“Hark!” said the prophetess: “’tis the screams of despair and agony:—my
countrymen are defeated:—they fall:—but they do not fly. No human
soul can endure this suspense:—all is dark and terrible: the distant
roar of artillery; the noise of conflict; the wild tumultuous cries
of war; the ceaseless deafening fire.—Behold the rolling volumes of
smoke, as they issue from the glen!—What troop of horse comes riding
over the down?—I too have fought. This hand has dyed itself in the
blood of a human being; this breast is pierced; but the pang I feel is
not from the wound of the bayonet.—Hark! how the trumpet echoes from
afar beyond the mountains.—They halt—they obey my last commands—they
light the beacons on the hill! Belfont and St. Alvin shall blaze;
the seat of his fathers shall fall; and with their ashes, mine shall
not mingle! Glenarvon, farewell! Even in death I have not forgiven
thee!—Come, tardy steed, bear me once again; and then both horse and
rider shall rest in peace for ever.”
It was about the second hour of night when St. Clare reached Inis
Tara, and stood suspended between terror and exultation, as she
watched the clouds of smoke and fire which burst from the turrets of
Belfont. The ranks were every where broken: soldiers in pursuit were
seen in detached parties, scouring over every part of the country: the
valley of Altamonte rang with the savage contest, as horse to horse,
and man to man, opposed each other. The pike and bayonet glittered
in the moon-beam; and the distant discharge of musketry, with the
yell of triumph, and the groans of despair, echoed mournfully upon
the blast. Elinor rose upon her panting steed to gaze with eager eyes
towards Belfont.
It was not the reflection of the kindling fires that spread so
deathlike a hue over her lips and face. She was bleeding to death from
her wounds, while her eye darted forth, as if intently watching, with
alternate hope and terror, that which none but herself could see—it
was a man and horse advancing with furious haste from the smoke and
flames, in which he had appeared involved. He bore a lovely burthen
in his arms, and shewing her Clare of Costolly as he passed. “I have
fulfilled your desire, proud woman,” he cried: “the castle shall burn
to the earth: the blood of every enemy to his country shall be spilt.
I have saved the son of Glenarvon; and when I have placed him in
safety, shall de Ruthven be as dear?” “Take my thanks,” said Elinor
faintly, as the blood continued to flow from her wounds. “Bear that
boy to my aunt, the Abbess of Glanaa: tell her to cherish him for my
sake. Sometimes speak to him of St. Clare.
“Now, see the flame of vengeance how it rises upon my view. Burn,
fire; burn. Let the flames ascend, even to the Heavens. So fierce
and bright are the last fires of love, now quenched, for ever and for
ever. The seat of his ancestors shall fall to the lowest earth—dust
to dust—earth to earth. What is the pride of man?—The dream of life
is past; the song of the wild harper has ceased; famine, war, and
slavery, shall encompass my country.
“But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
One last dying wish this sad bosom shall draw:
O, Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing;
Land of my forefathers, Erin go brah.”
As she sung the last strain of the song, which the sons of freedom
had learned, she tore the green mantle from her breast, and throwing
it around the head of her steed, so that he could not perceive any
external object, she pressed the spur into his sides, and gallopped in
haste to the edge of the cliff, from which she beheld, like a sheet
of fire reddening the heavens, the blazing turrets of Belfont. She
heard the crash: she gazed in triumph, as millions of sparks lighted
the blue vault of the heavens; and volumes of smoke, curling from the
ruins, half concealed the ravages of the insatiate flame. Then she
drew the horn from her side, and sounding it loud and shrill from
Heremon cliff, heard it answered from mountain to mountain, by all
her armed confederates. The waves of the foaming billows now reflected
a blood-red light from the scorching flames....
Three hundred and sixty feet was the cliff perpendicular from the
vast fathomless ocean. “Glenarvon, hurah! Peace to the broken hearts!
Nay, start not, Clarence: to horse, to horse! Thus charge; it is
for life and honour.” The affrighted steed saw not the fearful chasm
into which, goaded on by his rider, he involuntarily plunged. But de
Ruthven heard the piercing shriek he gave, as he sunk headlong into
the rushing waters, which in a moment overwhelming both horse and
rider, concealed them from the view of man.