Chapter 13. Reilly Is Taken, But Connived At By The Sheriff

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_ CHAPTER XIII. Reilly is Taken, but Connived at by the Sheriff

--The Mountain Mass

Reilly and the bishop traversed a wild and remote part of the country, in which there was nothing to be seen but long barren wastes, over which were studded, here and there, a few solitary huts; upon its extremity, however, there were some houses of a more comfortable description, the habitations of middling farmers, who possessed small farms at a moderate rent. As they went along, the prelate addressed Reilly in the following-terms:

"Mr. Reilly," said he, "I would advise you to get out of this unhappy country as soon as you can."

"My lord," replied Reilly, who was all candor and truth, and never could conceal his sentiments, at whatever risk, "I cannot think of leaving the country, let the consequences be what they may. I will not trouble your lordship with my motives, because they are at variance with your character and religious feelings; but they are not at variance with religion or morality. It is enough to say that I wish to prevent a beautiful and innocent girl from being sacrificed. My lord, you know too well that persecution is abroad; and when I tell you that, through the influence which this admirable creature has over her father--who, by the way, has himself the character of a persecutor--many Catholics have been protected by him, I am sure you will not blame me for the interest which I feel in her fate. In addition to this, my lord, she has been a ministering angel to the Catholic poor in general, and has contributed vast sums, privately, to the relief of such of our priesthood as have been brought to distress by the persecution of the times. Nay, she has so far influenced her father that proscribed priests have found refuge and protection in his house."

The bishop, on hearing this, stood, and taking off his hat, raised his right hand, and said: "May the blessing of the Almighty God rest upon her, and guard her from the snares of those who would make her unhappy! But, Reilly, as you say you are determined, if possible, to rescue her from ruin, you know that if you go at large in your usual dress you will unquestionably be taken. I advise you, then, to disguise yourself in such a way as that you will not, if possible, be known."

"Such, my lord, is my intention--but who is this? what--eh--yes, 'tis Fergus O'Reilly, a distant and humble relation of mine who is also in disguise. Well, Fergus, where have you been for some time past?"

"It would be difficult to tell that, God knows; I have been everywhere--but," he added in a whisper, "may I speak freely?"

"As free as the wind that blows, Fergus."

"Well, then, I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft has engaged me to be on the lookout for you, and said that I would be handsomely rewarded if I could succeed in enabling the scoundrel to apprehend you."

"But how did that come about, Fergus?"

"Faith, he met me one day--you see I have got a bag at my back--and taking me for a beggarman, stopped me on the road. 'I say, you, poor man,'says he, 'what's your name?' 'Paddy M'Fud,' says I--'I belong to the M'Fuds of Ballymackknockem.' 'You're a beggar,' says he, 'and travel from place to place about the country.' 'It's true enough, your honor,' I replied, 'I travel about a good deal, of coorse, and it's only that way that I get my bit and sup.' 'Do you know the notorious villain called Willy Reilly'?' 'Not by sight, your honor, but I have often heard of him. Wasn't he in love with the beautiful Cooleen Bawn, Squire Folliard's daughter?' 'That's not the question between us,' he said, 'but if you enable me to catch Reilly, I will give you twenty pounds.' 'Well, your honor,' says I, 'lave the thing to myself; if he is to be had it'll go hard but I'll find him.' 'Well, then,' says he, 'if you can tell me where he is I will give you twenty pounds, as I said.' 'Well, sir,' says I, 'I expect to hear from you; I am not sure he's in the country--indeed they say he is not--but if he is, I think I'll find him for you;' and so we parted."

"Fergus," said Reilly, "I feel that a disguise is necessary. Here is money to enable you to purchase one. I do not know where you may be able to find me; but go and buy me a suit of frieze, rather worn, a dingy caubeen hat, coarse Connemara stockings, and a pair of clouted brogues; some course linen, too; because the fineness of my shirts, should I happen to be apprehended, might betray me. Leave them with widow Buckley, and I can find them there."

It was so arranged. Fergus went on his way, as did Reilly and the bishop. The latter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer, whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continental college. They were both received with the warmest affection, and, so far as the bishop was concerned, with every expression of the deepest gratitude. The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not, reach them. Reilly privately forced upon the farmer compensation for their support, under a solemn injunction that he should not communicate that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he. They were here, then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active vigilance of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert Whitecraft. He felt that a disguise was absolutely necessary, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to the diabolical vengeance of his powerful enemy. In the course of about ten days after he had commissioned Fergus to procure him the disguise, he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the necessary exchange in his apparel. He accordingly set out--very foolishly we must admit--in open day, to go to the widow's house. The distance was some miles. No appearance of danger, or pursuit, was evident, until he came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four powerful constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made him prisoner. Resistance was impossible; they were well armed, and he was without any weapon with which he could defend himself.

"We have a warrant for your apprehension, sir," said one of them.

"Upon what grounds?" replied Reilly. "I am conscious of no offence against the laws of the land. Do you know who I am? and is my name in your warrant?"

"No, but your appearance answers completely to the description given in the Hue and Cry. Your dress is the same as that of the robber, and you must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed. His house is only a quarter of a mile from this."

They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff's house, whom they found at home. On being informed that they had captured the man "who had robbed him, he came downstairs with great alacrity, and in a spirit replete with vengeance against the robber. The sheriff, however, was really a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a dishonorable act, nor had he ever been known to do so. When he appeared, Reilly addressed him:

"I am here, sir," said he, "under a charge of having robbed you. The charge against me is ridiculous. I am a gentleman, and never was under the necessity of having recourse to such unlawful means of raising money."

"Well," replied the sheriff, "your dress is precisely the same as the fellow wore when he robbed me. But I feel confident that you are not the man. Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers. In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the villain's features distinctly; but I have since thought over the matter, and I say that I would now know him if I saw him again. This, however," he added, turning--to the constables, "is not the person who robbed and beat me down from my horse."

"But he may be Willy Reilly, sir, for all that; and you know the reward that is offered for his apprehension."

"I know Willy Reilly," replied the sheriff, "and I can assure you that this gentleman is not Willy Reilly. Go, now, continue your pursuit. The robber lurks somewhere in the neighborhood. You know the reward; catch him, and you shall have it." The constables departed; and after they had gone the sheriff said, "Mr. Reilly, I know you well; but I would scorn to avail myself of the circumstance which has thus occurred. I am aware of the motive which urges Sir Robert Whitecraft against you--so is the whole country. That penurious and unprincipled villain is thirsting for your blood. Mr. Hastings, however, has a rod in pickle for him, and he will be made to feel it in the course of time. The present administration is certainly an anti-Catholic one; but I understand it is tottering, and that a more liberal one will come in. This Whitecraft has succeeded in getting some young profligate Catholics to become Protestants, who have, consequently, ousted their fathers out of their estates and property; younger sons, who, by this act of treachery, will get the estates into their own possession. The thing is monstrous and unnatural. But let that pass; Whitecraft is on our trail in all directions; beware of him, I say; and I think, with great respect to you, Mr. Reilly, it is extremely foolish to go abroad in your usual apparel, and without disguise."

"Sir," replied Reilly, "I cannot express, as I would wish, my deep gratitude to you for your kindness and forbearance. That Sir Robert Whitecraft is thirsting for my blood I know. The cause of that vengeance is now notorious."

"You know Mr. Hastings, Mr. Reilly?"

"Intimately, sir."

"He took your property in his own name?"

"He did, sir; he purchased it in his own name. The property was hereditary property, and when my title to it, in point of law, as a Catholic, was questioned, and when one of my family, as a Protestant, put in his claim for it, Mr. Hastings came in as the purchaser, and ousted him. The money was supplied by me. The moment, however, that I found Whitecraft was after me, I immediately surrendered the whole of it back to him; so that Sir Robert, in burning what he considered my property, in fact burned Mr. Hastings."

"And I have reason to know, Mr. Reilly, that it will be the blackest act of his guilty life. This, however, I mention to you in the strictest confidence. Keep the secret, for if it transpired the scoundrel might escape from the consequences of his own cruelty and oppression. In the meantime, do you take care of yourself--keep out of his way, and, as I said, above all things, procure a disguise. Let the consequences be what they may, I don't think the beautiful Cooleen Baum will ever marry him."

"But," replied Reilly, "is there no risk of compulsion by her father?"

"Why, I must confess there is," replied the sheriff; "he is obstinate and headstrong, especially if opposed, and she will find it necessary to oppose him--and she will oppose him. I myself have had a conversation with her on the subject, and she is firm as fate against such a union; and I will tell you more, Reilly--it was she who principally engaged me to protect you as far as I could, and so I shall, you may rest assured of it. I had only to name you a few minutes ago, and your fate was sealed. But, even if she had never spoken to me on the subject, I could not fend myself to the cruel plots of that villain. God knows, in consequence of my official situation, I am put upon tasks that are very painful to me; levying fines from men who are harmless and inoffensive, who are peaceable members of society, who teach the people to be moral, well-conducted, and obedient to the laws, and who do not themselves violate them. Now," he added, "be advised by me, and disguise yourself."

"Sir," said Reilly, "your sentiments do you honor; I am this moment on my way to put on a disguise, which has been procured for me. I agree with you and other friends that it would be impossible for me to remain in the country in my own natural aspect and dress. Allow me, before I go, to express my sense of your kindness, and believe me I shall never forget it."

"The disguise, above all things," said the sheriff, smiling and holding out his hand. Reilly seized it with a warm pressure; they bid each other farewell, and so they parted.

Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of Mrs. Buckle, but not by the public road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which his friend Fergus had provided-a half-worn frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and a half-worn pair of corduroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or three coarse shirts, in perfect keeping with, the other portion of the disguise.

"Well, Mrs. Buckley," said he, "how have you been since I saw you last?"

"Oh, then, Mr. Reilly," said she, "it's a miracle from God that you did not think of stopping here! I had several visits from the sogers who came out to look for you."

"Well, I suppose so, Mrs. Buckley; but it was one comfort that they did not find me."

"God be praised for that!" replied the poor woman, with tears in her eyes; "it would a' broken my heart if you had been catched in my little place."

"But, Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly, "were there any plain clothes left for me here?"

"Oh, indeed there was, sir," she replied, "and I have them safe for you; but, in the meantime, I'll go outside, and have an eye about the country, for somehow they have taken it into their heads that this would be a very likely place to find you."

While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes underwent such a metamorphosis that poor Mrs. Buckley, on reentering the house, felt quite alarmed.

"Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from? I thought I left Mr. --" here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly's name.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly; "I am only changed in outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for your kindness," placing money in her hand.

"I can't, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all the money you have to support yourself. Didn't the thieves of the devil burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world without money--keep it yourself, for I don't want it."

"Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this; I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the hell-hounds of the law can't find them. And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley; I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden."

The tears ran down the poor old woman's cheeks, and Reilly left her sobbing and crying behind him. This indeed was an eventful day to him, Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft's. To fly would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song at the very top of his lungs. Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not cross-examine.

"Hallo, my good fellow," said the leader of the party, "what is that you're singin'?"

Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; "Ha neil bearla agum;" that is, "I have no English."

"Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke."

A conversation in that language then took place between them which reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable, and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him. This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue, however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion.

"This blockhead," said Connor, "knows nothing about him, only what he has heard; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of Sligo; come on."

They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.

On reaching the farmer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger, and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting such persons.

"What do you want here, my good man?" inquired the farmer.

"Do you wish to say anything to me?" asked the bishop.

"A few words," replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lordship and the farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently changed his purpose, and added, "My lord, don't you know me?"

The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny that he recognized him.

In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy, returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, "Now, you damned desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin' to pry about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you won't catch that, you'll catch this," and he whirled the cudgel about his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the meditated violence.

"Be quiet, Kelly," said he, "be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly disguised."

"Troth, I must look closely at him first," replied Kelly; "who knows but he's imposin' upon you, Dr. Wilson?"

Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of the cudgel.

"Why, Kelly," said Reilly, "what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my voice at least?"

"Well," replied Kelly, "bad luck to the like o' that ever I see. Holy Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you may thank his lordship here for it that you hadn't a shirtful of sore bones."

"Well, my dear friend," said Reilly, "put up your cudgel; I really don't covet a shirtful of sore bones; but, after all, perhaps you would have found my fist a match for your cudgel."

"Nonsense!" replied Kelly; "but God be praised that you escaped the welting anyhow; I would never forgive myself, and you the friend of his lordship."

He then left the room, his terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly, after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day, involving, as they did, the two narrow escapes which he had had. The bishop thanked God, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he thought the hand of Providence was protecting him.

The life they led here was, at all events, quiet and peaceable. The bishop was a man of singular, indeed of apostolic, piety. He spent most of the day in meditation and prayer; fasting beyond the powers of his enfeebled constitution: and indeed it was fortunate that Reilly had accompanied him, for so ascetic were his habits that were it not for his entreaties, and the influence which he had gained over him, it is not at all unlikely that his unfortunate malady might have returned. The neighborhood in which they resided was, as wo have said, remote, and exclusively Catholic; and upon Sundays the bishop celebrated mass upon a little grassy platform--or rather in a little cave, into which it led. This cave was small, barely large enough to contain a table, which served as a temporary altar, the poor shivering congregation kneeling on the platform outside. At this period of our story all the Catholic chapels and places of worship were, as we have said, closed by proclamation, and the poor people were deprived of the means of meeting to worship God. It had soon, however, become known to them that an opportunity of public worship was to be had every Sunday, at the place we have described.

Messengers had been sent among them with information to that effect; and the consequence was that they not only kept the secret, but flocked in considerable numbers to attend mass. On the Sunday following the adoption of Reilly's disguise, the bishop and he proceeded to the little cave, or rather cleft, where a table had been placed, together with the vestments necessary for the ceremony. They found about two or three hundred persons assembled--most of them of the humblest class. The day was stormy in the extreme. It was a hard frost, and the snow, besides, falling heavily, the wind strong, and raging in hollow gusts about the place. The position of the table-altar, however, saved the bishop and the chalice, and the other matters necessary for the performance of worship, from the direct fury of the blast, but not altogether; for occasionally a whirlwind would come up, and toss over the leaves of the missal in such a way, and with such violence, that the bishop, who was now trembling from the cold, was obliged to lose some time in finding out the proper passages. It was a solemn sight to see two or three hundred persons kneeling, and bent in prostrate and heartfelt adoration, in the pious worship of that God who sends and withholds the storm; bareheaded, too, under the piercing drift of the thick-falling granular snow, and thinking of nothing but their own sins, and that gladsome opportunity of approaching the forbidden altar of God, now doubly dear to them that it ivas forbidden. As the ceremony was proceeding the bishop was getting on to that portion of the sacred rites where the consecration and elevation of the Host are necessary, and it was observed by all that an extraordinary and sudden lull took place, and that the rage of the storm had altogether ceased. He proceeded, and had consecrated the Host--hoc est corpus meum--when cry of terror arose from the affrighted congregation.

"Mylord, fly, and save yourself! Captain Smellpriest and his gang are upon us."

The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them; but Reilly did, and saw that the whole congregation had fled, and that there only remained the bishop and himself.

"Our day of doom," said he to himself, "is come. Nothing now can save us."

Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in the worship of the Almighty; when, lo! the military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain Smellpriest, came thundering up, the captain exclaiming:

"You idolatrous Papist, stop that mummery--or you shall have twelve bullets in your heart before half a minute's time."

The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet had time to receive it.

"Men," said Smellpriest, "you are all primed and loaded. Present."

They accordingly did so; every musket was levelled at him. The bishop now turned round, and, with the calmness of a martyr--a calmness and conduct that were sublime--he said:

"Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you wish to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other place. Give me but a few minutes--I do not ask more."

"Oh," said Smellpriest, "we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the more so because we are sure of you."

When the bishop turned round again, after having received the Host, his pale face had altogether changed its complexion--it burned with an expression which it is difficult to describe. A lofty sense of the sacrifice he was about to make was visible in his kindling and enthusiastic eye; his feeble frame, that had been, dining the ceremony of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible storm that howled around them, now became firm, and not the slightest mark of fear or terror was visible in his bearing; calmly and undauntedly he turned round, and with a voice full and steady he said:

"I am willing to die for my religion, but I say to you that the slaughter of an inoffensive man at the foot of God's altar will not smooth the pillow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Creator, My congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will not! I dare not! Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!"

"I also," said Reilly, "will partake of whatever fate may befall the venerable clergyman who is before you," and he stood up side by side with the bishop.

The guns were still levelled, the fingers of the men on the triggers, when Smellpriest shouted out, "Ground arms! By ---," says he, "here is a new case; this fellow has spunk and courage, and curse me, although I give the priests a chase wherever I can, still I am a soldier, and a man of courage, and to shoot down a priest in the worship of God would be cowardly. No, I can't do it--nor I won't; I like pluck, and this priest has shown it. Had he taken to his heels, by ---, he would have had half a dozen bullets in his rear; but, as I said, I like pluck, and on that account we shall pass him by this time. To the right about. As to the clerk, by ---, he has shown pluck too, but be hanged to him, what do we care about him?"

We must say a word or two here about Smellpriest. He was, in the true sense of the word, a priest-hunter; but yet, with all his bigotry, he was a brave man, and could appreciate courage wherever he found it. The reader already knows that his range of persecution was by no means either so wide or so comprehensive as that of the coward Whitecraft. He was a dashing, outspoken fellow, with an equal portion of boisterous folly and mischief; whereas Whitecraft was a perfect snake--treacherous, cruel, persevering in his enmity, and unrelenting in his vengeance. Such was the difference in the character of these two worthies.

After Smellpriest had drawn off his men, the bishop concluded the ceremony of the mass; but when he turned round to announce its conclusion in the words, ite, missa est, there was not a soul before him, the terrified congregation, as we have said, having all betaken themselves to flight. Reilly then assisted him to unrobe, and placed the vestments, the chalice, pix, and every thing connected with the ceremony, in a pair of saddle-bags, which belonged to the parish priest, whose altar was then closed, as we said, by proclamation.

Reilly and the bishop then proceeded to the farmer's house, Reilly carrying the saddlebags, and as they went along the following conversation took place between them:

"My lord," said his companion, "if I might presume to advise you, I think it would be more prudent for you to retire to the Continent for a time. This ferocious captain, who, subdued by the sublime tenor of your conduct, spared you on this occasion, may not under other and less impressive circumstances, exercise a similar forbearance."

"But, my dear Reilly," replied the bishop, in a tone of deep melancholy, "I am not in circumstances to go to the Continent; I am poor; most of my available money I have distributed among the unhappy people, until I am now nearly as poor as themselves; but, independently of that, I do not think it would be right to abandon the charge which God has entrusted to my keeping. The shepherd should not desert his flock, especially in the moment of danger, when the wolves ire abroad."

"But, my lord," replied Reilly, "under the present circumstances of the country your residence here can be of no service to them. The chapels are all closed, and public worship forbidden by law. This cannot, and, I hope, will not, last long; but in the meantime, think if it be not wiser in you to go for a time into what I may call a voluntary exile, than be forced into banishment by a cruel edict of the law, as you will be if you should be discovered."

"There is great truth in what you say, my dear Reilly, and on thinking over the circumstances of the country, I am indeed of opinion that your advice is good; but, unfortunately, my present poverty prevents me from acting on it."

"But that shall not be, my lord; I have the means--amply, too--of enabling your lordship to withdraw to the Continent, where you can remain quite safe until better times return, as I hope in God they will soon."

"And yourself, Reilly? why not accompany me? You, it is said, are outlawed; why then remain in a country where your danger is still greater than mine?"

"My lord," replied Reilly, "do not press me on that subject."

"I do not wish to do so, Reilly; but here are the circumstances: you and the beautiful daughter of that old squire are attached--in other words, you love each other passionately. Now, you know, marriage is impossible, unless you should abandon the creed of your fathers."

"I think, my lord," replied Reilly, in a very serious and somewhat offended tone, "that my conduct this day, and within the last half hour, was not that of a man likely to abandon the creed of his fathers."

"Certainly not--most certainly not," replied the bishop. "I would have died this day for my religion, and so would you."

"And so would I certainly, my lord, any day, sooner than renounce it for the love of woman. So far let your lordship's mind be at rest. But in the meantime, let me impress upon your lordship's consideration the absolute necessity of retiring to the Continent for a time. Your lordship's charity has made you poor; but, thank God, I am not poor--but in a position to place £200 in your hands to enable you to bear the expenses of your voyage, and to maintain your ecclesiastical rank and position for a time, when you get there."

"Oh," replied the bishop, "if I were once there, very little money would be necessary; I could almost immediately get a professorship of divinity, especially in the College of Louvain, where I held a professorship for several years."

It was arranged that the bishop should go, at least until the times should change, and in the course of a week, Reilly having furnished him with the necessary funds, he departed and reached the Continent in safety.

Their separation was extremely affecting. The bishop wept bitterly, not only in consequence of his parting with Reilly, but still more because he was forced to separate himself from his flock. Reilly was deeply affected, nor could he restrain his tears. The bishop put his hand on his head and blessed him. "I feel," said he, "as if it were a prophetic impulse, that God will bring you out of the tribulations that encompass you. Forget not his word nor his law; love and adhere to your religion; be guided by its precepts, let them sink deeply into your heart. Take care, also, that the love of woman shall not seduce you from your allegiance to our Church. And now, may the Almighty God bless and protect you, and rescue you from the hands and the snares of your enemies!" And so they parted.

No stronger proof could exist, so far as the Cooleen Bawn was concerned, than her extraordinary power of conciliating love and attachment from all who approached her, or were engaged in attending upon her person. The singular softness of her sweet and mellow voice was in itself an exponent of the remarkable suavity and benignity of her disposition. In fact, she carried a charm about her--an atmosphere of kindness and benevolence that no human being who came within its influence could resist. Her smile was a perfect fascination, which, in addition to her elegance of form--her grace and harmony of motion--her extensive charity--her noble liberality of sentiment--and, above all, her dazzling beauty, constituted a character which encircled her with admiration and something almost bordering on worship.

At this time a scheme came into the fertile brain of Whitecraft, worthy of being concocted only in the infernal pit itself. This was to prevail on the squire to remove her faithful, attached, and confidential maid, Ellen Connor, from about her person, under the plea that as, unfortunately, Miss Folliard had been seduced into an affection for Reilly, it was not only probable that her attendant had originated and encouraged her passion, but that it was also likely that, as Reilly was a Catholic, Connor, the confidant, being herself of that persuasion, might so work upon the feelings and principles of his daughter as to induce her, for the sake of the more easily bringing about their marriage, to abandon her own religion, and embrace that of her lover. The old man became instantly alarmed, and, with his usual fiery impetuosity, lost not a moment in dismissing her altogether from his family.

When this faithful girl found that she was about to be separated from her fair and affectionate young mistress, no language could depict the violence of her grief, nor could that mistress herself refuse the tribute of her tears to her sense of the loss which she knew she must sustain by her absence at a crisis when she stood so much in need of her friendship and attachment.

"Oh! it is not for myself, my dear mistress, that I feel this grief," exclaimed Connor, weeping bitterly as she spoke, "but for you. Here you will be alone," she proceeded, "without one being on whom you can depend, or to whom you can open your heart--for many a time you eased that poor heart by telling me of your love for him, and by dwellin' upon his accomplishments and beauty--and, indeed, it's no wonder you should, for where, oh! where is his aiquil to be found? Like yourself, every one that comes near him must love him; and, like you, again, isn't he charity itself to the poor, no matter what their creed may be--oh, no! it's he that is neither the bigot nor the oppressor, although God he knows what he himself is sufferin' from both. God's curse on that blasted Sir Robert Whitecraft! I declare to mercy, I think, if I was a man, that I'd shoot him, like a mad dog, and free the country of him at wanst."

The Cooleen was herself in tears, occasioned by such a glowing picture of her lover, as well as by the loss of this faithful and devoted girl. Yet she could not repress a smile at the indignation expressed by Ellen against the man whom she looked upon with such detestation and abhorrence,

"My dear Ellen," said she, drying her tears, "we must only have patience. Every thing is in the hands of God, and in him let us trust. Do not weep so. It is true that, without your society, I shall feel as if I were in a desert, or rather, I should say, in a dungeon; for, indeed, I fear that I am about to become a prisoner in my father's house, and entangled more and more every day in the meshes of that detestable villain. In the meantime, we must, as I said, have courage and patience, and trust to a change of circumstances for better times."

"May the Lord in heaven grant them soon and sudden, for both your sakes," ejaculated Ellen. "I pray the Saviour that he may!"

"But, Ellen," said the Cooleen, "didn't you hint to me, once or twice, that you yourself have, or had, a lover named Reilly!"

"I did," she replied, "not that I have, but that I had--and, what is more, an humble and distant relation of him."

"You say you had. What do you mean by that, Ellen? Have you, too, experienced your crosses and calamities?"

"Indeed, ma'am, I have had my share; and I know too well what it is to have the heart within as full of sorrow, and all but broken."

"Why, my poor girl, and have you too experienced disappointment and affliction?"

"God, ma'am, has given me my share; but, in my case, the affliction was greater than the disappointment, although that too came soon enough upon me."

"Why, did not the affliction, in your case, proceed from the disappointment?"

"Not exactly, miss, but indeed partly it did. It's but a short story, my dear mistress, and I'll tell it to you. Fergus is his name--Fergus O'Reilly. His father, for doin' something or other contrary to the laws--harborin' some outlaw, I believe, that was a relation of his own, and who was found by the army in his house--well, his father, a very ould man, was taken prisoner, and put into jail, where he died before they could try him; and well it was he did so, for, by all accounts, they'd have transported or hanged the poor ould man, who was then past seventy. Now, over and above that, they'd have done the same thing with his son Fergus, but that he disappeared and but few knows what became of him."

"Why, did he go without having had an interview with you?" asked the Cooleen.

"Indeed he did, miss, and small blame to him; for the truth is, he had little time for leave-takin'--it was as much as he could do to make his escape, which, thank God, he did. But, indeed, I oughtn't to thank God for it, I doubt, because it would have been better, and ten times more creditable to himself, if he had been transported, or hanged himself--for that, ma'am, is many a good man's case, as every one knows."

"I agree with you, Ellen. There is, indeed, a most essential difference between flagitious crimes, such as theft, robbery, murder, and other dreadful outrages of that character, and those which may be termed offences arising from political opinions, which are often honestly entertained by individuals who, in all the relations of life, are sometimes the most exemplary members of society. But proceed, Ellen--what was the result?"

Poor Ellen's eyes filled with tears, and she could scarcely summon composure enough to reply:

"Worse than transportation or even death, my dear mistress; oh! far worse--guilt and crime. Yes: he that had gained my affections, and gave me his, joined the Red Rapparee and his gang, and became--a robber. I was goin' to say an outlaw, but he was that before he joined them, because he wouldn't submit to the laws--that is, wouldn't submit to be transported, or maybe hanged--or you know, ma'am, how little a thing it is that will either hang or transport any one of our unfortunate creed now."

"Alas! my dear Ellen, you forget that I am a living witness of it, and an afflicted one; but proceed. Have you ever seen your lover since?"

"I did, ma'am, but at that time he mentioned nothing about his havin' joined the Rapparees. He came, he said, to bid me farewell, and to tell me that he wasn't worthy of me. 'The stain that's upon me,' said he, 'draws a gulf between you and me that neither of us can ever pass.' He could scarcely speak, but he dashed away the tears that came to his eyes--and--and--so he took his departure. Now, my dear young mistress, you see how well I can understand your case, and the good reason I have to feel for you, as I do, and ever will, until God in his mercy may set you both free from what you're sufferin'."

"But, are you certain, Ellen, that he actually has joined the Rapparees?"

"Too sure, ma'am--too sure; my father had it in private from his own lips, for, as the poor boy said, he hadn't the courage himsell to tell me."

"But, Ellen," asked Miss Folliard, "where had you an opportunity of seeing and becoming acquainted with this young man? You surely could not have known him, or conceived an attachment for him, previous to your coming to reside with us?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Ellen; "it was at my father's I became acquainted with him, principally whenever I got lave to spend a Sunday at home. And now, my dear mistress," she proceeded, sobbing, "I must go--your poor, faithful Ellen will never let you, nor the thought of your sorrows, out of her heart. All she can do now is to give you her prayers and her tears. Farewell! my darlin' mistress--may the blessing of God guard and prosper you both, and bring you to the happiness you deserve." She wept bitterly as she concluded.

"Ellen," replied her mistress, and she paused--"Ellen," said she again--she would, indeed, have spoken, but, after a silent struggle, she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and was fairly carried away by her emotions--"Ellen," said she, taking her hand, and recovering herself, "be of courage; let neither of us despair--a brighter light may shine on our path yet. Perhaps I may have it in my power to befriend you, hereafter. Farewell, Ellen; and if I can prevail on my father to bring you back, I will." And so they parted.

Connor's father was a tenant of the squire's, and held rather a comfortable farm of about eighteen or twenty acres. Ellen herself had, when very young, been, by some accident or other, brought within the notice of Mrs. Folliard, who, having been struck by her vivacity, neatness of figure, and good looks, begged permission from her parents to take the little girl under her care, and train her up to wait upon her daughter. She had now been eight years in the squire's family--that is, since her fourteenth--and was only two years older than the Cooleen Baum, who was now, and had been for the last three years, her only mistress. She had consequently grown, is it were, into all her habits, and we may justly say that there was not an individual in existence who had a better opportunity of knowing and appreciating her good qualities and virtues; and, what was much to her honor, she never for a moment obtruded her own private sorrows upon the ear or heart of her mistress, who, she saw, had a sufficient number of her own to bear.

It was late in the evening when she took farewell of her mistress, and twilight had come on ere she had got within half mile of her father's house. On crossing a stile which led, by a pathway, to the little hamlet in which her father lived, she was both surprised and startled by perceiving Fergus Reilly approach her. He was then out of his disguise, and dressed in his own clothes, for he could not prevail upon himself to approach her father's house, or appear before any of the family, in the tattered garb of a mendicant. On this occasion he came to tell them that he had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, and come to the resolution of seeking his pardon from the Government, having been informed that it offered protection to all who would come in and submit to the laws, provided they had not been guilty of shedding human blood. This intelligence, however, was communicated to the family, as a means of preparing them for still more important information upon the subject of his own liberty--a matter with which the reader will soon become acquainted, as he will with the fact of his having left off his disguise only for a brief period. In the meantime, he felt perfectly conscious of the risk he ran of a failure in the accomplishment of his own project, by throwing off his disguise, and was then hastening on his way to the cottage of widow Buckley, where he had left his mendicant apparel for the time being.

When Ellen saw him she felt a tumult in her bosom which almost overcame her. Her heart palpitated almost audibly, and her knees became feeble under her. There was something so terrible associated with the idea of a Rapparee that she took it for granted that some frightful transformation of person and character must have taken place in him, and that she would now meet a man thoroughly imbued with all the frightful and savage vices which were so frequently, and too often so generally, attributed to that fierce and formidable class. Still, the recollection of their former affection, and her knowledge of the oppression which had come upon himself and his family, induced her to hope that the principles of humanity could not have been altogether effaced from his heart. Full of doubt and anxiety, therefore, she paused at the stile, against which she felt it necessary to lean for support, not without a touch of interest and somewhat of curiosity, to control the vague apprehensions which she could not help feeling. We need scarcely inform the reader that the meeting on both sides was accidental and unexpected.

"Heavenly Father!" exclaimed Ellen, in a voice trembling with agitation, "is this Fergus O'Reilly that I see before me? Fergus, ruined and undone!" She then looked cautiously about her, and added, "Fergus, the Rapparee!"

"God bless me!" he exclaimed in return, "and may I ask, is this Ellen Connor on my path?"

"Well, I think I may say so, in one sense. Sure enough, I am Ellen Connor; but, unfortunately, not the Ellen Connor that you wanst knew; neither, unfortunately again, are you the Fergus O'Reilly that I wanst knew. We are both changed, Fergus--I into sorrow, and you into crime."

"Ellen," said he, nearly as much agitated as herself, "I stand before you simply as Fergus O'Seilly, but not Fergus the Rapparee."

"You will not deny your own words to my father," she replied.

"No, Ellen, I will not--they were true then, but, thank God, they are not true now."

"How is that, Fergus?"

"Simply because I was a Rapparee when I spoke to your father; but I have left them, once and for ever."

"How long have you left them?"

"Ever since that night. If it were not for Reilly and those that were out with him duck-shooting, the red villain would have murdered the squire and Andy Cummiskey, as sure as there is life in my body. After all, it is owin' to Mr. Reilly that I left him and his cursed crew. And now, Ellen, that I have met you, let me spake to you about ould times. In the first place, I am heart sorry for the step I took; but you know it was oppression and persecution that drove me to it."

"Fergus," she replied, "that's no excuse. Persecution may come upon us, but that's no reason why we should allow it to drive us into evil and crime. Don't you know that it's such conduct that justifies the persecutors in their own eyes and in the eyes of the world. What will become of you now? If you're caught, you must die a shameful death."

"Devil a fear of it, my darlin' Ellen. I could tell you something, if I thought myself at liberty to do so--something mavourneen, that 'ud give you a light heart."

"Indeed, Fergus, I don't wish to hear any of your secrets. It's my opinion they would not be fit for me to hear. But in the mane time," she added--prompted by the undying principle of female curiosity, and, let us add, a better and more generous feeling--"in the mane time, Fergus, if it's any thing about yourself, and that it would give me a light heart, as you say it would, and that there is nothing wrong and dishonorable in it, I would, for your sake, be glad to hear it."

"Well then, Ellen, I will tell it; but it must, for reasons that there's no use in mentionin' to you, be a secret between us, for some time--not a long time, I hope. I am, thank God, free as the air of heaven, and may walk abroad, openly, in the face of day, if I like, without any one darin' to ask me a question."

"But, Fergus," said Ellen, "I don't undherstand this. You were a robber--a Rapparee--and now you are a free man. But what did you do to deserve this at the hands of the Government?"

"Don't be alarmed, my darlin' Ellen--nothing imbecomin' an honest man."

"I hope," she proceeded--her cheeks mantling with indignation and scorn--"I hope, Fergus, you wouldn't think of stoopin' to treachery against the unfortunate, ay, or even against the guilty. I hope you wouldn't sell yourself to the Government, and got your liberty, affcher all, only as a bribe for villany, instead of a free gift."

"See, now," he returned, "what I have brought on myself by tellin' you any thing at all about it--a regular ould house on my shouldhers. No, darlin'," he proceeded, "you ought to know me better."

"Oh, Fergus," she replied quickly, "I thought I knew you wanst."

"Is that generous, Ellen?" he said, in a tone of deep and melancholy feeling, "afther statin' my sorrow for that step?"

"Well," she replied, moved by what she saw he suffered in consequence of her words, "if I have given you pain, Fergus, forgive me--you know it's not in my nature to give pain to any one, but, above all persons in the world, to you."

"Well, darlin'," said he, "you will know all in time; but there is a good deal to be done yet. All I can say, and all I will say, is, that if God spares me life, I will take away one of the blackest enemies that Willy Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn has in existence. He would do any thing that the villain of perdition he's a slave to would bid him. Now, I'll say no more; and I'm sure, as the friend of your beautiful mistress, the fair Cooleen Bawn, you'll thank me for what I have promised to do against the Red Bapparee."

"I will pry no further into your affairs or intentions, Fergus; but, if you can take danger out of the way of the Cooleen Bawn or Reilly, I will forgive you a great deal--every thing, indeed, but treachery or dishonor. But, Fergus, I have something to mention, that will take a, start out of you. I have been discharged by the squire from his family, and--mavrone, oh!--I can now be of no service to the Cooleen Bawn."

"Discharged!" replied Fergus with astonishment; "why, how did that come? But I suppose I needn't ask--some of the mad old Squire's tantrums, I suppose? And what did the Cooleen Bawn herself say?"

"Why, she cried bitterly when I was lavin' her; indeed if I had been her sister she couldn't feel more; and, as might be expected from her, she promised to befriend me as long as she had it in her power; but, poor thing, if matters go against her, as I'm afeared they will--if she's forced to marry that villain, it is little for any thing that's either good or generous ever she'll have in her power; but marry him she never will I heard her say more than wanst that she'd take her own life first; and indeed I'm sartain she will, too, if she is forced to it. Either that, or she'll lose her senses; for, indeed, Fergus, the darlin' girl was near losin' them wanst or twist as it is--may God pity and relieve her."

"Amen," replied Fergus. "And you're now on your way home, I suppose?"

"I am," said Ellen, "and every thing belongin' to me is to be sent to my father's; but indeed, Fergus, I don't much care now what becomes of me. My happiness in this world is bound up in hers; and if she's to be sunk in grief and sorrow, I can never be otherwise--we'll have the one fate, Fergus, and God grant it may be a happy one, although I see no likelihood of it."

"Come, come, Ellen," replied Fergus, "you think too much of it. The one fate!--No, you won't, unless it is a happy one. I am now free, as I said; and at present I see nothing to stand between your happiness and mine. We loved one another every bit as well as Reilly and she does--ay, and do still, I hope; and, if they can't be happy, that's no raison why you and I shouldn't. Happy! There's nothing to prevent us from bein' so. I am free, as I said; and all we have to do is to lave this unfortunate country and go to some other, where there's neither oppression nor persecution. If you consent to this, Ellen, I can get the means of bringing us away, and of settlin' comfortably in America."

"And I to leave the Cooleen Bawn in the uncertain state she's in? No, never, Fergus--never."

"Why? of what use can you be to her now, and you separated from her--ay, and without the power of doin' any thing to sarve her?"

"Fergus," said she, resolutely, "it's useless at the present time to speak to me on this subject. I'm glad you've got yourself from among these cruel and unconscionable Rapparees--I'm glad you're free; but I tell you that if you had the wealth of Squire Folliard--ay, or of Whitecraft himself, which they say is still greater, I wouldn't become your wife so long as she's in the state she's in."

"That's strong language, Ellen, and I am sorry to hear it from you. My God! can you think of nobody's happiness but the Cooleen Bawn's? As for me, it's my opinion I like Reilly as well every bit as you do her; but, for all that, not even the state he's in, nor the danger that surrounds him, would prevent me from marryin' a wife--from bindin' your heart and mine together for life, my darlin' Ellen."

"Ah! Fergus, you're a man--not a woman--and can't undherstand what true attachment is. You men never can. You're a selfish set--at least the most of you are--with some exceptions, I grant."

"And, upon my soul, Ellen," replied Fergus, with a good-humored smile, "I'm one of the choicest and natest of the exceptions. I prefer everybody's happiness to my own--poor Sir Robert Whitecraft's, for instance. Now, don't you call that generosity?"

She gave a mournful smile, and replied, "Fergus, I can't join in your mirth now as I used to do. Many a pleasant conversation we've had; but then our hearts were light, and free from care. No, Fergus, you must lave all thoughts of me aside, for I will have nothing of either love or courtship till I know her fate. Who can say but I may be brought back? She said she'd try what she could do with her father to effect it. You know how whimsical the old Squire is; and who knows whether she may not stand in need of me again? But, Fergus, there's one thing strikes me as odd, and, indeed, that doesn't rise you much in my good opinion. But first, let me ask you, what friend it is who'd give you the means of going to another country?"

"Why, who else but Reilly?" he replied.

"And could you," she returned, with something like contempt stamped upon her pretty features--"could you be mane and ungrateful enough to leave him now in the trouble and sorrow that he's in, and think only of yourself?"

"No, indeed, my dear Ellen; but I was only layin' the plan whenever we might be able to put it in practice. I'm not exactly a boy of that kidney--to desart my friend in the day of his trouble--devil a bit of it, my darlin'."

"Well, I am glad to hear you speak as you do," she said, with a smile; "and now, to reward your constancy to him, I tell you that whenever they're settled, or, at all events, out of their troubles, if you think me worth your while, I won't have any objection to become your wife; and--there--what are you about, Fergus? See this, now--you've almost broken the tortoise-shell crooked-comb that she made me a present of."

"Why, blood alive, Ellen, sure it was only sealin' the bargain I was."

"But remember it is a bargain, and one I'll stick to. Now leave me; it's gettin' quite dark; or, if you like, you may see me across the fields."

Such, in fact, was the indomitable attachment of this faithful girl to her lovely and affectionate mistress that, with a generosity as unselfish as it was rare, and almost heroic, she never for a moment thought of putting her own happiness or prospects in life in competition with those of the Cooleen Bawn. The latter, it is true, was conscious of this unparalleled attachment, and appreciated it at its true value. How nobly this admirable girl fulfilled her generous purpose of abiding by the fate and fortunes of her unhappy mistress will be seen as the narrative goes along.

Ellen's appearance in her father's house surprised the family not a little. The expression of sorrow which shaded her very handsome features, and a paleness which was unusual to her, alarmed them considerably--not so much from any feeling connected with herself, as from an apprehension that some new-distress or calamity had befallen the Cooleen Bawn, to whom they all felt almost as deeply attached as she did herself. After the first affectionate salutations were over, she said, with a languid smile:

"I suppose you all wonder to see me here at this hour; or, indeed, to see me here at all."

"I hope, Ellen," said-her father, "that nothing unpleasant has happened to her."

"May the Lord forbid," said her mother, "and may the Lord take the darlin' creature out of all her troubles. But has there, Ellen--has anything happened to her?"

"Nothing more than usual," replied their daughter, "barring that I have been sent away from her--I am no longer her own maid now."

"Chierna!" exclaimed her mother; "and what is that for, alanna?"

"Well, indeed, mother, I can't exactly say," replied Ellen, "but I suppose it is because they knew I loved her too much to be a spy upon her. I have raison, however, to suspect that the villain is at the bottom of it, and that the girl who came in my place will act more like a jailer than a maid to her. Of course they're all afraid that she'll run away with Reilly."

"And do you think she will, Ellen?" asked her father.

"Don't ask me any such questions," she replied. "It's no matter what I think--and, besides, it's not my business to mention my thoughts to any one--but one thing I know, it'll go hard if she ever leaves her father, who, I really think, would break his heart if she did."

"Oh!" observed the father, with a smile, "divil a one o' you girls, Ellen, ever thinks much of father or mother when you have made up your minds to run away wid your buchaleens--sorra a taste."

"Arra, Brian, will you have sinse," said his wife; "why wouldn't they think o' them?"

"Did you do it?" he asked, winking at the rest, "when you took a brave start wid myself across Crockaniska, one summer Sunday night, long ago. Be me sowl, you proved youself as supple as a two-year-old--cleared, drain and ditch like a bird--and had me, when we reached my uncle's, that the ayes wor startin' out o' my head."

"Bad scran to him, the ould slingpoker! Do you hear him," she exclaimed, laughing--"never mind him, children!--troth, he went at sich a snail's pace that one 'ud think it was to confession he was goin', and that he did nothing but think of his sins as he went along."

"That was bekaise I knew that I had the penance before me," he replied, laughing also.

"Any how," replied his wife, "our case was not like their's. We were both Catholics, and knew that we'd have the consent of our friends, besides; we only made a runaway because it was the custom of the counthry, glory be to God!"

"Ay, ay," rejoined her husband; "but, faith, it was you that proved yourself the active girl that night, at any rate. However, I hope the Lord will grant her grace to go, wid him, at all events, for, upon my sowl, it would be a great boast for the Catholics--bekaise we know there is one thing sure, and that is, that the divil a long she'd be wid him till he'd have left her fit to face Europe as a Christian and a Catholic, bekaise every wife ought to go wid her husband, barrin' he's a Prodestant."

Poor Ellen paid little attention to this conversation. She felt deeply depressed, and, after many severe struggles to restrain herself, at last burst into tears.

"Come, darlin'," said her father, "don't let this affair cast you down so much; all will yet turn out for the betther, I hope. Cheer up, avillish; maybe that, down-hearted as you are, I have good news for you. Your ould sweetheart was here this evenin', and hopes soon to have his pardon--he's a dacent boy, and has good blood in his veins; and as for his joinin' O'Donnel, it wasn't a a bad heart set him to do it, but the oppression that druv him, as it did many others, to take the steps he took--oppression on the one side, and bitterness of heart on the other."

"I saw him awhile ago," she replied, "and he tould me a good deal about himself. But, indeed, father, it's not of him I'm thinkin', but on the darlin' girl that's on the brink of destruction, and what I know she's sufferin'."

"I wondher where Reilly is," said her mother. "My goodness! sure he ought to make a push, and take her off at wanst. I dunna is he in the country at all? What do you think, Ellen?"

"Indeed, mother," she replied, "very few, I believe, knows any thing about him. All I'm afraid of is, that, wherever he may be, he'll hardly escape discovery."

"Well," said her father, "I'll tell you what we'll do. Let us kneel down and offer up ten pathers, ten aves, and a creed, that the Lord may protect them both from their enemies, and grant them a happy marriage, in spite of laws, parliaments, magistrates, spies, persecutors and priest-hunters, and, as our hands are in, let us offer up a few that God may confound that villain, Whitecraft, and bring him snugly to the gallows."

This was immediately complied with, in a spirit of earnestness surpassing probably what they might have felt had they been praying for their own salvation. The prayers having been concluded, and supper prepared, in due time the family retired to rest for the night.

When Fergus Reilly took his leave of Ellen, he directed his steps to the cottage of Mrs. Buckley, where, for certain purpose connected with his designs on the Red Rapparee, he had been in the habit of meeting: the sagacious fool, Tom Steeple. It was there, besides, that he had left his disguise, which the unaccomplished progress of his projects rendered it necessary that he should once more resume. This, in fact, was the place of their rendezvous, where they generally met at night. These meetings, however, were not always very regular; for poor Tom, notwithstanding his singular and anomalous: cunning, was sometimes led away by his gastric appetite to hunt for a bully dinner, or a bully supper, or a mug of strong beer, as the case might be, and after a gorge he was frequently so completely overtaken by laziness and a consequent tendency to sleep, that he retired to the barn, or some other outhouse, where he stretched his limbs on a shake-down of hay or straw, and lapped himself into a state of luxury which many an epicure of rank and wealth might envy.

On reaching the widow's cottage, Fergus felt somewhat disappointed that Tom was not there, nor had he been seen that day in any part of the neighborhood. Fergus, however, whilst the widow was keeping watch outside, contrived to get on his old disguise once more, after which he proceeded in the direction of his place of refuge for the night. On crossing the fields, however, towards the wild and lonely road, which was at no great distance from the cottage, he met Tom approaching it, at his usual sling-trot pace.

"Is that Tom?" said he--"tall Tom?"

"Hicco, hicco!" replied Tom, quite gratified with the compliment. "You be tall, too--not as tall as Tom dough. Tom got bully dinner to-day, and bully sleep in de barn, and bully supper, but wasn't sleepy den--hicco, hicco."

"Well, Tom, what news about what you know?"

"In toder house," replied Tom; "him sleeps in Peg Finigan's sometimes, and sometimes in toder again--dat is, Mary Mahon's. Him's afeared o' something--hard him say so, sure, to ould Peg."

"Well, Tom, if you will keep your eye on him, so as that you can let us know where to find him, we engage to give you a bully dinner every day, and, a bully supper every night of your life, and a swig of stout ale to wash it down, with plenty of straw to sleep on, and a winnow-cloth and lots of sacks to keep you as warm and cosey as a winter hob. You know where to find me every evenin' after dusk, Tom, and when you come with good news, you'll be a made man; and, listen, Tom, it'll make you a foot taller, and who knows, man alive, but we may show you for a giant, now."

"Hicco, hicco!" said Tom; "dat great--never mind; me catch him for you. A giant!--oh, gorramarcy!--a giant!--hicco!--gorramarcy!" and with these words he darted off in some different direction, whilst Fergus went to his usual place of rest for the night.

It would seem by the Red Rapparee s movements at this time as if he entertained some vague suspicions of awakened justice, notwithstanding the assurances of safety previously communicated to him by Sir Robert Whitecraft. Indeed, it is not impossible that even the other individuals who had distinguished themselves under that zealous baronet might, in their conversations with each other, have enabled the Rapparee to get occasional glimpses of the new state of things which had just taken place, and that, in consequence, he shifted about a good deal, taking care never to sleep two nights in succession under the same roof. Be this as it may, the eye of Tom Steeple was on him, without the least possible suspicion on his part that he was under his surveillance. _

Read next: Chapter 14. Reilly Takes Service With Squire Folliard

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