--Reilly's Adventure Continued--Reilly Gets a Bed in a Curious
Establishment.
We now beg our readers to accompany us to the library of Sir Robert
Whitecraft, where that worthy gentleman sits, with a bottle of
Madeira before him; for Sir Robert, in addition to his many other good
qualities, possessed that of being a private drinker. The bottle, we
say, was before him, and with a smile of triumph and satisfaction on his
face, he arose and rang the bell. In a few minutes a liveried servant
attended it.
“Carson, send O'Donnel here.”
Carson bowed and retired, and in a few minutes the Red Rapparee entered.
“How is this, O'Donnel? Have you thrown aside your uniform?”
“I didn't think I'd be called out on duty again to-night, sir.”
“It doesn't matter, O'Donnel--it doesn't matter. What do you think of
the bonfire?”
“Begad, it was a beauty, sir, and well managed.”
“Ay, but I am afraid, O'Donnel, I went a little too far--that I
stretched my authority somewhat.”
“But isn't he a rebel and an outlaw, Sir Robert? and in that case--”
“Yes, O'Donnel; and a rebel and an outlaw of my own making, which is the
best of it. The fellow might have lain there, concocting his treason,
long enough, only for my vigilance. However, it's all right. The
government, to which I have rendered such important services, will stand
by me, and fetch me out of the burning--that is, if there has been any
transgression of the law in it. The Papists are privately recruiting for
the French service, and that is felony; Reilly also was recruiting for
the French service--was he not?”
“He offered me a commission, sir.”
“Very good; that's all right, but can you prove that?”
“Why, I can swear it, Sir Robert.”
“Better still. But do you think he is in the country, O'Donnel?”
“I would rather swear he is, sir, than that he is not. He won't lave her
aisily.”
“Who do you mean by her, sir?”
“I would rather not name her, your honor, in connection with the
vagabond.”
“That's delicate of you, O'Donnel; I highly approve of your sentiment.
Here, have a glass of wine.”
“Thank you, Sir Robert; but have you any brandy, sir? My tongue is as
dry as a stick, wid that glorious bonfire we had; but, besides, sir, I
wish to drink success to you in all your undertakings. A happy marriage,
sir!” and he accompanied the words with a ferocious grin.
“You shall have one glass of brandy, O'Donnel, but no more. I wish you
to deliver a letter for me to-night. It is to the sheriff, who dines
with Lord ------, a friend of mine; and I wish you to deliver it at his
lordship's house, where you will be sure to find him. The letter is of
the greatest importance, and you will take care to deliver it safely. No
answer by you is required. He was out to-day, levying fines from Popish
priests, and a heavy one from the Popish bishop, and I do not think,
with a large sum of money about him, that he will go home to-night.
Here is the letter. I expect he will call on me in the morning, to
breakfast--at least I have asked him, for we have very serious business
to discuss.”
The Rapparee took the letter, finished his glass of brandy, and
disappeared to fulfil his commission.
Now it so happened that on that very evening, before the premises had
been set on fire, Mary Mahon, by O'Donnel's order, had entered the
house, and under, as it were, the protection of the military, gathered
up as much of Reilly's clothes and linen as she could conveniently carry
to her cottage, which was in the immediate vicinity of Whitecraft's
residence--it being the interest of this hypocritical voluptuary to have
the corrupt wretch near him. The Rapparee, having left Whitecraft to his
reflections, immediately directed his steps to her house, and, with her
connivance, changed the dress he had on for one which she had taken from
Reilly's wardrobe. He then went to the house of the nobleman where the
sheriff was dining, but arrived only in time to hear that he was about
to take horse on his return home. On seeing him preparing to mount,
bearing a lantern in his hand, as the night was dark and the roads
bad, he instantly changed his purpose as to the letter, and came to the
resolution of not delivering it at all.
“I can easily say,” thought he, “that the sheriff had gone home before
I came, and that will be a very sufficient excuse. In the meantime,” he
added, “I will cross the country and be out on the road before him.”
The sheriff was not unarmed, however, and felt himself tolerably well
prepared for any attack that might be made on him; and, besides, he was
no coward. After a ride of about two miles he found himself stopped, and
almost at the same instant the lantern that he carried was knocked out
of his hand and extinguished, but not until he caught a faint glimpse
of the robber's person, who, from his dress, appeared to be a man much
above the common class. Quick as lightning he pulled out one of his
pistols, and, cocking it, held himself in readiness. The night was dark,
and this preparation for self-defence was unknown to his assailant. On
feeling the reins of his horse's bridle in the hands of the robber, he
snapped the pistol at his head, but alas! it only flashed in the pan.
The robber, on the other hand, did not seem anxious to take his life,
for it was a principle among the Rapparees to shed, while exercising
their rapacious functions, as little blood as possible. They have
frequently taken life from a feeling of private vengeance, but not often
while robbing on the king's highway. The sheriff, now finding that one
pistol had missed, was about to draw out the second, when he was knocked
insensible off his horse, and on recovering found himself minus the
fines which he had that day levied--all the private cash about him--and
his case of pistols. This indeed was a bitter incident to him; because,
in addition to the loss of his private purse and firearms--which he
valued as nothing--he knew that he was responsible to government for the
amount of the fines.
With considerable difficulty he was able to remount his horse, and with
a sense of stupor, which was very painful, he recommenced his journey
home. After a ride of about two miles he met three horsemen, who
immediately challenged him and demanded his name and residence.
“I am the sheriff of the county,” he replied, “and have been robbed of
a large sum of money and my pistols; and now,” he added, “may I beg
to know who you are, and by what authority you demand my name and
residence?”
“Excuse us, Mr. Sheriff,” they replied; “we belong to the military
detachment which government has placed under the control of Sir Robert
Whitecraft.”
“Oh, indeed,” exclaimed the sheriff; “I wish to heaven you had been a
little more advanced on your journey; you might have saved me from being
plundered, as I have been, and probably secured the robber.”
“Could you observe, sir, what was the villain's appearance?”
“I had a small lantern,” replied the functionary, “by which I caught a
brief but uncertain glance of him. I am not quite certain that I could
recognize his features, though, if I saw him again--but--perhaps I
might, certainly I could his dress.”
“How was he dressed, sir?” they inquired.
“Quite beyond the common,” said the sheriff; “I think he had on a brown
coat, of superior cloth and make, and I think, too, the buckles of his
slices were silver.”
“And his features, Mr. Sheriff?”
“I cannot exactly say,” he returned; “I was too much agitated to be able
to recollect them; but indeed the dim glimpse I got was too brief
to afford me an opportunity of seeing them with any thing like
distinctness.”
“From the description you have given, sir,” said one of them, “the man
who robbed you must have been Reilly the Outlaw. That is the very dress
he has been in the habit of wearing. Was he tall, sir, and stout in
person?”
“He was a very large man, certainly,” replied the sheriff; “and I regret
I did not see his face more distinctly.”
“It can be no other, Mr. Sheriff,” observed the man; “the fellow has no
means of living now, unless by levying contributions on the road. For my
part, I think the scoundrel can make himself invisible; but it must go
hard with us or we will secure him yet. Would you wish an escort home,
Mr. Sheriff? because, if you do, we shall accompany you.”
“No,” replied the other, “I thank you. I would not have ventured home
unattended if the Red Rapparee had still been at his vocation, and his
gang undispersed; but as he is now on the safe side, I apprehend no
danger.”
“It's not at all impossible but Reilly may step into his shoes,” said
the cavalryman.
“I have now neither money nor arms,” continued the sheriff; “nothing the
villain robbers could covet, and what, then, have I to fear?”
“You have a life, sir,” observed the man respectfully, “and if you'll
allow me to say it--the life of a man who is not very well liked in the
country, in consequence of certain duties you are obliged to perform.
Come, then, sir, we shall see you home.”
It was so arranged, and the sheriff reached his own residence, under
their escort, with perfect safety.
This indeed was a night of adventure to Reilly--hunted, as he was, like
a beast of prey. After what had taken place already in the early portion
of it, he apprehended no further pursuit, and in this respect he felt
his mind comparatively at ease--for, in addition to any other conviction
of his safety, he knew that the night was far advanced, and as the
country was unsettled, he was not ignorant that the small military
parties that were in the habit of scouring the country generally--unless
when in the execution of some express duty--retired to their quarters
at an early hour, in order to avoid the severe retaliations which were
frequently made upon them by the infuriated peasantry whom they--or
rather the government which employed them--had almost driven to madness,
and--would have driven to insurrection had the people possessed the
means of rising. As it was, however, he dreaded no further pursuit this
night, for the reasons which we have stated.
In the meantime the sheriff, feeling obliged by the civility of the
three dragoons, gave them refreshments on a very liberal scale, of
which--rather exhausted as they were--they made a very liberal use.
Feeling themselves now considerably stimulated by liquor, they mounted
their horses and proceeded towards their barracks--at a quick pace. In
consequence of the locality in which the sheriff lived, it was necessary
that they should travel in a direction opposite to that by which Reilly
and the priest were going. At all events, after riding a couple of
miles, they overtook three infantry soldiers who were also on their way
to quarters. The blood, however, of the troopers was up--thanks to the
sheriff; they mentioned the robbery, and requested the three infantry to
precede them as an advanced guard, as quietly as possible, stating
that there might still be a chance of coming across the villain who had
plundered the sheriff, intimating their impression, at the same time,
that Reilly was the man, and adding that if they could secure him their
fortune was made. As has always been usual in executing cases, of the
law attended with peculiar difficulty, these men--the infantry--like
our present detectives, had gone out that night in colored clothes. On
perceiving two individuals approaching them in the dim distance, they
immediately threw their guns into the ditch, lest they should put our
friends upon their guard and cause them to escape if they could. Reilly
could have readily done so; but having, only a few minutes before heard
from the poor old priest that he had, for some months past, been branded
and pursued us a felon, he could not think of abandoning him now that
he was feeble and jaded with fatigue as well as with age. Now it so
happened that one of these fellows had been a Roman Catholic, and having
committed some breach of the law, found it as safe as it was convenient
to change his creed, and as he spoke the Irish language fluently--indeed
there were scarcely any other then spoken by the peasantry--he commenced
clipping his hands on seeing the two men, and expressing the deepest
sorrow for the loss of his wife, from whose funeral, it appeared from
his lamentations, he was then returning.
“We have nothing to apprehend, here,” said Reilly; “this poor fellow is
in sorrow, it seems--God help him! Let us proceed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the treacherous villain, clapping his hands--[we
translate his words]--“Oh, Yeeah. Yeeah! (God, God!) what a bitther loss
you'll be, my darlin' Madge, to me and your orphan childher, now and for
evermore! Oh, where was there sich a wife, neighbors? who ever heard
her harsh word, or her loud voice? And from mornin' till night ever, ever
busy in keepin' every thing tight and clane and regular! Let me alone,
will yez? I'll go back and sleep upon her grave this night--so I
will; and if all the blasted sogers in Ireland--may sweet bad luck
to them!--were to come to prevent me, I'd not allow them. Oh, Madge,
darlin', but I'm the lonely and heartbroken man widout you this night!”
“Come, come,” said the priest, “have firmness, poor man; other people
have these calamities to bear as well as yourself. Be a man.”
“Oh, are you a priest, sir? bekase if you are I want consolation if ever
a sorrowful man did.”
“I am a priest,” replied the unsuspecting I man, “and any thing I can do
to calm your mind, I'll do it.”
He had scarcely uttered these words when! Reilly felt his two arms
strongly pinioned, and as the men who had seized him were | powerful,
the struggle between him and them was dreadful. The poor priest at the
same moment found himself also a prisoner in the hands of the bereaved
widower, to whom he proved an easy victim, as he was incapable of making
resistance, which, indeed, he declined to attempt. If he did not possess
bodily strength, however, he was not without presence of mind. For
whilst Reilly and his captors were engaged in a fierce and powerful
conflict, he placed his fore-finger and thumb in his mouth, from which
proceeded a whistle so piercingly loud and shrill that it awoke the
midnight echoes around them.
[Illustration: PAGE 65--Dashed up to the scene of struggle]
This was considered by the dragoons as a signal from their friends in
advance, and, without the loss of a moment, they set spurs to their
horses, and dashed up to the scene of struggle, just as Reilly had got
his right arm extricated, and knocked one of his captors down. In an
instant, however, the three dragoons, aided by the other men, were upon
him, and not less than three cavalry pistols were levelled at his head.
Unfortunately, at this moment the moon began to rise, and the dragoons,
on looking at him more closely, observed that he was dressed precisely
as the sheriff had described the person who robbed him--the brown coat,
light-colored breeches, and silver buckles--for indeed this was his
usual dress.
“You are Willy Reilly,” said the man who had been spokesman in their
interview with the sheriff: “you needn't deny it, sir--I know you!”
“If you know me, then,” replied Reilly, “where is the necessity for
asking my name?”
“I ask again, sir, what is your name? If you be the man I suspect you to
be, you will deny it.”
“My name,” replied the other, “is William Reilly, and as I am conscious
of no crime against society--of no offence against the State--I shall
not deny it.”
“I knew I was right,” said the dragoon. “Mr. Reilly, you are our
prisoner on many charges, not the least of which is your robbery of the
sheriff this night. You must come with us to Sir Robert Whitecraft; so
must this other person who seems your companion.”
“Not a foot I'll go to Sir Eobert Whitecraft's to-night,” replied the
priest. “I have made my mind up against such a stretch at such an hour
as this; and, with the help of God, I'll stick to my resolution.”
“Why do you refuse to go?” asked the man, a good deal surprised at such
language.
“Just for a reason I have: as for that fellow being Willy Reilly, he's
no more Willy Reilly than I am; whatever he is, however, he's a good man
and true, but must be guided by wiser heads than his own; and I now
tell him--ay, and you too--that he won't see Sir Robert Whitecraft's
treacherous face to-night, no more than myself.”
“Come,” said one of them, “drag the idolatrous old rebel along. Come, my
old couple-beggar, there's a noose before you.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when twenty men, armed with strong
pikes, jumped out on the road before them, and about the same number,
with similar weapons, behind them. In fact, they were completely hemmed
in; and, as the road was narrow and the ditches high, they were not at
all in a capacity to make resistance.
“Surrender your prisoners,” said a huge man in a voice of
thunder--“surrender your prisoners--here are we ten to one against you;
or if you don't, I swear there won't be a living man amongst you in two
minutes' time. Mark us well--we are every man of us armed--and I will
not ask you a second time.”
As to numbers and weapons the man spoke truth, and the military party
saw at once that their prisoners must be given up.
“Let us have full revenge on them now, boys,” exclaimed several voices;
“down with the tyrannical villains that are parse-cuting and murdherin'
the country out of a face. This night closes their black work;” and
as the words were uttered, the military felt themselves environed and
pressed in upon by upwards of five-and-twenty sharp and bristling pikes.
“It is true, you may murder us,” replied the dragoon; “but we are
soldiers, and to die is a soldier's duty. Stand back,” said he, “for, by
all that's sacred, if you approach another step, William Reilly and that
rebel priest will fall dead at your feet. We may die then; but we will
sell our lives dearly. Cover the priest, Robinson.”
[Illustration: PAGE 65a--I entreat you, to show these men mercy now]
“Boys,” said the priest, addressing the insurgent party, “hold back, for
God's sake, and for mine. Remember that these men are only doing their
duty, and that whoever is to be blamed, it is not they--no, but the
wicked men and cruel laws that set them upon us. Why, now, if these;
men, out of compassion and a feeling of kindness to poor persecuted
creatures, as we are, took it into their heads or their hearts to let
that man and me off, they would have been, probably, treated like dogs
for neglecting their duty. I am, as you know, a minister of God, and a
man of peace, whose duty it is to prevent bloodshed whenever I can,
and save human life, whether it is that of a Catholic or a Protestant.
Recollect, my friends, that you will, every one of you, have to stand
before the judgment throne of God to seek for mercy and salvation. As
you hope for that mercy, then, at the moment of your utmost need, I
implore, I entreat you, to show these men mercy now, and allow them to
go their way in safety.”
“I agree with every word the priest has said,” added Reilly; “not from
any apprehension of the threat held out against myself, but from, I
trust, a higher principle. Here are only six men, who, as his Reverence
justly said, are, after all, only in the discharge of their public duty.
On the other hand, there are at least forty or fifty of you against
them. Now I appeal to yourselves, whether it would be a manly, or
generous, or Christian act, to slaughter so poor a handful of men by the
force of numbers. No: there would be neither credit nor honor in such an
act. I assure you, my friends, it would disgrace your common name,
your common credit, and your common country. Nay, it would seem like
cowardice, and only give a handle to your enemies to tax you with it.
But I know you are not cowards, but brave and generous men, whose hearts
and spirits are above a mean action. If you were cowardly butchers, I
know we might speak to you in vain; but we know you are incapable
of imbruing your hands, and steeping your souls, in the guilt of
unresisting blood--for so I may term it--where there are so few against
so many. My friends, go home, then, in the name of God, and, as this
reverend gentleman said, allow these men to pass their way 'without
injury.'”
“But who are you?” said their huge leader, in his terrible voice, “who
presumes to lecture us?”
“I am one,” replied Reilly, “who has suffered more deeply, probably,
than any man here. I am without house or home, proscribed by the
vengeance of a villain--a villain who has left me without a shelter
for my head--who, this night, has reduced my habitation, and all that
appertained to it, to a heap of ashes--who is on my trail, night and
day, and who will be on my trail, in order to glut his vengeance with my
blood. Now, my friends, listen--I take God to witness, that if that
man were here at this moment, I would plead for his life with as much
earnestness as I do for those of the men who are here at your mercy.
I feel that it would be cowardly and inhuman to take it under such
circumstances; yes, and unworthy of the name of William Reilly. Now,” he
added, “these men will pass safely to their quarters.”
As they were about to resume their journey, the person who seemed to
have the command of the military said:
“Mr. Reilly, one word with you: I feel that you have saved our lives;
I may requite you for that, generous act yet;” and he pressed his hand
warmly as he spoke, after which they proceeded on their way.
That the person of Reilly was not recognized by any of these men is
accounted for by a well-known custom, peculiar to such meetings, both
then and now. The individuals before and around him were all strangers,
from distant parts of the country; for whenever an outrage is to be
committed, or a nocturnal drilling to take place, the peasantry start
across the country, in twos and threes, until they quietly reach some
lonely and remote spot, where their persons are not known.
No sooner had he mentioned his name, however, than there arose a
peculiar murmur among the insurgents--such a murmur indeed as it was
difficult to understand; there was also a rapid consultation in Irish,
which was closed by a general determination to restrain their vengeance
for that night, at least, and for the sake of the celebrated young
martyr--for as such they looked upon him--to allow the military to pass
on without injury. Reilly then addressed them in Irish, and thanked
them, both in his own name and that of the priest, for the respect
evinced by, their observation of the advice they had given them. The
priest also addressed them in Irish, aware, as he was, that one sentence
in that language, especially from a person in a superior rank of
life, carries more weight than a whole oration in the language of the
Sassenagh. The poor old man's mind was once more at ease, and after
these rough, but not intractable, men had given three cheers for “bould
Willy Reilly,” three more for the _Cooleen Bawn_, not forgetting the
priest, the latter, while returning thanks, had them in convulsions of
laughter. “May I never do harm,” proceeded his reverence humorously,
“but the first Christian duty that every true Catholic ought to learn is
to whistle on his fingers. The moment ever your children, boys, are able
to give a squall, clap their forefinger and thumb in their mouth, and
leave the rest to nature. Let them talk of their spinnet and sinnet,
their fiddle and their diddle, their dancing and their prancing, but
there is no genteel accomplishment able to be compared to a rousing
whistle on the fingers. See what it did for us to-night. My soul to
glory, but only for it, Mr. Reilly and I would have soon taken a journey
with our heels foremost; and, what is worse, the villains would have
forced us to take a bird's-eye view of our own funeral from the three
sticks, meaning the two that stand up, and the third that goes across
them (The gallows). However, God's good, and, after all, boys, you see
there is nothing like an accomplished education. As to the soldiers, I
don't think myself that they'll recover the bit of fright they got until
the new potatoes come in. Troth, while you were gathering in about them,
I felt that the unfortunate vagabonds were to be pitied; but, Lord help
us, when men are in trouble--especially in fear of their lives--and
with twelve inches of sharp iron near their breasts, it's wonderful what
effect fear will have on them. Troth, I wasn't far from feeling the same
thing myself, only I knew there was relief at hand; at all events, it's
well you kept your hands off them, for now, thank goodness, you can step
home without the guilt of murder on your souls.”
Father Maguire, for such was his name, possessed the art of adapting his
language and dialect to those whom he addressed, it mattered not whether
they were South, West, or North; he was, in fact, a priest who had
never been in any college, but received ordination in consequence of
the severity of the laws, whose operation, by banishing so many of that
class from the country, rendered the services of such men indispensable
to the spiritual wants of the people. Father Maguire, previous to
his receiving holy orders, had been a schoolmaster, and exercised
his functions on that capacity in holes and corners; sometimes on the
sheltery or sunny side of a hedge, as the case might be, and on other
occasions when and where he could. In his magisterial capacity, “the
accomplishment” of whistling was absolutely necessary to him, because it
often happened that in stealing in the morning from his retreat during
the preceding night, he knew no more where to meet his little flock of
scholars than they did where to meet him, the truth being that he seldom
found it safe to teach two days successively in the same place. Having
selected the locality for instruction during the day, he put his
forefinger and thumb into his mouth, and emitted a whistle that went
over half the country. Having thus given the signal three times, his
scholars began gradually and cautiously to make their appearance,
radiating towards him from all-directions, reminding one of a hen in
a farm-yard, who, having fallen upon some wholesome crumbs, she utters
that peculiar sound which immediately collects her eager little flock
about her, in order to dispense among them the good things she has to
give. Poor Father Maguire was simplicity itself, for, although cheerful,
and a good deal of a humorist, yet he was pious, inoffensive, and
charitable. True, it is not to be imagined that he could avoid bearing a
very strong feeling of enmity against the Establishment, as, indeed,
we do not see, so long as human nature is what it is, how he could have
done otherwise; he hated it, however, in the aggregate, not in detail,
for the truth is, that he received shelter and protection nearly as
often from the Protestants themselves, both lay and clerical, as he
did from those of his own creed. The poor man's crime against the
State proceeded naturally from the simplicity of his character and the
goodness of his heart. A Protestant peasant had seduced a Catholic young
woman of considerable attractions, and was prevailed upon to marry her,
in order to legitimize the infant which she was about to bear. Our poor
priest, anxious to do as much good, and to prevent as much evil as he
could, was prevailed upon to perform the ceremony, contrary to the law
in that case made and provided. Ever since that, the poor man had been
upon his keeping like a felon, as the law had made him; but so well
known were his harmless life, his goodness of heart, and his general
benevolence of disposition--for, alas! he was incapable of being
benevolent in any practical sense--that, unless among the bigoted
officials of the day, there existed no very strong disposition to hand
him over to the clutches of the terrible statute which he had, good easy
man, been prevailed on to violate.
In the meantime, the formidable body who had saved Reilly's life and his
own dispersed, or disappeared at least; but not until they had
shaken hands most cordially with Reilly and the priest, who now found
themselves much in the same position in which they stood previous to
their surprise and arrest.
“Now,” said Reilly, “the question is, what are we to do? where are we to
go? and next, how did you come to know of the existence in this precise
locality of such a body of men?”
“Because I have set my face against such meetings,” replied the priest.
“One of those who was engaged to be present happened to mention the fact
to me as a clergyman, but you know that, as a clergyman, I can proceed
no further.”
“I understand,” said Reilly, “I perfectly understand you. It is not
necessary. And now let me say--”
“Always trust in God, my friend,” replied the priest, in an accent quite
different from that which he had used to the peasantry. “I told you,
not long ago, that you would have, a bed to-night: follow me, and I
will lead you to a crypt of nature's own making, which, was not known to
mortal man three months ago, and which is now known only to those whose
interest it is to keep the knowledge of it silent as the grave.”
They then proceeded, and soon came to a gap or opening on the left-hand
side of the road through which they passed, the priest leading. Next
they found themselves in a wild gully or ravine that was both deep and
narrow. This they crossed, and arrived at a ledge of precipitous rocks,
most of which were overhung to the very ground with long luxuriant
heather. The priest went along this until he came to one particular
spot, when he stooped, and observed a particular round stone bedded
naturally in the earth.
“God-blessed be his name--has made nothing in vain,” he whispered; “I
must go foremost, but do as I do.” He then raised up the long heath,
and entered a low, narrow fissure in the rocks, Reilly following him
closely. The entrance was indeed so narrow that it was capable of
admitting but one man at a time, and even that by his working himself
in upon his knees and elbows. In this manner they advanced in utter
darkness for about thirty yards, when they reached a second opening,
about three feet high, which bore some resemblance to a Gothic arch.
This also it was necessary to enter consecutively. Having passed this
they were able to proceed upon their legs, still stooping, however,
until, as they got onwards, they found themselves able to walk erect.
A third and larger opening, however, was still before them, over which
hung a large thick winnow-cloth.
“Now,” said the priest, “leave every thing to me. If we were to put our
heads in rashly here we might get a pair of bullets through them that
would have as little mercy on us as those of the troopers, had we got
them. No clergyman here, or anywhere else, ever carries firearms, but
there are laymen inside who are not bound by our regulations. The only
arms we are allowed to carry are the truths of our religion and the
integrity of our lives.”
He then advanced a step or two, and shook the winnow-cloth three times,
when a deep voice from behind it asked, “_Quis venit?_”
“_Introibo ad altare Dei,_” replied the priest, who had no sooner
uttered the words than the cloth was partially removed, and a voice
exclaimed, “_Benedicite, dilecte frater; beatus qui venit in nomine
Domini el sacrosanctae Ecclesiae_.”
Reilly and his companion then entered the cave, which they had no sooner
done than the former was seized with a degree of wonder, astonishment,
and awe, such as he had never experienced in his life before. The whole
cavern was one flashing scene of light and beauty, and reminded him of
the gorgeous descriptions that were to be found in Arabian literature,
or the brilliancy of the fairy palaces as he had heard of them in the
mellow legends of his own country. From the roof depended gorgeous and
immense stalactites, some of them reaching half way to the earth, and
others of them resting upon the earth itself. Several torches, composed
of dried bog fir, threw their strong light among them with such effect
that the eye became not only dazzled but fatigued and overcome by the
radiance of a scene so unusual. In fact, the whole scene appeared to be
out of, or beyond, nature. There were about fifteen individuals present,
most of them in odd and peculiar disguises, which gave them a grotesque
and supernatural appearance, as they passed about with their strong
torches--some bright and some flashing red; and as the light of either
one or other fell upon the stalactites, giving them a hue of singular
brilliancy or deep purple, Reilly could not utter a word. The costumes
of the individuals about him were so strange and varied that he knew not
what to think. Some were in the dress of clergymen, others in that
of ill-clad peasants, and nearly one-third-of them in the garb of
mendicants, who, from their careworn faces, appeared to have suffered
severely from the persecution of the times. In a few minutes, however,
about half a dozen diminutive beings made their appearance, busied, as
far as he could guess, in employments, which his amazement at the
whole spectacle, unprepared as he was for it, prevented him from
understanding. If he had been a man of weak or superstitious mind,
unacquainted with life and the world, it is impossible to say what he
might have imagined. Independently of this--strong-minded as he was--the
impression made upon him by the elf-like sprites that ran about so
busily, almost induced him, for a few moments, to surrender to the
illusion that he stood among individuals who had little or no
natural connection with man or the external world which he inhabited.
Reflection, however, and the state of the country, came to his aid, and
he reasonably inferred that the cavern in which he stood was a place of
concealment for those unfortunate individuals who, like himself, felt it
necessary to evade the vengeance of the laws.
Whilst Reilly was absorbed in the novelty and excitement of this
strange and all but supernatural spectacle, the priest held a short
conversation, at some distance from him, with the strange figures which
had surprised him so much. Whenever he felt himself enabled to take his
eyes from the splendor and magnificence of all he saw around him,
to follow the motions of Father Maguire, he could observe that that
gentleman, from the peculiar vehemence of his attitudes and the evident
rapidity of his language, had made either himself or his presence there
the topic of very earnest discussion. In fact it appeared to him that
the priest, from whatever cause, appeared to be rather hard set to
defend him and to justify his presence among them. A tall, stern-looking
man, with a lofty forehead and pale ascetic features--from which all the
genial impulses of humanity, that had once characterized them,
seemed almost to have been banished by the spirit of relentless
persecution--appeared to bear hard upon him, whatever the charge might
be, and by the severity of his manner and the solemn but unyielding
emphasis of his attitudes, he seemed to have wrought himself into a
state of deep indignation. But as it is better that our readers should
be made acquainted with the topic of their discussion, rather than their
attitudes, we think it necessary to commence it in a new chapter.