 | CHAPTER IX. Dermot O'Brien; or, The taking of Tredagh |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
“Oh, God! It is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing,
In any shape, in any mood;
I've seen it rushing forth in blood—
I've seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion;
I've seen it on the ghastly bed
Of sin—dellrious with its dread;
But these were horrors—this was woe,
Unmixed with such.”
Prisoner of Chillon.
It was a strange and awful picture. The beautiful light of
a cahn summer morning fell in gleams of gold and purple,
of emerald and crimson glory, through the stained windows of
the castle chapel; and there, before the rails of the high altar,
at which she had been kneeling, when the shaft of the unseen
destroyer found her, lay the majestic form of the old countess,
still in the agonies of death, proud and majestic, with her head
propped on the knees of her lovely niece, who, pale as the
stone statnes of the holy saints around her, yet resolute in that
extremity of terror, ministered to the last wants of her dying
kinswoman, alone upheld by her own nobility of purpose.
One of the sacred chalices stood beside them—the readiest,
the only ready vessel in extremis, filled with wine brought in
haste; and just below the altar steps stood the boy Torlogh,
white as ashes, clad in complete steel, with a musquetoon on
either arm, each with its slow match burning. He dared not,
even in that dread juncture, disobey his lord, or leave them
unprotected.
And upon this appalling group looked down, from the almost
living canvass of the altar-piece, the calm, benignant face of
the painted Saviour; calm and benignant, and fraught with
love ineffable and unbounded mercy, even amidst the agonies
form, and on those almost speaking lineaments, dwelt the
fast-glazing eyes of the dying woman, drawing deep draughts of
comfort from the sight, and hope beyond the grave, confident of
immortality. And, all the while, the roar of the incessant ordnance,
now mingled with the thick rattle of the volleying harquebuss,
the clang of steel, and the shouts and shrieks of combatants
at hand-to-hand encounter, pealed upward to the pure
and holy skies, as if the earth which He hath termed His foot-stool
had been converted into a battle-ground for fiends.
A quick step clanged upon the chancel pavement. The dying
woman's eyes turned to the sound:
“My son!—my son!—”
“Mother!—my mother!” and he kneeled beside her, and
grasped her stiffening cold fingers, and his tears fell like fiery
rain upon her brow. A life-time rushed upon his mind, in that
most awful moment, and all things else were forgotten, as if
they had never been.
“Weep not for me, my son—weep not for me. Happy am
I to die the mistress of my own unconquered castle; thrice
happy if I die in time! Tell me, oh, tell me, that my madness,
my proud, selfish, wicked madness, has not ruined you. Tell
me quick, for my spirit tarries only to hear that—without hearing
which, I cannot pass in peace—tell me, my son, that you
can yet escape—that you can save this angel from those howling
fiends without!”
She spoke with strange rapidity, and with a mighty effort,
as if she spoke at all only by a prodigious effort of the will,
and feared that her strength would fail her ere she finished.
“Mother! There is time, and you—”
“Shall die happy. Ellinor—Ellinor, your hand,”—and she
placed it with her dying fingers in his hand. “Bless you, my
children; now you are his—Ellinor—his wife! Now you are
bound to obey him, whatever he commands you! Promise
me, my child!”
“I promise you, my mother.”
“Raise me—raise me, my children. I would fain die—standing!”
And they raised her erect to her feet; and she stood feebly
for an instant, gazing on the image of her Saviour, with her
poor arms outstretched toward it, as she would fly.
“Kiss me—kiss me, children. I am going—going to your
father. I will tell—him—how good—you have been—kiss
me!”
Her words came at intervals; her breath was drawn laboriously;
she seemed scarce conscious that they kissed her.
Then came a roar, a thousand times louder than the loudest
crash of artillery—a short, breathless pause, and the rumbling
din of falling masonry—another pause, and a shriek as of hundreds
in their agony.
She heard, but understood it not. A light came into her
eyes, and a flush on her pale cheek. She stood perfectly erect,
and her lips moved; but those two only who supported her,
her children, could mark the words they syllabled:
“In time!—the Lord be praised!—in time! Domine nunc
dimiitis—”
Her head drooped upon the shoulder of her son—she was
dead!
Reverently he lowered her to the ground, closed those dear
eyes, and pressed a long last kiss on the white, clay-cold lips
to which he had so often clung in happy childhood—composed
her limbs decently, covered them with her long robe; and then,
lifting her in his strong arms over the railings of the altar,
laid her on her back at its base, with her hands folded on her
bosom, as if in the act of prayer.
“There even they will not dare to harm her!”
“What mean you, Dermot? You will not leave her so—it
were sacrilege to do so!”
“Not to do so were sacrilege? Heard you not her last
words? Obey!—you must obey now, Ellinor—however hard
continued, as his foster-brother entered the chapel in haste,
“What meant that great explosion? For your life! Torlogh,
fetch me a lady's riding-hat and mantle of the warmest—for
your life—fly! Now, Murtough?”
“They burst the two lower gate-houses with petards, in a
moment. They fight more like fiends than men; and one-third
of our best are down, they tell me! So Colonel Desmond
drew off all the rest into the castle, but not until he had
lit a three-minute match in the saucissons of the third gate-house.
It blew up, I promise you, when there were more
than two or three hundred in and around it, so that it killed
above fifty, and maimed thrice as many. They have fallen
back to the ravine's edge, and the colonel is plying them now
with single guns, as you may hear, as fast as he can work them.
But, oh, God! my lord—is that the countess?”
“It was the countess! But we must now look to the living;
we can yet bring off all who are left alive. Now, dearest, do
these garments quickly on, and securely. Wilt have to ride
for life, sweet one! Go! I will join you in an instant. Go
now with Murtough—he will lead you. Follow them, Torlogh.
I go but to bring off the men.”
She paused—looked at him wistfully—hesitated—looked at
the dead, and obeyed, saying only:
“You will join me, Dermot? You would not deceive me
at such a moment!”
“Neither at such a moment nor at any. I go but to bring
off Florence. Go with Murtough, beloved, and do, unquestioning,
whatever he advises. You will have to mount Bonnibelle
at once; but not to ride till I come to you. Let Torlogh lead
a horse down with her for himself. The three blacks are for
me, Colonel Desmond, and yourself, Murtough. Keep you the
door in hand, while they at once go forward. The men will
mount in the stables, as fast as they come in, but not descend
till we come; you comprehend, Ellinor, best-beloved!”—and
for a little while; but for a little while adieu!”
She gazed at him fondly; at the dead bitterly—but turned
and obeyed his bidding like a little child, and went her way,
confiding in his wisdom and the tried faith of the fosterer.
And he, her betrothed, the conquered castellan, the orphan
son, he kneeled one moment by the dead—he kissed once
more the ashy lips:
“Forgive me, oh, my mother!—forgive me, that I obey even
thy bidding!” And springing to his feet, he rushed out of the
chapel, without daring to look back; and, crossing the empty
court-yard at full speed, rushed up the steps to the esplanade
of the ramparts, above the barbican and guard-house of the
castle.
There, Florence Desmond, with the sole relics of the garrison,
seventeen men, four of whom were wounded, was firing
single guns, with such celerity as to conceal the smallness of
their numbers, at the Puritans—who, in a mass, dispirited at
the severe check they had met with, were crowded together
on the near bank of the ravine, and seemed more than half
inclined to fall back on their main body on the farther side.
Florence saw by his friend's face, at once, that all was over,
and asked no needless questions. He saw that his noble kinsman
was himself, in the full possession of all his noble powers;
and with a glance which said to him: “I know all—I need no
explanation,” he added quietly:
“We have suffered terribly, my lord. But we have checked
them for the moment. I think two salvos of six pieces each
would send them back across the water quicker than they
came. That gun a little lower, Shamus Beg! They have
left nearly two hundred men behind them!”
“Let us give them two salvos, then; but let them be of
eight guns each. Stand to your guns, my men! But hark
you—as fast as you discharge your guns—eight men each salvo,
break off, and make your way with all speed to the stables.—
will find Murtough in the ordnance-vault; await us, and obey
his orders! Now to your guns! First salvo, fire, and away!”
The heavy cannon roared; and, for an instant, the platform
was involved in a cloud of white smoke—so dense that not a
man could see his neighbor's face—driven back by the light air
from the muzzles of the ordnance.
It cleared away; and the eight cannoneers, so promptly had
they obeyed orders, were out of sight already; while the enemy,
staggered by the heavy volley, were reeling to and fro, in terrible
disorder, the officers vainly endeavoring to prevent the men
from recrossing the ravine, on the farther bank of which reinforcements,
with artillery, were seen coming up.
“Let us elevate half-a-dozen guns, Florence, for those fellows
on the farther bank, while these lads give their salve.”
It was done, even while the words were speaking; and again,
at the signal, “Fire, and away!” the second point-blank volley
parted; and even before the smoke-wreaths lifted, so that
they could again see the enemy, the din and tumult told them
that they were in full flight.
It lifted. Dermot and Florence were alone, except one
wounded artillerist; and the enemy were jammed in the gorge,
horse and foot, wounded and sound, living and dead, in horrible
confusion.
“Give them your gun, my lad, and away after your fellows!”
They were alone—the last—victorious—yet compelled to
fly, as if defeated. It was bitter—bitter!
“All is over, Florence. She is with her Maker!”
“Amen!” replied the veteran, crossing himself devoutly.
“May we so live, so die, as to join her!”
“Give those fellows a gun, Desmond; they are rallying!”
The piece flashed and roared, and he continued:
“Ellinor is in the vault, mounted ere now, with Torlogh.
Murtough O'Brien holds the door in hand. The men are ready
in the stables. Go now, good Florence; take the command. Pass
Mount you, and abide with Ellinor. Let Murtough keep the
trap for me. I will give these dogs six or eight shots in quick
succession, that they may not suspect we are retreating. At
the worst, we must have an hour's fair start. If it were not for
the traitor Hugh, who will at once admit them, we might have
six. Go, Florence—go!”
“And you will follow me? You are not so mad to tarry,
and break all our hearts, for a vain point of honor?”
“Indeed, no. I promised her—promised the dead—that I
would go. A promise to the dead is very sacred. Go, now,
Florence.”
And he went. And shot after shot, in quick succession, the
last lord of the Red Castle, its last defender, and the last man on
its walls, hurled his defiance and his hate at the Puritan, the
Sassenach, invaders.
He paused to let the smoke clear off ere he should give
them the last parting blow.
To his astonishment, despite of his quick fire, they had rallied,
and were re-crossing the ravine. As the dropping fire of
the castle ceased, they gave a loud, triumphant shout, and
charged up the hill.
He gave his parting shot, and saw the leading files go down,
like a single man—then looked around him, amazed, for an
explanation of the mystery.
It was soon found! Upon the summit of the donjon-keep,
stood Hugh O'Neil—where he had been concealed hitherto,
none ever knew save he—waving his helmet in the air; for
he, too, was armed cap-a-pie; and the proud banner of the
O'Briens was already lowered, for the first time, over a living
lord, before his foes.
But the time was not now for vengeance. Yet, as he hurried
after his comrades, forgetful that the traitor stood three
hundred feet, at least, above him, he discharged a pistol at him,
of course harmlessly, in the first burst of indignation.
A moment brought him to the stables, and the ordnance-vaults,
just as the last man of the seventeen was filing into the
dark cavern; a loud cheery shout from Murtough hailed the
chieftain's coming, and, repeated from man to man, as they
filed down that gloomy passage, announced to the sad and
anxious heart below that he for whom alone it beat was safe—
was close at hand.
The stable postern was safe locked behind them. The trap
was lowered, and made fast—gate after gate was secured against
the pursuers. One fond, short, rapturous embrace, and Dermot
sprang to the saddle of his unrivalled barb, and sate, almost
himself again, amid the three beings he now loved the best of
all that breathed upon the round earth's surface—his promised
bride, her noble brother, his own gallant foster-brother. Had
she who now lay cold above on the bare altar-stones still sate
beside him—nay, had she but been laid to rest beneath those
very stones, in honor and in peace, though landless lord, and
houseless castellan—he had, even so, been happy.
But leisure was not given for such thoughts—happily, mercifully,
was not given.
Oh! it is well for those, though at the time they believe it
not, who, in the anguish—the first crushing anguish—of some
mortal sorrow, are forced by the necessities of the living to
divert their minds from the dead—compelled by the pressure of
the present to look away from the tortures of the past. Oh!
it is well for them!—and harder far for those whose seemingly
more prosperous state permits them to indulge in sorrow.
Indulge in sorrow! Who first invented that false phrase never
had known—never could know—sorrow! Indulge in agony
—revel in the pangs of death—then talk of indulgence in sorrow!
Great was the contrast between the cold and death-like
gloom of the deep cavern from which they emerged, and the
bright, warm sunshine without; but greater was the contrast
between the hope which dawned upon their hearts, renewed
which had so weighed them down during the last anxious
hours.
So deep was the glen up which their road lay, that the slant
rays of the evening sun could not so much as reach the flanks
of the precipitous rocks which walled it in, although they played
and quivered on the green forest-leaves aloft, clothing them
with a flood of bright and peaceful glory.
The din of the conflict had sunk to rest, and not a sound
was to be heard but the rich carol of the thrushes from the
dingles among the crags, and the cooing of the cushats from
the deeper recesses of the wood.
The rushing of the stream along the course of which their
road lay drowned the trampling of their horses' feet, and the
depth of the ravine screened them from the prying eyes of
enemies above, if there were enemies, as it was too likely, on
the watch already.
At one point only of their progress could they be discovered
from any portion of the castle, and then only from the summit
of the donjon-keep. That point was where they left the
stream, and turned up the bridle-path to the left, among the
wooded ridges of Slievh-Buy; and just before they reached
this spot, O'Brien halted, and took brief council with Florence
Desmond.
“The moment we begin to ascend that gorge,” he said
pointing directly in front of him, “we are under the fire of
three guns from the keep, until we reach yon thicket, where
the road turns, and the rocks cover it. We were best gallop
up it at full speed. Take you one side of Ellinor's rein, and I
the other. We will lead at a gallop.”
“Is it needful? There can be none there to fire on us; even
if any knew how or whither we have gone.”
“O'Neil was on the keep when I joined you, and saw us
all rush to the stables. To his quick mind, a hint is what a
long tale were to another. The guns are always trained on
this rest assured: the Puritans, ere this, are in full possession
of the keep, and are preparing, even now, to pursue us.”
“You are right!” he replied. “Would that I had him once
within fair sword-stroke. Now, my men,” he continued, as he
caught his sister's bridle-rein with his right hand, “follow us
at your speed. Sit firm, and hold him hard, little sister: it is
but for a moment.”
The water flashed up from the stream, as they took ground,
and the fire-sparks flew from the flinty rock, amid clouds of
dust, and the rush of falling pebbles, as the fresh and fiery
horses, maddened by the spur, and burning with emulation,
one against the other, strained up the craggy pass.
It was but for a moment; yet they were seen, as O'Brien
had predicted, before they reached the covert of the greenwood.
For a loud shout hailed them, and, a second after, the
howl of a heavy shot above their heads told them that they
were safe at least from that missile, although it struck among
the crags not twenty feet above them, and split a mighty oak
to shivers.
“Well-missed!—well-missed!” cried O'Brien, joyously.—
“Those fellows can no longer harm us, But, hark!” he added—for
the winding of the path they followed had now brought
them to a point nearly opposite the entrance of the cavern,
whence they had emerged, and a dull, distant, rankling roar,
sounding like subterranean thunder, came bellowing from its
depths. “Hark! they are blowing the gates open with petards;
we shall have them at our heels ere long!”
“Their horses must be worn out by their night's marching,”
said Murtough. “They will never come within five miles of
us.”
“There are some eighty fresh ones in the castle stables;
better never cleft the greensward. Think you they have no
eyes to see them? They will push us very hard,” he added,
quietly; “but we shall beat them to Carnew: and if Con and
again howling.”
Little was said for well-nigh half-an-hour after these words—
the whole energies of every person of that little party being
taxed to the utmost to keep their horses at a brisk and steady
pace, rarely faster than a trot, so craggy and broken was the
ground, without suffering them to fall on the rough ascents or
precipitous declivities which varied the surface of the mountain
road; though, ever and anon a fierce and thrilling shout rose
from the rear, nigher and nigher each than the last before it,
telling that the avenger was upon their traces.
And it was beautiful to see the coolness—the firm, intrepid
nerve with which that fair girl ruled her fiery Arab—never so
much as trembling once or turning pale, much less slackening
her hand on the rein, or averting her eyes from the track, as
those fierce and portentous cries burst from the pitiless
throats behind them.
Two or three of the soldiers, made of less manly stuff than
that delicate beauty, turned and looked back; and one met the
reward of his poltroonery; for, unsupported by the master-hand,
the horse went down at once, laming itself irretrievably
in the fall, and dislocating the rider's shoulder.
To aid him was impossible; to tarry with him would have
been self-destruction. He was abandoned sorrowfully to his
fate; and what that fate was they were too soon informed—for
ere they had ridden above a quarter of a mile, scaling the
heights by abrupt zig-zags, a loud shout, followed by the
sound of heavy blows, and one shrill shriek of anguish, reached
their ears.
Then, for the first time, Ellinor's lips grew white, and her
eyes reeled for a moment; but by a strong exertion she shook
off the grievous sickness which was creeping over her, and
fixed both eyes and mind on the guidance of her courser.
“Brave girl! Brave Ellinor!” her lover's voice murmured
in her ear; and as she raised her full dark eyes till they met
she felt a short-lived thrill of rapture. “Nay, but we will save
you yet, my own Ellinor!”
As he uttered the words, they reached the chestnut tree of
which he had spoken—a landmark celebrated through the
country, and said to be as old as the invasion of Strongbow,
standing where four main roads, and no less than five bridle-paths,
met.
“Here lies our safety!” he exclaimed, drawing his rein.
“Here we must part, and take different roads. You, Murtough,
with ten others, and the page—his horse is the slightest
of the band:—and if they follow by the track, they may take
it for the lady's palfry; ride that way through the woods, still
bearing to your right, that you join us at nightfall in Carnew.
Three more, straight forward and do likewise. Three more,
with Shamus Beg to lead them, ride right upon Rathvilly; you
will be there to-morrow. Florence, spare not your spurs nor
your horse's life. Yon is the straightest way upon Carnew.
Leave us, and bring us aid of the quickest—lances!—lances!
Now, Ellinor, with me—with me, beloved!”
Not a word was spoken. Implicit, prompt was the obedience—the
obedience of love, not of fear—of love and of conviction;
for Florence would fain have staid beside his sister:
but he saw that O'Brien's counsel was the wisest, and that
therein lay their only hope of safety; and he, too, wont to lead,
obeyed. And it was their only chance—for, not ten minutes
had elapsed after they dispersed, before Hugh O'Neil, riding
the first, as guide, with some forty or fifty horse, led by a noble-looking
youth in full armor, with a crimson scarf, and a
crimson feather in his motion, and resembling a cavalier rather
than a Puritan, came up to the spot, and were at fault for a
moment.
Then, for the first time, did the instinct of love in O'Brien
defeat the instinct of revenge in his base rival. He could not
doubt that Dermot would keep the strongest force in hand for
of the two barbs together, he noted it only as a ruse de guerre,
and smiled at its want of success, as he announced positively
that the leaders were with the stronger party—and led the
whole band off on the wrong track, at a canter.
For they had now gained the summit of the ridge, and the
rest of the way was favorable to increased rapidity, although
the descent was far too abrupt and broken to permit of putting
a horse to its speed.
Had the woods now been as thick as on the other side, the
safety of the fugitives would have been assured, for they could
see the hamlet of Carnew, not above six miles distant, in the
open country, at the foot of the mountain chain, and two miles
more would have brought them into good galloping-ground.
But before they had gone half that distance, the party led by
Murtough was compelled to cross a piece of open ground in
full view of those watchful eyes that, seeming to see nothing,
took in everything. A loud shout proved to O'Brien that his
stratagem was discovered, and an instant afterward he could
hear the horse thundering down a precipitous cross-road which
intersected that on which they were riding, about three hundred
yards before they reached the open country.
Terrified at the sound, Ellinor would have put her horse to
the gallop; but O'Brien, cool and collected, and an admirable
judge of pace—that greatest point in horsemanship—controlled
her.
“Steady, steady, dear girl! We shall cross the road ahead
of them, and that is all we need. Then we can gallop. Steady,
beloved! Let him not break his trot.”
And she did not; but not to do so was a fearful trial. The
roads were now nearly parallel, scarce twenty paces intervening
between the pursuers and the pursued—but that twenty,
fortunately for the latter, impassable with crags and underwood.
Nearer and nearer drew the clang, the shouts, and now the
their helmets and the colors of the plumes, and now their
features—the hated features of O'Neil, inflamed with hideous
triumph.
“Oh, Dermot! let me gallop!”
“No, no!—for Heaven's sake! Steady one moment longer,
and you are safe! There is a terrible pitch there, and some of
them will go down for certain, if they try it at that pace.”
But as he spoke, he loosened his sword in its sheath, cocked
both his pistols in his holsters, and drawing one with his right
hand, held it ready.
They crossed the mouth of the other road. O'Neil was not
twenty paces distant, but another rider was yet nearer—so near
that he almost was stretching out his arm to seize the bridle of
O'Brien—when, as he had foretold, the horse trod on a rolling
stone, went down as if it had been shot, and crushed its rider
under it.
“Now, ride—ride, Ellinor!—for your life, ride!”
For still O'Neil came on, with fifty Puritans close at his back,
shouting, secure of triumph.
With the speed of lightning O'Brien's pistol rose to its level,
was, discharged, and horse and man, O'Neil went down to the
shot. But a proficient in all martial exercises, even in that
extremity his skill and quickness saved him. Seeing O'Brien's
pistol levelled, and foreseeing that its ball would take effect on
his own person, he made his horse to capriole, and so received
it in the chest of the animal, instead of his own heart.
But the delay was enough for O'Brien. A minute or two
were consumed before O'Neil was rehorsed; and in that minute
or two Ellinor had gained full five hundred yards on her
pursuers, and Dermot had to spur hard ere he overtook her.
That distance saved them; for, although the Puritans still
urged the chase with determination, and were almost as well
mounted, they never could make up that gap.
Hillock and hollow vanished under their furious gallop—tree
the beautiful flea-bitten Arab tossed its proud head, snorted
with red, expanded nostril, and struggled hot against the rein,
as if it had not run a mile. And still the lovely girl sat in her
saddle, firm, graceful, easy, as if she had been a portion of that
gallant courser, swaying her supple form to suit every bound
of the springy steed, and aiding every stride by the support of
her light and airy finger.
Miles flew away with minutes, and O'Brien was beginning
to fear, knowing that Carnew was now close before them, that
his kinsmen might have failed him, and that he should find no
help when help must be had, or never.
But just at that point of time, when his heart was sinking,
the tall hat of a cavalier, with its streaming plume, rose above
the swell of ground to his left, and then a bay barb's head,
with a white blaze down its face, and then a stately horseman,
sword in hand, reining the horse along at full career.
His fresher and unwearied horse had outstripped Florence
Desmond; but he rode the second, and after him, powdering
through the dust in long array, some five and twenty spears.
They met;—no time for greeting.
“Onward—ride onward, Ellinor! This is no sportive tourney
for maidens to behold. On, Ellinor, away! Ride with
her, Con—ride, ride, I say! Soh, soh! Now, give me a
spear, gentlemen. Order your ranks—upon them—charge!”
For, though the Puritans had seen the rescue, confident in
the force of their superior numbers, which nearly doubled those
of their antagonists, they rode on at full speed, without so
much as closing up their ranks or ordering their front to meet
that fiery charge.
They had no lances either—and the straggling volley of pistols
and musquetoons which they opened irregular, so soon as
the O'Briens were within gun-shot, had no more effect to break
the onset of that compact and solid body, which charged home
like a thunderbolt, than had the rapiers of the Puritans, to
parry the couched lances of the cavaliers.
The eye of O'Brien scanned the ranks eagerly to find O'Neil,
but found him not. Although remounted, his fall had shaken
him so sorely that he fell into the rear, and when he saw the
rescue and the charge of the O'Briens, turned his horse and
fled.
Therefore, as the next highest in place, if not in hatred,
O'Brien charged his lance against the crimson-feathered leader,
who, contrary to the wont of the Puritans, was armed cap-apie,
and wore a helmet with a visor.
Whoever he was, he bore him like a man in the melée, and
even under the fatal disadvantage of sword to lance, fell not
an easy victim.
For, though O'Brien's lance struck him fairly on the gorget,
and flew to shivers, up to the very gauntlet-grasp, he still kept
his seat, and dealt Dermot a clean cut over his head-piece that
made his brain reel and his eyes flash fire. But at the same
instant his girths broke, his horse went down, and friend and
foe all passed over him.
For the Roundheads stood not an instant. Sixteen or eighteen
went down killed or maimed in the first shock; and when
the O'Briens' lances broke, their swords flew out, not without
reason, and went up again not without revenge.
For three miles they pursued and slaughtered, till their
horses were blown and their arms weary with slaying. If any
of their foes escaped, it was by the speed of their own horses,
which, fatally for the Puritans, they had pressed into service
against their own masters.
O'Brien turned his rein the first—love was stronger with him
than revenge—and he was trotting slowly back toward the
scene of the first onslaught, when sights and sounds met his
eyes which made him put to his spurs and ride as hard as ever
he rode to meet mortal foe.
Two or three score of ragged youths, half-armed, savage,
and desperate rascals and rapparees, the disgrace of native
Irish armies, had collected about the carcasses like vultures,
of egony, entreaties for mercy, and wild Irish howls were fearfully
commingled, and not a skene but was wet with blood.
Shouting as loudly as he could, and threatening dread vengeance,
he came up at the gallop—but the murderers either
heard or heeded him not at all.
Just at this moment, the leader, whom he had himself unhorsed,
struggled up to his feet, but was instantly felled by the
blow of a club, which made his steel helmet ring like a bell;
and in an instant a brawny ruffian knelt on his chest, and the
point of a long dirk was already trying the crevices of his
gorget, when Dermot's black barb was pulled up beside the
group, and a stern voice thundered in the assassin's ear—the
last he ever heard on this side eternity:
“Did I not bid thee hold? Shall the O'Brien, then, speak
twice? Hold, carrion!”
And ere the words were out, it was carrion to which those
words were addressed—for the full sweep of the long Toledo
blade took him on the bent neck, and severed the head sheer
from the trunk, that fell a corpse on his intended victim.
Dermot sprang from his horse. No lack of ready hands
now to hold his stirrup and to catch his rein. He stooped over
his captive, and raised him from the ground tenderly.
“Now, by the Holy Virgin, if ye have murthered him, I will
hang fifty of you!”
“Thanks to your generosity, my lord!” answered the other,
recovering himself; “they have not murdered me. But it was
touch and go! I believe I speak—I believe I am prisoner, to
the Earl of Thomond,” he added, opening the visor of his helmet,
and showing the fine bold features of a handsome young
man of some six or seven and twenty years. “I am Hen—”
“I seek not, sir,” O'Brien interrupted him, in mid speech,
“to know more than that you are a fallen foe. I pray you, tell
me not your name, lest I be forced to act otherwise than I
would. I am the Earl of Thomond, sir, lieutenant for the
sir, you are so no longer. You are free; and if this act of
mine, thus dismissing you in safety, have any power to render
this sad war less bloody, I shall hold myself rewarded.”
“If I have aught to say,” replied the other, “it shall render
it less bloody.”
“I doubt you not, sir. But now, as my people's minds are
somewhat excitable and rash—for persecution, as you know,
drives wise men mad, and these poor caitiffs are not of the
wisest—you were best get back to your friends as soon as
may be. That is your horse, I think, which they have caught
there, and he does not seem to be injured. You had better
mount at once, and begone.”
“Your horse, you mean, my lord. I have no claim to him,
but the worst of all—the claim of the strongest.”
“The best in the world!” answered O'Brien, laughing.—
“The best in the world! Fortune de guerre! Fortune de guerre!
mine yesterday—yours to-day—perchance mine again to-morrow.
But I am in earnest, sir. You were better mount, and
ride away as quickly as may be; for these irregular followers of
mine, though they now will hold your stirrup, cap in hand,
will cut your throat nevertheless skilfully for that, when once
my back is turned.”
“In truth, they do seem wondrous adroit cut-throats.”
“Therefore, avoid them, sir. Ho! Florence—ho! I am
here!” he shouted, seeing the colonel riding back from the
pursuit, at a little distance, and not seeming to notice him;
but the colonel still rode on, though he turned his head, and
looked at the earl for a moment.
The next minute Ulick came in sight, bloody from spur to
plume—bloody with slaughtering—bloody with spurring—with
a dozen veteran men-at-arms behind him.
“Ho, Ulick! Find me out two trusty men to guide this
gentleman back to the outposts of the enemy, in all honor—
men on whom you can rely. These scurvy fellows here would
lucky chance, which brought me in, just at the nick of time.”
Two men were soon selected, and the stranger mounted
but ere he went, he stooped down toward Dermot, who had
not yet remounted, and said, impressively:
“We shall meet again, lord earl.”
“I doubt it not, sir.”
“Shall we shake hands on it?” asked the other, in reply.
“I shake no hand which hath blood of Ireland upon it.”
The Puritan cast a glance toward the decapitated corpse of
the rapparce, and it seemed as if a retort were rising to his lips.
If it were so, he restrained it, bowed gravely, with a half-melancholy
smile, saying:
“I would we could have been friends; nevertheless, I
thank you for my life!—I thank you!”—And so he rode away.
Ere long, O'Brien overtook Florence Desmond, who looked
at him steadfastly, and asked:
“Know you who that was?”
“I may guess.”
“He did not tell you, then?”
“I would not hear him.”
“You did well—and better in dismissing him. Speak of it
to no man. Let you and I keep counsel.”
That evening they spent, almost happily, in the wretched
little hostelry at Carnew, so singularly do great perils run—
great adventures pass—and the sense that they are still in
the midst of mighty dangers, dispose the minds of men to be
gay in despite of grief, and to snatch all the flowers from out
the keenest thorns of life.
The third night thereafter they were in safety in the walls
of Tredagh, garrisoned by a great force of Ormond's best men,
provisioned for many months, and capable, as it was believed,
of resisting any force that Cromwell could bring against it,
until it should be relieved by Ormond, who was fast gathering
head to meet the invader, and drive him, as he boasted, in
disgrace across the Irish Sea!
| CHAPTER IX. Dermot O'Brien; or, The taking of Tredagh | |