Kitabı oku: «The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago», sayfa 8

“Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?”

“I’ll answer for it – you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes’ rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.”

“That’s enough – what’s his price?”

“Take a look at him first,” replied Lanty, “for if you are judge of a beast, you’ll not refuse what I ask you.” With these words he lighted a candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone —

“Mary – Mary, I say – is that fellow all safe?”

“Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why do you ask now?”

“I’ll tell you why – for myself I care not a sous – I’m here to-day, away to-morrow – but Talbot’s deep in the business – his neck’s in the halter – can we trust Lawler on his account – a man of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared – what say you?”

“You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be his own two hours if he turned informer – and then this Mr. Talbot, he’s a great man you tell me?”

“He’s a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game – that’s all I know, Mary – and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring him over, than any thing else – but hush, here they come.”

“You shall have your money – you’ve no objection to French gold, I hope – for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering.

“I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it had King George on it.”

“You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off – will that do?” said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer.

“As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket.

“Will Mrs. M’Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary’s; “this is the first shelter I have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the lugger – and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once – I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.”

Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening’s conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies.

While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever.

“You’d better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night.

“‘Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I’ll show him as far as the turn of the road.”

Though the stranger declined the proffered civility, Lanty was firm in his resolution, and the young man, vaulting lightly into the saddle, called out a last farewell: to the others, and rode on beside his guide.

Mary had scarcely time to remove the remains of the supper, when Lanty re-entered the cabin.

“He’s the noble-hearted fellow, any way,” said he, “and never took a shilling off the first price I asked him;” and with that he put his hand into his breast pocket to examine, once more, the strange coin of France. With a start, a tremendous oath broke from him – “My money – my pocket-book is lost,” exclaimed he, in wild excitement, while he ransacked pocket after pocket of his dress. “Bad luck to that glen, I dropt it out there, and with the torrent of water that’s falling, it will never be found – och, murther, this is too bad.”

In vain the others endeavoured to comfort and console him – all their assurances of its safety, and the certainty of its being discovered the next morning, were in vain. Lanty re-lighted the lantern, and muttering maledictions on the weather, the road, and his? own politeness, he issued forth to search after his treasure, an occupation which, with all his perseverance, was unsuccessful; for when day was breaking, he was still groping along the road, cursing his hard fate, and every thing which had any share in inflicting it.

“The money is not the worst of it,” said Lanty, as he threw himself down, exhausted and worn out, on his bed. “The money’s not the worst of it – there was papers in that book, I wouldn’t have seen for double the amount.”

Long after the old smuggler was standing out to sea the next day, Lanty Lawler wandered backwards and forwards in the glen, now searching among the wet leaves that lay in heaps by the way side, or, equally in vain, sounding every rivulet and water-course which swept past. His search, was fruitless; and well it might be – the road was strewn with fragments of rocks and tree-tops for miles – while even yet the swollen stream tore wildly past, cutting up the causeway in its passage, and foaming on amid the wreck of the hurricane.

Yet the entire of that day did he persevere, regardless of the beating rain, and the cold, drifting wind, to pace to and fro, his heart bent upon recovering what he had lost.

“Yer sowl is set upon money; devil a doubt of it, Lanty,” said Mary, as dripping with wet,# and shaking with cold, he at last re-entered the cabin; “sorra one of me would go rooting there, for a crock of goold, if I was sure to find it.”

“It is not the money, Mary, I tould you before – it’s something else was in the pocket-book,” said he, half angrily, while he sat down to brood in silence over his misfortune.

“‘Tis a letter from your sweetheart, then,” said she, with a spice of jealous malice in her manner, for Lanty had more than once paid his addresses to Mary, whose wealth was reported to be something considerable.

“May be it is, and may be it is not,” was the cranky reply.

“Well, she’ll have a saving husband, any way,” said Mary, tartly, “and one that knows how to keep a good grip of the money.”

The horse-dealer made no answer to this enconium on his economy, but with eyes fixed on the ground, pondered on his loss; meanwhile Mrs. M’Kelly’s curiosity, piqued by her ineffectual efforts to obtain information, grew each instant stronger, and at last became irrepressible.

“Can’t you say what it is you’ve lost? sure there’s many a one goes by, here, of a Saturday to market – and if you leave the token – ”

“There’s no use in it – sorra bit,” said he, despondingly.

“You know your own saycrets best,” said Mary, foiled at every effort; “and they must be the dhroll saycrets too, when you’re so much afraid of their being found out.”

“Troth then,” said Lanty, as a ray of his old gallantry shot across his mind; “troth then, there isn’t one I’d tell a saycrct too as soon as yourself, Mary M’Kelly; you know the most of my heart already, and Why wouldn’t you know it all?”

“Faix it’s little I care to hear about it,” said Mary, with an affectation of indifference, the most finished coquetry could not have surpassed. “Ye may tell it, or no, just as ye plaze.”

“That’s it now,” cried Lanty – “that’s the way of women, the whole world over; keep never minding them, and bad luck to peace or case you get; and then try and plaze them, and see what thanks you have. I was going to tell you all about it.”

“And why don’t you?” interrupted she, half fearing lest she might have pulled the cord over-tight already; “why don’t you tell it, Lanty dear?”

These last words settled the matter. Like the feather that broke the camel’s back, these few and slight syllables were all that was wanting to overcome the horse-dealer’s resistance.

“Well, here it is now,” said he, casting, as he spoke, a cautious glance around, lest any chance listener should overhear him. “There was in that pocket-book, a letter, sealed with three big seals, that Father Luke gave me yesterday morning, and said to me, ‘Lanty Lawler, I’m going over to Ballyvourney, and after that, I’m going on to Cork, and it’s mighty likely I’ll go as far as Dublin, for the Bishop may be there, and if he is, I must follow him; and here’s a letter,’ says he, ‘that you must give the O’Donoghue with your own hands’ – them was the words – ‘with your own hands, Lanty; and now swear you’ll not leave it to any one else, but do as I tell you;’ and, faix, I took my oath of it, and see, now, it’s lost; may I never, but I don’t know how I’ll ever face him again; and sure God knows what was in it.” “And there was three seals on it,” said Mary, musingly, as if such extraordinary measures of secrecy could bode nothing good.

“Each of them as big as a half-crown – and it was thick inside too; musha ‘twas the evil day I ever set eyes on it!” and with this allusion to the lost money, which, by an adroitness of superstition, he coupled with the bad luck the letter had brought him, Lanty took his farewell of Mary, and, with a heavy heart, set out on his journey.

CHAPTER XI. MISTAKES ON ALL SIDES

The occurrence so briefly mentioned by Flahault, of the night attack on the “Lodge.” was not so easily treated by the residents; and so many different versions of the affair were in circulation, that Miss Travers, the only one whose information could have thrown any light upon it, was confused by the many marvels she heard, and totally unable to recall to mind what had really taken place. Sir Marmaduke himself examined. the servants, and compared their testimony; but fear and exaggeration conspired to make the evidence valueless. Some asserting that there were at least a hundred assailants surrounding the house at one time – others, that they wore a kind of uniform, and had their faces blackened – some again had seen parties prowling about the premises during the day, and could positively swear to one man, “a tall fellow in a ragged blue coat, and without shoes or stockings” – no uncommon phenomena in those parts. But the butler negatived all these assertions, and stoutly maintained that there had been neither attack nor assailants – that the whole affair was a device of Terry’s, to display his zeal and bravery; and, in short, that he had set fire to the rick in the haggard, and “got up” the affray for his own benefit.

In proportion as any fact occurred to throw discredit on the testimony of each, he who proffered it became a thousand times more firm and resolute in his assertion – circumstances dubious a moment before, were then suddenly remembered and sworn to, with numerous little aids to corroboration newly recalled to mind. To one point, however, all the evidence more or less converged, and that was, to accuse Terry of being the cause, or at least an accomplice in the transaction. Poor fellow – his own devotedness had made enemies for him every where – the alacrity with which he mounted the burning stack was an offence not soon to be forgotten by those who neither risked life nor limb; nor were the taunts he lavished on their sluggish backwardness to be forgiven now. Unhappily, too, Terry was not a favourite among the servants: he had never learnt how much deference is due from the ragged man to the pampered menial of a rich household; he had not been trained to that subserviency of demeanour which should mark the intercourse of a poor, houseless, friendless creature like himself, with the tagged and lace-covered servants of a wealthy master. Terry, by some strange blunder of his nature, imagined that, in his freedom and independence, he was the better man of the two; he knew that to do nothing, was the prerogative of the great; and as he fulfilled that condition to a considerable extent, he fancied he should enjoy its privileges also. For this reason he had ever regarded the whole class of servants as greatly his inferiors; and although he was ready and willing to peril his life at any moment for Sir Marmaduke or his daughter, the merest common-place services he would refuse to the others, without a moment’s hesitation. Neither intimidation could awe, nor bribery bend him – his nature knew not what fear was in any shape, save one – that of being apprehended and shot for a deserter – and as to any prospect of buying his good offices, that was totally out of the question.

In an Irish household Terry’s character would have been appreciated at once. The respect which is never refused to any bereavement, but, in particular, to that greatest of all afflictions, would have secured for him, there, both forgiveness and affection – his waywardness and caprice would have been a law to the least good-tempered servant of the family; but Sir Marmaduke’s retainers were all English, and had about as much knowledge of, or sympathy with, such a creature, as he himself possessed of London life and manners.

As his contempt was not measured by any scale of prudence, but coolly evinced on every occasion of their intercourse, they, one and all, detested him beyond bounds – most, asserting that he was a thoroughpaced knave, whose folly was a garb assumed to secure a life of idleness – and all, regarding him in the light of a spy, ever ready to betray them to their master.

When, therefore, one after another, the servants persisted in either openly accusing or insinuating suggestions against Terry, Sir Marmaduke became sorely puzzled. It was true, he himself had witnessed his conduct the night before; but if their version was correct, all his daring, energy, and boldness were so many proofs against him. He was, indeed, reluctant to think so badly of the poor fellow – but how discredit the evidence of his entire household? His butler had been in his service for years – and oh! what a claim for all the exercise of evil influence – for all the petty tyranny of the low-minded and the base-born – tracking its way through eaves-dropping, and insinuating its venom in moments of unguarded freedom. His footman too – but why go on? His daughter alone rejected the notion with indignation; but in her eager vindication of the poor fellow’s honour, her excitement militated against success – for age thus ever pronounces upon youth, and too readily confounds a high-spirited denunciation of wrong, with a mistaken, ill-directed enthusiasm. He listened, it is true, to all she said of Terry’s devotedness and courage – of his artless, simple nature – of his single-minded, gentle character; but by a fatal tendency, too frequent as we advance in years, the scales of doubt ever lean against, and not to the side favourable to human nature, and as he shook his head mournfully, he said —

“I wish I did not suspect him.”

“Send for him at least,” said his daughter, as with an effort she restrained the emotion that agitated her; “speak to him yourself.”

“To what end, my child, if he really is innocent?”

“Oh! yes, indeed – indeed he is,” she exclaimed, as the tears at length fell fast upon heir cheek.

“Well then, be it so,” said Sir Marmaduke, as he rung the bell, and ordered Terry to be sent for.

While Miss Travers sat with her head buried in her hands, her father paced slowly up and down the room; and so absorbed was he in his thoughts, that he had not noticed Terry, who had meanwhile entered the room, and now stood respectfully beside, the door. When the old man’s eyes did fall on him, he started back, with horror and astonishment. The poor fellow’s clothes were actually reduced to a mass of burned rags – one sleeve was completely gone, and, there, could be seen his bare arm scorched and blackened by the fire – a bandage of coarse linen wrapping the hand and fingers – a deep cut marked his brow – and his hair was still matted and clotted with the blood – awhile his face was of the colour of death itself.

“Can you doubt him now, father,” whispered the young girl, as she gazed on the poor fellow, whose wandering eyes roamed over the ornaments of the chamber, in total unconsciousness of himself and his sufferings.

“Well, Terry,” said Sir Marmaduke after a pause, “what account do you give of last night’s business?”

“That’s a picture of Keim-an-Eigh,” said Terry, as he fixed his large eyes, open to their widest extent, on a framed drawing on the wall. “There’s the Eagle’s Cliff, and that’s Murrow Waterfall – and there’s the lake – ay, and see if there isn’t a boat on it. Well, well, but it’s beautiful – one could walk up the shepherd’s path there, where the goat is – ay, there’s a fellow going up – musha, that’s me – I’m going over to Cubber-na-creena, by the short cut.”

“Tell me all you know of what happened last night, Terry,” repeated Sir Marmaduke.

“It was a great fire, devil a doubt of it,” said Terry, eagerly; “the blaze from the big stack was twice as high as the roof; but when I put the wet sail of the boat on it, it all went into black smoke; it nearly choked me.”

“How did it catch fire first, Terry? can you tell us that?”

“They put a piece of tindir in it; I gave them an ould rag, and they rubbed it over with powder, and set it burning.’

“Who were they that did this?”

“The fellows that threw me down – what fine pistols they had, with silver all over them! They said that they would not beat me at all, and they didn’t either. When I gave them the rag, they said, ‘Now, my lad, we’ll show you a fine fire;’ and, true for them, I never seen a grander.”

In this vague, rambling strain, did Terry reply to every question put to him, his thoughts ever travelling in one narrow circle. Who they were that fired the haggard, how many, and what kind of appearance they wore, he knew nothing of whatever; for in addition to his natural imbecility of mind, the shock of the adventure, and the fever of his wounds and bruises, had utterly routed the small remnant of understanding which usually served to guide him.

To one question only did his manner evince hesitation and doubt in the answer, and that was, when Sir Marmaduke asked him, how it happened that he should have been up at the Lodge at so late an hour, since the doors were all locked and barred a considerable time previous.

Terry’s face flushed scarlet at the question, and he made no reply; he stole a sharp, quick glance towards Miss Travers, beneath his eyelids, but as rapidly withdrew it again, when his colour grew deeper and deeper.

The old man marked the embarrassment, and all his suspicions were revived at once. “You must tell me this, Terry,” said he, in a voice of some impatience; “I insist upon knowing it.”

“Yes, Terry, speak it out freely; you can have no cause for concealment,” said Sybella, encouragingly.

“I’ll not tell it!” said he, after a pause of some seconds, during which he seemed to have been agitating within himself all the reasons on either side – “I’ll not tell it.”

“Come, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke angrily, “I must and will know this; your hesitation has a cause, and it shall be known.”

The boy started at the tones so unusual to his ears, and stared at the speaker in mute astonishment.

“I am not displeased with you, Terry – at least I shall not be, if you speak freely and openly to me. Now, then, answer my question – What brought you about the Lodge at so late an hour?”

“I’ll not tell,” said the youth resolutely.

“For shame, Terry,” said Sybella, in a low, soothing voice, as she drew near him; “how can you speak thus to my father. You would not have me displeased with you?”

The boy’s face grew pale as death, and his lips quivered with agitation, while his eyes, glazed with heavy tears, were turned downwards; still he never spoke a word.

“Well, what think you of him, now?” said Sir Marmaduke in a whisper to his daughter.

“That he is innocent – perfectly innocent,” replied she, triumphantly. “The poor fellow has his own reasons – shallow enough, doubtless – for his silence; but they have no spot or stain of guilt about them, Let me try if I cannot unfathom this business – I’ll go down to the boat-house.”

The generous girl delayed not a moment, but hastened from the room as she spoke, leaving Sir Marmaduke and Terry silently confronting each other. The moment of his daughter’s departure, Sir Marmaduke felt relieved from the interference her good opinion of Terry suggested, and, at once altering his whole demeanour, he walked close up to him, and said —

“I shall but give you one chance more, sir. Answer my question now, or never.”

“Never, then!” rejoined Terry, in a tone of open defiance.

The words, and the look by which they were accompanied, overcame the old man’s temper in a moment, and he said —

“I thought as much. I guessed how deeply gratitude had sunk in such a heart. Away! Let me see you no more.”

The boy turned his eyes from the speaker till they fell upon his own seared and burned limb, and the hand swathed in its rude bandage. That mute appeal was all he made, and then burst into a flood of tears. The old man turned away to hide his own emotions, and when he looked round, Terry was gone. The hall door lay open. He had passed out and gained the lawn – no sight of him could be seen.

“I know it, father, I know it all now,” said Sybella, as she came running up the slope from the lake.

“It is too late, my child; he has gone – left us for ever, I fear,” said Sir Marmaduke, as in shame and sorrow he rested his head upon her shoulder.

For some seconds she could not comprehend his words; and, when at last she did so, she burst forth —

“And, oh, father, think how we have wronged him. It was in his care and devotion to us, the poor fellow incurred’ our doubts. His habit was to sit beneath the window each night, so long as lights gleamed within. Till they were extinguished, he never sought his rest. The boatman tells me this, and says, his notion was, that God watches over the dark hours only, and that man’s precautions were needed up to that time.”

With sincere and heartfelt sorrow Sir Marmaduke turned away. Servants were despatched on foot and horseback to recover the idiot boy, and persuade him to return; but his path lay across a wild and mountain region, where few could follow; and at nightfall the messengers returned unsuccessful in their search.

If there was real sorrow over his departure in the parlour, the very opposite feeling pervaded the kitchen. There, each in turn exulted in his share of what had occurred, and took pains to exaggerate his claims to gratitude, for having banished one so unpopular and unfriended.

Alarm at the attack of the previous night, and sorrow for the unjust treatment of poor Terry, were not Sir Marmaduke’s only emotions on this sad morning. His messenger had just returned from Carrig-na-curra with very dispiriting tidings of Herbert O’Donoghue. Respect for the feelings of the family under the circumstances of severe illness, had induced him to defer his intended visit to a more suitable opportunity; but his anxiety for the youth’s recovery was unceasing, and he awaited the return of each servant sent to inquire after him, with the most painful impatience. In this frame of mind was he as evening drew near, and he wandered down his avenue to the road-side to learn some minutes earlier the last intelligence of the boy. It was a calm and peaceful hour; not a leaf moved in the still air; and all in the glen seemed bathed in the tranquil influence of the mellow sunset. The contrast to the terrific storm which so lately swept through the mountain-pass was most striking, and appealed to the old man’s heart, as reflecting back the image of human life, so varying in its aspect, so changeful of good and evil. He stood and meditated on the passages of his own life, whose tenor had, till now, been so equable, but whose fortunes seemed already to participate in the eventful fate of a distracted country. He regretted, deeply regretted, that he had ever come to Ireland. He began to learn how little power there is to guide the helm of human fortune, when once engaged in the stormy current, and he saw himself already the sport of a destiny he had never anticipated.

If he was puzzled at the aspect of a peasantry, highly gifted with intelligence, yet barbarously ignorant – active and energetic, yet indolent and fatalist – the few hints he had gathered of his neighbour, the O’Donoghue, amazed him still more; and by no effort of his imagination could he conceive the alliance between family pride and poverty – between the reverence for ancestry, and an utter indifference to the present. He could not understand such an anomaly as pretension without wealth; and the only satisfactory explanation he could arrive at, to himself, was, that in a wild and secluded tract, even so much superiority as this old chieftain possessed, attracted towards him the respect of all humbler and more lowly than himself, and made even his rude state seem affluence and power. If in his advances to the O’ Donoghue he had observed all the forms of a measured respect, it was because he felt so deeply his debtor for a service, that he would omit nothing in the repayment: his gratitude was sincere and heartfelt, and he would not admit any obstacle in the way of acknowledging it.

Reflecting thus, he was suddenly startled by the sound of wheels coming up the glen – he listened, and now heard the low trot of a horse, and the admonitions of a man’s voice, delivered in tones of anger and impatience. The moment after, an old-fashioned gig, drawn by a small miserable pony, appeared, from which a man had dismounted to ascend the hill.

“A fine evening, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke, as the stranger, whose dress bespoke one of the rank of gentleman, drew near.

The other stopped suddenly, and surveyed the baronet without speak ing; then, throwing down the collar of his great coat, which he wore high round his face, he made a respectful salute, and said —

“A lovely evening, sir. I have the honour to see Sir Marmaduke Travers, I believe? May I introduce myself, Doctor Roach, of Killarney?”

“Ah, indeed! Then you are probably come from Mr. O’Donoghue’s house? Is the young gentleman better this evening?”

Roach shook his head dubiously, but made no reply.

“I hope, sir, you don’t apprehend danger to his life?” asked Sir Marmaduke, with an effort to appear calm as he spoke.

“Indeed I do, then,” said Roach, firmly; “the mischiefs done already.”

“He’s not dead?” said Sir Marmaduke, almost breathless in his terror.

“Not dead; but the same as dead: effusion will carry him off some time to-morrow.”

“And can you leave him in this state? Is there nothing to be done? Nothing you could suggest?” cried the old man, scarcely able to repress his indignant feeling at the heartless manner of the doctor.

“There’s many a thing one might try,” said Roach, not noticing the temper of the question, “for the boy is young; but for the sake of a chance, how am I to stay away from my practice and my other patients? And indeed slight a prospect as he has of recovery, my own of a fee is slighter still. I think I’ve all the corn in Egypt in my pocket this minute,” said he, slapping his hand on his purse: “one of the late king’s guineas, wherever they had it lying by till now.”

“I am overjoyed to have met you, sir,” said Sir Marmaduke hastily, and by a great exertion concealing the disgust this speech suggested. “I wish for an opinion about my daughter’s health – a cold, I fancy – but to-morrow will do better. Could you return to Mr. O’Donoghue’s tonight? I have not a bed to offer you here. This arrangement may serve both parties, as I fervently hope something may yet be done for the youth.”

“I’ll visit Miss Travers in the morning with pleasure.”

“Don’t leave him, sir, I entreat you, till I send over; it will be quite time enough when you hear from me: let the youth be your first care, doctor; in the mean while accept this slight retainer, for I beg you to consider your time as given to me now,” and with that he pressed several guineas into the willing palm of the doctor.

As Roach surveyed the shining gold, his quick cunning divined the old baronet’s intentions, and with a readiness long habit had perfected, he said —

“The case of danger before all others, any day. I’ll turn about at once and see what can be done for the lad.”

Sir Marmaduke leaned towards him, and said some words hastily in a low whispering voice.

“Never fear – never fear, Sir Marmaduke,” was the reply, as he mounted to the seat of his vehicle, and turned the pony’s head once more down the glen.

“Lose no time, I beseech you,” cried the old man, waving his hand in token of adieu; nor was the direction unheeded, for, using his whip with redoubled energy, the doctor sped along the road at a canter, which threatened annihilation to the frail vehicle at every bound of the animal.

“Five hundred!” muttered Sir Marmaduke to himself, as he looked after him. “I’d give half my fortune to see him safe through it.”

Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain this fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what reasons he should allege to the O’Donoghue for his speedy return.

“I’ll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen,” muttered he; “or, what! if I said I forgot something – a pocket-book, or case of instruments – any thing will do;” and, with this comfortable reflection, he urged his beast onward.

The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O’Leary was closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman’s ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door.