"I believe it, Mr. Folliard," said the baronet, "for these are the identical terms in which he told me the story before; proceed, O'Donnel."

"'The ould scoundrel of a father,' says he, 'on his return from Boyle, generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut. Do you and your men lie in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel, near Loch na Garran'—it is called so, sir, because they say there's a wild horse in it that comes out of moonlight nights to feed on the patches of green that are here and there among the moors—'near Loch na Gaitan,' says he; 'and when he gets that far turn out upon him, charge him with transportin' your uncle, and when you are levellin' your gun at him, I will come, by the way, and save him. You and I must speak angry to one another, you know; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can't do less than ask me to dine with him. At all events, thinkin' that I saved his life, we will become acquainted.'"

The squire paused and mused for some time, and then asked, "Was there no more than this between you and him?"

"Nothing more, sir."

"And tell me, did he pay you the money?"

"Here it is," replied the Rapparee, pulling out a rag in which were the precise number of guineas mentioned.

"But," said the squire, "we lost our way in the fog."

"Yes, sir," said the Rapparee. "Everything turned out in his favor. That made very little difference. You would have been attacked in or about that place, whether or not."

"Yes, but did you not attack my house that night? Did not you yourself come down by the skylight, and enter, by violence, into my daughter's apartment?"

"Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, 'I give Reilly up for ingenuity.' No, sir, that was his own trick; but afther all it was a bad one, and tells aginst itself. Why, sir, neither I nor any of my men have the power of makin' ourselves invisible. Do you think, sir—I put it to your own common-sense—that if we had been there no one would have seen us? Wasn't the whole country for miles round searched and scoured, and I ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen or even heard of? Sir Robert, I must be going now," he added. "I hope Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is. As for myself, I have nothing more to say."

"Don't go yet, O'Donnel," said Whitecraft; "let us determine what is to be done with him. You see clearly it is necessary, Mr. Folliard, that this deep-designing Jesuit should be sent out of the country."

"I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it," said the squire. "He has brought calamity and misery into my family. Created world! how I and mine have been deceived and imposed upon! Away with him—a thousand leagues away with him! And that quickly too! Oh, the plausible, deceitful villain! My child! my child!" and here the old man burst into tears of the bitterest indignation. "Sir Robert, that cursed villain was born, I fear, to be the shame and destruction of my house and name."

"Don't dream of such a thing," said the baronet. "On the day he dined here—and you cannot forget my strong disinclination to meet him—but even on that day you will recollect the treasonable language he used against the laws of the realm. After my return home I took a note of them, and I trust that you, sir, will corroborate, with respect to this fact, the testimony which it is my purpose to give against him. I say this the rather, Mr. Folliard, because it might seriously compromise your own character with the Government, and as a magistrate, too, to hear treasonable and seditious language at your own table, from a Papist Jesuit, and yet decline to report it to the authorities."

"The laws, the authorities, and you be hanged, sir!" replied the squire; "my table is, and has been, and ever shall be, the altar of confidence to my guests; I shall never violate the laws of hospitality. Treat the man fairly, I say, concoct no plot against him, bribe no false witnesses, and if he is justly amenable to the law I will spend ten thousand pounds to have him sent anywhere out of the country."

"He keeps arms," observed Sir Robert, "contrary to the penal enactments."

"I think not," said the squire; "he told me he was on a duck-shooting expedition that night, and when I asked him where he got his arms, he said that his neighbor, Bob Gosford, always lent him his gun whenever he felt disposed to shoot, and, to my own knowledge, so did many other Protestant magistrates in the neighborhood, for this wily Jesuit is a favorite with most of them."

"But I know where he has arms concealed," said the Rapparee, looking significantly at the baronet, "and I will be able to find them, too, when the proper time comes."

"Ha! indeed, O'Donnel," said Sir Robert, with well-feigned surprise; "then there will be no lack of proof against him, you may rest assured, Mr. Folliard; I charge myself with the management of the whole affair. I trust, sir, you will leave it to me, and I have only one favor to ask, and that is the hand of your fair daughter when he is disposed of."

"She shall be yours, Sir Robert, the moment that this treacherous villain can be removed by the fair operation of the laws; but I will never sanction any dishonorable treatment towards him. By the laws of the land let him stand or fall."

At this moment a sneeze of tremendous strength and loudness was heard immediately outside the door; a sneeze which made the hair of the baronet almost stand on end.

"What the devil is that?" asked the squire. "By the great Boyne, I fear some one has been listening after all."

The Rapparee, always apprehensive of the "authorities," started behind a screen, and the baronet, although unconscious of any cause for terror, stood rather undecided. The sneeze, however, was repeated, and this time it was a double one.

"Curse it, Sir Robert," said the squire, "have you not the use of your legs? Go and see whether there has been an eavesdropper"

"Yes, Mr. Folliard," replied the doughty baronet, "but your house has the character of being haunted; and I have a terror of ghosts."

The squire himself got up, and, seizing a candle, went outside the door, but nothing in human shape was visible.

"Come here, Sir Robert," said he, "that sneeze came from no ghost, I'll swear. Who ever heard of a ghost sneezing? Never mind, though; for the curiosity of the thing I will examine for myself, and return to you in a few minutes."

He accordingly left them, and in a short time came back, assuring them that every one in the house was in a state of the most profound repose, and that it was his opinion it must have been a cat.

"I might think so myself," observed the baronet, "were it not for the double sneeze. I am afraid, Mr. Folliard, that the report is too true—and that the house is haunted. O'Donnel, you must come home with me to-night."

O'Donnel, who entertained no apprehension of ghosts, finding that the "authorities" were not in question, agreed to go with him, although he had a small matter on hand which required his presence in another part of the country.

The baronet, however, had gained his point. The heart of the hasty and unreflecting squire had been poisoned, and not one shadow of doubt remained on his mind of Reilly's treachery. And that which convinced him beyond all arguments or assertions was the fact that on the night of the premeditated attack on his house not one of the Red Rapparee's gang was seen, or any trace of them discovered.



CHAPTER VI.—The Warning—an Escape

Reilly, in the meantime, was not insensible to his danger. About eleven o'clock the next day, as he was walking in his garden, Tom Steeple made his appearance, and approached him with a look of caution and significance.

"Well, Tom," said he, "what's the news?"

Tom made no reply, but catching him gently by the sleeve of his coat, said, "Come wid Tom; Tom has news for you. Here it is, in de paper;" and as he spoke, he handed him a letter, the contents of which we give:

"Dearest Reilly: The dreadful discovery I have made, the danger and treachery and vengeance by which you are surrounded, but, above all, my inexpressible love for you, will surely justify me in not losing a moment to write to you; and I select this poor creature as my messenger because he is least likely to be suspected. It is through him that the discovery of the accursed plot against you has been made. It appears that he slept in the castle last night, as he often does, and having observed Sir Thomas Whitecraft and that terrible man, the Red Rapparee, coming into the house, and going along with papa into his study, evidently upon some private business, he resolved to listen. He did so, and overheard the Rapparee stating to papa that every thing which took place on the evening you saved his life and frustrated his other designs upon the castle, was a plan preconceived by you for the purpose of making papa's acquaintance and getting introduced to the family in order to gain my affections. Alas! if you have resorted to such a plan, you have but too well succeeded. Do not, however, for one moment imagine that I yield any credit to this atrocious falsehood. It has been concocted by your base and unmanly rival, Whitecraft, by whom all the proceedings against you are to be conducted. Some violation of the penal laws, in connection with carrying or keeping arms, is to be brought against you, and unless you are on your guard you will be arrested and thrown into prison, and if not convicted of a capital offence and executed like a felon, you will at least be sent forever out of the country. What is to be done? If you have arms in or about your house let them be forthwith removed to some place of concealment. The Rapparee is to get a pardon from government, at least he is promised it by Sir Robert, if he turns against you. In one word, dearest Reilly, you cannot, with safety to your life, remain in this country. You must fly from it, and immediately too. I wish to see you. Come this night, at half-past ten, to the back gate of our garden, which you will find shut, but unlocked. Something—is it my heart?—tells me that our fates are henceforth inseparable, whether for joy or sorrow. I ought to tell you that I confessed my affection for you to papa on the evening you dined here, and he was not angry; but this morning he insisted that I should never think of you more, nor mention your name; and he says that if the laws can do it he will lose ten thousand pounds or he will have you sent out of the country. Lanigan, our cook, from what motive I know not, mentioned to me the substance of what I have now written. He is, it seems, a cousin to the bearer of this, and got the information from him after having had much difficulty, he says, in putting it together. I know not how it is, but I can assure you that every servant in the castle seems to know that I am attached to you.

"Ever, my dearest Reilly, yours, and yours only, until death,

"Helen Folliard."

We need not attempt to describe the sensations of love and indignation produced by this letter. But we shall state the facts.

"Here, Tom," said Reilly, "is the reward for your fidelity," as he handed him some silver; "and mark me, Tom, don't breathe to a human being that you have brought me a letter from the Cooleen Bawn. Go into the house and get something to eat; there now—go and get one of your bully dinners."

"It is true," said he, "too true I am doomed-devoted. If I remain in this country I am lost. Yes, my life, my love, my more than life—I feel as you do, that our fates, whether for good or evil, are inseparable. Yes, I shall see you this night if I have life."

He had scarcely concluded this soliloquy when his namesake, Fergus Reiliy, disguised in such a way as prevented him from being recognized, approached him, in the lowly garb of a baccah or mendicant.

"Well, my good fellow," said he, "what do you want? Go up to the house and you will get food."

"Keep quiet," replied the other, disclosing himself, "keep quiet; get all your money into one purse, settle your affairs as quickly as you can, and fly the country this night, or otherwise sit down and make your will and your peace with God Almighty, for if you are found here by to-morrow night you sleep in Sligo jail. Throw me a few halfpence, making as it were charity. Whitecraft has spies among your own laborers, and you know the danger I run in comin' to you by daylight. Indeed, I could not do it without this disguise. To-morrow night you are to be taken upon a warrant from Sir Robert Whitecraft; but never mind; as to Whitecraft, leave him to me—I have a crow to pluck with him."

"How is that, Fergus?"

"My sister, man; did you not hear of it?"

"No, Fergus, nor I don't wish to hear of it, for your sake; spare your feelings, my poor fellow; I know perfectly well what a hypocritical scoundrel he is."

"Well," replied Fergus, "it was only yesterday I heard of it myself; and are we to bear this?—we that have hands and eyes and limbs and hearts and courage to stand nobly upon the gallows-tree for striking down the villain who does whatever he likes, and then threatens us with the laws of the land if we murmur? Do you think this is to be borne?"

"Take not vengeance into your own hand, Fergus," replied Reilly, "for that is contrary to the laws of God and man. As for me, I agree with you that I cannot remain in this country. I know the vast influence which Whitecraft possesses with the government. Against such a man I have no chance; this, taken in connection with my education abroad, is quite sufficient to make me a marked and suspected man. I will therefore leave the country, and ere to-morrow night, I trust, I shall be beyond his reach. But, Fergus, listen: leave Whitecraft to God; do not stain your soul with human blood; keep a pure heart, and whatever may happen be able to look up to the Almighty with a clear conscience."

Fergus then left him, but with a resolution, nevertheless, to have vengeance upon the baronet very unequivocally expressed on his countenance.

Having seriously considered his position and all the circumstances' of danger connected with it, Reilly resolved that his interview that night with his beloved Cooleen Bawn should be his last. He accordingly communicated his apprehensions to an aged uncle of his who resided with him, and entrusted the management of his property to him until some change for the better might take place. Having heard from Fergus Reilly that there were spies among his own laborers, he kept moving about and. making such observations as he could for the remainder of the day. When the night came he prepared himself for his appointment, and at, or rather before, the hour of half-past ten, he had reached the back gate, or rather door of the garden attached to Corbo Castle. Having ascertained that it was unlocked, he entered with no difficulty, and traversed the garden without being able to perceive her whose love was now, it might be said, all that life had left him. After having satisfied himself that she was not in the garden, he withdrew to an arbor or summer-house of evergreens, where he resolved to await until she should come. He did not wait long. The latch of the entrance gate from the front made a noise; ah, how his heart beat! what a commotion agitated his whole frame! In a few moments she was with him.

"Reilly," said Cooleen Bawn, "I have dreadful news to communicate."

"I know all," said he; "I am to be arrested to-morrow night."

"To-night, dearest Reilly, to-night. Papa told me this evening, in one of his moods of anger, that before to-morrow morning you would be in Sligo jail."

"Well, dearest Helen," he replied, "that is certainly making quick work of it. But, even so, I am prepared this moment to escape. I have settled my affairs, left the management of them to my uncle, and this interview with you, my beloved girl, must be our last."

As he uttered these melancholy words the tears came to his eyes.

"The last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no; it must not be the last. You shall not go alone, dearest William. My mind is made up. Be it for life or for death, I shall accompany you."

"Dearest life," he replied, "think of the consequences."

"I think of nothing," said Cooleen Bawn, "but my love for you. If you were not surrounded by danger as you are, if the whoop of vengeance were not on your trail, if death and a gibbet were not in the background, I could part with you; but now that danger, vengeance, and death, are hovering about you, I shall and must partake of them with you. And listen, Reilly; after all it is the best plan. Papa, if I accompany you—supposing that we are taken—will relent for my sake. I know his love for me. His affection for me will overcome all his prejudices against you. Then let us fly. To-night you will be taken. Your rival will triumph over both of us; and I—I, oh! I shall not survive it. Save me, then, Reilly, and let me fly with you."

"God knows," replied Reilly, with deep emotion, "if I suffered myself to be guided by the impulse of my heart, I would yield to wishes at once so noble and disinterested. I cannot, however, suffer my affection, absorbing and inexpressible as it is, to precipitate your ruin. I speak not of myself, nor of what I may suffer. When we reflect, however, my beloved girl, upon the state of the country, and of the law, as it operates against the liberty and property of Catholics, we must both admit the present impossibility of an elopement without involving you in disgrace. You know that until some relaxation of the laws affecting marriage between Catholics and Protestants takes place, an union between us is impossible; and this fact it is which would attach disgrace to you, and a want of honor, principle, and gratitude to me. We should necessarily lead the lives of the guilty, and seek the wildest fastnesses of the mountain solitudes and the oozy caverns of the bleak and solitary hills."

"But I care not. I am willing to endure it all for your sake."

"What!—the shame, the misinterpretation, the imputed guilt?"

"Neither care I for shame or imputed guilt, so long as I am innocent, and you safe."

"Concealment, my dearest girl, would be impossible. Such a hue and cry would be raised after us as would render nothing short of positive invisibility capable of protecting us from our enemies. Then your father!—such a step might possibly break his heart; a calamity which would fill your mind with remorse to the last day of your life!"

She burst again into tears, and replied, "But as for you, what can be done to save you from the toils of your unscrupulous and powerful enemies?"

"To that, my beloved Helen, I must forthwith look. In the meantime, let me gather patience and await some more favorable relaxation in the penal code. At present, the step you propose would be utter destruction to us both, and an irretrievable stain upon our reputation. You will return to your father's house, and I shall seek some secure place of concealment until I can safely reach the continent, from whence I shall contrive to let you hear from me, and in due time may possibly be able to propose some mode of meeting in a country where the oppressive laws that separate us here shall not stand in the way of our happiness. In the meanwhile let our hearts be guided by hope and constancy." After a mournful and tender embrace they separated.

It would be impossible to describe the agony of the lovers after a separation which might probably be their last. Our readers, however, may very well conceive it, and it is not our intention to describe it here. At this stage of our story, Reilly, who was, as we have said, in consequence of his gentlemanly manners and liberal principles, a favorite with all classes and all parties, and entertained no apprehensions from the dominant party, took his way homewards deeply impressed with the generous affections which his Cooleen Bawn had expressed for him. He consequently looked upon himself as perfectly safe in his own house. The state of society in Ireland, however, was at that melancholy period so uncertain that no Roman Catholic, however popular, or however innocent, could for one week calculate upon safety either to his property or person, if he happened to have an enemy who possessed any influence in the opposing Church. Religion thus was made the stalking-horse, not only of power, but of persecution, rapacity, and selfishness, and the unfortunate Roman Catholic who considered himself safe to-day might find himself ruined tomorrow, owing to the cupidity of some man who turned a lustful eye upon his property, or who may have entertained a feeling of personal ill-will against him. Be this as it may, Reilly wended his melancholy way homewards, and had got within less than a quarter of a mile of his own house when he was met by Fergus in his mendicant habit, who startled him by the information he disclosed.

"Where are you bound for, Mr. Reilly?" said the latter.

"For home," replied Reilly, "in order to secure my money and the papers connected with the family property."

"Well, then," said the other, "if you go home now you are a lost man."

"How is that?" asked Reilly.

"Your house at this moment is filled with sogers, and surrounded by them too. You know that no human being could make me out in this disguise; I had heard that they were on their way to your place, and afeered that they might catch you at home, I was goin' to let you know, in ordher that you might escape them, but I was too late; the villains were there before me. I took heart o' grace, however, and went up to beg a little charity for the love and honor of God. Seem' the kind of creature I was, they took no notice of me; for to tell you the truth, they were too much bent on searchin' for, and findin' you. God protect us from such men, Mr. Reilly," and the name he uttered in alow and cautious voice; "but at all events this is no country for you to live in now. But who do you think was the busiest and the bittherest man among them?"

"Why Whitecraft, I suppose."

"No; he wasn't there himself—no; but that double distilled traitor and villain, the Red Rapparee, and bad luck to him. You see, then, that if you attempt to go near your own house you're a lost man, as I said."

"I feel the truth of what you say," replied Reilly, "but are you aware that they committed any acts of violence? Are you aware that they disturbed my property or ransacked my house?"

"Well, that's more than I can say," replied Fergus, "for to tell you the truth, I was afraid to trust myself inside, in regard of that scoundrel the Rapparee, who, bein' himself accustomed to all sorts of disguises, I dreaded might find me out."

"Well, at all events," said Reilly, "with respect to that I disregard them. The family papers and other available property are too well secreted for them to secure them. On discovering Whitecraft's jealousy, and knowing, as I did before, his vindictive spirit and power in the country, I lost no time in putting them in a safe place. Unless they burn the house they could never come at them. But as this fact is not at all an improbable one—so long as Whitecraft is my unscrupulous and relentless enemy—I shall seize upon the first opportunity of placing them elsewhere."

"You ought to do so," said Fergus, "for it is not merely Whitecraft you have to deal wid, but ould Folliard himself, who now swears that if he should lose half his fortune he will either hang or transport you."

"Ah! Fergus," replied the other, "there is an essential difference between the characters of these two men. The father of Cooleen Bawn is, when he thinks himself injured, impetuous and unsparing in his resentment; but then he is an open foe, and the man whom he looks upon as his enemy always knows what he has to expect from him. Not so the other; he is secret, cautious, cowardly, and consequently doubly vindictive. He is a combination of the fox and the tiger, with all the treacherous cunning of the one, and the indomitable ferocity of the other, when he finds that he can make his spring with safety."

This conversation took place as Reilly and his companion bent their steps towards one of those antiquated and obsolete roads which we have described in the opening portion of this narrative.

"But now," asked Fergus, "where do you intend to go, or what do you intend to do with yourself?"

"I scarcely know," replied Reilly, "but on one thing my mind is determined—that I will not leave this country until I know the ultimate fate of the Cooleen Bawn. Rather than see her become the wife of that diabolical scoundrel, whom she detests as she does hell, I would lose my life. Let the consequences then be what they may, I will not for the present leave Ireland. This resolution I have come to since I saw her to-night. I am her only friend, and, so help me God, I shall not suffer her to be sacrificed—murdered. In the course of the night we shall return to my house and look about us. If the coast be clear I will secure my cash and papers as I said. It is possible that a few stragglers may lurk behind, under the expectation of securing me while making a stolen visit. However, we shall try. We are under the scourge of irresponsible power, Fergus; and if Whitecraft should burn my house to-night or to-morrow, who is to bring him to an account for it? or if they should, who is to convict him?"

The night had now become very dark, but they knew the country well, and soon found themselves upon the old road they were seeking.

"I will go up," said Reilly, "to the cabin of poor widow Buckley, where we will stop until we think those blood-hounds have gone home. She has a free cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a pensioner of mine for some time back, and I know I can depend upon her discretion and fidelity. Her little place is remote and solitary, and not more than three quarters of a mile from us."

They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when, to their utter alarm and consternation, they found themselves within about twenty or thirty yards of a military party.

"Fly," whispered Fergus, "and leave me to deal with them—if you don't it's all up with you. They won't know me from Adam, but they'll know you at a glance."

"I cannot leave you in danger," said Reilly.

"You're mad," replied the other. "Is it an ould beggar man they'd meddle with? Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo jail before mornin."

Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In the meantime a voice cried out, "Who goes there? Stand at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass."

Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him.

"Come, my customer," said their leader, "who and what are you? Quick—give an account of yourself."

"A poor creature that's lookin' for my bit, sir, God help me."

"What's your name?"

"One Paddy Brennan, sir, please your honor."

"Ay—one Paddy Brennan (hiccough), and—and—one Paddy Brennan, where do you go of a Sunday?"

"I don't go out at all, sir, of a Sunda'; whenever I stop of a Saturday night I always stop until Monday mornin'."

"I mean, are you a Papish?"

"Troth, I oughtn't to say I am, your honor—or at least a very bad one."

"But you are, a Papish."

"A kind of one, sir."

"Curse me, the fellow's humbug-gin' you, sergeant," said one of the men; "to be sure he's a Papish."

"To be sure," replied several of the others—"doesn't he admit he's a Papish?"

"Blow me, if—if—I'll bear this," replied the sergeant. "I'm a senior off—off—officer conductin' the examination, and I'll suffer no—no—man to intherfare. I must have subor—or—ordination, or I'll know what for. Leave him to me, then, and I'll work him up, never fear. George Johnston isn't the blessed babe to be imposed upon—that's what I say. Come, my good fellow, mark—mark me now. If you let but a quarter of—of—an inch of a lie out of your lips, I you're a dead man. Are you all charged, gentlemen?"

"All charged, sergeant, with loyalty and poteen at any rate; hang the Pope."

"Shoulder arms—well done. Present arms. Where is—is—this rascal? Oh, yes, here he is. Well, you are there—are you?"

"I'm here, captain."

"Well blow me, that's not—not—bad, my good fellow; if I'm not a captain, worse men have been so (hiccough); that's what I say."

"Hadn't we better make a prisoner of him at once, and bring him to Sir Robert's?" observed another.

"Simpson, hold—old—your tongue, I say. Curse me if I'll suffer any man to in—intherfere with me in the discharge of my duty."

"How do we know," said another, "but I he's a Rapparee in disguise?—for that matter, he may be Reilly himself."

"Captain and gentlemen," said Fergus, "if you have any suspicion of me, I'm willin' to go anywhere you like; and, above all things, I'd like to go to Sir Robert's, bekaise they know me there—many a good bit and sup I got in his kitchen."

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the sergeant; "now I have you—now I know whether you can tell truth or not. Answer me this. Did ever Sir Robert himself give you charity? Come, now."

Fergus perceived the drift of the question at once. The penurious character of the baronet was so well known throughout the whole barony that if he had replied in the affirmative every man of them would have felt that the assertion was a lie, and he would consequently have been detected. He was prepared, however.

"Throth then, gintlemen," he replied, "since you must have the truth, and although maybe what I'm goin' to say won't be plaisin' to you, as Sir Robert's friends, I must come out wid it; devil resave the color of his money ever I seen yet, and it isn't but I often axed him for it. No—but the sarvints often sind me up a bit from the kitchen below."

"Well, come," said the sergeant, "if you have been lyin' all your life, you've spoke the truth now. I think we may let him go."

"I don't think we ought," said one of them, named Steen, a man of about fifty years of age, and of Dutch descent; "as Bamet said, 'we don't know what he is,' and I agree with him. He may be a Rapparee in disguise, or, what is worse, Reilly himself."

"What Reilly do yez mane, gintlemen, wid submission?" asked Fergus.

"Why, Willy Reilly, the famous Papish," replied the sergeant. (We don't wish to fatigue the reader with his drunken stutterings.) "It has been sworn that he's training the Papishes every night to prepare them for rebellion, and there's a warrant out for his apprehension. Do you know him?"

"Throth I do, well; and to tell yez the truth, he doesn't stand very high wid his own sort."

"Why so, my good fellow?"

"Bekaise they think that he keeps too much company wid Prodestans, an' that he's half a Prodestan himself, and that it's only the shame that prevents him from goin' over to them altogether. Indeed, it's the general opinion among the Catholics—"

"Papishes! you old dog."

"Well, then, Papishes—that he will—an' throth, I don't think the Papishes would put much trust in the same man."

"Where are you bound for now? and what brings you out at an illegal hour on this lonely road?" asked Steen.

"Troth, then, I'm on my way to Mr. Graham's above; for sure, whenever I'm near him, poor Paddy Brennan never wants for the good bit and sup, and the comfortable straw bed in the barn. May God reward him and his for it!"

Now, the truth was, that Graham, a wealthy and respectable Protestant farmer, was uncle to the sergeant; a fact which Fergus well knew, in consequence of having been a house servant with him for two or three years.

"Sergeant," said the Williamite settler, "I think this matter may be easily settled. Let two of the men go back to your uncle's with him, and see whether they know him there or not."

"Very well," replied the sergeant, "let you and Simpson go back with him—I have no objection. If my uncle's people don't know him, why then bring him down to Sir Roberts'."

"It's not fair to put such a task upon a man of my age," replied Steen, "when you know that you have younger men here."

"It was you proposed it, then," said the sergeant, "and I say, Steen, if you be a true man you have a right to go, and no right at all to shirk your duty. But stop—I'll settle it in a word's speaking: here you—you old Papish, where are you?—oh, I see—you're there, are you? Come now, gentlemen, shoulder arms—all right—present anns. Now, you confounded Papish, you say that you have often slept in my uncle's barn?"

"Is Mr. Graham your uncle, sir?—bekaise, if he is, I know that I'm in the hands of a respectable man."

"Come now—was there anything particular in the inside of that barn?—Gentlemen, are you ready to slap into him if we find him to be an imposther?"

"All ready, sergeant."

"Come now, you blasted Papish, answer me—"

"Troth, and I can do that, sargin'. You say Mr. Graham's your uncle, an' of coorse you have often been in that barn yourself. Very well, sir, don't you know that there's a prop on one side to keep up one of the cupples that gave way one stormy night, and there's a round hole in the lower part of the door to let the cats in to settle accounts wid the mice and rats."

"Come, come, boys, it's all right. He has described the barn to a hair. That will do, my Papish old cock. Come, I say, as every man must have a religion, and since the Papishes won't have ours, why the devil shouldn't they have one of their own?"

"That's dangerous talk," said Steen, "to proceed from your lips, sergeant. It smells of treason, I tell you; and if you had spoken these words in the days of the great and good King William, you might have felt the consequences."

"Treason and King William be hanged!" replied the sergeant, who was naturally a good-natured, but out-spoken fellow—"sooner than I'd take up a poor devil of a beggar that has enough to do to make out his bit and sup. Go on about your business, poor devil; you shan't be molested. Go to my uncle's, where you'll get a bellyfull, and a comfortable bed of straw, and a winnow-cloth in the barn. Zounds!—it would be a nice night's work to go out for Willy Reilly and to bring home a beggar man in his place."

This was a narrow escape upon the part of Fergus, who knew that if they had made' a prisoner of him, and produced him before Sir Robert Whitecraft, who was a notorious persecutor, and with whom the Red Rapparee was now located, he would unquestionably have been hanged like a dog. The officer of the party, however—to wit, the worthy sergeant—was one of those men who love a drop of the native, and whose heart besides it expands into a sort of surly kindness that has something comical and not disagreeable in it. In addition to this, he never felt a confidence in his own authority with half the swagger which he did when three quarters gone. Steen and he were never friends, nor indeed was Steen ever a popular man among his acquaintances. In matters of trade and business he was notoriously dishonest, and in the moral and social relations of life, selfish, uncandid, and treacherous. The sergeant, on the other hand, though an out-spoken and flaming anti-Papist in theory, was, in point of fact, a good friend to his Roman Catholic neighbors, who used to say of him that his bark was worse than his bite.

When his party had passed on, Fergus stood for a moment uncertain as to where he should direct his steps. He had not long to wait, however. Reilly, who had no thoughts of abandoning him to the mercy of the military, without at least knowing his fate, nor, we may add, without a firm determination to raising his tenantry, and rescuing the generous fellow at every risk, immediately sprung across the ditch and joined him.

"Well, Fergus," said he, clasping his hand, "I heard everything, and I can tell you that every nerve in my body trembled whilst you were among them."

"Why," said Fergus, "I knew them at once by their voices, and only that I changed my own as I did I won't say but they'd have nabbed me."

"The test of the barn was frightful; I thought you were gone; but you must explain that."

"Ay, but before I do," replied Fergus, "where are we to go? Do you still stand for widow Buckley's?"

"Certainly, that woman may be useful to me."

"Well, then, we may as well jog on in that direction, and as we go I will tell you."

"How then did you come to describe the barn—or rather, was your description correct?"

"Ay, as Gospel. You don't know that by the best of luck and providence of God, I was two years and a half an inside laborer with Mr. Graham. As is usual, all the inside men-servants slept, wintrier and summer, in the barn; and that accounts for our good fortune this night. Only for that scoundrel, Steen, however, the whole thing would not have signified much; but he's a black and deep villain that. Nobody likes him but his brother scoundrel, Whitecraft, and he's a favorite with him, bekaise he's an active and unscrupulous tool in his hands. Many a time, when these men—military-militia-yeomen, or whatever they call them, are sent out by this same Sir Robert, the poor fellows don't wish to catch what they call the unfortunate Papish-es, and before they come to the house they'll fire off their guns, pretinding to be in a big passion, but only to give their poor neighbors notice to escape as soon as they can."

In a short time they reached widow Buckley's cabin, who, on understanding that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a moment in opening the door and letting them in. There was no candle lit when they entered, but there was a bright turf fire "blinkin' bonnilie" in the fireplace, from which a mellow light emanated that danced upon the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser, but which fell still more strongly upon a clean and well-swept hearth, on one side of which was an humble armchair of straw, and on the other a grave, but placid-looking cat, purring, with half-closed eyes, her usual song for the evening.

"Lord bless us! Mr. Reilly, is this you? Sure it's little I expected you, any way; but come when you will, you're welcome. And who ought to be welcome to the poor ould widow if you wouldn't?"

"Take a stool and sit down, honest man," she said, addressing Fergus; "and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it's the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light a rush."

"No, Molly," replied Reilly, "I would be too heavy for your frail chair. I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better."

She then lit a rush-light, which she pressed against a small cleft of iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three feet long, which stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a churn-staff. Such are the lights, and such the candlesticks, that are to be found in the cabins and cottages of Ireland. "I suppose, Molly," said Reilly, "you are surprised at a visit from me just now?"

"You know, Mr. Reilly," she replied, "that if you came in the deadest hours of the night you'd be welcome, as I said—and this poor man is welcome too—sit over to the fire, poor man, and warm yourself. Maybe you're hungry; if you are I'll get you something to eat."

"Many thanks to you, ma'am," replied Fergus, "I'm not a taste hungry, and could ait nothing now; I'm much obliged to you at the same time."

"Mr. Reilly, maybe you'd like to ait a bit. I can give you a farrel of bread, and a sup o' nice goat's milk. God preserve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that's your four quarthers, Mr. Reilly. But sure every thing I have either came or comes from your hand; and if I can't thank you, God will do it for me, and that's betther still."

"No more about that, Molly—not a word more. Your long residence with my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, entitle you to more than that at the hands of her son."

"Mrs. Buckley," observed Fergus, "this is a quiet-looking little place you have here."

"And it is for that I like it," she replied. "I have pace here, and the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it. My only friend and companion here is the Almighty—praise and glory be to his name!"—and here she devoutly crossed herself—"bar-rin', indeed, when the light-hearted girshas (young girls) comes a kailyee* wid their wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, and rise her ould heart by their light and merry songs, the cratures."

*This means to spend a portion of the day, or a few hours of the night, in a neighbor's house, in agreeable and amusing conversation.

"That must be a relief to you, Molly," observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue.

"And so indeed it is," she replied; "and, poor things, sure if their sweethearts do come at the dusk to help them to carry home their spinning-wheels, who can be angry with them? It's the way of life, sure, and of the world."

She then went into another little room—for the cabin was divided into two—in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her principal occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about Fergus observed with a smile,

"Poor Molly! little she thinks that it's the bachelors, rather than any particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here."

"Yes, but," said Reilly, "you know it's the custom of the country."

"Mrs. Buckley," asked Fergus, "did the sogers ever pay you a visit?"

"They did once," she replied, "about six months ago or more."

"What in the name of wondher," he repeated, "could bring them to you?"

"They were out huntin' a priest," she replied, "that had done something contrary to the law."

"What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves?"

"Why," she answered, "they axed me if I had seen about the country a tight-looking fat little man, wid black twinklin' eyes and a rosy face, wid a pair o' priest's boots upon him, greased wid hog's lard? I said no, but to the revarse. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two beds about—poor Jemmy's—God rest my boy's sowl!—an'—afterwards my own. There was one that seemed to hould authority over the rest, and he axed who was my landlord? I said I had no landlord. They then said that surely I must pay rent to some one, but I said that I paid rent to nobody; that Mr. Reilly here, God bless him, gave me this house and garden free."

"And what did they say when you named Mr. Reilly?"

"Why, they said he was a dacent Papish, I think they called it; and that there wasn't sich another among them. They then lighted their pipes, had a smoke, went about their business, and I saw no more of them from that day to this."

Reilly felt that this conversation was significant, and that the widow's cabin was any thing but a safe place of refuge, even for a few hours. We have already said that he had been popular with all parties, which was the fact, until his acquaintance with the old squire and his lovely daughter. In the meantime the loves of Willy Reilly and the far-famed Cooleen Bawn had gone abroad over the whole country; and the natural result was that a large majority among those who were anxious to exterminate the Catholic Church by the rigor of bigoted and inhuman laws, looked upon the fact of a tolerated Papist daring to love a Protestant heiress, and the daughter of a man who was considered such a stout prop of the Establishment, as an act that deserved death itself. Reilly's affection for the Cooleen Bawn was considered, therefore, not only daring but treasonable. Those men, then, he reflected, who had called upon her while in pursuit of the unfortunate priest, had become acquainted with the fact of her dependence upon his bounty; and he took it for granted, very naturally and very properly, as the event will show, that now, while "on his keeping," it would not be at all extraordinary if they occasionally searched her remote and solitary cabin, as a place where he might be likely to conceal himself. For this night, however, he experienced no apprehension of a visit from them, but with what correctness of calculation we shall soon see.

"Molly," said he, this poor man and I must sit with you for a couple of hours, after which we will leave you to your rest."

"Indeed, Mr. Reilly," she replied, "from what I heard this day I can make a party good guess at the raison why you are here now, instead of bein' in your own comfortable house. You have bitther enemies; but God—blessed be his name—is stronger than any of them. However, I wish you'd let me get you and that poor man something to eat."

This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-light was nearly burned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a cam or grisset, put it on the hearth-stone, with a portion of hog's lard in it; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire, until the broad portion of them, with which the turf is gripped, became red hot; she then placed the lard in the grisset between them, and squeezed it until nothing remained but pure oil; through this she slowly drew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the grease, after which she left them on a little table to cool. Among the poorer classes—small farmers and others—this process is performed every evening a little before dusk. Having thus supplied them with these lights, the pious widow left them to their own conversation and retired to the little room in order to repeat her rosary. We also will leave them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers to follow us to a different scene.



CHAPTER VII.—An Accidental Incident favorable to Reilly

—And a Curious Conversation

We return to the party from whom Fergus Reilly had so narrow an escape. As our readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft. That gentleman was alone in his library, surrounded by an immense collection of books which he never read. He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no more than his butler, nor perhaps so much. At once sensual, penurious, and bigoted, he spent his whole time in private profligacy—for he was a hypocrite, too—in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as a champion for Protestant principles. Whenever an unfortunate Roman Catholic, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh and cruel law of which probably he had never heard, who so active in collecting his myrmidons, in order to uncover, hunt, and run down his luckless victim? And yet he was not popular. No one, whether of his own class or any other, liked a bone in his skin. Nothing could infect him with the genial and hospitable spirit of the country, whilst at the same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitality of others, merely because it saved him a meal. All that sustained his character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people called the uncompromising energy of his principles as a sound and vigorous Protestant.

"Sink them all together," he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of soliloquy—"Church and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to make the best use we can of them? Here I am prevented from going to that girl to-night—and that barbarous old blockhead of a squire, who was so near throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel: and doubly, trebly, quadruply cursed be that same rebel for crossing my path as he has done. The cursed light-headed jade loves him too—there's no doubt of that—but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall, and, by —-, his rebel carcass shall feed the crows. But what noise is that? They have returned; I must go down and learn their success."

He was right. Our friend the tipsy sergeant and his party were at the hall-door, which was opened as he went down, and he ordered lights into the back parlor. In a few minutes they were ushered in, where they found him seated as magisterially as possible in a large arm-chair.

"Well, Johnston," said he, assuming as much dignity as he could, "what has been your success?"

"A bad evening's sport, sir; we bagged nothing—didn't see a feather."

"Talk sense, Johnston," said he sternly, "and none of this cant. Did you see or hear any thing of the rebel?"

"Why, sir, we did; it would be a devilish nice business if a party led and commanded by George Johnston should go out without hearin' and seein' something."

"Well, but what did you see and hear, sir?"

"Why, we saw Reilly's house, and a very comfortable one it is; and we heard from the servants that he wasn't at home."

"You're drunk, Johnston."

"No, sir, begging your pardon, I'm only hearty; besides, I never discharge my duty half so well as when I'm drunk; If feel no colors then."

"Johnston, if I ever know you to get drunk on duty again I shall have you reduced."

"Reduced!" replied Johnston, "curse the fig I care whether you do or not; I'm actin' as a volunteer, and I'll resign."

"Come, sir," replied Sir Robert, "be quiet; I will overlook this, for you are a very good man if you could keep yourself sober."

"I told you before, Sir Robert, that I'm a better man when I'm drunk."

"Silence, sir, or I shall order you out of the room."

"Please your honor," observed Steen, "I have a charge to make against George Johnston."

"A charge, Steen—what is it? You are a staunch, steady fellow, I know; what is this charge?"

"Why, sir, we met a suspicious character on the old bridle road beyond Reilly's, and he refused to take him prisoner."

"A poor half-Papist beggarman, sir," replied Johnston, "who was on his way to my uncle's to stop there for the night. Divil a scarecrow in Europe would exchange clothes with him without boot."

Steen then related the circumstances with which our readers are acquainted, adding that he suggested to Johnston the necessity of sending a couple of men up with him to ascertain whether what, he said was true or not; but that he flatly refused to do so—and after some nonsense about a barn he let him off.

"I'll tell you what, sir," said Johnston, "I'll hunt a priest or a Papish that breaks the law with any man livin', but hang me if ever I'll hunt a harmless beggarman lookin' for his bit."

At this period of the conversation the Red Rapparee, now in military uniform, entered the parlor, accompanied by some others of those violent men.

"Steen," said the baronet, "what or who do you suppose this ragged ruffian was?"

"Either a Rapparee, sir, or Reilly himself."

"O'Donnel," said he, addressing the Red Robber, "what description of disguises do these villains usually assume? Do they often go about as beggarmen?"

"They may have changed their hand, sir, since I became a legal subject, but, before that, three-fourths of us—of them—the villains, I mane—went about in the shape of beggars."

"That's important," exclaimed the baronet. "Steen, take half a dozen mounted men—a cavalry party have arrived here a little while ago, and are waiting further orders—I thought if Reilly had been secured it might have been necessary for them to escort him to Sligo. Well, take half a dozen mounted I men, and, as you very properly suggested, proceed with all haste to farmer Graham's, and see whether this mendicant is there or not; if he is there, take him into custody at all events, and if he is not, then it is clear he is a man for whom we ought to be on the lookout."

"I should like to go with them, your honor," said the Red Rapparee.

"O'Donnel," said Sir Robert, "I have other business for you to-night."

"Well, plaise your honor," said O'Donnel, "as they're goin' in that direction, let them turn to the left after passin' the little stranie that crosses the road, I mane on their way home; if they look sharp they'll find a little boreen that—but indeed they'll scarcely make it out in the dark, for it's a good way back in the fields—I mane the cabin of widow Buckley. If there's one house more than another in the whole countryside where! Reilly is likely to take shelter in, that's it. He gave her that cabin and a large garden free, and besides allows her a small yearly pension. But remember, you can't bring your horses wid you—you must lave some of the men to take charge of them in the boreen till you come back. I wish you'd let me go with them, sir."

"I cannot, O'Donnel; I have other occupation for you to-night."

Three or four of them declared that they knew the cottage right well, and could find it out without much difficulty. "They had been there," they said, "some six or eight months before upon a priest chase." The matter was so arranged, and the party set out upon their expedition.

It is unnecessary to say that these men had their journey for nothing; but at the same time one fact resulted from it, which I was, that the ragged mendicant they had met must have been some one well worth looking after. The deuce of it was, however, that, owing to the darkness of the night, there was not one among them who could have known Fergus the next day if they had met him. They knew, however, that O'Donnel, the Rapparee, was a good authority on the subject, and the discovery of the pretended mendicant's imposture was a proof of it. On this account, when they had reached the boreen alluded to, on their return from Graham's, they came to the resolution of leaving their horses in charge, as had been suggested to them, and in silence, and with stealthy steps, pounce at once into the widow's cabin. Before they arrived there, however, we shall take the liberty of preceding them for a few minutes, and once more transport our readers to its bright but humble hearth.

About three hours or better had elapsed, and our two friends were still seated, maintaining the usual chat with Mrs. Buckley, who had finished her prayers and once, more rejoined them.

"Fergus, like a good fellow," whispered Reilly, "slip out for a minute or two; there's—a circumstance I wish to mention to Molly—I assure you it's of a very private and particular nature and only for her own ear."

"To be sure," replied Fergus; "I want, at all events, to stretch my legs, and to see what the night's about."

He accordingly left the cabin.

"Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly, "it was not for nothing I came here to-night. I have a favor to ask of you."

"Your favor's granted, sir," she replied—"granted, Mr. Reilly, even before I hear it—that is, supposin' always that it's in my power—to do it for you."

"It is simply to carry a letter—and be certain that it shall be delivered to the proper person."

"Well," she replied, "sure that's aisily done. And where am I to deliver it?" she asked.

"That I shall let you know on some future occasion—perhaps within the course of a week or so."

"Well, sir," she replied, "I'd go twenty miles to deliver it—and will do so wid a heart and a half."

"Well, Molly, I can tell you your journey won't be so far; but there is one thing you are to observe—you must never breathe it to a human creature."

"I thought you knew me better, Mr. Reilly."

"It would be impossible, however, to be too strict here, because you don't know how much depends upon it."

At this moment Fergus put in his head, and said, "For Christ's sake, snuff out the candle, and Reilly—fly!—There are people in the next field!—quick!—quick!"

Reilly snatched up his hat, and whispered to the widow, "Deny that you saw me, or that there was any one here!—Put out the candle!—they might see our figures darkening the light as we go out!"

Fergus and Reilly immediately planted themselves behind a whitethorn hedge, in a field adjoining the cabin, in order to reconnoitre the party, whoever they might be, which they could do in safety. This act of reconnoitering, however, was performed by the ear, and not at all by the eye; the darkness of the night rendered that impossible. Of course the search in the widow's cabin was equally fruitless.

"Now," whispered Reilly, "we'll go in a line parallel with the road, but at a safe distance from them, until they reach the cross-roads. If they turn towards my house, we are forewarned, but if they turn towards Sir Robert's, it is likely that I may have an opportunity of securing my cash and papers." On reaching the cross-roads alluded to, the party, much to the satisfaction of Reilly and his companion, did turn towards the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, thus giving the fugitives full assurance that nothing further was to be apprehended from them that night. The men in fact felt fatigued and were anxious to get to bed.

After approaching Reilly's house very cautiously, and with much circumspection—not an outhouse, or other place of concealment, having been left unexamined—they were about to enter, when Reilly, thinking that no precaution on such an occasion ought to be neglected, said:

"Fergus, we are so far safe; but, under all circumstances, I think it right and prudent that you should keep watch outside. Mark me, I will place Tom Corrigan—you know him—at this window, and if you happen to see anything in the shape of a human being, or to hear, for instance, any noise, give the slightest possible tap upon the glass, and that will be sufficient."

It was so arranged, and Reilly entered the house; but, as it happened, Fergus's office proved a sinecure; although, indeed, when we consider his care and anxiety, we can scarcely say so. At all events, Reilly returned in about half an hour, bearing under his arm a large dark portfolio, which, by the way, was securely locked.

"Is all right?" asked Fergus.

"All is right," replied the other. "The servants have entered into an arrangement to sit up, two in turn each night, so as to be ready to give me instant admittance whenever I may chance to come."

"But now where are you to place these papers?" asked his companion. "That's a difficulty."

"It is, I grant," replied Reilly, "but after what has happened, I think widow Buckley's cabin the safest place for a day or two. Only that the hour is so unseasonable, I could feel little difficulty in finding a proper place of security for them, but as it is, we must only deposit them for the present with the widow."

The roads of Ireland at this period if roads they could be called were not only in a most shameful, but dangerous, state. In summer they were a foot deep with dust, and in winter at least eighteen inches with mud. This, however, was by no means the worst of it. They were studded, at due intervals, with ruts so deep that if a horse! happened to get into one of them he went down to the saddle-skirts. They were treacherous, too, and such as no caution could guard against; because, where the whole surface of the road was one mass of mud, it was impossible to distinguish these horse-traps at all. Then, in addition to these, were deep gullies across the roads, worn away by small rills, proceeding from rivulets in the adjoining uplands, which were; principally dry, or at least mere threads of water in summer, but in winter became pigmy torrents that tore up the roads across which they passed, leaving them in the dangerous state we have described.

As Reilly and his companion had got out upon the road, they were a good deal surprised, and not a little alarmed, to see a horse, without a rider, struggling to extricate himself out of one of the ruts in question. "What is this?" said Fergus. "Be on your guard."

"The horse," observed Reilly, "is without! a rider; see what it means."

Fergus approached with all due caution, and on examining the place discovered a man lying apparently in a state of insensibility.

"I fear," said he, on returning to Reilly, "that his rider has been hurt; he is lying senseless about two or three yards before the horse."

"My God!" exclaimed the other, "perhaps he has been killed; let us instantly assist him. Hold this portfolio whilst I render him whatever assistance I can."

As he spoke they heard a heavy groan, and on approaching found the man sitting; but still unable to rise.

"You have unfortunately been thrown, sir," said Reilly; "I trust in God you are not seriously hurt."

"I hope not, sir," replied the man, "but I was stunned, and have been insensible for some time; how long I cannot say."

"Good gracious, sir!" exclaimed Reilly, "is this Mr. Brown?"

"It is, Mr. Reilly; for heaven's sake aid me to my limbs—that is, if I shall be able to stand upon them." Reilly did so, but found that he could not stand or walk without' assistance. The horse, in the meantime, had extricated himself.

"Come, Mr. Brown," said Reilly, "you! must, allow me to assist you home. It is very fortunate that you have not many perches to go. This poor man will lead your horse up to the stable."

"Thank you, Mr. Reilly," replied the gentleman, "and in requital for your kindness you must take a bed at my house tonight. I am aware of your position," he added in a confidential voice, "and that you cannot safely sleep in your own; with me you will be secure."

Reilly thanked him, and said that this kind offer was most welcome and acceptable, as, in point of fact, he scarcely knew that night where to seek rest with safety. They accordingly proceeded to the parsonage—for Mr. Brown was no other than the Protestant rector of the parish, a man with whom Reilly was on the most friendly and intimate terms, and a man, we may add, who omitted no opportunity of extending shelter, protection, and countenance to such Roman Catholics as fell under the suspicion or operation of the law. On this occasion he had been called very suddenly to the deathbed of a parishioner, and was then on his return home, after having administered to the dying man the last consolations of religion.

On reaching the parsonage, Fergus handed the portfolio to its owner, and withdrew to seek shelter in some of his usual haunts for the night; but Mr. Brown, aided by his wife, who sat up for him, contrived that Reilly should be conducted to a private room, without the knowledge of the servants, who were sent as soon as possible to bed. Before Reilly withdrew, however, that night, he requested Mr. Brown to take charge of his money and family papers, which the latter did, assuring him that they should be forthcoming whenever he thought proper to call for them. Mr. Brown had, not been seriously hurt, and was able in a day or two to pay the usual attention to the discharge of his duties.

Reilly, having been told where to find his bedroom, retired with confidence to rest. Yet we can scarcely term it rest, after considering the tumultuous and disagreeable events of the evening. He began to ponder upon the life of persecution to which Miss Folliard must necessarily be exposed, in consequence of her father's impetuous and fiery temper; and, indeed, the fact was, that he felt this reflection infinitely more bitter than any that touched himself. In these affectionate calculations of her domestic persecution he was a good deal mistaken, however, Sir Robert Whitecraft had now gained a complete ascendancy over the disposition and passions of her father. The latter, like many another country squire—especially of that day—when his word and will were law to his tenants and dependants, was a very great man indeed, when dealing with them. He could bluster and threaten, and even carry his threats into execution with a confident swagger that had more of magisterial pride and the pomp of property in it, than a sense of either light or justice. But, on the other hand, let him meet a man of his own rank, who cared nothing about his authority as a magistrate, or his assumption as a man of large landed property, and he was nothing but a poor weak-minded tool in his hands. So far our description is correct; but when such a knave as Sir Robert Whitecraft came in his way—a knave at once calculating, deceitful, plausible, and cunning—why, our worthy old squire, who thought himself a second Solomon, might be taken by the nose and led round the whole barony.

There is no doubt that he had sapiently laid down his plans—to harass and persecute his daughter into a marriage with Sir Robert, and would have probably driven her from under his roof, had he not received the programme of his conduct from Whitecraft. That cowardly caitiff had a double motive in this. He found that if her father should "pepper her with persecution," as the old fellow said, before marriage, its consequences might fall upon his own unlucky head afterwards—in other words, that Helen would most assuredly make him then suffer, to some purpose, for all that his pretensions to her hand had occasioned her to undergo previous to their union; for, in truth, if there was one doctrine which Whitecraft detested more than another—and with good reason too—it was that of Retribution.

"Mr. Folliard," said Whitecraft in the very last conversation they had on this subject, "you must not persecute your daughter on my account."

"Mustn't I? Why hang it, Sir Robert, isn't persecution the order of the day? If she doesn't marry you quietly and willingly, we'll turn her out, and hunt her like a priest."

"No, Mr. Folliard, violence will never do. On the contrary, you must change your hand, and try an opposite course. If you wish to rivet her affections upon that Jesuitical traitor still more strongly, persecute her; for there is nothing in this life that strengthens love so much as opposition and violence. The fair ones begin to look upon themselves as martyrs, and in proportion as you are severe and inexorable, so in proportion are they resolved to win the crown that is before them. I would not press your daughter but that I believe love to be a thing that exists before marriage—never after. There's the honeymoon, for instance. Did ever mortal man or mortal woman hear or dream of a second honeymoon? No, sir, for Cupid, like a large blue-bottle, falls into, and is drowned, in the honey-pot."

"Confound me," replied the squire, "if I understand a word you say. However, I dare say it may be very good sense for all that, for you always had a long noddle. Go on."

"My advice to you then, sir, is this-make as few allusions to her marriage with me as possible; but, in the meantime, you may praise me a little, if you wish; but, above all things, don't run down Reilly immediately after paying either my mind or person any compliment. Allow the young lady to remain quiet for a time. Treat her with your usual kindness and affection; for it is possible, after all, that she may do more from her tenderness and affection for you than we could expect from any other motive; at all events, until we shall succeed in hanging or transporting this rebellious scoundrel."

"Very good—so he is. Good William! what a son-in-law I should have! I who transported one priest already!"

"Well, sir, as I was saying, until we shall have succeeded in hanging or transporting him. The first would be the safest, no doubt: but until we shall be able to accomplish either one or the other, we have not much to expect in the shape of compliance from your daughter. When the villain is removed, however, hope, on her part, will soon die out—love will lose its pabulum."

"Its what?" asked the squire, staring at him with a pair of round eyes that were full of perplexity and wonder.

"Why, it means food, or rather fodder."

"Curse you, sir," replied the squire indignantly; "do you want to make a beast of my daughter?"

"But it's a word, sir, applied by the poets, as the food of Cupid."

"Cupid! I thought he was drowned in the honey-pot, yet he's up again, and as brisk as ever, it appears. However, go on—let us understand fairly what you're at. I think I see a glimpse of it; and knowing your character upon the subject of persecution as I do, it's more, I must say, than I expected from you. Go on—I bid you."

"I say, then, sir, that if Reilly were either hanged or out of the country, the consciousness of this would soon alter matters with Miss Folliard. If you, then, sir, will enter into an agreement with me, I shall undertake so to make the laws bear upon Reilly as to rid either the world or the country of him; and you shall promise not to press upon your daughter the subject of her marriage with me until then. Still, there is one thing you must do; and that is, to keep her under the strictest surveillance."

"What the devil's that?" said the squire.

"It means," returned his expected son-in-law, "that she must be well watched, but without feeling that she is so."

"Would it not be better to lock her up at once?" said her father. "That would be making the matter sure."

"Not at all," replied Whitecraft. "So sure as you lock her up, so sure she will break prison."

"Well, upon my soul," replied her father. "I can't see that. A strong lock and key are certainly the best surety for the due appearance of any young woman disposed to run away. I think the best way would be to make her feel at once that her father is a magistrate, and commit her to her own room until called upon to appear."

Whitecraft, whose object was occasionally to puzzle his friend, gave a cold grin, and added:

"I suppose your next step would be to make her put in security. No—no, Mr. Folliard; if you will be advised by me, try the soothing system; antiphlogistic remedies are always the best in a case like hers."

"Anti—what? Curse me, if I can understand every tenth word you say. However, I give you credit, Whitecraft; for upon my soul I didn't think you knew half so much as you do. That last, however, is a tickler—a nut that I can't crack. I wish I could only get my tongue about it, till I send it among the Grand Jury, and maybe there wouldn't be wigs on the green in making it out."

"Yes, I fancy it would teach them a little supererogation."

"A little what? Is it love that has made you so learned, Whitecraft, or so unintelligible, which? Why, man, if your passion increases, in another week there won't be three men out of Trinity College able to understand you. You will become a perfect oracle. But, in the meantime, let us see how the arrangement stands. Imprimus, you are to hang or transport Keilly; and, until then, I am not to annoy my daughter with any allusions to this marriage: but, above all things, not to compare you and Reilly with one another in her presence, lest it might strengthen her prejudices against you."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Folliard. I did not say so; I fear no comparison with the fellow."

"No matter, Sir Robert, if you did not knock it down you staggered it. Omitting the comparison, however, I suppose that so far I am right."

"I think so, sir," replied the other, conscious, "after all, that he had got a touch of 'Roland for his Oliver'."

Then he proceeded: "I'm to watch her closely, only she's not to know it. Now, I'll tell you what, Sir Robert, I know you carry a long noddle, with more hard words in it than I ever gave you credit for—but with regard to what you expect from me now—"

"I don't mean that you should watch her personally yourself, Mr. Folliard."

"I suppose you don't; I didn't think you did; but I'll tell you what—place the twelve labors of Hercules before me, and I'll undertake to perform them, if you wish, but to watch a woman, Sir Robert—and that woman keen and sharp upon the cause of such vigilance—without her knowing it in one half hour's time—that is a task that never was, can, or will be accomplished. In the meantime, we must only come as near its accomplishment as we can."

"Just so, sir; we can do no more. Remember, then, that you perform your part of this arrangement, and, with the blessing of God, I shall leave nothing undone to perform mine."

Thus closed this rather extraordinary conversation, after which Sir Robert betook himself home, to reflect upon the best means of performing his part of it, with what quickness and dispatch, and with what success, our readers already know.

The old squire was one of those characters who never are so easily persuaded as when they do not fully comprehend the argument used to convince them. Whenever the squire found himself a little at fault, or confounded by either a difficult word or a hard sentence, he always took it for granted that there was something unusually profound and clever in the matter laid before him. Sir Robert knew this, and on that account played him off to a certain extent. He was too cunning, however, to darken any part of the main argument so far as to prevent its drift from being fully understood, and thereby defeating his own purpose.



CHAPTER VIII.—A Conflagration—An Escape—And an Adventure

We have said that Sir Robert Whitecraft was anything but a popular man—and we might have added that, unless among his own clique of bigots and persecutors, he was decidedly unpopular among Protestants in general. In a few days after the events of the night we have described, Reilly, by the advice of Mr. Brown's brother, an able and distinguished lawyer, gave up the possession of his immense farm, dwelling-house, and offices to the landlord. In point of fact, this man had taken the farm for Reilly's father, in his own name, a step which many of the liberal and generous Protestants of that period were in the habit of taking, to protect the property for the Roman Catholics, from such rapacious scoundrels as Whitecraft, and others like him, who had accumulated the greater portion of their wealth and estates by the blackest and most iniquitous political profligacy and oppression. For about a month after the first night of the unsuccessful pursuit after Reilly, the whole country was overrun with military parties, and such miserable inefficient police as then existed. In the meantime, Reilly escaped every toil and snare that had been laid for him. Sir Robert Whitecraft, seeing that hitherto he had set them at defiance, resolved to glut his vengeance on his property, since he could not arrest himself. A description of his person had been, almost from the commencement of the proceedings, published in the Hue-and-Cry, and he had been now outlawed. As even this failed, Sir Robert, as we said, came with a numerous party of his myrmidons, bringing along with them a large number of horses, carts, and cars. The house at this time was in the possession only of a keeper, a poor, feeble man, with a wife and a numerous family of small children, the other servants having fled from the danger in which their connection with Reilly involved them. Sir Robert, however, very deliberately brought up his cars and other vehicles, and having dragged out all the most valuable part of the furniture, piled it up, and had it conveyed to his own outhouses, where it was carefully-stowed. This act, however, excited comparatively little attention, for such outrages were not unfrequently committed by those who had, or at least who thought they had; the law in their own hands. It was now dusk, and the house had been gutted of all that had been most valuable in it—but the most brilliant part of the performance was yet to come. We mean no contemptible pun. The young man's dwelling-house, and office-houses were ignited at this moment by this man's military and other official minions, and in about twenty minutes they were all wrapped in one red, merciless mass of flame. The country people, on observing this fearful conflagration, flocked from all quarters; but a cordon of outposts was stationed at some distance around the premises, to prevent the peasantry from marking the chief actors in this nefarious outrage. Two gentlemen, however, approached, who, having given their names, were at once admitted to the burning premises. These were Mr. Brown, the clergyman, and Mr. Hastings, the actual and legal proprietor of all that had been considered Reilly's property. Both of them observed that Sir Robert was the busiest man among them, and upon making inquiries from the party, they were informed that they acted by his orders, and that, moreover, he was himself the very first individual who had set fire to the premises. The clergyman made his way to Sir Robert, on whose villainous countenance he could read a dark and diabolical triumph.

"Sir Robert Whitecraft," said Mr. Brown, "how conies such a wanton and unnecessary waste of property?"

"Because, sir," replied that gentleman, "it is the property of a popish rebel and outlaw, and is confiscated to the State."

"But do you possess authority for this conduct?—Are you the State?"

"In the spirit of our Protestant Constitution, certainly. I am a loyal Protestant magistrate, and a man of rank, and will hold myself accountable for what I do and have done. Come you, there," he added, "who have knocked down the pump, take some straw, light it up, and put it with pitchforks upon the lower end of the stable; it has not yet caught the flames."

This order was accordingly complied with, and in a few minutes the scene, if one could dissociate the mind from the hellish spirit which created it, had something terribly sublime in it.

Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who accompanied the clergyman, the real owner of the property, looked on with apparent indifference, but uttered not a word. Indeed, he seemed rather to enjoy the novelty of the thing than otherwise, and passed with Mr. Brown from place to place, as if to obtain the best points for viewing the fire.

Reilly's residence was a long, large, two-story house, deeply thatched; the kitchen, containing pantry, laundry, scullery, and all the usual appurtenances connected with it, was a continuation of the larger house, but it was a story lower, and also deeply thatched. The out-offices ran in a long line behind the dwelling house, so that both ran parallel with each other, and stood pretty close besides, for the yard was a narrow one. In the meantime, the night, though dry, was dark and stormy. The wind howled through the adjoining trees like thunder, roared along the neighboring hills, and swept down in savage whirlwinds to the bottom of the lowest valleys. The greater portion of the crowd who were standing outside the cordon we have spoken of fled home, as the awful gusts grew stronger and stronger, in order to prevent their own houses from being stripped or unroofed, so that very few remained to witness the rage of the conflagration at its full height. The Irish peasantry entertain a superstition that whenever a strong storm of wind, without rain, arises, it has been occasioned by the necromantic spell of some guilty sorcerer, who, first having sold himself to the devil, afterwards raises him for some wicked purpose; and nothing but the sacrifice of a black dog or a black cock—the one without a white hair, and the other without a white feather—can prevent him from carrying away, body and soul, the individual who called him up, accompanied by such terrors. In fact the night, independently of the terrible accessory of the fire, was indescribably awful. Thatch portions of the ribs and roofs of houses were whirled along through the air; and the sweeping blast, in addition to its own howlings, was burdened with the loud screamings of women and children, and the stronger shoutings of men, as they attempted to make each other audible, amidst the roaring of the tempest.

This was terrible indeed; but on such a night, what must not the conflagration have been, fed by such pabulum—as Sir Robert himself would have said—as that on which it glutted its fiery and consuming appetite. We have said that the offices and dwelling-house ran parallel with each other, and such was the fact. What appeared singular, and not without the possibility of some dark supernatural causes, according to the impressions of the people, was, that the wind, on the night in question, started, as it were, along with the fire; but the truth is, it had been gamboling in its gigantic play before the fire commenced at all. In the meantime, as we said, the whole premises presented one fiery mass of red and waving flames, that shot and drifted up, from time to time, towards the sky, with the rapidity, and more than the terror, of the aurora borealis. As the conflagration proceeded, the high flames that arose from the mansion, and those that leaped up from the offices, several times met across the yard, and mingled, as if to exult in their fearful task of destruction, forming a long and distinct arch of flame, so exact and regular, that it seemed to proceed from the skill and effort of some powerful demon, who had made it, as it were, a fiery arbor for his kind. The whole country was visible to an astonishing distance, and overhead, the evening sky, into which the up-rushing pyramids seemed to pass, looked as if it had caught the conflagration, and was one red mass of glowing and burning copper. Around the house and premises the eye could distinguish a pin; but the strong light was so fearfully red that the deep tinge it communicated to the earth seemed like blood, and made it appear as if it had been sprinkled with it.

It is impossible to look upon a large and extensive conflagration without feeling the mind filled with imagery and comparisons, drawn from moral and actual life. Here, for instance, is a tyrant, in the unrestrained exercise of his power—he now has his enemy in his grip, and hear how he exults; listen to the mirthful and crackling laughter with which the fiendish despot rejoices, as he gains the victory; mark the diabolical gambols with which he sports, and the demon glee with which he performs his capricious but frightful exultations. But the tyrant, after all, will become exhausted—his strength and power will fail him; he will destroy his own subjects; he will become feeble, and when he has nothing further on which to exercise his power, he will, like many another tyrant before him, sink, and be lost in the ruin he has made.

Again: Would you behold Industry? Here have its terrible spirits been appointed their tasks. Observe the energy, the activity, the persevering fury with which they discharge their separate duties. See how that eldest son of Apollyon, with the appetite of hell, licks into his burning maw every thing that comes in contact with his tongue of fire. What quickness of execution, and how rapidly they pass from place to place! how they run about in quest of employment! how diligently and effectually they search every nook and corner, lest anything might escape them! Mark the activity with which that strong fellow leaps across, from beam to beam, seizing upon each as he goes. A different task has been assigned to another: he attacks the rafters of the roof—he fails at first, but, like the constrictor, he first licks over his victim before he destroys it—bravo!—he is at it again—it gives way—he is upon it, and about it; and now his difficulties are over—the red wood glows, splits and crackles, and flies off in angry flakes, in order to become a minister to its active and devouring master. See! observe! What business—what a coil and turmoil of industry! Every flame at work—no idle hand here—no lazy lounger reposing. No, no—the industry of a hive of bees is nothing to this. Running up—running down—running in all directions: now they unite together to accomplish some general task, and again disperse themselves to perform their individual appointments.

But hark! what comes here? Room for another element. 'Tis the windstorm, that comes to partake in the triumph of the victory which his ministers have assisted to gain. But lo! here he comes in person; and now they unite—or how?—Do they oppose each other? Here does the windstorm drive back the god of fire from his victim; again the fiery god attempts to reach it; and again he feels that he has met more than his match. Once, twice, thrice he has failed in getting at it. But is this conflict real—this fierce battle between the elements? Alas, no; they are both tyrants, and what is to be expected?

The wind god, always unsteady, wheels round, comes to the assistance of his opponent, and gives him new courage, new vigor, and new strength. But his inferior ministers must have a share of this dreadful repast. Off go a thousand masses of burning material, whirling along. Off go the; glowing timbers and rafters, on the wind, by which they are borne in thousands of red meteors across the sky. But hark, again! Room for the whirlwind! Here it comes, and addresses itself to yon tall and waving pyramid; they embrace; the pyramid is twisted into the figure of a gigantic corkscrew—round they go, rapid as thought; the thunder of the wind supplies them with the appropriate music, and continues until; this terrible and gigantic waltz of the elements is concluded. But now these fearful ravagers are satisfied, because they have nothing more on which they can glut themselves. They appear, however, to be seated. The wind has become low, and is only able to work up a feeble effort at its former strength. The flames, too, are subsiding—their power is gone; occasional jets of fire I come forth, but they instantly disappear. By degrees, and one after another, they vanish. Nothing now is visible but smoke, and every thing is considered as over—when lo! like a great general, who has achieved a triumphant victory, it is deemed right to; take a last look at the position of the enemy. Up, therefore, starts an unexpected burst of flame—blazes for a while; looks about it, as it were; sees that the victory is complete, and drops down into the darkness from which it came. The conflagration is over; the wind-storm is also appeased. Small hollow gusts, amongst the trees and elsewhere, are now all that are heard. By degrees, even these cease; and the wind is now such as it was in the course of the evening, when the elements were comparatively quiet and still.

Mr. Brown and his friend, Mr. Hastings, having waited until they saw the last rafter of unfortunate Reilly's house and premises sink into a black mass of smoking ruins, turned their steps to the parsonage, which they had no sooner entered than they went immediately to Reilly's room, who was still there under concealment. Mr. Brown, however, went out again and returned with some wine, which he placed upon the table.

"Gentlemen," said Reilly, "this has become an awful night; the wind has been tremendous, and has done a good deal of damage, I fear, to your house and premises, Mr. Brown. I heard the slates falling about in great numbers; and the inmates of the house were, as far as I could judge, exceedingly alarmed."

"It was a dreadful night in more senses than one," replied Mr. Brown.

"By the by," said Reilly, "was there not a fire somewhere in the neighborhood, I observed through the windows a strong light flickering and vibrating, as it were, over the whole country. What must it have been?"

"My dear Reilly," replied Mr. Brown, "be calm; your house and premises are, at this moment, one dark heap of smouldering ruins."

"Oh, yes—I understand," replied Reilly—"Sir Robert Whitecraft."

"Sir Robert Whitecraft," replied Mr. Brown; "it is too true, Reilly—you are now houseless and homeless; and may God forgive him!"

Reilly got up and paced the room several times, then sat down, and filling himself a glass of wine, drank it off; then looking at each of them, said, in a voice rendered hoarse by the indignation and resentment which he felt himself compelled, out of respect for his kind friends, to restrain, "Gentlemen," he repeated, "what do you call this"

"Malice—persecution—vengeance," replied Mr. Brown, whose resentment was scarcely less than that of Reilly himself. "In the presence of God, and before all the world. I would pronounce it one of the most diabolical acts ever committed in the history of civil society. But you have one consolation, Reilly; your money and papers are safe."

"It is not that," replied Reilly; "I think not of them. It is the vindictive and persecuting spirit of that man—that monster—and the personal motives from which he acts, that torture me, and that plant in my heart a principle of vengeance more fearful than his. But you do not understand me, gentlemen; I could smile at all he has done to myself yet. It is of the serpent-tooth which will destroy the peace of others, that I think. All these motives being considered, what do you think that man deserves at my hand?"

"My dear Reilly," said the clergyman, "recollect that there is a Providence; and that we cannot assume to ourselves the disposition of His judgments, or the knowledge of His wisdom. Have patience. Your situation is one of great distress and almost unexampled difficulty. At all events, you are, for the present, safe under this roof; and although I grant you have much to suffer, still you have a free conscience, and, I dare say, would not exchange your position for that of your persecutor."

"No," said Reilly; "most assuredly not—most assuredly not; no, not for worlds. Yet is it not strange, gentlemen, that that man will sleep sound and happily to-night, whilst I will lie upon a bed of thorns?"

At this moment Mrs. Brown tapped gently at the door, which was cautiously opened by her husband.

"John," said she, "here is a note which I was desired to give to you without a moment's delay."

"Thank you, my love; I will read it instantly.".

He then bolted the door, and coming to the table took up one of the candles and read the letter, which he handed to Mr. Hastings. Now we have already stated that this gentleman, whilst looking on at the destruction of Reilly's property, never once opened his lips. Neither did he, from the moment they entered Reilly's room. He sat like a dumb man, occasionally helping himself to a glass of wine. After having perused the note he merely nodded, but said not a word; he seemed to have lost the faculty of speech. At length Mr. Brown spoke:

"This is really too bad, my dear Reilly; here is a note signed H.F., which informs me that your residence, concealment, or whatever it is, has been discovered by Sir Robert Whitecraft, and that the military are on their way here to arrest you; you must instantly fly."

Hastings then got up, and taking Reilly's hand, said:

"Yes, Reilly, you must escape—disguise yourself—take all shapes—since you will not leave the country; but there is one fact I wish to impress upon you: meddle not with—injure not—Sir Robert Whitecraft. Leave him to me."

"Go out by the back way," said Mr. Brown, "and fly into the fields, lest they should surround the house and render escape impossible. God bless you and preserve you from the violence of your enemies!"

It is unnecessary to relate what subsequently occurred. Mr. Brown's premises, as he had anticipated, were completely surrounded ere the party in search of Reilly had demanded admittance. The whole house was searched from top to bottom, but, as usual, without success. Sir Robert Whitecraft himself was not with them, but the party were all but intoxicated, and, were it not for the calm and unshrinking firmness of Mr. Brown, would have been guilty of a very offensive degree of insolence.

Reilly, in the meantime, did not pass far from the house. On the contrary, he resolved to watch from a safe place the motions of those who were in pursuit of him. In order to do this more securely, he mounted into the branches of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the centre of a field adjoining a kind of back lawn that stretched from the walled garden of the parsonage. The fact is, that the clergyman's house had two hall-doors—one in front, and the other in the rear—and as the rooms commanded a view of the scenery behind the house, which was much finer than that in front, on this account the back hall-door was necessary, as it gave them a free and easy egress to the lawn we have mentioned, from which a magnificent prospect was visible.

It was obvious that the party, though unsuccessful, had been very accurately informed. Finding, however, that the bird had flown, several of them galloped across the lawn—it was a cavalry party, having been sent out for speed and passed into the field where the tree grew in which Reilly was concealed. After a useless search, however, they returned, and pulled up their horses under the oak.

"Well," said one of them, "it's a dear case that the scoundrel can make himself invisible. We have orders from Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to put the matter upon the principle of resistance against the law, on his side. Sir Robert has been most credibly informed that that disloyal parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month. Now who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a Protestant parson? What the deuce is keeping those fellows? I hope they won't go too far into the country."

"Any man that says Mr. Brown is a disloyal parson is a liar," said one of them in a stem voice.

"And I say," said another, with a hiccough, "that, hang me, but I think this same Reilly is as loyal a man as e'er a one amongst us. My name is George Johnston, and I'm not ashamed of it; and the truth is, that only Miss Folliard fell in love with Reilly, and refused to marry Sir Robert, Reilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him. But, by —- it was too bad to burn his house and place—and see whether Sir Robert will come off the better of it. I myself am a good Protestant—show me the man that will deny that, and I'll become his schoolmaster only for five minutes. I do say, and I'll tell it to Sir Robert's face, that there's something wrong somewhere. Give me a Papish that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman, and I'm the boy that will take a grip of him if I can get him. But, confound me, if I like to be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime except that of having property that chaps like Sir Robert have their eye on. Now suppose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated us so, what would you say?"

"All I can say is," replied another of them, "that I'd wish to get the reward."

"Curse the reward," said Johnston, "I like fair play."

"But how did Sir Robert come to know?" asked another, "that Reilly was with the parson'?"

"Who the deuce here can tell that?" replied several.

"The thing was a hoax," said Johnston, "and a cursed uncomfortable one for us. But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems. Well, boys, no trail of this cunning fox?"

"Trail!" exclaimed the others. "Gad, you might as well hunt for your grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw. The truth is, the man's not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the parson keeping him was some enemy of the parson's more than of Reilly's, I'll go bail. Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of our luck, and then to our barracks."

Now at this period it was usual for men who were prominent for rank and loyalty, and whose attachment to the Constitution and Government was indicated by such acts and principles as those which we have hitherto read in the life of Sir Robert. Whitecraft—we say, it was usual for such as him to be allowed a small detachment of military, whose numbers were mostly rated, according to the services he required of them, by the zeal and activity of their employer, as well as for his protection; and, in order to their accommodation, some uninhabited house in the neighborhood was converted into a barrack for the purpose. Such was the case in the instance of Sir Robert Whitecraft, who, independently of his zeal for the public good, was supposed to have an eye in this disposition of things, to his own personal Safety. He consequently, had his little barrack so closely adjoining his house that a notice of five minutes could at any time have its inmates at his premises, or in his presence.