Chapter IV: Foreword (4)

"But one night as myself was comin' home late from buryin' of ould Michil Gallagher, that was drowned on a rough night down near the bar, when the hooker struck again' the Pollock Rock, who should I come up with but Hegarty, and a couple of other spree-boys along with him. A wild night it was, too, wud the moon, that was only half full, tearin' every now and thin through the clouds that was as black as my hat, and sure 'twas they wor laughin' and shoutin', as if the dhrink wor in 'em, and, faix, maybe myself had a dhrop in, too, but sure that's neither here nor there. Well, myself followed on, keepin' at a civil distance, as was the best of me play, an' it wasn't long till they wor passin' the churchyard, where the poor ould widow was buried, an' just then the moon tore out through a cloud, an' may I sup sorrow to my dyin' day, if I didn't see a black dog comin' boundin' over the gate of the churchyard, an' every leg on him as big as my arm, an' his two eyes blazin' in his head like two live coals. Well, faix, meself felt all at once as if a lump of ice was slidderin' down the small of me back, till I was almost as cowld as a corpse, God save the mark; but for all that I kept follyin' on, an' didn't I see the black naygur of a dog sniff in' and sniffin' at Hegarty's heels. I don't rightly know whether Hegarty noticed him or no, but he began shoutin' louder than ever, and the divel take me, Lord forgive me for cursin', if I ever heard such swearin' in my life as he was going' on wud, and the play-boys that were wud him wor nearly as bad as himself. Well, as soon as he got to his house, an' they all went inside, may I never draw another breath if I didn't see the black dog vanishin' in a flame of blue fire that nearly blinded me eyes like a flash of lightnin'; and when I kem to myself again, what should I see on the doorstep but the ould widow herself--and sure as she was dead and buried over a year before, it must have been her ghost I saw--an' she down on her two knees, an' she cursin' away as meself seed her the night ould Hegarty horsewhipped the poor crather. Well, of coorse, meself didn't meddle or make wud her, and I hurried home as fast as I could, an' I never tould what I seen to man or mortal.

"Well, the next day the talk was all over the place that Hegarty was in a ragin' fever, an' the best of doctors wor brought down from Dublin to try an' cure him, but 'twas worse an' worse he was gettin', an' at last he got so bad that they had to tie him down, an' Cassidy had to watch him night an' day, an' the poor boy was nearly worn out like an ould shoe, an' he asked me to come an' help him.

"I didn't like the job, at all; but Cassidy was an ould friend of mine, an' we wor naybour's childre, so by dint of persuasion he got meself to consint, an' sure 'twas the hard time we had between us. Every minute Hegarty used to start up and cry out:

"'Hunt him away! Hunt him away; his nails are in my throat! His eyes are scorchin' me! I'm burnin'! I'm burnin'!'

"The Lord save us, but 'twas awful to listen to him.

"'Hunt him out! Cassidy, hunt him out, or I'll horsewhip you as I horsewhipped the widow, an' 'tis her curse is on me, the ould hag. Hunt him out!'

"And we had to pretend we wor huntin' him out, an' daylight or dark we used to hear a long howl outside that wud make your flesh creep.

"Well, begob, we wor almost wasted to a thread watchin' him, an' we could hardly get a wink of sleep; but one night the two of us were dozin' by the side of the bed when all of a sudden we heard glass crashin', an' before we had time to rub our eyes wud our fists what should we see but the black dog who had burst in through the window, an' he in gores of blood an' his eyes blazin' like wildfire, and before we could stir a foot he was up on the bed an' he tarin' the throat out of ould Hegarty.

"'The Lord between us an' all harm!' says Cassidy, an' he caught up the poker an' he hot the dog a belt that ought to have broken every rib in his body. 'Ye divil get out of that,' says he, an' I gave him another thwack, an', wud a screech that would waken the dead an' that made every hair of our heads stand up like bristles, the black dog jumped out through the windy, an' he tuk the whole sash along wud him, an' ye'd take yer oath for a minnit that the whole house was on fire, an' there was a smell of brimstone that would knock ye down. An' when we kem to ourselves an' looked at ould Hegarty, there he was stiff and stark, an' the blue mark of the dog's teeth across his windpipe. We called up the house an' sent for the docthors, an' they kem, an' they said 'twas somethin' or the other was the matter wud him that killed him; but Cassidy an' meself knew betther nor they, but we kept our tongues quiet, for what was the good of talkin' agin them docthors? Well, we waked him, though sorrow the wan kem to the wake barrin' the playboys who kem to have a look at him, an' he was buried up in the churchyard, and not far from the poor widow ayther, an' when ye are goin' home to-night take my advice and go round by the hill-road, and don't pass by the churchyard, though 'tis your shortest way home, for as sure as ye do ye might meet wud the black dog who is always about on Christmas Eve, for that was when ould Hegarty bet the poor widow wud his horsewhip, and maybe if the dog met any one of yees he'd do to ye what he did to ould Hegarty."

Perhaps we didn't believe Tim's story, but whether or no we all went by the hill road, and though many a year is past and gone since Tim told the story there is not one who heard it, who for love or money would pass by that churchyard on a Christmas Eve, and it might after all be no harm if those who read the story as I tell it now, and who dwell in the place that knows old Tim no more, should take his advice as we did, and follow the hill road. It is longer than the road by the churchyard, but there is an old saying that the longest way round is the shortest way home.

THE GHOST OF GARROID JARLA.

In fulfilment of a promise of many years standing, I went to pay a visit to an old schoolfellow in the Christmas of the year 185--, and who then resided within a few miles of the hill called Knock Cord Na Gur, in the Queen's County. He was a retired naval surgeon, named Lynam, to whom a substantial residence and farm had been left by an uncle whom he had never seen, and who had been a bachelor, as was my friend, the doctor. It was a lonely place for him to settle down in, but he had been for over twenty years roving in his ship all over the world, and he was tired of voyages, and he found, or professed to find, this comparatively lonely spot an agreeable retreat. Besides his housekeeper, his only servant was one Terry Brennan, who was at once coachman, gardener, valet, and butler. The farm was pasture, and this the doctor let on easy terms to the neighbouring tenants, and as he was ever ready on an emergency to give his medical services, he was very popular for miles round. He loved a book, a pipe, and could brew a glass of punch which would "satisfy an admiral," as he was wont to boast, for this appeared to him to be the highest proof of its efficacy and quality; but, although he had read much, and travelled far and wide, he was as superstitious as the most unlettered sailor, and firmly believed in spiritual visitants, and had many a strange story of what he himself had seen of the dead returning.

He met me at the station with an ordinary outside car, which he was driving, having left Terry at home to have everything ready on our arrival.

We had some miles to go. Night had already fallen a few hours before, and the sky above was as black as ink. We made our way, driving cautiously, all right, until, after going for about an hour, a bend in the road brought us in view of a light, not more than half-a-mile ahead.

"That is the house," said the doctor. "We'll be there in five minutes."

The announcement was very welcome to me, as I was cold and very hungry, and I was about to make some reply, when my companion suddenly exclaimed:--

"By ----, there is the light on the Knock."

And I saw a second light higher up than the first, and at some distance to the right of it, but it vanished in a second.

The doctor's tone was startling.

"What is it?" I queried.

"Quiet, pet; quiet, Molly; easy, girl." The doctor was speaking to the mare and did not answer my question. "Hold on to the car. By heaven, we're over!"

I felt the car was being overturned. I was flung out on to the side of the road, and as I was recovering myself I heard the mare, who had in some way broken from the harness, clattering down the hill.

I had fallen on the grassy margin near the ditch and escaped unhurt. The car tumbled into it without touching me.

"Are you hurt?" said the doctor, who was by my side as I was lifting myself up.

"No," I replied, "and you?"

"All right," he said, but I detected a tremor in his voice.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Oh, yes! Come, let us get on--away from here."

I was on my feet. "What is it, Lynam?"

"Do not ask. Come!" and the doctor caught my arm and hurried me along. I saw he was labouring under some great emotion and forebore to speak. We reached the gate leading up to the house. It was open, and in two minutes we were at the hall door. That, too, was open, and on the steps stood a man holding a lamp out from above his shoulder, and who seemed framed by the doorway. It was Terry.

"Doctor, darlint, did you see him?"

"Where's the mare?"

"She's in the yard, doctor. She has not a scratch on her, but there's a lather on her all over."

"Go and rub her down, put her up, and come back as soon as you can."

The doctor's tone had become calm again.

The excitement caused by this incident had made me forget the hunger and the cold, but when I entered the doctor's cosy room with its bright log fire glowing in the hearth and inhaled my first breath of the warm temperature I shuddered, and the doctor, noticing my discomfiture, uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured out a tumblerful. I observed that his hand shook as he presented it to me, and also that he appeared strangely put about.

I tossed off the wine and then accompanied the doctor to my room, and made myself ready for dinner.

When I came down again to the dining-room the doctor was standing with his back to the fire, looking still, as I thought, a little distrait.

But he brightened up at once, and saying: "I'm sure you must be hungry after your long journey," he rang the bell for dinner.

It was brought in by the housekeeper in response to the summons, and shortly after Terry appeared dressed in the orthodox waiter fashion.

Our talk during dinner was chiefly about old times and old acquaintances. The wine, which was excellent, was done full justice to by both of us, and by the time dinner was over we were in the best possible humour with ourselves and all the world.

Then when the cloth had been removed, and Terry brought in the "materials," the doctor set himself to brew two stiff tumblers of punch. This task accomplished, we lit our pipes, and as often happens with smokers, we relapsed for a while into silence.

We were rudely interrupted by Terry, who pushed in the door without knocking, and who cried out excitedly:

"Doctor! doctor! you're wanted. Michael Cassidy's cart is overturned at the trough below, God save us from all harm, although the horse was only walking, and he's lying under it, and his boy, who was along with him, has come up for you."

"Get the lamp at once, Terry, and Jack," said the doctor, addressing me, "on with your coat, I may need your help."

In a few seconds, preceded by Terry with the lamp, and accompanied by Cassidy's boy, we were hurrying down to the scene of the accident.

We found the cart upset in the middle of the road, and lying across the body of poor Cassidy.

Terry set down the lamp, and the four of us lifted up the cart and turned it over into the ditch, close to where our car was lying. The doctor examined the prostrate man, Terry holding the light for him.

"Dead!" cried the doctor. "Dead! My God, it's awful."

The blood in my veins became icy cold. I felt I was not only in the presence of death, but in the presence of a mystery still more weird if that were possible.

"What is it, Lynam?" I whispered hoarsely.

"That is the rattle of a cart coming along, Terry?" said the doctor, not heeding my question.

"It is, doctor."

"Show them the light."

Terry held out the light in the direction of the approaching cart. It belonged to one of the neighbours. When the cart came up to where we were standing around the corpse it halted. A few words were sufficient to explain what had happened, and the owner of the cart agreeing we lifted the corpse on to the cart and it was taken home.

The doctor, Terry and I returned towards the house. Not a word was spoken by any of us until we were within a few yards of the hall door.

"Look, doctor, look!" cried Terry, "the light is on the Knock again!"

I turned round and looked towards the Knock, which rose to the left about a quarter of a mile from the house. I saw a blue flame that quivered for a moment like a flame in the wind, and then went out.

"Let us go in," said the doctor, "he has got his victim to-night."

We entered the hall and I turned into the doctor's room followed by him. I felt like one in a dream. But the room was bright and cheerful, and the logs were blazing merrily on the hearth. I flung myself into a chair. The doctor had closed the door, and was standing near me.

"I am sorry, Jack," he said, in a serious tone, "that your visit has begun so unpropitiously, but let us forget what has occurred and make a pleasant night of it," and he pulled a chair close to mine and sat down.

He lit a pipe. I followed his example, and we puffed away for a while in silence, but my curiosity got the better of me.

"Look here, Lynam, old man," I said. "There is some mystery about this business of to-night. Our car was upset, as far as I know without any cause, and it was the same in the case of Cassidy's cart. What is it all about, and what did you mean by talking of 'a victim?'"

"It is a mystery," he began, "but you saw the light on the Knock to-night?"

"Yes."

"And that is very strange. The only two about here who have seen it--at least in our time--are Terry and myself. I saw it first on Christmas Eve ten years ago--the first Christmas Eve after my coming. I have seen it on three Christmas Eves since, and each time I saw it a man has been found dead where we found Cassidy to-night."

The doctor spoke in low, measured tones, and a creepy feeling came over me as I listened.

"But what connection can there be between the light and the dead man on the road?" I asked.

"It is a curious story," he replied. "It was told to me by Terry. I doubted it at first, but my own eyes bore witness before to-night to the truth of part, at least of it. But I had better begin by telling you what Terry told me. It seems that in the old times--three hundred years ago or thereabouts--there was on the Knock-Cord-Na-Gur a strong castle, in which dwelt one of the offshoots of the Fitzgeralds, who was known as Garroid Jarla, or Garrett the Earl. He was a man of unrestrained passions, who knew no law save his own will. He was practised in every kind of devilry, and was dominated by a lust for blood and gold. Murder was his chief delight. He was surrounded by a band of villains as unscrupulous and as bloodthirsty as himself. His name was a name of terror for miles around, and many a blackened rafter and blood stained hearth bore witness to his infamous cruelties. Yet, for all that, he could be seemingly courteous, and could easily deceive an unsuspecting stranger into the belief that he was of a friendly and hospitable disposition.

"And it was his wont, especially at Christmas time, to intercept travellers who happened to be passing along the road which we have just left, and, after a courteous inquiry as to their destination, to bid them stay the night with him at his castle. Invariably he stationed himself on the spot where the drinking trough is, of which you heard Terry speak, and which, perhaps, you may have noticed when he held the lamp as I was seeing to poor Cassidy."

"I saw something like a stone trough," I said, "but did not take particular notice of it."

"That was the trough," continued the doctor. "It was not there at the time I am speaking of. It was placed there long after the so-called earl had gone to his account. The times were troublous times, and many a belated traveller was glad of the invitation to spend the night at the castle on the hill. Poor and rich were welcome there. The poor traveller set out the next day with the pleasant recollection of a hospitable night, carrying everywhere he went a good word for his host, Garroid Jarla, but for the traveller who had money about him, his night in the castle was his last. He was never seen or heard of again. But when the earl was killed, and the castle sacked, the only record of his treachery was a heap of bones and decaying corpses in a cellar under the diningroom, the only entrance to which was a trap door, over which the unsuspecting victim sat while he was enjoying the earl's hospitality.

"Garroid Jarla had many enemies, but not one whom he hated more than Rory O'Moore, who then dwelt in the Castle of Cluin Kyle, and who, at the head of the Rapparees, was carrying fire and sword into the English territories. There was a price then on the head of Rory, fifteen thousand pounds of our money now, and many a plot and plan was framed and laid to entrap the dauntless Irish captain. Garroid Jarla determined at any cost to secure the blood money, and tried, again and again, to entice one of Rory's followers, by the offer of a large bribe, to betray his master, but without success. Still he persisted, and, at last, he gained, or thought he had, one over to his interests. The renegade persuaded Garroid that he was desirous of avenging a grievous personal wrong he had suffered at the hands of Rory, and that he was willing to give his life to accomplish his destruction.

"Garroid's hunger for gold induced him to believe that with it he could purchase a man's soul, and, therefore, he gave ready credence to Rory's retainer, whose name was Teague O'Moore, and Teague humoured Garroid to the top of his bent, and denounced Rory in all the moods and tenses. One night he came to Garroid, and told him that his chance of overcoming his enemy, Rory, had arrived. Rory, he said, had come to Cluin-Kyle, after some desperate and successful fighting, and was holding high revel in the castle. There was no watch kept, as Rory felt perfectly secure for that night at least, and, therefore, he might easily be surprised about midnight, and Teague undertook that he would see that the castle gates were unlocked, and as for signal he would place a lighted candle in the postern window.

"Garroid eagerly embraced the proposal, and decided to attempt the surprise of Rory's castle, and, calling his retainers around him, he made a feast, believing that men fought better if their stomachs were not too empty, and that as there was stern and bloody work before them, they would be all the better prepared for it if they imbibed some draughts of _usquebaugh_. Teague remained until the party seated at supper had begun to enjoy themselves, and then having taken care to see that the window of the room opposite which Garroid was seated was not curtained, he took his leave to go, as Garroid thought, to Cluin-Kyle; but Teague, having passed out of the castle, entered the wood that skirted the ford of Dysartgalen. He had not gone far through the fallen leaves that strewed his path when he was challenged.

"'God and Our Lady and Rory O'Moore,' was his reply.

"'All right, pass on.'

"'Is the captain here?' said Teague.

"'Here,' answered a stalwart Rapparee.

"'I want your best marksman, captain.'

"'Come hither, Shan Dhu,' said the captain.

"A man stepped forward with musket on shoulder.

"'Follow me,' said Teague, 'and you captain and your men keep close to our heels. When you hear the shot rush straight for the castle. If the bullet does its work the castle is yours.'

"Teague and the marksman went ahead. They passed unnoticed within the outer walls, and advanced close to the uncurtained window.

"'That candle that you see,' said Teague to the marksman, 'is in a line with Garroid Jarla. Snuff it and you kill him.'

"The marksman took a cautious aim.

"'Bang!' A crash of glass, a fierce yell.

"'Oh, Captain!' cried Teague, with a wild shout, that made the night tremble. The Rapparees burst in on the startled revellers. But, as the latter had their weapons ready to hand, a desperate conflict ensued, and it is said that, until the last of his followers was slain, Garroid Jarla remained sitting where he had been shot, and that his face was black as coal, while his eyes gleamed like fire. The Rapparees sacked the castle before they left for Cluin-Kyle with the news of the tyrant's death.

"The next day the peasantry entered the ruined castle, and, finding the body of their arch-enemy, Garroid Jarla, they dragged it to the Ford of Dysartgallen, and, having cut it in quarters, they flung them into the river, and believed they had got rid, once and for all, of the ruthless tyrant of their homes.

"But in this, according to Terry's story," said the doctor, "they were mistaken. For, time after time, Garroid Jarla appeared at the very spot where he used to meet travellers during his life, and whomever he accosted never saw the morning break again.

"At last a friar coming this way heard of the apparitions and their fatal results, and he bade the people bring a stone trough, and place it on the spot, and this trough was fed with water from a running stream, and the friar blessed the water, so that no evil spirit could come near it. And after this, for generations, no one ever saw the ghost of Garroid Jarla. But in the dark days of Ninety-eight, a band of Yeos, coming along the road, broke the trough, and turned away the stream from it, and ever since then it is dry, and of no service to man or beast, and ever since then at irregular intervals, but always on Christmas Eve, the ghost reappears and claims a victim, and when he appears a light burns on the Knock. And that is Terry's story," said the doctor, and he shook the ashes from his pipe.

"Have you ever seen the ghost?" I asked.

"I have seen the light on the Knock," he replied, "and I have seen the dead men. You saw the light on the Knock to-night; you also have seen a dead man. Do you doubt," said he, looking me straight in the face, "that he is one of Garroid Jarla's victims?"

"Perhaps, after all, doctor," said I, "there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy."

"It is getting late," said the doctor, "and I am sure you must be tired."

I was tired, and yet when I turned in I could not sleep. On that night and many a night since I was haunted by the ghost of Garroid Jarla.

TRUE TO DEATH.

"Death!" The speaker was a tall, sinewy, athletic man, from twenty-eight to thirty years of age. The single word came from his lips short and sharp as a pistol shot. He looked around upon his auditors, who watched his hard-set features in silence. A group of a dozen peasants stood before him, the youngest not more than twenty, the oldest a man of sixty years, above the average height, thin, cadaverous looking, with hollow, sunken eyes, black as night, that contrasted strangely with the prominent, grey, bushy eyebrows. Deep lines, traced by suffering and bitter thought, furrowed his ample brow, and long, lank, white hair came down almost to his shoulders. His eyes rested upon the speaker, whose face became blanched under the terrible and earnest gaze that was fastened upon him. Though dressed in peasant garb, it was easy to see that the young man's life was not always spent in the peaceful occupation of the peasantry; a scar on his right cheek told a story of conflict, while the deep bronze that stained his face was suggestive of travel in other lands. Born on the southern coast, his earlier years were spent in the precarious pursuit of fishing, and just as he crossed the threshold of manhood, an adventurous spirit prompted him to join some of his comrades who sailed with a French captain bound from the Shannon for Brest. He pursued the sea-faring life for a year or two, when, falling in at one of the French ports with a detachment of the Irish Brigade, then battling under the _Fleur-de-lis_, he took service in it, and fought in several engagements, until a bullet in the breast incapacitated him for the duties of a soldier's life. Returning to Ireland, he found the peasantry engaged in the great agrarian struggle which produced the "Whiteboys." His military and adventurous spirit, as well as his sympathy with his class, invested the conspiracy with a peculiar attraction for him. He became a member of it, and before many months had passed was the leader of the organisation in his district. His superior ability, and his power of swift and keen judgment, commanded the respect and confidence of his followers. On many a night before this on which our story opens, the terrible sentence of death had fallen from his lips, but never before had his comrades observed the deathlike pallor that was in his face to-night. The scene was a weird one. A long, low-roofed cave, of irregular shape, not more than twelve feet at the widest, and narrowing towards the aperture, which was scarce large enough to allow of one man at a time crouching on his hands and knees; a small opening in the roof, through which a hand might be thrust, allowed the escape of the smoke from the pine logs, blazing in the further end of the cave. As the flame leaped up and down, a thousand shadows and flickering lights danced on roof, and floor, and walls, flitting fantastically, bringing into occasional prominence, the features of the group. As the speaker uttered the single word, a log, displaced by the action of the fire, blazed fiercely, and threw its light upon his face. In the searching light every lineament was clearly portrayed, and the twitching of his mouth, and the white look that chased the bronze from his cheek, became plainly visible to the eyes of his followers.

"It is well," said the old man. "When shall we meet again?"

The question was addressed to the leader. All eyes were fastened on him as he said with unusual slowness:

"This night fortnight."

"Too long," cried the old man, with a fierce cry that had a hard metallic ring in it as it struck against the walls of the cave.

"Too long," murmured the others.

The leader looked around, scanning the faces of each one closely.

"Too long," repeated the old man, in deeper tones.

"Well, this night week, be it," said the leader.

"Agreed," came the response.

And one by one the party left the cave, save the old man and the leader. The old man moved to the aperture, peered out, and waited until the last of his comrades had disappeared. He then turned back, and, standing with folded arms before his companion, said to him:

"We chose you to be our leader because we knew you were brave, and we believed you to be true; you have never failed us up to this."

"Then why do you doubt me now?"

"Because," said the old man gravely, "there was a white look in your face to-night, which was the sign of either fear or treachery; you are too brave for fear; then what did it mean? You have decreed swift doom to the petty tyrants; why did you seek to-night to postpone the execution of the arch tyrant? You know the wrong he has done our people--ay, the nameless outrages which he has inflicted upon their honour, yet you sought to gain for him the long day, for him who would string us up at short shrift. What does it mean?" And the old man's tones became fiercer. "Is it true what they whisper of you, that the nut-brown hair and the bright eyes and the red mouth of his daughter have caught you in the net, and that your arm is no longer free, and that your heart is unmanned? Look at me! I am old, and worn, and withered. I was once young like you. I knew what it was to love, and the sweetest maid that ever stepped down the mountain side, bright and sparkling as a streamlet in the sun, was the girl of my heart. Forty years ago the green carpet was laid over her in the old churchyard, and a week after there was a bullet in the heart of him who was the father of the man you want to save. Ah! You cannot know, God grant you may never know what forty years of sorrow and bitterness are to the heart of man. Yet you would save him, who follows in the footsteps of his father--him who, as I have told you, has done us nameless wrong. Beware! I am old and you are young; you are strong and I am weak, but I can strike a traitor yet."

As the old man spoke these last words, he had drawn himself up to his full height, his right arm was lifted, and the clenched fist drove the nails into the palm of his hand. Suddenly it fell to his side, and turning from his companion he sought the opening of the cave and disappeared in the night. The leader stood alone. The light from the pine logs began slowly to die out, shadows clothed the walls of the cave and advanced along the floor, and save a small pool of red light below and a faint flickering glow on the roof above, everything was in darkness. Still the leader remained with his arms crossed, motionless; various thoughts disturbed his heart, thoughts of the old days when he was a fisher lad; thoughts of the bivouac and the battle, of the stories of the camp fire, of the long yearning in foreign fields for his own old island home, of the oppression of the people, of the loyalty of his followers, of their faith in him, of the brave work he had hoped to do for them, and then of the sweet face of the girl that he knew never could be his, but for whose sake he would have plucked his eyes out and gone through a thousand deaths. He knew the old man had spoken truly; he knew that her father was one of the bitterest and most hated of the oppressors of his people, and yet he had to confess to himself that for her sake he had sought to gain for him the long day. The last flickering embers were almost dead. Suddenly he became aware of the darkness around, and with an effort, bracing himself up, he sought to chase the harassing thoughts away from him and left the cave.

The cave was by the sea-shore; it was far up on the cliffs, its entrance was concealed by a projecting rock, and was known to very few. A rugged ascent scarcely safe to even the most practised feet, and dangerous to any but a man of the firmest nerves, led up to it from the beach. When the leader stepped through the outlet the strong sea breeze restored him to himself. He descended cautiously until he reached the strand. To the right lay his home. For a moment he turned in that direction, but only for a moment, and then he went the opposite way. After walking for a quarter of an hour he again ascended the cliff, and reaching the table land advanced with quick steps until he found the road. Having gone three or four hundred yards, a light piercing far through the darkness from the window of a square building, that looked half fortress and half mansion, caught his eyes. There was a wild stir in his heart, and the blood rushed fiercely through his veins. He walked like one fascinated. He knew not what he thought; he only felt that if with every forward step death should grip him by the throat he should still go on. At last he stood almost close enough to the lighted windows to touch them with his hand. He looked into the room which was on the ground floor. Pictures and books and embroidery were there; a bright fire sparkled on the hearth, candles fixed against the walls made the room almost as light as day. There was no one visible. Just as he was about to turn away in despair the door opened and a radiant girl entered. She advanced towards the fireplace, shuddered a little as if cold, and stretched her soft white hands over the blaze, and the ruddy glow stained the white lilies on her cheeks. Something like a sob stuck in his throat, and when a moment after her father entered the room, and the Whiteboy chief remembered the sentence in the cave, with a moan, like that of a dumb animal in pain, he staggered helplessly away and sought his home.

The morning broke cold and grey, but soon the level lights of the winter sun came into the room where he had spent a sleepless night. He rose from his bed, and dressing himself opened the little window and looked out upon the sea. The chill breeze of the morning, odorous with the brine of the ocean, filled the room. Hours passed and he still watched the glancing billows keen and cold, and thought of the Shannon river and his voyage to Brest and the escape that was open to him, and he sank into himself and thought and thought. Then looking out again he saw on the strand below, moving along with pain, the old man of the cave, and his heart was divided, and once more he remembered the oppressions of his people.

"They trust me," he said, "and what am I to her? What am I to her?" he cried out passionately, "she does not know of my existence. I am one of the crowd that her father treats even worse than dogs, and whom she, with all her graciousness, scarcely deigns to recognise. Ay! there you go, old man, with your load of sorrow, greater than mine; and yet 'tis hard, 'tis hard to think of it, that I should be the one to pronounce his doom."

Wearily he closed the window and left the room and went down by the sea, and watched its ebbing and its flowing with sinking heart. The following night found him equally restless. How the week passed he did not know, but the night came when he was to meet his followers again in the cave. A week before he was a man of thirty years, looking resolute and brave save for the white look that momentarily came into his face as he pronounced the terrible sentence; to-night he looked old and haggard, and the ruddy light from the blazing logs served only to make his face look ghastly. The doom had been decreed. To-night was to decide who was to carry it into execution. Hitherto the executioner had been selected by lot. To-night it was proposed the same course should be followed. All appeared to agree, when the old man lifted his voice and said:

"We have chosen this man as our leader; we have been faithful to him in carrying out his orders; we have placed our necks within the gallows noose; some of us have stepped up the gallows stair and died without betraying him, when by betraying him they could have saved their lives. The time has come when he should prove his fidelity to us by taking this deed upon himself."

When the old man had ceased speaking there was perfect silence. In the uncertain light it was impossible to discern clearly the features of the leader. But he spoke no word. An indistinct muttering from the followers scarcely broke the silence. Then a stout strapping fellow stepped to the front and said:

"No! I believe in our leader. Up to this it has always been decided by lot. It fell to me twice. I wished it fell to someone else; but when it fell on me I did it. I don't see why the captain should not have the same chance as the rest of us."

A chorus of approval answered this little speech.

"Well, then, comrades," said the leader, "are you all satisfied that it should go by lot?"

"Yes, yes," was the answer, while the old man stood with folded arms and remained silent.

"Then let it be by lot," said the leader.

This course having been determined upon, a pebble was produced for every man present. One was a white pebble; the others were of various colours. The man who drew the white pebble was to be the executioner. The pebbles were placed in a small hole in the side of the cave, not touched by the light of the fire, and too high, even if there was most perfect light to allow anyone to see its contents. The old man was the first to try his fate, and kept the pebble which he drew close in his clenched fist; the others followed, and each also kept the pebble in his closed fist. The last to draw was the leader. The old man, stirring the logs with his feet, said as the blaze lit up the cave--

"Now, let us show our hands," and every man displayed the pebble upon his level palm.

The white was in the leader's hand. He had no sooner shown it than his fingers closed over it with a convulsive grasp that might have crushed it into powder.

"Yes," he said, with a strident voice, "the lot has decided I'm to be the executioner. I shall answer for the discharge of my duty with my life."

"To-night," hissed the old man between his teeth.

"Yes, to-night," was the reply, cold, and brief and fierce.

The conspirators filed out of the cave; the last to leave was the leader.

The new moon had just broken through the clouds, which flung their dark shadows on the sea. He gained the strand, conscious that his comrades were watching him. He took the direction of the doomed house; he moved along like a man whose heart was dead within him. He crossed the lawn, he advanced to the window; the lights were burning in the room as they had burned on that other night. The father and the daughter sat, side by side, in front of the cheerful fire, her arm round his neck, and from the movements of her lips, the light upon her face, and the pleasant laughter in her eyes, the chief knew she was talking fondly. In a moment of madness he lifted his pistol, and aimed it at her father's head. Just then the girl drew back, rose from her chair, and standing up to her full height, displayed all her freshening beauty.

"God bless you, darling!" he sobbed; and when he was found dead outside the window, with a bullet from his own pistol in his heart, the boys knew that he was "True to them to the Death."

"THE LIGHT THAT LIES IN WOMAN'S EYES."

(_A Story of '98_).

Nora O'Kelly was just nineteen years of age--tall, lissome, with cheeks like an apple blossom, hair as brown as a ripe beechnut glowing in the sunset, lips like rowan-berries in the warm August days, and eyes like twin stars looking at themselves in a woodland pool--a girl to dream about in one's sleep, to rave about when awake.

This is high praise of a sweet Irish colleen, the critical reader may say, but it was not half high enough for half the boys whose heads she turned when she and they were young. Alas! they--the admired and the admirers--have long since passed away, and are all now in noteless graves, for the little story, if story it can be called, which is set down here, is a story of a hundred years ago, when the war clouds hovered over the land, and from out their dark bosoms flashed the lightnings that rived many a home and made many places desolate.

She was a farmer's daughter in the county Kildare, who lived not far from Naas. Her life had been uneventful until her mother died when she was little over sixteen. Since then, she, the only child, had been the solace of her father. He, as is the way with fathers, would have kept her always by him; and in the happiness which her loving companionship brought him, he persuaded himself that she was perfectly happy under his roof, and that her thoughts never wandered away from it and him.

But as the wind bloweth where it lists, so love wanders at its own sweet will. Sometimes it will steal in through the guarded gates of palaces; sometimes it will creep in through the crannies of the mud-wall cabins; no place is secure from it; the walled town is as defenceless against its assault as the open plain. It marches down through centuries, the overthrow of kingdoms and of nations cannot hinder its buoyant step, and once in a way it came knocking at the heart of sweet Nora O'Kelly. She did not at once understand the summons--what young girl sweet and innocent as she ever does? But she heard the knocking at her heart all the same, and when she looked through the windows of her eyes she saw, or thought she saw, young Larry O'Connor looking straight at her with such a look as she had never seen in a boy's eyes before, and she felt as if she were walking on air, and that her heart was one sweet song that could not find a word to interpret its music.

Oh! for the delicious dream that comes to a happy privileged youth or maiden once in a lifetime, and that is, no matter what the sceptics and the scoffers say, sometimes realised, and this was the dream that had invaded Nora's heart and taken complete possession of it.

But Larry O'Connor was poor; one of half a dozen children who had to live out of a farm not half as large as that of Nora's father, and she was his only child. Her father also, like many men of property, thought chiefly of it, and was utterly averse to change, and he had nothing but hard words for the emissaries of the French Government as he said and thought, who were going about the country, inculcating subversive ideas in the minds of the young generation.

Conscious of the growing unrest amongst the people, Mr. O'Kelly recognised, but not until after a long struggle with himself that it was desirable he should settle Nora in life. She was young, beautiful and attractive, and he had means greater than his station. He had discovered for himself that young Captain Anthony of the Yeos, the son of his landlord, had been smitten by his daughter's charms. And though very loath to think of her leaving himself once or twice, perhaps oftener, it crossed his mind that if she were to leave him she could do no better than become Captain Anthony's wife. He was a gentleman to the manner born, though a little self-willed and occasionally passionate--failings common enough in these days when his class, a minority of the people was in the ascendant, with scarcely anyone to question them, save some fierce peasant seeking 'the wild justice of revenge.'

Young Anthony was a good-looking youth, with an air of distinction which goes far to capture woman's hearts. He had first met Nora O'Kelly at a ball given by his father to his tenants, and had danced with her on that occasion twice or thrice. Nora met him with the freedom of a maiden who looked upon him as above her in station, and she regarded his courtesy towards her as a delicate compliment due from his superior position rather than to herself. Her frankness did not deceive him for a moment. There was that in her eyes--that which is in the eyes of every maiden of guiless heart--which told more plainly than words can tell that he was no more to her than a gracious stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow.

But this only added fuel to the fire kindled in his heart, her beauty, as marvellous, though happily not so fleeting, as that of the white rose which wins the heart of the wayfarer through the hedgerows in the days of June. A good-looking young fellow as he was, enjoying a high social position, many longing eyes had bent upon him, and he had no doubt that he could easily find a lady of his own station who would be willing to share his fortunes as his wife. But he had hitherto kept himself aloof from the snares of love, and now unwittingly he had fallen over head and ears into it. He did not know this for a considerable time. He had, it is true, directed his steps often towards Nora's house, on one pretence or another to see her father, but really to catch a glimpse of her. But he was seldom successful, as Nora had no desire whatever to come in his way, and hardly ever gave him a moment's thought. Indeed, her whole mind was constantly filled with the vision of Larry O'Connor, who was just as constantly thinking of her, though neither of them had yet spoken of love.

But Captain Anthony, although conscious of a growing interest in Nora, did not suspect that he was really in love with her, and, as a consequence, had not formed any 'intentions' concerning her. If he had it would doubtless never have occurred to him that, in case he ventured to offer his hand to her, he would meet with a refusal. But all at once, in the most unexpected manner, he made the discovery that his heart was in her keeping. Riding by the boreen leading up to her father's house in the twilight of an April evening he caught a glimpse of two figures moving up the boreen close together. One he knew at a glance, it was Nora; the other he found to be Larry O'Connor. There was nothing very remarkable in this, for the farms of the two families were joined, and as neighbour's children they might naturally be on friendly terms, but the sight smote the heart of Anthony like a sword thrust, and something like hatred for O'Connor was stirred up in him. He rode on home slowly, gnawed at by jealous pangs. The face of Nora was before his vision in all its radiant beauty. The soft, sweet caressing voice which won all hearts was in his ear, but now it was whispering, he had no doubt, words of love into another's, and that other one wholly unworthy of her, a mere peasant, for Captain Anthony prided himself on his gentility, although he was only a descendant of a Cromwellian trooper. In another mood he might perhaps have classed Nora's father in the same category, but now his eyes were suddenly opened to her worth, and the possibility--nay, the likelihood of losing her made her appear still more precious. He made no attempt to shake himself free from his torment. He surrendered himself all that night to it, the next day he came to the rash determination as it proved to go straight to Mr. O'Kelly and ask for Nora's hand. He had no doubt at all of his consent, and he tried to persuade himself that Nora's heart was still free, and that she would scarcely refuse him who might choose amongst so many. When he arrived at the house he was disappointed to find that Mr. O'Kelly had gone to Dublin, and would not be back till late, but Nora was at home. He took a sudden resolve, he would see her and propose to her there and then.

Nora at the time was in the garden, and when the message was brought to her that Captain Anthony desired to see her in the absence of her father, she came wondering what the captain could want, and without the faintest suspicion of his purpose. She received him in the parlour, offered him a chair, she herself remaining standing. For a second Captain Anthony stood as if irresolute--then he plunged straight into the heart of the business.

"I came to find your father, Nora. I have found you. I want to know," here he looked imploringly at her, "can I keep you for ever?"

Nora flushed crimson, and a startled look stole into her eyes. She hardly knew what interpretation to put on such language, but before she could say a word the captain rushed on impetuously--"I mean it, Nora, I love you--yes, love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?"

A look of great distress came over Nora's face. Startling as the proposal was, all the more so because of its brevity and plainness, the evident sincerity of it appealed to her more strongly even than the honour of it. She held out her hand while the tears came to her eyes.

"It is impossible, captain; I love another."

The captain's face became white. He ignored the proffered hand, and bowing stiffly left the room and the house. When he had ridden about a quarter of a mile he crossed into the fields and put his horse to the gallop until both horse and rider were well nigh exhausted. It was the means almost instinctively adopted by him to try and subdue the tumult of his soul.