"Two Dutchmen, sir, thirty-six guns a-piece, bearing this way."

During the struggle with the mutineers we had almost forgotten the presence of these strangers, and now found them not a league away standing across the wind to meet us.

It was a hopeless venture to meet them, but Mr Adrian preferred it to putting the Zebra about and running away.

"Let them come," said he; "they can't do worse than these scoundrels down below. Stand by the guns, gentlemen!"

We obeyed willingly enough. Had Mr Adrian only been a gentleman as well as an officer we could have cheered him. But the vision of his face as he gave the word to mow down his own crew stuck in my memory and robbed me of all the enthusiasm which his present courage deserved.

On we sped, and nearer drew the Dutchmen. Evidently they were cruisers on the prowl for an enemy, or sent to observe the motions of our disorganised fleet. Had we been a sound company we might have held our own against the two of them. But crippled as we were, with our guns unmanned, our ammunition lost, and part of our crew lying wounded on deck, while the rest were prisoners below, we might as well have hoped to capture Rotterdam.

Fate, however, determined our destiny in her own way. Just as we were coming about, and those at the guns were blowing their matches for a first and possibly a last broadside, the Zebra gave a sudden shiver in every timber, there was a dull growl, followed an instant later by a terrific explosion which rent the vessel in twain, and dimmed the sky overhead with spars and smoke, and set the ship reeling on her beam- ends. At the moment, I was in the act of firing the charge of the gun in my care, and remember nothing but the tremendous noise, and finding myself hurled, as it seemed, clear over the breech of the weapon out into the boiling sea.

Instinctively I clutched at a spar within reach, and clung to it. All else I saw and heard as in a dream—the ship heeling over further and further, and the waves leaping on her as she plunged down; the cries and shrieks of the imprisoned wretches who sought to escape from the consequences of their own desperate revenge; the sea strewn with wreckage and struggling swimmers; the first lieutenant's dying malediction flung into the wind from the quarter-deck; the looming hulls of the two Dutchmen as they hung in the wind and watched our fate. All, I say, passed like a grim nightmare. What woke me was an arm suddenly flung across me, and the white face of Mr Midshipman Gamble looking up at me out of the water.

I hauled him up on to the spar; and the effort to keep him afloat, and save myself from his wild struggles, helped me to find my wits.

"Easy, lad!" said I; "you're safe enough here. Keep quiet!"

The sound of a voice steadied him, and he ceased his struggles, and let me lash him as best I could to the spar.

The Dutchmen, who had, no doubt, witnessed with anything but pleasure their prey snatched out of their hands, were humane enough to make a show of lowering a boat for the succour of those who still lived. But the heavy sea rendered this a very difficult and dangerous task, and after very little trying we had the dismay of seeing them abandon the attempt and haul off on their course, leaving us to our fate.

You may fancy with what feelings we watched them gradually growing less on the horizon, and realised that we were at the mercy of an angry sea, with no support but a piece of broken timber, and every moment finding ourselves more and more alone, as comrade after comrade gave up the struggle and fell back among the waves.

Presently Mr Gamble, whose leg, I found, had been crushed by the explosion, groaned, and his head fell forward. Three great waves in succession washed over us with the force of a falling wall; and when they had passed, and I looked to my companion, he was dead, with the life simply beaten out of him.

Sorrowfully enough I unlashed him, and let him drop beneath the pitiless water; and then, finding my own strength beginning to fail, I lashed myself under the arms and over the spar, and hung on for dear life. In this posture I spent weary hour after hour watching the waves, and endeavouring to ward off from my head the fury of their onslaught.

About mid-day the gale eased somewhat. I looked about me. Not a sign or vestige remained of the Zebra or her hapless crew. Not a floating thing among the waves caused me to count on the company of a living wretch like myself. Not even a livid corpse across my track served to remind me that I, of all that ship's company, still clung to life.

Strange visions, as I rose and fell with the heaving sea, floated before my eyes. The gloomy kitchen at Kilgorman, and my mother's letter gleaming under the hearthstone—the hollow on the cliff's edge where Tim and I had once fought—Biddy McQuilkin sitting at the fireside in our cabin, setting her cap at my father—Miss Kit with the gun at her shoulder behind the hall-door at Knockowen—the unhappy old man being dragged to the guillotine in Paris—the lumbering barge floating down the Seine—Tim in the light of the lantern at the helm of the Kestrel;—these and many other visions chased one another across my memory, first in regular procession, then tripping one over the other, then all jumbled and mixed together in such chaos that it was Kit who was being haled to the guillotine, and Tim who lay below the hearthstone, and Biddy who navigated the barge.

Presently one vision seemed to hang in my memory longer than the others, and that was the light of the morning sun as it struck on the retreating sails of the brig Scheldt of Rotterdam, standing out to sea off Malin. One by one all my other fancies merged into this—the guillotine changed into a brig, the Kestrel changed into the Scheldt, the Kilgorman kitchen became a deck, and Miss Kit a Dutch skipper. Why was it? Why should everything come back to that one brig in the offing?

Suddenly I understood it. There, as I looked up from my restless raft and followed the gleam of the afternoon sun as it broke through the clouds, I perceived just such another vision in the offing—a brig, with canvas set, and the light glancing on her sails as she laboured over the waves towards me!

She may have been a mile away. By the look of her she was a foreign craft, and may have been a trader coasting between the Dutch ports. Whatever she was, the sight of her put new life into me.

I took my red scarf—the very scarf I had waved so vainly at the Scheldt scarce three weeks ago—and spreading it wide waved it with all the energy of which I was capable. How long the minutes seemed then! If she gave me the go-by, my last chance would go with her. Even as I raised myself to wave, my head reeled, and a dimness clouded my eyes.

Then, with a wonderful bound at my heart, half surprise, half joy, I saw the brig suddenly put about, while a flag waved at her stern showed that my signal had been seen. A minute later the welcome sight of a boat coming towards me assured me that I was saved, and with a cry of thankfulness to Heaven my weary head drooped, and the mist in my eyes became darkness.

What roused me was the consciousness of two strong arms round me, and the taste of liquid fire between my lips. My saviours, who were Dutchmen, had lifted me from the spar, and were plying me with spirits as I lay more dead than alive in the stern-sheets. I looked up. The sails of the brig, flapping against the wind, towered above me, and her dark hull as she swung over us hid the sun. The boat pulled round her stern to reach the lee-ladder. As we passed I glanced up, and my eyes fell on two words, painted in gilt letters—

"Scheldt. Rotterdam."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE HIGHWAYMAN ON THE DELFT ROAD.

The next thing I clearly remember was crawling up on deck, clad in a Dutch sailor's jacket and cap (I had been stripped for action when I was pitched into the waves out of the Zebra), and seeing a stretch of red- tiled roofs and windmills and tall towers on the bank of the broad stream up which we sailed on the tide. Rotterdam was in sight.

I had lain in a sort of stupor since I was carried on board twenty-four hours ago. The Dutchmen had been kind to me in their rough way, particularly as they took me for a Frenchman. I thought it prudent not to undeceive them, and passed myself off to the skipper as a castaway citizen of the Republic One and Indivisible, which my knowledge of the language made easy.

But, as you may imagine, now that I stood on the deck of the Scheldt, my mind had room for but one thought. Miss Kit—where was she?

Even had her curiosity brought her on deck yesterday to see the rescue of the poor foreigner, she would hardly have recognised in the smoke- begrimed, swollen features of the half-drowned man her old squire and comrade of long ago. Still less would Martin, who had never set eyes on me for four years, discover me. I knew him well enough as I came upon him just then leaning over the bulwark taking an eyeful of Dutch scenery.

He turned round as I approached and nodded.

"Comment vous portez-vous?" said he, using up one of the slender stock of French phrases he had at command.

I replied in French that I did well, and was entirely at monsieur's service, and madame's too, for I heard, said I, monsieur did not travel alone.

Martin, who only half-comprehended, looked at me doubtfully, and turned on his heel.

Presently, as I leaned over the port watching the river, I overheard him in conference with the skipper, who spoke imperfect English.

"Convent of the Carmelite Nuns?" said the latter; "that is outside the town some distance. Is mademoiselle to be taken there?"

"Ay; those are my orders."

"Will she go?"

"She must," said Martin.

"She has not been very obedient so far," said the skipper with a laugh. "You have not received much encouragement."

"What do I want encouragement for," growled Martin, "from her?"

"Perhaps the encouragement of Mees Norah, her maid, has been enough for you. But I warn you, my young lady will not travel so easily by land as by sea. You will need a troop of horse to take her to the Carmelites, I expect."

This was said with a sneer at Martin's qualifications as a squire of dames which that gentleman did not enjoy.

"I can manage my own business," said he in an unpleasant voice. "I shall take her there in a carriage, and if she resists she will have to find out she is not her own mistress."

"As you will," said the skipper. "I thank my stars I have not the task."

Indeed, I came to learn later on that he had good reason for so wishing. For Miss Kit, as soon as ever she discovered the vile plot which had been practised on her, had retired to her cabin, and held every one on board the Scheldt at arm's-length except her maid, refusing to see Martin, of the skipper, or any one, and fortifying herself like a beleaguered garrison. Her cabin had a private companion ladder by which she could reach the deck without passing through the men's quarters, and after the first day or so, the poop was yielded to her as her own territory without protest.

How was I to communicate with her now? I must if possible prevent her incarceration in the convent, from which I knew escape would be difficult.

I retired below and hastily scrawled on a piece of paper the following note:—

"Miss Kit,—The half-drowned man who was taken on board yesterday was he who writes this, and who is ready to die for you. You are to be carried in a coach to-night to the Convent of the Carmelite Nuns. Make all the delay possible before you consent to go, and so give me time to get beforehand on the road, where I will find means to take you to a place of safety.—Your devoted—

"Barry Gallagher."

This paper I folded, and returned on deck in the hope of finding some means of getting it into my lady's hands.

Just as I passed the cook's galley, I came upon Norah, the maid, coming out with a tray on which was a little bottle of wine and a plate of biscuits. As we suddenly met, the tray slipped from her hand and fell to the floor, spilling the contents of the bottle and scattering the biscuits.

"Ach, but you're clumsy!" exclaimed the damsel.

It was on the point of my tongue to return the compliment in her own language; but I remembered myself, and with a Frenchman's politeness begged ten thousand pardons.

"Permit that I assist you to make good the damage, mademoiselle," said I.

This mollified her, and she bade me hold the tray and pick up the biscuits while she went for another bottle of wine.

When she returned, nothing would content me but that I should carry the tray for her to the door of her lady's cabin, which she graciously permitted, with a coquettish glance at Martin as we passed him on deck.

My agitation, if I betrayed any, was not all due to the fascinations of Miss Norah, and Martin had no cause to be jealous on that score. The truth was, that between the two top biscuits on the dish I had slipped my little note!

"Merci bien, monsieur," said Norah at the door as she took the tray; "and it's sorry I am I called you names."

"Any name from those pretty lips," began I, but she left me to finish my compliment to the outside of the door.

When we moored alongside the Quai, I renewed my thanks to the Dutch skipper, and offered to return him his coat. But he would not hear of it. Only, said he, if I was disposed to-morrow to lend a hand at unlading, he would consider the trouble of fishing me out of the North Sea sufficiently repaid. This I promised by all means to do; and glad to get free so easily, stepped ashore with the first to land.

As I passed the brig's poop I thought I saw a face peep from the little cabin window, and after it a little hand wave. I put my own hand to my lips as a symbol both of secrecy and devotion, and taking advantage of the bustle attending on the arrival of a fresh craft, slipped out of the crowd into the street beyond.

Here, among the first, I met a priest, to whom I made obeisance.

"Holy father," said I in French, "I beg you to direct me to the Convent of the Carmelite Nuns of this town, to which I have a message of importance from Ireland. I am a stranger here, and have but just landed."

The priest eyed me suspiciously.

"The holy sisters receive no visitors but the clergy," said he. "I will carry your letter."

"Alas! I have no letter. My message is by word of mouth, and I am free to impart it to no one but to the lady superior. Does monseigneur suspect me of ill motives in seeking the convent?"

He liked to be called monseigneur; and looking me up and down, concluded the holy sisters had little to fear from me.

"The holy sisters live a mile or so beyond the city, before you come to Overschie, on the road to Delft. You will know the house by the high wall and the cross above the gate."

"Monseigneur," said I, "a thousand thanks, and may the saints make your bed to-night;" and I departed along the road he pointed out.

I had not gone far, or reached the open fields beyond the town, when I perceived, grazing at the roadside, a horse with saddle and pillion, such as market folk rode, which had evidently broken tether while its riders were away on some errand at a neighbouring auberge.

Necessity, which knows no law, and made me villain enough to deceive a priest, was hardly likely to stick at borrowing a nag, especially when the safety of my dear young mistress was at stake. It went to my heart to think that the honest couple would have to complete their marketing on foot; but I promised them in my mind that if the beast was one of sense and natural affection, it should find its way home sooner or later when its present task was done.

A short ride now cleared me of the town and brought me on to the road which follows the canal to Delft. It was already dark, and as I ambled past the lofty windmills that skirt the canal, I met scarcely a soul. Presently at a junction of roads I distinguished a little way back from the highroad the roof of a building almost hidden in trees, and closed round with a high wall. A thick, nail-studded gate, surmounted by a cross, marked the entrance. Here, then, was my destination.

I reined in my horse under the deepest shadow of the wall, within view of the portal, and waited. To pass the time, I took from my pocket the pistol which had lain there all the while I was in the water, and drawing the wet charge, replaced it with powder and shot which I had taken the precaution to provide myself with before I left the Scheldt.

Then it occurred to me, if I was to play highwayman, I could do it more securely out in the solitary road than within earshot of the holy sisters, who might harbour within their precincts watch-dogs, human or animal, who could spoil sport of that kind.

So I rode a little way back on my steps and halted under a clump of trees at the cross-roads, straining my ears impatiently for the noise of wheels.

Nearly an hour elapsed before they came, and I concluded Miss Kit must have taken my advice and given her custodian a bad time of it before she permitted herself to be conducted from the ship to the vehicle. Now the wheels advanced rapidly, and the frequent crack of the driver's whip showed that Martin was trying to make up for lost time.

I could see as they approached that the two men were on the box, leaving the inside to the ladies. The driver was evidently pointing out the roof of the convent, dimly visible among the trees, and a face at the open window was peering out in the same direction.

At that moment I darted out of my hiding-place, and firing my pistol in the air, but near enough to the driver's ears to make him jump, shouted gruffly,—

"Haltez la!"

The horse came up short on his haunches. The terror-stricken men gaped round in a dazed way and tumbled off on the far side of the coach, while the maid within uttered a loud scream. But almost before any of them knew what had happened, I was bending beside the face at the window.

"Quick, Miss Kit, mount behind me." And passing my arm round her, I drew her through the window and set her on the pillion behind me; and next moment we were galloping away as fast as the beast could carry us, with her dear arms clasping me, and her breath coming and going in quick tumult on my neck.

For a mile we rode thus without a word, when I heard her give a little laugh.

"What is it?" I asked.

"What a trouble for Martin!" said she, "He has Norah to console him."

"I am not jealous of Norah."

And I thought her arms held me a little firmer.

"How well you managed it," said she in a little. "I was terrified too, just at first. Where are we going?"

"To Biddy McQuilkin's, at the Hague."

"Biddy McQuilkin's!" exclaimed she, with a start of surprise. "Surely she is dead."

"So I thought; but she is not. She keeps an inn at the Hague; and has orders from one in high authority among the Irish rebels to take care of you."

"As a prisoner?"

"Surely not; as a lady."

She sighed.

"One peril never seems to be past," said she, "but a new one looms ahead."

"Courage," said I. "Providence that saved you from the old peril will save you from the new."

"Ah, Barry," she said gently, "I begin to wonder if your name spells Providence to me. On that hateful ship I wondered often what had become of you. When I saw behind us at Malin a red flag waved on the cliff- top, I said, Could that be you, but for once too late to help?"

"It was," I replied.

"I knew it!" she exclaimed almost triumphantly, "Night by night as we sailed further and further from home, I prayed Heaven to send you. Once when an English warship crossed our path, I pictured you among the crew, and wished they might capture us. Then when I got that wonderful little letter among the biscuits I knew my prayer was answered; and I troubled myself about nothing but to do your bidding. Poor Martin," and she laughed again, "he was the sufferer by that."

You may fancy if her voice across my shoulder that night was not music in my ears! It humoured her to talk of all the perils we had encountered together, and of the ups and downs in our lots since that first day I brought her in the boat from Rathmullan to Knockowen. Then she spoke of her father and the peril he was in, and of the feuds and dangers that beset our distracted country. From that we came to talk of my adventures, and of Tim. But I could not find it in my heart to tell her of the paper under the hearth at Kilgorman, or of the villainy by which her father came into the estates he now held.

Near the end of our talk I mentioned that I had seen Captain Lestrange in Derry.

She was silent a little, and then said,—

"He is the man my father says I must marry." This was a speech I found no ready answer to, except a mumbled, "He is a fortunate man."

"He does not think so," said Miss Kit with a laugh. "He is good and kind, but he loves his liberty more than any woman."

"And what says my little lady to that?" I faltered.

"Vive la Liberte," said she. "Heigho, Barry, are we nearly there?"

We were past Delft, where no one supposed but we were a belated pair of market folk trudging home. Our horse had dropped into a leisurely jog, and the morning sky was beginning to show streaks of grey.

"Are you weary?" said I, putting my hand on the little arm that held me round.

"No, Barry, I am very happy so," said she; and after that we were silent till the stars began to fade and the towers and spires of the Hague loomed ahead against the northern sky.

Despite our loitering, it was still early when we found ourselves in the streets of that city, inquiring for the auberge of the "White Angel." After some trouble, we were directed through the town to the road that leads to the little fishing village of Scheveningen, two miles beyond the Hague, where, just as we came in sight of the sea, a little wayside inn with a swinging sign of a heavenly body in a snowy robe told us we had at last found our journey's end.

No one was astir, but our knocking brought a groom on the scene, who rather surlily admitted us to the stable-yard.

"Tell madame she is wanted at once; I bear a message from Lord Edward, tell her."

Here a head looked out from a window, and madame's voice called out in broadest brogue,—

"Lord Edward, is it? And who might you be yourself?"

"I'm Barry Gallagher, Biddy. Put on your clothes, like a decent soul, and let us in."

Biddy obeyed with an alacrity which led us to doubt whether her toilet below the shawl she wore had been very elaborate.

On the sight of me, still more of my fair charge, she broke out into a tumult of Irish welcome.

"Arrah, darlints, sure it's glad I am to see you; and it's expecting you I've been, for didn't Lord Edward send me word to look to the young leddy? Come away, honey; for you look as white as the painted angel beyant there. So they sneaked you away, did they? And all because his honour was hanging the boys. Never ye fear, dearie, you'll be safe with old Biddy, even if the whole of the United Irishmen come after you.—And you, Barry, you're welcome too, though your father Mike wouldn't let me be mother to you. Dear, oh. There's many changes to us all since then. The last time I set eyes on yez 'twas in Paris, and little I looked to see you again when they had us all to the prison. And where's Tim at all? He's the boy, and a rale gentleman."

"Give us some food, Biddy dear," said Miss Kit, "and tell us all the news to-morrow."

"'Deed I will," said the good soul, and she bustled about till the whole household was awake to give us breakfast.

I waited only to allay my hunger, and then rose.

"Good-bye just now, Miss Kit," said I.

Her face fell.

"Oh," said she, "you're not going to leave me, Barry!"

"Till to-night. I am pledged to pay the Dutchman for saving my life by working for him this day. After that—"

"Oh, go," said she, holding out her hand, "for he deserves all the thanks in the world for saving you for me."

She blushed as she saw how I lit up at the words, but left her hand in mine as I raised it to my lips.

"Farewell, my dear Barry," said she. "Heaven bless you, and bring you safely back!"

All the world then seemed turned to brightness, and I stepped out like a man who treads on air. But at the door I remembered myself enough to return and seek Biddy in her kitchen.

"Biddy," said I, "tell me one thing, as you will answer for it at the last day—which of us two, Tim or I, is the son of Mike Gallagher, and which is the son of Terence Gorman?"

She turned very white and sank into a chair. But I had no time to parley, and I urged her to speak.

"As I hope for salvation," said she, and her breath came hard and her bosom heaved fast, "the one of you that has the mole between his shoulder-blades is the Gorman's boy."

"It is Tim then," I exclaimed, and hastened to my horse.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

DUTCH JUSTICE.

I should be no better than a hypocrite were I to deny that, as I rode my weary, borrowed nag back that morning along the Delft road, there shot in and out of the turmoil of my feelings a sharp pang of disappointment.

It was no disloyalty to Tim; it was no greediness for name and wealth. It was but the dashing of a passing hope that I might find myself, after all, a gentleman, and so prove worthy to be regarded by Miss Kit as something more than a trusty servant. As a Gorman, and her cousin, I might claim her with the best of her suitors. As the son of Mike Gallagher, boatman and smuggler, myself but a plain boatswain, how durst I suppose, for all her kindness and gentleness, she could comprehend me in the ranks of her equals?

Yet to serve her was something—to have snatched her from the scoundrel Martin, and set her in a safe place, was some little triumph to set against the disappointment of Biddy's news; and as I jogged Delft-ward that morning, I fell to considering how best I could help her to her home and Tim into his estate.

More people were about now than when I rode last, and some opened their eyes to see a sailor on horseback. But I answered no questions and halted for no parleys. At Delft I hoped to find a road round outside the town, fearing lest I might encounter the owners of the nag on the streets. But I found no way except that straight through the midst of the town.

As I crossed the market-place two soldiers accosted me and ordered me to dismount and give an account of myself. As they spoke only Dutch, and I knew none of the language, it was hard for us to understand one another. But the feel of their muzzles on my ears convinced me I had better obey; and abandoning the luckless animal, I was conducted to the guard- house and there locked up until business hours.

I demanded, in the best French I could muster, on what charge I was thus laid by the heels.

My captors grunted by way of answer, and searched my pockets, from which they drew my pistol and the little leather case containing my mother's letter.

I repeated my question in English, at which they pricked their ears, spoke something to one another in which the word "spy" occurred, and clapped irons on my ankles.

Evidently then my crime was not horse-stealing, but that of being an English spy, which meant, I supposed, a volley at ten paces before noon. So here was an end to the business of Miss Kit, my sweetheart, and Tim, my brother.

I confess, as it all dawned on me, I found myself smiling over my big hopes and resolves of an hour ago. But I had long enough to wait to lose all sense of humour, and sink into the most woeful depths of despair. It always happened so. The cup was ever at my lips, and as often rudely dashed aside. My little mistress had never before spoken so gently; my mother's dying charge had never been nearer fulfilment. And now, what could be further from my reach than either? How I execrated that ill-starred jade, and the Dutch skiver, but for whom I might at this moment have been my own master.

In due time I was marched into the burgomaster's presence, and deemed it wise to make no further mystery of myself. I demanded an English interpreter, unless the magistrate would hear me in French, which latter he graciously agreed to do.

"Sir," said I, "my name is Gallagher; I am an Irishman, a servant of King George, and a sailor in Admiral Duncan's fleet. I am, as I believe, the sole survivor of the wreck in mid-sea of his Majesty's ship Zebra, foully blown up by her mutinous crew. I was picked up by the Dutch brig Scheldt, now lying at Rotterdam. I am no spy. I rode last night to visit an acquaintance—a countrywoman at the Hague—and am on my way now to fulfil my promise to the skipper of the Scheldt to give him a day's labour in unlading his brig in return for his kindness to me. The sailor's coat and cap I wear were given me by him."

The magistrate heard my story attentively, and not altogether unfavourably.

"Admiral Duncan's fleet," said he, "is in arms against the Dutch republic."

"It is," said I.

"How many sail does he muster?" demanded my judge.

"I cannot tell you, mynheer," said I.

"Where do his ships lie?"

"Mynheer," said I, "would you expect a Dutch sailor to betray his country to an English magistrate? I refuse to answer."

He frowned, less at my refusal than at the terms in which it was couched.

"Give me the name of your acquaintance at the Hague," said he, changing the subject.

I gave him Biddy's name.

"What was your business with her?"

"I never expected to land on Dutch shores, and so had no special business; but finding myself here, I sought her out."

This all seemed fair enough; and the burgomaster, who was an honest man and blessed with true Dutch stolidity, after consulting with his clerk and colleague, informed me that inquiries would be made, and that meanwhile I should remain in custody.

To my request to be allowed to send a letter to Biddy he returned a flat and suspicious refusal. Nor, till my case stood clearer, would he order the removal of the irons. So for the next twenty-four hours I lay in a damp cell, with black bread and water to support my spirits, and the thought of my little mistress to carry me through the weary hours.

About noon next day I was again summoned to the burgomaster's court, where, among the curious crowd assembled to see the supposed English spy, I recognised not only the Dutch skipper, but Martin. Biddy was not there.

The burgomaster wore an air of sternness and self-importance which boded no good.

"Captain Koop," said he to the skipper, "identify the prisoner."

"Most worshipful," replied the sailor, "this is the man we picked up, who said he was a Frenchman, wrecked in the French ship Zebre."

"Was that true?" said the judge to me.

"Mynheer, I told you my tale yesterday. I am no Frenchman."

Then Martin was called forward, and looked hard at me with his sinister eyes. An interpreter explained the burgomaster's questions.

"Witness, you state you know the man Gallagher. Is this he?"

"Now I look at him—yes; but I did not know him before with his beard."

"Is he a sailor in the service of the English Government?"

"He is; and no friend to the Irish people, for whom the Dutch republic is fighting. More, by tokens, your honour," added Martin through the interpreter, "now I know him, I know who it was who last night carried away a certain Irish lady under my protection while on her way to the Convent of the Carmelite Nuns."

"What do you say to that?" said the burgomaster to me, with a look of horror, for he was a stout Catholic.

"I don't deny it," said I, curtly; "nor do I deny that this blackguard, instead of trying to defend the lady, tumbled all of a heap with fright off the carriage-box on to the road when I accosted him."

The interpreter smiled as he translated this, and Martin looked round not too well pleased.

"Where is the lady?" demanded the burgomaster.

"That is my affair," said I. "She was carried away from her home by this man against her will. She was rescued from him by me with her own good will, and is now safe."

"With your friend at the Hague, doubtless?"

I made no answer.

"Inquiries have been made as to this friend. She is known, but has disappeared since yesterday."

"What!" I exclaimed, "Biddy gone? And what of—"

"In company with a young lady," said the burgomaster, eyeing me sternly. "Prisoner, I demand to know where these persons have gone."

"I do not know," said I, and my own bewilderment might have answered for my sincerity.

"I do not believe that," said the burgomaster. "A messenger arrived at her inn with a letter early yesterday, and she and the lady left, it is said by boat, soon after. Do you deny that you sent that message?"

"I do."

"Do you deny that you know who did?"

"I do."

"Do you deny that you know where they have gone?"

"I do," retorted I; "and, if it please your worship, what has all this to do with whether I am a spy or not?"

"This, that a man who has lied in one particular is not to be believed in others. The same reason which induced you to pass yourself as a Frenchman may explain your refusal to say where the woman McQuilkin has gone. Her house is known to be a resort of spies and foreigners of doubtful character, and your connection with her, and the abduction of the young lady, and your refusal to give any information, are strongly against you."

I am not learned in Dutch logic, and was not convinced now; but apparently my judges were, for I was ordered to be handed over to the military authorities of Amsterdam as a prisoner of war, suspected of being a spy, for them to deal with me as they might consider best.

Before I departed, the burgomaster handed me back my mother's pocket- book, the contents of which he had had translated, and which he was good enough to say appeared not to be incriminating. My pistol he detained for the service of the Dutch republic.

The military authorities at Amsterdam were far too busy to attend to my affairs. They were in the midst of equipping an armament to land on Irish shores and strike at England with the cat's-paw of an Irish rebellion. The place was full of Irishmen, some of whom honestly enough looked to see their country redeemed by Dutch saviours; others, hungry hangers-on, seeking what profit to themselves they could secure from the venture. A few faces, even during the short time I was kept waiting in quarters, seemed familiar to me as of men I had seen in former days in the secret conclaves at my father's cabin or under his honour's roof, and one or two I was certain I had seen that day in Dublin not long since when I was present at a meeting of the United Irishmen.

Little I knew then or for months after that among these very faces, had I looked long enough, I might have seen that of Tim, my brother, or (must I say now?) my brother that was, before he became Tim Gorman of Kilgorman.

But, as I said, the authorities were too busy to inquire into my case, and, taking the word of the Delft burgomaster, locked me up with a batch of other English prisoners to await the issue of the coming war.

For three months I languished here in a dismal dungeon in dismal company and fed on dismal fare. But I who had lodged in the Conciergerie at Paris in "the terror" could afford to think my Dutch hosts lavish in their comforts.

Once and again some new captive brought us news from outside, the purport of which was that the great Irish expedition, after lying for weeks and weeks at the Texel, held prisoner there by the unyielding west wind and by Admiral Duncan, had collapsed like a burst bubble. The troops had all been landed, the ships had returned to refit, and the pack of Irishmen, seeing the hunt up in this quarter, had gone off in full cry to Paris. If the Dutch ventured anything now, it would be against England, and on their own account.

One day towards the end of September a great surprise broke the tedium of our captivity. Our jailer brought an announcement that an exchange of prisoners was in contemplation, and that some twenty of us might reasonably hope to see our native land again in a few days. Whether the fortunate score would be selected according to rank or to seniority of captivity would depend on the prisoners handed over by Admiral Duncan.

It was a pleasing subject of speculation with me, as you may guess. For were the selection to be by seniority, I was excluded; if by rank, as a petty officer in a company which largely consisted of common seamen, I might count with tolerable certainty on my liberty.

The few days that intervened were anxious and wearisome. Should I miss my chance, I had nothing to look for but a prolongation of this wretched existence, with perhaps an ounce of lead, when all was said and done, to end it. If, on the other hand, luck were to favour me, a week hence, who could say, I might be by my little mistress's side at home; for I made no doubt that when I came to inquire at the "White Angel," as I certainly would do, I should find that Biddy had taken her thither, or, if not there, at least to some safe place at which I could hear of her.

In due time came the end to our suspense. The twenty were appointed by rank, and I marched one fine evening out of that wretched dungeon a free man—stay, not quite free. There was no slipping away to the Hague and the "White Angel;" no walking through the port of Amsterdam to inspect the enemy's preparations. We were marched, under arrest, with an escort, in the dark of night, to some little fishing-station among the dunes, where we found an English lugger, attended by two armed Dutch boats, waiting to receive us. On this we embarked, bidding farewell to our captors; but not until the white cliffs of Margate appeared on the western horizon did our Dutch convoy sheer off and leave us in English waters in undisturbed enjoyment of English liberty.

Yet even so, did I still harbour a thought of returning home or seeking the lost, I was destined to disappointment. For from Margate we were marched direct to Sheerness, and there inspected by Lords of the Admiralty, who, without ceremony, told us off to fill vacancies in ships at that moment engaged in active service, promising us, when the present troubles were over, to recompense our hardships and services in some better way.

I found myself under orders to sail forthwith to Yarmouth, there to report myself on board the Venerable, the flag-ship of Admiral Duncan himself.

An Admiralty cutter was just then sailing with despatches for the fleet, and on it I embarked the same afternoon, and found myself in Yarmouth Roads next morning.

The admiral's fleet was all in a flutter; for news had only just come that the Dutch admiral, taking advantage of the temporary withdrawal of the English ships from the mouth of the Texel (for Admiral Duncan, after his long cruise there, had been compelled to return to refit his squadron), was setting sail at last, and determined to venture an engagement in the open. Our fleet was wild with joy at the news—as wild as the greyhound who for hours has been straining at his leash with the hare in view is to feel his collar thrown off.

Signals were flying from every mast-head. The last of the barges and bumboats were casting loose. The dull thunder of a salute came from the shore, the yards were manned, sails were unfurling, and the anchor chains were grinding apeak.

At such a moment it was that the Admiralty cutter hove alongside of the Venerable, and I found myself a few minutes later lending a hand to haul to the mast-head the blue flag of that most gallant of sea-dogs, Admiral Duncan.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE FAMOUS FIGHT OF OCTOBER THE ELEVENTH.

My readers do not, I hope, expect from me a full, true, and particular account of the glorious sea-fight of October 11, 1797, off Camperdown; for if they do, they will be sadly disappointed. Indeed, it seems to me, the worst person to describe a battle is one who has fought in it. For if he does his duty, he has no eyes for any business but his own; and as to seeing what is happening along the entire line at any time, it would take an eagle poised in mid-air, with eyes that could penetrate a cloud of smoke, to do it honestly. I am no eagle, and my eyes can carry no further than those of any other plain mortal. I can tell only what I saw. For the rest, the eagles have written their story in books, where any one can read all about the famous victory—and more than all.

There was little time to observe anything in the bustle of our putting out from Yarmouth. The ship was not yet clear of the confusion of her hurried refitting and revictualling. Stores lay about which needed stowing; there were new sails to bend and old ropes to splice; there were decks to swab and guns to polish, hammocks to sling, and ammunition to give out. Yet all worked with so hearty a will, and looked forward so joyously, after eighteen weeks' idleness, to a brush with the enemy, that before sundown all was nearly taut and ship-shape. If anything could help, it was the kindly nod and cheery word of our admiral himself as he paced to and fro among us. A beautiful man he was—a giant to look at, and as gentle as he was tall; yet with a flash in his eye, as he turned his face seaward, that told us that there was not a man in the ship who looked forward with more boyish eagerness to the brush ahead than he. Though it was but for a week, I hold it to this day something to be able to say that I have served under Duncan.

Had I been in the mood to stand on my dignity, I might have felt affronted to find myself set to do ordinary seaman's work on board the Venerable. For in the hurry of our setting out from Yarmouth there was time neither to report myself nor to choose my work. I was no sooner on board than I was hurried forward to set the fore-courses; and no sooner was that done than a mop was put into my hands to swab the main-deck; and no sooner was that done than I was told off to carry stores below. At any rate, it was better than a Dutch prison, and, thought I, a common sailor under Duncan is better than a lieutenant under Mr Adrian. Time enough when prizes were towed into port to stand out for dignities.

The next day, the tenth, despite the strong north-wester, our fleet, which numbered fourteen sail of the line, held well together for the Texel, picking up one or two fresh consorts during the day, and beating about now and again in expectation of news of the longed-for enemy. We saw nothing but a few merchantmen; and the admiral was beginning to fear that, after all, the Dutchmen had given us the slip, and made off to join forces with the French fleet at Brest, when an armed lugger, flying a signal, hove in sight, and reported that the Dutch admiral was only a few leagues away to the south.

The joy on board was indescribable; and as night closed in, and we stood out on the starboard tack, the certainty that daybreak would discover the enemy was almost as great a cause for jubilation as if we had already won our victory.

Eager as we were, however, the admiral ordered all of us who were not on the watch below, charging us to get sleep while we could, and lay provender on board, for we had hungry work before us.

The first lieutenant called me to him as I was turning in.

"Mr Gallagher," he said, "I have only just had time to go over the names of the last comers in the ship's books. I see you hold rank as a warrant-officer."

"I was boatswain to the Zebra, sir," said I.

"So I see. It does you credit that you have worked so cheerfully at the first work that came to hand. But to-morrow we shall want our best men at their right posts. The Venerable has a boatswain already; but Captain Fairfax has ordered me to look up double hands for the helm. Be good enough to report yourself to the sailing-master at daybreak. We have our work cut out for us, I fancy, and much will depend on the smartness with which the admiral's signals are read and his ship handled. So you may take the duty as a compliment, Mr Gallagher; and good-night to you."

I turned in that night still better pleased with the service than ever.

At daybreak, as we came on deck, the first thing we spied to leeward was some of our own ships bearing down on us with signals flying of an enemy in sight; and not long after, the line of the enemy's fleet, straggling northeast and south-west, came into sight, hauled to the wind and evidently awaiting us. We counted over twenty of them; and with the additions that had joined us in the night, we were just as many.

The sea was rolling heavily, and a good many of our ships were lagging. So, as we were already near enough to the Dutch side, the admiral ordered sails to be shortened till the slow coaches came up, which they did not too smartly.

I reported myself to the sailing-master as directed, and soon found myself one of four in charge of the helm. After that I saw very little of the famous battle of Camperdown, for I had no eyes or ears for anything but the admiral's signals. We waited for our ships to get into their proper stations till we could wait no longer.

"Confound them!" growled the quartermaster, a fresh, cheery salt at my side, as one or two sail still dawdled on the horizon, "These lubbers will spoil all. The Dutch are shallow sailers, and they'll have us on the flats before we are ready to begin. What is the ad— Ah, that's better. Up she goes! Smart now and have at them!"

This jubilant exclamation was in response to a signal to wait no longer, but bear down on the enemy, every vessel being ordered to engage her opponent as best she could.

Up went the helm, round went the yards, and away sped the Venerable, and with her the rest of the British fleet, full tilt at the Dutchmen. I learned more of the battle from the ejaculations of the quartermaster at my side than from my own observation.

"Confound the mist!" growled he as we reached out for the line. "They won't see the signal to cut the line and get to leeward. Take my word for it, mate, those Dutch dogs will pull us in on to the shallows before we know where we are."

Suddenly the thunder of guns on our right proclaimed that the action had begun in good earnest.

"That's the vice-admiral," said the boatswain, "at it already, and he's making a hot corner down there. Ease her up a bit now. There's the Dutch admiral's ship the Vryheid. It's her we're going for."

A sudden order came astern.

"Run under her stern?—right you are," said the quartermaster. "Keep her down more, my lads.—Lie as you are, my beauty," said he, apostrophising the Vryheid, "and we'll blacklead you somehow."

"What's that ship astern of her about?" said I. "She's closing up."

So she was. Before we could slip through and get under the Vryheid's stern, she had neatly swung up into the gap, blocking us out, and leaving us to put our helm hard a-port to avoid running in on the top of her.

"Neatly done, by the powers," said the quartermaster; "but Duncan will make her smart for it. Ah, I thought so," as the Venerable shook from stem to stern and poured the broadside intended for the Vryheid into the stern of the intruder instead. "Take that, my lass, and don't push in where you're not wanted again."

It was a tremendous thunder-clap; and the States-General—that was the name of the intruder—with her rigging all in shivers, and her stern- guns knocked all on end, was glad enough to bear up and drop out of line before she could get a second. This suited our admiral excellently, for it enabled him to cut the enemy's line and bring the Venerable snugly round on the lee-side of Admiral De Winter's ship, his originally chosen antagonist.

Then all was thunder and smoke. The Venerable shook and staggered under the crushing fire which struck her hull. But for every broadside she got she poured two into the masts and rigging of her opponent. More than once, as the two ships swung together, with yards almost locked, we had to duck for our lives to escape the falling spars of the Dutchman. I can remember once and again, as the Vryheid lurched towards us, seeing her deck covered with dead and wounded men; and every broadside she put into us left its tale of destruction among our fellows.

Presently, with a crash that sounded even above the cannon, down came her mainmast by the board, and the British cheers which greeted the fall were even louder still.

But if we reckoned on having done with her, we were sorely mistaken; for three other Dutchmen just then hove up to their admiral's help, and for a quarter of an hour the Venerable had as hot a time of it as ship ever lived through. There was not much for us at the helm to do but stand and be shot at; which we did so well that when at last (just as the mizzen-mast of the Vryheid followed the example of her mainmast) the order came to haul off and wear round on the other tack, I found myself the only one of four to answer, "Ay, ay," and ram down the helm. The quartermaster, poor fellow, lay at my feet, shot nearly in two; while of our other two mates, one was wounded, with an arm shot away, another stunned by a falling timber.

It was a job to get the ship round; and when we did, there was the Vryheid, with her one mast left, waiting for us as saucy as ever. After that, all passed for me in even a greater maze than before; for a bullet from the enemy's rigging found me out with a dull thud in the shoulder, and sent me reeling on to the deck. I was able after the first shock to stumble up and get my hands upon the helm; but I stood there sick and silly, and of less use than the poor quartermaster at my feet.

I was dimly conscious of a din and smoke, like the opening of the gate of hell. Then, through a drift in the smoke, I could see the tall form of the Dutch admiral standing almost alone on his quarter-deck, as cool as if he were on the street at Amsterdam, passing a word of command through his trumpet. Beyond him I caught a glimpse of the low Dutch sand-hills, not two leagues to leeward. Then, away to our right, came the faint noise of British cheers above the firing. Then some one near me exclaimed, "Struck, by Saint George!" and almost directly after the firing seemed to cease, and our fellows, springing on to the yards and bulwarks, set up such a cheer that the Venerable shook with it. I tried to get up my head to see what it was all about, but as I did so I tumbled all in a heap on the deck—and the battle of Camperdown was finished for me.

It was nearly dark when I came to between decks, with a burning pain in my shoulder and my mouth as dry as a brick. The place was full of groaning men, some worse hit than myself, and one or two past the help of the surgeon, who slowly went his round of the berths. By the time he reached me I did not much care if he were to order me overboard, so long as he put me out of my misery.

But, after all, mine was a simple case. There was a bullet in me somewhere, and a few bone-splinters were wandering about my system. Apparently I could wait till my neighbour, whose thigh bone was crushed, was seen to. So while he, poor fellow, was having his leg cut off, and beginning to bleed to death (for he didn't outlive the operation an hour), I lay, with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, groaning.

"Ah, Mr Gallagher," said the first lieutenant, as he came the round, "they picked you out, did they? Nothing much, I hope? It's cost us a pretty penny in dead and wounded already."

"And we beat them?" groaned I.

"Beat? We made mincemeat of them! Haven't we the Dutch admiral a prisoner on board this moment, playing cards with Admiral Duncan in his cabin as comfortably as if he was in his own club at the Hague?"

"Could you give me some water?" I asked, with a sudden change of the subject.

"Surely; and, Mr Gallagher, I'll see you again before we land, and won't forget to put your name forward."

When at last the doctor came, I saved him a good deal of trouble by swooning away the moment he touched my wound, and remained in that condition, on and off, till I heard the anchor running out at the bows, and understood from those who lay near that we were at the Nore.

Had I wanted any further proof of our arrival in English waters, the shouting and saluting and bustle and laughter all around left no doubt of it.

"Come, lad," said the lieutenant, standing over me, while two sailors set down a stretcher beside my berth, "the tender's alongside to take you poor fellows ashore. The doctor says you must go to hospital, and they'll have another look for the bullet there. So keep up heart, man. Here are your papers, and a good word thrown in from the admiral himself, bless him!"

The pain of being lifted on to the stretcher and carried on deck was almost beyond endurance, yet I could hardly help, as I passed the cheering crowd of our fellows, giving a faint "hurrah" in time with theirs. For our noble old admiral stood on the gangway, with a kind word for every one, especially the wounded.

"Never say die, my brave lad," said he, as I was carried by; "you stuck to your post bravely.—Steady, men," added he, as the two bearers broke step for a moment; "the poor boy has had jolting enough without you.— God bless you, my fellow!"

And so I parted company with the bravest and kindliest gentleman I ever came across.

Every one ashore was wild with the news of the great victory, and we poor cripples were escorted to the hospital like heroes. I wished, for my part, I had been allowed to get there quietly, for the horses of our waggon started and winced at the noise of the shouting and music, so that my poor shoulder was all aflame long before I got to our journey's end, and I myself in a high fever.

The doctors had a rare bullet-hunt over my poor body; and when it was found, there were bone-splinters still harder to get at. The result was that when I was at last bound up and left to mend, I was so weak and shattered that for weeks—indeed, for nearly three months—I lay, sometimes in a fever, sometimes recovering, sometimes relapsing, sometimes recovering again, till I found myself one of the veterans of the hospital.

What, during those weeks, were my fevered dreams you may guess. In fancy I was hunting through the world for Miss Kit; and as sure as I found her, Tim appeared and claimed my help; and ere Tim could be helped, my little mistress had vanished again and a new search was begun—now in Ireland, now in Paris, now in Holland, now up and down the blood-stained deck of the Zebra. But it all ended in naught; and I turned over wearily on my pillow, sick in body and mind, and longing, as prisoner never longed, for wings.

Glad enough I was when one day, early in January, the doctor pronounced me cured, and put me on board a ship for Dublin, there to report myself to the Admiralty, and take my new sailing orders.

"But first," said I to myself, "cost what it may, I will have a peep at Fanad."



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A STEP UP THE LADDER.

A strange thing befell me as soon as I landed in Dublin. I was prowling along the quay, wondering whether I should present myself then and there at the Admiralty, or take French leave for Donegal while I was free and had money in my pocket, when I was startled out of my wits by what seemed to be a veritable ghost in my path. Unless I had been certain that I was the only survivor out of the ill-starred Zebra, I could have sworn I saw Mr Felton, the second lieutenant, leaning over the rails, watching the dressing of a smart-looking revenue cutter that lay out in the water-way. The more I looked the less like a ghost did he appear, until at last I ventured to walk up to him with a salute.

"Good-morrow, Lieutenant Felton," said I.

"Captain, if you please," said he, turning round. "What! is that you, Gallagher, or your ghost? I thought I was the only man that saved his life out of that fated ship."

"I thought the same of myself, till this moment," said I.

"I hung on to a cask for close on twenty-four hours, till an English lugger picked me up. But I'll tell you of that later. Where do you spring from?"

"From hospital; I was on Duncan's ship at the battle of Camperdown—"

"You were! Lucky dog!" interjected he.

"Where I got a crack in the shoulder, and am only just out."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I am going to report myself at the Admiralty, and apply for a berth. I have my papers, and a letter from the admiral himself."

"It strikes me they'll have to build a ship for you," said he, with a laugh; "for, supposing you to be dead, I gave such an extravagantly glowing account of your conduct on the Zebra, that I dare swear they'll want to make a vice-admiral of you straight away. But what do you say to serve under me? Just at the time when I called at the Admiralty they had received a pressing request from the Customs to find them an officer to take charge of a cutter—there she lies," pointing to the smart craft he had been inspecting; "and they gave me the offer, and I took it. And I'm on the look-out for a few smart hands, especially a first officer."

"Nothing would suit me better," said I, "if I can get the proper step. I'm only a boatswain, you know."

"That will not be difficult with the papers you have got and your record. At a time like this they are not stiff about promotion, provided they get the proper men. So come along and beard the lions at once."

"There's one thing, sir," said I, "that I must do before I can join any ship—I must take a run home to Donegal, to—"

"Donegal! why, that's where we're ordered to, man. There's a gang of smugglers on the coast between Inishowen and Fanad that we've got to catch; and if that's near your home—"

"Near!" I exclaimed; "sure it is my home. I know every creek and shoal of the coast in the dark."

"That settles it," said Captain Felton, thumping me on the back; "you are the man I want, and I'm the man you want. Come away!"

As he had predicted, my papers, and especially Admiral Duncan's letter, added to the previous favourable reports of Captain Swift and Mr Felton, stood me in good stead with the authorities, especially just then when there was a dearth of men to fill all the vacancies caused by the war. I was told to call again on the following day, when, to my astonishment, I was handed a commission appointing me a lieutenant in his Majesty's navy, and a letter of recommendation to the Customs for appointment to the Gnat, Captain Felton's cutter.

With a bound of joy I found myself, by some strange shifting of the luck, a gentleman and an officer after all—humble and poor indeed, but entitled to hold my head with the best; and what was more—and that sent the blood tingling through my veins—no longer beyond the range of my little mistress's recognition as a suitor. A paltry distinction if you will, and one in name only; for the gentleman is born, not made by Admiralty warrants; and had I been a cur at heart, no promotion could have made me otherwise. But if at heart I was a gentleman, this new title gave me the right to call myself one, and opened a door to me which till now I had thought fast shut.

The week that followed was one of busy work; so busy that I had scarce time to wander through my old haunts in Dublin and notice the air of sullen mischief which brooded over the city. Men were watched and watching at every corner, guards were doubled, officials walked abroad only under escort. This man was pointed out as a leader of the coming "turn-out"—for so they spoke of the rebellion that was to follow—that was marked down as a traitor, and walked with the sentence of death in his hang-dog face. This man was spoken of as one to be got at and won over; and that was hooted and spat upon as he rode past in his gay equipage amid flying stones, and now and again a bullet out of space, which made him glad enough to retreat into cover. But these last demonstrations were less common than the dull, savage air of menace which pervaded the place. Something assuredly was going to happen.

Some said the French were already on their way to Ireland, and that their landing was to be the signal for a general rising. Others whispered that Lord Edward had his plans ripe for the capture of the capital, and the setting up of the new Irish republic. Many said all this suspense was just the sign that no leader was ready to fire the mine, and unless the blow was struck soon it would not be struck at all. As to the men in office and the police, they held their peace, saying nothing, but hearing all.

I encountered no one I knew, except one man, him who once had stopped me on the steps of the hotel, after my first meeting with Lord Edward, and who had offered me money for information. To my surprise he now greeted me by name.

"Good-day, Mr Gallagher; glad to meet you. How go matters in Donegal? and how is Lord Edward?"

I stared at him in amazement.

"I have not the honour to know you," said I, walking on.

But he followed, linking his arm in mine.

"Come now," said he; "you know me well enough. But be assured you have nothing to fear from me if you are open. Your name is well-known at the Castle as a leader of the conspiracy, and a friend of Lord Edward's. A word from me, and you would get free board and lodging in Newgate, if not a yard or two of rope thrown in; but I have no wish to hurt you. These are dangerous times, though."

"I tell you, sir," repeated I, "I am not the man you take me for, so kindly address yourself to some one else."

"Tush!" said he, "what's the use between friends? Tim Gallagher is as well-known a name as O'Connor's."

Tim Gallagher! Then they took me for Tim, not myself.

"And what information is it you want, and for whom?" I demanded, trying to conceal my curiosity.

"Turn up here; it's quieter," said he, drawing me into a side street, "and I'll tell you. I've no commission, mind you, but I'll undertake to say your candour will be worth a couple of hundred pounds in your pocket within twenty-four hours."

"Go on," said I, feeling my toes tingling to kick this man, who could suppose Tim Gallagher a common informer.

"It's known you're lately returned from Paris," said he, "with an important message from the rebel leaders there, and that that message concerns among other things the coming French invasion."

"Well?"

"Well! can you ask? It is presumed the leaders in Dublin know your news by this time, and are making arrangements accordingly. If so, it is worth a couple of hundred pounds to you, as I said, to let me know what is going forward."

"And if not?"

"Simply that a warrant is out for the arrest of Timothy Gallagher, at present in Dublin disguised as a naval officer, and it rests with me to put it into motion. So come," said he, halting and facing me, "make up your mind."

We had now reached the end of the street, which was a deserted one, backing on the Park. It had been all I could do to keep myself within bounds and refrain from knocking this contemptible cur on the head. Prudence, and a desire to learn something more about Tim alone had restrained me.

Now that, one way or another, the matter was come to an issue, I hesitated as to what I should do. Either I might put him off, and invent a story to please him, or I might refuse to answer anything, or I might convince him of his mistake, or I might run for it. In the first case, I should be acting unfairly to Tim; in the other cases, I should be risking my own liberty at a time I particularly needed it. Suddenly a fifth course opened before me. At the end of the street was a coach- house, the door of which stood open, and the key on the outside. It had evidently been left thus by a careless groom, for the place was empty and no one was in sight.

Quick as thought I caught my man by the scrag of his neck and pitched him head first into the stable, taking time only to say, as I drew to the door and turned the key. "Take that from Tim Gallagher's brother, you dog!" After which I walked away, leaving him kicking his feet sore against the tough timbers.

I returned straight to the Gnat, and told Captain Felton exactly how matters stood, requesting him to allow me to remain on board till it was time to sail.

"Which will be in two days," said he. "I'm sorry, though, you're afflicted with a scoundrel of a brother. I had the same trouble myself once, and know what it is like."

"Tim's no scoundrel," said I hotly, "though he's on the wrong side. He's a gentleman; and when it comes to that, I've no right to talk of him as my brother at all."

"Well, please yourself," said Captain Felton, who evidently did not care to discuss the matter. "That doesn't concern me, as long as you handle the Gnat smartly and get into no scrapes yourself. We can't afford to let private concerns interfere with the king's business."

Two days later all was ready, and, to my great relief, we weighed anchor and ran out of the bay with a brisk south-easterly breeze. The Gnat proved an excellent sailer, and, fitted as she was with ten six- pounders, and manned by a crew of twenty smart hands, she was a formidable enough customer for any smuggler that had to reckon with her.

We put in at Larne in expectation of getting some news of the marauders we were in search of, but found none. We were, however, warned to keep our eyes open not only for smugglers, but for foreign craft which were said to be at the old business of landing arms for the Ulster rebels, who by all accounts were in a very red-hot state, and longing anxiously for the signal to rise. Indeed, so threatening did things appear generally that the authorities gave Captain Felton peremptory instructions to allow nothing to stand in the way of his communicating immediately to headquarters any intelligence (particularly as to the expected French landing) with which in the course of his cruise he might meet.

"This puts a boot on our other leg," said the captain to me that evening, as we watched the sunset light fade over Fair Head. "It seems to me collecting customs will be the least part of our business. Never mind. I'd sooner put a bullet into a rebel any day than into a poor beggar who tries to land a keg of whisky for nothing. Fortune send us either, though!"

It seemed as if this wish were not without reason; for though we cruised up and down for a fortnight, watching every bay and creek between Ballycastle and Sheep Haven, we came upon nothing but honest fisher craft and traders.

At last, to my relief—for I was growing impatient to hear news of my little mistress—Captain Felton bade me run the cutter into Lough Swilly. And knowing my desire, he made an excuse to send me ashore at Rathmullan for provisions, bidding me return within three days, unless I was signalled for earlier.

It was a Sunday morning when I found myself once more in the familiar inn at Rathmullan. I soon found that my host, who took little note of his customers, did not remember me; and he was civil enough now to one of his Majesty's lieutenants, and eager to execute my commissions for stores.

"Faith, sir," said he, "and it's some of us will be glad to see the luck back, for it's gone entirely since the troubles began."

"You mean the smuggling?" said I, by way of drawing him out.

"That and other things. These are bad times for honest folk."

As I knew the fellow to be an arrant harbourer of smugglers and rebels, I took his lamentation for what it was worth.

"Maybe you're a stranger to these parts, captain," said he presently, giving me another step in the service.

"I've heard something of them," said I. "I met a young fellow called Gallagher not long since, and he was talking of Lough Swilly."

"Tim was it, or Barry?" asked the landlord, with interest.

"Are there two of them, then?"

"Faith, yes; and one's as black as the other's white. Tim, bless him! is a rale gentleman and a friend to the people."

"Which means a rebel, I suppose. And what of Barry?"

"Bedad, he's a white-livered sneak, and he'd best not show his face in these parts. There's a dozen men sworn to have the life of him."

I laughed.

"It must have been Tim I spoke to, then, for he spoke well of you, and said you had some excellent rum in your cellar. Maybe he knew more about it than the Custom-House, eh?"

This put mine host in a flutter, and he vouched by all the saints in the calendar he had not a drop in the house on which he had not paid duty. And as Tim Gallagher had mentioned the rum, would I be pleased to try a glass?

"Where is this Tim now?" I inquired, when the glasses were brought.

"'Deed, captain, that's more than I can tell you. He was wanted badly by the boys here, who chose him their captain for the turn-out that's to be; but it's said he's abroad on the service of the country, and we'll likely see him back with the Frenchmen when they come."

"Ah, you're expecting the Frenchmen, are you? So are we. I may meet this Tim Gallagher over a broadside yet."

"If you do, dear help you, for Tim's got a long arm, I warn you."

As I was about to go, I inquired,—

"By the way, you have a magistrate living somewhere near here, haven't you a Mr Gorman, whom I am to see on business."

The landlord's face fell.

"Ay. His honour's house is across the lough yonder at Knockowen. But you'll get little value out of him. He's a broken man."

"How broken?"

"Arrah, it's a long story. He's run with the hare and hunted with the hounds too long, and there's no man more hated between here and the Foyle. His life's not worth a twopenny-piece."

"Was he the man whose daughter was carried off?" I asked as innocently as I could.

"Who told you that?" said he, with a startled look. "Not Tim. If it had been Barry now, the scoundrel, he could have told you more of that than any man. Ay, that's he."

"Did he ever get her back?"

"'Deed, there's no telling. He says not a word. But he hangs every honest man that comes across him. I'd as soon swim from Fanad to Dunaff in a nor'-westerly gale as call up at Knockowen."

"Well," said I, with a laugh, "get me a boat, for I must see him at once, and take my chance of a hanging. Give me oars and a sail; I can put myself over."

So once more I found myself on the familiar tack, with Knockowen a white speck on the water-side ahead. What memories and hopes and fears crowded my mind as I slid along before the breeze! How would his honour receive me this time? Should I find Knockowen a trap from which I should have to fight my way out? Should I—here I laughed grimly—spend the night dangling at a rope's end from one of the beeches in the avenue? Above all, should I find Miss Kit there, or any news of her? Then I gave myself up to thinking of her, and the minutes passed quickly, till it was time to slip my sheet and row alongside the landing-stage.

"Halt! who goes there?" cried a voice.

"A friend," said I; "first officer of his Majesty's cutter Gnat, with a message from the captain to Mr Gorman."

"Pass, friend," said the sentry, grounding his gun with a clang.

"Ah," thought I, as I walked up the well-known path, remembering the half-hour I had been kept waiting at my last visit, "it's something to be an officer and a gentleman after all."



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

HIS HONOUR ESCAPES HIS ENEMIES AT LAST.

It was less than a year since I had seen Knockowen. But all seemed changed. Weeds and grass were on the paths, the flower-beds were unkempt, the fences were broken in places, damp stains were spread over the house front. Everywhere were signs of neglect and decay. Had I not known his honour to be a wealthy man, I should have supposed him an impecunious person with no income to maintain his property. As it was, there was some other cause to seek, and that cause I set down to the absence of Miss Kit.

Twice between the pier and the house I was challenged by sentries, and when I reached the door I noticed that the lower windows were shuttered and barred like those of a prison.

I announced myself to the servant who answered my summons as I had done to the sentinels, without giving my name, and was presently shown into his honour's room at the back of the house, which, as all the shutters were closed, was lit by candles, though it was still daylight.

I was shocked to see how Mr Gorman was changed. The sly, surly expression had given place to a hunted, suspicious look. His face was haggard and pale and his beard unkempt. He started at any little sound, and his mouth, once firm, now looked weak and irresolute. Worse still, there was a flavour of spirits about the room and the man which told its own tale, and accounted for his bloodshot eyes and shaking fingers as he looked up.

"Gallagher!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet in evident panic; "what brings you here in this disguise? What have I ever done to you?"

"It is no disguise, your honour," said I, in as reassuring a tone as I could assume. "I am Lieutenant Gallagher now."

"And what do you want here? Why do you come in this sudden way? Go away, sir, and come when you are wanted! Where is my guard?"

And the poor man, whom the landlord at Rathmullan had well described as broken, actually put out his trembling hand to reach a pistol that lay on the table.

"You mistake me," said I, paying no heed to the gesture. "I came merely on business, and if you like you can call your guard in. I've nothing to say that they need not hear."

"You're a good fellow, Gallagher," said his honour, reassured. "I'm a little shaken in the nerves, and your coming was so sudden. I know you could mean no harm to your old benefactor."

It made my heart bleed to hear him talk thus miserably, and I resolved to shorten the interview as much as I could.

"Stay and dine with me," said he, as eager to keep me now as he was to be rid of me a minute ago; "it's lonely, night after night, with no one to speak to and nowhere to go. You've heard, no doubt, I am a prisoner here."

"How so, sir?"

"There's a sentence of death out against me—not in the king's name, but in the name of Tim Gallagher, your brother, captain of the rebels here."

"In Tim's name!" exclaimed I. "It's false! I swear he never signed it; he is not even in the country."

"Don't be too sure of that. Anyway he's their chosen leader, and they do all in his name. I daren't go outside my own doors after dark for fear of a bullet."

"The scoundrels!" cried I, starting up; "and they dare drag Tim's name into their vile machinations. I tell you, Mr Gorman, Tim would no more wink at murder than—than Miss Kit would. And, by the way, sir, what of Miss Kit?"

He looked round with his haggard face.

"What is that to you, Gallagher?"

"I love her," said I bluntly, "and so I have a right to know."

"You! the son of Mike the boatman, and brother of Tim the rebel! You dare—"

I cut him short.

"See here, Maurice Gorman; understand me. With or without you I will find her, if I have to seek her to the world's end. I've done so before now; remember how we parted last."

"Oh," said he, "I know all that, and of your meeting her in Holland and placing her in Biddy McQuilkin's care. She wrote me all about that; and it's little I owe you for it. Biddy belongs, body and soul, to the rebel faction."

"But she wouldn't let a hair of Miss Kit's head be hurt for all that."

"How do you know that, so long as I could be made to suffer by it?"

"Where are they now, then?" I asked eagerly.

"Till lately she was in Dublin, in the family of Lord Edward, who, traitor as he is, is at least a gentleman, and a distant kinsman into the bargain. She was happy there; and what sort of place was this to bring a girl to? But look here," said he, getting up and fumbling in a drawer among some papers, "what do you say to this?" and he put a letter, written in a delicate female hand, before me. It read as follows:—

"To Maurice Gorman, Esquire.

"Sir,—With great sorrow I inform you that Miss Gorman, while walking yesterday evening in the Park with her attendant McQuilkin, was surrounded by a gang of masked men, and they were both carried away, whither we know not. We are in terrible distress, and sparing no effort to find the dear girl, whom Lord Edward and I had come to love as a sister. Be assured you shall receive such news as there may be. Lord Edward's wrath knows no bounds, and he even risks his own liberty (for he is a marked man) in seeking for them.—I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, Pamela Fitzgerald."

"That is from Lady Edward," said his honour. "Now read this."

The paper he handed me now was a dirty and illiterate scrawl, without date or signature.

"Maris Gorman,—Take note your doghter is in safe hands, and will not be returnd till you take the oth of the Unyted Irishmen and pay 5 hundred pounds sterling to the fund. Allso note that unless you come in quickly, you will be shott like a dog, and the devil help you for a trayter to Ireland."

"Now," said he, with a gloomy smile, "you know as much of my daughter's whereabouts as I do."

"This is terrible news," said I. "How is it you are not in Dublin at this moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?"

He laughed bitterly.

"It's easy talking," said he. "In the first place, I should be shot before I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner here for weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took the oath, where is the money to come from?"

"Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you."

"Whoever calls me rich, lies," said he testily, and with an uneasy gesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place. Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundred pounds were worth more to him than his own daughter.

"Is nothing being done?" said I. "Have you shown the letter to the authorities, or to Lord Edward?"

"What use?" said he. "I am on too ill terms with either to expect their help."

"And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?" I cried. "But if you will not move, I will!"

"What can I do?" said he wearily. "You know how I am fixed. Perhaps when I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplest way out of it, after all."

I could not help pitying him, much as I despised him, so miserably did he speak.

Then he began to talk about the state of the country, and of the bad odour he had fallen into with his brother magistrates.

"They suspect me of being in with the rebels, Gallagher, as if I had cause to love them. On my soul, if I'm to be suspected, it sometimes seems I might as well be so with reason as without. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Gallagher, I took their precious oath—suppose it, I say, how should I stand then? By all appearances, Ireland is going to be delivered; and it will be a bad day when she comes into her own for those who withstood her. Should I be worse off by joining them? I'm told they are ready to welcome any man of position and landed interest on their side. It might be an opportunity of doing some service to my fellow countrymen. Besides, when a daughter's liberty is at stake, one does not stand at sacrifice. They hate me now because I have been instrumental in thwarting them. By winning me over they would be rid of an obstacle; and all the favour I have shown them in the past in the matter of the arms, and allowing some of them to slip through the fingers of the law, would stand to my credit. Why, Gallagher," added he, growing quite excited at the vision, "in the new Irish Government I should be a man of mark; and my fortune, instead of being confiscated, would be my own, and at the service of my friends. Why, you and Tim—"

"Are you so sure that fortune is your own now?" said I, losing my self- restraint at last.

He turned a little whiter as he glared round at me.

"You mean that improbable story of the changeling at Kilgorman," said he, with a forced laugh. "As pure moonshine as ever was, and beyond all proof even if it wasn't."

"You forget Biddy McQuilkin has been found."

"Did she say anything?" he demanded.

"She did, on her oath."

"And, pray, what was her version of this wonderful story?"

"She told me all I needed to know—that is, which of us two was Terence Gorman's son."

"And which is, pray?"

"That is my secret. Time will show."

"What!" exclaimed he, "some new conspiracy to rob me? And one of the conspirators a man who presumes to my daughter's hand! Come, Gallagher, let you and me understand each other. I defy you, or Biddy, or any one, to make good your story. But if you are frank with me, you won't find me unreasonable. Let me see the documents."

"In good time, sir," said I. "Now, as to the smugglers."

And we proceeded to talk about the object of our cruise. I found he had little news to give me, or else he chose to give little, and after a while I rose to go. He pressed me to stay the night, urging his solitude; but I had no desire to prolong the interview.

"We shall meet again," said I; "and you may rely on hearing from me if I have any news of your daughter."

We were out on the doorstep by this time. It was a beautiful, fresh evening, with a half-moon hanging above the opposite hills and sending a broad track of shimmering light across the lough.

"It's a tempting night," said he. "I've not taken the air for days. I've a good mind to see you to your boat."

For all that, he looked round uneasily, with the air of a man who suspected a lurking foe in every rustling leaf.

"Two of you men follow," said he to the sentries at the door. "Keep me in view. Ah, how fresh the air is after that close room! Yes, Gallagher, you were speaking of my daughter. Since she left me—keep in the shade, man, it's safer—this place has been a hell to me. What's the use of—what's that?" he exclaimed, catching my arm; "it sounded like a man's breathing. What's the use of keeping it up, I say? I've a mind to—"

He got no further. We had emerged from the shady walk into the moonlit path leading down to the pier. The two sentinels were just discernible ahead, and the footsteps of the two behind followed us close. There was no other sound in the stillness but his honour's quavering voice, and nothing stirring but the leaves of the trees and the waves of the lough as they broke gently on the beach.

Suddenly there rang out from the water's edge the sharp crack of a gun, followed by a wild howl. Mr Gorman staggered forward a pace and fell on his face. There was a rapid swish of oars, two hurried shots from the sentries, and the phantom of a little boat as it darted out across the moon track and lost itself in the blackness of the shadows.

In a moment I was kneeling beside the body of the poor dying man. The shot had struck him in the breast, and the life-blood was oozing away fast. He was conscious as we tried to lift him.

"Let me lie here," said he. "I'm safe here now."

But by this time the soldiers had him in their arms, and were bearing him gently towards the house.

It was little a doctor could do if we had one, but a soldier was sent to Fahan to bring one, and to take word of the murder. Meanwhile we laid him on his bed, and I did what I could to stanch the bleeding and ease his suffering.

For half-an-hour he lay in a sort of stupor. Then he said,—

"Gallagher, I want to speak—Send the others away—no, keep one for a witness."

We did as he desired, and waited for what was to come.

Several minutes passed; then he tried to lift his head, and said,—

"It is true that one of you is Terence Gorman's boy, I knew it, but only Biddy knows which it is. I had no hand in Terence's murder, nor had Mike Gallagher, though I tried to put it on him. Write that down quickly, and I'll sign it."

I wrote his words hurriedly down, and read them over; but when it came to putting the pen in his hand, he fell back, and I thought all was over. But after a few minutes he rallied again.

"Hold me up—guide my hand—it all swims before me."

The paper with his woeful scrawl affixed lies before me at this moment as I write.

"Gallagher," said he, more faintly yet, "be good to Kit, and forgive me."

"God will do that, your honour," whispered I.

"Pray for me.—Ah!" cried he, starting suddenly in bed, and throwing up his arm as if to ward off a blow, "I'll take the oath, boys. You shall have the money. God save—"

And he fell back, dead.

Next day an inquiry was held which ended in nothing. No trace of the murderer was to be found, and no evidence but that of us who saw the tragedy with our own eyes. Plenty of folk, who had given him a wide berth living, crowded to the place to look at the dead Gorman; but in all their faces there was not one sign of pity or compunction—nay, worse, that very night, on Fanad and Knockalla bonfires were lit to celebrate his murder.

The next day we buried him. For miles round no one could be found willing to make his coffin, and in the end we had to lay him in a common soldier's shell. Nor would any one lend horse or carriage to carry him to his grave, and we had to take him by boat to his resting-place, rowing it through the gathering storm with our own arms. The flag half- mast on the Gnat was the only sign of mourning; and when we bore the coffin up to the lonely graveyard on the cliff-top at Kilgorman, and laid it beside that of his lady, in the grave next to that of the murdered Terence, not a voice but mine joined in the "Amen" to the priest's prayer.

When all was said and done, I lingered on, heedless of the wind and rain, in the deserted graveyard, full of the strange memories which the place and scene recalled.

Eight years ago I had stood here with Tim at the open grave of her whom we both called mother. And on that same day her ghostly footstep had sounded in our ears in the grim kitchen of Kilgorman, summoning us to a duty which was yet unfulfilled. What had not happened since then? The boatman's boys were grown, one into the heir of half the lough-side, the other into a servant of his Majesty. Tim, entangled hand and foot in the toils of a miserable conspiracy, was indifferent to the fortune now lying at his feet; I, engaged in the task of hunting down the rebels of whom he was a leader, was eating my heart out for love of her who called by the sacred name of father the murdered man who lay here, to whom we owed all our troubles. Was the day never to dawn? Was there never to be peace between Tim and me? And was Kit, like some will-o'-the-wisp, always to be snatched from my reach whenever I seemed to have found her for my own?

I lingered beside his honour's grave till the daylight failed and the waters of the lough merged into the stormy night, and the black gables of Kilgorman behind me lost themselves against the blacker sky. The weather suited my mood, and my spirits rose as the hard sleet struck my cheek and the buffet of the wind sweeping the cliff-top sent me staggering for support against the graveyard wall. It made me feel at home again to meet nature thus, and I know not how long I drank in courage for my sick heart that night.

At length I turned to go, before even it occurred to me that I had nowhere to go. The Gnat lay in the roadstead off Rathmullan, beyond reach that night. The cottage on Fanad was separated from me by a waste of boiling water. In Knockowen the bloodstains were not yet dry. Kilgorman—yes, there was no place else. I would shelter there till daylight summoned me to my post of duty on the Gnat. Looking back now, I can see that destiny led my footsteps thither.

As I turned towards the house, I thought I perceived in that direction a tiny spark of light, which vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Still more remarkable, a faint glimmer of light appeared in a small gable-window high up, where assuredly I had never before seen a light. It may have been on this account or from old association that, instead of approaching the place by the upper path, I descended the cliff and made my way round to the cave by which so many of my former visits had been paid. Fortunately the gale was an easterly one, so that the water in the cave was fairly still, and I was able in the dark to grope my way to the ledge on which the secret passage opened.

All was quiet when at last I reached the recess of the great hearth and peered out into the dark kitchen. By all appearance no one had looked into the place since I was there last a year ago and left my note for Tim, and found the mysterious message which warned me of the plot to carry off Miss Kit. I wondered if the former paper was still where I left it, and was about to step out of my hiding-place in search of a light, when the crunching of footsteps on the path without and the flitting of a lantern past a window sent me back suddenly into retirement.

A moment's consideration told me that it was easy to guess who the intruders might be. The night that Maurice Gorman had been laid in his grave would be a grand night for the rebels of Fanad. And who could say whether the object of their meeting might not be to consider the fate of Miss Kit herself, who, now that her father was dead, was no longer a hostage or the price of a ransom in their hands? There might at least be news of her, and even of Tim.

So I stood close, and waited as still as a mouse.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE FIGHT IN KILGORMAN.

I had not long to wait before the footsteps sounded in the long passage which led to the kitchen, and a dim streak of light appeared at the doorway. Two of the company, rather by their voices than their faces, I recognised—one as Martin, the other as Jake Finn, the treasurer of the rebels, whom I had last seen in this very place on the night that Paddy Corkill was appointed to waylay and shoot his honour on the Black Hill Road. The other two, who carried cutlasses at their belts, were strangers to me, but seemed to be men of importance in the rebel business. Evidently a fifth man was expected.

"Sure, he'll come," said one.

"It's myself met him this blessed day no farther than Malin, and he promised he'd be here."

"Did he know this about Gorman?"

"How should he? Sure, I didn't know it myself. Besides, he's just from the Foyle, and our news doesn't travel east."

"How will he take it?"

"Whisht!" cried Martin. "There he is."

Three low taps sounded at the window, and Martin, taking the candle, hurried down the passage to admit the new arrival.

The other three men advanced to the door.

A quick, jaunty step sounded down the passage. The door opened, the men drew themselves up and saluted, Martin held the candle above his head, and there entered—Tim! At the sight of him the great fount of brotherhood that was in me welled up and nearly overflowed.

Tim was in the dress of a merchant sailor, and very handsome he looked, although the cut of his beard gave him a half-foreign look. His frame was knit harder than when I saw him last. His open face, tanned by the weather, was as fearless and serene as ever, and the toss of his head and the spring of his step were those rather of the boy I had known on Fanad years ago than of the dangerous rebel on whose head a price was set.

"Well, boys," said he, as Martin replaced the light on the table, "what's the best of your news?"

"Faith, that you're welcome, Tim Gallagher," replied Finn; "and it's right glad we are to get our captain."

"'Deed if it pleasures you to call me captain, you may," said Tim; "but I've no time to spend in these parts. I have business that won't keep. How goes the cause since I was here last?"

"Badly enough," replied one of the men. "The boys are slack, and we've been desperately thwarted by traitors and dirty informers and the English gang."

"And, saving your presence," said Martin, "we've to thank your own brother Barry for some of that same trouble. It was him who thwarted us on the Black Hill Road, and nearly spoilt our trip to Holland—"

"Barry?" said Tim sharply. "What of him? He's no 'dirty informer.' What's all this about Black Hill Road and Holland?"

"'Deed, Tim," said Finn, "it's an old story, and has been righted by now. You mind his honour, Maurice Gorman of Knockowen?"

"Mind him? of course I do—a coward that blew hot and cold, and led the boys on to mischief only to betray them. Yes; I mind Maurice Gorman."

This invective seemed greatly to encourage the men present, who had evidently feared Tim might for some reason have harboured a regard for their victim.

"It was him was to be settled with on the Black Hill Road a year ago; and settled he would have been but for Barry."

Tim's anger, I could see, was rising.

"Settled?" he said; "do you mean murdered?"

"Shot, any way. He got off that time; and a purty use he made of his chance, hanging boys by the dozen, and giving us no peace at all, at all. But since the young lady was lost to him—"

"What?" exclaimed Tim again; "how lost?"

"Didn't we have her over the seas to Holland for a hostage? And ever since he durstn't do a hand's turn against us. But he wouldn't come in for all that, or pay the money. It was Barry as nearly spoilt that game for us too; for he spirited the girl away in Holland, and if it hadn't been for some of the boys who got hold of her again in Dublin, she'd have been clane lost to Ireland for all our trouble."

"You dogs!" cried Tim, starting forward with his hand on his sword. "You mean to say you carried away an innocent girl to spite her father? You're a shame to your country!"

They looked at him in amazement. Then the speaker went on,—

"Sure, all's fair in war. The girl's safe enough." [Here Martin laughed in a sinister fashion.] "And now that all is settled up with Maurice Gorman at last—"

"Is Maurice Gorman dead, then?" asked Tim, controlling himself with a mighty effort, as was plain by his white lips and flashing eyes.

"He is so. We had him watched day and night, and on Sunday came our chance. He's gone to his account; and it's not six hours since he was put out of harm's way under the turf. By Saint Patrick, but it's a grand day for Ireland this."

"And you mean to tell me," said Tim, in a voice which made his hearers shift on their feet uncomfortably—"you mean to tell me that you dare to commit murder and outrage like this in the name of Ireland?"

"Why, what's amiss? Wasn't it yourself was saying with your own lips the Gorman was a dirty coward?" retorted one of the group testily.

"And that means the same to you as saying a man should be shot in the dark without a word of warning, and his innocent daughter carried off, who never did a hand's turn in the place that wasn't kindly and good?"

Guess who it was that loved Tim as he spoke those words?

"It's no time to be squeamish," persisted the man who had first spoken. "It's a blow for the good of the country, and there's them will give us credit for it, if you don't."

"You curs! I give you credit for being the meanest cowards unhung. And I don't mind telling anybody as much. Pray, is it you and the like of you I'm captain to?"

"When we chose you, we thought you were for the people," snarled Martin.

"Then take back your choice, you crew of blackguards," cried Tim, now in a towering rage. "I've nothing to do with such as you. No more has Ireland, thank God!"

"That's well enough," said Finn savagely; "but what's done is done, and in your name too, whether you like it or not. You should have let us know in time if your stomach wasn't strong enough for the work."

"My name! The girl carried away in my name, and her father murdered. How dare you, you dirty whelp, you!"

And he struck Finn across the cheek with his hand.

Instantly the scene became one of wild uproar. The blow was all the men had wanted to give vent to the bitter resentment which Tim's contemptuous reproaches had called up. As long as the quarrel was one of words, they were sullen but cowed. Now it was come to blows, events befell rapidly. Ere I could push my way into the room, sword in hand— in truth, more rapidly than I can narrate it—Tim, my brave, impulsive brother, had sent one of the rascals to his last account, and had stepped to the wall, with his back there, holding the others at sword's point.

Martin—that malign spirit, fated to thwart and injure me at all points—more cunning than his comrades, had stepped back behind the other two while Tim was engaged with them, poised a long knife above his head, and at the moment when Tim was lunging at the nearest of his assailants, I saw the brute, as in a nightmare, strike with all his might. The cowardly blow struck Tim full on the forehead, and brought him down with a crash on the floor. I had sprung at Martin's raised arm, but, alas! had just missed him by a flash of time.

"Take that for many an old score!" I shouted, as I brought him down on the instant with a cut which laid him bleeding and prostrate at my feet.

Then stepping across Tim's senseless body, I let out at the other two.

My sudden appearance—for I seemed to have dropped from the clouds— amazed and paralysed them. They were too terror-stricken to show much fight; and it was as well for them, for I was in a killing mood, and could have sent them to their last reckoning with a relish had they invited me. As it was, with white faces they backed to the door, and presently howled for mercy.

"It's Barry himsilf!" exclaimed Finn. "Be aisy now Barry darlint, and don't harm a defenceless man." And he dropped his weapon on the floor.