University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Wordsworth.

The sun had long set before the little cavalcade, crossing
the valley and the broad river by the old stone bridge, arrived
at the base of the main mountain of Slievh-Buy. After passing
the great stream, two several glens, each with its foaming
tributary, had been traversed; and now a third, darker, deeper,
and more difficult than any which had yet been encountered;
and as they descended into its black and abrupt ravine, the
waning light which was fast fading in the western sky deserted
them entirely, and it was only by the deep and angry roar
of waters that they could judge of the force and volume of
the torrent into which they were about to plunge.

The road leading downward into this darksome gulf was
scarped and hewn by the pick and chisel, out of the solid rock
which walled the chasm, and descended by three steep traverses
from the summit of the crags to the level of the stream; but its
soil, which was evidently artificial, was soft though firm, and
afforded a good foot-hold to the hoofs of the active and surefooted
Irish horses. As they rode down into the lower gloom,
it grew not only palpably obscure at every step, but so damp
and cold from the thick mist-wreaths and spray of the torrent,
that O'Neil's teeth chattered audibly in his jaws, and his hand
shivered, so that he could scarcely hold his horse. They
reached the bottom, and a broad black pool lay before them,
with a few wreaths of foam floating round and round in its
whirling eddies, and embossing its dark surface, like spume
flakes on the glossy hide of a coal-black charger; while at a
short distance upward, to the right hand, stood erect, though

wavering to and fro in the darkness, and momently changing
its aspect, what looked at first like a gigantic sheeted phantom,
but what was in reality the great descending column of the mountain
cataract, whose roar they had heard for the last half-hour.
Downward to the left hand, nothing could be perceived, but
the salient angles of the perpendicular walls of the ravine
—their bases lost in the blackness of what seemed a fathomless
abyss, whence rose the hoarse voice of the tortured river raving
in impotent rage against the obstacles which barred its
headlong way.

Even by day it was a fearful pass; at night it was most perilous;
and unable to judge the depth of the sullen forward, or
even to distinguish the mouth of the mountain road on the farther
brink, he must have been a rash and reckless man who
would have attempted to ride it at that hour, and in that fading
light. Dermot O'Brien himself, to whom every turn and pass
in those hills was familiar from his boyhood, drew his rein
doubtfully, and paused at the brink of the ford; until one or
two of the kernes, who had ridden in the rear with the hounds,
dismounted, and came running down the road to the master's
stirrup.

“Torlogh,” said he, addressing the first comer, a wild, shock-headed
varlet, having his hair hanging in glibbes or knotled
elf-locks over his shoulders—and wearing the old national costume
of the shirt of saffron-dyed linen, with a coarse scarf or
mantle of groen woollen stuff above it—“Torlogh, the waters
are up, I think, since morning. There must have been rain in
the hills since we crossed at daybreak. I cannot see the guidestone
on the other side, and I doubt it is not passable!”

He spoke in the Erse tongue, and in the same his vassal answered
him, in a few brief accents, during the utterance of
which, he cast off his cloak and his brogues of untanned hide,
and made himself ready to plunge into the stream.

O'Brien remonstrated and half forbade him, but the wild
vassal would hear no denial, but stepped fearlessly into the

water, which, before he was ten feet distant from the bank,
took him up nearly to the arm-pits.

“It has risen!” he exclaimed. Hold back, my lord, it is
very strong—it is—”

But ere he had completed the sentence, he was swept off his
legs by the force of the stream, and whirled down the channel,
striking out powerfully, and swimming high and strongly, till
they lost sight of him in the deep shadows.

“Come back!” shouted O'Brien, greatly moved at his peril.
“Come back, I command you, Torlogh! You were insane to
try it—and I scarce less so to permit the trial. Come back, I
say! I will not have your blood on my head—and you my foster
brother!”

But the other man, who had accompanied Torlogh to the
brink, and had been carefully examining the state of the water,
now raised his voice and shouted as loudly as he could:
“Hold over, Torlogh, boy—hold over!” Four stout strokes
more will stem it!” And then turning to the earl, who was not
well pleased at hearing his orders countermanded thus,—“To
turn back would be sure death, if it please you!” he said.
“Before he could face the eddy he would be swept over the
black boar's back, and plunged into the hell-kettle, down below
there! The current is strongest on this bank, and will set him
over!”

The earl made no reply; but his heart was very full, and his
anxiety was almost irrepressible; for the man was a favorite,
both as a faithful and favored follower, and as the son of the
woman by whom he had been himself nursed—a connection
which was considered at that time, and in that country, as second
only to a close blood relationship.

To all it was a minute of extreme and torturing suspense,
and every one listened as if his life depended on his ears, for
the least sign that should tell of the swimmer's whereabout. It
was but a minute, however; for the stream was not twenty-five
yards over, although the peculiarity of its scenery, the indistinctness

of the light, and the exaggerated idea of its importance
derived from its arrowy rush, and deep melancholy
roar, caused the bystanders—even those who knew the place—
to over-estimate the time, and perhaps the peril.

Within a minute, however, a wild, cheery shout was raised
on the other verge, announcing the safe landing of the hardy
clansman, at a point some twenty or thirty paces lower down
the stream than that where they stood, and a second or two afterwards,
a bright spark of light was seen opposite, and then a
clear glancing blaze as he kindled a splinter of dry bog pine—
stores of which lay piled in the clefts of the ravine—and waved
it above his head.

“Here is the white mark stone!” he shouted, “but its head
only is above the foam. Tarry, awhile, and stir not for your
lives, until I light a beacon up that shall guide you. I think
too,” he added, “that the stream is lowering even now.”

“That is good counsel, anywise!” said the old man who had
shouted before, and who was no other than the O'Brien's chief
huntsman, and Torlogh's paternal uncle. “He will soon build
a pile of bog pine, that will make the pass as light as noonday;
and the stream is lowering too, for a certainty. It has shrunk
half a foot since I stood here. Look you, my lord!—this black
stone was covered but now!”—and with the word he struck the
massy top of a black boulder with his hunting pole,—“and
now the water is six inches below it!”

By this time the light on the farther shore began to increase
in size and volume, and to send up long wavering gleams
which kindled all the fantastic crags, and the wreathed roots of
the old fir trees, which grasped their flanks in coils like those
of giant serpents, and showed the dark figure of the clansman
flitting about his pyre, collecting fuel, and heaping it with an
unsparing hand, until the strong glow rushed up, roaring and
shooting out strange rocket-like jets of flame, and bright flakes
of fire among the volumes of white smoke. Then a broad
wake of light furrowed the ripples of the stream to the very

feet of the little party, and the clear glare illuminated the
whole gorge, playing upon the swarthy features and bright
arms of the clansmen, and bringing out the rocky pass above
them in strong relief, and rendering the whole ravine, in truth,
as the old huntsman had said, as bright as at noonday.

“Bravely done, Torlogh! Bravely done in faith!” cried the
earl. “Now we may, indeed, cross over safely; and by my
faith, the torrent has shrunk in its bed a foot since we reached
it. A little higher up, O'Neil!—a little higher up, I say!” he
added, riding a little way up the bank toward the cataract, before
entering the water. “So shall you have space to allow
for the drift of the brook, which is still strong and deep. Keep
your nag's head well to the current, and steer for the gravel
shoal there—ten feet or so on this side the beacon.”

Then, without farther words, the brave young lord spurred his
strong charger down into the channel; and though the horse
was reluctant to face the whirl and rush of the eddy, he managed
him with such consummate skill and power, that after a
floundering plunge and a few violent bounds, half-galloping,
half-swimming, he took ground on the farther bank, and carried
his rider gallantly across—the foremost man of all his
train—in less than ten seconds after he had entered the ford.

Convinced that there was now no real danger more, and stimulated
by the energy and example of their chief, the whole
band plunged in together in a compact body, and stemming
the stream, and breaking its current by the opposition of so
large and powerful a mass, easily struggled through it, and
gained the other side without accident—even to the miserable
garron of O'Neil, which was rather pushed across by the impetus
of the stronger chargers than by any efforts of its own;
and which had scarcely ascended the gravelly ascent before it
stood stock still, now utterly exhausted, and positively refused
to move a pace under any application of the spur or thong.

This difficulty was, however, speedily remedied—one of the
vassals being dismounted, and O'Neil installed in his saddle;

and without farther delay, by the light of Torlogh's brands, on
which a reinforcement had been heaped before starting, they
climbed onward up a long scarped pass, traverse above traverse,
like those on the other side, toward the castle of the
great earl—the lights of which were now seen glistening above
their heads, among the foliage of the great trees which surrounded
it. The length of the pass, however, and the steepness
of the ascent, prevented them making very rapid progress;
and the keen eyes of Hugh O'Neil soon assured him that the
length and steepness of the way would be the least of the impediments
to be encountered by an assailing force in an attempt
on that stronghold; for he could see that every traverse
was now commanded by a breastwork constructed on the top,
as well as by crenelies worked in the face of the rocks, the
latter communicating probably with caverned galleries quarried
in the hill, whence the whole road could be swept by a
direct, plunging fire. In addition to this, they passed three
fortalices, constructed at the re-entering angles of three distinct
traverses, whose massive arches of masonry, battlemented
and flanked by round towers, each provided with a double
portcullis of hammered iron, crossed the gorge from side to
side, and must necessarily be stormed one by one, under a terrible
cross fire, before the castle itself could be approached.

These formidable outworks were now, however, all undefended—the
watch-towers untenanted, the portcullises drawn
up, and the great iron-studded portals standing unbarred and
wide open. There were no signs of decay, however, or neglect;
on the contrary, the masonry was all sharp and clean,
and seemed to have been pointed recently; the iron-work
was free from rust, and over the two upper arches some
pieces of ordnance of heavy calibre appeared to have been
mounted newly, and were provided each with its pyramid of
shot piled beside it.

After passing the last of these gates, they landed on a small
level esplanade of rocky soil, studded by a few enormous pinetrees,

which stood, however, so far apart as to afford no shelter
to an enemy from the guns of the main fortalice.

This rose on an abrupt knoll of rock above the tops of the
highest of these trees, divided from the esplanade by a vast dry
ditch, hewn in the rock to a depth of fifty feet, and an equal
width—a veritable work of giants—isolating the castle altogether
from the main hill. For it was situated on a small, craggy peninsula,
the isthmus of which was cut across by this ditch, jutting
out from a lower spur of Slievh-Buy, and facing the main
mountain, from which it was severed by the same torrent which
they had passed below, flowing at the foot of precipices inaccessible
even to the foot of the wild goat.

A grand old Norman pile it was, built evidently by the invaders
of the Isle, soon after their first landing, to curb the bellicose
and fiery natives, whom their superior arms and iron disciplise
had but enabled them half to subdue. But more fortunate
than many of its sister fortresses, which had even then fallen
into ruin—some by neglect and the fallen fortunes of their
owners, some by the devastating tooth of time, and some beneath
the dint of Elizabeth's artillery in the great rebellion of Tyrone
and O'Neil—this noble place of strength, known as the Red-Rock
Castle of O'Brien, still towered sublime and perfect upon
its earth-fast base, and overlooked leagues and leagues of the
surrounding country from the proud eminence upon which it
was perched like an eagle's eyry.

It had consisted, in the first instance, like all Norman holds,
of one huge central keep, or dungeon, a tall square tower, with
small octagonal turrets, one at every angle, buttressed and
bartizaned, crenelled and machicolated, according to the utmost
science of that day, for the vantage of all the weapons then
invented. This keep, perched on a central knoll, and domineering
all the lower defences, consisting of a strong single rampart
with many flanking towers, a castellated gate-house and drawbridge
over the ditch, had been originally the sole dwelling
within the circuit of the walls; but with the growth of time,

the wants and luxuries of men had grown likewise, and building
after building had been added in accordance with the milder
tastes of the times, till the whole area within the gates was
filled with noble and commodions buildings, suited rather, as
they seemed, for the court of a sovereign prince than for the
dwelling of any private subject, however high or mighty.

By this time it was as dark as it ever is on a summer's night
in the British islands. The moon had not yet risen, and the
faint glimmer of the twinkling stars was intercepted on one
side by the great pine trees which I have mentioned, and on
the other by the towering masses of the huge mountain chain,
on a spur of which the fortalice of the great earl was situated.

It was evident, however, already, that the clank of their
horses' hoofs had been heard in the castle, and that the party
was both looked for and expected; for lights were appearing
and disappearing in all the windows of the main building, and
a bustle of footsteps and hurried voices was audible in the
court-yard, hurrying toward the gate-house.

Before O'Brien had time to raise his bugle to his lips, which
he did as soon as he drew up his horse near the verge of the
dry ditch, upon what would be the glacis of a modern fortress,
a torch was displayed above the gates, and a loud voice was
heard challenging the new comers.

“It is I!” cried the earl, “I, the O'Brien! Down bridge and
up gates—for if you within be not tired with waiting supper, I
am without, I assure you.”

A loud shout was the answer, and an eager hum of welcome;
and in a moment afterwards the creaking of the hinges and the
clash of the heavy chains announced the lowering of the drawbridge,
which soon extended its frail and narrow length across
the deep black fosse, and echoed hollowly beneath the hoofs of
the horses as they entered.

The gates were thrown wide open, and a broad glare of red
light was thrown far out into the bosom of the darkness, from
the yawning porch, for all the interior court was blazing with

links and cressets, in the hands of a numerous assemblage of
wild-looking clansmen and vassals; and beyond this the great
doors of the castle stood wide apart, the focus of a clear illumination
with several figures, male and fomale, drawn sharp and distinct
in relief against the instrous back-ground.

The earl fell back a pace or two as the company rode into the
court, and spoke a word with his younger kinsmen whom he
had previously addressed as Con and Ulick, in the Erse tongue,
which he seemed to suppose that O'Neil had never understood,
or forgotten—for it was evident from the glance of his eye and
the gesture of his hand, that it was of him he was speaking.

“Keep him back,” he said, “or take him aside with you to
the stables or the kennel—or I care not where; but I would not
that my mother or Ellinor should see him till they are prepared;
and I would fain speak also with Father Daly. Do you
mark me, cousins?”

“Had I my will,” answered Ulick, quickly, “I would have
him aside, and that right speedily, into the castle dungeon, there
to abide antil we shall have learned what he is—whether rebel,
spy, traitor, or renegado—and then, in any count, a short shrift
and a long rope. Either way, he has earned it!”

Hush, Ulick, hush!—and remember, if he were the devil, he
has saved my life this very day.” Then raising his voice, and
touching his horse with the spur, he pricked on to the side of
O'Neil, who had paused irresolute, when he found that his entertainer
and protector was behind him, well knowing that he
was like to find small favor in the eyes of the retainers. “Ride
round with my cousins, O'Neil, to the stables, and bestow your
steed,” he said, “and then join us in the hall. It is meet that
I announce your coming, ere you meet the eyes that will be
upon you when you enter. You, Florence, tarry with me.
I would two words with you. Away to the stables and the
kennels, all of you,” he added, addressing the loiterers, “and
give the gentlemen light to bestow their steeds. You, Hardress,
call me the seneschal, and come back with a torch.”

The page, to whom he spoke the last words, a handsome
boy in a green velvet justau corps, and plumed bonnet in his
hand, who had held his lord's stirrup as he dismounted, gave
up the charger to a groom, and hurried away, leaving the
O'Brien alone with Colonel Desmond, under the arch of the
gate-house, with no other person near him but two or three
porters and underwardens, who were busy lowering the gates
and securing the portcullis.

“This is all vastly disagreeable, Florence,” said the earl—
and he now used the French language, which he spoke with
the fluency of a native—“and very doubtful also. I do not
half believe his tidings; and yet I think he dare not attempt
such deceit, nor can I see his motives.”

“I do believe his tidings, Dermot,” answered his friend;
“though no man can say what may or may not be his motives;
and as for daring, I believe the want of courage is the only vice
O'Neil was never charged with. But I assure you, as I said before,
I do believe his tidings.”

“The more reason for preeaution, then,” said the earl,
thoughtfully. “But, true or false, it will never do to leave the
outworks open any longer.”

By this time the page, Hardress O'Brien, a distant kinsman of
the earl's, had returned, and with him came a venerable old
white-headed man, of great height, and of a frame still powerful
and robust, in spite of his advanced years.

“There are strange tidings on the wind, McCarthy,” said
Dermot to the old follower of his house, who had once been
the page of his grandsire, and after that his father's bannerman
and avenger when he fell at Edgehill fight; “strange
and ill tidings; and though I doubt their truth, I would have all
the gates of the pass closed, and watches duly set this very
night, and constantly hereafter, and all the ordnance loaded.
Whom will you set in command?”

“I will go down myself to the low port, my lord, with ten
men. Dennis McMorrough and old Shamus More can take

the other wards, each with five of the people. I will see all
secure within an hour. But what is this they tell me, good my
lord--that the black traitor, Hugh O'Neil, is in the castle court,
and not in chains, nor ordered for the dungeon?”

“Tis even so, McCarthy. Had it not been for him, I had
been slain this day, or sorely wounded—”

“I would you had been sorely wounded rather than owe escape
to him. From being nigh slain, had there been any chance
of that, he would not have stirred hand or foot to save you unless
for some base end. But, surely, surely, you will not suffer
him to tarry bere with your noble—”

“Hush!—not a word of that, not a breath, a hint, as you love
me, McCarthy. Here he must tarry, for this night at least;
and mark me—for my word is pledged and my honor at stake
for it—in safety and in honor too! But fear nought for me,
McCarthy; my eyes are open, and I will watch and judge; and
if he think to deceive, on his own head be the consequence.
He vows that he is reconciled to the church, and has returned
to the standard of the king.”

“The Lord forbid that I should fight by his side under it,”
replied the old man, doggedly. “But it is yours to command,
noble earl, and mine to obey. Good night to your lordship; all
shall be safe shut and ward set within the hour. Ho, Shamus
More, and you, Dennis Mac Morrough, turn me out twenty men
of the warden's guard, with torch and pike, within ten minutes.”

“You hear, Florence,” said O'Brien, turning toward his
friend, and speaking in a melancholy tone, with a dark brow
and downcast expression—“you hear—the same from every
one!”

“I looked to hear nought else,” answered the colonel, “from
gerrulous old superstitious veterans, like good McCarthy, and
young, over-boiling hot-heads, like cousin Con and cousin Ulick.
But I did look to hear something very different from the lips of
a man of the world, a man of action, and a man of connsel, like
yourself, my noble friend. This fellow is a miscreant—granted!

A traitor, and it may be a murderer! Well, we know it, and
are upon our guard! Shrewdly suspected of false dealing
toward your honorable father, we will watch, and may detect
him! In all this I see nought for apprehension. That he has
his own ends to accomplish in coming hither, I doubt not;
and from the character and known disposition of the man, it is
most like that those ends are evil. Still he is in our power,
and I see no cause for alarm, though much for watchfulness,
much for suspicion. Whither do your doubts point, my lord?
—for sure I am that they point to something tangible.”

“Not very tangible, good friend. Yet I will tell you. He
was ever a favorite of Father Hyland Daly, and his most chosen
pupil. Even after his infamous apostacy I have heard the priest
sigh when others cursed him; and sure I am he will now receive
him as a penitent, and welcome him back with open arms.—
Then you know, Desmond, how strange and paramount an interest
this Daly has with my mother, and even with my own
sweet Eily—”

“You cannot fear him there, O'Bricn,” returned his friend.—
“If she were capable of swerving new—nay, of hesitating but
one instant—the tenth part of one thinking-time—I should say,
let her go, and well gone! But that is impossible; you cannot,
I repeat, fear that.”

“It is indeed impossible; and I do not fear that, if by that,
you would say her good faith, her absolute affection, or her unstained
honor. But his hypocrisy, his machinations, his fiendish
subtlety, and unmatched ingenuity in falsehood, I do dread,
and I confess it. Right certain am I that the tidings of my approaching
marriage have had far more to do with his coming
hither, than any mutiny of Ironsides in Hyde Park, or sally
of Jones from Dublin, or sailing of the arch fiend Cromwell—
whom may the Lord confound!—from Liverpool or London.”

“Why, then, in the name of all that is wonderful, did you
allow him to come in hither, if you think of him thus?”

“He saved my life, Florence Desmond.”

“And therefore would you put a dagger in his hand to destroy
your happiness? That deed was an act of ordinary impulse,
done probably without reflection, on the spur of the moment—certainly
without danger to himself. It was what you or
I would have done for the meanest kern in the land, without
an instant's thought about the matter. There is a monstrous
deal too much made always about this matter of preserving a
life. I have saved fifty men's lives, in my time, from water,
from fire, from the sword, from the plague, from the halter,
and never been much thanked for it.”

“You would not have had me turn my back upon him.
Florence Desmond. To do so would have been to tell the
first of my followers who crossed his track when I was out of
sight, to knock him on the head, or shoot him like a houseless
dog. Neglect from me now were his death-warrant.”

“There is something in that, Dermot,” answered Desmond,
after a moment's pause, “but not very much after all; for he
knew all that when he entered the O'Brien country, before he
had dreamed of having even a chance to assist you. Nay,
more—be must have known that in all probability you would
yourself shoot him down as a traitor to the king, and an open
enemy, in case of meeting with him on the moor. In spite of
all this, he thrust himself into your way of a set purpose; and
chance so far favored him that you can scarcely shoot him now,
I great that.”

“But what would you do with him, were you I, Florence?”

“Hold him in honorable ward until we learn if his news be
false or true—hold him under guard in his own chamber, allowing
him to see no members of your household, save Con or
Ulick, and your own page, Hardress; and least of all, the priest,
for whom, between ourselves, I have a good deal less of reverence
than you have—and should have none at all, but that he is a
priest; though, in God's truth, I believe him to be little more
of that in heart than I am. He holds, it seems to me, some

most strange doctrines; though, Heaven be thanked, it is my
business only to hear, and not to judge, O'Brien.”

“It were the wisest way, in truth. Would God that I could
adopt it.”

“And what hinders?”

“My word. I told him I would treat him as my honorable
guest.”

“Even so. But not as your trusted confidant. Appoint
me as his warden. I will treat him with all honor, and may,
perchance, learn something that may serve us over the Bordor.”

“Would not that be to keep the promise to the ear, and
break it in the spirit?”

“Not a whit—not a whit!—and lo! here he comes; at all
events, commit him to my charge until you have consulted
Eily; and hark you, tell no one else of his coming until you
have her counsel.”

“Be it so. You are a wise friend, Florence, and a true one.”

He wrung his hand kindly, and turning on his heel, hurried
across the step towards the castle-door, which still stood open,
although all the other persons had withdrawn into the interior
of the building, on seeing that the train had all returned in
safety, except one tall, slender, female figure, who stood on the
threshold, conversing eagerly with the page, Hardress, and looking
anxiously toward the gate, as if in quest of O'Brien.

Without another word, the young earl hastened to the
foot of the flight of tall stone steps which led to the castle-gate,
while Desmond took a few steps in the other direction, to
meet O'Neil and the young men who were now returning from
the stables, and already near at hand.

“Is it you, Dermot?” cried a sweet low voice, as he mounted
the steps—“at length, you? We have tarried for you very
long, and feared that something had befallen you.”

“Something has happened to me, Eily,” replied the earl;
“but lock not so grave for that, dearest. It is nothing so very

desparate or alarming—though certainly it is not altogether
pleasing, or such as I could have desired.”

“I have seen it. I knew it, from the first moment you dismounted,
and stood so long in deep converse with Florence,
instead of hurrying, as is your wont, to join us, on your return
home. I have been questioning Hardress this last half-hour.”

“Ha! Your reason, fair lady, was a good and true one; for
who would tarry, talking with a great Low Country colonel,
who might be basking in the light of your eyes, Eily? But
what said Hardress—ha?”

“Hardress either knows nothing of the matter, or is as close-tongued
as beseems a lord's page to be,” answered the girl.

“Or a fair lady's either, Mistress Ellinor,” replied the boy,
who was a favorite, laughing gaily. “I have heard tell that
the lady's page has often more need for a close mouth than the
earl's esquire. But in truth, for this time, I knew nothing of
the matter. I only saw that a marvellous ill-looking stranger
rode into the castle with my lord's train, and so I told fair Mistress
Ellinor.”

“Are you sure that he was a stranger, Hardress?” asked the
earl, with a quiet and somewhat sad smile. “Think, boy—
have you never seen that ill-favored countenance before?”

“Jesu Maria!” exclaimed the youth, with a sudden start, and
a motion of his hand toward the hilt of the gay dagger
which he wore at his girdle—while a keen glance of intelligence
and recognition gleamed, like a flash of lightning, over his
handsome features. “It is he!—it is he! How could I ever
have forgotten? But who should have looked to see him here,
here in the Red Castle of O'Brien, unless as a prisoner, led
hither but to die? But it is he!”

“It is who, Hardress?” cried the girl, bending her eyes
upon his face with an expression of anxiety amounting almost
to terror. “Tell me, tell me—who is it? I knew that there
was something wrong.”

“Go to my mother, Hardress,” said the earl, laying his forefinger

on his lip, with a warning glance at the quick-witted boy,
“and say to her that I beseech her to put back the supper yet
half an hour longer; for I have tidings from the city of importance;
and then pray his reverence to meet me in my private
study forthwith, as I must speak with him before supper. Be
quick, boy; there is no time to lose. Then to the stables and
the kennel, and tell all those who rode with me, it is my pleasure
not one word be spoken. Now, cousin Eily,” he continued,
turning to the beautiful girl, “if you will give me half an hour
of your time, I will tell you what has fallen out, for I want
your counsel. Where can we be most private?”

“Come with me,” she said quickly; “come to my own withdrawing
room. But why did you send for Father Daly, if you
would talk with me. It is not courteous, Dermot, to keep the
good father waiting.”

“Courteous or no, I did it purposely. I would not have his
keen eyes prying into matters prematurely—his long ears drinking
words which I would have him weigh before believing—
or his sharp tongue asking questions which I desire not to have
answered. But come, dearest, come!”

And with the words he took her by the hand and led
her up the last flight of steps within the embrazure of the castle-door,
and entered the great oaken hall of the fortalice, all
glittering with lights reflected from a score of clear steel panoplies,
and flashed back from a hundred polished weapons.

She was indeed very beautiful, and of a style of beauty perfectly
characteristic of the isle which gave her birth.

Considerably above the middle height of women, and of a
slender and elastic figure, her whole form was so exquisitely
rounded, so fully swelling in its soft womanly outlines, that,
although her waist was but a span, her neck and delicate
throat, swan-like in its long drooping curve, and her wrist and
ancle shapely and small as a child's; the general character of
her shape was of plumpness and mature perfection, though
she was in reality scarcely advanced beyond girlhood.

Her face was of the perfect Grecian outline, and her complexion
us pure and white as that of the fairest Saxon maiden,
though it was warmed by the glowing tints of a blood richer
and more genial than runs in the veins of people of more
northern nations. Her hair was black as the raven's wing, and
like that, shadowed with a glittering metallic lustre that glanced
in the light of the torches with a warm purple radiance; and
it was so profuse that it fell down in a flood of luxuriant ringlets
over her dazzling shoulders, below the verge of her velvet
corsage. Her brows were of the same color, strongly defined,
and full of character; and the long lashes of her great deep-blue
eyes, reheved by the clear hues of her transparent cheek,
showed like a fringe of glossy silk.

Her gait was beautifully easy, graceful and swimming as
the motion of bird in the air, or swan on the waters—such
as is said to be peculiar to females of that Spanish blood which
is believed by many to flow in the veins of the noblest children
of Green Erin; and of a surety, both in birth and character,
Ellinor Desmond was of her very noblest.

Such was the girl who moved gently and tranquilly, yet
with an anxious heart and downcast eye, by the side of
the proud young earl; and so fair a specimen did they
present of young mortality that the boy Hardress gazed on
them earnestly and long, with a wistful eye, and muttered to
himself with a half-murmuring sigh, before he turned away to
obey his lord's behest:

“God's benison upon their heads! Who ever saw so bright
and beautiful a pair in all Green Erin! And they are good as
they are beautiful and bright. God's benison upon them.”