingly."

She felt the meanness of her attitude, and "I do thank you!" she said,
straining at warmth, but with poor success. "I am very grateful to you,
Colonel Sullivan, for the service you have done me."

"And wish another had done it!" he answered, with the faintest tinge of
reproach in his voice. It was a slip from his usual platform, but he
could not deny himself.

"No! But that you would serve another as effectively," she responded.

He did not see her drift. And "What other?" he asked.

"Your country," she replied. And, turning to the door again, she went
out into the night, to see that the mare was safely disposed.

The four men looked at one another, and Uncle Ulick shrugged his
shoulders, as much as to say, "We all know what women are!" Then
feeling a storm in the air, he spoke for the sake of speaking. "Well,
James," he said, "she's got her mare, and you've lost your wager. It's
good-bye to the brandy, anyway. And, faith, it'll be good news for the
little French captain. For you, John Sullivan, I give you joy. You'll
amend us all at this rate, and make Kerry as peaceable as the Four
Courts out of term time! Sure, and I begin to think you're one of the
Little People!" As he spoke he slapped Colonel John on the shoulders.

"About the brandy," The McMurrough said curtly. "Things are by way of
being changed, I'd have you know. And I'm not going to forgo a good
ship----"

"No, no, a bet's a bet," Uncle Ulick interposed hurriedly. "Mr. Asgill
was here, and----"

"I'm with you," Asgill said. "Colonel Sullivan's won the right to have
his way, and it's better so too, and safer. Faith and I'm glad," he
continued cordially, "for there might have been trouble, and now
there'll be none!"

"Well, it's not I'll tell O'Sullivan Og," James McMurrough retorted.
"It's little he'll like to give up the stuff, and, in my opinion," he
added sullenly, "there's more than us will have a word to say to it
before it's given up. But you can judge of that for yourselves."

"Mr. Crosby, of Castlemaine----"

"Oh, d--n! It's little he'll count in a week from this!"

"Still, I've no doubt Colonel Sullivan will arrange it," Asgill
answered smoothly. It was evident that he thought The McMurrough was
saying too much. "Sure he's managed a harder thing."

There was a gleam in his eye and a something sinister in the tone as he
said it; but the words were hearty, and Colonel John made no demur. And
Darby, entering at that moment with a pair of lights in tall
candlesticks--which were silver, but might have been copper--caused a
welcome interruption. A couple of footboys, with slipshod feet and bare
ankles, bore in the meats after him and slapped them down on the table;
at the same moment the O'Beirnes and two or three more of the "family"
entered from the back. Their coming lightened the air. They had to hear
the news, and pass their opinion upon it. Questions were asked: Where'd
the Colonel light on the cratur, and how'd he persuaded the Protestant
rogues--ah, be jabbers, begging his honour's pardon entirely!--how'd he
persuaded the rogues to give her up? Colonel John refused to say, but
laughingly. The O'Beirnes and the others were in a good humour, pleased
that the young mistress had recovered her favourite, and inclined to
look more leniently on the Colonel. "Faith, and it's clear that you're
a Sullivan!" quoth one. "There's none like them to put the comether on
man and beast!"

This was not much to the taste of The McMurrough or of Asgill, who,
inwardly raging, saw the interloper founding a reputation on the ruse
which they had devised for another end. It was abruptly and with an ill
grace that the master of the house cut short the scene and bade all sit
down if they wanted their meat.

"What are we waiting for?" he continued querulously. "Where's the girl?
Stop your jabbering, Martin! And Phelim----"

"Sure, I believe the mare's got from her," Uncle Ulick cried. "I heard
a horse, no farther back than this moment."

"I'm wishing all horses in Purgatory," The McMurrough replied angrily.
"And fools too! Where's the wench gone? Anyway, I'm beginning. You can
bide her time if you like!"

And begin he did. The others, after looking expectantly at the
door--for none dared treat Flavia as her brother treated her--and after
Asgill had said something about waiting for her, fell to also, one by
one. Presently the younger of the slipshod footboys let fall a
dish--fortunately the whole service was of pewter, so no harm was
done--and was cursed for awkwardness. Where was Darby? He also had
vanished.

The claret began to go round in the old Spanish silver jug--for no
house in the west lacked Bordeaux in those days; it was called in
London coffee-houses Irish wine. Still, neither Flavia nor the butler
returned, and many were the glances cast at the door. By-and-by the
Colonel--who felt that a cloud hung over the board, as over his own
spirits--saw, or fancied that he saw, an odd thing. The door--that
which led to the back of the house--opened, as if the draught moved it;
it remained open a space, then in a silent, ghostly fashion it fell-to
again. The Colonel laid down his knife, and Uncle Ulick, whose eyes had
followed his, crossed himself. "That's not lucky," the big man said,
his face troubled. "The saints send it's not the white horse of the
O'Donoghues has whisked her off!"

"Don't be for saying such unchancy things, Mr. Sullivan!" Phelim
answered, with a shiver. And he, too, crossed himself. "What was it, at
all, at all?"

"The door opened without a hand," Uncle Ulick explained. "I'm fearing
there's something amiss."

"Not with this salmon," James McMurrough struck in contemptuously. "Eat
your supper and leave those tales to the women!"

Uncle Ulick made no reply, and a moment later Darby entered, slid round
the table to Uncle Ulick's side, and touched his shoulder. Whether he
whispered a word or not Colonel John did not observe, but forthwith the
big man rose and went out.

This time it was James McMurrough who laid down his knife. "What in the
name of the Evil One is it?" he cried, in a temper. "Can't a man eat
his meat in peace, but all the world must be tramping the floor?"

"Oh, whisht! whisht!" Darby muttered, in a peculiar tone.

James leapt up. He was too angry to take a hint. "You old fool!" he
cried, heedless of Asgill's hand, which was plucking at his skirts.
"What is it? What do you mean with your 'whishts' and your nods?
What----"

But the old butler had turned his back on his master, and gone out in a
panic. Fortunately at this moment Flavia showed at the door. "The
fault's mine, James," she said, in a clear, loud tone. And the Colonel
saw that her colour was high and her eyes were dancing. "I couldn't
bear to leave her at once, the darling! That was it; and besides, I
took a fear----"

"The pastern's right enough," Uncle Ulick struck in, entering behind
her and closing the door with the air of a big man who does not mean to
be trifled with. "Sound as your own light foot, my jewel, and sounder
than James's head! Be easy, be easy, lad," he continued, with a trifle
of sternness. "Sure, you're spoiling other men's meat, and forgetting
the Colonel's present, not to speak of Mr. Asgill, that, being a
Justice, is not used to our Kerry tantrums!"

Possibly this last was a hint, cunningly veiled. At any rate, The
McMurrough took his seat again with a better grace than usual, and
Asgill made haste to take up the talk. The Colonel reflected; nor did
he find it the least odd thing that Flavia, who had been so full of
distress at the loss of her mare, said little of the rescuer's
adventures, nor much of the mare herself. Yet the girl's eyes sparkled,
and her whole aspect was changed in the last hour. She seemed, as far
as he could judge, to be in a state of the utmost excitement; she had
shaken off the timidity which her brother's temper too often imposed on
her, and with it her reticence and her shyness before strangers. All
the Irish humour in her fluttered to the surface, and her tongue ran
with an incredible gaiety. Uncle Ulick, the O'Beirnes, the buckeens,
laughed frank admiration--sometimes at remarks which the Colonel could
not understand, sometimes at more obvious witticisms. Asgill was her
slave. Darby, with the familiarity of the old servant, chuckled openly
and rubbed his hands at her sallies; the footboys guffawed in corners,
and more than one dish rolled on the floor without drawing down a
rebuke. Even her brother regarded her with unwilling amusement, and did
not always refrain from applause.

Could all this, could the change in her spring from the recovery of the
mare, of which she said scarce a word? Colonel John could hardly
believe it; and, indeed, if such were the case, she was ungrateful.
For, for the recoverer of her favourite she had no words, and scarce a
look. Rather, it seemed to him that there must be two Flavias: the one
shy, modest, and, where her country was not assailed, of a reserve
beyond reproach; the other Flavia, a shoot of the old tree, a hoyden, a
castback to Sir Michael's wild youth and the gay days of the
Restoration Court.

He listened to her drollery, her ringing laugh, her arch sayings with
some blame, but more admiration. After all, what had he a right to
expect in this remote corner of the land, cut off by twenty leagues of
bog and mountain from modern refinement, culture, thought, in this old
tribal house, the last refuge of a proscribed faith and a hated race?
Surely, no more than he found--nay, not a tithe of that he found. For,
listening with a kindlier heart--even he, hurt by her neglect, had
judged her for a while too harshly--he discerned that at her wildest
and loudest, in the act of bandying cryptic jests with the buckeens,
and uttering much that was thoughtless--Flavia did not suffer one light
or unmaidenly word to pass her lips.

He gave her credit for that; and in the act he learned, with a
reflection on his stupidity, that there was method in her madness; ay,
and meaning--but he had not hitherto held the key to it--in her jests.
On a sudden--he saw now that this was the climax to which she had been
leading up--she sprang to her feet, carried away by her excitement.
Erect, defiant--nay, triumphant--she flung her handkerchief into the
middle of the table, strewn as it was with a medley of glasses and
flasks and disordered dishes.

"Who loves me, follows me!" she cried, a queer exultation in her
tone--"across the water!"

They pounced on the kerchief, like dogs let loose from the leash--every
man but the astonished Colonel. For an instant the place was a
pandemonium, a Babel. In a twinkling the kerchief was torn, amid cries
of the wildest enthusiasm, into as many fragments as there were men
round the table.

"All!--all!" she cried, still standing erect, and hounding them on with
the magic of her voice, while her beautiful face blazed with
excitement. "All--but you?"--with which, for the briefest space, she
turned to Colonel John. Her eyes met his. They asked him a defiant
question: they challenged the answer.

"I do not understand," he replied, taken by surprise. But indeed he did
understand only too well. "Is it a game?"

The men were pinning the white shreds on their coats above their
hearts--even her brother, obedient for once. But at that word they
turned as one man to him, turned flushed, frowning faces and passionate
eyes on him. But Flavia was before them; excitement had carried her
farther than she had meant to go, yet prudence had not quite left her.
"Yes, a game!" she cried, laughing, a note too high. "Don't you know
the Lady's Kerchief?"

"No," he said soberly; he was even a little out of countenance.

"Then no more of it," Uncle Ulick cried, interposing, with a ring of
authority in his voice. "For my part, I'm for bed. Bed! We're all
children, bedad, and as fond of a frolic! And I'm thinking I'm the
worst. The lights, Darby, the lights, and pleasant dreams to you! After
all--

    The spoke that is to-day on top,
      To-morrow's on the ground.

Sure, and I'll swear that's true!"

"And no treason!" The McMurrough answered him, with a grin. "Eh,
Asgill?"

And so between them they removed Colonel John's last doubt--if he had
one.




CHAPTER IX

EARLY RISERS


Colonel Sullivan had returned from Tralee in high spirits. He had
succeeded beyond his hopes in the task he had set himself to perform,
and he counted with confidence on gaining by that means a sound footing
and a firm influence in the house. But as he sat in his room that
evening, staring at the rushlight, with the night silent about him, he
feared, nay, he almost knew, that his success came too late. Something
had happened behind his back, some crisis, some event; and that which
he had done was as if it were undone, and that which he had gained
availed nothing.

It was plain--whatever was obscure--that the play of the Lady's
Kerchief was a cover for matter more serious. Those who had taken part
in it had scarcely deigned to pretend. Colonel John had been duller
than the dullest if he had not seen in the white shreds for which the
men had scrambled, and which they had affixed with passion to their
coats, the white Cockade of the Pretender; or found in Uncle Ulick's
couplet--uttered while in a careless fashion he affected disguise,

    The spoke that is to-day on top,
      To-morrow's on the ground,

one of those catchwords which suited the taste of the day, and served
at once for a passport and a sentiment.

But Colonel John knew that many a word was said over the claret which
meant less than nothing next morning; and that many a fair hand passed
the wine across the water-bowl--the very movement did honour to a
shapely arm--without its owner having the least intention of
endangering those she loved for the sake of the King across the Water.
He knew that a fallen cause has ever two sets of devotees--those who
talk and those who act: the many, in other words, who sing the songs
and drink the toasts, and delight in the badges of treason--in the
sucked orange, the sprig of oak, the knot of white ribbon, the
fir-planting; and the few who mean more than they say, who mean, and
sternly, to be presently the Spoke on Top.

Consequently he knew that he might be wrong in dotting the i's and
crossing the t's of the scene which he had witnessed. Such a scene
might mean no more than a burst of high spirits: in nine cases out of
ten it would not be followed by action, nor import more than that
singing of "'Twas a' for our rightful King!" which had startled him on
his arrival. In that house, in the wilds of Kerry, sheer loyalty could
not be expected. The wrongs of the nation were too recent, the high
seas were too near, the wild geese came and went too freely--wild geese
of another feather than his. Such outbursts as he had witnessed were no
more than the safety-valves of outraged pride. The ease with which
England had put down the Scotch rising a few years before--to say
nothing of the fate of those who had taken part in it--must deter all
reasonable men, whatever their race or creed, from entering on an
undertaking beyond doubt more hopeless.

For Ireland was not as Scotland. Scarcely a generation had passed since
she had felt the full weight of the conqueror's hand; and if she
possessed, in place of the Highland mountains, vast stretches of
uncharted bog and lake, to say nothing of a thousand obscure inlets,
she had neither the unbroken clan-feeling nor the unbroken national
spirit of the sister country. Scotland was still homogeneous, she still
counted for a kingdom, her soil was still owned by her own lords and
worked by her own peasants. She had suffered no massacre of Drogheda or
of Wexford; no Boyne, no Aghrim, no vast and repeated confiscations.
Whereas Ireland, a partitioned and subject land, which had suffered
during the last two centuries horrors unspeakable, still cowered like a
whipped dog before its master, and was as little likely to rebel.

Colonel John leant upon such arguments; and, disappointed and alarmed
as he was by Flavia's behaviour, he told himself that nothing was
seriously meant, and that with the morning light things would look more
cheerful.

But when he awoke, after a feverish and disturbed sleep, the faint
grisly dawn that entered the room was not of a character to inspirit.
He turned on his side to sleep again if he could; but in the act, he
discovered that the curtain which he had drawn across the window was
withdrawn. He could discern the dark mass of his clothes piled on a
chair, of his hat clinging like some black bat to the whitewashed wall,
of his valise and saddle-bags in the corner--finally of a stout figure
bent, listening, at the door.

An old campaigner, Colonel John was not easily surprised. Repressing
the exclamation on his lips, he rose to his elbow and waited until the
figure at the door straightened itself, and, turning towards him,
became recognisable as Uncle Ulick. The big man crossed the floor, saw
that he was awake, and, finger on lip, enjoined silence. Then he
pointed to the clothes on the chair, and brought his mouth near the
Colonel's ear.

"The back-door!" he whispered. "Under the yews in the garden! Come!"
And leaving the Colonel staring and mystified, he crept from the room
with a stealth and lightness remarkable in one so big. The door closed,
the latch fell, and made no sound.

Colonel John reflected that Uncle Ulick was no romantic young person to
play at mystery for effect. There was a call for secrecy therefore. The
O'Beirnes slept in a room divided from his only by a thin partition;
and to gain the stairs he must pass the doors of other chambers, all
inhabited. As softly as he could, and as quickly, he dressed himself.
He took his boots in his hand; his sword, perhaps from old habit, under
his other arm; in this guise he crept from the room and down the dusky
staircase. Old Darby and an underling were snoring in the cub, which in
the daytime passed for a pantry, and both by day and night gave forth a
smell of sour corks and mice: but Colonel John slid by the open door as
noiselessly as a shadow, found the back-door--which led to the
fold-yard--on the latch, and stepped out into the cool, dark morning,
into the sobering freshness and the clean, rain-washed air.

The grass was still grey-hued, the world still colourless and
mysterious, the house a long black bulk against a slowly lightening
sky. Only the earliest sparrows were twittering; in the trees only the
most wakeful rooks were uttering tentative caws. The outburst of joy
and life and music which would attend the sun's rising was not yet.

Colonel John paused on the doorstep to draw on his boots, then he
picked his way delicately to the leather-hung wicket that broke the
hedge which served for a fence to the garden. On the right of the
wicket a row of tall Florence yews, set within the hedge, screened the
pleasaunce, such as it was, from the house. Under the lee of these he
found Uncle Ulick striding to and fro and biting his finger-nails in
his impatience.

He wrung the Colonel's hand and looked into his face. "You'll do me the
justice, John Sullivan," he said, with a touch of passion, "that never
in my life have I been overhasty? Eh? Will you do me that?"

"Certainly, Ulick," Colonel John answered, wondering much what was
coming.

"And that I'm no coward, where it's not a question of trouble?"

"I'll do you that justice, too," the Colonel answered. He smiled at the
reservation.

The big man did not smile. "Then you'll take my word for it," he
replied, "that I'm not speaking idly when I say you must go."

Colonel John lifted his eyebrows. "Go?" he answered. "Do you mean now?"

"Ay, now, or before noon!" Uncle Ulick retorted. "More by token," he
continued with bitterness, "it's not that you might go on the instant
that I've brought you out of our own house as if we were a couple of
rapparees or horse-thieves, but that you might hear it from me who wish
you well, and would warn you not to say nay--instead of from those who
may be 'll not put it so kindly, nor be so wishful for you to be taking
the warning they give."

"Is it Flavia you're meaning?"

"No; and don't you be thinking it," Uncle Ulick replied with a touch of
heat. "Nor the least bit of it, John Sullivan! The girl, God bless her,
is as honest as the day, if----"

"If she's not very wise!" Colonel John said, smiling.

"You may put it that way if you please. For the matter of that, you'll
be thinking she's not the only fool at Morristown, nor the oldest, nor
the biggest. And you'll be right, more shame to me that I didn't use
the prudent tongue to them always, and they young! But the blood must
run slow, and the breast be cold, that sees the way the Saxons are
mocking us, and locks the tongue in silence. And sure, there's no more
to be said, but just this--that there's those here you'll be wise not
to see! And you'll get a hint to that end before the sun's high."

"And you'd have me take it?"

"You'd be mad not to take it!" Uncle Ulick replied, frowning. "Isn't it
for that I'm out of my warm bed, and the mist not off the lake?"

"You'd have me give way to them and go?"

"Faith, and I would!"

"Would you do that same yourself, Ulick?"

"For certain."

"And be sorry for it afterwards!"

"Not the least taste in life!" Uncle Ulick asseverated.

"And be sorry for it afterwards," Colonel John repeated quietly.
"Kinsman, come here," he continued with unusual gravity. And taking
Uncle Ulick by the arm he led him to the end of the garden, where the
walk looked on the lake and bore some likeness to a roughly made
terrace. Pausing where the black masses of the Florence yews, most
funereal of trees, still sheltered their forms from the house, he stood
silent. The mist moved slowly on the surface of the water and crawled
about their feet. But the sky to eastward was growing red, the lower
clouds were flushed with rose-colour, the higher hills were warm with
the coming of the sun. Here and there on the slopes which faced them a
cotter's hovel stood solitary in its potato patch or its plot of oats.
In more than one place three or four cottages made up a tiny hamlet,
from which the smoke would presently rise. To English eyes, to our
eyes, the scene, these oases in the limitless brown of the bog, had
been wild and rude; but to Colonel John, long familiar with the
treeless plains of Poland and the frozen flats of Lithuania, it spoke
of home, it spoke of peace and safety and comfort, and even of a narrow
plenty. The soft Irish air lapped it, the distances were mellow,
memories of boyhood rounded off all that was unsightly or cold.

He pointed here and there with his hand; and with seeming irrelevance.
"You'd be sorry afterwards," he said, "for you'd think of this, Ulick.
God forbid that I should say there are no things for which even this
should be sacrificed. God forbid I should deny that even for this too
high a price may be paid. But if you play this away in wantonness--if
that which you are all planning come about, and you fail, as they
failed in Scotland three years back, and as you will, as you must fail
here--it is of this, it is of the women and the children under these
roofs that will go up in smoke, that you'll be thinking, Ulick, at the
last! Believe me or not, this is the last thing you'll see! It's to a
burden as well as an honour you're born where men doff caps to you; and
it's that burden will lie the black weight on your soul at the last.
There's old Darby and O'Sullivan Og's wife--and Pat Mahony and Judy
Mahony's four sons--and Mick Sullivan and Tim and Luke the Lamiter--and
the three Sullivans at the landing, and Phil the crowder, and the seven
tenants at Killabogue--it's of them, it's of them"--as he spoke his
finger moved from hovel to hovel--"and their like I'm thinking. You cry
them and they follow, for they're your folks born. But what do they
know of England or England's strength, or what is against them, or the
certain end? They think, poor souls, because they land their spirits
and pay no dues, and the Justices look the other way, and a bailiffs
life here, if he'd a writ, would be no more worth than a woodcock's,
and the laws, bad and good, go for naught--they think the black
Protestants are afraid of them! While you and I, you and I know,
Ulick," he continued, dropping his voice, "'tis because we lie so poor
and distant and small, they give no heed to us! We know! And that's our
burden."

The big man's face worked. He threw out his arms. "God help us!" he
cried.

"He will, in His day! I tell you again, as I told you the hour I came,
I, who have followed the wars for twenty years, there is no deed that
has not its reward when the time is ripe, nor a cold hearth that is not
paid for a hundredfold!"

Uncle Ulick looked sombrely over the lake. "I shall never see it," he
said. "Never, never! And that's hard. Notwithstanding, I'll do what I
can to quiet them--if it be not too late."

"Too late?"

"Ay, too late, John. But anyway, I'll be minding what you say. On the
other hand, you must go, and this very day that ever is."

"There are some here that I must not be seeing?" Colonel John said
shrewdly.

"That's it."

"And if I do not go, Ulick? What then, man?"

"Whisht! Whisht!" the big man cried in unmistakable distress. "Don't
say the word! Don't say the word, John, dear."

"But I must say it," Colonel John answered, smiling. "To be plain,
Ulick, here I am and here I stay. They wish me gone because I am in the
way of their plans. Well, and can you give me a better reason for
staying?"

What argument Ulick would have used, what he was opening his mouth to
say, remains unknown. Before he could reply the murmur of a voice near
at hand startled them both. Uncle Ulick's face fell, and the two turned
with a single movement to see who came.

They discerned, in the shadow of the wall of yew, two men, who had just
passed through the wicket into the garden.

The strangers saw them at the same moment, and were equally taken by
surprise. The foremost of the two, a sturdy, weather-beaten man, with a
square, stern face and a look of power, laid his hand on his
cutlass--he wore a broad blade in place of the usual rapier. The other,
whom every line of his shaven face, as well as his dress, proclaimed a
priest--and perhaps more than a priest--crossed himself, and muttered
something to his companion. Then he came forward.

"You take the air early, gentlemen," he said, the French accent very
plain in his speech, "as we do. If I mistake not," he continued,
looking with an easy smile at Colonel John, "your Protestant kinsman,
of whom you told me, Mr. Sullivan? I did not look to meet you, Colonel
Sullivan; but I do not doubt you are man of the world enough to excuse,
if you cannot approve, the presence of the shepherd among his sheep.
The law forbids, but----" still smiling, he finished the sentence with
a gesture in the air.

"I approve all men," Colonel John answered quietly, "who are in their
duty, father."

"But wool and wine that pay no duty?" the priest replied, turning with
a humorous look to his companion, who stood beside him unsmiling. "I'm
not sure that Colonel Sullivan extends the same indulgence to
free-traders, Captain Machin."

Colonel John looked closely at the man thus brought to his notice. Then
he raised his hat courteously. "Sir," he said, "the guests of the
Sullivans, whoever they be, are sacred to the Sullivans."

Uncle Ulick's eyes had met the priest's, as eyes meet in a moment of
suspense. At this he drew a deep breath of relief. "Well said," he
muttered. "Bedad, it is something to have seen the world!"

"You have served under the King of Sweden, I believe?" the ecclesiastic
continued, addressing Colonel John with a polite air. He held a book of
offices in his hand, as if his purpose in the garden had been merely to
read the service.

"Yes."

"A great school of war, I am told?"

"It may be called so. But I interrupt you, father, and with your
permission I will bid you good-morning. Doubtless we shall meet again."

"At breakfast, I trust," the ecclesiastic answered, with a certain air
of intention. Then he bowed and they returned it, and the two pairs
gave place to one another with ceremony, Colonel John and Ulick passing
out through the garden wicket, while the strangers moved on towards the
walk which looked over the lake. Here they began to pace up and down.

With his hand on the house door Uncle Ulick made a last attempt. "For
God's sake, be easy and go," he muttered, his voice unsteady, his eyes
fixed on the other's, as if he would read his mind. "Leave us to our
fate! You cannot save us--you see what you see, you know what it means.
And for what I know, you know the man. You'll but make our end the
blacker."

"And the girl?"

Uncle Ulick tossed his hands in the air. "God help her!" he said.

"Shall not we too help her?"

"We cannot."

"It may be. Still, let us do our duty," Colonel John replied. He was
very grave. Things were worse, the plot was thicker, than he had
feared.

Uncle Ulick groaned. "You'll not be bidden?" he said.

"Not by an angel," Colonel John answered steadfastly. "And I've seen
none this morning, but only a good man whose one fault in life is to
answer to all men 'Sure, and I will!'"

Uncle Ulick started as if the words stung him. "You make a jest of it!"
he said. "Heaven send we do not sorrow for your wilfulness. For my
part, I've small hope of that same." He opened the door, and, turning
his back upon his companion, went heavily, and without any attempt at
concealment, past the pantry and up the stairs to his room. Colonel
John heard him slip the bolt, and, bearing a heavy heart himself, he
knew that the big man was gone to his prayers.

To answer "Yes" to all comers and all demands is doubtless, in the
language of Uncle Ulick, a mighty convenience, and a great softener of
the angles of life. But a time comes to the most easy when he must
answer "No," or go open-eyed to ruin. Then he finds that from long
disuse the word will not shape itself; or if uttered, it is taken for
naught. That time had come for Uncle Ulick. Years ago his age and
experience had sufficed to curb the hot blood about him. But he had
been too easy to dictate while he might; he had let the reins fall from
his hands; and to-day he must go the young folks' way--ay, go, seeing
all too plainly the end of it.

It was not his fate only. Many good men in the '15 and the '45, ay, and
in the war of La Vendée, went out against their better judgment, borne
along by the energy of more vehement spirits--went out, aware, as they
rode down the avenue, and looked back at the old house, that they would
see it no more; that never again except in dreams would they mount from
the horse-block which their grandsires' feet had hollowed, walk through
the coverts which their fathers had planted, or see the faces of the
aged serving-men who had taught their childish fingers to hold the
reins and level the fowling-piece!

But Colonel John was of another kind and another mind. Often in the
Swedish wars had he seen a fair country-side changed in one day into a
waste, from the recesses of which naked creatures with wolfish eyes
stole out at night, maddened by their wrongs, to wreak a horrid
vengeance on the passing soldier. He knew that the fairest parts of
Ireland had undergone such a fate within living memory; and how often
before, God and her dark annals alone could tell! Therefore he was
firmly minded, as firmly minded as one man could be, that not again
should the corner of Kerry under his eyes, the corner he loved, the
corner entrusted to him, suffer that fate.

Yet when he descended to breakfast, his face told no tale of his
thoughts, and he greeted with a smile the unusual brightness of the
morning. As he stood at the door, that looked on the courtyard, he had
a laughing word for the beggars--never were beggars lacking at the door
of Morristown. Nor as he sunned himself and inhaled with enjoyment the
freshness of the air did any sign escape him that he marked a change.

But he was not blind. Among the cripples and vagrants who lounged about
the entrance he detected six or eight ragged fellows whose sunburnt
faces were new to him and who certainly were not cripples. In the
doorway of one of the two towers that fronted him across the court
stood O'Sullivan Og, whittling a stick and chatting with a sturdy idler
in seafaring clothes. The Colonel could not give his reason, but he had
not looked twice at these two before he got a notion that there was
more in that tower this morning than the old ploughs and the broken
boat which commonly filled the ground floor, or the grain which was
stored above. Powder? Treasure? He could not say which or what; but he
felt that the open door was a mask that deceived no one.

And there was a stir, there was a bustle in the court; a sparkle in the
eyes of some as they glanced slyly and under their lashes at the house,
a lilt in the tread of others as they stepped to and fro. He divined
that hands would fly to caubeens and knees seek the ground if a certain
face showed at a window: moreover, that that at which he merely guessed
was no secret to the barefooted colleens who fed the pigs, or the
barelegged urchins who carried the potatoes. Some strange change had
fallen upon Morristown, and imbued it with life and hope and movement.

He was weighing this when he caught the sound of voices in the house,
and he turned about and entered. The priest and Captain Machin had
descended and were standing with Uncle Ulick warming themselves before
the wood fire. The McMurrough, the O'Beirnes, and two or three
strangers--grim-looking men who had followed, a glance told him, the
trade he had followed--formed a group a little apart, yet near enough
to be addressed. Asgill was not present, nor Flavia.

"Good-morning, again," Colonel John said. And he bowed.

"With all my heart, Colonel Sullivan," the priest answered cordially.
And Colonel John saw that he had guessed aright: the speaker no longer
took the trouble to hide his episcopal cross and chain, or the ring on
his finger. There was an increase of dignity, too, in his manner. His
very cordiality seemed a condescension.

Captain Machin bowed silently, while The McMurrough and the O'Beirnes
looked darkly at the Colonel. They did not understand: it was plain
that they were not in the secret of the morning encounter.

"I see O'Sullivan Og is here," the Colonel said, addressing Uncle
Ulick. "That will be very convenient."

"Convenient?" Uncle Ulick repeated, looking blank.

"We can give him the orders as to the Frenchman's cargo," the Colonel
said calmly.

Uncle Ulick winced. "Ay, to be sure! To be sure, lad," he answered. But
he rubbed his head, like a man in a difficulty.

The Bishop seemed to be going to ask a question. Before he could speak,
however, Flavia came tripping down the stairs, a gay song on her lips.
Half way down, the song, light and sweet as a bird's, came to a sudden
end.

"I am afraid I am late!" she said. And then--as the Colonel
supposed--she saw that more than the family party were assembled: that
the Bishop and Captain Machin were there also, and the strangers--and,
above all, that he was there. She descended the last three stairs
silently, but with a heightened colour, moved proudly into the middle
of the group, and curtsied before the ecclesiastic till her knee
touched the floor.

He gave her his hand to kiss, with a smile and a murmured blessing. She
rose with sparkling eyes.

"It is a good morning!" she said, as one who having done her duty could
be cheerful.

"It is a very fine morning," the Bishop answered in the same spirit.
"The sun shines on us, as we would have him shine. And after breakfast,
with your leave, my daughter, and your brother's leave, we will hold a
little council. What say you, Colonel Sullivan?" he continued, turning
to the Colonel. "A family council? Will you join us?"

The McMurrough uttered an exclamation, so unexpected and strident, that
the words were not articulate. But the Bishop understood them, for, as
all turned to him, "Nay," he said, "it shall be for the Colonel to say.
But it's ill arguing with a fasting man," he continued genially, "and
by your leave we will return to the matter after breakfast!"

"I am not for argument at all," Captain Machin said. It was the first
time he had spoken.




CHAPTER X

A COUNCIL OF WAR


The meal had been eaten, stolidly by some, by others with a poor
appetite, by Colonel John with a thoughtful face. Two men of family,
but broken fortunes, old Sir Donny McCarthy of Dingle, and Timothy
Burke of Maamtrasna, had joined the party--under the rose as it were,
and neither giving nor receiving a welcome. Now old Darby kept the door
and the Bishop the hearth; whence, standing with his back to the
glowing peat, he could address his audience with eye and voice. The
others, risen from the table, had placed themselves here and there,
Flavia near the Bishop and on his right hand, Captain Machin on his
left; The McMurrough, the two O'Beirnes, Sir Donny and Timothy Burke,
with the other strangers, sat in a knot by the window. Uncle Ulick with
Colonel Sullivan formed a third group. The courtyard, visible through
the windows, seethed with an ever-increasing crew of peasantry,
frieze-coated or half bare, who whooped and jabbered, now about one of
their number, now about another. Among them moved some ten or twelve
men of another kidney--seamen with ear-rings and pigtails, bronzed
faces and gaudy kerchiefs, who listened but idly, and with the contempt
of the mercenary, but whose eyes seldom left the window behind which
the conference sat, and whose hands were never far from the hilt of a
cutlass or the butt of a pistol. The sun shone on the crowd and the
court, and now and then those within the house caught through the
gateway the shimmer of the lake beyond. The Irish air was soft, the hum
of voices cheerful; nor could anything less like a secret council, less
like a meeting of men about to commit themselves to a dark and
dangerous enterprise, be well imagined.

But no one was deceived. The courage, the enthusiasm, that danced in
Flavia's eyes were reflected more darkly and more furtively in a score
of faces, within the room and without. To enjoy one hour of triumph, to
wreak upon the cursed English a tithe of the wrongs, a tithe of the
insults, that their country had suffered, to be the spoke on top, were
it but for a day, to die for Ireland if they could not live for her, to
avenge her daughters outraged and her sons beggared--could man own
Irish blood, and an Irish name, and not rise at the call?

If there were such a man, oh! cowardly, mean, and miserable he seemed
to Flavia McMurrough. And much she marvelled at the patience, the
consideration, the arguments which the silver-tongued ecclesiastic
brought to bear upon him. She longed, with a face glowing with
indignation, to disown him--in word and deed. She longed to denounce
him, to defy him, to bid him begone, and do his worst.

But she was a young plotter, and he who spoke from the middle of the
hearth with so much patience and forbearance, was an old one, proved by
years of peril, and tempered by a score of failures; a man long
accustomed to play with the lives and fortunes of men. He knew better
than she what was at stake to win or lose; nor was it without
forethought that he had determined to risk much to gain Colonel
Sullivan. The same far-sight and decision which had led him to take a
bold course on meeting the Colonel in the garden, now lent him patience
to win, if win he might, one whose value in the enterprise on which
they were embarking he set at the highest. To his mind, and to Machin's
mind, the other men in the room, ay, and the woman, so fair and
enthusiastic, were but tools to be used, puppets to be danced. But this
man--for among soldiers of fortune there is a camaraderie, so that they
are known to one another by repute from the Baltic to Cadiz--was a
coadjutor to be gained. He was one whose experience, joined with an
Irish name, might well avail them much.

Colonel John might refuse, he might be obdurate. But in that event the
Bishop's mind was made up. Flavia supposed that if the Colonel held
out, he would be dismissed; that he would go out from among them a
cowardly, mean, miserable creature--and so an end. But the speaker made
no mistake. He had chosen to grip the nettle danger, and he knew that
gentle measures were no longer possible. He must enlist Colonel
Sullivan, or--but it has been said that he was one hardened by long
custom, and no novice in dealing with the lives of men.

"If it be a question only of the chances," he said, after some beating
about the bush, "if I am right in supposing that it is only that which
withholds Colonel Sullivan from joining us----"

"I do not say it is," Colonel John replied very gravely. "Far from it,
sir. But to deal with it on that basis: while I can admire, reverend
sir, the man who is ready to set his life on a desperate hazard to gain
something which he sets above that life, I take the case to be
different where it is a question of the lives of others. Then I say the
chances must be weighed--carefully weighed, and tried in the balance."

"However sacred the cause and high the aim?"

"I think so."

The Bishop sighed, his chin sinking on his breast. "I am sorry," he
said, in a voice that sufficiently declared his depression--"I am
sorry."

"That we cannot see alike in a matter so grave? Yes, sir, so am I."

"No. That I met you this morning."

"I am not sorry," Colonel John replied, stoutly refusing to see the
other's meaning. "For--hear me out, I beg. You and I have seen the
world and can weigh the chances. Your friend, too, Captain Machin"--he
pronounced the name in an odd tone--"he too knows on what he is
embarked and how he will stand if the result be failure. It may be that
he already has his home, his rank, and his fortune in foreign parts,
and will be little the worse if the worst befall."

"I?" Machin cried, stung out of his taciturnity. And he rose with an
air of menace from his seat. "Let me tell you, sir, that I fling back
the insinuation!"

But the Colonel refused to listen. He proceeded as if the other were
not speaking. "You, reverend sir, yourself," he continued, "you too
know, and well, on what you are embarking, its prospects and the issue
for you, if it fail. But, you--I give you credit for it--are by your
profession and choice devoted to a life of danger. You are willing, day
by day and hour by hour, to run the risk of death. But these, my cousin
there"--looking with a kind eye at Flavia--"she----"

"Leave me out!" she cried passionately. And she rose to her feet, her
face on fire. "I separate myself from you! I, for my part, ask no
better than to suffer for my country!"

"She thinks she knows, but she does not know," the Colonel continued
quietly, unmoved by her words. "She cannot guess what it is to be cast
adrift--alone, a woman, penniless, in a strange land. And yet that at
the best--and the worst may be unspeakably worse--must be her fate if
this plot miscarry! For others, The McMurrough and his friends
yonder"--he indicated the group by the window--"they also are
ignorant."

The McMurrough sprang to his feet, spluttering with rage. "D--n you,
sir, speak for yourself!" he cried.

"They know nothing," the Colonel continued, quite unmoved, "of that
force against which they are asked to pit themselves, of that stolid
power over sea, never more powerful than now! And so to pit themselves,
that losing they will lose their all!"

"The saints will be between us and harm!" the eldest of the O'Beirnes
cried, rising in his wrath. "It's speak for yourself I say too!"

"And I!"

"And I!" others of the group roared with gestures of defiance. "We are
not the boys to be whistled aside! To the devil with your ignorance!"

And one, stepping forward, snapped his fingers close to the Colonel's
face. "That for you!--that for you!" he cried. "Now, or whenever you
will, day or night, and sword or pistol! To the devil with your
impudence, sir; I'd have you know you're not the only man has seen the
world! The shame of the world on you, talking like a schoolmaster while
your country cries for you, and 'tis not your tongue but your hand
she's wanting!"

Uncle Ulick put his big form between Colonel John and his assailant.
"Sure and be easy!" he said. "Sir Donny, you're forgetting yourself!
And you, Tim Burke! Be easy, I say. It's only for himself the Colonel's
speaking!"

"Thank God for that!" Flavia cried in a voice which rang high.

They were round him now a ring of men with dark, angry faces, and
hardly restrained hands. Their voices cried tumultuously on him, in
defiance of Ulick's intervention. But the Bishop intervened.

"One moment," he said, still speaking smoothly and with a smile.
"Perhaps it is for those he thinks he speaks!" And the Bishop pointed
to the crowd which filled the forecourt, and of which one member or
another was perpetually pressing his face against the panes to learn
what his sacredness, God bless him! would be wishing. "Perhaps it is
for those he thinks he speaks!" he repeated in irony--for of the
feeling of the crowd there could be no doubt.

"You say well," Colonel John replied, rising to his feet and speaking
with gloomy firmness. "It is on their behalf I appeal to you. For it is
they who foresee the least, and they who will suffer the most. It is
they who will follow like sheep, and they who like sheep will go to the
butcher! Ay, it is they," he continued with deeper feeling, and he
turned to Flavia, "who are yours, and they will pay for you.
Therefore," raising his hand for silence, "before you name the prize,
sum up the cost! Your country, your faith, your race--these are great
things, but they are far off and can do without you. But these--these
are that fragment of your country, that tenet of your faith, that
handful of your race which God has laid in the palm of your hand, to
cherish or to crush, and----"

"The devil!" Machin ejaculated with sudden violence. Perhaps he read in
the girl's face some shadow of hesitation, of thought, of perplexity.
"Have done with your preaching, sir, I say! Have done, man! Try us not
too far! If we fail----"

"You must fail!" Colonel John retorted--with that narrowing of the
nostrils that in the pinch of fight men long dead had seen for a moment
in distant lands, and seen no more. "You will fail! And failing, sir,
his reverence will stand no worse than now, for his life is forfeit
already! While you----"

"What of me? Well, what of me?" the stout man cried truculently. His
brows descended over his eyes, and his lips twitched.

"For you, Admiral Cammock----"

The other stepped forward a pace. "You know me?"

"Yes, I know you."

There was silence for an instant, while those who were in the secret
eyed Colonel Sullivan askance, and those who were not gaped at Cammock.

Soldiers of fortune, of fame and name, were plentiful in those days,
but seamen of equal note were few. And with this man's name the world
had lately rung. An Irishman, he had risen high in Queen Anne's
service; but at her death, incited by his devotion to the Stuarts, he
had made a move for them at a critical moment. He had been broken,
being already a notable man; on which, turning his back on an
ungrateful country, as he counted it, he had entered the Spanish
marine, which the great minister Alberoni was at that moment reforming.
He had been advanced to a position of rank and power--Spain boasted no
stouter seaman; and in the attempt on which Alberoni was bent, to upset
the Protestant succession in England, Admiral Cammock was a factor of
weight. He was a bold, resolute man, restrained by no fine scruples,
prepared to take risks himself, and not too prone to think for others.
In Ireland his life was forfeit, Great Britain counted him renegade and
traitor. So that to find himself recognised, though grateful to his
vanity, was a shock to his discretion.

"Well, and knowing me?" he replied at last, with the tail of his eyes
on the Bishop, as if he would gladly gain a hint from his subtlety.
"What of me?"

"You have your home, your rank, your relations abroad," Colonel
Sullivan answered firmly. "And if a descent on the coast be a part of
your scheme, then you do not share the peril equally with us. You are
here to-day and elsewhere to-morrow. We shall suffer, while you sail
away."

"I fling that in your teeth!" Cammock cried. "I know you too, sir,
and----"

"Know no worse of me than of yourself!" Colonel Sullivan retorted. "But
if you do indeed know me, you know that I am not one to stand by and
see my friends led blindfold to certain ruin. It may suit your plans to
make a diversion here. But that diversion is a part of larger schemes,
and the fate of those who make it is little to you."

Cammock's hand flew to his belt, he took a step forward, his face
suffused with passion.

"For half as much I have cut a man down!" he cried.

"May be, but----"

"Peace, peace, my friends," the Bishop interposed. He laid a warning
hand on Cammock's arm. "This gentleman," he continued smoothly, "thinks
he speaks for our friends outside."

"Let me speak, not for them, but to them," Colonel Sullivan replied
impulsively. "Let me tell them what I think of this scheme, of its
chances, of its certain end! I will tell them no more than I have told
you, and no more than I think justified."

He moved, whether he thought they would let him or not, towards the
window. But he had not taken three steps before he found his progress
barred. "What is this?" he exclaimed.

"Needs must with so impulsive a gentleman," the Bishop said. He had not
moved, but at a signal from him The McMurrough, the O'Beirnes and two
of the other young men had thrust themselves forward. "You must give up
your sword, Colonel Sullivan," he continued.

The Colonel retreated a pace, and evinced more surprise than he felt.
"Give up--do you mean that I am a prisoner?" he cried. He had not
drawn, but two or three of the young men had done so, and Flavia, in
the background by the fire, was white as paper--so suddenly had the
shadow of violence fallen on the room. Uncle Ulick could be heard
protesting, but no one heeded him.

"You must surrender!" the Bishop repeated firmly. He too was a trifle
pale, but he was used to such scenes and he spoke with decision.

"Resistance is vain. I hope that with this lady in the room----"

"One moment!" the Colonel cried, raising his hand. But as The
McMurrough and the others hesitated, he whipped out his sword and
stepped two paces to one side with an agility no one had foreseen. He
now had the table behind him and Uncle Ulick on his left hand. "One
moment!" he repeated, raising his hand in deprecation and keeping his
point lowered. "Do you consider----"

"We consider our own safety," Cammock answered grimly. And signing to
one of the men to join Darby at the door, he drew his cutlass. "You
know too much to go free, sir, that is certain."

"Ay, faith, you do," The McMurrough chimed in with a sort of glee. "He
was at Tralee yesterday, no less. And for a little we'll have the
garrison here before the time!"

"But by the powers," Uncle Ulick cried, "ye shall not hurt him! Your
reverence!"--the big man's voice shook--"your reverence, this shall not
be! It's not in this house they shall murder him, and him a Sullivan!
Flavia, speak, girl," he continued, the perspiration standing on his
brow. "Say ye'll not have it. After all, it's your house! By G--d, it
is your house. And, by the Holy Cross, there shall be no Sullivan blood
spilt in it while I am standing by to prevent it!"

"Then let him give up his sword!" Cammock answered doggedly.

"Yes, let him give up his sword," Flavia said in a small voice.

"Colonel Sullivan," the Bishop interposed, stepping forward, "I hope
you'll hear reason. Resistance is vain. You know as well as I do that
at a word from us our friends outside would deal with you, and roughly.
Give up your sword and----"

"And _presto_!" Cammock cried, "or take the consequences!" He had
edged his way, while the Bishop spoke, round Ulick and round the head
of the table. Now, with his foot on the bench, he was ready at a word
to spring on the table, and take the Colonel in the rear. It was clear
that he was a man of action. "Down with your sword, sir," he cried
flatly.

Colonel John recognised the weakness of his position. Before him the
young men were five to one, with old Sir Donny and Timothy Burke in the
rear. On his flank the help which Ulick might give was discounted by
the move Cammock had made. He saw that he could do no more at present,
that he must base his hope on the future; this, though he was not blind
to the fact that there might be no future. Suddenly as the storm had
blown up, he knew that he was dealing with desperate men, who from this
day onward would act with their necks in a noose, and whom his word
might send to the scaffold. They had but to denounce him to the rabble
who waited outside, and, besides the Bishop, one only there, as he
believed, would have the influence to save him.

Colonel John had confronted danger many times; to confront it had been
his trade. And it was with coolness and a clear perception of the
position that he turned to Flavia. "I will give up my sword," he said,
"but to my cousin only. This is her house, and I yield myself"--with a
smile and a bow--"her prisoner."

Before they knew what he would be at, he stepped forward and tendered
his hilt to the girl, who took it with flaccid fingers. "I am in your
hands now," he said, fixing his eyes on hers and endeavouring to convey
his meaning to her. For surely, with such a face, she must have, with
all her recklessness, some womanliness, some tenderness of feeling in
her.

"D--n your impudence!" The McMurrough cried.

"A truce, a truce," the Bishop interposed. "We are all agreed that
Colonel Sullivan knows too much to go free. He must be secured," he
continued smoothly, "for his own sake. Will two of these gentlemen see
him to his room, and see also that his servant is placed under guard in
another room?"

"But," the Colonel objected, looking at Flavia, "my cousin will surely
allow me to give----"

"She will be guided by us in this," the Bishop rejoined with asperity.
"Let what I have said be done."

Flavia, very pale, holding the Colonel's sword as if it might sting
her, did not speak. Colonel Sullivan, after a moment's hesitation,
followed one of the O'Beirnes from the room, the other bringing up the
rear.

When the door had closed upon them, Flavia's was not the only pale face
in the room. The scene had brought home to more than one the fact that
here was an end of peace and law, and a beginning of violence and
rebellion. The Rubicon was passed. For good or for ill, they were
committed to an enterprise fraught, it might be, with success and
glory, fraught also, it might be, with obloquy and death. Uncle Ulick
stared at the floor with a lowering face, and sighed, liking neither
the past nor the prospect. The McMurrough, the Squireens, Sir Donny,
and Burke, secretly uneasy, put on a reckless air to cover their
apprehensions. The Bishop and Cammock, though they saw themselves in a
fair way to do what they had come to do, looked thoughtful also. And
only Flavia--only Flavia, shaking off the remembrance of Colonel John's
face, and Colonel John's existence--closed her grip upon his sword, and
in the ardour of her patriotism saw with her mind's eye not victory nor
acclaiming thousands--no, nor the leaping line of pikemen charging for
_his_ glory that her brother saw--but the scaffold, and a death for her
country. Sweet it seemed to her to die for the cause, for the faith, to
die for Ireland! To die as young Lord Derwentwater had died a year or
two before; as Lady Nithsdale had been ready to die; as innumerable men
and women had died, lifted above common things by the love of their
country.

True, her country, her Ireland, was but this little corner of Kerry
beaten by the Atlantic storms and sad with the wailing cries of
seagulls; the rudest province of a land itself provincial. But if she
knew no more of Ireland than this, she had read her story; and naught
is more true than that the land the most down-trodden is also the best
beloved. Wrongs beget a passion of affection; and from oppression
springs sacrifice. This daughter of the windswept shore, of the misty
hills and fairy glens, whose life from infancy had been bare and rugged
and solitary, had become, for that reason, a dreamer of dreams and a
worshipper of the ideal Ireland, her country, her faith. The salt
breeze that lashed her cheeks and tore at her hair, the peat reek and
the soft shadows of the bogland--ay, and many an hour of lonely
communing--had filled her breast with love; such love as impels rather
to suffering and to sacrifice than to enjoyment. Nor had she yet
encountered the inevitable disappointments. Her eyes had not yet been
opened to the seamy side of patriotism; to the sordid view of every
great adventure that soon or late saddens the experienced and dispels
the glamour of the dreamer.

For one moment she had recoiled before the shock of impending violence,
the clash of steel, the reality of things. But that had passed; now her
one thought, as she stood with dilated eyes, unconsciously clutching
the Colonel's sword, was that the time was come, the thing was
begun--henceforth she belonged not to herself, but to Ireland and to
God.

Deep in such thoughts, the girl was not aware that the others had got
together and were discussing the Colonel's fate until mention was made
of the French sloop and of Captain Augustin. "Faith, and let him go in
that!" she heard Uncle Ulick urging. "D'ye hear me, your reverence?
'Twill be a week before they land him, and the fire we'll be lighting
will be no secret at all at all by then."

"May be, Mr. Sullivan," the Bishop replied--"may be. But we cannot
spare the sloop."

"No, by the Holy Bones, and we'll not spare her!" The McMurrough chimed
in. "She's heels to her, and it's a godsend she'll be to us if things
go ill."

"And an addition to our fleet anyway," Cammock said. "We'd be mad to
let her go--just to make a man safe, we can make safe a deal cheaper!"

Flavia propped the sword carefully in an angle of the hearth, and moved
forward. "But I do not understand," she said timidly. "We agreed that
the sloop and the cargo were to go free if Colonel Sullivan--but you
know!" she added, breaking off and addressing her brother. "You were
there."

"Is it dreaming you are?" he retorted contemptuously. "Is it we'll be
taking note of that now?"

"It was a debt of honour," she said.

"The girl's right," Uncle Ulick said, "and we'll be rid of him."

"We'll be rid of him without that," The McMurrough muttered.

"I am fearing, Mr. Sullivan," the Bishop said, "that it is not quite
understood by all that we are embarked upon a matter of the utmost
gravity, upon a matter of life and death. We cannot let bagatelles
stand in the way. The sloop and her cargo can be made good to her
owners--at another time. For your relative and his servant----"

"The shortest way with them!" some one cried. "That's the best and the
surest!"

"For them," the Bishop continued, silencing the interruption by a look,
"we must not forget that some days must pass before we can hope to get
our people together, or to be in a position to hold our own. During the
interval we lie at the mercy of an informer. Your own people you know,
and can trust to the last gossoon, I'm told. But the same cannot be
said of this gentleman--who has very fixed ideas--and his servant. Our
lives and the lives of others are in their hands, and it is of the last
importance that they be kept secure and silent."

"Ay, silent's the word," Cammock growled.

"There could be no better place than one of the towers," The McMurrough
suggested, "for keeping them safe, bedad!"

"And why'll they be safer there than in the house?" Uncle Ulick asked
suspiciously. He looked from one speaker to another with a baffled
face, trying to read their minds. He was sure that they meant more than
they said.

"Oh, for the good reason!" the young man returned contemptuously.
"Isn't all the world passing the door upstairs? And what more easy than
to open it?"

Cammock's eyes met the Bishop's. "The tower'll be best," he said.
"Devil a doubt of it! Draw off the people, and let them be taken there,
and a guard set. We've matters of more importance to discuss now. This
gathering to-morrow, to raise the country--what's the time fixed for
it?"

But Flavia, who had listened with a face of perplexity, interposed.
"Still, he is my prisoner, is he not?" she said wistfully. "And if I
answer for him?"

"By your leave, ma'am," Cammock replied, with decision, "one word.
Women to women's work! I'll let no woman weave a halter for me!"

The room echoed low applause. And Flavia was silent.




CHAPTER XI

A MESSAGE FOR THE YOUNG MASTER


James McMurrough was young, but he was a slave to as few of the
generous ambitions of youth as any man of his years. At heart he cared
little for his country, and nothing for his Faith--which indeed he had
been ready to barter for an allowance, and a certain succession. He
cared only for himself; and but for the resentment which the provisions
of his grandfather's will had bred in him, he would have seen the Irish
race in Purgatory, and the Roman faith in a worse place, before he
would have risked a finger to right the one or restore the other. Even
under the influence of that resentment, that bitterness, he had come
into the conspiracy with but half a heart; without enthusiasm, and with
an eye not so much to its ultimate success as to the gain he might make
out of it in the meantime.

Once embarked, however, on the enterprise, vanity, the failing of light
minds, and particularly of the Celtic mind, swept him onward. The night
which followed Colonel Sullivan's arrest was a night long remembered at
Morristown--a night to uplift the sanguine and to kindle the
short-sighted; nor was it a wonder that the young chief--as he strode
among his admiring tenants, his presence greeted, when he entered, with
Irish acclamations, and his skirts kissed, when he passed, by devoted
kernes--sniffed the pleasing incense, and trod the ground to the
measure of imagined music. He felt himself a greater man this night
than he had ever been before. The triumph that was never to be
intoxicated him. He was Montrose, he was Claverhouse--a Montrose whom
no Philiphaugh awaited, a Claverhouse whom no silver bullet would slay.
He saw himself riding in processions, acclaimed by thousands, dictating
to senates, the idol of a rejoicing Dublin.

His people had kindled a huge bonfire in the middle of the forecourt,
and beside this he extended a gracious welcome to a crowd of strong
tenants, whose picturesque figures, as they feasted, sang, drank, and
fought, the fire silhouetted on the house front and the surrounding
walls; now projecting them skywards, gigantic and menacing, now
reducing them to dwarfs. A second fire, for the comfort of the baser
sort, had been kindled outside the gates, and was the centre of
merriment less restrained; while a third, which served as a beacon to
the valley, and a proclamation of what was being done, glowed on the
platform before the ruined tower at the head of the lake. From this
last the red flames streamed far across the water; and now revealed a
belated boat shooting from the shadow on its way across, now a troop of
countrymen, who, led by their priest, came limping along the lake-side
road; ostensibly to join in the religious services of the morrow, but
in reality, as they knew, to hear something, and, God willing, to do
something towards freeing old Ireland and shaking off the grip of the
cursed Saxon.

In the more settled parts of the land, such a summons as had brought
them from their rude shielings among the hills or beside the bogs,
would have passed for a dark jest. But in this remote spot, the notion
of overthrowing the hated power by means of a few score pikes,
stiffened by half as many sailors from the Spanish ship in the bay, did
not seem preposterous, either to these poor folk or to their betters.
Cammock, of course, knew the truth, and the Bishop. Asgill, too, the
one man cognisant of the movement who was not here, and of whom some
thought with distrust--he, too, could appraise the attempt at its true
worth. But of these men, the two first aimed merely at a diversion
which would further their plans in Europe; and the last cared only for
Flavia.

But James McMurrough and Flavia herself, and Sir Donny and old Timothy
Burke and the O'Beirnes and the two or three small gentry, Sullivans or
McCarthys, who had also come in--and in a degree Uncle Ulick-these saw
nothing hopeless in the plan. That plan, as announced, was first to
fall upon Tralee in combination with a couple of sloops said to be
lying in Galway Bay; and afterwards to surprise Kenmare. Masters of
these places, they would have the Kerry peninsula behind them, and no
enemy within it; for the Crosbys and the Pettys, and the handful of
English settlers who lived there, could offer no resistance. So much
done, they proposed to raise the old standard, to call Connaught to
their aid, to cry a crusade. Spain would reinforce them through a score
of ports--was not Galway City half Spanish already?--Ireland would rise
as one man. And faith, as Sir Donny said, before the Castle tyrants
could open their eyes, or raise their heads from the pillow, they'd be
seeing themselves driven into the salt ocean!

So, while the house-walls gave back the ruddy glare of the torches, and
the bare-footed, bare-headed, laughing colleens damped the thatch, and
men confessed in one corner and kissed their girls in another, and the
smiths in a third wrought hard at the pike-heads--so the struggle
depicted itself to more than one! Among others to Flavia, as, half
trembling, half triumphant, she looked down from a window on the
strange riot, and told herself that the time was come! To James as he
strode to and fro, fancying himself Montrose, sweeping eastwards like a
flame. To the O'Beirnes and the O'Loughlins and their like. Great when
the fight was done would be the glory of Kerry! The cocks of Clare
would crow no more, and undying would be the fame of the McMurrough
line, descended from the old Wicklow kings!

Meanwhile Cammock and the Bishop walked in the dark in the garden, a
little apart from the turmoil, and, wrapped in their cloaks, talked in
low voices; debating much of Sicily and Naples and the Cardinal and the
Mediterranean fleet, and at times laughing at some court story. But
they said, strange to tell, no word of Tralee, or of Kenmare, or of
Dublin Castle, or even of Connaught. They were no visionaries. They had
to do with greater things than these, and in doing them knew that they
must spend to gain. The lives of a few score peasants, living in
wretchedness already, the ruin of half a dozen hamlets, the desolation
of such a God-forsaken country-side as this, which was but bog and hill
at best, and where it rained two days in three--what were these beside
the diversion of a single squadron from the great pitched fight,
already foreseen, where the excess of one battleship might win an
empire, and its absence might ruin nations?

So while the fire at the head of the lake blazed high, and band after
band of the "boys" came in, thirsting for fight, and while song and
revelry lorded it in the forecourt and on the strand, and not whisky
only but cognac, taken from Captain Augustin's sloop, flowed freely,
the two men pacing the walk behind the Florence yews gave scarce a
thought to the present moment. They had planned this move in
conjunction with other and more important moves. It was made or in the
making; and forthwith their thoughts and their speech left it, to deal
with the next move and the one beyond, and with the end of all their
moves--St. Germains or St. James's. And one other man, and one only,
because his life had been passed on their wider plane, and he could
judge of the relative value of Connaught and Kent, divined the trend of
their thoughts, and understood the deliberation, almost the sense of
duty with which they prepared to sacrifice their pawns.

Colonel Sullivan sat in the upper room of one of the two towers that
flanked the entrance to the forecourt. Bale was with him, and the two,
with the door doubly locked upon them and guarded by a sentry whose
crooning they could hear, shared such comfort as a pitcher of water and
a gloomy outlook afforded. The darkness hid the medley of odds and
ends, of fishing-nets, broken spinning-wheels and worn-out sails, which
littered their prison; but the inner of the two slit-like windows that
lighted the room admitted a thin shaft of firelight that, dancing among
the uncovered rafters, told of the orgy below. Bale, staring morosely
at the crowd about the fire, crouched in the splay of the window, while
the Colonel, in the same posture at the other window, gazed with
feelings not more cheerful on the dark lake.

He was concerned for himself and his companion; for he knew that
frightened folk are ever the most cruel. But he was more gravely
concerned for those whose advocate he had made himself--for the
ignorant cotters in their lowly hovels, the women, the children, upon
whom the inevitable punishment would fall. He doubted, now that it was
too late, the wisdom of the course he had taken; and, blaming himself
for precipitation, he fancied that if he had acted with a little more
guile, a little more reticence, a little less haste, his remonstrance
might have had greater weight.

There are some whom a life spent in camps and amid bloody scenes,
hardens; and others, a few, who emerge from the ordeal with souls
passionately inclined to mercy and justice. Colonel John was of the
latter--a black swan. For at this moment, lying, and aware that he lay,
in some peril of his life, he was more troubled by the evil plight of
the helpless, whose cabins had given him a foster-mother, and made him
welcome in his youth, whose blood, too, he shared, than by his own
uncertain prospects.

William Bale, as was natural, was far from sharing this view. "May the
fire burn them!" he muttered, his ire excited by some prank of the
party below. "The Turks were polite beside these barefoot devils!"

"You'd have said the other thing at Bender," the Colonel answered,
turning his head.

"Ay, your honour," Bale returned; "a man never knows when he is well
off."

His master laughed. "I'd have you apply that now," he said.

"So I would if it weren't that I've a kind of a scunner of those black
bog-holes," Bale said. "To be planted head first 's no proper end of a
man, to my thinking; and if there's not something of the kind in these
ragamuffins' minds I'm precious mistaken.

"Pooh, man, you're frightening yourself," the Colonel answered. But the
room was dank and chill, the lake without lay lonely, and the picture
which Bale's words called up was not pleasant to the bravest. "It's a
civilised land, and they'd not think of it!"

"There's one, and that's the young lady's brother," Bale answered
darkly, "would not pull us out by the feet! I'll swear to that. Your
honour's too much in his way, if what they say in the house is true."

"Pooh!" the Colonel answered again. "We're of one blood."

"Cain and Abel," Bale said. "There's example for it." And he chuckled.

The Colonel scolded him anew. But having done so he could not shake off
the impression which the man's words had made on him. While he lived he
was a constant and an irritating check upon James McMurrough. If the
young man saw a chance of getting rid of that check, was he one to put
it from him? Colonel John's face grew long as he pondered the question;
he had seen enough of James to feel considerable doubt about the
answer. The fire on the height above the lake had died down, the one on
the strand was a bed of red ashes. The lake lay buried in darkness,
from which at intervals the cry of an owl as it moused along the shore
rose mournfully.

But Colonel John was not one to give way to fears that might be
baseless. "Let us sleep," he said, shrugging his shoulders. And he lay
down where he was, pillowing his head on a fishing-net. Bale said
nothing, but examined the door before he stretched himself across the
threshold.

Half an hour after dawn they were roused. It was a heavy trampling on
the stairs that awakened them. The door was quickly unlocked, it was
thrown open, and the hairy face of O'Sullivan Og, who held it wide,
looked in. Behind him were two of the boys with pikes--frowsy, savage,
repellent figures, with drugget coats tied by the sleeves about their
necks.

"You'll be coming with us, Colonel, no less," Og said.

Colonel John looked at him. "Whither, my man?" he asked coolly. He and
Bale had got to their feet at the first alarm.

"Och, sure, where it will be best for you," Og replied, with a leer.

"Both of us?" the Colonel asked, in the same hard tone.

"Faith, and why'd we be separating you, I'd be asking."

Colonel John liked neither the man's tone nor his looks. But he was far
above starting at shadows, and he guessed that resistance would be
useless. "Very good," he said. "Lead on."

"Bedad, and if you'll be doing that same, we will," O'Sullivan Og
answered with a grin.

The Colonel and Bale found their hats--they'd been allowed to bring
nothing else with them--and they went down the stairs. In the gloom
before the door of the tower waited two sturdy fellows, barefoot and
shock-headed, with musquetoons on their shoulders, who seemed to be
expecting them. Round the smouldering embers of the fire a score of
figures lay sleeping in the open, wrapped in their frieze coats. As
many others sat with their backs against the wall, and their chins sunk
on their breasts. The sun was not yet up, and all things were wrapt in
a mist that chilled to the bone. Even within the narrow bounds of the
forecourt, objects at a distance put on queer shapes and showed new
faces. Nothing in all that was visible took from the ominous aspect of
the two men with the firearms. One for each, Bale thought. And his
face, always pallid, showed livid in the morning light.

Without a word the four men formed up round their prisoners, and at
once O'Sullivan Og led the way at a brisk pace towards the gate.
Colonel John was following, but he had not taken three steps before a
thought struck him, and he halted. "Are we leaving the house at once?"
he asked.

"We are. And why not, I'm asking."

"Only that I've a message for the McMurrough it will be well for him to
have."

"Sure," O'Sullivan Og answered, his manner half wheedling, half
truculent, "'tis no time for messages and trifles and the like now,
Colonel. No time at all, I tell you. Ye can see that for yourself, I'm
thinking, such a morning as this."

"I'm thinking nothing of the kind," the Colonel answered, and he hung
back, looking towards the house. Fortunately Darby chose that minute to
appear at the door. The butler's face was pale, and showed fatigue; his
hair hung in wisps; his clothes were ill-fastened. He threw a glance of
contempt, the contempt of the indoor servant, at the sleeping figures,
lying here and there in the wet. Thence his eyes travelled on and took
in the group by the gate. He started, and wrung his hands in sudden,
irrepressible distress. It was as if a spasm seized the man.

The Colonel called him. "Darby," he cried. "Come here, my man."

O'Sullivan Og opened his mouth; he was on the point of interposing, but
he thought better of it, and shrugged his shoulders, muttering
something in the Erse.

"Darby," the Colonel said gravely, "I've a message for the young
master, and it must be given him in his bed. Will you give it?"

"I will, your honour."

"You will not fail?"

"I will not, your honour," the old servant answered earnestly.

"Tell him, then, that Colonel Sullivan made his will as he passed
through Paris, and 'tis now in Dublin. You mind me, Darby?"

The old man began to shake--he had an Irish man's superstition. "I do,
your honour. But the saints be between us and harm," he continued, with
the same gesture of distress. "Who's speaking of wills?"

"Only tell him that in his bed," Colonel John repeated, with an urgent
look. "That is all."

"And by your leave, it is now we'll be going," Og interposed sharply.
"We are late already for what we've to do."

"There are some things," the Colonel replied with a steady look, "which
it is well to be late about."

Having fired that shot, he turned his eyes once more on the house.
Then, without further remonstrance, he and Bale, with their guard,
marched out through the gate, and took the road along the lake--that
same road by which the Colonel had come some days before from the
French sloop. The men with the firelocks walked beside them, one on
either flank, while the pikemen guarded them behind, and O'Sullivan Og
brought up the rear.

They had not taken twenty paces before the fog swallowed up the party;
and henceforth they walked in a sea of mist, like men moving in a
nightmare from which they cannot awake. The clammy vapour chilled them
to the bone: while the unceasing wailing of seagulls, borne off the
lough, the whistle of an unseen curlew on the hillside, the hurtle of
wings as some ghostly bird swept over them--these were sounds to deepen
the effect, and depress men who had reason to suspect that they were
being led to a treacherous end.

The Colonel, though he masked his apprehensions under an impenetrable
firmness, began to fear no less than that--and with cause. He observed
that O'Sullivan Og's followers were of the lowest type of kerne,
islanders in all probability, and half starved; men whose hands were
never far from their skenes, and whose one orderly instinct consisted
in a blind obedience to their chief. O'Sullivan Og himself he believed
to be The McMurrough's agent in his more lawless business; a fierce,
unscrupulous man, prospering on his lack of scruple. The Colonel could
augur nothing but ill from the hands to which he had been entrusted;
and worse from the manner in which these savage, half-naked creatures,
shambling beside him, stole from time to time a glance at him, as if
they fancied they saw the winding-sheet high on his breast.

Some, so placed, and feeling themselves helpless, isolated by the fog,
and entirely at these men's mercy, might have lost their firmness. But
he did not; nor did Bale, though the servant's face betrayed the
keenness of his anxiety. They weighed indeed, certainly the former, the
chances of escape: such chances as a headlong rush into the fog might
afford to unarmed men, uncertain where they were. But the Colonel
reflected that it was possible that that was the very course upon which
O'Sullivan Og counted for a pretext and an excuse. And, for a second
objection, the two could not, so closely were they guarded, communicate
with each other in such a way as to secure joint action.

After all, The McMurrough's plan might amount to no more than their
detention in some secret place among the hills. Colonel John hoped so.

Yet he could not persuade himself that this was the worst that was
intended. He could not but think ill of things; of O'Sullivan Og's
silence, of the men's stealthy glances, of the uncanny hour. And when
they came presently to a point where a faintly marked track left the
road, and the party, at a word from their leader, turned into it, he
thought worse of the matter. Was it his fancy--he was far from
nervous--or were the men beginning to look impatiently at one another?
Was it his fancy, or were they beginning to press more closely on their
prisoners, as if they sought a quarrel? He imagined that he read in one
man's eyes the question "When?" and in another's the question "Now?"
And a third, he thought, handled his weapon in an ominous fashion.

Colonel John was a brave man, inured to danger and trained to
emergencies, one who had faced death in many forms. But the lack, of
arms shakes the bravest, and it needed even his nerve to confront
without a quiver the fate that, if his fears were justified, lay before
them: the sudden, violent death, and the black bog-water which would
swallow all traces of the crime. But he did not lose his firmness or
lower his crest for a moment.

By-and-by the track, which for a time had ascended, began to run
downward. The path grew less sound. The mist, which was thicker than
before, and shut them in on the spot where they walked, as in a world
desolate and apart, allowed nothing to be seen in front; but now and
again a ragged thorn-tree or a furze bush, dripping with moisture,
showed ghostlike to right or left. There was nothing to indicate the
point they were approaching, or how far they were likely to travel;
until the Colonel, peering keenly before them, caught the gleam of
water. It was gone as soon as seen, the mist falling again like a
curtain; but he had seen it, and he looked back to see what Og was
doing. He caught him also in the act of looking over his shoulder. Was
he making sure that they were beyond the chance of interruption?

It might be so; and Colonel John wheeled about quickly, thinking that
while O'Sullivan Og's attention was directed elsewhere, he might take
one of the other men by surprise, seize his weapon and make a fight for
his life and his servant's life. But he met only sinister looks, eyes
that watched his smallest movement with suspicion, a point ready
levelled to strike him if he budged. And then, out of the mist before
them, loomed the gaunt figure of a man, walking apace towards them.

The meeting appeared to be as little expected by the stranger as by
Og's party. For not only did he spring aside and leave the track to
give them a wider berth, but he went by warily, with his feet in the
bog. Some word was cried to him in the Erse, he answered, for a moment
he appeared to be going to stop. Then he passed on and was lost in the
mist.

But he left a change behind him. One of the firelock-men broke into
hasty speech, glancing, the Colonel noticed, at him and Bale, as if
they were the subjects of his words. O'Sullivan Og answered the man
curtly and harshly; but before the reply was off his lips a second man
broke in vehemently in support of the other. They all halted; for a few
seconds all spoke at once. Then, just as Colonel John was beginning to
hope that they would quarrel, O'Sullivan Og gave way with sullen
reluctance, and a man ran back the way they had come, shouting a name.
Before the prisoners could decide whether his absence afforded a chance
of escape, he was back again, and with him the man who had passed in
the bog.

Colonel John looked at the stranger, and recognised him; and, a man of
quick wit, he knew on the instant that he had to face the worst. His
face set more hard, more firm--if it turned also a shade paler. He
addressed his companion. "They've called him back to confess us," he
muttered in Bale's ear.

"The devils!" Bale exclaimed. He choked on the word and worked his jaw,
glaring at them; but he said no more. Only his eyes glanced from one to
another, wild and full of rage.

Colonel John did not reply, for already O'Sullivan Og was addressing
him. "There's no more to it," The McMurrough's agent said bluntly; "but
you've come your last journey, Colonel, and we'll go back wanting you.
There's no room in Ireland from this day for them that's not Irish at
heart! nor safety for honest men while you're walking the sod. But----"

"Will you murder us?" Colonel John said. "Do you know, man," he
continued sternly, "what you do? What have we done to you, or your
master?"

"Done?" O'Sullivan Og answered with sudden ferocity. "And murder, say
you? Ay, faith, I would, and ten thousand like you, for the sake of old
Ireland! You may make your peace, and have five minutes to that--and no
more, for time presses, and we've work to do. These fools would have a
priest for you"--he turned and spat on the ground--"but it is I, and
none better, know you are black Protestants, and 'twould take the Holy
Father, God bless him, and no less, to make your souls!"

Colonel John looked at him with a strange light in his eyes. "It is
little to you," he said, "and much to me. Yet think, think, man, what
you do. Or if you will not, here is my servant. Let him go at least.
Spare his life at least. Put him, if you please, on board the French
sloop that's in the bay----"

"Faith, and you're wasting the little breath that is left you," the
ruffian answered, irritated rather than moved by the other's calmness.
"It's to take or leave. I told the men a heretic had no soul to make,
but----"

"God forgive you!" Colonel John said--and was silent; for he saw that
remonstrance would not help him, nor prayer avail. The man's mind was
made up, his heart steeled. For a brief instant, something, perhaps
that human fear which he had so often defied, clutched Colonel John's
heart. For a brief instant human weakness had its way with him, and he
shuddered--in the face of the bog, in the face of such an end as this.
Then the mist passed from his eyes, if not from the landscape; the
gracious faith that was his returned to him: he was his grave,
unyielding self again. He took Bale's hand and begged his forgiveness.
"Would I had never brought you!" he said. "Why did I, why did I? Yet,
God's will be done!"

Bale did not seem able to speak. His jaw continued to work, while his
eyes looked sideways at Og. Had the Irishman known his man, he would
have put himself out of reach, armed as he was.

"But I will appeal for you to the priest!" Colonel John continued; "he
may yet prevail with them to spare you."

"He will not!" O'Sullivan Og said naïvely.




CHAPTER XII

THE SEA MIST


Father O'Hara looked at the two prisoners, and the tears ran down his
face. He was the man whom Colonel Sullivan and Bale had overtaken on
their way to Tralee. In spite of his life and his wrongs, he was a
merciful man, and with all his heart he wished that, if he could do no
good, God had been pleased to send him another way through the mist.
Not that life was to him aught but a tragedy at any time, on whichever
road he took. What but a tragedy could it be to a man bred at Douay and
reared on Greek, and now condemned to live in loneliness and squalor
among unlettered, unwashed creatures; to one who, banned by the law,
moved by night, and lurked in some hiding-place by day, and, waking or
sleeping, was ever in contact with the lawless and the oppressed, the
wretched and the starving--whose existence was spent in shriving,
christening, burying among the hills and bogs?

Yet, even in such a life this was a tragedy beyond the common. And--"What
can I do?" he cried. "_Non mihi, domine, culpa!_ Oh, what can I do?"

"You can do nothing, father," O'Sullivan Og said grimly. "They're
heretics, no less! And we're wasting your time, blessed man." He
whispered a few words in the priest's ear.

The latter shuddered. "God forgive us all!" he wailed. "And most, those
who need it most! God keep us from high place!"

"Sure and we're in little peril!" O'Sullivan Og replied.

Colonel John looked at the priest with solemn eyes. Nor did aught but a
tiny pulse beating in his cheek betray that every sense was on the
stretch; that he was listening, watching, ready to seize the least
chance, that he might save, at any rate, poor Bale. Then, "You are a
Christian, father," he said gravely. "I ask nothing for myself. But
this is my servant. He has done nothing, he knows nothing. Prevail with
them to spare him!"

Bale uttered a fierce remonstrance. No one understood it, or what he
said, or meant. His eyes looked askance, like the eyes of a beast in a
snare--seeking a weapon, or a throat! To be butchered thus! To be
butchered thus!

Perhaps Colonel John, notwithstanding his calm courage, had the same
thought, and found it bitter. Death had been good in the face of silent
thousands, with pride and high resolve for cheer. Or in the heat of a
fight for the right, where it came unheeded and almost unfelt. But here
on the bog, in the mist, unknown, unnoticed, to perish and be forgotten
in a week, even by the savage hands that took their breath! Perhaps to
face this he too had need of all his Christian stoicism.

"My God! My God!" the priest said. And he fell on his knees and raised
his hands. "Have pity on these two, and soften the hearts of their
murderers!"

"Amen," said Colonel John quietly.

"Faith, and 'tis idle, this," O'Sullivan Og cried irritably. He gave a
secret sign to his men to draw to one side and be ready. "We've our
orders, and other work to do. Kneel aside, father, 'tis no harm we mean
you, God forbid! But you're wasting breath on these same. And you," he
continued, addressing the two, "say what prayer you will, if you know
one, and then kneel or stand--it's all one to us--and, God willing,
you'll be in purgatory and never a knowledge of it!"

"One moment," Colonel John interposed, his face pale but composed, "I
have something to say to my friend."

"And you may, if you'll play no tricks."

"If you would spare him----"

"'Tis idle, I say! Sorra a bit of good is it! But there, ye shall be
having while the blessed man says three Paternosters, and not the least
taste of time beyond! Devil a bit!"

Colonel John made a sign to the priest, who, bowing himself on the wet
sod, covered his eyes with his hand and began to pray. The men, at a
sign from O'Sullivan, had drawn to either side, and the firelock-men
were handling their pieces, with one eye on their leader and one on the
prisoners.

Colonel John took Bale's hand. "What matter, soon or late?" he said
gently "Here, or on our beds we die in our duty. Let us say, _In
manus tuas_----"

"Popish! Popish!" Bale muttered, shaking his head. He spoke hoarsely,
his tongue cleaving to his mouth. His eyes were full of rage.

"Into Thy hands!" Colonel John said. He stooped nearer to his man's
ear. "When I shout, jump and run!" he breathed. "I will hold two."
Again he lifted his head and looked calmly at the threatening figures
standing about them, gaunt and dark, against the curtain of mist. They
were waiting for the signal. The priest was half way through his second
Paternoster. His trembling tongue was stumbling, lagging more and more.
As he ended it--the two men still standing hand in hand--Colonel John
gripped Bale's fingers hard, but held him.

"What is that?" he cried, in a loud voice--but still he held Bale tight
that he might not move. "What is that?" he repeated. On the ear--on his
ear first--had fallen the sound of hurrying feet.

They strained their eyes through the mist.

"And what'll this be?" O'Sullivan Og muttered suspiciously, looking
first in the direction of the sound, and then, still more suspiciously,
at his prisoners. "If you budge a step," he growled, "I'll drive this
pike----"

"A messenger from The McMurrough," Colonel John said, speaking as
sternly as if he and not The McMurrough's henchman commanded the party.
If he was human, as indeed he was, if his heart, at the hope of
respite, beat upon his ribs as the heart of a worse man might have
beaten, he did not betray it save by a light in his eyes. "You will see
if I am not right," he added.

They had not to wait. As he spoke a tall, lathy form emerged from the
mist. It advanced with long leaps, the way they had come. A moment, and
the messenger saw them--almost as soon as they had seen him. He pulled
up, and walked the intervening distance, his arms drooping, and his
breath coming in gasps. He had run apace, and he could not speak. But
he nodded--as he wiped the saliva from his parted lips--to O'Sullivan
Og to come aside with him; and the two moved off a space. The others
eyed them while the message was given. The suspense was short. Quickly
O'Sullivan Og came back.

"Ye may be thankful," he said drily. "Ye've cheated the pikes for this
time, no less. And 'tis safe ye are."

"You have the greater reason to be thankful," Colonel John replied
solemnly. "You have been spared a foul crime."

"Faith, and I hope I may never do worse," Og answered hardily, "than
rid the world of two black Protestants, an' them with a priest to make
their souls! Many's the honest man's closed his eyes without that same.
But 'tis no time for prating! I wonder at your honour, and you no more
than out of the black water! Bring them along, boys," he continued,
"we've work to do yet!"

"_Laus Deo!_" the priest cried, lifting up his hands. "Give Him the
glory!"

"Amen," the Colonel said softly. And for a moment he shut his eyes and
stood with clasped hands. Perhaps even his courage was hardly proof
against so sudden, so late a respite. He looked with a hardly repressed
shudder on the dreary face of the bog, on the gleaming water, on the
dripping furze bushes. "I thank you kindly, father, for your prayers!"
he said. "The words of a good man avail much!"

No more was said. For a few yards Bale walked unsteadily, shaken by his
escape from a death the prospect of which had evoked as much rage as
fear. But he recovered himself speedily, and, urged by O'Sullivan's
continual injunctions to hasten, the party were not long in retracing
their steps. They reached the road, and went along it, but in the
direction of the landing-place. In a few minutes they were threading
their way in single file across the saucer-like waste which lay to
landward of the hill overlooking the jetty and the inlet.

"Are you taking us to the French sloop?" Colonel John asked.

"You'll be as wise as the lave of us by-and-by!" Og answered sulkily.

They crossed the shoulder near the tower, which loomed uncertainly
through the fog, and they strode down the slope to the stone pier. The
mist lay low on the water, and only the wet stones of the jetty, and a
boat or two floating in the angle between the jetty and the shore, were
visible. The tide was almost at the flood. Og bade the men draw in one
of the boats, ordered Colonel Sullivan and Bale to go into the bow, and
the pikemen to take the oars. He and the two firelock-men--the
messenger had vanished--took their seats in the stern.

"Pull out, you cripples," he said. "And be pulling stout, and there'll
be flood enough to be bringing us back."

The men bent to the clumsy oars, and the boat slid down the inlet, and
passed under the beam of the French sloop, which lay moored farther
along the jetty. Not a sign of life appeared on deck as they passed;
the ship seemed to be deserted. Half a dozen strokes carried the boat
beyond view of it, and the little party were alone on the bosom of the
water, that lay rocking smoothly between its unseen banks. Some minutes
were spent in stout rowing, and the oily swell began to grow longer and
slower. They were near the mouth of the inlet, and abreast of the
east-and-west-running shore of the bay. Smoothly as the sea lapped the
beach under the mist, the boat began to rise and fall on the Atlantic
rollers.

"Tis more deceitful than a pretty colleen," O'Sullivan Og said, "is the
sea-fog, bad cess to it! My own father was lost in it. Will you be
seeing her, boys?"

"Ye'll not see her till ye touch her!" one of the rowers answered.

"And the tide running?" the other said. "Save us from that same!"

"She's farther out by three gunshots!" struck in a firelock-man. "We'll
be drifting back, ye thieves of the world, if ye sit staring there!
Pull, an' we'll be inshore an' ye know it."

For some minutes the men pulled steadily onwards, while one of the
passengers, apprised that their destination was the Spanish war-vessel
which had landed Cammock and the Bishop, felt anything but eager to
reach it. A Spanish war-ship meant imprisonment and hardship without
question, possibly the Inquisition, persecution, and death. When the
men lay at last on their oars, and swore that they must have passed the
ship, and they would go no farther, he alone listened indifferently,
nay, felt a faint hope born in him.

"'Tis a black Protestant fog!" O'Sullivan cried. "Where'll we be, I
wonder?"

"Sure, ye can make no mistake," one answered. "The wind's light off the
land."

"We'll be pulling back, lads."

"That's the word."

The men put the boat about, a little sulkily, and started on the return
journey. The sound of barking dogs and crowing cocks came off the land
with that clearness which all sounds assume in a fog. Suddenly Colonel
John, crouching in the bow, where was scant room for Bale and himself,
saw a large shape loom before him. Involuntarily he uttered a warning
cry, O'Sullivan echoed it, the men tried to hold the boat. In doing
this, however, one man was quicker than the other, the boat turned
broadside on to her former course, and before the cry was well off
O'Sullivan Og's lips, it swept violently athwart a cable hauled taut by
the weight of a vessel straining to the flow of the tide. In a
twinkling the boat careened, throwing its occupants into the water.

Colonel John and Bale were nearest to the hawser, and managed, suddenly
as the thing happened, to seize it and cling to it. But the first wave
washed over them, blinding them and choking them; and, warned by this,
they worked themselves desperately along the rope until their shoulders
were clear of the water and they could twist a leg over their slender
support.

That effected, they could spit out the water, breathe again, and look
about them. They shouted for help once, twice, thrice, thinking that
some on the great ship looming dim and distant to shoreward of them
must hear. But their shouts were merged in the wail of despair, of
shrieks and cries that floated away into the mist. The boat, travelling
with the last of the tide, had struck the cable with force, and was
already drifting a gunshot away. Whether any saved themselves on it,
the two clinging to the hawser could not see.

Bale, shivering and scared, would have shouted again, but Colonel John
stayed him. "God rest their souls!" he said solemnly. "The men aboard
can do nothing. By the time they'll have lowered a boat it will be done
with these."

"They can take us aboard," Bale said.

"Ay, if we want to go to Cadiz gaol," Colonel John answered slowly. He
was peering keenly towards the land.

"But what can we do, your honour?" Bale asked with a shiver.

"Swim ashore."

"God forbid!"

"But you can swim?"

"Not that far. Not near that far, God knows!" Bale repeated with
emphasis, his teeth chattering. "I'll go down like a stone."

"Cadiz gaol! Cadiz gaol!" Colonel John muttered. "Isn't it worth a swim
to escape that?"

"Ay, ay, but----"

"Do you see that oar drifting? In a twinkling it will be out of reach.
Off with your boots, man, off with your clothes, and to it! That oar is
freedom! The tide is with us still, or it would not be moving that way.
But let the tide turn and we cannot do it."

"It's too far!"

"If you could see the shore," Colonel John argued, "you'd think nothing
of it! With your chin on that oar, you can't sink. But it must be done
before we are chilled."

He was stripping himself to his underclothes while he talked: and in
haste, fearing that he might feel the hawser slacken and dip--a sign
that the tide had turned. Or if the oar floated out of sight--then too
the worst might happen to them. Already Colonel John had plans and
hopes, but freedom was needful if they were to come to anything.

"Come!" he cried impulsively. "Man, you are not a coward, I know it
well! Come!"

He let himself into the water as he spoke, and after a moment of
hesitation, and with a shiver of disgust, Bale followed his example,
let the rope go, and with quick, nervous strokes bobbed after him in
the direction of the oar. Colonel John deserved the less credit, as he
was the better swimmer. He swam long and slow, with his head low: and
his eyes watched his follower. A half minute of violent exertion, and
Bale's outstretched hand clutched the oar. It was a thick, clumsy
implement, and it floated high. In curt, clipped sentences Colonel John
bade him rest his hands on it, and thrust it before him lengthwise,
swimming with his feet.

For five minutes nothing was said, but they proceeded slowly and
patiently, rising a little above each wave and trusting--for they could
see nothing, and the light wind was in their faces--that the tide was
still seconding their efforts. Colonel John knew that if the shore lay,
as he judged, about half a mile distant, he must, to reach it, swim
slowly and reserve his strength. Though a natural desire to decide the
question quickly would have impelled him to greater exertion, he
resisted it as many a man has resisted it, and thereby has saved his
life. At the worst, he reflected that the oar would support them both
for a short time. But that meant remaining stationary and becoming
chilled.

They had been swimming for ten minutes, as he calculated, when Bale,
who floated higher, cried joyfully that he could see the land. Colonel
John made no answer, he needed all his breath. But a minute later he
too saw it loom low through the fog; and then, in some minutes
afterwards, they felt bottom and waded on to a ledge of rocks which
projected a hundred yards from the mainland eastward of the mouth of
the inlet. The tide had served them well by carrying them a little to
the eastward. They sat a moment on the rocks to recover their
strength--while the seagulls flew wailing over them--and for the first
time they took in the full gravity of the catastrophe. Every other man
in the boat had perished--so they judged, for there was no stir on
shore. On that they uttered some expressions of pity and of
thankfulness; and then, stung to action by the chill wind, which set
their teeth chattering, they got to their feet and scrambled painfully
along the rocks until they reached the marshy bank of the inlet. Thence
a pilgrimage scarcely less painful, through gorse and rushes, brought
them at the end of ten minutes to the jetty.

Here, too, all was quiet. If any of O'Sullivan Og's party had saved
themselves they were not to be seen, nor was there any indication that
the accident was known on shore. It was still early, but little after
six, the day Sunday; and apart from the cackling of poultry, and the
grunting of hogs, no sound came from O'Sullivan's house or the hovels
about it.

While Colonel John had been picking his way over the rocks and between
the gorse bushes, his thoughts had not been idle; and now, without
hesitation, he made along the jetty until the masts of the French sloop
loomed beside it. He boarded the vessel by a plank and looked round
him. There was no watch on deck, but a murmur of talk came from the
forecastle and a melancholy voice piping a French song rose from the
depths of the cabin. Colonel John bade Bale follow him--they were
shivering from head to foot--and descended the companion.

The singer was Captain Augustin. He lay on his back in his bunk, while
his mate, between sleep and waking, formed an unwilling audience.

    Tout mal chaussé, tout mal vêtu,

sang the Captain in a doleful voice,

    Pauvre marin, d'où reviens-tu?
      Tout doux! Tout doux!

With the last word on his lips, he called on the name of his Maker, for
he saw two half-naked, dripping figures peering at him through the open
door. For the moment he took them, by the dim light, for the revenants
of drowned men; while his mate, a Breton, rose on his elbow and
shrieked aloud.

It was only when Colonel John called them by name that they were
reassured, lost their fears, and recognised in the pallid figures
before them their late passenger and his attendant. Then, as the two
Frenchmen sprang to their feet, the cabin rang with oaths and
invocations, with _Mon Dieu!_ and _Ma foi!_ Immediately clothes were
fetched, and rough cloths to dry the visitors and restore warmth to
their limbs, and cognac and food--for the two were half starved.
Meantime, and while these comforts were being administered, and half
the crew, crouching about the companion, listened, and volleys of
questions rained upon him, Colonel John told very shortly the tale of
their adventures, of the fate that had menaced them, and their narrow
escape. In return he learned that the Frenchmen were virtually
prisoners.

"They have taken our equipage, cursed dogs!" Augustin explained,
refraining with difficulty from a dance of rage. "The rudder, the
sails, they are not, see you! They have locked all in the house on
shore, that we may not go by night, you understand. And by day the ship
of war beyond, Spanish it is possible, pirate for certain, goes about
to sink us if we move! Ah, _sacré nom_, that I had never seen this land
of swine!"

"Have they a guard over the rudder and the sails?" Colonel John asked,
pausing to speak with the food half way to his mouth.

"I know not. What matter?"

"If not, it were not hard to regain them," Colonel John said, with an
odd light in his eyes.

"And the ship of war beyond? What would she be doing?"

"While the fog lies?" Colonel John replied. "Nothing."

"The fog?" Augustin exclaimed. He clapped his hand to his head, ran up
the companion and as quickly returned. A skipper is in a low way who,
whatever his position, has no eye for the weather; and he felt the
tacit reproach. "Name of Names!" he cried. "There is a fog like the
inside of Jonah's whale! For the ship beyond I snap the finger at her!
She is not! Then forward, _mes braves_! Yet tranquil! They have taken
the arms!"

"Ay?" Colonel John said, still eating. "Is that so? Then it seems to me
we must retake them. That first."

"What, you?" Augustin exclaimed.

"Why not?" Colonel John responded, looking round him, a twinkle in his
eye. "The goods of his host are in a manner of speaking the house of
his host. And it is the duty--as I said once before."

"But is it not that they are--of your kin?"

"That is the reason," Colonel John answered cryptically, and to the
skipper's surprise. But that surprise lasted a very short time. "Listen
to me," the Colonel continued. "This goes farther than you think, and
to cure it we must not stop short. Let me speak, and do you, my
friends, listen. Courage, and I will give you not only freedom but a
good bargain."

The skipper stared. "How so?" he asked.

Then Colonel John unfolded the plan on which he had been meditating
while the waves lapped his smarting chin, while the gorse bushes
pricked his feet, and the stones gibed them. It was a great plan, and
before all things a bold one; so bold that Augustin gasped as it
unfolded itself, and the seamen, who, with the freedom of foreign
sailors in a ship of fortune, crowded the foot of the companion, opened
their eyes.

Augustin smacked his lips. "It is what you call _magnifique_!" he said.
"But," he shrugged his shoulders, "it is not possible!"

"If the fog holds?"

"But if it--what you call--lifts? What then, eh?"

"Through how many storms have you ridden?" the Colonel answered. "Yet
if the mast had gone?"

"We had gone! _Vraiment!_

"That did not keep you ashore."

Augustin cogitated over this for a while. Then, "But we are eight
only," he objected. "Myself, nine."

"And two are eleven," Colonel John replied.

"We do not know the ground."

"I do."

The skipper shrugged his shoulders.

"And they have treated you--but you know how they have treated you,"
Colonel John went on, appealing to the lower motive.

The group of seamen who stood about the door growled seamen's oaths.

"There are things that seem hard," the Colonel continued, "and being
begun, pouf! they are done while you think of them!"

Captain Augustin of Bordeaux swelled out his breast. "That is true," he
said. "I have done things like that."

"Then do one more!"

The skipper's eyes surveyed the men's faces. He caught the spark in
their eyes. "I will do it," he cried.

"Good!" Colonel John cried. "The arms first!"




CHAPTER XIII

A SLIP


Flavia McMurrough enjoyed one advantage over her partners in
conspiracy. She could rise on the morning after the night of the
bonfires with a clear head and an appetite undiminished by punch; and
probably she was the only one at Morristown of whom this could be said.
The morning light did not break for her on aching eyelids and a brain
at once too retentive of the boasts of the small hours and too
sensitive to the perils of the day to come. Colonel John had scarcely
passed away under guard, old Darby had scarcely made his first
round--with many an ominous shake of the head--the slatternly
serving-boys had scarcely risen from their beds in the passages, before
she was afoot, gay as a lark, and trilling like one; with spirits
prepared for the best or the worst which the day might bring
forth--though she foresaw only the best--and undepressed even by the
blanket of mist that shrouded lake and hills and all the world from
view.

If the past night, with its wassail and its mirth, its toasts and its
loud-voiced bragging, might be called "the great night of Morristown,"
this, the girl promised herself, should more truly and more fitly be
styled "the great day of Ireland." On this day would they begin a work
the end of which no man could see, but which, to the close of time,
should shed a lustre on the name of McMurrough. No more should their
native land be swept along, a chained slave, a handmaid, in the train
of a more brutal, a more violent, and a more stupid people! From this
day Ireland's valour, that had never known fit leading, should be
recognised for what it was, her wit be turned to good uses, her old
traditions be revived in the light of new glories. The tears rose to
the girl's eyes, her bosom heaved, her heart seemed too large for her,
as she pictured the fruition of the work to be begun this day, and with
clasped hands and prayerful eyes sang her morning hymn.

No more should an Irish gentleman walk swordless and shamed among his
equals. No more should the gallant beast he had bred be seized with
contumely in the market-place. No more should all the nobler services
of his native land be closed to him, his faith be banned, his priests
proscribed! No more should he be driven to sell his valour to the
highest bidder, and pour forth his blood in foreign causes, under the
walls of old Vienna, and on every stricken field from Almanza to the
Don. For on this day Ireland should rouse herself from the long
nightmare, the oppression of centuries. She should remember her
greatness of old time and the blessing of Patrick; and those who had
enslaved her, those who had scorned her and flouted her, should learn
the strength of hands nerved by the love of God and the love of
country! This day at Morristown the day should break.

The tears gushed from her eyes as she thought of this, and with an
overflowing heart thanked Heaven for the grace and favour that assigned
her a part in the work. And the halo formed of those tears ennobled all
she saw about her. The men, still sprawling up and down the courtyard
in the abandonment of drink, her brother calling with a pale face and
querulous oaths for a cooling draught, Sir Donny and old Tim Burke,
yawning off, like the old topers they were, the effects of the
carouse--the cause and her hopes ennobled all. It was much--may she be
forgiven!--if, in the first enthusiasm of the morning, she gave a
single thought to the misguided kinsman whose opposition had hurried
him into trouble, and exposed him to dangers at which she vaguely
guessed.

Fool that he was, she reflected, to pit himself against such men as the
Bishop and the Spanish Admiral! From her window she saw the two walking
in the garden with bent heads, aloof from the yawning crowd, and now
appearing beyond the line of Florence yews, now vanishing behind them.
On which she came near to worshipping them. Had they not brought to
Ireland, to Kerry, to Morristown, the craft and skill in counsel, the
sagacity and courage, which had won for them the favour of foreign
kings, and raised them high in exile? Lacking their guidance, the
movement might have come to nothing, the most enthusiastic must have
wasted their strength. But they were here to inspire, to lead, to
control. Against such men the parlour-captains of Tralee, the
encroaching Pettys, and their like, must fail indeed. And before more
worthy opponents arrived to encounter the patriots, who could say what
battles might not be won, what allies gained?

It was a dream, but a golden dream, and when she descended to the
living-room she still lived in it. The girl's lips quivered as she
kissed the Bishop's hand and received with bent knees his episcopal
blessing. "And on this house, my daughter," he added, "and on this
day!"

"Amen!" she murmured in her heart.

True, breakfast, and the hour after breakfast, gave some pause to her
happiness. The men's nerves were on edge with potheen and excitement,
and they had not been at table five minutes before quarrelling broke
out at the lower end of the board. The Spanish officer who was in
attendance on Cammock came to words, and almost to blows, with one of
the O'Beirnes, who resented the notion that the Admiral's safety was
not sufficiently secured by the Irish about him. The peace was kept
with difficulty, and so much ill-feeling survived the outbreak that
Cammock thought it prudent to remit two-thirds of the sailors to the
ship, and keep the remainder as far as possible in the background.

This was not a promising beginning, where the numbers were already so
scanty that the Bishop wondered in his heart whether his dupes would
dare to pass from words to action. But it was not all. Some one spoke
of Asgill, and of another Justice in the neighbourhood, asserting that
their hearts were with the rising, and that at a later point their aid
might be expected. At once,

"The Evil One's spawn!" cried Sir Donny, rising in his place, and
speaking under the influence of great excitement. "If you're for
dealing with them, I'm riding! No Protestants! No black brood of
Cromwell for me! I'd as soon never wear sword again as wear it in their
company!"

"You're not meaning it, Sir Donny!" Uncle Ulick said.

"Faith, but if he's not, I am!" cried old Tim Burke, rising and banging
the table with his fist. "'Tis what I'm meaning, and devil a bit of a
mistake! Just that!"

Another backed him, with so much violence that the most moderate and
sensible looked serious, and it needed the Bishop's interference to
calm the storm. "We need not decide one way or the other," he said,
"until they come in." Probably he thought that an unlikely contingency.
"There are arguments on both sides," he continued blandly. "It is true
that half-measures are seldom wise. On the other hand, it was by a
Protestant king that France was led back to the true faith. But of this
at another time. I think we must be moving, gentlemen. It grows late."

While the gentry talked thus at table, the courtyard and the space
between the house and the lake began to present, where the mist allowed
them to be seen, the lively and animated appearance which the Irish,
ever lovers of a crowd, admire. Food and drink were there served to the
barefoot, shock-headed boys drawn up in bodies under their priests, or
under the great men's agents; and when these matters had been consumed
one band after another moved off in the direction of the rendezvous.
This was at the Carraghalin, a name long given to the ruins of an abbey
situate in an upland valley above the waterfall, and a long Irish mile
from the house. But as each troop moved off towards the head of the
lake its place was filled in a measure by late-comers, as well as by
companies of women and girls, close-hooded and shawled, who halted
before the house to raise shrill cries of welcome, or, as they passed,
stirred the air with their wild Erse melodies. The orders for all were
to take their seats in an orderly fashion and in a mighty semicircle
about a well-known rock situate a hundred yards from the abbey.
Tradition reported that in old days this rock had been a pulpit, and
that thence the Irish Apostle had preached to the heathen. More
certainly it had formed a rostrum and the valley a gathering-place in
troubled and more recent times. The turf about it was dry, sweet, and
sheep-bitten; on either side it sloped gently to the rock, while a
sentry posted on each of the two low hills which flanked the vale was a
sufficient surety against surprise.

It was not until the last of the peasants had filed off, and the space
before the house had resumed its normal aspect--but for once without
its beggars--that the gentry began to make their way in the same
direction. The buckeens were the first to go. Uncle Ulick, with the
Spanish officer and his men, formed the next party. The O'Beirnes, with
Sir Donny and Timothy Burke and a priest or two of a superior order,
were not long behind them. The last to leave--and they left the house
with no other guardians than a cook-maid or two--were the Admiral and
the Bishop, honourably escorted, as became their rank, by their host
and hostess.

Freed from the wrangling and confusion which the presence of the others
bred, Flavia regained her serenity as she walked. There was nothing,
indeed, in the face of nature, in the mist and the dark day, and the
moisture that hung in beads on thorn and furze, to cheer her. But she
drew her spirits from a higher source, and, sanguine and self-reliant,
foreseeing naught but success, stepped proudly along beside the Bishop,
who found, perhaps, in her presence and her courage a make-weight for
the gloom of the day.

"You are sure," he said, smiling, "that we shall not lose our way?"

"Ah! and I am sure," she answered, "I could take you blindfold."

"The mist----"

"It stands, my lord, for the mist overhanging this poor land, which our
sun shall disperse."

"God grant it!" he said--"God grant it, indeed, my daughter!" But, do
what he would, he spoke without fervour.

They passed along the lake-edge, catching now and then the shimmer of
water on their right. Thence they ascended the steep path that led up
the glen of the waterfall to the level of the platform on which the old
tower stood. Leaving this on the right--and only to an informed eye was
it visible--they climbed yet a little higher, and entered a deep
driftway that, at the summit of the gorge, clove its way between the
mound behind the tower and the hill on their left, and so penetrated
presently to the valley of the Carraghalin. The mist was thinner here,
the nature of the ground was more perceptible, and they had not
proceeded fifty yards along the sunken way before Cammock, who was
leading, in the company of The McMurrough, halted.

"A fine place for a stand," he said, looking about him with a soldierly
eye. "And better for an ambush. Especially on such a morning as this,
when you cannot see a man five paces away."

"I trust," the Bishop answered, smiling, "that we shall have no need to
make the one, or to fear the other."

"You could hold this," Flavia asked eagerly, "with such men as we
have?"

"Against an army," Cammock answered.

"Against an army!" she murmured, as, her heart beating high with pride,
they resumed their way, Flavia and the Bishop in the van. "Against an
army!" she repeated fondly.

The words had not fully left her lips when she recoiled. At the same
moment the Bishop uttered an exclamation, Cammock swore and seized his
hilt, The McMurrough turned as if to flee. For on the path close to
them, facing them with a pistol in his hand, stood Colonel Sullivan.

He levelled the pistol at the head of the nearest man, and though
Flavia, with instant presence of mind, struck it up, the act helped
little. Before Cammock could clear his blade, or his companions back up
his resistance, four or five men, of Colonel John's following, flung
themselves on them from behind. They were seized, strong arms pinioned
them, knives were at their throats. In a twinkling, and while they
still expected death, sacks were dragged over their heads and down to
their waists, and they were helpless.

It was well, it was neatly done; and completely done, with a single
drawback. The men had not seized Flavia, and, white as paper, but with
rage not fear, she screamed shrilly for help--screamed twice.

She would have screamed a third time, but Colonel Sullivan, who knew
that they were scarcely two furlongs from the meeting-place, and from
some hundreds of merciless foes, did the only thing possible. He flung
his arms round her, pressed her face roughly against his shoulder,
smothered her cries remorselessly. Then raising her, aided by the man
with the musket, he bore her, vainly struggling--and, it must be owned,
scratching--after the others out of the driftway.

The thing done, the Colonel's little band of Frenchmen knew that they
had cast the die, and must now succeed or perish. The girl's screams,
quickly suppressed, might not have given the alarm; but they had set
nerves on edge. The prick of a knife was used--and often--to apprise
the blinded prisoners that if they did not move they would be piked.
They were dragged, a seaman on either side of each captive, over some
hundred paces of rough ground, through the stream, and so into a path
little better than a sheep-track which ran round the farther side of
the hill of the tower, and descended that way to the more remote bank
of the lake. It was a rugged path, steep and slippery, dropping
precipitously a couple of feet in places, and more than once following
the bed of the stream. But it was traceable even in the mist, and the
party from the sloop, once put on it, could follow it.

If no late-comer to the meeting encountered them, Colonel John, to whom
every foot of the ground was familiar, saw no reason, apart from the
chances of pursuit, why they should not get the prisoners, whom they
had so audaciously surprised, as far as the lower end of the lake.
There he and his party must fall again into the Skull road and risk the
more serious uncertainties of the open way. All, however, depended on
time. If Flavia's screams had not given the alarm, it would soon be
given by the absence of those whom the people had come to meet. The
missing leaders would be sought, pursuit would be organised. Yet, if
before that pursuit reached the foot of the lake, the fugitives had
passed into the road, the raiders would stand a fair chance. They
would at least have a start, the sloop in front of them, and their
enemies behind them.

But, with peril on every side of them, Flavia was still the main, the
real difficulty. Colonel Sullivan could not hope to carry her far, even
with the help of the man who fettered her feet, and bore part of her
weight. Twice she freed her mouth and uttered a stifled cry. The
Colonel only pressed her face more ruthlessly to him--his men's lives
depended on her silence. But the sweat stood on his brow; and, after
carrying her no more than three hundred yards, he staggered under the
unwilling burden. He was on the path now and descending, and he held
out a little farther. But presently, when he hoped that she had
swooned, she fell to struggling more desperately. He thought, on this,
that he might be smothering her; and he relaxed his hold to allow her
to breathe. For reward she struck him madly, furiously in the face, and
he had to stifle her again.

But his heart was sick. It was a horrible, a brutal business, a thing
he had not foreseen on board the _Cormorant_. He had supposed that she
would faint at the first alarm; and his courage, which would have faced
almost any event with coolness, quailed. He could not murder the girl,
and she would not be silent. No, she would not be silent! Short of
setting her down and binding her hand and foot, which would take time,
and was horrible to imagine, he could not see what to do. And the man
with him, who saw the rest of the party outstripping them, and as good
as disappearing in the fog, who fancied, with every step, that he heard
the feet of merciless pursuers overtaking them, was frantic with
impatience.

Then Colonel John, with the sweat standing on his brow, did a thing to
which he afterwards looked back with great astonishment.

"Give me your knife," he said, with a groan, "and hold her hands! We
must silence her, and there is only one way!"

The man, terrified as he was, and selfish as terrified men are,
recoiled from the deed. "My God!" he said. "No!"

"Yes!" Colonel John retorted fiercely. "The knife!--the knife, man! And
do you hold her hands!"

With a jerk he lifted her face from his breast--and this time she
neither struck him nor screamed. The man had half-heartedly drawn his
knife. The Colonel snatched it from him. "Now her hands!" he said.
"Hold her, fool! I know where to strike!"

She opened her mouth to shriek, but no sound came. She had heard, she
understood; and for a moment she could neither struggle nor cry. That
terror which rage and an almost indomitable spirit had kept at bay
seized her; the sight of the gleaming death poised above her paralysed
her throat. Her mouth gaped, her eyes glared at the steel; then, with a
queer sobbing sound, she fainted.

"Thank God!" the Colonel cried. And there was indeed thankfulness in
his voice. He thrust the knife back into the man's hands, and, raising
the girl again in his arms, "There is a house a little below," he said.
"We can leave her there! Hurry, man!--hurry!"

He had not traversed that road for twenty years, but his memory had not
tricked him. Less than fifty paces below they came on a cabin, close to
the foot of the waterfall. The door was not fastened--for what, in such
a place, was there to steal?--and Colonel John thrust it open with his
foot. The interior was dark, the place was almost windowless; but he
made out the form of an old crone who, nursing her knees, crouched with
a pipe in her mouth beside a handful of peat. Seeing him, the woman
tottered to her feet with a cry of alarm, and shaded her bleared eyes
from the inrush of daylight. She gabbled shrilly, but she knew only
Erse, and Colonel John attempted no explanation.

"The lady of the house," he said, in that tongue. And he laid Flavia,
not ungently, but very quickly, on the floor. He turned about without
another word, shut the door on the two, and hurried along the path at
the full stretch of his legs. In half a minute he had overtaken his
companion, and the two pressed on together on the heels of the main
party.

The old beldame, left alone with the girl, viewed her with an
astonishment which would have been greater if she had not reached that
age at which all sensations become dulled. How the Lady of the House,
who was to her both Power and Providence, came to be there, and there
in that state, passed her conception. But she had the sense to loosen
the girl's frock at the neck, to throw water on her face, and to beat
her hands. In a very few minutes Flavia, who had never swooned
before--fashionable as the exercise was at this period in feminine
society--sighed once or twice, and came to herself.

"Where am I?" she muttered. Still for some moments she continued to
look about her in a dazed way; at length she recognised the old woman,
and the cottage. Then she remembered, with a moan, what had
happened--the ambuscade, the flight, the knife.

She could not turn whiter, but she shuddered and closed her eyes. At
last, with shrinking, she looked at her dress. "Am I--hurt?" she
whispered.

The old woman did not understand, but she patted Flavia's hand.
Meanwhile the girl saw that there was no blood on her dress, and she
found courage to raise her hand to her throat. She found no wound. At
that she smiled faintly. Then she began to cry--for she was a woman.

But, broken as she was by that moment of terror, Flavia's indulgence in
the feminine weakness was short, for it was measured by the time she
devoted to thoughts of her own fortunes. Quickly, very quickly, she
overcame her weakness; she stood up, she understood, and she extended
her arms in rage and grief and unavailing passion. That rage which
treachery arouses in the generous breast, that passion which an outrage
upon hospitality kindles in the meanest, that grief which ruined plans
and friends betrayed have bred a thousand times in Irish bosoms--she
felt them all, and intensely. She would that the villains had killed
her! She would that they had finished her life! Why should she survive,
except for vengeance? For not only were her hopes for Ireland fallen;
not only were those who had trusted themselves to The McMurrough
perishing even now in the hands of ruthless foes; but her brother, her
dear, her only brother, whom her prayers, her influence had brought
into this path, he too was snared, of his fate also there could be no
doubt!

She felt all that was most keen, most poignant, of grief, of anger, of
indignation. But the sharpest pang of all--had she analysed her
feelings--was inflicted by the consciousness of failure, and of failure
verging on the ignominious. The mature take good and evil fortune as
they come; but to fail at first setting out in life, to be outwitted in
the opening venture, to have to acknowledge that experience is, after
all, a formidable foe--these are mishaps which sour the magnanimous and
poison young blood.

She had not known before what it was to hate. Now she only lived to
hate: to hate the man who had shown himself so much cleverer than her
friends, who, in a twinkling, and by a single blow, had wrecked her
plans, duped her allies, betrayed her brother, made her name a
laughing-stock, robbed Ireland of a last chance of freedom! who had
held her in his arms, terrified her, mastered her! Oh, why had she
swooned? Why had she not rather, disregarding her womanish weakness,
her womanish fears, snatched the knife from him and plunged it into his
treacherous breast? Why? Why?




CHAPTER XIV

THE COLONEL'S TERMS


Passive courage--courage in circumstances in which a man cannot help
himself, but must abide with bound hands whatever a frowning fortune
and his enemy's spite threaten--is so much higher a virtue than that
which carries him through hot emprises, and is so much more common
among women, that the palm for bravery may fairly be given to the
weaker sex. True, it is not in the first face of danger that a woman
shines; time must be given her to string her nerves. But grant time and
there is no calamity so dreadful, no fate so abhorrent to trembling
humanity, that a woman has not met it smiling: in the sack of cities,
or in the slow agony of towns perishing of hunger, in the dungeon, or
in the grip of disease.

The bravest men share this gift, and some whom the shock of conflict
appals. Cammock and the Bishop belonged to the former class. Seized in
a moment of activity, certain only that they were in hostile hands, and
hurried, blind and helpless, to an unknown doom, they might have been
pardoned had they succumbed to despair. But they did not succumb. The
habit of danger, and a hundred adventures and escapes, had hardened
them; they felt more rage than fear. Stunned for a moment by the
audacity of the attack, and humiliated by its success, they had not
been dragged a hundred yards before they began to reason and to
calculate the chances. If the purpose of those into whose hands they
had fallen were to murder them they would have been piked on the spot.
On the other hand, if their captors' object was to deliver them to
English justice, it was a long way to the Four Courts, and farther to
Westminster. Weeks, if not months, must elapse before they stood at the
bar on a capital charge; much water must flow under the bridges, and
many a thing might happen, by force or fraud, in the interval.

So, half-stifled and bitterly chagrined as they were, they did not
waste their strength in a vain resistance. They allowed themselves to
be pushed this way and pulled that, took what care they could of their
limbs, and for their thoughts gave as many to vengeance as to safety.
They had known many reverses in many lands. They did not believe that
this was the end. And presently it would be their turn.

With the third of the prisoners it was otherwise. The courage of the
Irish is more conspicuous in the advance than in the retreat; and even
of that recklessness in fight, that joy in the conflict, which is their
birthright and their fame, Flavia had taken more than her woman's
share. In James McMurrough's mean and narrow nature there was small
room for the generous passions. Unlike his sister, he would have struck
the face of no man in whose power he lay; nor was he one to keep a
stout heart when his hands were bound. Conscience does not always make
cowards. But he knew into whose hands he had fallen, he knew the fate
to which he had himself consigned Colonel John--or would have consigned
him but for self-interest--and his heart was water, his knees were
aspens, his hair rose, as, helpless, he pictured in livid hues the fate
that now awaited himself.

As he had meant to do to the other, it would be done to him! He felt
the cruel pike rend the gasping throat; he had heard that it was the
most painful death that a man could die, and that the shrieks of men
dying on the pike-point could be heard a mile! Or would they throw him,
bound and blind as he was, into the sullen lake--yes, that was it! They
were carrying him that way, they were taking him to the lake.

And once and twice, in the insanity of fear, he fought with his bonds
until the blood came, even throwing himself down, until the men, out of
patience, pricked him savagely, and drove him, venting choked cries of
pain, to his feet again. After the second attempt, if attempt that
could be called which had no reasoning behind it, but only sheer animal
fear, he staggered on, beaten, hopeless. He was aware that Colonel John
was not with them; and then, again, that he was with them; and
then--they were on the wide track now between the end of the lake and
the sea--that they were proceeding with increased caution. That might
have given a braver man hope, the hope of rescue. But rescue had itself
terrors for The McMurrough. His captors, if pressed, might hasten the
end, or his friends might strike him in the _mêlée_. And so, with every
furlong of the forced journey, he died a fresh death.

And the furlongs seemed interminable, quickly and roughly as he was
hurried along. In his terror the pains of his position, the heat, the
friction of the rough sacking, the want of air, went for little. But at
last he heard the fall of the waves on the shore, gorse pricked his
legs or tripped him up, the men about him spoke louder, he caught a
distant hail. Laughter, and exclamations of triumph reached him, and
the voices of men who had won in spite of odds.

Then a boat grated on the pebbles, he was lifted into it, and thrust
down in the bottom. He felt it float off, and heard the measured sound
of the oars in the thole-pins. A few moments elapsed, the sound of the
oars ceased, the boat bumped something. He was raised to his feet, his
hands were unbound, he was set on a rope-ladder, and bidden to climb.
Obeying with shaking knees, he was led across what he guessed to be a
deck, and down steep stairs. Then his head was freed from the sack,
and, sweating, dishevelled, pale with exhaustion and fear, he looked
about him.

The fog was still thick outside, turning day into twilight, and the
cabin lamp had been lit and swung above the narrow table, filling the
lowbrowed, Dutch-like interior with a strong but shifting light. Behind
the table Colonel John and the skipper leant against a bulkhead; before
them, on the nearer side of the table, were ranged the three captives.
Behind these, again, the dark, grinning faces of the sailors, with
their tarred pigtails and flashing eyes, filled the doorway; and,
beyond doubt, viewed under the uncertain light of the lamp, they showed
a wild and savage crew. As James McMurrough looked, his hopes, which
had risen during the last few minutes, sank. Escape, or chance of
escape, there was none. He was helpless, and what those into whose
hands he had fallen determined, he must suffer. For a moment his heart
stood still, his mouth gaped, he swayed on his feet. Then he clutched
the table and steadied himself.

"I am--giddy," he muttered.

"I am sorry that you have been put to so much inconvenience," Colonel
John answered civilly.

The words, the tone, might have reassured him, if he had not suspected
a devilish irony. Even when Colonel John proceeded to direct one of the
men to open a porthole and admit more air, he derived no comfort from
the attention. But steady! Colonel John was speaking again.

"You, too, gentlemen," he said, addressing Cammock and the Bishop, "I
am sorry that I have been forced to put you to so much discomfort. But
I saw no other way of effecting my purpose. And," he went on with a
smile, "if you ask my warranty for acting as I have acted----"

"I do!" the Bishop said between his teeth. The Admiral said nothing,
but breathed hard.

"Then I can only vouch," the Colonel answered, "the authority by virtue
of which you seized me yesterday. I give you credit, reverend father,
and you, Admiral, for a belief that in acting as you did you were doing
your duty; that in creating a rising here you were serving a cause
which you think worthy of sacrifice--the sacrifice of others as well as
of yourselves. But I tell, you, as frankly, I feel it my duty to thwart
that purpose and prevent that rising; and for the moment fortune is
with me. The game, gentlemen, is for the present in my hand; the move
is mine. Now I need hardly say," Colonel John continued, with an
appearance almost of _bonhomie_, "that I do not wish to proceed to
extremities, or to go farther than is necessary to secure my purpose.
We might set sail for the nearest garrison port, and I might hand you
over to the English authorities, assured that they would pay such a
reward as would compensate the shipmaster. But far be it from me to do
that! I would have no man's blood on my hands. And though I say at once
I would not shrink, were there no other way of saving innocent lives,
from sending you to the scaffold----"

"A thousand thanks to you!" the Bishop said. But, brave man as he was,
the irony in his voice masked relief; and not then, but a moment later,
he passed his handkerchief across his brow. Cammock said nothing, but
the angry, bloodshot eyes which he fixed on the Colonel lost a little
of their ferocity.

"I say, I would not shrink from doing that," Colonel John continued
mildly, "were it necessary. Fortunately for us all, it is not
necessary. Still I must provide against your immediate return, against
immediate action on your part. I must see that the movement which will
die in your absence is not revived by any word from you, or by tidings
of you! To that end, gentlemen, I must put you to the inconvenience of
a prolonged sea-voyage."

"If I could speak with you in private?" the Bishop said.

"You will have every opportunity," Colonel John answered, smiling, "of
speaking to Captain Augustin in private."

"Still, sir, if I could see you alone I think I could convince you----"

"You shall have every opportunity of convincing Captain Augustin,"
Colonel John returned, smiling more broadly, "and of convincing him by
the same means which I venture to think, reverend sir, you would employ
with me. To be plain, he will take you to sea for a certain period, and
at the end of that time, if your arguments are sufficiently weighty, he
will land you at a convenient harbour on the French shore. He will be
at the loss of his cargo, and that loss I fear you will have to make
good. Something, too, he may charge by way of interest, and for your
passage." By this time the sailors were on the broad grin. "A trifle,
perhaps, for landing dues. But I have spoken with him to be moderate,
and I doubt not that within a few weeks you, Admiral Cammock, will be
with your command, and the reverend father will be pursuing his calling
in another place."

For a moment there was silence, save for a titter from the group of
seamen. Then Cammock laughed--a curt, barking laugh. "A bite!" he said.
"A d----d bite! If I can ever repay it, sir, I will! Be sure of that!"

Colonel John bowed courteously.

The Bishop took it otherwise. The veins on his forehead swelled, and he
had much ado to control himself. The truth was, he feared ridicule more
than he feared danger, perhaps more than he feared death; and such an
end to such an enterprise was hard to bear. To have set forth to raise
the south of Ireland, to have undertaken a diversion that would never
be forgotten, that, on the contrary, would be marked by historians as a
main factor in the restoration of the house of Stuart--to have embarked
on such an enterprise and to be deported like any troublesome villager
delivered to the pressgang for his hamlet's good! To end thus! It was
too much.

"Is there no alternative?" he asked, barely able to speak for the
chagrin that took him by the throat.

"One, if you prefer it," Colonel Sullivan answered suavely. "You can
take your chance with the English authorities. For myself, I lean to
the course I have suggested."

"If money were paid down--now? Now, sir?"

"It would not avail."

"Much money?"

"No."

The Bishop glared at him for a few seconds. Then his face relaxed, his
eyes grew mild, his chin sank on his breast. His fingers drummed on the
table. "His will be done!" he said--"His will be done! I was not
worthy."

His surrender seemed to sting Cammock. Perhaps in the course of their
joint adventures he had come to know and to respect his companion, and
felt more for him than for himself.

"If I had you on my quarter-deck for only half an hour," he growled, "I
would learn who was the better man! Ah, my man, I would!"

"The doubt flatters me," Colonel John answered, viewing them both with
great respect; for he saw that, bad or good, they were men. Then, "That
being settled," he continued, "I shall ask you, gentlemen, to go on
deck for a few moments, that I may say a word to my kinsman."

"He is not to go with us?"

"That remains to be seen," Colonel John replied, a note of sternness in
his voice. Still they hesitated, and he stood; but at last, in
obedience to his courteous gesture, they bowed, turned--with a deep
sigh on the Bishop's part--and clambered up the companion. The seamen
had already vanished at a word from Augustin, who himself proceeded to
follow his prisoners on deck.

"Sit down!" Colonel Sullivan said, the same sternness in his voice. And
he sat down on his side of the table, while James McMurrough, with a
sullen look but a beating heart, took his seat on the other. The fear
of immediate death had left the young man; he tried to put on an air of
bravado, but with so little success that if his sister had seen him
thus she had been blind indeed if she had not discerned, between these
two men seated opposite to one another, the difference that exists
between the great and the small, the strong and the infirm of purpose.

It was significant of that difference that the one was silent at will,
while the other spoke because he had not the force to be silent.

"What are you wanting with me?" the young man asked.

"Is it not you," Colonel John answered, with a piercing look, "will be
wanting to know where O'Sullivan Og is--O'Sullivan Og, whom you sent to
do your bidding this morning?"

The young man turned a shade paler, and his bravado fell from him. His
breath seemed to stop. Then, "Where?" he whispered--"where is he?"

"Where, I pray, Heaven," Colonel John answered, with the same
solemnity, "may have mercy upon him."

"He is not dead?" The McMurrough cried, his voice rising on the last
word.

"I have little doubt he is," the Colonel replied. "Dead, sir! And the
men who were with him--dead also, or the most part of them. Dead, James
McMurrough, on the errand they went for you."

The shock of the news struck the young man dumb, and for some moments
he stared at the Colonel, his face colourless. At length, "All dead?"
he whispered. "Not all?"

"For what I know," Colonel John replied. "Heaven forgive them!" And, in
half a dozen sentences, he told him what had happened. Then, "They are
the first fruits," he continued sternly, "God grant that they be the
last fruits of this reckless plot! Not that I blame them, who did but
as they were bid. Nor do I blame any man, nor any woman who embarked on
this--reckless as it was, foolish as it was--with a single heart,
either in ignorance of the things that I know, or knowing them, for the
sake of an end which they set above their own lives. But--but"--and
Colonel John's voice grew more grave--"there was one who had neither of
these two excuses. There was one who was willing to do murder, not in
blind obedience, nor for a great cause, but to serve his own private
interest and his own advantage!"

"No! no!" the young man cried, cowering before him. "It is not true!"

"One who was ready to do murder," Colonel John continued pitilessly,
"because it suited him to remove a man!"

"No! no!" the wretched youth cried, almost grovelling before him. "It
was all of them!--it was all!"

"It was not all!" Colonel John retorted; but there was a keenness in
his face which showed that he had still something to learn.

"It was--those two-on deck!" The McMurrough cried eagerly. "I swear it
was! They said--it was necessary."

"They were one with you in condemning! Be it so! I believe you! But who
spared?"

"I!" The McMurrough cried, breathlessly eager to exculpate himself. "It
was I alone. I! I swear it. I sent the boy!"

"You spared? Yes, and you alone!" the Colonel made answer. "So I
thought, and out of your own mouth you are condemned. You spared
because you learned that I had made a will, and you feared lest that
which had passed to me in trust might pass to a stranger for good and
all! You spared because it was--because you thought it was to your
interest, your advantage to spare! I say, out of your own mouth you are
condemned."

James McMurrough had scarcely force to follow the pitiless reasoning by
which the elder man convicted him. But his conscience, his knowledge of
his own motives, filled the hiatus, and what his tongue did not own his
colourless face, his terrified eyes, confessed.

"You have fallen into our hands," Colonel John continued, grave as
fate. "Why should we not deal with you as you would have dealt with us?
No!"--the young man by a gesture had appealed to those on deck, to
their escape, to their impunity--"no! They may have consented to my
death; but as the judge condemns, or the soldier kills; you--you, for
your private profit and advantage. Nevertheless, I shall not deal so
with you. You can go as they are going--abroad, to return at a
convenient season, and I hope a wiser man. Or----"

"Or--what?" the young man cried hurriedly.

"Or you can stay here," Colonel John continued, "and we will treat the
past as if it had not been. But on a condition."

James's colour came back. "What'll you be wanting?" he muttered,
averting his gaze.

"You must swear that you will not pursue this foolish plan further.
That first."

"What can I be doing without _them_?" was the sullen answer.

"Very true," Colonel John rejoined. "But you must swear also, my
friend, that you will not attempt anything against me, nor be party to
anything."

"What'd I be doing?"

"Don't lie!" the Colonel replied, losing his temper for a single
instant. "You know what you have done, and therefore what you'd be
likely to do. I've no time to bandy words, and you know how you stand.
Swear on your hope of salvation to those two things, and you may stay.
Refuse, and I make myself safe by your absence. That is all I have to
say."

The young man had the sense to know that he was escaping lightly. The
times were rough, the district was lawless, he had embarked--how
foolishly he saw--on an enterprise too high for him. He was willing
enough to swear that he would not pursue that enterprise further. But
the second undertaking stuck in his gizzard. He hated Colonel John. For
the past wrong, for the past defeat, above all for the present
humiliation, ay, and for the very magnanimity which spared him, he, the
weak spirit, hated the strong with a furious, if timid malignity.

"I'm having no choice," he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Very good," Colonel John answered curtly. And, going to the door, he
called Bale from his station by the hatchway, and despatched him to the
Bishop and to Admiral Cammock, requesting them to do him the honour to
descend.

They came readily enough, in the hope of some favourable turn. But the
Colonel's words quickly set them right.

"Gentlemen," he said politely, "I know you to be men of honour in
private life. For this reason I have asked you to be present as
witnesses to the bargain between my cousin and myself. Blood is thicker
than water: he has no mind to go abroad, and I have no mind to send him
against his will. But his presence, after what has passed, is a
standing peril to myself. To meet this difficulty, and to free me from
the necessity of banishing him, he is ready to swear by all he holds
sacred, and upon his honour, that he will attempt nothing against me,
nor be a party to it. Is that so, sir?" the speaker continued. "Do you
willingly, in the presence of these gentlemen, give that undertaking?"

The young man, with averted eyes and a downcast face, nodded.

"I am afraid I must trouble you to speak," Colonel John said.

"I do," he muttered, looking at no one.

"Further, that you will not within six months attempt anything against
the Government?" Colonel John continued.

"I will not."

"Very good. I accept that undertaking, and I thank these gentlemen for
their courtesy in condescending to act as witnesses. Admiral Cammock
and you, reverend father," Colonel John continued, "it remains but to
bid you farewell, and to ask you to believe"--the Colonel paused--"that
I have not pushed further than was necessary the advantage I gained."

"By a neat stroke, Colonel Sullivan," the Bishop replied, with a rather
sour smile, "not to say a bold one. I'm not denying it. But one, I'd
have you notice, that cannot be repeated."

"Maybe not," the Colonel answered. "I am content to think that for some
time to come I have transferred your operations, gentlemen, to a sphere
where I am not concerned for the lives of the people."

"There are things more precious than lives," the Bishop said.

"I admit it. More by token I'm blaming you little--only you see, sir, I
differ. That is all."

With that Colonel Sullivan bowed and left the cabin, and The
McMurrough, who had listened to the colloquy with the air of a whipped
hound, slunk after him. On deck the Colonel and Augustin talked apart
for a moment, then the former signed to the young man to go down into
the boat, which lay alongside with a couple of men at the oars, and
Bale seated in the sternsheets. The fog still hung upon the water, and
the land was hidden. The young man could not see where they lay.

After the lapse of a minute or two Colonel John joined him, and the
rowers pushed off, while Augustin and the crew leant over the rail to
see them go, and to send after them a torrent of voluble good wishes. A
very few, strokes of the oars brought the passengers within misty view
of the land; in less than two minutes after leaving the _Cormorant_ the
boat grated on the rocks, and the Colonel, James McMurrough, and Bale
landed. The young man made out that they were some half-mile eastward
of Skull Harbour.

Bale stayed to exchange a few words with the seamen, while Colonel John
and The McMurrough set off along the beach. They had not walked fifty
yards before the fog isolated them; they were alone. And astonishment
filled the young man, and grew as they walked. Did Colonel John, after
all that had happened, mean to return to Morristown? to establish
himself calmly--he, alone--in the midst of the conspirators whose
leaders he had removed?

It seemed incredible! For though he, James McMurrough, thirst for
revenge as he might, was muzzled by his oath, what of the others? What
of Sir Donny and old Timothy Burke? What of the two O'Beirnes? Nay,
what of his sister, whom he could fancy more incensed, more vindictive,
more dangerous than them all? What, finally, of the barbarous rout of
peasants, ready to commit any violence at a word from him?

And still the Colonel walked on by his side. And now they were in sight
of Skull--of the old tower and the house by the jetty, looming large
through the dripping mist. And at last Colonel John spoke.

"It was fortunate that I made my will as I came through Paris," he
said.




CHAPTER XV

FEMINA FURENS


The Irish of that day, with all their wit and all their courage, had
the bad habit of looking abroad for leaders. Colonel John had run
little risk of being wrong in taking for granted that the meeting at
the Carraghalin, mysteriously robbed of the chiefs from over-seas,
whose presence had brought the movement to a head, would disperse;
either amid the peals of Homeric laughter that in Ireland greet a
monster jest, or, in sadder mood, cursing the detested Saxon for one
more added to the many wrongs of a downtrodden land.

Had Flavia indeed escaped, had the raid which Colonel Sullivan had so
audaciously conceived failed to embrace her, the issue might have been
different. Had she appeared upon the scene at the critical moment, her
courage and enthusiasm might have supported the spirits of the
assemblage and kept it together. But Uncle Ulick had not the force to
do this: much less had old Timothy Burke or Sir Donny. Uncle Ulick, we
know, expected little good from the rising; he was prepared for any,
the worst mishap; while the faith of the older men in any change for
the better was not robust enough to stand alone or to resist the first
blast of doubt.

Their views indeed were more singular than cheerful.

"Very like," Sir Donny said, with a fallen under-lip, "the ould earth's
opened her mouth and swallowed them. She's tired, small blame to her,
with all the heretics burdening her and tormenting her--the cream of
hell's fire to them!"

"Whisht, man!" the other answered. "Be easy; you're forgetting one's a
bishop. Small chance of the devil's tackling him, and, like enough the
holy water and all ready to his hand!"

"Then I'm not knowing what it is," the first pronounced hopelessly.

"There you speak truth, Sir Donny," Tim Burke answered. "Is it they can
be losing their way in the least taste of fog there is, do you think?"

"And the young lady knowing the path, so that she'd be walking it
blindfold in the dark!"

"I'm fearing, then, it will be the garr'son from Tralee," was Uncle
Ulick's contribution. And he shook his head. "The saints be between us
and them, and grant we'll not be seeing more of them than we like, and
sooner!"

"Amen to that same!" replied old Timothy Burke, with an uneasy look
behind him.

There was nothing comforting in this. And the messengers sent to learn
what was amiss and why the expected party did not arrive had as little
cheer to give. They could learn nothing. On which Uncle Ulick and his
fellows rubbed their heads: the small men wondered. A few
panic-stricken, began to slip away, but the mass were faithful. An hour
went by in this trying uncertainty, and a second and part of a third;
and messengers departed and came, and there were rumours and alarms,
and presently something like the truth got abroad; and there was talk
of pursuit, and a band of young stalwarts was detailed and sent off.
Still the greater part of the assemblage, with Irish patience, remained
seated in ranks on the slopes of the hills, the women with their
drugget shawls drawn over their heads, the men with their frieze coats
hanging loose about them. The chill mist which clung to the hillsides,
and the atmosphere of doubt which overhung all, were a poor exchange
for the roaring bonfires, the good cheer, the enthusiasm, the merriment
of the previous evening. But the Irish peasant, if he be less staunch
at the waiting--even as he is more forward in the hand-to-hand than his
Scottish cousins--has the peasant's gift of endurance; and in the most
trying hours--in ignorance, in doubt, in danger--has often held his
ground in dependence on his betters, with a result pitiful in the
reading. For too often the great have abandoned the little, the horse
has borne off the rider, and the naked footman, surprised, surrounded,
out-matched, and put to the sword, has paid for all.

But on this day a time came, about high noon, when the assemblage--and
the fog--began at last to melt. Sir Donny was gone, and old Tim Burke
of Maamtrasna. They had slipped homewards, by little-known tracks
across the peat hags; and, shamefaced and fearful of the consequences,
the spirit all gone out of them, had turned their minds to oaths and
alibis. They had been in trouble before, and were taken to know; and
their departure sapped the O'Beirnes' resolution, whose uneasy faces as
they talked together spread the contagion. Uncle Ulick and several of
the buckeens were away on the search; the handful of Spanish seamen had
returned to the house or to the ship: there was no one to check the
defection when it set in. An hour after Sir Donny had slipped away, the
movement which might have meant so much to so many was spent. The
slopes about the ruined gables which they called Carraghalin, and which
were all that remained of the once proud abbey, had returned to their
wonted solitude; where hundreds had sat a short hour before the eagle
hovered, the fox turned his head and scented the wind. Even the house
at Morristown had so far become itself again that a scarcity, rather
than a plenitude of life, betrayed the past night of orgy; and a
quietness beyond the ordinary, the things that had been dreamed. The
garrison of Tralee, the Protestant Settlement at Kenmare, facts which
had been held distant and negligible in the first flush of hope and
action, now seemed to the fearful fancy many an Irish mile nearer and
many a shade more real.

Doubtless, in the minds of some, a secret thankfulness that, after all,
they were not required to take the leap, relieved the disappointment
and lessened the shame. They were well out of an ugly scrape, they
reflected; well clear of the ugly shadow of the gallows--always
supposing that no informer appeared. It might even be the hand of
Providence, they thought, that had removed their leaders, and so held
them back. They might think themselves happy to be quit of it for the
fright.

But there was one--one who found no such consolation; one to whom the
issue was pure loss, a shameful defeat, the end of hopes, the defeat of
prayers that had never risen to heaven more purely than that morning.

Flavia sat with her eyes on the dead peat that cumbered the hearth--for
in the general excitement the fire had been suffered to go out--and in
a stupor of misery refused to be comforted. Of her plans, of her
devotion, of her lofty resolves, this was the result. She had aspired,
God knew how honestly and earnestly, for her race downtrodden and her
faith despised, and this was the bitter fruit. Nor was it only the
girl's devotion to her country and to her faith that lay sore wounded:
her vanity suffered, and perhaps more keenly. The enterprise that was
to have glorified the name of McMurrough, that was to have raised that
fallen race, that was to have made that distant province blessed among
the provinces of Ireland, had come to an end, derisive and contemptible,
before it was born. Her spirit, unbroken by experience and untrained to
defeat, fearing before all things ridicule, dashed itself against the
dreadful conviction, the dreadful fact. She could hardly believe that
all was over. She could hardly realise that the cup was no longer at
her lip, that the bird had escaped from the hand. But she looked from
the window; and, lo, the courtyard which had hummed and seethed was
dead and silent. In one corner a knot of men were carrying out the arms
and the powder, and were preparing to bury them. In another, a
woman--it was Sullivan Og's widow--sat weeping. It was the _Hic jacet_
of the great Rising that was to have been, and that was to have
regenerated Ireland!

And "You must kill him!" she cried, with livid cheeks and blazing eyes.
"If you do not, I will!"

Uncle Ulick, who had heard the story of the ambush, and beyond doubt
was one of those who felt more relief than disappointment, stretched
his legs uneasily. He longed to comfort her, but he did not know what
to say. Moreover, he was afraid of her in this mood.

"You must kill him!" she repeated.

"We'll talk of that," he said, "when we see him."

"You must kill him!" the girl repeated passionately. "Or I will! If you
are a man, if you are an Irishman, if you are a Sullivan, kill him, the
shame of your race! Or I will!"

"If he had been on our side," Uncle Ulick answered soberly, "instead of
against us, I'm thinking we should have done better."

The girl drew in her breath sharply, pierced to the quick by the
thought. Simultaneously the big man started, but for another reason.
His eyes were on the window, and they saw a sight which his mind
declined to believe. Two men had entered the courtyard--had entered
with astonishing, with petrifying nonchalance, as it seemed to him. For
the first was Colonel Sullivan. The second--but the second slunk at the
heels of the first with a hang-dog air--was James McMurrough.

Fortunately Flavia, whose eyes were glooming on the cold hearth and the
extinct ashes, fit image of her dead hopes, had her back to the
casement. Uncle Ulick rose. His thoughts came with a shock against the
possibility that Colonel John had the garrison of Tralee at his back!
But, although The McMurrough had all the appearance of a prisoner,
Ulick thrust away the notion as soon as it occurred. To clear his mind,
he looked to see how the men engaged in getting out the powder were
taking it. They had ceased to work, and were staring with all their
eyes. Something in their bearing and their attitudes told Uncle Ulick
that the notion which had occurred to him had occurred to them, and
that they were prepared to run at the least alarm.

"His blood be on his own head!" he muttered. But he did not say it in
the tone of a man who meant it.

"Amen!" she cried, her back still turned to the window, her eyes
brooding on the cold hearth. The words fell in with her thoughts.

By this time Colonel Sullivan was within four paces of the door. In a
handturn he would be in the room, he would be actually in the girl's
presence--and Uncle Ulick shrank from the scene which must follow.
Colonel John was, indeed, and plainly, running on his fate. Already the
O'Beirnes, awakening from their trance of astonishment, were closing in
behind him with grim faces; and short of the garrison of Tralee the big
man saw no help for him; well-nigh--so strongly did even he feel on the
matter--he desired none. But Flavia must have no part in it. In God's
name, let the girl be clear of it!

The big man took two steps to the door, opened it, slipped through, and
closed it behind him. His breast as good as touched that of Colonel
Sullivan, who was on the threshold. Behind the Colonel was James
McMurrough; behind James were the two O'Beirnes and two others, of
whose object, as they cut off the Colonel's retreat, no man who saw
their faces could doubt.

For once, in view of the worse things that might happen in the house,
Ulick was firm. "You can't come in!" he said, his face pale and
frowning. He had no word of greeting for the Colonel. "You can't come
in!" he repeated, staring straight at him.

The Colonel turned and saw the four men with arms in their hands
spreading out behind him. He understood. "You had better let me in," he
said gently. "James will talk to them."

"James----"

"You had better speak to them," Colonel John continued, addressing his
companion. "And you, Ulick----"

"You can't come in," Ulick repeated grimly.

James McMurrough interposed in his harshest tone. "An end to this!" he
cried. "Who the devil are you to bar the door, Ulick! And you, Phelim
and Morty, be easy a minute till you hear me speak."

Ulick still barred the way. "James," he said, in a voice little above a
whisper, "you don't know----"

"I know enough!" The McMurrough answered violently. It went sadly
against the grain with him to shield his enemy, but so it must be.
"Curse you, let him in!" he continued fiercely; they were making his
task more hard for him. "And have a care of him," he added anxiously.
"Do you hear? Have a care of him!"

Uncle Ulick made a last feeble attempt. "But Flavia," he said. "Flavia
is there and----"

"Curse the girl!" James answered. "Get out of the road and let the man
in! Is this my house or yours?"

Ulick yielded, as he had yielded so often before. He stood aside.
Colonel John opened the door and entered.

The rest happened so quickly that no movement on his part could have
saved him. Flavia had heard their voices in altercation--it might be a
half minute, it might be a few seconds before. She had risen to her
feet, she had recognised the voice of one of the speakers--he had
spoken once only, but that was enough--she had snatched up the naked
sword that since the previous morning had leant in the chimney corner.
As Colonel John crossed the threshold--oh, dastardly audacity, oh,
insolence incredible, that in the hour of his triumph he should soil
that threshold!--she lunged with all the force of her strong young arm
at his heart.

With such violence that the hilt struck his breast and hurled him
bodily against the doorpost; while the blade broke off, shivered by
contact with the hard wood.

Uncle Ulick uttered a cry of horror. "My G----d!" he exclaimed, "you
have killed him!"

"His blood----"

She stopped on the word. For instead of falling Colonel John was
regaining his balance. "Flavia!" he cried--the blade had passed through
his coat, missing his breast by a bare half-inch. "Flavia, hold!
Listen! Listen a moment!"

But in a frenzy of rage, as soon as she saw that her blow had failed,
she struck at him with the hilt and the ragged blade that
remained--struck at his face, struck at his breast, with cries of fury
almost animal. "Wretch! wretch!" she cried--"die! If they are cowards,
I am not! Die!"

The scene was atrocious, and Uncle Ulick, staring open-mouthed, gave no
help. But Colonel Sullivan mastered her wrists, though not until he had
sustained a long bleeding cut on the jaw. Even then, though fettered,
and though he had forced her to drop the weapon, she struggled
desperately with him--as she had struggled when he carried her through
the mist. "Kill him! kill him!" she shrieked. "Help! help!"

The men would have killed him twice and thrice if The McMurrough, with
voice and blade and frantic imprecations and the interposition of his
own body, had not kept the O'Beirnes and the others at bay--explaining,
deprecating, praying, cursing, all in a breath. Twice a blow was struck
at the Colonel through the doorway, but one fell short and the other
James McMurrough parried. For a moment the peril was of the greatest:
the girl's cries, the sight of her struggling in Colonel John's grip,
wrought the men almost beyond James's holding. Then the strength went
out of her suddenly, she ceased to fight, and but for Colonel
Sullivan's grasp she would have fallen her length on the floor. He knew
that she was harmless then, and he thrust her into the nearest chair.
He kicked the broken sword under the table, staunched the blood that
trickled fast from his cheek; last of all, he looked at the men who
were contending with James in the doorway.

"Gentlemen," he said, breathing a little quickly, but in no other way
betraying the strait through which he had passed, "I shall not run
away. I shall be here to answer you to-morrow, as fully as to-day. In
the meantime I beg to suggest"--again he raised the handkerchief to his
cheek and staunched the blood--"that you retire now, and hear what The
McMurrough has to say to you: the more as the cases and the arms I see
in the courtyard lie obnoxious to discovery and expose all to risk
while they remain so."

His surprising coolness did more to check them than The McMurrough's
efforts. They gaped at him in wonder. Then one uttered an imprecation.

"The McMurrough will explain if you will go with him," Colonel John
answered patiently, "I say again, gentlemen, I shall not run away."

"If you mean her any harm----"

"I mean her no harm."

"Are you alone?"

"I am alone."

So far Morty. But Phelim O'Beirne was not quite satisfied. "If a hair
of her head be hurt----" he growled, pushing himself forward, "I tell
you, sir----"

"And I tell you!" James McMurrough retorted, repelling him. "What are
the hairs of her head to you, Phelim O'Beirne? Am I not him that's her
brother? A truce to your prating, curse you, and be coming with me. I
understand him, and that is enough!"

"But His Reverence----"

"His Reverence is as safe as you or me!" James retorted. "If it were
not so, are you thinking I'd be here? Fie on you!" he went on, pushing
Phelim through the door; "you are good at the talking now, when it's
little good it will be doing! But where were you this morning when a
good blow might have saved all?"

"Could I be helping it, when----?"

The voices passed away, still wrangling, across the courtyard. Uncle
Ulick stepped to the door and closed it. Then he turned and spoke his
mind.

"You were wrong to come back, John Sullivan," he said, the hardness of
his tone bearing witness to his horror of what had happened. "Shame on
you! It is no thanks to you that your blood is not on the girl's hands,
and the floor of your grandfather's house! You're a bold man, I allow.
But the fox made too free with the window at last, and, take my word
for it, there are a score of men, whose hands are surer than this
child's, who will not rest till they have had your life! And after what
has happened, can you wonder? Be bid and go then; be bid, and go while
the breath is firm in you!"

Colonel John did not speak for a moment, and when he did answer, it was
with a severity that overbore Ulick's anger, and in a tone of contempt
that was something new to the big man. "If the breath be firm in those
whom you, Ulick Sullivan," he said--"ay, you, Ulick Sullivan--and your
fellows would have duped, it is enough for me! For myself, whom should
I fear? The plotters whose childish plans were not proof against the
simplest stratagem? The conspirators"--his tone grew more cutting in
its scorn--"who took it in hand to pull down a throne and were routed
by a Sergeant's Guard? The poor puppets who played at a game too high
for them, and, dreaming they were Sarsfields or Montroses, danced in
truth to others' piping? Shall I fear them," he continued, the tail of
his eye on the girl, who, sitting low in her chair, writhed
involuntarily under his words--"poor tools, poor creatures, only a
little less ignorant, only a little more guilty than the clods they
would have led to the crows or the hangman? Is it these I am to fear;
these I am to flee from? God forbid, Ulick Sullivan! I am not the man
to flee from shadows!"

His tone, his manner, the truth of his words--which were intended to
open the girl's eyes, but did in fact increase her burning
resentment--hurt even Uncle Ulick's pride. "Whisht, man," he said
bitterly. "It's plain you're thinking you're master here!"

"I am," Colonel John replied sternly. "I am, and I intend to be. Nor a
day too soon! Where all are children, there is need of a master! Don't
look at me like that, man! And for my cousin, let her hear the truth
for once! Let her know what men who have seen the world think of the
visions, from which she would have awakened in a dungeon, and the poor
fools, her fellow-dupes, under the gibbet! A great rising for a great
cause, if it be real, man, if it be earnest, if it be based on
forethought and some calculation of the chances, God knows I hold it a
fine thing, and a high thing! But the rising of a child with a bladder
against an armed man, a rising that can ruin but cannot help, I know
not whether to call it more silly or more wicked! Man, the devil does
his choicest work through fools, not rogues! And, for certain, he never
found a choicer morsel or fitter instruments than at Morristown
yesterday."

Uncle Ulick swore impatiently. "We may be fools," he growled. "Yet
spare the girl! Spare the girl!"

"What? Spare her the truth?"

"All! Everything!" Uncle Ulick cried, with unusual heat. "Cannot you
see that she at least meant well!"

"Such do the most ill," Colonel John retorted, with sententious
severity. "God forgive them--and her!" He paused for a moment and then,
in a lighter tone, he continued, "As I do. As I do gladly. Only there
must be an end of this foolishness. The two men who knew in what they
worked and had reason in their wrong-doing are beyond seas. We shall
see their faces no more. The McMurrough is not so mad as to wish to act
without them. He"--with a faint smile--"is not implacable. You, Ulick,
are not of the stuff of whom martyrs are made, nor are Mr. Burke and
Sir Donny. But the two young men outside"--he paused as if he
reflected--"they and three or four others are--what my cousin now
listening to me makes them. They are tow, if the flame be brought near
them. And therefore--and therefore," he repeated still more slowly, "I
have spoken the truth and plainly. To this purpose, that there may be
an end."

Flavia had sat at first with closed eyes, in a state next door to
collapse, her head inclined, her arms drooping, as if at any moment she
might sink to the floor. But in the course of his speaking a change had
come over her. The last heavings of the storm, physical and mental,
through which she had passed, still shook her; now a quiver distorted
her features, now a violent shudder agitated her from head to foot. But
the indomitable youth in her, and the spirit which she had inherited
from some dead forefather, were not to be long gainsaid. Slowly, as she
listened--and mainly under the influence of indignation--her colour had
returned, her face grown more firm, her form more stiff. In truth
Colonel John had adopted the wrong course with her. He had been
hard--knowing men better than women--when he should have been mild; he
had browbeaten where he should have forgiven. And so at his last
declaration, "There must be an end," she rose to her feet, and spoke.
And speaking, she showed that neither the failure of her attempt on
him, nor the bodily struggle with him, horribly as it humiliated her in
the remembrance, had quelled her courage.

"An end!" she said, in a voice vibrating with emotion. "Yes, but it
will be an end for you! Children, are we? Well, better that, a thousand
times better that, than be so old before our time, so cold of heart and
cunning of head that there is naught real for us but that we touch and
see, nothing high for us but that our words will be measuring, nothing
worth risk but that we are safe to gain! Children, are we?" she
continued, with deep passion. "But at least we believe! At least we own
something higher than ourselves--a God, a Cause, a Country! At least we
have not bartered all--all three and honour for a pittance of pay,
fighting alike for right or wrong, betraying alike the right and wrong!
Children? May be! But, God be thanked, we are warm, the blood runs in
us----"

"Flavia!"

"I say the blood runs in us!" she repeated. "And if we are foolish, as
you say, we are wiser yet than one"--she looked at him with a strange
and almost awful steadfastness--"who in his wisdom thinks that a
traitor can walk our Irish soil unharmed, or one go back and forth in
safety who has ruined and shamed us! You have escaped my hand! But I
know that all your boasted wisdom will not lengthen your life till the
moon wanes!"

He had tried to interrupt her once--eagerly, vividly, as one who would
defend himself. He answered her now after another fashion: perhaps he
had learnt his lesson. "If God wills," he said simply, "it will be so;
it will be as you say. And the road will lie open to you. Only while I
live, Flavia, whether I love this Irish soil or not, or my country, or
my honour, the storm shall not break here, nor the house fall from
which we spring!"

"While you live!" she repeated, with a dreadful smile. "I tell you, I
tell you," and she extended her hand towards him, "the winding-sheet is
high upon your breast, and the salt dried that shall lie upon your
heart."




CHAPTER XVI

THE MARPLOT


If, after that, Colonel Sullivan's life had depended on his courage or
the vigilance of his servant, it is certain that, tried as was the one
and unwinking as was the other, Flavia's prophecy would have been
quickly fulfilled. He would not have seen another moon, perhaps he
would not have seen another dawn. The part which he had played in the
events at the Carraghalin was known to few; but the hundred tongues of
rumour were already abroad, carrying as many versions, and in all he
was the marplot. His traffic with the Old Fox had spirited away the
Holy Father in God--whom the saints preserve!--and swept off also,
probably on a broom-stick, the doughty champion whose sole desire it
was to lead the hosts of Ireland to victory. In the eyes of some ten
score persons, scattered over half a dozen leagues of country, wild,
and beyond the pale of law--persons who valued an informer's life no
higher than a wolf's--he wore the ugly shape of one. And the logical
consequence was certain. That the man who had done these things should
continue to walk the sod, that the man who had these things on his
black heretic conscience should continue to haunt the scene of his
crimes and lord it over those whom his misdeeds had sullied, was to the
common mind unthinkable--nay, incredible: a blot on God's good day. To
every potato-setter who, out of the corner of his eye, watched his
passage, to every beggar by the road whose whine masked heart-felt
curses, to the very children who fell back from the cabin door to
escape his evil eye, this was plain and known, and the man already as
the dead. For if the cotters by the lakeside were not men enough, the
nights being at present moonlit, was there not Roaring Andy's band in
the hills, not seven miles away, who would cut any man's throat for a
silver doubloon, and a Protestant's for the "trate it would be, and
sorra a bit of pay at all, the good men!"

Beyond doubt the Colonel's boldness, and the nerve which enabled him to
take his place as if nothing threatened him, went for something; and
for something the sinister prestige which the disappearance of
O'Sullivan Og and his whole party cast about him. For there was wailing
in the house by the jetty: the rising had cost some lives though nipped
in the bud. The evening tide had cast the body of one of the men upon
the shore, where it had been found among the sea-wrack; and, though the
fate of the others remained a mystery, the messenger who had sped after
Og with the counter-order told the story as he knew it. The means by
which the two prisoners, in face of odds so great, had destroyed their
captors, were still a secret; but the worst was feared. The Irish are
ever open to superstitious beliefs, and the man who singlehanded could
wreak such a vengeance, who poured death as it were from a horn, went
his way by road and bog, shrouded in a gloomy fame that might provoke
the bold, but kept the timid at bay. Before night it was known in a
dozen lonely cabins that the Colonel might be shot from behind with
a silver bullet: or stabbed, if a man were bold enough, with a
cross-handled knife, blest and sprinkled. But woe to him whose aim
proved faulty or his hand uncertain! His chance in the grasp of the
Father of ill, or of the mis-shapen Trolls, _revenants_ of a heathen
race, who yearly profaned the Carraghalin with their orgies, had not
been worse!

But this reputation alone, seeing that reckless spirits were not
wanting, nor in the recesses of the hills those whose lives were
forfeit, would have availed him little if the protection of The
McMurrough had not been cast over him. Why it was cast over him, so
that he went to and fro in safety--men scarcely dared to guess; it was
a dark thing into which it were ill to peer too closely. But the fact
was certain; so certain that the anxiety of the young man that the
Colonel might meet with no hurt was plain and notorious, a thing
observed stealthily and with wonder. Did Colonel John saunter across
the court to the gateway, to look on the lake, The McMurrough was at
his shoulder in a twinkling, and thence, with a haggard eye, searched
the furze-bush for the glint of a gun-barrel, and the angle of the wall
for a lurking foe. It was the same if the Colonel, who seemed himself
unconscious of danger, fared as far as the ruined tower, or stretched
his legs on the road by the shore. The McMurrough could not be too near
him, walked with his hand on his arm, cast from time to time vigilant
looks to the rear. A score of times between rising and sleeping Colonel
John smiled at the care that forewent his steps and covered his
retreat; nor perhaps had the contempt in which he held James McMurrough
ever reached a higher pitch than while he thus stood from hour to hour
indebted to that young man for his life.

What Uncle Ulick, if he held the key to the matter, thought of it, or
how he explained it, if he had not, did not appear; nor, certain that
the big man would favour a course of action that made for peace, was
Colonel John overcurious to know. But what Flavia thought of the
position was a point which aroused his most lively curiosity. He gave
her credit for feelings so deep and for a nature so downright, that
time-serving or paltering were the last faults he looked to find in
her. He could hardly believe that she would consent to sit at meat with
him after what had happened; and possibly--for men are strange, and the
motives of the best are mixed--a desire to see how she would behave and
how she would bear herself in the circumstances had something to do
with the course he was taking.

That she consented to the plan was soon made clear. She even took part
in it. James could not be always at his elbow. The young man must
sometimes retire, it might be to vent his spleen in curses he dared not
utter openly, it might be to take other measures for his safety. When
this happened, the girl took her brother's place, stooped to dog the
Colonel's footsteps, and for a day or two, while the danger hung most
imminent, and every ditch to James's fancy held a lurking foe, cast the
mantle of her presence over the man she hated.

But stoop as she might, she never for a moment stooped to mask her
hate. In her incomings and her outgoings, in her risings-up and at
table with him, every movement of her body, the carriage of her head,
the glance of her eye, showed that she despised him; that she who now
suffered him was the same woman who had struck at his life, and,
failing, repented only the failure. In all she did, in parleying with
him, in bearing with his presence, in suffering his gaze, she made it
plain that she did it against her will; as the captive endures perforce
the company of the brigand in whose power he lies, but whom, when
opportunity offers, he will deliver with avidity to the cord or the
garotte. Because she must, and for her brother's sake, for the sake of
his name and pride and home, she was willing to do this, though she
abhorred it; and though every time that she broke bread with the
intruder, met his eyes, or breathed the air that he breathed, she told
herself that it was intolerable, that it must end.

Once or twice, feeling the humiliation more than she could bear, she
declared to her brother that the man must go. "Let him go!" she cried,
in uncontrollable excitement. "Let him go!"

"But he will not be going, Flavvy."

"He must go!" she replied.

"And Morristown his?" James would answer. "Ye are forgetting! Over and
above that, he's not one to do my bidding, nor yours!"

That was true. He would not go; he persisted in remaining and being
master. But it was not there the difficulty lay. If he had not made a
will before he came, a will that doubtless set the property of the
family for ever beyond James's reach, the thing had been simple and
Colonel John's shrift had been short. But now, to rid the earth of him
was to place the power in the hands of an unknown person, a stranger,
an alien, for whom the ties of family and honour would have no
stringency. True, the law was weak in Kerry. A writ was one thing, and
possession another. Whatever right a stranger might gain, it could only
be with difficulty and after the lapse of years that he would make it
good against the old family, or plant those about him who would ensure
his safety. But it did not do to depend on this. Within the last
generation, the McCarthys, a clan more powerful than the McMurroughs,
had been driven from the greater part of their lands; and on every side
English settlers were impinging on the old Irish families. A bold man
might indeed keep the forces of law at bay for a time; but James
McMurrough, notwithstanding the folly into which he had been led, was
no desperado. He had no desire to live with a rope round his neck, to
flee to the bog on the least alarm, and, in the issue, to give his name
to an Irish Glencoe.

A stranger position it had been hard to conceive; or one more
humiliating to a proud and untamed spirit such as Flavia's. What
arguments, what prayers, what threats The McMurrough used to bring her
to it, Colonel Sullivan could not guess. But though she consented, her
shame, her resentment, her hostility, were so patent that the effect
was to pair off Colonel John and herself, to pit them one against the
other, to match them one to one. The McMurrough, supple and insincere,
found little difficulty in subduing his temper to his interests, though
now and again his churlishness broke out. For Uncle Ulick, his habit
was to be easy and to bid others be easy; the dawn and dark of a day
reconciled him to most things. The O'Beirnes, sullen and distrustful,
were still glad to escape present peril. Looking for a better time to
come, they took their orders, helped to shield the common enemy,
supposed it policy, and felt no shame. Flavia alone, in presence of the
man who had announced that he meant to be master, writhed in helpless
revolt, swore that he should never be her master, swore that whoever
bowed the head she never would.

And Colonel Sullivan, seated, apparently at his ease, on the steep lap
of danger, found that this hostility and the hostile person held his
thoughts. A man may be an enthusiast in the cause of duty, he may have
plucked from the hideous slough of war the rare blue flower of
loving-kindness, he may in the strength of his convictions seem
sufficient to himself; he will still feel a craving for sympathy.
Colonel Sullivan was no exception. He found his thoughts dwelling on
the one untamable person, on the one enemy who would not stoop, and
whose submission seemed valuable. The others took up, in a greater or
less degree, the positions he assigned to them, gave him lip-service,
pretended that they were as they had been, and he as he had been. She
did not; she would not.

Presently he discovered with surprise that her attitude rendered him
unhappy. Secure in his sense of right, certain that he was acting for
the best, looking from a height of experience on that lowland in which
she toiled forward, following will-of-the-wisps, he should have been
indifferent. But he was not indifferent.

Meantime, she believed that there was no length to which she would not
go against him; she fancied that there was no weapon which she would
not stoop to pick up if it would hurt him. And presently she was tried.
A week had passed since the great fiasco. Again it was the eve of
Sunday, and in the usual course of things a priest would appear to
celebrate mass on the following day. This risk James was now unwilling
to run. His fears painted that as dangerous which had been done safely
Sunday by Sunday for years; and in a hang-dog, hesitating way, he let
Flavia know his doubts.

"Devil take me if I think he'll suffer it!" he said, kicking up the
turf with his toe. They were standing together by the waterside, Flavia
rebelling against the consciousness that it was only outside their own
walls that they could talk freely. "May be," he continued, "it will be
best to let Father O'Hara know--to let be for a week or two."

The girl turned upon him, in passionate reprehension. "Why?" she cried,
"Why?"

"Why, is it you're asking?" James answered sullenly. "Well, isn't he
master for the time, bad luck to him! And if he thinks we're beginning
to draw the boys together, he'll maybe put his foot down! And I'd
rather be stopping it myself, I'm telling you, and it's the truth, too,
just for a week or two, Flavvy, than be bidden by him."

"Never!" she cried.

"But----"

"Never! Never! Never!" she repeated firmly. "Let us turn our back on
our king by all means! But on our God, no! Let him do his worst!"

He was ashamed to persist, and he took another line. "I'm thinking of
O'Hara," he said. "It'll be four walls for him, or worse, if he's
taken."

"There's no one will be taking him," she answered steadfastly.

"But if he is?"

"I'm saying there's no one will be taking him."

James felt himself repulsed. He shrugged his shoulders and was silent.
Presently, "Flavvy," he said in a low tone, "I've a notion, my girl.
And it'll serve, I'm thinking. This can't be lasting."

She looked at him without much hope.

"Well?" she said coldly. She had begun to find him out.

He looked at her cunningly. "We might put the boot on the other leg,"
he said. "He's for informing. But what if we inform, my girl? It's the
first in the field that's believed. He's his tale of the Spanish ship,
and you know who. But what if we tell it first, and say that he came
with them and stayed behind to get us to move? Who's to say he didn't
land from the Spaniard, if we're all in a tale? And faith, he's no
friend here nor one that will open his mouth for him. A word at Tralee
will do it, and Luke Asgill has friends there, that will be glad to set
the ball rolling at his bidding. Once clapped up John Sullivan may
_squeal_, he'll not be the one to be believed, but those that put him
there. It'll be no more than to swear an information, and Luke Asgill
will do the rest."

Flavia shuddered. "They won't take his life?" she asked.

James frowned. "That would not suit us at all," he said. "Not at all!
We could do that for ourselves. Faith," with a sudden laugh, "you
didn't lack much of doing it, Flavvy! No; but a stone box and a ring
round his leg, and four walls to talk to--until such time as we have a
use for him, would be mighty convenient for everybody. He'd have
leisure to think of his dear relations, and of the neat way he
outwitted them, the clever devil! But for taking his life--I'm seeing
my way there too," with a grin--"it was naming his dear relations made
me think of it. They'd not bear to be informing without surety for his
life, to be sure! No!" with a chuckle. "And very creditable to them!"

Flavia stared across the water. She was very pale.

"We'll be wanting one or two to swear to it," he continued, "and the
rest to be silent. Sorra a bit of difficulty will there be about it!"

"But if," she said slowly, "he gets the first word? And tells the
truth?"

"The truth?" James McMurrough replied scornfully. "The truth is what
we'll make it! I'll see to that, my jewel."

She shivered. "Still," she said, "it will not be truth."

"What matter?" James answered. "It will cook his goose. Curse him," he
continued with violence, "what right had he to come here and thrust
himself into other folks' affairs?"

"I could have killed him," she said. "But----"

"But you can't," he rejoined. "And you know why."

"But this"--she continued with a shudder, "this is different."

"What will you be after?" he cried impatiently. "You are not turning
sheep-hearted at this time of day?"

"I am not sheep-hearted."

"What is it then, my girl?"

"I can't do this," she said. She was still very pale. Something had
come close to her, had touched her, that had never approached her so
nearly before.

He stared at her. "But he'll have his life," he said.

"It's not that," she answered slowly. "It's the way. I can't!" she
repeated. "I've tried, and I can't! It sickens me."

"And he's to do what he likes with us?" James cried.

"No, no!"

"And we're not to touch him without our gloves?"

She did not answer, and twice her brother repeated the taunt--twice
asked her, with a confidence he did not feel, what was the matter with
the plan. At last, "It's too vile!" she cried passionately. "It's too
horrible! It's to sink to what he is, and worse!" Her voice trembled
with the intensity of her feelings--as a man, who has scaled a giddy
height without faltering, sometimes trembles when he reaches the solid
ground. "Worse!" she repeated.

To relieve his feelings, perhaps to hide his shame, he cursed his enemy
anew. And "I wish I had never told you!" he added bitterly.

"It's too late now," she replied.

"Asgill could have managed it, and no one the wiser!"

"I believe you!" she replied quickly. "But not you! Don't do it,
James," she repeated, laying her hand on his arm and speaking with
sudden heat. "Don't you do it! Don't!"

"And we're to let the worst happen," he retorted, "and O'Hara perhaps
be seized----"

"God forbid!"

"That's rubbish! And this man be seized, and that man, as he pleases!
We're to let him rule over us, and we're to be good boys whatever
happens, and serve King George and turn Protestants, every man of us!"

"God forbid!" she repeated strenuously.

"As well turn," he retorted, "if we are to live slaves all our days! By
Heaven, Cammock was right when he said that he would let no woman knit
a halter for his throat!"

She did not ask him who had been the life and soul of the movement,
whose enthusiasm had set it going, and whose steadfastness maintained
it. She did not say that whatever the folly of the enterprise, and
however ludicrous its failure, she had gone into it whole-hearted, and
with one end in view. She did not tell him that the issue was a hundred
times more grievous and more galling to her than to him. Her eyes were
beginning to be opened to his failings, she was beginning to see that
all men did not override their womenfolk, or treat them roughly. But
the habit of giving way to him was still strong; and when, with another
volley of harsh, contemptuous words, he flung away from her, though her
last interjection was a prayer to him to refrain, she blamed herself
rather than him.

Now that she was alone, too, the priest's safety weighed on her mind.
If Colonel John betrayed him, she would never forgive herself.
Certainly it was unlikely he would; for in that part priests moved
freely, the authorities winked at their presence, and it was only
within sight of the walls of Tralee or of Galway that the law which
proscribed them was enforced. But her experience of Colonel
Sullivan--of his activity, his determination, his devilish
adroitness--made all things seem possible. He had been firm as fate in
the removal of the Bishop and Cammock; he had been turned no jot from
his purpose by her prayers, her rage, her ineffectual struggles--she
sickened at the remembrance of that moment. He was capable of
everything, this man who had come suddenly into their lives out of the
darkness of far Scandinavia, himself dark and inscrutable. He was
capable of everything, and if he thought fit--but at that point her
eyes alighted on a man who was approaching along the lake-road. It was
Father O'Hara himself. The priest was advancing as calmly and openly as
if no law made his presence a felony, or as if no Protestant breathed
the soft Irish air for a dozen leagues about.

Her brother's words had shaken Flavia's nerves. She was courageous, but
she was a woman. She flew to meet the priest, and with every step his
peril loomed larger before her fluttered spirits. The wretch had said
that he would be master, and a master who was a Protestant, a
fanatic----

She did not follow the thought to its conclusion. She waved a warning
even before she reached the Father. When she did, "Father!" she cried
eagerly, "you must get away, and come back after dark!"

The good man's jaw fell. He had been looking forward to good cheer and
a good bed, to a rare oasis of comfort in his squalid life. He cast a
wary look round him. "What has happened, my daughter?" he stammered.

"Colonel Sullivan!" Flavia gasped. "He is here, and he will certainly
give you up."

"Colonel Sullivan?"

"Yes. You were at the Carraghalin? You have heard what happened! He
will surely give you up!"

"Are the soldiers here?" the priest asked, with a blanched face.

"No, but he is here! He is in the house, and may come out at any
moment," Flavia explained. "Don't you understand?"

"Did he tell you----"

"What?"

"That he would inform?"

"No!" Flavia replied, thinking the man very dull. "But you wouldn't
trust him?"

The priest looked round to assure himself that the landscape held no
overt signs of danger. Then he brought back his eyes to the girl's
face, and he stroked his thin, brown cheek reflectively. He recalled
the scene in the bog, Colonel John's courage, and his thought for his
servant. And at last, "I am not thinking," he said coolly, "that he
will betray me. I am sure--I think I am sure," he continued, correcting
himself, "that he will not. He is a heretic, but he is a good man."

Flavia's cheek flamed. She started back. "A good man!" she cried in a
voice audible half a hundred yards away.

Father O'Hara looked a little ashamed of himself; but he stood by his
guns. "A heretic, of course," he said. "But, I'm thinking, a good man.
At any rate, I'm not believing that he will inform against me."

As quickly as it had come, the colour fled from Flavia's face, and left
it cold and hard. She looked at the priest as she had never looked at a
priest of her Church before. "You must take your own course then," she
said. And with a gesture which he did not understand she turned from
him, and leaving him, puzzled and disconcerted, she went away into the
house.

A good man! Heaven and earth and the sea besides! A good man! Father
O'Hara was a fool! A fool!





CHAPTER XVII

THE LIMIT


If there was one man more sorry than another that the Morristown rising
had been nipped in the bud it was Luke Asgill. It stood to his credit
that, though he had never dared to cross Flavia's will, he had tried,
and honestly tried, to turn James McMurrough from the attempt. But even
while doing this, he had known--as he had once told James with bitter
frankness--that his interest lay in the other scale; he had seen that
had he attended to it only, he would not have dissuaded The McMurrough,
but, on the contrary, would have egged him on, in the assurance that
the failure of the plot would provide his one best chance of winning
Flavia. A score of times, indeed, he had pictured, and with rapture,
the inevitable collapse. In the visions of his head upon his bed he had
seen the girl turn to him in the wreck of things--it might be to save
her brother's life, it might be to save her tender feet from the stones
of foreign streets. And in the same dream he had seen himself standing
by her, alone against the world; as, to do him justice, he would have
stood, no matter how sharp the stress or great the cost.

He had no doubt that he would be able to save her--in spite of herself
and whatever her indiscretion. For he belonged to a class that has ever
owned inordinate power in Ireland: the class of the middlemen with
roots in either camp--a grandam, who, perchance, still softens her clay
on the old cabin hearth, while a son preens it with his betters in
Trinity College. Such men carry into the ruling ranks their knowledge
of the modes of thought, the tricks and subterfuges of those from whom
they spring; and at once astute and overbearing, hard and supple, turn
the needs of rich and poor to their own advantage, and rise on the
common loss. Asgill, with money to lend in the town, and protections to
grant upon the bog, with the secrets of two worlds in his head or in
his deed-box, could afford to await with confidence the day when the
storm would break upon Morristown, and Flavia, in the ruin of all about
her, would turn to him for rescue.

Keen therefore was his chagrin when, through the underground channels
which were in his power, he heard two days after the event, and in
distant Tralee, what had happened. Some word of a large Spanish ship
seen off the point had reached the mess-room; but only he knew how
nearly work had been found for the garrison: only he, walking about
with a smooth face, listened for the alarm that did not come. For a
wonder he had been virtuous, he had given James his warning; yet he had
seen cakes and ale in prospect. Now, not only was the treat vanished
below the horizon, but stranger news, news still less welcome, was
whispered in his ear. The man whom he had distrusted from the first,
the man against whom he had warned The McMurrough, had done this. More,
in spite of the line he had taken, the man was still at Morristown, if
not honoured, protected, and if not openly triumphant, master in fact.

Luke Asgill swore horribly. But Colonel Sullivan had got the better of
him once, and he was not to be duped again by this Don Quixote's
mildness and love of peace. He knew him to be formidable, and he took
time to consider before he acted. He waited a week and examined the
matter on many sides before he took horse to see things with his own
eyes. Nor did he alight at the gate of Morristown until he had made
many a resolution to be wary and on his guard.

He had reason to call these to mind before his foot was well out of the
stirrup, for the first person he saw, after he had bidden his groom
take the horses to the stable, was Colonel Sullivan. Asgill had time to
scan his face before they met in the middle of the courtyard, the one
entering, the other leaving; and he judged that Colonel John's triumph
did not go very deep. He was looking graver, sadder, older;
finally--this he saw as they saluted one another--sterner.

Asgill stepped aside courteously, meaning to go by him. But the Colonel
stepped aside also, and so barred his way. "Mr. Asgill," he said--and
there was something of the martinet in his tone--"I will trouble you to
give me a word apart."

"A word apart?" Asgill answered. He was taken aback, and do what he
could the Colonel's grave eyes discomposed him. "With all the pleasure
in life, Colonel. But a little later, by your leave."

"I think now were more convenient, sir," the Colonel answered, "by your
leave."

"I will lay my cloak in the house, and then----"

"It will be more convenient to keep your cloak, I'm thinking," the
Colonel rejoined with dryness. And either because of the meaning in his
voice or the command in his eyes, Asgill gave way and turned with him,
and the two walked gravely and step for step through the gateway.

Outside the Colonel beckoned to a ragged urchin who was playing ducks
and drakes with his naked toes. "Go after Mr. Asgill's horses," he
said, and bid the man bring them back."

"Colonel Sullivan!"

The Colonel did not heed his remonstrance. "And follow us!" he
continued. "Are you hearing, boy? Go then."

"Colonel Sullivan," Asgill repeated, his face both darker and
paler--for there could be no doubt about the other's meaning--"I'm
thinking this is a strange liberty you're taking. And I beg to say I
don't understand the meaning of it."

"You wish to know the meaning of it?"

"I do."

"It means, sir," Colonel John replied, "that the sooner you start on
your return journey the better!"

Asgill stared. "The better you will be pleased, you mean!" he said. And
he laughed harshly.

"The better it will be for you, I mean," Colonel John answered.

Asgill flushed darkly, but he commanded himself--having those
injunctions to prudence fresh in his mind. "This is an odd tone," he
said. "And I must ask you to explain yourself further, or I can tell
you that what you have said will go for little. I am here upon the
invitation of my friend, The McMurrough----"

"This is not his house."

Asgill stared. "Do you mean----"

"I mean what I say," the Colonel answered. "This is not his house, as
you well know."

"But----"

"It is mine, and I do not propose to entertain you, Mr. Asgill,"
Colonel John continued. "Is that sufficiently plain?"

The glove was down. The two men looked at one another, while the knot
of beggars, gathered round the gate and just out of earshot, watched
them--in the dark as to all else, but aware with Irish shrewdness that
they were at grips. Asgill was not only taken by surprise, but he lay
under the disadvantage of ignorance. He did not know precisely how
things stood, much less could he explain this sudden attack. Yet if the
tall, lean man, serious and growing grey, represented one form of
strength, the shorter, stouter man, with the mobile face and the quick
brain, stood for another. Offhand he could think of no weak spot on his
side; and if he must fight, he would fight.

He forced a laugh. And, truly to think of this man, who had not seen
Morristown for a score of years, using the experience of a fortnight to
give him notice to quit, was laughable. The laugh he had forced became
real.

"More plain than hospitable, Colonel," he said. "Perhaps, after all, it
will be best so, and we shall understand one another."

"I am thinking so," Colonel Sullivan answered. It was plain that he did
not mean to be drawn from the position he had taken up.

"Only I think that you have overlooked this," Asgill continued
smoothly. "It is one thing to own a house and another to kick the logs
on the hearth; one thing to have the deeds and another--in the west--to
pass the punch-bowl! More, by token, 'tis a hospitable country this,
Colonel, none more so; and if there is one thing would annoy The
McMurrough and the young lady, his sister, more than another, it would
be to turn a guest from the door--that is thought to be theirs!"

"You mean that you will not take my bidding?" the Colonel said.

"Not the least taste in life," Asgill answered gaily, "unless it is
backed by the gentleman or the lady."

"Yet I believe, sir, that I have a means to persuade you," Colonel John
replied. "It is no more than a week ago, Mr. Asgill, since a number of
persons in my presence assumed a badge so notoriously treasonable that
a child could not doubt its meaning."

"In the west of Ireland," Asgill said, with a twinkle in his eye, "that
is a trifle, my dear sir, not worth naming."

"But if reported in the east?"

Asgill averted his face that its smile might not be seen. "Well," he
said, "it might be a serious matter there."

"I think you take me now," Colonel John rejoined. "I wish to use no
threats. The least said the soonest mended."

Asgill looked at him with half-shut eyes and a lurking smile--in truth,
with the amusement of a man watching the transparent scheming of a
child. "As you say, the least said the soonest mended," he rejoined.
"So--who is to report it in the east?"

"I will, if necessary."

"If----"

"If you push me to it."

Asgill raised his eyebrows impertinently. "An informer?" he said.

Colonel John did not flinch. "If necessary," he repeated.

"That would be serious," Asgill rejoined, "for many people. In the
first place for the young lady, your ward, Colonel. Then for your
kinsman--and Mr. Ulick Sullivan. After that for quite a number of
honest gentlemen, tolerably harmless and tolerably well-reputed here,
whose only fault is a tendency to heroics after dinner. It would be so
serious, and for so many, Colonel, that for my part I should be glad to
suffer in such good company. Particularly," he continued, with a droll
look, the droller for his appreciation of the Colonel's face of
discomfiture, "as being a Protestant and a Justice, I should, ten to
one, be the only person against whom the story would not pass. Eh,
Colonel, what do you think? So that, ten to one, I should go free, and
the others go to Geordie's prison!"

Colonel John had not, to be honest, a word to say. He was fairly
defeated, his flank turned, his guns captured. He had counted so surely
on a panic, on the man whom he knew to be a knave proving also a
coward, that even his anger--and he was very angry--could not hide his
discomfiture. He looked, indeed, so rueful, and at the same time so
wrathful, that Asgill laughed aloud.

"Come, Colonel," he said, "it is no use to scowl at me. We know you
never call any one out. Let me just hint that wits in Ireland are not
quite so slow as in colder countries, and that, had I been here a week
back, you had not found it so easy to----"

"To what, sir?"

"To send two old women to sea in a cockboat," Asgill replied. And he
laughed anew and loudly. But this time there was no gaiety in his
laugh. If the Colonel had not performed the feat in question, in how
different a state things might have been at this moment! Asgill felt
murderous towards him as he thought of that; and the weapon of the
flesh being out of the question--for he had no mind to face the
Colonel's small-sword--he sought about for an arm of another kind, and
had no difficulty in finding one. "More, by token," he continued, "if
you are going to turn informer, it was a pity you did not send the
young woman to sea with the old ones. But I'm thinking you'd not be
liking to be without her, Colonel?"

Colonel John turned surprisingly red: perhaps he did not quite know
why. "We will leave her out of the question, sir," he said haughtily.
"Or--that reminds me! That reminds me," he continued, with increasing
sternness. "You question my right to bid you begone----"

"By G--d, I do!" Asgill cried, with zest. He was beginning to enjoy
himself.

"But you forget, I think, another little matter in the past that is
known to me--and that you would not like disclosed, I believe, sir."

"You seem to have been raking things up, Colonel."

"One must deal with a rogue according to his roguery," Colonel John
retorted.

Asgill's face grew dark. This was taking the buttons off with a
vengeance. He made a movement, but restrained himself. "You don't mince
matters," he said.

"I do not."

"You may be finding it an unfortunate policy before long," Asgill said
between his teeth. He was moved at last, angered, perhaps apprehensive
of what was coming.

"Maybe, sir," Colonel John returned, "maybe. But in the meantime let me
remind you that your tricks as a horsedealer would not go far to
recommend you as a guest to my kinswoman."

"Oh?"

"Who shall assuredly hear who seized her mare if you persist in forcing
your company upon her."

"Upon her?" Asgill repeated, in a peculiar tone. "I see."

Colonel John reddened. "You know now," he said. "And if you
persist----"

"You will tell her," Asgill took him up, "that I--shall I say--abducted
her mare?"

"I shall tell her without hesitation."

"Or scruple?"

Colonel Sullivan glowered at him, but did not answer.

Asgill laughed a laugh of honest contempt. "And she," he said, "will
not believe you if you swear it a score of times! Try, sir! Try! You
will injure yourself, you will not injure me. Why, man," he continued,
in a tone of unmeasured scorn, "you are duller than I thought you were!
The ice is still in your wits and the fog in your brain. I thought,
when I heard what you had done, that you were the man for Kerry!
But----"

"What is it? What's this?"

The speaker was James McMurrough, who had come from the house in search
of the kinsman he dared not suffer out of his sight. He had approached
unnoticed, and his churlish tone showed that what he had overheard was
not to his liking. But Asgill supposed that James's ill-humour was
directed against his enemy, and he appealed to him.

"What is it?" he repeated with energy; "I'll tell you!"

"Then you'll be telling me indoors!" James answered curtly.

"No!" said Colonel Sullivan.

But at that the young man exploded. "No?" he cried. "No? And, why no?
Confusion, sir, it's too far you are driving us," he continued
passionately. "Is it at your bidding I must stand in a mob of beggars
at my own gate--I, The McMurrough? And be telling and taking for all
the gossoons in the country to hear? No? But it's yes, I say! There's
bounds to it all, and if you must be falling to words with my friends,
quarrel like gentlemen within doors, and not in a parcel of loons at
the gate."

He turned without waiting for a reply and strode into the courtyard.
Colonel John hesitated a moment, then he stood aside, and, with a stern
face, he invited Asgill to precede him. The Justice did so, smiling. He
had won the first bout; and now, if he was not much mistaken, his
opponent had made a false move.

That opponent, following with a sombre face, began to be of the same
opinion. In his simplicity he had supposed that it would be easy to
bell the cat. He had seen, he fancied, a way to do it in a corner,
quietly, with little outcry and no disturbance. But the cat had teeth
and claws and the cunning of a cat, and was not, it now appeared, an
animal easy to bell.

They passed into the house, The McMurrough leading. There were two or
three buckeens in the hall, and Darby and one of the down-at-heel
serving-boys were laying the evening meal. "You'll be getting out,"
James said curtly.

"We will," replied one of the men. And they trooped out at the back.

"Now, what is it?" the McMurrough asked, turning on his followers and
speaking in a tone hardly more civil.

"It's what you're saying--Get out!" Asgill answered smiling. "Only it's
the Colonel here's for saying it, and it seems I'm the one to get out."

"What the saints do you mean?" James growled. "Sorra bit of your fun am
I wishing at this present!" He wanted no trouble, and he saw that here
was trouble.

"I can tell you in a few words," Colonel Sullivan answered. "You know
on what terms we are here. I wish to do nothing uncivil, and I was
looking for this gentleman to take a hint and go quietly. He will not,
it seems, and so I must say plainly what I mean. I object to his
presence here."

James stared. He did not understand. "Why, man, he's no Jacobite," he
cried, "whoever the other is!" His surprise was genuine.

"I will say nothing as to that," Colonel John answered precisely.

"Then, faith, what are you saying?" James asked. Asgill stood by
smiling, aware that silence would best fight his battle.

"This," Colonel John returned. "That I know those things of him that
make him unfit company here."

"The devil you do!"

"And----"

But James's patience was at an end. "Unfit company for whom?" he cried.
"Eh! Unfit company for whom? Is it Darby he'll be spoiling? Or Thaddy
the lad? Or"--resentment gradually overcoming irony--"is it Phelim or
Morty he'll be tainting the souls of, and he a Protestant like
yourself? Curse me, Colonel Sullivan, it's clean out of patience you
put me! Are we boys at school, to be scolded and flouted and put right
by you? Unfit company? For whom? For whom, sir? I'd like to know. More,
by token, I'd like to know also where this is to end--and I will, by
your leave! For whom, sir?"

"For your sister," Colonel John replied. "Without saying more, Mr.
Asgill is not of the class with whom your grandfather----"

"My grandfather--be hanged!" cried the angry young man--angry with some
cause, for it must be confessed that Colonel John, with the best
intentions, was a little heavy-handed. "You said you'd be master here,
and faith," he continued with bitterness, "it's master you mean to be.
But there's a limit! By Heaven, there's a limit----"

"Yes, James, there is a limit!" a voice struck in--a voice as angry as
The McMurrough's, but vibrating to a purer note of passion; so that the
indignation which it expressed seemed to raise the opposition to
Colonel John's action to a higher plane. "There is a limit, Colonel
Sullivan!" Flavia repeated, stepping from the foot of the stairs, on
the upper flight of which--drawn from her room by the first
outburst--she had heard the whole. "And it has been reached! It has
been reached when the head of The McMurroughs of Morristown is told on
his own hearth whom he shall receive and whom he shall put to the door!
Limit is it? Let me tell you, sir, I would rather be the poorest exile
than live thus. I would rather beg my bread barefoot among strangers,
never to see the sod again, never to hear the friendly Irish tongue,
never to smell, the peat reek, than live on this tenure, at the mercy
of a hand I loathe, on the sufferance of a man I despise, of an
informer, a traitor, ay, an apostate----"

"Flavia! Flavia!" Colonel John's remonstrance was full of pain.

"Ah, don't call me that!" she rejoined passionately. "Don't make me
hate my own name! Better a hundred times an open foe----"

"Have I ever been anything but an open foe?" he returned. "On this
point at any rate?"

She swept the remonstrance by. "Better," she cried vehemently, "far
better a fate we know, a lot we understand; far better freedom and
poverty, than to live thus--yesterday a laughing-stock, to-day slaves;
yesterday false to our vows, to-day false to our friends! Oh, there
must be an end! There----"

She choked on the word, and her distress moved Asgill to do a strange
thing. He had listened to her with an admiration that for the time
purified the man, lifted him above selfishness, put the desire to
triumph far from him. Now he stepped forward. "I would rather never
cross this threshold again," he cried; "never, ay, believe me, I would
rather never see you again, than give you this pain! I go, dear lady, I
go! And do not let one thought of me trouble or distress you! Let this
gentleman have his way. I do not understand. I do not ask to
understand, how he holds you, or constrains you. But I shall be
silent."

He seemed to the onlookers as much raised above himself as Colonel John
seemed depressed below himself. There could be no doubt with whom the
victory lay: with whom the magnanimity. Asgill stood erect, almost
beatified, a Saint George, a knight of chivalry. Colonel Sullivan
showed smaller to the eye, stood bowed and grey-faced, a man beaten and
visibly beaten.

But as Asgill turned on his heel Flavia found her voice. "Do not go!"
she cried impulsively. "There must be an end! There must be an end of
this!"

But Asgill insisted. He saw that to go, to submit himself to the sway
against which she revolted was to impress himself upon her mind, was to
commend himself to her a hundred times more seriously than if he
stayed. And he persisted. "No," he said; "permit me to go." He stepped
forward and, with a grace borrowed for the occasion, and with lips that
trembled at his daring, he raised and kissed her hand. "Permit me to
go, dear lady. I would rather banish myself a hundred times than bring
ill into this house or differences into this family."

"Flavia!" Colonel Sullivan said, finding his voice at last, "hear
first, I am begging you, what I have to say! Hear it, since against my
will the matter has been brought to your knowledge."

"That last I can believe!" she cried spitefully. "But for hearing, I
choose the part this gentleman has chosen--to go from your presence.
What?" looking at the Colonel with white cheeks and flaming
eyes--Asgill had turned to go from the room--"has it come to this? That
we must seek your leave to live, to breathe, to have a guest, to eat
and sleep, and perhaps to die? Then I say--then I say, if this be so,
we have no choice but to go. This is no place for us!"

"Flavia!"

"Ah, do not call me that!" she retorted. "My hope, joy, honour, are in
this house, and you have disgraced it! My brother is a McMurrough, and
what have you made of him? He cowers before your eye! He has no will
but yours! He is as good as dumb--before his master! You flog us like
children, but you forget that we are grown, and that it is more than
the body that smarts. It is shame we feel--shame so bitter that if a
look could lay you dead at my feet, though it cost us all, though it
left us beggared, I would look it joyfully--were I alone! But you,
cowardly interloper, a schemer living on our impotence, walk on and
trample upon us----"

"Enough," Colonel Sullivan cried, intolerable pain in his voice. "You
win! You have a heart harder than the millstone, more set than ice! I
call you to witness I have struggled hard, I have struggled hard,
girl----"

"For the mastery," she cried venomously. "And for your master, the
devil!"

"No," he replied, more quietly. "I think for God. If I was wrong, may
He forgive me!"

"I never will!" she protested.

"I shall not ask for your forgiveness," he retorted. He looked at her
silently, and then, in an altered tone, "The more," he said, "as my
mind is changed again. Ay, thank God, changed again. A minute ago I was
weak; now I am strong, and I will do my duty as I have set myself to do
it. When I came here I came to be a peacemaker, I came to save the
great from his folly and the poor from his ignorance, to shield the
house of my fathers from ruin and my kin from the gaol and the gibbet.
And I stand here still, and I shall persist--I shall persist."

"You will?" she exclaimed.

"I shall! I shall remain and persist."

Passion choked her. She could not find words. After all she had said he
would persist. He was not to be moved--he would persist. He would still
trample upon them, still be master. The house was no longer theirs, nor
was anything theirs. They were to have no life, no will, no
freedom--while he lived. Ah, while he lived. She made an odd gesture
with her hands, and turned and went up the stairs, leaving him master
of the field. The worse for him! The worse, the worse, the worse for
him!




CHAPTER XVIII

A COUNTERPLOT


Luke Asgill rode slowly from the gates, not without a backward glance
that raked the house. The McMurrough walked by his stirrup, talking
rapidly--he, too, with furtive backward glances. In five minutes he had
explained the situation and the Colonel's vantage ground. At the end of
those minutes, and when they were at some distance from the house, "I
see," Asgill said thoughtfully. "Easy to put him under the sod! But
you're thinking him worse dead than alive."

"Sorra a doubt of it!"

"Yet the bogs are deep," Asgill returned, his tone smacking faintly of
raillery. "You might deal with him first, and his heir when the time
came. Why not?"

"God knows!" James answered. "And I've no taste to make the trial." He
did not name the oath he had taken to attempt nothing against Colonel
John, nor to be a party to any attempt. He had slurred over that
episode. He had dwelt in preference on the fact of the will and the
dilemma in which it placed him.

Asgill looked for some moments between his horse's ears, flicking his
foot the while with his switch. When he spoke he proved in three or
four sentences that if his will was the stronger, his cunning was also
the more subtle. "A will is revocable," he said. "Eh?"

"It is."

"And the man that's made one may make another?"

"Who's doubting it?"

"But you're doubting," Asgill rejoined--and he laughed as he
spoke--"that it would not be in your favour, my lad."

"Devil a bit do I doubt it!" James said.

"No, but in a minute you will," Asgill answered. And stooping from his
saddle--after he had assured himself that his groom was out of
earshot--he talked for some minutes in a low tone. When he raised his
head again he clapped The McMurrough on the shoulder. "There!" he said,
"now won't that be doing the trick for you?"

"It's clever," James answered, with a cruel gleam in his eyes. "It is
d--d clever! The old devil himself couldn't be beating it by the length
of his hoof! But----"

"What's amiss with it?"

"A will's revocable," James said, with a cunning look. "And what he can
do once he can do twice."

"Sorrow a doubt of that, too, if you're innocent enough to let him make
one! But you're not, my lad. No; the will first, and then----" Luke
Asgill did not finish the sentence, but he grinned. "Anything else
amiss with it?" he asked.

"No. But the devil a bit do I see why you bring Flavvy into it?"

"Don't you?"

"I do not."

Asgill drew rein, and by a gesture bade his groom ride on. "No?" he
said. "Well, I'll be telling you. He's an obstinate dog; faith, and
I'll be saying it, as obstinate a dog as ever walked on two legs! And
left to himself, he'd, maybe, take more time and trouble to come to
where we want him than we can spare. But, I'm thinking, James
McMurrough, that he's sweet on your sister!"

The McMurrough stared. The notion had never crossed his mind. "It's
jesting you are?" he said.

"It's the last thing I'd jest about," Asgill answered sombrely. "It is
so; whether she knows it or not, I know it! And so d'you see, my lad,
if she's in this, 'twill do more--take my word for it that know--to
break him down and draw the heart out of him, so that he'll care little
one way or the other, than anything you can do yourself!"

James McMurrough's face, turned upwards to the rider, reflected his
admiration. "If you're in the right," he said, "I'll say it for you,
Asgill, you're the match of the old one for cleverness. But do you
think she'll come to it, the jewel?"

"She will."

James shook his head. "I'm not thinking it," he said.

"Are you not?" Asgill answered, and his face fell and his voice was
anxious. "And why?"

"Sure and why? I'll tell you. It was but a day or two ago I'd a plan of
my own. It was just to swear the plot upon him; swear he'd come off the
Spanish ship, and the rest, d' you see, and get him clapped in Tralee
gaol in my place. More by token, I was coming to you to help in it. But
I thought I'd need the girl to swear to it, and when I up and told her
she was like a hen you'd take the chickens from!"

Asgill was silent for a moment. Then, "You asked her to do that?" he
said, in an odd tone.

"Just so."

"And you're wondering she didn't do it?"

"I am."

"And I'm thanking God she'd not be doing it!" Asgill retorted.

"Oh!" James exclaimed. "You're mighty particular all in a minute, Mr.
Asgill. But if not that, why this. Eh? Why this?"

"For a reason you'd not be understanding," Asgill answered coolly. "But
I know it myself in my bones. She'll do this if she's handled. But
there's a man that'll not be doing it at all, at all, and that's Ulick
Sullivan. You'll have to be rid of him for a time, and how I'm not
saying."

"I'll be planning that."

"Well, make no mistake about it. He must not get wind of this."

"Ain't I knowing it?" James returned restively. He had been snubbed,
and he was sore.

"Well, there was a thing you were not knowing," Asgill retorted, with a
look which it was fortunate that the other did not see. "And still
there's a thing you've not thought of, my lad. It's only to a
Protestant he can leave it, and you must have one ready. Now if I----"

"No!" James cried, with sudden energy. And he drew back a step, and
looked the other in the face. "No, Mr. Asgill," he continued; "if it is
to that you've been working, I'd as soon him as you! Ay, by G----d, I
would! I'd sooner turn myself!"

"I can believe that."

"A hundred times sooner!" James repeated. "And what for not? What's to
prevent me? Eh? What's to prevent me?"

"Your sister," Asgill answered.

James's face, which had flamed with passion, lost its colour.

"Your sister," Asgill repeated with gusto. "I'd like fine to see you
asking her to help you turn Protestant! Faith, and, for a mere word of
that same, I'll warrant she'd treat you as the old gentleman treated
you!"

"Anyway, I'll not trust you," James replied, with venom. "Sooner than
that I'll have--ay, that will do finely--I'll have Constantine Hussey
of Duppa. He's holder for three or four already, and the whole country
calls him honest! I'll have him and be safe."

"You'll do as you please about that," Asgill answered equably. If he
felt any chagrin, he hid it well. "And that being settled, I wish you
luck. Only, mind you, I don't use my wits for nothing. If the estate's
to be yours, Flavia's to be mine--if she's willing."

"Willing or unwilling for what I care!" James answered brutally.

Asgill did not hide his scorn. "An excellent brother!" he said. "And
so, good-day to you. But have a care of old Ulick."

"Do you think I'm a fool?" James shouted after him.

It was well, perhaps, that the wind carried Asgill's answer across the
water and wasted it on the dusk, which presently swallowed his
retreating form. The McMurrough stood awhile where the other had left
him. He watched the rider go, and twice he shook his fist after him.

"Marry my sister, you dog," he muttered. "Ay, if it will give me my
place again! But for helping you to the land first and to her
afterwards, as you'd have me, you schemer, you bog-trotter, it would
make Tophet's dog sick! You d----d dirty son of an upstart! You'd marry
my sister, would you? It will be odd"--he paused--"if I don't jink you
yet, when I've made my use of you! I'm a schemer too, Mister Asgill,
only--one at a time, one at a time! The Colonel first, and you
afterwards! Ay, you afterwards, brother-in-law!"

With a last gesture of defiance--Asgill had long passed out of
sight--he returned to the house.

It was two or three days after this interview that Colonel Sullivan,
descending at the breakfast hour, found Flavia in the room. He saw her
with surprise; with greater surprise he saw that she remained, for
during those three days the girl had not sat at meals with him. Once or
twice his entrance had surprised her, but it had been the signal for
her departure; and he had seen no more of her than the back of her head
or the tail of her gown. More often he had found the men alone and had
sat down with them. Far from resenting this avoidance, he had found it
natural and even proper; and suffering it patiently, he had hoped,
though almost against hope, that steering a steady course he would
gradually force her to change her opinion of him. He, on his part, must
not give way. He had saved the house from a great peril; he had cleared
it of--vermin. As he had begun he must continue, and hug, for comfort,
the old proverb, _Femme souvent varie_.

That she was already beginning to change he could scarcely hope; yet,
when he saw on this morning that she meant to abide his coming, he was
elated--secretly and absurdly elated.

She was at the window, but she turned on hearing his step. "I am
wishing to speak to you," she said. But her unforgiving eyes looked out
of a hard-cut face, and her figure was stiff as a sergeant's cane.

After that he did not try to compass a commonplace greeting. He bowed
gravely. "I am ready to listen," he answered.

"I am wanting to give you a warning," she said. "Your man Bale--I have
no reason to wish him ill. But he does not share the immunity which you
have secured, and if you'll be taking my advice you will send him away.
My uncle is riding as far as Mallow; he will be absent ten days. If you
think fit, you will allow your man to go with him. The interval
may"--she halted as if in search of a word, but her eyes did not leave
his--"I do not say it will, but it may mend matters."

"I am obliged to you," he answered. Then he was silent, reflecting.

"You are not wishing," she said, with a touch of contempt, "to expose
the man to a risk you do not run yourself?"

"Heaven forbid!" he answered. "But----"

"If you think he is a protection to you," she continued in the same
tone, "do not send him."

"He is not that," he replied, unmoved by her taunt. "But I am alone,
and he is a comfort to me."

"As you please," she answered.

"Nevertheless he shall go," he continued. "It may be for the best." He
was thinking that if he rejected this overture, she might make no
other: and, hard as it would prove to persuade Bale to leave him, he
must undertake it. "In any case," he added, "I thank you."

She did not deign to answer, but she turned on her heel and went out.
On the threshold she met a serving-boy and she paused an instant, and
the Colonel caught a momentary glimpse of her face. It wore a strange
look, of disgust or of horror--he was not sure which--that appalled
him; so that when the door closed upon her, he remained gazing at it.
Had he misread the look? Or--what was its meaning? Could it be that she
hated him to that degree! At once the elation which the interview and
her thoughtfulness for Bale had roused in him sank; and he was in a
brown study when Uncle Ulick, the only person, Bale excepted, to whom
he could look for support or sympathy, came in and confirmed the story
of his journey.

"You had better come with me," he said, with a meaning look at James
and the O'Beirnes, who talked with averted faces, turned their
shoulders on their elders and flouted the Colonel as far as they dared.
"I shall lie at Tralee one night, and at Ross Castle one night, and at
Mallow the third."

But Colonel John had set his course, and was resolved to abide by it.
After breakfast he saw Bale, and he had the trouble with him which he
had foreseen. But in the end military obedience prevailed and the man
consented to go--with forebodings at which his master affected to
smile.

"None the less I misdoubt them," the man said, sticking to his point
with the east-country doggedness, which is the antipodes of the Irish
character. "I misdoubt them, your honour. They were never so careful
for me," he added grimly, "when they were for piking me in the bog!"

"The young lady had naught to do with that," Colonel John replied.

"D----n me if I know!"

"Nonsense, man!" the Colonel said sharply. "I'll not hear such words."

"But why separate us, your honour?" Bale pleaded. "Not for good, I
swear. No, not for good!"

"For your greater safety, I hope."

"Oh, ay, I understand that! But what of your honour's?"

"I have explained to you," the Colonel said patiently, "why I am safe
here."

"For my part, and that's flat, I hate their soft sawder!" the man burst
out. "It's everything to please you while they sharpen the pike to
stick in your back. If old Oliver, that was a countryman of my own, and
bred not so far off, had dealt with a few more of the rogues----"

"Hush!" Colonel John cried sternly. "And, for my sake, keep your tongue
between your teeth. Have done with such talk, or you'll not be safe, go
or stay; Be more prudent, man!"

"It's my belief I'll never see your honour again!" the man cried, with
passion. "That's my belief! That's my belief and you'll not stir it."

"We've parted before in worse hap," Colonel John answered, "and come
together again. And, please God, we'll do the same this time."

The man did not answer, but he shook his head obstinately. For the rest
of the day he clung to his master like a burr, and it was with an
unusual sinking of the heart that Colonel John saw him ride away on the
morrow. With him went Uncle Ulick, the Colonel's other friend in the
house; and certainly the departure of these two seemed unlucky, if it
was nothing worse. But the man who was left behind was not one to give
way to vain fears. He thrust down the rising doubt, and chid himself
for a presentiment that belittled Providence. Perhaps in the depths of
his heart, he welcomed a change, finding cheer in the thought that the
smaller the household at Morristown, the more prominently, and
therefore the more fairly, he must stand in Flavia's view.

Be that as it might, he saw nothing of her on that day or the following
day. But though she shunned him, others did not. He began to remark
that he was seldom alone, even in the house. James and the O'Beirnes
were always at his elbow--watching, watching, watching, it seemed to
him. They said little, and what they said they whispered to one another
in corners; but if he came out of his chamber, he found one in the
passage, and if he mounted to it, one forewent him! This dogging, these
whisperings, this endless watching, would have got on the nerves of a
more timid man; it began to disturb him. He began to fancy that even
Darby and the serving-boys looked askance at him and kept him in view.
Once he took a notion that the butler, who had been friendly within
limits--for the sake of that father who had met his man in Tralee
churchyard--wished to say something to him. But at the critical moment
Morty O'Beirne popped up from somewhere, and Darby sneaked off in
silence.

The Colonel disdained to ask what was afoot, but he thought that he
would give Morty a chance of speaking. "Are you looking for your
brother?" he asked suavely.

"I am not," Morty answered, with a gloomy look.

"Nor for The McMurrough?"

"I am not. I am thinking," he added, with a grin, "that he has his
hands full with the young lady."

Colonel John was somewhat startled. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, two minds in a house. Sorrow a bit more than that. It's no very
new thing in a family," Morty added. And he went out whistling "'Twas
a' for our rightful King." But he went, as the Colonel noted, no
farther than the courtyard, whence he could command the room through
the window. He lounged there, whistling, and now and again peeping.

Suddenly, on the upper floor, Colonel John heard a door open, and the
clamour of a voice raised in anger. It was James's voice. "Tell him?
Curse me if you shall!" Colonel John heard him say. The next moment the
door was sharply closed and he caught no more.

But he had heard enough to quicken his pulses. What was it she wished
to tell him? _Souvent femme varie?_ Was she already seeking to follow
up the hint which she had given him on Bale's behalf? And was the
special surveillance to which he had been subjected for the last two
days aimed at keeping them apart, that she might have no opportunity of
telling him--something?

Colonel John suspected that this might be so. And his heart beat, as
has been hinted, more quickly. At the evening meal he was early in the
room, on the chance that she might appear before the others. But she
did not descend, and the meal proved unpleasant beyond the ordinary,
James drinking more than was good for him, and taking a tone, brutal
and churlish, if not positively hostile. For some reason, the Colonel
reflected, the young man was beginning to lose his fears. Why? What was
he planning? How was he, even if he had no respect for his oath,
thinking to evade that dilemma which ensured his guest's safety?

"Secure as I seem, I must look to myself," Colonel John thought. And he
slept that night with his door bolted and a loaded pistol under his
pillow. Next morning he took care to descend early, on the chance of
seeing Flavia before the others appeared. She was not down: he waited,
and she did not come. But neither did his watchers; and when he had
been in the room five minutes a serving-girl slipped in at the back,
showed him a scared face, held out a scrap of paper and, when he had
taken it, fled in a panic and without a spoken word.

He hid the paper about him and read it later. The message was in
Flavia's hand; he had seen her write more than once. But if he had not,
he knew that neither James nor the O'Beirnes were capable of penning a
grammatical sentence. Colonel John's spirits rose as he read the note.

    "_Be at the old Tower an hour after sunset. You must not be
    followed._"

"That is more easily said than done," he commented.

Nor, if he were followed through the day as closely as on previous
days, did he see how it was to be done. He stood, cudgelling his brains
to evolve a plan that would enable him to give the slip to the three
men and to the servants who replaced them when they were called away.
But he found none that might not, by awakening James's suspicions, make
matters worse; indeed, it seemed to him that James was already
suspicious. He had at last to let things take their course, in the hope
that when the time came they would shape themselves favourably.

They did. For before noon he gathered that James wanted to go fishing.
The O'Beirnes also wanted to go fishing, and for the general
convenience it became him to go with them. He said neither No nor Yes;
but he dallied with the idea until it was time to start and they had
made up their minds that he was coming. Then he declined.

James swore, the O'Beirnes scowled at him and grumbled. Presently the
three went outside and held a conference. His hopes rose as he sat
smiling to himself, for their next step was to call Darby. Evidently
they gave him orders and left him in charge, for a few minutes later
they went off, spending their anger on one another, and on the barefoot
gossoons who carried the tackle.

Late in the afternoon Colonel John took up his position on the
horse-block by the entrance-gates, where the June sun fell on him;
there he affected to be busy plaiting horse-hair lines. Every two or
three minutes Darby showed himself at the door: once in a quarter of an
hour the old man found occasion to cross the court to count the ducks
or rout a trespassing beggar. Towards sunset, however, he came less
often, having to busy himself with the evening meal. The Colonel smiled
and waited, and presently the butler came again, found him still seated
there, and withdrew--this time with an air of finality. "He's
satisfied," the Colonel muttered, and the next moment--for the sun had
already set a full hour--he was gone also. The light was waning fast,
night was falling in the valley. Before he had travelled a hundred
yards he was lost to view.

The fishing-party had started the contrary way, so that he had nothing
to fear from them. But that he might omit no precaution, when he had
gone a quarter of a mile he halted and listened, with his ear near the
ground, for the beat of pursuing footsteps. He heard none, nor any
sounds but the low of a cow whose calf was being weaned, the "Whoo!
hoo! hoo!" of owls beginning to mouse beside the lake, and the creak of
oars in a boat which darkness already hid. He straightened himself with
a sigh of relief, and hastened at speed in the direction of the
waterfall.

He gave Flavia credit for all the virtues, if for some of the faults of
a proud, untamed nature. Therefore he believed her to be fearless.
Nevertheless, before he stood on the platform and made out the shape of
the Tower looming dark and huge above him, he had come to the
conclusion that the need which forced her to such a place at such an
hour must be great. The moon would not rise before eleven o'clock, the
last shimmer of the water had faded into unfathomable blackness beneath
him; he had to tread softly and with care to avoid the brink.

He peered about him, hoping to see her figure emerge beside him. He did
not, and, disappointed, he coughed. Finally, in a subdued voice, he
called her by name, once and twice. Alas! only the wind, softly
stirring the grass and whispering in the ivy, answered him. He was
beginning to think--with a chill of disappointment, excessive at his
age and in the circumstances--that she had failed to come, when, at no
great distance before him, he fancied some one moved. He groped his way
forward half a dozen paces, found a light break on his view, and stood
in astonishment.

The movement had carried him beyond the face of the Tower, and so
revealed the light, which issued from a doorway situate in the flank of
the building. He paused; but second thoughts, treading on the heels of
surprise, reassured him. He saw that in that position the light was not
visible from the lake or the house; and he moved quickly to the open
door, expecting to see Flavia. Three steps led down to the basement
room of the Tower; great was his surprise when he saw below him in this
remote, abandoned building--in this room three feet below the level of
the soil--a table set handsomely with four lighted candles in tall
sticks, and furnished besides with a silver inkhorn, pens, and paper.
Beside the table stood a couple of chairs and a stool. Doubtless there
was other furniture in the room, but in his astonishment he saw only
these.

He uttered an exclamation, and descended the steps. "Flavia!" he cried.
"Flavia!" He did not see her, and he moved a pace towards that part of
the room which the door hid from him.

Crash! The door fell to, dragged by an unseen hand. Colonel John sprang
towards it; but too late. He heard the grating of a rusty key turned in
the lock; he heard through one of the loopholes the sound of an inhuman
laugh; and he knew that he was a prisoner. In that moment the cold air
of the vault struck a chill to his bones; but it struck not so cold nor
so death-like as the knowledge struck to his heart that Flavia had
duped him. Yes, on the instant, before the crash of the closing door
had ceased to echo in the stone vaulting above him, he knew that, he
felt that! She had tricked him. She had deceived him. He let his chin
sink on his breast. Oh, the pity of it!




CHAPTER XIX

PEINE FORTE ET DURE


For many minutes, fifteen, twenty perhaps, Colonel John sat motionless
in the chair into which he had sunk, his eyes fixed on the flames of
the candles that, so still was the night, burned steadily upwards. His
unwinking gaze created about each tongue of flame strange effects of
vapour, halo-like circles that widened and again contracted, colours
that came and went. But he saw these things with his eyes without
seeing them with his mind. It was not of them, it was not of the
death-cold room about him, in which the table and chairs formed a
lighted oasis out of character with the earthen floor, the rough walls,
and the vaulted roof--it was not of anything within sight he was
thinking; but of Flavia!

Of Flavia, who had deceived him, duped him, cajoled him. Who, for all
he knew--and he thought it likely--had got rid of Uncle Ulick. Who had
certainly got rid of Bale by playing on his feeling for the man. Who,
by affecting a quarrel with her brother, had thrown him off his guard,
and won his confidence, only to betray it. Who, having lured him
thither, had laughed--had laughed! Deep sighs broke at long intervals
from Colonel John's breast as he thought of her treachery. It cut him
to the heart. He looked years older as he sat and pondered.

At length, with a sigh drawn from his very soul, he roused himself,
and, taking a candle, he made the round of the chamber. The door by
which he had entered was the only outlet, and it was of stout oak,
clamped with iron, and locked. For windows, a pair of loopholes, slits
so narrow that on the brightest day the room must be twilit, pierced
the wall towards the lake. If the room had not been used of old as a
prison, it made an admirable one; for the ancient walls were two feet
thick, and the groined roof was out of reach, and of stone, hard as the
weathering of centuries had left it. But not so hard, not so cruel as
her heart! Flavia! The word almost came from his lips in a cry of pain.

Yet what was her purpose? He had been lured hither; but why? He tried
to shake off the depression which weighed on him, and to think. His
eyes fell on the table; he reflected that the answer would doubtless be
found among the papers that lay on it. He sat down in the chair which
was set before it, and he took up the first sheet that came to hand, a
note of a dozen lines in her handwriting--alas! in her handwriting.

    "SIR," so it ran,--

    "You have betrayed us; and, were that all, I'd still be finding it
    in my heart to forgive you. But you have betrayed also our Country,
    our King, and our Faith; and for this it's not with me it lies to
    pardon. Over and above, you have thought to hold us in a web that
    would make you safe at once in your life and your person; but you
    are meshed in your turn, and will fare as you can, without water,
    food, or fire, until you have signed and sealed the grant which
    lies beside this paper. We're not unmerciful; and one will visit
    you once in twenty-four hours until he has it under your hand, when
    he will witness it. That done, you will go where you please; and
    Heaven forgive you. I, who write this, am, though unjustly, the
    owner of that you grant, and you do no wrong.

    "FLAVIA MCMURROUGH."

He read the letter with a mixture of emotions. Beside it lay a deed,
engrossed on parchment, which purported to grant all that he held under
the will of the late Sir Michael McMurrough to and for the sole use of
Constantine Hussey, Esquire, of Duppa. But annexed to the deed was a
separate scroll, illegal but not unusual in Ireland at that day,
stating that the true meaning was that the lands should be held by
Constantine Hussey for the use of The McMurrough, who, as a Roman
Catholic, was not capable of taking in his own name.

Fully, only too fully, enlightened by Flavia's letter, Colonel John
barely glanced at the parchments; for, largely as these, with their
waxen discs, prepared to receive the impress of the signet on his
finger, bulked on the table, the gist of all lay in the letter. He had
fallen into a trap--a trap as cold, cruel, heartless as the bosom of
her who had decoyed him hither. Without food or water! And already the
chill of the earthen floor was eating into his bones, already the damp
of a hundred years was creeping over him.

For the moment he lacked the spirit to rise and contend by movement
against the one or the other. He sat gazing at the paper with dull
eyes. For, after all, whose interests had he upheld? Whose cause had he
supported against James McMurrough and his friends? For whose sake had
he declared himself master at Morristown, with no intention, no
thought, as Heaven was his witness, of deriving one jot or one tittle
of advantage for himself? Flavia's! Always Flavia's! And she had penned
this! she had planned this! She had consigned him to this, playing to
its crafty end the farce that had blinded him!

His mind, as he sat brooding, travelled back to the beginning of it
all; to the day on which Sir Michael's letter, with a copy of his will,
had reached his hands, at Stralsund on the Baltic, in his quarters
beside the East Gate, in one of those Hanse houses with the tall narrow
fronts which look like nothing so much as the gable-ends of churches.
The cast of his thoughts at the reading rose up before him; the vivid
recollections of his home, his boyhood, his father, which the old man's
writing had evoked, and the firmness with which, touched by the dead
man's confidence, a confidence based wholly on report, he had resolved
to protect the girl's interests. Sir Michael had spoken so plainly of
James as to leave the reader under no delusion about him. Nevertheless,
Colonel John had conceived some pity for him; in a vague way he had
hoped that he might soften things for him when the time came. But that
the old man's confidence should be justified, the young girl's
inheritance secured to her--this had been the purpose in his mind from
first to last.

And this was his reward!

True, that purpose would not have embroiled him with her, strong as was
her love for her brother, if it had not become entwined under the
stress of events with another--with the resolve to pluck her and hers
from the abyss into which they were bent on flinging themselves. It was
that resolution which had done the mischief, and made her his enemy to
this point. But he could not regret that. He could not repent of
that--he who had seen war in all its cruel phases, and fierce
rebellions, and more cruel repressions. Perish--though he perished
himself in this cold prison--perish the thought! For even now some
warmth awoke at his heart, some heat was kindled in him by the
reflection that, whatever befell him, he had saved scores and hundreds
from misery, a countryside from devastation, women and children from
the worst of fates. Many and many a one who cursed his name to-day had
cause, did he know it, to remember him in his prayers. And though he
never saw the sun again, though the grim walls about him proved indeed
his grave, though he never lived to return to the cold lands where he
had made a name and a place for himself, he would at least pass beyond
with full hands, and with the knowledge that for every life he, the
soldier of fortune, had taken, he had saved ten.

He sat an hour, two hours, thinking of this, and of her; and towards
the end less bitterly. For he was just, and could picture the wild,
untutored heart of the girl, bred in solitude, dwelling on the present
wrongs and the past greatness of her race, taking dreams for realities,
and that which lay in cloudland for the possible. Her rough awakening
from those dreams, her disappointment, the fall from the heaven of
fancy to the world as it was, might--he owned it--have driven even a
generous spirit to cruel and heartless lengths. And still he sighed--he
sighed.

At the end of two hours he roused himself perforce. For he was very
cold, and that could only be mended by such exercise as the size of his
prison permitted. He set himself to walk briskly up and down. When he
had taken a few turns, however, he paused with his eyes on the table.
The candles? They would serve him the longer if he burned but one at a
time. He extinguished three. The deed? He might burn it, and so put the
temptation, which he was too wise to despise, out of reach. But he had
noticed in one corner a few half-charred fragments of wood, damp
indeed, but such as might be kindled by coaxing. He would preserve the
deed for the purpose of kindling the wood; and the fire, as his only
luxury, he would postpone until he needed it more sorely. In the end
the table and the chairs--or all but one--should eke out his fuel, and
he would sleep. But not yet.

For he had no desire to die; and with warmth he knew that he could put
up for a long time with the lack of food. Every hour during which he
had the strength and courage to bear up against privation increased his
chances; it was impossible to say what might not happen with time.
Uncle Ulick was due to return in a week--and Bale. Or his gaolers might
relent. Nay, they must relent for their own sakes, if he bore a stout
heart and held out; for until the deed was signed they dared not let
him perish.

That was a good thought. He wondered if it had occurred to them. If it
had, it was plain that they relied on his faint-heartedness, and his
inability to bear the pangs of hunger, even within limits. For they
could put him on the rack, but they dared not push the torment so far
as to endanger his life. With that knowledge, surely with that in his
mind, he could outstay their patience. He must tighten his belt, he
must eke out his fuel, he must bear equably the pangs of appetite;
after all, in comparison with the perils and privations through which
he had passed on the cruel plains of Eastern Europe, and among a
barbarous people, this was a small thing.

Or it would have been a small thing if that profound depression, that
sadness at the heart which had held him motionless so long had not
still sapped his will, undermined his courage, and bowed his head upon
his breast. A small thing! a few hours, a few days even of hunger and
cold and physical privation--no more! But when it was overpast, and he
had suffered and was free, to what could he look forward? What prospect
stretched beyond, save one grey, dull, and sunless, a homeless middle
age, an old age without solace? He was wounded in the house of his
friend, and felt not the pain only, but the sorrow. In a little while
he would remember that, if he had not to take, he had still to give: if
he had not to enjoy, he had still to do. The wounds would heal. Already
shadowy plans rose before him.

Yet for the time--for he was human--he drew small comfort from such
plans. He would walk up and down for a few minutes, then he would sink
into his chair with a stern face, and he would brood. Again, when the
cold struck to his bones, he would sigh, and rise of necessity and pace
again from wall to wall.

His had been a mad fancy, a foolish fancy, a fancy of which--for how
many years rolled between him and the girl, and how many things done,
suffered, seen--he should have known the outcome. But, taking its rise
in the instinct to protect, which their relations justified, it had
mastered him slowly, not so much against his will as without his
knowledge; until he had awakened one day to find himself possessed by a
fancy--a madness, if the term were fitter--the more powerful because he
was no longer young, and in his youth had known passion but once, and
then to his sorrow. By-and-by, for a certainty, the man's sense of
duty, the principles that had ruled him so long--and ruled more men
then than now, for faith was stronger--would assert themselves. And he
would go back to the Baltic lands, the barren, snow-bitten lands of his
prime, a greyer, older, more sombre man--but not an unhappy man.

Something of this he told himself as he paced up and down the gloomy
chamber, while the flame of the candle crept steadily downward, and his
shadow in the vault above grew taller and more grotesque. It must be
midnight; it must be two; it must be three in the morning. The
loopholes, when he stood between them and the candle, were growing
grey; the birds were beginning to chirp. Presently the sun would rise,
and through the narrow windows he would see its beams flashing on the
distant water. But the windows looked north-west, and many hours must
pass before a ray would strike into his dungeon. The candle was
beginning to burn low, and it seemed a pity to light another, with the
daylight peering in. But if he did not, he would lack the means to
light his fire. And he was eager to do without the fire as long as
possible, though already he shivered in the keen morning air. He was
cold now, but he would be colder, he knew, much colder by-and-by, and
his need of the fire would be greater.

From that the time wore wearily on--he was feeling the reaction--to the
breakfast hour. The sun was high now; the birds were singing sweetly in
the rough brakes and brambles about the Tower; far away on the shining
lake, of which only the farther end lay within his sight, three men
were fishing from a boat. He watched them; now and again he caught the
tiny splash as they flung the bait far out. And, so watching, with no
thought or expectation of it, he fell asleep, and slept, for five or
six hours, the sleep of which excitement had cheated him through the
night. In warmth, morning and evening, night and day differed little in
that sunken room. Still the air in it profited a little by the high
sun; and he awoke, not only less weary, but warmer. But, alas! he awoke
also hungry.

He stood up and stretched himself: and, seeing that two-thirds of the
second candle had burned away while he slept, he was thankful that he
had lit it. He tried to put away the visions of hot bacon, cold round,
and sweet brown bread that rose before him; he smiled, indeed,
considering how much more hungry he would be by-and-by, this
evening--and to-morrow. He wondered ruefully how far they would carry
it: and, on that, mind got the better of body, and he forgot his
appetite in a thought more engrossing.

Would she come? Every twenty-four hours, her letter said, a person
would visit him, to learn if his will had yielded to theirs. Would she
be the person? Would she who had so wronged him have the courage to
confront him? And, if she did, how would she carry it off? It was
wonderful with what interest, nay, with what agitation, he dwelt on
this. How would she look? how would she bear herself? how would she
meet his eye? Would the shame she ought to feel make itself seen in her
carriage, or would her looks and her mien match the arrogance of her
letter? Would she shun his gaze, or would she face it without
flinching, with a steady colour and a smiling lip? And, if the latter
were the case, would it be the same when hours and days of fasting had
hollowed his cheeks, and given to his eyes the glare which he had seen
in many a wretched peasant's eyes in those distant lands? Would she
still be able to face that sight without flinching, to view his
sufferings without a qualm, and turn, firm in her cruel purpose, from
the dumb pleading of his hunger?

"God forbid!" he cried. "Ah! God forbid!"

And he prayed that, rather than that, rather than have that last proof
of the hardness of the heart that dwelt in that fair shape, he might
not see her at all. He prayed that, rather than that, she might not
come; though--so weak are men--that she might come, and he might see
how she bore herself, and how she carried off his knowledge of her
treason--was now the one interest he had, the one thought, prospect,
hope that had power to lighten the time, and keep at bay--though noon
was long past, and he had fasted twenty-four hours--the attacks of
hunger!

The thought possessed him to an extraordinary extent. Would she come?
And would he see her? Or, having lured him by that Judas letter into
his enemies' power, would she leave him to be treated as they chose,
while she lay warm and safe in the house which his interference had
saved for her?

Oh! cruel!

Then--for no man was more just than this man, though many surpassed him
in tact--the very barbarity of an action so false and so unwomanly
suggested that, viewed from her side, it must wear another shape. For
even Delilah was a Philistine, and by her perfidy served her country.
What was this girl gaining? Revenge, yes; yet, if they kept faith with
him, and, the deed signed, let him go free, she had not even revenge.
For the rest, she lost by the deed. All that her grandfather had meant
for her passed by it to her brother. To lend herself to stripping
herself was not the part of a selfish woman. Even in her falseness
there was something magnanimous.

He sat drumming on the table with his fingers, and thinking of it. She
had been false to him, treacherous, cruel! But not for her own sake,
not for her private advantage; rather to her hurt. Viewed on that side,
there was something to be said for her.

He was still staring dreamily at the table when a shadow falling on the
table roused him. He lifted his eyes to the nearest loophole, through
which the setting sun had been darting its rays a moment before. Morty
O'Beirne bending almost double--for outside, the arrow-slit was not
more than two feet from the ground--was peering in.

"Ye'll not have changed your quarters, Colonel," he said, in a tone of
raillery which was assumed perhaps to hide a real feeling of shame.
"Sure, you're there, Colonel, safe enough?"

"Yes, I am here," Colonel John answered austerely. He did not leave his
seat at the table.

"And as much at home as a mole in a hill," Morty continued. "And, like
that same blessed little fellow in black velvet that I take my hat off
to, with lashings of time for thinking."

"So much," Colonel John answered, with the same severe look, "that I am
loth to think ill of any. Are you alone, Mr. O'Beirne?"

"Faith, and who'd there be with me?" Morty answered in true Irish
fashion.

"I cannot say. I ask only, Are you alone?"

"Then I am, and that's God's truth," Morty replied, peering
inquisitively into the corners of the gloomy chamber. "More by token I
wish you no worse than just to be doing as you're bid--and faith, it's
but what's right!--and go your way. 'Tis a cold, damp, unchancy place
you've chosen, Colonel," he continued, with a grin; "like nothing in
all the wide world so much as that same molehill. Well, glory be to
God, it can't be said I'm one for talking; but, if you're asking my
advice, you'll be wiser acting first than last, and full than empty!"

"I'm not of that opinion, sir," Colonel John replied, looking at him
with the same stern eyes.

"Then I'm thinking you're not as hungry as I'd be! And not the least
taste in life to stay my stomach for twenty-four hours!"

"It has happened to me before," Colonel John answered.

"You're not for signing, then?"

"I am not."

"Don't be saying that, Colonel!" Morty rejoined. "It's not yet awhile,
you're meaning?"

"Neither now nor ever, God willing," Colonel John answered. "I quote
from yourself, sir. As well say it first as last, and full as empty!"

"Sure, and ye'll be thinking better of it by-and-by, Colonel."

"No."

"Ah, you will," Morty retorted, in that tone which to a mind made up is
worse than a blister. "Sure, ye'll not be so hard-hearted, Colonel, as
to refuse a lady! It's not Kerry-born you are, and say the word 'No'
that easy!"

"Do not deceive yourself, sir," Colonel John answered severely, and
with a darker look. "I shall not give way either to-day or to-morrow."

"Nor the next day?"

"Nor the next day, God willing."

"Not if the lady asks you herself? Come, Colonel."

Colonel John rose sharply from his seat; such patience, as a famished
man has, come to an end.

"Sir," he said, "if this is all you have to say to me, I have your
message, and I prefer to be alone."

Morty grinned at him a moment, then, with an Irish shrug, he gave way.
"As you will," he said.

He withdrew himself suddenly, and the sunset light darted into the room
through the narrow window, dimming the candle's rays. The Colonel heard
him laugh as he strode away across the platform, and down the hill. A
moment and the sounds ceased. He was gone. The Colonel was alone.

Until this time to-morrow! Twenty-four hours. Yes, he must tighten his
belt.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Morty, poking his head this way and that, peering into the chamber as
he had peered yesterday, wished he could see Colonel John's face. But
Colonel John, bending resolutely over the handful of embers that glowed
in an inner angle of the room, showed only his back. Even that Morty
could not see plainly; for the last of the candles had burned out, and
in the chamber, dark in comparison with the open air, the crouching
figure was no more than a shapeless mass obscuring the glow of the
fuel.

Morty shaded his eyes and peered more closely. He was not a sensitive
person, and he was obeying orders. But he was not quite comfortable.

"And that's your last word?" he said slowly. "Come, Colonel dear, ye'll
say something more to that."

"That's my last word to-day," Colonel John answered as slowly, and
without turning his head.

"Honour bright? Won't ye think better of it before I go?"

"I will not."

Morty paused, to tell the truth, in extreme exasperation. He had no
great liking for the part he was playing; but why couldn't the man be
reasonable? "You're sure of it, Colonel," he said.

Colonel John did not answer.

"And I'm to tell her so?" Morty concluded.

Colonel John rose sharply, as if at last the other tried him too far.
"Yes," he said, "tell her that! Or," lowering his voice and his hand,
"do not tell her, as you please. That is my last word, sir! Let me be."

But it was not his last word. For as Morty turned to go, and suffered
the light to fall again through the aperture, the Colonel heard him
speak--in a lower and a different tone. At the same moment, or his eyes
deceived him, a shadow that was not Morty O'Beirne's fell for one
second on the splayed wall inside the window. It was gone as soon as
seen; but Colonel John had seen it, and he sprang to the window.

"Flavia!" he cried. "Flavia!"

He paused to listen, his hand on the wall on either side of the
opening. His face, which had been pinched and haggard a moment before,
was now flushed by the sunset. Then "Flavia!" he repeated, keen appeal
in his voice. "Flavia!"

She did not answer. She was gone. And perhaps it was as well. He
listened for a long time, but in vain; and he told himself again that
it was as well. Why, after all, appeal to her? How, could it avail him?
What good could it do? Slowly he went back to his chair and sat down in
the old attitude over the embers. But his lip quivered.




CHAPTER XX

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR


A little before sunset on that same day--almost precisely indeed at the
moment at which Flavia's shadow darkened the splayed flank of the
window in the Tower--two men stood beside the entrance at Morristown,
whence the one's whip had just chased the beggars. They were staring at
a third, who, seated nonchalantly upon the horse-block, slapped his
boot with his riding switch, and made as poor a show of hiding his
amusement as they of masking their disgust. The man who slapped his leg
and shaped his lips to a silent whistle, was Major Payton of the --th.
The men who looked at him, and cursed the unlucky star which had
brought him thither, were Luke Asgill and The McMurrough.

"Faith, and I should have thought," Asgill said, with a clouded face,
"that my presence here, Major, and I, a Justice----"

"True for you!" Payton said, with a grin.

"Should have been enough by itself, and the least taste more than
enough, to prove the absurdity of the Castle's story."

"True for you again," Payton replied. "And ain't I saying that but for
your presence here, and a friend at court that I'll not name, it's not
your humble servant this gentleman would be entertaining"--he turned to
The McMurrough--"but half a company and a sergeant's guard!"

"I'm allowing it."

"You've no cause to do other."

"Devil a bit I'm denying it," Asgill replied more amicably; and, as far
as he could, he cleared his face. "It's not that you're not welcome.
Not at all, Major! Sure, and I'll answer for it, my friend, The
McMurrough is glad to welcome any English gentleman, much more one of
your reputation."

"Truth, and I am," The McMurrough assented. But he had not Asgill's
self-control, and his sulky tone belied his words.

"Still--I come at an awkward time, perhaps?" Payton answered, looking
with a grin from one to the other.

For the first time it struck him that the suspicions at headquarters
might be well-founded; in that case he had been rash to put his head in
the lion's mouth. For it had been wholly his own notion. Partly to
tease Asgill, whom he did not love the more because he owed him money,
and partly to see the rustic beauty whom, rumour had it, Asgill was
courting in the wilds--a little, too, because life at Tralee was dull,
he had volunteered to do with three or four troopers what otherwise a
half-company would have been sent to do. That he could at the same time
put his creditor under an obligation, and annoy him, had not been the
least part of the temptation; while no one at Tralee believed the story
sent down from Dublin.

He did not credit it even now for more than two seconds. Then common
sense, and his knowledge of Luke Asgill reassured him. "Eh! An awkward
time, perhaps?" he repeated, looking at The McMurrough. "Sorry, I'm
sure, but----"

"I'd have entertained you better, I'm thinking," James McMurrough said,
"if I'd known you were coming before you came."

"Devil a doubt of it!" said Asgill, whose subtle brain had been at
work. "Not that it matters, bedad, for an Irish gentleman will do his
best. And to-morrow Colonel Sullivan, that's more knowledge of the mode
and foreign ways, will be back, and he'll be helping his cousin. More
by token," he added, in a different tone, "you know him of old?"

Payton, who had frowned at the name, reddened at the question. "Is
that," he asked, "the Colonel Sullivan who----"

"Who tried the foils with Lemoine at Tralee?" Asgill cried heartily.
"The same and no other! He is away to-day, but he'll be returning
tomorrow, and he'll be delighted to see you! And by good luck, there
are foils in the house, and he'll pass the time pleasantly with you!
It's he's the hospitable creature!"

Payton was far from pleased. He was anything but anxious to see the man
whose skill had turned the joke against him; and his face betokened his
feelings. Had he foreseen the meeting he would certainly have remained
in Tralee, and left the job to a subaltern. "Hang it!" he exclaimed,
vexed by the recollection, "a fine mess you led me into there, Asgill!"

"I did not know him then," Asgill replied lightly. "And, pho! Take my
word for it, he's no man to bear malice!"

"Malice, begad!" Payton answered, ill-humouredly; "I think it's I----"

"Ah, you are right again, to be sure!" Asgill agreed, laughing
silently. For already he had formed a hope that the guest might be
manoeuvred out of the house on the morrow. Not that he thought Payton
was likely either to discover the Colonel's plight, or to interfere if
he did. But Asgill had another, and a stronger motive for wishing the
intruder away. He knew Payton. He knew the man's arrogance and
insolence, the contempt in which he held the Irish, his view of them as
an inferior race. And he was sure that, if he saw Flavia and fancied
her--and who that saw her would not fancy her?--he was capable of any
rudeness, any outrage; or, if he learned her position in regard to the
estate, he might prove a formidable, if an honourable, competitor. In
either case, to hasten the man's departure, and to induce Flavia to
remain in the background in the meantime, became Asgill's chief aim.

James McMurrough, on the other hand, saw in the unwelcome intruder an
English officer; and, troubled by his guilty conscience, he dreaded
above all things what he might discover. True, the past was past, the
plot spent, the Spanish ship gone. But the Colonel remained, and in
durance. And if by any chance the Englishman stumbled on him, released
him and heard his story, and lived to carry it back to Tralee--the
consequences might be such that a cold sweat broke out on the young
man's brow at the thought of them. To add to his alarm, Payton, whose
mind was secretly occupied with the Colonel, sought to evince his
indifference by changing the subject, and in doing so, hit on one
singularly unfortunate.

"A pretty fair piece of water," he said, rising with an affected yawn,
and pointing over the lake with his riding-switch. "The tower at the
head of it--it's grown too dark to see it--is it inhabited?"

The McMurrough started guiltily. "The tower?" he stammered. Could it be
that the man knew all, and was here to expose him? His heart stood
still, then raced.

"The Major'll be meaning the tower on the rock," Asgill said smoothly,
but with a warning look. "Ah, sure, it'll be used at times, Major, for
a prison, you understand."

"Oh!"

"But we'll be better to be moving inside, I'm thinking," he continued.

Payton assented. He was still brooding on his enemy, the Colonel, and
his probable arrival on the morrow. Curse the man, he was thinking. Why
couldn't he keep out of his way?

"Take the Major in, McMurrough," Asgill said, who on his side was on
tenter-hooks lest Flavia and Morty O'Beirne should arrive from the
Tower. "You'll like to get rid of your boots before supper, Major?" he
went on. "Bid Darby send the Major's man to him, McMurrough; or,
better, I'll be going to the stables myself and I'll be telling him!"

As the others went in, Asgill strolled on this pretext towards the
stables. But when they had passed out of sight he turned and walked
along the lake to meet the girl and her companion. As he walked he had
time to think, and to decide how he might best deal with Flavia, and
how much and what he should tell her. When he met them, therefore--by
this time the night was falling--his first question related to their
errand, and to that which an hour before had been the one
pre-occupation of all their minds.

"Well," he said, "he'll not have yielded yet, I am thinking?"

Dark as it was, the girl averted her face to hide the trouble in her
eyes. She shook her head. "No," she said, "he has not."

"I did not count on it," Asgill replied cheerfully. "But time--time and
hunger and patience--devil a doubt he'll give in presently."

She did not answer, but he fancied--she kept her face averted--that she
shivered.

"While you have been away, something has happened," he continued. After
all, it was perhaps as well, he reflected, that Payton had come. His
coming, even if Flavia did not encounter him, would divert her
thoughts, would suggest an external peril, would prevent her dwelling
too long or too fancifully on that room in the Tower, and on the man
who famished there. She hated the Colonel, Asgill believed. She had
hated him, he was sure. But how long would she continue to hate him in
these circumstances? How long if she learned what were the Colonel's
feelings towards her? "An unwelcome guest has come," he continued
glibly, "and one that'll be giving trouble, I'm fearing."

"A guest?" Flavia repeated in astonishment. She halted. What time for
guests was this? "And unwelcome?" she added. "Who is it?"

"An English officer," Asgill explained, "from Tralee. He is saying that
the Castle has heard something, and has sent him here to look about
him."

Naturally the danger seemed greater to the two than to Asgill, who knew
his man. Words of dismay broke from Flavia and O'Beirne. "From Tralee?"
she cried. "And an English officer? Good heavens! Do you know him?"

"I do," Asgill answered confidently. "And, believe me or no, I can
manage him." He began to appreciate this opportunity of showing himself
the master of the position. "I hold him, like that, not the least doubt
of it; but the less we'll be doing for him the sooner he'll be going,
and the safer we'll be! I would not be so bold as to advise," he
continued diffidently, "but I'm thinking it would be no worse if you
left him to be entertained by the men."

"I will!" she cried, embracing the idea. "Why should I be wanting to
see him?"

"Then I think he'll be ordering his horse to-morrow!"

"I wish he were gone now!" she cried.

"Ah, so do I!" he replied, from his heart.

"I will go in through the garden," she said.

He assented; it was to that point he had been moving. She turned aside,
and for a moment he bent to the temptation to go with her. Since the
day on which he had voluntarily left the house at the Colonel's
dictation he had made progress in her favour. He was sure that he had
come closer to her--that she had begun not only to suffer his company,
but to suffer it willingly. And here, as she passed through the
darkling garden under the solid blackness of the yews, was an
opportunity of making a further advance. She would have to grope her
way, a reason for taking her hand might offer, and--his head grew hot
at the thought.

But he thrust the temptation from him. He knew that it was not only the
stranger's presence that weighed her down, but her recollection of the
man in the Tower and his miserable plight. This was not the time, nor
was she in the mood for such advances; and, putting pressure on
himself, Asgill turned from her, satisfied with what he had done.

As he went on with Morty, he gave him a hint to say as little in
Payton's presence as possible, and to leave the management to him. "I
know the man," he explained, "and where he's weak. I'm for seeing the
back of him as soon as we can, but without noise."

"There's always the bog," grumbled Morty. He did not love Asgill
overmuch, and the interview with the Colonel had left him in a restive
mood.

"And the garrison at Tralee," Asgill rejoined drily, "to ask where he
is! And his troopers to answer the question."

Morty fell back on sullenness, and bade him manage it his own way.
"Only I'll trouble you not to blame me," he added, "if the English
soger finds the Colonel, and ruins us entirely!"

"I'll not," Asgill answered pithily, "if so be you'll hold your
tongue."

So at supper that night Payton looked in vain for the Kerry beauty
whose charms the warmer wits of the mess had more than once painted in
hues rather florid than fit. Lacking her, he found that the
conversation lay wholly between Asgill and himself. Nor did this
surprise him, when he had surmounted his annoyance at the young lady's
absence; for the contempt in which he held the natives disposed him to
expect nothing from them. On the contrary, he found it natural that
these savages should sit silent before a man of the world, and, like
the clowns they were, find nothing to say fit for a gentleman to hear.
Under such circumstances he was not unwilling to pose before them in an
indolent, insolent fashion, to show them what a great person he was,
and to speak of things beyond their ken. Playing this part, he would
have enjoyed himself tolerably--nor the less because now and again he
let his contempt for the company peep from under his complaisance--but
for the obtuseness, or the malice of his friend; who, as if he had only
one man and one idea in his head, let fall with every moment some
mention of Colonel John. Now, it was the happy certainty of the
Colonel's return next day that inspired his eloquence; now, the
pleasure with which the Colonel would meet Payton again; now, the lucky
chance that found a pair of new foils on the window ledge among the
fishing-tackle, the old fowling-pieces, and the ragged copies of
_Armida_ and _The Don_.

"For he's ruined entirely and no one to play with him!" Asgill
continued, a twinkle, which he made no attempt to hide, in his eye. "No
one, I'm meaning, Major, of his sort of force at all! Begad, boys,
you'll see some fine fencing for once! Ye'll think ye've never seen any
before I'm doubting!"

"I'm not sure that I can remain to-morrow," Payton said in a surly
tone. For he began to suspect that Asgill was quizzing him. He noticed
that every time the Justice named Colonel Sullivan, whether he referred
to his return, or exalted his prowess, a sensation, a something that
was almost a physical stir passed round the table. Men looked furtively
at one another, or looked straight before them, as if they were in a
design. If that were so, the design could only be to pit Colonel
Sullivan against him, or in some way to provoke a quarrel between them.
He felt a qualm of distrust and apprehension, for he remembered the
words the Colonel had used in reference to their next meeting; and he
was confirmed in the plan he had already formed--to be gone next day.
But in the meantime his temper moved him to carry the war into the
enemy's country.

"I didn't know," he snarled, taking Asgill up in the middle of a eulogy
of Colonel John's skill, "that he was so great a favourite of yours."

"He was not," Asgill replied drily.

"He is now, it seems!" in the same sneering tone.

"We know him better. Don't we, boys?"

They murmured assent.

"And the lady whose horse I sheltered for you," the Major continued,
spitefully watching for an opening--"confound you, little you thanked
me for it!--she must be still more in his interest than you. And how
does that suit your book?"

Asgill had great self-control, and the Major was not, except where his
malice was roused, a close observer. But the thrust was so unexpected
that on the instant Payton read the other's secret in his eyes--knew
that he loved, and knew that he was jealous. Jealous of Sullivan!
Jealous of the man whom he was for some reason praising. Then why not
jealous of a younger, a more proper, a more fashionable rival? Asgill's
cunningly reared plans began to sink, and even while he answered he
knew it.

"She likes him," he said, "as we all do."

"Some more, some less," Payton answered with a grin.

"Just so," the Irishman returned, controlling himself. "Some more, some
less. And why not, I'm asking."

"I think I must stay over to-morrow," Payton remarked, smiling at the
ceiling. "There must be a good deal to be seen here."

"Ah, there is," Asgill answered in apparent good humour.

"Worth seeing, too, I'll be sworn!" the Englishman replied, smiling
more broadly.

"And that's true, too!" the other rejoined.

He had himself in hand; and it was not from him that the proposal to
break up the party came. The Major it was who at last pleaded fatigue.
Englishmen's heads, he said, were stronger than their stomachs; they
were a match for port but not for claret. "Too much Bordeaux," he
continued, with careless contempt, "gives me the vapours next day. It's
a d--d sour drink, I call it! Here's a health to Methuen and sound
Oporto!"

"You should correct it, Major, with a little cognac," The McMurrough
suggested politely.

"Not to-night; and, by your leave, I'll have my man called and go to
bed."

"It's early," James McMurrough said, playing the host.

"It is, but I'll have my man and go to bed," Payton answered, with true
British obstinacy. "No offence to any gentleman."

"There's none will take it here," Asgill answered. "An Irishman's house
is his guest's castle." But, knowing that Payton liked his glass, he
wondered; until it occurred to him that the other wished to have his
hand steady for the sword-play next day. He meant to stay, then! "Hang
him! Hang him!" he repeated in his mind.

The McMurrough, who had risen, took a light and attended his guest to
his room. Asgill and the O'Beirnes--the smaller folk had withdrawn
earlier--remained seated at the table, the young men scoffing at the
Englishman's weak head, and his stiffness and conceit of himself,
Asgill silent and downcast. His scheme for ridding himself of Payton
had failed; it remained to face the situation. He did not distrust
Flavia; no Englishman, he was sure, would find favour with her. But he
distrusted Payton, his insolence, his violence, and the privileged
position which his duellist's skill gave him. And then there was
Colonel John. If Payton learned what was afoot at the Tower, and saw
his way to make use of it, the worst might happen to all concerned.

He looked up at a touch from Morty, and to his astonishment he saw
Flavia standing at the end of the table. There was a hasty scrambling
to the feet, for the men had not drunk deep, and by all in the house,
except her brother, the girl was treated with respect. After a fashion,
they were to a man in love with her.

"I was thinking," Asgill said, foreseeing trouble, "that you were in
bed and asleep." Her hair was tied back negligently and her dress
half-fastened at the throat.

"I cannot sleep," she answered. And then she stood a moment drumming
with her slender fingers on the table, and the men noticed that she was
unusually pale. "I cannot sleep," she repeated, a tremor in her voice.
"I keep thinking of him. I want some one--to go to him."

"Now?"

"Now!"

"But," Asgill said slowly, "I'm thinking that to do that were to give
him hopes. It were to spoil all. Once in twenty-four hours--that was
agreed, and he was told. And it is not four hours since you were there.
If there is one thing needful, not the least doubt of it!--it is to
leave him thinking that we're meaning it."

He spoke gently and reasonably. But the girl laboured, it was plain,
under a weight of agitation that did not suffer her to reason, much
less to answer him reasonably. She was as one who wakes in the dark
night, with the terror of an evil dream upon him, and cannot for a time
shake it off. "But if he dies?" she cried in a woeful tone. "If he dies
of hunger? Oh, my God, of hunger! What have we done then? I tell you,"
she continued, struggling with overwhelming emotion, "I cannot bear it!
I cannot bear it!" She looked from one to the other as appealing to
each in turn to share her horror, and to act. "It is wicked, it is
wicked!" she continued, in a shriller tone and with a note of defiance
in her voice, "and who will answer for it? Who will answer for it, if
he dies? I, not you! I, who tricked him, who lied to him, who lured him
there!"

For a moment there was a stricken silence in the room. Then, "And what
had he done to you?" Asgill retorted with spirit--for he saw that if he
did not meet her on her own plane she was capable of any act, however
ruinous. "Or, if not to you, to Ireland, to your King, to your Country,
to your hopes?" He flung into his voice all the indignation of which he
was master. "A trick, you say? Was it not by a trick he ruined all? The
fairest prospect, the brightest day that ever dawned for Ireland! The
day of freedom, of liberty, of----"

She twisted her fingers feverishly together. "Yes," she said, "yes!
Yes, but--I can't bear it! I can't! I can't! It is no use talking," she
continued with a violent shudder. "You are here--look!" she pointed to
the table strewn with the remains of the meal, with flasks and glasses
and tall silver-edged horns. "But he is--starving! Starving!" she
repeated, as if the physical pain touched herself.

"You shall go to him to-morrow! Go, yourself!" he replied in a soothing
tone.

"I!" she cried. "Never!"

"Oh, but----" Asgill began, perplexed but not surprised by her
attitude--"But here's your brother," he continued, relieved. "He will
tell you--he'll tell you, I'm sure, that nothing can be so harmful as
to change now. Your sister," he went on, addressing The McMurrough, who
had just descended the stairs, "she's wishing some one will go to the
Colonel, and see if he's down a peg. But I'm telling her----"

"It's folly entirely, you should be telling her!" James McMurrough
replied, curtly and roughly. Intercourse with Payton had not left him
in the best of tempers. "To-morrow at sunset, and not an hour earlier,
he'll be visited. And then it'll be you, Flavvy, that'll speak to him!
What more is it you're wanting?"

"I speak to him?" she cried. "I couldn't!"

"But it'll be you'll have to!" he replied roughly. "Wasn't it so
arranged?"

"I couldn't," she replied, in the same tone of trouble. "Some one
else--if you like!"

"But it's not some one else will do," James retorted.

"But why should I be the one--to go?" she wailed. She had Colonel
John's face before her, haggard, sunken, famished, as, peering into the
gloomy, firelit room, she had seen it that afternoon, ay, and as she
had seen it later against the darkness of her bedroom. "Why should I,"
she repeated, "be the one to go?"

"For a very good reason," her brother retorted with a sneer. And he
looked at Asgill and laughed.

That look, which she saw, and the laugh which went with it, startled
her as a flash of light startles a traveller groping through darkness.
"Why?" she repeated in a different tone. "Why?"

But neither her tone nor Asgill's warning glance put James McMurrough
on his guard; he was in one of his brutal humours. "Why?" he replied.
"Because he's a silly fool, as I'm thinking some others are, and has a
fancy for you, Flavvy! Faith, you're not blind!"--he continued,
forgetting that he had only learned the fact from Asgill a few days
before, and that it was news to the younger men--"and know it, I'll be
sworn, as well as I do! Any way, I've a notion that if you let him see
that there is no one in the house wishes him worse than you, or would
see him starve, the stupid fool, with a lighter heart--I'm thinking it
will be for bringing him down, if anything will!"

She did not answer. And outwardly she was not much moved. But inwardly,
the horror of herself and her part in the matter, which she had felt as
she lay upstairs in the darkness, thinking of the starving man, whelmed
up and choked her. They were using her for this! They were using her
because the man--loved her! Because hard words, cruel treatment,
brutality from her would be ten times more hard, more cruel, more
brutal than from others! Because such treatment at her hands would be
more likely to break his spirit and crush his heart! To what viler use,
to what lower end could a woman be used, or human feeling be
prostituted?

Nor was this all. On the tide of this loathing of herself rose another,
a newer and a stranger feeling. The man loved her. She did not doubt
the statement. Its truth came home to her at once, although, occupied
with other views of him, she had never suspected the fact. And because
it placed him in a different light, because it placed him in a light in
which she had never viewed him before, because it recalled a hundred
things, acts, words on his part which she had barely noted at the time,
but which now took on another aspect, it showed him, too, as one whom
she had never seen. Had he been free at this moment, prosperous,
triumphant, the knowledge that he loved her, that he, her enemy, loved
her, might have revolted her--she might have hated him the more for it.
But now that he lay a prisoner, famished, starving, the fact that he
loved her touched her heart, transfixed her with an almost poignant
feeling, choked her with a rising flood of pity and self-reproach.

"So there you have it, Flavvy!" James cried complacently. "And sure,
you'll not be making a fool of yourself at this time of day!"

She stood as one stunned; looking at him with strange eyes, thinking,
not answering. Asgill, and Asgill only, saw a burning blush dye for an
instant the whiteness of her face. He, and he only, discovered, with
the subtle insight of one who loved, a part of what she was thinking.
He wished James McMurrough in the depth of hell. But it was too late,
or he feared so.

Great was his relief, therefore, when she spoke. "Then you'll not--be
going now?" she said.

"Now?" James retorted contemptuously. "Haven't I told you, you'll go
to-morrow?"

"If I must," she said slowly, "I will--if I must."

"Then what's the good of talking, I'm thinking?" The McMurrough
answered. And he was going on--being in a bullying mood--to say more in
the same strain, when the opportunity was taken from him. One of the
O'Beirnes, who happened to avert his eyes from the girl, discovered
Payton standing at the foot of the stairs. Phelim's exclamation
apprised the others that something was amiss, and they turned.

"I left my snuff-box on the table," Payton said, with a sly grin. How
much he had heard they could not tell. "Ha! there it is! Thank you.
Sorry! Sorry, I am sure! Hope I don't trespass. Will you present me to
your sister, Mr. McMurrough?"

James McMurrough had no option but to do so--looking foolish; while
Luke Asgill stood by with rage in his heart, cursing the evil chance
which had brought Flavia downstairs.

"I assure you," Payton said, bowing low before her, but not so low that
the insolence of his smile was hidden from all, "I think myself happy.
My friend Asgill's picture of you, warmly as he painted it, fell
infinitely--infinitely below the reality!"




CHAPTER XXI

THE KEY


Colonel John rose and walked unsteadily to the window. He rested a hand
on either jamb and looked through it, peering to right and left with
wistful eyes. He detected no one, nothing, no change, no movement, and,
with a groan, he straightened himself. But he still continued to look
out, gazing at the bare sward below the window, at the sparkling sheet
of water beyond and beneath it, at the pitiless blue sky above, in
which the sun was still high, though it had begun to decline.

Presently he grew weary, and went back to his chair. He sat down with
his elbows on his knees and his head between his hands. Again his ears
had deceived him! Again hope had told her flattering tale! How many
more times would he start to his feet, fancying he heard the footstep
that did not fall, calling aloud to those who were not there,
anticipating those who, more hard of heart than the stone walls about
him, more heedless than the pitiless face of nature without, would not
come before the appointed time! And that was hours away, hours of
thirst and hunger, almost intolerable; of patience and waiting, weary
waiting, broken only by such a fancy, born of his weakened senses, as
had just drawn him to the window.

The suffering which is inevitable is more easy to bear than that which
is caused by man. In the latter case the sense that the misery felt may
be ended by so small a thing as another's will; that another may, by
lifting a finger, cut it short, and will not; that to persuade him is
all that is needful--this becomes at the last maddening, intolerable, a
thing to upset the reason, if that other will not be persuaded.

Colonel John was a man sane and well-balanced, and assuredly not one to
despair lightly. But even he had succumbed more than once during the
last twelve hours to gusts of rage, provoked as much by the futility of
his suffering as by the cruelty of his persecutors. After each of these
storms he had laughed, in wonder at himself, had scolded himself and
grown calm. But they had made their mark upon him, they had left his
eyes wilder, his cheeks more hollow; his hand less firm.

He had burned, in fighting the cold of the past night, all that would
burn, except the chair on which he sat; and with the dawn the last
spark of his fire had died out. Notwithstanding those fits of rage he
was not light-headed. He could command his faculties at will, he could
still reflect and plan, marshal the arguments and perfect the reasons
that must convince his foes, that, if they inflicted a lingering death
on him, they did but work their own undoing. But at times he found
himself confounding the present with the past, fancying, for a while,
that he was in a Turkish prison, and turning, under that impression, to
address Bale; or starting from a waking dream of some cold camp in
Russian snows--alas! starting from it only to shiver with that
penetrating, heart-piercing, frightful cold, which was worse to bear
than the gnawing of hunger or the longing of thirst.

He had not eaten for more than seventy hours. But the long privation
which had weakened his limbs and blanched his cheeks, which had even
gone some way towards disordering his senses, had not availed to shake
his will. The possibility of surrender did not occur to him, partly
because he felt sure that James McMurrough would not be so foolish as
to let him die; but partly, also, by reason of a noble stubbornness in
the man, a fixedness that for no pain of death would leave a woman or a
child to perish. More than once Colonel Sullivan had had to make that
choice, amid the horrors of a retreat across famished lands, with
wolves and Cossacks on his skirts; and perhaps the choice then made had
become a habit of the mind. At any rate, whether that were the cause or
no, in this new phase he gave no thought to yielding.

He had sat for some minutes in the attitude of depression, or bodily
weakness, which has, been described, when once more a sound startled
him. He raised his head and turned his eyes, sharpened by hunger, on
the window. But this time, distrusting his senses, he did not rise
until the sound was repeated. Then he faltered to his feet, and once
again went unsteadily to the window, and, leaning a hand on each jamb,
looked out.

At the same moment Flavia looked in. Their eyes met. Their faces were
less than a yard apart.

The girl started back with a low cry, caused either by alarm on finding
him so near her or by horror at the change in his aspect. If the
latter, there was abundant cause. For she had left him hungry, she
found him starving; she had left him haggard, she found him with eyes
unnaturally large, his temples hollow, his lips dry, his chin unshaven.
It was indeed a mask rather than a face, a staring mask of famine, that
looked out of the dusky room at her, and looked not the less pitifully,
not the less wofully, because, as soon as its owner took in her
identity, the mask tried to smile.

"Mother of God!" she whispered. Her face had grown nearly as white as
his. "O Mother of God!" She had imagined nothing like this.

And Colonel John, believing--his throat was so dry that he could not
speak at once--that he read pity as well as horror in her face, felt a
sob rise in his breast. He tried to smile the more bravely for that,
and presently he found his voice, a queer, husky voice.

"You must not leave me--too long," he said. His smile was becoming
ghastly.

She drew in her breath, and averted her face, to hide, he hoped, the
effect of the sight upon her. Or perhaps--for he saw her shudder--she
was mutely calling the sunlit lake on which her eyes rested, the blue
sky, the smiling summer scene, to witness against this foul cruelty,
this dark wickedness.

But it seemed that he deceived himself. For when she turned her face to
him again, though it was still colourless, it was hard and set.

"You must sign," she said. "You must sign the paper."

His parched lips opened, but he did not answer. He was as one struck
dumb.

"You must sign!" she repeated insistently. "Do you hear? You must
sign!"

Still he did not answer; he only looked at her with eyes of infinite
reproach. The pity of it! The pity of it! She, a woman, a girl, whom
compassion should have constrained, whose tender heart should have bled
for him, could see him tortured, could aid in the work, and cry "Sign!"

She could indeed, for she repeated the word--fiercely, feverishly.
"Sign!" she cried. And then, "If you will," she said, "I will give
you--see! See! You shall have this. You shall eat and drink; only sign!
For God's sake, sign what they want, and eat and drink!"

And, with fingers that trembled with haste, she drew from a
hiding-place in her cloak, bread and milk and wine. "See what I have
brought," she continued, holding them before his starting eyes, his
cracking lips, "if you will sign."

He gazed at them, at her, with anguish of the mind as well as of the
body. How he had mistaken her! How he had misread her! Then, with a
groan, "God forgive you!" he cried, "I cannot! I cannot!"

"You will not sign?" she retorted.

"Cannot, and will not!" he said.

"And why? Why will you not?"

On that his patience, sorely tried, gave way; and, swept along by one
of those gusts of rage, he spoke. "Why?" he cried in hoarse accents.
"You ask me why? Because, ungrateful, unwomanly, miserable as you
are--I will not rob you or the dead! Because I will not be false to an
old man's trust! I will not give to the forsworn what was meant for the
innocent--nor sell my honour for a drink of water! Because,"--he
laughed a half-delirious laugh--"there is nothing to sign, nothing! I
have burned your parchments these two days, and if you tempt me two
more days, if you make me suffer twice as much as I have suffered, you
can do nothing! If your heart be as hard as--it is, you can do
nothing!" He held out hands which trembled with passion. "You can do
nothing!" he repeated. "Neither you, who--God forgive you, are no
woman, have no woman's heart, no woman's pity!--nor he who would have
killed me in the bog to gain that which he now starves me to get! But I
foiled him then, as I will foil him to-day, ingrate, perjured,
accursed, as he is, accursed----"

He faltered and was silent, steadying himself by resting one hand
against the wall. For a moment he covered his eyes with the other hand.
Then "God forgive me!" he resumed in a lower tone, "I know not what I
say! God forgive me! And you--Go! for you too--God forgive you--know
not what you do. You do not know what it is to hunger and thirst, or
you would not try me thus! Nor do you know what you were to me, or you
would not try me thus! Yet I ought to remember that--that it is not for
yourself you do it!"

He turned his back on her then, and on the window. He had taken three
steps towards the middle of the room, when she cried, "Wait!"

"Go!" he repeated with a backward gesture of the hand. "Go! and God
forgive you, as I do!"

"Wait!" she cried. "And take them! Oh, take them! Quick!" He turned
about slowly, almost with suspicion. She was holding the food and the
drink through the window, holding them out for him to take. But it
might be another deception. He was not sure, and for a moment a cunning
look gleamed in his eyes, and he took a step in a stealthy fashion
towards the window, as if, were she off her guard, he would snatch them
from her. But she cried again, "Take them! Take them!" with tears in
her voice. "I brought them for you. May God indeed forgive me!"

The craving was so strong upon him that he took them then without a
word, without answering her or thanking her. He turned his back on her,
as soon as he had possessed himself of them, as if he dared not let her
see the desire in his face; and standing thus, he drew the stopper from
the bottle of milk, and drank. He would fain have held the bottle to
his lips until he had drained the last drop: but he controlled himself,
and when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls, he removed it. Then, with
the solemnity of a sacrament, perhaps with the feeling that should
attend one, he broke off three or four small fragments of the bread,
and ate them one by one and slowly--the first with difficulty, the
second more easily, the third with an avidity which he checked only by
a firm effort of the will. "Presently!" he told himself. "Presently!
There is plenty, there is plenty." Yet he allowed himself two more
mouthfuls of bread and another sip of milk--milk that was nectar,
rather than any earthly drink his lips had ever encountered.

At length, with new life running in his veins, and not new life only,
but a pure thankfulness that she had proved herself very woman at the
last, he laid his treasures on the chair, and turned to her. She was
gone.

His face fell. For while he had eaten and drunk he had felt her
presence at his back, and once he was sure that he had heard her sob.
But she was gone. A chill fell upon his spirits. Yet she might not be
gone far. He staggered--for he was not yet steady on his feet--to the
window, and looked to right and left.

She had not gone far. She was lying prone on the sward, her face hidden
on her arms; and it was true that he had heard her sob, for she was
weeping without restraint. The change in him, the evidence of suffering
which she had read in his face, to say nothing of his reproaches, had
done something more than shock her. They had opened her eyes to the
true nature--already dimly seen--of the plan to which she had lent
herself. They had torn the last veil from the selfishness of those with
whom she had acted, their cupidity and their ruthlessness. And they had
shown the man himself in a light so new and startling, that even the
last twenty-four hours had not prepared her for it. The scales of
prejudice which had dimmed her sight fell at length, and wholly, from
her eyes; and, for the first time, she saw him as he was. For the first
time she perceived that, in pursuing the path he had followed, he might
have thought himself right; he might have been moved by a higher motive
than self-interest, he might have been standing for others rather than
for himself. Parts of the passionate rebuke which suffering and
indignation had forced from him remained branded upon her memory; and
she wept in shame, feeling her helplessness, her ignorance, her
inexperience, feeling that she had no longer any sure support or prop.
For how could she trust those who had drawn her into this hideous, this
cruel business? Who, taking advantage at once of her wounded vanity,
and her affection for her brother, had led her to this act, from which
she now shrank in abhorrence?

There was only, of all about her, Uncle Ulick to whom she could turn,
or on whom she could depend. And he, though he would not have stooped
to this, was little better, she knew, than a broken reed. The sense of
her loneliness, the knowledge that those about her used her for their
own ends--and those the most unworthy--overwhelmed her; and in
proportion as she had been proud and self-reliant, was her present
abasement.

When the first passion of self-reproach had spent itself, she heard him
calling her by name, and in a voice that stirred her heart-strings. She
rose, first to her knees and then to her feet, and, averting her face,
"I will open the door," she said, humbly and in a broken voice. "I have
brought the key."

He did not answer, and she did not unlock. For as, still keeping her
face averted that he might not see her tears, she turned the corner of
the Tower to gain the door, her brother's head and shoulders rose above
the level of the platform. As The McMurrough stepped on to the latter
from the path, he was in time to see her skirt vanishing. He saw no
more. But his suspicions were aroused. He strode across the face of the
Tower, turned the corner, and came on her in the act of putting the key
in the lock.

"What are you doing?" he cried, in a terrible voice. "Are you mad?"

She did not answer, but neither did he pause for her answer. The
imminence of the peril, the thought that the man whom he had so deeply
wronged, and who knew him for the perjured thing he was, might in
another minute be free--free to take what steps he pleased, free to
avenge himself and punish his foes, rose up before him, and he thrust
her roughly from the door. The key, not yet turned, came away in her
hand, and he tried to snatch it from her.

"Give it me!" he cried. "Do you hear? Give it me!"

"I will not!" she cried. "No!"

"Give it up, I say!" he retorted. And this time he made good his hold
on her wrist. He tried to force the key from her. "Let it go!" he
panted, "or I shall hurt you!"

But he made a great mistake if he thought that he could coerce Flavia
in that way. Her fingers only closed more tightly on the key. "Never!"
she cried, struggling with him. "Never! I am going to let him out!"

"You coward!" a voice cried through the door. "Coward! Coward!" There
was a sound of drumming on the door.

But Colonel John's voice and his blows were powerless to help, as
James, in a frenzy of rage and alarm, gripped the girl's wrist, and
twisted it. "Let it go! Let it go, you fool!" he cried brutally, "or I
will break your arm!"

Her face turned white with pain, but for a moment she endured in
silence. Then a shriek escaped her.

It was answered instantly. Neither he nor she had had eyes for aught
but one another; and the hand that fell, and fell heavily, on James's
shoulder was as unexpected as a thunderbolt.

"By Heaven, man," a voice cried in his ear. "Are you mad? Or is this
the way you treat women in Kerry? Let the lady go! Let her go, I say!"

The command was needless, for at the first sound of the voice James had
fallen back with a curse, and Flavia, grasping her bruised wrist with
her other hand, reeled for support against the Tower wall. For a moment
no one spoke. Then James, with scarcely a look at Payton--for he it
was--bade her come away with him. "If you are not mad," he growled,
"you'll have a care! You'll have a care, and come away, girl!"

"When I have let him out, I will," she answered, her eyes glowing
sombrely as she nursed her wrist. In her, too, the old Adam had been
raised.

"Give me the key!" he said for the last time.

"I will not," she said. "And if I did--" she continued, with a glance
at Payton that reminded the unhappy McMurrough that, with the secret
known, the key was no longer of use--"if I did, how would it serve
you?"

The McMurrough turned his rage upon the intruder. "Devil take you, what
business will it be of yours?" he cried. "Who are you to come between
us, eh?"

Payton bowed. "If I offend," he said airily, "I am entirely at your
service." He tapped the hilt of his sword. "You do not wear one, but I
have no doubt you can use one. I shall be happy to give you
satisfaction where and when you please. A time and place----"

But James did not stop to hear him out. He turned with an oath and a
snarl, and went off--went off in such a manner that Flavia could not
but see that the challenge was not to his taste. At another time she
would have blushed for him. But his brutal violence had done more
during the last ten minutes to depose his image from her heart than
years of neglect and rudeness.

Payton saw him go, and, blessing the good fortune which had put him in
a position to command the beauty's thanks, he turned to receive them.
But Flavia was not looking at him, was not thinking of him. She had put
the key in the lock and was trying to turn it. Her left wrist, however,
was too weak, and the right was so strained as to be useless. She
signed to him to turn the key, and he did so, and threw open the door,
wondering much who was there and what it was all about.

He did not at once recognise the man who, pale and haggard, a mere
ghost of himself, dragged himself up the three steps, and, exhausted by
the effort, leant against the doorpost. But when Colonel John spoke and
tried to thank the girl, he knew him.

He whistled. "You are Colonel Sullivan!" he said.

"The same, sir!" Colonel John murmured mechanically.

"Are you ill?"

"I am not well," the other replied with a sickly smile. The indignation
which he had felt during the contest between the girl and her brother
had been too much for his strength. "I shall be better presently," he
added. He closed his eyes.

"We should be getting him below," Flavia said in an undertone.

Payton looked from one to the other. He was in a fog. "Has he been here
long?" he asked.

"Nearly four days," she replied, with a shiver.

"And nothing to eat?"

"Nothing."

"The devil! And why?"

She did not stay to think how much it was wise to tell him. In her
repentant mood she was anxious to pour herself out in self-reproach.
"We wanted him to convey some property," she said, "as we wished."

"To your brother?"

"Ah, to him!" Then, seeing his astonishment, "It was mine," she added.

Payton knew that estates were much held in trust in that part, and he
began to understand. He looked at her; but no, he did not understand
now. For if the idea had been to constrain Colonel Sullivan to transfer
her property to her brother, how did her interest match with that? He
could only suppose that her brother had coerced her, and that she had
given him the slip and tried to release the man--with the result he had
witnessed.

One thing was clear. The property, large or small, was still hers. The
Major looked with a thoughtful face at the smiling valley, with its
cabins scattered over the slopes, at the lake and the fishing-boats,
and the rambling slate-roofed house with its sheds and peat-stacks. He
wondered.

No more was said at that moment, however, for Flavia saw that Colonel
Sullivan's strength was not to be revived in an hour. He must be
assisted to the house and cared for there. But in the meantime, and to
lend some strength, she was anxious to give him such wine and food as
he could safely take. To procure these she entered the room in which he
had been confined.

As she cast her eyes round its dismal interior, marked the poor handful
of embers that told of his long struggle with the cold, marked the one
chair which he had saved--for to lie on the floor had been
death--marked the beaten path that led from the chair to the window,
and spoke of many an hour of painful waiting and of hope deferred, she
saw the man in another, a more gentle, a more domestic aspect. She had
seen the heroism, she now saw the pathos of his conduct, and tears came
afresh to her eyes. "For me!" she murmured. "For me! And how had I
treated him!"

Her old grievance against him was forgotten, wiped out of remembrance
by his sufferings. She dwelt only on the treatment she had meted out to
him.

When they had given him to eat and drink he assured them, smiling, that
he could walk. But when he attempted to do so he staggered. "He will
need a stronger arm than yours," Payton said, with a grin. "May I offer
mine?"

For the first time she looked at him gratefully "Thank you," she said.

"I can walk," the Colonel repeated obstinately. "A little giddy, that
is all." But in the end he needed all the help that both could give
him. And so it happened that a few minutes later Luke Asgill, standing
at the entrance to the courtyard, a little anxious indeed, but aware of
no immediate danger, looked along the road, and saw the three
approaching, linked in apparent amity.

The shock was great, for James McMurrough had fled, cursing, into
solitude and the hills, taking no steps to warn his ally. The sight,
thus unforeseen, struck Asgill with the force of a bullet. Colonel John
released, and in the company of Flavia and Payton! All his craft, all
his coolness forsook him. He slunk out of sight by a back way, but not
before Payton had marked his retreat.




CHAPTER XXII

THE SCENE IN THE PASSAGE


Asgill saw himself in the position of a commander whose force has been
outflanked, and who has to decide on the instant how he may best
re-form it on a new front. Flavia and Colonel Sullivan, Flavia and
Payton, Payton and Colonel Sullivan--each of these conjunctions had for
him a separate menace; each threatened either his suit for Flavia, or
his standing in the house through which, and through which alone, he
could hope to win her. In addition, the absence of James McMurrough at
this critical moment left Asgill in the most painful perplexity. If
James knew what had happened, why was he wanting at this moment, when
it behoved them to decide, and to decide quickly, what line they would
take?

Under the shadow of the great peat-stack at the back of the house,
whither he had retired that he might make up his mind before he faced
the three, Asgill bit his nails and cursed The McMurrough with all his
heart, calling him a score of names, each worse than the other. It was,
it must be, through his folly and mismanagement that the thing had
befallen, that the prisoner had been released, that Payton had been let
into the secret. The volley of oaths that flew from Asgill expressed no
more than a tithe of his rage and his bewilderment.

How was he to get rid of Payton? How prevent Colonel John from resuming
that sway in the house which he had exercised before? How nip in the
bud that nascent sympathy, that feeling for him which Flavia's outbreak
the night before had suggested? Or how, short of all this, was he to
face either Payton or the Colonel?

Again a volley of oaths flew from him.

In council with James McMurrough he might have arranged a plan of
action; at least, he would have learned from him what Payton knew. But
James's absence ruined all. In the end, after waiting some time in the
vain hope that he would appear, Asgill went in to supper.

Colonel Sullivan was not there; he was in no condition to descend. Nor
was Flavia; whereon Asgill reflected, with chagrin, that probably she
was attending upon the invalid. Payton was at table, with the two
O'Beirnes, and three other buckeens. The Englishman, amused and
uplifted by the discovery he had made, was openly disdainful of his
companions; while the Irishmen, sullen and suspicious, were not aware
how much he knew, nor all of them how much there was to know. If The
McMurrough chose to imprison his strange and unpopular kinsman, it was
nothing to them; nor a matter into which gentlemen eating at his table
and drinking his potheen and claret were called upon to peer too
closely.

The position was singular; for the English officer, partly by virtue of
his mission and partly by reason of the knowledge he had gained,
carried himself as if he held that ascendency in the house which
Colonel Sullivan had enjoyed--an ascendency, like his, grudged and
precarious, as the men's savage and furtive glances proved. But for his
repute as a duellist they would have picked a quarrel with the visitor
there and then. And but for the presence of his four troopers in the
background they might have fallen upon him in some less regular
fashion. As it was, they sat, eating slowly and eyeing him askance;
and, without shame, were relieved when Asgill entered. They looked to
him to clear up the situation and put the interloper in his right
place. At any rate, the burden was now lifted from their shoulders.

"I'm fearing I'm late," Asgill said, as he took his seat. "Where'll The
McMurrough be, I wonder?"

"Gone to meet your friend, I should think," Payton replied with a
sneer.

Asgill maintained a steady face. "My friend?" he repeated. "Oh, Colonel
Sullivan?"

"Yes, your friend who was to return to-day," the other retorted. "Have
you seen anything of him?" he continued, with a grin.

Asgill fixed his eyes steadily on Payton's face. "I'm fancying you have
the advantage of me," he said. "More by token, I'm thinking, Major, you
have seen that same friend already."

"Maybe I have."

"And had a bout with him?"

"Eh?"

"And, faith, had the best of the bout, too!" Asgill continued coolly,
and with his eyes fixed on the other's features, as if his one aim was
to see if he had hit the mark. "So much the best that I'll be chancing
a guess he's upstairs at this moment, and wounded! Leastwise, I hear
you and the young lady brought him to the house between you, and him
scarcely able to use his ten toes."

Payton, with his mouth open, glared at the speaker in a manner that at
another time must have provoked him to laughter.

"Isn't that the fact?" Asgill asked coldly.

"The fact!" the other burst forth. "No, I'm cursed if it is! And you
know it is not! You know as well as I do----" And with that he poured
forth a version of the events of the afternoon, and of those leading up
to them, which included not only the Colonel's release, but the
treatment to which he had been subjected and the motive for it.

When he had done, "That's a strange story," Asgill said quietly, "if
it's true."

"True?" Payton rejoined, laying his hand on a glass and speaking in a
towering rage. "Damn you, you know it's true!"

"I know nothing about it," Asgill replied, with the utmost coolness.

"Nothing?"

"And for a good reason. Sure, and I'm the last person they would be
likely to tell it to!"

"And you were not a party to it?" Payton cried.

"Why should I be?" Asgill rejoined, calmly cutting a slice of bread.
"What have I to gain by robbing the young lady of her inheritance? I'd
be more likely to lose by it than gain."

"Lose by it? Why?"

"That is my affair," Asgill answered. And he hummed:

    They tried put the comether on Judy McBain:
      One, two, three, one, two, three!
      Cotter and crowder and Paddy O'Hea;
    For who but she's owner of Ballymacshane?

He made his meaning so clear, and pointed it so audaciously before them
all, that Payton, after scowling at him for some seconds with his hand
on a glass as if he meant to throw it, dropped his eyes and his hand
and fell into a gloomy study. He could not but own the weight of the
other's argument. If Asgill was a pretender to the heiress's hand--and
Payton did not doubt this--the last thought in his mind would be to
divest her of her property.

Asgill read his thoughts, and presently, "I hope the wound is not
serious?" he said.

"He is not wounded," the Major answered curtly. A few minutes before he
would have flown out at the other; now he took the thrust quietly. He
was thinking. Meanwhile the O'Beirnes and their fellows grinned their
open-mouthed admiration of the bear-tamer; and by-and-by, concluding
the fun was at an end, they went out one by one, until the two men were
left together.

They sat some way apart, Payton brooding savagely, with his eyes on the
table, Asgill toying with the things before him and from time to time
glancing at the other. Each saw the prize clear before him; each saw
the other in the way and wondered how he could best brush him from it.
Payton cared for the girl herself, only as a toy that had caught his
fancy; but he was sunk in debt, and his mouth watered for her
possessions. Asgill cared, as has been said, little or nothing for the
inheritance, but he swore that the other man should never live to
possess the woman. "It is a pity," Payton meditated, "for, with his
aid, I could take the girl, willing or unwilling. She'd not be the
first Irish girl who has gone to her marriage across the pommel!" While
Asgill reflected that if he could find Payton alone on a dark night it
would not be his small-sword would help him or his four troopers would
find him! But it must not be at Morristown.

Each owned, with reluctance, that the other had advantages. Asgill was
Irish, and known to Flavia, and had come to be favoured by her. But
Payton, though English, was the younger, the handsomer, the better
born, and, in his braggart fashion, the better bred. Both were
Protestants; but if Asgill was the cleverer, Payton was an officer and
a gentleman. The latter flattered himself that, given a little time, he
would win, if not by favour, still by force or fraud. But, could he
have looked into Asgill's heart, he would have trembled, perhaps he
would have drawn back. For he would have known that, while Irish bogs
were deep and Irish pikes were sharp, his life would not be worth one
week's purchase if he wronged this girl. Bad man as Asgill was, his
love was of no common kind, even as the man was no common man.

And he suspected the other; and he shook--ay, so that the table against
which he leant trembled--with rage at the thought that Payton might
offer the girl some rudeness. The suspicion weighed so heavily on him
that he was fixed to see the other to his room that night. When Payton
rose to go, he rose also; and when, by chance, Payton sat down again,
he sat down also, with a look that betrayed his thoughts. At once the
Englishman understood; and thenceforth they sat with frowning faces,
each thinking more intently than before how he might thrust the other
from his path; each more certain, with every moment, that, the other
removed, his path to the goal was clear and open. Neither gave a
thought to Colonel Sullivan, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion upstairs:
Payton, because the Colonel seemed to him a middle-aged man, plain and
grey; and Asgill, because a more immediate and pressing jealousy had
thrust his mistrust of the Colonel from his mind.

There was claret on the table, and the Major, dull and bored, and
resenting the other's vigilance, did not spare it. When he rose to his
feet to retire he was heated and flushed, but not drunk. "Where's that
young cub?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Asgill shrugged his shoulders. "I can't hope to fill his place," he
said with a smooth smile. "But I will be doing the honours as well as I
can.'

"You are d----d officious, it seems to me," Payton growled. And then,
more loudly, "I am going to bed," he said.

"In his absence," Asgill answered, with mock politeness, "I will have
the honour of lighting you."

"You needn't trouble."

"Faith, and it's no trouble at all," Asgill replied in the same tone.
And, taking two of the candles from the table, he preceded the
Englishman up the stairs.

The gradual ascent of the lights and the men's mounting footsteps
should have given Flavia warning of their coming. But either she
disdained concealment or she was thinking of other things, for when
they entered the passage beyond the landing they espied the girl
standing, in what had been darkness, outside the Colonel's door. A pang
shot through Asgill's heart, and he drew in his breath.

She raised her hand. "Ah," she said, "he has been crying out! But I
think it was in his sleep. Will you be making as little noise as you
can?"

Asgill did not answer, but Payton did. "Happy man!" he said. And, being
in his cups, he said it in such a tone and with such a look that a deep
blush crimsoned the girl's face.

Her eyes snapped. "Good-night," she said coldly.

Asgill continued to keep silence. Unfortunately Payton did not. "Wish
I'd such a guardian!" he said with a chuckle. "I'd be a happy man
then!" And, without thinking what he did, having Asgill's air in his
head, he hummed, with his head on one side and a grin on his face:

    "They tried put the comether on Judy McBain:
      One, two, three, one, two, three!
      Cotter and crowder and Paddy O'Hea;
    For who but she's owner of Ballymacshane?"

Asgill's face was dark with passion, but "Goodnight" Flavia repeated
coldly. And this time the displeasure in her tone silenced the Major.
The two men went on to their rooms, though Asgill's hands itched to be
at the other's throat. A moment later two doors closed sharply.

Flavia remained in the darkness of the passage, but she no longer
listened--she thought. Presently she went back to her room.

There, when the door had closed upon her, she continued to stand and to
think. And the blush which the Major's insinuation had brought to her
cheek still burned there. It was natural that Payton's words should
direct her thoughts more closely and more intimately to the man outside
whose door he had found her; nor less natural that she should institute
a comparison between the two, should picture the manner of the one and
the manner of the other, should consider how the one had treated her in
an abnormal crisis, when he had held her struggling in his arms, when
in her despair she had beaten his face with her hands, when, after her
attempt on his life, he had subdued her by sheer force; and how the
other had treated her in the few hours he had known her! And so
comparing, she could not but find in the one a nobility, in the other
a--a dreadfulness. For, looking back, and having Payton's words and
manner fresh in her mind, she had to own that, in all his treatment of
her, Colonel Sullivan, while opposing and thwarting her, had still, and
always, respected her.

Strange to say, she could not now understand, much less could she
sustain, that rage against him which had before carried her to such
lengths. What had he done? How had he wronged her? She could find no
sufficing answer. A curtain had fallen between the past and the
present. Long years, it seemed to her, had elapsed, so that she could
now see things in their due proportions and with a clear sight. The
rising? It stood on a sudden very distant, very dim, a thing of the
past, an enterprise lofty and romantic, but hopeless. She supposed that
he had seen it in that light all through, and that for acting on what
he saw she had hated him. The contemptuous words in which he had
denounced it rang again in her ears, but they no longer kindled her
resentment; they convinced. As one recovering from sickness looks back
on the delusions of fever, Flavia reviewed the hopes and aspirations of
the past month. She saw now that it was not in that remote corner, it
was not with such forces as they could command, it was not with a
handful of cotters and peasants, that Ireland could be saved, or the
true faith restored!

She was still standing a pace within her door, and thinking such
thoughts when a foot stumbled heavily on the stairs. She recognised it
for James's footstep--she had heard him stumble on those stairs
before--and she laid her hand on the latch. She had never had a real
quarrel with him until now, and, bitterly as he had disappointed her,
ruthlessly as he had destroyed her illusions about him, outrageously as
he had treated her, she could not bear to sleep without making an
attempt to heal the breach. She opened the door, and stepped out.

James's light was travelling up the stairs, but he had not himself
reached the landing. She had just noted this when a door between her
and the stairs opened, and Payton looked out. He saw her, and, still
flushed with claret, he misunderstood her presence and her purpose. He
stepped towards her.

"Thought so!" he chuckled. "Still listening, eh? Why not listen at my
door? Then it would be a pretty man and a pretty maid. But I've caught
you." He shot out his arm and tried to draw her towards him. "There's
no one to see, and the least you can do is to give me a kiss for a
forfeit!"

The girl recoiled, outraged and angry. But, knowing her brother was at
hand, and seeing in a flash what might happen in the event of a
collision, she did so in silence, hoping to escape before he came upon
them. Unfortunately Payton misread her silence and took her movement
for a show of feigned modesty. With a movement as quick as hers, he
grasped her roughly, dragged her towards him and kissed her.

She screamed then in sheer rage--screamed with such passion and such
unmistakable earnestness that Payton let her go and stepped back with
an oath. As he did so he turned, and the turn brought him face to face
with James McMurrough.

The young man, tipsy and smarting with his wrongs, saw what was before
his eyes--his sister in Payton's arms--but he saw something more. He
saw the man who had thwarted him that day, and whom he had not at the
time dared to beard. What he might have done had he been sober, matters
not. Drink and vindictiveness gave him more than the courage he needed,
and, with a roar of anger, he dashed the glass he was carrying--and its
contents--into Payton's face.

The Englishman dropped where he was, and James stood over him,
swearing, while the grease guttered from the tilted candle in his right
hand. Flavia gasped, and, horror-struck, clutched James's arm as he
lifted the candlestick, and made as if he would beat in the man's
brains.

Fortunately a stronger hand than hers interfered. Asgill dragged the
young man back. "Haven't you done enough?" he cried. "Would you murder
the man, and his troopers in the house?"

"Ah, didn't you see, curse you, he----"

"I know, I know!" Asgill answered hoarsely. "But not now! Not now! Let
him rise if he can! Let him rise, I say! Payton! Major!"

The moment James stood back the fallen man staggered to his feet, and
though the blood was running down his face from a cut on the
cheek-bone, he showed that he was less hurt than startled. "You'll give
me satisfaction for this!" he muttered. "You'll give me satisfaction
for this," he repeated, between his teeth.

"Ah, by G--d, I will!" James McMurrough answered furiously. "And kill
you, too!"

"At eight to-morrow! Do you hear? At eight to-morrow! Not an hour
later!"

"I'll not keep you waiting," James retorted.

Flavia leant almost fainting against her door. She tried to speak,
tried to say something. But her voice failed her.

And Payton's livid, scowling, bleeding face was hate itself. "Behind
the yews in the garden?" he said, disregarding her presence.

"Ah, I'll meet you there!" The McMurrough answered, pot-valiant. "And,
more by token, order your coffin, for you'll need it!" Drink and rage
left no place in his brain for fear.

"That will be seen--to-morrow," the Englishman answered, in a tone that
chilled the girl's marrow. Then, with his kerchief pressed to his cheek
to staunch the blood, he retreated into his room, and slammed the door.
They heard him turn the key in it.

Flavia found her voice. She looked at her brother. "Ah, God!" she
cried. "Why did I open my door?"

James, still pot-valiant, returned her look. "Because you were a fool,
you slut!" he said. "But I'll spit him, never fear! Faith, and I'll
spit him like a fowl!" In his turn he went on unsteadily to his room,
disappeared within it, and closed the door. He took the candle with
him, but from Asgill's open door, and from Flavia's, which stood ajar,
enough light issued to illumine the passage faintly.

Flavia and Asgill remained together. Her eyes met his. "Ah, why did I
open my door?" she cried. "Why did I open my door? Why did I?"

He had no comfort for her. He shook his head, but did not speak.

"He will kill him!" she said.

Asgill reflected in a heavy silence. "I will think what can be done,"
he muttered at last. "I will think! Do you go to bed!"

"To bed?" she cried.

"There is naught to be done to-night," he answered, in a low tone. "If
the troopers were not with him--then indeed; but that is useless.
And--his door is locked. Do you go to bed, and I will think what we can
do!"

"To save James?" She laid her hand on Asgill's arm, and he quivered.
"Ah, you will save him!" She had forgotten her brother's treatment of
her earlier in the day.

"If I can," he said slowly. His face was damp and very pale. "If I
can," he repeated. "But it will not be easy to save him honourably."

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"He'll save himself, I fancy. But his honour----"

"Ah!" The word came from her in a cry of pain.




CHAPTER XXIII

BEHIND THE YEWS


Under the sky the pale softness of dawn had yielded place to the sun
in his strength--in more poetical words, Aurora had given way to
Phoebus--but within, the passages were still grey and chill, and
silent as though night's ghostly sentinels still walked them, when one
of the bedchamber doors opened and a face peeped out. The face was
Flavia's. The girl was too young, too full of life and vigour, to be
altered by a single sleepless night, but the cold reflection of the
whitewashed walls did that which watching had failed to do. It robbed
her eyes of their brightness, her face of its colour, her hair of its
lustre. She stood an instant, and gazed, frowning, at the doors that,
in a row and all alike, hid nevertheless one a hope, and another a
fear, and a third perhaps a tragedy. But drab, silent, closed, each
within a shadow of its own, they told nothing. Presently the girl
stepped forward--paused, scared by a board that creaked under her naked
foot--then went on again. She stood now at one of the doors, and
scratched on it with her nail.

No one answered the summons, and she pushed the door open and went in.
And, as she had feared, enlightened by Asgill's hint and by what she
had seen of her brother's conduct earlier in the day, she found. James
was awake--wide awake--and sitting up in his bed, his arms clasped
about his knees. His eyes met hers as she entered, and in his eyes, and
in his form, huddled together as in sheer physical pain, she read
beyond all doubt, beyond all mistake--fear. Why she had felt certain,
courageous herself, that this was what she would find, she did not
know. But there it was, as Asgill had foretold it, and as she had
foreseen it, through the long, restless, torturing hours; as she had
seen it, and now denied it, now, with a sick heart, owned its reality.

James tried to utter the oath that, deceiving her, might rid him of her
presence. But his nerves, shaken by his overnight drink, could not
command his voice even for that. His eyes dropped in shame, the
muttered "What the plague will you be wanting at this hour?" was no
more than a querulous whisper.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, avoiding his eyes.

"I, no more," he muttered. "Curse him! Curse him! Curse you, too! Why
were you getting in his way? You've as good as murdered me with your
tricks and your poses!"

"God forbid!" she exclaimed.

"Ah, you have!" he answered, rocking himself to and fro in his
excitement. "If it were any one else, I'm as ready to fight as another!
And why not? But he's killed four men, and he'll kill me! Oh, the
differ, if I'd not come up at that minute! If I'd not come up at that
minute!"

The picture of what he would have escaped had he mounted the stairs a
minute later, of what he had brought on himself by mounting a moment
earlier, was too much for him. Not a thought did he give to what might
have happened to her had he come on the scene later; but, with all his
cowardly soul laid bare, he rocked himself to and fro in a paroxysm of
self-pity.

Yet he did not suffer more sorely, he did not wince more tenderly under
the lash of his own terrors, than Flavia suffered; than she winced,
seeing him thus, seeing at last her idol as he was--the braggadocio
stripped from him, and the poor, cringing creature displayed. If her
pride of race--and the fabled Wicklow kings, of whom she came, were
often in her mind--if that pride needed correction, she had it here. If
she had thought too much of her descent--and the more in proportion as
fortune had straitened the line, and only in this corner of a
downtrodden land was its greatness even a memory--she was chastened for
it now! She suffered for it now! She could have wept tears of shame.
And yet, so plain was the collapse of the man before her, and so futile
words, that she did not think of reproach; even had she found heart to
chide him, knowing that her words might send him to his death.

All her thought was, could she hide the blot? Could she mask the shame?
Could she, at any rate, so veil it that this insolent Englishman, this
bully of the conquering race, might not perceive it? That were worth so
much that her own life, on this summer morning, seemed a small price to
pay for it.

But, alas! she could not purchase it with her life. Only in fairy tales
can the woman pass for the man, and Doris receive in her tender bosom
the thrust intended for the sterner breast. Then how? How could they
shun at least open disgrace, open dishonour? For it needed but a glance
at her brother's pallid face and wandering eye to assure her that,
brought to the test, he would flinch; that, brought to the field, he
would prove unequal even to the task of cloaking his fears.

She sickened at the thought, and her eyes grew hard. Was this the man
in whom she had believed? And when, presently, he turned on his side
and hid his face in the pillow and groaned, she had small pity to spare
for him. "Are you not well?" she asked.

"Can't you be seeing?" he answered fractiously; but for very shame he
could not face her eyes. "Cannot you be seeing I am not fit to get up,
let alone be meeting that devil? See how my hand shakes!"

"What is to be done, then?"

He cursed Payton thrice in a frenzy of rage. He beat the pillow with
his fist.

"That does no good," she said.

"I believe you want to kill me!" he retorted, with childish passion. "I
believe you want to see me dead! Why can't you be managing your own
affairs, without--without----Oh, my God!" And then, in a dreadful
voice, "My God, I shall be dead to-night! I shall be dead to-night! And
you care nothing!"

He hid unmanly tears on his pillow, while she looked at the wall, pale
to the lips and cut to the heart. Her worst misgivings, even those
nightmare fears which haunt the dawn, had not pictured a thing so mean
as this, a heart so low, a spirit so poor. And this was her brother,
her idol, the last of the McMurroughs of Morristown, he to whom she had
fondly looked to revive the glories of the race! Truly she had not
understood him, or others. She had been blind indeed, blind, blind!

She had spoken to Luke Asgill the night before. He guessed, if he did
not know the worst, and he would help her, she believed. But for that
she would have turned, as her thoughts did turn, to Colonel John. But
he lay prostrate, and, if she could have brought herself to go to him,
he was in no state to give aid. The O'Beirnes were out of the question;
she could not tell them. Youth has no pity, makes no allowance, expects
the utmost, and a hundred times they had heard James brag and brawl.
They would not understand, they would not believe. And Uncle Ulick was
away.

There remained only Luke Asgill, who had offered his help.

"If you are not well," she said, in the same hard voice, "shall I be
telling Mr. Asgill? He may contrive something."

The man cringing in the bed leapt at the hope, as he would have leapt
at any hope. Nor was he so bemused by fear as not to reflect that,
whatever Flavia asked, Asgill would do. "Ah, tell him," he cried,
raising himself on his elbow. "Do you be telling him! He can make
him--wait, may be."

At that moment she came near to hating her brother. "I will send him to
you," she said.

"No!" he cried anxiously. "No! Do you be telling him! You tell him! Do
you hear? I'm not so well to see him."

She shivered, seeing plainly the cowardice, the unmixed selfishness of
the course he urged. But she had not the heart to answer him. She went
from the room without another word, and, going back to her own chamber,
she dressed. By this time it wanted not much of seven. The house was
astir, the June sunshine was pouring with the songs of birds through
the windows, she heard one of the O'Beirnes stumble downstairs. Next
Asgill opened his door and passed down. In a twinkling she slipped out
and followed him. At the bottom of the staircase he turned, hearing her
footstep behind him, but she made a sign to him to go on, and led him
into the open air. Nor when they were outside did she speak until she
had put the courtyard between herself and the house.

For she would have hidden their shame from all if she could! Even to
say what she had to say to one, and though he already guessed the
truth, cost her in pain and humiliation more than her brother had paid
for aught in his selfish life. But it had to be said, and, after a
pause, and with eyes averted, "My brother is ill," she faltered. "He
cannot meet--that man, this morning. It is--as you feared. And--what
can we do?"

In another case Luke Asgill would have blessed the chance that linked
him with her, that wrought a tie between them, and cast her on his
help. But he had guessed, before she opened her mouth, what she had to
say--nay, for hours he had lain sleepless on his bed, with eyes staring
into the darkness, anticipating it. He had been certain of the
issue--he knew James McMurrough; and, being a man who loved Flavia
indeed, but loved life also, he had foreseen, with the cold sweat on
his brow, what he would be driven to do.

He made no haste to answer, therefore, and his tone, when he did
answer, was dull and lifeless. "Is it ill he is?" he said. "It's a bad
morning to be ill, and a meeting on hand."

She did not answer.

"Is he too bad to stand?" he continued. He made no attempt to hide his
comprehension or his scorn.

"I don't say that," she faltered.

"Perhaps he told you," Asgill said--and there was nothing of the lover
in his tone--"to speak to me?"

She nodded.

"It is I am to--put it off, I suppose?"

"If it be possible," she cried. "Oh, if it be possible! Is it?"

He stood, thinking, with a gloomy face. From the first he had seen that
there were two ways only of extricating The McMurrough. The one by a
mild explanation, which would leave his honour in the mud. The other by
an explanation after a different fashion, _vi et armis, vehementer_,
with the word "liar" ready to answer to the word "coward." But he who
gave this last explanation must be willing and able to back the word
with the deed, and stop cavilling with the sword-point.

Now, Asgill knew the Major's skill with the sword; none better. And
under other circumstances the Justice--cold, selfish, scheming--would
have gone many a mile about before he entered upon a quarrel with him.
None the less, love and much night-thinking had drawn him to
contemplate this very thing. For surely, if he did this and lived,
Flavia would smile on him. Surely, if he saved her brother's honour, or
came as near to saving it as driving the foul word down his opponent's
throat could bring him, she would be won. It was a forlorn, it was a
desperate expedient. For no worldly fortune, for no other advantage,
would Luke Asgill have faced the Major's sword-point. But, whatever he
was, he loved. He loved! And for the face and the form beside him, and
for the quality of soul within them that shone from the girl's eyes,
and made her what she was, and to him different from all other women,
he had made up his mind to run the risk.

It went for something in his decision that he believed that Flavia, if
he failed her, would go to the one person in the house who had no cause
to fear Payton--to Colonel Sullivan. If she did that, Asgill was sure
that his own chance was at an end. This was his chance. It lay with him
now, to-day, at this moment--to dare or to retire, to win her favour at
the risk of his life, or to yield her to another. In the chill morning
hour he had discovered that the choice lay before him, that he must
risk all or lose all: and he had decided. That decision he now
announced.

"I will make it possible," he said slowly, questioning in his mind
whether he could make terms with her--whether he dared make terms with
her. "I will make it possible," he repeated, still more slowly, and
with his eyes fixed on her face.

"If you could!" she cried, clasping her hands.

"I will!" he said, a sullen undertone in his voice. His eyes still
dwelt darkly on her. "If he raises an objection, I will fight
him--myself!"

She shrank from him. "Ah, but I can't ask that!" she cried, trembling.

"It is that or nothing."

"That or----"

"There is no other way," he said. He spoke with the same
ungraciousness; for, try as he would, and though the habit and the
education of a life cried to him to treat with her and make conditions,
he could not; and he was enraged that he could not.

The more as her quivering lips, her wet eyes, her quick mounting
colour, told of her gratitude. In another moment she might, almost
certainly she would, have said a word fit to unlock his lips. And he
would have spoken; and she would have pledged herself. But fate, in the
person of old Darby, intervened. Timely or untimely, the butler
appeared in the distant doorway, cried "Hist!" and, by a backward
gesture, warned them of some approaching peril.

"I fear----" she began.

"Yes, go!" Asgill replied, almost roughly. "He is coming, and he must
not find us together."

She fled swiftly, but the garden gate had barely closed on her skirts
before Payton issued from the courtyard. The Englishman paused an
instant in the gateway, his sword under his arm and a handkerchief in
his hand. Thence he looked up and down the road with an air of scornful
confidence that provoked Asgill beyond measure. The sun did not seem
bright enough for him, nor the air scented to his liking. Finally he
approached the Irishman, who, affecting to be engaged with his own
thoughts, had kept his distance.

"Is he ready?" he asked, with a sneer.

With an effort Asgill controlled himself. "He is not," he said.

"At his prayers, is he? Well, he'll need them."

"He is not, to my knowledge," Asgill replied. "But he is ill."

Payton's face lightened with a joy not pleasant to see. "A coward!" he
said coolly. "I am not surprised! Ill is he? Ay, I know that illness.
It's not the first time I've met it."

Asgill had no wish to precipitate a quarrel. On the contrary, he had
made up his mind to gain time if he could; at any rate, to put off the
_ultima ratio_ until evening, or until the next morning. Only in
the last resort had he determined to fling off the mask. But at that
word "coward," though he knew it to be well deserved, his temper,
sapped by the knowledge that love was forcing him into a position which
reason repudiated, gave way, and he spoke his true thoughts.

"What a d--d bully you are, Payton!" he said, in his slowest tone.
"Sure, and you insult the man's sister in your drink----"

"What's that to you?"

"You insult the man's sister," Asgill persisted coolly, "and because he
treats you like the tipsy creature you are, you'd kill him like a dog."

Payton turned white. "And you, too," he said, "if you say another word!
What in Heaven's name is amiss with you, man, this morning? Are you
mad?"

"I'll not hear the word 'coward' used of the family--I'll soon be one
of!" Asgill returned, speaking on the spur of the moment, and wondering
at himself the moment he had made the statement. "That's what I'm
meaning! Do you see? And if you are for repeating the word, more by
token, it'll be all the breakfast you'll have, for I'll cram it down
your ugly throat!"

Payton stared dumbfounded, divided between rage and astonishment. But
the former was not slow to get the upper hand, and "Enough said," he
replied, in a voice that trembled, but not with fear. "If you are
willing to make it good, you'll be coming this way."

"Willingly!" Asgill answered.

"I'll have one of my men for witness. Ay, that I will! I don't trust
you, Mr. Asgill, and that's flat. Get you whom you please! In five
minutes, in the garden, then?"

Asgill nodded. The Englishman looked once more at him to make sure that
he was sober; then he turned on his heel and went back through the
courtyard. Asgill remained alone.

He had taken the step there was no retracing. He had cast the dice, and
the next few minutes would decide whether it was for life or death. He
had done it deliberately; yet at the last he had been so carried away
by impulse that, as he stood there, looking after the man he had
insulted, looking on the placid water glittering in the early sunshine,
looking along the lake-side road, by which he had come, he could hardly
credit what had happened, or that in a moment he had thrown for a stake
so stupendous, that in a moment he had changed all. The sunshine lost
its warmth and grew pale, the hills lost their colour and their beauty,
as he reflected that he might never see the one or the other again,
might never return by that lake-side road by which he had come; as he
remembered that all his plans for his aggrandisement, and they were
many and clever, might end this day, this morning, this hour! Life! It
was that, it was all, it was the future, with its pleasures, hopes,
ambitions, that he had staked. And the stake was down. He could not now
take it up. It might well be, for the odds were great against him, that
it was to this day that all his life had led up; that life by which men
would by-and-by judge him, recalling this and that, this chicane and
that extortion, thanking God that he was dead, or perhaps one here and
there shrugging his shoulders in good-natured regret.

From the hedge-school in which he had first grasped the clue-line of
his life, to the day when his father had encouraged him to "turn
Protestant," that he might the better exploit his Papist neighbours,
ay, and forward to this day on which, at the bidding of a woman, he had
given the lie to his instincts, his training, and his education--from
the one to the other he saw his life stretched out before him! And he
could have cried upon his folly. Yet for that woman----"

"Faith, Mr. Asgill," cried a voice in his ear, "it's if you're ill, the
Major's asking. And, by the power, it's not very well you're looking
this day!"

Asgill eyed the interrupter--it was Morty O'Beirne--with a sternness
which his pallor made more striking. "I am coming," he said, "I am
going to fight him."

"The devil you are!" the young man answered. "Now, are you meaning?
This morning that ever is?"

"Ay, now. Where is----"

He stopped on the word, and was silent. Instead, he looked across the
courtyard in the direction of the house. If he might see her again. If
he might speak to her. But, no. Yet--was it certain that she knew? That
she understood? And if she understood, would she know that he had gone
to the meeting well-nigh without hope, aware against what skill he
pitted himself, and how large, how very large were the odds against
him?

"But, faith, and it's no jest fighting him, if the least bit in life of
what I've heard be true!" Morty said, a cloud on his face. He looked
uncertainly from Asgill to the house and back. "Is it to be doing
anything you want me?"

"I want you to come with me and see it out," Asgill said. He wheeled
brusquely to the garden gate, but when he was within a pace of it he
paused and turned his head. "Mr. O'Beirne," he said, "I'm going in by
this gate, and it's not much to be expected I'll come out any way but
feet first. Will you be telling her, if you please, that I knew that
same?"

"I will," Morty answered, genuinely distressed. "But I'm asking, is
there no other way?"

"There is none," Asgill said. And he opened the gate.

Payton was waiting for him on the path under the yew-trees, with two of
his troopers on guard in the background. He had removed his coat and
vest, and stood, a not ungraceful figure, in the sunshine, bending his
rapier and feeling its point with his thumb. He was doing this when his
eyes surprised his opponent's entrance, and, without desisting from his
employment, he smiled.

If the other's courage had begun to wane--but, with all his faults,
Asgill was brave--that smile would have restored it. For it roused in
him a stronger passion than fear--the passion of hatred. He saw in the
man before him, the man with the cruel smile, who handled his weapon
with a scornful ease, a demon--a demon who, in pure malice, without
reason and without cause, would take his life, would rob him of joy and
love and sunshine, and hurl him into the blackness of the gulf. And he
was seized with a rage at once fierce and deliberate. This man, who
would kill him, and whom he saw smiling before him, he would kill! He
thirsted to set his foot upon his throat and squeeze, and squeeze the
life out of him! These were the thoughts that passed through his mind
as he paused an instant at the gate to throw off the encumbering coat.
Then he advanced, drawing his weapon as he moved, and fixing his eyes
on Payton; who, for his part, reading the other's thoughts in his
face--for more than once he had seen that look--put himself on his
guard without a word.

Asgill had no more than the rudimentary knowledge of the sword which
was possessed in that day by all who wore it. He knew that, given time
and the decent observances of the fencing-school, he would be a mere
child in Payton's hands; that it would matter nothing whether the sun
were on this side or that, or his sword the longer or the shorter by an
inch. The moment he was within reach therefore, and his blade touched
the other's he rushed in, lunging fiercely at his opponent's breast and
trusting to the vigour of his attack and the circular sweep of his
point to protect himself. Not seldom has a man skilled in the
subtleties of the art found himself confused and overcome by this mode
of attack. But Payton had met his man too often on the green to be
taken by surprise. He parried the first thrust, the second he evaded by
stepping adroitly aside. By the same movement he put the sun in
Asgill's eyes.

Again the latter rushed in, striving to get within his opponent's
guard; and again Payton stepped aside, and allowed the random thrust to
pass wasted under his arm. Once more the same thing happened--Asgill
rushed in, Payton parried or evaded with the ease and coolness of
long-tried skill. By this time Asgill, forced to keep his blade in
motion, was beginning to breathe quickly. The sweat stood on his brow,
he struck more and more wildly, and with less and less strength or aim.
He was aware--it could be read in the glare of his eyes--that he was
being reduced to the defensive; and he knew that to be fatal. An oath
broke from his panting lips and he rushed in again, even more
recklessly, more at random than before, his sole object now to kill the
other, to stab him at close quarters, no matter what happened to
himself.

Again Payton avoided the full force of the rush, but this time after a
different fashion. He retreated a step. Then, with a flicker and a
girding of steel on steel, Asgill's sword flew from his hand, and at
the same instant--or so nearly at the same instant that the disarming
and the thrust might have seemed to an untrained eye one motion--Payton
turned his wrist and his sword buried itself in Asgill's body. The
unfortunate man recoiled with a gasping cry, staggered and sank
sideways to the ground.

"By the powers," O'Beirne exclaimed, springing forward, "a foul stroke!
By G--d, a foul stroke! He was disarmed. I----"

"Have a care what you say!" Payton answered slowly, and in a terrible
tone. "You'd do better to look to your friend--for he'll need it."

"It's you that struck him after he was disarmed!" Morty cried, almost
weeping with rage. "Devil a bit of a chance did you give him! You----"

"Silence, I say!" Payton answered, in a fierce tone of authority. "I
know my duty; and if you know yours you'll look to him."

He turned aside with that, and thrust the point of his sword twice and
thrice into the sod before he sheathed the weapon. Meanwhile Morty had
cast himself down beside the fallen man, who, speechless, and with his
head hanging, continued to support himself on his hand. A patch of
blood, bright-coloured, was growing slowly on his vest: and there was
blood on his lips.

"Oh, whirra, whirra, what'll I do?" the Irishman exclaimed, helplessly
wringing his hands. "What'll I do for him? He's murdered entirely!"

Payton, aided by one of the troopers, was putting on his coat and vest.
He paused to bid the other help the gentleman. Then, with a cold look
at the fallen man, for whom, though they had been friends, as friends
go in the world, he seemed to have no feeling except one of contempt,
he walked away in the direction of the rear of the house.

By the time he reached the back door the alarm was abroad, the maids
were running to and fro and screaming, and on the threshold he
encountered Flavia. Pale as the stricken man, she looked on Payton with
an eye of horror, and, as he stood aside to let her pass, she
drew--unconscious what she did--her skirts away, that they might not
touch him.

He went on, with rage in his heart. "Very good, my lady," he muttered,
"very good! But I've not done with you yet. I know a way to pull your
pride down. And I'll go about it!"

He might have moved less at ease, he might have spoken less
confidently, had he, before he retired from the scene of the fight,
cast one upward glance in the direction of the house, had he marked an
opening high up in the wall of yew, and noticed through that opening a
window, so placed that it alone of all the windows in the house
commanded the scene of action. For then he would have discovered at
that casement a face he knew, and a pair of stern eyes that had
followed the course of the struggle throughout, noted each separate
attack, and judged the issue--and the man.

And he might have taken warning.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE PITCHER AT THE WELL


The surgeon of that day was better skilled in letting blood than in
staunching it, in cupping than in curing. It was well for Luke Asgill,
therefore, that none lived nearer than distant Tralee. It was still
more fortunate for him that there was one in the house to whom the
treatment of such a wound as his was an everyday matter, and who was
guided in his practice less by the rules of the faculty than by those
of experience and common sense.

Even under his care Asgill's life hung for many hours in the balance.
There was a time, when he was at his weakest, when his breath, in the
old phrase, would not raise a feather, and those about his bed
despaired of detaining the spirit fluttering to be free. The servants
were ready to raise the "keen," the cook sought the salt for the
death-plate. But Colonel John, mindful of many a man found living on
the field hours after he should, by all the rules, have died, did not
despair; and little by little, though the patient knew nothing of the
battle which was maintained for his life, the Colonel's skill and
patience prevailed. The breathing grew stronger and more regular; and,
though it seemed likely that fever would follow and the end must remain
uncertain, death, for the moment, was repelled.

Now, he who possesses the habit of command in emergencies, who, when
others are distraught and wring their hands, knows both what to do and
how to do it, cannot fail to impress the imagination. Unsupported by
Flavia, unaided by her deft fingers, Colonel John might have done less:
yet she who seconded him the most ably, who fetched and carried for
him, and shrank from no sight of blood or wound, was also the one who
yielded him the fullest meed, and succumbed the most completely to his
ascendancy. Flavia's feelings towards her cousin had been altering hour
by hour; and this experience of him hastened her tacit surrender. She
had seen him in many parts. It had been hers to witness, by turns, his
defeat and his triumph. She had felt aversion, born of his unwelcome
appearance in the character of her guardian, yield to a budding
interest, which his opposition to her plans, and his success in foiling
them, had converted anew into disdain and hatred.

But in all strong passions lurk the seeds of the opposite. The object
of hatred is the object of interest. So it had been in her case. The
very lengths to which she had allowed herself to be carried against him
had revolted her, and pity had taken the place of hatred. Nor pity
alone. For, having seen how high he could rise in adversity, what
courage, what patience, what firmness he could exert--for her sake who
persecuted him--she now saw also how naturally he took the lead of
others, how completely he dominated the crowd. And while she no longer
marvelled at the skill with which he had baffled the Admiral and
Cammock, and thwarted plans which she began to appraise at their value,
she found herself relying upon him, as she watched him moving to and
fro, to an extent which startled and frightened her.

Was it only that morning that she had trembled for her brother's life?
Was it only that morning that she had opened her eyes and known him
craven, unworthy of his name and race? Was it only that morning that
she had sent into peril the man who lay wan and moribund before her;
only that morning that she had felt her unhappiness greater than she
could bear, her difficulties insuperable, her loneliness a misery? For
if that were so why did she now feel so different? Why did she now feel
inexplicably relieved, inconceivably at ease, almost happy? Why, with
the man whom she had thrust into peril lying _in extremis_ before her,
and claiming all her gratitude, did she find her mind straying to
another? Finally, why, with her troubles the same, with her brother no
less dishonoured, were her thoughts neither with him nor with herself,
but with the man whose movements she watched, whose hands touched hers
in the work of tendance, whose voice once chid her sharply--and gave
her an odd pang of pleasure--who, low-toned, ordered her hither and
thither, and was obeyed?

She asked herself the question as she sat in the darkened room,
watching. And in the twilight she blushed. Once, at a crisis, Colonel
John had taken her roughly by the wrist and forced her to hold the
bandage so, while he twisted it. She looked at the wrist now, and,
fancying she could see the imprint of his fingers on it, she blushed
more deeply.

Presently there came, as they sat listening to the fluttering breath, a
low scratching at the door. At a sign from Colonel Sullivan, who sat on
the inner side of the bed, she stole to it and found Morty O'Beirne on
the threshold. He beckoned to her, and, closing the door, she followed
him downstairs, to where, in the living-room, she found the other
O'Beirne standing sheepishly beside the table.

"It's not knowing what to do, we are," Morty said.

He did not look at her, nor did his brother. Her heart sank. "What is
it?" she asked.

"The fiend's in the man," Morty replied, tapping with his fingers on
the table. "But--it's you will be telling her, Phelim."

"It's he that's not content," Phelim muttered. "The thief of the
world!"

"Curse him!" cried his brother.

"Not content?" she echoed. "Not content? After what he's done?" For an
instant her eyes flashed hot indignation, her very hair seemed to rise
about her head. Then the downcast demeanour of the two, their
embarrassment, their silence, told the story; and she gasped. "He's
for--fighting my brother?" she whispered.

"He'll be content with no less," Morty answered, with a groan. "Bad
cess to him! And The McMurrough--sure it's certain death, and who's
blaming him, but he's no stomach for it. And whirra, whirra, on that
the man says he'll be telling it in Tralee that he'd not meet him, and
as far as Galway City he'll cut his comb for him! Ay, bedad, he says
that, and that none of his name shall show their face there, night or
day, fair or foul, race or cockfight--the bloody-minded villain!"

She listened, despairing. The house was quiet, as houses in the country
are of an afternoon, and the quieter for the battle with death which
was joined in the darkened room upstairs. Her thoughts were no longer
with the injured man, however, but in that other room, where her
brother lurked in squalid fear--fear that in a nameless man might have
been pardoned, but in him, in a McMurrough, head of his race, last of
his race, never! She came of heroes, to her the strain had descended
pure and untainted, and she would rather have seen him dead. The two
men before her--who knew, alas! who knew!--she was sure that they would
have taken up the glove, unwillingly and perforce, perhaps, but they
would have fought! While her brother, The McMurrough---- But even while
she thought of it, she saw through the open door the figure of a man
saunter slowly past the courtyard gates, his sword under his arm. It
was the Englishman. She felt the added sting. Her cheek, that had been
pale, burned darkly, her eyes shone.

"St. Patrick fly away with the toad and the ugly smile of him!" Morty
said. "I'm thinking it's between the two of us, Phelim, my jewel! And
he that's killed will help the other."

"God forbid!" Flavia cried, pale with horror at the thought. "Not
another!"

"But sure, and I'm not seeing how else we'll be rid of him handsomely,"
Phelim replied.

"No!" she repeated firmly. "No! I forbid it!"

Again the man sauntered by the entrance, and again he cast the same
insolent, smiling look at the house. They watched him pass, an ominous
shadow in the sunshine, and Flavia shuddered.

"But what will you be doing, then?" Morty asked, rubbing, his chin in
perplexity. "He's saying that if The McMurrough'll not meet him by four
o'clock, and it isn't much short of it, he'll be riding this day! And
him once gone he's a bitter tongue, and 'twill be foul shame on the
house!"

Flavia stood silent in thought, but at length she drew in her breath
sharply--she had made up her mind. "I know what I will do," she said.
"I will tell him all." And she turned to go.

"It's not worth the shoe-leather!" Morty cried after her, letting his
scorn of James be seen.

But she was out of hearing, and when she returned a minute later she
was followed, not by James McMurrough, but by Colonel Sullivan. The
Colonel's face, seen in the full light, had lost the brown of health;
it was thin and peaky, and still bore signs of privation. But he trod
firmly, and his eyes were clear and kind. If he was aware of the
O'Beirnes' embarrassment, his greeting did not betray it.

"I am willing to help if I can," he said. "What is your trouble?"

"Tell him," Flavia said, averting her face.

They told him lamely--they were scarcely less jealous of the honour of
the house than she was--in almost the same words in which they had
broken the news to her. "And the curse of Cromwell on me, but he's
parading up and down now," Morty continued, "and cocking his eye at the
sun-dial whenever he passes, as much as to say, 'Is it coming, you
are?' till the heart's fairly melted in me with the rage!"

"And it's shame on us we let him be!" cried Phelim.

Colonel John did not answer. He was silent even when, under the eyes of
all, the ominous shadow passed again before the entrance gates--came
and went. He was so long silent that Flavia turned to him at last, and
held out her hands. "What shall we do?" she cried--and in that cry she
betrayed her new dependence on him. "Tell us!"

"It is hard to say," Colonel John answered gravely. His face was very
gloomy, and to hide it or his thoughts he turned from them and went to
one of the windows--that very window through which Uncle Ulick and he
had looked at his first coming. He gazed out, not that he might see,
but that he might think unwatched.

They waited, the men expecting little, but glad to be rid of some part
of the burden, Flavia with a growing sense of disappointment. She did
not know for what she had hoped, or what she had thought that he would
do. But she had been confident that he could help; and it seemed that
he could do no more than others. Neither to her, nor to the men, did it
seem as strange as it was that they should turn to him, against whose
guidance they had lately revolted so fiercely.

He came back to them presently, his face sad and depressed. "I will
deal with it," he said--and he sighed. "You can leave it to me. Do
you," he continued, addressing Morty, "come with me, Mr. O'Beirne."

He was for leaving them with that, but Flavia put herself between him
and the door. She fixed her eyes on his face. "What are you going to
do?" she asked in a low voice.

"I will tell you all--later," he replied gently.

"No, now!" she retorted, controlling herself with difficulty. "Now! You
are not going--to fight him?"

"I am not going to fight," he answered slowly.

But her heart was not so easily deceived as her ear. "There is
something under your words," she said jealously. "What is it?"

"I am not going to fight," he replied gravely, "but to punish. There is
a limit." Even while he spoke she remembered in what circumstances
those words had been used. "There is a limit," he repeated solemnly.
"He has the blood of four on his head, and another lies at death's
door. And he is not satisfied. He is not satisfied! Once I warned him.
To-day the time for warning is past, the hour for judgment is come. God
forgive me if I err, for vengeance is His and it is terrible to be His
hand." He turned to Phelim, and, in the same stern tone, "my sword is
broken," he said. "Fetch me the man's sword who lies upstairs."

Phelim went, awe-stricken, and marvelling. Morty remained, marvelling
also. And Flavia--but, as she tried to speak, Payton's shadow once more
came into sight at the entrance-gates and went slowly by, and she
clapped her hand to her mouth that she might not scream. Colonel
Sullivan saw the action, understood, and touched her softly on the
shoulder. "Pray," he said, "pray!"

"For you!" she cried in a voice that, to those who had ears, betrayed
her heart. "Ah, I will pray!"

"No, for him," he replied. "For him now. For me when I return."

She dropped on her knees before a chair, and, shuddering, hid her face
in her hands. And almost at once she knew that they were gone, and that
she was alone in the room.

Then, whether she prayed most or listened most, or the very intensity
of her listening was itself prayer--prayer in its highest form--she
never knew; but only that, whenever in the agony of her suspense she
raised her head from the chair to hear if there was news, the common
sounds of afternoon life in the house and without lashed her with a
dreadful irony. The low whirr of a spinning-wheel, a girl's distant
chatter, the cluck of a hen in the courtyard, the satisfied grunt of a
roving pig, all bore home to her heart the bitter message that,
whatever happened, and though nightfall found her lonely in a
dishonoured home, life would proceed as usual, the men and the women
about her would eat and drink, and the smallest things would stand
where they stood now--unchanged, unmoved.

What was that? Only the fall of a spit in the kitchen, or the clatter
of a pot-lid. Would they never come? Would she never know? At this
moment--what was that? That surely was something. They were returning!
In a moment she would know. She rose to her feet and stared with stony
eyes at the door. But when she had listened long--it was nothing.
Nothing! And then--ah, that surely was something--was news--was the
end! They were coming now. In a moment she would know. Yes, they were
coming. In a moment she would know. She pressed her hands to her
breast.

She might have known already, for, had she gone to the door, she would
have seen who came. But she could not go. She could not move.

And he, when he came in, did not look at her. He walked from the
threshold to the hearth, and--strange coincidence--he set the
unsheathed blade he carried in the self-same angle, beside the
fire-back, from which she had once taken a sword to attempt his life.
And still he did not look at her, but stood with bowed head.

At last he turned. "God forgive us all," he said.

She broke into wild weeping. And what her lips, babbling incoherent
thanksgiving, did not tell him, the clinging of her arms, as she hung
on him, conveyed.




CHAPTER XXV

PEACE


Uncle Ulick, with the mud of the road still undried on his boots, and
the curls still stiff in the wig which the town barber at Mallow had
dressed for him, rubbed his chin with his hand and, covertly looking
round the room, owned himself puzzled. He had returned a week later to
the day than he had arranged to return. But had his absence run into
months instead of weeks the lapse of time had not sufficed to explain
the change which he felt, but could not define, in his surroundings.

Certainly old Darby looked a thought more trim, and the room a trifle
better ordered than he had left them. But he was sensible, though
vaguely, that the change did not stop there--perhaps did not begin
there. Full of news of the outer world as he was, he caught himself
pausing in mid-career to question himself. And more than once his
furtive eyes scanned his companions' faces for the answer his mind
refused to give.

An insolent Englishman had come, and given reins to the _'ubris_ that
was in him, and, after running Luke Asgill through the body, had paid
the penalty--in fight so fair that the very troopers who had witnessed
it could make no complaint nor raise trouble. So much Uncle Ulick had
learned. But he had not known Payton, and, exciting as the episode
sounded, it did not explain the difference in the atmosphere of the
house. Where he had left enmity and suspicion, lowering brows and a
silent table, he found smiles, and easiness, and a cheerful sense of
well-being.

Again he looked about him. "And where will James be?" he asked, for the
first time missing his nephew.

"He has left us," Flavia said slowly, with her eyes on Colonel
Sullivan.

"It's away to Galway City he is," Morty O'Beirne explained with a
chuckle.

"The saints be between us and harm!" Uncle Ulick exclaimed in
astonishment. "And why's he there?"

"The story is long," said Colonel Sullivan.

"But I can tell it in a few words," Flavia continued with dignity. "And
the sooner it is told the better. He has not behaved well, Uncle Ulick.
And at his request and with--the legal owner's consent--it's I have
agreed to pay him one-half of the value of the property."

"The devil you have!" Uncle Ulick exclaimed, in greater astonishment.
And, pushing back his seat and rubbing his huge thigh with his hand, he
looked from one to another. "By the powers! if I may take the liberty
of saying so, young lady, you've done a vast deal in a very little
time-faith, in no time at all, at all!" he added.

"It was done at his request," Flavia answered gravely.

Uncle Ulick continued to rub his thigh and to stare. These things were
very surprising. "And they're telling me," he said, "that Luke Asgill's
in bed upstairs?"

"He is."

"And recovering?"

"He is, glory be to God!"

"Nor that same's not the best news of him," Morty said with a grin.
"Nor the last."

"True for you!" Phelim cried. "If it was the last word you spoke!"

"What are you meaning?" Uncle Ulick asked.

"He's turned," said Morty. "No less! Turned! He's what his father was
before him, Mr. Sullivan--come back to Holy Church, and not a morning
but Father O'Hara's with him making his soul and what not!"

"Turned!" Uncle Ulick cried. "Luke Asgill, the Justice? Boys, you're
making fun of me!" And, unable to believe what the O'Beirnes told him,
he looked to Flavia for confirmation.

"It is true," she said.

"Bedad, it is?" Uncle Ulick replied. "Then I'll not be surprised in all
my life again! More by token, there's only one thing left to hope for,
my jewel, and that's certain. Cannot you do the same to the man that's
beside you?"

Flavia glanced quickly at Colonel John, then, with a heightened colour,
she looked again at Uncle Ulick. "That's what I cannot do," she said.

But the blush, and the smile that accompanied it, and something perhaps
in the way she hung towards her neighbour as she turned to him, told
Uncle Ulick all. The big man smacked the table with his hand till the
platters leapt from the board. "Holy poker!" he cried, "is it that
you're meaning? And I felt it, and I didn't feel it, and you sitting
there forenent me, and prating as if butter wouldn't melt in your
mouth! It is so, is it? But there, the red of your cheek is answer
enough!"

For Flavia was blushing more brightly than before, and Colonel John was
smiling, and the two young men were laughing openly.

"You must get Flavia alone," Colonel John said, "and perhaps she'll
tell you."

"Bedad, it's true, and I felt it in the air," Ulick Sullivan answered,
smiling all over his face. "Ho, ho! Ho, ho! Indeed you've not been idle
while I've been away. But what does Father O'Hara say, eh?"

"The Father----" Flavia began in a small voice.

"Ay, what does the Father say?"

"He says," Flavia continued, looking down demurely, "that it's a rare
stick that's no bend in it, and--and 'tis very little use looking for
it on a dark night. Besides, he----" she glanced at her neighbour, "he
said he'd be master, you know, and what could I do?"

"Then it's the very wrong way he's gone about it!" Uncle Ulick cried,
with a chuckle. "For there's no married man that I know that's master!
It's you, my jewel, have put the comether on him, and I'll trust you to
keep it there!"

But into that we need not go. Our task is done. Whether Flavia's high
spirit and her husband's gravity, her youth and his experience
travelled the road together in unbroken amity, or with no more than the
jars which the accidents of life occasion, however close the link, it
does not fall within this story to tell. Nor need we say whether Father
O'Hara proved as discreet in the long run as he had been liberal in the
beginning. Probably the two had their bickerings which did not sever
love. But one thing may be taken for granted; in that part of Kerry the
King over the Water, if his health was sometimes drunk of an evening,
stirred up no second trouble. Nor, when the '45 convulsed Scotland, and
shook England to its centre, did one man at Morristown raise his hand
or lose his life. For so much at least that windswept corner of Kerry,
beaten year in and year out by the Atlantic rollers, had to thank
Colonel Sullivan.

Nor for that only. In many unnamed ways his knowledge of the world
blessed those about him. The small improvements, the little advances in
civilisation which the English intruders were introducing into those
parts, he adopted: a more orderly house, an increased neatness, a few
more acres brought under the plough or the spade, whole roofs and few
beggars--these things were to be seen at Morristown, and in few other
places thereabouts. And, above all, his neighbours owned the influence
of one who, with a reputation gained at the sword's point, stood
resolutely, unflinchingly, abroad as at home, at fairs and cockfights
as on his own hearth, for peace. More than a century was to elapse
before private war ceased to be the amusement of the Irish gentry. But
in that part of Kerry, and during a score of years, the name and weight
of Colonel Sullivan of Morristown availed to quiet many a brawl and
avert many a meeting.

To follow the mean and the poor of spirit beyond the point where their
fortunes cease to be entwined with those of better men is a profitless
task. James McMurrough, tried and found wanting, where all favoured
him, was not likely to rise above his nature where the odds were equal,
and all men his rivals. What he did in Galway City, that bizarre,
half-foreign town of the west, how long he tarried there, and whither
he went afterwards, in the vain search for a place where a man could
swagger without courage and ruffle it without consequences, it matters
not to inquire. A time came when his kin knew not whether he lived or
was dead.

Luke Asgill, who could rise as much above The McMurrough as he had it
in him to fall below him, who was as wicked as James was weak, was
redeemed, one may believe, by the good that lurked in him. He lay many
weeks on a sick-bed, and returned to everyday life another man. For,
whereas he had succumbed, a passionate lover of Flavia, he rose wholly
cured of that passion. It had ebbed from him with his blood, or waned
with his fever. And whereas he had before sought both gain and power,
restrained by as few scruples as the worst men of a bad age, he rose a
pursuer of both, but within bounds; so that, though he was still hard
and grasping and oppressive, it was possible to say of him that he was
no worse than his class. Close-fisted, at Father O'Hara's instance he
could open his hand. Hard, at the Father's prayer he would at times
remit a rent or extend a bond. Ambitious, he gave up, for his soul's
sake and the sake of the Faith that had been his fathers', the office
which endowed him with power to oppress.

There were some who scoffed behind his back, and said that Luke Asgill
had had enough of carrying a sword and now wished no better than to be
rid of it. But, in truth, as far as the man's reformation went, it was
real. The devil was well, but he was not the devil he had been. The
hours he had passed in the presence of death, the thoughts he had had
while life was low in him, were not forgotten in his health. The strong
nature, slow to take an impression, was stiff to retain it. A moody,
silent man, going about his business with a face to match the sullen
bogs of his native land, he lived to a great age, and paid one tribute
only to the woman he had loved and forgotten--he died a bachelor.


THE END


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