University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The Fire-Worshippers.

“Bring him wine—bring him wine,” exclaimed O'Brien;
“see you not that he is so much exhausted that he cannot
speak! And you, the rest of you, fall back to your posts; the
morning must ere long be breaking. How wears the night
Torlogh?”

“It wants as yet two hours of day, my lord,” replied the
page; “but here is the wine.”

A large goblet was poured out and handed to the messenger,
and he quaffed it as one to whose lips any liquid had been
long a stranger—then drew a long, deep breath, shook himself
till his iron brigantine rattled upon his back; and then said
these words only:

“For your private ear, my lord of Thomond.”

“Come, Florence,” said the earl; “you shall pass for mine
ear this once. Lead the man to the little hall, Torlogh. And
you, Con and Ulick, make closer search for him you know of;
he must be within the walls of the castle.”

And with the words he turned into the corps de logis of the
castle, and entering the little hall, which passed, in those rude
days, and that half-civilised realm, as a sort of library; for
there were a case or two of ponderous tomes against the wall,
and standish, with pens and parchment, on the board, and one
or two maps hanging upon the wainscoating, among coats of

curious antiquated armor, hunting-poles, bugle-horns, cross-bows
and other implements of sylvan warfare hanging from
antlers of the deer and elk, and of that huge fossil stag, larger,
five-fold, than any living species of the cervine race—which is
still found in the bogs of Ireland.

Here, flinging himself into a high-backed arm-chair, and motioning
Colonel Desmond to another—

“Now then, my man,” he said; “you may speak freely. I
am Dermot O'Brien, Earl of Thomond; and this is Colonel
Florence Desmond, whom everybody knows, on either side,
for one of the king's truest servants, and best soldiers. What
says the Duke of Ormond?”

“His Grace was assailed in his quarters, the night before
the last, my lord,” replied the man, after bowing lowly to the
great personages he addressed, “by an unexpected sally of
the whole garrison, under the Roundhead Jones; and was so
hardly handled, in fact so much cut up—losing above three thousand
men in killed and wounded—that he deemed it advisable
—the rather that he heard the next of Cromwell's landing on
the coast with twelve thousand foot, and two thousand superb
horse—to raise the siege of Dublin instantly, and to retreat
upon Tredagh; where, deeming himself now too weak to cope
with the enemy in the open field, he proposes to establish a
place d'armes, and maintain himself until such time as he may
again gather head enough to take the initiative. Here are his
grace's cypher and sign-manual. He lacked the time to write,
beyond the words you will find there set down.”

Those words were—“Trust the bearer. He has my confidence,
and can give tidings of our movements.—Ormond.”

“I know your face, it seems to me, good fellow,” said Desmond.
“Have we not met before?”

“And I knew yours, Colonel, from the first.”

“But your name?” asked Desmond!

“You saved my life at the taking of Breda!”

“What—my old friend, Shaun McMorris! But you are
sorely changed.”

“This rapier cut, my colonel, would change a fairer face
nor mine,”—And the poor fellow laid his finger into the cicatrix
of a deep scar that had destroyed the sight of one eye entirely,
cutting from the insertion of the eyebrow sheer down to the
jaw-bone.

“True—true!” said Florence. “Dermot, you may trust this
man to the end—I will avouch him.”

“It needs not; his credentials are all sure,” said O'Brien,
who had been examining some private marks on the documents
he bore. “Proceed, good fellow—these are ill-tidings, but we
looked for them. Proceed—yet hold, you are aweary; sit, and
tell your tale at leisure.”

Again the man bowed low, and taking a lower seat at a respectful
distance, proceeded with his narrative of evil and disaster.

“Well, noble sir,” he said, “he fell back—as I told you—
at once, and so speedily, that it was not until we reached Ratoath,
that he could halt so long as to frame his orders to his
friends and send off messengers. So it was then he sent me
to yourself, my lord, to pray that you'd join him with every
horse and man that you can make, as soon as may be. But if,
by the Lord's grace, you join him at all, it is by making a
great circuit only that you'll do it. It seems to me the whole
country's full of those Roundhead Ironsides, as they call them.
It's yestermorning they gave me chase, nigh Cloncarty, where
I crossed the Boyne, thinking that I should be far enough to
the west of them there; and by my faith, they never gave me
up till I got a fresh horse in Blessington, and so gave them the
slip. And twice since that they have beset me hard—once
nigh Rathdrum; but they were footmen only, and I got easily
away from them; and again, as I crossed Killahurler heights,
above Arklow—for there I fell into the midst of a whole army
of them—cannons, and foot, and horse. Two horses I have
killed outright since I left there, beside the one that's dying in
the court-yard now, or dead; and that was given me at Ballyfad,

by your kinsman in the tower. But I'm here now—blessed
be the Lord!—and you have the tidings better late than never.
But there's no time to lose; for if I judge aright, that army that
I saw is bound for this same place where we now sit, and will
be here ere many hours.”

“They are even now at Ballyfad, good friend,” said Desmond.
“So far, your tale needs no confirmation.”

The man stared at him, something wildly, and then asked:

“How can you know that, Colonel? They were not within
eight miles of it when I left them, and no man or horse can
have outstripped me.”

“We saw their coming all the way from Carysfort and Killaburler,
by the extinguishing of the hill lights. Ballyfad was
a-blaze an hour agone, and now it is all darkness. But why,
—if the duke was assailed two nights ago—were not the beacons
kindled yesternight? Had that been done, we had ere
now been half-way hence to Tredagh, which, Heaven grant,
we may now ever see!”

“Forgotten, noble colonel—clean forgotten in the confusion
of defeat, and te hurry of retreating.”

“Most lamentable and fatal forgetfulness! But look you
here, McMorris; we had this news of the duke's defeat, at high
noon yesterday, by a man and horse—and a marvellous ill-favored
horse too. How should that be?”

“He must have been the devil then,” said the old soldier
bluntly, “or a Roundhead, which is next akin to it; for he must
have come straight from the field, and through the very lines of
the enemy; and then, no one horse could have done it that ever
had his hoof shod with iron. Who was the man, Colonel?”

“I fancy, McMorris,” replied Florence, with a grave smile,
“that he is, as you say, a Roundhead, and somewhat akin to
the devil also.”

“Well, that is all your tidings, is it?” said the earl. “And
what are the duke's commands to yourself, McMorris?”

“To hold myself entirely at the orders of your lordship.”

“'Tis well! Go then now and rest and refresh yourself; we shall
have work enough for you ere long. Without there—Torlogh!”
—and then, as the page entered, “See to this man,” he added,
“and then, let my cousins know I wish them here forthwith.”

“God of my fathers! Florence, what is to be done?” he
added, as the boy left the room with the messenger. “We
have sent four-fifths of the garrison abroad, and they will be
upon us ere they can return!”

“Go see your mother instantly, O'Brien; prevail upon her,
if you may, to leave the castle on the instant; we can convey
her by the horse-litter through the hills. Ellinor and the other
ladies must take horse. The servant girls, and all who are not
soldiers, can disperse into the country and hill villages in
safety. Then we will get to horse with all the men we may;
we can make thirty lances here. Ulick and Con must ride
forth, at all events, muster the men we have sent out, and lead
them through the passes of Slievh-Buy to Carnew and Rathvilly;
there let them tarry till we join them, or till they hear
that we are all cut off, as we must be. I rejoice, for my part,
that the men are gone—for they could not avail us aught, and
would but swell the numbers of the slain. When we rejoin
them, or when all is over, their course must be with all speed
to Tredagh. Do you approve my plan?”

“In all things, Florence—in all things, save one. It is the
true—the only plan; yet it is naught.”

“And wherefore?”

“My mother will not leave the castle living. She swore it
when my father died. She has sworn it since an hundred times
in my hearing!”

“Then God have mercy on our souls!—for the Puritans will
have none on our bodies!”

“But what then, Florence—what is to be done, then?”

“Even the same. Let Ulick and Con lead the men away
to his Grace of Ormond. They cannot possibly rejoin us—and
if they could, could not save us. They shall so do good service

yet, and perchance win for the king, when we are—where
—who knoweth?”

“True; you are right as ever—true. I will go to my mother,
if aught may prevail with her. Give you the orders to our
cousins.”

But as he spoke, the young men entered the room.

“Time presses us,” he said, very hard, cousins; so I will
pray you take your instructions from our good cousin Florence
here, and obey them as if they were mine own. But first,
have you found any traces of O'Neil?”

“None; though we have searched from the turret to the
donjon—from the buttery to the hay-loft.”

“But one word more, before I leave you. You will have
to go forth, as the Colonel will direct, to join the foragets;
but first pass the word through all the men who remain, to shoot
O'Neil dead at the first encounter. He is a traitor and a spy,
past doubt. Fare you well, and God speed you!”

He shook hands with them both, and a tear twinkled in his
eye, as he turned and left them. Though he said nothing, he
believed surely that his last hour was come, and that he should
never look upon those beloved faces any more.

No time was lost, and before O'Brien returned, Florence
Desmond had the satisfaction of seeing those two gallant
youths gallop down the hill beyond the outposts, accompanied
each by a single follower; and he thanked his Maker fervently,
as he followed them down the hill with his eye, in the bright
light of the new-risen morning, that they at least, were saved,
literally as brands snatched from the burning.

This was scarcely done, and all the armed men at their posts
at the outworks, with guns loaded and matches lighted—a mere
warder's guard being retained in the castle, which could not be
attacked until these were carried—before O'Brien returned, pale,
downcast, and, as it seemed, despairing—but still resolute and
self-composed.

Desmond read at a glance all that had occurred.

“Is she so resolute?” he asked.

“Even so resolute!”

“And you explained all to her?”

“All!”

“The service we might do to the king, if not cooped up
here—our duty to our country and our God calling us to Tredagh—the
hopelessness of defence—the want of provision—
the certainty of being put—the men to the sword, the women
to the last outrage?”

“All this, Florence Desmond—more than all this. I implored
her—Ellinor implored her—for Ellinor's sake—Florence Desmond
—Brother,” he added, in a tone almost choked with intense
agony—“Brother, you understand me—for Ellinor's sake
we implored her for once to yield—to be persuaded!”

“And she answered?—”

“That they who were afraid might flee!—but that she had
more faith in her God than she had fear of Cromwell. We
have but one duty now.”

“But one,” answered Florence Desmond. “The ancients
were wont to say—`Deus dementat prius quos vult perdere.' The
madness is here of a certainty—the very madness of self-will
and proud stubbornness. May He grant that the ruin follow
not; for He alone can avert it!”

“Amen!” answered O'Brion, fervently; and then the two
brave and high-spirited young men cast themselves into one
another's arms, and embraced each other brotherly—for brothers
they were, in soul, and had hoped to be brothers ere
long by a dearer, holier tie; and each felt a tear-drop trickle
down his face from the eye of his kinsman; yet neither was
ashamed for himself or for the other. For each knew that no
extremity of pain or selfish sorrow could have extracted that
sign of weakness—if it be weak to feel—which was given
liberally, to a mutual sympathy, and to regret and fear for one
dearer and more boloved man happiness, or light, or life to
either. That moment was the last yielded to the affections.
Thenceforth their every thought was duty's.

And the first was to drive forth, in mercy—for it literally was
necessary to drive them—every unarmed man, every female,
from the castle, even to the lowest household servants. In the
cottage they were safe; in the castle, the law was then, as of
yore, vœ victis. And, had it not been for the indomitable pride
of that stern woman, she, too, and her fair niece, had been in
safety as in honor; and how much human sorrow, how much
human blood, how much human life, had been spared by hor
yielding?

Verily, pride hath much to answer for on earth, and this
among the others!

The sun rose broad and bright; and, for the first time probably
since its battlements first looked down over the tributary
country, the castle of the O'Brien contained but two weak
women, without a servitor or handmaid, unless it were the boy
Torlogh, who was armed cap-a-pie, in light harness for his first
field, and thirty men-at-arms, of whom well-nigh two-thirds
were knights and gentlemen, O'Briens to a man—save Florence
Desmond—and kinsmen of the earl, who moved among them
as cold but as firm as an iron statue.

And now everything had been done that military skill or human
foresight could suggest, to blunt the first attack of the Puritans,
and check them for one day at the outposts. Little more indeed
could they expect to do; for, with their diminished numbers, it
was evidently impossible to defend the ramparts of the castle,
when the esplanade should once be conquered, presenting, as
they did, an assailable front, above half-a-mile in length, to be
manned by a force of barely thirty men—a number insufficient
not only to reload the guns, but even to discharge them all at
once.

It was resolved, therefore, not to attempt to reload at all, but
to fire by divisions—each division being previously pointed by
Florence Desmond's own hand, so as to bear upon the successive
angles of the traverses which an attacking force must
pass in order to attack the gate.

This done, and a large mine, the gallery of which ran under
the rocky ditch, its chamber lying directly in front of the drawbridge,
being heavily charged with powder, to use as a last
resource; and the masonry of the three gate-houses on the hill-side
having been mined and crammed with saucissons, as they
were then termed, or huge long bags of powder—the leaders
turned to ask of each other first. What more?—and then, Cui
bono?

And to either question, alas! the reply was but a melancholy
shake of the head.

A few light horsemen were sent out to reconnoitre the
advance of the enemy, with orders to feel their way cautiously,
and to fall back at once, and at full speed, on recovering him.

A hasty meal was then partaken by all the defenders, silent
and sad, and in strange contrast to the fiery and enthusiastic
supper of the past evening; and then, as it was not yet eight
of the morning, and at the earliest the enemy's outposts could
not be on the ground before noon, all the garrison, with the
exception of some half-dozen sentries, to be relieved every
hour, were dismissed, with advice to get a few hours of that rest
which had been denied to them during the past night—and of
which they would stand so much in need, if they were to make
any adequate defence against the host which should be brought
against them.

Once again—was it for the last time?—the chiefs were left
alone.

“All is done now, O'Brien,” said Florence,—“all that man
can do. I mean, to delay this ruin. Avert it none may but
He to whom all things are possible, and He—with reverence
be it said!—only by almost a miracle.”

“No,” answered Dermot, quickly, “all is not done! Two
thinge remain. First, that we find, and if possible, punish, this
traitor, and then that I show you a secret. Come!”

“Whither!”

“First, to find Hugh O'Neil. With him in the garrison,

all our defence may be made naught by the undoing of one
bar.”

“But how—when the castle has been so searched?”

By this time they had reached the private armory adjoining the
earl's own chamber, and there, arming himself completely in
a suit of the finest steel, and making his friend do likewise, he
placed a ponderous battle-axe of the thirteenth or fourteenth
century in his hand, and loaded four of the long horse-pistols of
the day—two of which he placed in his own girdle, in addition
to the usual sword and dagger which it supported, and gave
the other two to Florence.

He then proceeded to load in the like manner, with the
utmost care, two musquetoons, which he placed in the hands
of the page, Torlogh; and nodding his head to his cousin,
“Now go,” he said, “and force that door you wot of. Follow
the passage to the end, unless it break into two branches. If
it do, tarry at the fork, 'till I join you, or send Torlogh.”

Florence nodded assent.—“And whither you?”

“To the priest's chamber. No man hath seen him since he
left the hall, at supper-time.”

“Can they have left the castle during the night together?”

“Impossible. I had the key myself of every port and sallyport,
except the gate of the main guard, and that was in the
hands of the seneschal. But we have little time. Away!
Follow me, Torlogh!”

And through many an echoing passage, and many a low-browed
door, he reached at length the grand staircase, climbed
it with clanking steps, and paused opposite the fine arch
leading to the apartments of the countess, before the entrance
of a suite of rooms, scarcely inferior to those in magnificence.

Here he knocked gently, then more loudly, then with all his
force. He called, he shouted to the priest, demanding entrance,
but in vain. At length, making the page set down one musquetoon,
cocked and prepared for action, leaning against the
wall, he bade him stand on guard with the other, and shoot

dead the first person who should show himself, unless it were
the father Daly—and to force even him to stand, at the peril of
his life.

Receiving the boy's assurance of implicit obedience, and
trusting even more to the enthusiastic tones of his voice, and
he clear light of his eye, than to mere words, he seized his
battle-axe, and demanding, for the last time, admittance,
announcing his purpose of forcing his way in, if refused, he
reared the ponderous weapon with both hands, whirled it
round his head, and dealt such a blow on the very spot where
the bolt of the massive lock shot into the staple, that it flew
wide open on the instant.

Almost he expected to see the tall form of the priest,
standing erect within the threshold, with arms uplifted, in the
act of launching the awful anathema.

But the long sunbeams, full of dusty moats, which streamed
in through all the lofty mullioned windows, fell on no living
thing. The noble room was vacant and untenanted. A
second chamber lay beyond; secured by a like door similarly
locked; and there the same scene was enacted, and with a
like result. It was the bed-chamber of Father Ignatius; but
the bed showed no signs of having been slept in the past night.
The last room of the suite was the priest's private library and
oratory, into which, since he had dwelt in the castle, no foot
save his own had ever entered.

There was something of solemnity, of mystery, almost of
sanctity, in the ideal atmosphere of this secret study, which
made the earl pause and hesitate, ere he should compel admittance.
But he thought of all that was at stake, and he was
firm.

He pleaded, however, and argued, and entreated earnestly,
if the father were within, that he would admit him to speak of
matters of the utmost import, and not compel him to a deed
which his heart abhorred. But no answer came. And so
absolute was the silence within, that the earl was now satisfied

that the priest had indeed fled by some secret mode of egress,
which he knew not, from the castle, in company with the
traitor, Hugh O'Neil.

Then the hereditary quick blood of his race boiled in every
vein, and flushed crimson to his face, as he exclaimed: “Ha!
false priest!”—and dealt the blow with such force and fury,
that the strong door was dashed into shivers.

And there, at his desk, in his soft armed-chair, undisturbed
by all the din, unmoved by all the splinters of the shattered
wood which fell around him, some even on the parchment,
whereon he was then engaged in writing, sat Ignatius Daly.

He raised his head calmly, as O'Brien entered, facing the
intruder, with an aspect of perfect benignity, and only asked:

“Wherefore `false priest,' my son?”

O'Brien almost started, so much did the priest's coolness
stagger him at the first; but he was not a man to be deceived
by such glaring stage effect, and the next moment he almost
smiled at his own credulity.

“Pardon me the rude epithet, Father,” he said, “I fancied,
from your silence, that you had fled the castle!”

“Fled the castle!—and what if I had? Was I not dismissed
hence last night! Fled the castle! and to what mortal suzerain
am I vassal,” he added proudly, “that I should not, when
and whither I list, go unbidden?”

“We will not enter into these discussions now, Father Ignatius,
since—as you well know, they amount to nothing; and if
they did, this is nor place nor time for them. Nor will I
tell you, seeing you know it full as well, if not better, than I do,
that within three hours we shall be besieged by an overwhelming
force of Puritans—and within six hours, or twelve at farthest—as
we have neither men nor means to resist—stormed
by them. But I will ask you, first, seeing that the Roundheads,
when victorious by storm, not only give no quarter to men
with weapons in their hands, but none to priests, to children,
or to women, whether you will go forth yourself, as you still

may, in safety, and persuade my mother, the countess, as you
doubtless can, to go forth likewise—when we may all break
ont together, and join the duke in Tredagh, where, doubtless,
we may serve our king and country better than by dying here
cooped up within four walls like condemned captives?”

He spoke eagerly and rapidly—and though not rudely, with
scant reverence; and then paused for answer.

“This, my son, is the first question; give us your secondly,”
said she priest, sneeringly, if not scornfully., “We will answer
you both together.”

“My second is this—where is Hugh O'Neil?”

The priest laughed aloud. In all the years O'Brien had
known him, never had he heard that sound from his lips, seen
that expression on his face; and as the one was harsh, and dissonant,
and fiendish, so was the other hideous and unnatural
beyond description.

“You do me too much credit. I am but a man, my son, and
you give to me the attributes of a god. I have been shut up
here since nine of the clock last evening, and you tell me that
I know of the coming of the Puritans. How should I know
it? Hugh O Neil, since the same hour, has been under your
own watch and ward. Did you make me his keeper, that you
should ask me of his whereabouts?”

“No!—nor his visitor,” replied the earl sternly. “Yet you
did visit him last night by the secret passage which leads
hence to the turret chamber.”

“Is there such a passage, my son? I never heard of any
such.”

“Nor I—nor perhaps you, most reverend,” answered
O'Brien, detecting at once the quibble; “but you know of it,
for you passed through it last night, and left your vestment to
bear witness of your passage.”

And he threw the handkerchief scornfully on the parchment
before his face.

“But a truce to all this!” he added. “Will you tell me

where Hugh O'Neil is? Will you persuade the countess to
go forth?—will you go forth yourself, before this ruin fall
upon us?”

“My son, I will do none of these three things,” replied the
priest, with a quiet smile.

“My father, you shall do the last of these three things, and
that straightway. Without there, Torlogh!”

“My lord,” said the boy entering, proud of his full armor,
and his loaded musquetoon.

“Go summon hither Murtough, my foster-brother, and the
deaf soldier, Shamus. Carry my ring to the seneschal, and
bid him draw off all the men from the gates to the eastern
rampart, leaving the sallyports unbarred, and the keys in the
wicket locks. Hurry—life is upon your speed! Now, holy
sir,” he added, “I know not, and I care not very much, if I
offend the church in this or no. I have a holy duty to perform,
as well as thou hast, to preserve my own life so long as
God has need of it, and the lives of those good and tender
ones whom he has given in my charge. Now I believe I cannot
do these things while thou and O'Neil are at large within
these walls. In time of siege the captain of the keep must be
the master, and I will be! Therefore thou must go forth! I
might say, if I would imitate thy duplicity, I do this thing for
thy good, and for the saving of thy precious life, lest, falling into
the hands of the Philistines, they slay thee for a priest of Baal.
I say not so. But thus: I send thee forth because I distrust
thee altogether, and hold thee both enemy and traitor. Here
come my men. The one cannot hear, the other will not heed,
anathema or excommunication. Now then, sir priest, will you
be thrust out perforce, or will you go forth willingly? If the
latter, you are in lay vestments even now—you have arms, I
see, beside you, and you know well how to use them. Here is
gold; a horse awaits you in the court-yard. How will you
go? Decide!”

“If I must be compelled into the choice—willingly. But oh,
my son, my beloved son, reflect!”

“I have reflected. Put on your hat and cloak, most reverend,
and buckle on the weapons of the flesh; and fare you well
fill better times come upon us. Here, Murtough, conduct the
father to the court, you and deaf Shamus. Mount him upon
Bay Barbary: he is the gentlest of the chargers in the court;
see him beyond the outer gate-house in all honor. Fare you
well; father. Favor me by proceeding with the soldier.”

“My blessings on your head, my son, and on all those within
the castle!”

O'Brien bowed low, but replied not, but whispered to his
foster-brother: “Let him have speech with no man. Get him
forth as quickly as may be. I suspect him very grievously of
treason. Away with him—you understand me!”

“And obey you!”

“When he is forth, replace the guards, bring me the keys
hither, one and all; be resolute and speedy—I await you!
Torlogh, mount guard as before; suffer none to pass you!”

The men departed, leading, or rather oscorting, the priest
forth, as it would seem, in all honor; and as all the Catholic
soldiers of the lower order, on whose superstitious fears he
might have worked to the extent of inducing them to resist
their lord's commands, had been withdrawn from the gates, his
ejection was effected peaceably and speedily; and Murtough
saw him ford the stream, and ride away to the right, into the
deepast passes of the hills, before he left the gate-house. No
fear of his tarrying in the neighborhood of the fierce Puritans,
to whom, what gave him sanctity in the eyes of others would
but have marked him out, the more especially a victim to be
hunted down and slain without law or mercy.

Once gone, the soldiery were called back to their posts; and,
thanks to the version which Murtough gave of the scene which
had passed, and which the deaf man could not contradict, the
piety and foresight of the O'Brien in removing the holy man
from the peril of capture by his enemies, gave him yet another
claim on the affections of his people.

Had they but known the truth, as it stood, one-half of them
would have thrown down their arms indignant, and refused to
fight in behalf of a lord so wicked as to have preserved their
lives by such an act of profanation. Alas! unhappy land of
Erin!—so brave, so generous, so sympathetic to the tear of
sorrow—to the flush of noble indignation!—but seemingly for
ever doomed, in all ages, barbarous or civilised, then as now,
to perpetual dissension, everlasting agitation, everlasting sorrow!
And all for one sole fault—the same in all times and all
countries—that thy enthusiastic sons still yield their ears, their
souls to the deceitful, maddening teachings of those who are
too often, in the Latin poet's words, in truth prœva jubentium!

Meanwhile, to still the tumult of his breast, to cheat the moments
of terrible suspense, in each of which he almost expected
to hear the shout of meeting from the court or the ramparts,
Dermot O'Brien applied himself carefully to examine the
walls of the priest's apartment, in order to discover the exit of
the secret passage, the entrance of which he had found above;
but all his researches were in vain, and he had already given
up the task in despair, and thrown himself into the chair from
which the Father Ignatius had so lately arisen, with his face
buried in his hands, and his whole soul given up to the darkest
and most melancholy musings—when the clang of armed
footsteps on the stairs, and the page's challenge without, roused
him from his lethargy. Starting to his feet, and with a great
effort banishing all signs of discomposure from his features—

“Ha!” he exclaimed, as his devoted foster-brother returned,
bearing the heavy keys in his gauntletted hand, “is it all
done?—Is he forth?”

“He is forth—God speed him!”

The young man's breast was lighter than it had been for
hours. With the soldier's craft and villany he felt that he
might struggle and succeed. But with the cold, apathetic,
insolent, imperious falsehood, the tergiversating tact, the insinuating
supple wiliness of the priest, he knew it vain to contend.

Telling his faithful friend rather than follower all that
he knew and suspected of O'Neil's concealment, he posted
him in the priest's oratory, with a horse-pistol in each hand,
and strict orders to shoot the traitor dead the instant he should
issue from his hiding-place; and, reiterating his commands to
Torlogh, he hurried away to the turret, where he found Florence
on the watch as he expected, at the very entrance of the
passage, at the mouth of which there was a double bifurcation
of four several mouths. Three of these were in a few moments
ascertained to be mere blind turns, made in order to
deceive a pursuer, and gain a few yards start for a fugitive
in time of imminent peril. The fourth was a secret staircase,
passing round and round the outer circumference of the tower,
cut in the thickness of the tower, wall, and corresponding
exactly to the windings of the stair which occupied its centre.
At about half the height of the tower, however, at the point
where that sprang upward from the corps de logis, it struck
off horizontally, and passed through three chambers curiously
arranged among the rafters of the roof—all which were, however,
vacant, nor gave any sign of having been tenanted for
years. From these another stair descended rapidly, as they
had anticipated, into the priest's chamber, which it entered, as
they easily discovered, from within, through the deep fire-place,
one of the jambs of which was moveable.

So far their suspicions were confirmed; but their main object
of arresting the traitor O'Neil, whom they confidently expected
to find lurking there, was disappointed. And, it being
manifestly useless to hunt and search out all the corners of so
vast an edifice, provided, probably, with a thousand lurking-places
unknown to the lord of the castle, like that just discovered,
though perhaps only too well known to his enemies, they
gave up all hopes of detecting him, and contenting themselves
with issuing strict mandates for his summary execution to all
the soldiery, O'Brien proceeded to reveal to Florence and his

foster-brother his last secret, by which alone he hoped to preserve,
in extremity, the life, the honor, of his Ellinor.

After making the circuit of the walls, and satisfying themselves
that as yet no symptom of the enemy's approach was to
be seen, and that none of the scouts were as yet in sight on
their return, the three once more descended into the great
court, and thence passing into the stable-yard, entered the
stables themselves, tenanted by at least a hundred of the finest
animals, of the choicest breeds then known and procurable,
among which were four or five magnificent Arabians, two
blacks of the tall breed of Dongola, and a beautiful flea-bitten
grey Arab, which was set apart entirely to the use of Ellinor
Desmond, than whom there was no better or more accomplished
horsewoman within the circuit of the four seas that girdle Britain.

The poor animals, which had been somewhat neglected since
the preceding evening, during the alarms of the morning,
whinnied and stamped with pleasure, at hearing the steps of
O'Brien and his friends. Nor was their confidence in man,
this time at least, permitted to pass unrewarded. Policy as
well as humanity required that animals, whose strength might
ere long be taxed to the uttermost, should be preserved in the
fittest state for action. But, had it not been so, the natural love
of Dermot for the horse, and his kindliness of heart, would not
have suffered him to allow them to want.

A very short time sufficed those three able and energetie
men to water all the horses, and to supply their racks and
mangers with such a store of provender and forage as would
last them for three or four days, even should it be impossible
to bestow much time upon them sooner.

This done, O'Brien unlocked an iron door at the farther end
of the stable, which led into a great dark vault, known as the
ordnance vault, and filled with old-fashioned pieces of artillery,
long since thrown aside as antiquated and unserviceable,
broken carriages, honey-combed mortars, and such like ancient

paraphernalia of warfare as were now entirely out of place in
the light of day. Many of the castle servants and sub-officers
had been in that vault from time to time, with the castellan;
all knew exactly what it contained; and, as there was no mystery
about it, and no interest or utility in its contents, no one
thought anything about it, or cared to examine it farther. And
yet it contained a secret of the deepest import.

In the farthest angle of the vault, which was entirely unlighted
from without, and which could only be visited by aid
of a lanthorn or flambeau, was a considerable space unencumbered
by any heavy articles, and covered only by a pile of loose
straw and litter, upon which two or three light gun-carriages
had been stowed.

On removing these, and sweeping away the litter with a
stable broom, there appeared a large wooden platform,
strengthened by bars and heavy studs of iron, not at all unlike
the platform of a modern hay-scale. O'Brien, however, knelt
down beside, and, after a moment or two spent in searching,
with the aid of the lanthorn he had brought, pushed aside the
end of one of the iron bars, which disclosed a small keyhole,
to which he applied one of a large bunch of keys that he had
brought with him for the purpose. The wards were somewhat
rusted, but a little of the heated oil from the lamp being poured
into the lock, it yielded after a little solicitation; and with far
less difficulty than could have been expected, the platform—
which was in truth a vast trap-door—was raised by the force
of a single man inserting a common pitchfork between the
door and the framing.

It rose so rapidly indeed, when it was once set in motion,
that it was evident at once, even to the rude and semi-educated
Murtough, as he gazed with wide eyes of wonder into
the dark abyss, that it must be actuated by some unseen counterpoise,
as was in fact the case.

As it arose, nothing was visible but a steep stone descent,
paved, like the rest of the vault above, with irregular cobblestones,
sloping gradually down into utter darkness, and disappearing

under a grim stone arch, beyond which it turned abruptly
to the left, and was lost to their eyes.

“Both of you must explore this with me to the end,” said
Dermot. “But first do you step back, Florence, and bring us
two or three flambeaux; they are in the rack just within the
stable-door. Then lock the door of the ordnance vault within,
that we may not be surprised.”

This was soon done; and the torches being lighted, they
passed into the arched passage, lowering the door above their
heads as easily as they had raised it. The passage, although
steep, was of a slope so regular that it could be traversed easily
by horses, and so lofty that a tall man on a war-horse could
have ridden under the vault without stooping his head or breaking
a feather of his plume. It was dry, too, although very cold,
and the air was so pure that it was evidently ventilated by some
means of communication with the upper sky.

Twice it was interrupted by huge iron gates, which yielded
readily to some one of the keys with which the earl was provided;
and, after passing the second of these, it expanded into
a sort of circular hall, not now of masonry, but of natural
cavern, aided a little by the chisel and the pick, provided with
stone mangers and iron rings for fastening horses, and having
in the middle a rude draw-well and chain. The egress from
this hall was through a third gate, heavier than any of the others,
opening at the extremity of a deep-rifted mossy cave, the floor
of which was covered by the waters of the black, wild-looking
stream which roared and chafed before its entrance. Right
opposite, the farther bank of ravine rose abrupt and precipitous;
and, as the stream filled the gorge from bank to bank, leaving
no space on either side for intruding footsteps, there was
no risk whatever of the cavern's being visited; and even if it
had, so dark was the recess in which the iron door was concealed,
that it would have defied anything short of the deliberate
search of persons acquainted with the existence of such a
passage, and resolute to ascertain its whereabout.

“This is the Wolf's Glen, as they call it,” said Dermot,

pointing to the gorge to the landward of the castle; “that wall
of rock is the first step of the great ridge of Slievh-Bay. A
bowshot up the river to the right, a deep ravine comes down to
it through which there runs a difficult horse-path by which to
gain the middle mountain road. You know which I mean,
Murtough.”

The man nodded his head silently, in token of assent.

“An hour's hard riding will bring one to the cross-roads by
the old chestnut tree with the three bodies growing into one. An
hour's more, or two at the utmost, and you shall be at Carnew,
where, before the sun sets to-night, Ulick and Con will be in
waiting, with sixty or a hundred lances. Do you mark me?”

Again Murtough O'Brien nodded his assent, but that with a
half-sullen face, as who should say—“I mark, but I like it not.”

“And you, Florence Desmond?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Let us return.”

And they did so, with all speed, locking the outer door behind
them.

“Now, Murtough,” said O'Brien, “I do not request you, for
I know that you would refuse me, but I command—and I know
that you will obey me—that you strike no blow in this strife today.
In the first place, you will take these keys, and lead
down to this under-ground stable here”—they were standing
in it as he spoke—“the three black barbs of Dongola, and the
lady Ellinor's grey Arab, fully equipped and harnessed; the
three for men-at-arms, the one for the lady. Leave them with
food and provender for the day, and renew it daily. Lock all
the doors behind you as you come and go, and beware no man
sees you. Have thirty destriers saddled and bridled always,
day and night, at the stables. That done, I make you warder
of the countess and lady Ellinor: stir not from their side a moment,
save when you go to feed the horses, and then let the
boy Torlogh watch beside them, with his weapons cocked
and loaded; remember the villain O'Neil is at large, and who

shall guard them when we are on the ramparts? Will you
do this?”

“By all my hopes of Heaven, I will; though rather tenfold,
nay, ten hundred fold would I—”

“Die by my side, doubtless,” said O'Brien, hastily; “but any
one can die. It is harder oftentimes to live; and by living
thou canst serve me; by dying, thou wonldst lose me my
last hope.”

“I will live or die, how and when thou commandest,
Dermot.”

Never before had he presumed to call his foster-brother
by that familiar name, but when the feelings of the heart are
stirred to the utmost, all forms are forgotten. The O'Brien
felt, and hailed the emotion, and grasped the faithful being's
hand with sincere sympathy.

“I knew thou wouldst, my Murtough; and therefore have I
laid this heavy trust on thee; too heavy to be laid on any less
true and trusty, less near of blood to the O'Brien.”

The man's eyes glistened with delight, as he replied in tones
that were actually husky with emotion: “May Heaven forget
me, if I forget your bidding, Dermot!”

“It is well; here be the keys, one and all. One word more.
By this pass, if it be possible, will we all escape, after we have
given these rogue Roundheads such a salvo as shall turn their
red noses pale,” he said, affecting a recklessness of humor
which he was far from feeling. “But if it come to the worst,
Murtough, and the walls be scaled, or the gate forced, or if thou
hearest the great mine explode—whether I be alive or dead, far
or near—take the page Torlogh, and carry off the Lady Ellinor,
by force, if needs must be, down this vault, locking every door
from first to last behind you, and ride for your lives and her
honor to Carnew.”

“Leaving you, leaving you, my lord, my master, and my
brother, to die unaided? Never, never!”

“Not so, true friend, not so. For if I be not with you to

escape with my bride, I shall be, ere then, dead in the breach
or the gateway. Murtough O'Brien, you have promised; I never
knew you break a promise. Murtough O'Brien, your foster-brother
calls on you for aid in his worst extremity. I think you
will not fail him.”

“I will not,” said the man doggedly. “But when I have
done it, I will die!—by all the saints in Heaven!”

“You will think better of it, Murtough. Good friend, you
will think better of it. But you have made my heart very
light—very light, my best Murtough.”

“And mine, God bless you for it!” added Florence Deamond,
in his fine deep voice, a big tear standing in his eye as
he spoke. “The bitterness of death hath passed away.”

And as he uttered the words, they passed from the ordnance-vault
into the stables; and as they did so, they heard hurried
steps, and loud voices, hastening that way, and calling for
the earl—the O'Brien.

“We are in time, and no more,” said he, “Murtough! remember!”—and
he laid his finger on his lips hastily. Then, as
one or two of the men rushed in, eagerly seeking for him—“I
come,” he said, “I come. Look to those chargers, as I bade
you, Murtough; they must not starve, an if we are besieged.
Now, men, what is it?”

“Tidings of the foe, my lord,” cried one.

“The countess, my lord!—the countess!”

“Great God!—what of my mother?”

“She is dying!—the Lady Ellinor—”

“Go, go! O'Brien,” exclaimed Desmond, rushing out of the
stahles. “I will see to the tidings and the outposts. Fear nothing;
I can make them good these three hours.”

“They are at hand, my lord! they are close at hand. Even
now you may hear their trumpets!”

And he spoke truth, for the instant they stood in the clear
court-yard the flourish of the trumpets and the clang of the
kettle-drums of the Ironsides were heard distinctly, and the

next moment the sharp and sudden roar of a culverin from the
lower gate-house showed that they were even now within shot
of ordnance.

Such was the scene in the midst of which the son was summoned
to the death-bed of his mother; and, ere he stood beside
her, the mighty ramparts, and the solid rock itself on which
they stood, seemed to reel to the repeated crash, reverberated
by a thousand echoes of the iron artillery.