"Methinks, Barry dear," said he, "I have struck my last blow for beloved
Ireland. God bless her! But it has been a paltry, poor bit of work--
all that I have been able to do."
"Cheer up, Tim, my boy, keep up your heart; we'll soon have you right
again," said I, though my own heart misgave me as I spoke. "Do you
know, Tim, that I have just heard that Kit is here, in this house,
now--"
"Kit? Dear old Barry!" He took my hand in his and held it there, but
all the strength was gone from his grip. I saw that he read my secret.
"Now that her father is dead, Barry, this is _her_ house," he said,
trying to smile.
"No, Tim. This house and these lands are yours."
His face seemed to flush at this.
"Is that so? are you sure?" said he. "As sure as that I am here."
"And it is I who am heir to the estates?"
"It is. You are a rich man, for your father besides had land in England
with your mother."
Tim's eyes were wide open. He lay silent for a time. "Barry, boy," he
said, now almost fainting for lack of blood, "we have always been
brothers, haven't we? even when we differed and fought when we were
boys, eh? Nothing, nothing can unbrother you and me, Barry. I hand on
all my rights to you and Kit--God bless ye both!"
His eyes closed wearily, but on his face there came again the happy
smile of boyhood.
"Tim dear, shall I bring Kit down?--if, indeed, she is here."
"No, Barry, no; this is no place to bring a lady to, nor am I in a
condition to see any lady."
As I looked at the blood-stained floor and table, and the walls which
bore marks of the fray, I could not but agree with him. It was easy to
see also that poor Tim's moments were numbered. His eyes were sunk deep
in his head, his face was pallid, and his breathing became more and more
difficult. His lips moved in broken utterance, but I saw he was not
addressing me; there was a far-off, unworldly expression in his eyes. I
could hear him murmur,--
"Ah, the tragedy! ah, the farce of it all!--I dreamed of a free, happy
country, of a free, happy people prospering and blessed when the tyrant
was overthrown--I thought I could help on this glorious time; and what
happens? I am struck down by the hand of a friend in a miserable
squabble; inglorious, farcical!--O Ireland, Ireland! the follies of your
own children may be a greater curse to you in the days to come than have
been the crimes of the stranger who has usurped your rights."
While I held his hand, stooping over him, with a heart too full for
speech, he opened his eyes again, and said,--
"Barry, brother, you have forgiven me for that stone I threw at ye on
Fanad Head?--ay, and the poor old mother is gone, and father too--and
the guns are in Kilgorman--and Wolfe Tone is coming--and the French are
preparing to deliver us; yes, they are on the way--and a time of joy is
coming to Ireland--Barry, Barry, do ye hear the rustle of silk by the
hearthstone? Do ye think the ghost is here?--I hear something--put but
the light, boy, and lie close--there, there--my God, it is mother!" and
he swooned away.