University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Scott.

No farther words were spoken after the last commands of
the O'Brien had found their way to the ears of his attentive
and obedient vassals. The quartering of the deer—a ceremony
in those days still observed with much of the old feudal pomp—
was left to the wild foxes and wolves—for there were wolves
yet in Ireland at that time—and to the ravens of the wild moorland
hills; the bloodhounds, which had received already their
share of the spoil, were coupled up half-surly and insatiate;
girths were tightened, and weapons looked to with some
care, and the little party got to horse and proceeded on their
homeward route, with graver faces and less buoyant hearts than
they had ridden forth in the morning.

The young Earl of Thomond—for such was the true title of the
young gallant chief who was generally known among his countrymen
as the great O'Brien—rode perhaps a hundred yards
in advance of his retainers, between the two elder and most
trusted of his comrades, his cousin, Con O'Brien, and the gentleman
whom he had addressed as Florence Desmond—and to
whose counsel and suggestions he appeared to pay unusual
deference.

This latter, unlike his kinsman, the younger O'Brien, who
was little more than a fine-spirited young cavalier, was a man
somewhat advanced toward the middle age, though not so
much so as to have lost anything either of physical or mental
vigor; and was one whom, from a more casual glance, a stranger
would have pronounced to be acquainted with the world,
both of courts and camps; and so, in truth, he had been.

In age, he was not, perhaps, so mature as he appeared, having
been worn considerably by the fatigues of war, and exposure
to all kinds of weather; and, though he looked a man of
forty years, he had not, probably, passed his thirty-second summer.
In person he was very tall, measuring considerably over
six feet in height, admirably built, and broad-shouldered in
proportion to his stature; otherwise he was thin-flanked, and so
slender, although deep-chested, that he might well have been
called thin, had not the round and starting muscles of his limbs
shown clearly that it was the fatty portions of the human frame
alone which had in him been kept down by toil and activity,
while all the rest was hardened into brawn and sinew.

In a word, he was one of those rare specimens of human perfection,
whose stature and proportions are so admirably adjusted,
that their preeminence of size is unobserved, until it is measured
by comparison with some near standard; and then the
observer starts to find that he whom he has taken for an ordinary
man, is in truth a Hercules in power, though almost an Antinous
in grace and symmetry.

He was not, like his kindred and companions, dark-haired
and dark-complexioned, at least, originally; though now his
skin, on the face, neck, and hands, where it had been changed
by the weather, was scorched to more than gipsy swarthiness
from exposure to hotter suns than light the mist-wreathed shores
of the green Island.

His brow, however, where the brim of his beaver, or the
peak of his casque, which with him had been the more usual
head-gear, had kept off the sunbeams, was as smooth and as

white as a lady's forehead; and his eyes were of that deep steel-grey
which is so rarely found but in persons of peculiar temperament
and superior qualities. The color of his hair, as it
had been of old, was no longer easily discernible; for it was
now so streaked with lines of wintry grey, and was worn so
thin by the pressure of the helmet, that it resembled more in
hue the mane of the roan courser which he rode than the love-looks
of a cavalier. It had been once, however, of the deepest
and richest chestnut that ever decked the head of mortal man,
and as remarkable for its luxuriance and soft wavy flow, as for
the splendor of its coloring, and the play of light and shadow
on its almost metallic masses. The only point in which this
fine tint was still perceivable was the pair of heavy drooping
moustaches which he wore after the Spanish fashion, concealing
the whole of his upper lip; all the rest of his face being close
shaved, contrary to the fashion of the day—at least, in France
and England.

His other features, though fine and nobly-formed, were not
such as would have led any one to call Florence Desmond a
handsome man; and yet there was a changeful play of expression
over those strongly-marked lineaments, which could not fail
both to attract and rivet the attention. The ordinary character
of his face, when in repose, was grave and solemn thoughtfulness,
approaching at times to what might be called heaviness
of aspect; and never, at any time, even in the most violent
action, the most eager and thrilling excitement, did his high,
haughty countenance exhibit that glow of physical and passionate
enthusiasm which kindles in the veins of the young and
ardent. At the most moving instants, whether of action or
deliberation, the quickest expression that ever lighted up his
aspect was a sort of sharp, hawk-like keenness, purely mental
in its character; and at such moments his thoughts seemed to
rush with instinctive rapidity, and his deeds almost to anticipate
his own volition.

His manners were calm, grave and dignified, almost to coldness;
and tinctured with a dignity of air and gait, perhaps derived
from the Spaniards among whom he had served long,
and with great distinction, which led superficial observers
to believe him intolerably haughty. In speech, unless when
greatly moved, he was somewhat slow, sparing of words, terse,
never trite, though often sententious; but when moved, his
elequence was as impetuous and copious as the mountain torrent—as
penetrating as the subtle lightning.

Such, in brief, was the appearance, such the exterior character,
of a man who had already played a great part on the
great theatre of the world, then crowded with the actors of one
of its mightiest dramas. Scarely a country, not a quarter of
the globe, in which his sword had not been drawn. Banished
by his religion from his native land, he had taken service with
the Spaniards, and learned the art of war in the best school of
tactics, and the finest armies then in Europe; nor had he quitted
them until the horrors and barbarities in the Low Countries had
disgusted him with the standards of the Don; though not till
he had fought beneath them against the Moors at Oran and
Ceata, and against the Buccaneers beyond the Line, on the
coasts of the American terra firma. Again in the Morea, and
on the Asiatic mainland, he had crossed swords with the Janizaries
and Spahis under the winged lion of St. Mark; and
in a word, with the exception of the British isles, in which his
sword had never seen the light, there was no European country
in which the name of Florence Desmond was not known as
a man both of counsel and of action.

The dress of this distinguished soldier was very different
from that worn by any of his fellow-hunters, being entirely
foreign, both in cut and materials. It consisted of a close-fitting
just au corps of plain black velvet, with jet buttons, but
without lace or ornament of any kind, loose breeches of the
same fabric, with a row of jet buttons down the seam, and
heavy riding-boots of Cordovan leather, with large Spanish

spurs of bright steel. His hat was a regular sombrero, with
one long drooping feather; and the only weapon which he
wore was the old-fashioned Toledo rapier, above four feet in
length, with a steel basket-hilt and scabbard.

With regard to the other gentlemen who composed the
party, it is needless to say more, than that they were, without
an exception, fine-looking, active youths, clad in the usual attire
of the British cavalier of that day, and well skilled in his
usual accomplishments. High-spirited and brave, they were
of course, for they were Irish gentlemen, and nurtured from
their cradles upward, above the reach of any low idea or sordid
consideration; but it must be said likewise that there was
no more distinctive force or originality of character among
these nobly-born and nobly-nurtured striplings, than between
these heroes of æneid, whom the Mantuan poet has contented
himself with specifying as Gyas the strong and strong
Cloanthus; and even this distinction was lacking among
these; for, save O'Neil, the stranger, and their chieftain's guest,
Florence Desmond, there was not one man present from Con,
his father's brother's son, down to Phadraigh, the dog-keeper,
whose name was not O'Brien.

Immediately in the rear of the earl, but about a hundred
yards behind him, rode a couple of stout, well-armed men,
faithful retainers both, and clansmen, whose duty it was to
wait especially upon his person, and to look after his safety in
those times of treachery and bloodshed. After these again
followed three persons, of whom Hugh O'Neil was in the centre,
between two of the earl's younger cousins, Ulick and
James O'Brien, both of whom were thoroughly upon their
guard, seeming to look upon their apostate, and now, as he
said, repentant kinsman, rather in the light of a prisoner than
of a guest. For they interchanged no words with him of any
kind, while they kept a quick watch upon his every movement;
so that, although no personal restraint was put upon
him, and he retained his weapons, even to the musquetoon,

which he had reloaded since it had done such good service, he
would have found it no easy matter to escape, had he desired
to do so, from the party.

It did not appear, however, that he entertained any such
idea; for he jogged along quite contentedly, spurring the
miserable garron he bestrode to its best pace, in order to
compel it to keep up with the high-bred and gallant coursers,
which, despite of their morning's gallop, fretted and chafed
against the bit, as if they had not run a mile. After a while,
he drew out a short, dingy pipe, from the pocket of his doublet,
crammed it with Virginia tobacco, and, striking a light by
means of a flint and steel, which he produced from the same
receptacle, began to smoke as assiduously as if his life had
depended on the maintenance of a dense volume of white
smoke about his ill-conditioned features. This, which is now
almost a national habit and peculiarity of the Irish, especially
of the lower orders, was at that time almost unknown in that
country; nor was it prevalent, to any great degree then,
among the cavaliers of the neighboring Island; although with
the Puritans and Parliamentarians, most of whom were of the
middle classes, it was very general; and as O'Neil resorted to
it, probably as much to kill the time, which hung heavily on
his hands in his social solitude, and to keep up the appearance
of recklessness and hardihood, the gentlemen of the company
drew themselves up in their stirrups even more stiffly
than before, and casting at one another contemptuous glances,
began to snuff the air, as if it were polluted, muttering, loud
enough to be clearly heard, plain maledictions on the low-breeding
of the heretic apostate; and alluding to it as a trick
which he had caught in the barrack-rooms of the Ironsides, or
the conventicle of Praise God Barebones.

Little, however, did the object of their animadversions appear
to care for them or their insulting comments. His end
was gained, when he had obtained permission, how ungraciously
soever it were given, to follow the O'Brien to his castle; and

that accomplished, like a true philosopher, he took no heed for
what he could not remedy, and affected not to observe what
in reality made the blood boil in his veins.

It needed many hours of riding to bring them to the demesnes
of the O'Brien, so intricate and circuitous were the passes
through those wild moorland hills, and so difficult was the
nature of the ground through which the wild horse-track led,
never allowing them to move faster than a trot, and frequently
keeping them at a foot's pace. But if their progress was slow
and wearisome, so delicious was the soft summer weather, and
so lovely the wild, romantic scenery through which they rode,
that had not the minds of all the leaders of the party been
preoccupied by anxious and gloomy thoughts, the journey
would have been one of unmixed pleasure.

The nearer they approached to the grand mountain masses
of Slievh-Buy, the bolder became the whole face of the country,
the more steep and abrupt the successive hills which they
had to scale, the more deep and shadowy the glens which were
threaded by their winding road. The open, rolling expanse
of the heathery moors was changed for a very labyrinth of
knolls and craggy ridges, feathered some half-way to the summit
with fine hanging woods, but bare above, and crowned
with naked piles of scarred and splintered rock. The intervening
hollows were no longer smoothly sloping vales, with
broad trout-streams wandering through their gentle laps, but,
at first, deep-wooded glens with brawling brooks foaning and
chafing over fall and rapid, and then precipitous rock-walled
ravines, watered by actual torrents, all alike, trout-stream,
brook and torrent, working their devious way westward to
join the distant Slaney.

Meantime Slievh Buy itself, which showed from the spot
where the stag was slain in the forenoon, only as a huge perpendicular
wall of cerulean shadow looming up grand and
massive against the lustrous morning sky, now glimmered out
resplendent, as the waning sunbeams fell on it, mellowed only

by the soft mountain haze, in its true character. Its salient
butteresses of living rock stood out in bread relief, while its
dim gorges and ravines, umbragcous with dense forest, gloomed
in their purple shadows. Here, seen at intervals on the
bare steeps, and lost again to view in the woody hollows, a
long, sharp streak of silvery radiance would indicate the swift
deseent of a mountain cataract; and there, against the sky, a
giant pine would rise conspicuous and sharp, so towering was
its stature, even at that far distance.

Often, as they advanced, and became more and more entangled
in the passes, the road, after climbing some precipitous
ridge, would descend at so sharp an angle as compelled the
cavaliers to dismount and lead their good steeds by the bridle,
into the channel of some black, whirling torrent, walled on
the farther side by sheer ramparts of rock, and affording
neither space for a track, however narrow, in the bottom, nor
any egress on the farther side from the abyss. In these defiles—no
less than four of which occurred before they arrived
at the base of the great mountain ridge—the party plunged unhesitatingly
into the waters, and rode for a considerable distance—in
one instance above half a mile—either up or down the
channel—often more than bolly-deep, and always with much
difficulty and some danger, so slippery was the pebbly bed,
and so strong the stream, before the road—if road it could be
called—again emerged on the farther side.

At the last and longest of these passes, up which the active
Irish horses scrambled with splash and bound, climbing a
rough, shelving rapid, down which the arrowy waters foamed
as if down a giant stairease—although no mortal form was
seen, nor any sign of human life, the party of O'Brien was
thrice hailed from the summits of the cliffs, or from some
crevices in their black treeless sides, by a wild, shrill yell,
which seemed to syllable articulate words in some strange
language, and to each of which the earl replied by a single
not on his bugle-horn, after which no farther sound was

heard, nor any opposition offered to their progress. It did
not fail, however, to occur to the shrewd mind of O'Neil,
acute by nature, and sharpened by the study of all resources
of the military art, that this occurred in each case at points of
the defile where the windings of the channel, and the commanding
elevation of the crags, would have exposed the party
to be cut up by a cross-fire from front, rear, and both flanks
at once, should an active enemy be in possession of the two
sides at once of the ravine. Nor did he doubt, in the least,
that this was the case; and that out-lying bands of the kernes
of the O'Brien clan were scattered throughout all the lower
ranges of the hill country, with an especial view to the defence
of the passes which led to one of the great fastnesses of
that powerful family.

As these thoughts passed through the mind of the dark and
wily renegade, bold as he was, and accustomed to rely for the
defence of his head on the strongth and sleight of his own
hand, he could not so control his feelings, but that he turned
somewhat pale, when he considered how many times that
very morning he might have passed within point-blank range
either of ball or arrow—fot bows were still, even to that day,
the primitive weapons of some of that wild people—of those
who, had they recognised, would have slain him with less
mercy than they would have shown to the felon-wolf, before
he had obtained the unwilling safeguard of the O'Brien's
company.

One of the youths who rode beside his bridle-rein noted the
change which blanched his features; and, looking full in his
face with a sneering smile, said, with a bitter emphasis and a
slight foreign accent:

“It is no easy thing for an enemy to enter the O'Brien's
country. Voices are not heard unless hands are nigh, and
willing hands find ready weapons.”

“I know both the O'Brien, and the O'Brien's country!”
was the short, stern reply; for the man was not alarmed, but
startled only, and had manned himself on the instant.

“It is well for you you do!” answered the other. “For
then you know, that if it be hard for a foe to enter, it is yet
harder for a spy to quit! For the traitor, every heather-bush
holds a musket or a skene, every oak-tree a halter, every
cairn a grave!”

“Best take heed then that you find them not a subject, or a
tenant!” answered O'Neil, with a grim smile. “For me, I
neither heed your counsels, fear your menaces, nor seek your
friendship! Go, boy, talk with your equals; when I reck to
converse, it will be with your betters!”

“My betters!” exclaimed the fiery Celt, his hot blood flushing
to his brow in crimson. “Thou converse with my betters!
Seek them in Heaven, then, or, where thou art more like to
journey, in the depths of—”

“Hold!” interrupted the calm, grave voice of the great
O'Brien, who, attracted by the loud tones and impassioned accents
of the angry speakers, had turned just in time to anticipate
a eatastrophe; for the blade of a long, keen knife was already
glittering and brandished high in the hand of the clansman.
“Hold your hand!—for shame! would you strike a hostage,
and him under safe conduct? Go to the rear, sirrah, and give
up your arms to my brother Ulick, until you know better how
to use them. And you, O'Neil, spur your horse hitherward;
and if you be wise, as men say you are, keep a shut mouth
and a humble tongue. There be none here who leve thee—none
who do not suspect—many who hate thee! But my word is
plighted for thy safety, and thou art safe for this night, from any
mortal power to harm thee.”

The clansman, hot as he was, and fiery, thus rebuked by his
great chief, had not a word to offer in reply. The flush faded
out from his burning brow; the spark diod in his passionate
eye; he sheathed his skene on the instant, and, drawing it
from his girdle, together with the sword which he unhooked
from the hangers, delivered them, deeply humiliated, to his
cousin. This done, he reined his charger up till all the party

had passed him by, even the lowest menials with the laggards
of the pack, and fell in gloomily, the last of the train.

Meantime, O'Neil spurred up his wretched garron sharply,
and making his way between the horses of the two armed vaseals,
came up immediately behind the chief. But, unlike the
youthful clansman, he took the rebuke bitterly and almost
haughtily, muttering as he rode along: “Hostage!—hostage,
forsooth! This comes, I trow, of saving a man's life—and that
man a kinsman too!” But as he came within close ear-shot of
the earl, he ceased his low muttering, raised his voice to its
natural pitch, and said boldly:

“Safe for this night, my lord earl! And is that the extent
of your power, or of your will only, I beseech you? And shall
I not be safe to-morrow? For if the latter be your meaning,
I will see if a clean pair of heels may not preserve my head a
little longer than your gratitude seems likely to respect it.”

“Little would your heels, or your hand either, as you well
know, O'Neil, avail you! For were I but to frown on you
and shake my head, or to turn my bridle-rein and leave you,
three minutes would, I trew, be long measure of your life.—
Irish skenes make sharp work, and that very presently. For
the rest, you know the terms; it your tidings be true, protection
at least, if we may not give friendship! If false, a halter!
For to-night, therefore, you are safe as a hostage, and every
bostage is a guest; so be our guest to-night, O'Neil—let tomorrow
bring with it, as it may, life or death, joy or sorrow.”

“Good faith! if it rest on that alone, full small concern have
I,” replied O'Neil, “for what I have told you is but the simple
truth, and the more you search it out, the surer you shall
find it.”

There was so singular an expression of triumph and exultation
in his voice, as he referred to the certainty of his ill-omened
tidings, that the young earl felt all his former apprehensions
and suspicions of the man returning on him unabated, or rather
with increased force; although a few minutes before, he had

been strongly inclined to put some faith not only in the tale of
which he was the bearer, but in the truth of his repentance,
and return to the faith of his fathers.

He now fixed his eye upon his face coldly and sternly, and
shook his head with a dubious air, as he said in a low, sad
voice:

“Alas! O'Neil, alas! for the days that are gone, before thy
delinquency first took from me that best and most fleeting of
humanity's delusions—man's mutual trust in man! I wish even
now to think of thee as of one erring, yet not lost. And lo! as
if to rebuke my misplaced confidence, comes that dark sneer
upon thy lip, that tone of triumphant joy in thy voice, speaking
of things most ruinous to the cause which thou now callest thine.
Thine eye is enkindled even now with the wolfish-bloodthirst
of the Puritan gladiator; thy voice exulteth as thou wert
enraptured at the success of the savage, Independent Jones —
How, then, may I trust thee?”

“Good cousin, mine, and great Earl O'Brien,” answered the
other, without showing the least emotion at the half-affectionate
expostulation of his kinsman, whose generous nature, all averse
naturally from suspicion, recoiled from the doubts which were
so odious and repugnant to its frank spirit—“were you ever
in such pleasant circumstance, as to know that it depended solely
whether you should break your fast to-morrow upon grousepie
and malvoisie, or dance a coranto in mid air, with your
neck instead of your heels, quivering on the tight-rope, upon
the truth or falsity of a reported story, methinks you would be
somewhat apt to make merry at the knowledge that an inch
or two will not be added to your stature, by the lengthening
of your neck before daylight—even if that knowledge were
purchased by the certainty of what were otherwise unmissed
disaster. How say you, my fair kinsman?”

“That I trust I shall be dead in very earnest, or ere the certainty
of ruin to my country and my king should lead me to
rejoice. I think—I hope—I should be found more willing to

die, even upon the gallows-tree, assured that they were prosperous
and safe, than to owe my escape from that foul and disgraceful
doom, to the certainty of their destruction. But who
can say that he knows himself? Perchance, Hugh O'Neil, I
have wronged thee!”

“You have wronged me, Dermot,” answered the other, his
face lightening up somewhat at this sudden and unexpected
alteration in the earl's tone. “You have greatly wronged me,
for I protest—”

“Protest nothing, Hugh!” the young nobleman gravely interrupted
him. “I never have known any good to come of
protestations; and for the rest, if I have wronged thee as thou
sayest, thou art an injured man; and injured virtue should be
not loud but silent. But new a truce to this! Thou art my
guest for the night at least; and if the morning shall prove thy
tidings true, and that thou hast in all sincerity returned to the
true faith, from which an evil hour and a false villain's tongue
seduced thee—in all sincerity returned to the service of thy
country and thy king, never was erring son so welcomed home
to the hearth stone of his father's house as thou shalt be to
the clansmen of thy mother's race; never were such rejoicings
raised for one thought dead, and suddenly found living, as shall
be raised for thee, my cousin. And lo! even as I speak, the
turrets of my father's house! May it be an omen!”

“An omen!” replied O'Neil, enthusiastically, “a good, a
glorious omen!—in omen that I shall sin no more, and thou
learn again to trust thy kinsman, never again to be deceived.”

And as he spoke, he extended his hand cordially, and in the
warmth and ferver of his high and noble heart, Dermot O'Brien
grasped it, and wrung it cordially, in the full sight of all his
half-astonished, yet rejoicing vassals. For the Irish heart is a
strange, fitful instrument, easily played upon and awakened to
the softest and most touching melodies, easily, alas! jangled to
the saddest and most stormy discords. And now, as the clansmen
beheld their chieftain, whom they almost worshipped as

the best and noblest of mankind, grasping the hand of the repentant
renegade, they deemed, in the simplicity of their honest
impulsive souls, that all was surely right, now that the earl had
pardoned him; and brandishing their arms aloft, they gave vent
to their wild joy and transport in a long burst of triumphant
yells and shouts, full of that thrilling frenzy which marks all
outbursts—whether gay or gloomy, whether fierce or fond—of
the feelings of the yet unreclaimed and unconquered Celtish
races.

It was a lovely scene, and a grand spectacle combined. The
setting sun poured its broad golden light over the animated
moving group, horses and men, and noble hounds with all accessories
of glancing arms, and waving plumes, and gay vestures,
glittering in the foreground; for they had just ascended to the
brow of a steep, bare-topped hill, across which the road ran in
full view of the glowing heavens, and thus caught every ray
of light that streamed nearly level from the westward.

Below the brow on which they stood, the ground fell away
in a long slope, covered with rich woods, to the verge of a broad
tract of lovely meadow-land, all clad in the unchanged emerald
verdure which is especially the characteristic of that soft-climed
and fertile island. Through this sweet lap of dewy
meadows, now checkered with bright lights and broad blue
shadows, projected from the leafy knolls and clumps of scattered
trees, a wide and noble river rolled slowly to the southward,
the largest tributary of the majestic Slaney.

Beyond this, ridge above ridge, and forest above forest,
uprose the lower heights of the great mountain of Slievh Buy,
and above these again preeminent, and seeming to stand almost
midway between the base and the cloud-capt summit of the
huge mountain, upon a vast bare ledge of precipitous crags,
fronting the westering sun, with its long lines of sweeping
walls, its massive turrets, and its vast keep, towering above all
like an earth-born giant, shone out from the dark woods around,

and behind it, the old baronial castle, time honored home of
the O'Briens, glorious in the red lustre of the dying sunset.

The banner of the king waved high above its topmost tower;
and higher, higher yet, above the banner-staff and glittering
blazonry—above the misty pinnacles of the huge hill—yea! and
almost above the golden clouds, which hovered like a glory
round its peak, there soared on balanced wings, distinctly seen,
although so far aloof against the glowing sky, a solitary eagle.

O'Brien's quick eye caught it on the instant, and pointing upward
with his right hand, a proud gesture, and a flashing eye,
as the majestic bird rose higher yet and higher, he exclaimed,
as if in allusion to the last words of O'Neil:

“Is that too an omen?”

Even as he spoke, the sun sank behind the western hill, the
royal banner fluttered for an instant, and was slowly lowered,
while the evening gun boomed from the battlements; and in
that very point of time the eagle swooped, plunged like an arrow
downward through pure air and cold grey mist, and was
lost to the sight in less than a second, amid the purple shadows
which enwrapped the colossal outlines of Slievh Buy.

Alas! for the self-deceiving heart of man!—whether of these
two was the omen—whether the lie of the false prophet!

No word more spake O'Brien. Perhaps the contrast touched
his imaginative mind. He gave his horse the spur, and galloped
down into the smooth valley at the top of his pace, followed
by all his train, eager to gain the castle, or ere the last glimpse
of daylight should desert them.