Chapter THE THIRD

In those days there were wild doings in Ireland. 'Liberty and Reform' were the watch-words which did then, and ever will, electrify the fiery, rebellious, ardent spirits that flocked under one banner to struggle and to die. Irish and French met and fought together against the iron hand of England; thousands perished; the fated isle ran blood.

* * * * *

It is the eve of a battle. Gray dawn is slowly breaking over forest and mountain, where strange and wonderful echoes are wont to be heard amongst the rocks and caves; but in the gray of this dread dawn, on the eve of battle and blood, all seems silent as the grave, saving the thunderous roar of the waterfall in its descent into the lake, that seems to make the silence the more intense.

But hark! through the mist of morning a bugle suddenly sounds loud and clear; and when it ceases--far away, a spirit-bugle answers. A soldier, driven to frenzy, they say, by an insulting taunt from a superior officer, had struck him down in the heat of the instant. Short shrift in those days; the man has been tried, condemned, and is about to be led out to execution. So, loud and clear the bugle calls: 'Come forth to thy death,' as plain as a human voice could speak; and he whom it summons cannot mistake that voice, and comes forth guarded, but with steady step, and head erect and soldierly; while in front of him bristles a long line of musketry, and behind yawns an open grave. The condemned soldier is Charles Fleming. Have his ungovernable passions and his strong uncurbed will brought him to this? Ay; and the stubborn pride which has ever been his bane, leads him now to die without that word of extenuation or appeal which even yet might save him.

Yet who may tell how that proud heart swells well-nigh to breaking beneath the broad breast, as he thinks on the old white-haired father and his son's death of shame! He sees too the shadows on the woods of Enderby. He hears the voice of a little sister, calling 'Charlie, Charlie!' at play. And the trees are waving their long arms round the old, old home; and his little playmate Margaret--his _young wife Margaret_--stands beneath and smiles. And then his bold eyes ask for death, merciful death, which shall put him out of his anguish. Yet hold! Even as the muskets are raised, but ere the triggers are pressed, there is a wild shriek of 'Rescue! rescue! Pardon! pardon for Charles Fleming!'

And there, headlong down the way--while all reel back before him--rides one spurring for life or death, his horse in a lather of foam, his head bare, and his long hair flying in the wind. In one hand he clenches a packet, and waves it above his head--the Royal pardon! He reaches them; he stays the deadly fire with his wild outstretched arms raised to heaven, with white face and blazing eyes, and lips which fail to speak. But _one_ could have undertaken and accomplished that famous ride; but _one_ could have saved him in this strait. In male disguise, that _one_ proves to be Margaret Dinning! ''Tis my wife!' cried Charles Fleming in piercing accents; ''tis my wife Margaret!' And with that, the king's messenger sways in the saddle, and is supported to the ground by the commanding officer....

* * * * *

And thus it came to pass that Deborah, watching at her father's bedside, heard rumours of that battle by which the name of Charles Fleming became famous. It was early morning. The great wild clouds of dawn were parted, and rolled asunder. The glorious sun rose on the watcher's weary eyes, and steeped the land in splendour. Deborah threw up the windows wide, and returned to the dying man. O heaven, tender mercy, cannot the light of summer sunrise rob that dear face of aught of its wintry wanness?

'Father, sweet father!' she said in thrilling tones of grief, 'art thou not better? See the glorious sun, father!'

'Nay, Deb,' he answered plaintively; 'I see no sun; mine eyes are dark. How little thou dost look to me! Thou'rt grown so small! My child, my darling, I am very ill.'

Then Deborah raised his head upon her shoulder; she knew that he was himself again, himself but to die; her brave heart sank, yet she answered calmly: 'Yes, thou hast been very ill. Dost thou remember all that happed?'

'Ay, ay. My boy, my boy!' And he sobbed.

'Hush, father; that was wrong; that was false! That was a wicked forgery. Charlie never wronged thee by thought or deed. Charlie hath ever been loyal to thee and thine. Art thou content now, dear?'

A brilliant smile stole over the fading face of Vincent Fleming. 'Ay,' said he, 'content to _die_!' He lay musing, his eyes closed. 'Deb,' said he at last, 'whisper me. My boy is true to me--is't not so?'

'Yes, father; true as steel: he loves thee dearly. And for _thee_,' she went on, with heaving breast, 'he hath done brave things! Charlie is a soldier, and men are all saying he hath won great honour and renown.'

'Ah, Deb; thank God, thank God for this! And thou, Deb, sweet Deb, how is't with thee?'

'I am rich, dear. I am betrothed to King Fleming, whom I love most dearly; and I have wealth enough for all. It is well with thy two children, thou seest.'

And ere the night fell, two messengers came gently to his side. One, radiant with 'white raiment' and drooped wings; the other, footsore, travel-stained, and war-worn. And one was the Angel of Death, who stood and looked upon them pitifully; the other was his prodigal son, who kneeled and folded his arms around his father, and bowed his head and wept.

'Now,' said Sir Vincent, 'I die in peace. How have I yearned for thee! God bless thee! I bless thee, my boy! Deb, this is death!'

And so, raised in Charlie's strong arms and with his hands in Deborah's, without a struggle, the spirit passed away.