The Rettifh of the OMahony 
 
 'i^;;-f''^K^;-i: 
 
 "-«^v 
 
 M a rdWI Frederic 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/returnofomahonynOOfred 
 
THE 
 
 RETURN OF THE O'MAHONY. 
 
By Permission of the Critu 
 
 HAROLD FREDERIC 
 
KOSEBUD, SO. DAK. 
 THE 
 
 RETURN OF THE O'MAHONY 
 
 31 Noocl. 
 
 BV 
 
 HAROLD FREDERIC, 
 
 Author of ''The Lawton Girl^' "■ iieth's Brother's Wife," etc. 
 WitM illvstsations by warren B. SAVie. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishtrs. 
 
 MDCCCXCIX. 
 
COPTHIOHT, 1892, 
 BT HUBERT BONNKB'S SONS. 
 
 (A.II ri0ht8 reserved.) 
 
The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE FATHER OF COMPANY F. 
 
 EKE TISDALE was the father 
 of Company F. Not that this 
 title had ever been formally con- 
 ferred upon him, or even recog- 
 nized in terms, but everybody 
 understood about it. Some- 
 times Company F was for whole 
 days together exceedingly proud 
 of the relation — but alas ! more 
 often it viewed its parent with 
 impatient levity, not to say contempt. In either 
 case, it seemed all the same to Zeke. 
 
 He was by no means the oldest man in the com- 
 pany, at least as appearances went. Some there 
 were gathered about the camp-fire, this last night 
 in March of '65, who looked almost old enough to 
 
 [7] 
 
8 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 be his father — gray, gaunt, stiff-jointed old fighters, 
 whose hard service stretched back across four years 
 of warfare to Lincohi's first call for troops, and who 
 laughed now grimly over the joke that they had 
 come out to suppress the Rebellion within ninety 
 days, and had the job still unfinished on their hands 
 at the end of fourteen hundred. 
 
 But Zeke, though his mud-colored hair and beard 
 bore scarcely a trace of gray, and neither his placid, 
 unwrinkled face nor his lithe, elastic form sug- 
 gested age, somehow produced an impression of 
 seniority upon all his comrades, young and old 
 alike. He had been in the company from the 
 beginning, for one thing ; but that was not all. It 
 was certain that he had been out in Utah at the 
 time of Albert Sidney Johnston's expedition — per- 
 haps had fought under him. It seemed pretty well 
 established that before this Mormon episode he had 
 been with Walker in Nicaragua. Over the mellow- 
 ing canteen he had given stray hints of even other 
 campaigns which his skill had illumined and his 
 valor adorned. Nobody ever felt quite sure how 
 much of this was true — for Zeke had a child's disre- 
 gard for any mere veracity which might mar the 
 immediate effects of his narratives — but enough 
 passed undoubted to make him the veteran of the 
 company. And that was not all. 
 
 For cold-blooded intrepidity in battle, for calm, 
 clear-headed rashness on the skirmish-line, Zeke had 
 a fame extending beyond even his regiment and the 
 division to which it belonged. Men in regiments 
 from, distant States, who met with no closer bond 
 than that they all wore the badge of the same army- 
 
The Father of Company F, 
 
 corps, talked on occasion of the fellow in the — ;h 
 New York, who had done this, that or the other 
 dare-devil feat, and yet never got his shoulder-straps. 
 It was when Company F men heard this talk that 
 they were most proud of Zeke — proud sometimes 
 even to the point of keeping silence about his failure 
 to win promotion. 
 
 But among themselves there was no secret about 
 this failure. Once the experiment had been made 
 of lifting Zeke to the grade of corporal — and the 
 less said about its outcome the better. Still, the 
 truth may as well be told. Brave as any lion, or 
 whatever beast should best typify absolute fearless- 
 ness in the teeth of deadly peril, Zeke in times of 
 even temporary peace left a deal to be desired. 
 His personal habits, or better, perhaps, the absence 
 of them, made even the roughest of his fellows 
 unwilling to be his tent-mate. As they saw him 
 lounging about the idle camp, he was shiftless, 
 insubordinate, taciturn and unsociable when sobei", 
 wearisomely garrulous when drunk — the last man 
 out of four-score whom the com.pany liked to think 
 of as its father. 
 
 And Company F had had nothing to do, now, for 
 a good while. Through the winter it had lain in 
 its place on the great, steel-clad intrenched line 
 which waited, jaws open, for the fall of Petersburg. 
 The ready-made railroad from City Point was at its 
 back, and food was plenty. But now, as spring came 
 on — the wet, warm Virginian spring, with every 
 meadow a swamp, every road a morass, every piece 
 of bright-green woodland an impassable tangle — the 
 Strategy of the closing act in the dread drama sent 
 
lo TJie Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 Company F away to the South and West, into the 
 desolate backwoods country where no roads existed, 
 and no foraging, be it never so vigilant, promised 
 food. The movement really reflected Grant's fear 
 lest, before the final blow was struck, Lee should 
 retreat into the interior. But Company F did not 
 know what it meant, and disliked it accordingly, 
 and, by the end of the third day in its quarters, was 
 both hungry and quarrelsome. 
 
 Evening fell upon a gloomy, rain-soaked day, 
 which the men had miserably spent in efforts to 
 avoid getting drenched to the skin, and in devices 
 to preserve dry spots upon which to sleep at night. 
 Permission to build a fire, which had been withheld 
 ever since their arrival, had only come from division 
 headquarters an hour ago; and as they warmed 
 themselves now over the blaze, biting the savorless 
 hard-tack, and sipping the greasy fluid of beans and 
 chicory from their tin cups, they still looked sulkily 
 upon the line of lights which began to dot the ridge 
 on which they lay, and noted the fact that their 
 division had grown into an army corps, almost as if 
 it had been a grievance. Distant firing had been 
 heard all day, but it seemed a part of their evil luck 
 that it should be distant. 
 
 They stared, too, with a sullen indifference at the 
 spectacle of a sergeant who entered their camp 
 escorting a half-dozen recruits, and, with stiff saluta- 
 tion, turned them over to the captain at the door of 
 his tent. The men of Company F might have 
 studied these bounty-men, as they stood in file wait- 
 ing for the company's clerk to fill out his receipt, 
 with more interest, had it been realized that they 
 
The Father of Company F. ii 
 
 were probably the very last men to be enrolled by 
 the Republic for the Civil War. But nobody knew 
 that, and the arrival of recruits was an old story in 
 the — th New York, which had been thrust into 
 every available hellpit, it seemed to the men, since 
 that first cruel corner at Bull Run. So they 
 scowled at the newcomers in their fresh, clean 
 uniforms, as these straggled doubtfully toward the 
 fire, and gave them no welcome whatever. 
 
 Hours passed under the black sky, into which the 
 hissing, spluttering fire of green wood was too des- 
 pondent to hurl a single spark. The men stood or 
 squatted about the smoke-ringed pile on rails and 
 fence-boards which they had laid to save them from 
 the soft mud — in silence broken only by fitful 
 words. From time to time the monotonous call of 
 the sentries out in the darkness came to them like 
 the hooting of an owl. Sharp shadows on the can- 
 vas walls of the captain's tent and the sound of voices 
 from within told them that the officers were play- 
 ing poker. Once or twice some moody suggestion 
 of a "game " fell upon the smoky air outside, but 
 died away unanswered. It was too wet and muddy 
 and generally depressing. The low west wind 
 which had risen since nightfall carried the threat of 
 more rain. 
 
 " Grant ain't no good, nor any other dry-land 
 general, in this dripping old swamp of a countr)-," 
 growled a grizzled corporal, whose mud-laden heels 
 had slipped off his rail. "The man we want here is 
 Noah. This is his job, and nc'bod}' else's." 
 
 " There'd be one comfort in that, anyway,'' said 
 
12 The Rehivn of The O'Ma/wny. 
 
 another, well read in the Bible. " When the rain 
 was all over, he set up drinks." 
 
 " Don't you make any mistake," put in a third. 
 " He shut himself up in his tent, and played his 
 booze solitaire. He didn't even ask in the officers 
 of the ark and propose a game." 
 
 " 1 — 1 've got a small flask with me," one of the 
 recruits diffidently began. "I was able to get it 
 to-day at Dinwiddie Court House. Paid more for 
 it 1 suppose, than — " 
 
 In the friendly excitement created by the recruit's 
 announcement, and his production of a flat, brown 
 bottle, further explanation was lost. Nobody cared 
 how much he had paid. Two dozen of his neigh- 
 bors took a lively interest in what he had bought. 
 The flask made its tour of only a segment of the 
 circle, amid a chorus of admonitions to drink fair, 
 and came back flatter than ever and wholly empty. 
 But its ameliorating effect became visible at once. 
 One of the recruits was emboldened to tell a story 
 he had heard at City Point, and the veterans con- 
 sented to laugh at it. Conversation sprang up as 
 the fire began to crackle under a shift of wind, and 
 the newcomers disclosed that they all had clean 
 blankets, and that several had an excess of chewing 
 tobacco. At this last, all reserve was cleared away. 
 Veterans and recruits spat into the fire now from a 
 common ground of liking, and there was even some 
 rivalry to secure such thoughtful strangers as tent- 
 mates. 
 
 Only one of the newcomers stood alone in the 
 muddiest spot of the circle, before a part of the fire 
 which would not burn. He seemed to have no 
 
The Fathei'- of Company F. 13 
 
 share in the confidences of his fellow-recruits. None 
 of their stories or reminiscences referred to him, 
 and neither they nor any veteran had offered him a 
 word during the evening. 
 
 He was obviously an Irishman, and it was equally 
 apparent that he had just landed. There was an inde- 
 finable something in the way he stood, in his manner 
 of looking at people, in the very awkwardness Avith 
 which his ill-fitting uniform hung upon him, which 
 spoke loudly of recent importation. This in itself 
 would have gone some way toward prejudicing 
 Company F against him, for Castle Garden recruits 
 were rarely popular, even in the newest regiments. 
 But there was a much stronger reason for the cold 
 shoulder turned upon him. 
 
 This young man who stood alone in the mud — he 
 could hardly have got half through the twenties — 
 had a repellent, low-browed face, covered with 
 freckles and an irregular stubble of reddish beard, 
 and a furtive squint in his pale, greenish-blue eyes. 
 The whites of these eyes showed bloodshot, even in 
 the false light of the fire, and the swollen lines 
 about them spoke plainly of a prolonged carouse. 
 They were not Puritans, these men of Company F, 
 but with one accord they left Andrew Linsky — the 
 name the roster gave him — to himself. 
 
 Time came, after the change of guard, when those 
 who were entitled to sleep must think of bed. The 
 orderly-sergeant strolled up to the fire, and dropped 
 a saturnine hint to the effect that it would be best 
 to sleep with one eye open ; signs pointed to a bat- 
 tie next day, and the long roll might come before 
 pibrtiihg: broke. Their brigade was on the right q[ 
 
14 The Return of TJie O' Makony. 
 
 a line into which two corps had been dumped dur- 
 ing the day, and apparently this portended the hot- 
 test kind of a fight ; moreover, it was said Sheridan 
 was on the other side of the ridge. Everybody 
 knew what that meant. 
 
 " We ought to be used to hot corners by this 
 time," said the grizzled corporal, in comment, " but 
 it's the deuce to go into 'em on empty stomachs. 
 We've been on half-rations two days." 
 
 " There'll be the more to go round among them 
 that's left," said the sergeant, grimly, and turned on 
 his heel. 
 
 The Irishman, pulling his feet with difficulty out 
 of the ooze into which they had settled, suddenly 
 left his place and walked over to the corporal, lift- 
 ing his hand in a sidelong, clumsy salute. 
 
 " Wud ye moind tellin me, sur, where I'm to 
 sleep?" he asked, saluting again. 
 
 The corporal looked at his questioner, spat medi- 
 tatively into the embers, then looked again, and 
 answered, briefly : 
 
 "On the ground." 
 
 Linsky cast a glance of pained bewilderment, first 
 down at the mud into which he was again sinking, 
 then across the fire into the black, wind-swept 
 night. 
 
 " God forgive me for a fool," he groaned aloud, 
 " to lave a counthry where even the pigs have straw 
 to drame on." ' 
 
 " Where did you expect to sleep — in a balloon?" 
 asked the corporal, with curt sarcasm. Then the 
 look of utter hopelessness on the other's ugly face 
 prompted him to add, in a softer tone : " You 
 
The FatJie7'- of Co7npany F. 15 
 
 must hunt up a tent-mate for yourself — make friends 
 with some fellow who'll take you in." 
 
 " Sorra a wan'll be friends wid me," said the 
 despondent recruit. " I'm waitin' yet, the furst 
 dacent wurrud from anny of 'em." 
 
 The corporal's face showed that he did not 
 specially blame them for their exclusivness, but his 
 words were kindly enough. 
 
 " Perhaps I can fix you out," he said, and sent a 
 comprehensive glance round the group which still 
 huddled over the waning fire, on the other side. 
 
 " Hughie, here's a countryman of yours," he 
 called out to a lean, tall, gray-bearded private who, 
 seated on a rail, had taken off his wet boots and was 
 scraping the mud from them with a bayonet; "can 
 you take him in ?" 
 
 " 1 have some one already," the other growled, 
 not even troubling to lift his eyes from his task. 
 
 It happened that this was a lie, and that the 
 corporal knew it to be one. He hesitated for a 
 moment, dallying with the impulse to speak sharply. 
 Then, reflecting that Hugh O'Mahony was a quarrel- 
 some and unsociable creature with whom a dispute 
 was always a vexation to the spirit, he decided to 
 say nothing. 
 
 How curiously inscrutable a thing is chance ! 
 Upon that one decision turned every human inter- 
 est in this tale, and most of all, the destiny of the 
 sulky man who sat scraping his boots. The Wheel of 
 Fortune, in this little moment of silence, held him 
 poised within the hair's breadth of a discovery which 
 would have altered his career in an amazing way, 
 and changed the story of a dozen lives. But the 
 
1 6 The Rettim of The 0"Maho7iy. 
 
 corporal bit his lip and said nothing. O'Mahony 
 bent doggedly over his work — and the wheel rolled 
 on. 
 
 The corporal's eye, roaming about the circle, fell 
 upon the figure of a man who had just approached 
 the fire and stood in the full glare of the red light, 
 thrusting one foot close to the blaze, while he bal- 
 anced himself on the other. His ragged hair and 
 unkempt beard were of the color of the miry clay 
 at his feet. His shoulders, rounded at best, were 
 unnaturally drawn forward by the exertion of keep- 
 ing his hands in his pockets, the while he maintained 
 his balance. His face, of which snub nose and grey 
 eyes alone were visible in the frame of straggling 
 hair and under the shadow of the battered forage- 
 cap visor, wore a pleased, almost merry, look in the 
 flickering, ruddy light. He was humming a dro- 
 ning sort of tune to himself as he watched the 
 steam rise from the wet leather. 
 
 " Zeke's happy to-night ; that means fight to- 
 morrow, sure as God made little fishes," said the 
 corporal to nobody in particular. Then he lifted 
 his voice : 
 
 " Have 3^ou got a place in your diggin's for a 
 recruit, Zeke — say just for to-night ?" he asked. 
 
 Zeke looked up, and sauntered forward to where 
 they stood, hands still in pockets. 
 
 "Well — I don't know," he drawled. "Guess 
 so — if he don't snore too bad." 
 
 He glanced Linsky over with indolent gravity. 
 It was plain that he didn't think much of him. 
 
 •'Got a blanket?" he asked, abruptly, 
 
 " 1 have that," the Irishman replied. 
 
The Father of Company F. i 7 
 
 " Anything to drink ?" 
 
 Linsky produced from his jacket pocket a flat, 
 brown bottle, twin brother to that which had been 
 passed about the camp-fire circle earlier in the even- 
 ing, and held it up to the light. 
 
 " They called it whiskey," he said, in apology ; 
 " an* be the price I paid fur it, it moight a' been 
 doimonds dissolved in angel's tears ; but the furst 
 «up I tuk of it, faith, I thought it 'ud tear th' t'roat 
 from me I" 
 
 Zeke had already linked Linsky 's arm within his 
 own, and he reached forth now and took the bottle. 
 
 " It's p'zen to a man that ain't used to it," he 
 said, with a grave wink to the corporal. " Come 
 along with me, Irish ; mebbe if you watch me close 
 you can pick up points about gittin' the stuff down 
 without injurin' your throat." 
 
 And, with another wink, Zeke led his new-found 
 friend awav from the fire, picking his steps through 
 the soft mud, past dozens of little tents propped up 
 with rails and boughs, walking unconsciously to- 
 ward a strange, new, dazzling future. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE VIDETTE POST. 
 
 Zeke's tent — a low and lop-sided patchwork of 
 old blankets, strips of wagon-covering and stray 
 pieces of cast-off clothing — was pitched on the high 
 ground nearest to the regimental sentry line. At 
 its back one could discern, by the dim light of the 
 camp-fires, the lowering shadows of a forest. To 
 the west a broad open slope descended gradually, 
 its perspective marked to the vision this night by 
 red points of light, diminishing in size as they 
 receded toward the opposite hill's dead wall of 
 blackness. Upon the crown of this wall, nearly 
 two miles distant, Zeke's sharp eyes now discovered 
 still other lights which had not been visible before. 
 
 '* Caught sight of any Rebs yet since you been 
 here, Irish ?" he asked, as the two stood halted 
 before his tent. 
 
 " I saw some prisoners at what they call City 
 Point, th' day before yesterday — the most starved 
 and miserable divils ever I laid eyes on. That's 
 what I thought thin, but. 1 knowbetther now. Sure 
 they were princes compared wid me this noight." 
 
 *' Well, it's dollars to doughnuts them are their 
 lights over yonder on the ridge," said Zeke. 
 [i8] 
 
The ]ldctlc Post. 19 
 
 " You'll see enough of 'em to-morrow to last a life- 
 time." 
 
 Linksy looked with interest upon the row of dim 
 sparks which now crowned the whole long crest. 
 He had brought his blanket, knapsack and rifle 
 from the stacks outside company headquarters, and 
 stood holding them as he gazed. 
 
 " Faith," he said at last, " if they're no more 
 desirous of seeing me than I am thim, there's been 
 a dale of throuble wasted in coming so far for both 
 of us." 
 
 Zeke, for answer, chuckled audibly, and the sound 
 of this was succeeded by a low, soft gurgling noise, 
 as he lifted the flask to his mouth and threw back 
 his head. Then, after a satisfied '' A-h !" he said : 
 
 " Well, we'd better be turning in now," and kicked 
 aside the door-flap of his tent. 
 
 " And is it here we're to sleep ?" asked Linsky, 
 making out with difficulty the outlines of the little 
 hut-like tent, 
 
 " I guess there won't be much sleep about it, but 
 this is our shebang. Wait a minute." He disap- 
 peared momentarily within the tent, entering it on 
 all-fours, and emerged with an armful of sticks and 
 paper. *' Now you can dump your things inside 
 there. I'll have a iire out here in the jerk of a 
 lamb's tail." 
 
 The Irishman crawled in in turn, and presently, 
 by the light of the blaze his companion had started 
 outside, was able to spread out his blanket in some 
 sort, and even to roll himself up in it, without tumbling 
 the whole edifice down. There was a scant scatter- 
 ing of straw upon which to lie, but underneath this 
 
20 TJie Return of The O'AIahony. 
 
 he could feel the chill of the damp earth. He man- 
 aged to drag his knapsack under his head to serve 
 as a pillow, and then, shivering, resigned himself to 
 fate. 
 
 The fire at his feet burned so briskly that soon he 
 began to be pleasantly conscious of its warmth 
 stealing through the soles of his thick, wet soles. 
 
 " I'm thinkin' I'll take off me boots," he called out. 
 " Me feet are just perished wid the cold." 
 
 " No. You couldn't get 'em on again, p'r'aps, 
 when we're called, and I don't want any such foolish- 
 'ness as that. When we get out, it'll have to be at the 
 drop of the hat — double quick. How many rounds of 
 cartridges you got ?" 
 
 " This bag of mine they gave me is that filled wid 
 'em the weight of it would tip an outside car." 
 
 " Can you shoot?" 
 
 " I don't know if 1 can. I haven't tried that same 
 yet." 
 
 A long silence ensued, Zeke squatting on a cracker- 
 box beside the fire, f^ask in hand, Linsky concentra- 
 ting his attention upon the warmth at the soles of 
 his feet, and drowsily mixing up the Galtee Moun- 
 tains with the fire-crowned hills of a strange, new 
 world, upon one of which he lay. Then all at once 
 he was conscious that Zeke had crept into the tent, 
 and was lying curled close beside him, and that the 
 fire outside had sunk to a mass of sparkless embers. 
 He half rose from his recumbent posture before 
 these things displaced his dreams ; then, as he sank 
 back again, and closed his eyes to settle once more 
 into sleep, Zeke spoke : 
 
 " Don't do that again ! You got to lie still here, 
 
The Vidette Post. 21 
 
 or you'll bust the hull combination. If you want to 
 turn over, tell me, and we'll flop together — other- 
 wise you'll have the thing down on our heads." 
 
 There came another pause, and Linsky almost 
 believed himselt to be asleep again. But Zeke was 
 wakeful. 
 
 "Say, Irish," he began, "that country of yourn 
 must be a pretty tough place, if this kind ot thing 
 strikes you fellows as an improvement on it." 
 
 " Sur," said Linsky, with sleepy dignity, " ther's 
 no other counthry on earth fit to buckle Ireland's 
 shoe's — no offence to 30U.'" 
 
 " Yes, you always give us that ; but if it's so fine a 
 
 place, why in don't you stay there? What do 
 
 you all pile over here for ?" 
 
 " I came to America on business," replied Linsky, 
 stiffly. 
 
 " Business of luggin' bricks up a ladder !" 
 
 " Sur, I'm a solicitor's dark." 
 
 " How do you mean — ' Clark ?' Thought your 
 name was Linsky ?" 
 
 •' It's what you call ' clurk ' — a lawyer's clurk — 
 and I'll be a lawyer mesilf, in toime." 
 
 " That's worse still. There's seven hundred times 
 as many lawyers here already as anybody wants." 
 
 " I had no intintion of stoppin'. My business was 
 to foind a certain man, the heir to a great estate in 
 Ireland, and thin to returrun ; but I didn't foind my 
 man — and — sure, it's plain enough I didn't returrun, 
 ayether ; and I'll go to sleep now, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 Zeke paid no attention to the hint. 
 
 " Go on," he said. " Why didn't you go back, 
 Irish?" 
 
22 The Return of The G Mahony, 
 
 " It's aisy enough," Linsky replied, with a sigh. 
 " Tin long weeks was I scurryin' from wan ind of 
 the land to the other, lukkin' for this invisible divil 
 of a Hugh O'Mahony " — Zeke stretched out his feet 
 here with a sudden movement, unnoted by the otiier 
 — " makin' inquiries here, foindin' traces there, 
 gettin' laughed at somewhere else, till me heart 
 was broke entoirely. * He's in the army,' says they. 
 ' Whereabouts ?' says I. Here, there, everwhere 
 they sint me on a fool's errand. Plinty of places 1 
 came upon where he had been, but divil a wan 
 where he was; and thin I gave it up and wint to 
 New York to sail, and there I made some fri'nds, 
 and wint out wid 'em and the}' spoke fair, and I 
 drank wid 'em, and, faith, whin I woke I was a 
 soldier, wid brass buttons on me and a gun; and 
 that's the truth of it — worse luck! And nozv I'll 
 sleep !" 
 
 "And this Hugh What-d'ye-call-him — the fellow 
 you was huntin' after — where did he live before the 
 war ?" 
 
 " 'Twas up in New York State — a place they call 
 Tccumsy — he'd been a shoemaker there for years. 
 I have here among me papers all they know about 
 him and his family there. It wan't much, but it 
 makes his identity plain, and that's the great thing." 
 
 " And what d'ye reckon has become of him ?" 
 
 " If yc ask me in me capacity as solicitor's dark, 
 I'd say that, for purposes of law, he'd be aloive till 
 midsummer day next, and thin doy be process of 
 statutory neglict, and niver know it as long as he 
 lives; but if you ask me proivate opinion, he's as 
 dead as a mackerel ; and, if he isn't, he will be in 
 
The Vidette Post. 
 
 good toime, and divil a ha'porth of shoe-leather will 
 I waste more on him. And now good-noight to ye, 
 sur !" 
 
 Linsky fell to snoring before any reply came. 
 Zeke had meant to tell him that they were to rise at 
 three and set out upon a venturesome vidette-post 
 expedition together. He wondered now what it 
 was that had prompted him to select this raw and 
 undrilled Irishman as his comrade in the enterprise 
 which lay before him. Without finding an answer, 
 his mind wandered drowsily to another question — 
 Ought O'Mahony to be told of the search for him 
 or not? That vindictive and sullen Hughie should 
 be heir to anything seemed an injustice to all good 
 fellows ; but heir to what Linsky called a great 
 estate! — that was ridiculous! What would an 
 ignorant cobbler like him do with an estate? 
 
 Zeke was not quite clear in his mind as to what 
 an " estate " was, but obviously it must be something 
 much too good for O'Mahony. And why, sure 
 enough! Only a fortnight before, while they were 
 still at Fort Davis, this O'Mahony had refused to 
 mend his boot for him, even though his frost-bitten 
 toes had pushed their way to the daylight between 
 the sole and upper. Zeke could feel the toes ache 
 perceptibly as he thought on this affront. Sleepy 
 as he was, it grew apparent to him that O'Mahony 
 would probably never hear of that inheritance ; and 
 then he went oS bodil}' into dream-land, and was the 
 heir himself, and violently resisted O'Mahony's 
 attempts to dispossess him, and — and then it was 
 three o'clock, and the sentry was rolling him to and 
 fro on the ground with his foot to wake him. 
 
24 The Return of The O'Afahony. 
 
 "Sh-h! Keep as still as you can," Zeke admon- 
 ished the bewildered Linsky, when he, too, had been 
 roused to consciousness. " We mustn't stir up the 
 camp." 
 
 " Is it desertin' 3'e are ?" asked the Irishman, rub- 
 bing his eyes and sitting upright. 
 
 "Sh-h ! you fool — no ! Feel around for your gun 
 and knapsack and cap, and bring 'em out," whis- 
 pered Zeke from the door of the tent. 
 
 Linsky obeyed mechanically, groping in the utter 
 darkness for what seemed to him an age, and then 
 crawling awkwardly forth. As he rose to his feet, 
 he could iiardly distinguish his companion standing 
 beside him. Only faint, dusky pillars of smoke, 
 reddish at the base, gray above, rising like slender- 
 est palms to fade in the obscurity overhead, showed 
 where the fires in camp had been. The clouded 
 sky was black as ink. 
 
 "Fill your pockets with cartridges," he heard 
 Zeke whisper. " We'll prob'ly have to scoot for 
 our lives. We don't want no extra load of knap- 
 sacks." 
 
 It strained Linsky's other perceptions even more 
 than it did his sight to follow his comrade in the 
 tramp which now began. He stumbled over roots 
 and bushes, sank knee-deep in swampy holes, ran 
 full tilt into trees and fences, until it seemed to him 
 they must have traveled miles, and he could hardly 
 drag one foot after the other. The first shadowy 
 glimmer of dawn fell upon them after they had ac- 
 complished a short but difficult descent from the 
 ridge and stood at its foot, on the edge of a tiny, alder- 
 fringed brook. The Irishman sat down on a fallen 
 
The Vidctte Post. 
 
 log for a minute to rest ; the while Zeke, as fresh 
 and cool as the morning itself, glanced critically 
 about hinj. 
 
 " Yes, here we are," he said as last. " We can 
 strike through here, get up the side hill, and sneak 
 across by the hedge into the house afore it's square 
 daylight. Come on, and no noise now!" 
 
 Linsky took up his gun and followed once more 
 in the other's footsteps as well as might be. The 
 growing light from the dull-gray east made it a 
 simpler matter now to get along, but he still stum- 
 bled so often, that Zeke cast warning looks backward 
 upon him more than once. At last they I'eached the 
 top of the low hill which had confronted them. 
 
 It was near enough to daylight for Linsky to see, 
 at the distance of an eighth of a mile, a small, red 
 farm-house, flanked by a larger barn. A tolerably 
 straight line of thick hedge ran from close by where 
 they stood, to within a stone's throw of the house. 
 All else was open pasture and meadow land. 
 
 " Now bend your back," said Zeke. " We've got 
 to crawl along up this side of the fence till we git 
 opposite that house, and then, somehow or other, 
 work across to it without bein' seen." 
 
 " Who is it that would see us?" 
 
 " Why, you blamed fool, them woods there" — 
 pointing to a long strip of undergrowth woodland 
 beyond the house — " are as thick with Johnnies as 
 a dog is with fleas." 
 
 " Thin that house is no place for an}'^ dacent man 
 to be in," said Linsky ; but despite this conviction 
 he crouched down close behind Zeke and followed 
 him in the stealthy advance along the hedge. It 
 
26 The Rchirit of The O Mahony. 
 
 was back-breakin^^ work, but Linsky had stalked 
 partridges behind the ditch- walls of his native land, 
 and was able to keep up with his guide without los- 
 ing breath. 
 
 " Faith, it's loike walking down burrds," he whis- 
 pered ahead ; " only that it's two-legged partridges 
 we're after this toime." 
 
 " How many legs have they got in Ireland ?" Zeke 
 muttered back over his shoulder. 
 
 " Arrah, it's milking-stools I had in moind," 
 returned Linsky, readily, with a smile. 
 
 " S'l-h ! Don't talk. We're close now." 
 
 Sure enough, the low roof and the top of the big 
 square chimney of stone built outside the red clap- 
 board end of the farmhouse were visible near at 
 hand, across the hedge. Zeke bade Linsky sit 
 down, and opening the big blade of a huge jack- 
 knife, began to cut a hole through the thorns. 
 Before this aperture had grown large enough to 
 permit the passage of a man's body, full daylight 
 came. It was not a very brilliant affair, this full 
 daylight, for the morning was overcast and gloomy, 
 and the woods beyond the house, distant some two 
 hundred yards, were half lost in mist. But there 
 was light enough for Linsky, idly peering through 
 the bushes, to discern a grey-coated sentry pacing 
 slowly along the edge of the woodland. He 
 nudged Zeke, and indicated the discovery by a 
 gesture. 
 
 Zeke nodded, after barely lifting his eyes, and 
 then pursued his whittling. 
 
 *' I saw him when we first come," he said, calml3^ 
 
The Vidette Post. 27 
 
 " And is it through this hole we're goin' out to be 
 kilt?" 
 
 " You ask too many questions, Irish," responded 
 Zeke. He had iinished his work and put away the 
 knife. He rolled over now to a half-recumbent pos- 
 ture, folded his hands under his head, and asked : 
 
 " How much bounty did you git?" 
 
 " Is it me ? Faith, I was merely a disbursing 
 agent in the thransaction. They gave me a roll of 
 paper notes, they said, but divil a wan could I foind 
 when I come to mesilf and found mesilf a soldier. 
 It's thim new fri'nds o' moine that got the bounty." 
 
 " So you didn't enlist to git the money ?" 
 
 " Sorra a word did I know about enlistin', or 
 bounty, or anything else, for four-and-twenty hours 
 afther the mischief was done. Is it money that 'ud 
 recompinse a man for sittin' here in the mud, waitin* 
 to be blown to bits by a whole plantation full of 
 soldiers, as I am here, God help me ? Is it money 
 you say ? Faith, I've enough to take me back to 
 Cork twice over. What more do 1 want? And I 
 offered the half of it to the captain, or gineral, or 
 whatever he was, to lave me go, when I found what 
 I'd done ; but he wouldn't hearken to me." 
 
 Zeke rolled over to take a glance through the 
 hedge. 
 
 " Tell me some more about that fellow you were 
 tryin' to find," he said, with his gaze fixed on the 
 distant sentry. " What'll happen now that you 
 haven't found him ?" 
 
 ** If he remains unknown until midsummer-day 
 next, the estate goes to some distant cousins who 
 live convanient to it." 
 
28 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 "And he can't touch it after that, s'posin' he 
 should turn up ?" 
 
 "The law of adverse possession is twinty years, 
 and only five of 'em have passed. No ; he'd have a 
 claim these fifteen years yet. But rest aisy. He'll 
 never be heard of." 
 
 " And you wrote and told 'em in Ireland that he 
 couldn't be found ?" 
 
 " That I did— or — Wait now ! What I wrote was 
 that he was in the army, and 1 was afther searching 
 for him there. Sure, whin 1 got to New York, 
 what with the fri'nds and the drink and — and this 
 foine soldiering of moine, I niver wrote at all. It's 
 God's mercy I didn't lose me papers on top of it 
 all, or it would be if I was likely ever to git out of 
 this aloive." 
 
 Zeke lay silent and motionless for a time, watch- 
 ing the prospect through this hole in the hedge. 
 
 " Hungry, Irish?" he asked at last, with laconic 
 abruptness. 
 
 " I've a twist on me like the County Kerry in a 
 famine year." 
 
 " Well, then, double yourself up and follow me 
 when I give the word. I'll bet there's something to 
 eat in that house. Give me your gun. We'll put 
 them through first. That's it. Now, then, when 
 that fellow's on t'other side of the house. Now r 
 
 With lizard-like swiftness, Zeke made his way 
 through the aperture, and, bending almost double, 
 darted across the wet sward toward the house. 
 
 Linsky followed him, doubting not that the adven- 
 ture led to certain death, but hoping that there 
 would be breakfast first. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 linsky's brief military career. 
 
 Zeke. though gliding over the slippery ground 
 with all the speed at his command, had kept a watch 
 on the further corner of the house. He straight- 
 ened himself now against the angle of the projecting, 
 weather-beaten chimney, and drew a long breath, 
 
 " He didn't see us," he whispered, reassuringly 
 to Linsky, who had also drawn up as flatly as possi- 
 ble against the side of the house. 
 
 " Glory be to God !" the recruit ejaculated. 
 
 After a brief breathing spell, Zeke ventured out 
 a few feet, and looked the house over. There was 
 a single window on his side, opening upon the 
 ground floor. Beckoning to Linsky to follow, he 
 stole over to the window, and standing his gun 
 against the clapboards, cautiously tested the sash. 
 It moved, and Zeke with infinite pains lifted it to the 
 top, and stuck his knife in to hold it up. Then, with 
 a bound, he raised himself on his arms, and crawled 
 in over the sill. 
 
 It was at this moment, as Linsky for the first time 
 stood alone, that a clamorous outburst of artiller}'- 
 firc made the earth quiver under his feet. The 
 
 [29] 
 
30 The Return of The O'HIa/iony. 
 
 crash of noises reverberated with so many echoes 
 from hill to hill that he had no notion whence they 
 had proceeded, or from what distance. The whole 
 broad valley before him, with its sodden meadows 
 and wet, mist-wrapped forests showed no sign of 
 life or motion. But from the crest of the ridge 
 which they had quitted before daybreak there rose 
 now, and whitened the gray of the overhanging 
 clouds, a faint film of smoke — while suddenly the air 
 above him was filled with a strange confusion of unfa- 
 miliar sounds, like nothing so much as the hoarse 
 screams of a flock of giant wild-fowl ; and then 
 this affrighting babel ceased as swiftly as it had 
 arisen, and he heard the thud and swish of splintered 
 tree-tops and trunks falling in the woodland at the 
 back of the house. The Irishman reasoned it out 
 that they were firing from the hill he had left, over 
 at the hill \\\>o\\ which he now stood, and was not 
 comforted by the discovery. 
 
 While he stared at the ascending smoke and 
 listened to the din of the cannonade, he felt himself 
 sharply poked on the shoulder, and started nervous- 
 ly, turning swiftly, gun in hand. It was Zeke, who 
 stood at the window, and had playfully attracted 
 his attention with one of the long sides of bacon 
 which the army knew as "sow-bellies." He had 
 secured two of these, which he now handed out to 
 Linsky ; then came a ham and a bag of meal; and 
 lastly, a twelve-quart pan of sorghum molasses. 
 When the Irishman had lifted down tiic Inst of these 
 spoils, Zeke vaulted lightly out. 
 
 "Guess we'll have a whack at the ham," ho said 
 cheerfully. " It's good raw." 
 
Liuskys Brief Military Career. 31 
 
 The two gnawed greedily at the smoked slices 
 cut from the thick of the ham, as became men wiio 
 had been on short rations. Zeke listened to the 
 firing, and was visibly interested in noting all that 
 was to be seen and guessed of its effects and purpose, 
 meanwhile, but the ham was an effectual bar to 
 conversation. 
 
 Suddenly the men paused, their mouths full, their 
 senses alert. The sound of voices rose distinct- 
 ly, and close by, from the other side of the house. 
 Zeke took up his gun, cocked it, and crept noise- 
 lessly forward to the corner. After a moment's 
 attentive listening here, and one swift, cautious 
 peep, he tiptoed back again. 
 
 " Take half the things," he w^hispered, pointing to 
 the provisions, " and we'll get back again to the 
 fence. There's too many of 'em for us to tr)^ and 
 hold the house. They'd burn us alive in there !" 
 
 The pan of sorghum fell to Linsky's care, and 
 Zeke, with both guns and all the rest in some myste- 
 rious manner bestowed about him, made his way, 
 crouching and with long strides, toward the hedge. 
 He got through the hole undiscovered, dragging 
 his burden after him. Then he took the pan over 
 the hedge, while Linsky should in turn crawl 
 through. But the burlier Irishman caught in the 
 thorns, slipped, and clutched Zeke's arm, with the 
 result that the whole contents of the pan were 
 emptied upon Linsky's head. 
 
 Then Zeke did an unwise thing. He cast a single 
 glance at the spectacle his comrade presented — 
 with the thick, dark molasses covering his cap like 
 an oilskin, soaking into his hair, and streaming 
 
32 The Rctiuni of The O'Mahony. 
 
 down his bewildei-cd face in streaks like an Indian's 
 war-paint — and then burst forth in a resounding 
 peal of laughter. 
 
 On the instant two men in gray, with battered 
 slouch hats and guns, appeared at the corner of the 
 house, looking eagerly up and down the hedge for 
 some sign of a hostile presence. Zeke had dropped 
 to his knees in time to prevent discovery. It seemed 
 to be with a part of the same swift movement that 
 he lifted his gun, sighted it as it ran through the 
 thorns, and fired. While the smoke still curled among 
 the branches and spiked twigs, he had snatched 
 up Linsky's gun and fire a second shot. The two 
 men in gray lay sprawling and clutching at the wet 
 grass, one on top of the other. 
 
 " Quick, Irish ! We must make a break !" Zeke 
 hissed at Linsky. " Grab what you can and run!" 
 
 Linsky, his eyes and mouth full of molasses, and 
 understanding nothing at all of what had happened, 
 found himself a moment later careering blindly and 
 in hot haste down the open slope, the ham and the 
 uag of meal under one arm, his gun in the other 
 hand. A dozen minie-bullets sang through the 
 damp air about him as he tore along after Zeke, 
 and he heard vague volleys of cheering arise from 
 the meadow to his right; but neither stopped his 
 course. 
 
 It was barely three minutes — though to Linsky, 
 at least, it seemed an interminable while — before the 
 two came to a halt by a clump of trees on the edge 
 of the ravine. In the shelter of these broad hem- 
 lock trunks they stood still, panting for breath. 
 Then Zeke looked at Linsky again, and roared with 
 
Linsky's Brief Military Career. 33 
 
 laughter till he choked and went into a fit of cough- 
 ing. 
 
 The Irishman had thrown down his provisions 
 and gun, and seated himself on the roots of his tree. 
 He ruefully combed the sticky fiuid from his hair 
 and stubble beard with his fingers now, and strove 
 to clean his face on his sleeve. Between the native 
 temptation to join in the other's merriment and the 
 strain of the last few minutes' deadly peril, he could 
 only blink at Zeke, and gasp for breath. 
 
 " Tight squeak — eh, Irish .?" said Zeke at last, 
 between dying-away chuckles. 
 
 " And tell me, now," Linsky began, still panting 
 heavily, his besmeared face red with the heat of the 
 chase, " fwat the divil were we doin' up there, anny- 
 way ? No Linsky or Lynch — 'tis the same name — 
 was ever called coward yet — but goin' out and 
 defo3nn' whole armies single-handed is no fit worrk 
 for solicitors' clarks. Spacheless and sinseless 
 though I was with the dhrink, sure, if they told me 
 I was to putt down the Rebellion be meself, I'd a' 
 had the wit to decloine." 
 
 " That was a vidette post we were on," explained 
 Zeke. 
 
 " There's a shorter name for it — God save us both 
 from goin' there. But fwat was the intintion? 
 'Tis that that bothers me entoirely," 
 ' " Look there !" was Zeke's response. He waved 
 his hand comprehensively over the field they had 
 just quitted, and the Irishman rose to his feet and 
 stepped aside from his tree to see. 
 
 The little red farm-house was half hidden in a vail 
 of smoke. Dim shadows of men could be seen flit- 
 
34 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 ting about its sides, and from these shadows shot 
 forth tongues of momentary flame. The upper end 
 of the meadow was covered thick with smoke, and 
 through this were visible dark masses of men and 
 the same spark-like flashing of fiery streaks. Along 
 the line of the hedge, closer to the house, still 
 another wall of smoke arose, and Linsky could dis- 
 cern a fringe of blue-coated men lying flat under the 
 cover of the thorn-bushes, whom he guessed to be 
 sharp-shooters. 
 
 " That's what we went up there for — to start that 
 thing a-goin','' said Zeke, not without pride. " See 
 the guide — that little flag there by the bushes ? 
 That's our regiment. They was comin' up as we 
 skedaddled out. Didn't yeh hear 'em cheer? They 
 was cheerin' for us, Irish — that is, some for us and a 
 good deal for the sow-bellies and ham," 
 
 No answer came, and Zeke stood for a moment 
 longer, taking in with his practiced gaze the details 
 of the fight that was raging before him. Half-spent 
 bullets were singing all about him, but he seemed to 
 give them no more thought than in his old Adiron- 
 dack home he had wasted on mosquitoes. The 
 din and deafening rattle of this musketry war had 
 kindled a sparkle in his gray eyes. 
 
 " There they go, Irish ! Gad ! we've got 'em on 
 the run ! We kin scoot across now and jine our 
 men." 
 
 Still no answer. Zeke turned, and, to his amaze- 
 ment, saw no Linsky at his side. Puzzled, he looked 
 vaguely about among the trees for an instant. Then 
 his wandering glance fell, and the gleam of battle 
 died out of his eyes as he saw the Irishman lying 
 
Linsky's Brief Military Career. 35 
 
 prone at his very feet, his face flat in the wet moss 
 and rotting leaves, an arm and leg bent under the 
 prostrate body. So wrapt had Zeke's senses been 
 in the noisy struggle outside, he had not heard his 
 comrade's fall. 
 
 The veteran knelt, and gently turned Linsky over 
 on his back. A wandering ball had struck him in 
 the throat. The lips were alread}^ colorless, and 
 from their corners a thin line of bright blood had 
 oozed to mingle grotesquely with the molasses on 
 the unshaven jaw. To Zeke's skilled glance it was 
 apparent that the man was mortally wounded — per- 
 haps already dead, for no trace of pulse or heart- 
 beat could be found. He softly closed the Irish- 
 man's eyes, and put the sorghum-stained cap over 
 his face. 
 
 Zeke rose and looked forth again upon the scene 
 of battle. His regiment had crossed the fence and 
 gained possession of the farm-house, from which 
 they were firing into the woods beyond. Further 
 to the left, through the mist of smoke which hung 
 upon the meadow, he could see that large masses of 
 troops in blue were being pushed forward. He 
 thought he would go and join his company. He 
 would tell the fellows how well Linsky had behaved. 
 Perhaps, after the fight was all over, he would lick 
 Hugh O'Mahony for having spoken so churlishly to 
 him. 
 
 He turned at this and looked dou^n again upon 
 the insensible Linsky. 
 
 " Well, Irish, you had sand in 3'our gizzard, any- 
 way," he said, aloud. "I'll whale the head off 'm 
 O'Mahony, jest on your account." 
 
36 The Return of The O' Mahony. 
 
 Then, musing upon some new ideas which these 
 words seem to have suggested, he knelt once more, 
 and, unbuttoning Linsky's jacket, felt through his 
 pockets. 
 
 He drew forth a leather wallet and a long 
 linen-lined envelope containing many papers. The 
 wallet had in it a comfortable looking roll of green, 
 backs, but Zeke's attention was bestowed rather 
 upon the papers. 
 
 " So these would give O'Mahony an estate, ch ?" 
 he pondered, half aloud, turning them over. " It 
 'ud be a tolerable good bet that he never lays eyes 
 on 'em. We'll fix that right now, for fear of acci- 
 dents." 
 
 He began to kick about in the leaves, as he rose a 
 second time, thinking hard upon the problem of what 
 to do with the papers. He had no matches. He 
 might cut down a cartridge, and get a fire b}^ per- 
 cussion — but that would take time. So, for that 
 matter, would digging a hole to bury the papers. 
 
 All at once his abstracted face lost its lines of 
 labor, and briglrdened radiantly. He thrust wallet 
 and envelope into his own pocket, and smilingly 
 stepped forward once more to see what the field of 
 battle was like. The farm-house had become the 
 headquarters of a general and his staff, and the noise 
 of fighting had passed away to the furthest confines 
 of the woods. 
 
 " This darned old compaign won't last up'ard of 
 another week," he said, in satisfied reverie. " I 
 reckon I've done my share in it, and somethin' to 
 lap over on the next. Nobody 'II be a cent the 
 Wuss off if I turn up missin' now," 
 
LijLskys Brief* Military Career. 2>7 
 
 Gathering up the provisions and his gun, Zeke 
 turned abruptly, and made his way down the steep 
 side-hill into the forest, each long stride bearing him 
 (urther from Company F's headquarters. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE O'MAHONY on ERIN'S SOIL. 
 
 It became known among the passengers on the 
 Moldavian, an hour or so before bedtime on Sunday 
 evening, April 23, 1865, that the lights to be seen 
 in the larboard distance were really on the Irish 
 coast. The intelligence ran swiftly through all 
 quarters of the vessel. Its truth could not be doubted ; 
 the man on the bridge said that it truly was Ireland ; 
 and if he had not said so, the ship's barber had. 
 
 Excitement over the news reached its higi;!est 
 point in the steerage, two-thirds of the inmates of 
 which hung now lovingly upon the port rail of the 
 forward deck, tc gaze with eager e3^es at the far-off 
 points of radiance glowing through the soft northern 
 spring night. 
 
 Farther down the rail, from the obscurity of the 
 jostling throng, a stout male voice sent up the open- 
 ing bars of the dear familiar song, '' The Cove of 
 Cork." The ballad trembled upon the air as it pro- 
 gressed, then broke into something like sobs, and 
 ceased. 
 
 [38J 
 
The O Mahony on Eriiis Soil. 39 
 
 "Ah, Barney," a sympathetic voice cried out, 
 "'tis no longer the Cove; 'tis Queenstown they're 
 after calling it now. Small wandher the song won't 
 listen to itself be sung !" 
 
 " But they haven't taken the Cove away — God 
 bless it !" the other rejoined, bitterly. " 'Tis there, 
 beyant the lights, waitin' for its honest name to 
 come back to it when — when things are set right 
 once more." 
 
 "Is it the Cove you think you see yonder?" 
 queried another, captiously. " Thim's the Fastnet 
 and Cape Clear lights. We're f.fty miles and more 
 from Cork." 
 
 " Thin if 'twas daylight," croaked an old man be- 
 tween coughs, " we'd be in sight of The O'Ma- 
 hony's castles, or what bloody Cromwell left of 
 them." 
 
 " It's mad ye are, Martin," remonstrated a female 
 voice. " The're laygues beyant on Dunmanus Bay. 
 Wasn't I born mesilf at Durrus?" 
 
 " The O'Mahony of Murrisk is on board," whis- 
 pered some one else, "returnin' to his estates. I had 
 it this day from the cook's helper. The quantity of 
 mate that same 0'Mahon3^'s been 'atin' ! An' dhrink, 
 is it? Faith, there's no English nobleman could 
 touch him !" 
 
 On the saloon deck, aft, the interest excited by these 
 distant lights was less volubly eager, but it had suf- 
 ficed to break up the card-games in the smoking- 
 room, and even to tempt some malingering passen- 
 gers from the cabins below. Such talk as passed 
 among the group lounging along the rail, here in the 
 
40 The Return of The O MaJiony. 
 
 politer quarter, bore, for the most part, upon the 
 record of the Moldavian on this and past voyages, as 
 contrasted with the achievements of other steam- 
 ships. No one confessed to reverential sensations 
 in looking at the lights, and no one lamented the 
 change of name which sixteen years before, had be- 
 fallen the Cove of Cork; but there was the liveliest 
 speculation upon the probabilities of the Bahama, 
 which had sailed from New York the same day, hav- 
 ing beaten them into the south harbor of Cape Clear, 
 where, in those exciting war times, before the cable 
 was laid, every ocean steamer halted long enough 
 to hurl overboard its rubber-encased budget of 
 American news, to be scuffled for in the swell by 
 the rival oarsmen of the cape, and borne by the suc- 
 cessful boat to the island, where relays of telegraph 
 clerks then waited day and night to serve Europe 
 with tidings of the republic's fight for life. 
 
 This concentration of thought upon steamer runs 
 and records, to the exclusion of interest in mere 
 Europe, has descended like a mantle upon the first- 
 cabin passengers of our own later generation. But 
 the voyagers in the Moldavian had a peculiar war- 
 rant for their concern. They had left America on 
 Saturday, April 15, bearing with them the terrible 
 news of Lincoln's assassination in Ford's Theatre, 
 the previous evening, and it meant life-long dis- 
 tinction — in one's own eyes at least — to be the first 
 to deliver these tidings to an astounded Old World. 
 Eight days' musing on this chance of greatness had 
 brought them to a point where they were prepared 
 to learn with equanimity that the rival Bahama had 
 struck a rock outside, somewhere. One of their 
 
The O Mahony on Erins Soil. 41 
 
 number, a little Jew diamond merchant, now made 
 himself quite popular by relating his personal recol- 
 lections of the calamity which befel her sister ship, 
 the Aiiglia, eighteen months ago, when she ran upon 
 Blackrock in Galway harbor. 
 
 One of these first-cabin passengers, standing for a 
 time irresolutely upon the outskirts of this gossip- 
 ing group, turned abiuptly when the under-sized 
 Hebrew addressed a part of his narrative to him, 
 and walked off alone into the shadows of the stern. 
 He went to the very end, and leaned over the taff- 
 rail, looking down upon the boiling, phosphorescent 
 foam of the vessel's wake. He did not care a but- 
 ton about being able to tell Europe of the murder 
 of Lincoln and Seward — for when they left the sec- 
 retary was supposed, also, to have been mortally 
 wounded. His anxieties were of a wholly different 
 sort. 
 
 He, The O'Mahony of Muirisc, was plainly but 
 warmly clad, with a new, shaggy black overcoat 
 buttoned to the chin, and a black slouch hat 
 drawn over his eyes. His face was clean sliaven, 
 and remarkably free from lines of care and age 
 about the mouth and nostrils, though the eyes were 
 set in wrinkles. The upper part of the face was 
 darker and more weather-beaten, too, than the lower, 
 from which a shrewd observer might have guessed 
 that until very recently he had always worn a beard. 
 
 There were half a dozen shrewd observers on 
 board the Moldavian among its cabin passengers — 
 men of obvious Irish nationality, whose manner 
 with one another had a certain effect of furtiveness, 
 ^nd who were described on the ship's list by dis- 
 
42 The Retmni of The O' Mahony. 
 
 tinctively English names, like Potter, Cooper and 
 Smith; and they had watched the O'Mahony of 
 Muirisc very closely during the whole voyage, but 
 none of them had had doubts about the beard, 
 much less about the man's identity. In truth, they 
 looked from day to day for him to give some sign, 
 be it never so slight, that his errand to Ireland was 
 a political one. They were all Fenians — among the 
 advance guard of that host of Irishmen who return- 
 ed from exile at the close of the Amercian War — 
 and they took it for granted that the solitary and 
 silent O'Mahony was a member of the Brotherhood. 
 The more taciturn he grew, the more he held aloof, 
 the firmer became their conviction that his rank in 
 the society was exalted and his mission important. 
 The very fact that he would not be drawn into con- 
 versation and avoided their company was proof 
 conclusive. They left him alone, but watched him 
 with lynx-like scrutiny. 
 
 The O'Mahony had been conscious of this cease- 
 less observation, and he mused upon it now as he 
 watched the white whirl of churned waters below. 
 The time was close at hand when he should know 
 whether it had meant anything or not ; there was com- 
 fort in that, at all events. He was less a coward 
 than any other man he knew% but, all the same, this 
 unending espionage had worn upon his nerve. 
 Doubtless, that was in part because sea-voyaging 
 was a novelty to him. He had not been ill for a 
 moment. In fact, he could not remember to have 
 ever eaten and drunk more in any eight days of his 
 life. If it had not been for the confounded watch- 
 fulness of the Irishmen, he would have enjoyed the 
 
The O Mahouy on Erins Soil. 43 
 
 whole experience immensely. But it was evident 
 that they were all in collusion — "' in cahoots," he 
 phrased it in his mind — and had a common interest 
 in noting all his movements. What could it mean } 
 Strange as it may seem, The O'Mahony had never 
 so much as heard of the Fenian Brotherhood. 
 
 He rose from his lounging meditation presentlv, 
 and sauntered forward again along the port deck. 
 The lights from the coast were growing more 
 distinct in the distance, and, as he paused to look, 
 he fancied he could discern a dark line of shore 
 below them. 
 
 " 1 suppose your ancistral estates are lyin' further 
 west, sir," spoke a voice at his side. The O'Mahony 
 cast a swift half-glance around, and recognized one 
 of the suspected spies. 
 
 " Yes, a good deal west," he growled, curtly. 
 
 The other took no offense. 
 
 " Sure," he went on, pleasantly, " the O'Mahonys 
 and the O'DriscoUs, not to mintion the INIcCarthys, 
 chased each other around that counthry yonder at 
 such a divil of a pace it's hard tellin' now which 
 belonged to who." 
 
 " Yes, we did hustle round considerable," assented 
 The O'Mahony, with frigidity. 
 
 " You're manny years away from Ireland, sir ?" 
 pursued the man. 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " I notice you say ' yes ' and ' no.' It takes a long 
 absence to tache an Irishman that." 
 
 " I've been away nearly all my life," said The O'Ma- 
 hony, sharpl;^ — " ever since 1 was a little boj' ;" and 
 
44 The Rehcrn of The O Mahony. 
 
 turning on his heel, he walked to the companion- 
 way and disappeared down the stairs. 
 
 " Faith, I'm bettin' it's the gineral himself !" said 
 the other, looking after him. 
 
 To have one's waking vision greeted, on a soft, 
 warm April morning, by the sight of the Head of 
 Kinsale in the sunlight — with the dark rocks capped 
 in tenderest verdure and washed below by milk- 
 white breakers ; with the smooth water mirroring 
 the blue of the sky upon its bosom, yet revealing as 
 well the marbled greens of its own crystalline 
 depths; with the balmy scents of fresh blossoms 
 meeting and mingling in the languorous air of the 
 Gulf Stream's bringing — can there be a fairer finish 
 to any voyage over the waters of the whole terres- 
 trial ball !" 
 
 The O'Mahony had been up on deck before any 
 of his fellow-passengers, scanning the novel details 
 of the scene before him. The vessel barely kept 
 itself in motion through the calm waters. The soft 
 land breeze just availed to turn the black column of 
 smoke rising from the funnel into a sort of carbon- 
 iferous leaning tower. The pilot had been taken on 
 the previous evening. They waited now for the tug, 
 which could be seen passing Roche's Point with a 
 prodigious spluttering and splashing of side-paddles. 
 Before its arrival, the Moldavian lay at rest within 
 full view of the wonderful harbor — her deck 
 thronged with passengers dressed now in fine shore 
 apparel and bearing bags and rugs, who bade each 
 other good-bye with an enthusiasm which nobody 
 
The G Mahony on Ei'ins Soil. 45 
 
 believed in, and edged along- as near as possible 
 where the gang-plank would be. 
 
 The O'Mahony walked alone down the plank, 
 rebuffing the porters who sought to relieve him of 
 his heavy bags. He stood alone at the prow of the 
 tug, as it waddled and puffed on its rolling way 
 back again, watching the superb amphitheatre of 
 terraced stone houses, walls, groves and gardens 
 toward which he had vo3'aged these nine long days, 
 with an anxious, almost gloomy face. The Fenians, 
 still closely observing him, grew nervous with fear 
 that this depression forboded a discover}^ of contra- 
 brand arms in his baggage. 
 
 But no scandal arose. The custom officers 
 searched fruitlessly through the long platforms 
 covered with luggage, with a half perfunctory and 
 wholly wdiimsical air, as if they knew perfectly well 
 that the revolvers they pretended to be looking for 
 were really in the pockets of the passengers. Then 
 other good-byes, distinctly less enthusiastic, were 
 exchanged, and the last bonds of comradeship which 
 life on the Moldavian had enforced snapped lightly 
 as the gates were opened. 
 
 Everybody else seemed to know where to go. 
 The O'Mahony stood for so long a time just outside 
 the gates, with his two big valises at his feet and 
 helpless hesitation written all over his face, that 
 even some of the swarm of beggars surrounding him 
 could not wait any longer, and went away giving 
 him up. To the importunities of the others, who 
 buzzed about him like blue-bottles on a sunny win- 
 dow-pane, he paid no heed ; but he finally beckoned 
 to the driver of the solitary remaining outside car, 
 
46 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 who had been flicking his broker, whip invitingly at 
 him, and who now turned his vehicle abruptly round 
 and drove it, with wild shouts of factitious warning, 
 straight through the group of mendicants, overbear- 
 ing their loud cries of remonstrance with his superior 
 voice, and cracking his whip like mad. He drew 
 up in front of the bags with the air of a lord mayor's 
 coachman, and took off his shapeless hat in saluta- 
 tion. 
 
 " 1 want to go to the law office of White & Car- 
 mod}^" The O'Mahony said, brusquely. 
 
 " Right, your honor," the carman answered, dis- 
 mounting and lifting the luggage to the well of the 
 car, and then officiously helping his patron to mount 
 to his sidelong seat. He sprang up on the other 
 side, screamed " Now thin, Maggie !" to his poor 
 old horse, flipped his whip derisively at the beggars, 
 and started off at a little dog-trot, clucking loudi}- as 
 he went. 
 
 He drove through all the long ascending streets of 
 Queenstown at this shambling pace, traversing each 
 time the whole length of the town, until finally they 
 gained the terraced pleasure-road at the top. Here 
 the driver drew rein, and waved his whip to indicate 
 the splendid scope of the view below — the gray 
 roof of the houses embowered in trees, the river's 
 crowded shipping, the castellated shore opposite, 
 the broad, island-dotted harbor be3^ond. 
 
 " L'uk there, now !" he said, proudly. " Have 
 yez annything like that in Ameriky ?" 
 
 The O'Mahon)'^ cast only an indifferent glance 
 upon the prospect. 
 
The GMahony on Eriiis Soil. 47 
 
 "Yes — but where's White & Carmody's office?" 
 he asked. " That's what / want," 
 
 " Right, your honor,'' was the reply ; and with 
 renewed chicl-cing and cracking of the dismantled 
 whip, the journey was resumed. That is to say, 
 they wound their way back again down the hill, 
 through all the streets, until at last the car stopped 
 in front of the Queen's Hotel. 
 
 " Is it thrue what they tell me, sir, that the 
 Prisidint is murdhered ?" the jarvey asked, as they 
 came to a halt. 
 
 " Yes — but where the devil is that law-office ?" 
 
 " Sure, 3'Our honor, there's no such names here 
 at all," the carman replied, pleasantly. " Here's the 
 hotel where gintleman stop, an' I've shown 3-e the 
 view from the top, an' it's plased 1 am ye had such 
 a clear day for it — and wud 3'e like to see Smith- 
 Barry's place, after lunch ?" 
 
 The stranger turned round on his seat to the 
 better comment upon this amazing impudence, 
 beginning a question harsh of purpose and profane 
 in form. 
 
 Then the spectacle of the ragged driver's placidly 
 amiable face and roguish eye ; of the funny old 
 horse, like nothing so much in all the world as an 
 ancient hair-trunk with legs at the corners, 3'et 
 which was driven with the noise and ostentation of 
 a six-horse team ; of the harness tied up with ropes ; 
 the tumble-down car ; the broken whip ; the beg- 
 gars — all this, by a happ3^ chance, suddenl3^ struck 
 The 0'Mahon3^ in a humorous light. Even as his 
 angered words were on the air he smiled in spite of 
 himself. It was a gaunt, reluctant smile, the merest 
 
48 The Retiirn of The O'Mahony. 
 
 curling of the lips at their corners; but it sufficed 
 in a twinkling to surround him with beaming faces. 
 He laughed aloud at this, and on the instant driver 
 and beggars were convulsed with merriment. 
 
 The O'Mahony jumped off the car. 
 
 " I'll run into the hotel and find out where I want 
 to go," he said. " Wait here." 
 
 Two minutes passed. 
 
 " These lawyers live in Cork," he explained on 
 his return. " It seems this is only Queenstown. I 
 I want you to go to Cork with me." 
 
 " Right, your honor," said the driver, snapping 
 his whip in preparation. 
 
 " But I don't want to drive ; it's too much like a 
 funeral. We ain't a-bur3'in' anybody." 
 
 " Is it Maggie your honor manes ? Sure, there's 
 no finer quality of a mare in County Cork, if she 
 only gets dacent encouragement." 
 
 "Yes; but we ain't got time to encourage her. 
 Go and put her out, and hustle back here as quick 
 as you can. I'll pay you a good day's wages. 
 Hurr3^ now ; we'll go by train." 
 
 The O'Mahony distributed small silver among the 
 beggars the Avhile he waited in front of the hotel. 
 
 " That laugh was worth a hundred dollars to me," 
 he said, more to himself than to the beggars. " I 
 hain't laughed before since Linsky spilt the molasses 
 over his head." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE INSTALLATION OF JERRY. 
 
 The visit to White & Carmody's law-office had 
 weighed heavily upon the mind of The O'Mahony 
 during the whole voyage across the Atlantic, and it 
 still was the burden of his thoughts as he sat beside 
 Jerry Higgins — this he learned to be the car-dri- 
 ver's name — in the train which rushed up the side of 
 the Lea toward Cork. The first-class compartment 
 to which Jerry had led the way was crowded with 
 people who had arrived by the Moldavian, and who 
 scowled at their late fellow-passenger for having 
 imposed upon them the unsavory presence of the 
 carman. The O'Mahony was too deeply occupied 
 with his own business to observe this. Jeny 
 smiled blandly into the hostile faces, and hummed a 
 " come-all-ye " to himpelf. 
 
 When, an hour or so after their arrival. The 
 O'Mahony emerged from the lavv^3^ers' office the 
 waiting Jerry scarcely knew him for the same man. 
 The black felt hat, which had been pulled down 
 over his brows, rested with easy confidence now 
 well back on his head ; his gray eyes twinkled with 
 a pleasant light ; the long face had lost its drawn 
 
 [49] 
 
50 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 lines and saturnine expression, and reflected con- 
 tent instead. 
 
 " Come along somewhere where we can get a 
 drink," he said to Jerry ; but stopped before they 
 had taken a dozen steps, attracted by the sign and 
 street-show of a second-hand clothing shop. " Or 
 no," he said, "come in here first, and I'll kind o' 
 spruce you up a bit so't you can pass muster in 
 society." 
 
 When they came upon the street again, it was 
 Jerry who was even more strikingly metamor- 
 phosed. The captious eye of one whose soul is in 
 clothes might have discerned that the garments he 
 now wore had not been originally designed for 
 Jerry. The sleeves of the coat were a trifle long ; 
 the legs of the trousers just a suspicion short. But 
 the smile with which he surveyed the passing reflec- 
 tions of his improved image in the shop-windows 
 was all his own. He strode along jauntily, carry- 
 ing the heavy bags as if they had been mere feather- 
 weight parcels. 
 
 The two made their wa}^ to a small tavern near 
 the quays, which Jerr}'^ knew of, and where The 
 O'Mahony ordered a room, with a fire in it, and a 
 comfortable meal to be laid therein at once. 
 
 " Sure, it's not becomin' that I should ate along 
 wid your honor," Jerry remonstrated, when they had 
 been left alone in the dingy little chamber, over- 
 looking the street and the docks beyond. 
 
 At this protest The O'Mahony lifted his brows in 
 unaffected surprise. 
 
 "What's the matter \v'\\\\ you f' he asked, half- 
 derisively ; and no more was said on the subject. 
 
The InstaUaiion of Jerry. 51 
 
 No more was said on any subject, for that matter, 
 until fish had succeeded soup, and the waiter was 
 aiaking- ready for a third course. Tiien the founder 
 of the feast said to this menial : 
 
 *' Sec here, you, don't play this on me ! Jest tote 
 in whatever more j^ou've got, an' put er down, an' 
 g"it out. We don't want 3'^ou bobbin' in here every 
 second minute, all the afternoon." 
 
 The waiter, with an aggrieved air, brought in 
 presentl}'^ a tray loaded with dishes, wdiich he 
 plumped down all over The O'Mahony's half, of the 
 table. 
 
 " That's somethin' like it," said that gentleman, 
 approvingly ; "you'll get the hang of your business 
 in time, young man," as the servant left the room. 
 Then he heaped up Jerry's plate and his own, 
 ruminated over a mouthful or two, with his eyes 
 searching the other's face — and began to speak. 
 
 " Do you know what made me take a shine to 
 3^ou ?" he asked, and then made answer: " 'Twas on 
 account of your dodrotted infernal cheek. It made 
 me laugh— an' I'd got so it seemed as if I wasn't 
 never goin' to laugh any more. That's why I cot- 
 toned to you — an' got a notion 3'ou was jest the 
 kind o' fellow I wanted. D'3'e know who I am ?" 
 
 Jerry^'s quizzical e3'es studied his companion's 
 face in turn, first doubtingly', then with an air of 
 reassurance. 
 
 " I do not, 3'our honor," he said at last, visibl3'- 
 restraining the impulse to sa3' a great deal more. 
 
 " I'm the 0"Mahon3- of Murrisk, 'an I'm returnin' 
 to m3' estates." 
 
 Jerr3^ did prolonged but successful battle once 
 
52 TJie Return of The OMahony, 
 
 more with his sense of humor and h^quacious in- 
 stincts. 
 
 " All right, your honor," he said, with humilit}'. 
 
 " Maybe I don't look like an Irishman or talk like 
 one," the other went on, " but that's because I was 
 taken to America when I was a little shaver, knee- 
 high to a grasshopper, an* my folks didn't keep up 
 no connection with Irishmen, That's how I lost my 
 grip on the hull Ireland business, don't you see?" 
 
 " Sure, )^our honor, it's as clear as Spike Island in 
 the sunshine." 
 
 " Well, that's how it was. And now my relations 
 over here have died off — that is, all that stood in 
 front of me — and so the estates come to me, and I'm 
 The O'xMahony." 
 
 "An' it's proud ivery mother's son of your tin- 
 ints '11 be at that same, your honor." 
 
 " At first, of course, I didn't know but the lawyers 
 'ud make a kick when I turned up and claimed the 
 thing. Generally you have to go to law, an' take 
 your oath, an' fight everybody. But, pshaw ! wh)' 
 the}^ jest swallered me slick 'n clean, as if I'd had m \- 
 ears pinned back an' be'n greased all over. Never 
 asked * ah,' ' yes,' or ' no.' Didn't raise a single ques- 
 tion. I guess there ain't no White in the business 
 now. I didn't see him or hear anything about him. 
 But Carmody's a reg'lar old brick. They w^asn't 
 nothin' too good for me after he learnt who I was. 
 But what fetched him most was that I'd seen Abe 
 Lincoln, close to, dozens o' times. He was crazy to 
 know all about him, an' the assassination, an' what 
 I thought 'ud be the next move ; so 't we hardly 
 talked about The O'Mahony business at all. An' it 
 
The Installation of Jei'ry. 53 
 
 seems ther's been a lot o' shenanigan about it, too. 
 The fellow that came out to America to — ;to find 
 me — Linsky his name was — why, darn my buttons, 
 if he hadn't run away from Cork, an' stole my papers 
 along with a lot of others, countin' on r^eddlin' 'em 
 over there an' collarin' the money." 
 
 " Ah, the thief of the earth !" said Jerry. 
 
 " Well, he got killed there, in about the last battle 
 there was in the war ; an' 'twas by the finding of the 
 papers on him that — that I came by my rights." 
 
 " Glory be to God !'' commented Jerry, as he 
 buried his jowl afresh in the tankard of stout. 
 
 A term of silence ensued, during which what 
 remained of the food was disposed of. Then The 
 O'Mahony spoke again : 
 
 "Are you a man of family ?'" 
 
 " Well, your honor, I've never rightly come by 
 the truth of it, but there are thim that says I'm 
 descinded from the O'Higginses of Westmeath. 
 I'd not venture to take me Bible oath on it, but — " 
 
 " No, I don't mean that. Have you got a wife an' 
 children?" 
 
 " Is it me, your honor? Arrah, what girl that 
 wasn't blind an' crippled an' deminted wid fits wud 
 take up wid the likes of me ?" 
 
 "Well, what is your job down at Queenstown 
 like? Can you leave it right off, not to go back any 
 more ?" 
 
 *' It's no job at all. Siirc. 1 jist take out Mikey 
 Doolan's car, wid that thund'rin' old Maggie, givin' 
 warnin' to fall to pieces on the road in front of me, 
 for friendship — to exercise 'em like. It's not till 
 every other horse and ass in Queenstown's ingaged 
 
54 The RctiLrji of The G Mahony. 
 
 that anny mortial sowl '11 ride on my car. An' whin 
 I gets a fare, why, I do be after that long waitin' 
 that—" 
 
 " That you drive 'em up on top of the hill whether 
 they want to go or not, eh?" asked Th3 O'Mahony, 
 with a grin. 
 
 Jerry took the liberty' of winking at his patrc^n in 
 response. 
 
 *' Egor ! that's the way of it, your honor," he said, 
 pleasantl3\ 
 
 " So you don't have to go back there at all ?" pur- 
 sued the other. 
 
 "Divila rayson have I for ever settin' fut in the 
 Cove ag'in, if your honor has work for me else- 
 where." 
 
 " I guess I can fix that," said The O'Mahony, speak- 
 ing more slowly, and studying his man as he spoke. 
 " You see, I ain't got a man in this hull Ireland that 
 1 can call a friend. I don't know nothin' about your 
 ways, no more'n a babe unborn. It took me jest 
 about two minutes, after I got out through the Cus- 
 tom House, to figger out that 1 was goin' to need 
 some one to sort o' steer me — and need him power- 
 ful bad, too. Why, I can't even reckon in your 
 blamed money, over here. You call a shillin' what 
 we'd call two shillin's, an' there ain't no such thing 
 as a dollar. Now, I'm goin' out to my estates, where 
 I don't know a livin' soul, an' prob'l}^ they'd jest rob 
 me out o' my eye-teeth, if I hadn't got some one to 
 look after me — some one that knew his way around. 
 D'ye see?" 
 
 The car-driver's eyes sparkled, but he shook his 
 curly red head with doubt, upon reflection. 
 
The Iiistalla-tioji of Jerry. 55 
 
 " You've been fair wid me, sir," he said, after a 
 pause, " an' I'll not be behind you in honesty. You 
 don't know me at all. What the divil, man ! — why, 
 1 might be the most rebellious rogue in all County 
 Cork." He scratched his head with added dubiety, 
 as he went on ; " An', for the matter of that, faith, 
 if you did know me, it's some one else 3'ou'd take. 
 There's no one in the Cove that 'ud give me a charac- 
 ter." 
 
 " You're right," observed The O'Mahony. " I 
 don't know you from a side o' soleleather. But 
 that's my style. I like a fellow, or I don't like him, 
 and I do it on my own hook, follerin' my own 
 notions, and just to suit myself. I've been siz'in' 
 you up, all around, an' 1 like the cut o' your gib. 
 You might be washed up a trifle more, p'r'aps, and 
 have your hair cropped ; but them's details. The 
 main point is, that 1 believe you'll act fair and 
 square with me, an see to it that I git a straight 
 deal!" 
 
 " Sir, I'll go to the end of the earth for you," said 
 Jerry, He rose, and by an instinctive movement, 
 the two men shook hands across the table. 
 
 " That's right," said The O'Mahony, referring 
 more to the clasping of hands than to the vow of 
 fealty. " That's the way I want 'er to stand. Don't 
 call me 'yer honor,' or any o' that sort o' palaver. 
 I've been a poor man all my life. I ain't used to 
 bossin' niggers around, or pla3in' off that I'm 
 better'n other folks. Now that I'm returnin' to my 
 estates, prob'ly I'll have to stomach more or less of 
 that sort o' nonsense. That's one of the things I'll 
 want you to steer me in." 
 
"56 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 " An might I be askin', where are these estates, 
 sir?" 
 
 " So far 's I can make out, the3''re near where we 
 come in sight of Ireland first; it can't be very far 
 from here. They're on the seashore — I know that 
 much. We go to Dunmanway, wherever that is, by 
 the railroad to-morrow, and there the lawyers have 
 telegraphed to have the agent meet us. From there 
 on, we've got to stage it. The place itself is 
 Murrisk, beyond Skull — nice, comfortable, soothin' 
 sort o' names you Irish have for your towns, eh ?" 
 
 "And what time'll we be startin' to-morrow?" 
 
 " The train leaves at noon — that is, for Dunman- 
 way." 
 
 " Thank God for that," said Jerry, with a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 The O'Mahony turned upon him with such an 
 obviously questioning glance that he made haste to 
 explain : 
 
 " I'll be bound your honor hasn't been to mass 
 since — since ye were like that grasshopper ye spoke 
 about." 
 
 " Mass — no — how d'ye mean? What is it ?" 
 
 " Luk at that, now !" exclaimed Jerry, trium- 
 phantly. " See what 'd 'a' come to 3-e if 3'e'd gone to 
 3^ our estates without knowing the first word of 3^our 
 Christian obligations ! We'll rise earl3' to-morrow, 
 and I'll get ye through all the masses there are in 
 Cork, betune thin an' midday." 
 
 " Gad ! I'd clean forgotten that," said The 
 O'Mahony. " An' now let's git out an' see the 
 town." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE HEREDITARY BARD. 
 
 Two hours and more of the afternoon were spent 
 before The O'Mahony and his new companion next 
 day reached Dunmanway. 
 
 The morning had been devoted, for the most part, 
 to church-going, and The O'Mahony 's mind was 
 still confused with a bewildering jumble of candles, 
 bells and embroidered gowns; of boj^s in frocks 
 swinging little kettles of smoke by long chains; of 
 books printed on one side in English and on the 
 other in an unknown tongue ; of strange necessities 
 for standing, kneeling, sitting all together, at differ- 
 ent times, for no apparent reason which he could 
 discover, and at no word of command whatever. 
 He meditated upon it all now, as the slow train 
 bumped its wandering way into the west, as upon 
 some novel kind of drill, which it was obviously 
 going to take him a long time to master. He had 
 his moments of despondency at the prospect, until 
 he reflected that if the poorest, least intelligent, 
 hod-carrying Irishman alive knew it all, he ought 
 surely to be able to learn it. This hopeful view 
 
 [57] 
 
58 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 gaining pi-edominance at last in his thoughts, he 
 had leisure to look out of the window. 
 
 The country through which they passed was for 
 a long distance fairly level, with broad stretches of 
 fair grass-fields and strips of ploughed land, the soil 
 of which seemed richness itself. The O'Mahony 
 noted this, but was still more interested in the fact 
 that stone was the only building material anywhere 
 in sight. The few large houses, the multitude of 
 cabins, the high fences surrounding residences, the 
 low fences limiting farm lands, even the very gate- 
 posts — all were of gray stone, and all as identical in 
 color and aspect as if Ireland contained but a single 
 quarry. 
 
 The stone had come to be a very prominent fea- 
 ture in the natural landscape as well, before their 
 journey by rail ended — a cold, wild, hard-featured 
 landscape, with scant brown grass barely masking 
 the black of the bog lands, and dying off at the 
 fringes of gaunt layers of rock which thrust their 
 heads everywhere upon the vision. The O'lNIahony 
 observed with curiosity that as the land grew 
 poorer, the population, housed all in wretched 
 hovels, seemed to increase, and the burning fire- 
 yellow of the furze blossoms all about made lurid 
 mockery of the absence of crops. 
 
 Dunmanway was then the terminus of the line, 
 which has since been pushed onward to Bantr}'. The 
 two travellers got out here and stood almost alone 
 on the stone platform with their luggage. They 
 were, indeed, the only first-class passengers in the 
 train. 
 
 As they glanced about them, they were ap' 
 
Hereditary Bard 59 
 
 proached b}' a diminutive man, past middle age, 
 dressed in a costume which The O'Mahony had 
 seen once or twice on the stage, but never before in 
 every-day life. He was a clean-shaven, swarth}-- 
 faced little man, lean as a withered bean-pod, and 
 clad in a long-tailed coat with brass buttons, a long 
 waist-coat, drab corduroy knee-breeches and gray 
 worsted stockings. On his head he wore a high 
 silk hat of antique pattern, dulled and rusty with 
 extreme age. He took this off as he advanced, and 
 looked from one to the other of the twain doubt- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Is it The O'Mahony of Muirisc that I have the 
 honor to see before me?" he asked, his little ferret 
 eyes dividing their glances in hesitation between 
 the two. 
 
 " I'm 3'our huckleberry," said The O'Mahony, 
 and held out his hand. 
 
 The small man bent his shriveled form double in 
 salutation, and took the proffered hand with cere- 
 monious formality. 
 
 " Sir, you're kindly welcome back to your ances- 
 thral domain," he said, with an emotional quaver in 
 his thin, high voice. "All your people are Avaitin' 
 with anxiety and pleasure for the sight of your face." 
 
 " 1 hope they've got us somethin' to eat," said The 
 O'Mahony. " We had breakfast at daybreak this 
 morning, so's to work the churches, and I'm — " 
 
 "His honor," hastily interposed Jerry, "is that 
 pious he can't sleep of a mornin' for pinin' to hear 
 mass." 
 
 The little man's dark face softened at the infor- 
 mation. He guessed Jerry's status by it, as well, 
 
6o The Return of The G MaJiony. 
 
 and nodded at him while he bowed once more before 
 The O'Mahony. 
 
 " I took the liberty to order some slight refresh- 
 mints at the hotel, sir, against your coming," he 
 said. " If you'll do me the condescinsion to follow 
 me, 1 will conduct you thither without delay." 
 
 They followed their guide, as he, bearing himself 
 very proudly and swinging his shoulders in rythm 
 with his gait, picked his way across the square, 
 through the mud of the pig-market, and down a 
 narrow street of ancient, evil-smelling rookeries, to 
 the chief tavern of the town — a cramped and dismal 
 little hostelry, with unwashed children playing with 
 a dog in the doorway, and a shock-headed stable- 
 boy standing over them to do with low bows the 
 honors of the house. 
 
 The room into which they were shown, though 
 no whit cleaner than the rest, had a comfortable fire 
 upon the grate, and a plentiful meal, of cold meat 
 and steaming potatoes boiled in their jackets, laid on 
 the table. Jerry put down the bags here, and 
 disappeared before The O'Mahony could speak. 
 The O'Mahony promptly sent the waiter after him, 
 and upon his return spoke with some sharpness : 
 
 " Jerry, don't give me any more of this," he said. 
 " You can chore it around, and make yourself useful 
 to me, as you've always done ; but you git your 
 meals with me, d' ye hear? Right alongside of me, 
 every time." 
 
 Thus the table was laid for three, and the 
 O'Mahony made his companions acquainted with 
 each other. 
 
 " This is Jerry Higgins," he explained to the 
 
The Hereditary Bard. 6i 
 
 wondering', swart-vnsaged little man. " He's sort o' 
 chief cook and bottle-washer to the establishment, 
 but he's so bashful afore strangers, I have to talk 
 sharp to him now an' then. And let's see — I don't 
 think the lawyer told me your name." 
 
 " I am Cormac O'Daly," said the other, bowing 
 wath proud humility. " An O'Mahony has had an 
 O'Daly to chronicle his deeds of valor and daring, 
 to sing his praises of person and prowess, since ages 
 before Kian fought at Clontarf and married the 
 daughter of the great Brian Boru. Oppression and 
 poverty, sir, have diminished the position of the 
 bard in most parts of Ireland, I'm informed. All 
 the O'Dalys that in former times were bards to The 
 O'Neill in Ulster, The O'Reilly of Brefny, The 
 MacCarthy in Desmond and The O'Farrell oi 
 Annaly — faith, they've disappeared from the face of 
 the earth. But in Muirisc — glory be to the Lord ! — ■ 
 there's still an O'Daly to welcome the O'Mahony 
 back and sing the celebration of his achievements." 
 
 " Sort o' song-and-dance man, then, eh ?" said 
 The O'Mahony, " Well, after dinner we'll push 
 the table back an' give you a show. But let's eat 
 first." 
 
 The little man for the moment turned upon the 
 speaker a glance of surprise, which seemed to have 
 in it the elements of pain. Then he spoke, as if re- 
 assured : 
 
 " Ah, sir, in America, where I'm told the Irish 
 are once more a rich and powerful people, our 
 ancient nobility would have their bards, with rale 
 harps and voices for singing. But in this poor 
 country it's only a mettj^^horical existence a bard 
 
62 The Return of Tuc O MaJiony. 
 
 can have. Whin I spoke the word ' song,' my in- 
 tintion was allegorical. Sure, 'tis drivin' you from 
 the house I'd be after doing, were 1 to sing in the 
 ginuine maning of the word. But I have here some 
 small verses which I composed this day, while 1 
 was waitin' in the pig-market, that you might not 
 be indisposed to listen to, and to accept" 
 
 O'Daly drew from his waistcoat pocket a sheet of 
 soiled and crumpled paper forthwith, on which some 
 lines had been scrawled in pencil. Smoothing this 
 out upon the table, he donned a pair of big, horn- 
 rimmed spectacles, and proceeded to decipher and 
 slowly read out the following, the while the others 
 ate and, marvelinsr much, listened: ' 
 
 I. 
 
 What do the guiis scream as they wheel 
 
 Along Dunmanus' broken shore ? 
 AVhat do the wjst winds, keening shrill. 
 Call to each ot^sr for evermore ? 
 
 From Muirisc's reeds, from Goleen's weeds. 
 From Gabriel's summit, Skull's low lawn. 
 The echoes answer, through their tears, 
 ' O'Mahony's gone ! O'Mahony's gone !' 
 
 II, 
 
 ' But now the sunburst brightens all, 
 The clouds are lifted, waters gleam. 
 Long pain forgotten, glad tears fall. 
 At waking from this evil dream. 
 
 The cawing rooks, the singing brooks. 
 
 The zephjrr's sighs, the bee's soft hum. 
 All tell the tale of our delight — 
 * O'Mahony's come ! O'Mahony's come !' 
 
The Hereditary Bard. 6 
 
 J 
 
 " O'Mahony of the white-foamed coast, 
 Of Kinalmeaky's nut-brown plains, 
 Lord of Rosbrin, proud Raithlean's boast, 
 Who over the waves and the sea-mist reigns. 
 Let Clancy quake ! O'DriscoU shake ! 
 The O'Casey hide his head in fear! 
 While Saxons flee across the sea — 
 O'Mahony's here ! O'Mahony 's here!" 
 
 The bard linished iiis reading with a trembling' 
 voice, and looked at his auditors earnestly through 
 moistened eyes. The excitement had brought a dim 
 flush of color upon his leathery cheeks where the 
 blue-black line of close shaving ended. 
 
 " It's to be sung to the chune of ' The West's 
 Awake!' " he said at last, with diffidence. 
 
 " You did that all with your own jack-knife, eh ?'' 
 remarked the The O'Mahon}", nodding in approba- 
 tion. " Well, sir, it's darned good !" 
 
 " Then you're plased with it, sir?" asked the poet. 
 
 " ' Pleased !' Why, man, if I'd known they felt 
 that way about it, I'd have come 3-ears ago, 
 'Pleased?' Why it's downright po'try," 
 
 " Ah, that it is, sir," put in Jerry, sympathetically. 
 " And to think of it that he did it all in the pig- 
 market whiles he waited for us! Egor ! 'twould 
 take me the best pai-t of a week to conthrive as 
 much !" 
 
 O'Daly glanced at him with severity. 
 
 " Maybe more yet," he said, tersely, and resumed 
 his long-interrupted meal. 
 
 " And you're goin' to be around all the while, eh, 
 
64 The Rct2i7'n of The G MahoiLy. 
 
 ready to turn these poems out on short notice?" the 
 O'Mahony asked, 
 
 " Sir, an 0'Dal3^'s poor talents are day and night 
 at the command of the O'Mahony of IMuirisc," the 
 bard replied. Then, scanning Jerry, he put a ques- 
 tion : 
 
 " Is Mr. Higgins long with you, sir?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; a long while," answered The O'Mahony, 
 without a moment's hesitation. " Yes — I wouldn't 
 know how to get along without him — he's been one 
 of the family so long, now." 
 
 The near-sighted poet failed to observe the wink 
 which was exchanged across the table. 
 
 " The name Higgins," he remarked, " is properly 
 MacEgan. It is a very honorable name. They were 
 hereditary Brehons or judges, in both Desmond and 
 Ormond, and, later, in Connaught, too. The name 
 is also called O'Higgins and O'Hagan. If 3'ou 
 would permit me to suggest, sir," he went on, "it 
 would be betther at Muirisc if Mr. Higgins were to 
 resume his ancestral appellation, and consint to be 
 known as MacEgan, The children there are that 
 well grounded in Irish history, the name would 
 secure for him additional respect in their eyes. And 
 moreover, sir, saving Mr. Higgins's feelings, I ob- 
 served that you called him 'Jerry.' Now 'Jerry* 
 is appropriate when among intimate friends or re- 
 lations, or bechune master and man — and its more 
 ceremonious form, Jeremiah, is greatly used in the 
 less educated parts of this country. But, sir, 
 Jeremiah is, strictly speaking, no name for an Irish- 
 man at all, but only the cognomen of a Hebrew 
 bard who followed the Israelites into captivit}^ like 
 
The Hereditary Bard. 65 
 
 Owen Ward did the O'Neils into exile. It's a base 
 and vulgar invintion of the Saxons — this new Irish 
 Jeremiah — for why? because their thick tongues 
 could not pronounce the beautiful old Irish name 
 Diarmid or Dermot. Manny poor people for 
 want of understanding, forgets this now. But in 
 Muirisc the laste intelligent child knows betther. 
 Therefore, I would suggest that when we arrive at 
 your ancesthral abode, sir, Mr. Higgins's name be 
 given as Diarmid MacEgan." 
 
 " An' a foine bould name it is, too !" said Jerry. 
 " Egor ! if I'm called that, and called rigular to me 
 males as well, I'll put whole inches to my stature." 
 
 " Well, O'Daly," said The O'Mahony, " you just 
 run that part of the show to suit yourself. If you 
 hear of anything that wants changin' any time, or 
 whittlin' down or bein' spelt different, you can inter- 
 fere right then an' there without sayin' anything to 
 me. What I want is to have things done correct, 
 even if we're out o' pocket by it. You're the agent 
 of the estate, ain't you ?" 
 
 "I am that, sir; and likewise the postmaster, the 
 physician, the precepthor, the tax-collector, the 
 clerk of the parish, the poor law guardian and the at- 
 torney ; notto mintion the proud hereditary post to 
 which I've already adverted, that of bard and his- 
 torian to The O'Mahony. But, sir, I see that your 
 family carriage is at the dure. We'll be startin* 
 now, if it's your pleazure. It's a long journey we've 
 before us." 
 
 When the bill had been called for and paid by 
 O'Daly, and they had reached the street, The 
 
66 The Return of The O' Mahony. 
 
 O'Mahony surveyed with a lively interest the 
 sti-ange vehicle drawn up at the curb before him. 
 In principle it was like the outside cars he had yes- 
 terday seen for the first time, but much lower, nar- 
 rower and lonf^er. The seats upon which occupants 
 were expected to place themselves back to back, 
 were close tog-ether, and cushioned only with worn 
 old pieces of cow-skin. Between the shafts was a 
 shagg-y and unkempt little beast, which was engaged 
 in showing its teeth viciously at the children and 
 the dog. The whole equipage looked a century old 
 at the least. 
 
 At the end of four hours the rough-coated pony 
 was still scurrying along the stony road at a rattling 
 pace. It had galloped up the hills and i-aced down 
 into the valleys with no break of speed from the 
 beginning. The O'Mahony, grown accustomed 
 now to maintaining his seat, thought he had never 
 seen such a horse before, and said so to O'Dal}', 
 who sat beside him, Jerry and the bag being dis- 
 posed on the opposite side, and the driver, a silent, 
 round-shouldered, undersized young man sitting in 
 front with his feet on the shafts. 
 
 " Ah, sir, our bastes are like our people here- 
 abouts," replied the bard — " not much to look at, 
 but with hearts of goold. They'll run till they fall. 
 But, sir — halt, now, Malachy ! — yonder you can see 
 Muirisc." 
 
 The jaunting-car stopped. The April twilight 
 was gathering in the clear sky above them, and 
 shadows were rising from the brown bases of the 
 mountains to their right. The whole journey had 
 been through a bleak and desolate moor and bog^ 
 
The Hereditary Bard. 67 
 
 land, broken here and there by a lonely glen, in the 
 shelter of which a score of stone hovels were clus- 
 tered, and to which all attempts at tillage were con- 
 fined. 
 
 Now, as The O'Mahony looked, he saw stretched 
 before liim, some hundred feet below, a great, level 
 plain, from which, in the distance, a solitary moun- 
 tain ridge rose abruptly. This plain was wedge- 
 shaped, and its outlines were sharply defined by the 
 glow of evening light upon the waters surrounding 
 it — waters which dashed in white-breakers against 
 the rocky coast nearest by, but seemed to lie in 
 placid quiescence on the remote farther shore. 
 
 It was toward this latter dark line of coast, half- 
 obscured now as they gazed by rising sea-mists, 
 that O'Daly pointed ; and The O'Mahon}^ scanning 
 the broad, dusky landscape, made out at last some 
 flickering sparks of reddish light close to where the 
 waters met the land. 
 
 "See, O'Mahoney, see!" the little man cried, his 
 claw-like hand trembling as he pointed. " Those 
 lights burned there for Kian when he never return- 
 ed from Clontarf, eight hundred years ago ; they 
 are burning there now for you !" 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE O'MAHONY'S HOME-WELCOME. 
 
 The road from the brow of the hill down to the 
 plain wound in such devious courses through rock- 
 lined defiles and bog-paths shrouded with stunted 
 tangles of scrub-trees, that an hour elapsed before 
 The O'Mahony again saw the fires which had been 
 lighted to greet his return. This hour's drive went 
 in silence, for the way was too rough for talk. 
 Darkness fell, and then the full moon rose and 
 wrapped the wild landscape in strange, misty lights 
 and weird shadows. 
 
 All at once the car emerged from the obscurity 
 of overhanging trees and bowlders, and the 
 travellers found themselves in the very heart of the 
 hamlet of Muirisc. The road they had been travers- 
 ing seemed to have come suddenly to an end in a 
 great barn-yard, in the center of which a bonfire 
 was blazing, and around which, in the reddish 
 flickering half-lights, a lot of curiously shaped stone 
 buildings, little and big, old and new, were jumbled 
 in sprawling picturesqueness. 
 
 About the fire a considerable crowd of persons 
 were gathered — thin, little men in long coats and 
 knee-breeches ; old, white-capped women with 
 large, black hooded cloaks ; younger women with 
 
 m 
 
The O Alahouys Home-Welcome. 69 
 
 crimson petticoats and bare feet and ankles, children 
 of all sizes and ages clustering about their skirts 
 — perhaps a hundred souls in all. Though The 
 O'Mahony had very little poetic imagination or 
 pictorial sensibility, he was conscious that the 
 spectacle was a curious one. 
 
 As the car came to a stop, O'Daly leaped lightly 
 to the ground, and ran over to the throng by the 
 bonfire. 
 
 " Now thin !" he called out, with vehemence, 
 " have ye swallowed ye're tongues ? Follow me 
 now! Cheers for The O'Mahony! Now thin! 
 One — two — " 
 
 The little man waved his arms, and at the signal, 
 led by his piping voice, the assembled villagers sent 
 up a concerted shout, which filled the shadowed 
 rookeries round about with rival echoes of 
 " hurrahs" and " hurroos," and then broke, like an 
 exploding rocket, into a shower of high pitched, 
 unintelligible ejaculations. 
 
 Amidst this welcoming chorus of remarks, which 
 be could not understand, The O'Mahony alighted, 
 and walked toward the fii^, closely followed by 
 Jerry, and by Malachy, the driver, bearing the bags. 
 
 For a moment he almost feared to be overthrown 
 by the spontaneous rush which the black-cloaked old 
 women made upon him, clutching at his arms and 
 shoulders and deafening his ears with a babel of 
 outlandish sounds. But O'Daly came instantly to 
 his rescue, pushing back the eager crones with vig- 
 orous roughness, and scolding them in two languages 
 in sharp peremptory tones. 
 
 " Back there wid ye, Biddy Quinn ! Now thin, 
 
JO The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 ould deludherer, will ye hould yer pace! Come 
 along out o' that, Petlier's Mag ! Lave his honor a 
 free path, will ye !" Thus, with stern remonstrance, 
 backed by cuffs and pushes, O'Daly cleared the 
 way, and The O'Mahony found himself half-forced, 
 half-guided away from the fire and toward a tall and 
 sculptured archway, which stood alone, quite inde- 
 pendent of any adjoining wall, upon the nearest 
 edge of what he took to be the barnyard. 
 
 Passing under this impressive mediaeval gateway, 
 he confronted a strange pile of buildings, gray and 
 hoar in the moonlight where their surface was not 
 covered thick with ivy. There were high pinnacles 
 thrusting their jagged points into the sky line, which 
 might be either chimneys or watch-towers ; there 
 were lofty gabled walls, from which the roofs had 
 fallen ; there were arched window-holes, through 
 which vines twisted their umbrageous growth 
 unmolested ; and side b}' side with these signs of 
 bygone ruin, there were puzzling tokens of present 
 occupation, 
 
 A stout, elderly woman, in the white, frilled cap 
 of her district, with a shawl about her shoulders and 
 a bright-red skirt, stood upon the steps of what 
 seemed the doorway of a church, bowing to the 
 new-comer. Behind her, in the hall, glowed the 
 light of a hospitable, homelike fire. 
 
 " It is his honor come back to his own, Mrs, Sulli- 
 van," the stranger heard O'Daly 's voice call out. 
 
 " And it's kindly welcome ye are, sir," said the 
 woman, bowing again. " Yer honor doen't remim- 
 ber me, perhaps, I was Nora O'Mara, thin, in the 
 day whin ye were a wee bit of a lad, before your 
 
The OMaho)iys Home-Welcome. yi 
 
 father and mother — God rest their sowls! — crossed 
 the say," 
 
 " I'm afraid I doen't jest place you," said The 
 O'Mahony. " I'm the worst hand in the world at 
 rememberin' faces." 
 
 The woman smiled. 
 
 " Molare ! It's not be me face that anny bo}^ of 
 thirty years back 'ud recognize me now," she said, 
 as she led the way for the party into the house. 
 " There were thim that had a dale of soft-sawderin' 
 words to spake about it thin ; but they've left off 
 this manny years ago." 
 
 " It's your cooking and your fine housekeeping 
 that we do be praising now with every breath, Mrs. 
 Sullivan ; and sure that's far more complimintary to 
 you than mere eulojums on skin-deep beauty, that's 
 here to-day and gone to-morrow, and that was none 
 o' your choosing at best," said O'Daly, as they 
 entered the room at the end of the passage. 
 
 " Thrue for you, Cormac O'Daly," the house- 
 keeper responded, with twinkling eyes; "and I'm 
 thinkin', if we'd all of us the choosin' of new faces, 
 what an altered appearance you'd presint, without 
 delay." 
 
 A bright, glowing bank of peat on the hearth filled 
 the room with cozy comfort. 
 
 It was a small, square chamber, roofed with 
 blackened oak beams, and having arched doors and 
 windows. Its walls, partly of stone, partly of 
 plaster roughly scratched, were whitewashed. The 
 sanded floor was bare, save for a cowskin mat 
 spread before the fire. A high, black-wood side- 
 board at one end of the room, a half-dozea stiff- 
 
72 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 backed, uncompromising looking chairs, and a table 
 in the center, heaped with food, but without a cloth, 
 completed the inventory of visible furniture. 
 
 Mrs. O'Sullivan bustled out of the room, leaving 
 the men together. The O'Mahony sent a final 
 inquisitive glance from ceiling to uncarpeted 
 floor. 
 
 " So this is my ranch, eh ?" he said, taking off his 
 hat. 
 
 " Sir, you're welcome to the ancesthral abode of 
 the O'Mahony's of Muirisc," answered O'Daly, 
 gravely. " The room we stand in often enough 
 sheltered stout Conagher O'Mahony, before confis- 
 cation dhrove him forth, and the ruffian Boyle came 
 in. 'Tis far oldher, sir, than Ballydesmond or even 
 Dunmanus." 
 
 " So old, the paper seems to have all come off'n 
 the walls," said The O'Mahony. " Well, we'll git 
 in a rocking-chair or so and a rag-carpet and new 
 paper, an' spruce her up generally. I s'pose there's 
 lots o' more room in the house." 
 
 " Well, sir, rightly spakin', there is a dale more, 
 but it's mostly not used, by rayson of there being 
 no roof overhead. There's this part of the castle 
 that's inhabitable, and there's a part of the convent 
 forninst the porch where the nuns live, but there's 
 more of both, not to mintion the church, that's 
 ruined entirely. Whatever your taste in ruins may 
 plase to be, there'll be something here to delight 
 you. We have thim that's a thousand 3'ears old, 
 and thim that's fallen into disuse since only last 
 winter. Anny kind 3'ou like : Early Irish, pray- 
 Norman, posht-Norman, Elizabethan, Georgian, or 
 
The O Mahony s Home- Welcome. j^t 
 
 very late Victorian — here the ruins are for 3011, the 
 natest and most complate and convanient altogether 
 to be found in Munster." 
 
 The eyes of the antiquarian bard sparkled with 
 enthusiasm as he recounted the architectural glories 
 of JMuirisc. There was no answering glow in the 
 glance of The O'Mahony. 
 
 " I'll have a look round first thing in the morn- 
 ing," he said, after the men had seated themselves 
 at the table, 
 
 A bright-faced, neatly clad girl divided with Mrs. 
 O'SuUivan the task of bringing the supper from 
 the kitchen beyond into the room ; but it was 
 Malachy, wearing now a curiously shapeless long 
 black coat, instead of his driver's jacket, who placed 
 the dishes on the table, and for the rest stood in 
 silence behind his new master's chair. 
 
 The O'Mahony grew speedily restless under the 
 consciousness of Malachy's presence close at his 
 back. 
 
 " We can git along without him, can't we ?" he 
 asked O'Daly, with a curt backward nod. 
 
 " Ah, no, sir," pleaded the other. " The boj^ 'iid 
 be heart-broken if ye sint him awa3^ 'Twas his 
 grandfather waited on your great-uncle's cousin. 
 The O'Mahony of the Double Teeth ; and his father 
 always served your cousins four times removed, 
 who aich in his turn held the title ; and the old man 
 sorrowed himsilf to death whin the last of 'em 
 desaysed, and 3-our honor couldn't be found, and 
 there was no more an O'Mahony to wait upon. 
 The grief of that good man wud 'a' brought tears to 
 your eyes. There was no keeping him from the 
 
74 The Rehtm of The O'Mahony. 
 
 dhrink day or night, sir, till he made an ind to him- 
 silf. And young Malachy, sir, he's composed of the 
 same determined matarial." 
 
 " Well, of course, if he's so much sot on it as all 
 that," said The O'Mahony, relenting. " But I 
 wanted to feel free to talk over affairs with you — 
 money matters and so on ; and — " 
 
 " Ah, sir, no fear about Malachy. Not a word of 
 what we do be saying does he comprehind." 
 
 " Deef and dumb, eh ?" 
 
 " Not at all ; but he has only the Irish." In answer 
 to O'Mahony's puzzled look, O'Daly added in explan- 
 ation : " It's the glory of Muirisc, sir, that we 
 hould fast be our ancient thraditions and tongue. 
 In all the place there's not rising a dozen that could 
 spake to you in English. And — I suppose your 
 honor forgets the Irish entoirely f* Or perhaps your 
 parents neglected to tache it to you ?" 
 
 " Yes," said The O'Mahony; " they never taught 
 me any Irish at all ; leastways, not that I remember." 
 
 " Luk at that now !" exclaimed O'Daly, sadly, as he 
 took more fish upon his plate. 
 
 " It's goin' to be pritty rough sleddin' for me to 
 git around if nobody understands what I say, ain't 
 it?" asked The O'Mahony, doubtfully. 
 
 " Oh, not at all," O'Daly made brisk reply. " It's 
 part of my hereditary duty to accompany you on all 
 your travels and explorations and incursions, to keep 
 a record of the same, and properly celebrate thim 
 in song and history. The last two O'Mahonys be- 
 twixt ourselves, did nothing but dhrink at the pig- 
 market at D unman way once a week, and dhrink at 
 Mike Leary's shebeen over at Ballydivlin the re- 
 
TJie O MaJionys Home-Welcome. 75 
 
 mainding days of the week, and dhrink here at home 
 on Sundays. To say the laste, this provided only 
 indifferent opportunities for a bard. But plase the 
 Lord bether times have come, now." 
 
 Malachy had cleared the dishes from the board, 
 and now brought forward a big square decanter, a 
 sugar-bowl, a lemon fresh cut in slices, three large 
 glasses and one small one. O'Daly at this lifted a 
 steaming copper kettle from the crane over the fire, 
 and began in a formally ceremonious and deliberate 
 manner the brewing of the punch. The O'Mahony 
 watched the operation with vigilance. Then clay 
 pipes and tobacco were produced, and Malachy left 
 ihe room. 
 
 " What I wanted to ask about," said The 
 O'Mahony, after a pause, and between sips from his 
 fragrant glass, " was this : That lawyer, Carmod)', 
 didn't seem to know much about what the estate 
 was worth, or how the money came in, or anything 
 else. All he had to do, he said, was to snoop around 
 and find out where I was. All the rest was in your 
 hands. What I want to know is jest where I stand." 
 
 " Well, sir, that's not hard to demonsthrate. 
 You're The O'Mahony of Muirisc. You own in 
 freehold the best part of this barony — some nine 
 thousand acres. You have eight-and-thirty tinants 
 by lasehold, at a total rintal of close upon four hun- 
 dred pounds ; turbary rights bring in rising twinty 
 pounds ; the royalty on the carrigeens bring ten 
 pounds; )'Our own farms, with the pigs, the barley, 
 the grazing and the butter, produce annually two 
 hundred pounds — a total of six hundred and thirty 
 pounds, if I'm not mistaken." 
 
76 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 " How much is that in dolKirs?" 
 
 "About three thousand one hundred and fifty 
 dollars, sir." 
 
 " And that comes in each year ?" said The 
 O'Mahony, straightening himself in his chair. 
 
 " It does that," said O'Daly ; then, after a pause, he 
 added dryly : " and goes out again." 
 
 " How d'ye mean ?" 
 
 *' Sir, the O'Mahonys are a proud and high-minded 
 race, and must liv^e accordingly. And aich of your 
 ancestors, to keep up his dignity, borrowed as 
 much money on the blessed land as ever he could 
 raise, till the inthrest now ates up the greater half 
 of the income. If you net two hundred pounds a 
 year — that is to say, one thousand dollars — ■3'ou're 
 doing very well indeed. In the mornin' I'll be 
 happy to show you all me books and Mrs. Fergus 
 O'Mahony." 
 
 " Who 's she ?" 
 
 " The sister of the last of The O'Mahonys before 
 you, sir, who married another of the name only dis- 
 tantly related, and has been a widow these five 
 years, and would be owner of the estate if her 
 brother had broken the entail as he always intinded, 
 and never did by ray son that there was so much 
 dhrinking and sleeping and playing ' forty-five ' at 
 Mike Leary's to be done, he'd no time for lawyers. 
 Mrs. Fergus has been having the use of the property 
 since his death, sir, being the nearest visible heir." 
 
 "And so my comin' threw her out, eh ? Did she 
 take it pritty hard ?" 
 
 " Sir, loyalty to The O'Mahony is so imbedded in 
 the brest of every sowl in Muirisc, that if she made 
 
The OMahonys Home- Welcome. ']'} 
 
 a sign to resist your pretinsions, her own frinds 
 would have hooted her. She may have some 
 riservations deep down in her heart, but she's too 
 thrue an O'Mahon}^ to re vale thim," 
 
 More punch was mixed, and The O'Mahony was 
 about to ask further questions concerning the 
 widow he had dispossessed, when the door opened 
 and a novel procession entered the room. 
 
 Three venerable women, all of about the same 
 height, and all clad in a strange costume of black 
 gowns and sweeping black vails, their foreheads and 
 chins covered with stiff bands of white linen, and 
 long chains of beads ending in a big silver-gilt cross 
 swinging from their girdles, advanced in single file 
 toward the table — then halted, and bowed slightly. 
 
 O'Dal}^ and Jerry had risen to their feet upon the 
 instant of this curious apparition, but the The 
 O'Mahony kept his seat, and nodded with amiabil- 
 ity. 
 
 "How d' do?" he said, lightly. "It's mighty 
 neighborly of you to run in like this, without 
 knockin', or standin' on ceremony. Won't you 
 sit down, ladies ? I guess you can find chairs." 
 
 " These are the Ladies of the Hostage's Tears, 
 your honor," O'Daly hastened to explain, at the 
 same time energetically winking and motioning to 
 him to stand. 
 
 But The O'Mahony did not budge. 
 
 " I'm glad to see you," he assured the nuns once 
 more. " Take a seat, won't 3^ou ? O'Daly here'll 
 mix you up one o' these drinks o' his'n, I'm sure, if 
 you'll give the word." 
 
 " We thank ^ou, O'Mahony," said the foremost of 
 
78 The Return of TJic O Mahoiiy. 
 
 the aged women, in a deep, solemn voice, but pay- 
 ing no heed to the chairs which O'Daly and Jerry 
 had dragged forward. " We come solely to do 
 obeisance to you as the heir and successor of our 
 pious founder, Diarmid of the Fine Steeds, and 
 to presint to you your kinswoman — our present 
 pupil, and the solitary hope of our once renowned 
 order." 
 
 The O'Mahony gathered nothing of her meaning 
 from this lugubrious wail of words, and glanced 
 over the speaker's equally aged companions in vain 
 for any sign of hopefulness, solitary or otherwise. 
 Then he saw that the hindmost of the nuns had pro- 
 duced, as if from the huge folds of her black gown, 
 a little girl of six or seven, clad in the same gloomy 
 tint, whom she was pushing forward. 
 
 The child advanced timidly under pressure, gaz- 
 ing wonderingly at The O'Mahony, out of big, 
 heavily fringed hazel eyes. Her pale face was 
 made almost chalk-like by contrast with a thick 
 tangle of black hair, and wore an expression of 
 apprehensive shyness almost painful to behold. 
 
 The O'Mahony stretched out his hands and smiled, 
 but the child hung back, and looked not in the least 
 reassured. He asked her name with an effort at 
 jovialty. 
 
 " Kate O'Mahony, sir," she said, in a low voice, 
 bending her little knees in a formal bob of courtesy. 
 
 " And are you goin' to rig yourself out in those 
 long gowns and vails, too, when you grow up, eh, 
 siss?" he asked. 
 
 " The daughters of The Q'Mahonys of Muirisc, 
 \yith only here and there a thrifling exception, havci 
 
The O Mahonys Home- Welcome. 79 
 
 been Ladies of the Hostage's Tears since the order 
 was founded here in the year of Our Lord 1191," 
 said the foremost nun, stiffly. " After long years, in 
 which it seemed as if the order must perish, our 
 prayers were answered, and this child of The 
 O'Mahonys was sent to us, to continue the vows 
 and obligations of the convent, and restore it, if it 
 be the saints' will, to its former glory." 
 
 " Middlin' big job they've cut out for you, eh, 
 siss?" commented The O'Mahony, smilingly. 
 
 The pleasant twinkle in his eye seemed to attract 
 the child. Her face lost something of its scared 
 look, and she of her own volition moved a step 
 nearer to his outstretched hands. Then he caught 
 her up and seated her on his knee. 
 
 " So you're goin' to sail in, eh, an' jest make the 
 old convent hum again ? Strikes me that's a pritty 
 chilly kind o' look-out for a little gal like you. 
 Wouldn't 3'Ou now, honest Injun, rather be 
 whoopin' round barefoot, with a nann3^-goat, say, 
 an' some rag dolls, an' — an' — dim bin' trees an' 
 huntin' after eggs in the hay-mow — than go into 
 partnership with grandma, here, in the nun busi- 
 ness ?" 
 
 The O'Mahony had trotted the child gentl}- up 
 and down, the while he propounded his query. 
 Perhaps it was its obscure phraseology which 
 prompted her to hang her head, and obstinately 
 refuse to lift it even when he playfully put his finger 
 under her chin. She continued to gaze in silence at 
 the floor ; but if the nuns could have seen her face 
 they would have noted that presently its expression 
 lightened and its bi^ eyes flashed, as The O'Mahony 
 
8o The Rettirn of The OMahony. 
 
 whispered something into her ear. The good 
 women would have been shocked indeed could they 
 also have heard that something. 
 
 " Now don't you fret your gizzard, siss," he had 
 whispered — " you needn't be a nun for one solitary 
 darned minute, if you don't want to be." 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TWO MEN IN A BOAT. 
 
 A fishing-boat laj^ at anchor in a cove of Dun- 
 manus Bay, a hundred rods from shore, softly rising 
 and sinking with the swell of the tide which stirred 
 the blue waters with all gentleness on this peaceful 
 June morning. Two men sat in lounging attitudes 
 at opposite ends of the little craft, yawning lazily in 
 the sunshine. They held lines in their hands, but 
 their listless and wanderintr olances made it evident 
 that nothing: was further from their thousrhts than 
 the catching of fish. 
 
 The warm summer air was so clear that the ham- 
 let of Muirisc, whose gray walls, embroidered with 
 glossy vines, and tiny cottages white with lime-wash 
 were crowded together on the very edge of the 
 shore, seemed close beside them, and every grunt 
 and squawk from sty or barn-yard came over the 
 lapping waters to them as from a sounding-board. 
 The village, engirdled by steep, sheltering cliffs, 
 and glistening in the sunlight, made a picture which 
 artists would have blessed their stars for. The two 
 men in the boat looked at it wearily. 
 
 " Egor, it's rny belafe," said the fisher at the bow, 
 after what seemed an age of idle silence, " that the 
 
 [8i] 
 
82 The Return of The OMahony. 
 
 fishes have all foUied the byes an' gerrels, an' be- 
 taken thimselves to Araeriky." He pulled in his 
 line, and gazed with disgust at the intact bait. 
 " Luk at that, now !" he continued. " There's a 
 male fit for the holy Salmon of Knowledge himsilf, 
 that taught Fin MacCool the spache of animals, and 
 divil a bite has the manest shiner condiscinded to 
 make at it." 
 
 " Oh, darn the fish !" replied the other, with a long 
 sigh. " I don't care whether we catch any or not. 
 It's worth while to come out here even if we never 
 get a nibble and baked ourselves into bricks, jest to 
 get rid of that infernal O'Dal}-." 
 
 It was The OTvIahony who spoke, and he invested 
 the concluding portion of his remark with an almost 
 tearful earnestness. During the pause which en- 
 sued he chewed vigorously upon the tobacco in his 
 mouth, and spat into the sea with a stern expression 
 of countenance. 
 
 " I tell you what, Jerry," he broke out with at 
 last — " 1 can't stand much more of that fellow. 
 He's jest breakin' me up piecemeal. 1 begin to feel 
 like Jeff Davis — that it 'ud have bin ten dollars in 
 my pocket if I'd never bin born." 
 
 " Ah, sure, your honor," said Jerry, " ye'll git 
 used to it in time. He manes for the best." 
 
 " That's jest what makes me tired," rejoined The 
 O'Mahony ; " that's what they always said about a 
 fellow when he makes a confounded nuisance of 
 himself. I hate fellows that mean for the best. I'd 
 much rather he meant as bad as he knew how. 
 P'raps then he'd shut up and mind his own business, 
 and leave me alone part of the time. It's bad 
 
Tiuo Me7i in a Boat. ^2^ 
 
 enough to have your estate mortgaged up to the 
 eyebrows, but to have a bard piled oa top o' the 
 mortgages — egad, it's more'u flesh and blood can 
 stand ! I don't wonder them other O'Mahonys took 
 to drink." 
 
 " There's a dale to be said for the dhrink, your 
 honor," commented the other, tentatively. 
 
 " There can be as much said as you like," said 
 The O'Mahony, with firmness, " but doin is a hoss 
 of another color. I'm goin' to stick to the four 
 drinks a day an' two at night ; an' what's good 
 enough for me 's good enough for you. That bat of 
 ours the first week we come settled the thing. I 
 said to myself : ' There's goin' to be one O'lNIahony 
 that dies sober, or I'll know the reason why ! ' " 
 
 " Egor, Saint Pether won't recognize j-e, thin," 
 chuckled Jerry ; and the other grinned grimly in 
 spite of himself. 
 
 " Do )'Ou know I've bin fig'rin' to myself on that 
 convent business," The O'Mahony mused aloud, 
 after a time, " an' I guess I've pritty well sized it up. 
 The 0'iMahon3-s started that thing, accordin' to my 
 notion, jest to coop up their sisters in, where board 
 and lodgin' 'ud come cheap, an' one suit o' clothes 
 'ud last a lifetime, in order to leave more money for 
 themselves for whisky. I ain't sayin' the scheme 
 ain't got some points about it. You bar out all 
 that nonsense about bonnets an' silk dresses an' 
 beads an' fixin's right from the word go, and you've 
 got 'em safe under lock an' key, so 't they can't go 
 gallivantin' round an' gittin' into scrapes. But I'll 
 be dodrotted if I'm goin' to set still an' see 'em 
 capture that little gal Katie agin her will. You 
 
84 The Retiuni of The O' Mahony. 
 
 hear me / An' another thing, I'm goin' to put my 
 foot down about goin' to church every mornin'. 
 Once a week's goin' to be my ticket right from 
 now. An' you needn't show up any oftener )^our- 
 self if you don't want to. It's high time we had it 
 out whether it's me or O'Daly that's runnin' this 
 show." 
 
 " Sure, rightly spakin', your honor's own sowl 
 wouldn't want no more than a mass aich Sunday," 
 expounded Jerry, concentrating liis thoughts upon 
 the whole vast problem of dogmatic theology. 
 " But this is the throuble of it, you see, sir: there's 
 the sowls of all thim other O'Mahonys that's gone 
 before, that the nuns do be prayin' for to git out of 
 purgatory, an' — " 
 
 ** That's all right," broke in The O'Mahon}^ " but 
 my motto is : let every fellow hustle for himself. 
 They're on the spot, wherever it is, an' they're the 
 best judges of what the}' want ; an' if they ain't got 
 sand enough to sail in an' git it, I don't see why I 
 should be routed up out of bed every mornin' at 
 seven o'clock to help 'em. To tell the truth, Jerry, 
 I'm gittin' all-iired sick of these O'Mahonys. Tliis 
 havin' dead men slung at you from mornin' to night, 
 day in an' day out, rain or shine, would have busted 
 up Job himself." 
 
 " I'm thinking, sir," said Jerr}-, with a merr}- 
 twinkle in his eyes, " there's no havin' annything in 
 this worruld without payin' for that same. 'Tis the 
 pinalty of belongin' to a great family. Egor, since 
 O'Daly thranslated me into a IMacEgan I've had no 
 pace of me life, by raj'son of the necessity to 
 demane mesilf accordin'." 
 
Two Men in a Boat 85 
 
 " Why, darn it all, man," pursued the other, " I 
 can't do a solitary thing, any time of day, without 
 O'Daly luggin' up what some old rooster did a 
 thousand years ago. He follows me round like my 
 shadow, blatherin' about what Dermid of the Buck- 
 ing Horses did, an' what Conn of the Army Mules 
 thought of doin' and didn't, and what Finn of the 
 Wall-eyed Pikes would have done if he could, till 
 1 git sick at my stomach. He Avon't let me lift my 
 finger to do an3'thing, because The O'Mahony 
 mustn't sile his hands with work, and 1 have to 
 stand round and watch a lot of bungling cusses pre- 
 tend to do it, when they don't know any more about 
 the work than a yellow dog." 
 
 " Faith, ye'U not get much sjmipathy from the 
 gintry of Ireland on that score," said Jerry. 
 
 " An' then that Malachy — he gives me a cramp ! he 
 ain't got a grin in his whole carcass, an' he can't 
 understand a word that I say, so that O'Daly has 
 that for another excuse to hang around all the while. 
 Take my steer, Jerry ; if anybody leaves you an 
 estate, you jest inquire if there's a bard and a hered- 
 itary dumb waiter that go with it; an' if there is, you 
 jest sashay off somewhere else." 
 
 '' Ab, sir, but an estate's a great thing." 
 
 " Yes — to tell about. But now jest look at the thing 
 as she stands. I'm the O'Mahony an' all that, an' I 
 own more land than )'Ou can shake a stick at; but 
 what does it all come to? Why, when the int'restis 
 paid, I am left so poor that if churches was sellin' at 
 tvvo cents apiece, I couldn't bu}- the hinge on a contri- 
 bution box. An' then it's downright mortifyin' to 
 
86 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 me to have to git a livin'by takin' things away from 
 these poverty-stricken devils here. I'm ashamed to 
 look 'em in the face, knowin' as I do how O'Daly 
 makes 'em whack up pigs, an' geese, an' chickens, an' 
 vegetables, an' lish, not to mention all the mone}' they 
 can scrape together, just to keep me in idleness. It 
 ain't fair. Every time one of 'em comes in, to bring 
 me a peck o' peas, or a pail o' butter, or a shillin' 
 that he's managed to earn somewhere, I say to my- 
 self : ' Ole boss, if you was that fellow, and he was 
 loafin' round as The O'Mahony, you'd jest lay for 
 him and kick the whole top of his head off, and serve 
 him darned well right, too.' " 
 
 Jerry looked at his master now with a prolonged 
 and serious scrutiny, greatly differing from his cus- 
 tomary quizzical glance. 
 
 " Throo for your honor," he said at last, in a hes- 
 itating way, as if his remark disclosed only half his 
 thought. 
 
 " Yes, sirree, I'm sourin' fast on the hull thing," 
 The O'Mahony exclaimed. " To do nothin' all day 
 long but to listen to O'Daly's yarns, an' make signs 
 at Malachy, an' think how long it is between drinks 
 — that ain't no sort o' life for a white man. Egad! 
 if there was any fightin' goin' on an3Mvhere in the 
 world, darn me if I would not pull up stakes an' 
 light out for it. Another six months o' this, an* my 
 blood '11 all be turned to butter-milk. 
 
 The distant apparition of a sailing-vessel hung 
 upon the outer horizon, the noon sun causing the 
 white squares of canvas to glow like jewels upon 
 the satin sheen of the sea. Jerry stole a swift glance 
 at his companion, and then bent a long meditative 
 
Two Men in a Boat. 87 
 
 gaze upon the passing vessel, humming softly to 
 himself as he looked. At last he turned to his com- 
 panion with an air of decision. 
 
 " O'Mahon)'," he said, using the name thus for the 
 first time, " I'm resolved in me mind to disclose 
 something to ye. It's a sacret I'm goin' to tell 
 you." 
 
 He spoke with impressive solemnity, and the 
 other looked up with interest awakened. 
 
 " Go ahead," he said, 
 
 " Well, sir, 3^our remarks this day, and what I've 
 seen wid me own eyes of your demaynor, makes it 
 plane that you're a frind of Ireland. Now there's 
 just wan M'ay in the worruld for a frind of Ireland 
 to demonsthrate his affection — and that's be enrollin' 
 himsilf among thim that'll fight for her rights. Sir, 
 I'll thrust ye wid me sacret. I'm a Fenian." 
 
 The O'Mahony's attentive face showed no light 
 of comprehension. The word which Jerry had 
 uttered with such mystery conveyed no meaning to 
 him at all at first ; then he vaguely recalled it as a sort 
 of slang description of Irishmen in general, akin' to 
 " JSIick " and " bogtrotter." 
 
 " Well, what of it ?" he asked, wonderingl3\ 
 
 Jerry's quick perception sounded at once the 
 depth of his ignorance. 
 
 " The Fenians, sir," he explained, " are a great and 
 sacret society, wid tins of thousands of min enlisted 
 here, an' in Ameriky, an' among the Irish in Eng- 
 land, wid intint to rise up as wan man whin the time 
 comes, an' free Ireland. It's a regular army, sir, 
 that we're raisin*, to conquer back our liberties, and 
 
88 The Return of The GMahony. 
 
 dhrive the bloody Saxon foriver away from Erin's 
 green shores." 
 
 The O'Mahony let his puzzled gaze wander along 
 the beetling coast-line of naked rocks. 
 
 " So far's I can see, they ain't green," he said ; 
 " they're black and drab. An' who's this fellow 
 you call Saxon ? I notice O'Daly lugs him into 
 about every other piece o' po'try he nails me with, 
 evenin's." 
 
 " Sir, it's our term for the Englishman, who 
 oppreases us, an' dhrives us to despair, an' prevints 
 our holdin' our hieads up amongst the nations of the 
 earth. Sure, sir, wasn't all this counthry round- 
 about for a three days' journey belongin' to your 
 ancesthors, till the English stole it and sold it to 
 Boyle, that thief of the earth — and his tomb, be the 
 same token, I've seen many a time at Youghal, 
 where I was born. But — awli, sir, what's the use 
 o' talkin'? Sure, the blood o' the O'Mahonys ought 
 to stir in your veins at the mere suspicion of an 
 opporchunity to sthrike a blow for your counthry." 
 
 The O'Mahony yawned and stretched his long 
 arms lazily in the sunshine. 
 
 " Nary a stir," he said, with an idle half-grin. 
 " But what the deuce is it you're drivin' at anyway ?" 
 
 " Sir, I've towld ye we're raisin' an army — a 
 great, thund'rin' secret army — and whin it's raised 
 an' our min all dhrilled an' our guns an' pikes all 
 handy — sure, thin we'll rise and fight. An' it's 
 much mistaken 1 am in you, O'Mahony, if you'd be 
 contint to lave this fun go on undher your nose, an' 
 you to have no hand in it." 
 
 •' Of course I want to be in it," said The O'Ma- 
 
Ttvo Men in a Boat. 89 
 
 hony, evincing more interest. " Onl.y I couldn't 
 make head or tail of what you was talkin' about. 
 An' I don't know as I see yet jest what the scheme 
 is. But you can count me in on anything that's got 
 gunpowder in it, an' that'll give me somethin' to do 
 besides list'nin' to O'Daly's yawp." 
 
 " We'll go to Cork to-morrow, thin, if it's conva- 
 nient to you," said Jerry, eagerly. " I'll spake to my 
 ' B,* or captain, that is, an' inthroduce ye, through 
 him, to the chief organizer of Munster, and sure, 
 they'll mnk' 3'e an' ' A,' the same as a colonel, an' 
 I'll get promotion undher ye — an', Egor ! we'll raise 
 a rigiment to oursilves entirely — an' Muirisc's the 
 \ery darlin' of a place to land guns an' pikes an' 
 powdher for all Ireland — an' 'tis we'll get the credit 
 of it, an' get more promotion still, till, faith, there'll 
 be nothin' too fine for our askin', an' we'll carr}' the 
 whole blessed Irish republic around in our waist- 
 coat pocket. What the divil, man ! We'll make 3'e 
 presidint, an' I'll have a place in the poliss." 
 
 " All right," said The O'Mahony, " we'll git all 
 the fun there is out of it ; but there's one thing, 
 mind, that I'm jest dead set about." 
 
 " Ye've only to name it, sir, an' they'll be de- 
 loighted to plase ye." 
 
 " Well, it's this: O'Daly's got to be ruled out o' 
 the thing. I'm goin' to have one deal without any 
 hereditary bard in it, or 1 don't play." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE HOSTAGE. 
 
 We turn over now a score of those fateful pages 
 on which Father Time keeps his monthly accounts 
 with mankind, passing from sunlit June, with its 
 hazy radiance lying softly upon smooth waters, to 
 bleak and shrill February — the memorable February 
 of 1867. 
 
 A gale had been blowing outside beyond the 
 headlands all day, and b}'' nightfall the minor waters 
 of Dunmanus Bay had suffered such prolonged pull- 
 ing and hauling and buffeting from their big Atlantic 
 neighbors that they were up in full revolt, hurling 
 themselves with thunderous roars of rage against 
 the cliffs of their coast line, and drenching the dark- 
 ness with scattered spray. The little hamlet of 
 Muirisc, which hung to its low, nestling nook under 
 the rocks in the very teeth of this blast, shivered, 
 soaked to the skin, and crossed itself prayerfully as 
 the wind shrieked like a banshee about its roofless 
 gables and tower-walls and tore at the thatches of its 
 clustered cabins. 
 
 The three nuns of the Hostage's Tears, listening 
 
 [90] 
 
The 1^0 ice of the Hostage. 91 
 
 to the storm without, felt that it afforded an addi- 
 tional justification for the infraction of their rules 
 which they were for this evening, by no means for 
 the first time, permitting themselves. Religion 
 itself rebelled against solitude on such a night. 
 
 Time had been when this convent, enlarged 
 though it was by the piety of successive generations 
 of early lords of Muirisc, still needed more room 
 than it had to accommodate in comfort its host of 
 inmates. But that time, alas ! was now a musty 
 tradition of bygone ages. Even before the great 
 sectarian upheaval of the mid-Tudor period, the 
 ancient family order of the Hostage's Tears had 
 begun to decline. I can't pretend to give the 
 reason. Perhaps the supply of The O'Mahony's 
 daughters fell off ; possibly some obscure shift of 
 fashion rendered marriage more attractive in their 
 eyes. Only this I know, that when the Commission- 
 ers of Elizabeth, gleaning in the monastic stubble 
 which the scythe of Henry had laid bare, came 
 upon the nuns at Muirisc, whom the first sweep of 
 the blade had missed, they found them no longer so 
 numerous as they once had been. Ever since then 
 the order had dwindled visibly. The three remain- 
 ing ladies had, in their own extended cloistral 
 career, seen the last habitable section of the convent 
 fall into disuse and decay, until now only their own 
 gaunt, stone-walled trio of cells, the school-room, 
 the tiny chapel, and a chamber still known by the 
 dignified title of the " reception hall," were avail- 
 able for use. 
 
 Here it was that a great mound of peat sparkled 
 and glowed on the hearth, under a capricious 
 
92 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 draught which now sucked upward with a whistling 
 swoop whole clods of blazing turf — now, by a con- 
 tradictory freak, half-filled the room with choking 
 bog-smoke. Still, even when eyes were tingling 
 and nostrils aflame, it was better to be here than 
 outside, and better to have company than be alone. 
 
 Both propositions were shiningly clear to the 
 mind of Cormac O'Daly, as he mixed a second 
 round of punch, and, peering through the steam 
 from his glass at the audience gathered by the 
 hearth, began talking again. The three aged nuns, 
 who had heard him talk ever since he was born, sat 
 decorously together on a bench and watched him, 
 and listened as attentively as if his presence were a 
 complete novelty. Their chaplain, a snuffy, half- 
 palsied little old man, Father Harrington to wit, 
 dozed and blinked and coughed at the smoke in his 
 chair by the fire as harmlessly as a house-cat on the 
 rug. Mrs. Fergus O'Mahony, a plump and buxom 
 widow in the late twenties, with a comely, stupid 
 face, framed in little waves of black, crimped hair 
 pasted flat to the skin, sat opposite the priest, glass 
 in hand. Whenever the temptation to yawn became 
 too strong, she repressed it by sipping at the punch. 
 
 " Anny student of the ancient Irish, or I might 
 say Milesian charachter," said O'Daly, with high, 
 disputatious voice, " might discern in our present 
 chief a remarkable proof of what the learned call a 
 reversion of toypes. It's thrue what you say. 
 Mother Agnes, that he's unlike and teetotally differ- 
 ent from anny other O'Mahony of our knowledge in 
 modhern times. But thin I ask mesilf, what's the 
 maning of this ? Clearly, that he harks back on the 
 
The J^oice of the Hostage. 93 
 
 ancesthral tree, and resimbles some O'Mahony we 
 dont know about ! And this I've been to the labor 
 of thracing- out. Now attind to me ! 'Tis in your 
 riccords, that four ginerations afther your foundher, 
 Diarmid of the Fine Steeds, there came an O'Mahony 
 of Muirisc called Teige, a turbulent and timpistuous 
 man, as his name in the chronicles, Teige Goarbh, 
 would indicate. 'Tis well known that he viawed 
 holy things with contimpt. 'Twas he that wint on 
 to the very althar at Rossca-rbery, in the chapel of 
 St. Fachnau Mougah, or the hairy, and cudgeled 
 wan of the daycons out of the place for the rayson 
 that he stammered in his spache. 'Twas he that 
 hung his bard, my ancestor of that period, up by the 
 heels on a willow-tree, merel}" because he fell asleep 
 over his punch, afther dinner, and let the rival 
 O'Dugan bard stale his new harp from him, and 
 lave a broken and disthressful old insthrumint in its 
 place. Now there's the rale ancestor of our O'lNIa- 
 hon3\ 'Tis as plain as the nose on your face. And 
 — now I remimber — sure 'twas this same divil of a 
 Teige Goarbh who was possessed to marr}^ his own 
 cousin wance removed, who'd taken vows here in 
 this blessed house. * Marry me now,' says he. ' I'm 
 wedded to the Lord,' says she. ' Come along out o' 
 that now,' says he. ' Not a step,' says she. And 
 thin, faith, what did the rebellious ruffian do but 
 gather all the straw and weeds and wet turf round 
 about, and pile *em undernayth, and smoke the nuns 
 out like a swarm o' bees. Sure, that's as like our 
 O'Mahony now as two pays in a pod." 
 
 As the little man finished, a shifty gust blew down 
 the flue, and sent a darkling wave of smoke over the 
 
94 The Retzirn of The O Mahony, 
 
 good people seated before the fire. They were too 
 used to the sensation to do more than cough and 
 rub their eyes. The mother-superior even smiled 
 sternly through the smoke. 
 
 " Is your maning that O'Mahony is at present on 
 the roof, striving to smoke us out?" she asked, with 
 iron clad sarcasm. 
 
 " 'Awh, get along wid ye. Mother Agnes," wheezed 
 the little priest, from his carboniferous corner. 
 " Who would he be arfther demanding in marriage 
 here ?" 
 
 O'Daly and the nuns looked at their aged and 
 shaky spiritual director with dulled apprehension. 
 He spoke so rarely, and had a mind so far removed 
 from the mere vanities and trickeries of decorative 
 conversation, that his remark puzzled them. Then, 
 as if through a single pair of e3^es, they saw that 
 Mrs. Fergus had straightened herself in her chair, 
 and was simpering and preening her head weakly, 
 like a conceited parrot. 
 
 The mother-superior spoke sharply, 
 
 " And do you flatther yoursilf, Mrs, Fergus 
 O'Mahon}^ that the head of our house is blowing 
 smoke down through the chimney for you?"" she 
 asked, " Sure, if he was, thin, 'twould be a lamint- 
 able waste of breath. Wan puff from a short poipe 
 would serve to captivate you f" 
 
 Cormac O'Daly made haste to bury his nose in his 
 glass. Long acquaintance with the attitude of the 
 convent toward the marital tendencies of Mrs, Fer- 
 gus had taught him wisdom. It was safe to sympa- 
 thize with either side of the long-standing dispute 
 when the other side was unrepresented. But when 
 
The Voice of tJie Hostage. 95 
 
 the nuns and Mrs. Fergus discussed it together, he 
 sagaciously held his peace. 
 
 " Is it sour grapes you're tasting, Agnes 
 (3'Mahon3' ?" put in Mrs. Fergus, briskly. In new 
 matters, hers could not be described as an alert 
 mind. But in this venerable quarrel she knew by 
 heart ever_v retort, innuendo and affront which 
 could be used as weapons, and every weak point in 
 the other's armor. 
 
 "Sour grapes! inc.'''' exclaimed the mother-supe- 
 rior, with as livel}^ an effect of indignation as if this 
 rejoinder had not been fiung in her face ever}- month 
 or so for the past dozen years. " D'ye harken to 
 that, Sister Blanaid and Sister Ann ! It's me, after 
 me wan-and-fifty years of life in religion, that has 
 this ojus imputation put on me ! Whisht now ! 
 don't demane yourselves by replyin' ! We'll lave 
 her to the condimnation of her own conscience." 
 
 The two nuns had made no sig^n of breakins: their 
 silence before this admonition came, and they gazed 
 now at the peat fire placidly. But the angered 
 mother-superior ostentatiously took up her beads, 
 and began whispering to herself, as if her thoughts 
 were already millions of miles away from her antag- 
 onist with the crimped hair and the vacuous smile. 
 
 '* It's persecuting me she's been these long years 
 back," Mrs. Fergus said to the company at large, 
 but never taking her eyes from the mother-superior's 
 flushed face; "and all because I married me poor 
 desaysed husband, instead of taking me vows under 
 her." 
 
 " Ah, that poor desaysed husband !" Mother Agnes 
 put in, with an ironical drawl in the words. "Sure, 
 
96 The Return of The O'HJahon). 
 
 whin he wasaloive, me ears were just worn out with 
 listening to compLaints about him ! Ah, thin I 'Tis 
 whin we're dead that we're appreciated !" 
 
 " All because I married," pursued Mrs. Fergus, 
 doggedly, "and wouldn't come and lock mesilf up 
 here, like a toad in the turf, and lave me brothers 
 free to spind the money in riot and luxurious livin'. 
 May be, if God's will had putt a squint on me, or 
 given me shoulders a twist like Danny at the fair, 
 or otherwise disfigured me faytures, I'd have been 
 glad to take vows. Mortial plainness is a great in- 
 jucement to religion." 
 
 The two nuns scuffled their feet on the stone floor 
 and scowled at the fire. Mother Agnes put down 
 her beads, and threw a martyr-like glance upward 
 at the blackened oak roof. 
 
 " Praise be to the saints," she said, solemnly, 
 " that denied us the snare of mere beauty without 
 sinse, or piety, or respect for old age, or humility, 
 or politeness, or gratitude, or — " 
 
 "Very well, thin, Agnes O'Mahony," broke in 
 Mrs. Fergus, promptly. " If ye've that opinion of 
 me, it's not becomin' that I should lave me daughter 
 wid ye anny longer. I'll take her meself to Ken- 
 mare next week — the ride over the mountains will 
 do me nervous system a power o' good — and there 
 she'll learn to be a lady." 
 
 Cormac O'Daly lifted his head and set down his 
 glass. He knew perfectly well that with this fam- 
 iliar threat the dispute always came to an end. 
 Indeed, all the parties to the recent contention now 
 of their own accord looked at him, and resettled 
 
The Voice of the Hostage. 97 
 
 themselves in their seats, as if to notify him that his 
 turn had come round again. 
 
 " I'm far from denying," he said, as if there had 
 been no interruption at all, " that our O'jNIahony is 
 possessed of qualities which commind him to the 
 vulgar multichude. It's thrue that he rejewced 
 rints all over the estate, and made turbary rights 
 and the carrigeens as free as wather, and yet more 
 than recouped himself by opening the copper mines 
 beyant Ardmahon, and laysing thim to a company 
 for a foine ro3"alty. It's thrue he's the first 
 O'Mahony for manny a gineration who's paid 
 expinses, let alone putting money by in the bank." 
 
 " And what more would ye ask ?" said Mrs. 
 Fergus. " Sure, whin he's done all this, and made 
 fast frinds with every man, women and child round- 
 about into the bargain, what more would ye want?" 
 
 " Ah, what's money, JNIrs. Fergus O'Mahony," 
 remonstrated O'Daly, *' and what's popularity wid 
 the mere thoughtless peasanthrj^ if ye've no 
 ancesthral proide, no love and reverence for ancient 
 family thraditions, no devout desoire to walk in the 
 paths your forefathers trod ?" 
 
 " Faith, thim same forefathers trod thim with a 
 highly unsteady step, thin, bechune oursilves," 
 commented Mrs. Fergus. 
 
 " But their souls were filled with blessid piet}'," 
 said Mother Agnes, gravel}'. " If they gave small 
 thought to the matter of money, and loike carnal 
 disthractions, they had open hands always for the 
 needs of the church, and of the convint here, and 
 they made holy indings, every soul of 'em." 
 
98 The Return of The O Mahony 
 
 " And they respected the hereditary functions of 
 their bards," put in O'Daly, with a conclusive air. 
 
 At the m(3ment, as there came a sudden hill in the 
 t'.imult of the storm outside, those within the recep- 
 tion-room heard a distinct noise of knocking, which 
 proceeded from beneath the stone-flags at their feet. 
 Three blows were struck, with a deadened thud as 
 upon wet wood, and then the astounded listeners 
 heard a low, muffled sound, strangely like a human 
 voice, from the same depths. 
 
 The tempest's furious screaming rose again with- 
 out, even as they listened. All six crossed them- 
 selves mechanically, and gazed at one another with 
 blanched faces. 
 
 "It is the Hostage," whispered the mother- 
 superior, glancing impressively around, and striv- 
 ing to dissemble the tremor which forced itself 
 upon her lips. " For wan-and-fifty 3'ears I've been 
 waiting to hear the sound of him. My praydecessor, 
 Mother Ellen, rest her sowl, heard him wance, and 
 nixt day the roof of the church fell in. Be the 
 same token, some new disasther is on fut for us, 
 now." 
 
 Cormac O'Daly was as frightened as the rest, but, 
 as an antiquarian, he could not combat the tempta- 
 tion to talk. 
 
 *' 'Tis now just six hundred and seventy years," 
 he began, in a husky voice, " since Diarmid of the 
 Fine Steeds founded this convint, in expiation of 
 his wrong to young Donal, Prince of Connaught. 
 *Twas the custom thin for the kings and great 
 princes in Ireland to sind their sons as hostages to 
 the palaces of their rivals, to live there as security, 
 
TJic I'^oice of the Hostage. 99 
 
 so to S[)akc, for iheir fathers' good beljavior and 
 peaceable intiiitions. 'Twas in this capacity that 
 young" Donal O'Connor came here, but Diarniid 
 tiirated liini badl\'— not like i:is father's son at all — 
 and immured him in a dungeon convanient in the 
 rocks. Mis mother's milk was in the lad, anrl he 
 wept for being pai-ted from her till his tears filled 
 the earth, and a living well sprung from thim the 
 day he died. So thin Diarmid repinted, and built 
 a convint ; and the well bubbled forth healing 
 wathers so that all the people roundabout made 
 pilgrimages to it, and with their offerings the 
 O'Mahonys built new edifices till 'twas wan of the 
 grandest convints in Desmond ; and none but fa}'- 
 males of the O'iSIahony blood saj-ing pra)^ers for 
 the sowl of the Hostage." 
 
 The nuns were busy with their beads, and even 
 Mrs. Fergus bent her head. At last it was Mother 
 Agnes who spoke, letting her rosar}' drop. 
 
 " 'Twas whin they allowed the holy well to be 
 choked up and lost sight of among fallen stones that 
 throuble first come to the O'Mahonys," she said 
 solemnly. " 'Tis mesilf will beg The O'Mahony, 
 on binded knees, to dig it open again. Worse luck, 
 he's away to Cork or Waterford with his boat, and 
 this storm '11 keep him from returning, till, perhaps, 
 the final disasther falls on us and our liouse, and he 
 still absinting himsilf. \Virra ! What's that ?" 
 
 The mother-superior had been forced to lift her 
 voice, in concluding, to make it distinct above the 
 hoarse roar of the elements outside. Even as she 
 spoke, a loud crackling noise was heard, followed by 
 
loo Tlie Retur7i of The O Alahoiiy. 
 
 a crash of masonry which deafened the listeners' 
 ears and shook the n-alls of the room they sat in. 
 
 With a despairing- groan, the three nuns fell to 
 their knees and bowed their vailed heads over their 
 beads. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 HOW THE " HEN HAWK " WAS BROUGHT IN. 
 
 The good people of Muirisc had shut themselves 
 up in their cabins, on this inclement evening of 
 \Yhich I have spoken, almost before the twilight 
 faded from the storm-wrapt outlines of the opposite 
 coast. If any adventurous spirit of them all had 
 braved the blast, and stood out on the cliff to see 
 night fall in earnest upon the scene, perhaps be- 
 tween wild sweeps of drenching and blinding spray, 
 he might have caught sight of a little vessel, with 
 only its jib set, plunging and laboring in the trough 
 of the Atlantic outside. And if the spectacle had 
 met his eyes, unquestionably his first instinct would 
 have been to mutter a prayer for the souls of the 
 doomed men upon this fated craft. 
 
 On board the Hen Haivk a good many prayers had 
 already been said. The small coaster seemed, to its 
 terrified crew, to have shrunk to the size of a wal- 
 nut shell, so wholly was it the plaything of the giant 
 waters which heaved and tumbled about it, and 
 shook the air with the riotous tumult of their sport. 
 There were moments when the vessel hung poised 
 and quivering upon the very ridge of a huge moun- 
 
 — - [lOl] 
 
I02 The Return of The GAlahony. 
 
 tain of sea, like an Alpine climber who shudders to 
 find himself balanced upon a crumbling foot of rock 
 between two awful depths of precipice ; then would 
 come the breathless downward swoop into howlini;" 
 space and the fierce buffeting of ton-weight blows 
 as the boat staggered blindly at the bottom of the 
 abj'ss; then again the helpless upward sweep, borne 
 upon the shoulders of titan waves which reared their 
 vast bulk into the sky, the dizzy trembling upon the 
 summit, and the hideous plunge — a veritable night- 
 mare of torture and despair. 
 
 Five men lay or knelt on deck huddled about the 
 mainmast, clinging to its hoops and ropes for safety. 
 Now and again, when the vessel was lifted to the 
 top of the green walls of water, they caught vague 
 glimpses of the distant rocks, darkling through the 
 night mists, which sheltered Muirisc, their home — 
 and knew in their souls that they were never to reach 
 that home alive. The time for praying was past. 
 Drenched to the skin, choked with the salt spray, 
 nearly frozen in the bitter winter cold, they clung 
 numbly to their hold, and awaited the end. 
 
 One of them strove to gild the calamity with 
 cheerfulness, b}'^ humming and groaning the air of a 
 " come-all-)'e " ditty, the croon of which rose with 
 quaint persistency after the crash of each engulfing 
 wave had passed. The others were, perhaps, 
 silently grateful to him — but they felt that if Jerry 
 had been a born ^luirisc man, he could not have 
 done it. 
 
 At the helm, soaked and gaunt as a water-rat, 
 with his feet braced against the waist-rails, and the 
 rudder-bar jammed under his arm and shoulder, 
 
The ''Hen Hawk'" brought in. 103 
 
 was a sixtli man — the master and owner of the Hcii 
 Hazvk. The strain upon his physical strength, in 
 thus by main force holding the tiller right, had ioK 
 hours been unceasing — and one could see by his 
 dripping face that he was deeply wearied. But 
 sign of fear there was none. 
 
 Only a man brought up in the interior of a coun- 
 try, and who had come to the sea late in life, would 
 have dared bring this tiny cockle-shell of a coaster 
 into such waters upon such a coast. The O'Ma- 
 hony might himself have been frightened had he 
 known enough about navigation to understand his 
 present danger. As it was, all his weariness could 
 nor destroy the keen sense of pleasurable excite- 
 ment he had in the tremendous experience. He 
 forgot crew and cargo and vessel itself in the splen- 
 did zest of this mad fight with the sea and the 
 storm. He clung to the tiller determinedh', bow- 
 ing his head to the rush of the broken waves wdien 
 they fell, and bending knees and body this way and 
 that to answer the wild tossings and sidelong plung- 
 ings of the craft — always Avith a light as of battle in 
 his gray eyes. It was ever so much better than 
 fighting with mere men. 
 
 The gloom of twilight ripened into pitchy dark- 
 ness, broken only by momentary gleams of that 
 strange, weird half-light which the rushing waves 
 generate in their own crests of foam. The wind 
 rose in violence when the night closed in, and the 
 vessel's timbers creaked in added travail as huge 
 seas lifted and hurled her onward through the black 
 chaos toward the rocks. The men by the mast 
 could every few minutes discern the red lights from 
 
I04 The RehLvn of The G Alahony. 
 
 the cottage windows of Muirisc, and shuddered 
 anew as the glimmering sparks grew nearer. 
 
 Four of these five unhappy men were Muirisc 
 born, and knew the sea as they knew their own 
 mothers. The marvel was that they had not revolted 
 against this wanton sacrifice of their lives to the 
 whim Or perverse obstinacy of an ignorant lands- 
 man, who a year ago had scarcely known a rudder 
 from a jib-boom. They themselves dimly wondered 
 at it now, as they strained their eyes for a glimpse 
 of the fatal crags ahead. The}'^ had indeed ventured 
 upon some mild remonstrance, earlier in the day, 
 while it had still been possible to set the mainsail, 
 and by long tacks turn the vessel's course. But 
 The O'Mahony had received their suggestion with 
 such short temper and so stern a refusal, that there 
 had been nothing more to be said — bound to him as 
 Muirisc men to their chief, and as Fenians to their 
 leader, as they were. And soon thereafter it became 
 too late to do aught but scud bare-poled before the 
 gale ; and now there was nothing left but to die. 
 
 They could hear at last, above the shrill clamor 
 of wind and rolling waves, the sullen roar of break- 
 ers smashing against the cliffs. The}^ braced them- 
 selves for the great final crash, and muttered frag- 
 ments of the Litany of the Saints between clenched 
 teeth. 
 
 A prodigious sea grasped the vessel and lifted it 
 to a towering height, where for an instant it hung 
 trembling. Then with a leap it made a sickening 
 dive down, down, till it was fairly engulfed in the 
 whirling floods which caught it and swept wildly 
 over its decks. A sinister thrill ran through the 
 
The ''Hen Haiuk'' brought in, 105 
 
 stout craft's timbers, and upon the instant came the 
 harsh grinding sound of its keel against the rocks. 
 The men shut their eyes. 
 
 A dreadful second— and lo ! the Hen Ilmvk, shak- 
 ing herself buoyantly like a fisher-fowl emerging 
 after a plunge, floated upon gently rocking waters 
 — with the hoarse tumult of storm and breakers 
 comfortably 'behind her, and at her sides only the 
 sighing-harp music of the wind in the sea-reeds. 
 
 "Hustle now, an' git out your anchor!" called 
 out the cheerful voice of The O'Mahony, from the 
 tiller. 
 
 The men scrambled from their knees as in a 
 dream. Thej^ ran out the chain, reefed the jib, and 
 then made their way over the fiush deck aft, slap- 
 ping their arms for warmth, still only vaguely real- 
 izing that they were actually moored in safety, 
 inside the sheltered salt-water marsh, or muirisc, 
 which gave their home its name. 
 
 This so-called swamp was at high tide, in truth, a 
 ver}^ respectable inlet, which lay between the 
 tongue of arable land on which the hamlet was 
 built and the high jutting cliffs of the coast to the 
 south. Its entrance, a stretch of water some forty 
 yards in width, was over a bar of rock which at low 
 tide could only be passed by row-boats. At its 
 greatest daily depth, there was not much water to 
 spare under the fort3--five tons of the Heii Hazvk. 
 She had been steered now in utter darkness, with 
 only the scattered and confusing lights of the 
 houses to the left for guidance, unerringly upon the 
 bar, and then literally lifted and tossed over it by 
 the great rolling wall of breakers. She lay nov/ 
 
io6 The Rehirn of The O Mahony. 
 
 tossing languidly on the choppy .vaters of the 
 marsh, as if breathing hard after undue exertion — 
 secure at last behind the cliffs. 
 
 The O'Mahony slapped his arms in turn, and 
 looked about him. He was not in the least conscious 
 of having performed a feat which any yachtsman in 
 British waters would regard as incredible. 
 
 " Now, Jerry," he said, calmly, " you git ashore 
 and bring out the boat. You other fellows open 
 the hatchway, an' be gittin* the things out. Be 
 careful about your candle down-stairs. You know 
 why. It won't do to have a light up here on deck. 
 Some of the women might happen to come out-doors 
 an' see us." 
 
 Without a word, the crew, even yet dazed at their 
 miraculous escape, proceeded to carry out his 
 orders. The O'Mahony bit from his plug a fresh 
 mouthful of tobacco, and munched it meditatively, 
 walking up and down the deck in the darkness, and 
 listening to the high wind howling overhead. 
 
 The Hen Haivk had really been built at Barn- 
 stable, a dozen years before, for the Devon fisheries, 
 but she did not look unlike those unwieldy Dutch 
 boats which curious summer visitors watch with 
 unfailing interest from the soft sands of Schevenin- 
 gen. Her full-flushed deck had been an after- 
 thought, dating back to the time when her activities 
 were diverted from the fishing to the carrying 
 industry. The O' Mahony had bought her at Cork, 
 ostensibly for use in the lobster-canning enterprise 
 which he had founded at Muirisc. Duck-breasted, 
 squat and thick-lined, she looked the part to per- 
 fection, 
 
Tke " Hen Hawk " brought in. 107 
 
 Tl'ie men were busy now getting (ujt from the 
 hokl below a score of small kegs, each wrappefl in 
 oil skin swathings, and, after these, nioie than a 
 score of long, narrow wooden cases, which, as they 
 were passed up the little gangway from the glow oi 
 candlelight into the darkness, bore a gloomy resem- 
 blance to coffins. An hour passed before the empt}^ 
 boat returned from shore, having landed its finishing 
 load, and the six men, stiff and chilled, clumsily 
 swung themselves over the side of the vessel into it. 
 
 " Sure, it's a new layse of life, I'm beginnin','* 
 murmured one of them, Dominic by name, as he 
 clambered out upon the stone landing-place. " It's 
 dead I was intoirely — an' resiiricted agin, glory be 
 to the Lord !" 
 
 " Sh-h ! You shall have some whisky to make a 
 fresh start on when we're through," said The 
 O'Mahony. "Jerry, you run ahead an' open the 
 side door. Don't make any noise. Mrs. Sullivan's 
 got ears that can hear grass growin'. We'll follow 
 on with the things." 
 
 The carrying of the kegs and boxes across the 
 village common to the castle, in which the master 
 bore his full share of work, consumed nearly another 
 hour. Some of the cottage lights ceased to burn. 
 Not a soul stirred out of doors. 
 
 The entrance opened by Jerry was a little postern 
 door, access to which was gained through the de- 
 serted and weed-grown church-yard, and the possi- 
 ble use of which was entirely unsuspected by even 
 tlie housekeeper, let alone the villagers at large. 
 The men bore their burdens through this, travers- 
 ing a long, low-arched passage-way, built entirely 
 
io8 Tiic Rciicni of The O' Jlakoiiy. 
 
 of stone and smelling like an ancient tomb. Thence 
 their course was down a precipitous, narrow stair- 
 way, winding like the corkscrew stairs of a tower, 
 until, at a depth of thirty feet or more, they reached 
 a small square chamber, the air of which was musti- 
 ness itself. Here a candle was fastened in a bracket, 
 and the men put down their loads. Here, too, it 
 was that Jerry, when the last journey had been 
 made, produced a bottle and glasses and dispensed 
 his master's hospitality in raw spirits, which the 
 men gulped down without a whisper about water. 
 
 " Mind ! — day after to-morrow ; five o'clock in the 
 m.orning, sharp !" said The O'Mahony, in admonitory 
 tones. Then he added, more softly: "Jest take it 
 easy to-morrow ; loaf around to suit yourselves, so 
 long's you keep sober. You've had a pritty tough 
 day of ito Good-night. Jerry 'n me '11 do the rest. 
 Jest pull the duor to when you go out." 
 
 With answering " Good nights," and a formal 
 hand-shake all around, the four villagers left the 
 room. Their tired footsteps were heard with 
 diminishing distinctness as they went up the stairs. 
 
 Jerry turned and surveyed his master from head 
 to foot by the light of the candle on the wall. 
 
 "O'Mahony," he said, impressivel}-, "you're a 
 divil, an' no mistake !" 
 
 The other put the bottle to his mouth first. Then 
 he licked his lips and chuckled grimly. 
 
 " Them fellows was scared out of their boots, 
 wasn't the}'' ? An' you, too, eh ?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, sir, you know it as well as I, the lives of 
 the lot of us would have been high-priced at a 
 thruppenny-bit." 
 
The ''Hen Ilaz^k^' brongJit in. 109 
 
 " Pshaw, man ! You fellows don't know what fun 
 is. Wh}^ she was safe as a house ever}^ minute. 
 An' lierc I was, goin' to compliment you on gittin' 
 through the hull voyage without bein' sick once — 
 thought, at last, I was reall}- goin' to make a sailor 
 of you." 
 
 " Egor, afther to-day I'll believe I've the makin' 
 of aimything under the sun in me — or on top of it, 
 ayther. But, sure, sir, you'll not deny 'twas timp- 
 tin' providence saints' good-will to come in head 
 over heels under wather, the way we did ?" 
 
 "We had to be here — that's all," said The 
 O'Mahony, briefl}'. " I've got to meet a man to- 
 morrow, at a place some distance from here, sure 
 pop ; and then there's the big job on next daj-." 
 
 Jerry said no more, and The O'iNIahony took the 
 candle down from the iron ring in the wall. 
 
 " D'ye know, I noticed somethin' cur'ous in the 
 wall out on the staircase here as we come down?" 
 he said, bearing the light before him as he m.oved to 
 the door. " It's about a dozen sreps up. llcreitis! 
 What d'ye guess that might a-been ?" 
 
 The O'Mahony held the candle close to the 
 curved wall, and indicated with his irce hand a 
 couple of regular and vertical seams in the masonrv, 
 about two Icet apart, and nearly a man's height in 
 length. 
 
 " There's a door there, or I'm a Dutchman," he 
 saiLl, lilting and lowering the ligh.t in his scrutiny. 
 
 The mediaeval builders cou'd have imagined no 
 sight more weird than that of the high, fantastic 
 shadows thrown upon the winding, well-like walls 
 by this drenched and saturnine figure, clad in oil- 
 
iio TJic Rehirii of The O Mahony. 
 
 skins instead of armor, and peering into their handi- 
 work with the curiosity of a man nurtured in a 
 log-cabin. 
 
 " Egor, would it be a dure ?" exclaimed the won- 
 dering Jerry. 
 
 His companion handed the candle to him, and 
 took from his pocket a big jack-knife — larger, if an}-- 
 thing, than the weapon which had been left under 
 the window of the little farm-house at Five Forks. 
 He ran the large blade up and down the two long, 
 straight cracks, tapping the stonework hei^e and 
 there with the butt of the handle afterward. 
 Finally, after numerous experiments, he found the 
 trick — a bolt to be pushed down by a blade inserted 
 not straight but obliquely — and a thick, iron-bound 
 door, faced with masonr}^ but with an oaken lining, 
 swung open, heavily and unevenlv, upon some con- 
 cealed pivots. 
 
 The O'jNIahony took the ligiit once more, thrust 
 it forward to make sure of his footing, and then 
 stepped over the newly-discovered threshold, Jerry 
 close at his heels. They pushed their way along a 
 narrow and evil-smelling passage, so low that thc}^ 
 were forced to bend almost double. Suddenh', after 
 traversing this for a long distance, their path was 
 blocked by another door, somewhat smaller than the 
 other. This gave forth a hollow sound when tested 
 by blows. 
 
 " It ain't very thick," said The O'Mahony. *' I'll 
 put my shoulder against it. I guess I can bust her 
 open." 
 
 The resistance was even less than he had antici- 
 pated. One energetic shove sufficed ; the door Hew 
 
TJie " Hen Hawk " bro7tght in. 1 1 1 
 
 back with a swift splintering of rotten wood. The 
 O'Mahony went stumbling sidelong into the dark- 
 ness as the door gave way. At the nunnent a 
 strange, rumbling sound was iieard at some remote 
 height above them, and then a crash nearer at hand, 
 the thundering reverberation of which rang witli 
 loud echoes through the vault-like passage. The 
 concussion almost put out the candle, and Jerry 
 noted that the hand which he instinctively put out 
 to shield the flame was trembling. 
 
 " Show a light in here, can't ye ?" called out The 
 O'Mahony from the black obscurity beyond the 
 broken door. " Sounds as if the hull darned castle 
 'd been blown down over our heads." 
 
 Jerry timorously advanced, candle well out in 
 front of him. Its small radiance served dimly to 
 disclose what seemed to be a large chamber, or 
 even hall, high-roofed and spacious. Its floor of 
 stone flags was covered with dry mold. The walls 
 were smoothed over with a gray coat of plastering, 
 whole patches of which had here and there fallen, 
 and more of which tumbled even now as they 
 looked. They saw that this plastering had been 
 decorated by zigzag, saw-toothed lines in three or 
 four colors, now dulled and in places scarcely dis- 
 cernible. The room was irregularly shaped. At 
 its narrower end was a big, roughly built fireplace, 
 on the hearth of which lay ashes and some charred 
 bits of wood, covered, like the stone itself, by a dry 
 film of mold. The O'Mahony held the candle under 
 the flue. The wa}' in which the flame swayed and 
 pointed itself showed that the chimney was open. 
 
 Cooking utensils, some of metal, some of pottery, 
 
1 1 2 The Retit7'ii of The O'MaJwny. 
 
 but all alike of strange form, were bestowed on the 
 floor on either side of the hearlli. There was a 
 single wooden chair, with a high, pointed back, 
 standing against the wall, and in front of this lay a 
 rug of cowskin, the reddish hair of which came oft 
 at the touch. Beside this chair was a low, oblong 
 wooden chest, with a lifting-lid curiously carved, 
 and apparently containing nothing but rolls of 
 parchment and leather-bound volumes. 
 
 At the other and wider end of the room was an 
 archway built in the stone, and curtained by hang- 
 ings of thick, mildewed cloth. The O'Mahony 
 drew these aside, and Jerry advanced with the 
 light. 
 
 In a little recess, and reaching from side to side of 
 the arched walls, was built a bed of oaken beams, 
 its top the height o( a man's middle. Withered and 
 faded straw lay piled on the wood, and above this 
 both thick cloth similar to the curtains and finer 
 fabrics wliich looked like silk. The candle shook 
 in Jerry's hand, and came near to falling, at the dis- 
 covery which followed. 
 
 On the bed lay stretched the body of a bearded 
 and tonsured man, clad in a long, heav}^ dark wool- 
 en gown, girt at the waist with a leathern thong — 
 as strangel}'' dried and mummified as are the dead 
 preserved in St. JNIichan's vaults at Dublin or in the 
 Bleikeller of the Dom at Bremen. The shriveled, 
 tan-colored face bore a weird resemblance to that 
 of the hereditary bard. 
 
 The O'lMahony looked wonderingl}- down upon 
 this grim spectacle, the vrhile Jerry crossed him- 
 self. 
 
The ''Hen Hawk'' bro2igJit in. 113 
 
 " Guess there won't be much use of callin' a doc- 
 tor for hii;i," said the master, at last. 
 
 Then he backed away, to let the curtains fall, and 
 yawned. 
 
 " I'm about tuckered out," he said, stretching his 
 arms. "Let's go up now an' take somethin' warm, 
 and git to bed. We'll keep mum about this place. 
 P'rhaps — 1 shouldn't wonder — it might come in 
 handy for O'Daly." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A FACE FROM OUT THE WINDING-SHEET. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly in a clear sky next 
 morning, when the people of Muirisc finally got up 
 out of bed, and, still rubbing their eyes, strolled 
 forth to note the ravages of last night's storm, and 
 talk with one another about it. 
 
 There was much to marvel at and discuss at 
 length in garruh^us groups before the cottage 
 doors. One whole wing of the ancient convent 
 structure — that which tradition ascribed to the 
 pious building fervor of Cathal an Dioniuis, or "the 
 Haughty " — had been thrown down during the 
 night, and lay now a tumbled mass of stones and 
 timber piled in wild disorder upon the debris of 
 previous ruins. But inasmuch as the fallen build- 
 ing had long been roofless and disused, and its 
 collapse meant only another added la3-er of chaos 
 in the deserted convent-yard, Muirisc did not woi'ry 
 its head much about it, and even yawned in Cormac 
 O'Daly's face as he wandered from one knot of 
 gossips to another, relating legends about Cathal 
 the Proud. 
 
 What interested them considerably more was the 
 report, confirmed now by O'Daly himself, that just 
 
 [I14l 
 
A Face fj'ovi the Windiiig-Sheet. 1 1 5 
 
 before the crash came, six people iii the reception 
 hall of the convent had distinctly heard the voice 
 of the Hostage from the depths below the cloistral 
 building. Ever3'body in Muirisc knew all about the 
 Hostage. The}' had been, so to speak, brought up 
 with him. Prolonged familiarity with the pathetic 
 stoi-y of his death in exile, here at Muirisc, and con- 
 stant contact with his name as perpetuated in the 
 title of their unique convent, made him a sort of 
 oldest inhabitant of the place. Their lively imagin- 
 ations now quickly built up and established the 
 belief that he was heard to complain, somewhere 
 under the convent, once ever}' fifty years. Old 
 Ellen Dumphy was able to fix the period with 
 exactness because when the mysterious sound was 
 last heard she was a young woman, and had her 
 face bound up, and was almost " disthracted wid 
 the sore teeth." 
 
 But most interesting of all was the fact that there, 
 before their eyes, riding easily upon the waters of 
 the Muirisc, lay the Hen Hazvk, as peacefully and 
 safely at anchor as if no gale had ever thundered 
 upon the clifTs outside. The four men of her crew, 
 when they made their belated appearance in the 
 morning sunlight out-of-doors, were eagerly ques- 
 tioned, and they told with great readiness and a 
 flowering wealth of adjectives the marvelous story 
 of how The O'Mahony aimed her in pitch darkness 
 at the bar, and hurled her over it at precisely the 
 psychological moment, with just the merest scra- 
 ping of her keel. To the seafaring senses of those 
 vvho stood now gazing at the vessel there was more 
 
li6 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 witchcraft in this than in the subterranean voice oi 
 the Hostage even. 
 
 " Ah, thin, 'tis our O'Mahon}' 's the grand divil of 
 a man !" they murmured, admiringl}'. 
 
 No work was to be expected, clearl}-, on the day 
 after such an achievement as this. The villagers 
 stood about, and looked at the squat coaster, snugly 
 raising and sinking with the laz}^ movement of the 
 tide, and watched for the master of Muirisc to show 
 himself. They had never before been conscious of 
 such perfect pride in and affection for this strange 
 Americanized chieftain of theirs. By an unerring 
 factional instinct, they felt that this apotheosis of 
 The O'Mahony in their hearts involved the discom- 
 fiture of O'Daly and the nuns, and they let the 
 hereditary bard feel it, too. 
 
 " Ah, now, Cormac O'Daly," one of the women 
 called out to the poet, as he hung, black-visaged and 
 dejected, upon the skirts of the group, " tell me 
 man, was it anny of yer owld Diarmids and Cathals 
 ye do be perplexin' us wid that wud a-steered that 
 boat beyond over the bar at black midnight, wid a 
 gale outside fit to blow mountains into the say? 
 Sure, it's not botherin' his head wid books, or 
 delutherin' his moind wid ancestral mummeries, or 
 wear3'in' the bones an' marrow out of the saints wid 
 attendin' their business instead of his own, that o?ir 
 O'jNIahony do be after practicin'." 
 
 The bard opened his lips to reply. Then the 
 gleam of enjo3-ment in the woman's words which 
 shone from all the faces roundabout, dismayed him. 
 He shook his head, and walked awa}' in silence. 
 
 Meanwhile The O'Mahony, after a comfortable 
 
A Face front the ]Vindiug-Shect. 1 1 7 
 
 breakfast, and a brief consultation \vi':h Jcir}-, had 
 put on iiis hat and strolled out tlirou[^!i the preten- 
 tious arched doorway of liis tumble-dcjwn abode. 
 From the outer gate he saw the clustered villagers 
 upon the wharf, and guessed what they \vere saying 
 and thinking about him and his boat. He smiled 
 contentedly to himself, and lighted a cigar. Then, 
 sucking this with gravity, hands in pockets and hat 
 well back on head, he turned and sauntered across 
 the turreted corner of his castle into the ancient 
 church-3-ard, which lay between it and the convent. 
 The place was one crowded area of mortuary wreck- 
 age — flat tombstones sunken deep into the earth ; 
 monumental tablets, once erect, now tipping at every 
 crazy angle ; pre-historic, weather-beaten runic 
 crosses lying broken and prone ; more modern and 
 ambitious sarcophagi of brick and stone, from which 
 sides or ends had fallen away, revealing to every eye 
 their ghostly contents; the ground covered thickly 
 with nettles and umbrageous weeds, under which 
 the iinguided foot continually encountered old skulls 
 and human bones — a grave-yard such as can be seen 
 nowhere in the world save in western Ireland. 
 
 The O'Mahony picked his wa}' across this village 
 Golgotha, past the ruins of the ancient church, and 
 into the grounds to the rear of the convent build- 
 ings, clambering as he went over u'hole series of 
 tumbled masonry heaped in weed-grown i idgcs, 
 until he stood upon the edge of the havoc wrought 
 by this latest storm. 
 
 No rapt antiquary ever gazed with more eager- 
 ness upon the remains of a pre-Aryan habitation 
 than The O'Mahony now displayed in his scrutiny 
 
Ii8 The Return of The O JMaJiony. 
 
 of the destruction worked by last night's storni, and 
 of the g-roup of buildings its fury had left unscathed. 
 He took a paper from his pocket, and compared a 
 rude drawing upon it with various points in the 
 architecture about him which he indicated with nods 
 of the head. People watching him might have dif- 
 fered as to whether he was a student of antiquities, 
 a builder or an insurance agent. Probably none 
 would have guessed that he was striving to identify 
 some one of the numerous chimneys before him 
 with a certain fireplace which he knew of, five-and- 
 twenty feet underground. 
 
 As he stood thus, absorbed in calculation, he felt 
 a little hand steal into his big palm, and nestle there 
 confidingly. His face put on a pleased smile, even 
 before he bent it toward the intruder. 
 
 " Hello, Skeezucks, is that you ?" he said, gently. 
 " Well, they've gone an' busted yourole convent up 
 the back, here, in great shape, ain't they ?" 
 
 Every one of the score of months that had passed 
 since these two first met, seemed to have added 
 something to the stature of little Kate O'Mahony. 
 She had grown, in truth, to be a tall girl for her age 
 — and an erect girl, holding her head well in air, 
 into the bargain. Her face had lost its old shy, 
 scared look — at least in this particular company. It 
 was filling out into the likeness of a pretty face, with 
 a pleasant glow of health upon the cheeks, and a 
 happy twinkle in the big, dark eyes. 
 
 For ans\s'er, the child lifted and swung his hand, 
 and playfully butted her head sidewise against his 
 waist. 
 
 *' 'Tis I that wouldn't mind if it all came down," she 
 
 li 
 
A Face froin the Wijidiug-Sheet. 119 
 
 said, in the softest West Carbery brogue the c;ir 
 could wish. 
 
 " What!" exclaimed the other, in inock consterna- 
 tion. "Well, I never! Why, here's a gal thrM 
 don't want to go to school, or learn now to read a:.' 
 cipher or nothin'! P'r'aps you'd ruther work in tlie 
 lobster fact'ry ?" 
 
 " No, I'd sail in the boat with 3 ou," said Kate, 
 promptly and with contidence. 
 
 The O'x^Iahony laughed aloud. 
 
 " I guess )-ou"d a got your till of it yisterday, sis," 
 he remarked. 
 
 " It's that I'd have liked best of all," she pursued. 
 "Ah! take me with you, O'Mahony, whin next the 
 waves are up and the wind's tearin' tit to bust itsilf. 
 I'll not die till I've been out in the thick of it, wance 
 for all." 
 
 " Why, gal alive, you'd a-be'a smashed into sau- 
 sage-meat!" chuckled the man. " Still, you're right, 
 tiior.gh. They ain't nothin' else in tlie \vorld fit to 
 hold a candle to it. Egad! Some time 1 Ccv'// take 
 3()u, sis!" 
 
 The child spoke more seriously : 
 
 "Sure, we're the O'lNIahonys of the Coast of 
 White Foam, according to O'Hcerin's old verse, and 
 it's in my blood as well as yours." 
 
 " Right you are, sis !" he resiXMided, smiling, as 
 he added under his breath : " an' nicbbe a ti-ifle 
 more." Then, after a moment's pause, he changed 
 the subject. 
 
 " See here ; you're up on these things — in fact, 
 they don't seem to learn you anything else — hain't I 
 heerd O'Daly tell about the old O'Mahonys luggin' 
 
1 20 The Rctursi of The O'Mahony. 
 
 round a box full o' saints' bones when they went on 
 a rampage, to sort o' give 'em luck ! I got to thinkin' 
 about it last night after I went to bed, but I couldn't 
 jest git it straight in my head." 
 
 " It's the cathacJi " (she pronounced it ca/ia) " )^ou 
 mane," Kate answered. " Sometimes it contained 
 bones, but more often 'twas a crozieror a holy book 
 from the saint's own pen, or a part of his vest- 
 mints." 
 
 "No; I like the bones notion best," said The 
 O'Mahony. " There's something substantial an' 
 solid about bones. If 3^ou've got a genuine saint's 
 bones, it's a thing he's bound to take an interest in, 
 an' see through ; whereas, them other things^ — his 
 books an' his clo'se an' so on — why, he may a-been 
 sick an' tired of 'em years 'fore he died." 
 
 It was the girl's turn to laugh. 
 
 " It's a strange new fit of piety ye've on yeh, 
 O'Mahon}','' she said, with the familiarity of a spoiled 
 pet. "Sure, when I tell the nuns, they'll be lookin' 
 to see you build up a whole foine new convint for 
 'em without delay." 
 
 " No ; I'm savin' that till you git to be the boss 
 nun," said The O'Mahony, dryl}^ and with a grin. 
 
 " 'Tis older than Methusalem 3^e'll be thin !" asked 
 the child, laughingly. And with that she seized his 
 hand once more and dragged him forward to a 
 closer inspection of the ruins. 
 
 Some hours later, having been diiven across 
 country to Dunmanway b}- Malachy, and thence 
 taken the local train onv.-ard, The 0'-^Iahonv found 
 
A Face from ilic Winding- Sheet. 1 2 1 
 
 himself in the station at Ballinecn, with barel}' time 
 enough to hurry across the tracks and leap into the 
 ! rain which was aireacU'' starting- westward. In this he 
 \.as borne back over the road he had just traversed, 
 until a stop was made at Manch station. The 
 '■ )'Mahon)^ alighted here, much pleased with the 
 strategy which made him appear to have come from 
 the east. He took an outside car, and was driven 
 some two miles into the bleak, mountainous country 
 beyond Tootue, to a wayside inn knowm as Kearney's 
 Retreat. Here he dismoiuited, bidding the carman 
 solace himself with drink, and wait. 
 
 Entering the tavern, he paused at the bar and 
 asked for two small bottles of porter to be poured 
 in one glass. Two or three men were loitering 
 about the room, and he spoke just loud enough to 
 make sure that all might hear him. Tiien, having 
 drained the glass, and stood idly conversing for a 
 minute or two with the woman at the bar, he made 
 his way through a side do(jr into the adjoining ball 
 alley, where some young fellows of the neighbor- 
 hood chanced to be engaged in a game. 
 
 He stood apart, watching their play, for cnlv a 
 few moments. Then one of the men whom he had 
 seen but not looked closely at in tlie bar, came up 
 to him, and said from behind, in an interrogative 
 whisper : 
 
 " Captain Harrier, I believe ?" 
 
 *' Yes," said The O'Mahon}', " Captain Harrier — " 
 with a vague notion of having heard that voice 
 before. 
 
 Then he turned, and in the straggling roof-light 
 of the alley beheld the other's fa-ce. It taxed to the 
 
122 The Return of The O MaJcony. 
 
 utmost every element of self-possession in liim to 
 choke down the exclamation which sprang to his 
 lips. 
 
 The man before him was Linsky ! — Linsky risen 
 from the dead, with the scarred gash visible on his 
 throat, and the shifty blue-green eyes still blood- 
 shot, and set with reddened eyelids in a freckled 
 face. 
 
 " Yes — Captain — Harrier," he repeated, lingering 
 upon each word, as his brain fiercely strove to 
 assert mastery over amazement, apprehension and 
 perplexity. 
 
 The new-comer looked full into the Tlie O'Ma- 
 hony's face without any sign whatever of recognition, 
 
 "Thin I'm to place mesilf at your disposal," he 
 said, briefly. " You know more of what's in the air 
 than I do, no doubt. Everything is arranged, I 
 hear, for rising in both Cork an' Tralee to-morrow, 
 an' in manny places in both counties besides. 
 Officiall}', however, I know nothing of this — an' 
 have no right to know. I'm just to put mysilf at 
 your command, and deliver anny messages you 
 desire to sind to other cinters in your district. 
 Here's me papers." 
 
 The O'iNlahony barely glanced at the inclosures 
 of the envelope handed him. They took the taniiiicU- 
 form of a business letter of introductioii, and a com- 
 mercial contract, signed by a (inn name which to 
 the uninitiated bore no significance. He noted that 
 the name given was " Major Lynch." He observed 
 also, with satisfaction, that Ids hand, as it held the 
 papers, was entirely steady. 
 
 " Everybody's been notified," he said, after a 
 
A Face from the Windiug-Shcct. 123 
 
 time, instinctively assuming- a slight hoarseness of 
 speech. " I've been all over the ground, myself. 
 You can meet me — let's see — sa}^ at the bottom of 
 the black rock jest overlookin' tlie marlellcr lower 
 
 at at eleven o'clock, sharp, to-morrow foienoon. 
 
 The rocks behind the tower, mind — t'other side 01 
 the coast-guard houses. You'll see mc land from 
 my boat." 
 
 "I'll not fail," said the other. "I can bring a 
 gun — mor3-ah, I'm shooting at sa3--gulls." 
 
 " The}' ain't much need of that," responded The 
 O'Mahony. " You might git stopped an' ques- 
 tioned. There'll be guns enough. Of course, the 
 takin' of the tower '11 be as easy as rollin' off a log. 
 The thing '11 be to hold it afterward." 
 
 " We'll howld whatever we take, sir. all Ireland 
 over," said Major Lynch, with enthusiasm. 
 
 "I hope so! Good-bye. Mind, eleven sharp," 
 was the response, and the two men separated. 
 
 The O'Mahony did not wait for the finish of the 
 game of ball, but sauntered out of the alley through 
 the end door, walked to his car, and set off direct 
 for Toome. At this place he decided to drive on to 
 Dunmanway station. Dismissing the carman at the 
 door, and watching his departure, he walked over to 
 the hotel, joined the waiting Malachy, and soon uas 
 well on his jolting way back to Muirisc. 
 
 Curiously enough, the bearing of Linsky's return 
 upon his own personal fortunes and safety bore a 
 very small part in The O'Mahony's meditations, as 
 he clung to his seat over the rough homeward road. 
 All that might take care of itself, and he pushed it 
 almost contemptuously aside ia his mind. What hs 
 
124 The Return of The O MaJioiiy. 
 
 ilicl ponder upon imceasingly, and with growing 
 distrust, was the suspicion with which the manner 
 of the man's offer to deliver messages had inspired 
 him. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A TALISMAN AND A TRAITOR. 
 
 At five o'clock on this February morning it was 
 still dark. For more than half an hour a light had 
 been from time to time visible, flitting about in the 
 inhabited parts of the castle. There was no answer- 
 ing gleams from any of the cottage windows, along 
 the other side of the village green ; but all the same, 
 solitary figures began to emerge from the cabins, 
 until eighteen men had crossed the open space and 
 were gathered upon the little stone pier at the edge 
 of the muirisc. They stood silently together, with 
 only now and again a whispered word, waiting for 
 they knew not what. 
 
 Presently, by the faint semblance of light which 
 was creeping up behind the eastern hills, they saw 
 Jerry, Malachy and Dominic approaching, each 
 bearinof a burden on his back. These were two of 
 the long coffin-like boxes and two kegs, one pro- 
 digiously heavy, the other by comparison light. 
 The)' were deposited on the wharf without a word, 
 and the two first went back again, while Dominic 
 silently led the others in the task of bestowing what 
 all present knew lo be guns, lead and powder, on 
 
126 The Return of The O' Mahoiiy, 
 
 board the Hen Haivk. This had been done, and the 
 men had again waited for some minutes before The 
 O'Mahony made liis appearanee. 
 
 He advanced through the obscure morning twi- 
 liglit with a brisk step, whistling softly as he came. 
 The men noted that he wore shooting-clothes, with 
 gaiters to the knee, and a wide-brimmed, soft, black 
 hat, even then known in Ireland as the American 
 hat, just as the Americans had previously called it 
 the Kossuth. 
 
 Half-wa}', but within full view of the waiting 
 group, he stopped, and looked criticall}^ at the sky. 
 Then he stepped aside from the path, and took off 
 this hat of his. The men wondered what it meant. 
 
 Jeri'y was coming along again from the castle, his 
 arms half filled with parcels. He stopped beside 
 the chief, and stood facing the path, removing his 
 cap as well. 
 
 Then the puzzled observers saw Malachy looming 
 out of the misty shadows, also bare-headed, and 
 carrying at arms length before him a square case, 
 about in bulk like a hat-box. As he passed The 
 O'Mahony and Jerry they bowed, and then fell in 
 behind him, and marched, still uncovered, toward 
 the landing-place. 
 
 The tide was at its fiood, and the Hen Haivk 
 had been hauled by ropes up close to the wharf, 
 JMalach}', with stolid face and solemn mien, strode 
 in hue military style over the gunwale and along 
 the flush deck to the bow. Here he deposited his 
 mysterious burden, bowed to it, and then put on 
 the hat he had been carrying under his arm. 
 
 The men crowded on board at this — all save two, 
 
A Talisman and a Traitor. 12' 
 
 who now rowed forward in a small boat, and began 
 pulling the Hen Hazvk out over the bar with a haw- 
 ser. As the unwield}' craft slowl)- moved, The 
 O'Mahon}' turned a long, ruminative gaze upon the 
 sleeping hamlet they were leaving behind. The 
 whole eastern sky was awake now with light— light 
 v.-hich la}' in brilliant bars of lemon hue upon the 
 hill-tops, and mellowed upward through opal and 
 pearl into fleec}' ashen tints. The two in the boat 
 dropped behind, fastened their tiny craft to the 
 stern, and clambered on board. 
 
 A fresh, chill breeze caught and filled the jib once 
 they had passed the bar, and the crew laid their 
 hands upon the ropes, expecting orders to hoist the 
 mainsail and mizzen-sheets. But The O'jNIahony 
 gave no sign, and lounged in silence against the til- 
 ler, spitting over the taffrail into the water, until the 
 vessel had rounded the point and stood well off 
 the cliffs, out of sight of Muirisc, plunging softly 
 along through the swell. Then he beckoned Dom- 
 inic to the helm, and walked over toward the mast, 
 with a gesture which summoned the whole score of 
 men about him. To them he began the first speech 
 he had ever made in his life : 
 
 " Now, bo3's," he said, " prob'ly you've noticed 
 tliP.t the name's been painted off the starn of this ere 
 vessel, over ni^-ht. You must 'a' fig^ured it out from 
 tb.at, that we're out on the loose, so to speak. 
 Thay's only a few of ye that have ever known me 
 as a Fenian. It was agin the rules that 3'ou should 
 know me, but I've known you all, an' I've be'n 
 watchin* you drill, night after night, unbeknown to 
 you. Ill fact, it come to the same thing as my 
 
128 The Rettirn of The O Mahony. 
 
 drillin' \<^^w myself — because, unlil I taught your 
 center, Jerry, he knew about as much about it as a 
 pig knows about ironin' a shirt. Well, now you all 
 see me. I'm your boss Fenian in these parts." 
 
 " Huroo !" cried the men, waving their hats. 
 
 I don't really suppose this intelligence surprised 
 them in the least, but they fell gracefully in with 
 The O'Mahony's wish that it should seem to do so, 
 as is the polite wont of their race. 
 
 " Well," he continued, colloquially, " here we are! 
 We've been waitin' and workin' for a deuce of a 
 long time. Now, at last, they's somethin' for us to 
 d(3. It ain't my fault that it didn't come months and 
 months ago. But that don't matter now. What I 
 want to know is: are you game to follow me?" 
 
 "We are, O'Mahony!" they called out, as one 
 man. 
 
 " That's right. I guess you know me well enough 
 b3^this time to know I don't ask no man to go where 
 I'm afeared to go m3'self. There's goin' to be some 
 fightin', though, an' 3a:)u fellows are new to that 
 sort of thing. Now, I've b'en a soldier, on an' off, 
 a good share of my life. I ain't a bit braver than 
 you are, only 1 know more about what it's like than 
 you do. An' besides, I should be all-fired sorry to 
 have any of 3'e git hurt. You've all b'en as good to 
 me as 3'our skins could hold, an' I'll do m3^ best to 
 see 3'ou through this thing, safe an' sound." 
 
 " Cheers for The 0'Mahon3^ !" some one cried 
 out, excitedl3- ; but he held up a warning hand. 
 
 " Better not holler till 3'ou git out o' the woods," 
 he said, and then went on: " Scein' that }^ou've 
 never, any of you, be'n under fire, I've thought of 
 
A Talis77ian and a Traitor. 129 
 
 somethin' that'll help ^you to keep a stiff upper-lip, 
 when the time comes to need it. A good many of 
 you are O'Mahonys born; all of you come from 
 men who have followed The O'Mahony of their time 
 in battle. Well, in them old days, you know, they 
 used to carry their catJiacJi with them, to bring 'em 
 luck, same as American boys spit on their bait when 
 they're fishin'. So I've had Malachy, here, bring 
 along a box, specially made for the purpose, an' it's 
 chuck full of the bones of a family saint of mine. 
 We found him — me an' Jerry — after the wind had 
 blown part of the convent down, layin' just where 
 he was put when he died, with the crucifix in his 
 hands, and a monk's gown on. I ain't a very good 
 man, an' p'r'aps you fellows have noticed that I 
 ain't much of a hand for church, or that sort of 
 thing; but I says to myself, when I found this dead 
 an' dried body of an O'Mahony who was pious an' 
 good an* all that : * You shall come along with us, 
 friend, an' see our tussle through.' He was an 
 Irishman in the days when Irishmen run their ov^^n 
 country in their own way, an* I thought he'd be 
 glad to come along with us now, an' see whether 
 we was fit to call ourselves Irishmen, too. An* I 
 reckon you'll be glad, too, to have him with us." 
 
 Stirred by a solitary impulse, the men looked 
 toward the box at the bow — a rudely built little 
 chest, with strips of worn leather nailed to its sides 
 and top — and took off their hats. 
 
 " We are, O'Mahony !" they cried. 
 
 " Up with your sails, then !" The O'Mahony 
 shouted, with a sudden change to eager animation. 
 
 And in a twinkling the Hen Hawk had ceased dal- 
 
130 The Return of The O Mahony, 
 
 lying, and, with stiffly bowed canvas and a buoyant, 
 forward careen, was kicking the spray behind her 
 into the receding picture of the Dunmanus ch'ffs. 
 
 Nearly five hours later, a little council, or, one 
 might better say, dialogue of war, was held at the 
 stern of the speeding vessel. The rifles had long 
 since been taken out and put together, and the cart- 
 ridges which Jerry had alread}' made up distributed. 
 The men were gathered forward, ready for what- 
 ever adventure their chief had in mind. 
 
 " I'm goin' to lay to in a minute or two," confided 
 The O' Mahony to Jerry, in an undertone. 
 
 Jerry looked inquiring!}'- up and down the deserted 
 stretch of brown headlands before them. Not a sign 
 of habitation was in view. 
 
 " Is it this we've come to besayge and capture ?" 
 he asked, with incredulity. 
 
 "No. Right round that corner, though, la3^s the 
 marteller tower we're after. Up to yesterday my 
 plan was jest to sail bang up to her an' walk in. But 
 somethin' 's happened to change my notions. 
 They've sent a fellow — an American Irishman — to 
 be what they call ray ' cojutor.' I don't jest know 
 what it means ; but, whatever it is, I don't think 
 much of it. He's waitin' over there for me to land. 
 Well, now, I'm goin' to land here instid, an' take 
 five of the men with me, an' kind o' santer down 
 toward the tower from the land side, keepin' behind 
 the hedges. You'll stay on board here, with Dom- 
 inic at the helm under your orders, and only the jib 
 and mizzen-top up, and jest mosey along into the 
 cove toward the tower, keepin' your men out o' 
 
A Talisman and a Traitor. 131 
 
 sight and watchin' for me. If there's a nigger in 
 the fence, I'll smoke him out that way." 
 
 Some further directions in detail followed, and 
 then the bulk of the canvas was struck, and the 
 vessel hove to. The small boat was drawn to the 
 side, and the landing party descended to it. One 
 of their own number took the oars, for it was 
 intended to keep the boat in waiting on the beach. 
 Their guns lay in the bottom, and they were con- 
 scious of a novel weight of ammunition in their 
 pockets. They waved their hands in salution to the 
 friends and neighbors they were leaving, and then, 
 with a vigorous sweep of the oars, the boat went 
 tossing on her course to the barren, rocky shore. 
 
 The O'Mahony, curled up on the seat at the bow, 
 scanned the wide prospect with a roving scrutiny. 
 No sail was visible on the whole horizon. A drab, 
 hazy stain over the distant sky-line told only tliat 
 the track of the great Atlantic steamers lay out- 
 ward many miles. On the land side — where rough, 
 blackened boulders rose in ugly points from the lap- 
 ping water, as outposts to serried ranks of lichened 
 rocks which, in their turn, straggled backward in 
 slanting ascent to the summit, masked by shaggy 
 growths of furze — no token of human life was visible. 
 
 A landing-place was found, and the boat securely 
 drawn up on shore beyond highwater mark. 
 Then The O'Mahony led the way, gun in hand, 
 across the slippery reach of wet sea-weed, and 
 thence, by winding courses, obliquely up the hill- 
 side. He climbed from crag to crag with the agility 
 of a goat, but the practiced Muirisc men kept close 
 at his heels. 
 
132 The Retu7'7i of The O Mahony. 
 
 Arrived at the top, he paused in the shelter of the 
 furze bushes to study the situation. 
 
 It was a great and beautiful panorama upon which 
 he looked meditatively down. The broad bay lay 
 proudly in the arms of an encircling wall of cliffs, 
 whose terraced heights rose and spread with the 
 dignity of some amphitheatre of the giants. At their 
 base, the blue waters broke in a caressing ripple of 
 cream-like foam ; afar off, the sunshine crowned 
 their purple heads with a golden haze. Through 
 the center of this noble sweep of sheltering hills 
 cleft the wooded gorge of a river, whose mouth 
 kissed the strand in the screening shadow of a huge 
 mound, reared precipitously above the sea-front, 
 but linked by level stretches of sward to the main- 
 land behind. On the summit of this mound, over- 
 looking the bay, was one of those curious old mar- 
 tello towers with which England marked the low 
 comedy stage of her panic about Bonaparte's inva- 
 sion. 
 
 The tower — a squat, circular stone fort, with a 
 basement for magazine purposes, and an upper 
 story for defensive operations — kept its look-out for 
 Corsican ghosts in solitude. Considerably to this 
 side, on the edge of the cliff, was a white cluster of 
 coast-guard houses, in the yard of which two or three 
 elderly men in sailor attire could be seen sunning 
 themselves. Away in the distance, on the farther 
 bend of the bay, the roofs and walls of a cluster of 
 cottages were visible, and above these, among the 
 trees, scattered glimpses of wealthier residences. 
 
 Of all this vast spectacle The O'IMahony saw 
 nothing but the martello tower, and the several 
 
A Talisman and a Traitor. 133 
 
 approaches to it past the coast-guard houses. He 
 chose the best of these, and led the way, crouching 
 low behind the line of hedges, until the whole party 
 halted in the cover of a clump of young sycamores, 
 upon the edge of the open space leading to the 
 mound, A hundred feet away from them, at the 
 base of a jagged bowlder of black slatish substance, 
 stood a man, his face turned toward the tower and 
 the sea. It was Linsky. 
 
 After a time he lifted his hand, as if in signal to 
 some one beyond. 
 
 The O'Mahony, from his shelter behind, could 
 see that the Hen Hazvk had rounded the point, and 
 was lazily rocking her way along across the bay, 
 shoreward toward tlie tower. For a moment he 
 assumed that Linsky 's sign was intended for the 
 vessel. 
 
 Then some transitory movement on the surface 
 of the tower itself caught his wandering glance^ and 
 in the instant he had mastered every detail of a 
 most striking incident. A man in a red coat had 
 suddenly appeared at the landward window of the 
 martello tower, made a signal to Linskey, and 
 vanished like a fiash. 
 
 The O'Mahony thoughtfully raised his rifle, and 
 fastened his attention upon that portion of Linsky 's 
 breast and torso which showed above the black, 
 unshaken sight at the end of its barrel. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE RETREAT WITH THE PRISONERS. 
 
 The Hen Hawk was idly drifting into the cove 
 toward the little fishing-smack pier of stone and 
 piles which ran out like a tongue from the 
 lower end of the mound. Only two of her r.icn 
 were visible on deck. A group of gulls wheeled 
 and floated about the thick little craft as she 
 crawled landward. 
 
 These things The O'Mahony vaguely noted as a 
 background to the figure of the traitor by the rock, 
 which he studied now with a hard-lined face and 
 stony glance over the shining rifle-barrel. 
 
 He hesitated, let the weapon sink, raised it 
 again — then once for all put it down. He would 
 not shoot Linsky. 
 
 But the problem what to do instead pressed all 
 the more urgently for solution. 
 
 The O'Mahony pondered it gravely, with an alert 
 gaze scanning the whole field of the rock, the 
 towered mound and the waters beyond for helping 
 hints. All at once his face brightened in token of a 
 plan resolved upon. He whispered some hurried 
 directions to his companions, and then, gun in hand, 
 quitted his ambush. Bending low, with long, 
 
 [134] 
 
The Retreat with the Prisoners. 135 
 
 slcalthy strides, he stole along' the line of yew 
 hedge to the rear of the rock whicli sheltered 
 Linsky. He reached it without discovery, and, 
 still noiselessly, half slipped, half leaped down the 
 earthern bank beside it. At this instant his 
 shadow betrayed him. Linsky turned, his lips 
 opened to speak. Then, without a word, he reeled 
 and fell like a log under a terrific sidelong blow on 
 jaw and skull from the stock of The O'Mahony's 
 clubbed gun. 
 
 The excited watchers from the sycamore shield 
 behind saw him fall, and saw their leader spring 
 upon his sinking form and drag it backward out of 
 sight of the martello tower. Linsky was wearing a 
 noticeable russet-brown short coat. They saw The 
 O'Mahony strip this off the other's prostrate body 
 and exchange it for his own. Then he put on 
 Linsky's hat — a drab, low-crowned felt, pulled well 
 over his ej-es — and stood out boldly in the noon 
 sunlight, courting observation from the tower. 
 He took a handkerchief from his pocket and spread 
 it out upon the black surface of the rock, and 
 began pacing up and down before it with his eyes 
 on the tower. 
 
 Presently the same red-coated apparition was 
 momentarily visible at the land-side window. The 
 O'Mahony held up his hand and went through a 
 complicated gesture which should signify that he 
 was coming over to the tower, and desired the other 
 to come down and talk with him. This other gave 
 a sign of comprehension and assent, and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 The O'Mahony walked, unarmed, and with a 
 
136 The Rehtrn of The GMahony. 
 
 light, springing step, across tlie sloping sward to 
 the tower. He paused at the side of its gray wall 
 for an instant, to note that the Hen Hawk lay only a 
 few feet distant from the pier-end. Then he entered 
 the open ground-door of the tower, and found him- 
 self in a circular, low, stone room, which, though 
 whitewashed, seemed dark, after the bright sunlight 
 outside. Some barrels stood in a row against the 
 wall, and one of these was filled with soiled cotton- 
 waste which had been used for cleaning guns. The 
 newcomer helped himself to a large handful of this, 
 and took from his pocket a compact coil of stout 
 packing-cord. Then he moved toward the little iron 
 staircase at the other end of the chamber, and, lean- 
 ing with his back against it, waited. 
 
 The next minute the door above opened, and the 
 clatter of spurred boots rang out on the metal steps. 
 The O'Mahony's sidelong glance saw two legs, clad 
 in blue regimental trowsers with a red stripe, 
 descend past his head, and then the flaring vision of 
 a scarlet jacket. 
 
 " Well, they're landing, it seems," said the officer, 
 as his foot was on the bottom step. 
 
 The O'Mahony turned like a leopard, and sprang 
 forward, flinging his arm around the other's neck, 
 and jamming him backward against the steps and 
 wall, while, with his free hand, he thrust the greasy, 
 noxious rags into his mouth and face. The struggle 
 between the two strong men was fierce for a 
 moment. Then the officer, blinded and choking 
 under the gag, felt himself being helplessly bound, 
 as if with wires, so tightly were the merciless liga- 
 tures drawn round arms and legs and head — and 
 
The Retreat ivith the Prisoners. 137 
 
 then hoisted into mid-air, and ignominiously jolted 
 forward through space, with the effect of riding 
 pickaback on a giant kangaroo. 
 
 The O'Mahony emerged from the tower, bent 
 ahnost double under the burden of the stalwart 
 captive, who still kept up a vain, writhing attempt at 
 resistance. The whole episode had lasted scarcely 
 two minutes, and no one above seemed to have heard 
 the few muffled sounds of the conflict. 
 
 With a single glance toward the companions he 
 had left in hiding among the sycamores, he began 
 a hasty, staggering course diagonally down the side 
 of the mound toward the water-front. He did not 
 even stop to learn whether pursuit was on foot, or if 
 his orders had been obeyed concerning Linsky, 
 
 At the foot of the hill he had to force his way 
 through a thick thorn hedge to gain the roadway 
 leading to the pier. Weighted as he was, the task 
 was a difficult one, and when it was at last triumph- 
 antly accomplished, his clothes hung in tatters about 
 him, and he was covered with scratches. He dog- 
 gedly made his way onward, however, with bowed, 
 bare head and set teeth, stumbling along the quay to 
 the vessel's edge. The Heri Hazvk had been brought 
 up to the pier-corner, and The O'Mahony, stagger- 
 ing over the gunwale, let his burden fall, none too 
 gently, upon the deck. 
 
 A score of yards to the rear, came, at a loping 
 dog-trot, the five men he had left behind him among 
 the trees. One of them bore an armful of guns and 
 his master's discarded coat and hat. Each of the 
 others grasped either a leg or an arm of the still 
 insensible Linsky, and, as they in turn leapt upon 
 
1 38 The Return of The OMahony. 
 
 the vessel, they slung him, lace downward and 
 supinely limp, sprawling beside the officer. 
 
 With all swiftness, sails were rattled up, and the 
 weight of half-a-dozen brawny shoulders laid against 
 pike-poles to push the vessel off. 
 
 The tower had suddenl)^ taken the alarm ! The 
 reverberating " boom-m-m " of a cannon sent its 
 echoes from cliff to cliff, and the casement windows 
 under the machicolated eaves were bristling with 
 gun-barrels flashing in the noon-day sun. 
 
 For one anxious minute — even as the red-coats 
 began to issue, like a file of wasps, from the door- 
 way at the bottom of the tower — the sails hung 
 slack. Then a shifting land-breeze caught and filled 
 the sheets, the Hen Hazvk shook herself, dipped her 
 beak in the sunny waters — and glided serenelj' for- 
 ward. 
 
 She was standing out to sea, a fair hundred yards 
 from land, when the score of soldiers came to the 
 finish of their chase on the pier-end, and gazed, 
 with hot faces and short breath, upon her receding 
 hull. She was still within range, and they instinct- 
 ively half-poised their guns to shoot. But here 
 was the difficulty : The O'Mahony had lifted the 
 grotesquely bound and gagged figure of their com- 
 manding officer, and held it upright beside him at 
 the helm. 
 
 For this reason they forbore to shoot, and con- 
 tented themselves with a verbal volley of curses and 
 shouts of rage, which may have startled the circling 
 gulls, but raised only a staid momentary smile on 
 the gaunt face of The O'Mahony. He shrilled back 
 a prompt rejoinder in the teeth of the breeze, which 
 
The Retreat with the Prisoners. 139 
 
 belongs to polite literature no more than did the 
 cries to which it was a response. 
 
 Thus the Hen Hawk ploughed her steady way out 
 to open sea — until the red-coats which had been 
 dodging about on the heights above were lost to 
 sight through even the strongest glass, and the 
 brown headlands of the coast had become only dim 
 shadows of blue haze on the sky line. 
 
 Linsky had been borne below, to have his head 
 washed and bandaged, and then to sleep his swoon 
 off, if so be that he was to recover sensibility at all 
 during what remained to him of terrestrial existence. 
 The British officer had even before that been 
 relieved of the odious gun-rag gag, and some of the 
 more uncomfortable of his bonds. He had. been 
 given a seat, too, on a coil of rope beside the 
 capstan — against which he leaned in obdurate 
 silence, with his brows bent in a prolonged scowl of 
 disgust and wrath. More than one of the crew, 
 and of the non-maritime Muirisc men as well, had 
 asked him if he wanted anything, and got not so 
 much as a shake of the head in reply. 
 
 The O'Mahony paced up and down the forward 
 deck, for a long time, watching this captive of his, 
 and vaguely revolving in his thoughts the problem 
 of what to do with him. The taking of prisoners 
 had been no part of his original scheme. Indeed, 
 for that matter, nothing of this original scheme 
 seemed to be left. He had had, he realized now, a 
 distinct foreboding of Linsky's treachery. Yet its 
 discovery had as completely altered everything as 
 
140 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 if it had come upon him entirely unawares. He 
 had done none of the things which he had planned 
 to do. The cathacJi had been brought for nothing. 
 Not a shot had been fired. The martello tower 
 remained untaken. 
 
 When he ruminated upon these things he grpund 
 his teeth and pressed his thin lips together. It was 
 all Linsky's doing. He had Linsky safe below, how- 
 ever. It would be strange indeed if this fact did 
 not turn out to have interesting consequences; but 
 there would be time enough later on to deal with 
 that. 
 
 The presence of the British officer was of more 
 immediate importance. The O'Mahony walked 
 again past the capstan, and looked his prisoner over 
 askance. He was a tall man, well on in the thirties, 
 slender, yet with athletic shoulders ; his close- 
 cropped hair and short moustache were of the color 
 of flax ; his face and neck were weather-beaten and 
 browned. The face was a good one, with shapely 
 features and a straightforward expression, albeit, 
 seen now at its worst, under a scowl and the smear 
 of the rags. After much hesitation The O'Mahony 
 finally made up his mind to speak, and walked 
 around to confront the officer with an amiable nod. 
 
 " S'pose you're jest mad through an' through at 
 bein' grabbed that wa}' an' tied up like a calf goin' 
 to market, an' run out in that sort o' style," he said, 
 in a cheerfully confidential tone. " I know Fd be 
 jest bilin' ! But I hope you don't bear no malice. 
 It Jiad to be done, an' done that way, too ! You kin 
 see that yourself." 
 
 The Englishman looked up with surly brevity of 
 
The Retreat with the Prisoners. 141 
 
 glance at the speaker, and then contemptuously 
 turned his face away. He said never a word. 
 
 The O'Mahony continued, affably: 
 
 ** One thing I'm sorry for: It was pritty rough 
 to have your mouth stuffed with gun-wipers ; but^ 
 really, there wasn't anything else handy, and time 
 was pressin'. Now what d'ye say to havin' a drink 
 — jest to reuse the taste out o' yonv mouth?" 
 
 The officer kept his eyes fixed on the distant hori- 
 zon. His lips twitched under the mustache with a 
 movement that might signify temptation, but more 
 probably reflected an impulse to tell his questioner 
 to go to the devil. Whichever it was he said 
 nothing. 
 
 The O'Mahony spoke again, with the least sus- 
 picion of acerbity in his tone. 
 
 " See here," he said ; " don't flatter 3'ourself that 
 I'm worryin' much whether you take a drink or not; 
 an' I'm not a man that's much given to takin' slack 
 from anybody, whether they Avear shoulder-straps 
 or not. You're my pris'ner. I took you — took you 
 myself, an' let you have a good lively rassle for 
 your money. It wasn't jest open an' aboveboard, 
 p'r'aps, but then you was layin' there with 3^our 
 men hid, dependin' on a sneak an' a traitor to 
 deliver me an' my fellows into 3'our hands. So it 's 
 as broad as 'tis long. Only I don't want to make it 
 especially rough for you, an' I thought I'd offer 3'ou 
 a drink, an' have a talk with 3'ou about what's to be 
 done next. But if 3^ou're too mad to talk or drink, 
 either, why, I kin wait till 3'Ou cool down." 
 
 Once more the officer looked up, and this time, 
 after some hesitation, he spoke, stiffl}^ : 
 
142 The Return of The O MaJioiiy. 
 
 " I sJioiild like some whisky and water, if you have 
 it — and will be good enough," he said. 
 
 The O'Mahony brought the beverage from below 
 with his own hand. Then, as on a sudden thought, 
 he took out his knife, knelt down and cut all the 
 cords which still bound the other's limbs. 
 
 The officer got gingerly up on his feet, kicked 
 his legs out straight and stretched his arms. 
 
 " I wish you had done that before," he said, tak- 
 ing the glass and eagerly drinking off the contents. 
 
 " I dunno wh}'^ I didn't think of it," said The 
 O'Mahon}', with genuine regret. ** Fact is, 1 had so 
 many other things on my mind. This findin' your- 
 self sold out by a fellow that you trusted with your 
 life is enough to kerflummux any man," 
 
 " That ought not to surprise any Irishman, 1 
 should think," said the other, curtly. *' However 
 much Irish conspiracies may differ in other respects, 
 they're invariably alike in one thing. There's 
 always an Irishman who sells the secret to the gov- 
 ernment." 
 
 The O'Mahony made no immediate answer. 
 The bitter remark had suddenly suggested to him 
 the possibility that all the other movements in Cork 
 and Kerry, planned for that day, had also been be- 
 trayed ! He had been too gravely occupied with 
 his own concerns to give this a thought before. As 
 he turned the notion over now in his mind, it 
 assumed the form of a settled conviction of univer- 
 sal treachery. 
 
 "There's a darned sight o' truth in what you say," 
 he assented, seriousl}^ after a pause. 
 
 The tone of the reply took the English officer by 
 
TJic Rcti'eat ivitJi tJie Prisoners. 143 
 
 surprise. He looked up with more interest, and the 
 expression of cold sulkiness faded from his face. 
 " You got off with great luck," he said. " If they 
 had many more like you. perhaps the}' might do 
 something worth while. You're an Irish-American, 
 I fancy? And you have seen military s'^rvice ?'* 
 
 The O'Mahony answered both questions with an 
 affirmative nod. 
 
 " Then I'm astonished," the officer went on, " that 
 you and men like you, who know what war is really 
 like, shoidd come over here, and spend your money 
 and risk your lives and libert}', without the hope of 
 doing anything more than cause us a certain amount 
 of bother. As a soldier, you must know that you 
 have no earthly chance of success. The odds are 
 ten thousand to one against you." 
 
 The O'Mahony's e)'es permitted themselves a 
 momentary twinkle. "Well, now, mister," he said, 
 carelessl}' ; " I dunno so much about that. Take 
 you an' me, now, f'r instance, jest as we stand : I 
 don't reckon that bettin' men 'u'd precisely tumble 
 over one another in the rush to put their money on 
 yoii. Maybe I'm no judge, but that's the way it 
 looks to me. What do you think 3'ourself, now — 
 honest Injun ?" 
 
 The Englishman was not responsive to this light 
 view of the situation. He frowned again, and pet- 
 tishly shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Of course, I did not refer to that!'' he said. 
 " My misadventure is ridiculous and — ah — person- 
 ally inconvenient — but it — ah — isn't war. You take 
 nothing by it." 
 
 " Oh, yes — I've taken a good deal — too much, in 
 
144 ^'^^^ Rehtrn of TJie O' Makoiiy. 
 
 fact," said The O'Mahony, going off into a brown 
 study over the burden of his acquisitions which his 
 words conjured up. He paced up and down beside 
 his prisoner for a minute or two. Then he halted, 
 and turned to him for counsel. 
 
 *' What do 3'ou think, yourself, would be the best 
 thing for me to do with you, now 't I've got you ?" 
 he asked, 
 
 " Oh — really ! — really, I must decline to advise 
 with you upon the subject," the other replied, 
 frostily. 
 
 " On the one hand," mused The O'Mahony, aloud, 
 " you got scooped in afore you had time to fire a 
 shot, or do any mischief at all — so 't we don't owe 
 you no grudge, so to speak. Well, that's in your 
 favor. And then there's your mouth rammed full 
 of gun- waste — that ought to count some on your 
 side, too." 
 
 The Englishman looked at him, curiosity strug- 
 gling with dislike in his glance, but said nothing. 
 
 " On t' other hand," pursued The O'Mahony, 
 " you ain't quite a prisoner of war, because you was 
 openly dealin' with a traitor and spy, and playin' to 
 come the gouge game over me an' my men. That's 
 a good deal ag'in' you. For sake of argument, let's 
 say the thing is a saw-off, so far as what's happened 
 already is concerned. The big question is : What's 
 goin' to happen ?" 
 
 " Really — " the officer began again, and then 
 closed his lips abruptly. 
 
 " Yes," the other went on, " that's where the shoe 
 pinches. I s'pose now, if I was to land you on the 
 coast yonder, anywhere, you wouldn't give your 
 
TJie Ret J' eat with the Prisoners. 145 
 
 word to not start an alarm for forty-eight hours, 
 would you?" 
 
 "Certainly not!" said the Englishman, with 
 prompt decision. 
 
 " No, I thought not. Of course, the alarm 's been 
 given hours ago, but your men didn't see me, or git 
 enough of a notion of my outfit to make their 
 description dangerous. It's different with you." 
 
 The officer nodded his head to indicate that he 
 was becoming interested in the situation, and saw 
 the point. 
 
 " So that really the most sensible thing I could 
 do, for myself and my men, *u'd be to lash you to a 
 keg of lead and drop you overboard — wouldn't it, 
 now ?" 
 
 The Englishman kept his eyes fixed on the middle 
 distance of gently, heaving waters, and did not 
 answer the question. The O'Mahony, watching his 
 unmoved countenance with respect, made pretense 
 of waiting for a reply, and leaned idly against the 
 capstan to fill his pipe. After a long pause he was 
 forced to break the silence. 
 
 " It sounds rough," he said ; " but it's the safest 
 wa}' out of the thing. Got a wife an' family ?" 
 
 The officer turned for the fraction of an instant to 
 scrowl indignantly, the while he snapped out: 
 
 " That's none of your d — d business !" 
 
 Whistling softly to himself, with brows a trifle 
 lifted to express surprise. The O'Mahony walked 
 the whole length of the deck and back, pondering 
 this reply : 
 
 " I've made up my mind," he announced at last, 
 upon his return. " We'll land you in an hour or so 
 
146 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 — or at least give you the dingey and some food and 
 drink, and let you row yourself in, sa}-, six or seven 
 miles. You can manage it all right before nightfall 
 — an' I'll take my chances on your startin' the hue- 
 an'-cry." 
 
 " Understand, I promise nothing !" interposed the 
 other. 
 
 "No, that's all right," said The O'Mahony. 
 " Mind, if I thought there was any wa}^ by which 
 you was likely to get these men o' mine into trouble, 
 I'd have no more scruple about jumpin' 30U inro the 
 water there than I would about pullin'a fish out of it. 
 But, as I figure it out, they don't stand in any dan- 
 ger. As for me — well, as I said, I'll take my 
 chances. It '11 make me a heap o' trouble, I dare say, 
 but I deserve that. This trip o' mine's been a fool- 
 performance from the word ' go,' and it's only fair I 
 should pay for it." 
 
 The Englisliman looked up at the yawl rigging, 
 taut under the strain of filled sails; at the men hud- 
 dled together forward ; last of all at his captor. 
 His eyes softened. 
 
 " You're not half a bad sort," he said, " in — ah — 
 spite of the gun-waste. I should think it likely that 
 your men would never be troubled, if they go 
 home, and — ah — behave sensibly." 
 
 The O'Mahony nodded as if a pledge had been 
 given. 
 
 " That's what I want," he said. " They are 
 simply good fellows who jest went into this thing 
 on my account." 
 
 *' But in all human probability," the officer went 
 
The Retreat zvith the Prisoners. 14./ 
 
 jn, "j'ou will be caught and punished. It will be 
 X miracle if you escape." 
 
 The O'Mahony blew smoke from his pipe with an 
 incredulous grin, and the other went on : 
 
 " It does not rest alone with me, I assure you. A 
 minute detailed description of your person. Captain 
 Harrier, has been in our possession for two days." 
 
 " I-gad ! that reminds me," broke in The 
 O'Mahony, his face darkening as he spoke — " the 
 man who gave you that name and that description 
 is lyin' down-stairs with a cracked skull." 
 
 " I don't know that it is any part of my duty," 
 said the officer ; " to interest myself in that person, 
 or — ah — what befalls him." 
 
 " No," said The O'Mahony, " I guess not! I guess 
 not /" 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE REINTERMENT OF LINSKY. 
 
 The red winter sun sank to hide itself below the 
 waste of Atlantic waters as the Hen Hawk, still held 
 snugly in the grasp of the breeze, beat round the 
 grim cliffs of Three-Castle Head, and entered Dun- 
 manus Ba}'. The Englishman had been set adrift 
 hours before, and by this time, no doubt, the tele- 
 graph had spread to every remotest point on the 
 Southern and Western coast warning descriptions 
 of the vessel and its master. Perhaps even now" 
 their winged flight into the west was being followed 
 from Cape Clear, which la}' behind them in the mistv 
 and darkening distance. Still the Hen Hawk's 
 course was confidently shaped homeward, for many 
 miles of bog and moorland separated Muirisc from 
 any electric current. 
 
 The O'Mahony had hung in meditative solitude 
 over the tiller for hours, watching the squatting 
 groups of retainers playing silently at " spoil-five " 
 on the forward deck, and revolving in his mind the 
 thousand and one confused and clashing thoughts 
 which this queer new situation suggested. As the 
 [148] 
 
The Reintennent of Liiisky. 14.9 
 
 sun went down he called to Jerry, and the two, 
 standing- togethei" at the stern, looked upon the 
 great ball of fire descending behind the gray expanse 
 of trackless waters, without a word. Rude and 
 untutored as they were, both were conscious, in 
 some vague way, that when this sun should rise 
 again their world would be a different thing. 
 
 "Well, pard," said the master, when only a bar 
 of flaming orange marked where the day had gone, 
 *' it '11 be a considerable spell, 1 reckon, afore 1 see 
 that sort o' thing in these waters again." 
 
 " Is it I'avin' the country we are, thin ?" asked 
 Jerry, in a sympathetic voice. 
 
 "No, not exactly. You'll stay here. But /cut 
 sticks to-morrow." 
 
 " Sure, then, it's not alone 3^e'll be goin'. Egor ! 
 man, didn't I take me Bible-oath niver to I'ave yeh, 
 the longest day ye lived ? Ah — now, don't be 
 talkin' !" 
 
 " That's all right, Jerry — but it's got to be that 
 way," replied The O'Mahony, in low regretful 
 tones. " I've figured it all out. It '11 be mighty 
 tough to go off by myself without you, pard, but I 
 can't leave the thing without somebody to run it 
 for me, and you are the only one that fills the bill. 
 Now don't kick about it, or make a fuss, or think 
 I'm using you bad. Jest say to yourself — ' Now 
 he's my friend, an' I'm his'n, and if he says I can be 
 of most use to him here, why that settles it.' Take 
 the helm for a minute, Jerry. I want to go for'ard 
 an' say a word to the men." 
 
 The O'Mahony looked down upon the unintelli- 
 gible game being pla^^ed with cards so dirty that he 
 
150 The Return of The G Mahoiiy. 
 
 could not tell them apart, and worn by years of use 
 to the shape of an Q^%, and waited with a musing 
 smile on his face till the deal was exhausted. The 
 players and onlookers formed a compact group at 
 his knees, and they still sat or knelt or lounged on 
 the deck as they listened to his words. 
 
 " Boys," he said, in the gravely gentle tone which 
 somehow he had learned in speaking to these men 
 of Muirisc, " I've been tellin' Jerry somethin' that 
 )'Ou've got a right to know, too. I'm goin' to light 
 out to-morrow — that is, quit Ireland for a spell. It 
 may be for a good while — maybe not. That depends. 
 I hate like the very devil to go — but it's better for 
 me to skip than to be lugged off to jail, and tlicn to 
 state's prison — better for me an' better for you. If 
 I get out, the rest of you won't be bothered. Now 
 — hold on a minute till I git through ! — now between 
 us we've fixed up Muirisc so that it's a good deal 
 easier to live there than it used to be. There'll be 
 more mines opened up soon, an' the lobster fact'ry 
 an' the fishin' are on a good footin* now. I'm goin' 
 to leave Jerry to keep track o' things, along with 
 O'Daly, an' they'll let me know regular how matters 
 are workin', so you won't suffer by my not bein' 
 here." 
 
 " Ah — thin — it's our hearts '11 be broken entirely 
 wid the grief," wailed Dominic, and the others, seiz- 
 ing this note of woe as their key, broke forth in a 
 chorus of lamentation. 
 
 They scrambled to their feet with uncovered 
 heads, and clustered about him, jostling one another 
 for possession of his hands, and affectionately pat- 
 ting his shoulders and stroking his sleeves, the 
 
The Reinterment of Linsky. 151 
 
 while they strove to express in their own tongue, 
 or in the poetic phrases they had fashioned for them- 
 selves out of a practical foreign language, the 
 sincerity of their sorrow. But the Irish peasant has 
 been schooled through many generations to face the 
 necessity o( exile, and to view the breaking of house- 
 holds, the separation of kinsmen, the recurring 
 miseries attendant upon an endless exodus across 
 the seas, with the philosophy of the inevitable. 
 None of these men dreamed of attempting to dis- 
 suade The O'Mahony from his purpose, and they 
 listened with melancholy nods of comprehension 
 when he had secured silence, and spoke again : 
 
 "You can all see that it's^<7/ to be," he said, in 
 conclusion. " And now I want you to promise me 
 this: 1 don't expect you'll have trouble with the 
 police. They won't get over from Balleydehob for 
 another day or two — and by that time I shall be 
 gone, and the Hen Hazvk, too — an' if they bring over 
 the dingey I gave the Englishman to land in, why, of 
 course there won't be a man, woman or child in 
 Muirisc that ever laid eyes on it before." 
 
 " Sure, Heaven 'u'd blast the eyes that 'u'd recog- 
 nize that same boat," said one, and the others mur- 
 mured their confidence in the hypothetical miracle. 
 
 " Well, then, what 1 want you to promise is this : 
 That you'll go on as you have been doin', workin' 
 hard, keepin' sober, an' behavin' yourselves, an' that 
 you'll mind what Jerry says, same as if I said it my- 
 self. An' more than that— an' now this is a thing 
 I'm specially sot on — that you'll look upon that little 
 gal, Kate O'Mahony, as if she was a daughter of 
 mine, an' watch over her, an' make things pleasant 
 
152 The Rettirn of The O Mahony. 
 
 for her, an' — an' treat iier like the apple of your 
 eye." 
 
 If there was an apple in The O'Mahony's eye, it 
 was for the moment hidden in a vail of moisture. 
 The faces of the men and their words alike 
 responded to his emotion. 
 
 Then one of them, a lean and unkempt old mar- 
 iner, who even in this keen February air kept his 
 hairy breast and corded, sunburnt throat exposed, 
 and whose hawk-like eyes had flashed through fifty 
 years of taciturnity over heaven knows what wild 
 and fantastic dreams born of the sea, spoke up : 
 
 " Sir, by your I'ave, I'll mesilf be her bod3'gyard 
 and her servant, and tache her the wather as befits 
 her blood, and keep the very sole of her fut from 
 harrum." 
 
 " Right you are, Murphy," said The O'Mahony. 
 " Make that your job." 
 
 No one remembered ever having heard Murphy 
 speak so much at one time before. To the surprise 
 of the group, he had still more to say. 
 
 " And, sir — I'm not askin' it be way of ricom- 
 pinse," the fierce-faced old boatman went on — " but 
 w'u'd your honor grant us wan requist ?" 
 
 '• You've only got to spit 'er out," was the hearty 
 response. 
 
 "Thin, sir, give us over the man ye've got down 
 stairs." 
 
 The O'Mahony's face changed its expression. He 
 thought for a moment ; then asked : 
 
 " What to do ?" 
 
 " To dale wid this night !" said Murphy, sol- 
 emnly. 
 
The Reinter incut of Liiisky. 153 
 
 There was a pause of silence, and then the clamor 
 of a dozen eager voices chishing one against the 
 other in the cold wintry twilight: 
 
 " Give him over, O'Mahony !" " L'ave him to 
 us !" " Don't be soilin' yer own hands wid the 
 likes of him !" *' Oh, l'ave him to us !" these voices 
 pleaded. 
 
 The O'Mahony hesitated for a minute, then slow- 
 ly shook his head. 
 
 " No, boys, don't ask it," he said. " I'd like to 
 oblige you, but 1 can't. He's my meat — I can't give 
 him up !" 
 
 " W'u'd yer honor be for sparin' him, thin?" 
 asked one, with incredulity and surprise. 
 
 The O'Mahony of Muirisc looked over the excited 
 group which surrounded him, dimly recognizing 
 the strangeness of the weirdly interwoven qualities 
 which run in the blood of Heber — the soft tender- 
 ness of nature which through tears would swear 
 loyalty unto death to a little child, shifting on the 
 instant to the ferocity of the wolf-hound burying 
 its jowl in the throat of its quarry. Beyond them 
 were gathering the sea mists, as by enchantment 
 the}^ had gathered ages before with vain intent 
 to baffle the sons of Milesius, and faintly in the half- 
 light lowered the beetling cliffs whereon The 
 O'Mahonys, true sons of those sea-rovers, had 
 crouched watching for their prey this thousand of 
 years. He could almost feel the ancestral taste of 
 blood in his mouth as he looked, and thought upon 
 his answer. 
 
 " No, don't worry about his gitting off," he said, 
 at last. " I'll take care of that. You'll never see 
 
154 ^''^''? Return of The O' Mahony. 
 
 him again — no one on top of this earth '11 ever lay 
 eyes on him again." 
 
 With visible reluctance the men forced themselves 
 to accept this compromise. The He^i Hazuk plunged 
 doggedly along up the bay. 
 
 Three hours later, The O'Mahony and Jerry, not 
 without much stumbling and difificult}^ reached the 
 strange subterranean chamber where they had 
 found the mummy of the monk. They bore 
 between them the inert body of a man, whose head 
 was enveloped in bandages, and whose hands, hang- 
 ing limp at arm's length, were discolored with the 
 grime and mold from the stony path over which 
 they had dragged. They threw this burden on the 
 mediaeval bed, and, drawing long breaths of relief, 
 turned to light some candles in addition to the 
 lantern Jerry had borne, and to kindle a fire on the 
 hearth. 
 
 They talked in low murmurs meanwhile. The 
 O'Mahony had told Jerry something of what part 
 Linsky had played in his life. Jerry, without being 
 informed with more than the general outlines of the 
 story, was able swiftly to comprehend his master's 
 attitude toward the man — an attitude compounded 
 of hatred for his treachery of to-day and gratitude 
 of the services which he had unconsciously per- 
 formed in the past. He understood to a nicety, too, 
 what possibilities there were in the plan which The 
 O'Mahony now unfolded to him, as the fire began 
 crackling up the chimney. 
 
 " I can answer for his gittin' over that crack in 
 
The Reinterment of Lmsky. 155 
 
 the head," said The O'Mahon}^ heating and stirring 
 a tin cup full of balsam over the flame. " Once I've 
 fixed this bandage on, we can bring him to with 
 ammonia and whisky, an' give him some brotli. 
 He'll live all right — an' he'll live right here, d'ye 
 mind. Whatever else happens, he's never to git 
 outside, an' he's never to know where he is. 
 Nobody but you is to so much as dream of his bein' 
 down here — be as mum as an oyster about it, won't 
 you ? You 're to have sole charge of him, d'ye see 
 — the only human being he ever lays eyes on." 
 
 "Egor! I'll improve his moind wid grand dis- 
 courses on trayson and informin' an' betrayin' his 
 oath, and the like o* that, till he'll be fit to die wid 
 shame." 
 
 " No — I dunno — p'r'aps it 'd be better not to let 
 him know we know — jest make him think we 're his 
 friends, hidin' him away from the police. However, 
 that can take care of itself. Say whatever you like 
 to him, only — " 
 
 " Only don't lay a hand on him — is it that ye were 
 thinkin'?" broke in Jerry. 
 
 " Yes, don't lick him," said The O'Mahony. " He's 
 had about the worst bat on the head I ever saw a 
 a man git an' live, to start with. No — be decent 
 with him, an' give him enough to eat. Might let 
 him have a moderate amount o' drink, too." 
 
 " I suppose there '11 be a great talk about his van- 
 ishin' out o' sight all at wance among the Brother- 
 hood," suggested Jerry. 
 
 " That don't matter a darn," said the other. " Jest 
 you go ahead, an' tend to 3'our own knittin', an' let 
 the Brotherhood whistle. We've paid a good stiff 
 
156 The Return of TJic G Mahoiiy. 
 
 price to learn what Fenianisra is worth, and we've 
 learned enough. Not any more on my plate, thankee ! 
 Jest give the bo3'Sthe word that the jig is up — that 
 there won't be any more drillin' or meanderin' 
 round generally. And speakin' o' drink — " 
 
 A noise from the curtained bed in the alcove 
 interrupted The O'Mahony's remarks upon this 
 important subject. Turning, the two men saw that 
 Linsky had risen on the couch to a half-sitting pos- 
 ture, and, with a tremulous hand, drawing aside the 
 fcU-iike draperies, was staring wildly at them out of 
 blood-shot eyes. 
 
 " For the love of God, what is it ?" he asked, in a 
 faint and moaning voice. 
 
 " Lay down there ! — quick !" called out The 
 O'Mahony, sternly ; and Linsky fell back prone 
 without a protest. 
 
 The O'Mahony had finished melting his gum, and 
 he spread it now salve-like upon a cloth. Then he 
 walked over to where the wounded man lay, with 
 marvel-stricken eyes wandering over the archaic 
 vaulted ceiling. 
 
 " Is it dead I am ?" he groaned, with a vacuous 
 glance at the new-comer. 
 
 " No, you've been badly hurt in battle," said the 
 other, in curt tones. " We can pull you through, 
 perhaps ; but you've got to shut up an' lay still. 
 Hold your head this way a little more — that's it." 
 
 The injured man submitted to the operation, for 
 the most part, with apparently closed eyes, but his 
 next remark showed that he had been gathering his 
 wits together. 
 
 " And how's the battle gone, Captain Harrier?" 
 
The Reinterment of Linsky. 157 
 
 he suddenly asked. " Is Oireland free from the 
 oppressor at last?" 
 
 "No!" said The O'Mahony, with dry brevity — 
 " but she'll be free from you for a spell, or I miss my 
 guess most consumedly." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "TAKE ME WITH YOU, O'MAHONY." 
 
 The fair-weather promise of the crimson sunset 
 was not kept. The morning broke bloodshot and 
 threatening, witli dark, jagg-ed storm-clouds scud- 
 ding angrily across the sky, and a truculent unrest 
 moving the waters of the bay to lash out at the 
 rocks, and snarl in rising murmurs among them- 
 selves. 
 
 Every soul in Muirisc came soon enough to share 
 this disquietude with the elements. Such evil tid- 
 ings as these, that The O'Mahony was quitting the 
 country, seemed veritably to take to themselves 
 wings. The village, despite the fact that the fishing 
 season had not yet arrived, and that there was 
 nothing else to do, could not lie abed on such a 
 morning, much less sleep. Even the tiniest children, 
 routed out from their nests of strau^ close beside the 
 chimney by the unwonted bustle, saw that some- 
 thing was the matter. 
 
 Mrs. Fergus O'J^Iahony heard the intelligence at 
 a somewhat later hour, even as she dallied with that 
 second cup of coffee, which, in her own phrase, put 
 [158J 
 
" Take me ivith yoit, OMahojiy." 159 
 
 a tail to the breakfast. It was brought to her by a 
 messeng-er from the convent, who came to say that 
 the Ladies of the Hostage's Tears desired her 
 immediate presence upon an urgent matter. Mrs. 
 Fergus easily enough put two and two together, as 
 she donned her bonnet and ^r<?<f/// shawl. It was The 
 O'JNIahony's departure that was to be discussed, and 
 the nuns were right in calling that important. She 
 looked critically over the irregular walls of the 
 castle, as she passed it on her wa)' to the convent. 
 Here she had been born ; here she had lived in peace 
 and plent}', after her brother's death, until the heir 
 from America came to turn her out. Who knew? 
 Perhaps she was to go back again, after all. Mrs. 
 Fergus agreed that the news was highly important. 
 
 The first glance which she threw about her, after 
 she had been ushered in the reception-hall, revealed 
 to her that not even she had guessed the full im- 
 portance of what was toward. 
 
 The three nuns sat on their accustomed bench at 
 one side of the fire, and behind them, in his familiar 
 chimney-corner, palsied old Father Harrington 
 lolled and half-dozed over the biscuit he was nib- 
 bling to stay his stomach after mass. At the table, 
 before a formidable array of papers, was seated 
 Cormac O'Daly, and at his side sat the person 
 whose polite name seemed to be Diarmid MacEgan, 
 but whom Muirisc knew and delighted in as Jerry. 
 Mrs. Fergus made a mental note of surprise at see- 
 ing him seated in such company, and then carried 
 her gaze on to cover the principal personage in 
 the room. It was The O'Mahony, looking very 
 grave and preoccupied, and who stood leaning 
 
i6o The Rehirn of The GMahony. 
 
 against the chimney-mantel like a proprietor, who 
 welcomed her with a nod and motioned her to a 
 seat. 
 
 It was he, too, who broke the silence which sol- 
 emnly enveloped the conference. 
 
 " Cousin Maggie," he said, in explanation, to her, 
 " we've got together this little family part3^so early 
 in the mornin' for the reason that time is precious. 
 I'm goin' awa}^ — for my health — in an hour or two, 
 an' there are things to be arranged before I go. I 
 may be away for years; maybe 1 sha'n't ever come 
 back." 
 
 " Sure the suddenness of it's fit to take one's 
 breath away!" Mrs. Fergus exclaimed, and put her 
 plump white hand to her bosom. " I've nerves that 
 bad, O'Mahony," she added. 
 
 " Yes, it is a sudden sort of spurt," he assented. 
 
 " And it's your health, you say ! Sure, I used to 
 look on you as the mortial picture of a grand, strong 
 man." 
 
 "You can't always tell by looks," said The 
 O'Mahony, gravely. " But — the point 's this. I'm 
 leaving O'Daly and Jerry here, as sort o' joint 
 bosses of the circus, during my absence. Daly is to 
 be ringmaster, so to speak, while Jerry '11 be in the 
 box-office, and kind o* keep an eye to the whole 
 show, generally." 
 
 " I lamint, sir, that I'm not able to congratulate 
 you on the felicity of your mettyphor,'' said Cor- 
 mac 0"Daly, whose swart, thin-visaged little face 
 wore an expression more glum than ever. 
 
 " At any rate, you git at my meaning. I have 
 signed two powers of attorney, drawn up by O'Daly 
 
" Take vie with you, O MaJionyy i6i 
 
 here as a lawyer, which gives them power to run 
 things for me, while I'm away. Everything is set 
 out in the papers, straight and square. I'm leaving 
 my will, too, with O'Daly, an' that I wanted speci- 
 ally to speak to you about. I've got just one heir 
 in this whole world, an' that's your little gal, Katie. 
 P'r'aps it 'II be as well not to say anything to her 
 about it, but I want you all to know. An' 1 want 
 you an' her to move back into my house, an 'live 
 there jest as you did afore I come. I've spoken to 
 Mrs. Sullivan about it — she's as good as a farrow 
 cow in a family — an' she'll stay right along with you, 
 an' look after things. An' Jerry here, he'll see that 
 your wheels are kept greased — financially, I mean — 
 an' — I guess that's about all. Only look out for that 
 little gal o' yours as well as you know how — that's 
 all. An' I wish — I wish you'd send her over to me, 
 to my house, in half an hour or so — jest to say 
 good-bye." 
 
 The O'Mahony's voice had trembled under the 
 suspicion of a quaver at the end. He turned now, 
 abruptly, took up his hat from the table, and left 
 the room, closely followed by Jerry. O'Daly rose 
 as if to accompany them, hesitated for a moment, 
 and then seated himself again. 
 
 The mother superior had heretofore preserved an 
 absolute silence. She bent her glance now upon 
 Mrs. Fergus, and spoke slowly : 
 
 " Ah, thin, Margaret O'Mahony," she said, " d'ye 
 mind in your day of good fortune that, since the 
 hour you were born, ye've been the child of our 
 prayers and the object of our ceaseless interces- 
 sions ?" 
 
1 62 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 Mrs. Fergus put out her rounded lower lip a 
 little and, rising from her chair, walked slowly over 
 to the little cracked mirror on the wall, to run a 
 correcting finger over the escalloped line of her 
 crimps. 
 
 " Ay, " she said at last, " I mind many things 
 bechune me and you — not all of thim prayers 
 either." 
 
 While Mrs. Sullivan and Jerry were hard at 
 work packing the scant wardrobe and meager per- 
 sonal belongings of the master for his journey, and 
 the greater part of the population of Muirisc stood 
 clustered on the little qua}'^, watching the Hen Hawk, 
 bemoaning their own impending bereavement, and 
 canvassing the incredible good luck of Malach}-, 
 who was to be the companion in this voyage to 
 unknown parts — while the wind rose outside, and 
 the waters tumbled, and the sky grew overcast with 
 the sullen menace of a winter storm — The O'Mahon}- 
 walked slowly, hand in hand with little Kate, 
 through the deserted churchyard. 
 
 The girl had been weeping, and the tears still 
 blurred her eyes and stained her red cheeks with 
 woe-begone smudges. She clung to her com- 
 panion's hand, and pressed her head ever and again 
 against his arm, but words she had none. The man 
 walked with his eyes bent on the ground and his lips 
 tightly closed together. So the two strolled in 
 silence till they had passed out from the place of 
 tombs, and, following a path which wound its way 
 
" Take me with yo7i, O' Mahojiy." i6 
 
 vD 
 
 miniature defiles among the rocks, had gained the 
 summit of the cliff-wall, under whose shelter the 
 hamlet of Muirisc had for ages nestled. Here they 
 halted, looking down upon the gray ruins of castle, 
 church and convent, upon thatched cottage roofs, 
 the throng on the quay, the breakers' line of foam 
 against the rocks, and the darkened expanse of 
 white-capped waters beyond. 
 
 " Don't take on so, sis, any more ; that's a good 
 gal," said The O'Mahony, at last, drawing the child's 
 head to his side, and gently stroking her black hair. 
 " It ain't no good, an' it breaks me all up. One 
 thing I'm glad of : It's going to be rough outside. 
 It seems to me I couldn't 'a' stood it to up an' sail 
 off in smooth, sunshiny weather. The higher she 
 rolls the better I'll like it. It's the same as havin' 
 somethin' to bite on, when you've got the tooth- 
 ache." 
 
 Kate, for answer, rubbed her head against his 
 sleeve, but said nothing. 
 
 . After a long pause, he went on : " 'Tain't as if I 
 jlivas goin' to be gone forever an' a day. Why, I 
 may be poppin' in any minit, jest when you least 
 expect it. That's why I want you to study your 
 lessons right along, every day, so 't when I turn up 
 you'll be able to show off A number one. Maybe 
 you 're bankin' on my not bein' able to tell whether 
 your book learnin' is * all wool an' a yard wide' or 
 not. I didn't get much of a show at school, I know. 
 'Twas ' root hog or die ' with me when I was a boy. 
 But I'm jest a terror at askin' questions. Why, I've 
 busted up whole schools afore now, puttin' conun- 
 
164 The Return of The O' Mahony. 
 
 drums to 'm that even the school-ma'ams couldn't 
 answer. So you look out for me when I come." 
 
 The gentle effort at cheerfulness bore fruit not 
 after its kind. Kate's little breast began to heave, 
 and she buried her face against his coat. 
 
 The O'Mahony looked wistfully down upon the 
 village and the bay, patting the child's shoulder in 
 silent token of sj'mpathy. Then an idea occurred 
 to him. With his finger under her chin, he lifted 
 Kate's face till her glance met hi:. 
 
 "Oh, by the way," he said, with animation," have 
 you got so you can write pritty good ?" 
 
 The girl nodded her head, and looked away. 
 
 " Why, then, look here," he exclaimed, heartily, 
 " what's the matter with your writin' me real letters, 
 sa}'^ every few weeks, tellin' me all that's goin' on. 
 an' keepin' me posted rigiit up to date? Why, 
 that's jest splendid ! It'll be almost the same as if 
 I wasn't away at all. Eh, won't it, skeezucks, eh?" 
 
 He playfully put his arm around her shoulder, 
 and they began the descent of the path. The sug- 
 gestion had visibly helped to lighten her little heart, 
 though she had said not a word. 
 
 "Oh, yes," he went on, "an' another thing I 
 wanted to say: It ain't a thing that you must ever 
 ask about — or ought to know anything about it — 
 but we went out yisterday an' made fools of our- 
 selves, an' if I hadn't had the luck of a brindled 
 heifer, we 'd all been in jail to da3\ Of course, I 
 don't know for certain, but I shouldn't wonder if 
 my luck had something to do with a — what d'ye 
 call it ? — yes, cathach — that we toted along with us. 
 \yell, I'm goin' to turn that box over for you to 
 
" Take uie with you, O Mdluniyy 165 
 
 keep, when we git down to the house. 1 wouldn't 
 open if it I was you — it ain't a pritt}' sight for a little 
 gal — just a few dead men's bones — but the box itself 
 is all right, an' it can't do 3'ou no harm, to say the 
 least. K\\\ moreover — why, here it is in my pocket 
 — here's a ring we found on his thumb — cur'ous 
 enough — that you must keep for me, too. That 
 makes it like what we read about in the story-books, 
 eh ? A ring that the beauteous damsel, with the 
 hay-colored hair, sends to Alonzo when she gets in 
 trouble, eh, sis ?" 
 
 The child took the ring — a quaintly shaped thin 
 band of gold, with a carved precious stone of golden- 
 brownish hue — and put it in her pocket. Still she 
 said nothing. 
 
 At ten in the forenoon, in the presence of all 
 Muirisc, The O'Mahon}^ at last gently pushed his 
 way through the throng of keening old women and 
 excited younger friends, and stepped over the gun- 
 wale upon the deck, and Jerry and O'Daly restrained 
 those who would have foHovved him. He had forced 
 his face into a half-smile, to which he clung reso- 
 lutely almost to the end. He had offered many 
 parting injunctions: to work hard and drink little ; 
 to send the cliildren to school; to keep an absolute 
 silence to all outsiders, whether from Skull, Goleen, 
 Crookhaven, or elsewhere, concerning him and his 
 departure — and many other things. He had shaken 
 hands a hundred times across the narrow bar of 
 water between the boat and pier ; and now the men 
 in the dingey out in front had the hawser taut, and 
 the Hen Hawk was moving under its strain, when a 
 
1 66 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 shrill cry raised itself above the general clamor of 
 lamentation and farewells. 
 
 At that moment of the vessel's stirring, little Kate 
 O'Mahony broke from the group in which her 
 mother and the nuns stood digniliedl}' apart, and 
 ran wildly to the pier's edge, where Jerry caught 
 and for the moment held her, struggling, over the 
 widening chasm between the boat and the quay. 
 Her power to speak had come at last. 
 
 " Take me with you, O'Mahony !" she cried, fight- 
 ing like a wild thing to free herself. " Oh, take me 
 with 3'ou ! You promised! You promised! Take 
 me with you !" 
 
 It was then that The O' Mahony 's face lost, in a 
 flash, its perfunctory smile. He half stretched out 
 his hand — then swung himself on his heel and 
 marched to the prow of the vessel. He did not 
 look back again upon Muirisc. 
 
 An hour later a police-car, bearing five armed 
 men, halted at the point on the mountain-road from 
 Durrus where Muirisc comes first in view. The 
 constables, gazing out upon the broad expanse of 
 Dunmanus Bay, saw on the distant water-line a 
 yawl-rigged coasting vessel, white against the 
 stormy sk}^ Some chance whim suggested to their 
 minds an interest in this craft. 
 
 But when they descended into Muirisc they could 
 not find a soul who had the remotest notion of what 
 a yawl-rig meant, much less of the identity of the 
 lugger which, even as they spoke, had passed out 
 of sight. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE LADY OF MUIRISC. 
 
 In the parish of Kihiioe — which they pronounce 
 with a soft prolonged " moo-h," like the murmuring 
 call of one of their little bright-eyed, black-coated 
 cows — the inhabitants are wont to say that the next 
 parish is America. 
 
 It is an ancient and sterile and storm-beaten par- 
 ish, this Kilmoe, thrust out in expiation of some 
 forgotten sin or other to exist beyond the pale of 
 human companionship. Its sons and daughters, 
 scattered in tiny, isolated hamlets over its barren 
 area, hear never a stranger's voice — and their own 
 speech is slow and low of tone because the real 
 right to make a noise there belongs to the shriekino- 
 gulls and the wild, west wind and the towering, 
 foam-fanged waves, which dashed themselves, in 
 tireless rivalry with the thunder, against its cliffs. 
 
 Slow, too, in growth and ripening are the wits of 
 the men of Kilmoe. They must have gray hairs 
 before they are accounted more than boys; and 
 when, from sheer old age they totter into the grave, 
 the feeling of the parish is that they have been 
 untimely cut off just as they were beginning to get 
 their brains in fair working: order. Very often 
 
 [167] 
 
i63 The Return of The G Mahony. ^ 
 
 these aged men, if they dally and loiter on the way 
 to the tomb in the hope of becoming still wiser, are 
 given a sharp and peremptory push forward by 
 starvation. It would not do for the men of Kilmoe 
 to know too much. If they did, they would all go 
 somewhere else to live — and then what would be- 
 come of their landlord? 
 
 Kilmoe once had a thriving and profitable industr}-, 
 whereby a larger population than it now contains 
 kept body and soul together in more intimate aiid 
 comfortable relations than at present exist. The 
 outlay involved in this industry was very small, and 
 the returns, though not governed by any squalid, 
 modern law of percentages, were, on the whole, 
 large. 
 
 It was all very simple. Whenever a stormy, 
 wind-swept night set in, the men of Kilmoe tied a 
 lighted lantern on the neck of a cow, and drove the 
 animal to walk along the strand underneath the sea- 
 cliffs. This light, rising and sinking with the move- 
 ments of the cow, bore a quaint and interesting 
 resemblance to the undulations of an illuminated 
 buoy or boat, rocked on gentle waves ; and strange 
 seafaring crafts bent their course in confidence 
 toward it, until they were undeceived. Then the 
 men of Kilmoe would sally forth, riding the tumbling 
 breakers with great bravery and address, in their 
 boats of withes and stretched skin, and enter into 
 possession of all the stranded strangers' goods and 
 chattels. As for such strangers as survived the 
 wreck, they were sometimes sold into slavery ; more 
 often they were merely knocked on the head. Thus 
 Kilmoe lived much more prosperously than in these 
 
The Lady of Muirisc. 169 
 
 melancholy latter days of dependence upon a pre- 
 carious potato crop. 
 
 In every family devoted to industrial pursuits 
 there is one member who is more distinguished for 
 attention to the business than the others, and upon 
 whom its chief burdens fall. This was true of the 
 O'Mahonys, who for many centuries controlled and 
 carried on the lucrative occupation above described, 
 on their peninsula of Ivehagh. There were 
 branches of the sept stationed in the more inland 
 sea-castles of Rosbrin, Ardintenant, Leamcon and 
 Ballydesmond on the one side, and of Dunbeacon, 
 Dunmanus and Muirisc on the other, who did not 
 expend all their energies upon this, their genuine 
 business, but took many vacations and indefinitely 
 extended holiday trips, for the improvement of their 
 minds and the gratification of their desire to whip 
 the neighboring O'Driscolls, O'Sullivans, O'Heas 
 and O'Learys out of their boots. The record of 
 these pleasure excursions, in which sometimes the 
 O'Mahonys returned with great booty and the heads 
 of their enemies on pikes, and some other times did 
 not come home at all, fills all the pages of the 
 Psalter of Rosbrin, beside occupying a good deal of 
 space in the Annals of Innisfallen and of the Four 
 Masters, and needs not be enlarged upon here. 
 
 But it is evident that that gentleman of the family 
 who, from choice or sense of duty, lived in Kilmoe, 
 must have pursued the legitimate O'Mahony voca- 
 tion very steadily, without an}- frivolous interrup- 
 tions or the waste of time in visiting his neighbors. 
 The truth is that he had no neighbors, and nothing 
 else under the sun with which to occupy his mind 
 
I yo T/ie Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 but the affairs of the sea. This the observer will 
 readily conclude when he stands upon the promon- 
 tory marked on the maps as Three-Castle Head, 
 with the whole world-dividing Atlantic at his feet, 
 and looks over at the group of ruined and moss- 
 grown keeps which give the place its name. 
 
 " Oh-h ! Look there now, Murphy !" cried a tall 
 and beautiful young woman, who stood for the first 
 time on this lofty sea-wall, viewing the somber line 
 of connected castles. " Sure, here lived the true 
 O'Mahony of the Coast of White Foam ! Why, 
 man, what were we at Muirisc but poor crab-catch- 
 ers compared wid him f 
 
 She spoke in a tone of awed admiration, between 
 long breaths of wonderment, and her big eyes of 
 Irish gray glowed from their cover of sweeping 
 lashes with surprised delight. She had taken off 
 her hat — a black straw hat, with a dignifiedly broad 
 brim bound in velvet, and enriched by a plume of 
 the same somber hue — to save it from the wind, 
 which blew stiffly here ; and this bold sea-wind, 
 nothing loth, frolicked boisterously with her dark 
 curls instead. She put her hand on her compan- 
 ion's shoulder for steadiness, and continued the rapt 
 gaze upon this crumbling haunt of the dead and 
 forgotten sea-lords. 
 
 Twelve years had passed since, as a child of 
 eight, Kate O'Mahony had screamed out in despair 
 after the departing Hen Hatvk. That vessel had 
 never cleft the waters of Dunmanus since, and the 
 fleeting years had converted the memory of its 
 
The Lady of Muirisc. i 7 1 
 
 master, into a kind of heroic legendary myth, over 
 which the elders brooded fondly, but which the 
 youngsters thought of as something scarcely less 
 remote than the Firbolgs, or the builders of the 
 " Danes' forts " on tiie furze-crowned hills about. 
 
 But these same years, though they turned the 
 absent into shadows, had made of Kate a very lovely 
 and complete realit}-. It would be small praise to 
 speak of her as the most beautiful girl on the penin- 
 sula, since there is no other section of Ireland so 
 little favored in that respect, to begin with, and for 
 the additional reason that whatever maidenly come- 
 liness there is existent there is habitually shrouded 
 from view by close-drawn shawls and enveloping 
 hoods, even on the hottest of summer noon-daj's. 
 For all the stray traveller sees of young and pretty 
 faces in Ivehagh, he might as well be in the heart of 
 the vailed Orient. 
 
 And even with Kate, potential Lady of Muirisc 
 though she was, this fashion of a hat was novel. It 
 seemed only 3'esterday since she had emerged from 
 the chr3'salis of girlhood — girlhood with a shawl 
 over its head, and Heaven only knows what abvsses 
 of ignorant sliyness and stupid distrust inside that 
 head. And, alas ! it seemed but a swiftly on-coming 
 to-morrow before this new freedom was to be lost 
 again, and the hat exchanged forever for a nun's 
 vail. 
 
 If Kate had known natural history better, she 
 might have likened her lot to that of the May-fl}-, 
 which spends two years underground in its larva state 
 hard at work preparing to be a fly, and tlien, when it 
 at last emerges, lives only for an hour, even if it that 
 
172 The Return of The G Mahoiiy, 
 
 long escapes the bill of the swallow or the rude jaws 
 of the trout. No such simile drawn from stony- 
 hearted Nature's tragedies helped her to philosophy. 
 She had, perhaps, a better refuge in the health and 
 enthusiasm of her own youth. 
 
 "! In the company of her ancient servitor, Murphy, 
 she was spending the pleasant April days in visiting 
 the various ruins of The O'Mahony's on Ivehagh. 
 Many of these she viewed now for the first time, 
 and the delight of this overpowered and kept down 
 in her mind the reflection that perhaps she was see- 
 ing them all for the last time as well. 
 
 " But how, in the name of glory, did they get up 
 and down to their boats. Murphy ?" she asked, at 
 last, strolling further out toward the edge to catch 
 the full sweep of the cliff front, which rises abruptly 
 from the beach below, sheer and straight, clear 
 three hundred feet. 
 
 " There's never a nearer landing-place, thin, than 
 where we left our boat, a half-mile bey ant here," 
 said Murphy. " Faith, miss, 'tis the belafe they 
 went up and down be the aid of the little people. 
 'T is well known that, on windy nights, there do be 
 grand carrin's-on hereabouts. Sure, in the lake 
 forninst us it was that Kian O'Mahony saw the 
 enchanted woman with the shape on her of a horse, 
 and died of the sight. Manny's the time me own 
 father related to me that same." 
 
 " Oh, true ; that wo?eld be the lake of the legend," 
 said Kate. " Let us go down to it, Murphy. I'll 
 dip me hand for wance in water that's been really 
 bewitched." 
 
 The girl ran lightly down the rolling side of the 
 
Tiic Lady of Mitirisc. I 73 
 
 hill, and across the rock-strewn hollows and mounds 
 which stretched toward the castellated cliff. The 
 base of the third and most inland tower was washed 
 by a placid fresh-water pond, covering an area of 
 several acres, and heavily fringed at one end with 
 rushes. As she drew near a heron suddenly rose 
 from the reeds, hung awkwardly for a moment with 
 its long legs dangling in the air, and then began a 
 slow, heavy flight seaward. On the moment Kate 
 saw another even more unexpected sight — the figure 
 of a man on the edge of the lake, with a gun raised 
 to his shoulder, its barrel following the heron's 
 clumsy course. Involuntarily she uttered a little 
 warning shout to the bird, then stood still, confused 
 and blushing. Stif!-jointed old Murphy was far 
 behind. 
 
 The stranger had heard her, if the heron had not. 
 He lowered his weapon, and for a moment gazed 
 wonderingly across the water at this unlooked-for 
 apparition. Then, with his gun under his arm, he 
 turned and walked briskly toward her. Kate cast a 
 searching glance backward for Murphy in vain, and 
 her intuitive movement to draw a shawl over her 
 head was equally fruitless. The old man was still 
 somewhere behind the rocks, and she had only this 
 citified hat and even that not on her head. She 
 could see that the advancing sportsman was young 
 and a stranger. 
 
 He came up close to where she stood, and lifted 
 his cap for an instant in an off-hand way. Viewed 
 thus nearl}^, he was very young, with a bright, fresh- 
 colored face and the bearing and clothes of a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
174 The Ret 70^11 of The O MaJwny. 
 
 " I'm glad you stopped me, now that I think of it," 
 he said, with an easy readiness of speech. " One 
 has no business to shoot that kind of bird; but I'd 
 been 13'ing about here for hours, waiting for some- 
 thing better to turn up, till I was in a mood to bang 
 at anything that came along." 
 
 He offered this explanation with a nonchalant 
 half-smile, as if confident of its prompt acceptance. 
 Then his face took on a more serious look, as he 
 glanced a second time at her own flushed counten- 
 ance. 
 
 " I hope I haven't been trespassing," he added, 
 under the influence of this revised impression. 
 
 Kate was, in truth, frowning at him, and there 
 were no means by which he could guess that it was 
 the effect of nervous timidity rather than vexation. 
 
 " 'Tis not my land," she managed to say at last, 
 and looked back again for Murphy. 
 
 "No — I didn't think it was anybody's land," he 
 remarked, essaying another propitiatory smile. 
 " They told me at Goleen that I could shoot as much 
 as I liked. They didn't tell me, though, that there 
 was nothing to shoot." 
 
 The young man clearly expected conversation ; 
 and Kate, stealing further flash-studies of his face, 
 began to be conscious that his manner and talk were 
 not specially different from those of any nice girl of 
 her own age. She tried to think of something ami- 
 able to say. 
 
 " 'Tis not the sayson for annything worth shoot- 
 ing,'' she said, and then wondered if it was an imper- 
 tinent remark. 
 
 "I know that," he replied. "But I've nothing' 
 
The Lady of Muirisc. i 75 
 
 else to do, just at the moment, and you can keep 
 )'ourself walking better if 3'ou've got a gun, and 
 then, of course, in a strange country there's always 
 the chance that somethi ig curious may turn up to 
 shoot. Fact is, I didn't care so much after all 
 whether I shot anything or not. You see, castles 
 are new things to me — we don't grow 'em where I 
 came from — and it's fun to me to mouse around 
 among the stones and walls and so on. But this is 
 the wildest and lonesomest thing I've run up against 
 yet. I give you my word, I'd been lying here so 
 long, watching those mildewed old towers there and 
 wondering what kind of folks built 'em and lived in 
 'em, that when I saw you galloping down the rocks 
 here — upon my word, I half thought it was all a fairy 
 story. You know the poor people really believe in 
 that sort of thing, here. Several of them have told 
 me so." 
 
 Kate actually felt herself smiling upon the young 
 man. 
 
 " I'm afraid you can't always believe them," she 
 said. "Some of them have deludthering waj'S with 
 strangers — not that they mane anny harm by it, 
 poor souls !" 
 
 ".But a young man down below here, to-da}^" 
 continued the other — "mind you, 2^. young n\'\\\ — told 
 me solemnly that almost every night he heard with 
 his own ears the shindy kicked up by the ghosts on 
 the hill back of his house, you know, inside one of 
 those ringed Danes' forts, as they call 'em. He 
 swore to it, honest Injun." 
 
 The girl started in spite of herself, stirred vaguely 
 by the sound of this curious phrase with which the 
 
1 -6 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 young man had finished his remarks. But nothing 
 definite took shape in her thoughts concerning it^ 
 and she answered him freely enough : 
 
 " Ah, well, I'll not say he intinded desate. They're 
 a poetic people, sir, living here alone among the ruins 
 of what was wance a grand country, and now is 
 what you see it, and they imagine visions to thim- 
 selves, 'Tis in the air, here. Sure, you yourself " 
 — she smiled again as she spoke — " credited me with 
 being a fairy. Of course,"' she added, hastily, "you 
 had in mind the legend of the lake, here." 
 
 " How do you mean — legend?" asked the young 
 man, in frank ignorance. 
 
 " Sure, here in these very waters is a woman, with 
 the shape of a horse, who appears to people, and 
 when they see her, they — they die, that's all." 
 
 " Well, that's a good deal, I should think," he 
 responded, lightly. " No, I hadn't heard of that 
 before ; and, besides, you — why, you came down the 
 hill, there, skipping like a lamb on the mountains, 
 not a bit like a horse." 
 
 The while Kate turned his comparsion over in 
 her mind to judge whether she liked it or not, the 
 young man shifted his gun to his shoulder, as if to 
 indicate that the talk had lasted long enough. 
 Then she swiftly blamed herself for having left this 
 signal to him. 
 
 " I'll not be keeping you," she said, hurriedly. 
 
 " Oh, bless you — not at all !'' he protested. " Only 
 I was afraid I was keeping j/^/^ You see, time hangs 
 pretty heavy on my hands just now, and I'm tickled 
 to death to have anybody to talk to. Of course, I 
 like to go around looking at the castles here, because 
 
The Lady of Muirisc. 177 
 
 the chances are that some of my people some time 
 or other helped build 'em. 1 know my father was 
 born somewhere in this part of County Cork." 
 
 Kate sniffed at him. 
 
 " Manny thousands of people have been born 
 here," she said, with dignity, " but it doesn't follow 
 that they had annything to do with these castles." 
 
 The young man attached less importance to the 
 point. 
 
 " Oh, of course not," he said, carelessly. " All I 
 go by is the probability that, way back somewhere, 
 all of us O'Mahonys were related to one another. 
 But for that matter, so were all the Irish who — " 
 
 "And are j^?/ an O'Mahony, thin ?" 
 
 Kate was looking at him with shining eyes — and 
 he saw now that she was much taller and more beau- 
 tiful than he had thought before. 
 
 " That's my name," he said, simply. 
 
 " An O'Mahony of County Cork ?" 
 
 "Well — personally I'm an O'Mahony of Hough- 
 ton County, Michigan, but my father was from 
 around here, somewhere." 
 
 "Do you hear that. Murphy?" she said, instinc- 
 tively turning to the faithful companion of all her 
 out-of-door life. But there was no Murphy in 
 sight. 
 
 Kate stared blankly about her for an instant, 
 before she remembered that Murphy had never 
 rejoined her at the lakeside. And now she thought 
 she could hear some vague sound of calling in the 
 distance, rising above the continuous crash of the 
 breakers down below. 
 
 " Oh, something has happened to him !" she cried, 
 
178 The Return of The G MaJiony. 
 
 and started running wildly back again. The young 
 man followed close enough to keep her in sight, and 
 at a distance of some three hundred yards came up 
 to her, as she knelt beside the figure of an old peas- 
 ant seated with his back against a rock. 
 
 Something had happened to Murphy. His ankle 
 had turned on a stone, and he could not walk a step. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HOW THE OLD BOATMAN KEPT HIS VOW. 
 
 " Oh, what's to be done nozvf asked Kate, rising 
 to her feet and casting- a puzzled look about her. 
 " Sure, me wits are abroad entirely." 
 
 No answer seemed forthcoming-. As far inland 
 as the eye could stretch, even to the gray crown of 
 Dunkelly, no sign of human habitation was to be 
 seen. The jutting headland of the Three Castles 
 on which she stood — with the naked primeval cliffs ; 
 the roughly scattered boulders framed in scrub- 
 furze too stunted and frightened in the presence of 
 the sea to venture upon blossoms ; the thin ashen- 
 green grass blown flat to earth in the little sheltered 
 nooks where alone its roots might live — presented 
 the grimmest picture of desolation she had ever 
 seen. An undersized sheep had climbed the rocks 
 to gaze upon the intruders — an animal with fleece 
 of such a snowy whiteness that it looked like an 
 imitation baa-baa from a toy-shop — and Kate found 
 herself staring into its vacuous face with sympathy, 
 so helplessly empty was her own mind of sugges- 
 tions. 
 
 " 'Tis two Oirish miles to the nearest house," said 
 Murphy, in a despondent tone. 
 
i8o The Retur7i of The O Mahony. 
 
 Kate turned to the young man, and spoke wist- 
 fully : 
 
 " If you'll stop here, I'll go for help," she 
 said. 
 
 The young man from Houghton County laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 " If there's any going to be done, I guess you're 
 not the one that'll do it," he answered. " But, fiist 
 of all, let's see where we stand exactly. How did 
 you come here, anyhow ?" 
 
 "We rowed around from — from our home — a 
 long way distant in that direction," pointing 
 vaguely toward Dunmanus Ba}-, " and our boat was 
 left there at the nearest landing point, half a mile 
 from here." 
 
 " Ah, well, thafs all right," said the young man. 
 " It would take an hour to get anybody over here 
 to help, and that would be clean waste of time, 
 because we don't need any help. I'll just tote him 
 over on my back, all by m}^ little self." 
 
 "Ah — you'd never try to do the likes of Z/^^/ /" 
 deprecated the girl. 
 
 "Why not?" he commented, cheerfully — an.! 
 then, with a surprise which checked further protest, 
 she saw him tie his game-bag round his waist so that 
 it hung to the knee, get Murphy seated up on the 
 rock against which he had learned, and then take 
 him bodily on his back, with the wounded foot com- 
 fortably upheld and steadied inside the capacious 
 leathern pouch. 
 
 " ' Why not,' eh ?" he repeated, as he straightened 
 himself easily under the burden ; " why he's as 
 light as a bag of feathers. That's one of the few 
 
Holu the Boatman kept his Vozu. i8r 
 
 advantages of living on potatoes. Now you bring 
 along the gun — that's a good girl — and we'll fetch 
 up at the boat in no time. You do the steering, 
 Murphy. Now, then, here we go !" 
 
 The somber walls of the Three Castles looked 
 down in silence upon this strange procession as it 
 filed past under their shadows — and if the gulls 
 which wheeled above and about the moss-grown 
 turrets described the spectacle later to the wraiths of 
 the dead-and-gone 0'jMahon3^s and to the enchanted 
 horse-shaped woman in the lake, there must have 
 been a general agreement that the parish of Kilmoe 
 had seen never such another sight before, even in 
 the da3's of the mystic Tuatha de Danaan. 
 
 The route to the boat abounded to a dishearten- 
 ing degree in rough and difficult descents, and even 
 more trying was the frequent necessity for long 
 detours to avoid impossible barriers of rock. More- 
 over, Murphy turned out to be vastly heavier than 
 he had seemed at the outset. Hence the young 
 man, who had freely enlivened the beginning of the 
 journey with affable chatter, gradually lapsed into 
 silence ; and at last, when only a final ridge of low 
 hills separated them from the strand, confessed that 
 he would like to take ofT his coat. He rested for a 
 minute or two after this had been done, and wiped 
 his wet brow. 
 
 " Who'd think the. sun could be so hot in April ?" 
 he said. " Wh)', where I come from, we've just 
 begun to get through sleighing." 
 
 " What is it you'd be sla3'ing now ?" asked Kate, 
 innocently. " We kill our pigs in the late autumn." 
 
1 82 The Reticrn of The G Mahoiiy, 
 
 The 3-oung man laughed aloud as he took Murphy 
 once more on his back. 
 
 " Potato-bugs, chiefly," was his enigmatic response. 
 
 She pondered fruitlessly upon this for a brief 
 time, as she followed on with the gun and coat. 
 Then her thoughts centered themselves once more 
 upon the young stranger himself, who seemed only 
 a boy to look at, yet was so stout and confident of 
 himself, and had such a man's way of assuming 
 control of things, and doing just what he wanted 
 to do and what needed to be done. 
 
 Muirisc did not breed that sort of young man. 
 He could not, from his face, be more than three or 
 four and twenty — and at that age all the men she 
 had known were mere slow-witted, shy and awk- 
 ward louts of boys, whom their fathers were quite 
 free to beat with a stick, and who never dreamed 
 of doing anything on their own mental initiative, 
 except possibly to " boo " at the police or throw 
 stones through the windows of a boycotted shop. 
 Evidently there were young men in the big un- 
 known outside world who differed immeasurably 
 from this local standard. 
 
 Oh, that wonderful outside world, which she was 
 never going to see! She knew that it was sinful 
 and godless and pressed down and running over 
 with abominations, because the venerable nuns of 
 the Hostage's Tears had from the beginning told 
 her so, but she was conscious of a new and less 
 hostile interest in it, all the same, since it produced 
 young men of this novel type. Then she began to 
 reflect that he was like R(jbert Emmett, who was 
 the most modern instance of a young man which 
 
How the Boat' man kept his Voiv. 183 
 
 the limits of convent literature permitted her to 
 know about, only his hair was cut short, and he was 
 fair, and he smiled a good deal, and — 
 
 And lo, here they were at the boat! She woke 
 abruptly from her musing day-dream. 
 
 The tide had gone out somewhat, and left the 
 dingey stranded on the dripping sea-weed. The 
 young man seated Murphy on a rock, untied the 
 game-bag and put on his coat, and then in the most 
 matter-of-fact way tramped over the slippery ooze 
 to the boat, pushed it off into the water and towed 
 it around by the chain to the edge of a little cove, 
 whence one might step over its side from a shore of 
 clean, dry sand. He then, still as if it were all a 
 matter of course, lifted Murphy and put him in the 
 bow of the boat, and asked Kate to sit in the stern 
 and steer. 
 
 " I can talk to you, you know, now that your sit- 
 ting there," he said, with his foot on the end of the 
 oar-seat, after she had taken the place indicated. 
 " Oh — wait a minute! We were forgetting the gun 
 and bag." 
 
 He ran lightly back to where these things lay 
 upon the strand, and secured them ; then, turning, 
 he discovered that Murphy had scrambled over to 
 the middle seat, taken the oars, and pushed the 
 boat off. Suspecting nothing, he walked briskly 
 back to the water's edge. 
 
 " Shove her in a little," he said, " and I'll hold her 
 while you get back again into the bow. You 
 mustn't think of rowing, my good man," 
 
 But Murphy showed no sign of obedience. He kept 
 his burnt, claw-shaped hands clasped on the motion- 
 
184 TJie Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 less, dipped oars, and his eager, bird-like eyes fas- 
 tened upon the face of his young mistress. As for 
 Kate, she studied the bottom of the boat with 
 intentness, and absently stirred the water over the 
 boat-side with her finger-tips. 
 
 "Get her in, man! Don't you hear?" called the 
 stranger, with a shadow of impatience, over the six 
 or seven feet of water which lay between him and the 
 boat. " Oy yoiL explain it to him," he said to Kate ; 
 " perhaps he doesn't understand me — tell him I'm 
 going to row !" 
 
 In response to this appeal, Kate lifted her head, 
 and hesitatingly opened her li[)s to speak — but the 
 gaunt old boatman broke in upon her confused 
 silence : 
 
 " Ah, thin— I understand well enough," hejshouted, 
 excitedly, " an' I'm thankful to 3-0, an' the longest 
 day I live I'll say a praj^er for ye — an' sure ye're a 
 foine grand man, every inch of ye, glory be to the 
 Lord — an' it's not manny w'u'd 'a' done what ye did 
 this day — and the blessin' of the Lord rest an ye ; 
 but — " here he suddenly dropped his high 
 shrill, swift-chasing tones, and added in quite 
 another voice — " if it's the same to you, sir, we'll go 
 along home as we are." 
 
 " What nonsense !" retorted the young man. 
 " My time doesn't matter in the least — and 3'ou're 
 not fit to row a mile — let alone a long distance." 
 
 " It's not with me fut I'll be rowin'," replied Mur- 
 phy, rounding his back for a sweep of the oars. 
 
 " Can't j^?^ stop him. Miss — eh — young lady !" the 
 young man implored from the sands. 
 
 Hope flamed up in his breast at sight of the look 
 
Hoto the Boatman kept his Vow. 185 
 
 she bent upon Murphv, as she leaned forward to 
 speak — and then sank into plumbless depths. Per- 
 haps she had said something — he could not hear, 
 and it was doubtful if the old boatman could have 
 heard either — for on the instant he had laid his 
 strength on the oars, and the boat had shot out into 
 the bay like a skater over the glassy ice. 
 
 It was a score of yards away before the 3M)ung 
 man from Houghton County caught his breath. 
 He stood watching it — be it confessed — with his 
 mouth somewhat open and blank astonishment writ- 
 ten all over his ruddy, boyish face. Then the flush 
 upon his pink cheeks deepened, and a sparkle came 
 into his eyes, for the young lady in the boat had 
 risen and turned toward him, and was waving her 
 hand to him in friendly salutation. He swung the 
 empty game-bag wildly about his head in answer, 
 and then the boat darted out of view behind a jut- 
 ting ridge of umber rocks, and he was looking at an 
 unbroken expanse of gently heaving water — all 
 crystals set on violet satin, under the April sun. 
 
 He sent a long-drawn sighing whistle of bewil- 
 derment after the vanished vision. 
 
 Not a word had been exchanged between the two 
 in the boat until after Kate, yielding at the last 
 moment to the temptation which had beset her 
 from the first, waved that unspoken farewell to her 
 new acquaintance and saw him a moment later 
 abruptly cut out of the picture by the intervening 
 rocks. Then she sat down again and fastened a 
 glare of metallic disapproval, so to speak, upon 
 Murphy. This, however, served no purpose, since 
 
1 86 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 the boatman kept his head sagaciously bent over 
 his task, and rowed awa}^ like mad. 
 
 " I take shame for you, Murpii}' !" she said at last, 
 with a voice as full of mingled anguish and humili- 
 ation as she could manage to make it. 
 
 " Is it too free I am with complete strangers?" 
 asked the guileful Murphy, with the face of a trust- 
 ing babe. 
 
 " 'Tis the rudest and most thankless old man in all 
 West Carbery that ye are !" she answered, sharply. 
 
 " Luk at that now!" said Murphy, apparently 
 addressing the handles of his oars. " An' me havin' 
 the intintion to burrin two candles for him this very 
 night!" 
 
 "Candles is it ! Murphy, once for all, 't is a bad 
 trick ye have of falling to talking about candles and 
 * Hail Marys ' and such holy matters, whinever ye 
 feel yourself in a corner — and be sure the saints like 
 it no better than I do." 
 
 The aged servitor rested for a moment upon his 
 oars, and, being conscious that evasion was of no 
 further use, allowed an expression of frankness to 
 dominate his withered and weather-tanned face. 
 
 " Well, miss," he said, " an' this is the truth I'm 
 tellin' ye — 't was not fit that he should be sailin' in 
 the boat wid you." 
 
 Kate tossed her head impatiently. 
 
 "And how long are you my director in — in such 
 matters as these. Murphy?" she asked, with irony. 
 
 The old man's eyes glistened with the emotions 
 which a sudden swift thought conjured up. 
 
 "How long?" he asked, with dramatic effect. 
 
Hoiv the Boatiiian kept his Voza. 187 
 
 " Sure, the likes of me c'u'd be no directlior at all — 
 but 'tis a dozen ^-ears since 1 swore to his htjiior, 
 Tiie O'Mahony himself, that I'd watch over ye, an' 
 protect ye, an' keep ye from the lightest breath of 
 harrum — an' whin I meet him, whether it be the 
 Lord's will in this world or the nixt, I'll go to him 
 an' I'll take off me hat, an' I'll say: ' Yer honor, 
 what old Murphy putt his word to, that same he 
 kep !' An' is it you, Miss Katie, that remimbers him 
 that well, that 'u'd be blamin' me for that same ?" 
 
 " I don't know if I'm so much blaming you. Mur- 
 phy," said Kate, much softened by both the matter 
 and the manner of this appeal, " but 'tis different, 
 wit' this young man, himself an O'Mahony by 
 name." 
 
 " Faith, be the same token, 'tis manny thousands 
 of O'Mahonys there are in foreign parts, I'm tould, 
 an' more thousands of 'em here at home, an' if it's 
 for rowin' 'em all on Dunn::anus Bay ye'd be, on the 
 score of their name, 'tis grand new boats we'd 
 want." 
 
 Kate smiled musingly. 
 
 "Did you mind, Murphy," she asked, after a 
 pause, " how like the sound of his speech was to The 
 O'Mahony 's?" 
 
 " That I did not !" said Murphy, conclusively. 
 
 " Ah, ye've no ears, man! I was that flurried at 
 the time, I couldn't think what it was — but now, 
 whin it comes back to me, it was like talking to The 
 O'Mahony himself. There was that one word, 
 ' onistinjun,' that The O'Mahony had forever on his 
 tongue. Surely you noticed that !" 
 
 " All Americans say that same," Murphy explained 
 
1 88 The Retitrn of The O' Mahoiiy. 
 
 carelessly. " 'T is well known most of 'em are 
 discindcd from the Injuns. 'Tis that they m'ane." 
 
 It did not occur to Kate to question this bold 
 ethno-philological proposition. She leant back in 
 her seat at the stern, absent-mindedly toying with 
 the ribbons of her hat, and watching the sky over 
 Murphy's head. 
 
 " Poor, dear old O'Mahony !" she sighed at last. 
 
 " Amin to that miss !" murmured the boatman, 
 between strokes. 
 
 " 'T is a year an' more now. Murphy, since we 
 had the laste sign in the world from him. Ah, 
 wirra ! I'm beginnin' to be afraid dead 'tis he is !" 
 
 " Keep your heart, miss ; keep your heart !" 
 crooned the old boatman, in what had been for 
 months a familiar phrase on his lips. " Sure no 
 mortial man ever stepped fut on green sod t'nat 'ud 
 take more killin' than our O'Mahony. Wh}^ coleen 
 asthore, wasn't he foightin' wid the French, against 
 the Prooshians, an' thin wid the Turkeys against 
 the Rooshians, an' bechune males, as ye'd say, didn't 
 he bear arms in Spain for the Catholic king, like the 
 thunderin' rare old O'Mahony that he is, an' did 
 ever so much as a scratch come to him — an' him 
 killin' an' destroyin' thim by hundreds? Ah, rest 
 aisy about him, Miss Katie !" 
 
 The two had long since exhausted, in their almost 
 daily talks, every possible phase of this melancholy 
 subject. It was now April of 1879, ^"<^^ the last 
 word received from the absent chief had been a 
 hastily scrawled note dispatched from Adrianople, 
 on New Year's Day of 1878 — when the Turkish 
 army, beaten finally at Plevna and decimated in the 
 
How the Boatmaji kept his Vow. 189 
 
 Schipka, were doggedly moving backward toward 
 the Bosphorus. Since that, there had been absolute 
 silence — and Kate and Murphy had alike, hoping 
 against hope, come long since to fear the worst. 
 Though each strove to sustain confidence in the 
 other, there was no secret between their hearts as 
 to what both felt. 
 
 " Murphy," said Kate, rousing herself all at once 
 from her reverie, " there's something I've been 
 keeping from you — and I can't hold it anny longer. 
 Do ye mind when Malachy wint away last winter?" 
 
 ''Faith I do," replied the boatman. (Malachy, be 
 it explained, had followed The O'Mahony in all his 
 wanderings up to the autumn of 1870, when, in a, 
 skirmish shortly after Sedan, he had lost an arm 
 and, upon his release from the hospital, had been 
 sent back to Muirisc.) " I mind that he wint to 
 Amcrriky." 
 
 " Well, thin," whispered Kate, bending forward 
 as if the very waves had ears, " it's just that he 
 didn't do. I gave him money, and I gave him the 
 O'Mahony's ring, and sint him to search the world 
 over till he came upon his master, or his master's 
 grave — and I charged him to say only this: ' Come 
 back to Muirisc ! 'Tis Kate O'Mahony wants you !' 
 And now no one knows this but me confessor and 
 you." 
 
 The boatman gazed earnestly into her face, 
 
 " An' why for did ye say : ' Come back ?' " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Ah thin — well — 'tis O' Daly's hard d'alin's wid 
 the tinants, and the failure of the potatoes these 
 
I go The Return of The O MaJiony. 
 
 two years and worse ahead and the birth of me 
 little step-brother — and — ^" 
 
 " Answer me now, Katie darlint ?" the old man 
 adjured her, with glowing eyes and solemn voice. 
 " Is it the convint ye're afraid of for yoursilf ? Is it 
 ot your own free will you're goin' to lake your 
 vows?" 
 
 The girl had answered this question more than 
 once before, and readily enough. Now, for some 
 reason which she could not have defined to herself, 
 she looked down upon the gliding water at her side, 
 and meditatively dipped her fingers into it, and let 
 a succession of little waves fling their crests up into 
 her sleeve — and said nothing; at all. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE GREAT O'DALY USURPATION. 
 
 The Stern natural law of mutability — of cease- 
 less growth, change and deca}^ — which the big, bust- 
 ling, preoccupied outside world takes so indiffer- 
 ently, as a matter of course, finds itself reduced to a 
 bare minimum of influence in such small, remote 
 and out-of-the-way places as Muirisc. The lapse of 
 twelve years here had made the scantest and most 
 casual of marks upon the village and its inhabitants. 
 Positively no one worth mentioning had died — for 
 even snuffy and palsied old Father Harrington, 
 though long since replaced at the convent b}^ a 
 younger priest, was understood to be still living on 
 in the shelter of some retreat for aged clerg3'men in 
 Kerry or Clare. The three old nuns were still the 
 sole ladies of the Hostage's Tears, and, like the rest of 
 Muirisc, seemed only a trifle the more wrinkled and 
 worn under this flight of time. 
 
 Such changes as had been wrought had come in 
 a leisurely way, without attracting much attention. 
 The mines, both of copper and of pyrites, had pros- 
 pered beyond the experience of any other section 
 of Munster, and this had brought into the imme- 
 diate district a considerable alien population. But 
 
192 The Rettirn of The OMaJiony. 
 
 these intrusive strangers haci fortunately preferred 
 to settle in another hamlet in the neighborhood, and 
 came rarely to Muirisc. The village was still with- 
 out a hotel, and had by this time grown accustomed 
 to the existence within its borders of a constabulary 
 barracks. Its fishing went forward sedately and 
 without much profit; the men of Muirisc onl}' half 
 believed the stories they heard of the modern appli- 
 ances and wonderful hauls at Baltimore and Crook- 
 haven — and cared even less than they credited. 
 The lobster-canning factory had died a natural 
 death years before, and the little children of Muirisc, 
 playing about within sight of its roofless and rotting 
 timbers, avoided closer contact wnth the building 
 under some vague and formless notion that it was 
 unlucky. The very idea that there had once been 
 a man who thought that Muirisc desired to put up 
 lobsters in tins seemed to them comic — and almost 
 impious as well. 
 
 But there was one alteration upon which the 
 people of Muirisc bestowed a good deal of thought 
 — and on occasion and under their breath, not a few 
 bitter words. 
 
 Cormac O'Daly, whom all the elders remembered 
 as a mere "pote" and man of business for the 
 O'Mahonys, had suddenly in his old age blossomed 
 forth as The O'Daly, and as master of Muirisc. 
 Like many other changes wdiich afflict human recol- 
 lection, this had all come about by reason of a 
 woman's vain folly. Mrs. Fergus O'Mahony, having 
 vainly cast alluring glances upon successive relays 
 of mining contractors and superintendents, and of 
 fish-buyers from Bristol and the Isle of Man, and 
 
TJie Great GDaly Ustirpation. 193 
 
 even, in the later stages, upon a sergeant of police — 
 bad at last actually thrown herself in marriage at 
 the grizzled head of the hereditary bard. It cannot 
 be said that the announcement of this ill-assorted 
 match had specially surprised the good people of 
 Muirisc, They had always felt that Mrs. Fergus 
 would ultimately triumph in her matrimonial reso- 
 lutions, and the choice of O'Daly, though obviously 
 enough a last resort, did not shock their placid 
 minds. It was rather satisfactory than otherwise, 
 when they came to think of it, that ihe arrangement 
 should not involve the introduction of a stranger, 
 perhaps even of an Englishman. 
 
 But now, after nearly three years of this marriage, 
 with a young O'Daly already big enough to walk 
 by himself among the pigs and geese in the square 
 — they said to themselves that even an Englishman 
 would have been better, and they bracketed the 
 connubial tendencies of Mrs. Fergus and the upstart 
 ambition of Cormac under a common ban of curses. 
 
 O'Daly had no sooner been installed in the castle 
 than he had raised the rents. Back had come the 
 odious charge for turf-cutting, the tax on the carri- 
 geens and the tithe-leyy upon the gathered kelp. In 
 the best of times these impositions would have been 
 sorely felt; the cruel failure of the potatoes in 1877 
 and '78 had elevated them into the domain of the 
 tragic. 
 
 For the first time in its history Muirisc had wit- 
 nessed evictions. Half way up the cliff stood the 
 vi^alls of four cottages, from which the thatched 
 roofs had been torn b}- a sheriff's posse of police- 
 man during the bleakest month of winter. The 
 
194 ^^^^ Return of The O MaJiony. 
 
 gloomy spectacle, familiar enough elsewhere 
 throughout Ireland, had still the fascination of nov- 
 elt}^ in the eyes of Muirisc. The villagers could 
 not keep their gaze from those gaunt, deserted 
 walls. Some of the evicted people — those who were 
 too old or too young to get off to America and yet 
 too hardy to die — still remained in the neighbor- 
 hood, sleeping in the ditches and subsisting upon 
 the poor charity of the cottagers roundabout. The 
 sight of their skulking, half-clad forms and hunger- 
 pinched faces filled Muirisc with wrathful humilia- 
 tion. 
 
 Almost worst still were the airs which latterly 
 O'Daly had come to assume. Even if the evictions 
 and the rack-renting could have been forgiven, 
 Muirisc felt that his calling himself The O'Daly 
 was unpardonable. Everybody in Ivehagh knew 
 that the O'Dalys had been mere bards and singers 
 for the McCarthys, the O'Mahonys, and other 
 Eugenian houses, and had not been above taking 
 service, later on, under the hatred Carews. That 
 any scion of the sept should exalt himself now, in 
 the shoes of an O'Mahony, was simply intolerable. 
 
 In proportion as Cormac waxed in importance, 
 his coadjutor Jerry had diminished. There was no 
 longer any talk heard about Diarmid MacEgan ; 
 the very pigs in the street knew him now to be 
 plain Jerry Higgins. Only the most shadowy 
 pretense of authority to intermeddle in the affairs 
 of the estate remained to him. Unlettered good- 
 nature and loyalty had stood no chance whatever 
 against the will and powers of the educated Cormac. 
 Muirisc did indeed cherish a nebulous idea that 
 
The Great O' Daly Usurpation. 195 
 
 some time or other the popular discontent would 
 find him an effective champion, but Jerry did noth- 
 ing whatever to encourage this hope. He had 
 grown stout and red-faced through these unoccu- 
 pied years, and lived by himself in a barely habit- 
 able nook among the ruins of the castle, overlooking 
 the churchyard. Here he spent a great deal of his 
 time, behind barred doors and den3nng himself to 
 all visitors — and Muirisc had long since concluded 
 that the companion of his solitude was a bottle. 
 
 " I've a word more to whisper into your ear, 
 Higgins," said O'Daly, this very evening, at the 
 conclusion of some unimportant conversation about 
 the mines. 
 
 The supper had been cleared away, and a tray of 
 glasses flanking a decanter stood on the table at 
 which the speaker sat with his pipe. The buxom 
 and rubicund Mrs. Fergus — for so Muirisc still 
 thought and spoke of her — dozed comfortably in 
 her arm-chair at one side of the bank of blazing 
 peat on the hearth, an open novel turned down on 
 her lap. Opposite her mother, Kate sat and sewed 
 in silence, the while the men talked. It was the 
 room in which The O'Mahony had eaten his first 
 meal in Muirisc, twelve years before. 
 
 "'A word to whishper,' " repeated O'Daly, glanc- 
 ing at Jerry with severity from under his beetling 
 black brows, and speaking so loudly that even Mrs. 
 Sullivan in the kitchen might have heard — " times 
 is that hard, and work so scarce, that bechune now 
 and midsummer I'd have ye look about for a new 
 place." 
 
 Jerry stared across the table at his co-trustee iu 
 
196 The Rehirn of The O" MaJiony. 
 
 blank amazement. It was no surprise to him to be 
 addressed in tones of harsh disliice by O'Daly, or to 
 see his rightful claims to attention contemptuously 
 ignored. But this sweeping suggestion took his 
 breath away. 
 
 " What place do ye mane ?" he asked confusedly. 
 " Where else in Muirisc c'u'd 1 live so aisily ?" 
 
 " 'T is not needful ye should live in Muirisc at 
 all," said O'Daly, with cold-blooded calmness. 
 " Sure, 't is manny years since ye were of anny 
 service here. A lad at two shillings the week 
 would more than replace ye. In these bad times, 
 and worse comin', 't is impossible ye should stay on 
 here as ye've been doin' these twelve years. I 
 thought I'd tell ye in sayson, Higgins — not to take 
 ye unawares." 
 
 " Glor3^-be-to-the-world ?" gasped Jerry, sitting 
 upright in his chair, and staring open-eyed. 
 
 " 'T is a dale of other alterations I have in me 
 mind," O'Daly went on, hurriedly. " Sure, things 
 have stuck in the mire far too long, waiting for the 
 comin' to life of a dead man. 'T is to stir 'em up 1 
 will now, an' no delay. Me step-daughter, there, 
 takes the vail in a few days, an' 't is me intintion 
 thin to rebuild large parts of the convint, an' mek 
 new rules for it whereby gerrels of me own family 
 can be free to enter it as well as the O'Mahonys. 
 For, sure, 't is now well known an' universally 
 consaded that the O'Daly's were the most intellect- 
 ual an' intelligent family in all the two Munsters, be 
 rayson of which all the ignorant an' uncultivated 
 ruffians like the MacCarthys an' The O'Mahony's 
 used to be beseechin' 'em to make verses and write 
 
The Great O Daly Usurpation. 197 
 
 books an' divert 'cm wici playiii' on the harp — an' 't 
 is hig-h time theO'Daly's came into their own ag'in, 
 the same that they'd never lost but for their wake 
 ^ood-nature in consintin' to be bards on account of 
 their supayrior education. Why, man," the swart- 
 visaged little lawyer went on, his black eyes snapping 
 with excitement — '' what d' ye say to me great 
 ancestor, Cuchonnacht O'Daly, called na Sgoile, or 
 'of the school,' who died at Clonard, rest his soul, 
 Anno Domini 1139, the most celebrated pote of all 
 Oireland ? An' do ye mind thim eight an' twenty 
 other O'Dalj-s in rigular descint who achaved 
 distincthion — " 
 
 " Egor ! If they were all such thieves of the 
 
 earth as you are, the world's d d well rid of 
 
 'em!" burst in Jerry Higgins. 
 
 He had sprung to his feet, and stood now hot- 
 faced and with clenched fists, glaring down upon 
 O'Daly. 
 
 The latter pushed back his chair and instinctively 
 raised an elbow to guard his head. 
 
 " Have a care, Higgins!" he shouted out — "you're 
 in the [)resence of witnesses — I'm a p'aceable man 
 — in me own domicile, too!" 
 
 " I'll ' dommycille ' ye, ye blagyard !" Jerry 
 snorted, throwing his burly form half over the 
 table. 
 
 " Ah, thin, Jerry ! Jerry !" A clear, bell-toned 
 voice rang in his confused ears, and he felt the grasp 
 of a vigorous hand upon his arm. " Is it mad ye 
 are, Jerry, to think of striking the likes of him ?" 
 
 Kate stood at his side. The mere touch of her 
 hand on his sleeve would have sufficed for restraint, 
 
198 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 but she gripped his arm sharpl}^, and turned upon 
 him a gaze of stern reproval. 
 
 "'Tis elsewhere ye left your manners, Jerry!" 
 she said, in a calm enough voice, though her bosom 
 was heaving. " When our bards became insolent 
 or turned rogues, they were sent outside to be 
 beaten. 'T was niver done in the presence of 
 ladies." 
 
 Jerry's puzzled look showed how utterly he failed 
 to grasp her meaning. There was no such perplex- 
 ity in O'Daly's mind. He, too, had risen, and stood 
 on the hearth beside his wife, who blinked vacuous 
 inquiries sleepily at the various members of the 
 group in turn. 
 
 "And %ve,'' he said, with nervous asperity, " when 
 our children become impertinent, we trounce them 
 off to their bed." 
 
 " Ah-h ! No child of yours, O'Daly !" the girl 
 made scornful answer, in measured tones. 
 
 " Well, thin," the little man snarled, vehemently, 
 " while ye're under my roof. Miss O'Mahony, 3^e'll 
 heed what I say, an' be ruled by 't. An' now ye 
 force me to 't, mark this: I'll have no more of your 
 gaddin' about with that old bag-o'-bones of a Mur- 
 phy. 'T is not dacint or fittin' for a young lady — 
 more especially when she's to be a — wanderin' the 
 Lord knows where, or — " 
 
 Kate broke in upon his harangue with shrill 
 laughter, half hysterical. 
 
 " Is it an O'Daly that I hear discoorsin* on dacency 
 to an O'Mahony !" she called out, ironically incredu- 
 lous. "Well, thin — while that I'm under your 
 roof — •" 
 
The Great O Daly Usurpation. 199 
 
 " Eo^or ! Who made it his roof ?" demanded Jerr}-. 
 " Shure, be the papers The O'Mahony wrote out 
 wid his own hand lor us — " 
 
 " Don't be interruptin', Jerry !" said Kate, again 
 with a restraining hand on his arm. " 1 say this, 
 O'Daly : The time I stop under this roof will be just 
 that while that it takes me to put on me hat. Not 
 an instant longer will I stay." 
 
 She walked proudly erect to the chest in the 
 corner, took up her hat and put it on her head. 
 
 "Come now, Jerry," she said, " I'll walk wid you 
 to me cousins, the Ladies of the Hostage's Tears. 
 'T will be grand news to thim that the O'Dalys have 
 come into their ozvn ag'in !" 
 
 Cormac O'Daly instinctively moved toward the 
 door to bar her egress. Then a glance at Jerr3''s 
 heavy fists and angered face bred intuition of a 
 different kind, and he stepped back again. 
 
 " Mind, once for all ! I'll not have ye here ag'in 
 — neither one or other of ye !" he shouted. 
 
 Kate disdained response by even so much as a 
 look. She moved over to the arm-chair, and, stoop- 
 ing for an instant, lighth^ brushed with her lips the 
 flattened crimps which adorned the maternal fore- 
 head. Then, with head high in air and a tread of 
 exaggerated stateliness, she led the way lor Jerry 
 out of the room and the house. 
 
 Mrs. Fergus heard the front door close with a 
 resounding clang, and the noise definitely awakened 
 her. She put up a correcting hand, and passed it 
 over her front hair. Then she yawned meditatively 
 at the fire, and, lifting the steaming kettle from the 
 crane, filled one of the glasses on the tray with hot 
 
200 The Retui'-n of The G Mahony. 
 
 water. Then she permitted herself a drowsy half- 
 smile at the disordered appearance presented by her 
 infuriated spouse. 
 
 " Well, thin, 'tis not in Mother Agnes O'Mahony's 
 shoes I'm wishin' ;/rj/self !" she said, upon reflection. 
 '■ It's right ye are to build thick new walls to the 
 convint. They'll be needed, wid that girl inside !" 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A BARGAIN WITH THE BURIED MAN. 
 
 Though by daylight there seemed to lie but a 
 step of space between the ruined Castle of Muirisc 
 and the portal of the Convent of the Hostage's 
 Tears, it was different under the soft, starlit sky of 
 this April evening. The way was long enough, at 
 all events, for the exchange of many views between 
 Kate and Jerry. 
 
 " 'Tis flat robbery he manes, Jerry," the girl said, 
 as the revolted twain passed out together under the 
 gateway. " With me safe in the convint, sure he's 
 free to take everything for his son — me little step- 
 brother — an' thin there's an ind to the O'Mahony's, 
 here where they've been lords of the coast an' the 
 mountains an' the castles since before St. Patrick's 
 time — an', luk ye! an O'Daly comes on ! Pm fit to 
 tear out me eyes to keep them from the sight !" 
 
 "But, Miss Katie," put in Jerrj^, eagerly, " Pve a 
 thought in me head — egor ! The O'Mahony him- 
 self put writin' to paper, statin' how every blessed 
 thing was to be yours, the day he sailed away. 
 Surfe 'twas meself was witness to that same, along 
 
 [20I] 
 
202 The Rct7irii of The G Mahony. 
 
 wid O'Daly an' your mother an' the nuns. To-mor- 
 row I'll have the law on him !" 
 
 " Ah, Jerry," the girl sighed and shook her head ; 
 " 3'e've a good heart, but it's only grief ye'll get 
 tryin' to match your wits against O'Daly's. What 
 do you know about papers an' documents, an' the 
 like of that, compared wid him ? Why, man, he's 
 an attorney himself! 'T is thim that putts the law 
 on other people — worse luck!" 
 
 "An' him that usen't to have a word for anny- 
 thing but the praises of The O'Mahonys !" exclaimed 
 Jerry, lost once more in surprise at the scope of 
 O'Daly's ambitions. 
 
 "I, for one, never thrusted him !" said Kate, with 
 emphasis. " 'T was not in nature that anny man 
 could be that humble an' devoted to a famil)'^ that 
 wasn't his own, as he pretinded." 
 
 " Well, I dunno," began Jerry, hesitatingly ; " 't is 
 my belafe he mint honest enough, till that boy o' his 
 was born. A childless man is wan thing, an' a 
 father's another. 'T is that boy that's turnin* 
 O'Daly's head.'' 
 
 Kate's present mood was intolerant of philosophy. 
 " Faith, Jerry," she said, with sharpness, " 't is my 
 belafe that if wan was to abuse the divil in your 
 hearin', you'd say : ' At anny rate, he has a fine, 
 grand tail.' " ^ 
 
 Jerry's round face beamed in the vague starlight 
 with a momentary smile. " Ah, thin. Miss Katie!" 
 he said, in gentle deprecation. Then, as upon a 
 hasty afterthought: "Egor! I'll talk with Father 
 Jago"' 
 
 " Ye'll do nothing of the kind !" Kate commanded. 
 
A Bargain with the Buried Man, 203 
 
 " He's a young man, an' he's not Muirisc born, an' 
 he's O'Daly's fri'nd, naturally enough, an' he's the 
 chaplain of the convint. Sure, with half an eye, ye 
 can see that O'Daly's got the convint on his side. 
 My taking the vail will profit thim, as well as him. 
 Sure, that's the point of it all." 
 
 *' Thin why not putt yer fut down," asked Jerry, 
 " an' say ye '11 tek no vail at all ?" 
 
 " I gave me word," she answered, simply. 
 
 " But ais}' enough — ye can say as Mickey Dugan 
 did on the gallus, to the hangman : ' Egor!' said he, 
 ' I've changed my mind.' " 
 
 "We don't be changin' ^z^r minds!" said Kate, 
 with proud brevity ; and thereupon she ran up the 
 convent steps, and, after a little space, filled with 
 the sound of jangling bells and the rattle of bars and 
 chains, disappeared. 
 
 Jerry pursued the small remnant of his home- 
 ward course in a deep, brown stud}'. He entered 
 his abode by the churchyard postern, bolted the 
 door behind him and lighted a lamp, still in an 
 absent-minded way. Such flickering rays as pierced 
 the smoky chimney cast feeble illumination upon a 
 sort of castellated hovel — a high, stone-walled room 
 with arched doorways and stately, vaulted ceiling 
 above, but with the rude furniture and squalid dis- 
 order of a laborer's cottage below. 
 
 But another idea did occur to him while he sat on 
 the side of his bed, vacantly staring at the floor — an 
 idea which set his shrewd, brown eyes aglow. He 
 rose hastil}', took a lantern down from a nail on the 
 whitewashed wall and lighted it. Then with a key 
 from his pocket, he unlocked a door at the farther 
 
204 The Return of The OMahony. 
 
 end of the room, behind the bed, and passed through 
 the open passage, with a springing step, into the 
 darkness of a low, stone-walled corridor. 
 
 The staircase down which we saw the guns and 
 powder carried in secrecy, on that February night 
 in 1867, led Jerry to the concealed doorway in the 
 rounded wall which had been discovered. He 
 applied the needful trick to open this door; then 
 carefully closed it behind him, and made his way, 
 crouching and stealthil}^ through the passage to the 
 door at its end. This he opened with another key 
 and entered abruptly. 
 
 " God save all here !" he called out upon the 
 threshold, in the half-jesting, half-sincere tone of one 
 who, using an ancient formula at the outset by way 
 of irony, grows to feel that he means what it says. 
 
 " God save you kindly ! ' was the prompt response, 
 in a thin, strangely vibrant voice : and on the instant 
 the speaker came forward into firelight. 
 
 He w^as a slender man of middle age, with a pale, 
 spectacled face, framed by a veritable mane of dingy 
 reddish hair thrown back from temples and brow. 
 This brow, thus bared, was broad and thoughtful 
 besides being wonderfully white, and, with the calm 
 gray eyes, which shone steadily through the glasses, 
 seemed to constitute practically the whole face. 
 There were, one noted at a second glance, other 
 portions of this face — a weak, pointed nose, for 
 example, and a mouth and chin hidden under irreg- 
 ular outlines of straggling beard ; but the brow and 
 the eyes were what the gaze returned to. The man 
 wore a loose, nondescript sort of gown, gathered at 
 
A Bargain with the Bia-ied Man. 205 
 
 the waist with a cord. Save for a table against the 
 wall, littered with papers and writing materials and 
 lighted by a lamp in a bracket above, the chamber 
 differed in little from its appearance on that memor- 
 able night when the dead monk's sleep of centuries 
 had been so rudely broken in upon. 
 
 " I'm glad 3-e've come down ag'in to-day," said 
 the man of the brow and eyes. " Since this mornin', 
 I've traced out the idintity of Finghin — the one wid 
 the .brain-ball I told ye of — as clear as daylight. 
 Not a man-jack of 'em but '11 see it now like the nose 
 on their face." 
 
 "Ah, thin, that's a mercy," said Jerry, seating 
 himself tentatively on a corner of the table. " Egor! 
 It looked at one toime there as if his identity was 
 gone to the divil intoirely. But I'ave you to smoke 
 him out !" 
 
 " It can be proved that this Finghin is wan an' 
 the same wid the so-called Fiachan Roe, who 
 married the widow of the O'Dubhagain, in the 
 elevinth cintury." 
 
 " Ah, there ye have it !" said Jerry, shaking his 
 head dejectedly. " He iviid marry a widdeh, w'u'd 
 he ? Thin, be me sowl, 'tis a marvel to grace he had 
 anny idint — whatever ye call it — left at all. Well, 
 sir, to tell ye the truth, 'tis disappointed I am in 
 Finghin. I credited him with more sinse than to be 
 marryin' widdehs. An' I suppose ye'll I'ave him out 
 of your book altogether now. Egor, an' serve him 
 right, too !" 
 
 The other smiled ; a wan and fleeting smile of the 
 eyes and brow. 
 
 " Ah, don't be talkin !" he said, pleasantly, and 
 
2o6 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 then added, with a sigh : " More like he'll I'ave 
 me, wid me work undone. You'll bear me witness, 
 sir, that I've been patient, an' thried me best to live 
 continted here in this cave of the earth, an' busy me 
 mind wid work; but no man can master his drames. 
 'Tis that that's killin' me. Every night, the moment 
 I'm asleep, faith, I'm out in the meadehs, wid flowers 
 on the ditches an' birds singin', an' me fishin' in the 
 brook, like 1 was a boy ag'in ; an' whin I wake up, me 
 heart's broke intirely ! I tell ye, man, if 't wasn't for 
 me book here, I'd go outside in spite of 'em all', an' 
 let 'em hang me, if they like — jist for wan luk at the 
 sky an' wan breath of fresh air." 
 
 Jerry swung his legs nonchalantly, but there was 
 a new speculation twinkling in his e3'es as he 
 regarded his companion. 
 
 '* Ah, it won't be long now, Major Lynch," he 
 said, consolingly. " An' have ye much more to state 
 in your book?" 
 
 " All the translatin* was finished long since, but 
 't is comparin' the various books together I am, an' 
 that takes a dale o' time. There's the psalter o' 
 Timoleague Abbey, an' the psalter o' Sherkin, an' 
 the book o' St. Kian o' Cape Clear, besides all the 
 riccords of Muirisc that lay loose in the chest. Yet 
 I'm far from complainin*. God knows what I'd a' 
 done without 'em." 
 
 There are many marvels in Irish archaeology. 
 Perhaps the most wonderful of all is the controlling 
 and consuming spell it had cast over Linksy, mak- 
 ing it not only possible for him to live twelve ^^ears 
 in an underground dungeon, fairly contented, and 
 undoubtedly occupied, but lifting him bodily out 
 
A Bill' gain witJi the Bu7^ied Man. 207 
 
 of his former mental state and up into an atmos- 
 phere of scholarly absorption and exclusively 
 intellectual exertion. He had entered upon this 
 long imprisonment with only an ordinary high- 
 school education, and no special interest in or bent 
 toward books. By the merest chance he happened 
 to have learned to speak Irish, as a boy, and, later, 
 to have been taught the written alphabet of the 
 language. Hi? first days of solitude in the sub- 
 terranean chamber, after his recovery from the 
 terrible blow on the head, had been whiled away 
 by glancing over the curious parchment writings 
 and volumes in the chest. Then, to kill time, he 
 had essayed to translate one of the manuscripts, and 
 Jerry had obligingly furnished him with paper, 
 pens and ink. To have laboriously traced out the 
 doubtful thread of continuity running through the 
 confused and legendary pedigrees of the fierce 
 Eugenian septs, to have lived for twelve long years 
 buried in ancient Munster genealogies, wearing the 
 eyesight out in waking hours upon archaic manu- 
 scripts, and dreaming by night of still more unde- 
 cipherable parchment chronicles, may well seem to 
 us, who are out in the busy noonday of the world, 
 a colossal waste of time. No publisher alive would 
 have thought for a moment of printing Linsky's 
 compilations at his own risk, and probably not 
 more than twenty people would have regretted his 
 refusal the whole world over. But this considera- 
 tion has never operated yet to prevent archaeo- 
 logists from devoting their time and energies and 
 fortunes to works which nobody on earth is going 
 to read, much less publish. 
 
2o8 Tlie RetiLrn of The O' Makony. 
 
 Jerry was still contemplating Linsky with a grave 
 new interest. 
 
 " Ye've changed that much since — since ye came 
 down here for your health. 'Tis my belafe not a 
 mother's son of 'em 'u'd recognize ye up above," he 
 said, reflectively. 
 
 Linsky spoke with eagerness : 
 
 " Man alive ! I'm jist dyin' to make the attimpt !" 
 
 " What — an' turn yer back on all these foine ric- 
 cords an' statements that ye've kept yer hand to so 
 long?" 
 
 The other's face fell. 
 
 " Sure, 1 c'u'd come down ag'in," Linsky said, 
 hesitatingl}". 
 
 " We'll see ; we'll see," remarked Jerry. Then, in 
 a careless manner, as if he had not had this chiefly 
 in mind from the beginning, he asked : " Usen't ye 
 to be tellin' me ye were a kind of an attorney, 
 Major Lynch ?" 
 
 " I was articled to an attorney, wance upon a 
 time, but I'd no time to sthick to it." 
 
 " But ye'd know how to hev the law on a man, if 
 he was yer inemy ?" 
 
 " Some of it is in me mind still, maybe," replied 
 Linsky, not with much confidence. 
 
 Jerry sprang lightly down from the table, walked 
 over to the fire, and stood with his back to it, his 
 legs wide apart and his thumbs in his waistcoat arm- 
 holes, as he had seen The O'Mahony bear himself. 
 
 " Well, Linsky, I've a bargain to offer ye," he said, 
 bluntly. 
 
 Linsky stared in wild-eyed amazement. He had 
 not heard the sound of this name of his for years. 
 
A Baj'gaiii iviih the Buried Man. 209 
 
 " What — what was that name ye called '*" he 
 asked, with a faltering voice. 
 
 "Ah, it's all right," remarked Jerry, with assur- 
 ance. " Faith, 1 knew ye wor Linsky from the 
 beginning. An' bechune ourselves, that's but a 
 drop in the bucket to the rest I know." 
 
 Linsky's surprise paralyzed his tongue. He 
 could only pluck nervously at the cord about his 
 Avaist and gaze in confusion at his jailer-friend. 
 
 " You believed all this time that ye were hid 
 away down here by your fri'nds, to save ye from 
 the poliss, who were scourin' the counthry to arrest 
 Fenians. Am I right ?" Jerr}' asked, with a dawn- 
 ing smile on his red face. 
 
 The other nodded mechanically, still in complete 
 mystification. 
 
 " An' 3'-ou all the time besachin' to go out an' take 
 yer chances, an' me forever tell in' ye 'twould be the 
 ruin of the whole thund'rin' Brotherhood if ye were 
 caught?" Jerry continued, the smile ripening as he 
 went on. 
 
 Again Linsky's answer was a puzzled nod of 
 acquiescence. 
 
 " Well, thin, there's no Brotherhood left at all, an' 
 't is manny years since the poliss in these parts had 
 so much as a drarae of you or of anny Fenian under 
 the sun." 
 
 " But why," stammered Linsky, at last finding 
 voice — " why — thin — " 
 
 "Why are ye here?" Jerry amiably asked the 
 question for him. " Only a small matther of disci- 
 pline, as his reverence w'u'd say, when he ordered 
 peas in our boots. To be open an' above-board wid 
 
2IO The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 ye, man, ye were caught attimptin' to hand over 
 the lot of us to the sojers, that day we tried to take 
 the fort. 'T is the gallus we might 'a' got by 
 rayson of your informin'. Do ye deny that same?" 
 
 Linsky made no answer, but he looked now at the 
 floor instead of at Jerry. In truth, he had been so 
 long immured, confronted daily with the pretense 
 that he was being hidden beyond the reach of the 
 castle's myrmidons, that this sudden resurrection of 
 the truth about his connection with Fenianisni 
 seemed almost to refer to somebod}- else. 
 
 " Well, thin," pursued Jerry, taking instant ad- 
 vantage of the other's confusion, " egor, 't was as a 
 traitor ye were tried an' condimned an' sintenced, 
 while ye lay, sinseless wid that whack on the head. 
 There wor thim that w'u'd — uv — uv — well, not seen 
 ye wake this side of purgatory, or wherever else ye 
 had yer ticket for. But there was wan man that 
 saved yer life from the rest — and he said : * No, 
 don't kill him, an* don't bate him or lay a finger to 
 him, an' I'll be at tiie expinse of keepin' him in a 
 fine, grand place by himsilf, wid food of the best, 
 an' whishky aich day, an' books an' writin's to im- 
 prove his learnin', an' no work to do, an' maybe, 
 be the grace o' God, he'll come to think rightly 
 about it all, an' be ashamed of himsilf an' his dirty 
 doin's, an be fit ag'in to come out an' hold up his 
 head amongst honest min.' That's the m'anin' of 
 what he said, an' I'm the man he said it to — an' 
 that's why I'm here now, callin' ye by 3'er right 
 name, an' tellin' ye the thruth." 
 
 Linsky hesitated for a minute or two, with down- 
 cast gaze and fingers fidgeting at the ends of his 
 
A Bargain ivilh the Ihiricci Man. 2 1 1 
 
 waist-cord. Then he lifted his face, which more 
 than ever seemed all brow and eyes, and looked 
 frankly at Jerry. 
 
 " What ye say is a surprise to me," he began, 
 choosing his words as he went. "Ye never let on 
 what your thoughts were concernin' me, an' I grew 
 to forget how it was 1 came. But now you spake 
 of it, sure 'tis the same to me as if I'd niver been 
 thinkin' of anything else. Oh, thin, tell that man 
 who spoke up for me, whoever he may be, that I've 
 no word but praise for him. 'T was a poor divil of 
 a wake fool he saved the life of." 
 
 " Wid a mixin' of rogue as well," put in Jerry, by 
 way of conscientious parenthesis. 
 
 " 'Tisthe same thing — the worst fool is the rogue ; 
 but I tuk to 't to keep soul an' body together. 
 Sure, I got into throuble in Cork, as manny another 
 boy did before me, an' fied to Ameriky, an' there I 
 listed, an' came in at the tail of the war, an' was shot 
 down an' robbed where I lay, an' was in the hospital 
 for months; an' whin 1 came out divil a thing was 
 there for me to putt me hand to ; an' the Fenians 
 was started, an' 1 j'ined 'em. An' there was a man 
 I knew who made a livin' be sellin' information of 
 what winton, an' the same offer came to me through 
 him — an' me starvin'; an' that's the way of it." 
 
 " An' a notorious bad way, at that !" said Jerr}^ 
 sternly, 
 
 '' I'm of that same opinion," Linsky went on, in all 
 meakness. " Don't think I'm defindin' meself. But 
 1 declare to ye, whin 1 look back on it, 't is not like 
 it was meself at all." 
 
 " Ay, there ye have it !" exclaimed Jerry. " Luk 
 
212 TJie Reticrn of The G MaJioiiy. 
 
 now ! Mill do be changin' and alterin* all the while. 
 I know a man — an old man — who used to be honest 
 an' fair-spoken, an' that devoted to a certain family, 
 egor, he'd laid down his life for 'em ; an' now, be 
 rayson that he 's married a widdeh, an' got a boy of 
 his own, what did he but turn rogue an' lie awake 
 nights schamin' to rob that same family ! 'Tis that 
 way we are! An' so wid3^ou, Linsky, 'tis my belafe 
 that ye began badly, an' that ye 're minded to ind 
 well. Ye 're not the man ye were at all. 'T is part 
 by rayson, I think, of your studyin' in thim holy 
 books, an' part, too," his e3'es twinkled as he added, 
 " be rayson of enjoyin' my society every day," 
 
 Linsky passed the humorous suggestion by un- 
 heeded, his every perception concentrated upon 
 the tremendous possibility which had with such 
 strange suddenness opened before him. 
 
 " An' what is it ye have in mind ?" he asked 
 breathlessly. " There was word of a bargain." 
 
 " 'Tis this," explained Jerry : " An old thief of 
 the earth — him I spoke of that married the widdeh 
 — is ,for robbin' an' plunderin' the man that saved 
 your life. There's more to the tale than I'm tellin' yc, 
 but that's the way of it; an' I'll die for it but I'll 
 prevint him ; an' 't is be3^ant my poor wits to do that 
 same ; an' so 't is your help I'm needin'. An' there 
 ye have it !" 
 
 The situation thus outlined did not meet the full 
 measure of Linsky 's expectations. His face fell. 
 
 " Sure ye might have had me advice in anny 
 case," he said " if that's all it comes to ; but I thought 
 I was goin' out." 
 
A Bargain with the Buried Man. 2 1 3 
 
 " An' why not?" answered Jerr)\ " Who's stop- 
 pin' ye but me, an' me needin' ye outside?" 
 
 Linsky's eyes glowed radiantly through their 
 glasses. 
 
 "Oh, but I'll come!" he exclaimed. "An' what- 
 ever ye bid me that I'll do!" 
 
 " Ah, but," Jerry shook his head dubiously, " 't is 
 you that must be biddin' me what to do." 
 
 " To the best of me power that I'll do, too," the 
 other affirmed ; and the two men shook hands. 
 
 " On to-morrow I'll get clothes for 3^e at Bantry," 
 Jerry said, an hour later, at the end of the confer- 
 ence they had been holding, " an' nixt day we'll 
 inthroduce ye to daylight an' to — O'Daly." 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 NEAR THE SUMMIT OF MT. GABRIEL. 
 
 A vast sunlit landscape under a smiling- April 
 sky — a landscape beyond the uses of mere painters 
 with their tubes and brushes and camp-stools, where 
 leagues of mountain ranges melted away into the 
 shimmering haze of distance, and where the myriad 
 armlets of the blue Atlantic in view, winding them- 
 selves about their lovers, the headlands, and placidly 
 nursing their children, the islands, marked as on a 
 map the coastwise journeys of a month — stretched 
 itself out before the gaze of young Bernard 
 O'Mahony, of Houghton County, Michigan — and 
 was scarcely thanked for its pains. 
 
 The 3'oung man had completed four-fifths of the 
 ascent of Mount Gabriel, from the Dunmanus side, 
 and sat now on a moss-capped boulder, nominally 
 meditating upon the splendors of the panorama 
 spread out before him, but in truth thinking deeply 
 of other things. He had not brought a gun, this 
 time, but had in his hand a small, brand-new ham- 
 mer, with which, from time to time, to point the 
 shifting phases of his reverie, he idly tapped the up- 
 turned sole of the foot resting on his knee. 
 [214] 
 
Near the Summit of Mt. Gabriel. 215 
 
 From this coign of vantage he could make out 
 the white walls and thatches of at least a dozen 
 hamlets, scattered over the space of thrice as man}' 
 miles. Such of these as stood inland he did not 
 observe a second time. There were others, more dis- 
 tant, which lay close to the bay, and these he stud- 
 ied intently as he mused, his eyes roaming along the 
 coast-line from one to another in baffled perplexity. 
 There was nothing obscure about them, so far as 
 his vision went. Everything — the innumerable 
 croft-walls dividing the wretched land below him 
 into holdings ; the dark umber patches where the 
 bog had been cut ; the serried layers of gray reck 
 sloping transversely down the mountain-side, each 
 Avith its crown of canary-blossomed furze ; the wide 
 stretches of desolate plain beyond, where no human 
 habitation could be seen, yet where he knew thous- 
 ands of poor creatures lived, all the same, in moss- 
 hidden hovels in the nooks of the rocks; the pale 
 sheen on the sea still further away, as it slept in the 
 sunlight at the feet of the cliffs — everything was as 
 sharp and distinct as the picture in a telescope. 
 
 But all this did not help him to guess where the 
 young woman in the broad, black hat lived. 
 
 Bernard had thought a great deal about this 
 young woman during the forty-eight hours which 
 had elapsed since she stood up in the boat and 
 waved her hand to him in farewell. In a guarded 
 way he had made some inquiries at Goleen, where 
 he was for the moment domiciled, but only to learn 
 that people on the east side of the peninsula are con- 
 scious of no interest whatever in the people reputed 
 to live on the west side. They are six or eight Irish 
 
2i6 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 miles apart, and there is high hind between them. 
 No one in Goleen could tell him anything about a 
 beautiful dark young woman with a broad, black 
 hat. He felt that they did not even properly 
 imagine to themselves what he meant. In Goleen 
 the young women are not beautiful, and they wear 
 shawls on their heads, not hats. 
 
 Then he had conceived the idea of investigating 
 the west shore for himself. On the map in his 
 guide-book this seemed a simple enough undertak- 
 ing, but now, as he let his gaze wander again along 
 the vast expanse of ragged and twisted coast-line, he 
 saw that it would mean the work of many days. 
 
 And then — then he saw something else — a vision 
 which fairly took his breath away. 
 
 Along the furze-hedge road which wound its way 
 up the mountain-side from Dunmanus and the 
 south, two human figures were moving toward him, 
 slowly, and still at a considerable distance. One of 
 these figures was that of a woman, and — yes, it was 
 a woman ! — and she wore a hat — as like as could be 
 to that broad-brimmed, black hat he had been 
 dreaming of. Bernard permitted himself no doubts. 
 He was of the age of miracles. Of course it was 
 she ! 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation he slid down off 
 his rocky perch and seated himself behind a clump 
 of furze. It would be time enough to disclose his 
 presence — if, indeed he did at all — when she had 
 come up to him. 
 
 No such temptation to secrecy besets us. We 
 may freel}'' hasten down the mountain-side to where 
 Kate, walking slowly and pausing from time to time 
 
Ncai'- the Summit of Mt. Gabriel. 217 
 
 to look back upon the broadening sweep oi land 
 and sea below her, was making the ascent of Mount 
 Gabriel. 
 
 Poor old Murphy had been left behind, much 
 against his will, to nurse and bemoan his swollen 
 ankle. The companion this time was a 3-ounger 
 brother of the missing Malach}', a lumpish, silent 
 " boy " of twenty-five or six, who slouched along a 
 few paces behind his mistress and bore the luncheon 
 basket. This young man was known to all Muirisc 
 as John Pat, which was by way of distinguishing him 
 from the other Johns who were not also Patricks. 
 As it was now well on toward nine centuries since 
 the good Brian Boru ordained that every Irishman 
 should have a surname, the presumption is that John 
 Pat did possess such a thing, but feudal Muirisc 
 never dreamed of suggesting its common use. This 
 surname had been heard at his baptism ; it might be 
 mentioned again upon the occasion of his marriage, 
 though his wife would certainly be spoken of as 
 Mrs. John Pat, and in the end, if he died at Muirisc, 
 the surname would be painted in white letters on 
 the black wooden cross set over his grave. For all 
 the rest he was just John Pat. 
 
 And mediaeval Muirisc, too, could never have 
 dreamed that his age and sex might be thought by 
 outsiders to render him an unsuitable companion 
 for Miss Kate in her wanderings over the countr}-- 
 side. In their eyes, and in his own, he was a mere 
 boy, whose mission was to run errands, carry bun- 
 dles or do whatever else the people of the castle 
 bade him do ; in return for which they, in one way 
 or another, looked to it that he continued to live, 
 
2i8 The Re hum of The O Mahony, 
 
 and even on occasion, gave him an odd shilling or 
 two. 
 
 " Look, now, John Pat," said Kate, halting once 
 more to look back; " there's Dunbeacon and Dun- 
 manus and Muirisc beyant, and, may be if it wasn't 
 so far, we could see the Three Castles, too ; and 
 whin we're at the top, we should be able to see 
 Rosbrin and the White Castle and the Black Castle 
 and the strand over which Ballydesmond stood, 
 on the other side, as well. 'Tis my belafe no other 
 family in the world can stand and look down on 
 sevin of their castles at one view." 
 
 John Pat looked dutifully along the coast-line as 
 her gesture commanded, and changed his basket 
 into the other hand, but offered no comment. 
 
 " And there, across the bay," the girl went on, 
 " is the land that's marked on the Four Masters' 
 map for the O'Dalys. Ye were there many times, 
 John Pat, after crabs and the like. Tell me, now, 
 did ever you or anny one else hear of a castle built 
 there be the O'Dalys ?" 
 
 " Sorra a wan. Miss Katie." 
 
 "There you have it! My word, the impidinoe 
 of thim O'Dalys — strolling beggars, and hedge 
 teachers, and singers of ballads be the wayside ! 
 'Tis in the books, John Pat, that wance there 
 was a king of Ireland named Hugh Dubh — Hugh 
 the Black— and these bards so perplexed and 
 brothered the soul out of him wid claims for money 
 and fine clothes and the best places at the table, 
 and kept the land in such a turmoil by rayson of the 
 scurrilous verses they wrote about thim that gnve 
 thim less than their demands — that Hugh, glory be 
 
Near Ihe Sitinmit of Ml. Gabriel. 219 
 
 to him, swore not a man of 'em should remain in all 
 Ireland. ' Out ye go,' says he. But thin they 
 raised such a cr}-, that a wake, kindly man — St. 
 Columbkill that was to be — tuk pity on 'em, and 
 interceded wid the king, and so, worse luck, they 
 kept their place. Ah, thin, if Hugh Dugh had had 
 his way wid 'em 't would be a diflferent kind of 
 Ireland we'd see this day !" 
 
 " Well, this Hugh Dove, as 3'ou call him " — spoke 
 up a clear, fresh-toned male voice, which was not 
 John Pat's — " even he couldn't have wanted a pret- 
 tier Ireland than this is, right here in front of 
 us!" 
 
 Kate, in vast surprise, turned at the very first 
 sound of this strange voice. A young man had 
 risen to his feet from behind the furze hedge, close 
 beside her, his rosy-cheeked face wreathed in ami- 
 able smiles. She recognized the wandering O'Ma- 
 hony from Houghton County, Michigan, and 
 softened the rigid lines into which her face had been 
 startled, as a token of friendly recognition. 
 
 " Good morning," the 3'oung man added, as a cere- 
 monious afterthought. " Isn't it a lovely day ?" 
 
 " You seem to be viewing our country hereabouts 
 wid great complateness," commented Kate, with a 
 half-smile, not wholly free from irony. There reall}' 
 was no reason for suspecting the accidental char- 
 acter of the encounter, save the self-conscious and 
 confident manner in which the young man had, on 
 the instant, attached himself to her expedition. 
 Even as she spoke, he was walking along at her 
 side. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he answered, cheerfully, " I'm mixing 
 
220 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 up business ond pleasure, dou't you see, all the 
 while I'm here — and really they get so tangled up 
 together every once in a while, that I can't tell 
 which is which. But just at this moment — there's 
 no doubt about it whatev^er — pleasure is right bang- 
 up on top." 
 
 " It is a fine, grand da}^" said Kate, with a shade 
 of reserve. The frankly florid compliment of the 
 Occident was novel to her. 
 
 " Yes, simply wonderful weather," he pursued. 
 " Only April, and here's the skin all peeling off from 
 my nose." 
 
 Kate could not but in courtesy look at this afiiicted 
 feature. It was a short good-humored nose, with 
 just the faintest and kindliest suggestion of an up- 
 ward tilt at the end. One should not be too serious 
 with the owner of such a nose. 
 
 " You have business here, thin?" she asked. " I 
 thought you were looking at castles — and shooting 
 herons." 
 
 He gave a little laugh, and held up his hammer 
 as a voucher. 
 
 " I'm a mining engineer," he explained : " I've 
 been prospecting for a company all around Cappagh 
 and the Mizzen Head, and now I'm waiting: to hear 
 from London what the assa3'S are like. Oh,}es — 
 that reminds me — I ought to have asked before — 
 how is the old man — the chap we had to carry to 
 the boat ? I hope his ankle's better." 
 
 " It is, thank you," she replied. 
 
 He chuckled aloud at the recollections which the 
 subject suggested. 
 
 "He soured on me, right from the start, didn't 
 
Near the Snmmit of Mt. Gabriel. 221 
 
 he?" the young man went on. " I've laughed a hun- 
 dred times since, at the way he chiseled me out of 
 my place in the boat — that is to say, some of the time 
 I've laughed — but — but then lots of other times I 
 couldn't see any fun in it at all. Do 3-ou know," he 
 continued, almost dolefull}', " I've 'oeen hunting all 
 over the place for you." 
 
 " I've nothing to do wid the minerals on our 
 lands," Kate answered. " 'T is a thrushtee attinds 
 to all that." 
 
 "Pshaw! I didn't want to talk minerals to _j'^?^" 
 
 " And what thin ?" 
 
 " Well — since you put it so straight — why — why, 
 of course — I wanted to ask you more about our peo- 
 ple, about the O'Mahonys. You seemed to be 
 pretty well up on the thing. You see, my father 
 died seven or eight years ago, so that I was too 
 young to talk to him much about where he came 
 from, and all that. And my mother, her people 
 were from a different part of Ireland, and so, you 
 see — " 
 
 " Ah, there's not much to tell now," said Kate, in 
 a saddened tone. " They were a great family once, 
 and now are nothing at all, wid poor me as the last 
 of the lot." 
 
 " I don't call that ' nothing at all,' by a jugful," 
 protested Bernard, with conviction. 
 
 Kate permitted herself a brief cousinly smile. 
 
 " All the same, they end with me, and afther me 
 comes in the O'Dalys." 
 
 Lines of thought raised themselves on the young 
 man's forehead and ran down to the sunburnt nose. 
 
 " How do you mean .^" he asked, dubiously. 
 
22 2 The Return of TJte O Mahony. 
 
 " Are you — don't mind my asking — are you going to 
 marry one of that name?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, to express repug- 
 nance at the very thought. 
 
 " I'll marry no one ; laste of all an O'Daly," she 
 said, firmly. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she 
 decided upon a further explanation. " I'm goin' to 
 take me vows at the convint within the month," she 
 added. 
 
 Bernard stared open-eyed at her. 
 
 '* I-gad !" was all he said. 
 
 The girl's face lightened at the sound of this 
 exclamation, bringing back as it did a flood of 
 welcome memories. 
 
 " I know 3'ou by that word for a true O'Mahony, 
 — 'an American O'Mahoney," she said, with eager 
 pleasure beaming in her deep-gray eyes. She turn- 
 ed to her retainer: " You remimberthat same word, 
 John Pat. Wlio was it used always to be saying 
 • 1-gad ? ' " 
 
 John Pat searched the landscape with a vacuous 
 glance. 
 
 " Wu'd it be Father Harrington?" he asked. 
 
 '" Huh !" sniffed Kate, in light contempt, and turn- 
 ed again to the young engineer, with a backward 
 nod toward John Pat. " He's an honest lad." she 
 said, apologetically, " but the Lord only knows 
 what's inside of his head. Ah, sir, there 2i>as an 
 O'Mahony here — 'tis twelve years now since he 
 sailed away ; ah, the longest day Muirisc stands she 
 '11 not see such another man — bold and fine, wid a 
 heart in him like a lion, and yit soft and tinder to 
 thim he liked, and a janius for war and commence 
 
Near ihc S2immit of Mt. Gabriel. 223 
 
 and government that made Muirisc blossom like a 
 rose. Ah, a grand man was our O'Mahony !" 
 
 "So you live at Muirisc, eh?" asked the practical 
 Bernard. 
 
 " 'T was him used always to say ' I-gad !' whin 
 things took him by surprise," remarked Kate, turn- 
 ing to study the vast downward view attentively. 
 
 *' Well I said it because / was taken by surprise," 
 said the young man. "What else could a fellow 
 say, with such a piece of news as that dumped 
 down on him ? But say, you don't mean it, do you 
 — ^jw^ &oi"g to be a nun ?" 
 
 She looked at him through luminous eyes, and 
 nodded a grave affirmative. 
 
 Bernard walked for a little way in silence, mood- 
 ily eying the hammer in his hand. Once or twice 
 he looked up at his companion as if to speak, then 
 cast down his eyes again. At last, after he had 
 helped her to cross a low, marshy stretch at the 
 base of a ridge of gray rock, and to climb to the 
 top of the boulder — for they had left the road now 
 and were making their way obliquelj' up the barren 
 crest — he found words to utter. 
 
 " You don't mind my coming along with you," 
 he asked, " under the circumstances?" 
 
 " I don't see how I'm to prevint you, especially 
 wid you armed wid a hammer," she said, in gentle 
 banter. 
 
 "And 1 can ask you a plain question without 
 offending you ?" he went on ; and then, without 
 waiting for an answer, put his question: " It's just 
 this — I've only seen you twice, it's true, but I feel 
 as if I'd known you for years, and, besides, we're 
 
2 24 '^^^^ Retur7i of The G MaJiony. 
 
 kind of relations — are you going to do this of your 
 own free will ?" 
 
 Kate, for answer, lifted her hand and pointed 
 westward toward the pale-blue band along the 
 distant coast-line. 
 
 " That castle you see yonder at the bridge — " she 
 said, " 't was there that Finghin, son of Diarmid 
 Mor O'Mahony, bate the MacCarthys wid great 
 slaughter, in Anno Domini 13 19." 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN-TOP— AND AFTER. 
 
 The two 3^oung people, with John Pat and the 
 basket close behind, stood at last upon the very 
 summit of Gabriel — a wild and desolate jumble of 
 naked rocks piled helter-skelter about them, and at 
 their feet a strange, little, circular lake, which in all 
 the ag^es had mirrored no tree or flowering- rush or 
 green thing whatsoever, but knew onl)' of the clouds 
 and of the lightning's play and of the gathering of 
 the storm-demons for descent upon the homes of 
 men. 
 
 A solemn place is a mountain-top. The thin, 
 spiritualized air is all alive with mysteries, which, 
 down below in the sordid atmosphere, visit onlv the 
 brains of men whom we lock up as mad. Th.e dsy- 
 ing-up of the great globe-floods ; the slow birtli of 
 vegetation ; the rank growth of uncouth monsters ; 
 the coming of the fleet-footed, bare-skinned savage 
 beast called man ; the primeval aeons of warfare 
 wherein knowledge of fire, of metals, of tanned 
 hides and habitations was laboriously developed 
 and the huger reptiles were destroyed ; the dau-n of 
 history through the clouds of sun and serpent wor- 
 
226 The Ret2irn of The O" Mahony. 
 
 ship ; the weary ages of brutish raids and massacres, 
 of barbaric creeds and cruel lusts — all this the 
 mountain-tops have stood still and watched, and, so 
 far as in them lay, understood. 
 
 Some have comprehended more of what tiiey saw 
 than others. The tallest man is not necessaril}' the 
 wisest. So there are very loft}' mountains which 
 remain stupid, despite their advantages, and there 
 are relatively small mountains which have come to 
 be almost human in their understanding of and sym- 
 pathy with the world-long drama they have watched 
 unfolding itself. The Brocken, for example, is 
 scarcel}' nipple-high to many another of its German 
 brethren, yet which of the rest has such rich n^em- 
 ories, stretching back through countless ccnlnries 
 of Teuton, Slav, Alemanni, Suevi, Frank and Celt 
 to the days when nomad strove with troglodyte, and 
 the great cave-bear grappled with the mammoth in 
 the silent fastnesses of the Harz. 
 
 In Desmond, the broad-based, conical Gabriel has 
 as unique a character of another kind. There is 
 nothing of the frank and homely German familiarity 
 in the reputation it enjoys at home. To be sure, 
 the mountain is scarred to the throat by bogcutters ; 
 cabins and the ruins of cabins lurk hidden in clefts 
 of i-ocks more than half-way up its gra}-, furze-clad 
 sides ; yet it produces the effect of standing sternl}^ 
 aloof from human things. The peasants think of it 
 as a sacied eminence. It has its very name from 
 the legend of tiie archangel, who flying across 
 Europe in disgust at man's iniquities, could not 
 resist the temptation to descend for a moment to 
 
On the Mouiitain-top — a7id after. 227 
 
 touch with his foot this beautiful mountain gem in 
 the crown of Carber3% 
 
 Kate explained this legend to her young com- 
 panion from Houghton County, and showed him 
 the marks of the celestial visitor's foot plainlj' 
 visible in the rock. He bestowed such critical, not 
 to say professional, scrutiny upon these marks that 
 she made haste to take up another branch of the 
 ancient fable. 
 
 " And this little round lake here," she went on, 
 " they'll all tell you 't was made by bodily lifting 
 out a great cylinder of rock and carting it miles 
 through the air and putting it down in the sea out 
 there, where it's ever since been known as Fasnet 
 Rock. Thev say the measurements are precisely 
 the same. I forget now if 't was the Archangel 
 Gabriel did that, too, or the divil." 
 
 " The result comes to about the same thing," com- 
 mented the engineer. " Whoever did it," he went 
 on, scanning the regularly rounded sides of the 
 pool, " made a good workmanlike job of it." 
 
 " No one's ever been able to touch the bottom of 
 it," said Kate, with pride. 
 
 " Oh, come, now — I've heard that of ever)^ second 
 lake in Ireland." 
 
 " Well — certainly Fve not tested it," she replied, 
 frostil}^ " but 't is well known that if you sink a 
 bottle in this lake 't will be found out there in Dun- 
 manus Bay fourteen hundred feet below us." 
 
 " Why, the very first principle of hydrostatics," 
 began Bernard, with controversial eagerness. Then 
 he stopped short, stroked his smooth chin, and 
 changed the subject abruptly. " Speaking of bot- 
 
2 28 TJie Return of The G MaJiony. 
 
 ties," he said, " I see your nian there is eying that 
 lunch basket with the expression of a meat-axe. 
 Wouldn't it be a clever idea to let him unpack it?" 
 
 The while John Pat stripped the basket of its con- 
 tents, and spread tliem upon a cloth in the mossy 
 shadow of an overhanging boulder, the two b}' a 
 common impulse strolled over to the eastern edge 
 of the summit. 
 
 " Be3'ond Roaring Water Bay the O'Driscoll 
 Castles begin," said Kate. " They tell me they're 
 poor trifles compared wid ours." 
 
 *' I like to hear you say * ours,' " the 3'oung man 
 broke in. " I want you to keep right on rememi^er- 
 ing all the wdiile that I belong to the family'. And — 
 and I wish to heaven there w^as something I could 
 do to show how tickled to death I am that I do be- 
 long to it !" 
 
 " I have never been here before," Kate said, in a 
 musing tone, which carried in it a gentle apology 
 for abstraction. " I did not know there was any- 
 thing so big and splendid in the world." 
 
 The spell of this mighty spectacle at once en- 
 chanted and oppressed her. She stood gazing down 
 upon it for some minutes, holding up her hand as a 
 plea for silence wdien her companion would have 
 spoken. Then, with a lingering sigli, she turncti 
 away and led the slow walk back toward the lake. 
 
 "'Twas like dreaming," she said with gravity; 
 "and a strange thought came to me: 'Twas that 
 this lovely Ireland 1 looked down upon was beau- 
 tiful with the beaut}' of death ; that 'twas the corp?e 
 of me country 1 was taking a last view of. Don't 
 
On the Moitntain-top — and after. 229 
 
 laugh at me ! I had just that feeling. Ah, poor, 
 poor Irckind !" 
 
 Bernard saw tears glistening upon her long, 
 black lashes, and scarcely knew his own voice when 
 he heard it, in such depths of melancholy was it 
 pitched. 
 
 •' Better times are coming now," he said. " If we 
 open up the mines we are counting on it ought to 
 give work to at least two hundred men." 
 
 She turned sharpl}' upon him. 
 
 " Don't talk like that!" she said, in half command, 
 half entreaty. " 'T is not trade or work or mines that 
 keeps a nation alive when 'tis fit to die. One can 
 have them all, and riches untold, and still sink wid a 
 broken heart. 'T is nearly three hundred years 
 since the first of the exiled O'Mahonys sailed away 
 yonder — from Skull and Crookhaven they wint — to 
 iight and die in Spain. Thin others wint — Conagher 
 and Domnal and the rest — to fight and die in 
 France ; and so for centuries the stream of life has 
 fiowed away from Ireland wid every other family 
 the same as wid ours. What nation under the sun 
 could stand the drain? 'T is twelve years now 
 since the best and finest of them all sailed away to 
 fight in France, and to — to die — oh, win-a ! — who 
 knows where? So" — her great eyes flashed 
 proudly through their tears — " don't talk of mines 
 to me ! 'T is too much like the English !" 
 
 Bernard somehow felt himself grown much taller 
 and older as he listened to this outburst of passion- 
 ate lamentation, with its whiplash end of defiance, 
 and realized that this beautiful girl was confiding it 
 
230 The Return of The G MaJiony. 
 
 all to him. He threw back his shoulders, and laid 
 a hand gently on her arm. 
 
 "Come, come," he pleaded, with a soothing 
 drawl, "don't give away like that! We'll take a 
 bite of something to eat, and get down again where 
 the grass grows. Why, you've no idea — the bottom 
 of a coal-mine is sociable and lively compared with 
 this. I'd get the blues myself up here, in another 
 half-hour !" 
 
 A few steps were taken in silence, and then the 
 young man spoke again, with settled determination 
 in his voice. 
 
 " You can say what you like," he ground out 
 between his teeth, " or, rather, you needn't say any 
 more than you like ; but I've got my own idea 
 about this convent business, and I don't like it, and 
 I don't for a minute believe that you like it. IMind, 
 I'm not asking you to tell me whether you do or 
 not — only I want you to say just this : Count on me 
 as your friend — call it cousin, too, if you like ; keep 
 me in mind as a fellow who'll go to the whole 
 length of the rope to help you, and break the rope 
 like a piece of paper twine if it's necessary to go 
 further. That's all." 
 
 It is the propert}- of these weird mountain-tops to 
 make realities out of the most unlikely things. On 
 a lower terrestrial level Kate's mind might have 
 seen nothing but fantastic absurdity in this proffer 
 of confidential friendship and succor, from a youth 
 whom she met twice. Here in the finer Jind more 
 eager air, lifted up to be the companion of clouds, 
 the girl looked with grave frankness into his eyes 
 and gave him her hand in token of the bond. 
 
On the Mountain-top — and after. 231 
 
 Without further words, they rejoined John Pat, 
 and sat down to lunch. 
 
 Indeed, there were few further words during the 
 afternoon which John Pat was not privileged to 
 hear. He sat with them during the meal, in the 
 true democratic spirit of the sept relation, and he 
 kept close behind them on their rambling, leisure)}' 
 descent of the mountain-side. From the tenor of 
 their talk he gathered vaguely that the strange 
 young man was some sort of relation from America, 
 and as relations from America present, perhaps, the 
 one idea most universally familiar to the Irish peas- 
 ant's mind, his curiosity was not aroused. Their 
 conversation, for the most part, was about that 
 remarkable 0"Mahony who had gone away years 
 ago and whom John Pat only dimly remembered. 
 
 A couple of miles from Muirisc, the homeward- 
 bound trio — for Bernard had tacitly made himself a 
 party to the entire expedition and felt as if he, too, 
 were going home — encountered, in the late after- 
 noon, two men sitting by the roadside ditch. 
 
 " Oh, there 's Jerry," said Kate to her companion 
 — " Mr. Higgins, I mane — wan of my trustees. 1 '11 
 inthroduce you to him." 
 
 Jerry's demeanor, as the group approached him, 
 bore momentary traces of embarrassment. lie 
 looked at the man beside him, and then cast a back- 
 ward glance at the ditch, as if wishing that they 
 were both safely hidden behind its mask of stone 
 wall and furze. But this was clearly impossible ; 
 and the two stood up at an obvious suggestion from 
 
232 The Retia'u of The O MaJiony, 
 
 Jerry and put as good a face upon their presence as 
 possible. 
 
 " This is a relation of nioine from Amerilcy, too," 
 said Jerry, after some words had passed, indicatin<; 
 the tall, thin, shambling, spectacled figure beside 
 him, " Mr. Joseph Higgins, of — of — of — " 
 
 " Of Boston," said the other, after an awkward 
 pause. 
 
 He seemed ill at ease in his badly fitting clothes 
 and looked furtively from one to another of the 
 faces before him. 
 
 " An' what d' ye think, Miss Katie?" hurriedly 
 continued Jerry. " Egor I Be all the miracles of 
 Moses, he's possessed of more learnin' about the 
 O'Mahonys than anny other man alive. Cormac 
 O'Daly 'd be a fool to him. An', egor, he used to 
 know our O'Mahony whin he was in Ameriky, 
 before ever he came over to us!" 
 
 " Ye 're wrong, Jerry," said Mr. Joseph Higgins, 
 with cautious hesitation, " I didn't say I knew him. 
 I said 1 knew of him. I was employed to search for 
 him, whin he was heir to the estate, unbeknownst to 
 himself, an' I wint to the town where he'd kept a 
 cobbler's shop — Tecumsy was the name of it — an' 
 1 made inquiries for Hugh O'Mahony, but — " 
 
 " What's that you say ! Hugh O'Mahony — a 
 shoemaker in Tecumseh, New York ?" broke in 
 young Bernard, with sharp, almost excited em- 
 phasis. 
 
 " 'T is what I said," responded the other, his pale 
 face flushing nervously, " only — only he'd gone to 
 the war." 
 
 " An' that was our O'Mahony," explained Jerry. 
 
Oil the j\Founfaiii-top — and after. 233 
 
 " Glory be to God, he learned of the search made 
 for him, an' he came to us afther the war." 
 
 Bernard was not sure that he had got the twitch- 
 ing muscles of his face under control, but at least he 
 could manage his tongue. 
 
 " Oh, he came over here, did he?" he said, with a 
 fair alTectation of polite interest. 
 
 " You spoke as if you knew him," put in Kate, 
 eagerly. 
 
 ** My father knew him as well — as well as he knew 
 himself," answered Bernard, wnth evasion, and then 
 bit his lip in fear that he had said too much. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE INTELLIGENT YOUNG MAN. 
 
 Within the next few days the people of Muirisc 
 found themselves becominu^ familiar with the spec- 
 tacle of two strange figures walking about among 
 their narrow, twisted streets or across the open 
 space of common between the castle and the qua}'. 
 The sight of new-comers was still unusual enough 
 in Muirisc to disturb the minds of the inhabitants — 
 but since the mines had been opened in the district 
 the old-time seclusion had never quite come back, 
 and it was uneasily felt that in the lapse of years 
 even a hotel might come to be necessary. 
 
 One of these strangers, a ricket3% spindling, weird- 
 eyed man in spectacles, was known to be a cousin 
 of Jerry Higgins, from America. The story went 
 \hat he was a great scholar, peculiarly learned in 
 ancient Irish matters. Muirisc took this for granted 
 all the more readily because he seemed not to know 
 anything else — and watched his shambling progress 
 through the village streets by Jerr3?'s side with 
 something of the affectionate pity which the Irish 
 peasant finds always in his heart for the being he 
 describes as a " nathural." 
 I234] 
 
The T^itelligent Young Man. 235 
 
 The other tiew-comer answered vastly better to 
 Muirisc's conceptions of what a man from America 
 should be like. He was young, fresh-faced and 
 elastic of step — with square shoulders, a lithe, vig- 
 orous frame and eyes wh.ich looked with frank and 
 cheerful shrewdness at all men and things. He 
 outdid even the most communicative of Muirisc's 
 old white-capped women in polite salutations to 
 passers-by on the highway, and he was amiably 
 untiring in his efforts to lure with pennies into 
 friendly converse the wild little girls of Muirisc, 
 who watched him with twinkling, squirrels' eyes 
 from under their shawls, and whisked off like so 
 many coveys of partridges, at his near approach ; 
 the little boj'S, with the stronger sense of their sex, 
 invariably took his pennies, but no more than their 
 sisters could the)'- be induced to talk. 
 
 There was a delightful absence of reserve in this 
 young man from America. Muirisc seemed to know 
 ever3^thing about him all at once. His name was 
 O'Mahony, and his father had been a County-Cork 
 man ; he was a mining engineer, and had been 
 brought over to Europe by a mining compan}- as an 
 expert in copper-ores and the refining of barytes ; 
 he was living at Goleen, but liked ISIuirisc much 
 better, both from a miner, a logical point of view 
 and socially; he was reckless in the expenditure of 
 money on the cars from Goleen and back and on 
 the hire of boatmen at Muirisc; he was filled to the 
 top and running over with funny stories, he was a 
 good Catholic, he took the acutest interest in all the 
 personal narratives of the older inhabitants, and was 
 
236 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 free with his tobacco ; trul}- a most admirable 
 young man ! 
 
 He had been about JNIuirisc and the immediate 
 vicinity for a week or so— breaking up an occa- 
 sional rock with his hammer when he was sure peo- 
 ple were watching him, but more often lounging 
 about in gossip on the main street, or fishing in the 
 harbor with a boatman who would talk— when he 
 made in a casual way the acquaintance of O'Daly. 
 
 The little old man, white-haired now, but with 
 the blue-black shadows of clean shaving still stain- 
 ing high up his jaws and sunken cheeks, had come 
 down the street, nodding briefly to such villagers 
 as saluted him, and carrying his hands clasped at the 
 buttons on the back of his long-tailed coat. He 
 had heard rumors of this young miner from 
 America, and paused now on the outskirts of a 
 group in front of the cobbler's shop^ whom Bernard 
 was entertaining with tales of giant salmon in the 
 waters of Lake Superior. 
 
 "Oh, this is Mr. O'Daly, I believe," the young 
 man had on the instant interrupted his narrative to 
 remark. " I'm glad to meet you, sir. I'd been 
 thinking of calling on you every da}-, but I know 
 you're a busy man, and it's only since yesterday 
 that I've felt that I had real business with you. My 
 name's O'Mahony, and I'm here for the South Des- 
 mond Bary'tcs Syndicate. Probably you know the 
 name." 
 
 The O'Daly found his wrinkled old paw being 
 shaken warmly in the grasp of this affable young 
 man before he had had time to be astonished. 
 
The Intelligent Yotmg Man. 
 
 " O'Daly's my name," he said, hesitatiiigl}-, 
 "And you have business with me, 3^ou said?" 
 
 " I guess you'll think S(j !" responded the other. 
 " I've just got word from my superiors in London 
 to go ahead, and naturally you're the first man I 
 want to talk with." And then they linked arms. 
 
 " Well," said the cobbler, as they watched the 
 receding figures of the pair, " my word, there's more 
 ways of killin* a dog than chokin' him wid butter !" 
 
 An hour later, Bernard sat comfortably ensconced 
 in the easiest chair afforded by the living-room of 
 the castle, with the infant O'Daly on his knee and a 
 trio of grown-up people listening in iinalfecttd 
 pleasure to his sprighth" talk. He had at the outset 
 mistaken Mrs. O'Daly for a married sister of Kate's 
 — an error which he managed on th.e instant to 
 emphasize b}' a gravely deliberate wink at Kate — 
 and now held the mother's heart completely b}' his 
 genial attentions to the babe. He 'ind set n'd 
 O'Daly all aglow with eager interest b}' his eulog)- 
 of Muirisc's mineral wealth as against all other dis- 
 tricts in West Carber}'. And all the time, thr(^ugh 
 anecdote, business converse, exchange of theoiies 
 on the rearing and precocity of infants and bright- 
 llovv'ing chatter on every subject uridcr the sun. lie 
 had contrived to make Kate steadil}' conscious that 
 she was the true object of his visit. Now and again 
 ihe consciousness grew so vivid that she felt herself 
 blushing over ihe embroidered altar cloth at which 
 she worked, in the shadow betvreen the windows. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Bernard, dandling the infant 
 tenderlv ns he spoke "I don't kn-M- -vhat I 
 
^3t> TJic Ret2ir7i of The O Mahony 
 
 ■0' 
 
 wouldn't give to be able, when I go back, to tell my 
 father how I'd seen the O'Mahony castles liere, and 
 all that, right on the family's old stamping-ground." 
 
 "Yer father died, ye say, maun}- 3-ears ago?" 
 remarked O'Dal}'. 
 
 "Sure, ' mannj' ' 's not the word for it," put in 
 Mrs. O'Dal}', with a flattering smile. " He 's but a 
 lad yet, for all he's seen and done." 
 
 " Nobody could grow old in such an air as this," 
 said the young man, briskly. " You, yourself, bear 
 witness to that, Mrs. O'Dal}'. Yes, my father died 
 when 1 was a youngster. We moved out West 
 after the War — I was a little shaver then — and he 
 didn't live long after that." 
 
 " And would he be in the moines, too ?" asked 
 Cormac. 
 
 " No ; in the leatlier business," answered Bernard, 
 without hesitation. " I'o the end of his days, he 
 was always counting on coming back here to Ireland 
 and seeing the home of the 0'Mahon)'s again. To 
 hear him talk, you'd have thought there wasn't 
 another famil)' in Ireland worth mentioning." 
 
 " 'T was always that wa}' wid thim 0'Mahon3's," 
 said O'Daly, throwing a significant glance over his 
 wife and step-daughter. " 1 can spake fi^ceiy to 
 you, sir ; for I'll be bound 3'e favor ycr mother's 
 side and 3'e were not brought up among them ; but 
 bechune ourselves, there's a dale o' nonsinse talked 
 about thim same 0'Mahon3's. Did 3'ou ever hear 
 3'er father mintion an O'Daly^" 
 
 " Well — no — I can't sa3' I did," answered the 
 3'oung man, bending his mind to comprehension of 
 v.'hat the old man mi^fht be drivins: at. 
 
The tntelligoit Young Man. ^39 
 
 " There ye have it I" said Cormac, bringing his 
 hand down witii emphasis on the table. "Sir, 'tis a 
 iiard thing to say, but the ingralhitude of tliini 
 O'Mahonys just passes behite. Sure, 't was we that 
 made thim. What were they but p)oyrutts and 
 robbers of tiie earth, wid no since but for raids an' 
 incursions, an' burnin' down abbe3's an' lioly houses, 
 and makin' war on their neighbors. An' sure, 't was 
 we civilized 'cm, we O'Dalj-s, that they trate now 
 as not fit to lace up their shoes. 'T was we taught 
 thim O'Mahonys to rade an' write, an* everything 
 else the}' knew in learnin' and politeness. An' so 
 far as that last-mintioned commodity goes" — this 
 with a still more meaning, sidelong glance toward 
 the women — " faith, a dale of our labor was wasted 
 intoirely." 
 
 Even if Kate would have taken up the challenge, 
 the young man gave her no time. 
 
 •' Oh, of course," he broke in, " I've heard of the 
 O'Dalys all mj- life. Everybody knows about 
 tJicm /" 
 
 " Liik at that now !" exclaimed Cormac, in high 
 triumph. " Sure, 't is Ameriky '11 set all of us 
 right, an' keep the old learning up. Ye'll have 
 heard, sir, of Cuchonnacht O'Daly, called ' na 
 Sgotle' or ' of the school ' — " 
 
 '* What, old Cocoanut !" cried Bernard, with 
 vivacit}', " I should think so !" 
 
 " 'T was he was our founder," pursued Cormac, 
 excitedl3^ " An' after him came eight-an'-twinty 
 descindants, all the chief bards of Ireland. An' in 
 comparatively late toimes the}^ had a school at 
 Drumnea, in Kilcrohane, where the sons of the 
 
240 TJie Return of The O AlaJioiiy. 
 
 kings of Spain came for their complate eddication, 
 an' the princes doid there, an' are buried there in 
 our family vault — sure the ruins of the college 
 remain to this day — " 
 
 " You don't mean to say you're one of that family, 
 Mr. O'Daly ?" asked Bernard, with eagerness. 
 
 " 'T is my bclafe I'm the head of it," responded 
 Cormac, with lofty simplicit}'. " I'm an old man, 
 sir, an* of an humble nature, an' I'd not be takin' 
 honors on meself. But whin that bye there — that 
 bye ye how Id on yer knee — grows up, an' he the 
 owner of Muirisc an' its moines an' the fishin*, wid 
 all his eddication an' foine advantages — sure, if it 
 pl'ases him to asshume the dignity of TJie O'Daly, 
 an' putt the grand old family wance more where it 
 belongs, I'm thinkin' me bones '11 rest the aiser in 
 their grave." 
 
 Bernard looked down with an abstracted air at 
 the unpleasantly narrow skull of the child on his 
 knee, with its big ears and thin, plastered ringlets 
 that suggested a whimsical baby-caricature of the 
 mother's crimps. He heard Kale rise behind him, 
 walk across the floor and leave the room with an 
 emphatic closing of the door. To be frank, the 
 impulse burned hotly within hii\i to cuff the infantile 
 head of this future chief ot the O'Dalys. 
 
 " I've a pome on the subject, which I composed 
 last Aister Monday," O'Daly went on, " which I'd 
 be deloightcd to rade to ye." 
 
 " Unfortunately I must be hurrying along now," 
 said Bernard, rising on the instant, and depositing 
 the child on the floor. " I'm sorrv, sir, but — " 
 
 *' Sure, 'tis you do be droivin' everybody from the 
 
The Inielh'gefit Yoii7ig Man. 241 
 
 house wid yer pomes," commented Mrs. O'Daly, 
 ungenerously. 
 
 '* Oh, no, I assure you !" protested the young 
 man. " I've often heard of Mr. O'Daly 's verses, and 
 verj' soon now I'm coming to get him to read them 
 all to me. Have you got some about Cocoanut, 
 Mr. O'Daly ?" 
 
 " This particular one," said Cormac, doggedly, 
 " trates of a much later period. Indeed, 't is so late 
 that it hasn't happened at all yit. 'T is laid in 
 futurity, sir, an' dales wid the grand career me son 
 is to have whin he takes his proud position as TJie 
 O'Daly, the proide of West Carbery." 
 
 " Well, now, you've got to read me that the very 
 first thing when I come next time," said Bernard. 
 Then he added, with a smile: " For, you know, I 
 want you to let me come again." 
 
 *' Sir, ye can't come too soon or stop too long," 
 Mrs. O'Daly assured him. " Sure, what wid there 
 bein' no railway to Muirisc an' no gintry near by, 
 an' what wid the dale we hear about the O'Dalys 
 an' their supayriority over the O'Mahonys, an' thim 
 pomes, my word, we do be starvin* for the soight 
 of a new face !" 
 
 " Then I can't be too glad that my face is new," 
 promptly put in Bernard, wreathing the counten- 
 ance in question with beaming amiability. " And in 
 a few days I shall want to talk business with Mr. 
 O'Daly, too, about the mining rights we shall need 
 to take up." 
 
 " Ye'll be welcome always," said O'Daly. 
 
 And with that comforting pledge in his ears, the 
 
242 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 3'oung man shook hands with the couple and made 
 his way out of the room. 
 
 " Don't trouble yourselves to come out," he 
 begged. " I feel already at home all over the house." 
 
 " Now that's a young man of sinse," said the 
 O'Daly, after the door had closed behind their visitor. 
 " *T is not manny ye'll foind nowadays wid such 
 intelligince insoide his head." 
 
 " Nor so comely a face on the outside of it," com- 
 mented his wife. 
 
 At the end of the hallway this intelligent young 
 man was not surprised to encounter Kate, and she 
 made no pretense of not having waited for him. 
 Yet, as he approached, she moved to pass by. 
 
 " 'T is althered opinions 3^ou hold about the 
 O'Mahonys and the O'Dalys," she said, with studied 
 coldness and a haughty carriage of her dark head. 
 
 He caught her sleeve as she would have passed 
 him. 
 
 " See here," he whispered, eagerly, " don't you 
 make a goose of yourself. I 've told more lies and 
 acted more lies generally this afternoon iov yon than 
 I would for all the other women on earth boiled 
 together. Sh-h ! Just you keep mum, and we'll 
 see you through this thing slick and clean." 
 
 *' I want no lies told for me, or acted either," 
 retorted Kate. 
 
 Her tone was proud enough still, but the lines of 
 her face were relenting. 
 
 " No, 1 don't suppose for a minute )'Ou do," he 
 murmured back, still holding her sleeve, and with 
 his other hand on the latch. •' You're too near an 
 
The Intelligent Vo7(n£~ Man. 243 
 
 angel for that. I tell you what : Suppose y(ni just 
 start in and do as much praying as you can, to kind 
 o' balance the thing. It'll all be needed ;.for as far 
 as 1 can see now, I've got some regular old whop- 
 pers to come 3-et." 
 
 Then the young man released the sleeve, snatched 
 up the hand at the end of that sleeve, kissed it, and 
 was gone before Kate could sa}" another word. 
 
 When she had thought it all over, through hours 
 of seclusion in iier room, she was still very much at 
 sea as to what that word would have been had time 
 been afforded her in which to utter it. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF WAR. 
 
 Having left the castle, Bernard walked briskly 
 away across the open square, past the qua}- and 
 alonjj the curlinc; stretch of sands which led to the 
 path under the cliffs. He had taken the hammer 
 from his pocket and swung it as he strode onward, 
 whistling as he went. 
 
 A mile or so along the strand, he turned off at a foot- 
 wa}^ leading up the rocks, and climbed this nimbly 
 to the top, gaining which, he began to scan closel}^ 
 the broad expanse of dun-colored bog-plain which 
 dipped gradually toward Mount Gabriel. His 
 search was not protracted. He had made out the 
 figures he sought, and straightway set out over the 
 bog, with a light, springing step, still timed to a 
 whistled marching tune, toward them. 
 
 " Well, I've treed the coon 1" was his remark 
 when he had joined Jerry and Linsky. "It was 
 worth waiting for a week just to catch him like 
 that, with his guard down. Wait a minute, then 1 
 can be sure of wdiat I'm talking about." 
 
 The others had not invited this adjuration by any 
 overt display of impatience, and they watched the 
 
 2441 
 
The Council of JFar. 245 
 
 voung man now take an envelope froni his pcjcket 
 and work out a sum on its back with a pencil in 
 phicid if open-eyed contentment. They both studied 
 him, in fact, much as their grandfathers might have 
 gazed at the learned pig at a fair — as a being with 
 resources and accomplishments quite beyond the 
 laborious necessity of comprehension. 
 
 He finished his ciphering, and gave them, in terse 
 summary, the benefit of it. 
 
 " The way I figure the thing," he said, with his 
 eye on the envelope, " is this : The mines were 
 g-oing all right when your man went awa}-, twelve 
 }-ears ago. The output then was worth, sa}-, eight 
 thousand pounds sterling a year. Since then it has 
 once or twice gone as high at twenty thousand 
 pounds, and once it's been down to eleven thousand 
 pounds. From all I can gather the average ought 
 to have been, sa)-, fourteen thousand pounds. The 
 mining tenants hold on the usual thirty-one-year 
 lease, paying fifty pounds a year to begin with, and 
 tiien one-sixteenth on the gross sales. There is a 
 pi-ovision of a maximum surface-drainage charge of 
 two pounds an acre, but there's nothing in that. 
 On my average, the whole royalties would be nine 
 hundred and twenty-five pounds a year. Tliai, in 
 twelve years, vrouM be eleven thousand pounds. I 
 think, m3'self, that it's a good deal more ; bnt th.at'U 
 do as a starter. And you say O'Dalv's beer, send- 
 ing the boss tv.^o hundred pounds a year?" 
 
 " At laste for tin years — not for the last two," said 
 Jerry. 
 
 "Very well, then; you've got nine thoiisand 
 
246 The Return of TJie GJMahony. 
 
 pounds. The interest on that for two years alone 
 would make up all he sent away." 
 
 " An' 't is your idea that O'Daly has putt by all 
 that money ?" 
 
 " And half as much more ; and not a cent of it 
 all belongs to him." 
 
 " Thrue fcjr you ; 't is Miss Katie's money," 
 mourned Jerry, shaking his curly red head and dis- 
 turbing his fat breast with a prolonged sigh. " But 
 she'll never lay finger to anny of it. Oh, Cormac, 
 you're the divil !" 
 
 The young man sniffed impatiently. 
 
 " That's the worst of you fellows," he said, sharply. 
 " You take fright like a flock of sheep. What the 
 deuce are you afraid of? No wonder Ireland isn't 
 free, with men who have got to sit down and cry 
 every few minutes !" Then the spectacle of pained 
 suiprise on Jerry's fat face drove away his mood of 
 criticism. " Or no ; I don't mean that," he hastened 
 to add ; " but really, there's no earthly reason why 
 O'Daly shouldn't be brought to book. There's law 
 here for that sort of thing as much as there is any- 
 where else." 
 
 " 'T was Miss Katie's own words that I 'd be a fool 
 to thry to putt the law on Cormac O'Daly, an' him 
 an attorne}^" explained Jerry, in defiant self-defense. 
 
 " Perhaps that's true about your putting the law 
 on him," Bernard permitted himself to say. " But 
 3^ou 're a trustee, 3-ou tell me, as much as he is, 
 and others can act for 3'ou and force him to give 
 his accounts. That can be done upon your trust- 
 deed." 
 
 " Me paper, is it?" 
 
The Coitncil of War. 247 
 
 " Yes, the one the boss ^ave you." 
 
 " Egor ! O'Daly has it. He begged me for it, to 
 keep 'em together. If I'd ask him for it, belike 
 lie 'd refuse me. You've no knowledge of tlie char- 
 aether of that same O'Daly." 
 
 For just a moment the young man turned away, 
 his face clouded with the shadows of a baffled mind. 
 Then he looked Jerry stiaight in the eye. 
 
 " See here," he said, " you trust me, don't you ? 
 You believe that I want to act square by you and 
 help you in this thing?" 
 
 " I do, sir," said Jerry, simply. 
 
 " Well, then, I tell you that O'Daly ca7i be made 
 to show up, and the whole affaii" can be set straight, 
 and the young lady — ni}' cousin — can be put into 
 her own again. Only I can't work in the dark. I 
 can't play with a partner that ' finesses ' against me, 
 as a whist-player would say. Now, who is this man 
 here ? 1 know he isn't your cousin any more than 
 he is mine. What's his game ?" 
 
 Linsky took the words out of his puzzled com- 
 panion's mouth. 
 
 " 'T is a long story, sir," he said, " an' 3^ou 'd be no 
 wiser if you were told it. Some time, plase God, 
 you '11 know it all. Just now 't is enough that 
 I'm bound to this man and lo The O'Mahony, who's 
 away, an' perhaps dead an' buried, an' I'm heart 
 an' sowl for doin' whatever I can to help the 3 oung 
 lad3^ Onl3-, if 3-ou '11 not moind me sa3-in' so, she's 
 her own worst inemy. If she takes the bit in her 
 mouth this wav, an' will go into the convint, how, 
 in the name of glor3', are we to stop her or do any- 
 thing else ?" 
 
248 The Re i urn of The O Mahojiy. 
 
 "There are more than fifteen hundred ways of 
 working that!''' replied the young man from 
 Houghton Count}', simulating a confidence he did 
 not Avholly feel. " But let's get along down toward 
 the village." 
 
 They entered jNIuirisc through the ancient con- 
 vent churchyard, and at his door-way Jerry, as the 
 visible result of much cogitation, asked the twain 
 in. After offering them glasses of whiskey and 
 water and lighting a pipe, Jerr}^ suddenly resolved 
 upon a further extension of confidence. To Lins- 
 ky's astonishment, he took the lantern down from 
 the wall, lighted it, and opened the door at the back 
 ot the bed. 
 
 " If you'll come along wid us, sir," he said to 
 Bernard, " we'll show you something." 
 
 " There, here we can talk at our aise," he remark- 
 ed again, when finally the three men were in the 
 subterranean chamber, with the door closed behind 
 them. " Have you anything like tJiis in Amerik}- ?" 
 
 Bernard was not so greatly impressed as they 
 expected him to be. He stolled about the vault-like 
 room, sounding the walls with his boot, pulling 
 aside the bed-curtains and investigating the drain. 
 
 " Curious old place," he said, at last. " What's 
 the idea ?" 
 
 " Sure, 't is a sacret place intoirely," explained 
 Jerry. " Besides us three, there's not a man aloive 
 who knows of it, exceptin'. The O'Mahon}', if be 
 God's grace he 's aloive. 'T was he discovered it. 
 He'd the eyes of a him-harrier for anny mark or 
 sign in a wall. Well do I remimber our coming 
 here first. He lukked it all over, as you're doing. 
 
The Council of ]Vai\ _ 249 
 
 ' Egor!' says he, ' It ma}^ co;uc in haridy for O'Daly 
 some da}'.' There was a dead man there on the 
 bed, that dry ye c'n'd 'a' lois^^hted him wid a match." 
 
 " 'T is a part of the convint," Linsky took, up the 
 explanation, "an' the cb.est, there, was fidl of deeds 
 an' riccords of the convint for manin- cinturics. 
 'T was me work for years to decipher an' thranslate 
 thim, unbeknownst to every soul in Muirisc. They 
 were all in Irish." 
 
 " Yes, it's a queer sort of hole," said Bernard, 
 musingly, walking over to the table and holding up 
 one of the ancient manusci-ipts to the lamplight for 
 investigation. " Wh}^, this isn't Irish, is it?" h,e 
 asked, after a moment's scrutiny. "This is Latin." 
 
 " 'T is wan of half a dozen 3'e see there on the 
 table that I couldn't make out," said Linsky. " I'm 
 no Latin scholar meself. 'T was me intintion to 
 foind some one outside who c'u'd thranslate thim." 
 
 Bernard had kept his eves on the faded parch- 
 ment. 
 
 " Odd !" he said. " It's from a bishop — JMatthew 
 O'Finn seems to be the name — " 
 
 " He was bishop of Ross in the early [)art ()f the 
 fourteenth cintury," put in Linsky. 
 
 " And this thing is a warning to the nuns hci-e to 
 close up their convent and take in no moie n.oxiccs, 
 because the church can't recognize them or their 
 order. It's queer old Lalin, but that's what I make 
 it out to be." 
 
 " 'T is an iilegant scholar ye are, sir !" exclaimed 
 Jerry, in honest admiration. 
 
 " No," said Bernard ; " only they started me in 
 lor a priest, and I got to know Latin as well as I 
 
250 The Return of The O' JMahony. 
 
 did English, or almost. But ni}- godliness wasn't 
 anywhere near high-water mark, and so I got 
 switched (iff into engineering. I dare sa}^ the 
 change was a good thing all around. If it's all the 
 same to you," he added, turning to Linsky, " I'll 
 put this parchment in my pocket for the time being, 
 I want to look it over again more carefully. You 
 shall have it back." 
 
 The two Irishmen assented as a matter of course. 
 This active-minded and capable young man, who 
 had mining figures at his finger's ends, and could 
 read Latin, and talked lightly of fifteen hundred 
 ways to outwit O'Daly, was obviously one to be 
 obeyed without questions. They sat now and 
 watched him with rapt eyes and acquiescent nods 
 as he, seated on the table with fo(^t on knee, 
 recounted to them the more salient points of his 
 interview with O'Daly. 
 
 " He was a dacent ould man when 1 knew him 
 first," mused Jerr3% in comment, "an' as full of 
 praises for the O'Mahonys as an ^g^ is of mate. 
 'Tis the money that althered him ; an' thin that brat 
 of a bye of his ! 'T is since thin that he beliavcd 
 like a nagur. An' 't is my belafe, sir, that only for 
 him jMiss Katie 'd never have dr'amed of interin' 
 that thunderin' old convint. The very last toime 1 
 was wid him, error, he druv us both from the house. 
 'T was the nuns made Miss Katie return to him 
 next day. 'T is just that, sir, that she 's no one else 
 bechune thim nuns an' O'Daly, an' they do be tossin' 
 her from wan to the other of 'em like a blessid ball." 
 
 " The wonder is to me she 's stood it for a minute," 
 said Bernard ; " a proud girl like her," 
 
TJic Council of War. 251 
 
 "Ah, sir," said Jerry, "it isn't like in Ainerilcy, 
 where every wan's free to do what pl'ases liini. 
 What was tiie girl to do? Where was slie to i?;() if 
 she defied thim that was in authorit)- over hei"? 
 'T is aisy to talk, asmanny'sthe toime she's said that 
 same to me; but 't is another matther to do !'' 
 
 "There's the whole trouble iii a nutshell," said 
 Bernard. " Everybody talks and nobody does any- 
 thing-." 
 
 "There's truth in that sir," put in Linsky; "but 
 what are you proposin' to do? There were fifteen 
 hundred ways, you said. What's wan of 'em ?" 
 
 " Oh, there are fifteen hundred and two now," re- 
 sponded Bernard, with a smile. "You've helped 
 me to two more since I've been down here — or, 
 rather, this missing O'Mahony of 3-ours has helped 
 me to one, and I helped mvself to the other." 
 
 The two stared in helpless bewilderment at the 
 young man. 
 
 " That O'lNlahony seems to have been a right 
 smart chap," Bei'uard continued. " No wonder he 
 made things hum here in Muirisc. And a prophet 
 too. Why, the very first time he ever laid eyes on 
 this cave here, by your own telling, he saw just 
 what it was going to be good for." 
 
 " I don't folly yc," said the puzzled Jerry. 
 
 " Why, to put O'Daly in, of course," answered the 
 young man, lightlj^ "That's as plain as the nose on 
 your face." 
 
 "Egor! 'Tisagrand idea, that same!" exclaimed 
 Jerry, slapping his thigh. " Only," he added, with 
 ^ sinking enthusiasm, "suppose he wouldn't come?" 
 
252 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 Bernard laughed outright. 
 
 " That'!! be easy enough. All you have to do is 
 to send word 3'()u want to see him in your place up 
 stairs; wlien he comes, tell him there's a strange 
 discovery you've made. Bring him down here, let 
 liim in, and udiile he 's looking around him just slip 
 out and shut the door on him. I notice it's got a 
 spring-lock from the outside. A thoughtful man, 
 that O'Mahony! Of course, you'll want to bring 
 down enough food and water to last a week or so, 
 first; perhaps a little whiskey, too. x^nd I'd carry 
 up all these papers, moreover, and put 'em in your 
 roiMn above. Until the old man got quieted down, 
 he might feel disposed to tear things." 
 
 " Egor ! I '11 do it !" cried Jerry, with sparkling 
 eyes and a grin on his broad face. ** Oh, the art of 
 man !" 
 
 The pallid and near-sighted Linsky was less alive 
 to the value of this bold plan. 
 
 " An' what '11 ye do nixt ?" he asked, doubtfully. 
 
 " 1 've got a scheme which 1 'II carrv out to-mor- 
 row, by myself," said Bernard. " It '11 take me all 
 day ; and by the time I turn up the day after, you 
 must have O'Daly safely bottled up down here. 
 Tlien I '11 be in a position to read the riot act to 
 every bod V. First we '11 stand the convent on its 
 liead, and then I '11 come down here and have a little 
 confidential talk with O'Daly about going to prison 
 as a fraudulent trustee." 
 
 " Sir, you 're u-ell-named ' O'Mahony,' "said Jerry, 
 with beaming earnestness. " 1 do be almost believin' 
 ye 're his son J" 
 
The Council of War. 
 
 25; 
 
 Bernard chuckled as he sprang off the table to his 
 feet. 
 
 " There might be even stranger things than that," 
 he said, and laughed again. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE VICTORY OF THE " CATHACH." 
 
 One day passed, and then another, and the even- 
 ing of the third day drew near — 3'et brought no 
 returning Bernard. It is true that on the second 
 day a telegram — the first Jerry had ever received in 
 his life — came bearing the date of Cashel, and con- 
 taining only the unsigned injunction : 
 
 " Don't be afraid/' 
 
 It is all very well to say this, but Jerry and Linsky 
 read over the brief message many scores of times 
 that day, and still felt themselves very much afraid. 
 
 Muirisc was stirred by unwonted excitement. In 
 all its histor}', the village had never resented any- 
 thing else quite so much as the establishment of a 
 police barrack in its principal street, a dozen years 
 before. The inhabitants had long since grown 
 accustomed to the sight of the sergeant and his four 
 men lounging about the place, and had even admitted 
 them to a kind of conditional friendship, but, none 
 the less, their presence had continued to present 
 itself as an affront to Muirisc. From one year's end 
 to another, no suspicion of crime had darkened the 
 peaceful fame of the hrimlct. They had he^ird Yi^S'M? 
 
The Victory of the " Cathach.'' 255 
 
 stories of grim and violent deeds in other parts of 
 the south and west, as the failure of the potatoes 
 and the greed of the landlords conspired together 
 to drive the peasantry into revolt, but in Muirisc, 
 though she had had her evictions and knew what it 
 was to be hungry, it had occurred to no one to so 
 much as break a window. 
 
 Yet now, all at once, here were fresh constables 
 brought in from Bantry, with an inspector at their 
 head, and the amazed villagers saw these new- 
 comers, with rifles slung over their short capes, and 
 little round caps cocked to one side on their close- 
 cropped heads, ransacking every nook and cranny 
 of the ancient town in quest of some mysterious 
 thing, the while others spread their search over the 
 ragged rocks and moorland roundabout. And then 
 the astounding report flew from mouth to mouth 
 that Father Jago had read in a Dublin paper that 
 O'Daly was believed to have been murdered. 
 
 Sure enough, now that they had thought of it, 
 O'Daly had not been seen for two or three days, 
 but until this strange story came from without, no 
 one had given this a thought. He was often awa}-, 
 for days together, on mining and other business, 
 but it was said now that his wife, whom Muirisc 
 still thought of as Mrs. Fergus, had given the alarm, 
 on the ground that if her husband had been going 
 away over night, he would have told her. There 
 was less liking for this lady than ever, when this 
 report started on its rounds. 
 
 Three or four of the wretched, unwashed and 
 half-fed creatures, who had fled from O'Daly 's 
 evictions to the shelter of the furze-clad ditches 
 
^56 TJie Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 outside, had been brought in. and shar[ily questioned 
 at the barracks, on this third da}-, but of what they 
 had said the villagers knew nothing. And, now, 
 toward evening, the excited groups of gossiping 
 neiglibors at the corners saw Jerr}^ lliggins himself, 
 with flushed face and apprehensive e\e, being led 
 past with his shambling cousin toward constabulary 
 headquarters bv a squad of armed policemen. 
 Close upon the heels of this amazing spectacle came 
 the rumor — whence started, who could tell ? — that 
 Jerry had during the day received a telegram 
 clearly implicating him in the crime. At this, 
 Muirisc groaned aloud. 
 
 " 'Tis wid you alone I want to spake," said Kate, 
 bluntly, to the mother superior. 
 
 The April twilight was deepening the shadows in 
 the corners of the convent's reception hall, and mel- 
 lowing into a uniformit)'^ of ugliness the faces of the 
 four Misses O'Daly who sat on the long bench be- 
 fore the fireless hearth. These 3'oung women were 
 strangers to Muirisc, and had but yesterday arrived 
 from their country homes in Kerry or the Macroom 
 district to enter the convent of which their remote 
 relation was patron. They were plain, small-farm- 
 ers' daughters, with flat faces, high cheek-bones and 
 red hands. The)' had risen in clumsy humilit}' when 
 Kate entered the room, staring in admiration at her 
 beautv.and even more at her hat; they had silently 
 seated themselves again at a sign from the mother 
 superior, still staring in round-eyed wonder at this 
 novel kind of young woman; and they clung now 
 stolidly to their bench, in the face of Kate's remark. 
 Perhaps they did not comprehend it. But they 
 
The Vicfory of tJic " Cathachy 257 
 
 understood and obeyed the almost contemptuous 
 gesture by which the aged nun bade them leave the 
 room. 
 
 "What is it thin, Dubhdeasa?" asked Mother 
 Agnes, with affectionate gravity, seating herself as 
 she spoke. The burden of eighty years rested 
 lightly upon the lean figure and thin, wax-like face 
 of the nun. Only a close glance would have re- 
 vealed the fine net-work of wrinkles covering this 
 pallid skin, and her shrewd observant eyes flashed 
 still with the keenness of youth. " Tell me, what 
 is it?" 
 
 " I've a broken heart in me, that's all !" said the 
 girl. 
 
 She had walked to one of the two narrow little 
 windows, and stood looking out, yet seeing nothing 
 for the mist of tears that might not be kept down. 
 Only the affectation of defiance preserved her voice 
 from breaking. 
 
 " Here there will be rest and p'ace of mind," 
 intoned the other. " 'T is only a day more, Katie, 
 and thin ye '11 be wan of us, wid all the worrimcPits 
 and throubles of the world la3'gues behind ye." 
 
 The girl shook her head with vehemence and 
 paced the stone floor restlessly. 
 
 " 'T is I who '11 be opening the dure to 'em and 
 bringing 'em all in here, instead. No fear. Mother 
 Agnes, they '11 folly me wherever I go." 
 
 The other smiled gently, and shook her vailed 
 head in turn. 
 
 " 'T is little a child like you drames of the rale 
 throubles of me," she murmured. " Whin ye 're 
 older, ye '11 bless the good day that gave ye this 
 
258 The Return of TJie O IMahony. 
 
 holy refuge, and saved ye from thim all. Oh, Katie, 
 darlin', when 1 see you standing be me side in your 
 habit — 't is mesilf had it made be the Miss Maguires 
 in Skibbereen, the same that sews the vestmints for 
 the bishop himself — I can lay me down, and say me 
 mine diinittis wid a thankful heart !" 
 
 Kate sighed deeply and turned away. It was 
 the trusting sweetness of affection with which oh:l 
 Mother Agnes had enveloped her ever since the 
 promise to take vows had been wrung from her 
 reluctant tongue that rose most effectually always 
 to restrain her from reconsidering that promise. It 
 was clear enough that the venerable O'Mahony 
 nuns found in the speedy prospect of her joining 
 them the one great controlling joy of their lives. 
 Thinking upon this now, it was natural enough for 
 her to say : 
 
 " Can thim O'Daly girls rade and write, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 " Oh, they 've had schooling, all of them. 'T is 
 not what you had here, be anny manes, but 't wnll 
 do." 
 
 " Just think, Mother Agnes," Kate burst forth, 
 " what it '11 be like to be shut with such craytures 
 as thim afther — afther you I'ave us !" 
 
 " They 're very humble," said the nun, hesitating- 
 ly. " 'T is more of that same spirit I 'd fain be 
 seeing in yourself, Katie ! And in that they 've 
 small enough resimblance to Cormac O'Dal}^ who 's 
 raked 'em up from the highways and byways to 
 make their profession here. And oh — tell me now 
 — old Ellen that brings the milk mintioned to Sister 
 
The Victory of the " Cathach." 259 
 
 Blanaid that O'Daly was gone somewhere, and that 
 there was talk about it." 
 
 "Talk, is it!" exclaimed Kate, whose introspective 
 mood had driven this subject from her mind, but 
 who now spoke with eagerness. " That's the word 
 for it, 'talk.* 'T is me mother, for pure want of 
 something to say, that putt the notion into Sergeant 
 O'Flaherty's thick skull, and, w'u'd ye belave it, 
 they've brought more poliss to the town, and they 're 
 worriting the loivcs out of the people wid questions 
 and suspicions. 1 'm told they 've even gone out to 
 the bog and arrested some of thim poor wretches of 
 O'DriscoUs that Cormac putt out of their cottages 
 last winter. The idea of it !" 
 
 " Where there 's so much smoke there 's some bit 
 of fire," said the older woman. " Where is O'Daly ?" 
 
 The girl shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " 'T is not m}^ affair!" she said, curtly. " I know 
 where he 'd be, if I 'd my will." 
 
 " Katie," chanted the nun, in tender reproof, 
 " what spirit d 'ye call that for a woman who 's with- 
 in four-an'-tvv^inty hours of making her profession ! 
 Pray for yourself, child, that these worldly feel- 
 ings may be taken from ye !" 
 
 " Mother Agnes," said the girl, " if I 'm to pretind 
 to love Cormac O'Daly, thin, wance for all, 't is no 
 use !" 
 
 "We 're bidden to love all thim that despite—" 
 
 The nun broke off her quotation abruptl}'. A low 
 wailiug sound from the bowels of the earth beneath 
 them rose through the flags of the floor, and filled 
 the chamber with a wierd and ghostly dying away 
 echo. Mother Agnes sprang to her feet. 
 
26o The Return of The G JMahony. 
 
 " 'T is the Hostage again !" she cried. " Sister 
 Ellen vowed to me she heard him through the night. 
 Ti\A yoii hear him just now ?" 
 
 " I heard z'/," said Kate, simply. 
 
 The mother superior, upon reflection, seated her- 
 self again. 
 
 " 'T is a strange business," she said, at last. Her 
 shrewd eyes, wandering in a meditative gaze about 
 the chamber, avoided Katie's face. " 'T is twelve 
 years since last we heard him," she mused aloud, 
 " and that was the night of tlie storm. 'T is a sign 
 of misfortune to hear him, they say — and the blow- 
 ing down of the walls that toime was taken be us to 
 fulfill that same. But sure, within the week. The 
 O'jNIahone}' had gone on his thravels, and pious 
 Cormac O'Daly had taken his place, and the con- 
 vint prospered more than ever. At laste tJiat was 
 no misfortune." 
 
 " Hark to me. Mother Agnes," said Kate, with 
 emphasis. " You never used to favor the O'Ma- 
 honys as well I remimber, but you 're a fair-minded 
 woman and a holy woman, and I challenge ye now 
 to tell me honest: Wasn't anny wan hair on The 
 O'Mahony's head worth the whole carcase of Cormac 
 O'Daly? 'T was an evil day for Muirisc whin he 
 sailed away. If the convint has prospered, me word, 
 't is what nothing else in Muirisc has done. And Tav- 
 ing aside your office as a nun, is it sp'akin well for a 
 place to say that three old women in it are better 
 off, and all the rist have suffered?" 
 
 " Katie !" admonished the other. " You '11 repint 
 thim words a week hence ! To hearken to ye, wan 
 
The Victory of the " Cathach" 261 
 
 would think yer heart was not in the profession 
 ye 're to make." 
 
 The girl gave a scornful, little Inugh. 
 
 " Did I ever pretind it was?" she demanded. 
 
 " 'T is you are the contrary cra3'ture!" sighed the 
 mother superior. " Here now for all these cin- 
 turies, through all the storms and wars and confis- 
 cations, this holy house has stud firm be the old 
 faith. There 's not another family in Ireland has 
 kept the mass in its own chapel, wid its own nuns 
 kneeling before it, and never a break or interruption 
 at all. I '11 1'ave it to yer own sinse : Can ye compare 
 the prosperity of a little village, or a hundred of 'em, 
 wid such a glorious and unayqualed riccord as that? 
 Why, girl, 't is you should be proud beyond measure 
 and thankful that ye 're born and bred and selected 
 to carry on such a grand tradition. To be head of 
 the convint of the O'Mahonys't is more historically 
 splindid than to be queen of England." 
 
 " But if I come to be the head at all," retorted 
 Kate, " sure it will be a convint of O'Dalys." 
 
 The venerable woman heaved another sigh and 
 looked at the floor in silence. 
 
 Kate pursued her advantage eagerly. 
 
 " Sure, I 've me full share of pride in proper 
 things," she said, " and no O'Mahony of them all 
 held his family higher in his mind than I do. And 
 me blood lapes to every word you say about that 
 same. But would you — Agnes O'Mahony as ye 
 were born — would 3'ou be asking me to have pride 
 in the O'Dalys? And that 's what 't is intinded to 
 make of the convint now. For my part, I'd be for 
 saying: ' L'ave the convint doy now wid the last 
 
:?62 The Rettirn of The O Mahony. 
 
 of the ladies of our own family rather than keep it 
 alive at the expinse of giving it to the O'Dalys.' " 
 
 Mother Agnes shook her head. 
 
 " I 've me carnal feelings no less than you," she 
 said, "and me family pride to subdue. But even if 
 the victory of humility were denied me, what c'u'd 
 we do ? For the moment, I '11 put this holy house 
 to wan side. What can yon do? How can you 
 stand up forninst Cormac O'Daly's determination ? 
 Remimber, widout him ye 're but a homeless gerrel, 
 Katie." 
 
 " And whose fault is that, Mother Agnes ?" asked 
 Kate, with swift glance and tone. "Will ye be tell- 
 ing me 't was The O'Mahony's? Did he I'ave me 
 widout a four-penny bit, depindent on others, or was 
 it that others stole me money and desaved me, and 
 to-day are keeping me out of me own? Tell me 
 that, Mother Agnes." 
 
 The nun's ivory-tinted face flushed for an instant, 
 then took on a deeper pallor. Her gaze, lifted mo- 
 mentarily toward Kate, strayed beyond her to 
 vacancy. She rose to her full height and made a 
 forward step, then stood, fumbdng confusedly at 
 her beads, and with trembling, half-opened lips. 
 
 " 'T is not in me power," she stammered, slowl}^ 
 and with difficulty. " There — there was something 
 — I 've not thought of it for so long — I 'm forgetting 
 strangely — " 
 
 She broke off abruptly, threw up her withered 
 hands in a gesture of despair, and then, never look- 
 ing at the girl, turned and with bowed head left the 
 room. 
 
 Kate still stood staring in mingled amazement and 
 
The Victory of the " Cathach^ 26 
 
 o 
 
 apprehension at tlie arched casement through which 
 Mother Agnes had vanished, when the oak door 
 was pushed open again, and Sister Blanaid, a 
 smaller and younger woman, yet bent and half- 
 palsied under the weight of years, showed herself in 
 the aperture. She bore in her arms, shoving the 
 door aside with it as she feebly advanced, a square 
 wooden box, dust-begrimed and covered in part 
 with reddish cow-skin. 
 
 "Take it away!" she mumbled. " 'T is the 
 mother-supayrior's desire you should take it from 
 here. 'T is an evil day that 's on us ! Go fling this 
 haythen box into the bay and thin pray for your- 
 self and for her, who 's taken that grief for ye she 's 
 at death's door !" 
 
 The door closed again, and Kale found herself 
 mechanicall}' bearing this box in her arms and mak- 
 ing her way out through the darkened hallways to 
 the outer air. Only when she stood on the steps of 
 the porch, and set down her burden to adjust her 
 hat, did she recognize it. Then, with a murmuring 
 cry of delight, she stooped and snatched it up 
 again. It was the cathach which The O'Mahony 
 had given her to keep. 
 
 On the instant, as she looked out across the open 
 green upon the harbor, the bay, the distant penin- 
 sula of Kilcrohane peacefully gathering to itself the 
 shadows of the falling twilight — how it a!l came 
 back to her! On the day of his departure — that 
 memorable black-letter day in her life — he had turned 
 over this rude little chest to her ; he had told her it 
 was his luck, his talisman, and now should be hers. 
 She had carried it, not to her mother's home, but to 
 
264 The Return of The O' Mahony. 
 
 the tiny school-room in the old crinvent, for safe- 
 keeping. She recalled now that slio had told the 
 nuns, or Mother Agnes, at least, what it was. But 
 then — then there came a blank in her memory. She 
 could not force her mind to remember when she 
 ceased to think about it — when it made its way into 
 the lumber-room where it had apparently lain so 
 long. 
 
 But, at all events, she had it now again. She bent 
 her head to touch with her lips one of the rough 
 strips of skin nailed irregularly upon it ; then, with 
 a shining face, bearing the box, like some sanctified 
 shrine, against her breast, she moved across the 
 village-common toward the wharf and the water. 
 
 The injunction of quavering old Blanaid to cast it 
 into the bay drifted uppermost in her thoughts, and 
 she smiled to herself. She had been bidden, also, to 
 pray ; and reflection upon this chased the smile 
 away. Truly, there was need for prayer. Her 
 perplexed mind called up, one by one, in dishearten- 
 ing array, the miseries of her position, and drew new 
 unhappiness from the confusion of right and wrong 
 which they presented. How could she pray to be 
 delivered from what Mother Agnes held up as the 
 duties of piety ? And, on the other hand, what 
 sincerity could there be in any other kind of spirit- 
 ual petition ? 
 
 She wandered along the shore-sands under the 
 cliffs, tiie box tightly clasped in her arms, her eves 
 musingly bent upon the brown reaches of drenched 
 seaweed which lay nt play with the receding tide. 
 
 Her mind conjured up the image of a smiling and 
 ruddy young face, sun-burned and thatched with 
 
The Victory of the " Cathach!' 265 
 
 crisp, curly brown hair — the face of th^t curious 
 young- O'Mahony from Houghton County. His 
 blue eye looked at her half quizzically, half beseech- 
 ing, but Kate resolutely drove the image a\va\'. 
 He was onl}' the merest trifle less mortal than the 
 others. 
 
 So musing, she strolled onward. Suddenly she 
 stopped, and lifted her head triumphantly ; the 
 smile had flashed forth again upon her face, and the 
 dark eyes were all aglow. A thought had come to 
 her — so convincing, so unanswerable, so jo3'ously 
 uplifting, that she paused to marvel at having been 
 blind to it so long. Clear as noon sunlight on 
 Mount Gabriel was it what she should pray for. 
 
 What could it ever have been, this one crowning 
 object of prayer, but the return of The O'Mahony ? 
 
 As her mental vision adapted itself to the radiance 
 of this revelation, the abstracted glance which she 
 had allowed to wander over the bay was arrested by 
 a concrete object. Two hundred yards from the 
 water's edge a strange vessel had heaved to, and 
 was casting anchor. Kate could hear the chain 
 rattling out from the capstan, even as she looked. 
 
 The sight sent all prayerful thoughts scurrying 
 out of her head. The presence of vessels of the 
 size of the new-comer was in itself most unusual 
 at Muirisc. But Kate's practiced eye noticed a 
 strange novelty. The craft, though thick of beam 
 and ungainly in line, carried the staight running 
 bowsprit of a cutter, and in addition to its cutter 
 sheets had a jigger lug-sail. The girl watched these 
 eccentric sails as they were dropped and reefed, 
 with a curious sense of having seen them some- 
 
266 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 where before — as if in a vision or some old picture- 
 book of childhood. Confused memories stirred 
 within her as she gazed, and held her mind in day- 
 dream captivity. A figure she seemed vaguely to 
 know, stood now at the gunwale. 
 
 The spell was rudely broken by a wild shout 
 from the cliff close above her. On the instant, 
 amid a clatter of falling stones and a veritable 
 landslide of sand, rocks and turf, a human figure 
 came rolling, clambering and tumbling down the 
 declivity, and ran toward her, its arms stretched 
 and waving with frantic gestures, and emitting 
 inarticulate cries and groans as it came. 
 
 The astonished girl instinctively raised the box 
 in her hands, to use it as a missile. But, lo, it was 
 old Murphy who, half stumbling to his knees at her 
 feet, fiercely clutched her skirts, and pointed in a 
 frenzy of excitement seaward ! 
 
 •' Wid yer own eyes look at it — it, Miss Katie !" 
 he screamed. " Ye can see it yerself ! It 's not 
 dr'aming I am I" 
 
 " It 's drunk ye are instead, thin, Murphy," said 
 the girl, sharply, though in great wonderment. 
 
 " Wid joy! Wid joy I 'm drunk!" the old man 
 shouted, dancing on the sands and slippery sea-litter 
 like one possessed, and whirling his arms about his 
 head. 
 
 " Murphy, man! What ails ye? In the name of 
 the Lord — what — " 
 
 The browned, wild-eyed, ragged old madman had 
 started at a headlong pace across the wet waste of 
 weeds, and plunged now through the breakers, wad- 
 
The Vulory of the '' CathacIC 267 
 
 ing wilh long strides — knee-deep, then immersed to 
 the waist. He turned for an instant to shout back : 
 
 " I '11 swim to him if I drown for it! ' Tis the mas- 
 ter come back /'' 
 
 The girl fell to her knees on the sand, then rev- 
 erently bowed her head till it rested upon the box 
 before her. 
 
 / I 
 
 -»-, .iSi 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 BERNARD'S GOOD CHEER. 
 
 " Sorra a wink o* sleep could I get the night," 
 groaned the wife of O'Daly — Mrs. Fergus — " what 
 with me man muthered, an' me daughter drowned, 
 an' me nerves that disthracted 't was past the power 
 of hot dhrink to abate em." 
 
 It was early morning in the reception hall of 
 the convent. The old nuns sat on their bench in a 
 row, blinking in the bright light which poured 
 through the casement as they gazed at their visitor, 
 and tortured their unworldly wits over the news 
 she brought. The young chaplain. Father Jago, 
 had come in from the mass, still wearing soutane 
 and beretta. He leaned his burly weight against 
 the mantel, smiling inwardly at thoughts of break- 
 fast, but keeping his heavy face drawn in solemn 
 lines to fit these grievous tidings. 
 
 The mother superior sighed despairingly, and 
 spoke in low, quavering tones. " Here, too, no one 
 sleeps a wink," she said. " Ah, thin, 't is too much 
 sorrow for us ! By rayson of our years we 've no 
 stringth to bear it." 
 [268] 
 
Bernard's Good Cheer. 269 
 
 "Ah — sure — 't is different wid you," remarked 
 Mrs. Fergus. "You 've no proper notion of the 
 m'aning of sleep. Faith, all your life you 've been 
 wakened bechune naps by your prayer-bell. 'T is 
 no throuble to you. You 're accustomed to 't. But 
 wid me — if I 've me rest broken, 1 'm killed entirely. 
 'T is me nerves !" 
 
 " Ay, them nerves of yours — did I ever hear of 
 'em before?" put in Mother Agnes, with a moment- 
 ary gleam of carnal delight in combat on her 
 waxen face. Then sadness resumed its sway. 
 "Aye, aye, Katie! Katie!" she moaned, slowly 
 shaking her vailed head. " Child of our prayers, 
 daughter of the White Foam, pride of the O'Ma- 
 honys, darlin' of our hearts — what ailed ye to I'ave 
 us?" 
 
 The mother superior's words quavered upward 
 into a wail as they ended. The sound awakened 
 the ancestral " keening " instinct in the other aged 
 nuns, and stirred the thin blood in their veins. They 
 broke forth in weird lamentations. 
 
 " Her hair was the glory of Desmond, that 
 weighty and that fine!" chanted Sister Ellen. "Ah, 
 wirra, wirra !" 
 
 " She had it from me," said Mrs. Fergus, her 
 hand straying instinctively to her crimps. Her 
 voice had caught the mourning infection : " Ah-hoo ! 
 Kalie Avourneen," she wailed in vocal sympathy. 
 " Come back to us, darlint !" 
 
 " She 'd the neck of the Swan of the Lake of 
 Three Castles!" mumbled Sister Blanaid. " 'T was 
 that same was said of Grace O'Sullivan — the bride 
 of The O'Mahony of Ballydivlin — an' he was kilt on 
 
270 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 the strand benayth the walls — an' she lookin* on 
 wid her grand black eyes — " 
 
 " Is it floatin' in the waves ye are, ma creevin cno — 
 wid the fishes surroundin' ye?" sobbed Mrs. 
 Fergus. 
 
 Sister Blanaid's thick tongue took up the keening 
 again. " 'T was I druv her out ! * Go 'long wid yc,' 
 says I, * an' t'row that haythen box o' yours into tlir- 
 bay' — an' she went and t'rew her purty self iji 
 instead; woe an' prosthration to this house ! — rii." 
 may the Lord — " 
 
 Father Jago at this took his elbow from the man- 
 tel and straightened himself. " Whisht, now, aisy ! " 
 he said, in a tone of parental authority. " There 's 
 modheration in all things. Sure ye haven't a scin- 
 tilla of evidence that there 's annyone dead at all. 
 Where 's the sinse of laminting a loss ye 're not sure 
 of — and that, too, on an impty stomach ?" 
 
 " Nevir bite or sup more will I take till 1 've tid- 
 ings of her! ' said the mother superior. 
 
 " The more rayson why 1 '11 not be waiting longer 
 for 3e now," commented the priest ; and with this 
 he left the room. As he closed the door behind 
 him, a grateful odor of frying bacon momentarily 
 spread upon the air. Mrs. Fergus sniffed it, and 
 half rose from her seat ; but the nuns clung reso- 
 lutely to their theme, and she sank back again. 
 
 " 'T is my belafe," Sister Ellen began, " that voice 
 we heard, 't is from no Hostage at all — 't is the ban- 
 shee of the O'Mahonys." 
 
 The mother superior shook her head. 
 
 " Is it likely, thin, Ellen O'Mahon}-," she queried, 
 " that ^//r banshee would be distressed for an O'Dal}' ? 
 
Bernard's Good Cheer. i~\ 
 
 Sure the grand noise was made whin Cormac him- 
 self disappeared." 
 
 " His marryin' me — 't is clear enough that putt him 
 in the family," said Mrs. Fergus. " 'T would be fiat 
 injustice to me to I've my man go an' never a keen 
 raised for him. 1 '11 stand on me rights for that 
 much Agnes O'Mahony." 
 
 " A fine confusion ye 'd have of it, thin," retorted 
 the mother superior. " The 0'Dal3'S have their own 
 banshee — she sat up her keen in Kilcrohane these 
 hundreds of years — and for ours to be meddlin' 
 because she 's merely related by marriage — sure, 
 't would not be endured." 
 
 The dubious problem of a family banshee's duties 
 has never been elucidated beyond this point, for on 
 the instant there came a violent ringing of the big 
 bell outside, the hoarse clangor of which startled the 
 women into excited silence. A minute later, the 
 white-capped lame old woman-servant threw open 
 the door. 
 
 A young man, with a ruddy, smiling face and a 
 carriage of boyish confidence, entered the room. 
 He cast an inquiring glance over the group. Then 
 recognizing Mrs. Fergus, he gave a little exclam- 
 ation of pleasure, and advanced toward her with out- 
 stretched hand. 
 
 " VVh}', how do you do, Mrs. O'Daly ?" he 
 exclaimed, cordially shaking her hand. " Pray keep 
 your seat. I'm just playing in luck to find yoti here. 
 Won't you — eh — be kind enough to — eh — introduce 
 me ?" 
 
 " 'T is a young gintleman from Ameriky, Mr. 
 O'Mahony by name," Mrs. Fergus stammered, 
 
272 The Rct7Lrn of TJic O Maho7iy. 
 
 flushed with satisfaction in his remembrance, but 
 doubtful as to the attitude of the nuns. 
 
 The ladies of the Hostage's Tears had drawn 
 themselves into as much dignified erectness as their 
 age and infirmities permitted. They eyed this 
 amazing new-comer in mute surprise. Mother 
 Agnes, after the first shock at the invasion, nodded 
 frostily in acknowledgment of his respectful bow. 
 
 " Get around an' spake to her in her north ear," 
 whispered Mrs. Fergus ; " she can't hear ye in the 
 other." 
 
 Bernard had been long enough in West Carbery 
 to comprehend her meaning. In that strange old 
 district there is no right or left, no front or back — 
 only points of the compass. A gesture from Mrs. 
 Fergus helped him now to guess where the north 
 might lie in matters auricular. 
 
 " I didn't stand on ceremony," he said, laying his 
 hat on the table and drawing off his gloves. " I've 
 driven over post-haste from Skibbereen this morn- 
 ing: — the car's outside — and I rushed in here the first 
 thing. 1 — I hope sincerely that I'm in time." 
 
 " ' In toime ?'" the superior repeated, in a tone of 
 annoyed mystification. " That depinds entoirely, 
 sir, on your own intintions. I 've no information, 
 sir, as to either who you ai^e or what you're afther 
 doing." 
 
 " No, of course not," said Bernard, in affable 
 apology. " I ought to have thought of that. I'll 
 explain things, ma'am, if you '11 permit me. As I 
 said, I've just raced over this morning from Skib- 
 bereen." 
 
Bernard's Good Cheer. 273 
 
 Mother Agnes made a stately inclination of her 
 vailed head. 
 
 "You had a grand morning for your drive," she 
 said. 
 
 " I didn't notice," the young man replied, with a 
 frank smile. " I was too busy thinking of some- 
 thing else. The truth is, I spent last evening with 
 the bishop." 
 
 Again the mother superior bowed slightly. 
 
 " An estimable man," she remarked, coldly. 
 
 "Oh, yes; nothing could have been friendlier," 
 pursued Bernard, " than the way he treated me. 
 And the day before that 1 was at Cashel, and had a 
 long talk with the archbishop. He's a splendid old 
 gentleman, too. Not the least sign of airs or 
 nonsense about him." 
 
 Mother Agnes rose. 
 
 " I 'm deloighted to learn that our higher clergy 
 prodhuce so favorable an impression upon you," 
 she said, gravely; " but, if you'll excuse us, sir, this 
 is a house of mourning, and our hearts are heavy 
 wid grief, and we 're not in precisely the mood — " 
 
 Bernard spoke in an altered tone : 
 
 "Oh! I beg a thousand pardons! Mourning, 
 did you say ? May 1 ask — " 
 
 Mrs. Fergus answered his unspoken question. 
 
 " Don't you know it, thin ? 'T is me husband, 
 Cormac O'Daly. Sure he 's murdhered an' his 
 body's nowhere to be found, an' the poliss are 
 scourin' all the counthry roundabout, an' there 's a 
 long account of 't in the Freeman sint from 
 Bantry, an' more poliss have been dhrafted into 
 Muirisc, an' they 've arrested Jerry Higgins and 
 
2 74 ^^^^ Retzirn of The GMahony. 
 
 that long-shanked, shiverin' omadhaim of a cousin of 
 his. 'T is known they had a tellgram warnin' thim 
 not to be afraid — " 
 
 " Oh, by George ! Well, this is rich !" 
 
 The young man's spontaneous exclamations 
 brought the breathless narrative of Mrs. Fergus to 
 an abrupt stop. The women gazed at him in stupe- 
 faction. His rosy and juvenile face had, at her first 
 words, worn a wondering and puzzled expression. 
 Gradually, as she went on, a light of comprehension 
 had dawned in his eyes. Then he had broken in 
 upon her catalogue of woes with a broad grin on 
 his face. 
 
 " Igad, this is rich !" he repeated. He put his 
 hands in his pockets, withdrew them, and then took 
 a few steps up and down the room, chuckling deeply 
 to himself. 
 
 The power of speech came first to Mother Agnes. 
 
 " If 't is to insult our griefs you 've come, young 
 sir," she began ; " if that 's your m'aning — " 
 
 " Bless your heart, madam !"' Bernard protested. 
 ** I 'd be the last man in the world to dream of such 
 a thing. I 've too much respect. I 've an aunt who 
 is a religious, myself. No, what I mean is it 's all a 
 joke — that is, a mistake. O'Daly isn't dead at all." 
 
 " What 's that you 're sayin* .?" put in Mrs. Fergus, 
 sharply. " Me man is aloive, ye say ?" 
 
 " Why, of course " — the youngster went ofif into a 
 fresh fit of chuckling - " of course, he is — alive and 
 kicking. Yes, especially kicking !" 
 
 " The Lord's mercy on us !" said the mother 
 superior. " And where would Cormac be, thin !" 
 
 ** Well, that 's another matter. I don't know that I 
 
Bei'iianVs Good Cheer. 275 
 
 can tell 3^011 just now ; but, take my word for it, he 's 
 as alive as 1 am, and he 's perfectly safe, too.'' 
 
 The astonished pause which followed was broken 
 by the mumbling monologue of poor half-palsied 
 Sister Blanaid : 
 
 " 1 putt the box in her hands, an' I says, says 1 : 
 ' Away wid ye, now, an' t'row it into the say !' An' 
 thin she wint." 
 
 The other women exchanged startled glances. 
 In their excitement they had forgotten about Kate. 
 
 Before they could speak, Bernard, with a m3'sti- 
 lied glance at the spluttering old lady, had taken 
 up the subject of their frightened thoughts. 
 
 "But what I came for," he said, looking from one 
 to the other, " what I was specially in a stew about, 
 was to get here before — before Miss Kate had taken 
 her vows. The ceremony was set down for to-day, 
 as I understand. Perhaps I 'm wrong ; but that 's 
 why I asked if 1 was in time." 
 
 " You are in time," answered Mother Agnes, 
 solemnly. 
 
 Her sepulchral tone jarred upon the young man's 
 ear. Looking into the speaker's pallid, vail-framed 
 face, he was troubled vaguely by a strange, almost 
 sinister significance in her glance. 
 
 " You 're in fine time," the mother superior 
 repeated, and bowed her head. 
 
 " Man alive !" Mrs. Fergus exclaimed, rising and 
 leaning toward him. " You 've no sinse of what 
 you 're saying. Me daughter's gone, too !" 
 
 ** ' Gone !' How g:one ? What do vou mean ?" 
 
 Bernard gazed in blank astonishment into the 
 
276 The Return of The O Mahony, 
 
 vacuous face of Mrs. Fergus. Mechanically he 
 strode toward her and took her hand firmly in his. 
 
 " Where has she gone to?" he demanded, as his 
 scattered wits came under control again. " Do 
 you mean that she 's runaway ? Can't you speak?" 
 
 Mrs. Fergus, thus stoutly adjured, began to 
 whimper : 
 
 " They sint her from here — 't was always harsh 
 they were wid her — ye heard Sister Blanaid yerself 
 say they sint her — an' out she wint to walk under 
 the cliffs — some b'yes of Peggy Clancy saw her 
 go — an' she never came back through the long 
 night — an' me wid no wink o' sleep — an' me nerves 
 that bad !" 
 
 Overcome by her emotions, Mrs. Fergus, her 
 hand still in Bernard's grasp, bent forward till her 
 crimps rested on the young man's shoulder. She 
 moved her forehead gingerly about till it seemed 
 certain that the ornaments were sustaining no injury. 
 Then she gave her maternal feelings full sway and 
 sobbed with fervor against the coat of the young 
 man from Houghton County. 
 
 " Don't cry, Mrs. O'Daly," was all Bernard could 
 think of to say. 
 
 The demonstration might perhaps have impressed 
 him had he not perforce looked over the weeping 
 lady's head straight into the face of the mother 
 superior. There he saw written such contemptuous 
 incredulity that he himself became conscious of 
 skepticism, 
 
 " Dont take on so !" he urged, this time less 
 gently, and strove to disengage himself. 
 
 But Mrs. Fergus clung to his hand and resolutely 
 
Bernard's Good Cheer. 277 
 
 buried her face ag'ainst his collar. Sister Ellen had 
 risen to her feet beside Mother Agnes, and he heard 
 the two nuns sniff indig-nantly. Then he realized 
 that the situation was ridiculous. 
 
 " What is it you suspect ?" he asked of the mother 
 superior, eager to make a diversion of some kind. 
 
 " You can't be imagining that harm 's come to 
 Miss Kate — that she 's drowned ?" 
 
 " That same zvas our belafe," said Mother Agnes, 
 glaring icily upon him and his sobbing burden. 
 
 The inference clearly was that the spectacle 
 before her atTronted eyes had been enough to over- 
 turn all previous convictions, of whatever character. 
 
 Bernard hesitated no longer. He almost wrenched 
 his hand free and then firmly pushed Mrs. Fergus 
 away. 
 
 " It 's all nonsense," he saic^, assuming a confidence 
 he did not wholly feel, " She's no more drowned 
 than 1 am." 
 
 " Faith, I had me fears ior you, wid such a dale of 
 tears let loose upon ye," remarked Mother Agnes, 
 dryly. 
 
 The young man looked straight into the reverend 
 countenance of the superior and confided to it an 
 audacious wink. 
 
 " I '11 be back in no time," he said, taking up his 
 hat. " Now don't you fret another bit. She 's all 
 right. 1 know it. And I '11 go and find her." And 
 with that he was gone. 
 
 An ominous silence pervaded the reception hall. 
 The two nuns, still standing, stared with wrathful 
 severity at Mrs. Fergus. She bore their gaze with 
 but an indifferent show of composure, patting her 
 
278 The Return of The G Mahoiiy. 
 
 disordered crimps with an awkward hand, and then 
 moving aimlessly across the room. 
 
 " 1 '11 be going now, I 'm thinking," she said, at 
 last, yet lingered in spite of her words. 
 
 The nuns looked slowly at one another, and ut- 
 tered not a word. 
 
 " Well, thin, 't is small comfort I have, annyway, 
 or consolation either, from the lot of ye," Mrs. Fer- 
 gus felt impelled to remark, drawing her shawl up 
 on her head and walking toward the door. "An' 
 me wid me throubles, an' me nerves." 
 
 " Is it consolation you 're afther.? "retorted Mother 
 Agnes, bitterly. " I haven't the proper kind of 
 shoulder on me iox: your variety of consolation." 
 
 " Thrue ye have it, Agnes O'Mahony," Mrs. Fer- 
 gus came back, with her hand on the latch. " An' 
 by the same token, thim shoulders were small con- 
 solation to you yourself, till you got your nun's vail 
 to hide 'em !" 
 
 When she had flounced her way out, the mother 
 superior remained standing, her gaze bent upon the 
 floor. 
 
 " Sister Ellen," she said at last, " me powers are 
 failing me. 'T is time 1 laid down me burden. For 
 the first time in me life I was unayqual to her im- 
 piddence." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE RESIDENT MAGISTRATE. 
 
 When Bernard O'Mahony found himself outside 
 the convent gateway, he paused to consider matters. 
 
 The warm spring sunlight so broadly enveloped 
 the square in w^hich he stood, the shining white 
 cottages and gray old walls behind him and the 
 harbor and pale-blue placid bay beyond, in its grate- 
 ful radiance, that it was not in nature to think gloomy 
 thoughts. And nothing in the young man's own 
 nature tended that way, either. 
 
 Yet as he stopped short, looked about him, and 
 even took off his hat to the better ponder the situa- 
 tion, he saw that it was even more complicated than 
 he had thought. His plan of campaign had rested 
 upon two bold strategic actions. He had deemed 
 them extremely smart, at the time of their invention. 
 Both had been put into execution, and, lo, the state 
 of affairs was worse than ever ! 
 
 The problem had been to thwart and overturn 
 O'Daly and to prevent Kate from entering the con- 
 vent. These two objects were so intimately con- 
 nected and dependent one upon the other, that it 
 had been impossible to separate them in procedure. 
 He had caused O'Daly to be immured in secrecy in 
 the underground cell, the while he went off to secure 
 
 [279J 
 
2 8o The Rettirn of The G Mahony. 
 
 episcopal interference in the convent's plans. His 
 journey had been crowned with entire •success. It 
 had involved a trip to Cashel, it is true, but he had 
 obtained an order forbidding the ladies of the Host- 
 age's Tears to add to their numbers. Returning in 
 triumph with this invincible weapon, he discovered 
 now that O'Daly's disappearance had been placarded 
 all over Ireland as a murder, that his two allies were 
 in custody as suspected assassins, and that — most 
 puzzling and disturbing feature of it all — Kate her- 
 self had vanished. 
 
 He did not attach a moment's credence to the 
 drowning theory. Daughters of the Coast of White 
 Foam did not get drowned. Nor was it likely that 
 other harm had befallen a girl so capable, so self- 
 reliant, so thoroughly at home in all the districts 
 roundabout. Obviously she was in hiding some- 
 w^here in the neighborhood. The question was 
 where to look for her. Or, would it be better to 
 take up the other branch of the problem first? 
 
 His perplexed gaze, roaming vaguely over the 
 broad space, was all at once arrested by a gleam of 
 flashing light in motion. Concentrating his atten- 
 tion, he saw that it came from the polished barrel 
 of a rifle borne on the arm of a constable at the cor- 
 ner of the square. He put on his hat and walked 
 briskly over to this corner. The constable had 
 gone, and Bernard followed him up the narrow, 
 winding little street to the barracks. 
 
 As he walked, he noted knots of villagers clus- 
 tered about the cottage doors, evidently discuss- 
 ing some topic of popular concern. In the road- 
 way before the barracks were drawn up two out- 
 
TlLc Resident Magistrate. 281 
 
 side cars. A policeman in uniform occupied the 
 driver's seat on each, and a half-dozen others 
 lounged about in the sunshine by the gate-posls, 
 their rifles slung over their backs and their round, 
 visorless caps cocked aggressively over their ears. 
 These gentr}^ bent upon him a general scowl as he 
 walked past them and into llie barracks. 
 
 A dapper, dark-faced, exquisitely dressed young 
 gentleman, wearing slate-tinted gloves and with a 
 flower in his button-hole, stood in the hall-way — 
 two burly constables assisting him meanwhile to get 
 into a light, silk-lined top-coat. 
 
 " Come, 3'ou fool! Hold the sleeve lower down, 
 can't you !" this young gentleman cried, testily, as 
 Bernard entered. The two constables divided the 
 epithet between them humbly, and perfected their 
 task. 
 
 " I want to see the officer in charge here," said 
 Bernard, prepared by this for discourtesy. 
 
 The young gentleman glanced him over, and on 
 the instant altered his demeanor. 
 
 " I am Major Snaffle, the resident magistrate," he 
 said, with great politeness. " 1 've only a minute to 
 spare — I 'm driving over to Bantry with some pris- 
 oners — but if you '11 come this way — " and without 
 further words, he led the other into a room off the 
 hall, the door of which the two constables rushed 
 to obsequiously open. 
 
 " I dare say those are the prisoners I have come 
 to talk about," remarked Bernard, when the door 
 had closed behind them. He noted that this was 
 the first comfortably furnjshecl room he had seen in 
 
282 The Return of The (7 Mahouy. 
 
 Ireland, as he took the seat indicated by the major's 
 gesture. 
 
 Major Snaffle lifted his brows slightly at this, and 
 fastened his bright brown eyes in a keen, searching 
 glance upon Bernard's face. 
 
 " Hm-m !" he said. " You are an American, I 
 perceive." 
 
 " Yes — my name 's O'Mahony. I come from 
 Michigan." 
 
 At sound of this Milesian cognomen, the glance 
 of the stipendiary grew keener still, if possible, and 
 the corners of his carefully trimmed little mustache 
 were drawn sharply down. There was less polite- 
 ness in the manner and tone of his next inquiry. 
 
 "Well — what is 3-our business? What do you 
 want to say about them ?" 
 
 " First of all," said Bernard, " let 's be sure we 're 
 talking about the same people. You 've got two 
 men under arrest here — Jerry Higgins of this place, 
 and a cousin of his from — from Boston, I think 
 it is." 
 
 The major nodded, and kept his sharp gaze on the 
 other's countenance unabated. 
 
 " What of that?" he asked, now almost brusquely. 
 
 " Well, I only drove in this morning — I 'm in the 
 mining business, myself — but I understand they 've 
 been arrested for the m — that is, on account of the 
 disappearance of old Mr. O'Daly." 
 
 The resident magistrate did not assent by so much 
 as a word. "Well? What 's that to you?" he 
 queried, coldly. 
 
 " It 's this much to me," Bernard retorted, not 
 
The Resident Magistrate. 283 
 
 with entire good-temper, " that O'Daly isn't dead 
 at all." 
 
 Major Snaffle's eyebrows went up still further, 
 with a little jerk. He hesitated for a moment, then 
 said: "I hopj you kn<^w t'l'^ importance of what 
 you are saying. We don' . li^'.c to be fooled with." 
 
 " The fooling has been done by these who started 
 the story that he was murdered," remarked Ber- 
 nard. 
 
 " One must always be prepared for that — at some 
 stage of a case — among these Irish," said tlie resi- 
 dent magistrate. " I 've only been in Ireland two 
 years, but I know their lying tricks as well as if I 'd 
 been born among them. Service in India helps one 
 to understand all the inferior races." 
 
 " I haven't been here even two months," said the 
 young man from Houghton County, " but so far as 
 I can figure it out, the Irishmen who do the b;ilk 
 of the lying wear uniforms and monkej^-caps like 
 paper-collar boxes perched over one ear. The 
 police, I mean." 
 
 "We won't discuss that,'' put in the major, 
 peremptorily. " Do you know where O'Daly is?'' 
 
 " Yes, sir, I do," answered Bernard. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " You wouldn't know if I told you, but I '11 take 
 you to the place — that is, if you *ll let me talk to 
 your prisoners first." 
 
 Major Snaffle turned the proposition over in his 
 mind. " Take me to the place," he commented at 
 last; "that means that you 've got him hidden 
 somewhere, I assume." 
 
 Bernard looked into the shrewd, twinkling eyes 
 
284 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 with a new i-espect. " TlKit 's about the size of," he 
 assented. 
 
 " Hm-m ! Yes. That makes a new offense of it, 
 with you as an accessory, 1 take it — or ought I to 
 say principal ?" 
 
 Bernard was not at all dismayed by this shift in 
 the situation. 
 
 " Call it what you like," he answered. " See 
 here, major," he went on, in a burst of confidence, 
 " this whole thing's got nothing to do with politics 
 or the potato crop or an3'thing else that need con- 
 cern you. It 's purely a private family matter. In 
 a day or two, it '11 be in such shape that I can tell 
 you all about it. For that matter, I could now, 
 only it 's such a deuce of a long story." 
 
 The major thought again. 
 
 " All right," he said. '* You can see the prisoners 
 in my presence, and then I '11 give you a chance to 
 produce O'Daly. I ought to warn 3'ou, though, 
 that it may be all used against you, later on." 
 
 " I 'm not afraid of that," replied Bernard. 
 
 A minute later, he was following the resident 
 magistrate up a winding flight of narrow stone 
 stairs, none too clean. A constable, with a bunch 
 of keys jingling in his hand, preceded them, and, at 
 the top, threw open a heavy, iron-cased door. The 
 solitary window of the room they entered had been 
 so blocked with thick bars of metal that very little 
 light came through. Bernard, with some difficulty, 
 made out two figures lying in one corner on a heap 
 of straw and old cast-off clothing. 
 
 " Get up ! Here 's some one to see you !" called 
 out the major, in the 3ame tone he had used to the 
 
The Resident Magistrate. 285 
 
 constables while they were helping on the over- 
 coat. 
 
 Bernard, as he heard it, felt himself newly in- 
 formed as to the spirit in which India was governed. 
 Perhaps it was necessary there ; but it made him 
 grind his teeth to think of its use in Ireland. 
 
 The two figures scrambled to their feet, and Ber- 
 nard shook hands with both. 
 
 " Egor, sir, you 're a sight for sore eyes !" ex- 
 claimed Jerry, effusively, wringing the visitor's 
 fingers in his fat clasp. " Are ye come to take us 
 out?" 
 
 " Yes, that 'II be easy enough," said Bernard. 
 " You got my telegram all right ?" 
 
 Major Snaffle took his tablets from a pocket, and 
 made a minute on them unobserved. 
 
 " I did— I did," said Jerry, buoyantly. Then with 
 a changed expression he added, whispering : " An' 
 that same played the divil intirely. 'T was for that 
 they arrested us." 
 
 " Don't whisper !" interposed the resident magis- 
 trate, curtly. 
 
 "Egor ! I'll say nothing at all," said Jerry, who 
 seemed now for the first time to consider the pres- 
 ence of the official. 
 
 " Yes — don't be afraid," Bernard urged, reassur- 
 ingly, " It 's all right now. Tell me, is O'Daly in 
 the place we know of ?" 
 
 " He is, thin ! Egor, unless he 'd wings on him, 
 and dug his way up through the sayling, like a 
 blessed bat." 
 
 " Did he make much fuss?" 
 
 *• He did not — lastewise we didn't stop to hear. 
 
286 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 He came down wid us ais}' as you plaze, an' I 
 unlocked the dure. ' 'T is a foine room,' says I. 
 ' 'T is that,' says he. ' Here 's whishky,' says I. 
 ' I 'd be lookin' for that wherever you were,' says 
 he, ' even to the bowels of the earth.' ' An' why 
 not?' says I. 'What is it the priest read to us, 
 that it makes a man's face to shine wid oil ?' * A 
 grand scholar ye are, Jerry,' says he—" 
 
 " Cut it short, Jerry !" interposed Bernard. "The 
 main thing is you left him there all right?" 
 
 " Well, thin, we did, sir, an' no mistake." 
 
 " My plan is, major," — Bernard turned to the resi- 
 dent magistrate — " to take my friend here, Jerry 
 Higgins, with us, to the place I've been speaking 
 of. We'll leave the other man here, as the editors 
 say in my countr}'-, as a ' guarantee of good faith.' 
 The only point is that we three must go alone. It 
 wouldn't do to take an}' constables with us. In fact, 
 there's a secret about it, and I wouldn't feel justified 
 in giving it away even to you, if it didn't seem nec- 
 essary. We simply confide it to you." 
 
 " You can't confide anything to me," said the resi- 
 dent magistrate. ** Understand clearly that I shall 
 hold myself free to use everything I see and learn, 
 if the interests of justice seem to demand it." 
 
 " Yes, but that isn't going to happen," responded 
 Bernard. " The interests of justice are all the other 
 wa}^ as you '11 see, later on. What I mean is, if the 
 case isn't taken into court at all — as it won't be — we 
 can trust you not to speak about this place." 
 
 " Oh — in my private capacity — that is a different 
 matter." 
 
 " And you won't be afraid to go alone with us ?— <• 
 
The Resident Magistrate. 
 
 it isn't far from here, but, mind, it is downright 
 lonesome." 
 
 Major Snaffle covered the two men — the burly, 
 stout Irishman and the lithe, erect, close-knit young 
 American — with a comprehensive glance. The 
 points of his mustache trembled momentarily 
 upward in the beginning of a smile. " No — not the 
 least bit afraid," the dapper little gentleman replied. 
 
 The constables at the outer door stood with their 
 big red hands to their caps, and saw with amaze- 
 ment the major, Bernard and Jerry pass them and 
 the cars, and go down the street abreast. The 
 villagers, gathered about the shop and cottage doors, 
 watched the progress of the trio with even greater 
 surprise. It seemed now, though, that nothing was 
 too marvelous to happen in jNluirisc. Some of 
 them knew that the man with the fiower in his coat 
 was the stipendary magistrate from Bantr}-, and, 
 by some obscure connection, this came to be inter- 
 preted throughout the village as meaning that the 
 bodies of both O'Daly and Miss Kate had been 
 found. The stories which were born of this under- 
 standing flatly contradicted one another at every 
 point as they flew about, but they made a good 
 enough basis for the old women of the hamlet to 
 start keening upon afresh. 
 
 The three men, pausing now and again to make 
 sure they were not followed, went at a sharp pace 
 around through the churchyard to the door of 
 Jerry's abode, and entered it. The key and the 
 lantern were found hanging upon their accustomed 
 pegs. Jerry lighted the candle, pushed back the 
 
288 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 bed, and led the descent of the narrow, musty stairs 
 through the darkness. The major came last of all. 
 
 *' I've only been down here once myself," Bernard 
 explained to him, over his shoulder, as they made 
 their stumbling way downward. •' It seems the 
 place was discovered by accident, in the old Fenian 
 days. I suppose tlie convent used it in old times — 
 they say there was a skeleton of a monk found in 
 it." 
 
 " Whisht, now !" whispered Jerry, as, having 
 passed through the long, low corridor leading from 
 the staircase, he came to a halt at the doorwa}'. 
 " Maybe we'll surproise him." 
 
 He unlocked the door and flung it open. No 
 sound of life came from within. 
 
 " Come along out 'o that, Cormac !" called Jerry, 
 into the mildewed blackness. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 Bernard almost pushed Jerry forward into the 
 chamber, and, taking the lantern from him, held it 
 aloft as he moved about. He peered under the 
 table ; he opened the great muniment chest ; he 
 pulled back the ciytains to scrutinize the bed. 
 There was no sign of O'Dal}^ anywhere. 
 
 " Saints be wid us !" gasped Jerry, crossing him- 
 self, " the divil 's flown away wid his own !" 
 
 Bernard, from staring in astonishment into his 
 confederate's fat face, let his glance wander to the 
 major. That olihcial had stepped over the threshold 
 of the chamber, and stood at one side of the open 
 door. He held a revolver in his gloved, right hand. 
 
 " Gentlemen." he said, in a perfectly calm voice, 
 " my father served in Ireland in Fenian times, and 
 
The Resident Magistrate. 289 
 
 an American-Irishman caught him in a trap, gagged 
 him with gnn-rags, and generally made a fool of him. 
 Such things do not happen twice in any intelligent 
 famil}'. You w^ill therefore walk through this door, 
 arm in arm, handing me the lantern as you pass, and 
 you will then go up the stairs six paces ahead of me. 
 If either of you attempts to do anything else, I will 
 shoot him down like a dog." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIl. 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE O'MAHONY. 
 
 Bernard had never before had occasion to look 
 into the small and ominously black muzzle of a 
 loaded revolver. An involuntary twitching- seized 
 upon his muscles as he did so now, but his presence 
 of mind did not desert him. 
 
 " No! Don't shoot !" he called out. The words 
 shook as he uttered them, and seemed to his ner- 
 vously acute hearing to be crowded parts of a single 
 sound. "That's rank foolishness!" he added, hur- 
 riedly. " There 's no trick ! Nobody dreams of 
 touching 3'^ou. I give you my word I 'm more 
 astonished than you are!" 
 
 The major seemed to be somewhat impressed by 
 the candor of the young man's tone. He did not 
 lower the weapon, but he shifted his finger awa}' 
 from the trigger. 
 
 " That may or may not be the case," he said with 
 a studious affectation of calm in his voice. " At all 
 events, you will at once do as I said." 
 
 " But see here," urged Bernard, " there's an 
 explanation to everything. I '11, swear that old 
 [290] 
 
The Rcttirn of The OMahony. 29 1 
 
 O'Daly was put in here by our friend here — Jerry 
 Ilig-gins. That 's straight, isn't it, Jerry?" 
 
 " It is, sir!" said Jerry, fervently, with eye askance 
 on the revolver. 
 
 " And it 's evident enough that he couldn't have 
 got out by himself." 
 
 " That he never did, sir." 
 
 "Well, then — let's figure. How many people 
 know of this place ?" 
 
 " There's yoursilf," responded Jerry, meditatively, 
 " an' mesilf an' Linsky — me cousin, Joseph Higgins, 
 I mane. That's all, if ye I'ave O'Daly out. An' 
 that 's what bothers me wits, who the divil didVave 
 him out?".. 
 
 " This cousin of yours, as you call him," put in 
 the resident magistrate — "what did he mean by 
 speaking of him as Linsky ? No lying, now." 
 
 "Lying-, is it, your honor? 'T is aisy to see 
 you 're a stranger in these parts, to spake that word 
 to me. Egor, 't is me truth-tellin' 's kept me the 
 poor man I am. I remember, now, sir, wance on a 
 time whin I was only a shlip of a lad — " 
 
 "What did you call him Linsky for?" Major 
 Snaffle demanded, peremptorily. 
 
 " Well, sir," answered Jerry, unabashed, " 't is 
 because he 's freckles on him. ' Linsky ' is the Irish 
 for a 'freckled man!' Sure, O'Daly would tell you 
 the same — if yer honor could find him." 
 
 The major did not look entirely convinced. 
 
 " I don't doubt it," he said, with grim sarcasm ; 
 " every man, woman and child of 3'ou all would tell 
 the same. Come now — we 'II get up out of this. 
 
292 TJie Return of The G i\Iaho7iy. 
 
 Link your arms together, and give me the lan- 
 tern." 
 
 " By 3'our I'avc, sir," interposed Jerry, " that 
 trick ye tokl us of your father — w'u'd that have 
 been in a marteller tov/er, on the coast beyant Kin- 
 sale? Egor, sir, I was there! 'T was me tuk the 
 gun-rags from your father's mouth. Sure, 't is in 
 me ricolliction as if 't was yesterday. There stud 
 The O'Mahon}^ — " 
 
 At the sound of the name on his tongue, Jerry 
 stopped short. The secret of that expedition had 
 been preserved so long. Was there danger in 
 revealing it now. 
 
 To Bernard the name suggested another thought. 
 He turned swiftly to Jerry. 
 
 " Look here !" he said. " You forgot something. 
 The O'Mahony knew of this place." 
 
 " Well, thin, he did, sir," assented Jerry. " 'T 
 v/as him discovered it altogether." 
 
 " Major," the young man exclaimed, wheeling 
 now to again confront the magistrate with his 
 revolver, " there 's something queer about this 
 whole thing. I don't understand it any more than 
 30U do. Perhaps if we put our heads together we 
 could figure it out between us. It 's foolishness to 
 stand like this. Let me light the candles here, and 
 all of us sit down like white men. That 's it," he 
 added as he busied himself in carrying out his sug- 
 gestion, to which the magistrate tacitly assented. 
 " Now we can talk. We '11 sit here in front of you, 
 and you can keep out your pistol, if you like." 
 
 "Well?" said Major Snaffle, inquiringh% when he 
 had seated himself between the others and the door, 
 
The Rclnm of The O Mahony. 293 
 
 vet sidewise, so tliat he might not be taken 
 unawares b}' any new-comer. 
 
 " Tell him, Jerr\', who this O'IMahony of yours 
 was," directed Bernard. 
 
 " Ah, thin — a grand divil of a man !" said Jerr}^ 
 with enthusiasm. " 'T was he was the master of all 
 Muirisc. Sure 't was mesilf was the first man he 
 gave a w-ord to in Ireland wliin he landed at the 
 Cove of Cork. ' Will ye come along wid me?' sa3's 
 he. ' To the inds of the earth!' says I. And wid 
 that—" 
 
 " He came from America, too, did he?" queried 
 the major. " Was that the same man who — who 
 played the trick on my father? You seem to know 
 about that." 
 
 " Egor, 't was the same !" cried Jerry, slapping 
 his fat knee and chuckling with delight at the 
 memor}'. " 'T was all in the winkin' of an eye — an' 
 there he had him bound like a calf goin' to the fair, 
 an' he cartin' him on his own back to the boat. Up 
 wint the sails, an' off we pushed, an' the breeze 
 caught us, an' whin the soldiers came, faith, 't was 
 safe out o' raych we were. An' thin The O'Mahony 
 — God save him ! — came to your honor's father — " 
 
 " Yes, I know the story," interrupted the major. 
 " It doesn't amuse me as it does you. But what 
 has this man — this O'Mahony — got to do with this 
 present case ?" 
 
 *' It 's like this," explained Bernard, "as I under- 
 stand it: He left Ireland after this thing Jerry's 
 been telling you about and went fighting in other 
 countries. He turned his property over to two 
 trustees to manage for the benefit of a little girl 
 
294 The Rctitni of The O' IMahony. 
 
 here — now Miss Kate O'Mahony. O'Daly was one 
 of the trustees. What does he do but marry the 
 girl's mother — a widow — and lay pipes to put the 
 girl in a convent and steal all the money. I told 
 you at the beginning that it was a family squabble. 
 1 happened to come along this way, got interested 
 in the thing, and took a notion to put a spoke in 
 O'Daly 's wheel. To manage the convent end of 
 the business I had to go away for two or three days. 
 While I was gone, I thought it would be safer to 
 have O'Daly down here out of mischief. Now 
 you *ve got the whole story. Or, no, that isn't all, 
 for when I got back I find that the young lady her- 
 self has disappeared ; and, lo and behold, here 's 
 O'Daly turned up missing, too !" 
 
 ** What 's that you say ?" asked Major Snaffle. 
 " The young lady gone, also ?" 
 
 " Is it Miss Kate ?" broke in Jerry. " Oh, thin, 't 
 is the divil's worst work ! Miss Kate not to be 
 found — is that your m'aning ? 'T is notconsa3-vable." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think there 's anything serious in 
 that^' said Bernard. " She '11 turn out to be safe 
 and snug somewhere when everything 's cleared up. 
 But, in the meantime, where 's O'Daly ? How did 
 he get out of here ?" 
 
 The major rose and walked over to the door. 
 He examined its fastenings and lock with attention. 
 
 " It can only be opened from the outside," he 
 remarked as he returned to his seat. 
 
 " I know that," said Bernard. " And I 've got a 
 notion that there 's only one man alive who could 
 have come and opened it." 
 
 " Is it Lin — me cousin, you mane?" asked Jerry. 
 
Tkc Retitrii of The G Mahony. 295 
 
 " Egor ! He was never out of me sight, daylight or 
 dark, till they arrested us together." 
 
 "No," replied Bernard. "I didn't mean him. 
 The man I 'm thinking of is The O'Mahony 
 himself." 
 
 Jerry leaped to his feet so swiftly that the major 
 instinctively clutched his revolver anew. But 
 there was no menace in Jerry's manner. He stood 
 for a moment, his fat face reddened in the candle's 
 pale glow, his gray eyes ashine, his mouth expand- 
 ing in a grin of amazed delight. Then he burst 
 forth in a torrent of eager questioning. 
 
 " Don't you mane it ?" he cried. " The O'Mahony 
 come back to his own ag'in? Wu'd he — is it — oh, 
 thin, 't is too good to be thrue, sir ! An' we sittin* 
 here! An' him near by! Kxi me not — ah, come 
 along out 'o this ! An' ye're not desay vin' us, sir ? 
 He's thruly come back to us ?" 
 
 " Don't go too fast," remonstrated Bernard ." It 's 
 only guess-work There's nothing sure about it at 
 all. Onl}' there's no one else who could have come 
 here." 
 
 " Thrue for ye, sir !" exclaimed Jerry, all afire now 
 with joyous confidence. " 'T is a fine, grand intelli- 
 gince ye have, sir. An' will we be goin', now, major, 
 to find him ?" 
 
 Under the influence of Jerry's great excitement, 
 the other two had risen to their feet as well. 
 
 The resident magistrate toyed dubiously with his 
 revolver, casting sharp glances of scrutiny from 
 one to the other of the faces before him, the while 
 he pondered the probabilities of truth in the curious 
 tale to which he had listened. 
 
296 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 The official side of him clamored for its entire 
 rejection as a lie. Like most of his class, with their 
 superficial and hostile observation of an alien race, 
 his instincts were all against crediting anything 
 which any Irish peasant told him, to begin with, 
 Furthermore, the half of this strange story had been 
 related by an Irish-American — a type regarded by 
 the ofBcial mind in Ireland with a peculiar intensity 
 of suspicion. Yes, he decided, it was all a falsehood. 
 
 Then he looked into the 3'oung man's face once 
 more, and wavered. It seemed an honest face. If 
 its owner had borne even the homeliest and most 
 plebeian of Saxon labels, the major was conscious 
 that he should have liked him. The Milesian name 
 carried prejudice, it was true, but — 
 
 " Yes, we will go up," he said, " in the manner I 
 described. I don't see what j'our object would be 
 in inventing this long rigmarole. Of course, you 
 can see that if it isn't true, it will be so much the 
 worse for you." 
 
 " We ought to see it by this time," said Bernard, 
 with a suggestion of weariness. "You've men- 
 tioned it often enough. Here, take the lantern. 
 We 'U go up ahead. The door locks itself. I have 
 the key." 
 
 The three men made their way up the dark, tor- 
 tuous flight of stairs, replaced the lantern and key 
 on their peg in Jerry's room, and emerged once 
 more into the open. They filled their lungs with 
 long breaths of the fresh air, and then looked rather 
 vacuously at one another. The major had pocketed 
 his weapon. 
 
 " Well, what 's the programme ?" asked Bernard. 
 
The Ret urn of The G Mahony. 297 
 
 Before any answer came, their attention was at- 
 tracted by the figure of a stranger, sauntering 
 about among the ancient stones and black wooden 
 crosses scattered over the weed-grown expanse of 
 the churchyard. He was engaged in deciphering 
 the names on the least weather-beaten of these 
 crosses, but only in a cursory way and with long 
 intermittent glances over the prospect of ivy-grown 
 ruins and gray walls, turrets and gables be3'ond. 
 As they watched him, he seemed suddenly to be- 
 come aware of their presence. Forthwith he 
 turned and strolled toward them. 
 
 i\.s he advanced, they saw that he was a tall and 
 slender man, whose close-cut hair and short mus- 
 tache and chin tuft produced an effect of extreme 
 whiteness against a notably tanned and sun-burnt 
 skin. Though evidently well along in 3^ears, he 
 walked erect and with an elastic and springing step. 
 He wore black clothes of foreign, albeit genteel 
 aspect. The major noted on the lapel of his coat a 
 tell-tale gleam of red ribbon — and even before that 
 had guessed him to be a Frenchman and a soldier. 
 He leaped swiftly to the further assumption that 
 this was The O'Mahony, and then hesitated, as 
 Jerry showed no sign of recognition. 
 
 The stranger halted before them with a little nod 
 and a courteous upward wave of his forefinger. 
 
 " A fine day, gentlemen," he remarked, with 
 politeness. 
 
 Major Snaffle had stepped in front of his com- 
 panions. 
 
 " Permit me to introduce myself," he said, with a 
 sudden resolution^ " i am the stipendiary magistrate 
 
298 The Return of The O MaJiony. 
 
 of the district. Would you kindl}' tell me it you 
 are informed as to the present whereabouts of Mr. 
 Cormac O'Daly, of this place ?" 
 
 The other showed no trace of surprise on his 
 browned face. 
 
 " Mr. O'Daly and his step-daughter," he replied, 
 affably enough, "are just now doing me the honor 
 of being my guests, aboard my vessel in the 
 harbor." . 
 
 Then a twinkle brightened his gray eyes as he 
 turned their glance upon Jerry's red, moon-like 
 face. He permitted himself the briefest of dry 
 chuckles. 
 
 " Well, young man," he said, " they seem to have 
 fed you pretty well, anyway, since J saw you last." 
 
 For another moment Jerry stared in round-eyed 
 bewilderment at the speaker. Then with a wild 
 " Huroo !'' he dashed forward, seized his hand and 
 wrung it in both of his. 
 
 " God bless ye ! God bless ye !" he gasped, 
 between little formless ejaculations of dazed delight. 
 "God forgive me for not knowin' ye — you 're that 
 althered ! But for you 're back amongst us — aloive 
 and well — glory be to the world !" 
 
 He kept close to The O'Mahony's side as the 
 group began now to move toward the gate of the 
 churchyard, pointing to him with his fat thumb, as 
 if to call all nature to witness this glorious event, 
 and murmuring fondly to himself: "You 're come 
 home to us!" over and over again. 
 
 " 1 am much relieved to learn what you tell me, 
 Mr. — Or rather, I believe 3^ou are O'Mahony with- 
 out the mister," said Major Snaffle, as they walked 
 
The Return of The O Mahony. 299 
 
 out upon the green. " I dare say you know — this 
 has beeti a very bad winter all over the west and 
 south, and crime seems to be increasing, instead of 
 tlie reverse, as spring advances. We have had the 
 gravest reports about the disaffection in this 
 district — especially among your tenants. That 's 
 why we gave such ready credence to the theor}^ of 
 murder." 
 
 "Murder?" queried The O'Mahony. " Oh, I see 
 — you thought O'Daly had been murdered ?" 
 
 " Yes, we arrested your man Higgins, here, 
 yesterday. I w^as just on the point of starting with 
 him to Bantry jail, an hour ago, when this young 
 gentleman — " the major made a backward gesture 
 to indicate Bernard — " came and said he knew 
 where O'Daly was. He took me downi to that 
 curious underground chamber — " 
 
 " Who took you down, did you say ?" asked The 
 O'Mahony, sharply. He turned on his heel as he 
 spoke, as did the major. 
 
 To their considerable surprise, Bernard was no 
 longer one of the party. Their dumfounded gaze 
 ranged the expanse of common round about. He 
 was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 The O'Mahoney looked almost sternly at Jerry. 
 
 " Who is this 3-oung man you had with you — who 
 seems to have taken to running things in my 
 absence ?" he demanded. 
 
 Poor Jerr}', who had been staring upward at the 
 new-comer with the dumb admiration of an affec- 
 tionate spaniel, cowered humbl}' under this glance 
 and tone. 
 
300 The RetiLvii of The G Mahony. 
 
 " Well, yer honor," he stammered, plucking at 
 the buttons of his coat in embarrassment, " egor, 
 lor the matter of that — I — I don't rightly know." 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A MARINE MORNING CALL. 
 
 The young man from Houghton County, strolling 
 along behind these three men, all so busil}' occupied 
 with one another, had, of a sudden, conceived the 
 notion of dropping silently out of tiie party. 
 
 He had put the idea into execution and was 
 secure from observation on the farther side of the 
 ditcii, before the question of what he should do next 
 shaped itself in his mind. Indeed, it vras not until 
 he had made his wav to the little old-fashioned pier 
 and come to an enforced halt among the empty 
 barrels, drying nets and general marine odds and 
 ends which littered the landing-stage, that he knew 
 what purpose had brought him hither. 
 
 But he perceived it now with great clearness. 
 Wlu;t otlier purpose, in truth, did existence itself 
 contain for him ? 
 
 " I want to be rowed over at once to that vessel 
 there," he called out to Jolin Pat, who made one of 
 a group of Muirisc men, in white jackets and soft 
 black hats, standing beneath him on the steps. As 
 he descended and took his seat in one of the wait- 
 ing dingeys, he noted other clusters of villagers 
 
 [301] 
 
302 TJie Return of The O Mahoiiy . 
 
 along the shore, all concentrating an eager interest 
 upon the yawl-rigged craft which lay at anchor in 
 the harbor. They pointed to it incessantly as they 
 talked, and others could be seen running forward 
 across the green to join thein. He had never sup- 
 posed Muirisc capable of such a display of anima- 
 tion. 
 
 " The people seem tickled to death to get The 
 O'Mahony back again," he remarked to John P\at, 
 as they shot out under the first long sweep of the 
 oars. 
 
 " They are, sir," was the stolid response, 
 " Did your brother come back with him — that 
 one-armed man who went after him — Malachy, I 
 think they called him ?" 
 
 " He did, sur," said Pat, simply. 
 •'Well" — Bernard bent forward impatientl}' — 
 " tell me about it! Where did he find him ? What 
 do people sa}- ?" 
 
 " They do be saying manny things," responded 
 the oarsman, rounding his shoulders to the work. 
 
 Bernard abandoned the inquir}^ with a grunt of 
 discouragement, and contented himself perforce b}' 
 watching the way in which the strange craft waxed 
 steadily in size as they sped toward her. In a min- 
 ute or two more, he was alongside and clambering 
 up a rope-ladder, which dangled its ends in the 
 gently heaving water. 
 
 Save for a couple of obviously foreign sailors 
 lolling in the sunshine upon a sail in the bows, there 
 was no one on deck. As lie looked about, however, 
 in speculation, the apparition of a broad, black liat, 
 witij long, curled plumes, rose above the companion- 
 
A Marine Morni7ig Call. 3O3 
 
 way. He welcomed it with an exclamalion of de- 
 light, and ran forward with outstretched hands. 
 
 The wearer of the hat, as she stepped upon the 
 deck and confronted this demonstration, confessed 
 to surprise by stopping short and lifting her black 
 brows in inquir}'. Bernard sheepishly let his hands 
 fall to his side before the cool glance with which she 
 regarded him. 
 
 "Is it viewing the vessel you are?" she asked. 
 " Her jigger lug-sail is unusual, I 'm told. 
 
 The young man's blue ej'es glistened in reproach- 
 ful appeal. 
 
 " What do I know about lugger jig-sails, or care, 
 either," he asked. " I hurried here the moment I 
 heard, to — to see you !" 
 
 " 'T is flattered I am, I'm sure," said Kate, dryly, 
 looking away from him to the brown cliffs beyond. 
 
 "Come, be fair!" Bernard pleaded. "Tell me 
 what the matter is. I thought I had every reason to 
 suppose 3'ou 'd be glad to see me. it 's plain enough 
 that you are not; but you — you might tell me why. 
 Or no," he went on, with a sudden change of tone, 
 "I won't ask you. It 's your own aflair, after all. 
 Only you '11 excuse the way I rushed up to 3'ou. 1 'd 
 had my head full of 3'our affairs for days past, and 
 then your disappearance — they thought you were 
 drowned, 3'Ou know — and I — I — " 
 
 The 3'oung man broke off with weak inconclusive- 
 ness. and turned as if to descend the ladder again. 
 But John Pat had rowed away with the boat, and he 
 looked blankly down upon the clear water instead. 
 
 Kate's voice sounded with a mellower tone behind 
 him. 
 
304 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 "I wouldn't have ye go in anger," she said. 
 
 Bernard wheeled around in a flash. 
 
 "Anger!" he cried, with a radiant smile chasing 
 all the shadows from his face. " Why, how on earth 
 co7ild I be angry \N\t\\you? No ; but I was going 
 away most mightil}' down in the mouth, though — 
 that is," he added, with a rueful kind of grin, " if my 
 boat hadn't gone off without me. But, honestly, 
 now, when I drove in here this morning from Skib- 
 bereen, I felt like a victorious general coming home 
 from the wars. 1 'd done everything I wanted to do. 
 I had the convent business blocked, and I had 
 O'Dal}^ on the hip ; and I said to myself, as we drove 
 along: 'She'll be glad to see me.' I kept saying 
 that all the while, straight from Skibbereen to 
 Muirisc. Well, then — you can guess for yourself — 
 it was like tumbling backward into seven hundred 
 feet of ice-water !" 
 
 Kate's face had gradually lost its implacable 
 rigidity, and softened now for an instant into almost 
 a smile. 
 
 " So much else has happened since that drive of 
 3'ours," she said gently. " And what were )-e doing 
 at Skibbereen?" 
 
 " Well, 3'ou '11 open j^«r eyes!" predicted Ber- 
 nard, all animation once again ; and then he related 
 the details of his journey to Skibbereen and Cashel, 
 of his interviews with the prelates and of the 
 manner in which he had, so to speak, wound up the 
 career of the convent of the Hostage's Tears. " It 
 hadn't had any real, rightdown legitimate title to 
 existence, you know," he concluded, " these last 
 five hundred years. All it needed was somebody 
 
A Marine Morning Call. 305 
 
 to call attention to this fact, you see, and, bang, the 
 whole thing collapsed like a circus-tent in a 
 cyclone I" 
 
 The girl had moved over to the gunwale, and 
 now leaning over the rail, looked meditatively into 
 the water below. 
 
 "And so," she said, with a pensive note in her 
 voice, " there 's an end to the historic convent of 
 the O'Mahonys ! No other family in Ireland had 
 one — 't was the last glory of our poor, hunted and 
 plundered and poverty-striken race; and now even 
 that must depart from us." 
 
 " Well — hang it all !" remonstrated Bernard — 
 " it 's better that way than to have jjw/ locked up all 
 )'Our life. I feel a little blue myself about closing 
 up the old convent, but there 's something else I 
 feel a thousand times more strongly about still." 
 
 " Yes — isn't it wonderful ? — the return of The 
 O'Mahony !" said Kate. *' Oh, I hardly know still 
 if I 'm waking or not. 'T was all like a blessid 
 vision, and V zuas supernatural in its wa}' ; I '11 
 never believe otherwise. There was I on the strand 
 yonder, with the talisman he 'd given me in me 
 arms, praying for his return — and, behold you there 
 was this boat of his forninst me ! Oh ! Never tell 
 me the age of miracles is past ?" 
 
 "I won't — I promise you!" said Bernard, with 
 fervor. " I 've seen one myself since I 've been here. 
 It was at the Three Castles. I had my gun raised 
 to shoot a heron, when an enchanted fairy — " 
 
 " Nothing to do but he 'd bring me on board," 
 Kate put in, hastily. "Old Murphy swam out to 
 him ahead of us, screaming wid delight like one 
 
J 
 
 06 The Return of The GMahony. 
 
 possessed. And we sat and talked for hours — he 
 telling strange stories of the war's he *d been in wid 
 the French, and thin wid Don Carlos, and thin the 
 Turks, and thin wid some outlandish people in a 
 Turkish province — until night fell, and he wint 
 ashore. And whin he came back he brougiit O'Daly 
 wid him — wherein the Lord's name hefouiKl him 
 passes my understanding, and thin we up sail and 
 beat down till we stood off Three Castle Head. 
 There we la}'- all night — O'Mahony gav^e up his 
 cabin to me — and this morning back we came again. 
 And now — the Lord be praised ! — there 's an ind to 
 all our throubles I" 
 
 "Well," said Bernard, with deliberation,"! 'm 
 glad. I really am glad. Although, of course, it 's 
 plain enough to see, there 's an end to me, too." 
 
 A brief time of silence passed, as the two, leaning 
 side by side on the rail, watched the slow rise and 
 sinking of the dull-green wavelets. 
 
 " You 're off to i\meriky, thin ?" Kate finally 
 asked, without looking up. 
 
 The young man hesitated. 
 
 " I don't know yet," he said, slowl}'. " I 've got a 
 curious hand dealt out to me. I hardly know how 
 to pla)^ it. One thing is sure, though : hearts are 
 trumps." 
 
 He tried to catch her glance, but she kept her 
 eyes resolutel}' bent upon the water. 
 
 " You know what I want to say," he went on, 
 moving his arm upon the rail till there was the least 
 small fluttering suggestion of contact with hers. It 
 must have said itself to 3'ou that day upon the 
 mountain-top, or, for that matter, why, that very 
 
A Mai'inc A'lorning Call. %0'] 
 
 first time I saw you I went away head over heels in 
 love. 1 tell you, candidly, I haven't thought or 
 dreamed for a minute of anything- else from that 
 blessed day. It 's all been fairyland to me ever 
 since. I 've been so happy ! jNIay I stay in fair}'- 
 land, Kate ?" 
 
 She made no answer. Bernard felt her arm 
 tremble against his for an instant before it was 
 withdrawn. He noted, too. the bright carmine flush 
 spring to her cheek, overmantle her dark face and 
 then fade away before an advancing pallor. A tear 
 glittered among her downcast lashes. 
 
 " You mustn't deny me my age of miracles!" he 
 murmuringly pleaded. *' It zvas a miracle that we 
 should have met as we did ; that I should have 
 found you afterward as I did; that I should have 
 turned up just when you needed help the most ; that 
 the stra}^ discover}^ of an old mediceval parchment 
 should have given me the hint what to do. Oh, 
 don't you feel it, Kate ? Don't you realize, too, dear, 
 that there was fate in it all? That we belonged 
 from the beginning to each other ?" 
 
 Very white-faced and grave, Kate lifted herself 
 erect and looked at him. It was with an obvious 
 effort that she forced herself to speak, but her 
 words were firm enough and her glance did not 
 weaver. 
 
 " Unfortunately," she said, ''your miracle has a 
 trick in it. Even if 't would have pleased me to 
 believe in it, how can I, whin 't is founded on 
 desate." 
 
 Bernnrd stared at her in round-eyed wonderment. 
 
 *' How 'deceit'?" he stammered. " How do ^^ou 
 
o 
 
 08 TJie Return of The OMahony, 
 
 mean? Is it about kidnapping O'Daly ? We only 
 did that—" 
 
 " No, 't is ///w," said Kate — " we '11 be open with 
 each other, and it 's a grief to me to say it to 3'Oii, 
 whom I have liked so much, but you 're no O'Ma- 
 hony at all." 
 
 The young man with difficulty grasped her mean- 
 ing. 
 
 " Well, if you remember, I never said I knew m}' 
 father was one of the O'Mahonys, you know. All I 
 said was that he came from somewhere in County 
 Cork. Surel}', there was no deceit in that." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No ; what ye said was that your name was 
 O'Mahony." 
 
 " Well, so it is. Good heavens ! TJiat isn't dis- 
 puted, is it ?" 
 
 "And you said, moreover," she continued, gravel v, 
 "that your father knew onr O'Mahony as well 
 almost as he knew himsilf." 
 
 " Oh-h !" exclaimed Bernard, and fell thereupon 
 into confused rumination upon many thoughts 
 which till then had been curiously subordinated in 
 his mind. 
 
 " And, now," Kate went on, with a sigh, " whin f 
 mintion th'is to The O'Mahony himself, he sajs he 
 never in his life knew au}^ one of your father's name. 
 O'Daly was witness to it as well." 
 
 Bernard had his elbows once more on the rail. 
 He pushed his chin hard against his upturned palms 
 and stared at the skyline, thinking as he had never 
 been forced to think before. 
 
 " Surely there was no need for the— the misstate- 
 
A Marine Hlorniiio Call. 309 
 
 ment," said Kate, in mournful recognition of what 
 she took to be his dumb self-reproach. " See now 
 how useless it was— and a thousand times worse 
 than useless! See how it prevints me now from 
 respecting you and being properly grateful to you 
 for what you 've done on me behalf, and — and — " 
 
 She broke off suddenly. To her consternation 
 she had discovered that the young man, so far from 
 being stricken speechless in contrition, was grinning 
 gayly at the distant landscape. 
 
 Turning with abruptness she walked indignantly 
 aft. Cormac O'Daly had come up from below, and 
 stood wistfully gazing landward over the taffrail. 
 She joined him, and stood at his side flushed and 
 wrathful. 
 
 Bernard was not wholly able to chase the smile 
 from his face as he rose and sauntered over toward 
 her. She turned her back as he approached and 
 tapped the deck nervously with her foot. Nothing 
 dismayed, he addressed himself to O'Daly, who 
 seemed unable to decide whether also to look the 
 other way or not. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," he said affably. " You 're 
 quite a stranger, Mr. O'Daly." 
 
 Kate, at his first word, had walked briskly away 
 up the deck, Cormac's little black eyes snapped 
 viciously at the intruder. 
 
 " At laste I 'm not such a stranger," he retorted, 
 " but that me thrue name is known, an' I 'm here be 
 the invitation of the owner." 
 
 " I 'm sorry you take things so hard, Mr. 
 O'Daly," said Bernard. " An easy disposition would 
 
3IO The Retiirn of The O' JMahony. 
 
 come very handy to j'oii, seein:^ the troubles )ou 
 've got to go through with yet." 
 
 The small man gazed apprehensively at his 
 tormentor. 
 
 " I don't foll}^ ye," he stammered. 
 
 " I 'm going to propose that you sJiall follow me, 
 sir," replied the 3'Oung man in an authoritative tone. 
 " I understand that in conversation last night 
 between your step-daughter and you and The — the 
 owner of this vessel, the question of my name was 
 brought up, and that it was decided that I was a 
 fraud. Now, 1 'm not much given to making a fuss, 
 but there are some things, especiall}^ at certain 
 times, that I can't stand — not for one little minute. 
 This is one of 'em. Now I 'm going to suggest 
 that we hail one of those boats there and go ashore 
 at once — you and Miss Kate and I — and clear this 
 matter up without delay." 
 
 " We '11 remain here till The O'Mahony returns !" 
 said O'Daly, stiffly. " 'T was his request. 'T is 
 no interest of mine to clear the matther up, as you 
 call it." 
 
 "Well, it was no interest of mine, Mr. O'Dal}^" 
 remarked Bernard, placidly, " to go over the min- 
 ing contracts 3'ou 've made as trustee during the 
 past dozen 3^ears and figure out all the various items 
 of the estate's income ; but I 've done it. It makes 
 a very curious little balance-sheet. I had intended 
 to fetch it down with me to-day and go over it with 
 you in your underground retreat." 
 
 " In the devil's name, who are you ?" snarled 
 Cormac, with livid face and frightened eyes. 
 
 *' That's just what I proposed we should go right 
 
A Marine Morning Call. 311 
 
 and settle. If 3011 object, wh}^ I shall go alone. 
 But in that case, it may happen that 1 shall have to 
 discuss with the gentleman who has just arrived the 
 peculiarities of that balance-sheet I spoke of. What 
 do you think, eh ?" 
 
 O'Dal}' did not hesitate. 
 
 " Sur, I '11 go wid 3'ou," he said. " The O'Mahony 
 has no head for figures. 'T would be flat injustice 
 to bother him wid 'em, and he only newly landed." 
 
 Bernard walked lightl}^ across the deck, humming 
 a little tune to himself as he advanced, and halting 
 a short foot from where Kate stood. 
 
 " O'Daly^ 's going ashore with me," he remarked. 
 
 " He dare not !" she answered, over her shoulder. 
 " The O'Mahony- bade him stop here." 
 
 " Well, this is more or less of a free country, and 
 he 's changed his mind. He 's going with me. I — I 
 want you to come, too." 
 
 " 'T is loikely^ !" she said, with a derisive sniff. 
 
 " Kate," he said, drawing nearer to her by- a step 
 and speaking in low, earnest tones, " 1 hate to plead 
 this sort of thing ; but you have nothing but candid 
 and straightforward friendship from me. I 've done 
 a trifle of 13-ing fcr 3-ou, perhaps, but none to you. 
 I 've worked for you as I never worked for m\-self. 
 I 've run risks for 3()u which nothing else under 
 the sun would have tempted me into. All that 
 doesn't matter. Leave that out of the question. I 
 did it because 1 love you. And for that selfsame 
 reason I come now and ask this favor of 30U. You 
 can send me away afterward, if a'Ou like; but 3-ou 
 can't bear to stop here now, thinking these things of 
 me, and refusing to come out and learn for yourself 
 
312 The Return of The O'Mahony. 
 
 whether the}^ are true or false, for that would be 
 unfair, and it 's not in your blood— in our blood— to 
 be that." 
 
 The girl neither turned to him nor spoke, but he 
 could see the outline of her face as she bowed her 
 head and gazed in silence at the murmuring water; 
 and something in this sight seemed to answer him. 
 
 He strode swiftly to the other side of the vessel, 
 and exultantly waved his handkerchief in signal to 
 the boatmen on the shore. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 DIAMOND CUT PASTE. 
 
 The O'Mahony sat once more in the living-room 
 of his castle — sat very much at his ease, Avith a cigar 
 between his teeth, and his feet comfortabl}' stretched 
 out toward the blazing bank of turf on the stone 
 hearth. 
 
 A great heap of papers lay upon the table at his 
 elbow — the contents of 0'Dal3-'s strong-box, the key 
 to which he had brought with him from the vessel — 
 but not a single band of red tape had been untied. 
 The O'Mahony's mood for investigation had 
 exhausted itself in the work of getting the docu- 
 ments out. His hands were plunged deep into his 
 trousers', pockets now, and he gazed into tlie glow- 
 ing peat. 
 
 His home-coming had been a thing to warm the 
 most frigid heart. His own beat delightedly still at 
 the thought of it. From time to time there reached 
 his ears from the square without a vague bra3ing 
 noise, the sound of which curled his lips into t!ie 
 semblance of a grin. It seemed so droll to him that 
 Muirisc should have a band — a fervent half-dozen of 
 amateurs, with ancient and battered instruments 
 which successive generations of regimental musi. 
 
 [31 3l 
 
314 T^^^^ Rctitrn of The O' Makony. 
 
 cians liad pawned at Skibbereen or Bantry, and on 
 which tliey played now, neither by note nor by ear, 
 but solely by main strength. 
 
 The tumult of discord which they produced was 
 dreadful, but The O'Mahony liked it. He had been 
 pleasurably touched, too, by the wild enthusiasm of 
 greeting with which INIuirisc had met him when he 
 disclosed himself on the main street, walking up to 
 the police-station with Major Snaffle and Jerry. All 
 the older inhabitants he knew, and shook hands 
 with. The sight of younger people among them 
 whom he did not know alone kept alive the recol- 
 lection that he had been absent twelve long years. 
 Old and young alike, and preceded b}^ the hurriedly 
 summoned band, they had followed him in triumphal 
 procession when he came down the street again, 
 with the liberated Jerr}' and Linsky at his heels. 
 They were still outside, cheering and madl}- bawl- 
 ing their delight whenever the bandsmen sto])ped 
 to take breath. Jerry, Linsky and the one-armed 
 Malach}- were out among them, broaching a cask of 
 porter from the castle cellar ; Mrs. Fergus and Mis. 
 Sullivan were in the kitchen cutting up bread and 
 meat to go with the drink. 
 
 No wonder there were cheers! Small matter for 
 marvel was it, either, that The O'Mahonv smiled as 
 he settled down still more lazily in his arm-chair and 
 pushed his feet further toward the fire. 
 
 Presently he must go and fetch. O'Daly and Kate 
 from the vessel — or no, when Jerry came in he 
 W'ould send him on that errand. After his long 
 journey The O'Mahony was tired and sleepy — all 
 the more as he had sat up must of the night, out on 
 
Diamond Cut Paste. 
 
 o'D 
 
 deck, talking with O'Daljv'. What a journey it had 
 been ! Post-haste from far away, barbarous Armenia, 
 where the faithful Malach}'- had found him in com- 
 mand of a Turkish battalion, resting- after the task 
 of suppressing a provincial rebellion. Home t'r.cy 
 had ^vended their tireless way by Constantinoj)Ie 
 and INIalta and mistral-swept Marseilles, and thence 
 by land across to Havre. Here, oddl}'^ enough, he 
 had fallen in with the French merchant to whom he 
 had sold the Hen Hawk twelve years before — the 
 merchant's son had served with him in the Army of 
 the Loire three 3'ears later, and was his friend — and 
 he had been able to gratify the sudden fantastic 
 whim of returning as he had departed in the quaint, 
 flush-decked, 3'awl-rigged old craft. It all seemed 
 like a dream ! 
 
 " If your honor plazes, there 's a 3'oung gintleman 
 at the dure — a Misther O'Mahony, from America — 
 w'u'd be afther having a word wid 3'e." 
 
 It was the soft voice of good old iMrs. Sullivan 
 that spoke. 
 
 The O'Mahony woke with a start from his com- 
 placent da3--dream. He drew his feet in, sat upright, 
 and bit hard on his cigar for a minute in scowling 
 reflection. 
 
 " Show him in," he said, at last, and then straight- 
 ened himself truculentl}' to receive this meddling- 
 new-comer. He fastened a stern and hostile gaze 
 upon the door. 
 
 Bernard seemed to miss entirel3' the frosty element 
 in his reception. He advanced with a light step, 
 hat in hand, to the side of the hearth, and held one 
 
J 
 
 1 6 T/ie Return of The O MaJwny, 
 
 hand with famihar nonchalance over the blaze, while 
 he nodded amiably at his frowning host. 
 
 " I skipped off rather suddenly this morning, " he 
 said, with a pleasant half-smile, "because I didn't 
 seem altogether needful to the party for the minute, 
 and I had something else to do. 1 've dropped in 
 now to say that I 'm as glad as anybody here to see 
 you back again. I 've only been about Muirisc a 
 few weeks, but 1 already feel as if I 'd been born 
 and brought up here. And so I' ve come around to 
 do my share of the welcoming." 
 
 " You seem to have made yourself pretty much at 
 home, sir,"' commented The O'Mahonx-, icily. 
 
 " You mean putting O'Daly down in the family 
 vault?" queried the 3-oung man. " Yes, perhaps it 
 was making a little free, but, you see, time pressed. 
 I couldn't be in two places at once, now, could I ? 
 And while I went off to settle the convent business, 
 there was no telling what O'Daly mightn't be up to 
 if we left him loose; so I thought it was best to 
 take the liberty of shutting him up. You found 
 liiin tlierc, I judge, and took him out." 
 
 The O'Mahon}'- nodded curtly, and eyed his 
 visitor with cool disfavor. 
 
 " As long as you 're here, sir, you might as well 
 lake a seat." he said, after a minute's pause. " That 
 's if. Now, sir, hrst of all, perliaps you wouldn't 
 niiiul telling me who you are and what the devil 
 you mean, sir, by coming here and meddling in this 
 way with other people's private affairs." 
 
 " Curious, isn't it," remarked the young man 
 from Houghton County, blandly, " how we Ameri. 
 
Dtamo7id Ciit Paste. 
 
 cans lug in the word 'sir' every other breath? 
 They tell me no Eng-lishman ever uses it at all." 
 
 The O'Mahony stirred in his chair. 
 
 " I'm not as easy-going a man or as good-natured 
 as I used to be, my young friend," he said, with an 
 affectation of calm, through which ran a threatening 
 note. 
 
 " I shouldn't have thought it," protested Bernard. 
 " You seemed the pink of politeness out there in the 
 graveyard this morning. But I suppose years of 
 campaigning — " 
 
 " See here !" the other interposed abruptly. " Don't 
 fool with me. It's a risk}^ game! Unless you 
 want trouble, stop monkeying and answer my ques- 
 tion straight : Who are you ?" 
 
 The young man had ceased smiling. His face had 
 all at once become very grave, and he was staring at 
 The O'Mahony with wide-open, bewildered eyes. 
 
 " True enough !" he gasped, after his gaze had 
 been so protracted that the other half rose from his 
 seat in impatient anger. " Wh}^ — yes, sir! I '11 
 swear to it — well — this does beat all !" 
 
 " Your cheek beats all !" broke in The O'Mahon}-, 
 springing to his feet in a gust of choleric heat. 
 
 Bernard stretched forth a restraining hand. 
 
 " Wait a minute," he said, in evidently sincere 
 anxiety not to be misunderstood, and picking his 
 words slowly as he went along, " hold on — I'm not 
 fooling! Please sit down again. I've got some- 
 thing important, and mighty queer, too, to sa}^ to 
 you." 
 
 The O'Mahony, with a grunt of reluctant acqui- 
 escing, sat down once more, The two men looked 
 
o 
 
 1 8 The Return of The O MaJiony 
 
 at each other with troubled glances, the one vaguely 
 suspicious, the other still round-eyed with surprise. 
 
 "Yon ask who I am," Bernard began. " I 'II tell 
 3'ou. [ was a little shaver — oh, six or seven years 
 old — just at the beginning of the War. My father 
 enlisted when they began raising troops. The re. 
 cruiting tent in our town was in the old hay-market 
 by the canal bridge. It seems to me, now, that they 
 must have kept ni}^ father there for weeks alter he 
 'd put his uniform on. I used to go there every 
 da}^ I know, with my mother to see him. But there 
 was another soldier there — this is the queer thing 
 about a boy's memory — I remember him ever so 
 much better than 1 do my own father. It 's — let 's 
 see — eighteen years now, but I 'd know him to this 
 day, wherever 1 met him. He carried a gun, and he 
 walked all day long up and down in front of the 
 tent, like a polar bear in his cage. We boys 
 thought he was the most important man in the 
 whole army. Some of them knew him — he be- 
 longed to our section originally, it seems — and they 
 said he 'd been in lots of wars before. I can see him 
 now, as plainly as — as I see you. His name was 
 Tisdale — Zeb, I think it was — no, Zeke Tisdale." 
 
 Perhaps The O'Mahony changed color. He 
 sat with his back to the window, and the ruddy 
 glow from the peat blaze made it impossible to tell. 
 But he did not take his sharp gray eye off Ber- 
 nard's face, and it never so much as winked. 
 
 " Very interesting," he said, " but it doesn't go 
 very far toward explaining who you are. If I'm 
 not mistaken, that was the question." 
 
 '*Me?" answered Bernard. " Oh, yes, I forgot 
 
D{amo7id Ciit Paste. 319 
 
 that. Well, sir, 1 am the only surviving son of one 
 Hugh O'Mahony, who was a shoemaker in Tecum- 
 seh, who served in the same regiment, perhaps the 
 same company, with this Zeke Tisdale I 've told you 
 about, and who, after the War, moved out to xMichi- 
 gan where he died." 
 
 An oppressive silence settled upon the room. 
 The O'Mahony still looked his companion straight 
 in the face, but it was with a lack-luster eye and 
 with the effect of having lost the physical power to 
 look elsewhere. He drummed with his fingers in 
 a mechanical way on the arms of the chair, as he 
 kept up this abstracted and meaningless gaze. 
 
 There fell suddenly upon this long-continued 
 silence the reverberation of an exceptionally vio- 
 lent outburst of uproar from the square. 
 
 " Cheers for The O'Mahony !" came from one of 
 the lustiest of the now well-lubricated throats ; and 
 then followed a scattering volley of wild hurroosand 
 echoing yells. 
 
 As these died away, a shrill voice lifted itself, 
 screaming : 
 
 " Come out, O'Mahon}', an' spake to us ! We 're 
 dyin' for a sight of you !" 
 
 The elder man had lifted his head and listened. 
 Then he squinted and blinked his eyelids convul- 
 sively and turned his head away, but not before 
 Bernard had caught the glint of moisture in his 
 eyes. 
 
 The young man had not been conscious of being 
 specially moved by what was happening. All at 
 once he could feel his pulses vibrating like the 
 strings of a harp. His heart had come up into his 
 
320 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 throat. Nothing was visible to him but the stormy 
 affection which Muirisc bore for this war-born, 
 weather-beaten old impostor. And, clearly enough, 
 Jie himself was thinking of only that. 
 
 Bernard rose and stepped to the hearth, instinc- 
 tively holding one of his hands backward over the 
 fire, though the room was uncomfortably hot, 
 
 " They 're calling for you outside, sir," he said, 
 almost deferentially. 
 
 The remark seemed stupid after he had made it, 
 but nothing else had come to his tongue. 
 
 The lurking softness in his tone caught the other's 
 ear, and he turned about fiercely. 
 
 "See here!" he said, between his teeth. "How 
 much more of this is there going to be ? 1 '11 fight 
 you where you stand — here ! — now ! — old as I am — 
 or I '11 — I 'II do something else — anything else — but 
 d — n me if I '11 take any slack or soft-soap from 
 yo7i !" 
 
 This unexpected resentment of his sympathetic 
 mood impressed Bernard curiousl}'. Without hesi- 
 tation, he stretched forth his hand. No responsive 
 gesture was offered, but he went on, not heeding 
 this. 
 
 " My dear sir," he said," they are calling for you, 
 as I said. The}^ are hollering for 'The O'Mahony 
 of iSluirisc.' You are The O'Mahony of Muirisc, 
 and will be till you die. You hear me /" 
 
 The O'Mahony gazed for a puzzled minute into 
 his young companion's face. 
 
 " Yes — I hear you," he said, hesitatingly. 
 
 " You —are T/ie — O'Mahony — of — Muirisc !" 
 repeated Bernard, with a deliberation and emphasis ; 
 
Diamond Ctct Paste. 3 2 1 
 
 " and I '11 whip any man out of his boots who says 
 you 're not, or so much as looks as if he doubted 
 it!" 
 
 The old soldier had put his hands in his pockets 
 and began walking slowly up and down the cham- 
 ber. After a time he looked up. 
 
 " I s'pose you can prove all this that you 've been 
 sa3'ing?" he asked, in a musing way. 
 
 " No — prove nothing ! Don't want to prove any- 
 thing !" rejoined Bernard, stoutly. 
 
 Another pause. The elder man halted once more 
 in his meditative pacing to and fro. 
 
 " And you say I ant The — The O'Mahony of 
 Muirisc?" he remarked. 
 
 " Yes, I said it ; I mean it !" 
 
 " Well, but—" 
 
 " There 's no * but* about it, sir !" 
 
 "Yes, there is," insisted The O'Mahony, drawing 
 near and tentatively surrendering his iiand to the 
 other's prompt and cordial clasp. " Supposing it 
 all goes as you say — supposing I am The O'Mahony 
 — what 2irQ you going to be?" 
 
 The young man's eyes glistened and a happy 
 change — half-smile, half-blush — blossomed all over 
 his face. 
 
 " Well," he said, still holding the other's hand in 
 his, " 1 don't know just how to tell you — because I 
 am not posted on the exact relationships ; but I '11 
 put it this way : If it was your daughter that you 
 'd left on the vessel there with O'Daly, I 'd say that 
 what I propose to be was your son-in-law. See ?" 
 
 It was only too clear that The O'Mahony did see. 
 He had frowned at the first adumbration of the 
 
322 The Return of The O Mahony, 
 
 idea. He pulled his hand away now, and pushed 
 the young man from him. 
 
 " No, you don't!" he cried, angrily. " No, sirree ! 
 You can't make any such bargain as that with me ! 
 Why — I'd 'a' thought you 'd 'a' known me better ! 
 Me, going into a deal, with little Katie to be traded 
 off? Why, man, you 're a fool !" 
 
 The O'Mahony turned on his heel contemptu- 
 ously and strode up and down the room, with 
 indignant sniffs at every step. All at once he 
 stopped short. 
 
 " Yes," he said, as if in answer to an argument 
 with himself, " I '11 tell you to get out of this! You 
 can go and do what you like — just whatever you 
 may please — but 1 'm boss here yet, at all events, 
 and I don't want anybody around me who could 
 propose that sort of thing. Me make Kate marry 
 you in order to feather my own nest ! There's the 
 door, young man !" 
 
 Bernard looked obdurately past the outstretched 
 forefinger into the other's face. 
 
 " Who said anything about your making her 
 marry me?" he demanded. "And who talked 
 about a deal? Why, look here, colonel" — the 
 random title caught the ear of neither speaker nor 
 impatient listener — " look at it this way : They all 
 love you here in Muirisc ; they 're just boiling over 
 with joy because they 've got you here. That sort 
 of thing doesn't happen so often between landlords 
 and tenants that one can afford to bust it up when 
 it does occur. And I — well — a man would be a 
 brute to have tried to come between you and these 
 people. Well, then, it 's just the same with me and 
 
Diamond Cut Paste. 323 
 
 Katie. We love each other — we are glad when 
 we 're together; we 're unhappy when we 're apart. 
 And so 1 say in this case as I said in the other, a 
 man would be a brute — " 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me — " The O'Mahony 
 broke in, and then was himself cut short. 
 
 " Yes, 1 do mean to tell you," interrupted Ber- 
 nard ; " and, what 's more, she means to tell you, 
 too, if you put on your hat and walk over to the 
 convent." Noting the other's puzzled glance, he 
 hastened on to explain : " I rowed over to your 
 sloop, or ship, or whatever you call it, after I left 
 you this morning, and I brought her and O'Daly 
 back with me on purpose to tell you." 
 
 Before The O'Mahony had mastered this confus- 
 ing piece of information, much less prepared 
 verbal comment upon it, the door was thrust open; 
 and, ushered in, as it were, by the sharply resound- 
 ing clamor of the crowd outside, the burly figure of 
 Jerry Higgins appeared. 
 
 " For the love o' God, yer honor," he exclaimed, 
 in a high fever of excitement, " come along out to 
 'em ! Sure they 're that mad to lay eyes on ye, 
 they 're 'ating each other like starved lobsters in a 
 pot! Ould Barney DriscoU's the divil wid the 
 dhrink in him, an' there he is ragin' up an' down, 
 wid his big brass horn for a weapon, crackin' skulls 
 right an' left; an' black Clancy 's asleep in his drum 
 — 't was Sheehan putt him into it neck an' crop — an* 
 't is three constables work to howld the boys from 
 rollin' him round in it, an — an — " 
 
 " All right, Jerry," said The O'Mahony ; " I '11 
 come right along. 
 
324 The Return of The GMahony. 
 
 He put on his hat and relighted his cigar, in slow 
 and silent deliberation. He tarried thereafter for a 
 moment or two with an irresolute air, looking at the 
 smoke-rings abstractedly as he blew them into the 
 air. 
 
 Then, with a sudden decision, he walked over and 
 linked Bernard's arm in his own. They went out 
 together without a word. In fact, there was no 
 need for words. 
 
 t 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A FAREWELL FEAST. 
 
 We enter the crumbling portals of the ancient 
 convent of the 0'Mahon3's for a final visit. The 
 reddened sun, with its promise of a kindly morrow, 
 hangs low in the western heavens and pushes the 
 long shadow of the gateway onward to the very 
 steps of the building. We have no call to set the 
 harsh-toned jangling old bell in motion. The door 
 is open and the hall is swept for guests. 
 
 This hour of waning day marked a unique occur- 
 rence in the annals of the House of the Hostage's 
 Tears. Its nuns were too aged and infirm to go to 
 the castle to offer welcome to the newly returned 
 head of the family. So The O'Mahony came to 
 them instead. He came like the fine old chieftain 
 of a sept, bringing his train of followers with him. 
 For the first time within the recollection of man, a 
 long table had been spread in the reception-hall, and 
 about it were gathered the baker's dozen of people 
 we have come to know in Muirisc. Even Mrs. Sul- 
 livan, flushed scarlet from her labor in the ill-ap- 
 pointed convent kitchen, and visibly disheartened 
 at its meagre results, had her seat at the board 
 
 [325! 
 
326 The Return of The O Mahony. 
 
 beside Father Jago. But they were saved from the 
 perils of a party of thirteen because the one-armed 
 Malachy, dour-faced and silent, but secretly burst- 
 ing with pride and joy, stood at his old post behind 
 his master's chair. 
 
 There had not been much to eat, and the festival 
 stood thus early at the stage of the steaming kettle 
 and the glasses so piping hot that fingers shrank 
 from contact, though the spirit beckoned. And 
 there was not one less than twelve of these scorch- 
 ing- tumblers — for in remote Muirisc the fame of 
 Father Mathevv remained a vague and colorless 
 thing like that of Mahomet or Sir Isaac Newton — 
 and, moreover, was not The O'Mahony come 
 home? 
 
 " Yes, sir," The O'Mahony said from his place at 
 the right hand of Mother Agnes, venturing an 
 experimental thumb against his glass and sharply 
 withdrawing it, " wherever I went, in France or 
 Spain or among the Turks, I found there had been 
 a soldier O'Mahony there before me. Why, a 
 French general told me that right at one time — 
 quite a spell back, I should judge — there were four- 
 teen O'Mahonys holding commissions in the French 
 army. Yes, I remember, it was in the time of Louis 
 XIX." 
 
 "You 're wrong, O'Mahony," interrupted Kate, 
 with the smile of a spoiled, favorite child, " 't was 
 nineteen O'Mahonys in the reign of Louis XIV." 
 
 " Same thing," he replied, pleasantly. " It 's as 
 broad as it is long. There the O'Mahony's were, 
 an3^wa3', and every man of 'em a fighter. It set me 
 to figuring that before they went away — when they 
 
A Farewell Feast. ^^2^ 
 
 were all cooped up here together on this little neck 
 of land — things must have been kept pretty well up 
 to boiling point all the 3'ear round." 
 
 " An' who was it ever had the power to coop 'em 
 up here ?" demanded Cormac O'Daly, with enthu- 
 siasm. " Heaven be their bed ! 'T was not in thim 
 O'Mahonys to endure it ! Forth they wint in all 
 directions, wid bowld raids an' incursions, b'ating 
 the O'Heas an' def'ating the Coffeys wid slaughter, 
 an' as fortheO'Driscolls — huh I — just tearing 'em up 
 bodily be the roots ! Sir, 't was a proud day whin 
 an O'Daly first attached himself to the house of the 
 O'Mahonys — such grand min as they were, so 
 magnanimous, so pious, so intelligent, so fero- 
 cious an' terrifying — sir, me old blood warms at 
 thought of 'em !" 
 
 The caloric in Cormac's veinsimpelled him at this 
 juncture to rise to this feet. He took a sip from 
 his glass, then adjusted his spectacles, and produced 
 the back of an envelope from his pocket. 
 
 " O'Mahony," he said, with a voice full of emotion, 
 " I 've a slight pome here, just stated down hurriedly 
 that I '11 take the liberty to rade to the company 
 assimbled. 'T is this way it runs : 
 
 " ' Hark to thim joyous sounds that rise. 
 Making the face of Muirisc to be glad ! 
 'T is the devil's job to believe one's eyes — ' " 
 
 " Well, thin, don't be trying !" brusquely inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Fergus. As the poet paused and strove 
 to cow his spouse with a sufficiently indignant 
 glance, she leaned over the table and addressed him 
 in a stage whisper, almost audible to the deaf old 
 nuns themselves. 
 
328 The Return of The GMahony. 
 
 " Sit down, me man !" she adjured him. " 'T is 
 laughing at ye they are ! Sure, d(jcsn't his honor 
 know how different a chune ye raised while he was 
 away ! 'T is your part to sing small, now, an' keep 
 the ditch betwixt you an' observation." 
 
 Cormac sat down at once, and submissively put 
 the paper back in his pocket. It was a humble and 
 wistful glance which he bent through his spectacles 
 at the chieftain, as that worthy resumed his remarks. 
 
 The O'Mahony did not pretend to have missed 
 the adjuration of Mrs. Fergus. 
 
 " That started off well enough, O'Daly," he said ; 
 " but you're getting too old to have to hustle around 
 and turn out poetry to order, as you used to. I 've 
 decided to allow you to retire — to sort of knock off 
 your shoes and let you run in the pasture. You 
 can move into one of the smaller houses and just 
 take things easy," 
 
 " But, sir — me secretarial juties — " put in O'Daly, 
 with quavering voice. 
 
 " There '11 be no manner of trouble about that," 
 said the O'Mahony, reassuringly. " My friend, here, 
 Joseph Higgins, of Boston, he will look out for that. 
 I don't know that you 're aware of it, but I took a 
 good deal of interest in him many years ago — before 
 1 went away — and I foresaw a future for him. It 
 hasn't turned out jest as I expected, but I 'm satis- 
 fied, all the same. Before I left, I arranged that he 
 should pursue his studies during my absence." A 
 grimly quizzical smile played around the white 
 corners of his mustache as he added : " I under- 
 stand that he jest stuck to them studies night and 
 
A Farewell Feast. 329 
 
 day — never left 'em once for so much as to go out 
 and take a walk for the whole twelve years." 
 
 " Surely, sir," interposed Father Jago, " that 's 
 most remarkable ! I never heard tell of such 
 studiosity in Maynooth itself !" 
 
 The O'Mahon}^ looked gravely across the table at 
 Jerry, whose broad, shining face was lobster-red 
 with the exertion of keeping itself straight, 
 
 " I believe there 's hardly another case on record," 
 he said. " Well, as I was remarking, it 's only 
 natural, now, that 1 should make him my secretary 
 and bookkeeper. I 've had a long talk with him 
 about it — and about other things, too — and I guess 
 there ain't much doubt about our getting along 
 together all right," 
 
 " And is it your honor's intintion — Will — will he 
 take over my functions as bard as well ?" Cormac 
 ventured to inquire. He added in deprecating 
 tones: "Sure, they 've always been considered 
 hereditary." 
 
 "No ; I think we '11 let the bard business slide for 
 the time being," answered The O'Mahony. " You 
 see, I 've been going along now a good many years 
 without any poet, so T 've got used to it. There 
 was one fellow out at Plevna — an English news- 
 paper man — who did compose some verses about 
 me — he seemed to think they were quite funny — 
 but I shot off one of his knee-pans, and that sort of 
 put a damper on poetry, so far as I was concerned. 
 However, we '11 see how your boy turns out. 
 Maybe, if he takes a shine to that sort of thing — " 
 
 "Then you 're to stay with us?" inquired Mother 
 Agnes. " So grand ye are wid your decorations an' 
 
2,^0 The Return of The G Maho7iy. 
 
 your foreign titles — sure, they tell me you 're 
 Chevalier an' O'Mahony Bey both at wance — 't will 
 be dull as ditch-water for you here." 
 
 " No, I reckon not," replied The 0'Mahon3\ 
 " I 've had enough of it. It 's nigh on to forty 
 years since 1 first tagged along in the wake of a 
 drum with a musket on ni}" shoulder. I don't know 
 why I didn't come back years ago. I was too shift- 
 less to make up my mind, I suppose. No, I 'm 
 going to stay here — going to die here — right among 
 these good Muirisc folks, who are thumping each 
 other to pieces outside on the green. Talk about 
 its being dull here — why, Mother Agnes, 't would 
 have done your heart good to see old Barney Dris- 
 coU laying about him with that overgrown, double- 
 barreled trumpet of his. 1 haven't seen anything 
 better since we butted our heads up against Schipka 
 Pass." 
 
 " 'T will be grand tidings for the people — that 
 same," interposed Kate, with happiness in glance 
 and tone. 
 
 The O'Mahony looked tenderly at her. 
 
 " That reminds me," he said, and then turned to 
 the nuns, lifting his voice in token that he especially 
 addressed them. " There was some talk, I under- 
 stand, about little Katie here — " 
 
 " Little, is it !" laughed the girl. " Sure, to pl'ase 
 3'ou I 'd begin growing again, but that there 'd be 
 no house in Muirisc to hold me." 
 
 '' Some talk about big Kate here, then," pursued 
 the O'Mahony, " going into the convent. Well, of 
 course, that 's all over with now." He hesitated for 
 a moment, and decided to withhold all that cruel 
 
A Fa J' ewe II Feast. 331 
 
 '. , ^ 
 
 information about episcopal interference. " And 
 I've been thinking it over," lie resumed, "and have 
 come to the conclusion that we 'd better not try to 
 bolster up the convent with new girls from outside. 
 It 's always been kept strictly inside the family. 
 Now that that can't be done, it 's better to let it end 
 with dignity. And that it can't help doing, because 
 as long as it 's remembered, men will say that its 
 last nuns were its best nuns." 
 
 He closed with a little bow to the Ladies of the 
 Hostage's Tears. Mother Agnes acknowledged the 
 salutation and the compliment with a silent inclina- 
 tion of her vailed head. If her heart took grief, she 
 did not say so. 
 
 " And your new secretary — " put in Cormac, dif- 
 fidently yet with persistence, " has he that acquaint- 
 ance an' familiarity wid mining technicalities and 
 conthracts that would fit him to dale wid 'em satis- 
 factorily ?" 
 
 A trace of asperit}', under which O'Daly definitely 
 wilted, came into' The O'Mahony's tone. 
 
 " There is such a thing as being too smart about 
 mining contracts," he said with meaning. Then, 
 with a new light in his e3'es he went on: "The 
 luckiest thing that ever happened on this footstool, 
 I take it, has occurred right here. The young man 
 who sits opposite me is a born O'Mahony, the only 
 son of the man who, if I hadn't turned up, would have 
 had rightful possession of all these estates. You 
 have seen him about here for some weeks. I under- 
 stand that you all like him. Indeed, it 's been 
 described to me that Mrs. Fergus here has quite an 
 affection for him — motherly, I presume." 
 
332 The Return of The G Mahony. 
 
 Mrs. Fergus raised her hand to her hair, and 
 preened her head. 
 
 " An' not so old, nayther, O'Mahony," she said, 
 defiantly. "Wasn't I married first whin I was a 
 mere shh"p of a girl ?" 
 
 Sister Ellen looked at Mother Agnes, and lifted 
 up both her hands. The O'Mahony proceeded, 
 undisturbed : 
 
 " As I 've said, you all like him. I like him too, 
 for his own sake, and — and his father's sake — and — 
 But that can wait for a minute. It 's a part of the 
 general good luck which has brought him here that 
 he turns out to be a trained mining engineer — just 
 the sort of a man, of all others, that Muirisc needs. 
 He tells me that we 've only scratched the surface of 
 things roundabout here yet. He promises to get 
 more wealth for us and for Muirisc out of an acre 
 than we 've been getting out of a townland. Mala- 
 chy, go out and look for old Murphy, and if he can 
 walk, bring him in here." 
 
 The O'Mahony composedly busied himself in fill- 
 ing his glass afresh, the while Malachy was absent 
 on his quest. The others, turning their attention to 
 the boyish-faced, blushing young man whom the 
 speaker had eulogized so highly, noted that he sat 
 next, and perhaps unnecessarily close, to Kate, and 
 that she, also betrayed a suspicious warmth of coun- 
 tenance. Vague comprehension of what was com- 
 ing began to stir in their minds as Malachy reap- 
 peared. Behind him came Murphy, who leaned 
 against the wall by the door, hat in hand, and clung 
 with a piercing, hawk-like gaze to the lightest move- 
 ment on the master's face. 
 
 ■i 
 
A Farewell Feast. 333 
 
 The O'Mahony rose to his feet, glass in hand. 
 
 " Murphy," he said, " I gave her to you to look 
 after — to take care of — the Lady of Muirisc." 
 
 " You did, sir!" shouted the withered and grimy 
 old water-rat, straightening himself against the 
 wall. 
 
 " You 've done it well, sir," declared The 
 O'Mahony. " 1 'm obliged to you. And I wanted 
 you in particular to hear what I' m going to say. 
 Malachy, get a glass for yourself and give one to 
 Murphy." 
 
 The one-armed servitor leaned gravely forward 
 and whispered in The O'Mahony's ear. 
 
 " I don't care a button," the other protested. 
 " You can see him home. This is as much his 
 funeral as it is anybody else's on earth. That 's it. 
 Are you all filled? Now, then, ladies and gentle- 
 men, I am getting along in years. I am a childless 
 man. You 've all been telling me how much I 've 
 changed these last twelve years. There 's one 
 thing I haven't changed a bit in. I used to think 
 that the cutest, cunningest, all-fired loveliest little 
 girl on earth was Katie here. Well, I think just the 
 same now. If I was her father, mother, sister, hired 
 girl and dog under the wagon, all in one, I couldn't 
 be fonder of her than I am. She was the apple of 
 my eye then; she is now. I 'd always calculated 
 that she should be my heir. Well, now, there turns 
 up this young man, who is as much an O'Mahony 
 of the real stock as Kate is. There 's a providence 
 in these things. They love each other. They will 
 marry. They will live in the castle, where they 've 
 promised to give me board and lodging, and when I 
 
334 ^/^^ Retui'7i of The O Maho7iy, 
 
 am gone, they will come after me. 1 'm going to 
 have you all get up and drink the health of my 
 young — nephew — Bernard, and of his bride, our 
 Kate, here, and — and of the line of O'Mahonys to 
 come." 
 
 When the clatter of exclamations and clinking 
 glasses had died down, it was Kate who made 
 response — Kate, with her blushing, smiling face held 
 proudly up and a glow of joyous affection in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " If that same line of O'Mahonys to come stretched 
 from here to the top of Mount Gabriel," she said, 
 in a clear voice, " there 'd not be amongst thim al5 
 the ayqual to our O'Mahony." 
 
 THE END. 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 Wilmer 
 1249