CHAPTER XLV.

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I. A FIRST ANNIVERSARY

“Although you open force disdain.

Of secret guile beware!”

John Leyden.

|It was a cold frosty evening in December, seventeen hundred and

ninety-five, and the whole of the month had been unusually tempestuous.

Throughout wide Britain, there are no shores on which the wind rages

with wilder fury than upon those naked promontories which abut into the

Atlantic, along the iron-bound coast of Donegal. Harbours are few and

far between--the peasantry are a hardy and adventurous race--and the

fishing grounds distant from the land. In the winter, snowstorms come

suddenly on, and the sea rises with fearful rapidity. The boatmen are

caught in the gale, and too frequently courage and skill struggle in

vain,

“Contending with the fretful elements;”

and a calamitous loss of life robs many a family of its protectors,

making the humble roof-tree desolate.

During the continuation of these fearful storms, this wild coast had not

escaped its customary visitations. An island smack had foundered with

all its crew; and farther to the northward, a transport, homeward-bound

from Holland with sick and wounded soldiers, having been dismasted in

the gale, was driven a wreck upon the coast. By the fearless intrepidity

of some fishermen, the sinking vessel was carried through a fissure

in the rocks into a sandy bay; and, by what appeared miraculous

interposition, the lives of all on board were saved, even when hope was

over.

On the second evening after this fortunate deliverance our story opens.

Indeed, the epoch was memorable. That disastrous campaign which brought

disgrace upon the British arms, had just terminated in the evacuation of

the Low Countries, and the withdrawal to its own shores of the débris

of a splendid force, which, under luckless auspices, had left England

buoyant with the assurance of success. Nor was a foreign failure

the only circumstance which at this eventful period gave cause for

apprehension. In England, the public mind was agitated, monetary

confidence deeply shaken, and revolutionary principles were gaining

ground; while in Ireland the peasantry united in lawless associations,

and murder, with robbery of arms, intimated that some insurrectionary

movement was at hand. In a word, everything was gloomy and discouraging

abroad, and at home life and property had no security. With few

exceptions the resident gentry had repaired for protection to garrisoned

towns. Some however, with more spirit than discretion, determined to

remain within their houses, and my father was of that number.

Yet there were few persons excepting its owner, who, even in peaceful

times, would choose Knockloftie for an abiding place. It was an old and

dreary-looking fabric,--one portion consisting of a dark square tower,

the keep of a former stronghold of the O’Hallorans,--and the others,

additions built at different periods, according to the wants or fancies

of succeeding proprietors. The house was perched upon a cliff, which

rose in sheer ascent two hundred feet above the beach beneath it.

Although sheltered by some high grounds behind, still, as the building

looked upon the ocean, it was necessarily exposed and cold; while

dwarfed and sickly copse-wood--all that repeated efforts to grow timber

could produce--instead of improving the general appearance of the place,

gave a silent but striking evidence of its hopeless sterility.

To my father, however, Knockloftie had hereditary endearments. For five

centuries his ancestors had been born and died there; and he clung with

a family attachment to that ancient roof-tree, where the O’Hallorans, in

better days, had exercised a boundless hospitality, which even yet was

chronicled in the traditions of the neighbourhood.

But local associations apart, my father would have scorned to yield

to the threatening appearances of the times, and leave his mansion

in alarm. He was “every inch” a soldier; and in all relations between

landlord and tenant, it was universally admitted that he was both

liberal and kind. He had vainly endeavoured to rouse the spirit of

the gentry, and induce them, by bold and united efforts, to crush

the increasing disaffection; and at a recent county meeting, after

delivering a stirring appeal, he concluded by a declaration, that,

“while the old tower of Knockloftie had a roof, it never should want an

arm to defend it,”--and he raised his own.

Although Colonel O’Halloran had failed to produce the reaction he

desired, still the bold example he had given was not without effect. The

government was appealed to for assistance, rewards were offered largely

for the apprehension of the guilty, vigorous measures proposed and

agreed to, and the dormant energies of the aristocracy seemed awakening.

Of course, my father occupied a prominent place in the estimation of

both the loyal and the disaffected. With the former he was considered

the master-spirit, who was to direct them in this their hour of

difficulty; while the latter set him down as the most dangerous

enemy they had to dread. In a moment, former kindness and consequent

popularity vanished like a dream, the _delenda est_ of Knockloftie

was pronounced, and in the black list to guide the future murderer my

father’s name stood first.

Such was the state of the times, and such the local condition of the

country in which the opening scene of this true history is laid. My

first anniversary had come round; and although the hospitable relations

which had formerly existed among the gentry had been interrupted, still,

on this occasion, there was a semblance of rejoicing in my father’s

house, though, sooth to say, it was after all a sickly effort at

festivity.

In the great chamber of Knockloftie the lord of the mansion, with his

lady and two guests, were seated. The apartment was a large, square, and

ill-lit room, occupying the lower portion of the tower. Both floor and

ceiling were framed of native oak, which time had nearly blackened,

and the walls were half-concealed by portraits rudely executed. Many

indications of the danger of the times were apparent in this ancient

chamber. The windows were jealously secured, and everywhere weapons of

all descriptions were seen. Two arm-racks, holding a dozen muskets each,

were placed in either corner, while some silver sconces dependent

from the cornice shed on the polished arms a flickering light. But the

chamber was better illuminated; for the huge hearth was heaped with

bog-wood, and the ruddy flare this cheerful fire emitted reached the

remotest extremity of the apartment, and half-dispelled its gloom.

As Scott would say, “the tables were drawn,” and dinner had disappeared.

My mother sat in an antique high-backed chair, busily employed in

knitting shooting-stockings for her husband; my father had extracted

another cork; the parson pronounced the wine unexceptionable; and

the priest, “good easy man,” was stirring an obdurate piece of sugar,

deposited in the bottom of his second tumbler. The clock upon the

mantelpiece struck seven, and the butler, after replenishing a

bent-basket with firewood, quitted the presence and closed the door.

All these events had passed, and it is high time that the gentle reader

should be formally introduced to the company.

The history of my parents must be intermixed. Lieutenant-Colonel Denis

O’Halloran was now some thirty-one, but he looked older by a dozen

years. He was a tall, athletic man, well formed and well set-up, with

an air and bearing which did not require the attestation of an empty

sleeve, to prove him “no carpet knight” and stamp him soldier. He

entered the service a boy of sixteen--and at six-and-twenty, the women

said he was the handsomest fellow in garrison. At twenty-seven, the

old major having signified his intention to retire, my grandsire,

_more Hibernico_, secured his son’s promotion by parting with another

town-land. At twenty-eight, Major O’Halloran further promoted himself,

for he carried off the pretty brunette who was now demurely knitting

stockings in the corner. Heaven forgive him!--my mother was boarder in a

convent--and one blessed moonlight morning, when the nuns were dreaming

of heaven, and the superior sleeping “fast as a watchman,” with the

assistance of a ladder and three grenadiers, Miss Emily Clifford was

liberated from holy pupilage, and at Gretna Green she became Mrs.

O’llalloran, and that too, without taking the opinion of the parish as

to whether there was just cause or impediment against the same.

My mother was the only daughter of a Catholic gentleman of large estate,

he had however a son by a former marriage, fifteen years older. The

boy grew up wild and extravagant--and at twenty-one had dissipated a

handsome fortune. At last his angry parent totally discarded him, and

to support his endless debaucheries, the unhappy youth resorted to

discreditable means for obtaining the money he required. With some

profligate companions he became involved in a transaction which rendered

them obnoxious to the law, and in consequence, Edward Clifford left

England secretly. Eighteen years had elapsed--none eould say whether he

was dead or living--but the general belief was, that he filled an early

and dishonoured grave.

Mr. Clifford was a bigot in religion. All his hopes had long since

centered in his daughter; and the great object of his life was to marry

her to a person of his own persuasion, and a union was negotiated, and

nearly concluded, between Emily and the son of a Catholic peer. In

the meantime, her education had been entrusted to the sisterhood of a

convent, alike celebrated for sanctity and strictness, where, as Mr.

Clifford believed, his daughter would be equally secure against attempts

upon her faith or her affections. What must have been his rage and

astonishment when the news of her elopement was communicated! She

who had been designed to wed a peer--whose loved society he had

relinquished, that her religious opinions might be confirmed by

spiritual instruction--she was lost to him for ever; united by an

indissoluble tie to the son of a distressed gentleman--and worse still,

to the professor of a creed from which Mr. Clifford fearfully recoiled,

as a system founded in heresy and error.

After a sufficient time had been allowed to permit the first burst of

parental displeasure to exhaust itself, letters were written to Mr.

Clifford by the offenders, to deprecate his anger and solicit pardon

and forgiveness; but they came back with unbroken seals, while other

circumstances concurred to convince my parent that, for a time at least,

the old gentleman’s anger was implacable. Rich in mutual regard, they

sought and found consolation in reciprocated affections--and soon after

there was promise of another tie, that should bind their hearts together

even more closely than before.

Short was the season when their course of love ran smooth. An order of

readiness arrived unexpectedly from the war office--the destination of

the regiment was France--and in another week a rout was received for

Deal.

A separation was now inevitable--and when my mother most required a

husband’s gentle attentions, the order to divide them had arrived. But

the rector of her father’s parish had heard of the intended embarkation,

and hastened to offer the home my mother needed. Thus, cheered by “the

good man’s counsels,” and nursed tenderly by his excellent wife,

my mother gave birth, in four months afterwards to a son--I made an

_entrée_ on the world,--and commenced, as the reader may probably admit

hereafter, an adventurous career.

The young soldier’s history in the meantime, is shortly told. Lord

Moira, despairing of effecting any good by the intended descent on

Brittany, changed the direction of his force, landed at Ostend, and

finally joined the Duke of York at Mechlin. In my father’s regiment,

the lieut.-colonel had become sick, and the senior major

retired--consequently the command had devolved upon himself--and could

any thing have reconciled the severance of young love, it would have

been the early prospect of military distinction.

Major O’Halloran proved that fortune had not vainly offered him her

favours. His regiment was brigaded with the rear-guard, and on every

occasion the battalion was admirably commanded. The service of retiring

constantly in front of a victorious army is most discouraging, but still

that disheartening duty was performed with a spirit deserving better

fortune. At last the Duke of York was recalled, and for a time his

successor, Count Walmoden, assumed the offensive. An attack on the

Republicans at Tuy had partial success, and my father heading the

grenadier company, carried the town by assault. With that exploit his

military career was prematurely closed--his left arm was fractured by a

grape shot, amputated afterwards, and he returned to England invalided.

The rest is briefly told. He found himself a father, and his own sire

had paid the debt of nature. His health was shaken by fatigue, his wound

healed slowly, and after some consideration, he retired from the army

upon half pay, obtaining a colonel’s rank and pension, and fixed his

residence in his native country, taking possession of an ancient house,

and what proved afterwards an unquiet home.

The guests who on the anniversary of my birth had honoured Knockloftie

with their presence, were different both in character and appearance.

The priest was a strong-built, good-humoured, under-sized man, of

jovial habits and easy disposition, careless how matters went, and

consequently, ill-adapted to repress the turbulence of a disobedient

flock, who would have required the religious coercion of a sterner

monitor. As confessor to the establishment, Father Dominic Kelly made

Knockloftie his abiding place. He was of gentle blood himself, and

preferred being domiciled in the house of a gentleman, to a wandering

life among the rude dwellings of a lawless community. Hence Father

Dominic was by no means popular--and his influence over a wild and

rebellious people was far less extensive than that which is generally

possessed by the Irish priesthood.

The other churchman formed a singular contrast to the burly priest.

He was a small, attenuated, intelligent-looking personage, possessing

natural courage and a restless and irascible disposition. A fellow

of the university, he had retired upon a college living--and having

obtained, unhappily for himself, a commission of the peace, he exercised

his powers with greater zeal than discretion; in short, he had made

himself so obnoxious to the peasantry that his life was not worth a

pin’s fee. Like Colonel O’Halloran, he too was doomed to death, and in

the _black list_ his name was second to that of my father. A few nights

before, his glebe-house had been burnt to the ground; and, having

escaped assassination by a miracle, he found that protection at

Knockloftie, which, from a more timid proprietor, might have been sought

and asked in vain.

But there were others besides Doctor Hamilton, who during this reign of

terror had been obliged to abandon their own homes, and elsewhere seek

a shelter. Several of the poorer farmers had given testimony in recent

prosecutions which led to the conviction of an assassin, on whom the

extreme penalty of the law had been justly executed. This in the eyes

of his guilty companions was a crime beyond the pale of mercy, and the

unfortunate men were accordingly denounced. They fled for protection to

Knockloftie--there, they were now residing--and, as if the measure of my

father’s offendings was not already full, the daring act of interposing

between a lawless confederacy and its victims had heaped it even to an

overflow. No wonder therefore, that the full fury of rebel vengeance was

to be turned against himself and all whom his roof-tree covered.

“Well, William,” said my mother, as she renewed a conversation which had

been accidentally interrupted, “when you were struck down--”

“My foster brother sprang from the ranks, threw away his musket, lifted

me lightly as even with this lone arm I would lift you, and carried

me--”

“In safety from the danger?”

“No, no, love--we had to pass through a cross fire of musketry--a ball

struck him, and when he fell dead--I was in his arms.”

“Would,” said my mother with a sigh, “that our Hector had a foster

brother!”

“Would that he had! and one so faithful and devoted!”--my father drew

his hand across his eyes--“this is too womanly, but--”

As he was speaking, the mastiff chained in a kennel beside the hall

door began to growl, and the priest rose and peeped cautiously through

a shot-hole in the shutters, to ascertain what might have disturbed the

dog. Nothing to cause alarm was visible--and the churchman returned to

the table, observing, that the night froze keenly.

My mother had dropped her knitting on the carpet.--“What a horrid state

of things,” observed the lady, as she picked the worsted from the floor,

“that a growl from Cæsar sets my heart beating for an hour, and a knock

after dark terrifies me almost to death!”

“Thou a soldier’s wife, and play the coward!” exclaimed my father. “Fear

nothing, Emily; the old tower from roof to basement is secured--there is

not a cranny that would admit the cat that I have not under a flanking

fire--the lower windows save one are built up--I have retrenched the

hall with a barricade, nailed up the back door, and the front one is

enfiladed by that embrasure,”--and he pointed to a window in an angle of

the room, at either side of which a blunderbuss was standing ready for

instant use.

“Would that for one night thou and the baby were safe within the convent

walls! then let the scoundrels come! By Heaven! next morning there

should be more shirts * upon the lawn than were ever spread upon the

bleaching ground, and the coroner should have occupation, not by single

files, but by the cart-load.”

* The _Defenders_ wore shirts over their clothes at night,

and hence were also called _White-boys_.

While my father spoke, the whole scene was passing in his “mind’s eye,”

and _Defenders_ were dropping by the dozen. His face lighted up, and

springing from the chair he waved his solitary arm, strode across

the chamber, and looked with conscious pride at all his military

preparations. My mother grew pale as death, and turning her eyes up she

fervently ejaculated, “God forbid!” and crossed herself devoutly. The

priest performed a similar ceremony, and uttered a sincere “Amen!”

“Pshaw!” said my father, as he passed his arm round my mother’s waist

and kissed her tenderly; “do not alarm yourself. This house is strong;

nothing but treachery could force it.”

“Beware of that,” said the parson; “for that I feared and proved. I was

betrayed by the villain who ate my bread, and saved providentially by

the babbling folly of an idiot.”

“Indeed!” said my mother, with an inquiring glance, as she laid her

knitting down.

“The tale is briefly told,” said Doctor Hamilton. “For some time past I

suspected that my servants were disaffected. I watched them closely, and

circumstances convinced me that my fears were true. I had business in

the next town; my tithe agent dared not venture out of doors, and it was

imperatively necessary that I should see him. By a lane, the distance

between the glebe-house and the village was only four miles--all I

wanted done would occupy but a few minutes--and I took, as I supposed,

effectual means to enable me to accomplish the object I had in view,

and return home even before my absence was known in my treacherous

household. At dusk I despatched my servant with a letter to the curate,

and when he was out of sight I saddled a fast horse, quitted the

stable by a back door, and rode off at speed for the village. I was

unexpectedly delayed--but as a precaution against danger, returned by

another and longer road. Night had set in; I passed through the last

hamlet at a sharp trot, and, but a mile from home, pulled up at a steep

hill that leads directly to the bridge. A lad who was running in an

opposite direction stopped when he observed me coming, and I recognised

him at once to be an idiot boy who occasionally visited the glebe-house,

where he always received meat or money by my orders. As I came closer he

began dancing and gabbling in a sing-song tune, “Ha, ha! Hamilton, ha,

ha! somebody will get his fairin. There’s Dick Brady and the smith

behind the hedge, and Jack Coyne, and Patsy Gallagher, and twenty more

besides, only I don’t know them with their white shirts and black faces.

Ha, ha! ha, ha! somebody to-night will get his fairin!” He repeated this

rhyme, and kept dancing for a few moments with idiot glee, and then,

under a sudden impulse, ran off towards the hamlet which I had but just

passed through.”

Again an angry growling was heard from the mastiff’s kennel, and the

priest looked a second time through the shot-hole. The night was clear

and star-lit, but nothing was visible from the window. Father Dominic

resumed his seat, and Doctor Hamilton thus continued:

“My danger was imminent, and my resolution must be prompt. I dismounted,

turned my horse loose, and as I had expected, he galloped off directly

towards his stable. I sprang into the next field, and lay down under

cover of the hedge, to consider what was the best direction that I

should take to escape the blood-hounds, who doubtlessly would be soon

upon my trail.

“I had not been above a minute in concealment when footsteps were heard

approaching rapidly from the bridge. Two men came on at speed, and one

had outstripped the other. ‘Stop!’ cried the hindmost, ‘what a devil of

a hurry you are in! I can’t keep up with you.’

“‘I want to be in at the death,’ returned the well-known voice of my

villain servant; ‘I would not miss it for a ten-pound note. He thought

to give me the slip--put me on a wrong scent, and sent me with a

letter. He asked me a question about bridling a horse, and that betrayed

his secret. I knew there was something in the wind--doubled back upon

the house after he thought me clear away--saw him go off through the

back lane in a canter, and--’ Two shots were heard in quick succession.

‘He’s down, by ------,’ he exclaimed, with savage exultation. ‘Run

Murtaugh! they’ll be into the house in no time. I know where the money

is. Run--the devil’s luck to you! and off both ruffians started.

“The rest you know. Speedily a glare of red light was seen, and a

burning house--my own--guided my flight, for I took the opposite

direction. I know not whether I was pursued--but, if I was the villains

were unsuccessful. At midnight I reached this place of refuge, and here,

for a time at least, I am safe.”

“What boundless treachery!” exclaimed my father, as the parson ended the

narrative of his escape. “We may set an open enemy at defiance, but who

can guard against secret villany? By Heaven! a dark suspicion at this

moment flashes across my mind. Have you noticed the servant who waits at

table?”

“I have--and as a disciple of Lavater I denounce him; he never looks you

fairly in the face.”

“And yet the only vulnerable point in the garrison is at that fellow’s

mercy. When I closed up every aperture besides, Hackett remonstrated so

strongly, and pleaded the inconvenience it would cause should I build

up the window of his pantry, that I consented to leave it open, merely

adding a second shutter for security. It is but small--a man however

could creep through it--but to-morrow the mason shall brick it up.”

“It may be fancy,” said my mother, “but Hackett’s manner appears lately

to have undergone a change. There is at times a freedom in his language

that borders upon insolence; but hush! here comes the nurse.”

The door opened as she spoke, and I was added to the company. My mother

placed me on her knee,--the parson proposed my health, Father Dominie

added a supplication, that “God would make me a better man than my

father, and, above all things, keep me out of convents,”--and the latter

responded an amen. Every glass was emptied to the bottom--the host rang

for more wine and the priest replenished his tumbler. It was a moment

of hilarity, joyous and brief. Suddenly Cæsar gave the alarm--not as

before, in under growls, but in the “full-mouthed diapason” of a

bark audible a mile oft. The greyhound and the terrier sprang up and

answered,--I cried, frightened by the “loud alarum,”--the nursemaid

caught me from my mother, and hurried from the room,--while my father,

exclaiming “a true challenge, by Heaven!”’ leaped from his chair, and

placed himself before the wicket that looked upon the lawn.

A minute--an anxious minute, elapsed.

“I hear.” said the Doctor, “the footsteps of a mob, as they tread upon

the frozen gravel.”

“Hush!” replied, my father, as he turned his ear attentively in the

direction whence the noise proceeded; “that is not the movement of a

mob--they step too well together. Soldiers on march, for a hundred!” At

the Colonel’s observation, my mother, who had nearly fainted,

gradually recovered courage, and left the apartment for the nursery to

re-establish mine,--my father remained at his post, to ascertain what

the party were, who at this late hour approached his fortilage,--while

Father Dominic ejaculating a pious “Heaven stand between us and evil!”

turned down his tumbler to the bottom. Well, it was only his third one,

after all.

CHAPTER II. THE PLOT THICKENS.

Now Christie’s Will peep’d from the tower,

And out at the shot-hole peeped he,

And, “Ever unlucky,” quo’ he, “is the hour,

When a woman comes to speer for me.”

Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.

In a short time “the heavy tread of marching men” ceased, as a party

of ten or twelve soldiers halted immediately in front of my father’s

barricade.

“Stand! who goes there?” was demanded from the loop-hole.

“A friend,” replied a voice, redolent of the richness of the Shannon.

“Advance, friend, and give the countersign,” returned my father, whose

phraseology, from military habitude, still retained the parlance of the

camp.

“Countersign!” responded the leader of the belated wayfarers; “devil

a countersign have I but one. If my ould Colonel’s above the sod, he’s

spakin to me now fair and asy from the windy.”

“Who are you?” demanded my father.

“Oh! by Jakers, you’ll hardly mind me, Colonel;--Private Phil Brady of

‘number eight’ when you had the regiment; but now, glory be to God and

good conduct, lance-sergeant in ‘number five.’”

“What is your party, Brady?”

“Upon my conscience, Colonel, a quare one, enough; tin invalids, a dyin

woman, ami a fine man-child.”

“Unclose the door, Father Dominie!”

The priest lifted a heavy key from the side-board, and proceeded to

give admission to the travellers, when Hackett, who had been hitherto

an anxious listener, ventured a remonstrance. “Why not,” said he, “give

them meat and whisky before the door? Every room was already crowded

with idle people, whom nobody would have harmed, had they remained where

they ought,--at home. If the house was to be turned into an hospital

for sick trampers and their trulls, why every servant would quit a place

liker a jail than a gentleman’s.”

Colonel O’Halloran preserved an ominous tranquillity; and Hackett,

mistaking the cause, became more insolent as his speech proceeded

without interruption. But the storm burst at last.

“Villain!” said my father in a voice which induced the chief butler to

recede some paces backwards,--“dare you, a menial, prescribe to me, your

master, who shall be received and who rejected? Tell me that a comrade

shall be turned from my door, and recommend that the weary soldier be

ejected from the house of him under whom he has fought and bled! Off--we

part to-morrow. The roof of Knockloftie shall never cover for a second

night a sneaking scoundrel who has neither welcome for a brave man nor

pity for a helpless woman;--show in the sergeant!”

Without venturing to reply, Hackett shrank from the presence of his

angry master; and in another minute sergeant Philip Brady made his

military salaam, and, with a capacious bundle in his arms, stood full

front before his former commander.

“Phil!” said the Colonel, as he examined the soldier’s outer man, “if

I judge rightly, thou like myself art but lightly indebted to the Low

Countries and my father held up an empty sleeve.

“Feaks! and ye may say that, Colonel,” replied the sergeant. “All that

I have gained in Holland--barrin the stripes--is a slashed cheek, a

threadbare jacket, and a fine child.”

“Your kit, however, seems extensive, Phil; that which you carry looks to

be a well-filled bundle.”

“It’s only the child, your honor; the night was cold, the mother wake,

so I wrapped the baby in this ould coat, and for its father’s sake kept

it, the cratur, as snug as could be.”

“It’s not your own, then?”

“Divil a wife or child has Philip Brady,” returned the honest sergeant.

“Ye may remember corporal O’Toole,--he was one of the finest men in the

grenadiers, when your honor had the company.”

“Perfectly; a better or braver soldier was not in the regiment. What

became of him?”

“He died at sea, God rest his sowl! on the second day after we left

Ostend. He was badly wounded when put on board, poor fellow! and we

were all, men and women, bundled into the transport like so many hounds,

short of water and provisions, and in the hurry they forgot the surgeon

too. Well, his wound mortified: ‘I’m oft, Phil;’ says he; ‘you’ll

not forget the poor wife, for my sake, and may God look down upon the

orphan! Give me your hand upon it, Phil,’ says he, and he squeezed mine

with all his feeble strength. When I came down again, his wife was

hanging over the dead body. They coaxed her away to see the child, and

when she returned to have some comfort in crying over the corpse, it was

already overboard with two others, who had dropped off the hooks that

evening. From that hour Toole’s wife (we called him Toole for shortness)

has pined away, and the life was barely in her when your honor, may God

reward ye! let us in.”

“‘Why were you so late upon the road?” inquired the Colonel; “in the

present state of things soldiers are no favourites, and the chances

are considerable, had you proceeded farther, that you would have been

waylaid and abused.”

“Feaks! and I believe your honor. We were delayed partly by accident,

and partly through design. Our car broke down, the horse lost a shoe,

and the rest of the party pushed forward, laving us at a forge to get

the cart mended, and the baste shod. The smith--divil’s luck to him, the

ruffin!--kept us three hours, I think on purpose, and then they directed

us astray. So when I found the night falling, and the poor woman all but

dead, as I heard there was a gentleman’s not far off, I heads the party

here on chance, little dreaming, the Lord knows, that I had the luck of

thousands and was coming to my ould Colonel’s, and no other.”

My father was a man of prompt action and few words. The bell was rung,

the soldiers sent to the kitchen to refresh themselves, the child

committed to the care of a female domestic, and carried to the apartment

whither its dying mother had been previously removed. There, my mother

and the woman-kind of the establishment used every means which simple

skill suggested; but already the decree had gone forth, and within an

hour after the arrival of the party the crisis came, the widow of the

dead soldier was at rest, and her babe an orphan.

“The struggle was brief,” said the priest, as he re-entered the room,

from which he had been so hastily summoned

‘By a dying woman to pray.’

May God receive her in mercy! She went off so gently, that though we

were all about the bed, no one could tell the moment when she departed.

My lady is crying over her as if she were a sister, and the baby

sleeping soundly in Sibby Connor’s arms, as if it were still resting on

that bosom which had been designed by God to be its pillow and support.”

My father, as was his wont when any thing particularly excited him,

sprang from his chair, and strode thrice across the chamber.--“Tell me

not,” he exclaimed, “that there is not an especial providence over every

thing--ay, from the sparrow to the soldier’s child. That orphan has been

sent to _me_,--mine it is,--mine it shall be. Pass the wine, Doctor.

Here comes _madame_.”

My mother timidly approached the side of her husband’s chair, and laid

her hand upon his shoulder.

“Denis,” she said, “will you be very angry with me?”

“Angry, love!” replied my father, reproachfully.

“You never were angry with me yet. But--but--I have done something, upon

which I should have previously obtained your sanction, love.”

“What was it, Emily?”

“I promised,” said my mother, “the dying woman, that her helpless child

should find in you and me protectors. Hector’s nurse has taken the

orphan,--and shall he not be our own boy’s foster-brother?”

“You did, my dear, precisely what I had determined to have done myself.”

“Before the sufferer’s voice failed totally,” continued the lady, “she

said that the child was still unchristened, and prayed that rite might

be performed when convenient.”

“There will be no difficulty in complying with her request,” replied my

father; “there are now two learned Thebans in Knockloftie. To which of

the professors does the poor baby belong?”

“His parents were Roman Catholics,” said my mother.

“Then, Father Dominic, a cast of your office will be necessary. Ring for

Sergeant Brady--and then parade the child.”

In a few moments the non-commissioned officer and the soldier’s orphan

were introduced.

“What name shall I give him?” said the priest.

“His father’s,” rejoined the Colonel.

“That was Marc,” observed the sergeant.

“What’s in a name?” said Dr. Hamilton.

“More than one would suppose, Doctor,” replied my father. “Our

red-headed adjutant married a Bath heiress almost at sight, for after

but a two hours’ siege she surrendered at discretion, declaring that it

was utterly impossible to hold out against a lover whose appellatives

were Julius Cæsar.”

“Then add Antony to his patronymic, and your _protégé_ will prove

irresistible.”

“Marc Antony be it then,” replied the priest; and in five minutes the

ceremony was complete. The sergeant retired to finish his supper below

stairs, and the orphan was returned to the nursery, named after that

amorous Roman, who “for a queen of fifty” gave up a world.

[Illustration: 0027]

The clock struck eleven.--My mother retired for the night, and the

priest had been called out to prescribe for a sick soldier,--for his

reverence united leechcraft to divinity, and thus was doubly useful. My

father and Dr. Hamilton were consequently left alone, and both for some

minutes had been communing with their own thoughts--my father broke the

silence.

“I know not wherefore,” said he, “but something whispers me that this

night is fated to be an important one in the history of the old house.

I’m not inclined for sleep, and I feel a sort of restlessness, as if the

day’s events had not yet closed.”

“It is the mental reaction which follows some unusual excitement,

replied the divine.

“It may be so,” returned my father. “On with more wood. We’ll order a

light supper, and borrow an hour from the night.”

The Doctor threw some billets on the fire, while my father filled his

glass, and transferred the wine duly to the churchman.

“Did you remark the opposition which Hackett made when I gave orders to

admit the soldiers?”

“I watched him attentively,” replied the Doctor. “His lips grew pale,

his brows lowered, and with great difficulty he suppressed a burst

of angry feelings which seemed almost too strong to be controlled. Be

assured, my dear Colonel, that man is dangerous. If he be not traitor, I

wrong him sorely.”

“Hush!” said my father, “the dog is growling. What! more late visitors?

This is indeed a busy night; and again honest Cæsar proves himself a

worthy sentinel. Wherever treachery may lurk, there’s none within his

kennel, Doctor.”

The Colonel reconnoitred from his embrasure, but there was nothing

to excite alarm. The moon had risen, and the sky, spangled with

frost-stars, was bright and clear. Cæsar, advanced to the full length of

his chain, was patted upon the head by a person closely wrapped up, who

spoke to him with the admitted familiarity of an old acquaintance. To

the Colonel’s demand of name and business, a female voice replied, “I

beg your honour’s pardon, it’s me, Mary Halligan. My mother-in-law won’t

put over the night. She wants to see his reverence in private, and sent

me with some lines * to the priest. None of the boys would venture to

the Castle after dark, for fear of Cæsar and your honour.”

* The term “lines” is generally used by the Irish peasantry

instead of “letter.”

“Well, Mary, late as it is, we’ll allow you in. Will you, Hamilton,

unlock the door, and let us have the lady _here_--for _entre nous_, she

belongs to a faithless family.”

The peasant now in waiting at the hall-door was decidedly the handsomest

woman in the parish. For time immemorial her fathers had been servants

in Knockloftie, and she an occasional inmate of the house. Her

brother, educated by my grandfather, had discharged the double duty

of schoolmaster and driver--the latter, in plain English, meaning the

factotum of an Irish gentleman of small estate. In this department,

Halligan had been found dishonest, was disgracefully turned off, joined

lawless men, obtained among them a bad pre-eminence, and now, under

the double ban of murder and sedition, was skulking in the hills with a

reward of fifty pounds offered for his apprehension. After her brother’s

disgrace, Mary had seldom visited the mansion of her former master--and,

as report said, she was affianced to one of the most troublesome and

disaffected scoundrels in the barony.

Mary Halligan, and much against her own inclination, was inducted by

the churchman into my father’s presence. “It was too much trouble to his

honour,” she muttered; “Mr. Hackett the butler would do all she wanted,

and give the lines to Father Dominic.”

“Mary,” said my father, as he handed her a glass of wine, “you tremble.

Has anything alarmed you?”

“It is very, very cold, your honour, out of doors.”

“Cold it is, certainly, and Father Dominic will have a dreary ride.

‘Where is the letter for him?”

Mary Halligan’s colour went and came, for my father’s searching eye was

turned upon her, and that added to her confusion. She-fumbled in her

bosom--pulled out one paper,--a second fell upon the carpet--one she

caught up--the other she hastily delivered--and the latter, was the

wrong one.

My father carelessly looked over it, while Mary Halligan scrutinized his

face with deep attention. As he read it--she became pale as death, and

seemed hanging in fearful expectation upon the first words that Colonel

O’llalloran would litter.

“Ha!” said my father carelessly, “so the old woman’s bad it seems. She

wants, I suppose, to make her will--leave you an heiress, Mary,--and

Father Dominic will assist her. Well, the priest will be here directly.

Come, Mary, ‘for auld lang syne’ we’ll have a glass. What has become of

your brother, the schoolmaster?”

“May God forgive the liars! They slandered him, and turned your honour

again him. He would die for a dog belonging to Knockloftie,--and if he

didn’t, the bigger villain he!”

“And the young miller, Mary? people say you are about to marry him. Is

he slandered, too?”

“God sees he is,” was the response.

“Any nightly meetings at the chapel, Mary?” said the Colonel. The girl

changed colour again: “None, your honour--not one. Thanks be to God! the

bad people have left the parish.”

“When did you see your brother? To-night?” said the Colonel sharply.

“To-night!” returned the girl, in tones which indicated deep confusion.

“I am jesting, Mary. Where is he now?”

“In Connaught, your honour, with a cousin of my mother’s.”

“There let him remain, Mary. There, he will be safe until things become

more quiet. But, Mary, the times are not as they were five years ago,

when you and I used to meet by moonlight near the _bouilee_. * Pshaw!

don’t blush;--it was only to gather bilberries, and exchange kisses for

new ribbons. Did you come here alone?--no lover--no comrade--none to

bear you company?”

* The mountain bivouac of the peasant girls, where during

the summer months they attend to the cattle which are then

driven to the hills.

“I put my trust in God,” said the girl, “and then, Colonel, you know I

was safe.”

“Just as we used to do in Glencullen. Ah, Mary, would that all young

women had your prudence and religion, and poor Father Dominic would not

be broken-hearted as he is, in fulminating vengeance against broken vows

and repairing damaged reputations.”

Notwithstanding my father’s _badinage_ Mary Halligan seemed ill at ease.

“Plase you honour, I would wish to be going,” she said, “and as Father

Dominic is not in the way, I would like to say a word or two to Mr.

Hackett.”

“Ay, certainly; but, Mary, will you not stop, and see your mistress?

Doctor, I must trespass on you to ask my wife to come down.”

The parson left the room, and speedily returned with my mother.

“This, Emily, is an old acquaintance. Not a word, Mary, about bilberries

or the bouillee. Bring her to the nursery, my love--and,” he added in a

suppressed voice, “be sure you keep her there.”

When the door closed, my father handed the letter he had received from

the peasant-girl to the parson, and as the latter read it he became red

and pale alternately.

“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed, “how could you with this murderous missive

in your hand talk lightly with its bearer, and jest with that fiend in

woman’s form, who brought an order that doomed to death or outrage all

that your roof-tree covers?”

“Because,” replied my father coolly, “it furnished me with a glorious

counterstroke. I threw my eye but hastily over it--read me that precious

document!”

The appearance of the paper was remarkable. At the top, a scull

and cross-bones were rudely stamped, and though the handwriting was

tolerable, the sentences were ungrammatical, and many of the words

misspelt. The letter ran thus:--

“Dear Pat.

“I made two attempts to send you information, but your d------d master,

like bad fortune, was always in the way; my sister Mary will strive to

hand you this. To-night our fate must be decided, for Luke Byrn, Cooney,

and your brother are betrayed, and at sunrise to-morrow, if there be a

living man in Knockloftie, they’re all dead men; the witnesses are to

be removed to Donegal, and if they once reach it, Cooney will split, and

you and I are certain of the gallows. At _one o’clock_ I’ll be with you;

lave the window open, and I’ll show the boys the way in, as I know the

house, and the smith has keys that will open the yard gate. Once when

four or five of us gets in, we’ll open the hall door for the remainder;

you can finish the master easily when he hears the first alarm and

rushes from his room; the rest will be child’s play, and then _no

quarter_. The black seal is to this paper; mind, Hackett, you’re to

watch the Colonel’s door, and I’ll be first man through the window. No

more at present, from your friend and commander,

“James Halligan.”

“But here’s a postscript,” and the parson turned the paper.

“‘When the job’s over we’ll have a roaring night. As, captain, you know

the Colonel’s lady--’” He paused.

“Read on!” said my father.

“No, no,--mere ribald nonsense,” returned the churchman.

Colonel O’Halloran snatched the letter from his hand, and in one glance

his eye passed over the portion of the paper which had been previously

overlooked. To the _expose_ of Halligan’s murderous intentions my father

had listened with cold and contemptuous indifference: but when he

read the postscript, a terrible change came over his countenance, and

succeeded its previous expression of calm defiance. The eye flashed,

the brow contracted, and springing from his chair the Colonel paced

the room, muttering something between his clenched teeth which was

but partially overheard. The outbreak of his passion was however as

momentary as it had been strong,--and in a minute he resumed his seat,

and calmly addressed the Doctor.

“We have,” said my father as he looked at the clock on the mantel, “an

hour and twenty minutes to put our house in order, and a tenth

portion of the time would be sufficient. You shall be aide-de-camp,

Hamilton,--and to Father Dominic we’ll entrust the management of the

women, and make his reverence keep matters quiet and administer ghostly

consolation until the squall blows over. Mr. Hackett must be secured,

but Heaven forbid the honest hangman should be anticipated! Cut down

that bell-rope--now pull the other one--and then sit down and fill,

Doctor,--ay, fill high, Confusion to all traitors! and here comes a most

superlative scoundrel.”

The butler had promptly answered the summons of the bell. “Bring

slippers,” said the Colonel, and the order was obeyed. Kneeling he

removed his master’s boots, placed the slippers on his feet, and

was about to rise, when to his astonishment my father’s powerful arm

prevented it, and in a minute more he was bound hand and foot, and flung

upon the floor in perfect helplessness, with an intimation “deep not

loud” that the first movement he attempted of limb or tongue would prove

a certain passport to eternity.

Without hurry or alarm the effective strength of my father’s garrison

was speedily assembled in the great parlour, and sixteen men were found

fit for duty in Knockloftie--a number more than sufficient for its

defence. To all, arms and cartridges were delivered,--and every musket

was carefully loaded to ensure a certain and effective fire when the

moment of action should arrive. My father’s orders were brief, clear,

and easily comprehended--and as every spot of vantage had been occupied,

every window that looked upon the front or back approaches had one

or more marksmen assigned for its defence according to its local

importance. The lights were blinded, the strictest silence was enjoined,

and not a trigger was to be drawn until my father gave the signal. Never

was a small garrison better prepared or more determined; the soldiers,

under a belief that they had been specially betrayed, and that they

would have been assailed if their route had been continued, were burning

to be revenged upon their intended murderers; while those who had found

shelter from their enemies in Knockloftie, already doomed men, knew

also that they were the chief objects of attack, and that no alternative

remained to them but to defeat it or’ to perish. Thus circumstanced,

Knockloftie had little to fear from open force. True, treachery or

surprise might possibly have succeeded. Against the former, if there

were faith in a stout bell-rope and a parson’s knot, the old house for

the present was secure; and from the latter, the _mal adresse_ of Miss

Halligan had effectually preserved the garrison.

When all his preparations were completed, my father ascended to the

upper story of the tower to satisfy himself that his wife and infant

were in safety. On opening the door the chamber presented a sad and

striking scene. On one bed, the corpse of the soldier’s widow was “laid

out,” attired in the simple habiliments of the grave used by the Irish

peasantry; and in another, two children were sleeping side by side,

unconscious that murder and rapine were abroad, and that guilty steps

were moving to this their abode of peace. My mother, bending over both,

was murmuring a prayer for their deliverance, while, by the feeble light

of a waxen taper, the priest, in a low and monotonous voice, was reading

an office for the dead. One other person was there--a worthless woman.

Mary Halligan sat before the fire; she neither spoke nor moved, but

with her eyes fixed upon the dying embers, in full conviction that her

treachery was suspeeted or discovered, she quailed before my father’s

glance, and, while he remained in the apartment, never ventured to look

up.

The Colonel’s visit was short: he whispered in his wife’s ear assurances

of safety, and affectionately kissed her and the infant; then turning

a withering glance upon his former mistress, he left the chamber and

joined the men below.

The clock chimed three-quarters--no sound was heard that possibly could

cause alarm, nor was there a growl from the kennel of the dog--and yet

the murderers were at hand unchallenged. No wonder--Hector was in the

agonies of death--Curses light upon the traitress! Mary Halligan, while

she patted his honest head, had poisoned him!

CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT ATTACK.

“All heaven and earth are still--though not in sleep--”

* * * *

“Alas! that those who lov’d the most,

Forget they ever lov’d at all.”--Byron.

As the chimes died away, my father took a pistol from the table, placed

another in his breast, and beckoned the soldier whom he had previously

selected to attend him.

“Honest Philip,” said he, addressing the non-commissioned officer, “keep

the lads cool, and wait till you hear my signal. You may expect a rush

in front--don’t let that alarm you, the door will defy every effort to

break it down. Aim steadily--one well-directed shot is worth a dozen

random ones. I shall have the honour of receiving Mr. Hackett’s friends

at the pantry-window, and leave them, I trust, no reason to complain

that their reception was not warm enough. Should that scoundrel move,”

and he pointed to the prostrate menial.

“It will be his last movement in this world,” returned Sergeant Brady.

“I’ll pin him with a bayonet to the floor.”

“Has the pantry-window been secured?” inquired the divine. “If it has,”

replied my father, “bolt and bar shall be withdrawn, and the aperture

stand invitingly open.”

“What!” said Doctor Hamilton, “to give entrance to a band of murderers?”

“No!” returned my father with stern composure, “to stop it with the

carcase of their leader. And now, my lads, be steady--a golden guinea

for every white-shirt on the lawn at sun-rise!”

So saying, the Colonel quitted the apartment, and, accompanied by the

attendant, proceeded to the post of danger.

Leaving the soldier in the passage as a support, my father entered

the pantry, unclosed the shutters, and placed himself beside the open

casement. For a determined man, the post was excellently adapted.

Himself concealed in darkness, all without was visible--for the moon

had risen, and although the lofty tower flung its deep shadow across the

lower buildings over which it domineered, there was still a narrow alley

of light spanning the court-yard, on which each passing object could

not fail to be revealed clearly to him who watched within. The time, the

circumstances, all, to “coming events” gave an imposing effect. Violence

was abroad--and all within prepared for desperate resistance.

Five minutes--long, long, minutes--passed. Another interval,--and

another followed; not a light twinkled in the castle--not a sound fell

upon the ear. Suddenly, a key grated in the lock--a door

opened in the court-yard; a man appeared--he

stopped--listened--advanced--hesitated--retired again--and then spoke in

soft whispers to some others. There was a pause. Once more the stranger

issued from the doorway, crossed the moonlit vista, and stopped before

the pantry-window. He passed his arm through the aperture--drew back

again, and muttered with evident satisfaction,--“All is right! the

window’s open!”

Four--six--eight--ten--twelve!--all issued into moonlight, and grouped

themselves around the casement. The leader spoke in smothered tones:

“Hackett! Pat!--hush! no reply. All’s right; he’s at the Colonel’s door.

Hackett!”--another pause--“‘Tis safe, and Mary has succeeded. I told you

I would show you in; and now for vengeance!” Ay! and vengeance that was

to be so easily obtained; for Knockloftie appeared buried in the deep

repose which ever attends a false security. The leader turned, “No

quarter, boys,” jumped into the open casement, and added, “Mercy to

none!”

The words and action were simultaneous. Halligan had passed his head

already through the aperture, when a voice, like an echo, responded in

deeper tones “Mercy to none!”--A pistol exploded--and the robber chief

dropped heavily from the window, a dead man!

To all, the assailants and the assailed, that fatal shot proved the

signal. The expected assault was made upon the front, the more daring

of the party rushing on with sledge-hammers to try and force an

entrance--but not a stroke fell upon the door. From every aperture a

withering cross-fire was opened. It was returned by a random volley,

which splintered the windows, but inflicted no loss upon those within,

who were already carefully protected. In the rear of the building, a

still bloodier repulse attended the night attack while their leader

reconnoitred, the ruffian group behind had been covered by a dozen

muskets, and within a few moments after the robber’s fall, half his

companions formed a lifeless heap upon the pavement.

[Illustration: 0035]

When my father rushed up stairs, the struggle in front was over. Dead

and dying men were extended before the door--and in the clear moonlight

those who escaped the fire from the house, were seen flying in wild

disorder. As in lawless efforts generally, numbers had only produced

embarrassment, and rendered failure more fatal.

One glance satisfied my father that the attempt had been fearfully

repulsed; and he hastened to the sad but safe asylum, where those

most dear to him had been placed for their security. My mother and the

children had been already removed by the priest and servants to their

respective chambers--and Colonel O’Halloran, with a dead and living

woman, was left in possession of the melancholy apartment.

Mary Halligan was seated as when my father had quitted the room; her

eyes were fixed upon the wood-fire--a minute passed--and not a word was

uttered. My father laid his hand upon her shoulder, “Mary!” said he,

“treachery! and from you!”

“And wherefore not?” exclaimed the peasant girl, as she sprang upon her

feet, and boldly returned his glance. “Why should not the deceived in

turn become deceiver’s?”

“Wretched woman! even had I wronged you, would you wreak vengeance on

those who never wished you evil?”

The girl sighed heavily.

“There was a time, Mary, when you would not have betrayed the doomed one

to the destroyer, and that victim--me.”

Mary Halligan was deeply affected; she sobbed, and tears, like

raindrops, fell fast upon the floor.

“And could a few brief years change that once gentle nature, and so

fearfully? Would nothing satisfy revenge, but death for me--insult for

my wife?”

“Death--insult!” she repeated. “Neither was intended.”

“Read--‘tis the paper you gave me by mistake.”

Mary Halligan cast her eyes upon the scroll; her lips and checks grew

pale; her hand shook violently; the paper dropped upon the floor; and

turning her eyes upwards, she exclaimed, “As I was unconscious that such

villany was designed, so may Heaven grant me pardon!”

“What brought you here, then?”

“To save my uncle from the gallows. They told me that witnesses who must

convict him and others were sheltered in this house; and that could

they but be carried off and concealed until after the assizes, then the

prisoners’ lives were safe. They stated that they only wanted the

arms deposited in Knockloftie;--that they would swear you to quit the

country--and thus intimidate those who had followed your example and

ventured to remain. Before I consented to carry the letter which

my brother wished to have conveyed to Hackett, he swore upon the

chapel-altar where the party had collected, that not one hair of your

head should suffer injury. May God forgive him!”

“To that prayer, Mary, I add a sincere amen! He is gone to his

account--a perjurer!”

“Gone to his account!” exclaimed the girl. “Is he dead? Who killed him?”

“He fell by the hand of one whom he would have more than murdered!”

“Then am I now indeed alone upon the world!” A long and liar-rowing

silence followed. “Denis,” she said, “I dare not curse, and cannot

bless you. Four short years have passed. How bitterly have all things

changed?”

“Stop, Mary! From my soul, I pity and believe you. You tell me that you

did not know the purport of this night attack!”

“God knows, I did not. You wrecked my happiness; but still I would

not--could not subdue feelings now best forgotten. Forgotten, said

I?--never!”

Mary Halligan had spoken to my father in her native tongue; and those

who are intimate with that portion of the kingdom where the Celtic

language is still retained, will remember with what poetic imagery, the

Irish peasantry at times detail their mingled story of grief and joy,

wrong and suffering.

Mary was one of those on whom nature stamps the grace which art idly

or imperfectly can simulate. Her voice had all “The sweetness of the

mountain-tongue and more affecting still, all that it uttered seemed to

come directly from the heart.”

“I loved you, Denis--ay, loved in all the madness with which woman

loves. The peasant girl never dreamed that birth and rank had divided

us immeasurably. She never thought that she should be wooed and won, and

cast aside for others. She knew nothing of the world. Those, for whom

Heaven had designed her, sought her, and sued, and were rejected. You

came. Six years had changed us--the child had become a girl--the boy

had become a man. There was joy and merriment at Knockloftie--I was

your chosen partner in the dance--and you would leave your dogs upon the

moor, to steal to the bouillee, and sit for hours beside me. Is it to

be wondered at that I loved with the ardour of a first passion--and

the undoubting confidence of woman? While no sound was heard above the

rushing waterfall, you plucked heath and wild-flowers from the bank,

placed them in my hair, and swore you would be constant. Fool that I

was! I believed you,--hid them in my bosom,--and before they faded,

I found myself deserted and betrayed.” She paused,--her agitation was

fearful; but a flood of tears relieved it, and she thus continued:--“You

went to another land,--the sea rolled between us,--and were you

forgotten? Oh, no! In fancy, I saw you still upon the moor--in sleep, I

sate beside you on the heather--your name was mingled in my prayers--and

when one was offered for my own sins, three were poured warm from the

heart, to implore a blessing on the absent one. Well, well; the dream

is over,--the spell is broken,--and in this world you and I shall never

meet again. Farewell, Colonel. There were two beings between whom this

heart once was shared. I look my last upon the living one--and, too

soon, I shall have looked my last upon the dead. I dare not press that

hand--there’s blood upon it; and--oh, God! that blood--a brother’s!”

The priest, who had witnessed the termination of this painful interview,

led Mary Halligan from the room. Her brother’s body, with those of the

other lawless men who had fallen or been wounded in the night affray,

were already by my father’s orders removed to an adjacent village.

Presently, the sky was overcast, the moon withdrew her light, and a

heavy snow shower fell for miles around, covering the surface of the

ground; and when morning dawned no traces of a recent affray were seen,

and not a blood-stain was visible. One melancholy memorial of foul

treachery alone remained:--hidden by a sward of snow, poor Caesar lay

before his empty kennel; and, true to the last, even in the agonies of

death he had howled a bold defiance at his enemies.

“Emily,” said my father, when breakfast was removed, “I need not tell

you that a soldier’s wife must always hold herself in readiness to

move. Until better times arrive, you and the boy must leave this unquiet

mansion. Nay, start not, love! I shall be your companion. That fading

cheek and heavy eye bear silent evidence that cannot be mistaken.

There is not in this old tower a single stone that I do not regard with

veneration; but were this gloomy pile a palace, and you unhappy, it

should be abandoned. I have already sent a requisition for an escort,

and do you get all you wish to be removed in marching order. To

society,--to myself,--I owed a duty; that duty is discharged. A tenderer

claim remains. Can I forget, dear Emily, that for me you gave up the

convent’s quiet?--that for me title and wealth were thrown away?--that

for me even the stronger ties of kindred were dissolved? Can I forget

that though a gentle spirit like yours trembles at a life of danger,

and recoils from scenes of bloodshed, still not a murmur passed your

lips?--not a remonstrance urged upon me your apprehensions? Enough;--a

soldier’s pride would prompt me to remain where we are,--while a

husband’s affections demand that my wife and child should be placed in

full security. The struggle is ended, and pride must yield to love.”

Before the last word was spoken, a happy wife was shedding tears of joy

upon her husband’s bosom. Instant preparations were made; such valuables

as were portable were packed up; Knockloftie for a time formally

abandoned; and ere another week elapsed, my mother, my foster-brother

and myself found ourselves in perfect safety--and for some months

succeeding became residents of the metropolis.

My first anniversary formed a remarkable epoch in the story of our

house; and as many subsequent adventures in my humble history were

referable to that event, I shall briefly narrate the more immediate

consequences that resulted. Mary Halligan quitted the country, as it was

believed, to reside with some relatives in the west. Hackett received

sentence of death, but the extreme penalty of the law was commuted into

transportation. Sergeant Brady retired on a pension, and became henchman

to my father. Mr. Hamilton, after Knockloftie was deserted, with a fatal

imprudence still continued in the neighbourhood. A few weeks afterwards,

the house where he resided was forced by a numerous banditti, the

unfortunate clergyman dragged from his concealment, carried to the door,

and slaughtered under circumstances of fearful barbarity. *

* Historically true.

Time passed,--months slipped away,--and my mother’s birth-day returned.

That morning, a letter containing a bank-note for five hundred pounds

was received. It was addressed to the lady--with a brief intimation

in an unknown hand, that a similar gift should be annually presented.

Another brief period passed, and another letter came. It brought but

sorry news. Knockloftie was burned to the ground;--not a fragment that

was combustible remained;--and what was once “a merrie hall” now frowned

upon the ocean in black and ruined loneliness.

As my father read the letter, a change came over his face, and revealed

to the inquiring eyes then bent upon it, that evil tidings had arrived.

“Denis,” said my mother, “what is wrong?”

“Nothing, love, but that Knockloftie--”

“What of it? Go on.”

“Is, with all that it contained, a heap of ashes!”

“Good Heaven!”--and my mother crossed herself,--“are we not ruined,

Denis?”

“No, no, love; not exactly ruined. I had the vanity to call my abiding

place ‘a castle.’ Well, we must change the name; and surely ‘cottage’

will sound as sweetly.”

“Pshaw!” said the lady, “is that all?”

“Why--I can spare a horse or two,--part with a dozen dogs,--and then, my

love, we will require the fewer servants.”

“And the carriage,--what need of it?” exclaimed the lady.

“Well, well; possibly if things come to the worst, it too might be

dispensed with.”

“And then my jewels, Denis!”--and my mother’s eyes brightened with

delight--“ay, those useless baubles. I have heard that they are

precious! They shall be sold, and--”

“Never--by Heaven!” exclaimed my father, as he spurned the chair over

the carpet, and strode across the room. In another minute his calmness

had returned, and my mother was sitting on his knee, smiling away with

woman’s tact, every recollection of annoyance; and propounding with the

sweetest philosophy upon earth, visionary plans for future happiness.

Again the postman’s knock was heard, and another letter was presented.

My father flung it unopened on the table. “Curse the particulars!”

he exclaimed, “what matters it whether the old roof-tree fell by

carelessness or villany?”

My mother impressed a consolatory kiss upon her husband’s cheek.

“Read it, love,” said he. “You and I have no secrets, Emily.”

The lady broke the seal, and looked at the signature.

“Who is Constantine Mac Donough?” she inquired.

“A very singular old man; a distant relation of my mother. Many years

ago, my father and he quarrelled at an election. They fought in half an

hour,--left the ground after three shots had been discharged,--and both

refused a reconciliation. What was the cause of quarrel, I never could

discover from my father; indeed, I question whether the worthy man

himself even knew what it was distinctly; and with Mr. Mae Donough,

of course, I never had even any acquaintance. He lives a bachelor, and

report states, that he is very wealthy and very eccentric.”

“Lived! my love; the old man’s dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed my father. “And has left you heir to all his property?”

The Colonel sprang from his chair--his solitary arm encircled my

mother’s waist, as he pressed her passionately to his heart.

“Emily,” said he, “when the sad tidings arrived this morning that we

were houseless, I felt only for the boy and thee. Well, before the

same sun went down, dove-like you came, the harbinger of happiness. The

‘barren heritage’ I quitted with regret, will be amply replaced by the

rich lands of Killucan; and, once more, a peaceful home--such as we had

in England, love--is ours. Never despond, Emily--and even in his darkest

hour let an Irishman trust to the lady of the wheel--for I verily

believe, if there be a spot on earth for which the blind baggage has a

particular fancy, blessed Saint Patrick! that island is your own.”

CHAPTER IV. MY ENTRÉE ON THE WORLD.

“My father bless’d me fervently,

Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

Till I come hack again.”--Childe Harold.

|The residence and domain so opportunely bequeathed to Colonel

O’Halloran, formed a striking contrast to his ancient home. Like the

domicile of Justice Shallow, every thing about Knockloftie might have

been described as “barren all,” with the qualification of “marry, good

air,” while Killucan was situated in an inland county remarkable for

its fertility. The house was a large and commodious building, almost

concealed by trees, the growth of at least a century; the parks were

rich and well laid down; comfort was within the dwelling,--plenty

without it; and as they say in Connaught, no man “came into a snugger

sitting down” than my worthy father.

Here ten years of boyhood passed away: and here at the feet of that

gifted Gamaliel, father Dominic, my foster-brother and myself were

indoctrinated. The priest had borne the departure of my parents with

all the resignation a Christian man could muster; but as he declared

afterwards, the destruction of Knockloftie fairly broke his heart.

When his patron unexpectedly succeeded to a goodly inheritance, it is

difficult to decide whether to the churchman or the commander, this

fortunate event caused the greater satisfaction. At the first summons,

father Dominic abandoned his wild charge, and resumed the official

duties in our establishment;--said mass for my mother, confessed the

maids, aided and assisted the Colonel in the diurnal demolition of three

bottles of antiquated port, and endeavoured into the bargain, to knock

Latin into me, and “the fear of God,” as he called it, into the heart of

my foster-brother. How far either attempt proved successful, it is not

for me to say. As to myself, Dominic occasionally declared that I should

try the temper of a saint; and as to Marc Antony, he rather hoped than

expected that he might not “spoil a market;” meaning thereby, that the

aforesaid Marc Antony would be hanged.

But, alas! from the pupilage of that worthy churchman, Marc and I were

fated to be delivered. Father Dominic caught fever at the bedside of a

sick tenant; and to the universal regret of the whole household, he went

the way which all, priest and levite, are doomed to go. At the time, his

loss was severely felt, and after-experience did not tend to lessen it.

Father Grady, who in spiritual matters became his successor, was ill

fitted to step into poor Dominic’s shoes. He was a low-born, illiterate,

intermeddling priest, of forbidding exterior and repulsive manners.

His _gaucheries_ disgusted my mother, and my father fired at his vulgar

arrogance. Except professionally, the visits of the priest became

infrequent; and when the maids returned from confession with a route

made out for the Reek, * they would call to memory the gentle penances

of father Dominic,--offer a tear as a tribute to his memory,--and murmur

a “Heaven be merciful to his soul.” The first consequence of the death

of Father Dominic was my being transmitted to the school of Enniskillen,

while my foster-brother finished his education under the instruction

of the village pedagogue. As to the latter, a more unpromising disciple

never figured on a slate; but, to give the devil his due, Marc Antony

was even as his enemies allowed, the best boxer of his inches in the

parish.

* A lofty mountain in the west of Ireland, where Roman

Catholic penances are performed.

How quickly years roll on! Six passed rapidly away.--I grew

fast--manhood came on apace--every day the thrall of school-discipline

became more irksome, and made me long to be emancipated. I had indeed

sprung up with marvellous rapidity, and I looked with impatience to the

moment when I should make my entrée on the world. Nor was I kept much

longer in suspense, for a mandate from my father unexpectedly arrived,

commanding my return to Kilcullen, and acquainting me that I had been

gazetted to a second lieutenancy in the Twenty-first fusileers. With a

joyous heart I took leave of my companions; exchanged forgiveness with

the ushers; flung boyhood to the winds: and, ignorant of the world as an

infant, at eighteen years, deemed myself in pride of heart a man.

It was singular enough that the day of my return also proved to be the

anniversary of my birth; and of this I was duly apprized by Sergeant

Brady, as he unclosed the gate to let me in. Having returned the honest

squeeze with which the non-commissioned officer bade me welcome, I

gave my horse to one of the eternal hangers-on whom I overtook lounging

slowly home from the village tobacco-shop, and passed through a sort

of pleasure-ground that led directly to the house. Turning the hedge,

I came suddenly on Susan, my mother’s maid. She was spreading caps and

muslins on the bushes--and, never before, did her eyes look so black, or

her cheeks half so rosy. She littered a faint scream.

“Holy Virgin! Master Hector, is it you?”

“Arrah, Susan, my beauty, to be sure it is.” And with Hibernian

affection we flew into each other’s arms--and down went the basket

with my mother’s finery. I never reckoned the kisses I inflicted on the

Abigail; but, poor soul, to do her justice, she bore them patiently.

“Go, Hector, dear,” she muttered poutingly, “there are holes in the

hedge, and some one might tell the mistress.” Then, as if the recent

contact of our lips had for the first time exhibited its sinful

impropriety, she crossed herself like a true catholic, and continued,

as I moved away, “Blessed Mary! had the priest seen us, I were undone.

Lord! but he’s grown! Hark! I hear a foot. Hurry in, Master Hector. Your

mother is dying to see you; and dinner has been waiting half an hour.”

My reception by my parents was as warm as it was characteristic. Both

were in the drawing-room when I entered it; and in a moment I was locked

in my mother’s arms. “How handsome!” said she, as tears rolled down her

cheeks. “Alas! that he should be devoted to that horrible profession,

Denis, and that his name should some fatal day be recorded in that list

of bloodshed which always damps the joy of victory,” and she pointed

to the official account of a Peninsular battle which had that morning

reached Kilcullen.

My father’s was a very different reception. Moulded of sterner stuff, he

eyed me as a crimp sergeant scrutinizes a doubtful recruit; then shaking

me by the hand, he proceeded regularly with his examination.

“By the Lord! a finer lad never tapped a cartouch-box. Five feet eleven

and a quarter at eighteen! He’ll be size enough for the Lifeguards in a

twelvemonth. Zounds! what is the woman snivelling about? Is it because

her son comes home figure for a flanker, instead of growing a sneaking,

shambling, round-shouldered, flat-footed, fish-eater, that the devil

couldn’t drill? But here comes the summons to dinner.”

When the cloth had been removed, and my mother had retired, the Colonel

reverted to the first grand movement in my life, on which he descanted

most learnedly; and, a little military pedantry apart, his advice and

opinions were sound and soldierly. He reprobated play--gave serious

warnings against debt--discouraged gallantry, and inculcated the

necessity of duelling. He lamented, in the course of his harangue, the

loss of my ancient preceptor Father Dominic; to himself, he stated, that

the loss was irreparable--he could not, unfortunately, drink the left

hand against the right, nor uncork a bottle without being bothered by

a d----d servant. He complained that he felt a twinge in his infirm

shoulder--well, that was rheumatism; he had also an obnubilation in his

eyes--but that was bile; it could not be what he drank:--by the way, he

had two bottles of Page’s best in.--He should go to bed--exhorted me

to be up at cock-crow--gave me some parting admonitions--an order on

a Dublin tailor for an outfit--a bundle of country bank-notes--his

blessing into the bargain--shook my hand--and, with the assistance of

Sergeant Brady, toddled off to his apartment.

The Commander was scarcely gone, when Susan’s black eye peered into the

room cautiously, to ascertain that all was quiet.

“Hist! Master Hector! Is the Colonel gone to bed?”

“He’s safe for the night, my fair Susan. The house is all our own. Come

in--shut the door, for I want to confess you.”

“And finish the godly exercise you commenced in the flower-garden! No,

no, Master Hector; no more of that. Come, your mother wants to see you

alone--I’ll light you to her dressing-room.”

I attended the _demoiselle_ immediately, and was inducted to her lady’s

chamber. When the door opened I found her seated at a work-table, with a

book of religious exercises and a huge rosary before her. Bursting into

tears, she clasped me to her bosom, and muttered in an under voice, “Sit

down, Hector--many months have elapsed since we met, and many more may

probably pass over before we meet again. And so they have destined you

for that horrible profession--and you are going to-morrow?”

“Yes, madam, by peep of day.”

“Well, Hector, will you in one thing oblige me, and grant your mother a

request?”

“Undoubtedly, madam.”

She placed a purse in my hand--and taking from the leaves of her Missal

a small silken bag, opened my shirt collar, and bound it round my neck.

I smiled at the ceremony, and submitted. It was, of course, some charm

or reliquary; and though the one-armed commander would have laughed,

at what he would have considered on my part a symptom of apostasy, I

thought it was no crime to carry an inch or two of silk upon my person,

when my compliance would render happy a mother who loved me so tenderly.

“Hector,” said she, after investing me with this important amulet,

“promise, for my sake, that you will wear it night and day; and, until

misfortune overtakes, and all other hope fails--which Heaven grant may

never happen!--that you will not unclose the cover, or read the writing

of the Gospel.” *

* Gospels are worn in Ireland as a protection against

diseases and “_diablerie_.”

I gave the pledge she required; took an affectionate leave; and, lighted

by Susan, returned to the parlour.

Lobbies, like flower-knots, are dangerous places for adieux! Poor Susan

was faintly remonstrating against a second kiss, when a third actor

popped upon the stage unexpectedly, and terminated at once the contest.

The intruder was my foster-brother. All parties evinced annoyance; Marc

Antony looked very silly, and the _demoiselle_, bounding up the stairs,

leaned over the balustrades, and spoke a hurried farewell.

“Heaven bless you, Master Hector--mind your poor mother’s parting words,

and all prosperity attend you.” Then, turning a wrathful look at the

“fosterer,” * she continued, “Don’t mind what that false villain says.

Ah, you wicked wretch! are you not afraid the roof will fall?” and,

shaking her clenched hand at him, vanished.

What could have roused the anger of the dark-eyed Abigail was to me a

puzzle: I entered the parlour, and the crest-fallen fosterer followed,

and closed the door.

“Why, Marc, what’s the matter? Your old friend, Susan, seems in but

indifferent temper with you.”

Mr. O’Toole fiddled with his hat, picked the wool off by pinches, and

appeared wofully confused.

“Did you want me, Marc? or was it Susan you were looking for?”

“I just wanted to speak to you,” said my foster-brother, “for fear I

should miss you in the morning.”

“Well, Marc, here I am.”

“I’m going, Master Hector, to try my fortune either in England, or the

North.”

“What! and quit my father’s service? Think well of this, Marc.”

“Why, troth, I can’t hold the place, and all on account of an accident.”

“Indeed! what happened you?”

Marc picked the hat anew. “I’m in the middle of trouble, and the sooner

I’m off, the better.”

“Broken heads or broken vows; or, probably, a mixture of both?”

“Devil a head I broke since the fair of Carrick, and the Carneys brought

it on themselves; and in honesty I’m at every man’s defiance,” returned

the fosterer.

“Then what would you do in England, may I ask?”

“What would I do in England?” he repeated, like an echo. “Can’t I do

anything?--shear, mow, wisp a horse, whip hounds, jump two-and-twenty

feet, throw stone and sledge--and take my own part in fair and pattern?”

“Friend Marc, most of these accomplishments would only secure you a

lodging in the cage, or a settlement in the stocks. But, in a word, what

brings you away?”

“Just Biddy O’Dwyer, the dairymaid--the devil’s luck attend her!”

“Phew! Go on, Marc.”

“She wants me to marry her!”

“And, I suppose, has pressing reasons for making the request?”

“The devil a reason, only she took me to a cake.” ** “I comprehend the

rest.”

“Feaks! it was all her own fault--she would keep dancing to the last.

The night was dark, and we were hearty. *** I lost my way--and she her

character.”

* Anglice, foster-brother.

** Cakes are nightly assemblies common in the ‘west of

Ireland, and holden for the purposes of dancing, drinking,

and courting. In returning from these festive meetings,

ladies’ reputations and gentlemen’s skulls are occasionally

severely damaged.

*** Anglicê, nearly drunk.

“Well! and why not repair the damage, Marc?”

“Is it me! and she four years older? By this book”--and he kissed his

hat religiously--“for all the ladies and priests that ever wore cap or

vestment, I would not marry ye, Kitty O’Dwyer!”

“Well, Marc, you are upon this point the best judge.”

“There’s no use in concealing anything, and you, my foster-brother,

Master Hector. Kitty’s a great Catholic, and a Carmelite to boot--and my

lady and Father Grady will fairly banish me the country, when they hear

that it was through me she got the blast.”

“Rebel, Marc! Refuse, point-blank. Hold out manfully--and neither

priest, nor bishop, can make you marry, if you don’t like it.”

“And then I’ll be made a world’s wonder of!” and Marc Antony groaned

at the very thought. “Called out in the chapel--cursed from the

altar--bundled off to Ball--trotted up Croagh Patrick--ay, and as Father

Grady will stick to Kitty like a burr, I may be despatched to Lough

Dharg * with gravel in my shoes.”

“Bad enough, Marc. And pray what is to be done?”

“The devil a choice have I left,” said the fosterer, with a groan,

“good, bad, nor indifferent, but list or turn Protestant.”

“Awkward alternatives.”

Marc smiled. “And would I not have an elegant life of it afterwards in

the servants’-hall? Sorra two men in the house that I can’t lick; but

what could I do with the women? No, no, Master Hector!--I’ll list.”

“Think of it, Marc.”

“I have thought of it already. The priest and my lady will hear all in

the morning, and, faith, I’ll give them leg-bail in the meantime. Are

you not going to Dublin, Master Hector.”

“I am.”

“Then, by the blessin’ of God, there will be two of us there soon.”

“Marc, have you any money?”

“Not a rap--but plenty for the taking it. I never go to Boyle upon

a message, but there are half-a-dozen crimps at my heels; and every

recruiting party that passes by, eyes me as if I had the cockade already

mounted.”

“If you are determined, Marc, I shall say nothing more; but before you

choose your regiment, let me know, and probably the Colonel may stand

your friend.”

“That I will, Master Hector. But, Holy Virgin, what an uproar the house

will be in when they miss me in the morning! The priest roaring here--my

lady sending there--Kitty singing wirrestrue ** in the dairy--and the

ould Colonel delighted at the rookawn, and shouting Devil mend her!”

* A holy lake in the north of Ireland.

** “Och wrestrue,” an Irish lamentation.

I laughed heartily at Mare’s fanciful description of a scene, which his

absence would so certainly occasion.

“I must be off,” continued the fosterer, “and mind, Master Hector, we’ll

meet when you least expect it.”

I slipped a bank-note into the fosterer’s hands--Marc disappeared--and I

sought my pillow. Where Mr. O’Toole bestowed himself, I know not--but it

was an eventful night for both. I, about to make my first start upon

the stage of life, and honest Marc Antony flying from a choice of

evils--matrimony or penance.

A lovelier morning never broke than that on which I took my departure

from Kilcullen. It was late in September. The hoar-frost curled

gently upwards, yielding to the earliest sunbeams, as I rode from the

stable-yard. Every thing was exciting to the spirits: the blackbird

whistled in the copse, the partridge was calling from the stubble, the

sheep-bells tinkled merrily, and all seemed happy and rejoicing.

Never did a lighter-bosomed gentleman quit his father’s house. Here

was I, a holder of the king’s commission, master of the best fencer

in Roscommon, one hundred pounds in my pocket, a case of pistols at my

saddle-bow; while, with a loose arm and a stout heart, I found myself

jogging fairly on, though “half the world were sleeping.”

I rode quickly forward: miles vanished, and at four o’clock I had left

my home thirty miles behind. With my future route I was unacquainted;

but it ran through a wild barony, bleak though beautiful enough,

interspersed with hills and valleys, and thickly studded with lakes and

rivulets. The road was grass-grown and disused; but, being shorter and

practicable to horsemen, I followed it rather than ride a few miles

round. To dine and feed my horse, I halted at a public-house where four

roads met; and, after an hour’s rest, commenced my journey anew, to gain

the mountain-village, where; my host apprized me, I was to sojourn for

the night.

The lonely inn appeared that day to have no lack of customers. During my

brief stay travellers stopped repeatedly, or drank spirits at the door

and hurried on. They generally rode in companies of some half-dozen,

were mounted upon country horses, and, from having a couple of kegs

suspended across the croup, their calling was no mystery. Illicit

distillation in this wild district was then extensively carried on,--and

men engaged in this demoralizing traffic, like those who stopped at this

house of entertainment, were constantly traversing the mountain-road,

smuggling the prohibited liquor, or returning for a fresh supply.

One party, consisting of three persons of rather a superior class,

remained for dinner. They addressed their conversation occasionally to

me, and evinced great curiosity to find out the place of my destination,

and the reason that I preferred the mountain-road to that usually taken

by ordinary travellers. I felt no disposition to be communicative on

these points, and the strangers were far from satisfied with my replies.

When my mare was brought to the door, my holsters did not escape their

observation; and as I rode away, I overheard the tallest of the three

exclaim, “By Heaven! I’ll bet five pounds that the--”

I could not hear the remainder of the remark. The occurrence not

agreeable, however, with ten miles of a desolate ride before me. I

had other besides personal cares. In my life I never had possessed

one-fourth the sum I carried; and the pocket, rather than the person,

alarmed me. I thought the matter over. I saw no fire-arms with the

strangers, and of course I was fairly a match for three. My mare was

fast; and I determined quietly to surmount a long and gradual rise, make

play down the falling ground, and then bid pursuit defiance.

Ignorance of the locality rendered my last design abortive. Half way

up the hill, a path but little used, if one could judge from its

un-frequent hoof-marks, branched from the main road. I hesitated which

to take; but of two bad paths, I chose the better, and followed the more

beaten route.

I rode a mile, topped the acclivity, and followed a path skirting a

highland lake and traversing a long and heathy level. Anxiously I looked

back, but not a traveller was visible. My fears vanished--and I smiled

to think how very nervous the possession of property makes a man.

The scene before me was wild and picturesque. A long ravine skirted by a

mountain-stream, that occasionally crossed the road through half-ruined

bridges, descended between two lofty hills which completely shut out the

setting sun. At the bottom of this romantic pass, a lake of considerable

extent, interspersed with numerous islands, received the rivulets that

hurried down the valley. In front, the sun was setting gloriously, and

flung across the gorge of the ravine a curtain of burning gold which

rested on the waters of the lake below. It was, indeed, a splendid

landscape--and tradition added to its interest.

On an eminence that overlooked the road and pass, the ruins of a square

building were visible, now so much dilapidated, that it was impossible

to determine whether it had been originally designed for the purposes

of religion or of defence. In the centre of a green patch, scarcely a

pistol-shot from the dismantled tower, the scathed stem of a solitary

oak was standing. As it was, it would never have arrested the

traveller’s eye, had not a huge cairn of stones beneath it intimated

that this lonely tree had witnessed some scenes of bloodshed. I pulled

up my horse and viewed the cairn and ruin with attention, for my

curiosity was excited, and chance enabled me to gratify it. An elderly,

wild-looking, half-clad peasant was loitering on the road-side,

attending a score or two of sheep. Abandoning his charge, he joined

me willingly; and in very excellent Irish replied to my questions, and

communicated the traditional story of the place.

“What was that building, friend; and what does yonder cairn

commemorate?”

“The story’s long,” replied the peasant.

“And so is the mountain-road. Was it death by accident or treachery?”

The peasant paused a moment, and then drily answered, “There was no

accident in the business, though three men perished; one was murdered

and two were hanged.”

“Do you know the particulars?”

“It would be strange if I did not. I was born in these hills.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay, and my fathers before. We have been for centuries herdsmen in these

mountains. I have never been thirty miles from the spot where we

stand; and every rock, and rill, and hillock, are familiar from early

childhood, for on them my eyes first opened.”

“What was the building?”

“A barrack, for soldiers to protect travellers from plunder.”

“And the cairn--”

“Proves that their protection was sometimes unavailing.”

“Could not an armed force restrain vagabonds from plundering?”

“Wherefore, it is hard to say,” returned the herdsman. “Are you going to

B------ to-morrow?”

“I am.”

“You are in haste thither?”

“I must be there by noon.”

“The special commission sits there the following day. They say it will

go hard with the men who killed the gauger?”

“‘Tis said so; and if the circumstances attendant on the murder be such

as are generally believed, they will deserve their fate.”

The peasant eyed me sharply, and then, with assumed indifference,

observed, “The devil is painted always blacker than he is; and something

may still come out in the prisoners’ favour. I fear, poor fellows, that

they will be prosecuted hard.”

“That you may be certain of.”

“Well,” continued my companion, “no doubt Bradley’s death was sudden.

But could it be otherwise? Many an aching heart he caused, and the curse

of ruined men and houseless children pursued him.”

As he spoke, we crossed a small hillock, where the mountain-path, which

had diverged to the right, once more united itself to the main road. The

lake extended itself for more than a mile on one side; and on the other

a swamp, impassable alike to man and horse, stretched for a considerable

distance between the rugged causeway and the bases of the contiguous

high grounds. A deep stream winding through the centre of the morass and

creeping lazily beneath a ruined bridge, lost itself in the blue waters

of the lake. It was fortunate that my new acquaintance was beside me, or

I should have been puzzled where to cross the stream; but, on inquiry,

he told me there was a ford, and offered to point it out. For half an

hour we jogged on sociably together, chatting on a subject which seemed

to occupy my companion’s every thought,--the approaching trial of

the murderers. From time to time I observed, however, that he looked

anxiously behind him; and suddenly a distant sound like that of coming

horsemen made me turn my head. It was not fancy--three persons showed

themselves above the ridge; they were the strangers I had encountered at

the inn, and from the pace at which they rode, I had no doubt but they

were in pursuit of me.

Indeed, from the first moment they discovered me, their object was

perfectly apparent. One of them pointed me out; and, considering

the rugged path they had to traverse, they increased their pace to a

rapidity that appeared surprising.

Nor was I insensible to coming clanger. What was to be clone, and how

were they to be avoided? Before me, a broken bridge; behind, a pressing

enemy; and escape cut off. I could observe, from numerous hoof-marks in

the bog, the place where the river was fordable. My mare was fresh, and

willingly obeyed a call. I started forward at a rattling pace, and once

across the water, had little doubt of effecting an escape.

Whatever were the herdsman’s original intentions towards me--whether

his designs were “wicked or charitable”--the appearance of the strangers

made him at once a foe. The instant I spurred my mare, he caught up a

stone and flung it with such precision, that it knocked my hat off, but,

fortunately, only grazed my head. Then applying his finger to his lips,

he uttered a wild and piercing whistle, which echoed through the rocks

behind, and was repeated among the distant mountains. The signal was

answered promptly. A dozen men, who had been resting in a hollow out of

sight, suddenly sprang up; some rushed to the ford--others occupied the

road--and all seemed ready and determined to bar my farther progress.

I had brief time for consideration. To try the ford, guarded as it was,

were idle; and to take the bridge, was to select as awkward a leap as

ever proved the proverbial courage of a Roscommon rider. The latter only

afforded any chance of escape; for I should inevitably be knocked upon

the head at the ford, while floundering through the river. Accordingly,

I nerved myself’ for the effort--took my mare in hand;--she was the

sweetest fencer that ever carried an Irish gentleman!--the spur was

answered by a rush at speed,--the bridge cleared at stroke--and we

landed in sporting style, a full length beyond the chasm.

[Illustration: 0051]

So far “the work went bravely on.” Although vigorously attacked by

several assailants, blows from sticks and stones failed in unhorsing

me, and I nearly succeeded in running the gauntlet safely. Two of these

brigands were still to be passed, and I charged them at a slashing

gallop. They retreated to either side, and avoided the threatened

collision; but as I came thundering past, a rope dexterously thrown

over the horse’s head, caught me across the chest, and threw me from the

saddle on the road with stunning violence. Before I could recover, I was

seized, tied hand and foot, a sack thrown over me, lifted on a horse,

and an intimation given, that on the slightest effort at outcry or

escape, I should be consigned to the deep, _sans cérémonie_. The better

portion of valour is discretion--and I determined to keep quiet--for

however loose in keeping ordinary pledges these excellent persons might

be, when a drowning match was in the ease, I felt assured that they

would redeem their promise to the letter.

CHAPTER V. I AM MISTAKEN FOR A GAUGER IN IRELAND, A GREAT MISTAKE.

“It was a wild and strange retreat

As ere was trod by outlaws’ feet.”--Scott.

As I hail no ambition to make a Turkish exit, and cause a vacancy in the

Twenty-first Fusileers, to use a bull, “even before it was filled,”

I submitted with Christian fortitude, and held my peace accordingly.

Unresisted, the captors bore me across a shingly beach; for I heard

the loose stones rattle as their hurried steps displaced them. In a few

minutes they reached a boat, and bundled me in with scanty ceremony,

as “honest Jack” was ejected into Datchet Mead. Directly, several men

jumped across the thwarts--the keel grated on the gravel--the oars fell

rapidly on the water--and away we went, Heaven knew whither!

On leaving the beach, my captors appeared to consider a longer silence

unnecessary; for they laughed and jested with each other, although what

seemed marvellous good fun to them, was death to me.

“Good night, Tom,”--said a pleasant gentleman from the shore,--“God

bless the venture! sure it’s the first ye carried of the kind!”

“Don’t,” observed a second, “make mistakes; men are not malt; and be

sure ye don’t give the contents of yonder sack a steeping.”

“I have done worse however, before now,” returned a rough voice beside

me, “and on my poor conscience, I think a few stones in the bottom of

the bag would make all right, and save both time and trouble.”

Supposing it no harm to share a conversation in which I was so

essentially concerned, I muttered an indistinct dissent.

“What’s that he’s mumbling about?” inquired a person in the boat’s bow.

“And what’s that to you?” was politely responded by my next neighbour,

as he applied knuckles, hard as ebony, to my ribs, I presume to enforce

his admonition. “_Badda-hurst_, * or I’ll slip you across the gunnel

before you have time to bless yourself. Pull, will ye? Hurry to the

island; for before this time I should have been half way to Carrick Beg,

instead of ferrying blackguard gaugers to Innisteagles.”

* Hold your tongue.

Ferrying blackguard gaugers! “What did the fellow mean? It was a

singular observation, and I ventured to remark it.

“What--muttering again!” replied the voice. “Can you swim, friend?”

I managed to answer, that “I had never tried it, tied neck and heels

together.”

“Then by ------,” rejoined my agreeable companion, with a second

application of his fist, “if you open your lips before we part company,

over you go!”

There was no mistaking him. We were on a deep lake, and I had a

determined gentleman to deal with; so I resolved accordingly to remain

still as a mouse, and preserve a dignified silence.

I suspect that my decision was a wise one. From broken observations

which I overheard, I soon found that the voyage was about to terminate.

I felt in mortal tribulation. Suspense, however, was quickly ended. The

keel grated on the sand--strange voices welcomed my guard of honour,

and told that my island was not, “like Crusoe’s,” uninhabited. The sack

being lifted out and laid upon the sward, a parting glass was emptied

to my better health amidst uproarious peals of merriment. Presently,

the parties bade each other good night; and those who had brought me

re-embarked, rowed merrily away, and left me in a pleasant uncertainty

on a very important point, and that was whether I should be sunk or

smothered.

And yet, from the jocular demeanour of the islanders and the immediate

departure of my abductors, I felt half assured that no truculent design

upon my life was meditated after all. This was consolatory, certainly;

although an interrupted journey,--imprisonment in a sack,--a lost mare,

and a despoiled portmanteau,--all these were bad enough. Short space for

sombre communings was allowed. Two pair of lusty arms lifted me from

the ground, bore me through a narrow and difficult pass, placed me on

my legs, and untied the bag, when down dropped the canvass,--and when I

could see distinctly, a strange scene presented itself.

I had felt a glow of increasing heat, and could perceive a stream of

light strengthen gradually as we penetrated the thick brush-wood. At

first, dazzled by the blaze, objects were more like a confused vision

than reality; but presently my eyes became accustomed to the glare, and

I found myself surrounded by several huge fires, at which nearly a

score of men were busily engaged in illicit distillation. In my mountain

walks, I had frequently discovered in some secluded valley a smuggler

engaged in this lawless vocation; but the hovel and apparatus were so

slightly constructed and so easily removed, that at the first intimation

of danger the still was carried off, the fire extinguished, the sheeling

torn down, and nothing left but a heap of sods and rubbish to console

the gauger on his arrival, by proving that his information had been most

correct, and the distillers far too watchful. But here, every thing was

constructed on a permanent and extensive scale, which evinced a perfect

feeling of security, or the determination, at all risks, of continuing

this lawless and demoralizing trade. On furnaces of solid masonry three

large stills were working,--numerous wooden vessels were filled with

potale,--and sacks of malt and barley, kegs containing spirits, and an

abundant supply of peat-fuel, everywhere met the eye. Contiguous to

the fires, sundry hovels were erected; the walls of turf, and roofs of

heather--designed, it would appear, for the accommodation of a number of

swine and their proprietors; and both, in point of comfort, seemed to

be on a precise equality. The brute and the biped were indeed happily

associated; for the ragged clothes, haggard looks, bleared eyes, and

that half-drunken stupidity, which an endless tasting of ardent spirits

always produces, showed, as they flitted back and forward in the red and

lurid atmosphere, a group of beings that might be safely classed as low

even in the lowest grade of civilized society.

My supporters left me, and retired to a cabin apart from the other

hovels; while I underwent a careless examination by some swart figures,

who occasionally passed me bearing turf to the furnaces. Relieved from

a most annoying species of restraint, I felt little apprehension for the

future, although the cause for which I had been kidnapped remained

as much a mystery as ever. In a few minutes, a man tapped me on the

shoulder, and bade me “follow and fear nothing.” I obeyed. He led me to

the retired hut whither my quondam friends had gone before; and there

I found them quite at their ease, refreshing themselves most liberally

after their successful exertions in my arrest and deportation.

It was a rude, but not uncomfortable hovel; cribs and sleeping-places

occupying one end, and a fire of charred turf blazing in the other.

In the centre stood a rough bench, on which were spread plates of the

coarsest delft, an earthen greybeard containing undiluted whisky, a jug

of water, and a couple of horn drinking cups; while a tallow candle,

stuck in an iron trivet, lighted this uninviting board.

Other objects, and of a very different description, met the eye. In

a remote corner of the cabin a score of rusted firelocks were loosely

piled; and, on the couples of the rafters, sundry fishing-rods and

gaffs, a draft-net, and an eel-spear, were deposited. All indicated a

lawless community and wild existence; while a forbidding-looking hag,

broiling steaks upon the coals,--which operation a rough and brindled

lurcher was contemplating with fixed attention,--completed a strange,

but interesting picture of savage life.

“Are you hungry?” inquired one of my abductors, with tolerable civility.

“Not particularly,” I replied; “confinement in a sack does not generally

improve the appetite.”

“Were you hurt by the fall?”

“Not much; although I fancy it would have been to you a matter of small

consideration whether I broke my neck or scratched my finger.”

“Why, then,” responded the second ruffian; “upon my soul, I should have

regretted it; for, to give the devil his due, you took the brook and

bridge in sporting style. She’s a sweet mare, that. There was a day I

could have ridden her to fortune. I began life, sir, a whipper to Lord

Longford.”

“Then, friend, I must in candour tell you, that you have not changed for

the better.”

“I fear I have not”--and the fellow sighed heavily.

“But, may I inquire, wherefore I am deprived of liberty, after having

been waylaid, robbed, and nearly murdered?”

The whipper shook his head, while his companion roughly desired me to

ask no impertinent questions; then, pointing to the table, on which the

hag had placed a quantity of broiled mutton--apparently sufficient for a

dozen persons instead of three--he added, in a more encouraging tone,

“Take a seat, neighbour; there are few in our trade would treat a gauger

so civilly.”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed. “Fellow, _I am no gauger_.”

“And pray what do you call yourself?” he added, with a smile.

“An officer.”

“Well, it’s all the same--a gauger and a revenue officer are brothers’

children.”

“I am not in the revenue, but the army--I am a lieutenant in the

Twenty-first Fusileers.”

“The devil you are!” ejaculated the whipper, with marked surprise.

“Pray, sir, are you not Mr. Parker?”

“No, my name is O’Halloran.”

“Of what family?” said the other ruffian.

“The family of Kilcullen.”

“Hell and furies!” exclaimed both together. “What is the meaning of all

this? I fancy we are in the centre of a hobble. Are you, sir, son of

Colonel O’Halloran?”

“I am.”

“How many arms has he?” asked the keeper, sharply.

“But one--the left he lost in Holland.”

“Where were you going to?”

“Dublin.”

“Your business there?”

“To join my regiment.”

“And why take the mountain road?’’

“Simply, because it was the shortest.”

The quondam whipper gave a long and significant whistle; while his

companion started up and left the hut abruptly, although the Leonora

of the smugglers’ hovel called loudly after him, that “the steaks were

cooling.”

He was but a brief space absent; and returned accompanied by an old

grey-headed, blear-eyed, and besotted wretch, who instantly commenced a

rigid scrutiny of my features. From the first moment, he expressed doubt

and disappointment.

“What the devil!” said the ruffian who had brought him to examine

me--“what are you shaking your head at, old boy?”

“Nothing; but you have bagged the wrong fox,” replied the stranger. “A

nice job you have made of it, Murty Doolan!”

“Why, is’nt that Parker the gauger?”

“Parker, the devil!” rejoined the old man. “It’s as much Parker as it

is my grandmother. Ye blind beggar, this chap has a straight eye, and

Parker could squint through a bugle horn. He! he! he!” and he chuckled

at his Own wit; “wait till somebody hears it. All, this comes of not

taking my advice--this comes of employing strangers.”

“Well,” said the whipper, “there’s no help for spilt milk. What’s to be

done, Gaffer? Can’t we grab the right one yet?”

“Ay, like enough, after Sullivan is hanged; for nothing can save him

now. What will ye do with this lad?” and he nodded carelessly at me.

“Serve him, I suppose, as ye did ----------” He paused and laughed, “He!

he! he!”

“D----n ye, you ould doting scoundrel--how dare ye mention that

business?”

“Phew--how hot ye are, Murty? Well, I must hurry back, or Phaddeein,

the fool, will run the still too close, and spoil the whisky with the

faints, as he did the last brewing. A nice job! That’s what I call

taking the wrong sow by the ear. He! he! he!” and away the old man

toddled to attend to his favourite employment.

“This is a cursed mistake,” remarked the ruffian companion of the

whipper; “and when the master hears it, all of us will come to trouble.

Come, my friend, let’s have some supper. Your seizure will cause more

vexation than your neck is worth,--sit down,” and turning up a keg, he

placed himself upon it, and attacked the broiled meat manfully. The

whipper, following his example, settled himself upon an inverted

cleeve, * pointing out a stool, the seat of honour, for my especial

use. Undecided, whether to accept their hospitality and sup in villanous

company for once, or hold myself aloof and eschew all fellowship with

such scoundrels, I wearied the politeness of the whipper, who, unable to

resist temptation longer, assailed the steaks with vigour--when a voice

from without caused my companions to spring from their seats as if the

food were poisoned. Next moment, a strange personage whom I had not seen

before, strode in, fixed an earnest and suspicious glance on me--then,

turning to my captors, exclaimed in a voice of thunder,

* The Irish name for a turf-basket.

“Villains! Who is this stranger?”

“The gauger, Parker,” both muttered in a tremulous tone.

“Ah, you precious scoundrels! Off with you! Take that woman away!”--and

waving his hand, my guard of honour vanished at his bidding, attended

by the alarmed cook, and leaving the unknown and myself _tête-à-tête_

together.

Spurning the basket into the corner, which the whipper had respectfully

abdicated on his entrance, the unknown walked to the fire with an air

that bespoke authority, and which seemed to say, “This island’s mine.”

To form any opinion of his face or figure was impossible; a loose-made

frieze wrapping-coat concealed the one, while a high collar and slouched

hat masked the other effectually. I could observe, however, that in

height he was above the middle size, and that his eyes were dark and

penetrating. Promptly he commenced a conversation; and his address was

haughty, curt, and unceremonious.

“Pray, sir, _who are you!_”

“A stranger, brought here against his will; and wherefore--you, sir, can

best tell.”

“Pray,” continued the unknown, “inform me under what circumstances you

have been arrested?”

“And do you require any information on that subject?’’

“If I did not, I need not have asked you to detail them. Be quick, sir;

it will save me time, and probably do you some service.”

I simply narrated the recent occurrences, from my meeting with the

strangers at the lonely inn, until I had been enlarged upon the island.

At different parts of my detail the muffled stranger exhibited symptoms

of displeasure, and once or twice I could hear his teeth grind, as if he

struggled to suppress a burst of passion.

“Well, sir,” said he, as I ended the narrative of my captivity, “you are

a young soldier, it would appear; and this is an excellent earnest of

the troublesome profession you have chosen. But, jesting apart, you have

received much ill-usage, and been stupidly and unnecessarily deprived

of liberty and effects. Both shall be restored; and all the satisfaction

which circumstances will admit of, shall be offered in atonement for an

unintentional aggression.”

He drew a whistle from his bosom; and its shrill summons was promptly

answered by a smart, active lad, dressed in a sailor’s jacket and

trowsers.

“Man the boat, and give the signal.” The sailor disappeared, and the

unknown again addressed himself to me.

“Will you accompany me, and trust for your night’s entertainment to

my good offices--or, would you rather remain and share that

inviting-looking supper which by my visit, I fear, has not been much

improved?”

I smiled, and assured him I had not the least ambition to cultivate a

farther intimacy with those worthy gentlemen who had already taken too

much trouble on my account.

“Come along, then--the boat is ready,” he said, as a piercing whistle

was heard from the shore. “Follow me, closely; the path, though short,

is difficult even in daylight to a stranger.”

Entering the copse and pushing through thick underwood, we reached a

sandy beach, where a gig, with four rowers seated on the thwarts, was

waiting. I was ceremoniously handed in and accommodated with a boat

cloak; while the unknown took the yoke-ropes of the rudder, and desired

the men to “give way.” The crew “flung from their oars the spray,” and

broke the water with a regular stroke, which showed them to be

practised pullers. Away we shot across the lake,--and, to my infinite

satisfaction, left “the lonely isle,” which, even under an assurance

that it possessed another Calypso, I should not have been tempted to

revisit.

The night was dark and still, but through the haze the outline of the

shore was seen ahead. I looked towards the island we were leaving; but,

excepting a feeble glow of red still visible upon the dusky sky, there

was nothing to betray its secret, or intimate that this solitary place

had been chosen for “lawless intent.”

We neared the shore, and entered a narrow inlet that penetrated, as it

seemed, by an opening in the hill side, into a wood of full-grown forest

timber. Gradually the passage became more confined, until the oars had

scarcely space to pull between the banks, while branches of oak and

beech uniting above our heads, gave an additional darkness to the

evening. In a few moments we reached its termination,--a small natural

basin with a jetty of rough masonry. The steersman ran the boat

alongside, landed on the wharf, and desired me to follow. I willingly

obeyed, and the unknown led the way in silence, until we were beyond the

hearing of the boatmen, when, suddenly stopping, he thus addressed me:

“I am not a resident here--this country is not my own, but although I

cannot offer you hospitality myself, I shall yet manage to obtain it.

Scarcely a gun-shot distance from this place there stands a solitary

mansion-house, embosomed in this oak wood. That road will conduct you to

it. Go, knock at the door, and ask for Mr. Hartley. Tell him simply that

you are a stranger,--that you need food and lodging,--and, if I be not

deceived, you will have little occasion to urge the request a second

time. Of what has occurred, say little; of what may occur, say less.

I shall have your mare attended to, and your property recovered and

restored; ay, were its value ten times greater. We may meet under more

agreeable circumstances than we did this evening. Farewell. Stay--one

word more. You will probably be introduced to a lady at Mr. Hartley’s,

some two or three years younger than yourself. She is an only daughter,

educated in retirement, unacquainted with the world, and her existence,

beyond the inmates of yonder mansion, actually unknown. Gentlemen of the

sword, deal, I am told, extensively in gallantry. If this be so, reserve

yours; for Mr. Hartley, as I have heard, wishes that his daughter

shall continue ‘of worldly things in happy ignorance;’ and any

pointed attention on your part to his ward, would prove any thing but

acceptable. You understand me?”

“Indeed I do; and believe me, my good Mentor, that your friend’s fair

daughter has little to fear from one who has had death in expectancy for

two hours.”

“So much the better,” said the stranger. “Proceed; and you have but

to tell your wants at the house, and have them attended to. You will

however require a guide, for probably Mr. Hartley’s dogs might annoy

you.”

He whistled; and the same boatman again obeyed the signal. To him he

gave orders to attend me; bade me good night; and turned into an opening

in the copse, leaving me with my guide, and with the pleasant necessity

of presenting myself to Mr. Hartley,--an unexpected, an unbidden, and,

not improbably, an unwelcome guest.

CHAPTER VI. A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

_Mirandi._--“Be of comfort;

My fathers of a better nature, sir,

Than he appears by speech.”--The Tempest.

|As we proceeded, I endeavoured to lead my companion into conversation,

and glean from him some information touching the place and the personage

we were about to honour with a midnight visit. At first, Andy Beg *--for

so the other boatmen named him--affected ignorance of Mr. Hartley’s

general history; and said that all he knew “for certain” was, that

he had been a great traveller, and bought, a few years ago, a large

mountain property, whose extent and revenues bore most ridiculous

proportions;--the one exceeding some square miles, the other not

amounting in value to the rental of an English farm. He added, that “he

had plenty of money, few acquaintances, lived entirely to himself, kept

a very good house, and kept every body out of it.” In short, the total

of my intelligence was small and not encouraging. Mr. Hartley being

wealthy and inhospitable, having

“One fair daughter, and no more,

The which he loved passing weir’

the reception of a stranger like myself, making an unceremonious call

after sunset, seemed indeed rather a questionable matter. But it was

necessary to make an attempt to gain admission; for, assuredly, any

thing was better than to be cooped up on that infernal island.

* _Anglice_, Little Andy.

As we issued from the wooded avenue, the moon had risen above the trees,

and showed us a solitary building standing in the centre of an open

glade, and surrounded by a rustic paling. A terrier promptly gave

the alarm, and dogs of divers sizes and descriptions joined in the

challenge. But Andy appeared to be an old acquaintance; they ceased

barking when his voice was recognised, and permitted us to pass through

a wicket in the enclosure, and enter a gravelled walk that approached

the dreaded mansion.

“Now, sir, you require me no longer; and I have particular business to

transact before morning. Knock and fear nothing. The dogs will not annoy

you.” So saying, Andy passed through the wicket, and left me to myself.