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 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
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 RETREvT OF 
 ST. PAUL OF THE CROSS 
 

 ^ RETREAT OF 
 ST. PAUL OF THE OW§§ 
 
p/e ^7 Pi 
 
 Legends 
 
 L LI 
 
 OF 
 
 y H E j\[ 
 
 ARS 
 
 IN 
 
 Jreland. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT DWYER JOYCE, M.D. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES CAMPBELL, i8 TREMONT STREET. 
 
 1868. 
 
 ^ RETREAT OF 
 ST. PAUL OF THE CiiOSS 
 

 
 ^ J- 
 
 Enterod, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
 JAMES CAMPBEDL, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 vT 
 
 stereotyped and Printed by 
 Geo. C. Hand & Avery, 3 Cornhiel, Boston. 
 
To 
 
 A 
 
 John Savage, Esq. 
 
 IN ADMIRATION OF HIS GENIUS AS A POET, AND IN TESTIMONY 
 OF HIS STERLING WORTH AS AN IRISHMAN 
 AND A PATRIOT, 
 
 q:si8 s o o k 
 
 IS DEDICATED BY HIS COUNTRYMAN AND FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Boston, November, 1867. 
 
 
 RETREAT OF 
 
 ST. PAUL OF THE 
 
 3 CJ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 -- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Batch of Legenhs . 7 
 
 The Master of Lisfinry .41 
 
 The Fair Maid of Killarney.79 
 
 Ah Eye for an Eye .103 
 
 The Kosb of Drimnagh .112 
 
 The House of Lisbloom .127 
 
 The White Knight’s Present.196 
 
 The First and Last Lords of Fermoy . . . 204 
 
 The Chase from the Hostel.224 
 
 The Whitethorn Tree .243 
 
 Eosaleen, or The White Lady of Barna . , . 306 
 
 The Bridal Eing.325 
 
 The Little Battle of Bottle Hill ..... 840 
 
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A Batch of Legends. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 O the majority of people, a quiet seat by the fire- 
 
 -i- side, or an easy walk along the streets of one’s 
 native town or village, is often more agreeable than 
 the toilsome rambles of the tourist. And yet in 
 every district of our islands, amid the summits of 
 their wild mountain ranges, and in the green glens 
 and pastoral valleys of their lowlands, lie scenes 
 which would amply repay the toil and trouble of 
 the wanderer. The battered and gloomy castle, 
 built with exact military judgment on its command¬ 
 ing position above the narrow pass, suggesting the 
 bloody contentions that often raged beneath its 
 walls; the ivied and time-worn ecclesiastical ruin 
 amid the green pastures by the peaceful river, with 
 its gray tombstones, drooping yew-trees, and sacred 
 hawthorns; the ancient Danish encampment; the 
 fairy-haunted rath; the small cyclopean oratories* 
 
 * Diminutive chapels, built of enormous blocks of stone, the ruins 
 ef which exist yet in many places in Ireland. 
 
 7 
 
8 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 of the ancient missionaries who first brought the 
 light of Christianity to our shores; the lonely Druidic 
 cairns and sacrificial altars, — all these,'with their 
 wild and romantic legends, and the varied and beau¬ 
 tiful scenery that surrounds them, would, in my 
 opinion, afford as much pleasure to the traveller as 
 the quaint towns and sluggish canals of Germany, 
 the hackneyed precipices and waterfalls of Switzer¬ 
 land, or the brigand-peopled passes of Italy; for all 
 which our modern excursionists have such a strange 
 and unpatriotic predilection. 
 
 To those whose easy inclinations preclude their 
 taking on themselves the troubles of the tourist, 
 who have no leisure for holiday excursions, or who 
 prefer migi-ating with the yearly tide of fashion to 
 Continental lands for enjoyment of scenery and char¬ 
 acter, I offer these volumes of tales, with the hum¬ 
 ble hope that they may be the means of pleasantly 
 passing away some of their dull hours. The legends 
 and wild lore contained in them are the gleanings of 
 the author, since his boyhood, in one' of the most 
 picturesque and beautiful portions of our island, — 
 the result of his sojourn for many a summer month 
 under canvas amid the high mountain ranges, and 
 of his due attendance at wake and wedding, dance, 
 Patron,* and fair, and merry-makings of every de¬ 
 scription, amongst the peasantry. Before concluding, 
 however, it will not, I hope, be out of place to offer 
 
 * A meeting of the peasantry for prayer and merry-making around 
 the ancient well or chapel dedicated to the patron saint of the locality. 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 9 
 
 a few remarks upon the peculiar kinds of traditions 
 to be met with in tliese volumes, — traditions, many 
 of which the author has found common to all the 
 nations of middle and northern Europe, and which, 
 therefore, cannot but prove interesting to the eth¬ 
 nologist and historian, no matter to what country 
 he may belong. 
 
 The narratives handed down to us through the 
 medium of oral traditions are of three kinds. The 
 first includes all those wild, romantic, and strange 
 legends, which, however they may be twisted, turned, 
 or embellished, always carry with them a certain air 
 of improbability and untruth. To this class belong 
 the many stories relating to Theseus, Hercules, and 
 the other Greek demi-gods ; the romantic history of 
 Romulus and Remus, and of many another Roman 
 hero; numerous incidents in the wild legends of 
 the Fenian warriors, and in the romances of King 
 Arthur and his compeers; many of the Sagas of the 
 North : in other words, most part of the early his¬ 
 tory of the several countries to which these person¬ 
 ages belonged, and of every other land whose origin 
 looms out indistinctly beneath the dusky shadows 
 of antiquity. 
 
 To the second class belong those circumstantial 
 ■narratives which bear the impress of having been 
 founded more intimately on certain facts, but which 
 are yet unsupported by historical testimony. Of 
 this class may be cited, as examples, the tales.of bat¬ 
 tles, sieges, single combats, acts of piety, or deeds 
 
10 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 of wickedness, told by the peasantry of our own 
 islands, in connection with many a pass, castle, gray 
 abbey, and hoary town, but for any corroboration 
 of which we will look in vain to the meagre and 
 scanty pages of our national histories. And yet if 
 the latter were once properly written, and our old 
 documents carefully examined, many of these tales 
 would become proven history; for it is from such 
 that a considerable part of even the authentic nar¬ 
 rative of every country is made up. There are 
 hundreds of incidents related in the pages of Thierry 
 and Macaulay, which, before the days of these histo¬ 
 rians, were accepted on traditional authority only, 
 but which now, after the careful investigations of 
 these acute minds, have become matters of j^urely 
 authentic history. 
 
 In the third class are included all those tales and 
 legends, which, however wild and romantic, yet find, 
 in some of their incidents at least, corroborating 
 testimony in written history. Of these the historian 
 will find many yet lingering among the peasantry; 
 and, if he investigate them with the proper amount 
 of acuteness, diligence, and erudition, they will add 
 in no small deo-ree to the liveliness and truthfulness 
 
 O 
 
 of his pages. It is from such materials that Scott 
 formed the subject-matter of his long series of 
 novels, constructing, as he did, one bright and 
 attractive panorama of the history of his native 
 land. 
 
 Of each of the above classes I shall now proceed 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SLEEPING MONKS. 11 
 
 to give an example, commencing with the first. In 
 what follows, the reader, if he be versed in legend¬ 
 ary lore, will recognize an Irish version of a legend 
 known in parts of Germany, in Norway, in England, 
 and in other European nations, in each of which 
 countries, however, it seems to belong to no particu¬ 
 lar locality. In Ireland, nevertheless, the legend is 
 fixed to a certain place, and always told without 
 either variation of incident, or change of the charac¬ 
 ters involved in it. The reader, if he has ever 
 heard it, can, however, judge for himself with regard 
 to these points in 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE SLEEPING MONKS. 
 
 About a mile to the south of Fethard, in the 
 county of Tipperary, stand the ruins of the ancient 
 Abbey of Eilmacluch, near the banks of the Glas- 
 hawling, one of the two streams that, after their 
 junction, form the beautiful river Anner. In the 
 early ages of Christianity, there presided over this 
 holy establishment an abbot called Barran Kief, 
 renowned both for the extent of his learning and 
 for the sanctity of his life. One bright summer 
 day, Barran Kief, with two of his monks, went out to 
 walk in a green, forest-clad valley that lay beside 
 the abbey wall, and, on reaching a certain lonely 
 glade, sat down to rest. Around them, on every 
 side, stretched the green, dreamy forest, covering 
 height, hollow, and shore, and drawing its many- 
 
12 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 tinted cincture of bright leaves around the sloping 
 sides of Sliav-na-mon. After resting for some time, 
 they were just thinking of rising, and proceeding on 
 their way, when they heard a loud rustling of wings 
 above them in the air; and, on looking upward, 
 beheld a bird of beautiful form and resplendent 
 2 :)lumage, hovering over the tops of the green trees, 
 and looking down upon them at the same time with 
 eyes whose intense rays seemed to pierce into their 
 very souls. Hovering thus for a few moments, the 
 bird at length commenced singing a long and varied 
 strain of melody, which fell upon the ears of the 
 wondering abbot and his monks beneath with a 
 sweetness far surpassing any thing they had ever 
 heard, and scarcely equalled by that glorious strain, 
 which, in their dreams of heaven, always saluted 
 them through its golden portals. Still the bird 
 hovered above them, with its glittering wings out¬ 
 spread, singing its enchanting song, which at 
 length seemed to fill valley and glade, and the 
 deep, dreamy recesses of the forest, with a flood of 
 ravishing and delightful melody. As the monks 
 listened, they felt a rapturous and delicious drowsi¬ 
 ness stealing over them, and at length fell into a 
 sound and dreamless sleep. , 
 
 The winds of a hundred summers had borne 
 the odors of the flowers on their rejoicing wings 
 through the dells of the merry forest, when, on the 
 noontide of a sunny day, one of the monks awoke, 
 and called out in a loud voice, “ Clushm ghlay 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SLEEPING MONKS. 13 
 
 i.e., “ I hear a call! ” But the bird was still float¬ 
 ing above them on its glorious wings, and still sing¬ 
 ing its enrapturing song; and the monk, overpow¬ 
 ered by the sweetness of the melody, lay back on 
 the green forest grass, and fell asleep once more. 
 
 When the flowers of another hundred summers 
 had bloomed and died along the lonely forest, the 
 second monk awoke in the breezy noontide, and 
 called out, “ Cadh ha iirth f ” i.e., “ What troubleth 
 thee ? But the bird was still singing over him and 
 his companions; and he had scarcely gotten one 
 glimpse of the fresh blue sky, when he was lying 
 upon his coucli of green shamrocks, and asleep again. 
 
 The gray crags on the mountain-tops had been 
 beaten by the winds and channelled by the succes¬ 
 sive rains of another hundred years, when Barran 
 Kief, the abbot himself, awoke, and called out in a 
 loud voice, “ Shievun bouragh / ” i.e., “ Thou trou- 
 blest me! ” And immediately his monks opened their 
 eyes; and all three arose slowly to their feet, freed 
 from their enchantment; for the bright-winged bird 
 was gone, and the sweet melody was heard no more. 
 
 The blue summer sky was still the same above 
 them: but, as Barran Kief and his two monks looked 
 around, they were stricken with a strange surprise; 
 for, in the low-lying valley where once the marsh- 
 flower bloomed, fields of yellowing corn now waved 
 in the mild winds; and along the sides of the hills, 
 and down in many a lonely dale, where once the 
 great trees of the forest spread their giant arms, cot 
 
14 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 and castle now gleamed in the sunshine, with herds 
 of quiet cattle and many a flock of snowy sheep 
 browsing contentedly around them. After standing 
 for a time in mute wonderment, they proceeded to¬ 
 wards the abbey, thinking still, in spite of them¬ 
 selves, that they had slept only during a few hours. 
 On reaching the abbey, their astonishment was 
 increased on finding it occupied by a strange abbot 
 and strange monks, who all crossed themselves in 
 wonder and awe at beholding the three 'strange 
 visitants. 
 
 Barren Kief went to the abbot, and asked him 
 the reason of the change in such a short time. The 
 abbot answered by inquiring who they were. Bar- 
 ran Kief told him; on which he immediately pro¬ 
 ceeded to the books of the abbey, and found their 
 names entered on them three hundred years before. 
 On informing them of this, and that their brethren 
 were, of course, all dead and gone for nearly the same 
 period, they appeared suddenly to be aware of what 
 had happened, and told the abbot the cause of their 
 staying away. 
 
 “ And now, O priest! ” said Barran Kief to the 
 abbot, “ we will celebrate one mass more for the 
 glory of God before we depart.” 
 
 The chapel was full of people; for it was Sunday. 
 Barran Kief arrayed himself in a vestment, and, 
 assisted by his two monks, chanted the mass with a 
 melodious sweetness that reminded the congregation 
 of the delightful strains of Paradise. After return- 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSED SWORDS. 15 
 
 ing thanks to God, and blessing the people, Barran 
 Kief and his monks then fell down upon the altar, 
 and were instantly reduced to three heaps of dust. 
 
 Tlie reader will recognize the impossible in almost 
 every portion of the above story; but, when we 
 come to narrations of the second class, he will find 
 them of a different character. In these, every cir¬ 
 cumstance falls in naturally: there is nothing impos¬ 
 sible, nothing with even much of an air of improba¬ 
 bility about it; and all are related with a minute¬ 
 ness regarding time, action, and locality, that can 
 leave on the reader’s mind very little doubt of their 
 truth. I shall proceed at once to illustrate the 
 stories of this class by 
 
 THE LEGEND OE THE CEOSSED SWOKDS. 
 
 In a certain mountainous distiict of Munster, 
 there dwelt in the year 1745 a young gentleman by 
 the name of Barry. The small property in his pos¬ 
 session at that time was the remnant of a very con¬ 
 siderable one which his grandfather had lost by his 
 adherence to the cause of King James in the disas¬ 
 trous war of 1691. This young man’s father and 
 mother both died in the same year, — namely, 1728, 
 — leaving him an orphan at the early age of five 
 years. Under the care of his friends, and without 
 the watchful eye of a mother to look after his early 
 training, Bryan Barry grew up a wild and reckless 
 boy, with strong passions and a hasty temper, yet 
 
16 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 with a peculiarly warm heart, and a wonderful kind¬ 
 liness of disposition towai’ds any one whom he might 
 consider for the moment as his friend. At the pe¬ 
 riod in which this short tale opens, he had become a 
 young man of fine proportions and very handsome 
 features, but of reckless and irregular habits, and 
 with a mind which had taken its tone from the 
 stories he had heard of the acts and sentiments of 
 his forefathers; becoming therefore imbued with the 
 deepest feelings regarding the unfortunate race of 
 the Stuarts, and filled with the wildest notions rela¬ 
 tive to their restoration to the British throne. He 
 had, about a year previous to the above date, fallen 
 in love with an extremely beautiful girl named Mary 
 Fitzgerald, a few years younger than himself, and the 
 daughter of an old gentleman who lived in his vi¬ 
 cinity, who was very poor, having, like Bryan’s grand¬ 
 father, lost his property on account of his religion 
 and political opinions. Bryan’s love was favored 
 by the young girl’s father, and returned by Mary 
 herself with the fondest affection and devotedness. 
 
 There was in the same neighborhood, and possess¬ 
 ing the confiscated estates both of Bryan’s grand¬ 
 father and old Fitzgerald, a man named Ebenezer 
 Stubbs, whose father had been a drummer in the 
 army of King William. This man, who was at the 
 time about thirty years of age, condescended to look 
 with a favorable eye upon the handsome Mary Fitz¬ 
 gerald, and consequently hated, and was cordially 
 hated in return by, his successful rival, Bryan Barry. 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSED SWORDS. 17 
 
 These two young men seldom met; but, whenever 
 they did, it was with looks that boded no peaceful 
 termination to their many causes of dispute: for 
 Bryan, besides hating Ebenezer Stubbs on Mary 
 Fitzgerald’s account, considered him also as the 
 usurper of his rightful patrimony, to which - was 
 added a hearty detestation on political grounds; 
 and Ebenezer*, for many similar reasons, lost no 
 opportunity of showing his ill-will on every possible 
 occasion. 
 
 Things went on thus for some time, when one day 
 Mary Fitzgerald and Ebenezer Stubbs both disap¬ 
 peared from the neighborhood, no one knew whither. 
 The grief and rage of old Fitzgerald and Bryan 
 knew no bounds ; and the sorrow of the majority of 
 their neighbors was little less, for Mary was a uni¬ 
 versal favorite with every one who knew# her. 
 Search was made throughout every part of the sur¬ 
 rounding country, but without avail. Day after 
 day, Bryan, with the few young men that resided on 
 his diminished property, and with many of the sons 
 of those who once acknowledged the jurisdictioh of 
 his forefathers, was out amid the mountains, and 
 far and near through the adjacent plains, in search 
 of the lost Mary Fitzgerald; but every succeeding 
 day saw them returning sad, weary, and unsuccessful. 
 When somewhat more than a month had passed 
 away, and still no tidings of the lost one came to 
 comfort the bereaved father and anxious lover, a re¬ 
 port began to circulate amongst the people around, 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 A BATCH OF LHGENDS. 
 
 that Ebenezer Stubbs and Maiy Fitzgerald were 
 both living happily as man and wife in the noi’th of 
 England. This rumor at length reached the ears 
 of old Fitzgerald and of Bryan; and the latter, hav¬ 
 ing lost all hope, and mad with disappointment and 
 despair, turned his thoughts to a project on which 
 he had been meditating occasionally for some time 
 previously. His was not the temperament to brook 
 delay after once resolving to act; and he soon car¬ 
 ried out his project. 
 
 Oui’ readers will recollect, that, in the above year, 
 “ bonnie Prince Charlie ” made his final attempt to 
 regain the throne of his fathers by raising his stand¬ 
 ard in the Highlands of Scotland. In Ireland, and 
 particularly in its southern and western counties, 
 this attempt was looked upon by the inhabitants 
 with ^eager eyes. The advent of the prince was 
 hoped for anxiously by the peasantry, and sung by 
 their wandering poets; and when he did at last 
 raise his banner in the Highlands, many young men 
 from Ireland crossed the water, and joined his ranks. 
 Bryan was among the latter. With about a dozen 
 young men, — his own tenantry, — he made his way 
 to the Shannon shore; and, seizing a small schooner 
 near Ballybunnion, he sailed down the river, turned 
 northward, and rounded the coast of Ireland, till he 
 reached a secluded bay on the western shore of 
 Scotland, whence, after abandoning the boat, he and 
 his companions crossed the country, and at length 
 succeeded in joining the army of the Pretender. 
 
THE LEGEND ^E THE CROSSED SWORDS. 19 
 
 After escaping many dangers, and losing most of 
 his companions, lie stood at length by the side of the 
 young prince, and fought bravely for his cause in 
 the disastrous battle of Culloden; and when the 
 day was lost, and the hopes of the Pretender were 
 shattered forever, he again escaped, and contrived, 
 through innumerable perils and hardships, to reach 
 his native land once more. 
 
 It was a dark December night when Bryan sat, 
 sad and weary, by the fireside of an old farmer who 
 dwelt upon the skirts of the property that a few 
 months before he could call his own, but which now, 
 during his absence, had fallen into the possession of 
 his mortal enemy, Ebenezer Stubbs. From this old 
 farmer, Bryan learned the secret of Mary Fitzgerald’s 
 disappearance, and other facts that made him burn 
 for vengeance upon his enemy. Mary had been car¬ 
 ried off by Ebenezer Stubbs, and confined in Limer¬ 
 ick, in the house of one of his accomplices; while 
 Ebenezer himself, after taking up his residence in 
 London, had caused some of his worthy associates 
 to circulate the report of his marriage at home, thus 
 getting rid of Bryan in the manner related. Eben¬ 
 ezer, after receiving the news of Bryan’s reckless 
 proceedings, caused Mary Fitzgerald to be sent 
 back to her father, and soon returned to the neigh¬ 
 borhood himself, where as a magistrate, and having 
 the terrible penal laws of those times to back him, 
 he soon made himself the terror of the poor peas¬ 
 antry, and even of the higher classes of the Roman 
 
20 
 
 A BATCH OF TRENDS. 
 
 Catholics around. Amongst the rest, he had com¬ 
 pelled old Fitzgerald to consent to his marriage 
 with Mary; and Bryan learned, in despair and grief, 
 that the ceremony was to take place in a few 
 days. 
 
 On the morning of the day before that fixed for 
 th'e marriage, Ebenezer received a message to this 
 effect, — that, should he-go on the same evening to 
 the old churchyard outside the wall of his demesne, 
 he would meet a person who would give him some 
 information of vital importance to himself and Mary 
 Fitzgerald. This message Ebenezer cautiously pon¬ 
 dered over for some time ; but at length he resolved 
 to go. Late in the evening, having armed himself 
 with the long, iron-hilted sword his father had worn 
 in the wars, Ebenezer proceeded to the lonely 
 churchyard, and there, on turning round a corner 
 of the dilapidated wall, he beheld confronting him 
 the man whom he most feared and hated, Bryan 
 Barry. , 
 
 “ Draw ! ” exclaimed Bryan ; “ you false hound, 
 draw, and defend your vile carcass; for I swear that 
 only one of us shall leave this spot a living man! ” 
 
 “ I am glad,” replied Ebenezer, who was not at 
 all deficient in courage, “that it has come to 
 this. You beggarly outlaw! ” added he with a sneer, 
 at the same time drawing his weapon, “ I will 
 show you the power of the law, as well as the power 
 of my own hatred and this good sword. Take 
 that! ” and he made a furious lounge at Bryan, who. 
 
THE LEGEND OP THE CROSSED SWORDS. 21 
 
 after a dexterous parry, slightly grazed Ebenezer’s 
 shoulder in return. 
 
 It is unnecessary to describe the particulars of 
 that vengeful and long-protracted struggle ; but, 
 when the cold light of sunset fell upon the mould¬ 
 ering wall of the solitary ruin, Bryan Barry and 
 Ebenezer Stubbs were found lying side by side, 
 pierced by many deep wounds, and stone dead, be¬ 
 neath the branches of the ancient ash-tree under 
 which they fought. On hearing the news, Mary 
 Fitzgerald received a shock from which her broken 
 constitution never rallied. She pined slowly away, 
 and died ere the commencement of the ensuing sum¬ 
 mer ; and her father soon followed her to the grave. 
 The bodies of the two mortal foes were buried 
 where they fell, outside the wall of the ruin, and a 
 stone, which an itinerant mason marked with the 
 semblances of the two swords crossed, in token of 
 their last struggle, placed over their blood-stained 
 resting-place. 
 
 Now, for authenticating this narrative. Beside 
 the same churchyard, and beneath a very ancient 
 ash-tree, was to be seen some few years ago — per¬ 
 haps it may be seen there still — a tall, green flag¬ 
 stone standing on end, on removing the moss from 
 the eastern face of which, the rude figures of two 
 swords, placed crosswise, might be easily discerned; 
 and, if tlie curious traveller inquired concerning the 
 history of that strange symbol, he would hear from 
 any of the surrounding peasantry a narrative the 
 
22 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 same in substance as the foregoing. But what 
 makes the story still more authentic is this. On the 
 side of the little hill that rises over 'the ancient 
 churchyard, lives a farmer, — now about ninety 
 years of age, — who states that he often heard his 
 grandfather relating the story, and every particular 
 of the combat; he (that is the grandfather), then 
 a boy, having witnessed the whole scene through a 
 narrow window of the old ruin, to which he had 
 climbed in search of a jackdaw’s nest, and behind 
 which he had lain all the time, concealed in the 
 clustering ivy. 
 
 We now come to narratives of the third class; 
 namely, those in which one or more, or even all 
 the circumstances related in them, can be con¬ 
 firmed by written history: and I shall illustrate 
 them briefly for the present by 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE SAXON’S HOLLOW. 
 
 About a dozen years before Cromwell came into 
 Ireland, there dwelt an old chief, named De Prender- 
 gast, far up amid the eastern summits of the Cnoc- 
 mel-down Mountains, in a castle called Crogh-Cluny, 
 the ruins of which may still be seen by the traveller, 
 should he pass through that wild region. This 
 castle stood upon a projecting limestone rock, over 
 a deep hollow, through which wound the only road 
 then available for the passage of troops from the 
 
I 
 
 TRE LEGEND OF THE SAXON’S HOLLOW. 23 
 
 county of Tipperary into those of Waterford and 
 Cork, Besides this castle, the chief possessed others 
 down in the lowlands, the strongest of which was 
 that of Newcastle, upon the banks of the Suir. 
 The old chief was blind with age, but still of an 
 energetic character, and had living with him at that 
 time, in Crogh-Cluny, an orphan niece and his two 
 sons. One wild winter’s day, a mounted messenger, 
 or easlach., rode into Crogh-Cluny, from James Fitz¬ 
 gerald, Lord of Modeligo, near the Blackwater, with 
 the intelligence that Murrogh O’Brien, Earl of 
 Inchiguin, after despoiling all the eastern baronies 
 of the county of Cork, and the adjoining districts of 
 Waterford, was to march with his plunder by Crogh- 
 Cluny into Tipperary, The easlach also stated, 
 that, in case De Prendergast would aid the Lord of 
 Modeligo, the latter, with all his clan, would attack 
 Murrogh O’Brien in his passage through the hollow 
 near the castle, and endeavor to obtain possession 
 of the spoil. De Prendergast agreed to the propo¬ 
 sition, and the courier departed. 
 
 On the day that the Earl of Inchiguin marched 
 across the mountains, the confederated clans of the 
 two chiefs hovered on his track, and, as he wound 
 througli the hollow beside Crogh-Cluny, attacked 
 him, according to their agreement, gained possession 
 of the spoil, and cut his army to pieces; the earl 
 himself only escaping by the fleetness of his horse, 
 which bore him, with one astonishing bound, across 
 a deep and narrow glen, running along the northern 
 
24 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 side of the hollow, and called to this day, by the 
 peasantry of that highland region, Leam-an-Earla., 
 or the Earl’s Leap; the steep valley itself being des¬ 
 ignated Eag-na-Sassenagh, or the Saxon’s Hollow, 
 in commemoration of the battle, and of the number 
 of Murrogh O’Brien’s soldiers slain within it. 
 
 In the division of the spoil, the two clans quar¬ 
 relled ; and another and equally bloody battle would 
 have been fought in the hollow, had not the mat¬ 
 ter been left to the arbitration of single combat 
 between the eldest son of De Prendergast and the 
 Lord of Modeligo. The duel was to be fought in 
 full armor, and with sword and dagger, by the two 
 young chiefs. On the day appointed, they met, in 
 the presence of a stipulated number of each clan, 
 within the lists on the bank of the Suir, near New¬ 
 castle, the spot agreed upon for the combat. It 
 was a tough and bloody duel; but at length young 
 De Prendergast fell, mortally wounded, beneath the 
 more fortunate sword of the young Lord of Mo¬ 
 deligo. 
 
 The old chief, in the mean time, was sitting in his 
 castle of Crogh-Cluny, anxiously awaiting news of 
 the combat and of the fate of his son. At length 
 his niece, who was stationed beside a window of the 
 apartment, heard the clatter of hoofs coming u]) the 
 rocky ballagh, or road, that led beside the castle, 
 and, on looking out, found that it was the young 
 Lord of Modeligo returning from the fight. The 
 moment the latter beheld the young lady, he reined 
 in his horse opposite the window, — 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SAXON’S HOLLOW. 25 
 
 “Go!” exclaimed he in a vaunting tone, “ and 
 tell the old wolf inside that I have killed his best 
 cub in to-day’s combat.” 
 
 The young girl repeated the words to the blind 
 old chief inside. 
 
 “Stay!” said the latter, rising from his chair, 
 taking down a load^ed musketoon from the mantel¬ 
 piece, and resting it on the sill of a loophole that 
 commanded the spot where the Lord of Modeligo 
 still sat motionless upon his horse, — “ Stay, girl! 
 Now ask him to say over the same words again!” 
 
 The young girl did as she was commanded; but, 
 ere the words were half repeated, a bullet from the 
 musketoon of the blind chief, who regulated his 
 aim by the direction of the voice, passed through 
 the brain of the young Lord of Modeligo, and 
 stretched him a corpse in the midst of his terrified 
 followers, on that steep road beneath the strong 
 walls of Crogh-Cluny. 
 
 The above is the substance, neither more nor less, 
 of what I heard a few years ago from a venerable 
 old farmer who resides near the ruins of Clogh- 
 Cluny Castle. On referring to Carte’s Life of Or¬ 
 mond, and other histories, the reader will find that 
 Murrogh O’Brien, Earl of Inchiguin, did actually 
 pass down those mountains, with spoil from parts 
 of Cork and Waterford, in the year indicated by the 
 legend; namely, 1641. The histories also state that 
 MuiTOgh sent word to Captains Peasly and Browne, 
 who commanded at that time in Tipperary, to have 
 
26 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 his passage cleared for the transportation _ of the 
 spoil, and that, on these officers neglecting to do so, 
 “he was sorely troubled by the mountaineers.” 
 No doubt but he was. For when Carte and 
 other partisan writers admit so much, and with 
 the evidence of the names of the localities before 
 us, we may conclude that Murrogh the Burner — 
 as he was called from his savage cruelties, and his 
 equally savage marauders—got a bloody and sig¬ 
 nal overthrow from the two brave clans; and we 
 may also very legitimately infer that most, if not 
 all, of the other incidents of the legend are true. 
 
 I shall now introduce my readers to a country 
 acquaintance of mine, whose accurate knowledge I 
 have often put to the test in tracing legends to 
 their source, as well as in divesting them of the 
 extraneous incidents often tacked to them by the 
 peasantry during the lapse of time. 
 
 Bob Barry is a doctor of the old school, and looks 
 down with sovereign contempt on many modern 
 surgical and medical theories. According to his 
 own words, he believes what he likes, and nothing 
 more. And yet Dr. Bob is a successful practi¬ 
 tioner. Witness his beautiful house and grounds, 
 and the amount of money he is said to have in the 
 funds. He imagines himself that a deep knowledge 
 of the ancient classics is more his forte than a 
 knowledge of the healing art; and certainty he 
 loses no opportunity of demonstrating his convic- 
 
THE LEGEND OF THE SAXON’S HOLLOW. 27 
 
 tion by interlarding bis conversations with the most 
 astonishingly unique and erudite phrases and apho¬ 
 risms from the forgotten works of many a Greek and 
 Latin sage. But, be this as it may, I know, and all 
 his acquaintances are fully convinced of the same, 
 that his forte lies in a very comprehensive knowl¬ 
 edge of Irish history, Irish character, topography, 
 and legends. 
 
 Dr. Bob and I sat opposite each other before a 
 merry turf-fire. I had some freshly-written manu¬ 
 script before me. For some time, he sat regarding 
 me with sagacious scrutiny, as if making a diagnosis 
 respecting the state of my mental faculties. 
 
 “At the old work? ” pronounced he at last. 
 
 “Yes,” answered I, “I have here some legends 
 whose truth I am endeavoring to verify by oral and 
 historical testimony.” 
 
 “A laboi’ious task you have taken on yourself,” 
 pursued he. “ I see,” he continued, referring to a 
 former conversation of ours, “ that there is one 
 class which you call the impossible legend, of any 
 example of which you can give no verification. 
 This is a class, however, in which are contained 
 greater numbers than in all the others ])ut together. 
 It is a class common to all time and to all nations, 
 particularly to the Greeks. Some of them are very 
 beautiful. Do you remember the myth on which 
 Euripides has founded his play of ‘ Alcestis ’ ? ” 
 
 “ If I do,” answered I, “ my idea of it is some¬ 
 what shadowy. It is a long time since I read it.” 
 
28 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 “Well,” continued Dr. Bob, “there was a king 
 called Admetus, who once treated Apollo hospita¬ 
 bly. Admetus, when he found out who Apollo 
 was, and saw him about to take his departure for 
 Olympus, asked the god to confer immortality upon 
 him. Apollo answered, that, if he (Admetus) 
 could get a substitute to die for him, his life might 
 be prolonged. Upon this, Admetus applied to his 
 parents, who were old and infirm : but, as age 
 advances, the love of life seems to increase; and 
 both father and mother refused to die for him. 
 Admetus then apjdies to his wife, the young and 
 beautiful Alcestis, who cheerfully yields up life for 
 the love of her husband, and thereupon dies. Then 
 follows the funeral-feast. Hercules, returning from 
 one of his labors, comes to the palace. lie en¬ 
 ters, and inquires the cause of the mourning. On 
 hearing the story, he immediately makes an excur¬ 
 sion to the infernal regions, where he finds Alcestis, 
 and brings her back, veiled. He carries her into 
 the palace, where Admetus now sits, regretting what 
 he had done, and mourning for his beautiful and 
 faithful wife. Hercules, to test his fidelity, covers 
 Alcestis more closely with her veil, and says that he 
 lias brought another and more beautiful wife to 
 Admetus. But the sorrowful Admetus answers, that 
 he shall never more marry, and that he shall soon 
 follow across the gloomy Styx her he loved so well. 
 Whereupon Hercules lifts the veil, discloses Alces¬ 
 tis restored to mortal life;'and all ends happily. 
 
THE CROSS ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 29 
 
 But,” continued the doctor, after a learned disser¬ 
 tation on the beauties of the Greek myth, “ did it 
 ever strike you how it is that Hercules, who, most 
 probably, was a real personage, had a number of 
 achievements attributed to him impossible to be per¬ 
 formed by any single hero, no matter how strong 
 and valorous ? ” 
 
 “For the same reason,” answered I, “ that, to bring 
 matters nearer home, Fionn, Cuchullin, Conal Cear- 
 nagh, Curigh, the son of Daire, and the other great 
 warriors of early Irish history, are represented as 
 performing a number of actions equally impossible. 
 The magnified actions of a number of heroes were, 
 in the lapse of time, confounded by the poets and 
 Shanachies with those of one man, and thereby 
 attributed to him.” 
 
 “It is so,” said Dr. Bob, with an approving 
 glance. “ But I see the name of Saint Patrick on 
 your manuscript. To what class does ^your legend 
 belong ? ” 
 
 “ To the first,” I answered; “ for several of the 
 incidents in it, as you will see, are impossible. Yet, 
 as it illustrates and accounts for a universal custom 
 at Irish funerals, it is well worth preserving.” And 
 I read for him the following legend: — 
 
 THE CROSS ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 Saint Patrick had a servant named Duan the 
 Slender. The duty of this servant was to supply 
 fuel for the household of the saint. One chilly 
 
30 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 winter day, he went with his axe into the forest to 
 cut timber; and, on arriving at a weird and lonely 
 glade, he saw an aged rowan tree, or mountain-ash, 
 upon its border. He immediately commenced to 
 cut it down; but his axe was very blunt from con¬ 
 stant use, and his work, therefore, j)rogressed very 
 slowly. The morning wore away, and noon came; 
 but as yet he had scarcely cut half a dozen inches 
 into the stubborn trunk of the tree: so he sat down 
 at length beside it, weary and sad, and began to 
 complain, rather loudly, of the poverty that pre¬ 
 vented him from buying a new and sharper axe. As 
 he sat thus, a voice behind him called out, “ Duan 
 the Slender! ” three times. 
 
 Duan the Slender turned quickly round, and be¬ 
 held, standing near, two young and handsome men 
 of rather diminutive stature. They had long, flow¬ 
 ing, lustrous hair, and dark, piercing eyes, that 
 seemed to penetrate to the very soul of Duan the 
 Slender, and were clad in luminous green garments. 
 Duan arose, and looked upon them wonderingly. 
 
 “ Have you called me ? ” he said at length, half 
 afraid, on account of their strange looks and ap¬ 
 parel. 
 
 “Yes,” answered one : “we have called you, that 
 we may do you a service if you are willing. Your 
 axe is very blunt, and your labor is heavy.” 
 
 “ It is,” answered Duan, catching up his axe, and 
 looking disdainfully at its edge. 
 
 “We will give you a new one, that will cut down 
 
THE CROSS ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 31 
 
 the whole forest in a day, if you comply with our 
 request,” said the young man. 
 
 “I will do any thing,” answered Duan, “to get 
 rid of this useless and ancient axe, and get a new 
 and sharp one.” 
 
 “ It is well,” returned the young man. “ Here is 
 our request. After the mass, when Saint Patrick 
 turns round to bless the people, ask him who are 
 they that can never share in the light of the gospel, 
 that can never go to heaven.” 
 
 “ I will do it,” said Duan the Slender. “ And 
 now give me the axe; for I must finish my work 
 and begone.” 
 
 They went into the forest, and returned with a 
 sharp axe of gleaming blue steel. This they gave 
 to Duan, saying that they would meet him in the 
 same place on the morrow for his answer. They 
 then depai’ted; and Duan the Slender cut down the 
 tree without trouble, and took some of its dryest 
 branches home. 
 
 Early next morning, when the saint, after cele¬ 
 brating the holy mass, turned round to bless the 
 people, Duan the Slender arose, and called out in 
 a loud voice, “ Who are they in this land that shall 
 never enter heaven ? ” 
 
 “‘Duine Airiachs,’ or the people of air,” an¬ 
 swered the saint. “ But, O Duan the Slender! why 
 have you asked me this question, that will bring sure 
 and sudden destruction upon you?” 
 
 Duan waited till mass was quite over, and the 
 
32 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 saint had entered his dwelling. He then told Saint 
 Patrick what had happened, and the promise he had 
 made to the two strange young men. “ It is, I fear, 
 a fatal promise for you,” said the saint; “for, when 
 they hear the woful answer from your lips, you 
 will surely be torn to pieces. But, however, there 
 is one plan by which you may escaj^e their fury. 
 You must perform your promise; but, when yoU go 
 out into the forest-glade, there dig a grave, and 
 place yourself in it, with the mattock and shovel 
 placed over you in the shape of our holy symbol, 
 the cross. Thus await their coming, give them 
 their answer; and, with the blessed sign above you, 
 they cannot do you harm.” 
 
 Duan the Slender took his mattock and shovel, 
 went out to the weii'd glade in the forest, and did 
 exactly as the saint had directed. He had scarcely 
 lain himself down in the grave, with the mattock 
 and shovel placed crosswise above him, when he 
 heard the patter of innumeriible feet sounding 
 through the forest, and, on looking up, beheld his 
 place of refuge surrounded by a countless crowd of 
 the same beings he had seen on the previous day. 
 The two young men who had given him tlie axe 
 stood on the edge of the grave, and, after gazing on 
 him for some time, asked him for his answer. 
 
 “I asked tlie saint,” exclaimed Duan the Slender; 
 “and he said that the‘Duine Airiachs’were they 
 that should never enter the kingdom of heaven.” 
 
 Immediately a wild yell of fury and sorrow arose 
 
SHIRT OF MAIL. 
 
 33 
 
 from the great crowd. They pressed closer round, 
 and attempted to drag Duan from the grave ; but 
 the blessed sign prevented them. At length, when 
 they found their vengeful efforts unavailing, they 
 turned, and, with another shrill and wailing cry of 
 sorrow and baffled anger, disappeared amid the 
 lonely recesses of the forest. Duan the Slender 
 left his place of refuge, and went safely back to his 
 holy master; but, ever since, the people of Ireland, 
 at the burial of their friends, make, with mattock 
 and shovel. Saint Patrick’s cross above the grave. 
 
 “ It is the custom, certainly,” said Dr. Bob. “ It 
 is curious that a similar story, differing only in a 
 few slight details, is related in ‘The Tripartite Life 
 of Saint Patrick.’ But I see that yen are eager to 
 commence a legend, I suppose belonging to your 
 second class. Let us have it, then, by all means.” 
 
 “Yes,” I said. “ Here is a legend, which, I think, 
 can be established as a true one, by oral and living 
 testimony; ” and I read for the erudite son of 
 Galen the 
 
 SHIRT OF MAIL. 
 
 In a valley, amid that wild range of mountains 
 that separates the plain of Limerick from the 
 northern confines of Cork, there grew, some years 
 ago, an aged hawthorn, called by the surrounding 
 l^easantry Sgach na Three Theige.^ or the Bush of 
 the Three Timothies. The reader, if he refer to 
 another tale contained in this volume, will see 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 therein how the tree got its remarkable name; but 
 with that we have nothing to do at present. This 
 tree seemed to have stood there for centuries. It 
 was, however, cut down, to the great rage of the 
 inhabitants of the valley in which it grew, by a 
 thieving peasant of a remote hamlet, who made the 
 boxes of a number of cart-wheels from its trunk. 
 It stood upon a level tongue of land that projected 
 between the meeting of two mountain streams. 
 
 Many centuries ago, there dwelt an old chief upon 
 the neighboring plain of Cork, in a castle whose 
 ruins may yet be seen rising in stern grandeur from 
 a green knoll at the southern foot of the mountain- 
 range. This chief had an only and beautiful daugh¬ 
 ter, whose hand was sought in marriage by several 
 of the young knights around. There were two com¬ 
 petitors, however, who eclipsed the claims of all 
 the rest. One of them was Sir Henry de Rupe, 
 belonging to the powerful house of Fermoy; and the 
 other Sir John Fitzgerald, a scion of the still more 
 powerful house of Desmond. 
 
 The rivalry of these two young knights soon 
 merged into hate and bitterness. At a wassail in 
 the castle of the old chief, they met one night. 
 They quarrelled; and, ere the wassail was over, one 
 challenged the other to settle their claims by the 
 then usual ordeal of single combat. The day and 
 place were appointed, to the great delight, accord¬ 
 ing to the legend, of the old chief, who said that he 
 would cheerfully give his daughter to the conqueror. 
 
SHIRT OF MAIL. 
 
 35 
 
 Some short time, however, before the day appointed, 
 the two young knights met, accidentally and alone, 
 on the green tongue of land mentioned above. 
 Again they quarrelled; and finally agreed then and 
 there, without witnesses, to settle their differences in 
 mortal combat; and that the vanquished should be 
 buried where he fell. 
 
 It was a long and terrible struggle. Sir Henry 
 de Rupe conquered, slew his rival, and, according 
 to the previous agreement, buried him in his armor 
 on the scene of the combat. 
 
 It is now nearly twenty years since a young man 
 of one of the mountain villages dreamt that there 
 was a great treasure buried beneath the roots of the 
 white-thorn of the Three Timothies, which grew on 
 the identical spot indicated by the legend. He and 
 some of his companions went one night, and dug 
 beneath the aged tree. After excavating to a depth 
 of about three feet, they discovered a heavy lump 
 of steel. They dug further; but finally their search 
 for the treasure proved unsuccessful. This lump of 
 steel remained in the village for a long time, and 
 was a great curiosity. It was made up of a number 
 of rings, all stuck together by rust: it was, in 
 fact, a shirt of chain mail. It is a great pity that it 
 was not preserved, and sent to the Royal Ii’ish 
 Academy, where there is, I believe, but another 
 similar specimen; but the curious people who went 
 to see it each took away a ring or two, and thus it 
 ultimately disappeared. 
 
36 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 “ This, I think,” said I to the doctor, “ is sufficient 
 proof of the truth of the legend.” 
 
 Dr. Bob looked logical and unconvinced for some 
 time, but at last admitted that it was. 
 
 “ And now,” he said, “ for your legend of the third 
 class.” 
 
 “ Here goes,” said I; “ and it will be a short one.” 
 So I read for him, as follows, the legend of 
 
 BLACK HUGH OF DAEA AND DONAL O’SULLIVAN. 
 
 Hugh Dhuv Condon had once been the owner of 
 one of those strong square castles, or bawns, so many 
 of whose ruins may still be seen adding to the pic¬ 
 turesqueness of quiet valley, gentle slope, craggy 
 gorge, or solitary rock, throughout the south of Ire¬ 
 land. During the last Desmond war, he had fought 
 against the forces of Queen Elizabeth, and shared 
 in the hardships and reverses, of his master, the 
 unfortunate Earl James. Thus it happened that 
 when the war came to a termination in his neigh¬ 
 borhood, and the English had taken the Earl of 
 Desmond prisoner, Hugh Condon’s border tower 
 was burned, and razed to the ground, by the cruel 
 myrmidons of the government, his wife and children 
 slain, and he himself, of course, outlawed. 
 
 Hugh Condon swore an oath that he would have 
 vengeance. He kept his vow. There was a pass 
 near the cave in which he lived with his followers, 
 through which detachments of the English troops 
 
BLACK HUGH AND DONAL O’SULLIVAN. 
 
 37 
 
 had to pass while inarching from their Limerick gar¬ 
 risons to those of Cork. Often had Hugh and his 
 fierce followers fallen upon these detachments, and 
 frequently had they conquered, and taken summary 
 vengeance for their wrongs. It was by such ex¬ 
 ploits that Hugh of Dara’s name gradually went 
 abroad as that of the most celebrated outlaw in 
 Munster. The mountains in which his cave was sit¬ 
 uated were at that time thickly clothed with woods, 
 — offshoots from the great forest of Kylemore,— 
 which extended along the steep slopes, branched 
 higher still up the rocky and savage gorges, and 
 even clothed parts of the bleak and desolate ex¬ 
 panses of bog that stretched often from summit to 
 summit between those wild hills. A small hallagh, 
 or bridle-path, led across this chain of hills, leading 
 in a straight course from the plain of Cork into that 
 of Limerick. 
 
 Along the aforesaid hallagh, Hugh Condon was 
 riding one wintry day, about a year and a half after 
 the capture of the Earl of Desmond by the Eng¬ 
 lish. He had not ridden far when he perceived a 
 plumed horseman, clad in splendid armor, galloping 
 towards him from a far turning of the bridle-way. 
 On either side of Hugh, there was a deep, marshy 
 bog, so that the stranger could not pass, unless by 
 the path. Now, Hugh of Dara, by the strange 
 horseman’s splendid attire, judged him to be an 
 Englishman, and determined not to let him pass 
 without a word and a blow. 
 
38 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 “ Draw! ” exclaimed Hugh, as the stranger rode 
 up. “I am lord of those mountains, and you shall 
 not pass the way.” 
 
 “By my good faith!” answered the stranger, 
 reining in his steed; “ but this is surly cheer to meet 
 on such a wild day. Let me pass, good fellow, and 
 you will not repent of your courtesy.” 
 
 “No!” answered Hugli stubbornly; for he now 
 thought really that the stranger was an Englishman. 
 “You shall not pass, unless over my body!” 
 
 “ Then, be it so! ” exclaimed the strange horse¬ 
 man ; and, with that, he dashed, sword in hand, at 
 Hugh. But Hugh was a stout soldier, and held his 
 ground so as to hinder the stranger from passing 
 on. 
 
 “I warn you to let me pass ! ” exclaimed the lat¬ 
 ter once more, as he prepared for a more vigorous 
 attack upon Hugh. “ Look down the mountain- 
 slopes to the south, and you will see those approach¬ 
 ing before whom, when they come uj), you will 
 assuredly be hewn in pieces.” 
 
 Hugh looked down the mountains, and beheld a 
 small army marching across them from the plain. 
 
 “ Who are you?” he asked at length, still, how¬ 
 ever, keeping steadily on his guard. 
 
 “I am Donal, Prince of Beare,” answered the 
 stranger; “ and now let me pass, for I must find a 
 camping-place for my followers.” 
 
 Of coui’se. Black Hugh of Dara not only let him 
 pass, but brouglit him and his followers to a safe and 
 
BLACK HUGH AND DONAL O’SULLIVAN. 39 
 
 sheltered valley, by the side of Ardpatrick Hill, on 
 the verge of the Limerick plain. Here they rested 
 for three days. On the second day. Black Hugh of 
 Dara gave them notice that they were to be attacked 
 the following night by the Barrys, the Roches, and 
 part of the English garrison of Mallow; and showed 
 Donal of Beare a pass in which it would be easy to 
 defeat his foes as they marched through. Donal 
 O’Sullivan placed an ambuscade in the pass, and 
 that night defeated his enemies with great slaughter. 
 The peasantry who tell the legend point out the 
 difterent localities mentioned in it, and add that 
 Black Hush of Dara followed the fortunes of Do- 
 nal. Prince of Beare, in his gallant retreat to the 
 north. 
 
 “ It is an interesting thing,” said Dr. Bob, “ to find 
 out even one of the stages of that memorable 
 retreat, unequalled by any thing in ancient times, 
 except the exploit of Aenophon and the Ten 
 Thousand.” 
 
 “It is,” answered I; “ and I have historical testi¬ 
 mony as to the truth of part of the legend, at least; 
 for it is mentioned in the ‘Annals of the Four 
 Masters,’ that, during his flight to the north, Donal 
 O’Sullivan, Prince of Beare, and his forces, en¬ 
 camped for some days by the Hill of Ardpat¬ 
 rick.” 
 
 “No matter,” exclaimed my companion excitedly, 
 “fill your glass, and we will drink a toast.” 
 
40 
 
 A BATCH OF LEGENDS. 
 
 I filled my glass; and there and then Dr. Bob 
 Barry and I drank a flowing bumper to the memory 
 of Donal of Beare, one of the bravest chiefs that 
 ever drew sword beneath the fair hills of holy Ire¬ 
 land. 
 
 X 
 
The Master of Lisfinry. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 O NE sweet June evening in the year 1579, the 
 sentinels were ranged for watch and ward along 
 the walls of Youghal; some leaning in an indolent 
 and listless manner against the parapets and over 
 the breastworks, others walking quietly to and fro, 
 their bulF-coats and armor half unbraced, and their 
 long halberds glittering in the soft and merry 
 sunshine. Beneath them lay the town with its 
 strong, stern-looking castles, its quaint houses, with 
 their pointed gables and antique doorways, its 
 inhabitants half astir and listless too; for the 
 quiet and warmth of the evening seemed to have 
 as much effect on their movements and proceedings 
 as it had upon those of the lazy soldiers upon the 
 castle-tops and the walls. Southward spread out 
 the blue, bright, and placid ocean, with a few sails 
 in the harbor and in the offing; while, in a landward 
 direction, the scenery extended itself into a broad 
 
 41 
 
42 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 panorama of mountain, forest, and river, enlivened at 
 intervals by gray and stately castles, each of which 
 sent up its eolumn of blue smoke into the calm, 
 amber-colored sky. 
 
 On the northern ramparts, two sentinels were sit¬ 
 ting, engaged in a quiet, half-dreamy conversation. 
 They were both aged men. Their faces were turned 
 to a dark bronze by constant exposure to both war 
 and weather; but their bodies seemed still strong 
 and stalwart, stronger, perhaps, and more capable of 
 endurance, than when they first donned the helmet 
 and sword, and took to the wandering trade of a 
 soldier. 
 
 “ Gurth of the Stream,” said one, addressing his 
 comrade, “ I would we were both back again in our 
 own blithe braes of Northumberland! 1 do not 
 
 like this cooped life of ours, ever within stone walls, 
 and waiting, always waiting, for the war-cry of 
 the Irishry, that has not sounded on my ears since 
 last Christmas-tide.” 
 
 “ Ralph Goodwyn,” said Gurth, “ from my heart I 
 wish your wish. By the axe of my father, but it is 
 enoimh to sour a man’s blood in his veins to sit here, 
 like a Yorkshire churn when its last butter is made, 
 and never find any one thing for our hands to do, 
 save sharpening our swords, that, God wot, are sharp 
 enough for the work they have to do, and brightening 
 our tasses and breastplates! Ah ! those were merry 
 days when we chased the deer together through the 
 South Forest, and courted the blithe lasses by the 
 Brig o’ Reed.” 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 43 
 
 “Blithe they were, and merry,” rejoined Ralph 
 Goodwyn. “ Dost thou remember the day I fought 
 Simon o’ the Mill for the love of bonnie Alice of 
 Elsdon ? ” 
 
 “ A bright day it was, Ralph, but a black day for 
 Simon o’ the Mill.” 
 
 “But it was near being the same for me, too, 
 Gurth. When our good swords were shivered, and 
 we went to work with the dirk, he got his point 
 between the bars of my basnet, and gave me this;” 
 and he pointed to a great scar across his face. “ He 
 fell, Gurth, and I had no rival for the love of my 
 bonnie Alice. But, alas ! it was too short, and she 
 died, poor thing, ere the autumn-tide; and ever since 
 I am a wanderer, and a man of the sword, like your¬ 
 self.” 
 
 “As forme,” rejoined Gurth, “ I took to the plume, 
 aird followed the tuck of drum, to feed my own wild 
 fancy. I could never love maiden like you, Ralph, 
 though the gleam and the blink of her eye were as 
 bright as the steel of my dirk. But what is that ? ” 
 he exclaimed, starting to his feet, and pointing north¬ 
 ward to the skirt of the ancient forest that stretched 
 along the bank of the Blackwater. Both looked in 
 the direction to which he pointed, and beheld the 
 glitter of swords and spears and the waving of plumes, 
 and the flutter of advancing banners, as if a great 
 army were approaching. And so it was. Even as 
 they looked, a large body of light-armed footmen, or 
 kerne^ emerged from the wood, and formed in a body 
 
44 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 on the clear plain outside. Long lines of horsemen 
 followed, with fluttering banners and glistening 
 armor, tlien other bodies of foot; then, again, horse¬ 
 men, failing into regular positions as they .came, un¬ 
 til at length a large and numerous army lay formed 
 before them on the plain, but far beyond the range 
 of the light cannon upon the walls. 
 
 “ Fire the alarm-gun,” cried Ralph, “ and call up 
 the captain of the guard! ” 
 
 A small falconet on one of the towers was fired by 
 Gurth ; and, in a few moments, the ramparts were 
 thronged with men, the diflerent officers running to 
 and fro, giving their commands, and putting the now 
 any thing but lazy soldiers into their proper order. 
 
 “ Ho! ” exclaimed the captain of the guard, a tall, 
 stern-looking soldier, when the proper arrangements 
 were made, “ they seem still unwarlike in their inten¬ 
 tions; for here comes a courier with a flag of truce, 
 and, God wot, I suppose a civil message. Better 
 had they thrown ns the gage of battle at once in 
 the shape of a pill of iron from the mouth of one of 
 their falconets, than come thus with a white ’ker¬ 
 chief on the point of a lance; for we can hold no 
 parley and have no truce with those wild Irishry! ” 
 
 As he spoke, a knight from the Irish forces rode 
 forth, accompanied by a mounted gilly, or hench¬ 
 man, and came at an easy gallop towards the walls. 
 He was clad in a suit of bright armor, his helmet 
 being surmounted by a tall red plume; and in his 
 hand he held his long spear aloft, on the point of 
 
THE MASTEM OF LISFINRY. 
 
 45 
 
 which fluttered a white ’kerchief, like a small ban¬ 
 neret. He was soon within speaking-distance of the 
 walls,' and, reining in his steed, stood, like a tall 
 statue of iron, motionless, his gilly close behind him, 
 looking with fierce eyes upon the formidable array 
 of men-at-arms upon the walls. In a few mo¬ 
 ments, he raised his visor, and with a voice loud and 
 clear as the tones of a trumpet, addressed himself 
 to those wdiom he considered to be the leaders of 
 the town. 
 
 “ Vassals of the Red Queen,” he said, “the high 
 and mighty prince, John of Desmond, sends ye 
 greeting.by me, James, Knight of Lisfinry, and bids 
 ye to depart in peace from his town of Youghal. 
 lie gives ye two days to embark. If, at the end of 
 that time, ye still remain, he considers ye are his, for 
 death or life, with your possessions in the town. God 
 and the right! ” 
 
 “ Give him,” exclaimed the commander of the 
 town, who was now standing on the rampart, “give 
 him one sample of the medicine that the Red Queen, 
 as he calls her, sends to her rebellious subjects, to 
 cure their contumacy. Gurth of the Stream, point 
 that falconet, and shoot him down I ” 
 
 Gurth was ready at the word; and the sound of 
 the falconet’s explosion was scarcely ringing in their 
 ears, when they beheld the Knight of the Red Plume 
 stretched upon the plain. He was not hurt, liow- 
 ever, though the ball had killed his horse, which, 
 falling, brouglit the knight to the ground, partly 
 
46 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 under him. The gilly was determined not to remain 
 idle, however. It was amazing to see with what 
 dexterity he extricated his master from beneath the 
 body of the dead steed, and mounted him on his 
 own; then, as the knight spurred away,half-stunned 
 by the fall, the faitbfal attendant ran by his side with 
 the agility of a deer, until they reached the halting- 
 place of their brothers-in-arms. 
 
 Night had fellen upon the town ; but the sentinels 
 were still watchful upon the walls. They could dis¬ 
 tinguish no indications of a stir among the Irish, 
 save that, ever and anon, a slight murmur arose out¬ 
 side, at some distance from where they walked their 
 rouifds; and black masses, which they took for the 
 waving shadows of trees, appeared to move to and 
 fro in every direction, amid the copse-wood and 
 scattered forest. The morning soon explained what 
 these black, moving masses indicated. The sun 
 had scarcely risen, when the ramparts were again 
 thronged with officers and men-at-arms; and, looking 
 out, they beheld huge piles of earth and brushwood, 
 behind which the Irish forces lay crouched, secure 
 themselves, but close enough, and in positions, to pick 
 off with musketry the defenders of the walls. No 
 horses could be seen,—they were picketed in tlie 
 thick forest behind ; but here and there the mouths 
 of cannons protruded from the brushwood and 
 clayey ramparts, while the shock heads of the fierce 
 array outside, with a gleaming helmet occasionally 
 amongst them, might be seen popping up at inter- 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 47 
 
 vals from the covert, and examining the fortifications. 
 All at once a wild war-cry arose which seemed to 
 proceed from every part of the forest. This was fol¬ 
 lowed by the rolling cracks of the match-locks and 
 musketoons, and the loud roar of cannon, which, 
 with the answering explosions from the walls, made 
 a din that soon woke the town, and struck terror 
 into its inhabitants. All day the firing continued 
 with considerable loss to the besieged. In several 
 places, the walls were partially breached; but, in one 
 part, the foundations seemed to have entirely given 
 way, a few perches of it lying almost level with the 
 ground. Up this breach, on the evening of that 
 day, a large body of the Irish were rushing, headed 
 by the knights and gentlemen who composed the 
 officers of Desmond’s army. They were met gal¬ 
 lantly by the English, and driven back almost to 
 their intrenchments. On they came again, however, 
 crowding up the breach like the waves of the sea. 
 To and fro swayed the combatants, re-enforcements 
 pouring in to each side, until the whole battle seemed 
 concentrated round that breach. The Irish were 
 again beginning to waver, when a cry arose among 
 them, “ Crom Aboo! Follow the Red Feather! 
 Hurrah for Lisfinry and the Red Plume ! ” and, look¬ 
 ing up, they saw the Master of Lisfinry far above 
 them at one side; his long plume waving, and his 
 heavy sword clutched in both hands, as he hacked 
 and hewed at the English who surrounded him. A 
 simultaneous rush was made by the Irish towards 
 
48 
 
 THE MASTER OF HSFINRY. 
 
 this point; and tlie English, by absolute dint of 
 pressure, body to body, were at length forced to 
 give way, and retreat from the walls, the Irish fol¬ 
 lowing with a wild shout into the town. At this 
 moment, Gurth of the Stream, who had not aban¬ 
 doned his beloved gun till the last extremity, leaped, 
 with a heavy battle-axe in his hand, from the ram¬ 
 part, and, coming behind the Knight of Lisfinry, with 
 one blow brought him to the ground. Friend and 
 foe went in one rush over the body of the knight; 
 but he heeded them not, for sorely wounded by the 
 axe of Gurth, and half-smothered by his helmet, he 
 soon sank into a deep swoon, and lay as heedless 
 and as quiet as those who had fared even worse, and 
 lay dead around him. The battle was soon over. 
 The English were almost entirely cut to pieces, 
 very few of them escaping to their ships in the har¬ 
 bor ; and, as night fell, the entire town and its envi¬ 
 rons were occupied by the Irish army. 
 
 When the Knight of the Red Plume awoke to 
 something like consciousness from his stupor, it was 
 in the house of Hugh Walsh, an old and worthy bur- 
 o-ess of the town, who had been favorable to the in- 
 terest of the Earl of Desmond, and was, therefore, 
 now left in peaceable possession of his property. The 
 room in which the knight woke was somewhat small 
 in its dimensions. It was floored and wainscoted with 
 oak of an extremely dark color; but its gloom was 
 dissipated by a beautifully-carved, stone-sashed win¬ 
 dow, which threw the morning light, in ^ cheerful 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 49 
 
 stream, upon the wall and floor. The knight’s first 
 sensation on awaking was of a racking j3ain in his 
 head and every member of his body. He endeav¬ 
 ored to turn himself upon his curtained bed, but 
 could not; while, at the same time, he was half-con¬ 
 scious of the presence of another person in the 
 room, whom he tried to speak to, but, in a few mo¬ 
 ments, fell into a half-awake and dreamy stupor 
 again. While this lasted, he was aware of a voice 
 singing beside him in a low, sweet cadence ; and, as 
 he recovered again, he could distinguish the words 
 of the song. They floated through his mind with a 
 soothing sweetness, rendered doubly sweet by their 
 contrast with the clang and crash of battle that rang 
 so loudly in his ears on the evening before. The 
 voice sang as follows the words of an old love-song 
 of the period; — 
 
 I met within the greenwood wild 
 Mj own true knight that loved me dearly. 
 
 When summer airs blew soft and mild, 
 
 And linnets sang, and waves rolled clearly; 
 
 And, oh ! we pledged such loving vows. 
 
 In moss-grown glade, all green and rilly. 
 
 Where lightly waved the rustling boughs 
 ^Mid thy dear woods, sweet Imokilly! 
 
 I met my love in festive hall, 
 
 'Mid lords and knights and warriors fearless; 
 
 And there my love, among them all. 
 
 To my fond heart was ever peerless ; 
 
 And he was fond, and time could ne’er 
 His love for me make cold and chilly : 
 
50 
 
 THE MASTER OF LIS FIN RY. 
 
 Ah ! then I knew nor grief nor care, 
 
 ’Mid thy green woods, sweet Imokilly ! 
 
 From Rincrew’s turrets, high and hoar. 
 
 When autumn floods were wildly sweeping, 
 
 I saw my love ride to the shore, 
 
 I saw him in the torrent leaping. 
 
 To meet me ’neath the twilight dim. 
 
 In bowery nook, secure and stilly ; 
 
 But the ruthless waters swallowed him. 
 
 By thy green woods, sweet Imokilly ! 
 
 The knisfht now made an endeavor to see the per- 
 son of the singer; but, in turning over for that 
 purpose, he threw his weight upon his left arm, 
 which had been broken on his falling beneath the 
 axe of Gurth, and the sudden spasm of pain occa¬ 
 sioned by the movement made him fall backward 
 with a heavy groan. He was, however, on looking 
 up once more, more than compensated tor the pain 
 he caused himself. A young and beautiful girl was 
 bending over him, and regarding him with a look in 
 which a modest shyness was blended with anxiety 
 and compassion. Her long yellow hair, falling in 
 shining tresses upon her shoulders, almost touched 
 the face of the knight as he looked up half-woncler- 
 struck; and she adjusted the bed-covering so 
 gentl} , and handled his wounded arm so tenderly, 
 that he beg-an to think himself in a dream, in which 
 
 O 
 
 some brio-ht anscel had come near, and was minister- 
 
 o o 
 
 iim to his wants. But the eftects of the swoon were 
 
 O 
 
 now gradually disappearing from his brain; and he 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 51 
 
 began to recollect himself; and to remember the 
 events of the preceding day. He now began to 
 raise himself with more care, and endeavored to ask 
 a few questions; but the young girl put her hand 
 to her lips, and motioned him that he was to keep 
 silence, and to try and sleep once more. He lay 
 back, and fell into a sweet and long sleep, from which 
 he was only awaked towards evening by the step 
 of some one entering the room. It was the kind 
 leech, an old monk, who had set his arm the preced- 
 ing night, and bound up the great axe-wound in his 
 head; and he was now coming to see how his patient 
 was progressing. 
 
 “James of Lisfinry,” said the monk, “the town 
 is in possession of my kinsman, the Desmond, who 
 has declared, that, were it not for thy tact and thy 
 bravery, he would be outside the walls still.” 
 
 “Who art thou?” answered the knight. “iVrt 
 thou Gerald the monk, whose life I saved at the 
 foray of Sliabh Gua ? ” 
 
 “I am Gerald the Franciscan,” said the monk; 
 “ and, by God’s special grace, I am enabled and pre¬ 
 served to pay back the debt,— to set thy broken 
 arm aright, and to bind up the great wound in thy 
 head, through which thy life was fast oozing last 
 eventide.” 
 
 “Hast thou found the child of thy brother, the 
 murdered Knight of Barna? ” asked the knight. 
 
 “No,” said the monk. “It was in my wanderings 
 to find her that the vassals of Ormond caught mo 
 
52 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 at Sliabh Gua, and took me for a spy; and then my 
 wanderings would have ceased, were it not for thy 
 onslaught on my captors. Alas! since the night of 
 the murder of my brother and his followei-s, in his 
 House of Barn a, I have wandered for years, but 
 can find no traces of the poor little maiden. It 
 is ten years now since the murderers confessed before 
 they died, that they forgot and left her behind at 
 their camping-place in the forest. She was but seven 
 years old then, and, ah me ! I fear she died of hun¬ 
 ger and cold, or that the wolves fell upon lier; and 
 she was the last remnant of a once brave and o’al- 
 
 O 
 
 lant house. As for thee, knight,” he continued, 
 after a pause, “ thou wantest but quiet and sleep, 
 and a good nurse, and tliou wilt soon be able to take 
 into thy hands and wield tliat good sword of thine, 
 that did thy work so well upon our persecutors 
 yesterday.” 
 
 “Ah!” said the knight, “had I the nurse that 
 watched over me this morning! ” But he recollected 
 himself, and changed the conversation. “Think 
 you,” he continued, “that'the English will return 
 again, and attempt to recajature the town? Would 
 that I were sound in head and limb ere they did 
 sol” 
 
 “ I know not,” answered the monk. “ But, in the 
 mean time, your best chance, under a watchful 
 Providence, for getting into bodily soundness again, 
 is to speak little, and to keep quiet, and fi-ee from 
 mental trouble.” 
 
THE MASTER OF TASFIKRY. 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 We shall now leave the Knight of the Red 
 Plume to his repose, and follow for a time the for¬ 
 tunes of the old monk’s niece, the Orphan of Barna, 
 About ten years anterior to the time of the fore¬ 
 going incident, there stood an old castellated man¬ 
 sion in a deep gaji, or pass, on the southern declivity 
 of Sliabh Gua, or Knockmeledown Mountains. In 
 this mansion dwelt Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, or, as he 
 was more frequently called, the Knight of Barna, 
 together with his young daughter, and a few follow¬ 
 ers. The knight’s wife had died a few years before; 
 and he, disabled by wounds and hardships in the 
 Desmond wars, had retired to spend the remainder 
 of his life in his House of Barna, and to bring up his 
 young daughter, the sweetest little flower that ever 
 Ifloomed in that wild and turbulent district. 
 
 This district was, in fact, another Debatnble 
 Land, under the jurisdiction, at one time, of the 
 Earl of Desmond, and at others overrun and held 
 in subjection by the great rival House of Ormond; 
 so that the only protection for any man, lord, or 
 vassad holding territory there, was his owm watch- 
 tulness, cunning, or bravery. The Knight of Barna, 
 however, deemed himself secure enough, being a 
 near kinsman of the Earl of Desmond; and thei'e- 
 fore less liable to the chances of being plundered 
 
54 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 than the other followers of that great earl; and, 
 dwelling also on that sIojdo of the mountains farthest 
 from the territory of Ormond, he therefore re¬ 
 tained but a few followers in his service, who could, 
 at best, keep but scant watch and waixl around his 
 dwelling of the gap : but time showed him the bit¬ 
 ter foolishness of such neglect. 
 
 One March night, the Robber of Coumfay, a 
 fierce and implacable enemy of the Desmond vas¬ 
 sals, sat with his followers upon the summit of a 
 steep hill that overlooked the House of Barna. 
 The robber himself was in the act of addi-essing his 
 worthy comrades; and it was evident, from his 
 remarks, that they had just held a council of war, 
 and were now making preparations for attacking 
 the mansion beneath them. 
 
 “ For myself,” said the robber, at the' conclusion 
 of his address, — “for myself, I want but tlie head of 
 the burning old murderer himself. He hanged my 
 brother at the gate of Youghal; and he would have 
 broken myself upon the wheel, had I not mined my 
 dungeon and fled,— and fled, to have this night of 
 plunder and sweet revenge ! ” 
 
 “ He burnt my home by the banks of Hier,” ex¬ 
 claimed a wild-looking young fellow from the centre 
 of the throng; “ and he lopped off my father’s head 
 with one sweep of his sword, at the ford of Dangan: 
 and I say, burning for burning, and head for head! ” 
 
 “ I had my skean at tlie throat of his nephew at 
 the battle of Lisroe,” said a small, dark-complexioned 
 
THE MASTEll OF LISFINIiY. 
 
 55 
 
 mnn near the chief; “ and I reinerabered the wrongs 
 of my race, and would have my trusty skean steeped 
 to the hilt in his blood, only for the charge of 
 the Knight of Kin crew, who bore down like a 
 torrent with his men-at-arms upon us, and gave 
 me this with a back-slash of his sword,” continued 
 he, baring his breast, and exhibiting to those about 
 him the mark of a great wound extending from the 
 shoulder across his breast-bone. “ But to-niorht we 
 
 O 
 
 can pay back all.” 
 
 “Yes, and pay yourselves,” exclaimed the Robber 
 of Coumfay; “for tlie old wolf of Barna has more 
 gold in liis house than the mad Knight of Dangan, 
 who shod his horse with it, Down, then, and fol¬ 
 low me; and each man shall have his own revenge, 
 and tlie fair share of spoil that pertains to his degree 
 among us.” 
 
 Not a word was spoken as the robbers descended 
 the hill towards the devoted House of Barna. Ko 
 watch-dog howled from the courtyard, no sentinel 
 looked forth, as that fierce- and merciless body of 
 marauders surrounded the house, and blocked up 
 tlie gate and every outlet by which the hapless 
 sleepers inside might have a chance of escaping. 
 The night was intensely dark, notwithstanding 
 which the robbers crouched down closely by the 
 walls and hedges, while their chief, advancing from 
 the gateway, with his long cloak muffled closely 
 around him, sat himself cpiietly down in the middle 
 of the courtyard. Here he set up a long, wild, 
 
1 
 
 56 the master of lisfinry. 
 
 wailing cry, like that of a woman in distress, and 
 continued it, louder and shriller, until at length a 
 small window or spy-vent was opened beside tlie 
 door of the mansion, and a head protruded through 
 the orifice. 
 
 “What dost thou here, thus so late and untime¬ 
 ly?” said a voice wliich the robbers recognized at 
 once as that of the Knio-ht of Barna. “ What 
 bringest thou here, woman? and why dost thou dis¬ 
 turb my house with thy mad wailing ? ” 
 
 “ Lord of Barna,” answered the robber, feigning 
 with practised skill the voice of a woman, “ J am 
 Oona, the wife of Shane Gar of the glen. The rob¬ 
 bers from the Ormond’s laud beset our house at the 
 nightfall: they burned all, and killed iny husband 
 and my cliildren ; and I am here for shelter and 
 vengeance! ” 
 
 There was now a prolonged undoing of bolts at 
 the strong, iron-studded door, during which the 
 Robber of Coumfay stole over and stood silently 
 beside the jamb, under, the black shadow of the 
 porch. The door was now cautiously opened, and 
 the knight, half-dressed, stepped forth ; but scarcely 
 had he done so, when a strong hand clutched him 
 by the naked throat, and the robber’s dagger was 
 plunged and drawn, and plunged quickly again into 
 his heart. He fell across his own door-step with one 
 heavy groan, and never stirred more. The robber 
 now yelled out a wild and exulting cry, at whiph 
 his companions, rushing from their hiding-places, 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 57 
 
 broke into the house, and began to plunder. The 
 affrighted servants were all killed, either in their 
 beds, or defending themselves upon the staircases; 
 and the robbers, now having their fill of plunder, 
 assembled in the courtyard, and prepared to set fire 
 to the house. 
 
 “The daughter, the daughter!” exclaimed several 
 voices, as they recollected that she was still unfound, 
 and inside. “Bring her out, and we’ll yet have a 
 ransom for her! ” 
 
 “Leave her inside,” said the small dark man who 
 had spoken at the consultation upon the hill. “ Leave 
 her inside, I say; and then we’ll have our revenge 
 upon the old wolf of Barna, root and branch.” 
 
 The expected ransom, however, carried the motion 
 against the last speaker; and, in a few moments, the 
 knight’s daughter was found, cowering, and almost 
 dead with affright, upon the stairs, and brought into 
 the midst of her father’s murderers. One of them 
 brought out a small cloak, and, Avrapping it around 
 the child, took her in his arms, and, by the order of 
 his chief, prepared for their wild journey homeward 
 throuQ-h the forest. The house Avas uoav set fire to 
 in several places; and, by the light of the blazing 
 I'oof, the robbers, Avith their spoil, turned off quickly 
 toAvard the mountains. 
 
 There Avas a small green glade by the bank of a 
 little stream that fell into the Suir, down that de¬ 
 clivity of the Knockmeledown Mountains facing the 
 plain of Tipperary, and farthest from the luckless 
 
58 
 
 THE MASTER OF LIS FINE Y. 
 
 House of Barna. Here, some time before daybreak, 
 the robbers halted in order to divide the spoil, and 
 to take some refreshment after their night of fatigue 
 and blood. The man that held the young Orphan 
 of Barna, now laid her down under a tree by a 
 small pathway, where, tired out by the motion of 
 the wild retreat across the mountains, the poor little 
 thing fell into a deep and quiet slumber. Little did 
 the poor child dream at that moment, on her chilly 
 bed, that the headless body of her father, and her 
 father’s vassals, and her native home of Barna, were 
 one undistingnishable mass of black and burnt 
 ashes, and that the eyes that once looked pleasantly 
 upon her were dim and rayless, and the lips that 
 often kissed her pretty cheeks were bloodless, and 
 parted by the agony of a violent death, a few 
 perches beneath her upon the green. The Robber 
 of Coumfay, one of the most bloodthirsty and mer¬ 
 ciless freebooters of the time, had brought his share 
 of the spoil with him, — namely, the head of the 
 Knight of Bai’iia; and had laid it beside him as he 
 sat in the midst of the glade, among his companions. 
 Under the superintendence of their leader, the spoil 
 was soon divided satisfactorily among the robbers, 
 and they all now prepared to refresh themselves. 
 
 “ Paudheen Gob, come forth,” said the leader, 
 “and give us a morsel of that bread of yours, and a 
 draught of the red wine you brought so well 
 through the forest. You must have the largest 
 draught yourself for your pains.” 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 59 
 
 The worthy distinguished by the delightful appel¬ 
 lation of Paudheen Gob was a half-fool kept by the 
 robbers for their amusement; but he also served 
 occasionally as a most useful and tractable beast of 
 burden. Tlie literal meaning of Paudheen Gob is 
 Little Paddy of the Mouth; but Paudheen himself, 
 like Little John, the bosom friend of Robin Hood, 
 was a most complete antithesis to the signification 
 of his flattering cognomen. He was considerably 
 over six feet in height, with a formidable breadth 
 of body and shoulders, and a small bullet-head, gar¬ 
 nished with a mouth reaching almost from ear to 
 ear, from which tremendous orifice, indeed, he de¬ 
 rived his title of Paudheen Gob. 
 
 Paudheen gave a groan of distress and fatigue, 
 when he heard the call of h:s chief; but the jjromise 
 of the draught of wine mollified his tribulation 
 somewhat: so, arising from wdiere lie had stretched 
 himself among the brushwood, he walked into the 
 centre of the throng of robbers, and laid down his 
 burden, which consisted of some manchets of bread, 
 and a small cask of wine they had found in the 
 House of Harna. The robbers now set to in good 
 earnest, and soon despatched the bread. The wine, 
 in a short time, shared the same fate ; and they all 
 stood up, half-intoxicated, and began to descend 
 towards the plain. They were fully half a mile 
 away from the little glade, before they remembered 
 that they had left the young Orphan of Barna 
 behind them; so, halting once more, the chief 
 
60 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 ordered Paiidheen Gob to retrace bis steps, and bring 
 her with him. Paudheen, not at all relishing an 
 excursion by himself backwards through the ghostly 
 darkness of the forest, began to whimper, and make 
 excuses; but a few bangs from the flat of his chiefs 
 sword across the shoulders made liim dart off in the 
 direction pf the sleeping child. To Paudlieen’s ex¬ 
 cited imagination, as he went along, the black trunks 
 of the trees seemed like ranks of men-at-arms ready to 
 receive him ; and when, on coming towards the spot 
 where they had left the child, he saw a naked frag¬ 
 ment of a tree standing before him in the path, 
 with a few sprigs trembling on its top, and one 
 branch projecting upwards like a spear, his affrighted 
 brain manufictured it into a knight armed at all 
 points ; and, with a start and a bound, he turned and 
 fled back again in the direction of the robbers. 
 “Earla Mor, Earla Mor! ” yelled he, as he dashed 
 along at a mad pace through l^he brushwood, “The 
 Great Earl is afther us wid all his min! Shamus 
 o’Coumfay, save me, save me, or Pm kilt an’ lost 
 this morthial minnit! ” 
 
 Shamus of Coumfay waited until the fool came 
 up ; and then, thinking from Paudheen’s mad gesticu¬ 
 lations that they were actually pursued, he and his 
 companions dashed on in an easterly direction, and 
 took to the mountains once more in order to reach 
 the cave where they were wont to hide themselves 
 and their spoil on occasions like this. 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 It was broad da}diglit when the Orphan of Barna 
 awoke; and there, sitting upon the path, she beheld 
 a small, handsome man, with a gittern, or guitar, 
 across his knee, other extraordinary-looking para¬ 
 phernalia around him, and a young, pale woman 
 beside him, who seemed to be his wife. The change 
 of scene was such a wild contrast to her home, that 
 the poor little maiden began to rub her eyes, think¬ 
 ing it all a dream; but, gradually awaking to the 
 ■ consciousness of her situation, she sank back shiver¬ 
 ing upon her couch of grass, with a low, despairing 
 cry. The young woman now arose, and, with affec¬ 
 tionate care, took the child in her arms, and began 
 to chafe her cold hands, asking, at the same time, 
 a variety of questions. 
 
 When the orphan had answered all, and told the 
 circumstances of her situation, as well as the cold 
 and terror would allow her, the young woman 
 turned to her husband, and began to hold a short 
 consultation with him. 
 
 “I think, Jamie Bell,” said she, “we have fallen 
 upon a good chance. Since our sweet child died, 
 ^ there is no one to dance to thy gittern, or jangle 
 the blitlio tambour, save myself; and I am now, as 
 thou knowest, ill able to do it.” 
 
 Jamie Bell was one of those itinerant jugglers, or 
 
62 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 gleemen, who, at that time, roved about in England 
 from shire to shire, seeming to own no locality as 
 their native place. Jamie’s genius, however, seemed 
 to have been somewhat disregarded in England; 
 so, leaving his native country with his wife, he had 
 landed in Waterford some time previous; and now, 
 rambling about through the English-inhabited towns 
 along the coast, he was doing a most flourishing 
 business. 
 
 “Yes,” answered Jamie, “we cannot do better 
 than adopt her as our own. Besides, she has now 
 no friends that we can find; and were we to take 
 her back, and the wild Irish of that country to find 
 her with us, truly we should stand the blame, and 
 the deep dungeon or the gallows-tree would be our 
 guerdon for saving her. We will keep her, Lucy.” 
 
 “Wouldst thou like,” said Lucy, turning to the 
 child, — “ wouldst thou wish, my pretty dear, to 
 come along wi’ us ? and we will give thee brave 
 spangled dresses, and that pretty tambour yonder 
 to ifiay upon.” 
 
 The orphan only nestled closer to the breast of 
 the gleeman’s wife; but she answered nothing. 
 
 “The dress of our own pretty Maud — poor dear 
 Maud! — will suit her,” said Lucy; and with that 
 she directed her husband to open a box beside him, 
 from which she took a small, light-colored but com¬ 
 fortable dress, in which she quickly arrayed the 
 young Orphan of Barna. Lucy now clipped the 
 long, bright locks of the little orphan; so that in 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 63 
 
 the strange dress, and the strange company she was 
 in, it would be impossible to recognize her. 
 
 For three years the Orphan of Barna rambled 
 from town to town with the gleeman and his wife, 
 during which time she grew more beautiful day by 
 day, and got to play upon the gittern and tambour 
 with unwonted skill, and to do all other things per¬ 
 taining to the office of a glee-maiden. One day, 
 Jamie Bell, his wife, and the orphan were showing 
 off some of their performances before the admiring 
 eyes of the English soldiers, in the courtyard of one 
 of the garrisons in Waterford. Tlie young lady of 
 Barna was dancing to the tune of Jamie’s gittern, 
 when the wife of one of the officers, passing in, 
 stopped to have a view of the performance. After 
 looking at the child, the lady, who was accompanied 
 by her husband, approached Lucy. 
 
 “1 want a maiden, such as yon child, to wait upon 
 me,” said she. “Wilt thou let her stay with me ? or 
 is she thy daughter? for methiuks she bears no 
 resemblance to thy countenance or that of thy hus¬ 
 band.” 
 
 . Jamie, who overheard this conversation, before 
 his wife could answer, came forward. He was, 
 it appears, in great distress, and under some pecu¬ 
 niary misfortune at the time; and now a thought 
 occui'red to his mind that he could easily remedy 
 all. 
 
 “She is not our daughter, lady,” said he. “We 
 rescued her from death at one time; and as she 
 
64 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 was an orphan, with no one to keep her, we kept 
 her, and brought her up, as thou seest. We 
 will give her to thee. What, lady, wilt thou give 
 us in return for her ? ” 
 
 Half a dozen broad gold-j)ieces easily satisfied the 
 conscience of Jamie; but not so his wife, who, with 
 many tears and lamentations, saw the orphan, weep¬ 
 ing bitterly also, led into the gai’rison by the officer 
 and lady. 
 
 About two months after this, while Jamie the 
 gleeman was spreading his fame in the city of Kil¬ 
 kenny, his wife took sick and died. With her last 
 breath, she abjured Jamie to go and get back the 
 little lady of Barna; and rejjresented to him, as an 
 incitement, the assistance she would be to him in 
 his avocation. Jamie promised, although he had 
 but a very slight notion of refunding the gold- 
 pieces, to get back the child; but in a few days he 
 began to feel the misery of being quite alone in the 
 world. So, in a fit of desperation, Jamie set off for 
 Waterford, and flourished so well as he went by the 
 various towns, villages, and castles, that, on reaching 
 his destination, he found his pockets so plentifully 
 supplied, that, without many avaricious qualms, he 
 could easily give back the money he received from 
 the officer’s lady. But it seems it was far easier to 
 give the money than to get back the young orj)han; 
 and the sad reality was demonstrated in a most 
 summary manner to poor Jamie on his demand for 
 breaking up the bargain. He was taken up as an 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 65 
 
 impostor, and put in tlie stocks before the gate of 
 the fortress. All day long, during every moment 
 he could recall his mind from his harsh treatment, 
 and the scoffs and jeers of the soldiers and passen¬ 
 gers, Jamie sat planning how he could repay them 
 for the indignity. He was set at liberty in the even¬ 
 ing, and next day concealed himself by the side of 
 a little green below the ramparts of the castle, 
 where the children of the officers were in the habit 
 of jdaying. About noon, to his great joy, he beheld 
 the young lady of Barna coming out with some 
 children ; and, unobserved by the others, ho beck¬ 
 oned to her. She knew him at once, and came joy¬ 
 fully to him; and the sweetness of’S^amie’s tonarue 
 was such, that she consented to accompany him, and 
 to leave the fortress, of which she seemed heartily 
 tired. They were both soon beyond pursuit, and 
 thus once more the OrjDhan of Barna was leading 
 the wandering life of a glee-maiden. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It is now time to return to the Master of 
 Lisfinry, whom we left so sorely wounded in 
 his bed. After the departure of the monk, lie 
 dozed away into a quiet sleep, but awoke at inter¬ 
 vals during the night; for his wounds were now 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 becoming much more painful than during the time 
 elapsing immediately after their infliction. When¬ 
 ever he awoke, he was sensible, by some light 
 stir or breathing, of tl)e presence of the young girl 
 in the room ; and the feeling that he was tended and 
 watched by such a handsome nurse made his hours 
 of sleeping and Avaking SAveeter till the morning. 
 Then the bright light streamed in, and, aAvaking fully, 
 he looked around ; but the young girl was gone, and 
 in her place stood the master of the house, the 
 woi’thy Hugh Walsh himself, with his portly and 
 good-natured wife. 
 
 “ Sir knight,” said Hugh, “ after the battle, my 
 lord, the Desiliond, did me the high honor of di¬ 
 recting that you should be sent to my house, as you 
 were too weak to be removed. I trust that you have 
 found the humble attendance we were able to give, 
 pleasing, and that you Avill soon be strong, and able 
 to do the deeds pertaining to a gallant knight 
 again.” 
 
 “ I trust so, too,” said the smiling dame. “ The 
 bed, mayhap, is rather hard for the comfort of your 
 Avorship; but it is even softer than Father Gerald 
 Avould allow you, after binding up your wounds.” 
 
 “My Avorthy host and hostess,” answered the 
 knight, “I feel as delectable as man can in such a 
 case. As for the pains that trouble me now and 
 then, it is not the fault of the bed or of the nursing 
 I have got, but o‘f fortune and my Avounds. But I 
 trust I shall soon be Avell; and, as Master of Lisfinry, 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 67 
 
 I shall not forget the kind nursing I am receiving 
 under your roof.” 
 
 Day after day the Knight of the Red Plume con¬ 
 tinued under the kind nursing of Hugh Walsh and 
 his wife, and the lovely Margai’et, and at length be¬ 
 came stronsr enousch to arise and move about, with- 
 out, however, leaving the precincts of his room. It 
 was now nearly a month after the taking of the town; 
 and he was sitting in his room, thinking of some 
 pi'eparations, for on the morrow he was to leave his 
 kind nurses, and proceed to the Castle of Lisfinry, 
 from which the Earl of Desmond had but lately 
 departed with his retainers in order to take up his 
 abode in another castle. The town of Youghal 
 was now in possession of a garrison left there by 
 the earl; and every thing was going on as quietly in 
 its streets as though the crash and clamor of war 
 had never rung along its fortifications, or echoed in 
 its mansions. As the knight sat thus thinking, the 
 image of the sweet girl-who had nursed him so 
 well during his illness continually arose in his mind; 
 and, in spite of himself, a feeling of fondness and 
 tenderness (which he would not, but many would, 
 call love) began to grow in his heart, as he thought 
 of her unremitting and devoted attention to him,— 
 in spite of himself; for how could he, a high-born 
 knight, think of loving a girl, who, however beauti¬ 
 ful, was lowly-born, and, according to the precepts 
 of those times, unfit to mate with any of his class, 
 proud noblemen who looked often down with scorn 
 
68 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFIEUY. 
 
 on those of humbler birth, however wealthy ? Still, 
 he thought he saw something noble about the young 
 Margaret Walsh, in her features, in her bearing, and 
 in her actions. In this mood of mind he was, 
 when, towards sunset, tlie oft-recurring subject of 
 his thoughts entered the room, and sat down — her 
 usual way of keeping him occupied in conversation 
 — on a low chair near him. 
 
 “ My pretty Margaret,” exclaimed the knight, 
 “time, no matter how sweet and delightful, must 
 have an end. We part to-morrow; but, though it 
 will and must be a long parting, the memory of 
 your kindness shall remain with me wherever my 
 fate leads me.” 
 
 “Sir James,” said Margaret, looking up into the 
 face of the knight with an innocent but concerned 
 look, “ the kindness, — if I may call it so,— tlie kind¬ 
 ness I have shown was but befitting from me, the 
 daughter of the Desmond’s most favored servant, 
 to a kinsman of the Desmond. But I fear me about 
 your going in your present weak state; and there 
 are strange rumors in the town, of hostile ships being 
 seen sailing along the coast, and of another siege 
 of the town by the English forces from Waterford.” 
 
 “Ila!” exclaimed the knight: “they dare not. 
 The Desmond is too strong in this territory at pres¬ 
 ent ; and it must be some merchant-vessels the idle 
 loons in the town have magnified into war-galleys.” 
 
 The night had now fallen upon the town, and Sir 
 James of Lisfinry and Margaret were still convers- 
 
THE MASTEE OF LrSFfHEV. 
 
 OS) 
 
 ing; when, all at once, they heard the boom of a 
 cannon from the direction of the harbor. This was 
 followed by a confused murmur and stir in the 
 town; then came tlie booming of many cannons 
 again, and the rattle of musketry ; and no doubt was 
 left upon the knight’s mind, that what Margaret had 
 told him was too true, —that the English had made 
 a descent upon tlie town, and were determined to 
 have it by storm. The knight had not left his room 
 since he first entered it, and was still so weak that 
 he found himself unable to descend the stairs unas¬ 
 sisted ; and his mind chafed within him to think that 
 he should sit there, an idle listener to the contest, 
 and be incapable of rendering any assistance to the 
 gai'rison. Hugh Walsh himself now made his 
 appearance, in the greatest pertm-bation, and said 
 that the English had indeed returned under Capt. 
 White, one of the most zealous leaders on the side 
 of the queen, and had, whether by treachery or 
 bravery he could not say, actually entered the town, 
 and driven out the garrison. He said that the 
 knight’s only chance of safety consisted in his allow¬ 
 ing himself to be removed with all possible speed, 
 and concealed in a small apartment he had prepared 
 for the ])urpose. The knight, assisted by Hugh 
 Walsh and his brisk young shopman, was soon set¬ 
 tled in his place of concealment, a small room at 
 the extreme back of the merchant’s storehouse, and 
 from which a diminutive window looked out on 
 a narrow street called the Sword-bearer’s Close. 
 
70 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFTNRY. 
 
 Yongbal was once more in the possession of the Eng¬ 
 lish. After a few days, however, every thing went 
 on quietly, with the exception of a little pillage on 
 the part of the conquerors; but they now kept such 
 a sharp watch at the gates and on the walls, that it 
 was impossible for the knight to make his escape. 
 So he was fain to content himself with his little 
 prison, as he called it, and the society occasionally 
 of the honest Hugh and his wife, but more fre¬ 
 quently of the young and winning Margaret. 
 
 Day by day the thoughts of the knight dwelt 
 more and more continually upon the loveliness and 
 engaging manners of the young girl. The voice of 
 reason often called back his mind from those day¬ 
 dreams to the plain reality of the case : but the 
 knight was young; and, at his age, the voice of the 
 heart is moi'e willingly listened to than the more 
 matter-of-fact warnings of reason. So, by slow but 
 sweet degrees, he fell in love, and got to think upon 
 his beautiful young nurse with other thoughts than 
 those with which he regarded her on his first enter¬ 
 ing the little chamber in Hugh’s dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was now three weeks after the entrance of the 
 English. The Sword-bearer’s Close was the abode 
 of a number of the prettiest girls in the town, and, 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 71 
 
 in consequence of this delightful fact, became the 
 resort of several of the young soldiers from the gar- 
 I’ison. One day, while the knight and Margaret 
 Walsh were conversing in the little room, some dis¬ 
 turbance arose outside in the Close. Margaret was 
 taking a hasty look through the little window at 
 what was passing, when a young corporal, who was 
 in the crowd, turning suddenly round, caught her 
 eye, and, thinking himself the sole and undivided 
 object of her attention, put on a most amiable and 
 engaging look, left the throng, and swaggered, with 
 the air of a youthful Alexander, several times up 
 and down before the window. Margaret immedi¬ 
 ately drew back, and saw no more of the amorous 
 corporal for that day. But the next morning he 
 was there again, with his steel cap, back-and-breast, 
 and all his other accoutrements burnished up with 
 an unwonted degree of care. But this time, not 
 contenting himself with a useless perambulation along 
 the street, he came over, and gave a glance of his 
 enamoured eyes through the little window into the 
 chamber of the knight, and was rewarded for his 
 devotedness by catching a glimpse of the lovely 
 Margaret inside. Fortunately, the knight was sit¬ 
 ting in a corner which was not visible to the gay 
 corjioral; but on seeing Margaret cast herself with 
 a frightened countenance into the opposite corner, 
 and on inquiring the cause of her trepidation, she 
 told him of the insinuating face at the window, and 
 wariied bini to t)e on his guard. The knight, how- 
 
72 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 ever, in spite of the warning, started up and ap¬ 
 proached the window; but the soldier was gone. 
 Early on the same evening, the knight was sitting 
 alone in his narrow room, and thinking on his situ¬ 
 ation in a rather unpleasant frame of mind, when 
 the coaxing face of the corporal appeared once 
 more, peering in at the window. It was an ill- 
 starred moment for both; for the Master of Lisfinry 
 rendered irritable and over-hasty by the sickness 
 of his wounds, and unable to bear the troublesome 
 curiosity of the corporal any longer, seized a small 
 iron weight that accidently lay beside him, and, 
 flinging it with his utmost force at the forehead 
 of the unfortunate gazer, stretched him, bleeding 
 and senseless, upon the rough pavement out¬ 
 side. Some of the corporal’s comrades, making 
 their appearance at the moment, created a tremen¬ 
 dous disturbance on his account; at which an officer, 
 with a guard of soldiers, was ordered down from 
 the garrison in order to investigate the matter. The 
 result was, that Hugh Walsh’s house and premises 
 were searched, and, as a matter of course, half-pil¬ 
 laged, and the knight’s place of concealment found. 
 The door was instantly forced in ; but the Knight 
 of Lisfinry was not at all disposed to give himself 
 peaceably into the hands of his enemies; and so the 
 first man that entered received six or eight inches 
 of steel beneath his corselet, and fell, mortally 
 wounded, beside the doorway. Several now rushed 
 in; but the foremost, after a few cuts and parries, 
 
THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 78 
 
 got a slash of the knight’s sword, which went sheer 
 through the bars of his basnet, or helmet, terribly 
 wounding him along the face, and stretching him 
 upon the prostrate body of his comrade. Tim 
 knight now retreated to the opposite corner of the 
 room, determined to die where he stood, and still 
 keeping a clear space around him with the sweep of 
 his long sword. 
 
 “Yield thee, sir knight, or whatever we may 
 call thee,” said the officer of the guard, — “ yield thee, 
 or we shall cut thee to pieces where thou standest, 
 or else set fire to the house, and burn thee to cin¬ 
 ders with the worthless rebel caitiif who concealed 
 thee.” 
 
 The latter part of this threat, namely, the burn¬ 
 ing of the premises of Hugh Walsh, with the body 
 of the worthy burgess himself, had far more effect 
 upon his mind than the first clause; so, giving up 
 his sword to the officer, he was marched out of his 
 place of concealment, and lodged quietly in the 
 strongest dungeon of the fortress. There he had 
 ample leisure to think over the impropriety that 
 heroes and heroines, captives, prisoners, and all 
 others in similar situations, are guilty of in giving 
 way to their passions, whether of rage or sorrow, 
 instead of sagely and peaceably mining, countei- 
 mining, and plotting their escape; and there we 
 shall leave him for a time to ruminate over his 
 misfortunes. 
 
 It w'^as in the beginning of autumn. The English 
 
74 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 had held the town in their possession for somewhat 
 more than a month, when once more the fierce 
 war-cry of the Irish resounded along the walls; for 
 the Seneschal of Imokilly, with all the warlike in¬ 
 habitants of that and the surrounding districts, ap¬ 
 peared suddenly from the woods, and surrounded 
 the fortifications on all sides. This time, no herald ' 
 was sent to summon the garrison to surrender. On 
 came the Irish in long lines and thick masses, and, 
 filling the deep ditches with their fascines of brush¬ 
 wood, gallantly scaled the ramparts, amidst a storm 
 of cannon-balls and small shot. The walls were well 
 manned ; but the English, despite their bravery, were 
 soon driven off the ramparts of the castle, and from 
 that to the seaward gate of the town, where they 
 rallied their numbers, and made a last and gallant 
 stand. 
 
 It was just at this moment that the Master of 
 Lisfinry heard the sound of a couple of heavy battle- 
 axes breaking in his prison-door, which feat was 
 soon accomplished; and Hugh Walsli, his shojnnan, 
 and Gerald the monk, stood before him. 
 
 “ Sir knight,”, said Hugh, “ we are free once 
 more; for the seneschal has made good his oath that 
 he would take the town; and has burst over the 
 walls, and driven the English to the sea-gate. Take 
 this,” continued Hugh, giving the knight a long, 
 heavy sword. “ They I’ally there under the protec¬ 
 tion of their guns from the harbor, and, I fear me, 
 will regain the castle again.” 
 
THE MASTEU OF LISFINRY. 
 
 75 
 
 The knight took the sword, and, rushing from 
 the castle, put himself at the head of a body of Irish 
 who were beginning to refresh themselves after 
 the fatigue of battle with a little pillage. “ Lisfinry, 
 Lisfinry aboo! ” yelled his new followers; for they 
 recognized him in a moment. They soon reached 
 the sea-gate; and there the knight indemnified 
 himself so well for his long inactivity, that the 
 English were in a short time cut to pieces almost to 
 a man. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was evening. The knight accompanied Gerald 
 the monk as he went about along the streets and 
 ramparts, applying remedies to the wounded, and 
 shriving those that were upon the iDoint of death. 
 As they crossed down a narrow street, they beheld 
 a dying man before them, with his head resting on 
 a small tambour, and a broken gittern in fragments 
 beside him. 
 
 “ Sir monk,” said the prostrate man, “ I fear me I 
 am about to die. Wilt thou hear what I have to 
 say, and shrive me for my misdeeds ? Quick, quick, 
 for my moments are numbered,” he continued, as a 
 gush of dark blood burst forth from his wounded 
 breast. 
 
 The monk bent down and heard his confession, 
 
76 
 
 THE MASTER OF LIS FIERY. 
 
 and was about to move away in the direction of 
 another group of the wounded and dying, when 
 the man, by a sudden effort, raised himself into a 
 sitting postui’e, and desired him to remain. 
 
 “ Take this,” he said, putting a small gold locket 
 into the monk’s hand: “this I found around the 
 neck of a young child that I discovered, ten years 
 ago, in the forest of Sliabh Gua.” 
 
 “ How ? ” exclaimed the monk greatly agitated, 
 his mind reverting in a moment to his lost niece. 
 
 “ How came she in the forest ? and by what name did 
 she call herself?” 
 
 “ She called herself Margaret of Barna,’’ an¬ 
 swered Jamie Bell; for it was he. “We brought her 
 up, I trust, kindly, as we would our own child. 
 My wife died; and, about two years after, I fell into 
 a lingering sickness myself, and was unable to sup¬ 
 port the child any longer. I came to Youghal in 
 order to take ship for my own bonnie Lincoln, and 
 met a kind merchant standing with his wife at their 
 door. I begged them, for the sake of Him who 
 died for us all, to keep the little girl till I could come 
 back and take her with me to England; and they, ' 
 although they thought she was my daughter, in the 
 kindness of their hearts took her in, and promised 
 to give her a home. Hugh Walsh, I mind it well, 
 was the kind merchant’s name. I came back for the 
 bonnie child; and, woe is me! I shall never see her 
 blithe face again,.” 
 
 The gleeman was sinking gradually during his 
 
TEE MASTER OF LISFINRY. ■ 
 
 77 
 
 story; and, at the last words, his head fell suddenly 
 back upon his beloved tambour, his legs were drawn 
 up, and jerked out with a quick spasm ; and the 
 monk, bending low to help him in his extremity, 
 found that he was dead. 
 
 « 
 
 “ Sir James of Lisfinry,” exclaimed the delighted 
 monk, turning to the knight, who, the while, was 
 standing at a little distance, “ I can tell thee blithe 
 news, — news that, from what I have many times 
 noticed during thy illness, thou ait far more con¬ 
 cerned in than, perchance, thou wottest. My wan¬ 
 derings are ended. I have found the lost child of 
 my poor brother of Barna! ” 
 
 “ How,” exclaimed the knight, a wild and delight¬ 
 ful suspicion flitting through his mind, — “how 
 hast thou found her? and how am I concerned in 
 her discovery, more than befits a knight and a dis¬ 
 tant kinsman ? ” 
 
 “Margaret, Margaret thy kind and pretty nurse,” 
 said the monk, “ is not the adopted daughter of 
 tlie good merchant, Hugh, — she is my niece, the 
 young lady of Barna ! ” 
 
 The monk now quickly explained all to the 
 knight, and continued, “Thou lovest her, sir 
 knight; and I could see from her bearing towards 
 tliee that she loves thee, too, nmll and truly. 
 She is an orphan, but the daughter of a brave 
 knight, and will have her father’s district of Barna. 
 Yet methinks she can nowhere find a braver pro¬ 
 tector or a fonder husband than the young Knight 
 of Lisfinry.” 
 
78 
 
 THE MASTER OF LISFINRY. 
 
 It were long to tell the wise saws, maxims, and 
 gratulations of Hugh Walsh and his portly wife, 
 when the monk and knight proceeded to their house, 
 and explained all. It may be pathetic and amusing, 
 but at the same time it is now needless, to dilate 
 upon the love-meeting of Margaret the Orphan of 
 Barna with her Knight of the Red Plume, and to 
 tell the blithe rejoicings and brave pageants on 
 their marriage-day. Suffice it to say that they 
 were married by the old monk, and that they loved 
 well and lived happily, as, I pray, O sweet reader! 
 thou mayest live, till thou, findest blissful rest in 
 the common home of all human pilgrims. 
 
The Fair Maid of Killarney. 
 
 A TALE OF ROSS CASTLE. 
 
 A mong the almost innumerable objects of in¬ 
 terest that come under the observation of the 
 tourist during his sojourn in Killarney and its neigh¬ 
 borhood, there is scarcely.one whose examination will 
 alford more pleasure than Ross Castle. Too many 
 travellers there are, however, who either do not visit 
 it at all, or, when they do so, pass it by with a glance, 
 thoughtless and cursory. One, for instance, half-be¬ 
 wildered by the countless beauties of our Irish fairy¬ 
 land, will hurry away with a confused remembrance 
 floating in his brain, of wild pass, silvery lake, rain¬ 
 bow-tinted island, and sunlit, sky-piercing mountain, 
 another, equally alive to the natural beauties of that 
 glorious scenery, but with an eye also for objects of 
 legendary, antiquarian, and historical interest, will 
 return to his home, the object of his tour only half- 
 accomplished, for want of proper and reliable infoi- 
 mation regarding the various points of attraction he 
 
 79 
 
80 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 has met with during his visit. By far the greater 
 number, however, with garrulous and flimsy guide¬ 
 book in hand, flit about from Mucruss to the Devil’s 
 Punch Bowl, from the Gap of Dunloe to the Castle 
 of Ross, from island to island, and from mountain 
 peak to lowland shore; and carry away with them 
 on their departure an incongruous medley of badly- 
 told historical facts, hackneyed legends, and newly- 
 invented nonsensical stories, all of which, they, of 
 course, scatter liberally among their friends, both 
 here and at the other side of the water, to the great • 
 discredit of that famed i*egion which an erratic old 
 gentleman of our acquaintance calls in his rapture, 
 the “ tourist’s paradise.” With the purpose of sup¬ 
 plying to the tourist a few items of information of a 
 less hackneyed character, Ave give, as a preliminary 
 to our story, a short account of the spot in which its 
 principal incidents were enacted. 
 
 Ross Castle consisted of a strong keejj and other 
 stout buildings, both of a domestic and military 
 nature, surrounded by the usual baAvn wall, with its 
 breastworks and circular flanking towers at the 
 corners. It is situated upon a peninsula on the 
 eastern shore of the lower lake, and commands a 
 view on every side of the wildest beauty and pub- 
 liniity. Right before it, to the west, the lofty Reeks 
 of Magillacuddy throw up their savage summits into 
 the ever-varying sky; while to the south and east 
 the horizon is broken by the steep, pyramidal crests 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE Y. 
 
 81 
 
 of the Paps, and the Mangerton range of moun¬ 
 tains. To the north, a number of abrupt and irreg¬ 
 ular summits shut in the view; and the traveller 
 who looks from the time-worn battlements of the 
 ancient stronghold will see around him a panorama 
 of crag and wood, curving shore, fairy island, and 
 glittering wave, far surpassing even the pictures of 
 his wildest dreams of splendor and beauty. 
 
 The ross, or peninsula, on which the castle is 
 built, was converted, if we may so speak, into an 
 island, by means of a deep channel cut through the 
 marshy neck by which it joined the mainland. 
 This channel, or ditch, was filled by the waters of 
 the lake, and formed the chief defence of the castle 
 on the land side. It was crossed by a drawbridge, 
 no traces of which now exist. Regarding the pre¬ 
 cise date of the foundation of the castle, or the 
 name of its founder, history is silent. It was prob¬ 
 ably built by some warlike chief of the O’Donoghoe 
 sept, in the midst of whose immense territory it 
 stands. From the style of its masonry, and other 
 characteristics, it does not seem older than the latter 
 part of the fourteenth century. About that date, 
 and in several parts of Ireland before it, the Irish 
 chieftains began to adopt some of the manners of 
 their powerful Norman neighbors; and upon the site 
 of their wooden cahirs, or fortresses, built strong 
 castles of stone, in which they stood many a gallant 
 siege; and from which, at the head of tli'eir follow¬ 
 ers, they often rode forth in wild array, to protect 
 
82 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE 7. 
 
 their borders against those mail-clad invaders whose 
 trade was war, and whose perpetual law was the 
 strong hand, and the might of battle-axe and 
 sword. 
 
 During the vengeful wars that then raged through¬ 
 out the length and breadth of Ireland, Ross Castle 
 frequently changed owners. From the O’Donoghoe 
 More, by one of whose ancestors it seems to have 
 been erected, it passed into the hands of Mac Carthy 
 More, by whom it was transferred, in the year 1588, 
 to Sir Valentine Browne, ancestor of the present 
 House of Kenmare. Passing over its various re¬ 
 verses during the latter Desmond wars, we will pro¬ 
 ceed at once to the most remarkable period of its 
 history; namely, its surrender to the parliamenta¬ 
 rian forces under Lieut-Gen. Edmond Ludlow, in 
 the year 1652. 
 
 After the dismemberment of the Confederation 
 of Kilkenny, several of the generals who had fought 
 under its banners still held out stoutly for their 
 native land, against the Puritans. Among these 
 was Donogh Mac Carthy, Lord of Muskerry, chief 
 commander, in Munster, of the Catholic forces. 
 After his defeat at the battle of Knockniclashy, in 
 the county of Cork, he led fifteen hundred men across 
 t lie mountains, and threw himself into Ross Castle, 
 the last stronghold of importance at that time in 
 possession of the Irish. Thither he was followed 
 by Gen. Rudlow, into whose possession the castle 
 fell after a short siege. The manner in which the 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE Y. 
 
 83 
 
 castle yielded to the pavliamentarian general will 
 be best understood by a perusal of our story. 
 
 At the commencement of the great insurrection 
 of 1641, Ross Castle and the surrounding territory 
 belonged to Sir Valentine Browne. Sir Valentine 
 
 O 
 
 was at that time a minor, under the guardianship of 
 his uncle, who was afterwards slain in one of the 
 battles fought during that destructive and protracted 
 war.* The warden of the castle, towards the termi¬ 
 nation of the war, in 1652, was a distant relation of 
 Sir Valentine, named Richard Browne, a captain in 
 the confederate army. Capt. Richard Browne had 
 an only child, a daughter, named Mabel, who lived 
 with him in the castle. Mabel, at the time, was just 
 veririn" into womanhood, and was a lovely girl; so 
 beautiful, indeed, that she was called by the surround¬ 
 ing people, of every degree, “The Fair Maid ol Kil- 
 larney.” It will not be at all wondered at, therefore, 
 that the young officers who commanded under her 
 father in the garrison should have been smitten by 
 her beauty. Foremost among those who paid her 
 homage was a young man named Raymond Villiers, 
 a lieutenant of musketeers, and a descendant of a 
 stout English settler who had come into that coun¬ 
 try about a century before. 
 
 Raymond Villiers was the possessor of a small 
 but good estate, lying upon the shore of the Main, 
 a river that empties its waters into Dingle Bay. 
 The veteran warden of the castle was well ac- 
 
84 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 quaintecl with the circumstances of the young lieu¬ 
 tenant of* musketeers, and looked favorably upon 
 his attentions to Mabel; but the latter persisted in 
 receiving the homage of her suitor with no small 
 amount of coldness, the reason of which will be 
 understood presently. Thus matters stood between 
 the young pair, until the day of the battle of Knock- 
 niclashy, in which, as was seen above, the forces of 
 Lord Muskerry were defeated by the troops of the 
 l^arliament, under Ludlow. 
 
 The sun of that disastrous day was setting beyond 
 the wild mountains of Dingle, as Capt. Browne 
 was standing upon the battlements of the castle, 
 taking a survey of the warders beneath as they 
 walked to and fro, in their monotonous avocation, 
 behind the breastworks of the massive bawn wall 
 beneatli. Lake and island and giant hill lay bathed 
 in a flood of golden glory around him. The blue 
 smoke from the tall chimneys of the castle curled 
 up in airy columns through the calm summer sky, 
 and the slumbering quietness of the whole scene 
 seemed to exert its soothing influence upon the mind 
 of the gray-haired warden ; for, after taking a quick 
 survey of the sentinels below, he sat himself upon a 
 small brass falconet, or cannon, that commanded 
 the drawbridge, and began musing silently for some 
 moments. 
 
 “By my faith,” said he at last, “but I wish this 
 war was ended, and my daughter married to young 
 Raymond Villiers ! I could then, sit down quietly 
 
THE FAIR MAW OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 85 
 
 for the remainder of my days, and turn ray thoughts 
 to another world, which, alas! I have little time to 
 think of ill this time of foraying and slaying. 
 Rory,” continued he aloud to a wiry little sunhui nt 
 boy who usually attended him on his rounds, “go 
 and tell Mistress Mabel that I am here, and that I 
 want to speak to her for a few moments.” 
 
 Rory disappeared in an instant down the winding 
 stairway; and, after a little time, Mabel Browne 
 made her appearance on the flat space on the sum¬ 
 mit of the castle, and sat down beside lier fattier. 
 
 “Mabel,” said the latter, looking afiectioiiately 
 upon his daughter, “ I have been thinking that this 
 wooing of Raymond Villiers has gone far enough, 
 and that you ought to give him a favorable answer.” 
 
 Now it must be premised that Mabel, only child 
 as she was, took some liberties on that account, and 
 usually contrived to have her own way in the end, 
 no matter how her father threatened and stormed. 
 Whenever she saw his brows darkening, she usually 
 succeeded, by dint of alternate crying and coaxing, 
 in brightening them again; but, on the jiresent oc¬ 
 casion, she knew, by the flxed look of determination 
 in her father’s face, that he was at last bent on 
 carrying his point. 
 
 “ I cannot tell, father,” she answered, “ why it is 
 that you are so eager to get rid of me in these 
 troublous times. As for myself, I would rather stay 
 with you to the end of my days; and you know, 
 also, very well, that you cannot do without me. 
 
86 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE T. 
 
 Think,” continued she, with a smile of mingled 
 reproach and fondness upon her lovely face, “ only 
 think of the time, two years ago, when you sent me 
 to spend the summer with my aunt in Tralee, how 
 you fretted and neglected yourself during my 
 absence, and how, at last, you had to send for me, 
 and could not bear me away ever since.” 
 
 “No matter,” answered her father. “Times are 
 changing now, Mabel. I am growing old and 
 infirm, and there is no knowing the day that I may 
 fall in battle, or die of this cough that is now con¬ 
 tinually troubling me; ” and he pointed to his stout 
 chest, which, if the truth must be told, showed but 
 small signs of the ravages of the complaint to which 
 he alluded. “ If it should come to that,” continued 
 he, “ whom will you have to protect you during the 
 troubles ? ” And he looked into his daughter’s face 
 knowingly, as if he defied her to get over the stum¬ 
 bling-block he had pro|)ounded. 
 
 “ Oh! as for that, father,” answered Mabel, “ I 
 trust in God there is but little fear of it, seeing that 
 you are still the strongest man in the garrison. Re¬ 
 member that I saw you myself last week, leaping 
 your horse over the Wolfs Hollow, a feat that does 
 not show very much weakness or infirmity;” and 
 she gave the gratified old soldier another of her fond, 
 roguish smiles. 
 
 “ I tell you, Mabel,” rejoined he, trying to look 
 sour in spite of himself, “no matter how afiTairs go 
 with me, it has come to this, that I have set my 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE Y. 
 
 87 
 
 heart upon your marrying Raymond Villiers; and 
 marry him you shall, for he is in every way worthy 
 of you.” 
 
 “I am sure he is,” returned Mabel, “ and deserving 
 of a far better wife than I would make him; but ”— 
 
 “ But what ? ” interrupted her father. “ That’s 
 the way you are always putting me olF. I hope, 
 Mabel,” he continued in a yet more energetic tone, 
 “ that you are not still thinking of that wild spend¬ 
 thrift, Donogh of Glenmpurne.” 
 
 A bright Jjlush overspread the features of Mabel 
 Browne at the sound of that name. She looked 
 upon her father reproachfully, her eyes all the while 
 gradually filling with tears. 
 
 “ If I am, father,” she said mournfully, “ I cannot 
 help it now and then. You know there was once a 
 time when you did not forbid me to do so. How¬ 
 ever,” she continued with- a sigh, “I will try to for¬ 
 get him since you wish it; but I cannot, I cannot 
 give my heart to Raymond Villers, because” — 
 
 “ Because he is not worthy of it, I suppose 
 you will say,” said her father somewhat bitterly. 
 “But know, Mabel, that Donogh Mac Carthy of 
 Glenmourne is now landless, and has nought save 
 his sword to depend on; and, by our lady, but 
 that’s but a weak prop to depend on in these dan¬ 
 gerous times! ” 
 
 “ 1 know it,” returned Mabel, her eyes brighten¬ 
 ing as she thought of her absent lover. “ I know 
 that he was robbed of his estate by Cromwell; but 
 that is no reason why I should play him false.” 
 
88 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNET. ' 
 
 “I knew that \Yas the answer you would make,” 
 said her father; “but, notwithstanding, you must 
 wed, and that soon, with Raymond Villiers. Ha! 
 what is that I see? Look, Mabel, look! I trust 
 in God, whoever it is, that he brings us good news! ” 
 And he pointed towards a slope at the eastern side 
 of the castle, down which a horseman Avas ridinsf 
 towards them in furious haste. 
 
 “There must have been a battle foimht!” ex- 
 
 O 
 
 claimed Mabel, looking eagerly upon the approach¬ 
 ing courier, as he still rode on, his helmet and trap¬ 
 pings glittering in the red beams of the setting sun. 
 “Seel he is facing directly for the drawbridge. 
 My God! it is he, it is he! ” And again the red 
 blood mounted to her cheeks, and the tears sparkled 
 in her eyes, as she became conscious of exhibiting 
 such unusual emotion before her father. 
 
 “Who is it?” asked the latter eagerly. “Your 
 eyes are sharper than mine, Mabel; and I do not 
 know him yet.” 
 
 “ It is Donogh of Glenmourne! ” exclaimed Ma¬ 
 bel, scarcely able to restrain herself from darting 
 down the stair to welcome the coming of the 
 young horseman. 
 
 “I know him now,” said her father. “Look at 
 his horse all covered with foam and mire! Look at 
 his plume shorn off, and the sad plight he is in! 
 He is the bearer of bad news.” And with that the 
 old veteran left his seat upon the cannon, and 
 hurried down the stair, followed by his daughter. 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 89 
 
 With a hasty step, ho strode to the drawbridge, 
 which, by his orders, was immediately let down to 
 give ingress to Donogh of Glenmourne, who, in a few 
 moments afterwards, rode inwards, and dismounted 
 in the courtyard; where he was soon surrounded by 
 an eager throng, all burning to hear the news with 
 which he was sent thither. The tidings he brought 
 were sorrowful enough; and shouts of anger, and 
 execrations deep and fierce, were muttered by his 
 hearers, as he told them, how, that morning. Lord 
 Muskerry was vanquished in the battle of Knock- 
 niclashy. After giving this disagreeable bit of in¬ 
 formation with a soldier’s brevity, he followed the 
 warden of the castle to a private I’oom in order to 
 deliver some further instructions with which he had 
 been charged by his general after the battle. 
 
 Donogh of Glenmourne was as good a specimen 
 of the young Irish officer of the time as could well 
 be seen. He was about twenty-five years of age, 
 strikingly handsome, tall of stature, and had that 
 bold, frank bearing that so well became his degree, 
 which was that of a captain of cavalry. To the 
 owner of a pair of bright eyes that watched him 
 eagerly from a little window overhead, he now ap¬ 
 peared doubly interesting as he walked forth once 
 more in his battle-soiled armor, and joined a little 
 knot of officers who were conversing in the court¬ 
 yard. For a few moments only, Mabel regarded 
 him, and then hastened down to her father to hear 
 the tidings. 
 
90 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 “I Mabel,” said her father, “ that you will 
 have but a sorry time of it henceforth. Lord Mus- 
 kerry is now marching with the remnant of his 
 forces across the mountains, and will be here early 
 to-morrow. He will, of course, be folloAved by 
 Gen. Ludlow: so I think you had better get ready 
 and go to your aunt at once; for we are about to 
 stand a siege.” 
 
 “ I cannot leave you, father,” said Mabel; “ so do 
 not send me away. Whatever happens, I would 
 rather stay with you; and, besides, you know that I 
 am safer here than I should be in Ti’alee.” 
 
 “Perhaps it may be so,” returned her father; 
 “but we will think it over. In the mean time, I 
 must go and give directions to have the castle ready 
 for Lord Muskerry and the somewhat large force he 
 is bringing with him.” And he walked out, and 
 speedily called the garrison to arms. The noise of 
 preparation soon rang from end to end of the 
 huge fortress. At last, night settled down upon hill 
 and lake and tower; and all became still, save the 
 tread of the wary sentinels as they paced to and 
 fro along the ramparts. 
 
 About the noon of the following day. Lord Mus¬ 
 kerry arrived with his forces and a great prey of 
 cattle, which they liad taken during their retreat 
 from tlie bloody held of Knockniclasliy. The ram¬ 
 parts of Ross Castle were now crowded with men; 
 and all was busy preparation for the expected siege. 
 The outworks at the land side were strengthened. 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 91 
 
 additional provisions were gathered hastily but 
 abundantly in from the surrounding country, guns 
 were placed commanding every available approach; 
 and at length the castle seemed capable of holding - 
 out stoutly against the well-appointed forces of the 
 enemy. Some of the broken Irish regiments were 
 also encamped in the surrounding woods; so that 
 Gen. Ludlow, when he invested the castle with an 
 army of about six thousand men, had a game to 
 play as difficult as it was dangerous. In such a 
 state of affairs, the siege went on slowly, scarcely 
 a cannon having been fired on either side for 
 several days after the arrival of the parliamenta¬ 
 rian array. Outside the castle, however, continual 
 skirmishing was going on between the enemy and 
 the Irish troops, who occupied several advantageous 
 positions amongst the woods and hills. 
 
 Matters wei’e in that condition, when one even¬ 
 ing Mabel stole up to the battlements of the castle 
 in order to obtain a view of the hostile camp. Plain¬ 
 ly enough it lay, almost beneath her, towards the 
 east; the arnis of its occupants all flashing and glit¬ 
 tering in the sun, and the painted banners flaunting 
 proudly in the evening breeze. As she stood gazing 
 with curious eye upon that martial scene, she heard 
 a light step behind her, and, turning round, beheld 
 Raymond Villiers approaching from the stairway, 
 with a somewhat troubled look upon his dark and 
 handsome features. lie sat himselt upon the battle¬ 
 ment beside her, and for some time neither spoke. 
 
92 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 His troubled and somewhat diffident manner might 
 be easily accounted for by the fact that he had then 
 and there determined to try his last chance of get¬ 
 ting a favorable answer from Mabel. The single 
 warden who watched from the summit of the castle 
 was standing uj^on a small pinnet, or tower, at the 
 opposite side, and could not hear their conversation, 
 which at last Raymond Villiers wound up his courage 
 to begin. 
 
 “I have sought you, Mabel,” he said, “for many 
 reasons. This siege must soon be ended ; for I am 
 sure the fortress cannot hold out against yonder 
 splendid and brave army, and then there will be 
 many changes. You will see, then, why I am anxious 
 to understand your sentiments towards me.” 
 
 “I pray you,” returned Mabel, with a cold smile, 
 “ to explain to me. Master Villiers, why the castle 
 cannot hold out. Surely, Lord Muskerry is strong 
 enough to hold his own here at least, wdiere he has 
 a deep lake, a goodly trench, and a brave castle 
 crowded with men to back him.” 
 
 “That may be,” said Villiers. “But there seems 
 to be some curse upon our cause. Every tiling goes 
 badly with us; and why should this castle hold out 
 when stronger ones have fallen ?” 
 
 “This is language that ill befits a soldier,” an¬ 
 swered Mabel, smiling contemptuously. “You, Mas¬ 
 ter Villiers, were wont to boast loudly enough 
 whilst the enemy was far off. JSTow that he is near 
 us, it seems strange that you cannot keep your 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE Y. 
 
 93 
 
 heart up like a brave man in the emergency. Do 
 not expose yourself too much, I pray you,” she 
 added, witli another smile of contempt. “ Keep in 
 shelter of that battlement beside you, else yonder 
 gun that the enemy seems arranging in the battery 
 on the height may pick you off ere the siege is well 
 begun.” 
 
 Nothinof is so maddening to a lover as a word or 
 smile of contempt from the woman he loves. The 
 temper of Raympiid Villiers was hot and violent; 
 and Mabel’s tone and look enraged him beyond 
 measure, though he strove to hide his anger. 
 
 “ I did not come to discuss military tactics,” he 
 said, with a forced smile. “I am here, Mabel, to 
 decide my fate with regard to you ; and thus I ask 
 you, for the last time, will you become my wife 
 when this siege is over?” 
 
 “Nay,” returned Mabel, “ it would be indelicate 
 of me to consent so hastily, seeing that the siege, as 
 you say, is to come to so speedy a termination. 
 So,” she continued in the same ironical tone, “I 
 cannot grant your request.” 
 
 “ I have dallied long enough,” muttered Villiers, 
 a frown in spite of himselt darkening his features. 
 “This is to be my final answer, then,” added he, 
 turning to Mabel: “ I am to understand, that in 
 spite of my devotion, and in spite of all your father’s 
 commands, you will not consent to be my wife ? ” 
 
 “No,” returned Mabel,firmly; “for my father will 
 never force me to it.” 
 
94 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILL ARNE Y. 
 
 “ You will not, then ? ” 
 
 “No. And now, Raymond Villiers, let us put an 
 end to this forever. You know I cannot be your 
 wife, and you know also the reason of it.” 
 
 “Yes,” exclaimed Villiers bitterly, “I know it. 
 He is here, and you love him. But we will see 
 to it, — by the breath of my body but we will see to 
 it!” And ho stood up, and, bowing coldly to Mabel, 
 took his way down the stairway with a black and 
 revengeful frown upon his swarthy brows. 
 
 Mabel Browne, with the sharpness of a woman, 
 noticed the look, and partly guessed its meaning. 
 Coupling it with his demeanor for a long time 
 previous, from which she judged that he would 
 think little of changing sides in the war, she de¬ 
 termined, for her own sake, and for the sake of the 
 castle of which her father was warden, to watch his 
 motions narrowly for the future. But for several 
 days afterwards, during which the siege began to 
 grow somewhat hotter, she saw nothing in the con¬ 
 duct of Raymond Villiers to confii*m the secret 
 suspicions she had formed of his fidelity to the Irish 
 cause. 
 
 A week had now passed away. It was midnight. 
 Beneath'the black gloom that shrouded lake and 
 castle and giant mountain, a tall figure, mufiled in 
 a long military cloak, glided along the rampart 
 towards a sentinel who stood beside the western 
 turret, facing the water. The sentinel turned, and 
 demanded the watchword for the night. It was 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILLAllNEY. 
 
 95 
 
 given; and the tall figure moved down to the 
 water’s edge, and, stepping cautiously into one of 
 the three small boats that were moored beneath the 
 shadow of the tower, took the oars, and shoved it 
 silently out into the lake. By and by another muf¬ 
 fled figure, evading the observation of the sentinel 
 in the darkness, stole silently beneath the rampart, 
 and, stepping into one of the remaining boats, put 
 it off in a similar manner. The first boat glided 
 noiselessly across the lake, and, at last, landed its 
 occupant upon the shore, above which was situated 
 the camp of the parliamentarians. The second, 
 also, followed stealthily in its wake; but, stopping 
 some distance from the shore, turned back again, 
 after a short time, towards the castle. As it glided 
 in beneath the shadow of the western tower, the 
 figure which it bore left it, and soon gained the 
 courtyard unobserved. It then glided up a stairway 
 of the castle ; and, entering a little chamber, the 
 long cloak that muffled it was cast upon the floor, 
 and the lovely face of the Fair Maid of Killarney 
 was revealed in the light- of a small taper that was 
 burning upon a table near the fireplace. 
 
 “ Whoever he is,” slie said, as she sat herself 
 beside the table, “ he is a traitor. But I Avill wait 
 and watch ; and assuredly I will find him, or my 
 name is not Mabel Browne.” 
 
 Meanwhile let us follow Raymond Villiers; for 
 he it was that had gone upon his dark midnight 
 mission across the lake. After narrowly escaping 
 
96 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 being shot by the advanced sentinel of the enemy, 
 he contrived to make his purpose known, and was 
 soon conducted into the presence of Gen. Ludlow. 
 
 “ What dost thou want ? ” said the stern Puritan 
 general, in a surly tone at being awaked from his 
 first slumbers. “ Why didst thou not come in the 
 light of day with thine errand, whatever it is ? ” 
 “For the best reason in the world, general,” 
 answered Villiers. “ If any of my own people saw 
 me, my life would not be worth a silver crown. I 
 come from the fortress yonder.” 
 
 “Ha!” exclaimed Ludlow, “I begin to under¬ 
 stand thee now. Wliat of the castle? and hast 
 thou any method by which we can take it speed¬ 
 ily?” 
 
 “You will never take it by your present tactics,” 
 answered Villiers; “for the garrison is well.manned, 
 and they have abundance of provisions, besides the 
 natural strength of the place. I am a lieutenant of 
 musketeers. If I succeed in gaining you a passage 
 across the drawbridge, or point out another method 
 by which you can take the castle, will you give me 
 the same rank in your army ? ” 
 
 “Gladly, gladly!” answered Ludlow, who knew 
 but too well the strength of the garrison. “ And 
 now, in case thou canst not betray the drawbridge 
 to us, — obtain passage over it for us, I mean, — 
 what is thine other method? ” 
 
 “There is a prophecy, regarding Ross Castle,” 
 answered Villiers, “ which the majority of those 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 97 
 
 who now defend the castle believe in with their 
 hearts and souls; and, when they see this accom¬ 
 plished, I will stake my life they will yield the 
 castle to you on the easiest terms. It is this, — that 
 Ross Castle can never be taken till the enemy sail 
 in a fleet of ships upon the lake. Can you not • 
 accomplish the prophecy?” 
 
 “ I think so,” answered the Puritan general, after 
 a long pause, during which he sat thinking intently. 
 “Ho, there!” continued he to the grim orderly, 
 who stood guard at the door of his tent: “ summon 
 hither Scout-master-general Jones, and say that I 
 want to consult with him on a most important 
 matter.” 
 
 In a short time, the scout-master-general made 
 his appearance; and there followed a long consulta¬ 
 tion, at the end of which Raymond Villiers took his 
 departure, and succeeded in reaching his quarters in 
 Ross Castle unobserved. The result of Ludlow’s 
 consultation was, that, in case Villiers failed in 
 otherwise betraying the castle, Scout-master-gene¬ 
 ral Jones undertook to procure and transport from 
 Kinsale to Castlemain Bay, and thence overland to 
 the parliamentarian camp, the materials, ready 
 made, of a fleet of heavy gunboats, with which 
 they could attack the castle from the lake. 
 
 Two days passed away, during which Villiers 
 found that there was but small chance of betraying 
 the drawbridge of the castle to the enemy. He 
 therefore finally resolved to leave the place, and go 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNET. 
 
 over as secretly as lie could to the hostile camp. It 
 was thus, that, about midnight, he contrived to pro¬ 
 cure a boat as before, and make his way across the 
 lake. This time, however, Mabel Browne, who con¬ 
 stantly watched his motions, and who now sat 
 concealed beneath the dark shade of the wall, knew 
 his features as he glided past, and followed him, as 
 she did the other night, over the water. As he 
 stepped upon the land, an unlucky splash of Mabel’s 
 oar caught his ear. He stood, and, peering outward 
 through the darkness that overhung the water, 
 caught sight of the boat and the figure that sat 
 therein, which he, of course, thought was that of a 
 man. A fierce frown of vengeance contracted his 
 dark brow; and, drawing a long pistol from his belt, 
 he fired at the indistinct figure. The next moment, 
 a wild shriek of agony and terror rang over the 
 dark lake; and Mabel Browne, with her arm broken 
 between the elbow and shoulder, dropped like a 
 wounded bird into the bottom of the boat. For¬ 
 tunately, a smart breeze was blowing at the time 
 from the eastward, and floated the boat towards the 
 opposite shore of the lake, else the poor wounded 
 Maid of Ross would have fallen into the ruthless 
 hands of the parliamentarian soldiers. 
 
 The report of the pistol, and the wild shriek of 
 Mabel, were followed by loud confusion in castle and 
 hostile camp. Each side thought that the pistol- 
 shot was a signal for an attack of some kind. Men 
 hurried to and fro by rampart and trench. The 
 
THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 99 
 
 cannon on both sides opened fire for a short interval 5 
 but at length all settled down quietly again, and the 
 night passed away. Little did they know that 
 nisht, in the Castle of Ross, of the terrible agony 
 their warden’s daughter endured beside the solitary 
 shore of the lake, to which the boat was driven by 
 the breeze. 
 
 The dawn was faintly tinging the eastern sky, when 
 the Fair Maid of Ross awoke froiv one of the long 
 swoons into which she had fallen since she had re¬ 
 ceived the treacherous shot of Raymond Villiers. 
 There was now light enough, but she had scarcely 
 sense left to look around her. tier arm was lying 
 helplessly by her side; her dress and the bottom of 
 the boat were all stained with blood; and, as she 
 endeavored to move herself so as to get a view of 
 where she was, a sharp pang shot through the 
 wounded limb, and, with a faint scream of anguish, 
 she dropped back again into her former position in 
 the boat. Then the precipitous, forest-girded shore 
 above her seemed to whirl in a weird and tenable 
 dance before her eyes ; and another swoon relieved 
 her for a time from the torture of her wound. 
 
 When she next awoke to consciousness, it was 
 with a cooling and somewhat pleasant sensation. 
 She opened her eyes; and the first object they fell 
 upon was the welcome and pitying face of Donogh 
 of Glenmourne. He was standing over her in the 
 little boat, washing the blood from her neck and 
 arm, and sprinkling the cool water gently over her 
 
100 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 face. All was soon explained. Donogh, who com¬ 
 manded a party of horse amid the woods, was re¬ 
 turning from a reconnoitring excursion by the shore, 
 and thus found her whom he little expected to see 
 in such a woful state that breezeless summer morn- 
 ins:. When she told him, as well as her weakness 
 would permit her, of the treachery of Raymond 
 Villiers, and how it was from his murderous shot 
 she had received her wound, Donogh swore a stern 
 oath, that, ere many days should elapse, he would 
 avenge the deed surely and suddenly upon the head 
 of his perjured rival. Before another hour was 
 over, Mabel Browne, to the surprise and consterna¬ 
 tion of her stout old father, was lying in her little 
 chamber in Ross Castle, awaiting the coming of 
 the surgeon who attended Lord Muskerry’s army. 
 IJnder the care of that, scientific worthy, her frac¬ 
 tured arm was bound up; and, in a few days, the 
 fever that followed her mishap passed away, and she 
 was pronounced out of danger. 
 
 Meanwhile the siege went on. The parliamenta¬ 
 rian general pushed his approaches nearer and nearer 
 to the castle; and the cannon and small arms on 
 both sides rattled away most industriously every 
 day from morning until night. About ten or a 
 dozen days after the .occurrence of tlie foregoing 
 events, two horsemen might have been seen riding 
 ill wild haste over the mountains, and approaching 
 the north-western shore of the lake. It was Donogh 
 of Glenmourne and one of the dragoons belonging 
 
THE FAIR MAID OP KILLARNEY. 
 
 101 
 
 to his troop. Leaving his horse to the care of liis 
 orderly, Donogh descended into a secret nook by 
 the water’s side, and was soon rowing a little boat 
 he had taken therefrom, across the lake to the Castle 
 of Ross. The news he brought was, that Scout¬ 
 master-general Jones, with a skilful engineer named 
 Chudleigh, had just landed in Castlemain Bay witli 
 a vast quantity of timber ready hewn for large boats, 
 and was now on his way across tlie country to the 
 camp, escorted by a strong convoy of the parlia¬ 
 mentarians, horse and foot. After giving this news, 
 he again crossed the lake, and soon joined his 
 troop, with which he hovered upon the track of 
 the approaching convoy. As the latter passed 
 through a narrow defile, he fell upon it, sword in 
 hand, with his men, and had a sharp skirmish. He 
 was, however, finally I'epulsed, but not till he had 
 the satisfaction of knocking Raymond Villiers on 
 the head with his own hand, and thus endinof the 
 new career that gentleman of an easy conscience 
 intended running under favor of the parliament. 
 
 The convoy arrived safely at Ludlow’s camp; and 
 the boats, under the superintendence of Chudleigh 
 of Kinsale, were soon put together and fit to bo 
 launched. One fine morning, when the garrison of 
 Ross awoke,*they were not a little astonished to see 
 a fleet of ships, or, in other words, large gunboats, 
 floating upon the lake, with cannon ready pointed 
 at their bows, and colors flying jauntily overhead. 
 All cried, with one voice, that the fatal prophecy 
 
102 
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF KILLARNKY. 
 
 was fulfilled, and that the castle could hold out no 
 longer. Lord Muskerry, seeing the despondent 
 spirit that pervaded his little array, demanded a 
 parley witli his enemy. The end of it was, that, 
 after a long debate, a capitulation was drawn up ; 
 and Lord Muskerry yielded the Castle of Ross, on 
 very honorable terms, however, to the parliamenta¬ 
 rian general. Tliis put an end to that terrible war 
 which had devastated the country for so many 
 years. 
 
 Immediately afterwards, Donogh Mac Carthy rode 
 over the mountains with a score of his bold horse¬ 
 men, and dispossessed the Puritan undertaker who 
 held his House of Glenmourne. The Puritan, per¬ 
 haps, seeing plenty of estates, far larger and richer, 
 going almost for nothing around him, prudently 
 made no noise about the affair; and thus our young 
 captain of cavalry entered once more into possession 
 of his home, in which he and his descendants were 
 confirmed after the restoration. Some months after 
 the yielding of the castle, Donogh of Glenmourne 
 was made doubly happy by his marriage with the 
 Fair Maid of Killarney; and with the light-hearted 
 pair, it is said that the stout old warden, Capt. 
 Richard Browne, lived afterwards, for^the rest of 
 his days, a life of jovial ease and contentment. 
 
An Eye for an Eye. 
 
 - 4 - 
 
 D O you think she will Idve me less, Tibbot ? ” 
 
 Well,” answered Tibbot, leaning back in his 
 seat beside the bed, whereon his young cornpanion- 
 in-arms, Walter de Berminghame, lay pale and ill 
 from the wounds he had got in a recent touiaiey, 
 — “well, that depends much, I think, on the way 
 she has loved you heretofore. If Maude le Poer be 
 the girl you have often pictured her to me, she will 
 be true; but then, if she be like those lightdiearted 
 dames we met at the last revel in Dublin Castle, 
 I fear for you. Wattle.” 
 
 “ She is light-hearted enough, truly,” said Wattie, 
 raising himself uneasily, and looking sadly upon his 
 companion, with one eye (he had lost the other in 
 the tourney) ; “ but then she has always been leal 
 and good, and will not forsake me for this sad acci¬ 
 dent, — if accident I may call it; for all know that 
 it was done falsely and treacherously by my antag¬ 
 onist.” 
 
 “ It surely was,” answered his companion; “ for I 
 
 103 
 
104 
 
 AN EYE EOIi AN EYE. 
 
 saw the deed done myself, and can sijeak fairly on 
 the matter.” 
 
 “Yes!” resumed the other darkly, felling back 
 upon his couch as a twitch of pain shot across his 
 still feverish brow. “ Ah, Tibbot! it was an unman¬ 
 ly blow, to strike me when I was unhorsed and 
 helpless on the tourney-ground. But, by the good 
 faith ot my body, John de Lacy shall pay dearly for 
 it when we next come face to face! ” 
 
 “ That,” said Tibbot Burke, “ may occur soon 
 enough, if you are well hi time to join the march of 
 my Lord de Berminghame and his army northward. 
 The De Lacys have all joined the standard of 
 Edward Bruce; and there will soon be a battle. 
 Stir up your heart, man, and get well once more; 
 and, when we stand side by side in the onset, the 
 best De Lacy of them that comes in front of our 
 spears we will make pay for the unknightly blow.” 
 
 “I care not to meet any one but him,” resumed 
 Wattie. “From him I have sworn to take wlnft he 
 has taken from me, whenever we meet, be it in 
 peaceful hall or on field of battle. But it is hard 
 for me to get well with this trouble on my mind 
 about Maude le Peer. I have not seen her since 
 that luckless tourney-day; but, when I do, I fear 
 me that the loss of this poor eye of mine will make 
 a sad diflerence in her favors, And yet we are be¬ 
 trothed, Tibbot. Surely, she cannot break her vows. 
 And yet,” continued he, with a sigh, “I have known 
 others to break them for a far slighter cause.” 
 
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 
 105 
 
 “ Think not upon it,” said Tibbot Burke cheer¬ 
 fully. “ Why, man, if a poor fellow depended on 
 his mere good looks now-a-days for getting a wife, 
 he would have but little chance of matrimony. 
 Your Maude will stick to you while you have the 
 money, even had you lost both your eyes.” 
 
 “I hope so,” said Wattie, in a more cheerful tone. 
 “ And now, Tibbot, I will pluck up my heart; and 
 who knows but I may be well enough to undertake 
 a journey in a few days? An I be, my first care 
 will be ‘ boot and saddle,’ and off to Dublin to see 
 Maude.” 
 
 “ Good ! ” answered Tibbot Burke: “ and I will ac- 
 comi^any you; for I see-no use in loitering here any 
 longer, when the whole community is up in arms to 
 repel the Bruce. We can then go both together 
 into the coming battle, where you may meet 
 De Lacy, and repay him for the blow that has 
 cost you so much.” 
 
 A week after, and the two young squires were 
 riding across the Pale, attended by a stout clump 
 of.spears, and bound for Dublin, where the army of 
 Lord De Berminghame lay, before commencing its 
 march to the north to meet Edward Bruce, brother 
 to the renowned Robert Bruce, King of Scotland. 
 Edward Bruce at this time, proclaiming himself 
 King of Ireland, was supported by several native 
 princes, together with many of the most powerfid 
 Anglo-Irish lords. 
 
 It was a bright autumn evening as Wattie de Ber- 
 
106 
 
 AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 
 minghame aud Tibbot Burke, at the head of their 
 spearmen, approached the western gate of Dublin. 
 The two young squires were what was called broth- 
 ers-in-arms; that is, a mutual friendship was sworn 
 between them : and each, by his vow, was bound to 
 defend and aid the other in all straits and misfor¬ 
 tunes, with his worldly gear, with his sword, and 
 with his very life, in cases of extremity. 
 
 As they rode onward by the Liffey shore towards 
 the ancient city, they beheld the whole sloping 
 plain, from the river to where Phibsborough now 
 stands, covered with tents, amidst which many a 
 bright spear-point glittered in the rosy light of the 
 descending sun, and many a gay banner fluttered 
 that bore the arms and cognizances of the stout 
 lords and barons of the Pale, who were then gath¬ 
 ered with their strongest muster, waiting for Lord 
 de Bermingharae to lead them forth to battle. 
 
 “Lead the men forward, and procure them a place 
 to camp for the night,” said Wattie. “Meanwhile, 
 I will push on for the city, ere the gates are closed.” 
 
 With these words, he rode down the busy streets 
 of the city, his mind in a strange tumult at the 
 tliought of meeting so soon with the lovely Maude 
 le Poer, who was one of the handsomest and richest 
 dames of the Pale. At length he halted before a 
 huge stone mansion; and there, giving his horse 
 into the care of his gilly, or attendant, he entered 
 beneath the massive porch, and was soon in the 
 presence of his lady-love. 
 
AN' EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 
 107 
 
 “How did she greet you, Wattie?” asked 
 Tibbot Burke, as his companion joined him after 
 next morning’s reveilUe. 
 
 “I’ faith, agreeably enough,” answered De Ber- 
 minghame: “ pleasanter than I thought, notwith¬ 
 standing my disfigurement.” 
 
 “Tush !” said Tibbot. “ Call it no disfigurement, 
 man. I warrant me that your other eye will be 
 sharp enough to pick out your foe from the Bruce’s 
 ranks during the battle, which, they have told me, 
 is sure to take place.” 
 
 “Doubtless but it will,” returned his companion; 
 “ for I think, an I were stricken blind altogether, I 
 could still pick him out amongst a thousand, for 
 two reasons.” 
 
 “Methought,” said Tibbot, “that you had but 
 one reason for encountering De Lacy; namely, to 
 avenge yourself for the loss of your eye.” 
 
 “ An eye for an eye I surely will have,” answered 
 De Berminghame. “ But I now have another rea¬ 
 son for trying a mortal tilt with De Lacy; and 
 that is Maude le Poor’s command.” 
 
 “Good!” said Tibbot Burke, in high admiration 
 of the warlike parting-word of Maude. “ May 
 Heaven send me a high-spirited wife like that! But, 
 ha! there sound the clarions, warning us to pre- 
 ])are for march. You will soon have an opj^ortu- 
 nity of executing the command of your lady-love.” 
 
 In the centre of the camp was a large pavilion, 
 in front of which stood the great standard of Lord 
 
108 
 
 AN EYE FOR AN EYE 
 
 John do Bevminghame, general of the Anglo-Irish 
 army. Before this standard, the general, in full 
 armor, was seated upon his horse, his principal 
 knights and barons around him, giving the various 
 orders for the march. The tents were soon struck, 
 and the followers of the diiferent leaders arranged 
 in stern array behind their various ensigns. It was 
 a splendid soene. The fresh morning sun glittered 
 on numerous spear-points, and flashed incessantly 
 from polished corselets and plumed helmet; and the 
 early breeze, as it blew up the plain, wafted upon 
 its wings the farewell eheer of the thousands who 
 thronged the strong ramparts and battlements of 
 Dublin, as the army, after extending itself into one 
 long line, with a last wild burst of pipes and clarions, 
 took its way northward to the battle-field, whence 
 many of those who filled its numbers were fated 
 never to return. 
 
 Wattie Berminghame and his brother-in-arms, 
 with the spearmen they led, marched on with the 
 centre body, which was commanded by the general 
 in person. 
 
 “ As for me,” said Tibbot, “ I expect ray spurs at 
 last; for I am sure it will be a gallant fight.” 
 
 “And I also,” returned his companion. “ I will 
 either win my spurs, or die.” 
 
 It was a calm, sultry noon when the two hostile 
 armies came in sight of each other at a place called 
 Faughard, near Dundalk. The Scots were inferior 
 to the Irish in point of numbers; but then they 
 
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 
 109 
 
 were led by experienced and renowned generals, 
 and expected a complete victory in the contest, 
 which soon commenced. Lord de Berminghame, 
 who was also a brave and practised general, had 
 taken uj) an advantageous position at the foot of 
 Faughard Hill; and, when the first line of the Scots 
 rushed obliquely upward to attack him, his heavy¬ 
 armed knights and spearmen drove them back with 
 considerable loss into the hollows. By a simulta¬ 
 neous movement on the part of the two leaders, 
 both the armies, wings aiid centres, at last came 
 together with a terrible shock, and mingled in the 
 confusion of a general battle. 
 
 As young De Berminghame and his friend passed 
 out to the front in order to seek some opportunity 
 for distinguishing themselves, tliey beheld an Anglo- 
 Irish knight named John de Maupas, several spear- 
 lengths before them, riding in full tilt against 
 Edward Bruce, who, according to his wont, fought 
 in the van of his army. Bruce and some of his 
 knights were at the moment engaged in a hand-to- 
 hand encounter with the Irish general and a few 
 of his principal leaders, when De Maupas, coming 
 up, struck his spear through the neck of the Scot¬ 
 tish prince, and bore him to the ground, where he 
 was trampled to death by the raging horses. Alan, 
 Lord Steward, who was by the side of the Bruce, 
 whirled round his huge two-handed sword, and, 
 with one blow, slew De Maupas, who- fell over the 
 body of him he had so lately overthrown. 
 
110 
 
 AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 
 “Look, look!” exclaimed Wattie Berminghame 
 eagerly, as the combatants now swayed to and fro, 
 and grappled with one another, man to man. “ See, 
 Tibbot! There goes the De Lacy’s banner beneath 
 in yon boggy hollow. Follow me; for I must find 
 him 1 ” And with that he spurred downward, and 
 was just in time, with his friend, to join in an attack 
 which the Anglo-Irish were making on foot, upon the 
 left wing of the Scots in the swampy hollow. And 
 now his heart bounded with a fierce delight, as, soon 
 after dismounting, he was brought in the rushing 
 attack almost face to face with his hated foe, young 
 De Lacy, kinsman to tlie earl of that name, who 
 was that day fighting on the part of Edward Bruce. 
 About three paces in front of him stood Tibbot 
 Burke, engaged in a deadly struggle with a gigan¬ 
 tic Scottish knight, who seemed to be the comrade 
 of young De Lacy. Poor Tibbot went down with 
 a loud clang, mortally wounded before the Scotsman, 
 who, in turn, was brought to his knee, and slain by 
 the heavy sword of De Berminghame, as the latter 
 bestrode the body of his brother-in-arms. 
 
 “Yield thee, thou blind dog!” shouted young 
 De Lacy tauntingly, as Wattie now turned to him. 
 
 The answer was a heavy blow upon the shoulder, 
 and then a thrust in the eye from De Berming- 
 hame’s long sword. The weapon went right through 
 the brain of De Lacy, who fell dead almost without 
 a groan. 
 
 “ An eye for an eye ! ” shouted De Berminghame ; 
 
jjsr EYE FOR AN EYE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 “and now God and ray lady-love assist me in earn¬ 
 
 ing ray spurs! ” 
 
 He dashed quickly into the thickest of the enemy, 
 and performed such deeds of valor, that, ere night, 
 when the Scots were completdy routed, he was 
 knighted by his kinsman. Lord de Berrainghame, in 
 the presence of the assembled leaders of the array, 
 amongst whom was the father of Maude le Poer. 
 To the latter he was married some time after; and 
 the only regret he felt on the bridal-day was, that 
 his faithful brother-in-arms, the gallant but luckless 
 Tibbot Burke, was not alive to be a witness of his 
 happiness. 
 
The Rose of Drimnagh. 
 
 HATEVER side we turn to around the city 
 
 T y of Dublin, we are sure to meet mementoes 
 that carry our thoughts back to those tui’bulent days 
 when lance and sword usually settled questions 
 which are now adjudicated without disturbance, 
 save an occasional battle of tongues, in our peaceful 
 courts of law. . Many of those ancient fortresses, 
 which, like a crescent chain of watchful sentinels, 
 towered beyond the city for the protection of the 
 Pale, still remain, and raise their hoary heads over 
 valley and river shore, adown which, in bright array, 
 plumed nobles, and steel-clad knights, and men-at- 
 arms rode gallantly forth to battle, where the 
 Aveary creaght lowed, after the foray in which they 
 had been driven from some far-off fastness of Imayle, 
 Leix, or Ossory; and where the minstrel, half-Irish 
 and half-Norman, once twanged his gittern as he 
 went from castle to castle, relating in rousing and 
 voluble stanzas the deeds of the knights of St. 
 
 112 
 
 I 
 
THE ROSE OF DRIMNAcm. 
 
 113 
 
 George.* Among the most remarkable and inter¬ 
 esting of these ancient structures is the Castle of 
 Drimnagh, the subject of many a legendary tale. 
 Could the bearded old warriors who once thronged 
 its halls awake, they would witness many a won¬ 
 derful change since the half-forgotten days when 
 they lived and loved, revelled and fought, conquered 
 or sustained defeat. Where the Asia, or mounted 
 courier, once spurred forth upon his hasty errand, 
 the lightning of heaven now speeds by telegraphic 
 wires to the farthest corners of the land; through 
 the craggy passes, and along the level plains, marked 
 some centuries ago with scarcely a bridle-path, the 
 mighty steam-horse thunders over its iron track with 
 its ponderous load; and, instead of the small city 
 which lay cooped up within its battlemented walls 
 around the castle, a glittering panorama of streets 
 and squares, docks, store-houses, towers, and splen¬ 
 did domes, now spreads outward to the capacious 
 bay, where, in place of the crazy fleets of diminutive 
 war-galleys and merchant-vessels, with their fantas¬ 
 tic prows and carved mast-heads, the huge hull of 
 the steam-propelled ship now rides at anchor beside 
 the populous quays, or ploughs the blue waves be¬ 
 yond the hoary headlands of old Ben Iledar, like a 
 miniature volcano, with its attendant cloud-volumes 
 on the far horizon line. 
 
 * This band of knights was instituted in the year 1475, for the pro¬ 
 tection of the English Pale. A troublesome life they must have led 
 in those days; for there never passed a season over their heads that 
 they did not cross swords with the neighboring Irish clans. 
 
114 
 
 'FHE ROSE OF DRIMNAGH. 
 
 Retaining still some of its ancient appurtenances, 
 such as its moat, curtain-walls, &c., the Castle of 
 Drimnagh presents one of the best specimens in the 
 neighborhood of Dublin of the ancient feudal 
 stronghold. It stands beside the way leading from 
 Crumlin to the village of Clondalkin, and within a 
 few short miles of the city. According to the most 
 authentic accounts, it was founded in the time of 
 King John, by a knight named De Bernival, who 
 came to Ireland in the train of that prince, and 
 received from him a grant of the surrounding lands. 
 From this knight, the different families of Barnwell 
 in Ireland claim their descent. His death occurred 
 about the year 1221; and his descendants held pos¬ 
 session of Drimnagh and Terenure till the time of 
 James the First, when their possessions, after a te¬ 
 dious lawsuit, fell to Sir Adam Loftus. During the 
 great insurrection of 1641, it was garrisoned for the 
 king by the Duke of Ormond, and had the rare for¬ 
 tune of escaping the destruction that followed, after 
 the arrival on these shores of Cromwell and his stern 
 legions. It is still inhabited, and in good preserva¬ 
 tion, and will well repay the tourist who leaves the 
 dust and toil and din of the city, and saunters out 
 along the quiet country-roads, to pay it a visit. 
 Should he linger there, and hold converse with the 
 surrounding peasantry, he will hear many a story 
 and romantic legend of days gone by, the particu¬ 
 lars of which will prove no unpleasing accession to 
 his note-book. One of these we will now proceed 
 
THE ROSE OF DRIMHAGH. 
 
 115 
 
 to relate, and hope it may prove as interesting to 
 the reader as it did to ourselves, when we heard it 
 told one quiet summer evening beneath the shadow 
 of the ivy-wreathed battlements of Drimnairh. 
 
 During the reign of a cei’tain English monarch, 
 whose name we need not particularly mention. Sir 
 Hugh de Barnwell ruled with a high and lordly 
 hand in his feudal stronghold of Drimnagh. He 
 was a stout and stern knight, whose life had been 
 spent amid the commotions of the war that, year by 
 year, raged between the Palesmen and the Irishry. 
 Many a tough battle he had fought, and many a 
 wound he had received, since he first donned the 
 knightly spurs; and it will not be wondered at, there¬ 
 fore, when we mention that he looked upon the 
 native races around with no small amount of 
 hatred. Among those against whom his animosity 
 burned most fiercely were the O’Byrnes, lords of 
 Imayle, whose chief had once sacked his Castle of 
 Drimnagh, and driven the herds pertaining to it 
 ^over the southern mountain barrier, into Wicklow. 
 The chief was still living at the time our story 
 commences, and had two sons, the youngest of 
 whom, named Sir John O’Byrne, was a knight of 
 unwonted bravery. To his great personal beauty 
 was added every accomplishment fitted for one of 
 his high station; and when, at the head of his bold 
 horsemen, he rode down the mountains, on a foray 
 into the Pale, it would be hard to find in the 
 whole wide champaign over which he cast his 
 
116 
 
 THE ROSE OF DRIMFAGH. 
 
 eagle eye a man of more splendid appearance and 
 gallant bearing. Sir Hugh de Barnwell had one 
 son, who was renowned throughout the Pale for 
 his prowess, and for the ferocity with which he 
 always fought against the neighboring chief of 
 Imayle. The following will explain his reasons for 
 hating the O’Byrnes with such bitterness. Living 
 in his father’s house at the time, was his cousin, 
 Eleanora de Barnwell, who, in consequence of her 
 beauty, was called “ The Rose of Drimnagh.” 
 To this young lady Sir Edmond de Barnwell had 
 been betrothed; and matters went on smoothly and 
 pleasantly enough for some time, till, during a truce 
 entered into between the Palesmen and the Wick¬ 
 low clans, Eleanora met Sir John O’Byrne at a 
 nobleman’s house, on a festival-day, in Dublin. Up 
 to this. The Rose of Drimnagh knew little of her 
 heart; but she soon learned to love the young Wick¬ 
 low chief, and, as a natural consequence, to look 
 with coldness and indifference upon her cousin, who, 
 at length coming to the knowledge of the affair, 
 swore to be avenged upon his rival. The truce 
 was scarcely over, when he was up and at work; 
 and many a rifled hamlet and burning dwelling 
 marked his track through the glens of Wicklow; 
 and many a desolate widow cursed his name and 
 race as she sung the Jceen over the bodies of 
 her slaughtered ones, who had fallen beneath the 
 spears of Sir Edmond de Barnwell and his ruth¬ 
 less followers. 
 
THE ROSE OF DRIMNAGU. 
 
 117 
 
 Blit at last a time came when a triumphant light 
 shone in Sir Edmond’s eyes; for he thought upon 
 the day, now near at hand, which was fixed upon 
 for his marriage with the lovely Rose of Drim- 
 nagh. 
 
 “ Once more,”he said, “I will seek the mountains, 
 to find him before the marriage revel. By the soul 
 of a knight, an I lay my hands upon him, but he 
 shall rue the hour! — yes, rue it; for I swear to bring 
 him in chains to look upon the bridal, and then to 
 string him up, as I would one of his own mountain 
 wolves, upon the gallows-tree, before the gate of 
 Drimnagh.” 
 
 It was nightfall as he spoke thus. Little he knew, 
 that, at that same moment. Sir John O’Byrne was 
 sitting quietly beneath the dark shadows of a tree 
 outside the moat, looking up cautiously at the win¬ 
 dow of the little chamber in which Eleanora de 
 Barnwell was sitting, weeping bitterly over the sad 
 fate to which she knew but too well she would soon 
 have to submit. As she sat thus, a low soft sound, 
 like the cooing of a dove, fell upon her ears. She 
 listened intently a moment, then stepped softly over 
 to the single window of the apartment, and, opening 
 the casement, looked out. Again the sound stole 
 up from under the dense foliage that shaded the 
 outer edge of the moat. Eleanora leaned upon the 
 sill, and peered down into the gloom; but nothing 
 met her gaze, save the ghostly shadows of the 
 trees upon the black belt of water beneath. 
 
118 
 
 THE ROSE OF DRIMNAGH. 
 
 “ It is his signal,” she whispered to herself as the 
 sound was repeated once more. “ Ah, me! I fear he 
 will get himself into danger on account of these 
 nightly visits. And yet I cannot, I cannot bid 
 him stay away.” 
 
 She muffled herself in a dark mantle, moved 
 towards the door, opened it cautiously and listened, 
 ere she ventured to steal down and meet her lover, 
 
 “ I must and will warn him to-night to stay 
 away,” continued she, as, with a light and stealthy 
 step, she descended the winding stair, — “ ah! to 
 stay away, and leave me to jny misery. It is hard; 
 but it must be done: otherwise he will assuredly be 
 captured and slain.” 
 
 After stealing down an infinite number of dark 
 passages, corridors, and stairways, she at length 
 emerged into the open air, and glided through a 
 neglected postern, out beneath a spreading beech- 
 tree that shaded the inner edge of the moat, oppo¬ 
 site the spot whence the signal of her lover pro¬ 
 ceeded. Again she peered into the gloom at the 
 other side, and saw there a tall dark figure standing 
 beneath a tree on the edge of the water. Well she 
 knew the graceful outlines of that figure, and fondly 
 her heart throbbed at the sound of the voice that 
 now addressed her. 
 
 “Dearest,” said the young mountain knight in a 
 low tone, “ I thought thou wouldst never come. I 
 have been standing like a statue against the trunk 
 of this tree behind me for the last half-hour, watch- 
 
THE ROSE OF DRlMNAGH. 
 
 119 
 
 ing for a light in thy window-pane. But it seems 
 that darkness pleases thee better. Ah, Eleanora! I 
 hope thou art not still indulging in those sorrowful 
 forebodings.” 
 
 “ And wherefore not, John?” answered she sadly. 
 “ What thoughts but gloomy ones can fill my mind, 
 when I am ever thinking of the danger thou incur- 
 rest by coming here so often, — and thinking, too,” 
 she added, after a pause, “ of the woful fate to 
 which we are destined ? ” 
 
 “ Think no more on’t,” said her lover, in a cheer¬ 
 ful tone. “We have hope yet, Eleanora; for, mark 
 me, thy marriage with Sir Edmond de Barnwell will 
 never take place.” 
 
 “Alas! there is no hope,” resumed Eleanora. 
 “ Even to-day, my uncle, the Knight of Drimnagh, 
 hath fixed the time for — to me — the woful bridal. 
 And thou, John — let this be our last meeting, alas! 
 in this world. Wert thou taken prisoner by my dark 
 cousin, he hates thee so, that he would burn thee at 
 a stake in the courtyard.” 
 
 “ Fear not for that, dearest,” answered the young 
 chief “ And this bridal that thou fearest. Listen, 
 Eleanora. Before the hour comes, or, perchance, at 
 the very hour when he is about to place the bridal¬ 
 ring upon thy lily finger, the gay goshawk may 
 swoop down, and bear thee away to his free moun¬ 
 tains, amid their sunny glens and bosky woods, 
 to love thee, darling, as no other mortal man could 
 love thee.” 
 
120 
 
 THE ROSE OF DRIMNAGH. 
 
 “ Ah me ! ” sighed poor Eleanora. “ Would that 
 it could be so! But I fear that we are fated to see 
 each other for the last time to-night. I warn thee, 
 John, to be wary henceforth ; for I am well-watched. 
 Hush ! Avas that a foot-fall amid the grove yonder ? ” 
 And she pointed to a clump of trees some distance 
 to the right of where her lover stood. 
 
 “ By my faith but it may be so! ” answered he; 
 “ and so thou hadst better return to thy chamber. 
 In the mean time, I Avill wait here till I see the light 
 in thy window once more, and until thou biddest me 
 farewell from the casement.” 
 
 Again they listened, and heard a slight rustling 
 sound amid the trees to which Eleanora had 
 pointed. It ceased; and then the fair Rose of 
 Drimnagh, trembling at the thought of her fierce 
 cousin, waved a fond farewell to her mountain lover, 
 and, gliding once more through the postern, as¬ 
 cended the stairs to her chamber. But the bold 
 Knight of Imayle was not to be frightened away by 
 the sound, whatever might have caused it. He 
 moved in beneath the shadow of the tree, listened 
 for a'time, and, hearing nothing further, advanced 
 again, and looked up to where the light was now 
 burning brightly in Eleanora’s window. Seating 
 himself upon the side of the moat, in the shadow, 
 and still looking fondly upward, he commenced, in 
 a voice low, but distinct, a lay to his mistress, of 
 which the following paraphrase may convey some 
 idea: — 
 
THE ROSE OF BRIMNAGH. 
 
 121 
 
 “ Oh ! wilt thou come and be my bride 1 
 Oh ! wilt thou fly with me 
 
 Where wild streams glide by mountain-side, 
 
 By glen and forest-tree ? 
 
 And thou’lt be lady of that land, 
 
 And like a queen shalt reign 
 
 O’er shore and strand, and mountain grand. 
 
 And many a sunny plain! 
 
 I’ve found a lone and lovely cave 
 Where gleams a little lake ; 
 
 Where the wild rills fling the silver wave. 
 
 And the birds sing in the brake : 
 
 The lake gleams clear, the rills dance bright, 
 
 Down gorge and rocky pile; 
 
 But the darkness of a starless- night 
 Is in my soul the while. 
 
 And nought can light it, save a glance, 
 
 . A beam, from thy jet-black eye; 
 
 And nought can break my heart’s cold trance 
 Save thy witching song or sigh. 
 
 Then come! I’ve decked that cave for thee 
 With summer’s fairest flowers ; 
 
 Away, away, o’er the hills with me. 
 
 To the forest glens and bowers ! ” 
 
 The moment the song had ceased, the fair form 
 of the Rose of Drimnagh appeared at the casement 
 overhead. She waved a fond farewell to her young 
 mountain minstrel, and closed the window ; but the 
 light that shone through its pane had now lost its 
 charm for him, as he had no longer her fair face to 
 look upon. He stood up, and, gazing once more 
 
122 
 
 THE ROSE OF DRIMNAGH. 
 
 at the casement that glimmered like a star amid 
 the dark masses of masonry above, turned to depai't, 
 when he felt the heavy grasp of a steel-clad hand 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 “ Stay! ” exclaimed the intruder in a deep, stern 
 voice, whose tone the young Knight of Imayle 
 knew but too well. “Thou hast a small account to 
 settle, fair sii', ere thou leavest this spot. I am Sir 
 Edmond De Barnwell.” 
 
 “And I,” answered the other, “am Sir John 
 O’Byrne of Imayle: what seekest thou from me ? ” 
 
 “ That thou shalt soon know, skulking hill-cat! ” 
 answered De Barnwell, unbuckling his sword, un¬ 
 sheathing it, and throwing belt and scabbard upon 
 the ground. “There be a certain tide which men 
 call blood, coursing beneath that breast-plate of 
 thine. I seek to discover its fount with this; ” and 
 he extended his weapon. 
 
 “There be a certain tide behind thee which thou 
 art more likely to explore presently! ” retorted 
 O’Byrne. “ Ha, ha! beware the hill-cat’s spring, 
 De Barnwell! ” and he gave a sudden bound that 
 brought him inside the guard of his antagonist, 
 whose waist he instantly encircled with his sinewy 
 arms. There was an inetfectual attempt to pluck 
 forth their daggers; and then Sir Edmond De Barn¬ 
 well was hurled from the stalwart arms of the 
 brave Knight of Imayle, and sent plunging headlong 
 into the black waters of' the moat. Leaving his foe 
 to scramble as best he could from his dangerous 
 
THE ROSE Oi^ DRIMNAGH. 
 
 123 
 
 bath in the fosse, O’Byrne glided through the thick¬ 
 ets, and sought his steed, which he had left in a 
 lonely grove hard by, and was soon riding in head¬ 
 long haste across the plain towards the stern moun¬ 
 tain barrier that lay between him. and his native 
 glens. And now De Barnwell, after extricating 
 himself with great difficulty from the treacherous 
 waters, stood, all dripping, upon the firm bank; his 
 burly frame quivering, not from the chill of his 
 immersion, but from fury at his mishap. Pursuit of 
 his late antagonist was, he knew, of little use now; 
 so, plucking up his sword which lay beside him, he 
 raised the cold steel blade to his lips, kissed it, 
 vowed a'stern vow of vengeance against O’Byrne 
 and his race, root and branch; and then, striding 
 down by the water’s side, crossed the drawbridge, 
 and sought his chamber, where he sat, till long 
 after midnight, brooding over various plans of mer¬ 
 ciless and bloody retribution. 
 
 The particulars of his subsequent cruel raid into 
 the glens of Wicklow it is unnecessary to relate; 
 and we shall now come to the day which his father 
 had fixed upon for the marriage. It was early in 
 the morning; and the fair Rose of Drimnagh, sur¬ 
 rounded by her lovely maids, looked sadly upon the 
 gorgeous Avhite bridal-dress which lay on a table 
 beside her, and which she was at last about to put 
 on. 
 
 “ Ah me! ” she sighed mournfully, “ that it hath 
 come to this! In vain have I watched for him to 
 
124 
 
 THE ROSE OF DRIMNAGH. 
 
 appear in his accustomed place by the moat; but his 
 promise is broken: and what could have broken it 
 but death ? ” And the tears gathered into her eyes 
 as she thought thus of her lover. 
 
 “ Cheer thee, Eleanora! ” said her cousin, a young 
 and gay city dame. “I warrant thee that such a 
 bridal as thine was never seen in Dublin: I only 
 wish I were in thy place.” 
 
 “ Alas that thou art not! ” returned Eleanora. 
 “ Something tells me that what thou sayest is but 
 too true, — that such a bridal as mine was never 
 seen.” And with the help of her maids she now 
 began to don the dress. 
 
 The marriage was to take place in the city; and 
 Sir Edmond de Barnwell had summoned his kins¬ 
 men of the Pale, with all their fierce retainers, in 
 order to strengthen his escort for the bridal-train, 
 which at last, in splendid array, crossed the draw¬ 
 bridge of Drimnagh, and moved along the winding 
 road that led to the western gate of Dublin. This 
 road was crossed by another, midway between 
 the castle and the city, and within a wood which 
 stretched down from the mountains to the shores of 
 the Liffey. About half the bridal-train had passed 
 the cross; and the remainder, with the bride and 
 bridegroom before them, were moving gayly forward, 
 when all at once the wild war-cry of the O’Byrnes 
 resounded from the wood all around, and the next 
 instant a large body of men, headed by the young 
 Knight of Imayle, sprang from their concealment, 
 
THE ROSE OF DRIMHAGH. 
 
 125 
 
 and fell upon the escort front, rear, and flank. It is 
 needless to go minutely into the details of the terri¬ 
 ble fight that then took place at the Minstrel’s Cross, 
 as the spot was called. The escort were at first put 
 to flight and pursued by the O’Byrnes; but, return¬ 
 ing again to the charge, the light kern of the 
 mountains were borne down by their heavy horses, 
 though they fought it out bravely to the last. The 
 Knight of Imayle, after badly wounding the bride¬ 
 groom, was shot through the heart by the old Lord 
 of Drimnagh, as he attempted to seize the bridle of 
 Eleanora’s palfrey. This ended the fray. The body 
 of the young knight was borne away by his follow¬ 
 ers, and buried in the lonely graveyard that lay 
 amid the mountains. The bridal-train, instead of 
 proceeding to Dublin, returned to the Castle of 
 Drimnaofh, where Sir Edmond de Barnwell was laid 
 upon a bed from which he never rose. 
 
 Three days after the fatal battle at the Minstrel’s 
 Cross, Eleanora disappeared from the Castle of Drim- 
 nasfh. Search was made for her throughout the sur- 
 
 O ^ 
 
 rounding country, and even in the neighboring city; 
 but it was of no avail: she was nowhere to be found. 
 At length a party of the O’Byrnes, who were driv¬ 
 ing a creaght of cattle across the mountains, halted 
 beside the solitary churchyard to pay a visit to their 
 young chief, and, upon the fresh sod that lay above 
 his gallant breast, found the lifeless body of the 
 ill-fated Rose of Drimnagh. They hollowed her a 
 
126 
 
 THE ROSE OF DRIMNAQH. 
 
 grave beside her lover; and there, in the words of 
 the old ballad, — 
 
 “ These loving hearts by fortune blighted, 
 
 By sorrow tried full sore, 
 
 In life apart, in death united, 
 
 Sleep side by side forevermore.” 
 
 % 
 
The House of Lisbloom. 
 
 * 
 
 A -LEGEND OF SARSFIELD. 
 
 -•- 
 
 ♦ 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SHOWING HOW ELLIE CONNELL SENDS NEWS OF HERSELF 
 TO HER LOVER.—CONTAINING ALSO THE FIGHT BETWEEN 
 GALLOPING o’hOGAN AND THE CAPTAIN OP BLUE DRAGOONS 
 IN THE SWAMP OF MONA. 
 
 B etween two of the abrupt Ihlls which shoot 
 out upon the Limerick plain from the wild 
 range of Sliav Bloom, there is a deep pass commu¬ 
 nicating with' level country on each side, and send¬ 
 ing down a noisy stream to swell the waters of the 
 Mulkern, that wdnds far beyond into the Shannon. 
 To the careless or ignorant observer, this pass pre¬ 
 sents little to distinguish it from the many in its 
 neighborhood, save its somewhat greater depth and 
 barrenness; but it will at once strike a person- having 
 even a slight knowledge of the art military as a 
 spot of much importance in time of war. In the 
 latter point of view, indeed, it seems to have been 
 
 127 
 
128 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 looked upon by the contending parties in the 
 various struggles that desolated this island in for¬ 
 mer times: and well they might so regard it; for, 
 besides leading directly to an ancient ford across 
 the Shannon, it formed the safest outlet from the 
 fruitful plains that lay, with all their towns and 
 strong military positions, to tlnj^ eastward. 
 
 As you proceed up the pass, about midway be¬ 
 tween its two extremities, a huge mound rises 
 before you, with the small stream half encircling its 
 base. On the summit lie a heap of grass-covered 
 ruins, surrounded by "half-obliterated outworks, and 
 a deep, dry ditch, that, with its bristling palisadoes, 
 must have once formed a formidable barrier against 
 the entrance of a foe. These ruins are the remains 
 of what, about a century and a half ago, was a 
 fortified and very strong mansion, called the House 
 of Lisbloom. 
 
 This house, during the various wars, often 
 changed masters; and at the period to which our 
 story relates was in the possession of a man whom, 
 of all others, and for very plain reasons, the sur¬ 
 rounding peasantry least relished as its loi’d. His 
 name was Gideon Grimes. The father of the 
 worthy Gideon was an undertaker; that is, an Eng¬ 
 lish settler, who had made his home in that part 
 of the country after the termination of the Crom¬ 
 wellian wars, and there, amidst the conquests of his 
 bow and spear, had amused himself by occasionally 
 hunting Rapparees, and, when successful in the 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 129 
 
 chase, hanging the poor fugitives without trial to 
 the next handy tree. The bold Gideon himself 
 followed for a time with a high hand in the foot¬ 
 steps of his departed and redoubtable sire; but 
 with this difference, that, whereas the defunct 
 Roundhead was consistent, and sternly held to his 
 principle of exterminating the poor Irishry by the 
 sword alone, the more sagacious son adopted, in 
 the lapse of time, a safer and more peaceful method 
 of venting his hatred upon his war-broken neigh¬ 
 bors. Making use of the terrible laws, which, of 
 course, were all on his side, he' succeeded in driving 
 several of the poor farmers around to beggary and 
 death, and, seizing their holdings, thus enriched 
 himself and gratified his inborn hatred of the un¬ 
 fortunate peasantry at the same time. 
 
 One instance will suffice to show the methods 
 used by Black Gideon, — for so he was called by 
 the people, — one, too, that had an important bear¬ 
 ing upon his after fate. It happened that his next 
 neighbor was a farmer, named Murrogh Connell, 
 whose ancestors had been gentlemen of large prop¬ 
 erty, but who having been broken “ horse and foot,” 
 as they say, during the great rebellion and the pre¬ 
 vious troubles, had left Murrogh the possessor of 
 only a farm,— a rich and large one, however, at 
 the entrance of the pass of Lisbloora. On this 
 farm Black Gideon had long cast his rapacious eye, 
 concocting various plans for obtaining possession 
 of it, all of which, in one way or another, failed. 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 At last one of liis spies came to him with the valu¬ 
 able information that a number of old pikes and 
 matchlocks lay concealed in a ruinous barn belong¬ 
 ing to poor Murrogh Connell’s farmstead. This 
 was enough. Gideon brought the law down like 
 a sledge-hammer upon his unfortunate neighbor, 
 ruined him, and was just on the point of turning 
 him out of his farm, when the Williamite revolution 
 commenced, the Battle of the Boyne was fought, 
 and the retreating Irish armies took possession of 
 the south of Ireland. This gave a short respite to 
 Murrogh Connell. But the second siege of Lim¬ 
 erick commenced; and the Williaraites, in their 
 turn, occupied all the country to the south and 
 east. So, feeling himself once more in power. Black 
 Gideon drove out Murrogh, Avho, with his herds of 
 cattle^ betook himself to the wild mountains of Sliav 
 Bloom, and commenced the life of a kyriaght, or 
 wandering grazier of cattle. 
 
 About a week after MiuTogh’s flight to the moun¬ 
 tains, his only daughter, Elbe, a beautiful young 
 girl, walked down one evening to fetch water from 
 a spring near their camping-place, but never re¬ 
 turned. Search was made for her far and near, but 
 never a trace of her could be found; and, with 
 bleeding hearts, her father, her tym brothers, and 
 Tibbot Burke, a young gentleman to whom she 
 was betrothed a year previously, at length returned 
 and told the sad tale to her mother. Suspicion in¬ 
 deed fell upon Gideon Grimes who, it was re- 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 131 
 
 marked, had cast his eye upon her as well as upon 
 lier father’s lands; hut nothing certain regarding 
 him or his proceedings could be gathered by her 
 friends, notwithstanding that they watched him 
 closely. 
 
 One bright autumn noon the sun glittered from 
 the spades, shovels, and hammers of a number of 
 men whom Black Gideon had employed to build up 
 the breaches in tim outworks of his mansion in the 
 pass, in order to secure himself from the bands of 
 Rapparees who hung around the Williamite army, 
 then commencing its operations upon the gallant 
 city of Limerick, One of these laborers was a di¬ 
 minutive, brown-skinned, wiry-looking young fellow, 
 who, by the way he handled his spade, seemed no 
 very diligent workman in the cause of Gideon. 
 Under a remote gable-end of the house, he was 
 employed clearing away some rubbish and weeds; 
 and, as he worked lazily under the blaze of the hot 
 sun, he solaced himself occasionally with a little 
 conversation addressed to himself, intei’spersed with 
 some fragments of ballad poetry, the fag-ends of 
 which he ornamented with various delectable 
 choruses that seemed, from the way he doubled 
 and trebled and again dwelt upon them, to soothe 
 his spirit mightily under his distressing labor. 
 
 “Wisha, may the blessed fingers fall off o’me,” 
 exclaimed he at length, as he struck his spade 
 against some loose stones at the base of the wall, 
 «if I haven’t found the very thing’ I wanted ! ” 
 
132 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 He looked cantiousl}'^ round Lira. The laborers 
 were all so busy at the outward wall that they could 
 not observe him. “Dhar Dhia!” continued he, as 
 " he bent the tall nettles that concealed the spot 
 aside with his spade, and examined the spot with his 
 black, glittering eyes. “ Lord have marcy on us, if id 
 isn’t the very hole that my grandfather entered wid 
 his men when he killed every livin’ sowl o’ the 
 bloody Parliamenthers that held Lisbloom long ago 
 in the time o’ Crurnmill! Aisy a bit, Cus Russid! 
 P’raps the time will come when you’ll do as well as 
 your bowld grandfather, —rest his sowl in glory this 
 blessed day, amin ! — an burn the house over Black 
 Gideon an’ his murtherin’ villains. There’s a doore 
 for the brave Rapparees, an’ ids myself that’ll soon 
 take the news to them fresh and fastin’. ” And with 
 that he carefully arranged the long nettles again, 
 and recommenced his work and his song. 
 
 While Cus Russid — we will give him the cogno¬ 
 men used by himself, which means Brown Foot — 
 was hanging on one of the most Elysian bars of a 
 certain chorus, he heard his name pronounced in a 
 low, sweet voice from the single window above him 
 in the gable, and on looking up beheld the prettiest 
 face imaginable, shaded with rich masses of yellow 
 hair, bent upon him with an eager and frightened 
 gaze from between the strong iron bars. 
 
 “ Tundher alive, if id isn’t Ellie Connell herself! ” 
 exclaimed he, wheeling round, and resting on his 
 spade, “ Oh, wirra, wirra! is id here I find you ? ” 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 133 
 
 “Hush !” said Ellie, for it was she: “I have but 
 a moment. If you love ray father’s house, Cus 
 Russid, away with you, not to my father or brothers, 
 for they can do nothing, I fear, but to my uncle 
 O’Hogan and Tibbot Burke, and tell them that I 
 am here! ” And the casement was shut instantly, and 
 Elbe’s face withdrawn. 
 
 “ May the four bones wither in my brown car- 
 kiss,” said Cus Russid, “ if I don’t find them soon 
 an’ suddint for you! ” And with that he cast his 
 spade from him; and slinking over, like a fox, to a 
 half-filled gap in the outworks, he crossed the ditch, 
 unobserved by his companions, and soon gained the 
 wood that clothed the opposite side of the pass.. 
 
 On reaching the summit of the ridgy hill that 
 formed the western flank of the pass, Cus Russid 
 walked deliberately to a thicket beneath a rock, 
 and took therefrom an ashen staff, like a pike-handle, 
 with a stnall iron ring at one end, to which was 
 attached a piece of strong twine with a loop at its 
 extremity. Again he dived his hand into the ferns, 
 and pulled out a thick frieze cothamore, in which 
 he instantly arrayed himself. He then put his hand 
 into an inside j^ocket of the cotha, and drew forth a 
 long, bright spear-head; and, after gazing upon it 
 with great comfort for a moment, replaced it in its 
 hiding-place, turned, and shook his fist at the house 
 of Lisbloorn, and then, gradually sliding from a 
 walk into a trot, went at a formidable pace across 
 the country to the westward. 
 
134 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 After travelling thus for about a dozen miles, he 
 at length sat down upon a height, and looked over 
 a winding road that led directly towards him 
 through the woody country from the north-west. 
 Advancing along this road he soon perceived a 
 troop of Williamite cavalry, with a large glittering 
 cannon in their midst. It would have been the 
 most natural thing in the world for Cus Russid to 
 run away at such a sight. He did no such thing, 
 however; but, on the contrary, using his spear- 
 handle for a walking-staff, he descended the height, 
 and advanced boldly along the road to meet them. 
 
 “ What’s your name, my man ? ” said the com¬ 
 mander of the troop, as they came up. “ Come, 
 out with it and your business too, for no man passes 
 here unquestioned.” 
 
 “ Wisha! ” answered Cus, with a look of wonder¬ 
 ful sheepishness and simplicity: “ they calls me Cus 
 Russid, sii-, by raison o’ these misforthunate brown 
 feet I have upon me. Bud maybe your honor didn’t 
 see any cattle about here, for my masther sint me 
 every morthial step from the House o’ Lisbloom to 
 look for them. Bad luck to them, ’tis a sore an’ 
 sorrowful journey they’re givin’ me! ” 
 
 “ It is strange that we happen to be going to the 
 very place he speaks of,” said the commander to 
 the young officer that rode beside him. “ Tell me, 
 boy,” continued he, turning to Cus, “is it far to 
 Lisbloom ? ” 
 
 “’Tis a sore journey, sir,” answered the latter. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 135 
 
 • 
 
 “ But maybe you’re the giiieral that’s goin’ to defind 
 id for Misther Gideon Grimes against the Rap- 
 parees; for if you are — there ! I see the cattle be- 
 yant there in the wood, an’ I’ll just go an’ dhrive 
 them up; and then if I don’t lade you in pace an’ 
 quietness up to the very gate o’ Lisbloom.” 
 
 “ Pass on then, and be soon back,” said the cap¬ 
 tain, as he turned and followed his troop. 
 
 “Yes, pass on,” muttered Cus, after meeting two 
 dragoons who rode at a good distance behind ; “ but 
 wait till I come to the rereguard, an’, be the sowl o’ 
 my father ! I’ll give you a different story to tell, you 
 murtherin robber.” 
 
 The dragoon who formed the extreme rearguard 
 seemed to have, from some cause or other, dagged 
 behind. Cus Russid therefore had full time for 
 preparation. He took out his spear-head, stuck it 
 carefully on his ashen shaft, and there fastened it by 
 means of a small screw. Then, like a wolf awaiting 
 his prey, he darted down into a hollow, and there 
 crouching amid the copse, with blazing eyes and 
 clenched teeth, glared out upon the lonely road. 
 The unsuspecting dragoon at length rode merrily 
 up ; but, as he passed, the deadly spear whizzed out 
 from the bush, and struck him beneath the helmet 
 on the neck. Almost before he reached the ground 
 in his fall, Cus Russid had plucked the spear from 
 his bleeding neck, with one bound was on his horse, 
 and tearing away like a demon at a furious gallop 
 across the country. 
 
136 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 Finding that he was not pursued, after nearly 
 half a dozen miles’ mad riding, Cus Russid slackened 
 the pace of the strong troop-hoi’se, and rode along 
 with a. light and contented heart over the level 
 jdain, with every rood of which he seemed to be 
 intimately acquainted. It was sunset when he 
 gained the verge of a thick and extensive wood, 
 that stretched along the base and up the sides of a 
 rugged mountain. Once more putting his horse to 
 a brisk gallop, he dashed along a tangled pathway, 
 and at last emerged into a little sylvan valley with 
 a beautiful stream gurgling down through its bosom. 
 At the foot of a steep, limestone rock, that jutted 
 out to within a few yards of the rivulet, he beheld 
 three men sitting under a spreading oak-tree, two 
 of whom he instantly recognized. The one nearest 
 to him, as he rode up, was a young man of very 
 handsome presence, tall, lithe, and brown-haired, 
 and armed with carbine, sword, and pistol. His 
 corselet and morion, in the latter of which was 
 stuck a spray of green fern by way of a plume, 
 glittered in the red beams of the sun, as he sat with 
 a drinking-flask in his hand upon the bank over the 
 water. The other was a man nearly forty years of 
 age, of somewhat low stature, but herculean build 
 of frame, and with an oval face rendered almost 
 black by exposure to the suns of many climates. 
 He was armed like his younger comrade, with the 
 exception of his sword; which, from the size of its 
 scabbard, seemed of unusual length and weight. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 137 
 
 The third, whom Cus did not recognize, was a man 
 of far taller stature than the young man above men¬ 
 tioned, of a nobler and more commanding aspect, 
 and with an eye that seemed to pierce to the very 
 marrow of the brown-footed messenger, as the latter 
 now sprang from his horse, and walked forward 
 towards the tree. 
 
 “ Captain,” said Cus Russid, as he approached the 
 dark-visaged man, “ I have bad news for you.” 
 
 O’Hogan, or Galloping O’Hogan, as he was usually 
 called, — for it was that gallant captain, — started 
 to his feet, and bent his keen, black eyes upon Cus. 
 
 “What is it?” asked he. “There seems to be 
 nothing but bad news for us now-a-days, poor 
 Brown Foot.” • 
 
 “Your niece, Ellie Connell, is in the hands of 
 Black Gideon o’ Lisbloora, — bad luck to him, seed, 
 breed, an’ gineration, I say, amen! — an’ she towld 
 me to tell you, for your life, to release her soon an’ 
 suddint.” 
 
 “ This is pleasant news for you, Tibbot Burke,” 
 said O’Hogan to his younger companion. “But no 
 matter. We will set Ellie free, and put Black 
 Gideon’s house in order sooner, I dare swear, than 
 he reckons. The place tliis boy mentions, my lord,” 
 continued he, turning to the other, — “Lisbloom, is 
 the house that commands the important j^ass I 
 mentioned to you. We will see to it to-morrow or 
 next day. In the meantime, we had better arrange 
 our bivouac and go to sleep, after our hard day’s 
 
138 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 ride; for we have much before us on the morrow. 
 Cus, my boy, attend to your horse, which seems in a 
 sad state, — see, 5urs are picquetted in the wood, — 
 and then come hither; for you must keep the first 
 watch.” 
 
 In half an hour after, they were asleep, Cus Rus- 
 sid standing sentinel beneath the tree. 
 
 The sun of the next morning found them far 
 away from their camping-place, riding on at a brisk 
 trot towards the east, and all laughing heartily at 
 Cus Russid’s account of his capture of the troop- 
 horse. They were now approaching on their right 
 the verge of a great marsh, called the Swamp of 
 Mona, many miles in extent, and with a sluggish 
 river'oozing down lazily through its centre. The 
 track on which they rode wound along the bosky * 
 skirt of a wood, which, at some distance in advance, 
 sent out its thickets and scattered trees to within 
 about a mile of the low verge of the swamp. 
 O’Hogan, who was somewhat in advance, suddenly 
 reined up the stoutly-built but rather small nag he 
 rode, and pointed to this projection of the wood. 
 As he did so, they beheld the vanguard and advance 
 column of an army slowly emerging into the sun¬ 
 light, their arms glittering and flashing, and their 
 banners fluttering gayly in the buxom breeze of the 
 blithe autumn morning. 
 
 “My lord,” exclaimed O’Hogan, riding back to 
 him whom he addressed, “ you see we have raised 
 the men of Kerry in good time against the invasion 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 139 
 
 of General Tettan. There he is with a vengeance ! 
 There are his savage Danish infantry and his blue 
 Dutch dragoons! ” 
 
 “ Eor a verity, I believe it is so,” answered the 
 other. “But we must be now quick to act, or we 
 stand a good chance of having an audience of the 
 Dutchman. My brave captain, as you claim to be 
 general on this side of the Shannon, you must direct 
 me what to do on the moment; for you know it 
 would not serve the cause of the king to have me 
 taken prisoner in an’hour or so.” 
 
 “ Away with you, then, my lord, — you and my 
 lieutenant, Tibbot, and Brown Foot, round the marsh 
 to the other side; and theve wait till I rejoin you.” 
 
 “ And you,” answered the other: “ surely you are 
 not thinking of one of your mad but gallant exploits 
 this morning; surely you are not rash enough to go 
 forward ? ” 
 
 “ Leave that to me,” answered O’Hogan laughing. 
 “ As you yourself say, I am general here, my lord ; 
 so take my word of command for the present. 
 Right about wheel, and away! ” And, with that, he 
 gave the spur to his nag and dashed forward; while 
 his companions, after watching him for a moment, 
 galloped olf in the opposite direction, so as to get 
 round the swamp, and put themselves at a safe dis¬ 
 tance from General Tettau and his army. 
 
 Meanwhile the bold Rapparee captain tore over 
 the moorland, not, however, directly forward, but 
 obliquely down to the verge of the swamp; and, as 
 
140 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 he came opposite the flank of the column, halted, 
 and coolly commenced to count the number of their 
 cannon, and to estimate the strength of the enemy. 
 It seemed to tickle their fancy mightily that a 
 single man should thus put himself in such danger¬ 
 ous proximity to them, with a broad marsh behind 
 him; for in a few moments, with a shout of laugh¬ 
 ter, an officer and about a dozen men dashed out 
 from the regiment of blue dragoons, and came at a 
 thundering pace across the moor towards O’Hogan. 
 But they little knew the man they had to deal with. 
 The Rapparee, after finishing Ins observations, 
 turned his nag to the marsh, — both horse and rider 
 knew it well, — and began to flit over it with the 
 lightness of a plover. The pursuers at length came 
 down; and, plashing heavily into the marsh, there 
 soon stuck and floundered up to their saddle-girths, 
 all except their captain, who seemed to be more 
 accustomed to the thing, and who now led his 
 horse warily after O’Hogan. The latter at length 
 gained a broad, dry spot towards the centre of the 
 swamp, and there, turning round his broad-chested 
 nag, coolly waited the coming of his foe, who, after 
 a few mishaps and several volleys of outlandish 
 oaths, also gained the verge of the dry space. They 
 were now within pistobshot, the Dutch captain 
 advancing cautiously on his heavy steed. 
 
 “Surrender, base hund!” shouted the latter, as 
 he drew his long pistols from the holsters, and 
 presented them at O’Hogan. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 141 
 
 “ Ha, ha! ” answered the Rapparee : “ you’ll have 
 to take me first, mynheer. Come on, then, for the 
 honor of Vaterland, old beer-swiller, and try your¬ 
 self against the four bones of an Irishman.” 
 
 For answer, the bullets from the two pistols went 
 whistling, one after the other, by O’Hogan’s ear. 
 
 “Row, on the good faith of a man,” exclaimed 
 O’Hogan, “I would rather, where there are only 
 two of us, that you had stuck to the sword alone to 
 decide between us, like a gentleman ! ” And, with 
 that, he drew his long weapon from its sheath, and 
 with his dark brows knit, and eyes flashing, sat 
 prepared for the onset of the Dutchman. 
 
 “ May de deevil seize thee for a damned Rappa¬ 
 ree schelm! ” roared the latter, as he thundered 
 down upon O’Hogan, intending to ride over him, 
 horse and man, with his heavy charger. 
 
 But O’Hogan expected this, and was prepared for 
 it. Swerving his nag nimbly to one side, he allowed 
 the Dutchman to rush by; and as he passed, after 
 parrying his cut, sti’uck him on the corselet, between 
 the shoulders, with a force that bent him forward 
 on the flying mane of his steed. The Dutchman, 
 however, recovered himself, and came on gallantly 
 once more. 
 
 “ I could shoot you like a dog,” said O’Hogan, 
 tapping his holster sternly with his left hand; “but 
 no, I believe you to be a brave man after all. Come 
 on, then, closer, closer, and let the good sword settle 
 it between us.” 
 
142 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 In a moment the bright weapons crossed, and 
 clashed against each other, striking sparks of tire 
 by their deadly contact; the horses swerved round 
 and round; again the swords clashed, till at length 
 the long blade of the Rapparee went sheer through 
 the side of the ill-fated Dutchman, who dropped 
 from his charger with a heavy thud upon the boggy 
 sward beneath. Tettau had watched the combat 
 keenly; for, in a few moments after his officer fell, 
 the heavy boom of a cannon tore through the clear 
 morning air, and the shot, intended for O’Hogan, 
 struck, instead, the poor Dutchman’s charger upon 
 the spine, and hurled it a shattered mass beside the 
 body of its dying master. 
 
 O’Hogan, with a grim smile, shook his gory 
 sword at the hostile army, tiien turned his steed, 
 and flitted once more across the swamp, beyond the 
 range of their cannon-shot. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 IN WHICH SAESFIELD ARRIVES NEAR THE GATE OF TIR-N-AN- 
 OGE, AND HEARS A ROMANCE FROM BROWN FOOT. — CON¬ 
 TAINING ALSO THE ADVENTEEE OF THE GRAY KNIGHt’s 
 CHAMBER. 
 
 There was a little book called “The History of 
 the Irish Rogues and Rapparees,” which the author 
 happened to read in his boyhood, but on whichj 
 
THE HOUSE OF LI SB LOOM. 
 
 143 
 
 happily for himself, he was not left dependent for 
 information conceiming the individuals whose lives 
 were misrepresented therein. The book had a very 
 extensive circulation among the peasantry ; and it 
 is astonishing the number of opinions it influenced 
 regarding the history of the times immediately 
 following the Williamite conquest of this land, and 
 the actions of the gallant men who fought for 
 their homes and their religion against the psalm- 
 twanging, snivelling, and murderous undertakers, 
 and against the' penal laws then in the flush and 
 first swing of their gory vigor and brutality. The 
 sorry-spirited sinner who wrote the book represents 
 the Rapparees as a pack of ferocious bogtrotters, 
 pickpockets, highwaymen, and murderers ; whereas, 
 on the contrary, if the truth were known, they were 
 a stout peasantry, led on by their hereditary cap¬ 
 tains, gallant and noble gentlemen, who, when dis¬ 
 possessed of their lands by the conqueror, took to 
 the sword and gun as their only chance of existence, 
 and on many a hill-side, and in the depths of many 
 a forest and pass, poured out their life-blood trying 
 to regain their ancient patrimonies, or, at least, 
 endeavoring to wreak honorable vengeance upon 
 the robbers who held them in their iron grasp. In 
 England, the free-born Saxon thanes, who took to 
 the woods after the Norman conquest, are celebrated 
 in many a stirring lay, and the actions of the brave 
 Spanish hidalgoes, who fought against the Moors, 
 sung in innumerable melodious ballads; but the 
 
144 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 poor Irish gentlemen, who shed their blood in the 
 Williamite wars, are only vilified and misrepresent¬ 
 ed, though they were not a whit less gallant, hardy, 
 or chivalrous than the Cids of Spain or the Robin 
 Hoods of the sister island. With this preamble, 
 which we hope the reader will excuse, we will now 
 resume our story. 
 
 O’Hogan, whose nag seemed to know by instinct 
 the firm parts of the swamp, was not long in gaining 
 the dry and I’ising country to the south, where, on a 
 green knoll beneath a clump of trees, he rejoined 
 his companions, who had .thence watched with 
 anxious hearts the issue of the combat. 
 
 “ Ha! you are back at last,” said the elder horse¬ 
 man, as O’Hogan rode up. “You had a narrow 
 escape, captain; but, on the good faith of a soldier, 
 it was a brave exploit, though a little hair-brained 
 for a man of my tem2:»erament.” 
 
 “ You are not always in the same mood, then, my 
 lord,” answered O’Hogan, laughing; “for it was only 
 last year I saw you perform an exploit equal in 
 daring to a thousand of mine just now. I did it, 
 however, to show you the manner in which Tettau 
 will be welcomed by the bold Rapparees of Kerry. 
 It was not my first meeting with the Dutch blue¬ 
 jackets ; and I hope to make them know me better 
 before the war is over.” 
 
 “ I remember your first meeting with them well,” 
 remarked Tibbot Burke. “ My lord, if I don’t mis¬ 
 take, you must recollect it too. It was at the wo- 
 
THE HOUSE OF LI SB LOOM. 
 
 145 
 
 ful field of Aughrim, and on the shoulder of Kilcorn- 
 modan Hill,” continued he, as they rode forward 
 again. “ O’Hogan and I ’were beyond the brow of 
 the height, at the head of the irregular Rappai-ee 
 horse, when the first troop of blue dragoons swept 
 past us, down on the flying Irish infantry, after St. 
 Ruth’s fall. We gave them but little time to play 
 their sabres; for we swept, in turn, down upon their 
 rear with a clatter and a crash that they, too, will 
 not forget.” 
 
 “ I also shall not forget it,” said their companion, 
 wdth a sad smile ; “ for that gallant charge aided me 
 well in saving the remnant of our broken army.” 
 
 “ Who is he at all ? ” muttered Cus Russid to him¬ 
 self, as he rode close behind, listening to the conver¬ 
 sation. “ Be this blessed stick! ” continued he, laying 
 his hand upon the huge pummel of the dragoon 
 saddle, in which he sat perched like a hawk, “ but 
 he talks as big as if he was the greatest gineral on 
 the univarsal earth.” He was not left long in 
 ^ doubt. 
 
 “ Aye, my brave fellows,” continued the subject 
 of his inquiries, “ and I shall not soon forget the 
 brave dash you both made at my side when we 
 rattled down that night upon the English convoy 
 at Ballineety.” 
 
 “ An’ cut them into mince-mate an’ smithereens, 
 bad luck to their sowls! ” interrupted Cus Russid, 
 more loudly than he was aware of in his surprise. 
 
 “ Hononi-an-dhial! but ’tis Sarsfield himself, an’ I 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 have been talkin’ to him all the mornin’just as if he 
 was born a coramerade o’ my own! ” 
 
 “ And cut them into mince-meat, as our little 
 friend behind us observes,” continued Sarsfield, 
 laughing (for it was he); “and destroyed their bag¬ 
 gage and cannon, — a thing I never could have 
 done, were it not for the sui’e intelligence you gave 
 me of the enemy’s movements. But what road are 
 we taking ? ” rejoined he, as he cast his bright eyes 
 over a tract of country, where, a few miles in their 
 front, an abrupt liill towered up, with a calm lake 
 gleaming in the sunlight at its foot. “ Now that 
 my mission in the country is accomplished, and that 
 I have seen what you can do in the rear of the 
 enemy, I should be crossing the Shannon once more 
 for Limerick, where, I fear, I am sadly wanted at 
 the present juncture.” 
 
 “Your mission is not entirely over, my lord,” an¬ 
 swered O’Hogan. “You have yet to see the men 
 of East Limerick and the Tipperary borders, and to 
 give them encoui’agement by your presence for a 
 day or two. For the rest, we shall guide you 
 safely across the Shannon, above Limerick, not 
 below it; which latter would not be an easy task in 
 the present disposition of Ginkel’s troops. The 
 water you see beyond is Lough Gur, a place fre¬ 
 quently visited by the foraging parties of the Eng¬ 
 lish. To the front, then, Tibbot; and you. Brown 
 Foot, fall back farther to the rear, and keep those 
 black eyes of yours on every bush and thicket ai’ound, 
 for we must be carefnl.” 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISDLOOM. 
 
 147 
 
 In this order they soon gained the shore of 
 Longh Gur. Riding warily round tlie foot of the 
 hill that towered above it to the north, they at 
 length (?ame to the eastern end of the lake; and 
 there, at the side of a shaggy wood, they dismounted, 
 and sat down to regale themselves from Tibbot’s 
 flask and the wallet of provisions he had carried all ' 
 the morning at his saddle-bow. 
 
 Having satisfied their hunger, they looked around 
 for Cus Russid, whose newly-awakened modesty 
 would not permit him to sit down and join in their 
 noonday meal; and, after a little search, found that 
 inquisitive individual half-way up the hill, and 
 peering with much apparent interest into a hollow 
 recess between two bowlders of rock. 
 
 “What were you looking for at the rock, Cus?” 
 asked Tibbot of Brown Foot, as the latter, after 
 being recalled to their resting-place*, was in the 
 agreeable process of finishing his repast. 
 
 “ Wisha, fiaith, if,the truth must be towld, sir,” ' 
 ^answered Cus, “I was just sarchiu’ for the doore 
 through which my uncle, Rody Condon, got into 
 Tir-n-an-Oge. ’Tis a quare story, an’ will make you 
 laugh, if I may make so bowld as to tell it.” 
 
 “ Clear your throat first with the flask before you 
 commence, boy,” said Sarsfield, smiling. “ It will 
 enliven your story, and mayhap enable you to add 
 something of your own to the thread.” 
 
 “In the whole barony, there wasn’t a quarer man 
 than my uncle Rody,” rejoined Cus Rnssid,thus en- 
 
 I 
 
148 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 couraged. “ He never went out in his life afther 
 nightfall that he didn’t see a ghost, — Lord athune 
 us an’ harum ! — or a sperrit o’ some kind or other. 
 The Headless Man o’ Drumdhorn an’ himshlf were 
 ould acquaintances; an’, as for the Green Woman o’ 
 Tiernan’s Ford an’ he, they were like brother an’ 
 sisther. The Good People — wid respect Ipurnounce 
 their name this blessed day—loved him as if they 
 were his born childher; an’ good raison they ought, 
 for he never went out .on a jouimey high or low 
 idout takin’ a cruiskeen o’ whiskey in one pocket of 
 his cothamore, an’ a drinkin’-horn in the other, to 
 thrate them, the crathures, when cowld or thirsty. 
 Many a drinkin’-bout they had together in the ould 
 fourths an’ castles by the lake, endin’ every one o’ 
 them in their promisin’ to take him to Tir-n-an-Oge, 
 — for he was morthial aiger to get a glimpse o’ the 
 doins there,— an’ then puttin’ him to sleep an’ 
 stalin’ the whiskey, — small blame to them for that, 
 anyhow! 
 
 “ Well, at any rate, one Novimber eve, as he was 
 cornin’ home from Brulf, after sellin’ four pigs of his 
 agin the winther, he sat down beyant there by the 
 lake, an’ drew out his cruiskeen an’ dhrinkin’-horn 
 to relieve himself from the cowld; for ’twas a frosty 
 night. Afther, maybe, takin’ about twice the full 
 o’ the horn, he saw cornin’ crass the hill towards him 
 a little ould atomy of a man, not much higher than 
 my knee, an’ all dhressed in gray to the very cau- 
 been upon his head. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LIS BLOOM. 
 
 149 
 
 “‘Wisha, much good may id do you, that same 
 cruiskeen, Rody! ’ said the little man, cornin’ down, 
 an’ plantin’ himself fornint my uncle on the grass. 
 ‘ Would you like to see Tir-n-an-Oge to-night ? ’ 
 
 “‘You know I would, Traneen Glas,’ said my 
 uncle (for they seemed to be ould friends); ‘an’ 
 many is the time, you schamer, you dissaved me on 
 the head o’ seein’ it too. But a cead mille failthe 
 for all that, Traneen ! Rody Condon isn’t the man 
 to give a frind the cowld showldher while there’s a 
 sup in the cruiskeen. Here is health an’ happiness, 
 an’ may the wheels of our carriages rowl on pave¬ 
 ments o’ diamond! ’ 
 
 “‘The same to you, Rody,’ said Traneen Glas, 
 afther he had emptied the dhrinkin’-horn in his 
 turn. ‘ ’Tis a rale sweet dhrop, anyhow. An’ now 
 let us be off to Tir-n-an-Oge.’ 
 
 “‘The devil resave the morsel of us will stir out 
 o’ this till we empty the cruiskeen at any rate,’ said 
 my uncle; an’ with that they tackled to, an’ never 
 • stopped nor stayed till all the whiskey was gone. 
 
 “The minnit the last dhrop Avas SAvalloAved, Tran¬ 
 een Glas clapped his hands together Avith a sound 
 like tundher. Then a Avhirlwind came roarin’ up 
 from the lake; an’, si)innin’ my uncle round an’ round, 
 it drove him like a cannon-ball in through a great 
 doore that opened bethune the rocks beyant there. 
 It took aAvay his breath an’ eye-sight, it was so loud 
 an’ terrible; but at last it ceased, an’ my uncle 
 looked around an’ found himself standin’ on the 
 
150 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 verge of a great green forest, in the midst of the 
 most beautiful counthry the sun ever shone upon. 
 ‘ ’Tis Tir-n-an-Oge every inch of it,’ said my 
 uncle, as he went on an’ on through the forest, till 
 at last he came to a great meadow. All over this 
 meadow were ranged thousands upon thousands of 
 knights on horesback, their great spears stuck in the 
 ground beside them, their hands upon their soord- 
 hilts an’ their armor glittherin’; but all seemed to 
 be asleep, an’ as still an’ motionless as the ould 
 figures upon the tombstones in _ Kilmallock. At 
 their head sat a great lord all in goolden armor, with 
 his hand also upon the dazzlin’ handle of his soord. 
 
 “ ‘ Mille gloria! if it isn’t Garodh Earla an’ his 
 knights I’m lookin’ upon! ’ said my uncle. The 
 mighty earl awoke at the voice. 
 
 “.‘Is the hour come, Rody Condon?’ said he, in 
 a great voice that went echoin’ through the forest; 
 an’ with that he half dhrew his soord from the scab¬ 
 bard. 
 
 “‘Wisha, faith, my lord, ’tis nearly come!” an¬ 
 swered my uncle; ‘ for them bloody undhertakers 
 are spilin’ an’ robbin’ in the worldt above, an’ mur- 
 therin’ us all like wild bastes. But wait till I come 
 back from seein’ my frinds, an’ thin, if you considher 
 it time, my sowl to glory if I don’t show you the 
 way out; for the Sassenachs want a taste of some 
 o’ them long soords badly 1 ’ 
 
 “With that my uncle passed on—bad scran to 
 him! for if he answered an’ said the hour was come, 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 151 
 
 Garodh Earla an’ all liis knights would be back here 
 in the twinklin’ of an eye, an’ ’tis short work they’d 
 make o’ the Sassenachs if they came. On an’ on 
 he went, till in the bottom of a green valley he 
 came fornint a grand house; an’ his heart leapt 
 with joy when he heard the people inside rattlin’ 
 up ‘Garryowen’ with a chorus that seemed to 
 shake the very rafthers. 
 
 “ ‘ Be this stick! ’ said he, ‘ but they seem to be 
 refreshin’ themselves inside anyhow. I’ll just step 
 in, an’ p’rhaps it’s a cead mille failthe I’d get to Tir- 
 n-an-Oge from some one ! ’ 
 
 “ He did so; an’ the first person he saw inside Avas 
 his cousin, Johnnie Harty, who, with a number of his 
 commerades that my uncle knew as ould frinds, sat 
 around a table o’ diamond stone regalin’ themselves 
 on metheglin. 
 
 “ ‘ Wisha ! a thousand welcomes to Tir-n-an-Oge, 
 Rody,’ said his cousin. ‘ Here, take a jorum o’ this 
 to refresh yourself, an’ then p’raps you’d tell us 
 some news from the worldt above.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I’ll tell you one thing,’ said my uncle, afther 
 emptying the cup, ‘this is a*sweet drink sure enough, 
 an’ p’raps fit for yourselves; but, if you don’t give me 
 somethin’ stronger to wet my windpipe on this 
 blessed Novimber night. I’ll die with the druth. 
 I’d rather have one glass o’ Tom Fraher’s potheen 
 than a whole gallon o’ this Avake thrash! ’ 
 
 “‘Well,’ said his cousin, ‘ we can give you noth¬ 
 in’ stronger at present, Rody; but haven’t you any 
 neAvs ? 
 
152 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LIS BLOOM. 
 
 “‘Devil a much,’ said my uncle, ‘ an’ so I’ll let it 
 alone till I hear what kind of a counthry this is to 
 live in ; for I mane to come an’ settle here as soon 
 as I can, if it shuits me, which I think it will to a T.’ 
 
 ‘“’Tis a wondherful place,’ answered Johnnie, 
 ‘ The first place you saw belongs to Garodh Earla, 
 this to us, an’ that beyant there to the Fenians of 
 Erinn. Come, boys, let us show the place to my 
 cousin, Rody Condon.’ 
 
 “With that they all stood up, an’ conducted 
 Rody beyant their own boundary into another part, 
 where he saw all the Fenians of Erinn encamped 
 upon a hill; some engaged in Avrestlin’ matches, an’ 
 bouts with soords an’ all that, an’ some preparing for 
 the chase of a great stag that kept the forest beneath. 
 
 “ ‘ Where’s Cuchullin ? ’ asked Rody. 
 
 “ ‘ There he’s over at the edge of the camp leanin’ 
 on his spear,’ answered his cousin; ‘an’ there is 
 Cui’igh MacDaire standin’ beside him. They’re the 
 best frinds now, although in the worldt above they 
 often had a rattlin’ fight about the beautiful Blanaid, 
 who lives now over there in that bright palace 
 above the stream.’ 
 
 “‘Wisha! faith then,’ said Rody,‘’tis little she 
 disarved a palace for lavin’ her lawful husband, 
 Curigh, to fly with Cuchullin. If things are carried 
 on in this way, the devil a fut o’ me will stay here 
 for one. Haven’t ye a single dhrop o’ the crathur 
 to wet a poor fellow’s whistle afther his long 
 journey ?’ 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 153 
 
 “ ‘Not a taste but metheglin,’ they all answered. 
 
 “‘Well, that settles the question,’ said Rody, 
 givin’ his cuthamore a shake. ‘Dang the bit o’ rae, 
 will ever stay in a counthry where there isn’t a 
 dhrop o’ potlieen to be had for love or money.’ 
 
 “The word was scarcely out of his mouth when 
 the Avhirlwind caught him up again, an’ he was 
 tossed an’ tumbled an’ rowld between its roarin’ 
 wings out upon the very spot where he had sat 
 down some time before to refresh himself. He felt 
 for his cruiskeen, but found it empty. 
 
 “ ‘ Well,’ said he, as he stood up an’ began to walk 
 home, ‘the fairies must have played a thrick on me, 
 — bad luck to Traneen Glas, that little imp o’ per¬ 
 dition ! He an’ his commerades drank what was in 
 the cruiskeen, but it is a long time till they catch 
 me again on Novimber night.’ 
 
 “An’ so that, ray lord, is what happened to my 
 uncle,” concluded Cus Russid; “ but wait till I find 
 out the door into Tir-n-an-Oge, an’ once set my 
 eyes on Garodh Earla an’ his mighty warriors, if ”- 
 
 He was not allowed to finish his sentence; for in 
 an instant there was a rush from the trees behind 
 them, and, before they could turn or gain their feet, 
 poor Cus and his companions were seized by a num¬ 
 ber of men, disarmed and pinioned, and, with horse¬ 
 cloths thrown over their faces, dragged through 
 the wood despite their struggles, and at length 
 thrown rudely into a confined place like a cavern, 
 where, when they succeeded in shaking the rough 
 
154 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 cloths from before their eyes, they endeavored to 
 look round, but found themselves in total darkness. 
 Tibbot, who happened to be the last thrust in, put 
 out his hand, as well as he could, to feel for some 
 support, and rested it against, what seemed to him, a 
 wall composed of huge stones placed one upon the 
 other in the manner of those cyclopean structures, 
 some of which are yet found in the country. 
 Through a chink between two of these blocks of 
 stone, a low, sharp voice now grated on his ear, like 
 the hiss of a serpent: — 
 
 “ Remember Ellie Connell, base Rapparee dog,” 
 said the voice in accents that Tibbot knew but too 
 well, “ and remember also how you crossed my path 
 when it led to her love. Vengeance is in my hand 
 at last; and, as sure as there is a hell beneath you, 
 you and your companions shall swing from the best 
 branch in the wood before set of sun.” 
 
 “Try it,” answered Tibbot, as he wrenched the 
 cords that bound his arms asunder. Ha! my arms 
 are now free; and, when you come for us, you will 
 find us hard to take. Miscreant undertaker! you 
 will pay dearly for this, if you come within reach 
 of me, even as I now stand unarmed.” 
 
 “ Heed him not, Tibbot,” said O’Hogan, creeping 
 over to his lieutenant, in order to get his arms also 
 unbound. “ Gideon Grimes,” he continued, as he 
 felt his arms free, “ I was often in a worse strait 
 than this, and trust I shall live to pay you back the 
 deep debt I owe you.” 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 155 
 
 “ Think of it not,” answered Gideon, in a mocking 
 voice througli the chink. “Think only that you are 
 in safe custody here; that your niece is safe under 
 lock and key in Lisbloom ; that my vengeance is in 
 high train at last, and that you are to be hung this 
 eventide as liigh as Hainan, for I have sent for the 
 ropes that are to settle all debts between us.” And, 
 wdth that, they heard his retreating step as though 
 he were issuing from an outer chamber of the struc¬ 
 ture in which they were confined. 
 
 “ My lord,” said OTIogan, in a low voice, as he 
 unbound Sarsfield’s arms, “I am sorry that this 
 mishap has befallen us, not for my own sake, but 
 for yom-s. However, yonder ruffian knows you not. 
 If he did, he would have seemed more glad of his 
 prize. Trust to me to find some plan of escape 
 before it comes to the worst.” 
 
 “We will trust to our arms, and these small 
 bowlders of rock beneath our feet, if it come to 
 that,” returned Sarsfield, smiling grimly in the 
 darkness. “By my faith! an they come to take us 
 forth, we can at least dash out some of their brains, 
 and then make a rush for our freedom.” 
 
 During all this, Cus Russid, who had slipped 
 through his noose, like an eel, had been groping 
 about in the interior of their place of durance. 
 Far in, in -udiat seemed to be an inner chamber of 
 their prison, he had discovered a round hole cut 
 downward through a huge sandstone flag that 
 formed the side of the roof. Through this hole, 
 
156 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 after a great deal of ingenious screwing, he had at 
 length succeeded in protruding his black head. 
 After looking out between the stems of the ferns 
 that shaded the aperture, he carefully withdrew his 
 head and returned to his companions. He had 
 seen no pleasant sight. 
 
 “Captain,” he said, as he crept up to where 
 O’Hogan was still standing, “ there is a chink in the 
 roof inside there, just large enough for my head. 
 I looked out through it, an’ saw about twenty men 
 undher an oak tree wdth Black Gideon in their 
 midst, an’ they settlin’ ropes, like hangmen, to four o’ 
 the strongest branches overhead. Oh, wirra, wirra! 
 what’ll become of us ? ” 
 
 “Ha!” exclaimed O’Hogan, “ did you see where 
 their horses were, Cus ? ” 
 
 “Yes, sir,” answered Cus: “they were all grazin’ 
 in a little hollow at the foot of a small lios in the 
 wood.” 
 
 “Now,” rejoined O’Hogan, as if communing^with 
 himself,, “ I begin to recollect where we are. But 
 we can soon settle that question,” he continued, as 
 with a sudden start he put his hand in his pocket, 
 drew out a tinder-box, and struck a light. The 
 blaze of the burning match fell diraly upon the 
 opposite wall, and there showed the half-obliterated 
 figure of a knight carved in the rough stone. 
 
 “ By the blood of my body, my lord general 1 ” 
 exclaimed the brave Rapparee, the moment Ins eye 
 fell upon the weird-looking and rude effigy, “but 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 157 
 
 we are more fortunate than I thought. We are iu 
 the Gray Knight’s Chamber, a place I know well. 
 Black Gideon, when he thrust us in, did not know 
 how many doors open from it, and what a treasure 
 is hid there. Follow me, all; for there is not a 
 moment to he lost.” With that, he lit another 
 match, and led the way into the inner chamber. 
 Here he pulled away a tall, thin flag that seemed 
 to fit into the side-wall, and discovered the entrance 
 to another chamber. On entering the lattei’, they 
 found its dry floor strewn with weapons of all kinds 
 from the old matchlocks and battleaxes of Queen 
 Elizabeth’s time to the musketoons, half-pikes, and 
 swords used in the days of the second Charles. 
 
 “Now, general,” said O’Hogan, “choose your 
 weapon. As for me, I will have this sword,” and he 
 took up a huge, rusty one that rested against the 
 wall. “ You, too, Tibbot. You, Cus, take a short 
 pike, and that dagger lying at your feet. You will 
 mayhap want the latter in the service you are about 
 to perform. Attend to me, boy. From this place 
 there are two underground passages, — one from this 
 very chamber, that leads to the Uos, under which 
 you saw the horses grazing, — see! here it is,” and he 
 removed a sheaf of pikes from the wall, showing 
 behind a low and narrow passage, — “ the other is 
 from the chamber outside.” 
 
 “ I know it, captain,” interrupted Cus. “ It lades to 
 the other Uos^ in the very thick o’ the wood. I went 
 through it twenty times. But I didn’t know this 
 one,” 
 
158 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 “Very well,” rejoined O’Hogan. “You are to 
 escape through that passage when Gideon and his 
 men come in for us. You will go through it like a 
 weazel, while we get out through this passage, seize 
 three horses outside, and then ride for our lives. Be 
 sure to make a good noise, to draw Gideon and his 
 ruffians after you; and, if one of them should over¬ 
 take you at the far-off turn of the passage, you know 
 the use of half-a-dozen inches of cold steel. Once 
 you reach Lios na Cummer, it will be easy for you 
 to esca23e through the wodds. We are going to 
 Glenurra Castle, where you can rejoin us.” 
 
 “Never fear me, ca 2 )tain,” exclaimed Cus Russid. 
 “ If one o’ them overtakes me afore I reach the lios 
 I’ll plant this athunc liis ribs. But, clmrp an dhonl! 
 I hear them coming. Give me a couple o’ matches, 
 captain. There, that’ll do,” and he crejDt out into 
 the second chamber, and replaced the stone against 
 the aperture, thus shutting out his companions from 
 the observation of Gideon and his myrmidons. He 
 now i^ulled away the slab that covered the main 
 outlet, and let it fall with a loud crash on the stony 
 floor. At the same moment, Gideon and most of his 
 men came to the outer entrance, all with brands of 
 lighted bog-deal in their left hands, — their pistols in 
 the right. Every thing fell out just as O’Hogan had 
 jolanned. He and Tibbot and Sarsfield gained the 
 open air at length, suddenly fell upon and slew the 
 three men left outside to guard the horses, and were 
 in a moment galloping away with the speed of the 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 159 
 
 wind towards Glenurra Castle. Cus Russid treaded 
 the passage with the agility of a fox, waited at the 
 turn mentioned by O’Hogan, and, planting his dag¬ 
 ger, as he had promised, between the ribs of the 
 first of his pursuers that came up, gained the wood 
 outside, and soon put several good miles between 
 himself and Black Gideon. 
 
 O’Hogan intended to meet at Glenurra Castle 
 young Hugh O’Ryan, another and one of the 
 bravest of his lieutenants. But when at sunset 
 they walked into the hall of that ancient stronghold, 
 they were welcomed to a sad scene. On a huge 
 oaken table, in the midst of the great hall, lay the 
 dead body of poor Hugh, surrounded by his weep¬ 
 ing friends. As the three entered, the caoine^ or 
 death-song, was about to commence; so they sat 
 down, according to custom, upon seats provided for 
 them by one of the domestics, and, without a word, 
 listened to the wild and heart-piercing song. A 
 beautiful young girl, with her long black hair 
 streaming in wild disorder over her shoulders, stood 
 at the head, and began the lament; in the distress¬ 
 fully plaintive burthen of which she was joined by 
 all the females in the room. The song went on 
 somewhat like the following, slowly and moui-n- 
 fully:- 
 
 “ The woods of Drumlory 
 Are greenest and fairest, 
 
 And flowers in gay glory 
 Bloom there of the rarest : 
 
160 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 They’ll deck without numher 
 A red grave and narrow, 
 
 Where he’ll sleep his last slumber, 
 Young Hugh of Glenurra! 
 
 The canavaun’s blooming 
 Like snow on the marish, 
 
 The autumn is coming, 
 
 The summer flowers perish ; 
 
 And, though love smiles all gladness. 
 He’s left me in sorrow. 
 
 To mourn in my madness. 
 
 Young Hugh of Glenurra ! 
 
 Sweet love filled forever 
 His kind words and glances ; 
 
 Light foot there was never 
 Like his in the dances, 
 
 By forest or fountain. 
 
 In goal on the curragh, 
 
 Or chase on the mountain, 
 
 Young Hugh of Glenurra ! 
 
 When cannons did rattle. 
 
 And trumpets brayed loudly. 
 
 In the grim van of battle 
 
 His long plume waved proudly : 
 
 As the bolts from the bowmen, 
 
 Or share through the furrow. 
 
 He tore through the foemen. 
 
 Young Hugh of Glenurra ! 
 
 Alas ! when we parted 
 That morn in the hollow, 
 
 Why staid I faint-hearted 1 
 Why ne’er did I follow. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 161 
 
 To fight by his side there, 
 
 The red battle thorough, 
 
 And die when he died there ? 
 
 Young Hugh of Glenurra! 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 
 Love cannot wake him: 
 
 Woe is me ! woe is me ! 
 
 Grief cannot make him 
 Quit, to embrace me. 
 
 This red couch of sorrow, 
 
 Where soon they shall place me 
 By Hugh of Glenurra." 
 
 “It is Marion Creagh, the betrothed wife of poor 
 Hugh,” whispered O’Hogan, as he directed Sarsfield’s 
 attention to the young girl who had sung the 
 lament. “ But here comes Hugh’s father, Owen 
 O’Ryan, to welcome us. God help him! he has a 
 sad welcome on his war-worn face. We shall now 
 learn all about the death of my poor lieutenant.” 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 IN WHICH EDMOND OP THE HILL APPEARS UPON THE SCENE, 
 AND CUS RUSSID AGAIN BRINGS NEWS OP ELLIE CONNELL ; 
 SHOWING ALSO HOW SARSPIELD AND THE RAPPAREE CAP¬ 
 TAINS MARCH TO MEET THEIR POES AT THE BRIDGE OP 
 TERN, 
 
 Owen O’Ryan, the father of the young Rapparee 
 officer who lay stark upon the table, was a man of 
 
 about fourscore years of age, somewhat low of 
 
 11 
 
16*2 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 Stature, with a white beard descending upon a chest 
 of unusual prominence, and with a pair of shoulders 
 so broad that they almost seemed to fill up the 
 doorway through which he now issued to welcome 
 O’Hogan and his companions. Age seemed to have 
 little other effect upon the old gentleman than that 
 of thinning his features, and giving a clearer outline 
 to the long aquiline nose that projected between his 
 sharp gray eyes; for his figure was still as brawny 
 and erect as when, nearly fifty years before, he had 
 donned morion and back-and-breast as a captain of 
 horse under the Kilkenny Confederation. He had 
 been too much accustomed all his life long to .scenes 
 of blood and sorrow to be much aifected, at least 
 externally, even by the death of his last and young¬ 
 est son ; yet as he grasped O’Hogan’s hand with a 
 silent greeting, and glanced at the woful figure upon 
 the table, there was a tear in his eloquent eye, and 
 a twitch upon his wrinkled face, that told the work¬ 
 ing of the brave but troubled soul within. 
 
 “ I would,” he said, still keeping O’Hogan’s hand 
 in his, “that I could give you other greeting than 
 this. But war is always the same. It has long 
 been sapping the foundations of my house, and now 
 it has taken my last son.” 
 
 “He died the death of a brave man, however, like 
 his brothers before him,” said O’Hogan, his heart 
 swelling and his eyes also glistening at sight of the 
 old soldier’s trouble. 
 
 “Yes,”rejoined the latter,“he died at least inhar- 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 1G3 
 
 ness. This morning at rise of sun he rode forth at 
 the head of the men of Coonagh, to lie in wait for 
 a troop of cavalry who began yesteij^ay pillaging 
 the country, and who then carried their booty last 
 night to the House of Lisbloom.” 
 
 “ It must be the same party that our messenger 
 told us of,” said O’TIogan. “ I knew they would not 
 go to garrison Black Gideon’s house without spilling 
 some blood upon the way, and having a little pillage 
 to keep their hands in practice. But we will settle 
 accounts with them ere lon<r.” 
 
 “ It was for that purpose my son went forth,” con¬ 
 tinued Ihe old man, “ and, had he only lived to meet 
 them, they would scarcely have returned to Lis¬ 
 bloom. But, alas! as he crossed the Bridge of Tern, 
 and just caught sight of the English cavalry coming 
 out into the plain to commence their day of blood, 
 a single carbine-shot from the wood hard by struck 
 him through the heart, and there he lies.” And he 
 pointed sternly to the table. “Yes, there he lies; 
 and there be who say that it was the man you meu- 
 tioned but just now who fired the shot, — Black 
 Gideon Grimes.” 
 
 “ A curse upon the hand that fired it: it was a 
 base and coward shot,” said Tibbot. 
 
 “ Young man,” returned the brawny patriarch of 
 Glenurra, “ curse not, for words are idle and worth¬ 
 less in times like this. One good sabre-cut on the 
 crown, or slash across the breast or face, is worth ten 
 thousand words in redressing a wrong.” 
 
164 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM, 
 
 “In the method you favor,” said O’Hogan, “lean 
 safely say Tibbot is not slack.” 
 
 “I know it^^ answered the old man, “ and he will 
 soon have opportunity enough for practising it; for 
 I’ve sent for my nephew, Eman na Cnuc,* whom I 
 expect here momently with his men. Ha ! Marion,” 
 he continued, his gray eyes flashing fiercely, as the 
 young girl again commenced clasping her hands and 
 moaning piteously at the head of the table, “ your 
 loss will be well avenged ere many days are over.” 
 
 “We have all an account to settle with the mur¬ 
 derous dog whose shot laid poor Hugh low,” said 
 O’Hogan; and he related the news brought by Cus 
 Russid, and the adventure that befell them in the 
 chamber of the Gray Knight. He then introduced 
 Sarsfield. 
 
 The old soldier of Glenurra cast an admiring 
 glance on the great cavalry general with whose 
 name all Ireland was now ringing, took his hand 
 with a clasp like that of a vice, and gave him a wel¬ 
 come, sad enough indeed, but still cordial, to his 
 castle. While engaged in the conversation that fol- 
 lowed, a slight rustle was heard in the room; and, on 
 turning round, they beheld standing silently at the 
 foot of the table, and gazing fixedly at the corpse, a 
 figure that the old chief and the two Rapparee lead¬ 
 ers knew well, but which at once struck Sarsfield as 
 one of the most remarkable he had ever seen. 
 
 There, erect as a spear-shaft, stood a young man. 
 
 * Edmond of the Hill. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LIS BLOOM. 
 
 165 
 
 slightly above the middle height, with eyes black 
 and piercing like those of an eagle, and a sun-em¬ 
 browned face eminently beautiful in its contour and 
 proportions. A bright morion, in the crown-spike 
 of which was stuck a spray of heather with its pur¬ 
 ple flowers all in bloom, defended his proud head; 
 and from beneath it flowed down a mass of raven- 
 black and shining hair upon a glittering steel corse¬ 
 let, under which in its turn the skirts of a light 
 green coat fell in graceful folds over the manly leg 
 of its wearer. Over the corselet was flung a broad 
 green leathern belt, from which depended a heavy 
 cavalry sabre and a long skean or dagger, with the 
 hilt of which latter the hand of its owner was play¬ 
 ing neiwously as he still stood gazing sorrowfully 
 upon the pale face of the corpse. Such was Email 
 na Cnuc, or Edmond of the Hill, one of the noblest 
 gentlemen and bravest of Rapparee captains that ever 
 drew sword and shook bridle free in the cause of the 
 worthless and weak-minded King James the Second. 
 
 At Ernan’s appearance in the hall, the caome, or 
 death-song, recommenced wilder, more vehemently, 
 and more distressingly sorrowful than before, the 
 women bending over the table with clasped hands 
 and streaming eyes; one of them, in the intervals 
 between each portion of the heart-breaking cry, re¬ 
 lating, in a voluble and mournful recitative in her 
 native tongue, the virtues and various gallant ac¬ 
 tions of the dead youth, dwelling particularly on 
 those done in companionship with his dauntless 
 
166 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 cousin, Edmond of the Hill. A number of men 
 now filled the hall, each of whom wore a sharp iron 
 spur upon his heel; and, whether he carried a light 
 green cap or iron pott* upon his head, having a sprig 
 of blossomed mountain heather waving jauntily in 
 its crown, — a badge by which they were known 
 through the wide country round as followers of 
 their bold captain, Eman ; just as the men who acted 
 under the command of Galloping O’Hogan were 
 recognized by their plumes of green waving fem. 
 Several of these immediately joined in the cry; and 
 so contagious did their grief become that Sarsfield 
 was at last glad to retire beyond the immediate 
 sphere of its influence into an inner room of the 
 castle, where, with the aged, but still warlike Owen, 
 with Edmond of the Hill, and the others, he sat 
 consulting on the best and speediest method of set¬ 
 tling accounts with Gideon Grimes and the blood¬ 
 thirsty troopers who now garrisoned the redoubt¬ 
 able stronghold of Lisbloom. 
 
 People from all parts of the surrounding countiy 
 were still crowding into and around the Castle of 
 Glenurra, although it was nearly midnight, when Cus 
 Russid, completely worn out as if from a hard day’s 
 work, glided into the room in which Sarsfield and the 
 Rapparee leaders were holding their council of war, 
 and stood before Tibbot Burke. 
 
 “Well,” said the latter, “I hope you have no 
 worse news to tell us.” 
 
 * Pott, —the helmet worn by the common cavalry men of the time. 
 
TJIE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 1G7 
 
 “Indeed, then, sir, be my sowl! I have, — the Lord 
 pardon me for swearin’ before your lordship! ” an¬ 
 swered Cus, addressing the latter portion of his 
 sentence to Sarsfield. 
 
 “What is it, my man ?” asked the latter. “Me- 
 thinks it cannot jjrove much worse than every thing 
 happening around us.” 
 
 “ This is it, my lord,” answered Cus; “ an’ you, 
 Captin O’Hogan, an’ you, Edmond o’ the Hill, an’ 
 all o’ ye consarned, ought to mind it well. When I 
 stuck my skean into the ribs o’ the first man that 
 overtook me undher the ground by Lios na Cummer^ 
 an’ then got out into the free air o’ the wood, an’ put 
 three good glens bethune my carkiss an’ the pisthol o’ 
 Gideon Grimes, says I to myself, ‘Be the hole o’ 
 my coat, an’ be the blessed stone of Iinly! Cus 
 Russid, but you’re no man, but a mane sprissaun, if 
 you don’t whip off to Lisbloom to see how matthers 
 are carryin’ on there. I did so, hop at the venthure! 
 my lord, an’ found that, instead o’ one throop o’ 
 dhragoons an’ a cannon, that there were two throops 
 there, and two companies of infanthry, together 
 with Black Gideon’s men, to defind the house an’ 
 pass. I heerd all this from one o’ the workmen, — 
 a man I know, that came into the wood when I 
 whistled for him,— be the same token, the signil 
 bethune him an’ me was the whistle of a hawk 
 questin.’ The other throop an’ the companies of 
 infanthry were sent there to furrige the counthry,— 
 bad luck to them ! ” 
 
168 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 “ I fear me,” said Sarsfield, with a gi-ave face, turn¬ 
 ing to the others, “ that it will be now impossible 
 for you to take this strong house, and to come at 
 your man. Oh ! if I had but one troop of my Lu¬ 
 can horse to aid us, we would make short work of 
 them.” 
 
 “Not altogether impossible, my lord,” answered 
 Edmond of the Hill. “ Outside in the wood I have 
 two hundred men, half of them foot, and well armed 
 with pike and gun; half of them light horsemen, 
 who will follow me to the death. My uncle of 
 Glenurra can bring, at least, fifty more horse and 
 foot at his back; and O’Hogan can have his men 
 drawn down from the mountains by to-morrow. 
 To-morrow, then, as sure as there are stout hearts 
 in our bosoms, we will wreak vengeance sure and 
 swift upon Black Gideon and his accursed house.” 
 
 “Be it so,” said O’Hogan with a grim smile. 
 “You, Tibbot, take horse and away to the moun¬ 
 tains. Have our lads of the fern sprigs here by to¬ 
 morrow; and, by the blood of my body! if we do 
 not cut up the Sassenach rascals, root and branch, 
 or burn the House of Lisbloom over their heads, 
 my name is not Galloping O’Hogan. Go on, Cus.” 
 
 “ You may be sure,” continued Cus Russid, with 
 a knowing wink, and a significant wave of his hand 
 towards the western point of the compass, “ afther 
 the way I thrated the Sassenach captin over there, 
 an’ served the dhragoon with my pike, when I made 
 bould to take his horse, you may be sure an’ 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 169 
 
 sartin that I didn’t like to show my nose in Lisbloorn 
 by daylight. I waited in the wood till nightfall, an’ 
 then crep in over ditch an’ bethune the pallysadoes, 
 just for all the worldt like a weasel, for the devil 
 resave the morsel o’ me the senthries could aither 
 see or hear, although at one time I could have 
 tickled one o’ their shins with my skean. I crep 
 an’ crep till at last I landed myself safe an’ sound 
 among the weeds right undhernathe the window o’ 
 the room where Ellie Connell was confined. I wasn’t 
 Ions: there till I heerd high words inside, an’ Black 
 Gideon spakin’. 
 
 “ ‘ He is dead,’ said he. 
 
 “ ‘ Who ? ’ said Ellie, houldin’ her breath, the poor 
 crathur, as if she was on the point o’ dyin’. 
 
 “ ‘ Tibbot Burke is dead,’ answered my bowld 
 Gideon. 
 
 “‘Tibbot Burke dead!’ said Ellie with a great 
 cry; an’ then I heerd nothin’ but her moans for a 
 long fwhile. 
 
 “ ‘ Yes: ’ says my cute fox again, ‘ an’ now you are 
 free to have a betther man.’ 
 
 “‘The end of it was,” concluded Cus, with a com¬ 
 prehensive glance to his auditors, “ that, as fiir forth 
 as I could judge. Black Gideon shook his dagger in 
 the face o’ poor Ellie Connell, an’ gave her two 
 days to consider, an’ if at the end o’ that time she 
 didn’t consint to let ould Ilabakuk Thrurapet-the- 
 Word, the ould Tackum pracher he keeps in Lis- 
 bloom, — bad luck to the same Habakuk, body an’ 
 
170 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 bones an’ sowl, this blessed night! — to many them 
 both on the spot, if you plaise, he’d hack her poor 
 heart into pieces not half the size of a thrish’s ancle.” 
 
 “ This Gideon must be as active in wickedness as 
 the evil demon himself,” said Sarsfield. 
 
 “ He is,” said O’Hogan; “ but his course is now 
 run.” 
 
 “Yes,” said the old chief of Glenurra: “we will 
 catch him on the hip to-morrow. Even as I now 
 stand on the brink of the grave, aged and worn, I, 
 even I, will don my harness to have one good blow 
 at the murdering dog and the rieving villains who 
 garrison his stronghold. The last of my sons lies 
 stark and stiff beneath his ruffian bullet; but poor 
 Hugh, at least, shall be well avenged.” 
 
 Some short time after the arrival of Cus Russid, 
 a number of women had crowded in from the neisrh- 
 boring hamlets; and, as the chiefs inside listened 
 to the important narration of the brown messenger, 
 the caoine^ far more thrilling and loud than ever, 
 broke upon their ears at intervals from the great 
 hall outside. Amongst these new-comers, who, as 
 each batch arrived, raised the death-song in their 
 turn over the body of the aged chieftain’s son, was 
 one figure, far taller than any of those with whom 
 she entered, who now sat herself down, enveloped 
 in a huge gray mantle, the hood thrown over and 
 carefully concealing her face, in a dark corner of the 
 hall, near the door. As Tibbot Burke went out to 
 get his horse, in order to execute the command of 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 171 
 
 his captain, this mysterious figure stood up without 
 a word, and glided close upon his track into the 
 great yard or bawn, and thence out by the woodside, 
 where Tibbot had left his horse tied to a ti'ee. It 
 glided now behind and under the black shadows of 
 the branches. Tibbot was preparing to mount, when 
 he was arrested by the figure, drawing the hood more 
 closely over its features, and then, for the first time, 
 speaking. 
 
 “ Ha! ” it said in a coarse, yet well-feigned voice, 
 like that of a woman: “ you are mounting, Tibbo<t 
 Burke, for the battle, just as Hugh of Glenurra 
 mounted his steed this morninsf. Ere to-morrow 
 morning is over, where shall you be ?” 
 
 “In my saddle, I suppose,” answered Tibbot, 
 quietly, “with my sword in my hand, shearing 
 through the head-pieces of the rascals who are to 
 come out from Lisbloom to-morrow, to rob, pillage, 
 and slay my poor countrymen ! ” 
 
 “No,” returned the other, “but under the gory 
 horse-hoofs of those rascals, as you call profanely 
 the soldiers of the brave and victorious Kirm Wil- 
 liam. No: stark and bloody you shall lie, as he 
 inside lies beneath the godly bullet of a true man.” 
 
 “It is false,” retorted Tibbot: “I tell you I shall 
 slay to-morrow the miscreant and coward murderer 
 whose assassin bullet laid my comrade low. Gid¬ 
 eon Grimes,” continued he, apostrophizing one whom 
 he thought at the moment far away, “ when we meet 
 on the morrow, take your last look at the sun; for. 
 
172 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 as sure as that sun shines, I shall slay you or die.” 
 And he ground his teeth at the thought. “Were 
 you other than what you seem, — a woman,” he 
 rejoined, turning to the figure, “1 would send your 
 head dancing over the sward with a slash of my 
 sabre, for speaking thus.” 
 
 “I am what I am,” returned the figure, oracu¬ 
 larly, and with a change of voice that made Tibbot 
 start; “ and that you will find by Tern’s Bridge to¬ 
 morrow ; for it is there, I have heard, you mean to 
 attack us.” 
 
 “ Ha, ha, black ruffian! and so we are met at 
 last,” exclaimed Tibbot, springing, skean in hand, 
 upon Gideon; for in that disguise the ubiquitous 
 undertaker had come as a spy into Glenurra. In 
 an instant the gi’ay mantle was in the grasp of the 
 young Rapparee lieutenant; but, with as quick an 
 action, the undertaker slipped from its folds, raised 
 his dagger in air, and struck his antagonist a blow 
 on the chest that sent him staggering a few paces 
 backward with the empty garment in his hand. It 
 was well for Tibbot that he wore a good steel jack 
 that night, else the long blade of the undertaker had 
 dealt him a fatal blow. Recovering himself in a 
 moment, however, he again sprang vengefully for¬ 
 ward, but found only empty darkness. Gideon was 
 gone; but his hissing voice sounded once more from 
 between the ghostly trunks of the dark trees in the 
 wood: — 
 
 “ Ha, ha! ” he said : “ you will come to your doom. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISDLOOM. 
 
 173 
 
 base dogs, to-morrow, at the Bridge of Tern, when 
 we go forth to bring in forage for the army of the 
 brave Ginkell,” 
 
 Tibbot, knowing that pursuit was useless in the 
 darkness, sprang upon his horse, and dashed away 
 down a valley that led towards the mountains, amid 
 the summits of which were encamped the horsemen 
 belonging to Galloping O’PIogan. 
 
 At length the morning dawned, and the wail of 
 the caoiners was hushed in the sorrowful castle of 
 Glenurra. All were asleep in and around the castle, 
 save those who stood sentinel outside, and those 
 who watched over the dead in the hall. Suddenly, 
 from the wood outside, a trumpet sent its shrill 
 reveille echoing through the silent chambers. The 
 slumberers awoke, looked to their arms, and in an 
 instant there was a loud hubbub and hurrying to 
 and fro in the castle. The men hastened out to 
 rejoin their leaders; while the women, gathering 
 round the corpse, clapped their hands together, and 
 with wild shrieks raised the death-song once more, 
 calling upon their departing relatives to wreak ven¬ 
 geance, sure and swift, upon the murderer of their 
 aged chieftain’s son. 
 
 Sarsfield and O’llogan also awoke; and, choosing 
 their arms from the plentiful collection that hung 
 around the walls, went out, mounted their horses, 
 and souglit the wood from which the trumpet-note 
 proceeded ; and there, in a broad green glade, they 
 found the fiery Edmond of the Plill and his veteran 
 
174 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LIS BLOOM. 
 
 uncle, marshalling their men for battle. Messengers 
 had been sent out during the niarht to the friends of 
 
 o o 
 
 Owen ; so that the little Rapparee army was now 
 augmented considerably, amounting to about one 
 hundred and fifty horse, and as many foot. The 
 latter were armed, half with long pikes, half with 
 muskets, each having a long skean dangling at his 
 belt; and the bright eyes of Sarsfield, scanning the 
 ranks of the former, flashed approvingly, as he 
 noted their brown, hardy faces and well-knit frames, 
 while they sat their small, but burly horses, sword 
 in hand, and in two long lines, awaiting the com¬ 
 mand of their leader. 
 
 “ My lord,” said Edmond of the Hill, as Sarsfield 
 came up, “you have the best right to command 
 here. Will you lead us for once? and I trust we 
 shall show you ere leaving that the poor Rapparees 
 can strike as hard as the men of the regular army.” 
 
 “ You will excuse me, young sir,” returned Sars¬ 
 field courteously, “ but methinks the command more 
 befits you at the present, seeing that you are accus¬ 
 tomed to the evolutions of these brave lads. There¬ 
 fore I will serve as a volunteer under your orders 
 to-day, and hope at the same time to do my devoir, 
 like a man, with the rest.” 
 
 “Well, my lord, I suppose it must be so,” said 
 Edmond of the Hill; “but, as I must thus command 
 the whole, O’Hogan here will lead the horse, seeing 
 that his own have not come in yet. When they do, 
 Tibbot knows how to fall on with them like a man.” 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 175 
 
 To this O’Hogan absented. “My uncle here will 
 keep by your side, my lord,” continued the young 
 Rapparee leader; “ and, if he can get one good sword- 
 slash at the crown of Gideon Grimes, why, in God’s 
 name! let him have that comfort before he dies. We 
 must'now away.” His words of command rang 
 along the line, and in a few moments the whole 
 body was marching at a steady pace through the 
 valley that led towards the foot of the far-off range 
 of mountains. 
 
 After putting about a dozen miles between them¬ 
 selves and Glenurra, they arrived upon the verge of a 
 bosky moorland, through which the Mulkern wound 
 northward in many a shining sinuosity, overshad¬ 
 owed here and there by clumps of venei*able ash- 
 trees, that gave a peculiarly sylvan and picturesque 
 aspect to its low, swampy shores. Out upon the 
 other verge of this broad moorland the high peak of 
 Comailte, the brawny giant that rears its shaggy 
 head to the heavens in the van of the solitary range 
 of Sliav Bloom, sent forward its rugged spui-s, be¬ 
 decked with many a clump of green holly or moun¬ 
 tain ash, or shining all over with the blooms of the 
 purple heather ; and between these spurs, or hillocks, 
 many a brawling rivulet shot down with its ever- 
 murmuring song, and with its tiny waves glistening 
 like silver in the golden sun of that pleasant autumn 
 morning. From the spot on which they now halted, 
 a broad bridle-path led through the centre of the 
 moorland, and over a bend of tlie Mulkern by a 
 
176 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 two-arched bridge, so narrow tliat three horsemen 
 could scarcely ride abreast over its rugged cause¬ 
 way. This latter was the Bridge of Tern, beside 
 which poor Hugh of Glenurra had fallen on the pre¬ 
 vious day beneath the carbine of Black Gideon 
 Grimes. 
 
 “ Are the foragers from Lisbloom to cross this 
 bridge ? ” asked Sarsfield, as his eye roved over and 
 arbund the rude and ancient structure with a scruti¬ 
 nizing and keen glance. 
 
 “ It is the only pass they have to the plain south¬ 
 ward,” answered Edmond of the Hill; “ and we mean 
 to wait for their coming in the wood at this side 
 of it.” 
 
 “I must certainly commend your judgment in the 
 choice of a position,” returned Sarsfield: “ for the 
 little plain between tlie wood and the bridge is a 
 good spot for our horsemen to charge them when 
 tliey are half over; and see, by my good faith as a 
 soldier! at the very bridge the river takes a bend 
 towards us, where our infantry can rake their fianks 
 as they cross.” 
 
 Again the little army moved on, and took up its 
 position in the following manner: The horsemen, 
 after forming in line in the wood in front of the 
 river, dismounted, and concealed themselves under 
 the trees, ready to mount again and charge at the 
 word of their cpmmander; while those of the in¬ 
 fantry that carried muskets crouched down under 
 shelter of the copses that clad the banks on each of 
 
THE HOUSE OF LI SB LOOM. 
 
 177 
 
 the hither sides. The pikemeii stood in a body 
 under cover of the wood, on the flank of the horse¬ 
 men ; and thus they all awaited, with stern faces and 
 vengeful hearts, the coming of their foe. 
 
 They had not long to wait. Before half an hour 
 was over, they beheld the glint of weapons and 
 armor in a winding valley that led down from the 
 Pass of Lisbloom; and at length the main part of 
 the garrison of that important stronghold emerged 
 upon the far verge of the moorland, and took its 
 way over the bridle-path that led towards the Bridge 
 of Tern. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CONTAINING, ALONG WITH THE END OF THE STORY, THE 
 BATTLE AT THE BRIDGE OF TERN ; THE DEATH OF 
 GIDEON GRIMES, AND RECOVERY OF ELLIE CONNELL ; 
 WITH THE TAKING OF THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM BY THE 
 RAPFAREES. 
 
 “ Were it not for my uncle, who insists upon 
 avenging himself upon the very spot where Hugh 
 was murdered, I would let them pass the bridge,” 
 whispered Edmond of the Hill to Sarsfield, as he 
 saw the bright accoutrements of the enemy flashing 
 in the sun: “I would let them pass, and then 
 attack the House of Lisbloom in their absence.” 
 
 “ It would be the wisest course,” answered Sars- 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 field; “ but, now that we will soon have them face 
 to face, we must do as best we may. And a tough 
 morning’s work we have before us,” he continued, 
 peering warily out between the trees; “for, by Our 
 Lady ! they outnumber us considerably. See ! our 
 force only equals that of theirs in uniform. But 
 look at that dark body of men in the centre, with the 
 tall, lank horseman at its head. Who may that be ? ” 
 
 “It is Gideon Grimes, my lord,” answered Owen 
 of Glenurra, in a deep voice, like the growl of a 
 crouching lion. 
 
 “ It is Black Gideon himself,” said Edmond of the 
 Hill. “ O’Hogan,” continued he in a fierce whisper, 
 “ pass the word to have the men lie close till they 
 get the signal to mount and charge. I will blow 
 the charge on my whistle when the time comes.” 
 And he held out a beautifully-chased silver whistle, 
 that hung by a small chain from a ring in his belt. 
 
 O’Hogan crept in front of the line, executed the 
 order of the young commander, and then returned. 
 
 “ Ha! ” exclaimed he, on looking forward again, 
 “here conies their vanguard clattering over the 
 bridge at last. I hope our men under the copses 
 yonder will not be tempted to fire at them as they 
 pass.” 
 
 “ My two foster-brothers, Theige Keal and Pha- 
 drig Garv, will see to that,” answered Eman na 
 Cnuc. “ They command, one above and the other 
 below the bridge, with strict orders not to pull a 
 trigger till they hear my whistle.” 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISELOOH. 
 
 179 
 
 The main body of the enemy was at last some¬ 
 what more than half over the bridge, the men 
 bandying joke and jibe at the timidity of the poor 
 Rapparees, whom they expected to find and cut to 
 pieces on the spot; yet whose apparent absence not 
 a little relieved their minds, however. The half-a- 
 dozen men of the vanguaixl seemed in an unusually 
 hilarious humor; for, as they leisurely appi’oached 
 the wood, they chaunted at the top of their bent 
 the chorus of a delectable and popular Willianiite 
 ballad of the day, the verses of which were intoned 
 in a rattling, jolly, and stentorian voice by the fat 
 Yorkshire corporal who led them : — 
 
 “ Och, be my sowl! but we’ve got de Talbote, 
 
 Lillabulero bullena la! 
 
 And our skeans we’ll make good at de Englishman’s throat, 
 
 Lillabulero bullena la! ” 
 
 “ Yerra, then, be my sowl! if you were the father 
 o’ lies himself, but that’s thrue for you anyhow, you 
 red-nosed robber! ” muttered Cus Russid to him¬ 
 self from a thicket about sixty yards in front of the 
 corporal. “ Hi, hi! I could split my sides wid 
 laughin’ at the way we’ll carry out yeer song, an’ 
 slit yeer windpipes, afore an hour is over.” 
 
 “Ah!” sighed Sarsfield, as he too listened, “had 
 both the subjects of that ballad. King James and 
 Talbot, never set foot in Ireland, we would have 
 managed our campaigns to some purpose.” 
 
 “ It is but too true, my lord,” whispered O’Hogan 
 
180 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 in return. “ Had you been allowed by the king to 
 charge with your Lucan horse at the Boyne, that 
 disastrous day might have ended differently.” 
 
 “Yes; and all subsequent affairs as a conse¬ 
 quence,” said Sarsfield. 
 
 Still the song went on, the chorus of each verse 
 being now taken up by many of the men filing over 
 the bridge: — 
 
 “ Dere was an ould prophecy found in a bog, 
 
 Lillabulero bullena la! 
 
 Dat Ireland should be ruled by an ass and a dog; 
 Lillabulero bullena la! 
 
 And now dis ould prophecy is come to pass, 
 
 Lillabulero bullena la! 
 
 For Talbote’s de dog and James is de ” — 
 
 “ Ass,” he would have said; but at that moment 
 the shrill note from the whistle of Edmond of the 
 Hill rang over the moorland, and at the self-same 
 instant also the half-pike of Cus Russid came 
 whizzing from the thicket; and, as the unfortunate 
 corporal was in the act of opening his capacious 
 mouth to pronounce with thundering effect this last 
 word of the verse, the weapon entered between his 
 teeth, literally transpiercing his neck. With a hor¬ 
 rible groan he fell from his frightened horse upon 
 the stony bridle-way. 
 
 The first voice that broke the terrible pause that 
 succeeded was that of Cus Russid, as he darted 
 recklessly out from the thicket, and tore the sword 
 from the liancl of the dying corporal. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 181 
 
 “ Hi, hi, hi! ” he laughed, whirling the flashing 
 weapon around his head — “ha, ha! Dhar Vurrhia! 
 but you’re a man in airnest, Cus, to dhraw the first 
 blood on a day like this.” 
 
 The next was that of Pliadrig Garv, or Patrick 
 the Rough, the foster-brother of Edmond of the 
 Hill. Phadrig was a man of nearly seven good 
 feet in height, and even dispx’oi^ortionably stout 
 and brawny into the bargain. His tremendous voice 
 rang over the moorland like that of a mountain bull, 
 as he ordered his men to fire on the exposed flank 
 of the enemy. 
 
 The third was that of Edmond of the Hill him¬ 
 self, as he gave the word for the horsemen to mount 
 and charge,* and the pikemen to rush out from their 
 ambush and fiill on. Then came the shouts of the 
 English captains, as they ordered their men to 
 deploy into line, and stand the shock of the venge¬ 
 ful Rapparees. 
 
 For a short time the enemy seemed to waver as 
 they beheld the well-arranged lines of Irish horse 
 and pikemen emerge from the w'ood, and heard their 
 terrible battle-cry ringing over the sombre moor. 
 Rut it was only for a moment; for, just as they 
 commenced to turn their beards over their shoulders, 
 as the Spanish saying goes, and look behind, Black 
 Gideon Grimes and his compeers, witJi their men, 
 came steadily forward upon their right in a well- 
 formed line, the appearance of w^hich had the effect 
 of re-assuring the English troopers. But a con- 
 
182 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 tinuous line all along their front, they got no time to 
 form; for in an instant, with a ringing cheer that 
 rose high over the rattle of musketry and. the clash 
 of swords, the Rapparees were upon them, with a 
 shock like a peal of crashing thunder. Then com¬ 
 menced one of those struggles, sharp, deadly, and 
 decisive, that always ensues when the antagonists 
 on both sides are men of strength and mettle. 
 
 The English, both horse and foot, were good and 
 steady soldiers; and their auxiliaries, the undertakers, 
 were not a whit behind them in valor. These men, 
 descended from the veteran soldiers of Cromwell’s 
 armies, still nourished in their bosoms the fatalism 
 of their Roundhead fathers; and believing that the 
 hour of their death was predetermined from that of 
 their birth, and consequently that none could die 
 then and there unless their inexorable fate willed it, 
 inheriting also a mad contempt for their Irish 
 opponents and a hatre,d of the latter amounting to 
 frenzy, they now stood their ground, and met the 
 gallant charge of the Rapparees with a coolness 
 and spirit worthy of a better cause. But, notwith¬ 
 standing all this, the enemy began gradually falling 
 back, till their whole line, with both flanks drawn 
 in, appeared, with the gaps made here and there in 
 it, like a torn tUe du pon% or half-moon, in front of 
 the bridge. JRound the outside of this grim semi¬ 
 circle, the Rapparees, both footmen and horsemen, 
 were now raging like so many demons. 
 
 At length the whole line suddenly gave way, and. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 183 
 
 horse and foot, mingled pell-mell, endeavored to 
 make their escape over the bridge, the approach 
 to which was soon strewn with their corpses; for the 
 victorious Rapparees, with vengeful weapons and 
 stout arms, pushed them close behind, cutting them 
 mercilessly down as they fled. 
 
 “ Blood for blood! ” roared Phadrig Garv, as he 
 rushed sword in hand amidst the confused thronsf. 
 
 “Remember Hugh of Glenurra!” shouted Ed¬ 
 mond of the Hill, as he clove a dragoon’s skull, 
 through morion and all, to the very chin. 
 
 “ Give them a touch of Limerick breach, my brave 
 lads,” exclaimed Sarsfield, rattling up the causeway 
 and overturning every thing in his way. 
 
 “Yes, and a taste of Ballineety,” laughed 
 O’Hogan, as he slashed the bridle-hand from the 
 arm of one of Black Gideon’s comrades. 
 
 “Vengeance, vengeance for my son!” yelled 
 old Owen of Glenurra, as he, too, went cutting right 
 and left into the fierce meUe. “Vengeance for my 
 son! Glenurra! Glenurra, for ever! and down with 
 the Pagan Roundhead dogs! ” and the cry was 
 caught u]) and echoed long and loud by his wild 
 Raj)paree followers, as they now swept their enemies, 
 like chaff, over the gory archway of the bridge. 
 
 The English at length succeeded in getting over 
 the bridge; and the Irish were crowdii\gthe slippery 
 causeway in order to pursue them at the opposite 
 side, when an unexpected messenger stopped them 
 in their mid career. This was nothing less than a 
 
184 
 
 THE HOUSE OE LI SB LOOM. 
 
 heavy iron round shot from the large brass cannon 
 so much admired by Cus Russid a couple of days 
 before. The enemy had concealed it as they 
 marched across the moorland, expecting to meet 
 the Rapparees openly at the bridge ; and now, after 
 escaping over the archway, they suddenly divided 
 right and left, thus leaving a space through which 
 the round shot came ricochetting along the bridle¬ 
 path, and ploughing throdgh the thick throng of 
 the advancing Irish. The delay occasioned by this 
 unexpected visitor gave time to the enemy to form 
 their broken ranks once more at the other side of 
 the bridge. 
 
 Both sides were now upon their guard; and the 
 battle dwindled down to an occasional shot from 
 the cannon, and a rattle of musketry now and then 
 from the skirmishers, who crept out on either shore 
 of the Mulkern. It would probably have con¬ 
 tinued at this low ebb until night separated the 
 belligerents, were it not for a wild freak of Phadrig 
 Gai’v, whose warlike spirit would not allow him to 
 remain in inactivity so long, especially with his 
 blood up, and the enemy almost within reach of his 
 long arm. Mounted on a trooper’s horse he had 
 taken in the beginning of the fray, he now rode 
 over the bridge to the opposite side; and there, 
 reining in his steed, politely invited the best man 
 amongst the English troopers to come forth and 
 meet him in single combat: — 
 
 “ For,” said he in his imperfect English, and in a 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 185 
 
 voice that could he heard distinctly at the other 
 side of the moor, “ fwhile our blood is hot, it is a 
 morthial pity an’ a burnin’ shame to let it cool; an’ 
 hur own self will fight the best Suidhera Dheary * 
 amongst ye for a silver skilling or a dhuch of 
 IsgevahaP f 
 
 The stake he proposed for his tremendous game 
 of hazard was so low and reasonable that the 
 simple-minded Phadrig expected to have his prop¬ 
 osition accepted immediately and on the spot. A 
 long consultation followed, however, amongst the 
 English, during which he several times reiterated 
 his cartel. At last a trooper, somewhat like Pha¬ 
 drig in stature, rode forth fi’om the ranks of the 
 enemy, and accepted his challenge. To it they went, 
 stoutly and warily, encouraged by shouts from each 
 side^l—each party expecting its man to come off 
 conqueror. The result of it was, however, that the 
 gigantic Phadrig at length wheeled his hoi’se round 
 and made for the bridge, with his equally gigantic 
 antagonist a prisoner stretched before him, beyond 
 the bow of the saddle, like a sack of corn taken to 
 market by a Kerryman. 
 
 Seeing this, half-a-dozen English troopers spuri-ed 
 'forward to rescue their comrade, while, at the same 
 time, about the same number of Rapparee horse¬ 
 men rode over the bridge to support Phadrig Garv. 
 Once more it came to sword and pistol between 
 them; and, both sides being joined by the main part 
 
 * Ked soldier. 
 
 t A shiliiiig, or a drink of whiskey. 
 
186 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 of their respective comrades and officers, a general 
 and far more bloody fight than ever commenced at 
 the further side of the bridge. The English, who 
 considerably outnumbered the Rapparees, succeeded 
 in driving the latter partly back over the archway; 
 and here, in one of those strange alternations which 
 sometimes occur in the common course of life, but 
 more frequently amid the shifting scenes and wild 
 incidents of battle, Sarsfield, with Edmond of the 
 Hill and his uncle respectively on his right hand, 
 sat his horse at the keystone of the causeway con¬ 
 fronting one of the English captains; while, opposite 
 his companions, with tightened reins and swords 
 ready on the guard, rode another Williamite officer 
 and Gideon Grimes, the eyes of the latter glaring 
 with a look of immortal hate into the equally fierce 
 orbs of the warlike patriarch of Glenurra. ^ 
 
 “ I have seen your face before,” said the English 
 officer, eyeing Sarsfield keenly. 
 
 “Probably,” answered the latter; “and, after 
 this renewal of our acquaintance, I hope to make 
 your memory of me more perfect. Guard yourself, 
 sir.” 
 
 The answer was a slash from the Ensflishman’s 
 sabre, which would have taken Sarsfield across the 
 forehead, had he not parried it dexterously. 
 
 “By Our Lady!” exclaimed Sarsfield, pushing 
 forward in the press so as to crush the Englishman’s 
 horse tightly between his own charger and the worn 
 parapet of the bridge, “ but you give a warm wel- 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 187 
 
 come to an old acquaintance. However, here is to 
 return it.” 
 
 With that, after parrying another cut from his 
 antagonist, he suddenly seized the latter by the 
 bridle-hand, raised it, and plunged his sword deep 
 under tlie armpit; then, as he was in the act of 
 withdrawing his weapon, the tottering parapet of 
 the ancient bridge gave way, and the dying captain 
 and his horse were precipitated along with the 
 filling mass of masonry, with a loud splash, into 
 the sullen and blood-stained waters of the stream 
 below. Sarsfield’s horse stumbled over one of the 
 displaced fragments, and would probably have fol¬ 
 lowed that of the ill-fated Englishman, had not the 
 good rider who bestrode him tightened his rein, 
 and driven the snorting animal in a flying leap over 
 the remaining portion of the parapet in front, and 
 down upon the boggy shore at the other side of the 
 stream, where we will leave him slashing.and parry¬ 
 ing right and left in the thick and raging throng of 
 combatants, amidst which he alighted. 
 
 Meanwhile, Edmond of the Hill and the other 
 English officer were not idle. Both were accom¬ 
 plished and wary swordsmen; and the fight between 
 them would have lasted for a considerable time, had 
 not a stray bullet struck the horse of the former in 
 the chest. The wounded animal, probably receiving 
 the bullet through its heart, stumbled and fell 
 heavily forward upon its knees; and the English 
 officer, stooping over his saddle-bow, was about to 
 
188 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 derive the head of Edmond of the Hill, when 
 O’Hogan, riding by at the moment, struck up his 
 sword, and then literally sheared his head in two 
 with one slash of the four-foot blade he had taken 
 that morning from Glenurra. In an instant, Ed¬ 
 mond of the Hill was on his feet; and, springing 
 into the empty saddle of his late antagonist, the 
 two Rapparee captains rattled side by side into the 
 press in front, and left Black Gideon and old Owen 
 O’Ryan to see it out upon the causeway. 
 
 “ Ha! ” exclaimed Gideon, glaring at Owen. “ Re¬ 
 member the bloody field of Knocknanoss, old Rap¬ 
 paree dog, where you and your leaders were stricken 
 by the good swords of the Lord’s chosen warriors; 
 but where you, in your profane rage, lopped off the 
 right hand of my fathep. You shall now die for 
 that sore blow, as your Rapparee son died before 
 you yesterday by this hand.” 
 
 “Yes,” answered the aged soldier, “Iremember 
 that field well, base murderer, and the cuckoldy old 
 Roundhead drummer, your father. See ! this is the 
 very sword I carried through that field of blood, and 
 that slashed off your father’s hand, so that he could 
 never more twirl drumstick and beat the charge to 
 call the damned Cropears into battle.” 
 
 Without another word, the two enemies closed; 
 and Black Gideon would probably have fared some¬ 
 what worse than his father at the field of Knockna¬ 
 noss, had not a round shot from the cannon struck 
 the keystone of the bridge beneath the stamping 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 189 
 
 hoofs of their horses. The rickety and timeworn 
 arch fell in at the shock ; and down into the horrible 
 chaos beneath "went the two mortal foes, horses and 
 all, the combatants around standing still for a mo¬ 
 ment at the unwonted mishap, and then falling to 
 once more, more vengefully than ever. There was 
 a struggle and then a lull beneath ; but in a few mo¬ 
 ments Black Gideon bounded up the opj)osite bank, 
 with his gory dagger in his hand, leaving the dead 
 body of the bra^m old chieftain of Glenurra beneath 
 the broken arch. 
 
 Although the princiiDal English officers had fallen, 
 others of approved skill and bravery had taken then- 
 places ; and the battle would have gone sorely with 
 the Irish, who were now all at the opposite side of 
 the bridge, their right flank raked by the terrible 
 brass cannon, were it not that at this opportune 
 time Tibbot Burke came riding over the moorland 
 to their aid, at the head of about fifty of the fierce 
 horsemen belonging to O’Hogan. On they came, 
 their green plumes of fern dancing blithely in the 
 wind, and with a wild and vengeful war-cry fell 
 with sword and pistol upon the flank of the enemy. 
 A terrible rout ensued. The English infantry were 
 now scattered and cut down ; and the horse, wheel¬ 
 ing round, swept like a scattered torrent across the 
 moor, and away over the rough country that lay be¬ 
 tween them and the Pass of Lisbloorn, the Rapparee 
 cavalry behind them, sabring them in little, groups 
 here and there over slope and valley. 
 
190 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 Phadrig Garv, who wished to join in the pursuit, 
 now found himself mightily impeded by his gigantic 
 prisoner, whom he had contrived to keep before him 
 on the saddle through the fray. Catching the bridle 
 of a riderless steed that stood near, he bent his 
 large, wild eyes compassionately on his captive : — 
 
 “ Hur own self, ” said he, “was once a prisoner, an’ 
 a good Sassenach released hur without eric or ran¬ 
 som. Sassenach,” and he gave the burly form of 
 the Englishman a tremendous shake, “take this 
 horse and flee. It’ll never be said by foe or sthranger 
 that Phadrig Garv MocRonan failed to repay a good 
 an’ ginerous deed done to hur own four bones in the 
 day of thrubble. ” 
 
 With that, he helped his foe tenderly to the 
 ground; saw him mount and fly for his life down by 
 the shore; and then striking his ponderous foot upon 
 the steaming flank of his own charger, with a 
 relieved heart and contented mind, he set ofl* with a 
 hilarious roar upon the track of those that fled 
 towards Lisbloom. 
 
 One of the English gunners who had charge of 
 the cannon was a brave fellow, and deserved a bet¬ 
 ter fate. Seeing his comrades turn and flee, he 
 limbered up the cannon in a moment, leaped upon 
 the leading horse of the team that drew it, applied 
 his whip, and was in the act of galloping away^ 
 when Cus Russid, who was gliding like a little demon 
 everywhere over the field, presented a i^istol, and 
 shot him through the head. And thus Cus took 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 191 
 
 upon himself the credit of capturing the cannon he 
 so much admired. 
 
 It was now about half an hour after the com¬ 
 mencement of the pursuit, and Cus Russid and sev¬ 
 eral of his companions were congregated around the 
 gun, debating amongst themselves how to dispose of 
 it, when a horseman came spurring back with an 
 order from Edmond of the Plill to take it forward 
 to Lisbloom, in order, if necessary, to batter down 
 the defences of that strongliold. The triumphant 
 Cus seated himself in a moment astride upon the 
 breech of the gun, while some of his comrades 
 mounted the horses ; and away they went, attended 
 by a jubilant crowd of pikemen. Now, Cus Russid, 
 as the reader was made aware on his first introduc¬ 
 tion to that lively individual, had a particular pen¬ 
 chant for singing songs on every possible occasion. 
 Deeming the present a more than usually favorable 
 one for indulging his musical propensity, after kick¬ 
 ing up his heels in the excess of his delight, and 
 calling for attention from his noisy comrades, he 
 rattled forth, in an exceedingly lively and merry 
 strain,— 
 
 “ THE PRODESTAn’ GUN. 
 
 “ There are threasures in Ireland as good as a throne, 
 
 Mighty pleasant an’ fine, could we make them our own ; 
 
 An’ this Prodestan’ gun is a very fine thing 
 Fwhen it fights for ould Ireland and Shemus the king. 
 
 Yet to-day in the fray, he my sowl ! ’twas no joke, 
 
 Fwhen its Prodestmi’ halls through the llapparees broke; 
 
 But its race’ natho the sway o’ the Dutchman is run. 
 
 For the Rapparees now own this Prodestan’ gun ! 
 
192 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LIS BLOOM. 
 
 Chorus, boys! Fwhilst there’s life there’s hope, as 
 the worm said in the stomach o’ the gamecock. 
 
 Dum erlium di tay, dum erliura ri da, 
 
 Dum erlium, fol edrium, dum murlium ri da ! 
 
 Whist! , ’Tis time to stop yer windpipes, ye divvels. 
 Here goes again, as the snowball said fwhen it hit 
 Nancy Doornan in the nose. 
 
 'Tis nate at the patthem to dance a moneen ; 
 
 'Tis nate for to sit by a purty colleen ; 
 
 'Tis sweet for to bask by a hedge at your aise, 
 
 Fwhen the winds are all warm an' the sun in a blaze ; 
 
 There's a plisure in strikin' your innimy sore ; 
 
 There's a plisure in friendship an' whiskey galore; 
 
 But the greatest o' plisures that's ondher the sun 
 Is to turn to a Papish this Prodestan' gun ! — 
 
 Chorus! chorus ! chorus ! as the wran said afore he 
 cracked his windpipe. 
 
 Dum erlium di tay, dum erlium ri da, 
 
 Dum erlium, fol edrium, dum murlium ri da ! ” 
 
 A burst of laughter hailed the termination of Cus 
 Russid’s song; at which that facetious personage 
 kicked up his heels upon the cannon again, and 
 seemed mightily pleased. When they at length 
 arrived at a turn in the pass that brought them in 
 vifiw of the stronghold of Lisblopm, a sight pre¬ 
 sented itself before them that at once arrested their 
 further progress. To explain it, it is necessary to go 
 back half an hour or so. 
 
THE HOUSE OF LI SB LOOM. 
 
 193 
 
 When Black Gideon, who, with a dozen of his 
 comrade undertakers and about thirty troopers, 
 seemed to fly on the wings of the wind, reached his 
 house and took shel'ter behind its fortifications, the 
 Rapparees, headed by their leaders, were just enter¬ 
 ing the opening gorge of the pass. Gideon, seeing 
 that the place was no longer tenable against the vic¬ 
 torious force of the Rapparees, told all whom he met, 
 and those that entered with him, to shift for them¬ 
 selves, and then rushed up a winding stair that led 
 to the room in Avhich Ellie Connell was confined. 
 Bearing the fainting girl in his arms down the stairs 
 and out into the bawn, he took a fresh horse, placed 
 Ellie before him on the saddle, and, dashing out 
 with the rest through the open gate, followed their 
 course up the pass for a few moments, then turned 
 aside, and swept obliquely across the breast of the 
 hill, in order to gain the shortest track leading to 
 Ginkell’s camp before Limerick. 
 
 It was therefore that Cus Russid and his com¬ 
 panions, as they halted, beheld the Rapparees pursu¬ 
 ing the panic-stricken remnant of the garrison up 
 towards the high outlet of the pass, and two horse¬ 
 men riding, one in pursuit of the other, across the 
 declivity of the' hill. Cus recognized them in a 
 moment. . 
 
 “Be the sowl o’ my father!” he exclaimed, “if it 
 isn’t Black Gideon himself, with Ellie Connell afore 
 him on the saddle! An’ see, there is Tibbot 
 Burke hot fut upon his thrack! That’s it, Tibbot!” 
 
194 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LISBLOOM. 
 
 he shouted. “ Don’t spare the spur till you come at 
 him with the good soord or pishtol. Hurry, hurry, 
 hurry! for you have a fast rider and a desperate 
 man to dale wid. Och! they’H be soon out of our 
 siffhth round the showldher o’ the hill.” 
 
 O 
 
 “No,” said one of his comrades: “Tibbot is get- 
 tin’ above him, an’ will make him turn down into 
 the glin o’ Darren, fwhere we can see it all out be- 
 thune them. Dhar, Dhia! bud it’ll be grand.” 
 
 “ Divvle a bit! ” returned Cus: “ he’s too cute for 
 that, boys. Look, look! he’s goin’ to ride down 
 the side o’ the Coum Dearg,” alluding to a deep 
 scaur or glen that ran down the side of the hill; 
 “ an,’ if he get’s into it, the sheep-thrack will take 
 him out over the summit, bad luck to him on his 
 journey! Hurry, Tibbot, hurry ! He’s facin’it, an’ 
 see how the hoofs of his horse sthrike fire from the 
 flinty stones! Hurry, hurry, Tibbot! or Black Gid¬ 
 eon will give you the slip. Ha! honom-an-dhial, 
 he’s down ! ” 
 
 It was just as Cus Russid said. Gideon’s horse 
 struck one of its fore hoofs against a stone, stumbled, 
 and then fell forward ; Elbe Connell, luckily for her¬ 
 self, dropping quietly olf upon the grass at the upper 
 side; and Gideon, with a vain eflbrt to recover 
 himself, at length rolling over and over for a space 
 down the hill. He was on his feet in an instant, 
 however, and, drawing two pistols from his belt, 
 stood prepared for Tibbot, who wa^ now approach¬ 
 ing at full speed. As the latter drew near, Gideon 
 
THE HOUSE OF LISDLOOM. 
 
 195 
 
 suddenly turned with a diabolical and sinister leer 
 upon his face, and discharged one of the pistols at 
 Ellie as she still lay senseless upon the grassy slope. 
 The ball ploughed up the earth within half a foot 
 of her head, but did no harm. The other pistol he 
 got no time to use; for, as he wheeled round to take 
 aim at his coming foe, the sword of Tibbot de¬ 
 scended upon his neck, half severing the head from 
 the quivering trunk. Thus fell Black Gideon 
 Grimes; and the last mortal sound that rang in his 
 ears was an exultant yell from the gorge beneath of 
 the poor peasants whom he had oppressed and plun¬ 
 dered of the little left them by war and tyranny in 
 their native glens. 
 
 Ellie Connell soon recovered from her swoon; and, 
 by the time she was conducted to the bottom of the 
 pass beneath, most of those engaged in the pursuit 
 had returned. There Tibbot presented his future 
 bride to Sarsfield, who, with a pleasant face, wished 
 them many a happy day together, — a wish that 
 was afterwards fulfilled. Sarsfield then bade them 
 farewell; and, with a mighty cheer that woke the 
 echoes of the surrounding hills ringing after him, 
 rode up the pass, accompanied by O’Hogan and his 
 horsemen, who were to conduct him across the 
 Shannon to Limerick, leaving Edmond of the Hill 
 and his victorious Rapparees to occupy the doughty 
 stronghold of Lisbloom for the service of King 
 James the Second. 
 
The White Knights Present. 
 
 A LEGEND OF ARDFINNAN 
 
 - •- 
 
 I N the latter years of the reign of Elizabeth, there 
 lived in the fortress of Ballindunney a chieftain 
 who was known by the euphonious title of the Mul- 
 loch Maol, or Maolmorrha MacS weeny. He was, 
 about the time of the following events, over eighty 
 years of age; but the martial fire that animated his 
 youth, for he had been a renowned warrior in his 
 day, burned in his breast as brightly as ever. With 
 his fourteen stalwart sons, seven at each side, and 
 his retainers ranged in due order below them along 
 the great hall of the castle, he still presided every 
 evening: at the feast: and almost in the same order 
 he rode forth to battle; for in those times there 
 were battles to be had galore^ — for love, for money, 
 and even for nothing. At the same time there re¬ 
 sided— one in his immediate neighborhood, and 
 the other some distance to the west of his castle — 
 two worthies of renown, who made it a settled thing 
 never to be at peace with one another. The first 
 
 199 
 
THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 197 
 
 of these was Shane vie an Earla, or the son of the 
 earl, chief of Ardfinnan Castle; and the other, the re¬ 
 doubtable Ridderah Fion, the White Knight, lord 
 of the Clingibbon country. Shane vie an Earla was, 
 it seems to me, a wily and prudent man; but,- in 
 the lano-uage of the legend, he is said to have been 
 an arrant coward, always at variance with the White 
 Knight, but at the same time frightened by his 
 threats, and applying invariably to the indomitable 
 Mulloch Maol for help against his attacks. One 
 sunny day in the beginning of autumn, as Shane 
 was-sitting on the rock of Ardfinnan, looking over 
 the bright scenery of the Suir, he saw a sturdy^but 
 tattered-looking beggar-man coming do\vn a little 
 valley to the west, and approaching the ford which 
 ran across the river near the castle. When he had 
 gained the opposite end of the ford, he stood for a 
 few moments looking cautiously around him ; then, 
 taking his wallet in his hand, he cast it into the 
 river, and, after pulling ofl* his tattered cothamore, or 
 large outside coat, stood as fine and brawny a speci¬ 
 men of a young warrior as could be seen in those 
 martial times. In a few moments more he had 
 crossed the river, and was standing by the side of 
 his chief, Shane vie an Earla. 
 
 “ Vic an Earla,” he said, “ the men of the forest 
 will be upon us by to-morrow’s sun. I heard the 
 Ridderah Fion and his black friend, Diarmaid, say¬ 
 ing so- this morning at their gathering under the 
 walls of Kilbeheny.” 
 
198 
 
 THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 Vic an Eaiia’s reply was interrupted by a loud 
 knocking at the outer gate of the castle. On going 
 to see what was the matter, to his great joy he be- 
 lield his friend Maolmorrha banging, as was his 
 wont, with his sAvord-hilt for admittance at the gate. 
 Maolmorrha, on hearing the story, could not repress 
 his satisfaction at the prospect of an encounter with 
 the Ridderah Fion and his men. 
 
 “Let him come,” said he, “and perhaps he’ll not 
 be so eager to come again. We have a yastle, a 
 rock, and a river on our side, and plenty of strong 
 arms to defend them ; and, in my mind, if the devil 
 came with as many champions as he could muster, 
 we’d be able to make our stand good against him. 
 
 Great and hurried were the preparations at both 
 castles that night; and before the dawn of morning 
 the conjoint forces of Vic an Faria and Maolmorrha 
 were mustered in battle array beneath and upon the 
 walls of Ardfinnan, Avilling, if not able, to repel 
 the onset of the Ridderah Fion and his folloAvers. 
 
 The first light of the morning beheld the Ridderah 
 and his forces approaching the ford that led to the 
 castle. The sight that met their eyes, however, a 
 little damped their ardor. On a small space of rock 
 that projected about a dozen feet above the river, the 
 Mulloch Maol, in full armor, sat sword in hand, and i 
 motionless as a brazen statue, upon his white steed, 
 his fourteen sons ranged, seven at each side, below 
 him by the water’s edge, and all his vassals behind 
 them, eager to cross the river and begin the battle. 
 
THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 199 
 
 The ramparts of the castle were lined by the men 
 of Vic an Earla with their harquebusses in hand, 
 ready to fire upon the enemy, should he attempt to 
 cross the ford and attack them. Diarraaid, the Rid- 
 derah’s sword-bearer, now advanced to the opposite 
 end of the ford to hold a parley. 
 
 “ Son of a strumpet,” he said, addressing Vic an 
 Earla, who stood upon a turret above the Mulloch 
 Maol, “ pay the eric for my brother’s head, or your 
 own head and your castle and treasures shall be the 
 fine when this day we ojaen a passage to them with 
 our battle-axes.” 
 
 The Ridderah now rode down to the side of his 
 sword-bearer. “Yes,” he exclaimed, “pay the eric 
 for the life of the gallant Outlaw of the Gap, or be¬ 
 fore another hour we’ll have a hundred lives for 
 his, and our banner floating from your walls. And 
 you, silly old man,” he continued, addressing the 
 Mulloch Maol, “fitter were you at home teaching 
 your fourteen clowns to till your ploughlands than 
 standing there trying to stem the onset of a gallant 
 knight fighting for his just demand.” 
 
 The Mulloch Maol, who was a man of fiery tem¬ 
 per and prompt action, maddened by the taunt of 
 the Ridderah, turned to his sons and followers. 
 “Follow me!” he shouted; and, suiting the action 
 to the word, he sprang his war-horse from tlie rock 
 into the river beneath, and, with his sons and re¬ 
 tainers, stood in a short time upon the opposite 
 bank. In a moment they were, sword in hand, upon 
 
200 
 
 THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 the enemy. In the midst of the contest, and when 
 the besiegers were likely to have the worst of it, the 
 Mulloch Maol singled out the Ridderah, and attack¬ 
 ed him with as much agility as if he were in the 
 prime of life. His sword missed its aim, but went 
 sheer through the saddle, and lodged itself deep into 
 the side of the Ridderah’s war-horse. The horse 
 sprang into the air, and fell to the earth, bringing 
 the Ridderah, in his heavy armor, down with a clang 
 that gave the clearest intimation to his followers of 
 what had befallen him. This was the turning-point 
 in the fray; for the Ridderah’s followers, with the 
 exception of Diarmaid, fled, leaving him a prisoner 
 in the hands of the Mulloch Maol. Great was his 
 surprise, however, when the Mulloch, who made it a 
 point always either to kill his prisoner or set him free 
 altogether, told him that he was at liberty to depart 
 to his forests, but that his life was spared to fi-ee the 
 eric or fine for the life of Diarniaid’s brother, the 
 Outlaw of the GajD. On second thought, too, the 
 Mulloch, considering the Ridderah’s great renown 
 as a warrior, invited him and his sword-bearer to a 
 few days’ merry-making at his castle of Ballindunney. 
 The Ridderah, though perhaps wishing himself back 
 again safely in his castle, did not find it convenient 
 to refuse; so he accepted the invitation, and the 
 merry-making went on gloriously for two days in 
 the great hall of the Mulloch’s castle. At the end 
 of the second day it was time for the Ridderah to 
 depart. He had noticed that there was a great scar- 
 
THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 201 
 
 city of fuel at Ballindunney; the servants having, in 
 fact, to make tires of straw and brambles, for want 
 of better, in consequence of the scantiness of wood 
 in that neighborhood. As some recompense for fill 
 the kindness shown him, the Ridderah offered to 
 send an ample supply of wood from his great forests 
 to Ballindunney, which oflTer the Mulloch Maol, with 
 his usual frankness, gratefully accepted. 
 
 Seven days after the departure of the Ridderah, 
 the Mullocli’s youngest son descried from the watch- 
 tower of the castle a long line of wagons, laden 
 with the promised firewood, slowly approaching 
 from the ford of Ardtinnan. On their arrival, they 
 were unladen in the great bawn of the castle. Not¬ 
 withstanding the abundant gratitude manifested by 
 the Ridderah on leaving Ballindunney, and his broth¬ 
 erly sincerity of words, the Mulloch Maol still sus¬ 
 pected some treachery in this present of firewood. 
 He examined each load, and found that, along with 
 the timber being cut into logs of the requisite length 
 for burning, some were a little blackened at the end, 
 where, after the saw, they should be smooth and 
 white. The wily old chieftain took one of these sus¬ 
 picious-looking logs, and, examining it more closely, 
 unperceived by the Ridderah’s men, found its heart 
 scooped, and tilled with a quantity of j^owder suffi¬ 
 cient, on being thrown on the fire, almost to blow 
 up his castle. The Mulloch pretended not to notice 
 what he had discovered, and gave directions as 
 usual that a plentiful dinner should be prepared for 
 
202 
 
 THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 the drivers of the wagons. JBy tlie time the din¬ 
 ner was laid in the hall of the castle, the Mulloch’s 
 • men, by his directions, had made the logs of fire¬ 
 wood into a great heap, with the harness of the 
 Ridderah’s horses and the wagons placed on the 
 top of them. When the drivers were seated at din¬ 
 ner, among whom was Diarmaid in disguise, a war¬ 
 rior was ordered to stand at the back of each man, 
 with a battleaxe in his hand, and to strike off the 
 head of whomsoever should stir from his seat. At 
 about every five minutes during the dinner, these 
 warriors went round and round the hall, shouting 
 their chieftain’s war-cry, and striking the axes 
 against their shields, altogether making a clamor 
 which caused the poor drivers, in their terror, to 
 imagine themselves sitting before their last dinner 
 in this woiid. When dinner was over, they 
 were ordered out into the bawn, and great was their 
 surprise to see the logs in a blaze, with the wagons 
 and harness upon them. When the flames had 
 reached the logs containing the powder, which were 
 placed about the middle of the pile, logs, harness, 
 and wagons were blown up with a sound which the 
 deceitful Ridderah could easily hear in his castle of 
 Kilbeheny. The drivers were now directed to range 
 themselves before the castle-gate; and, by the Mul¬ 
 loch’s commands, their horses were then brought 
 from the stables and given back to them. 
 
 “Dogs,” said the fiery old warrior, “is this the 
 recompense your chieftain sends me for granting 
 
THE WHITE KNIGHT’S PRESENT. 
 
 203 
 
 him his life ? Ride and tell your master that, should 
 he ever get into Maolmorrha MacSweeny’s hands 
 again, his head shall pay the forfeit for his treach¬ 
 ery.” 
 
 The drivers, with Diarmaid at their head, needed 
 no second injunction to depart; so away they went 
 upon their horses, as if a legion of Mulloch Maols 
 was in their track, till they reached their native for¬ 
 ests by the Funcheon. Diarmaid told Maolmorrha’s 
 message to his master; but the Ridderah Fion, fear¬ 
 ing some mishap like the former one, and setting a 
 due value on his head, never more visited the castles 
 of Ballindunney and Ardfinnan. 
 
THE FIRST AND LAST LORDS OF 
 
 FERMOY. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE FUNCHEON. 
 
 - ■ ' »- 
 
 I T was a fine June morning in tlie year 1216. 
 
 The sun shone down merrily on river and shore, 
 and gleamed brilliantly from the accoutrements of a 
 herald, who, attended by two squires, was riding 
 leisurely through the green forest towards the strong 
 castle of Glanworth, in the county of Cork, at that 
 time possessed by Sir William Flemming, Baron of 
 Fermoy. This Sir William Flemming was one of 
 those hardy Norman adventurers who came to Ire¬ 
 land under Strongbow, Earl of Pembroke, and who, 
 after fighting in many a hard battle against the na¬ 
 tives, at last gained for himself the fair district of 
 Fenuoy, built in the centre of it the great castle of 
 Glanworth, on the banks of the Funcheon, and there 
 sat down to spend the remainder of his life in peace 
 and in the enjoyment of his hard-won possessions. ■ 
 But perfect peace rarely falls to the lot of man. Sir 
 William Flemming had an only child, his daughter 
 
 204 
 
THE FIRST AND LAST LORDS OF FERMOY. 205 
 
 Amy, celebrated both for her beauty and her good¬ 
 ness, and whose hand soon became sought for in 
 marriage by many of the powerful chiefs around. 
 Amy Flemming, however, was as hard to be pleased 
 in a husband as she was good and beautiful, and re¬ 
 fused all their offers. Among her suitors was Sir 
 William Cantoun, or Condon, a knight of Norman- 
 Welsh descent, whose father had won for himself 
 the barony of Condons, adjoining that of Fermoy. 
 This Sir William resided in great state at the strong 
 castle of Cloghlea, whose ruins may yet be seen 
 standing on a high limestone rock above the Fun- 
 cheon, a few miles from its junction with the noble 
 Blackwater. It was from him that the herald and 
 his two attendants were now approaching Sir 
 William Flemming’s castle of Glanworth. A ford 
 at this time crossed the river, where now rise the 
 arches of the narrow and picturesque bridge, a short 
 . distance below the castle. Through this ford the her¬ 
 ald and his two attendants dashed their horses mer¬ 
 rily across; and, approaching the principal gate, or 
 barbacan, of the castle, demanded admittance in the 
 name of their master. Sir William Cantoun. They 
 were admitted with all the deference and courtesy 
 accorded in those chivalric days to a herald, and 
 conducted into the great hall, where they requested 
 an audience from Sir William Flemming. 
 
 “ I come,” said the herald, as the stout old baron 
 made his appearance, “ with two presents from my 
 Lord of Cloghlea. This pearl chaplet he bids me 
 
206 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 offer thy daughter, the Lady Amy, and demands 
 through me her hand in marriage. In case she re¬ 
 fuse his present and his offer, I am commissioned to 
 offer thee this.” And he produced a steel gauntlet, 
 which he laid before the Baron of Fermoy. 
 
 “ To my daughter I leave the acceptance or re¬ 
 jection of such gauds,” answered Sir William 
 Flemming: “ We will call her into thy presence, and 
 see how she takes tliy suit. Now,” continued he, 
 as the fair Amy, attended by her maids, entered the 
 hall, “ make thine offer again, and I will abide by 
 her decision.” 
 
 “Lady Amy,” said the herald, “my master. Sir 
 William Cantoun, sends thee this fair chaplet, and 
 asks thee to become Lady of Cloghlea and the green 
 woods around it. What is thine answer ? ” 
 
 Amy looked for a moment at her father, but saw 
 in his face no expression by which she could judge 
 one way or the other of his sentiments. 
 
 “ Take it back,” she said at length, as she drew 
 up her fair and stately figure. “ The knight whose 
 iron mace is ever raised oppressively over the heads 
 of the poor peasantry, whose hand is red always 
 with unjust blood, he shall be no husband of mine. 
 Thou hast my answer.” And, with a haughty and 
 indignant look at the herald, she withdrew with her 
 maids. 
 
 “ And now,” said Sir William Flemming, as his 
 daughter left the hall, “ to me it is left to pay thee 
 due courtesy. I accept this.” And he took up the 
 
LORDS OF FEUMOY. 
 
 207 
 
 steel glove with a grim smile. “ Tell thy master to 
 come as speedily as he lists, and that I and my 
 crossbow men, and riders-at-arms, will give him the 
 reception that befits his state from the ramparts of 
 Glanworth.” 
 
 And so the herald again crossed the ford, and 
 rode back to his master. 
 
 But it seems that Sir William Flemming miscal¬ 
 culated the power and influence possessed at that 
 time by the fiery Baron of Cloghlea. These were 
 days, when in Ireland, and in fact throughout every 
 country in Europe, the strong hand with lance and 
 sword held the place that the law holds at the 
 present period. Each lord and baron was his own 
 lawgiver, — a petty prince, who, after paying his 
 tribute to the government, held himself absolved 
 from all other obligations, and ruled his territories, 
 and made war and peace with his neighbors, accord¬ 
 ing to the dictates of his own will. And so it was 
 with Sir William Cantoun. 
 
 That night the warder, as he looked from his 
 watchtower on the summit of Glanworth Castle, 
 could see the whole wide plain to the eastward 
 ablaze with the signal fires of the wrathful Baron of 
 Cloghlea. During several succeeding nights the 
 same portentous fires threw up their lurid glai'e 
 into the calm, still sky; and day by day, by castle 
 and town and hamlet, fierce riders spurred hither 
 and thither to chief and vassal, summoning them 
 to take up arms, and back the quarrel of their stout 
 
•208 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 suzerain, till at length a large and formidable army 
 was collected around the castle of Sir William 
 Cantoun. Not content with this gathering, how¬ 
 ever, he sent for help to O’Keefe, the native and 
 hereditary chief of the whole country stretching 
 alonsr the northern shore of the Blackwater, and 
 obtained it, together with the aid of another Irish 
 chief equally powerful. 
 
 With this formidable army. Sir William Cantoun 
 marched westward from his castle, and began to lay 
 waste the territories of the Baron of Fermoy. After 
 going with fire and sword along all the eastern por¬ 
 tion of the district, he at length reached Gian worth 
 Castle, and sat down before its walls to commence 
 a regular siege.- A siege in those days was a very 
 different affair from what it has come to be in more 
 modern times. There were then no cannon; and 
 the only method of battering down walls consisted 
 in the use of engines, which, on the introduction of 
 gunpowder, were thrown aside as unavailable in war¬ 
 fare, and of which we now scarcely remember the" 
 names. Yet with engine, arbalist, crossbow, and jav¬ 
 elin, Sir William Cantoun plied the castle, till, in a 
 few days, the besieged were reduced to sore dis¬ 
 tress. At this stage, the Baron of Cloghlea again 
 demanded the hand of Amy Flemming, hut was 
 again refused. 
 
 On the fourtli day the sun that lit the fierce faces 
 of the combatants in and around Glanworth was 
 also reflected from the points of ten spears that 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 209 
 
 were stuck, handle downward, in the soft sward of 
 a little glade in the midst of the great forest that 
 then clothed the back of the wild mountain range 
 that walls in the territory of Fermoy to the south¬ 
 ward, and ends in the romantic peak of Corrin 
 Thierna. Their owners, as many knights, were 
 sitting lazily upon the grass beside them, enjoying 
 their noontide meal, while their horses were scattered 
 along the glade in the exercise of the same agreeable 
 occupation. The leader of this group was a young 
 man of great stature and noble bearing, with light- ^ 
 colored hair, and a fine, sun-embrowned visage, that 
 looked all the better from a small white scar that 
 extended obliquely down his high forehead. His 
 name was Richard de Rupe, or Roche. His father, 
 Sir Adam de Rupe, fighting under the banners of 
 Strongbow and Fitzstephen, had come into posses¬ 
 sion of the barony of Rosscarberry, and there built a 
 magnificent castle on the river Bandon, called Foul- 
 
 O 
 
 ue-long, whose ruins still remain to attest its former 
 strength and splendor. On his death, his son, Rich¬ 
 ard de Rupe, succeeded him ; and was on his way on 
 the day in question to visit another strong castle of 
 his, on the northern frontier of the county Cork. 
 The whole band were chatting gayly upon various 
 subjects as the meal proceeded. 
 
 They were at length disturbed, however, by the 
 appearance of a horseman above them on the bare 
 side of a hill, who came down at full speed upon 
 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 THE Fin ST AND LAST 
 
 their left, with the intention of making his way 
 downward into the southern plain. 
 
 “ A prize, a prize ! ” exclaimed Sir Gilbert Riden- 
 ford and a few other young knights, starting to their 
 feet, and buckling on their helmets. “By the hand 
 of the Conqueror, a prize and adventure both! ” And 
 they ran towards their steeds, which each mounted 
 at a single bound. Then, catching their spears in 
 their hands, they sat looking towards their leader, 
 for liberty to ride after the stranger, who was pass- 
 ^ ing on the left without perceiving them. 
 
 “Away!” exclaimed Sir Richard de Rupe. “Pie 
 will be but a small prize, indeed. But, if he carry 
 nothing else, he may tell us some news; for every 
 Irishman is chockful of that commodity.” 
 
 Away dashed the wild young knights down the 
 woods, till they came to the bottom of a deep valley, 
 through which they knew the strange horseman 
 must pass; and there, after much doubling and 
 twisting, they at length captured him, and led him 
 in triumph to their comrades. 
 
 “ Gold, gold I ” shouted one of them derisively, as 
 the captive came sullenly in. “Search him, Sir 
 Gilbert: I will wager he hath a treasure.” 
 
 “ I will barter my steed, trappings and all, against 
 a Jew’s donkey, but he hath the elixir of life hid in 
 his pocket,” exclaimed another. 
 
 “What errand ridestthou?” asked Sir Richard 
 de Rupe, in a commanding but respectful tone, 
 which drew an answer from the captured horseman. 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 211 
 
 He told them the substance of what is related above, 
 and that he was riding southward to the castle of 
 Sir Maurice Fitzgerald to beg aid for his master, the 
 Baron of Fermoy, in his sore distress. 
 
 “ There! ” said Ridenford, “ I told thee an ad¬ 
 venture would come of it; and now what is to be 
 done?” 
 
 “ First, to let the courier go,” answered de Rupe. 
 “ We will hold counsel as we ride along.” 
 
 The courier waited no further liberty, but, turn¬ 
 ing his horse, rode down through the woods at the 
 same headlong pace with which he came. The 
 result of their consultation, as they rode over the 
 range of mountains and crossed the Blackwater, 
 was that the nine knights should remain in the 
 forest near, while their leader rode forward to the 
 beleao-ured castle of Glanworth, and demanded ad- 
 mittance to its lord. The warlike customs of those 
 days were strangly different from those of the pres¬ 
 ent. Sir Richard de Rupe, on reaching the besie¬ 
 ging army, at once caused himself to be brought 
 before the Baron of Cloghlea, and made his request; 
 which was granted without hesitation and with the 
 utmost courtesy. And thus he was admitted into 
 the castle of Glanworth. 
 
 “ Sir William Flemming,” said he to the old 
 baron, who received him in the hall, “ I have come 
 to offer thee the service of my arm in thy strait. 
 My father, Adam de Rupe, was, I believe, once thy 
 companion-in-arms.” 
 
212 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 The baron took his hand with a friendly grasp. 
 “ Ah! ” he said, “ I remember him well, and a brave 
 companion he was. And thou, — thou art welcome 
 to my poor hall of Glanworth; although, God 
 wot!” continued he, with a sad smile, “I fear thy 
 single ai’m will make but small change in our affairs; 
 for we are indeed sore beset.” 
 
 “ I have nine other knights at my back,” said De 
 Rupe. “ Could we not send them word , of thy 
 plight, and make a bold sally upon the besiegers, 
 during which they might suddenly mingle with the 
 combatants, and get entrance as we withdraw ? ” 
 
 “ I fear no entrance can be gained for more than 
 thee,” answered Flemming. “Yesterday we tried 
 that ruse, to get in a small body of auxiliaries; but, 
 by my faith ! we were all beaten back, and half our 
 expected aid slain. Save that my old friend. Sir 
 Maurice Fitzgerald, come speedily with a large 
 force to relieve us, I fear me there is but small hope 
 for us; for the bloodv Oantoun and his followers 
 are pressing us too hotly.” 
 
 “ How long canst thou hold out, in case the aid 
 come ? ” asked De Rupe. 
 
 “Not longer than another day, I fear me,” an¬ 
 swered Flemming. “ The foe are in possession of 
 every available spot around the castle, and have 
 already half battered down the gates.” 
 
 “ Then,” said De Rupe, after a pause, “ there is 
 but one plan, and that is to offer myself to do battle 
 with axe and sword against Sir William Cantoun 
 for the hand of thy daughter.” 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 213 
 
 “ It is a brave plan,” said the baron, “ and one that 
 well befits thy father’s son. But I have sworn by 
 my knightly word, no matter what haps, to let my 
 daughter choose for herself. If she choose thee for 
 a husband, then I give my consent to the trial by 
 combat: and I doubt not but Cantouii will accept 
 of thy challenge; for whatever else he may be, he 
 assuredly is brave. I will call my daughter, and do 
 thou propose thy plan to her thyself. ” 
 
 The beautiful Amy Flemming was again brought 
 into the hall. 
 
 “Fair lady,” said De Rupe, “I would wish to woo 
 thee in another and more befitting way, but cannot, 
 as thou seest. Wilt thou consent that I should do 
 battle with Sir William Cantoun for thy hand? 
 With thy bright eyes to look upon me in the strug¬ 
 gle, I hope to do my devoir as becomes a knight, 
 and free thy father from his worst foe.” 
 
 Amy scanned the fine face and fair proportions 
 of the young knight with a pleased eye. There 
 was but little time for deliberation, for even then 
 they heard the foe hammering at the gate. 
 
 “Yes,” she said, while a blush of maiden modesty 
 mantled her beautiful face. “My father is now 
 brought to sore distress. An’ thou relieve him and 
 me from our foe, I will be thy bride.” 
 
 That night, notwithstanding the sad case of the 
 besieged, a merry revel was held in the hall of 
 Gian worth Castle. The fair Amy sat at the board; 
 and, as she talked to the young De Rupe, her heart 
 
214 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 confirmed the consent she was forced to give so sud¬ 
 denly the preceding evening. The next morning’s 
 sun shone gayly down upon the many bright objects 
 around the castle, — the polished armor of the 
 knights as they stalked to and fro directing the 
 movements of the besiegers ; the waving banners on 
 plain and tower; the light lances of the kern; the 
 ponderous swoi’ds, bucklers, and battle-axes of the 
 heavy footmen, who were now gathering in a 
 mass with ' scaling-ladders, to make a final attack 
 upon the besieged. At this juncture, a white flag 
 was suddenly raised from the highest tower of the 
 barbacan, and its appearance caused for a moment 
 a suspension of hostilities on both sides. Immedi¬ 
 ately after, a herald rode forth from the gate, and 
 demanded to be brought into the,presence of the 
 Baron of Cloghlea. 
 
 “ Sir William Cautoun,” said the herald, “ I come 
 to offer thee single combat on the part of Sir Rich¬ 
 ard de Rupe, good knight and true, now in the 
 castle, for the hand of the Lady Amy.” 
 
 “ And what if I refuse ? ” answered the Knight of 
 Cloghlea, with a bitter smile. “The castle, father 
 and daughter, champion and all, will be soon in my 
 hands, without the trouble of trial by combat.” 
 
 “ Then,” said the herald, “ Sir Richard de Rupe 
 bids me say that he will proclaim thee recreant and 
 coward through all the lands of Christendom, and 
 false to thy badge of knighthood.” 
 
 “ That were, indeed, a hard alternative,” answered 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 215 
 
 Cantoun. “ But it shall never be said that William 
 of Cloghlea refused the challenge of any mortal 
 man. I accept thy defiance, sir herald, and will 
 meet him at noon with axe and sword, on foot, on 
 this very spot, and in sight of all.” 
 
 Noon came, and saw the besiegers all gathering 
 round a level spot outside the barbacan gate of Glan- 
 worth, and the besieged, with eager faces, crowding 
 on the walls to witness the combat; while the beau¬ 
 tiful Amy sat with her maids at a high turret-win¬ 
 dow that overlooked the scene, her face pale and 
 her heart throbbing, and her white hands clasped in 
 prayer for the success of her young and gallant 
 champion. W^hat must have been her feelings when 
 at length she saw the two adversaries approach each 
 other warily, under the cover of their broad shields, 
 each with axe in hand, poised and ready to begin 
 the combat? 
 
 And now the axes were crossed, and again came 
 down for some time alternately, with loud clanging, 
 upon the interposed shields. Hotter and hotter 
 grew the combat, till at last the axe of de Rupe 
 crashed in through the shoulder-plate of Cantoun, 
 making the blood flow out upon his arm and breast. 
 This aroused the full fury of Sir William Cantoun, 
 who was one of the most celebrated knights of his 
 time for strength and prowess. He raised his axe 
 suddenly, as if about to deliver a heavy blow upon 
 the hip of de Rupe; but, changing the direction of 
 the stroke, the ponderous weapon came down with 
 
216 
 
 THE EIRST AND LAST 
 
 full force upon the helmet of his antagonist, making 
 him reel backward a few paces, and at length fall 
 to the ground over the body of a dead archer that 
 lay behind him. Now this archer had been slain in 
 the very act of poising his crossbow, which lay 
 beside him drawn, and with the arrow in, under the 
 very hand of de Rupe as he fell. Whether it was 
 according to the laws of single combat, on the part 
 of de Rupe, we will not say; but, as he fell, he 
 grasped the drawn crossbow in his hand, raised it 
 as he half lay upon the ground, and discharged it at 
 his adversary as he advanced to despatch him, 
 piercing him with the arrow through one of the 
 joints of his armor. The arrow entered Sir William 
 Cantoun’s'left side, and pierced in an upward direc¬ 
 tion through his heart; on which he fell heavily to 
 the ground, and in a few moments expired. His 
 body was borne away with loud lamentations by 
 his sorrowing vassals: O’Keefe and the other chief¬ 
 tains departed with their followers, and Sir William 
 Flemming was left once more in peaceable posses¬ 
 sion of his castle and domains. The lovely Amy 
 and her champion were soon after married. The 
 young knights assisted at the bridal ceremony, and 
 wondered at, and laughed heartily over, the good 
 fortune of their leader. 
 
 “By my fay!” said Sir Gilbert Ridenford to Can- 
 temar, his brother-in-arms, after they had danced a 
 few merry measures down the great hall, “ I told 
 thee this was an enchanted land. I will ride forth 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 217 
 
 to-morrow in quest of an adventure for myself, and 
 try and win a fair bride like our leader.” 
 
 Amy was the sole heiress of Sir William Flem¬ 
 ming; and, at his death, her husband, in her right, 
 succeeded to the possession of the fair territory of 
 Fermoy, which was in his lifetime raised to a lord- 
 ship. And thus Sir Richard de Rupe, or Roche, 
 won those fertile lands, and became the first lord of 
 Fermoy, and the progenitor of a long line of barons, 
 distinguished for their ju’incely hospitality, their 
 prowess, and often for their patriotic devotedness to 
 the cause of their native land. 
 
 Pass we now over a period of some centuries, 
 during which the successive lords of Fermoy lived, 
 loved, fought, and died within their fair territory, 
 like brave Norman-Irish nobles as they were, till we 
 come to that stormy time when Ireland and the 
 sister island groaned beneath the iron rule of the 
 victorious usurper, Cromwell. Maurice, eighth Vis¬ 
 count Fermoy, was at this time a man in the prime 
 of life. His father David, after suffering severely in 
 the great Desmond insurrection of 1598, was recom¬ 
 pensed for his losses in the succeeding reign. Sev¬ 
 eral large grants of land, partly from the forfeited 
 estates of the Earl of Desmond, were given him by 
 James the First; and, living peaceably for along pe¬ 
 riod in his ancestral home, he at length became one 
 of the richest noblemen in Ireland. After the acces¬ 
 sion of the unfortunate Charles to the throne of 
 England, and the breaking out of the great insur- 
 
218 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 rection of 1641 in Ireland, this David retired to 
 France with his family, and a regiment he had 
 raised within his own territory, and there died, leav¬ 
 ing his estates, worth, it is said, fifty thousand pounds 
 yearly, to his eldest son Maurice, the eighth lord of 
 Fermoy. 
 
 The estates to which Maurice succeeded were, 
 however, in a very insecure position from the sad 
 state of the country at the time. North and south, 
 east and west, the baleful fires of war were glaring 
 redly throughout the land. Sanctimonious Puritan, 
 hot-headed native chief, and cautious noble of the 
 Pale,were then battling with savage ferocity; some 
 for the rebellious Parliament, some for the weal of 
 their native land, some for the unfortunate King 
 Charles, and a great many, with sorrow be it said, 
 for their own aggrandizement. 
 
 Among those that held stoutly and faithfully to 
 the last to the colors of both king and country was 
 Maurice of Fermoy. When the oppressed Catho¬ 
 lics, at length banded together, formed the Confed¬ 
 eration, and sent their deputies to Kilkenny to re¬ 
 dress their wrongs. Viscount Fermoy took his place 
 in' the Parliament then formed among the Peers, 
 while several gentlemen of his own name attended 
 the Commons. This was in the stormy year 1646. 
 On the breaking up of the Confederation, Vis¬ 
 count Fermoy, with many of the gentlemen of his 
 house, again took up arms against Cromwell and his 
 generals ; but gained by his loyalty only defeat and 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 219 
 
 forfeiture. He fled, an outlawed man, to Flanders, 
 and thus lost the castled home and fair patrimony 
 won so gallantly by his great ancestor. Sir Richard 
 de Rupe. We will follow him a little further, how¬ 
 ever, and show how faithfully he still adhered to his 
 iinscrupulous monarch, and how he was rewarded 
 for his devotedness. 
 
 In a somewhat small room in an ancient Flemish 
 town, towards the close of the last year of the ban¬ 
 ishment of Charles the Second, that monarch sat 
 with a few of his exiled nobles around a table, on 
 one end of which were arranged the materials for a 
 supper. Charles and his comrades at this time led 
 a somewhat rakish life, notwithstanding their pov¬ 
 erty and their many troubles. On the evening in 
 question, he and two of his favorites were sitting at 
 the head of the table, and deeply engaged in a game, 
 then very fashionable, namely, primero. A small 
 heap of gold coins was placed before each of the 
 players, while another — the stake — lay at the foot 
 of the little lamp that gave them light for their 
 game. A jovial smile played over the features of 
 the “merry monarch,” as he raised the last card 
 of his deal, and threw it triumphantly upon those of 
 his companions. 
 
 : “Ha!” he exclaimed, laughing, “two hearts,— 
 
 two hearts, and my bonnie ace upon their necks! 
 By my sovereign word ! an’ I win this, I shall be a 
 second Croesus ere the morning. The game is 
 mine.” And he swept the stake over to his side. 
 
220 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 “My lord,” said one of the players, smiling, “ for¬ 
 tune seems to smile continually upon thy head to¬ 
 night. And touching that same golden monarch 
 your majesty was pleased to name just now, had 
 we him here, thou wert sure to succeed to his treas¬ 
 ures. But, with us poor spendthrifts, thou wilt not 
 be much richer, an’ thou win all our store.” 
 
 “ By my father’s wise head! no,” said the mon¬ 
 arch, glancing at the diminutive heaps of gold. 
 “ But, come! another game, and a fig for Dame 
 Fortune, that will not stand to me in sterner play 
 than this ! ” And he took up the cards, and began 
 shuffling and dealing them with no inexpert hand. 
 
 Game after game now, however, went against the 
 monarch. The heap of gold, whose size he had 
 augmented in the beginning of the evening, now 
 began to dwindle away gradually, till at last he was 
 reduced to one solitary coin. The cards were dealt 
 once more, and began to fly down quickly upon the 
 table. 
 
 “Now for a dash in Dame Fortune’s face!” said 
 the king, as he held again his last card in his hand, 
 and threw it. “Hal by my kingly hand! lost,— 
 lost! ” continued he as he saw the game go against 
 him. “ And now, to borrow, — to borrow! who will 
 'lend?” 
 
 “ Borrow and beg,” exclaimed the young noble¬ 
 man to his left, with a careless laugh, “by my 
 knightly word ! but they are trades we are all expert 
 in now-a-days. I will become your majesty’s treas- 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 221 
 
 iirer for the present, and, unlike the stubborn, crop- 
 eared Parliament, supply thy wants to the uttermost 
 of my poor means.” And he handed over the greater 
 part of his supply to the king. At that moment a 
 lackey entered the apartment, and stood respectfully 
 near the door. 
 
 “ Ha ! Hilson, what now ? ” said the king, arran¬ 
 ging the little heap of gold before him. 
 
 “Sire,” answered the attendant, “a gentleman is 
 now in the waiting-room, who craves speech with 
 your majesty.” 
 
 “ His name ? his name ? ” inquired the king, with 
 a lazy yawn. 
 
 “ He gave no name, sire,” answered the attendant, 
 “but he bade me tell your majesty that he was 
 your friend of Mayence.” 
 
 “ My friend of Mayence,” said the king. “ Ah ! ” 
 continued he to his companions, “ I have good reason 
 to remember him. He is one of my wild Irish lords, 
 who, not content to lose his patrimony in my cause, 
 still contrives to help me in my troubles. Marry! 
 I would wish there were many like him. Send him 
 into our presence, Hilson; but, ere he comes,” and 
 he gave a light and careless laugh, “we must put 
 our trumps and aces from before his roving eyes. 
 Away with them, for I know what he brings; and 
 now to supper.” 
 
 The cards were removed by one of the young 
 noblemen, and the king and his companions were 
 seated innocently at supper as the stranger .entered. 
 
222 
 
 THE FIRST AND LAST 
 
 The latter was muffled in the long military cloak of 
 the period ; and as he stepped over respectfully, and 
 dropped on one knee before the king, the young 
 noblemen could not help casting a glance of ap¬ 
 proval at each other at his manly bearing, tall fig¬ 
 ure, and handsome, bronzed countenance. 
 
 “ Arise, my Lord of Fermoy,” said the king : “ thou 
 art welcome to our poor lodging. It grieves us we 
 cannot welcome thee in better state; but come, 
 arise, and partake with us of this sorry fare our re¬ 
 bellious subjects have driven us to subsist on.” 
 
 “ My liege,” answered Maurice, Lord of Fermoy 
 (for it was he), “ before I rise, let me present your 
 majesty with this.” And he produced a heavy bag 
 of gold from under his long cloak. “ It is the poor 
 pay of myself and some of my kinsmen. Small as 
 it is, —it is all we have, — I trust it may relieve thy 
 necessities for a short time. A day will soon come, 
 I trust, when thou wilt hold thine own again, and 
 have small need of the poor contributions of thy 
 devoted subjects.” And he laid the bag of gold upon 
 the table before the king. 
 
 “We accept of it, my Lord of Fermoy,” said the 
 king, raising him, “ and with the more pleasure that 
 the day is coming — yes, times are changing mo¬ 
 mently in our favor — when we can recompense 
 thee tenfold for this and many another kindness. 
 The day that sees us restored to our throne and to 
 our lights shall also see thee in the enjoyment of 
 thy lost fends and thy natiw home. Arise, and let 
 us to supper.” 
 
LORDS OF FERMOY. 
 
 223 
 
 And thus Maurice, Lord of Fermoy, and his brave 
 kinsmen, spent their pay during tlieir military ser¬ 
 vice in Flanders. They shared it with their king 
 during his exile; and, when the Pi’otector died, and 
 Charles II. was restored to his throne, they natu¬ 
 rally expected a reversal of their attainder, and a 
 return to their native land and to their homes and 
 properties. But when Viscount Fermoy, and the 
 numerous kinsmen of his that had lost their estates 
 in the cause of the king and his unfortunate prede¬ 
 cessor, presented their petition at court, the light 
 and faithless Charles the Second, instead of remem¬ 
 bering their devotedness and his own plighted 
 word, only laughed at them, put them off from day 
 to day, and at length, in his “ Declaration of Royal 
 Gratitude,” named one of that gallant house, Caj)t. 
 Miles Roche, only, as eligible for reward for “ ser¬ 
 vices beyond the sea.” Viscount Fermoy, after the 
 failure of his hopes and the loss of his noble patri¬ 
 mony, left his native land forever, and died with a 
 broken heart far away in a foreign land, illustrating 
 a lesson that was well taught to the head of many 
 a gallant house in those troublous days by the 
 “merry monarch,” namely, “put not thy trust in 
 princes.” 
 
The Chase from the Hostel. 
 
 A LEGEND OF MALLOW. 
 
 I N the days of the Williamite wars, Mallow was 
 one of the most important military stations in 
 the south of Ireland, The town at this period — 
 that is, the newly-built portion of it — consisted of 
 between two and three hundred houses, many of 
 which were strongly built, and fitted for defence in 
 case of siege. The old portion of the town, or, as it 
 was called by the inhabitants, Ballydaheen, lay on 
 the southern bank of the Black water, and communi¬ 
 cated with its new and more fashionable neighbor 
 by a long, narrow, stone bridge, easily fortified, and 
 rendered impassable in time of war by its proxim¬ 
 ity to the castle which commanded it. Ballydaheen 
 at that time consisted almost exclusively of houses 
 of entertainment for man and horse; but, of all its 
 hostels, not one was half so well patronized, by peas¬ 
 ant, soldier, and Rapparee, as that of Murty Goold, 
 which Hy a few perches up a narrow street that 
 
 224 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 225 
 
 opened into the more public one which led to the 
 new town over the bridge. Various causes tended 
 to the success of Murty’s hostel; the principal of 
 which w’ere, that he was known in Ballydaheen and 
 the wide country round to be a good man, and true 
 in the cause of King James, to be the jolliest com¬ 
 panion over the can that was ever born in Mallow, 
 and that in his shop were to be found the best and 
 cheapest beer, brandy, wine, and itsquehaugh in 
 Munster. 
 
 It was a hot August day, somewhat more than a 
 month after the battle of the Boyne, and Murty 
 Goold was sitting in his shop before a half-emptied 
 can of beer, singing to himself a consolatory lament 
 over the fallen fortunes of King James, when he 
 was aroused from his euphonious reveries by the 
 halting of a pair of horsemen at his door. Leaving 
 both his can of beer and desolation of spirit behind 
 him, Murty hastened out with a sudden and hilari¬ 
 ous glow on his countenance to welcome his custom¬ 
 ers, who, after directing their horses to be led into 
 the stable at the back of the premises, walked into 
 the drinking-room inside the shop. 
 
 An’ now,” said Murty, as he entered the room, 
 after attending to the wants of the horses, “in the 
 name o’ the fiend! Theige O’Cooney an’ Donogh 
 O’Brin both, wliat brings ye here at this time o’ da}', 
 when Ginoral S’gravenmore an’ his bloody Danes are 
 in the town ? An’,” he continued, as the two horse¬ 
 
 men threw off their long cothamoi'es^ and laid them 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 on the table, “ when ye came at all, why did ye come 
 in yeer back-an’-breasts an’ helmets, an’ wid sword 
 an’ pistol an’ gun, like two ginerals of cavalthry?” 
 
 “I’ll tell you what, Murt,” answered Theige 
 O’Cooney, “myself an’ this nate step-brother o’ 
 mine, Donough, were afther ridin’ from Duhallow 
 undor the hot sun, till our throats became as dry as 
 the pipe o’ Rodeen Gow’s bellows \ an’ we said to 
 ourselves, as we gained the top o’ the hill above, 
 that the devil resave the step farther we’d ride with¬ 
 out paying Murty Goold a visit, an’ drinking some 
 o’ his beer, — a rattling can of it, Murt, What do 
 we care about Gineral Skavinger an’ his blue-coated 
 Danes ? ” 
 
 “Arrah! what Danes?” said Donogh O’Brin. 
 “When they surrounded Theige an’ myself on the 
 Inch beyant, the day that the MacDonogh an’ his 
 army were driven from before the town, didn’t we 
 cut thro’ them, the set o’ cowardly fools, — didn’t 
 we slash thro’ them, I say, side by side, an’ soord in 
 hand, as we’d go thro’ a bank o’ rotten sedge by the 
 river shore? An’ are we afraid o’ them now? 
 Arrah! bring in the beer; an’ you an’ I an Theige 
 will have a roarin’ bout at the tankard, if ould 
 Skravinger and his blue-coats were burnin’ the house 
 around us.” 
 
 “Very well,” said Murty; “but, in the manetime, 
 we’ll put Shaneen the Hawk on the watch, for fear 
 o’ their coming on us opawares. Here, Shaneen ! ” 
 he continued, as he went out to the shop, and 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 227 
 
 addressed himself to a swarthy, ’cute-eyed, little 
 atomy of a boy that stood at the door. “ Off with 
 you to the bridge, an’ be on the look-out for the 
 blue-coats; for you know, as well as I do, who’s in¬ 
 side.” Shaneen the Hawk started off on the instant, 
 while his master went to a huge barrel at the end of 
 the shop, and commenced drawing the beer, accom¬ 
 panying the operation with the remainder of that 
 elegiac and melancholious strain in which he was 
 interrupted by the arrival of the two Rapparee 
 horsemen. 
 
 Theige O’Cooney and Donogh O’Brin, his step¬ 
 brother, were at that time, and in that broad district, 
 two Rapparee leaders of valor and renown, whose 
 exploits against the Williamite soldiers are still 
 sung in many a rude ballad, and narrated by the 
 peasantry in wild and stirring legends, around their 
 winter firesides. Each was in the prime of life, and 
 somewhat above the middle stature; each possessed 
 that iron, brawny, and well-knit frame that enables 
 its possessor to undergo any amount of fatigue with¬ 
 out flagging; and in the bright eye and darkly- 
 bronzed features of both could be read that jovial 
 and headlong bravery which characterized many a 
 gallant Rapparee of that warlike time. While 
 Murty was drawing the beer, Theige and his step¬ 
 brother were depositing their weapons of offence on 
 the table, in order to be prepared for any sudden 
 emergency; and, on the entrance of the jolly land¬ 
 lord with two foaming cans, pointed out to him with 
 much satisfaction their formidable array. 
 
228 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 “ Look,” exclaimed Theige, seizing one of the cans 
 of beer, and taking a long and copious draught, 
 “look at those, man, and say how would the^blue- 
 coats like a taste o’ them. There are two blunder- 
 busses with twenty bullets in each; and there are four 
 pistols that myself an’ Donogh took from the two 
 trooper captains we killed in the fray of Barna. 
 An’ with this, an’ this,” he continued, pointing to 
 the long and heavy swords they wore at their sides, 
 “ don’t you think we’re sale in spending a few jovial 
 hours, or a jolly night even, under your sign o’ the 
 Crowin’ Cock, in Ballydaheen? Here’s to you, 
 Murt, an’ to you, Donogh; an’ may all our foes fol¬ 
 low the sowl o’ Schomberg, the ould sinner ! ” 
 
 “I cannot drink to that,” said Donogh, “ while 
 Murt is empty-handed. Off with you, Murt, an’ 
 bring in a can for yourself^ an’ then we’ll drink to 
 the tatheration of our foes, with Theige.” 
 
 Murt obeyed the mandate with unusual celerity, 
 and returned with a well-filled tankard. “ Here,” 
 he said, “ I’ll drink your toast in the words o’ the 
 song that Gulielmis O’Callaghan, the Kanturk 
 schoolmaster, made a few hours before he was 
 hanged by S’gravenmore’s troopers : — 
 
 “ ‘ Bad luck to ould bandy-legged Schomberg, 
 
 King William and Mary also ! 
 
 For ’tis they that did wather ould Ireland 
 With bloodshed an’ murther an’ woe. 
 
 Ould Schomberg-’ 
 
 “ Begad ! I forget the rest. But, as to the Crowin’ 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 229 
 
 Cock, there’s a bird outside on the bridge, in the 
 shape o’ Shaneen the Hawk, that I think will crow, 
 an’ give you warnin’ o’ S’gravenraore’s troopers.” 
 
 “ Sowl o’ my body, man ! ” exclaimed Donogh, 
 “ did the ould Skavinger an’ his troopers ever skin 
 you alive, that you have him so often on your 
 tongue with thrimblin’ and terror ? Here, man, 
 give us another can o’beer; an’ Theige there will 
 give us a song instead o’ those murtherin’ toasts he’s 
 so very fond o’ dhrinkin’. ” 
 
 “No,” exclaimed Theige, “I never sing a song 
 till after finishing the fourth can o’ beer, an’ even 
 then I must have a flagon o’ wine or brandy to 
 smoothen my windpipe before I begin.” 
 
 In process of time the fourth can was finished, 
 together with a few tankards of wine into the bar- 
 gain ; and Theige, on being asked for his song, sat 
 back with great hilarity in his chair, and began a 
 sonorous strain in the vernacular, of which the fol¬ 
 lowing is a translation : — 
 
 “MOLL ROONE. 
 
 “ There’s a girl in Kilmurry, — my own loved one, — 
 
 The loveliest colleen that the sun shines on : 
 
 Pier eyes are as bright as the May-tide moon, 
 
 And the devil a girl like my own Moll Roone ! 
 
 I mounted my steed in the evening brown. 
 
 And away I spurred till the storm came down. 
 
 Away over mountains and moorlands dun. 
 
 Till I came to the cottage of my own Moll Roone. 
 
230 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 I sat me down by the bogwood fire, 
 
 And I said that her love was my heart’s desire ; 
 
 And she gave me her love, — oh ! she granted my boon. 
 And my heart was glad for my own Moll Koone. 
 
 Come! what is the use of a brave brown steed. 
 
 But to spur to the doing of a gallant deed 1 
 And what is the use of a sword or gun. 
 
 But to fight for a girl like my own Moll Roone ? 
 
 As I rode down the mountains one Saturday night. 
 
 The valley below was one blaze of light ; 
 
 And I found out its meaning full sadly and soon, 
 
 ’Twas the foe fired the cottage of my own Moll Roone. 
 
 I spurred thro’ Blackwater, o’er brake and moor, 
 
 I spurred thro’ the foe to her cottage door : 
 
 There my sword cleft the skull of a Dutch dragoon. 
 
 And I bore away in triumph my own Moll Roone.” 
 
 “ Hurra! ” exclaimed Donogh, at the termination 
 of the song, “ wasn’t that nate, Hurt ? An’ be the 
 morthial gor o’ war! but every word in it is true. 
 Another flagon o’ wine, Murt, till we drink success 
 to Theige’s windpipe, an’ confusion to our foes.” 
 
 “By the faith of a true man!” exclaimed Murt, 
 with a ludicrous attempt at feigning terror on his 
 jolly countenance, “but, if Shaneen the Hawk’s face 
 speaks truth, both of you will have somethin’ to 
 do to bear away your own carcasses in triumph from 
 ould S’gravenmore an’ his blue dragoons.” 
 
 “They’re cornin’! they’re cornin’!” said Shaneen, 
 as he rushed into the room ; “ the bloody throopers 
 
THE CHA^ FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 231 
 
 are cornin’ to kill an’ quartlier an’ murther every 
 mother’s sowl o’ ye. I thought they wei-e only 
 settin’ otF for Kanturk, bad luck to them! but they 
 circumwinted me, an’ turned back in a gallop over 
 
 the bridge ; an’-listen ! listen, Theige ! here 
 
 they come rattlin’ up the street! Bad luck to Brian 
 Born, the morthial ould thief, that didn’t kill every 
 murthurin’ Dane in the uniwersal world, when he 
 had them under his thumb-nail! ” 
 
 “ Give us another tankard, Murt, ” exclaimed 
 both the brothers, as they started up and seized 
 their arms. “An’ you, Shaneen Brighteye, away 
 with you into the stable,” said Theige, “ an’ lade the 
 horses into the kitchen, an’ have them ready to 
 bring out through the shop-door when we want 
 them. An’ now, Murt,” continued he, as he seized 
 his tankard, “ here is death to our foes ! Whatever 
 men lie on the ground when all is over, be sure to 
 search their pockets well; ‘ for they are all laden 
 with the spoil, the goold, an’ riches of our native 
 land.” 
 
 The clatter of many horses was now heard out¬ 
 side in the street, together with the words of com¬ 
 mand directing the men to wheel right and left, and 
 block up the door at either side. Another officer 
 was heard directing a party of men to hurry round 
 and occupy the backyard and stables, in case the 
 Rapparees should make an attempt to escape in that 
 direction. Shaneen the Hawk now rushed in. 
 
 “They’re back in the stables, Theige,” he ex- 
 
232 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 claimed ; “but the horses are in the kitchen, an’ the 
 door is boulted inside. An’ now, Murt,” continued 
 the brave little fellow, “ give me the hatchet in the 
 shop ; an’ the first Dane that puts his head in thro’ 
 the window for a peep, I will chop it off, as Mur- 
 rogh na Thua did to the Spy of Ballar.” 
 
 All was silent now within and without. At 
 length a voice was heard outside, commanding the 
 two brave brothers to come forth, and submit to the 
 sad doom that awaited them. “ Come forth,” it said, 
 “ ye Amoritish dogs, and die the death to which ye 
 were predestined from the beginning. I thank the 
 God of the true and chosen, that has ordained me, 
 Zerubabel Stubbs, his unworthy servant, to be the 
 instrument of your destruction. Come forth, I say; 
 for the sword is made sharp for your rebellious 
 bodies, and the cord is slipperied with the grease of 
 swine for your lying throats, that oft raised the cry 
 for the massacre of the chosen of the Lord, in the 
 day of battle.” 
 
 “ It is ould Babel Stubbs, the informer,” exclaimed 
 Donogh; “ but his hour is come.” 
 
 “ An’ now,” said Murty Goold, in a whisper, “ if 
 ye’re to be off, oflT with ye : but ’tis rairaclis if ye’re 
 not caught, like two foxes in a thrap ; for, as I was 
 givin’ the hatchet to Shaneen, I cast an eye out, 
 and saw the narrow street blocked up at each side 
 o’ the door with a press o’ min, soord in hand.” 
 
 “We’ll make a road through them,” replied 
 Theige, “ like Miles the Slasher made through the 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 233 
 
 Scotch at the Battle o’ Benburb. An’ now, Don- 
 ogh,” he continued, “look to the primin’ o’ your 
 blunderbuss, an’ follow me.” 
 
 With their pistols in their belts, and their blun¬ 
 derbusses ready cocked in their hands, Theige and 
 Donogh went side by side to the door, at each side 
 of which, in the narrow street, the dragoons were 
 ranged in fours, on the watch, awaiting their exit. 
 Little did Zerubabel Stubbs dream of the answer he 
 and his host were to get to his alluring summons. 
 
 “An’‘now, Donogh,” said Theige, in a whisper, 
 “let you take the murthurin’ dogs to the left, — an’ 
 be sure not to miss ould Babel Stubbs, — an’ I’ll 
 take the robbin’ wolves to the right. Ready! ” he 
 shouted, “hurra for Righ Shamus, an’ his brave men 
 that now range the wood! ” 
 
 And, at the word, the two blunderbusses were 
 discharged with deadly effect, right and left, bring¬ 
 ing down Babel Stubbs and six or eight troopers at 
 one side, and about the same number killed and 
 wounded on the other. A scene of the wildest con¬ 
 fusion ensued. Wounded horses leaped and neighed 
 in terror, stumbled and kicked, and fell in the nar¬ 
 row street; and the remaining troopers, wheeling 
 round their terrified steeds, fled in blind panic from 
 their position down the narrow lanes of Ballyda- 
 heen. 
 
 “ Out with the horses, Shaneen,” exclaimed 
 Theige, as he looked around, “out with them, 
 quick; for now is our time, while the thremblin’ 
 fools are scatthered.” 
 
234 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 Shaneen the Hawk, still holding the hatchet in 
 his hand, led out the horses, one after the other, 
 into the street. 
 
 “Blood o’ my body! Shaneen,” said Donogh, 
 vaulting into his saddle, “ look at ould Babel’s 
 fingei’, the perjured ould son o’ Satan: there is the 
 very ring he cut from your mother’s finger on the 
 day that she an’ your father an’ all were murdered 
 by the throops at the Ford o’ the Mill.” 
 
 Shaneen sprang upon the dead body of Zeruba- 
 bel Stubbs with a wild cry; and, with a blow of the 
 hatchet, severed the finger that carried his hapless 
 mother’s marriage-ring from the informer’s hand. 
 Taking oflT the ring, he held it up to the two Rappa- 
 rees. 
 
 “Ha, ha!” he shouted, in his shrill, vindictive 
 voice, “ I have it at last. An’, if you let me list 
 with your brave min, Theige, that keep the forest, 
 ’tisn’t the last blow I’ll give the throops, to revenge 
 my poor mother and my people.” 
 
 “Very well, Brighteye,” answered Theige, “ come 
 to us to-morrow, an’ 'by the bones o’ my father! but 
 you’ll be a gallant captain yet. An’ now, Murty 
 Goold,” he continued, turning to that worthy, 
 “ don’t forget the haversacks an’ pockets o’ th’ ould 
 Skavinger’s troopers. Farewell.” And away dashed 
 the two bold Rapparees, side by side, down the 
 street. 
 
 Murty Goold obeyed the injunction of Theige 
 O’Cooney; and, searching and ransacking among 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 235 
 
 the pockets and haversacks of the slain troopers, 
 found a share of spoil — the plunder of many a 
 ruined dwelling in town and hamlet — that enabled 
 him that night to decamp without loss from his 
 house of entertainment, and set off for Cork, where 
 he set up an establishment of an equally flourishing 
 description, and where, in process of time, he be¬ 
 came a burgess, and ultimately the jolliest alderman 
 in the city. 
 
 Away dashed Theige and his brother towards the 
 bridge, on the middle of which, as they went up at 
 full gallop, a sergeant and four troopers stood to bar 
 their way. Each threw his bridle loose on his 
 horse’s neck, and, drawing the pistol from the left 
 holster, dashed with his sword upon the astonished 
 Danes. Both fired as they went, bringing down the 
 unfortunate sergeant and one of his comrades with 
 a dull crash on the hard pavement, and, sweeping 
 past the remainder, rattled up the long street. As 
 they dashed on, the troopers on the bridge, recover¬ 
 ing from their surprise and panic, fired their mus- 
 ketoons after them. One of the bullets wounded 
 Donogh’s horse in the leg, and another struck the 
 ridge on Theige’s helmet, throwing him for a moment 
 forward on the neck of his horse. 
 
 “ Ha, ha! ” he cried. “ A good shot, truly; but 
 ’tis the first one I ever got from behind. Away, 
 Donogh, away, I say! Look behind: there’s a 
 whole rigement o’ the blue thieves rattlin’ over the 
 bridge afther us.” 
 
236 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 Away up the long, stony street they clattered 
 with three troops of General S’gravenmore’s dra¬ 
 goons in hot pursuit behind them. On gaining a small 
 hillock outside the town, they turned their horses 
 eastward, and, breaking through copse and over 
 fence, swept down at full speed by the Blackwater 
 side. They now began for a while to distance 
 their pursuers; but the dogged Danes kept like 
 bloodhounds on their track in a dull, unvarying, 
 but sure gallop for mile on mile of forest and plain. 
 As the two brothers had swept ahead of their pur¬ 
 suers about half a mile, and were crossing a little 
 stream that emptied itself into the idver Blackwater, 
 Donogh’s horse began to slacken his speed and fail 
 in consequence of his wounded leg. Urging him 
 on with voice and spur, he endeavored for a time to 
 keep up with the speed of the wild and splendid 
 mare bestrode by his brother Theige; but, despite 
 all his exertions, the poor horse began to flag more 
 and more, so that Theige had at length to slacken 
 his speed in order to keep by his side. 
 
 “It is useless,” exclaimed Donogh at length. 
 “ Away with you, Theige, and leave me behind, to 
 die as my father did before me, — like a man.” 
 
 “Never,” answered Theige. “It shall never be 
 said of Theige O’Cooney by his comrades at the 
 camp-fire, an’ by his gineral when he rides into bat¬ 
 tle, that he left the brother of his heart behind him, 
 to die beneath the swords of yonder Danish dogs.” 
 
 “The best man should be saved,” I’ejoined Don- 
 
THE CHASE FEOM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 237 
 
 ogh; “an’ there is none like you to make our com¬ 
 rades laugh around the forest fire, nor a man like 
 you on the tundherin’ field o’ battle.” 
 
 “ Take my horse,” said Theige. “ Her hoofs are 
 swift as the winds on Corrin Thierna; an’ she will 
 bear you away, like a flash o’ lightniiT, to Rockfoi-est, 
 safe an’ sound.” 
 
 “ By the sowl o’ the mother that bore me! ” 
 answered-Donogh, “but I’d rather die a thousand 
 deaths than do a mane act like that. Away with 
 you, man, afore it is too late ; an’ lave me to my 
 doom. What is it to die, when one does it like a 
 brave man ? ” 
 
 “ Look ! ” said Theige, as they still spurred along, 
 “look behind at that thrumpeter on his white horse! 
 See! he’s a quarter of a mile afore his comrades, an’ 
 the same from us. He’ll soon be up with us, if he 
 goes at that rate. By the morthial! but that’s a 
 brave horse, an’ I’ll have him. An’ now, Donogh, 
 look at this,” he continued, as he rode close up to 
 the side of his brother, with his naked sJcean, or 
 dagger, in his hand. “By this S/lmw, if you don’t 
 take my mare. I’ll plunge it through your heart; foi¬ 
 l’d rather you’d die by my hand than be hanged 
 like a dog when the throopers come up an’ surround 
 you. How, leap behind me on the saddle, for we 
 cannot lose time; an’ I’ll scramble into your saddle 
 from this. There, — that’s it,” continued he, as 
 Donogh, aware that further parley was useless, 
 sprang behind him on the brave mare. “Now for a 
 
238 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 spring in airnest! ” And, with a bound like that of 
 a wild cat, he threw himself on Donogh’s lame 
 liorse, “Hurra!” he cried, “off with you, an’ 
 watch back from the high grounds how I’ll dale with 
 the man o’ the white horse.” 
 
 At this time they were on a height over a broad, 
 flat valley. Away went Donogh at a hard gallop, 
 and soon left his brother behind; who, however, 
 went on in his track down the smooth declivity, as 
 fast as the lame horse could carry him. As he left 
 the descent, and was riding out into the flat bosom 
 of the valley, the poor horse, weak from exertion 
 and loss of blood, stumbled and fell beneath his 
 rider at the ci’ossing of a little stream. Just as 
 Theiffe had extricated himself from the fallen steed, 
 he heard a wild and exulting shout behind him; and, 
 on looking back, beheld the trumpeter coming at a 
 furious pace down the declivity, and calling out to 
 liim at the same time, with various choice execra¬ 
 tions in Dutch and Danish, to stand and yield him¬ 
 self prisoner. Theige, however, neither caring for 
 nor understanding the polite invitation, shook his 
 sword at the trumpeter, and dashed over the soft 
 sward of the valley in the direction of his brother. 
 On came the trumpeter, closer and closer to him 
 whom he considered but a helpless and defenceless 
 fugitive; but, if he could only have seen the fierce 
 and steady eye cast back at him occasionally by the 
 Rapparee, he would have been far more cautious in his 
 movements. As he came up, he delivered his most 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 239 
 
 tremendous and scientific cut at the head of the 
 Rapparee, intending to sheer it off at one blow; but 
 Theige, stooping almost to the ground at the same 
 instant, allowed the sword to pass harmlessly over 
 him, and, before the trumpeter could turn, was up 
 Avith a wild and agile bound behind him on the 
 white horse. 
 
 “An’ now, you murthurin’ dog!” he cried, as he 
 clasped the luckless trumpeter around the body with 
 his left hand, and flourished his long sJcean in his 
 right, “did you ever feel tlie firm grip of a man be¬ 
 fore? You sack o’Avind, you’ll never more blow 
 the chargin’ blast on a trumpet. Take that!” And, 
 at the word, the body of the trumpeter, pierced 
 through and through by the long slcean, fell on the 
 boggy sward. At the same moment the first troop 
 of the pursuers appeared on the heiglit overhead, 
 and, seeing the fate of their comrade, dashed head¬ 
 long dowiiAvard Avith a revengeful cry. 
 
 “ Hurra ! ” shouted Theige, as he crept into the 
 high-peaked saddle of the terrified horse, and urged 
 him, like the wind, across the valley. “ Here they 
 come, the bloody hounds! but the first man that 
 laves his ranks an’ comes up, he ’ll get a sore blow 
 to reward him for his run ! ” 
 
 AAvay along the valley, over the opposite height, 
 and down into the scattered forest by the river shore. 
 Here Theige, feeling himself more secure, reined in 
 his horse to a leisurely canter, intending to gain a 
 ford farther doAAm the riA^er, AAdiere his brother would 
 
240 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 be likely to cross, and await him on the farther side. 
 On gaining the summit of a small, bare height, he 
 could see behind him the scattered ari’ay of the 
 troopers coming along at the same furious gallop, 
 their armor and other accoutrements glittering in 
 the sun, and their phiraes glancing hither and thither 
 with.picturesque effect through green glade and hol¬ 
 low. Here Theige paused a moment to take a better 
 survey of his pursuers. Far before the rest, two offi¬ 
 cers spurred along, one behind the other, down the 
 bosom of a narrow valley that led by the height on 
 which he rested his horse. 
 
 “’Tis the ould Gray Captain an’ his brother,” 
 muttered Theige : “ the man that hanged Guilelmis 
 the Poet, an’ burned the villages o’ the wmst; the 
 man that stabbed the priest beneath the Blossom 
 Gate in Kilmallock; an’ the very man that gave me 
 this slash of his sabre on the head in the battle on 
 the Inch o’ Mallow. By tlie blessed Tree of Gorin, 
 but I ’ll pay him back now or never! ” And with that 
 he gave his steed the spur, and galloped down at the 
 opposite side of the hillock. Turning to the right, 
 he descended into the valley at its lower extremity, 
 and there reined up his steed once more, at the cor¬ 
 ner of a thick grove, by which he knew the two 
 officers would pass. 
 
 In a few moments the Gray Captain clattered 
 down the stony bridle-way, and out beyond the cor¬ 
 ner of the grove, without noticing the white horse 
 on which Theige sat as far in as possible among the 
 trees. 
 
THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 •241 
 
 “ I’m sure of him, the morthial ould fiend! ” said 
 Theige to himseif, “ but I must wait an’ have the 
 brother along with him. An’ here he comes ! ” he 
 continued, as he wheeled round his horse, and j^oint- 
 ed his long pistol through a broken space among the 
 trees at the head of the Gray Captain’s brother, who 
 came thundering down with reckless speed by the 
 side of the wood. 
 
 “ There goes one ! ” exclaimed Theige fiercely, as 
 he fired his pistol; and down went the oflicer, shot 
 through the brain, with a loud crash and clang on 
 the rugged and broken way, his steed, with a shrill 
 neigh of terror, clattering down the valley, and mak¬ 
 ing his way at length fast and far down the scattered 
 woods by the Blackwater side. 
 
 “Now for the bravest an’ wickedest man o’ them 
 all!” exclaimed Theige, as he gave his horse the 
 spur. The Gray Captain at the same moment 
 wheeled round his horse, and rushed uj) the bridle¬ 
 path to meet him. As the two came near, the 
 Captain, swerving his horse with a quick movement 
 to the left, gave a back-handed slash of his sabre to 
 Theige, which sheared off the crown-spike of his 
 helmet, and went very near bringing him to the 
 earth. 
 
 “ A brave blow 1 ” growled Theige between his 
 clenched teeth, as he recovered himself, and, turning 
 round his horse, trotted up warily to the spot where 
 his foe stood on his guard awaiting him. But the 
 Gray Captain’s scientific and too systematic guards, 
 
 10 
 
242 
 
 THE CHASE FROM THE HOSTEL. 
 
 cuts, and parries proved now but of little avail against 
 the quick and determined onset of the Rapparee; and 
 he fell, just at the moment that his troop entei-ed 
 the topmost opening of the valley, and were rush- 
 inar down to his assistance. 
 
 o 
 
 “ By my sword! ” said Theige, as he seized the 
 bridle of his dead foeman’s hoi’se and spurred away, 
 “ but, man after man, if they come on this way, I’d 
 have the horses of the whole troop before night.” 
 He now put .the two horses to their utmost speed, 
 and soon distanced his pursuers. On turning out 
 beyond a grove, by the river-side, he suddenly came 
 upon his brother, Honogli, who stood quietly await¬ 
 ing him, after capturing the horse that had borne 
 the Gray Captain’s brother. 
 
 “ I towld you I’d come safe, Donogh,” said 
 Theige, as they galloped off; “ an’ by the sowl o’ 
 King Brian! but the next time we go to Mallow, 
 we’ll bring away with us the nate brass cannon that 
 the ould Skavinger took from MacDonogh’s throops 
 in the battle on the Inch.” 
 
 On and on they spurred at a steady gallop till 
 they found themselves far beyond pursuit, and at 
 length, crossing a lonely ford of the Blackwater, re¬ 
 gained their inaccessible haunt among the moun¬ 
 tains, where that night Theige O’Cooney sang “ Moll 
 Roone” to his admiring companions, and to his own 
 heart’s content, beside his merry Rapparee camp-fire. 
 
The Whitethorn Tree. 
 
 A LEGEND OF KILCOLMAN CASTLE. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 They washed the blood, with many a tear, 
 
 From dint of dart and arrow, 
 
 And buried him near the waters clear 
 Of the brook of Alpuxarra. 
 
 Spanish Ballad. 
 
 T he principal boundary between the counties 
 of Cork and Limerick is that abrupt and 
 boggy range called by Spenser the Mountains of 
 Mole, but in the Irish denominated Sliabh Bally- 
 houra, or the mountains of the dangerous ballaghs, 
 or passes. To the west and south of this range, 
 over many a broad plain and undulating valley, 
 once spread the wild and romantic Forest of Kil- 
 more. In the days of Elizabeth, and for nearly a 
 century after, this forest sent out many off-shoots 
 into the neighboring baronies. One of the most 
 considerable of these branches, commencing near 
 Buttevant, swept round the soutliern declivity of 
 
 243 
 
244 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 the Ballyliouras, until at length it formed a junction 
 with the great and intricate woody fastness of 
 Aherlow, at the base of the Gaulty Mountains. 
 Tlirough it ran the beautiful Mulla, — now called 
 Aubeg, — a short distance from which, on the shore 
 of Lough Ullair, or the Eagle’s Lake, rose up the 
 battlements of Kilcolnian Castle, once the residence 
 of the immortal Spenser. This castle anciently 
 belonged to the Earls of Desmond ; but in July, 
 1586, it was granted by the crown to Spenser, 
 together with about three thousand acres of the 
 surrounding country. Here Spenser wrote his 
 “ Faerie Queen; ” here — 
 
 “ He sat, as was his trade, 
 
 Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar, 
 Keeping his sheep beneath the coolly shade 
 Of the green alders by the Mulla’s shore, — 
 
 when the “ Shepherd of the Ocean,” Sir Walter 
 Raleigh, visited him; and here he remained until 
 the October of 1598, when the Desmond Insurrec¬ 
 tion broke out, and the castle was taken and burnt 
 by the exasperated Irish. An infant son of his was 
 burnt to death in the flames; and Spenser himself, 
 together with his wife and two other sons, nari’owly 
 escaped sharing.the same fate, and fled to England, 
 where, on the 16th of January, 1599, he died at 
 Westminster, London. The castle is now a mere 
 ruin ; but from the distance at which it can be seen, 
 and its charming situation on a green knoll above 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 245 
 
 the lake, it still forms a very picturesque and inter¬ 
 esting feature in the landscape. 
 
 It was a calm autumn evening, during the great 
 insurrection which commenced in the year 1G41, 
 The waterfowl were quietly swimming on Lough 
 Ullair; and the rich sunbeams were bathing the 
 castle in their mellow light, and showing distinctly 
 out the black, stern traces of the fire which loosened 
 and disfigured its walls nearly half a century before. 
 Outside the castle all was brightness, life, and 
 beauty; but inside, darkness and decay made their 
 dwelling throughout all the deserted chambers ex¬ 
 cept one, whose gloom was dispelled by a merry 
 little charcoal fire, which burned like a luminous 
 point on the huge fireplace. Two figures sat on a 
 stone bench beside that fire : one, a tall, dark-com¬ 
 plexioned woman, advanced in years; the other, a 
 young and handsome girl. The countenance of the 
 latter showed the traces of recent weeping, but 
 seemed beautiful even in its sorrow; and its effect 
 was brightened by the tresses of rich, amber-colored 
 hair which fell in bright masses upon her shoulders, 
 harmonizing sweetly with the graceful folds of her 
 dress, as she sat turned towards her companion, who 
 was in the act of addressing her, 
 
 “ you’ll not have him, you say, * You’ll never 
 more meet a truer or bi'aver man. If you saw him, 
 as I did, in battle, when he was surrounded near 
 Glanore, an’ how gallantly he broke through that 
 press o’ men, you’d change your mind soon an’ 
 suddint,” 
 
246 
 
 THE WHITETHOBN TREE. 
 
 “I cannot change my mind,” answered the young 
 girl: “ my mind an’ heart are made up, an’ true to 
 another since I was a child; an’ death itself cannot 
 make me break the faith I plighted.” 
 
 “Well, I know him too. But you see by this 
 that you can never be his wife, for you’ll never see 
 his face more. Take the man that suffered for you, 
 an’ that got himself hunted, like a wild baste, 
 through the mountains for your sake. If you don’t, 
 you’ll have his etarnil revenge on you, an’ mine too, 
 — an’ you know me well by this; an’ you must 
 choose between bein’ his wife, an’ going into the 
 arms o’ the Black Captain.” 
 
 “ The Black Captain cannot be worse than your 
 black brother. I’ll meet the fate that God wills me, 
 an’ still be true to the man I love. Death will 
 soon end my misery, if it comes to the worst.” 
 
 At this moment a step was heard descending the 
 spiral stair that led to the apartments above. The 
 old creaking door opened, and the Black Captain 
 himself stood before them. He was a man past the 
 meridian of life, of an exceedingly dark complexion, 
 and wearing the high hat, sober-colored cloak, and 
 large, plain, iron-hilted sword, of a Puritan. 
 
 “Hast thou told her,” he said, addressing the 
 elder female, “ of the blissful life she is to lead with 
 a warrior from among God’s chosen ? Methinks 
 thou must have a most persuasive tongue; for 
 Reuben Sadface, my trusty man, knows by this the 
 sore persuasion that dwells in thy clenched hands 
 and finger-nails.” 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 247 
 
 “ I’ve towld her all,” answered the woman, sullen¬ 
 ly, “ an’ she’s the same still. Ask herself.” 
 
 “I may not beatify my soul with such loving 
 dalliance this eventide. A blessed and holy call, 
 a war-call, has taken possession of my spirit for the 
 moment. Even as Saul was commanded to slay the 
 idolatrous nations, so am I chosen to purge by the 
 agency of fire and steel the western valleys of their 
 heathenish progeny; and I must be gone. When the 
 sword of the Lord shall have fallen upon those 
 children of Baal, I shall return to tell what I have 
 left unsaid to this,—this branch rescued from the 
 burning, — this most fortunate of maidens.” 
 
 “Alice O’Brien,” said the woman bitterly, when 
 the Black Captain had left them, “ answer me this. 
 Do you think I coaxed you up, an’ thrated you like 
 as if you wor my own sisther, to be bate an’ baffled 
 by you this way ? Maybe you won’t be the show 
 for all Murrogh an’ Theothawn’s * army, when the 
 Black Captain has you in his crooks! Maybe then 
 you’ll wish to be back with me, and that you had 
 made up your mind to have my brave brother 
 Theige, my fine and cunnin’ damsel! ” 
 
 “ I answer once more,” said Alice, “that I’ll have 
 neither the Black Captain nor your brother Theige: 
 I’ll die fii’st. I put my trust in God; an’ perhaps 
 my brother Moran an’ his comrade, John Mac- 
 Sheehy, may come soon enough with their horse¬ 
 men, an’ set me free.” 
 
 * Murrogh the Burner, — the Earl of Inchiquin. 
 
248 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 “Your brother Moran an’ your sweetheart John 
 have enough to do to keep their own cai’kisses safe, 
 without mindin’ what’ll become o’ the likes o’ you. 
 But never mind. Wait, an’ we’ll see what’ll come 
 o’ this to-morrow.” 
 
 A few hours after the departure of the Black 
 Captain that evening, the setting sun was darting 
 his red beams through the glades of the scattered 
 forest by the banks of the beautiful Ounanar, a few 
 miles eastward of Kilcolman Castle. The Ounanar 
 is a wild stream, rising far up in the Ballyhoura 
 Mountains, amid the bogs beyond Kilcolman, and 
 flowinsT into the Mulla a short distance below 
 Doneraile. In one of the most solitary glades 
 beside the stream, the sunbeams were reflected by 
 some not very unfrequent objects in those_ dreadful 
 times, namely, the morion and accoutrements of a 
 dead young soldier. He lay upon his back, with 
 his right hand grasping the empty scabbard of his 
 sword, and his left thrown upward threateningly, as 
 if, in his last moments, he had endeavored to 
 menace death or some other unwelcome visitor 
 from his side. His head, cleft by a great wound, 
 lay heavily upon the blood-stained grass; and his 
 morion, also cleft, had fallen off, part hidden in the 
 grass, and the top, or spike, glittering in the sun. 
 As he lay thus, a raven from a neighboring tree 
 perched upon a fragment of rock near him, and for 
 a few moments regarded him with a wary and in¬ 
 quisitive look; then, as if satisfied that there was 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 249 
 
 no danger, it half opened its wings, and, hopping 
 along the grass, alighted again upon the spike of 
 the morion. It was, however, soon scared from its 
 unsteady resting-place by a more rapacious ban¬ 
 queter. A huge wolf rushed forth from the copse, 
 and, with a voracious whine, laid its foremost paws 
 upon the iron-clad but pulseless breast of the young 
 man. Its long white teeth ground against the 
 edge of his steel breastplate, its red eyes glared 
 with ferocious satisfaction at the prospect of its 
 savage meal, when it was in its turn also inter¬ 
 rupted, but in a more fatal manner. A shot rang 
 up from the river bank; and the wolf, wounded 
 through the heart, fell backward, with claws and 
 teeth tearing in its mortal agony a huge frieze cloak, 
 or cape, which lay over the shoulders of the dead 
 soldier. Before the echoes of the shot had died 
 along the hollow banks of the stream, a horseman 
 rode swiftly up the glade, and, leaping from his 
 steed, plunged his sword through the body of the 
 expiring wolf. 
 
 The horseman was attired like the young soldier, 
 whose body he had thus so opportunely rescued. 
 On his head he wore a helmet, or morion, without 
 a plume, but with a sharp steel spike projecting 
 straight upwards from its crown. Over his shoulders, 
 and reaching beyond his hips, hung a brown frieze 
 cape, fastened at the throat by a silver clasp, and 
 open somewhat in front, showing underneath a 
 bright steel back-and-breast, or corselet. His 
 
250 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 trousers were colored like the cape and of the 
 same material, the legs falling below into a pair of 
 long, unf)olished boots which reached to his knees, 
 with their formidable spurs, giving him the air of 
 one by whom the saddle was very seldom aban¬ 
 doned for a more quiet seat. From a belt around his 
 waist, along with the usual skean, or dagger, hung 
 the scabbard of his swoi’d; and in his right hand he 
 grasped the naked blade, while in his left he held 
 the small musketoon which he had just discharged 
 with so true an aim. He was young, somewhat 
 above the- middle height, and his bronzed, deter¬ 
 mined face and fearless eye showed that he had 
 seen both hardships and dangers, and was ready to 
 brave them again without concern. 
 
 He advanced now, and stooped down, examining 
 the features of the fallen youth. “Ha, Moran!” 
 he exclaimed, suddenly, “ great God, how is this ? ” 
 Then falling on his knees beside the body, he 
 continued, “ O Moran! my only friend, and the 
 brother of my lost Alice, little I expected we’d 
 meet thus I Little did I think that ’twas your dead 
 body I was saving from the jaws of the wild dog of 
 the hills I The battles are coming again, and the 
 gallant gathering is by the walls of Castle na Doon; 
 but who will ride beside me like Moran O’Brien ? ” 
 
 He started to his feet as if the thought maddened 
 him, and commenced striding wildly up and down 
 the glade. 
 
 “Poor Ellen Roche too, who loved him so well! 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREp. 
 
 251 
 
 — little her light heart dreams of this, — the black 
 and woful news I’ll have to tell her at the dance 
 to-morrow! ” 
 
 He once more approached the body, and, examin¬ 
 ing it more minutely, found a bullet-wound in the 
 throat, which, with the severed helmet and the 
 long gash upon the head, made him suspect that 
 the unfortunate young soldier had come by his 
 death unfairly. Then, as if his suspicions had 
 lighted upon some individual, and that he deter¬ 
 mined to wreak immediate vengeance, he took the 
 body in his arms, and deposited it in a deep, narrow 
 rent between two rocks near the stream; and cov¬ 
 ering it with some leafy boughs, and a few long 
 stone flags, in order to preserve it from the wolves, 
 at that period so numerous in the country, he mut¬ 
 tered sorrowfully a few prayers, mounted his steed, 
 and departed. 
 
 After crossing the river, and riding along its 
 eastern shore somewhat more than a mile, he 
 turned his horse’s head towards the southern flank 
 of a steep mountain, strewn with great bowlders of 
 rock, which, as the twilight now darkened over the 
 hills to help the illusion, rose up from the solitary 
 heath, bare and spectral, like the deserted and mel¬ 
 ancholy ruins of an ancient city. A number of 
 these lay congregated in an irregular ridge near the 
 summit; and here the young horseman alighted, and, 
 leading his steed noiselessly along the soft turf, 
 stood at length beside a huge, broad rock, so flat and 
 
252 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 low that it scarcely reached above the brushwood 
 and long heath that grfew around. Underneath it, 
 at one side, there was a small entrance, or opening, 
 through which a confused jumble of voices now fell 
 upon the horseman’s ear; while a clear stream of 
 light also shot forth, and brightened the scarred 
 and weather-beaten face of a crag that rose hard 
 by. Peering cautiously through another and a 
 smaller chink, he beheld, what he indeed sought for, 
 a group inside; the individuals of which corre¬ 
 sponded exactly in appearance with the strange 
 place they had chosen for their habitation. 
 
 In the corner of a small apartment irregularly 
 formed by a rent in the crag, and having for its 
 roof the lower surface of the flat rock mentioned 
 above, sat before a bright fire of blazing bog-deal 
 three figures, as different in appearance from each 
 other as could be consistent with the fact that each 
 formed a member of the great human family. He 
 who sat between the other two was a man in the 
 prime of life and of gigantic stature ; his long, mat¬ 
 ted beard and hair falling almost on his breast and 
 shoulders, and a-reddish cap, with a sprig of blos¬ 
 somed whitethorn for a plume, set somewhat cav¬ 
 alierly, but fiercely, on his head. His prominent, 
 beard-covered chin, and thin, beaked nose, gave to 
 his wild physiognomy a sinister expression, which 
 was increased by a pair of gloomy eyes bent sternly 
 on the pel-son at his right, whom he was in the 
 act of addressing. He was enveloped in a soiled 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 258 
 
 scarlet cloak, wliicli lay closely round his upright 
 figure, and fell in folds behind him upon the block 
 of stone on which he sat; showing a pair of long, 
 frieze-clad legs, and feet encased in great brogues, 
 with low heels, made so in order not to impede his 
 progress over the quagmires and bogs of which he 
 was so often a denizen. Such was the figure of 
 
 O 
 
 Theige Foiling Dearg, or Timothy of the Red Cloak, 
 — the dweller by the Fairy Thorn-tree of Glananar. 
 He to the right, to whom Theige of the Red Cloak 
 gave in his conversation the title of Theige Cu 
 Allee, or Theige the Wolf, *had full and ample 
 claims, in appearance at least, to that sylvan cogno¬ 
 men. He was of dwarfish height, but, at the same 
 time, so brawny and broad-shouldered as to have, 
 as he sat with his short legs stretched out and hid¬ 
 den among some green heath, the appearance of a 
 giant ogre, sunk to his middle in the earth. His 
 mouth, the most prominent part of his features, was 
 garnished with an irregular set of large teeth, which 
 gave him, when he either laughed or sneered, some 
 resemblance to a snarling wolf. He wore a cap and 
 loose frieze coat, open in front, and showing a broad, 
 hairy chest, not unused, if one could judge from the 
 wild expression of the face, to heave with many a 
 storm of vindictive passion. Their comrade was, 
 in form certainly, a direct opposite to both. His 
 features were regular and handsome; he appeared, 
 as he sat, a little below the middle size, and very 
 slenderly formed; but there was a wiriness about 
 
254 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 his whole frame, and something in his dark, saga¬ 
 cious eye, that told him no mean antagonist, with 
 that long skean he wore at his side, in a single en¬ 
 counter or in the confusion of a battle. His clothes 
 fitted better than Cu Allee’s, but were of the same 
 material. He answered his - companions with the 
 utmost self-complacency, when they addressed him 
 in their discourse by the enviable title of Theige na 
 Meerval, or Timothy of the Wonders, — a name to 
 which he had, at the moment, strong claims, from 
 the miraculous facility with which he disposed of 
 some large fragments* of beef he had boiled upon the 
 bofir-deal embers. Various instruments of warfare 
 
 o 
 
 were strewn around them, demonstrating, that, in all 
 circumstances excepting that of a blockade, the 
 citadel could be held for a long time and against 
 considerable odds. They appeared to be engaged 
 in some very interesting conversation. 
 
 “ For hurself, ” said he of the Red Cloak, “ hur 
 would rather see the Sassenachs with their spurs in 
 their horses’ flanks, an’ their soords in their hands, 
 nor to see them slinking behind stone garrisons, like 
 foxes in the crags of Ullair.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Cu Allee, in his native tongue, 
 “wherever the Sassenach goes, there is rich booty; 
 and, for me, there was once sweeter booty, — plenty 
 of revenge.” 
 
 “ Hur often heerd Cu Allee whisperin’ an’ cug- 
 gerin’, in hur sleep an’ in hur wake, about that re¬ 
 venge, but never heerd how ’twas got.” 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 255 
 
 “’Twas got,” said the Man of Wonders, pointing 
 to a suspicious-looking bundle of twisted osiers by 
 the side of Cu Allee, “ ’twas got, I’m sartin, in the 
 ould way, by the gad an’ the cross-sticks.” 
 
 “’Twas got,” exclaimed Cu Allee fiercely, “on 
 the day that Murrogh an’ Theothawn’s captain, with 
 his guard about him, gave into my hands Rory 
 Finn, the black and cursed miner of my young sis¬ 
 ter. The clink of the Sassenach’s gold was sweet; 
 but far sweeter was Rory’s groan to my ears, when 
 he knew his time was come. We placed the cross¬ 
 sticks beneath the walls of Kilcolman; and I — I 
 faced Black Rory towards the darkened home and 
 the churchyard where she slept near, and sent him, 
 for good or forbad, to follow her to his last account. 
 Many is the gad I twisted about the neck of Gael 
 and Sassenach ; but the one that finished my mortal 
 foe, Rory Finn, — and I have it here beside me,— 
 was the most precious of all.” 
 
 “Hurself would take it by the strong hand an’ 
 the sharp soord, as hur did last night,” rejoined 
 Foiling Dearg. 
 
 “Or,” said the Man of Wonders, holding out his 
 long, bright skeau in his hand, “ or by manes o’ 
 this, as a sartin person did not long ago in Kilken¬ 
 ny. Listen; for it is one o’ the charmin’ things that 
 brought me into the sarvice o’ the prayer-canters, 
 — the bloody, timber-faced Parliaminthers. I was 
 standin’ in a sthreet in Kilkenny, before the doore 
 of a big forge where the smiths from home an’ from 
 
256 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 furriii parts wor liaminerin’ an’ sledgin’ away at 
 soords an’ pikes an’ armor an’ skeans, the dead 
 brother o’ this I hould in ray hand. I was standin’, 
 doin’ a few tricks o’ sleight-o’-hand, an’ givin’ a few 
 summersets in the way o’ my business; an’ the 
 smiths, with their black faces an’ brawny arms, wor 
 beginnin’ to throw away their hammers an’ sledges, 
 an’ come to the doores an’ windows, lookin’ at me, 
 when who should come along at the other side o’ 
 the street but a grand bishop, or cardinal, with five or 
 six big fellows, like sogers, w'alkin’, some behind him 
 an’ some before, with drawn soords in their hands. 
 He looks at the smiths all idle, an’ the arms wantin’ 
 so much for the war; an’ he looks at me playin’ my 
 capers in the street. He said sorathin’ to the men 
 in a furrin language; an’ three o’ them made over 
 to me, an’ laid hoult o’ me worse than if I was 
 caught in a big vise in one o’ the forges, an’ then 
 banged and bate me with their sword handles off o’ 
 the street. I said nothin’, but followed them for a 
 while, till the man that laid hoult on me first was 
 sent on a message beyond one o’ the gates o’ the 
 town-wall. I waited in the j)orch for the bloody 
 villain; an’, when he was cornin’ past me, I gave 
 this sportin’ skean o’ mine a nate night’s lodgin’ in 
 his side, an’ fled for my life, an’ won the race like a 
 man.” 
 
 One part of this most edifying conversation, 
 namely, Foiling Dearg’s allusion to his deed of the 
 j^receding night, interested the listener outside not 
 
THE WnirKTHORN TREE. 
 
 257 
 
 a little, wanting, as lie did, to lind some clue to the 
 death of his comrade ; but it seemed, on the iiresent 
 occasion, he had business of even more importance 
 to himself to transact with these w'orthies; so, mak¬ 
 ing a slight noise as a signal of his approach, he 
 walked round to the large aperture in order to 
 enter. Na Meerval, when they heard the sound in¬ 
 side, crept out with the agility of a weasel, through 
 the small chink; so, when the young horseman 
 entered, he was somewhat surprised at finding only 
 two inside. 
 
 “I thought,” said he to Foiling Dearg, the moment 
 he had entered, “ that Na Meerval sat by your side 
 now.” 
 
 “Na Meei^val stands by your side,” answered 
 Foiling Dearg, eyeing the visitor darkly. 
 
 That lively personage, having entered at the 
 large aperture as stealthily as he before made his 
 exit, stood close at the side of the horseman. 
 
 “Theige Na Meerval is here,” said he, “When 
 he found the fern-seed by the Robber’s Well, the 
 Shee Geeha became his comrade; for he eould make 
 himself be seen or not be seen, whenever he took it 
 into his head. Shane na Shrad knew this before, I 
 think.” 
 
 Shane na Shrad, or John of the Bridle, —a name, 
 by the way, which the young soldier had got in 
 consequence of his feats of horsemanship, — was too 
 sharp-witted to be deceived so readily. 
 
258 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 “ Shane na Shrad knows,” he said, “ that there is 
 a chink, besides the door, in this cavern.” 
 
 “Fwhat does hur come for now?” queried Foi¬ 
 ling Dearg, who, although he pretty well knew the 
 purport of the visit, wanted to obtain some infor¬ 
 mation from John of the Bridle. “ To-morrow is 
 hur great day by the walls of Caishlean na Boon; 
 but Theige Foiling Dearg knows, that, like a flock 
 of wild ducks from the springs, the Gael will be 
 scatthered soon by Murrogh of the Burnings and 
 his brave Sassenachs.” 
 
 “ Murrogh and his starved wolves are not likely 
 to do so at present,” said John of the Bridle. 
 “ Yoxi, I know, and your two comrades, are on the 
 scent for news, to be paid for it by the ^old of Black 
 Murrogh of Inchiquin. We keep it no secret that 
 before long we’ll be passing the Bridge of Done- 
 raile; and you and its defenders may dream of 
 what’s to follow, while our troopers are dancing 
 with the girls for a day or two beside the green 
 woods of Castle na Doon.” 
 
 “In my-niind,” said Na Meerval, “some o’ them 
 will caper a quarer dance in a short time, undher a 
 kind o’ three where they’ll have only the wind for a 
 floor, an’ Cu Allee’s thrue-lover’s knot about their 
 necks.” 
 
 Cu Alice, although he principally exercised his 
 o'cnius in the enviable profession of a skibbioch, or 
 hangman, never relished a jibe, however, on that 
 score. 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 259 
 
 “ Cu Alice’s knot,” he exclaimed, “ was once round 
 your neck; and, only he let you practise your 
 sleight-of-hand upon it, you’d dance the skibbioch’s 
 jig. But the next time! ” 
 
 “No more of this,” said John of the Bridle. “I 
 came,” he continued, addressing Foiling Dearg, 
 “that you may now redeem the promise you gave 
 me when we last met among the mountains. Where 
 is Alice O’Brien ? ” 
 
 Foiling Dearg’s face darkened as he spoke. “ Hur 
 has searched hill-side an’ coom an’ town an’ forest 
 since for a colleen with a thrue heart, like the one 
 you towld hur of, but never found one since. May¬ 
 be the Black Sassenach captain could tell all about 
 hur.” 
 
 “ Is this, then,” said the horseman, “ the way you 
 pay me for giving you your life when the troopers 
 were about cutting you in pieces, and Moran O’Brien 
 standing with his skean at your throat ? ” 
 
 Foiling Dearg laid his hand on his skean, as if to 
 guard against the consequences of what he was 
 about to say. “Iss, maybe Moran O’Brien knows 
 by this what it is to put a skean to a brave man’s 
 throat, an’ threaten him with death. An’ Alice, 
 hur is false to Shane na Slirad as well as to — to 
 Foiling Dearg; an’,” he continued, with a deadly 
 and vindictive sneer upon his lip, “ hur can now 
 smile upon the Black Captain in the camp-tents o’ 
 Murrogh the Burner.” 
 
 “L}^ing villain,” exclaimed the horseman, “here 
 
260 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 is paymeut for your treachery.” And, suddenly 
 drawing out his sword, he struck Foiling Dearg 
 with its pummel upon the forehead. Foiling Dearg 
 reeled, and fell among the heath in the corner of 
 the cavern. But, recovering in a moment, he sprang 
 to his feet with the fury and agility of a panther, 
 and, seizing a long sword that lay against the wall 
 beside him, struck at the horseman a blow that 
 would have gone, spite of guard and helmet, to his 
 brain, had not the blade, as it swang upwards, come 
 against the low roof of the cave, and shivered into 
 a hundred fragments. At this moment, and while 
 both were preparing to dash again at each other, 
 the two hopeful spectators of the encounter rushed 
 between them. 
 
 “We’ll have no more fightin’ to-night,” said the 
 Man of Wonders: “Shane na Shrad saved Cu 
 Allee’s life, an’, afther that, Cu Allee saved my life; 
 so ’tis Shane I must thank that all the ravens in the 
 country haven’t me in their hungry craws at pres¬ 
 ent. So we’ll stand to Shane na Shrad this time, 
 an’ have no bloodshed to-night in our nate an’ pace¬ 
 ful little castle.” 
 
 “ Stand to hur, then,” said Foiling Dearg; and, 
 with that, he sprung, skean in hand, at the horse¬ 
 man. But he missed his aim; for, at the same 
 moment, Cu Allee threw his long arms around his 
 knees, and dragged him by main force to the other 
 corner of the cave, where, with his face streaming 
 blood, he stood struggling and glaring like a wound¬ 
 ed wolf upon his antagonist. 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 261 
 
 “Leave us,” cried Cu Allee, his wrath kindling 
 with his exertions, “ leave us, I say, or curp an’ 
 dhonl! there will be soon blood enough upon this 
 floor.” 
 
 “I go, then,” said the horseman, perhaps not 
 depending on the sincerity of their promise to stand 
 to him in the quarrel ; “ but remember. Foiling 
 Dearg, that Shane na Shrad’s vow of vengeance 
 was never made in vain.” And, with that, he de- 
 j:)arted from the cavern, mounted his steed, and left 
 the trio to their pleasant converse inside. 
 
 The moon had now risen over the hills, and gave 
 him light as he pursued his way through a pass on 
 the eastern flank of the mountain he was just about 
 to ascend. At the furthest extremity of the pass 
 he reined in his horse for a time, to gaze on a scene 
 that opened on his view. Beneath him, in the calm 
 moonlight, and checkered with the remains of an 
 ancient Arrest, lay the undulating and romantic val¬ 
 ley of Cloghanofty, with the dark fort of Castle na 
 Doon rising on a height at one side; and the Oun 
 na Geerit, or River of the Champion, after descend¬ 
 ing the mountain range opposite the castle, winding 
 in many a silver coil through the low, marshy 
 grounds and indistinct woodlands. Further on, a 
 vista opened between a wood-clad hill on one side, 
 and the ruin-crowned height of Ardpatrick on the 
 other; showing the level plain of Limerick veiled in 
 a light blue mist, through which river and height 
 and castle peered out, like the indistinct and 
 
262 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 varying panorama of a dream. But what most 
 attracted the attention of the young soldier was a 
 number of fires which glimmered redly upon the 
 lawn that spread before the dark castle beneath 
 him. They were the watch-fires of the cavalry who 
 made their camp here, waiting to join Lord Castle- 
 liaven, who was marching at this time at the head 
 of a well-appointed Irish army from the county of 
 Tipperary. John of tlie Bridle, after descending 
 from the pass, entered a small but neatly-kept cot¬ 
 tage,-at the end of the straggling village of Fannys- 
 town. His mother, a light-haired, good-humored 
 looking matron, the daughter of an English settler, 
 stood up as he entered; and, expressing her glad¬ 
 ness at his safe return, told a little boy, who sat 
 luxuriously in the corner by the fire, to see after her 
 son’s horse. 
 
 “ Wisha! ” said the urchin, with a groan of tribu¬ 
 lation, as he went out, “’tis horses an’ horses for¬ 
 ever. I never stopt all day but houldin’ horses for 
 them father-long-legs o’ cavalthry, an’ now I must 
 be at it agin. I liked their prancin’ an’ gambadin’ 
 first well enough, but afther to-day my likin’ for it is 
 spilt entirely.” 
 
 The young soldier sat ruefully by the fire; and, 
 turning to his mother, told her of the failure of his 
 search for Alice O’Brien, and of the death of her 
 brother Moran. These were times when death 
 was of but small account in the mind of either man 
 or woman ; and John’s mother was more apprehen- 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 2G3 
 
 sive for the safety of her son than shocked or fright¬ 
 ened at the death of his comrade. 
 
 “1 would wish, John,” she said, “that you had 
 long ago given up your mad ideas about that silly 
 wench, Alice. Was it not better that you had 
 taken my advice on the matter, when you could 
 mate better with Amy, Neighbor Holton’s daugh¬ 
 ter ? ” 
 
 “No, mother,” said John: “I have the hot Irish 
 
 m 
 
 blood of my father running in my veins, and I will 
 have full vengeance for the death of my comrade. 
 I have obeyed you in every thing else; but ask me 
 not to give up Alice, for it is useless. To-morrow 
 will, I hope, bring me somfe news of her fate.” 
 
 The morrow was shining in all the glory of sum¬ 
 mer upon the woody dells of Fannystown, and the 
 gi’ay hills that towered above them ; but with the 
 new day and its many incidents it is better to com¬ 
 mence a new chapter. 
 
 CHAPTEK II 
 
 Until yellow Autumn shall usher the Paschal day, 
 
 And Patrick’s gay festival come in its train alway ; 
 
 Until through my coffin the blossoming boughs shall grow, 
 My love on another I’ll never in life bestow. 
 
 E. Walsh. 
 
 Fanxystown was at this time what was called 
 a protected village; tliat is, the soldiers of the 
 Government, though often resting there, were not 
 
264 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 permitted to plunder its inhabitants. It would, 
 however, probably have been plundered and de¬ 
 stroyed, had it not been such a convenient resting 
 and camping place, situated as it w'as in the most 
 dangerous, yet most easily defended, pass between 
 the plains of Cork and Limerick. It consisted of a 
 long line of mud-built houses at one side of the pub¬ 
 lic way ; lowly dwellings indeed, but at the same 
 time so thickly planted that it gave one the notion, 
 when on some important day the inhabitants were 
 astir, of a row of beehives, with all their busy 
 denizens moving to and fro at the commencement 
 of their morning avocations. Behind the village, 
 upon a height, stood the mansion of Sir John Pon- 
 sonby, looking down upon the bright waters of the 
 Oun na Geerait,— a stream rising in a deep gorge 
 between the mountains, and dancing by many a 
 wild dell and picturesque hollow until it lost its 
 waters in the rapid Fuucheon. The square, loop- 
 holed turrets at the corners of the mansion showed 
 that its owner had not neglected the defence 
 wanted so much in those stormy times; but the 
 rows of bow-windows in the front, facing the 
 stream, gave it a gay appeai*ance, -which contrasted 
 strangely with the aspect of its stern neighbor at 
 the other side of the valley, — the compact Castle 
 of the Fort; or, as it was named by the surround¬ 
 ing people, Caishlan na Boon. This was one of 
 those tall, square keeps, so many of which still 
 frown from their rocky sites along the neighboring 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 265 
 
 plain ; telling in their decay, with as much certainty 
 as the pen of the historian, of the troublous times 
 in which they were built, and the domestic habits 
 of the waning races to whom they owed their 
 foundations. It is now considerably increased in 
 dimensions by additions suited to the present day, 
 and has rather a modernized appearance; but ]>art 
 of the orimnal buildin" still remains. At the time 
 of the following events, it was inhabited by Sir 
 Edward Fitzharris, a Catholic gentleman, who, like 
 his neighbor. Sir John Ponsonby, favored the prin¬ 
 ciples of the Confederation of Kilkenny. 
 
 It was hi^h noon when John of the Bridle dashed 
 
 O 
 
 his horse across the stream, and rode up towards 
 the camp upon the lawn before Castle na Boon. 
 
 “ Mononi! why is she so long, an’ the curnil axin 
 for her ? ” said an old war-worn trooper, who stood 
 guard at the entrance of the camp. 
 
 “The news I have to tell him will be likely 
 to set you and your comrades at work, Diarraid,” 
 answered John of the Bridle. “ Here, Jennny,” he 
 continued, addressing a wild, elfish-looking little 
 urchin, — the same who had seen to his horse’s com¬ 
 fort on the preceding night, — “ take this bridle, and 
 hold my horse till I come out; and, mind, no gallop¬ 
 ing this time, for, I fear, the’poor fellow will get 
 enough to-day.” Jemmy, whose gusto for horseflesh, 
 notwithstanding his heart-rending complaints on the 
 evening before, was increased with tenfold strength 
 during the morning, took the bridle; and scarcely 
 
266 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 was the horseman out of sight behind the tents when 
 he was up, like a cat, in the saddle, and careering 
 with unheard-of speed over the lawn. 
 
 John of the Bridle entered the castle, and was led 
 by another sentinel up a dark, winding stair into a 
 gloomy-looking chamber, where the colonel who 
 commanded the cavalry, with a few officers, sat plan¬ 
 ning busily their future movements. 
 
 “ The general will be here with the whole army 
 in a few days,” said the colonel: “ and, on the faith 
 of a soldier! I wish we may see him sooner; for I like 
 not sitting, like a hermit, here when there is so much 
 to be done for our brave fellows. Ha! ” continued 
 he, turning to John, as he entered, “herecomes our 
 worthy scout; perchance he may inform us how the 
 Burner and his canting vagabonds are preparing for 
 our onslaught. The passes towards St. Leger’s den 
 are free for the expedition on to-morrow, young 
 man ? ” 
 
 “ The passes are clear enough, colonel; but, as I 
 rode yesterday through the forest by Doneraile, a 
 shot fi-om a falconet was near ending my outriding. 
 There are three more on the battlements of St. 
 Loger’s Castle, and the walls are thronged with 
 men.” 
 
 “I trust,” rejoined the colonel, “to the broad 
 mouths of our long field-pieces to silence them ; but 
 God knows how we shall circumvent those rieving 
 villians who yet hang on our march. Hast thou seen 
 that murdering troop that burned the two western 
 hamlets ? ” 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 267 
 
 “No, colonel: they are fled towards the Kerry 
 border. Another small troop I saw coming out 
 from Doneraile, and preparing to scour the hills; but 
 they’ll meet but a sorry welcome from the wild 
 horsemen of Ballyhoura.” 
 
 The colonel here took a sealed packet from the 
 table, and put it into the hands of the young horse¬ 
 man. “Thy .services,” he said, “will merit the re¬ 
 ward thou seekest. Deliver this safely to the 
 Governor of Kihnallock, and thou shalt have thy 
 commission as captain of thy troop, and that speedi- 
 ly. I know of no other,” said he, addressing the 
 officers, as John of the Bridle was led down stairs by 
 the sentinel, — “I know of none who so marvellously 
 finds his way through those cursed bogs and scroggy 
 passes, and who hath such a goodly share of true 
 courage, as that young man.” 
 
 As John turned his horse in the direction of Kil- 
 mallock, he thought of the events of the preceding 
 day, and how Ellen Roche would bear the news of 
 her lover’s death. “ But I cannot be at the dance,” 
 he said, giving his horse the spur, “ if I don’t make 
 my way quicker than this.” 
 
 At the back of Fannystown village was a green in 
 a hollow, through the midst of which ran the Oun 
 na Geerait, after emerging from a narrow, tangled 
 glen at the foot of the mountain. The slope around 
 it was clothed with scattered brushwood; and, where 
 it lost itself in the level space at one side, rose an 
 aged and giant elm-tree, around the trunk of which 
 
268 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 the villagers, with some of the horsemen from the 
 camp, were thronging to hear the strains of a gray¬ 
 haired piper, who talked and laughed among them as 
 merrily as if he was in the very heyday of his youth. 
 Around him were gathered the girls and young men 
 of the village, with an occasional troojDer, looking 
 for partners, and arranging themselves in two rows 
 hieing each other, in order to commence the HinJcey- 
 fodha., or long dance, a figure much resembling the 
 contra-dances of the present day: while outside and 
 half surrounding the group sat the more aged 
 dwellers of the hamlet; and beyond, upon the green, 
 stood the children in little groups, looking with 
 gleeful and expectant faces for the commencement of 
 the amusements. The long dance was ended, and 
 many an intricate and merry measure danced after¬ 
 wards by separate groups of four each : at length, a 
 weariness seemed to fall upon them, and they sat 
 around the piper, entreating him to play some of 
 those slow, wild tunes so peculiar to the country. 
 Among the supplicants for the tune was a daik-eyed 
 young girl, who accompanied her request with so 
 sweet a smile that the old man commenced at once 
 tuning his pipes, with a variety of running tones, 
 which, to the children at least, proved precursors of the 
 most delicious and enchanting melody. This young 
 maiden was Ellen Koche, the betrothed of Moran 
 O’Brien ; but who little knew, amid the gladness that 
 reigned around her, of the miseries awaiting her, and 
 of the sad doom of her-lover. Her black hair fell 
 
THE WIIITETHOUN TREE. 
 
 269 
 
 in shining masses upon her pretty shoulders, setting 
 off a light and graceful figure, and a sweet face, to 
 which the brilliant and dark eyes gave an expression 
 at once animated and lovely. 
 
 “Wirrasthru!” said the piper: “my ould fingers 
 are almost as stiff as that long soord o’ Jack Flana¬ 
 gan’s there. But every thing’s gettin stiff, as dhrunk- 
 on Bill Breen said, when his wife refused to swally a 
 whole barrelful of ale in one dhrink. Well, I had 
 my day out o’ the world at any rate.” And, so say¬ 
 ing, he struck up an ancient Irish march, or war-tune, 
 with such effect that the eyes of the young strip¬ 
 lings around him began to sparkle, and even the 
 hands of the wild troopers began to move instinct¬ 
 ively towards their sword - hilts ; so easily were 
 the rugged and simple natures of those times and 
 scenes moved and excited by the power of the musi¬ 
 cian. 
 
 “ Come, an’ sit down here by my side, my sweet 
 flower,” said he, addressing Ellen Roche, when the 
 war-tune was ended. “ Come, an’ ’I’ll play up your 
 favorite tune; an’ — whisht, ye rantin’ divils ! — an’ 
 you’ll sing the oulcl song I lamed you long ago, 
 about the young throoper, — anater fellow than any 
 o’ ye’ll ever be anyhow, ye tarin’ thieves,” he con¬ 
 tinued, turning to the horsemen. Ellen sat upon 
 the bank beside him ; and, when the talk was silenced, 
 he commenced to play a singularly sweet old tune, 
 which the young maiden accompanied in a soft and 
 tender voice, with the words of an Irish ballad, of 
 
270 
 
 THE WHlTETHOliN TBEE. 
 
 which the following may be taken as a transla^ 
 tion: — 
 
 “JOHNNY DUNLEA. 
 
 “ There’s a tree in the greenwood I love best of all,— 
 
 It stands by the side of Easmor’s haunted fall, — 
 
 Eor there, while the sunset fell bright far away, 
 
 Last I met ’neath its branches my Johnny Dunlea. 
 
 Oh ! to see his fine form, as he rode down the hill. 
 
 While the red sunlight glowed on his helmet of steel. 
 With his broadsword and charger, so gallant and gay, 
 
 On that evening of woe for my Johnny Dunlea ! 
 
 He stood by my side; and the love-smile he wore 
 Still brightens my heart, tho’ ’twill beam never more. 
 ’Twas to have but one farewell, then speed to the fray ; 
 'Twas a farewell for ever, my Johnny Dunlea! 
 
 For the fierce Saxon soldiers lay hid in the dell. 
 
 And burst on our meeting with wild savage yell; 
 
 But their dark leader’s life-blood I saw that sad day. 
 
 And it stained the good sword of my Johnny Dunlea. 
 
 My curse on the traitor! my curse on the ball 
 That stretched my true love by Easmor’s haunted fall! 
 Oh ! the blood of his brave heart ebbed quickly away. 
 And he died in my arms there, my Johnny Dunlea! ” 
 
 Alas ! little thought the fair singer at the moment, 
 that her own was a fate like that of the poor maiden 
 of the song. During the song, had any person 
 ' looked behind where the branches of the elm-tree 
 drooped against the slope, they might have seen a 
 pair of bright, cunning eyes peering out between the 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 271 
 
 leaves of the copse at the person of the singer. 
 There was an expression in those weasel eyes that 
 boded no good to Ellen Roche: but the pair, 
 blight and keen as they were, had not the fortune to 
 belong to a weasel; they were the property of a 
 handsome and nimble-looking little man, who lay 
 upon his breast, gazing thus, but well concealed from 
 the observation of the villagers. The moment the 
 song was ended, and, while the attention of all was 
 taken up in giving the due meed of afiplause, the 
 little man swung himself cautiously into a projecting 
 branch of the elm-tree; and moving noiselessly along 
 the gnarled limbs, as if he had learned the mefliod 
 from a squirrel, he perched liimself for a moment 
 among the thick leaves upon another branch which 
 drooped over the centre of the throng below. Sud¬ 
 denly he let himself drop into the midst of the circle; 
 and, before any one knew how he had come there, he 
 had performed half a dozen “ summersets ” upon the 
 green. 
 
 “ Theige na Meerval! Theige na Meerval! ” cried 
 the delighted children. 
 
 “Theige na Meerval himself!” exclaimed their 
 elders.. “ Honom an’ dhoul! but I believe he’s 
 after failin’ out o’ the sky.” 
 
 “ Thundher-an-ages, no! ” said a trooper. “ Doesn’t 
 every mother’s sowl o’ ye know that he’s invisible 
 when he likes, an’ can walk invisible into the centre 
 o’ people; an’ wid one touch make himself be seen 
 agin by every person, in one mortlual minnit?” 
 
272 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE 
 
 “ I did fall out o’ the sky,” said the Man of Won¬ 
 ders, at the same time cutting a few capers that blend¬ 
 ed their surprise with immense merriment. “ Where 
 is the use in me bein’ enchanted, if I cannot circum- 
 vint myself into a blast o’ wind when I likes ? ” 
 
 The strains of the poor piper were now neglected ; 
 and all thronged around the showman, — for that was 
 his particular and favorite profession, — and began to ■ 
 press still closer, with open mouths, and faces of 
 wonder and expectancy. Na Meerval now took a 
 strangely-made knife from his pocket, and com¬ 
 menced to show off some of his feats. Suddenly he 
 sto(?ped till his face almost touched the ground; 
 and, amidst innumerable “ Monoms! ” “Dhar Dias ! ” 
 and “Hiernas!” from the astonished bystanders, 
 jerked himself up straight again, with the blade of the 
 knife sticking upwards through his tongue. He now 
 beckoned for more space; and, when he found suffi¬ 
 cient, he stooped forward with his hands resting on 
 the ground, and, springing over, stood upon his feet 
 again, holding the knife aloft in his hand. 
 
 “Ha, ha!” he exclaimed, “if all o’ ye used your 
 knives that way, maybe ’tis little soft talk ye’d be 
 able to give the girls afterwards. Did ye ever hear 
 where I wint the first time I made myself invisible ? 
 Divil a place would plaise me but Spain, to larn 
 magic from an ould anshint thief, that was as great 
 as two pickpockets with the Ould Oganach * himself. 
 He could see me when no one else could ; an’ I stopt 
 
 * The Devil, 
 
THE WHITETHORN' TREE. 
 
 273 
 
 with him ’till the murtherin’ ould thief turned me 
 away out of invy, when he saw I was batin’ out him¬ 
 self. Plowsomdever, I’ll show ye somethin’ that he 
 lamed me.” And, so saying, he raised his hand, and, 
 apparently to his audience, struck himself lightly on 
 the mouth. A volume of bluish smoke, accompanied 
 with bright sparks, issued suddenly from between 
 his open jaws; at the appearance of which the specta¬ 
 tors, so delighted were they at the marvel, set up a 
 wdld shout of applause and wonder. 
 
 “ There is one thing, howsomdever,” said he again, 
 “that every person bates me at,—gamin’.” And 
 walking to a smooth stone, which served for a seat, 
 he drew from his pocket a dice-box, and laid it beside 
 him. “Now,” continued he, turning to the troop¬ 
 ers, at the same time laying two silver coins upon the 
 stone, “ye were paid not long ago, an’ here is a 
 flamin’ fine time to make the forthin’ of every livin’ 
 sowl among ye.” 
 
 “ I made my forthin’ once in the sackin’ of a town, 
 an’ lost agin every jingler of it in battle; an’ now 
 gamin’ won’t remake it for me,” said a huge, stern¬ 
 looking trooper, with the marks of a great sword-cut 
 across his face. 
 
 “ Well, purshuin’ to me, do you hear that?” said 
 a jolly, careless fellow, who was already seated by Na 
 Meerval’s side, with the dice-box rattling in his hand, 
 and his stake down: “Mun Callaghan, that would 
 sell himself to a certain curious gintleman undher- 
 nathe us, body an’ bones an’ sowl, for money, sayin’ 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 now that there is no varthue in gamin’! ” So say¬ 
 ing, he threw and won. This good fortune made 
 others eager for the play, till, after various games, 
 most of the troopers found the few coins they pos¬ 
 sessed since the last pay-day comfortably transferred 
 to the pockets of Na Meerval. He now turned to 
 Mun Callaghan. 
 
 “ You see I’m richer now than when I began. 
 Come, an’ larn the sweet an’ inchantin’ mystheries o’ 
 the dice-box. Play, man, play; an,’ as you’re so fond 
 o’ the money, maybe you’d win it all back again.” 
 
 “ I will not play,” answered Mun, in an angry 
 tone. 
 
 “Yerrah ! man, can’t you take one chance?” said 
 his comrades. “ The divil resave the much we’re at 
 a loss anyhow ; for, like yom-self, ’tis little we had to' 
 lose. Ructions to us, man ! why don’t yo\i play ? ” 
 
 “Bekaise I have an’ ould an’ wake mother beyont 
 the hills, wid no one to purtect her, an’ who wants 
 what I can give her out o’ my pay, — not to have me 
 lose id gamin’,” answered Man bitterly. This pro¬ 
 duced a laugh among the more careless of his com¬ 
 rades ; and the Man of Wonders, emboldened by the 
 merriment, overstepped seemingly his usual cautious¬ 
 ness. 
 
 “ Yarrah!” said he, “ maybe ’twas batin’ you with 
 a sthraw or a rish for your conthrairy doins your ould 
 mother was that put that tattherin’ glin of a wound 
 acrass your face. ” The answer was a blow from the 
 ponderous fist of Mun, which sent Na Meerval spin- 
 
I 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 275 
 
 ning, like a cork, along the green. The blow, however, 
 certainly stunned him somewhat less than he pre¬ 
 tended. 
 
 “ Oh! ’’said he, as if waking from a deadly swoon, 
 and still lying extended on the grass, “ I’m done in 
 airnest at last, — kilt unnathrally. Here is my brain 
 spinnin’ round an’ round, like a wheel-o’-foi'thin,’ — 
 the rale sign o’ death. Oh! ” And he sank apparent¬ 
 ly into a swoon again, while the villagers gathered 
 round him in instant commiseration of his hard 
 fate. “Is there any good Christhian,” he exclaimed, 
 reviving once more, — “is there any good an’ chari¬ 
 table Christhian that would lade me to their home 
 till I die in pace ? My brain ! my brain! Lade me 
 up to Moureen Roche’s, the ould widow o’ the hollow, 
 where I often slept before. Is that Ellen Roche 
 I see ? Lade me, up a colleen dhas., ’till I die in 
 pace.” 
 
 He now stood up, but tottered; and Ellen Roche, 
 coming forward, caught him by the arm, and, assisted 
 by one of the young men, began to lead him up to 
 where her mother’s house stood in a lonely hollow 
 some distance up the glen. After going a few perch¬ 
 es, Ha Meerval seemed to get somewhat stronger, 
 and told the young man that he could reach the 
 house with the help of Ellen Roche. The young 
 man, possessed altogether with the idea of his sweet¬ 
 heart, whom he saw looking with a jealous eye after 
 him, turned back willingly, just as Mun Callaghan, 
 with many a re[)roach ringing in his ears, was stalk- 
 
•27G THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 ing off towards the camp. The incident was, how¬ 
 ever, soon forgotten in a short time, and the dance 
 renewed as merrily as ever. 
 
 In the mean time Ellen Roche, with I^a Meerval 
 behind her, led the way towards her home,’till they 
 reached a lonely spot where the path crossed the glen ; 
 and here, instead of dying in peace as he promised, the 
 Man of Wonders sprang at the unsuspecting girl, 
 and, before she could scream for help, tied a kerchief 
 round her face, which rendered her unable either to 
 see, or call for assistance. He now gave a low whistle; 
 and, at the signal, his two comrades of the cave 
 stepped out from a dark nook in the side of the glen. 
 Ellen Roche, unlike the majority of heroines, did 
 not faint at once, but, like the brave girl that she was, 
 resisted to the utmost the efforts of the three, as 
 they bore her through the forest towards the pass 
 leading betw^een the mountains, till at length, entire¬ 
 ly exhausted, she sank into a passive kind of stu¬ 
 por, in which she continued until the kerchief was 
 taken off her flice. 
 
 On opening her eyes, she found hei’self in a nar¬ 
 row recess between two rocks, which, by way of 
 rendering it habitable, was roofed with boughs of 
 oak, and thatched over with bundles of heath and 
 fern. It was situated on the side of a deep glen, 
 through which the bright, bog-tinted stream rushed 
 downward with a hollow murmur ; and its entrance 
 opened towards a wide moor, whose undulating ex¬ 
 panse stretched out, drear and lonely, until it tei-mi- 
 
TEE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 277 
 
 nated in a low range of dark hills to the west. Out¬ 
 side the door of the hut, the eyes of the young girl 
 fell upon two objects, each remarkable in its appear¬ 
 ance, but 4 from the possession of very different 
 qualities. One has been described before : it was no 
 less than Cu Allee, standing guard at the entrance; 
 and the other was the most beautiful whitethorn 
 ever seen by human eyes, growing on the extremity 
 of a green tongue of land at the opposite side of the^ 
 glen. It shot up in a single stem to about seven 
 feet from the ground, and then branched into three 
 graceful arms, which extended themselves from side 
 to side, in ramifications so singularly light and beau¬ 
 tiful that the wild inhabitants of the mountains 
 should not be deemed over-credulous for believinsc 
 that the fairies trained its sprays, — upon whicli some 
 white blossoms still lingered,—to assume those lovely 
 forms; and that they made the little green around it 
 one of their most favored retreats. 
 
 But, if Ellen Roche was surprised for an instant 
 at the beauty of the whitethorn, it was with dismay 
 and terror that she gazed on the uncouth form of 
 Theige the Wolf, whom she mistook— no great mis¬ 
 take indeed — for one of those wild spirits, who, in 
 the shape of little red men, are believed by the Irish 
 to haunt lonely places among the mountains, and 
 whose appearance is a sure sign of the speedy 
 doom of the unfortunate person who beholds them. 
 She looked upon him for an instant; and, on no¬ 
 ticing the evil expression of his eyes, covered her 
 
278 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 face with her hands, and sank, in the extremity of her 
 terror, on a stone seat which lay beside her, Cu 
 Allee noticed her dismay; and, although it did not 
 at all advance her in his good graces, he did not 
 hate her as he* did every one else, for he began to 
 imagine some resemblance between her and his 
 young sister, whom he had laid not long ago in the 
 old churchyard of Doneraile. In fact, in thinking 
 of his sister, the only person for whom he ever felt 
 any thing like affection, he began to cast about in his 
 mind why he stood guard there upon a poor girl in 
 whom he recognized a similarity of appearance, and 
 to picture to himself how he would feel, after doing 
 one good action, by effecting her liberation. It was 
 with him as wdth all who have turned on the evil 
 path through life. The human heart, in its inno¬ 
 cence, is like a lovely bower, whei’e the virtues with 
 their fair train of good and beautiful thoughts 
 make their dwelling: but, when the devil once gets 
 possession of the keys, out go the virtues and their 
 bright attendants, and, though they return frequently 
 and knock for admittance, the stern answer of the evil 
 demon inside scares them off, like a flock of white 
 doves at the yell of the mountain eagle, By-and-by 
 the demon hides the keys, the bower withers and 
 becomes rotten, and the virtues, led by our good 
 angel, go searching, searching, but, alas ! rarely find 
 the means of entrance to make it bloom again. The 
 spirit of evil, in order to expel the good intention 
 on this occasion from the breast of Cu Allee, thought 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 279 
 
 fit to send a delegate in the person of the Man 
 of Wonders, who, advancing up the glen, whispered 
 something into the ear of the dwarf, at which 
 he quitted his post, and proceeded with wonderful 
 agility up the mountain at the back of the hut. Na 
 Meerval entered, but 2')aused for a time inside the 
 door when he found himself unnoticed by Ellen 
 Roche, who, with her face buried in her mantle, sat 
 still in the same position as when she retired on see¬ 
 ing Theige the Wolf. At length he spoke: — 
 
 “Yerrah! my dark flower o’the mountains, is’nt 
 it unnathral to see you sittin’ that way, as bronach 
 an’ sorrowful as if all belongin’ to you were laid out, 
 an’ the wake-candles burnin’ over them?” 
 
 Ellen sat up, for she knew the voice. “ An’ is it 
 you,” she said, “ you black-hearted villain, that 
 spakes to me in such a way, after taking me away 
 from my poor mother, whose heart, I know, is broke 
 at the news already ? Let me go, I say.” And she 
 gathered her mantle around her, and prejoared to 
 dart from the door. “ Let me go, or ’twon’t be long 
 till some one you know will haye his heavy revenge 
 on you for this day’s work.” 
 
 “Fair an’ aisy, Misthress Ellen,”said Na Meerval, 
 putting her back gently to her seat. “ Listen to 
 a few words I have to say, an’ ’twill make you a little 
 kindlier.” 
 
 “ I can’t listen to any thing but about my laving 
 this. You know you often got food an’ shelter an’ 
 kindness in my mother’s house, an’ this is not the 
 
280 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 way to pay back those who ever an’ always helped 
 you in your need.” 
 
 “ That very shelther an’ kindness was my desthruc- 
 tion; for, from the first night I slept undher your 
 roof, I fell in love, — you know with whom, — an ’tis 
 conshumin’ ray heart to cinders ever since. Listen 
 to me for a minnit. There is one you think that’s 
 dhramin’ o’ you raoimin’, noon, an’ night. I know 
 him, of coorse. But I tell you that Moran O’Brien 
 has stopt thinkiTi’ o’ you since yestherday; so, if he 
 promised to do so always, he’s false to his word. 
 Take the love, then, of a truer man, who’ll “stick to 
 you through life an’ death.” 
 
 “ It is false,” answered Ellen vehemently. “ Mo¬ 
 ran is still true to me, an’ will be as true to his re¬ 
 venge upon you, if you don’t let me away.” 
 
 “ You don’t know me, Ellen Roche. Thrue or 
 false, you’ll never have him for a husband, nor 
 have no one else either, barrin’ myself. I tell you 
 he’ll never think on you more; an’ look at this,” 
 said he, at the same time drawing a small silver 
 cross from his bosom,“if he was true in his heart 
 and soul, would he let a purty-faced crathure, nearly 
 as nate as myself, take this from round his neck? 
 Upon this blessed cross, taken from the neck of a 
 false man, who never more can see you, I swear to 
 love you through pace an’ war, an’ through life an’ 
 death, for ever an’ ever.” 
 
 Ellen looked at the cross. It was Moran’s. She 
 bad herself placed it round his neck; and he, poor 
 
TEE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 281 
 
 fellow! had vowed at the same time that he would 
 never part with it but in death. Suddenly the 
 thought flashed upon her mind that he was dead, —• 
 murdered by Na Meerval and his accomplices. She 
 looked instinctively at the sword by ISTa Meerval’s 
 side. It was Moran’s. The horrible reality burst 
 at once upon her mind ; and, with a piercing and ag¬ 
 onizing shriek, she sank senseless on the floor of the 
 hut. 
 
 On awakening from her swoon, she found herself 
 lying upon some soft heath in another apartment. 
 A wooden vessel filled with water lay beside her 
 upon a flat stone, with some bread. This she was 
 enabled to observe by a few streams of red light 
 which darted inwards through the chinks of an old 
 wooden door which separated the recess in which 
 she lay from the outer one. She cautiously arose, 
 and, looking through one of the chinks, 'Saw Na 
 Meerval and his two comrades sitting round a heap 
 of blazing wood in the apartment she had occupied 
 on the preceding evening; for it was now far 
 advanced in the night. She turned round in silent 
 misery and fear, and, sinking her face once, more in 
 the folds of her mantle, sat in her despair until 
 another morning was shining gloriously over the 
 gray summits and deep valleys that surrounded her. 
 
282 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I buckled on my armor, 
 
 And my sword so keen and bright; 
 
 I took my gallant charger, 
 
 And I rode him to the fight. 
 
 We met the foeman early. 
 
 Beside yon castle hoar. 
 
 And slew them all by tower and wall. 
 
 And by the dark lake-shore. 
 
 Baixad. 
 
 About sunrise that morning John of the Bridle 
 took his way up the gorge, through which poor Ellen 
 had been borne. He had returned from Kilmallock on 
 the previous evening, after delivering the despatch, 
 and joined the dancers on the green of Fannystown. 
 On inquiring for Ellen Roche, he was told the inci¬ 
 dent that had occurred, and of Ellen’s accompany¬ 
 ing Na Meerval to her home. Suspecting some unfair 
 dealing on the part of Na Meerval, he proceeded di¬ 
 rectly to the house of Maureen Roche; but she 
 could give no account of her daughter, except that 
 she had gone early in the day to the dance. The 
 alarm was given, and every place searched, even 
 the cave where John of the Bridle met the three 
 Timothys; but no trace of the young girl could 
 be found. John of the Bridle was on horseback 
 most of that night, and, after sending some of his 
 friends in other directions, took his way at sun- 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 283 
 
 rise up the gorge that led between the hills. On 
 reaching the highest point of a craggy ridge, he di¬ 
 rected his course over a wide and elevated moor¬ 
 land, strewn irregularly with huge masses of rock. 
 Riding for some time in a southerly direction, 
 he at length reached where the barren moorland 
 merged into the stunted copsewood of the upland 
 forest; and here he was met by a lathy and light- 
 footed gorsoon whom he accosted. 
 
 “Rody,” said he, “ where is Remy of the Glen and 
 the horsemen ? ” 
 
 “ They’re below, in the ould Castle o’ Kilcolman, 
 captin ; but come on down to ’em, for they’re in 
 riglar currywhibles about somethin’, an’ wantin’ you 
 badly.” 
 
 When they had proceeded for some time through 
 the forest, Rody stopped. “There, captin, is the 
 ould castle beyant there; an’ here is the glin, fwhare 
 all the horses are left for me to mind. So come 
 down now, captin, an’ let me put your horse wid 
 the rest.” 
 
 John of the Bridle dismounted, and, guided by 
 Rody, led his horse to a deep hollow in the. forest, 
 with bushy precipices all round it; and here, feeding 
 upon heaps of dried grass, stood between forty and 
 fifty horses, accoutred, and ready for their owners. 
 Leaving his horse among them to the care of Rody, 
 John proceeded quickly along the forest pathway, 
 until, at length, he stood before the ruined outworks 
 of Kilcolman. Here he was met by a short, dark 
 
284 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 man, who stood as sentinel by the broken gate, and 
 who told him to go in at once, for those inside were 
 impatiently expecting him. On entering the dilapi¬ 
 dated doorway, before him opened an arch-roofed 
 and gloomy apartment, the principal hall of the 
 castle, lit by a great fire of blazing wood; which, 
 as the chimney and windows were all stopped up, 
 filled the whole space inside with a thick cloud of 
 smoke. Around the fire, in various attitudes, talk¬ 
 ing, laughing, and eating, were congregated about 
 twenty men, — some of the owners of the horses. The 
 fire blazed and crackled, its red flame lighting up 
 the wild visages of the horsemen, and glinting with 
 j)icturesque effect on the half-polished arms that 
 strewed the floor, or lay against the craggy walls. 
 One young man, turning round, saw John of the 
 Bridle, or the Captain, as they called him ; for it was 
 he that always led them on their wild forays. 
 
 “ Arrah, blur-an-ages! here is the captin himself, 
 at the very time we wanted him,” exclaimed the 
 young man. “ I bleeve ’twas the Good People 
 themselves that sent him.” 
 
 “ ’Twas not, then, Shamus, but the very worst of 
 people that sent me here. But why are ye sitting 
 thus? and what account have ye of the troops that 
 came out from Doneraile ? ” 
 
 “ First an’ foremost, captin,” said Remy of the 
 Glen, — a tall young fellow, the boldest and merriest 
 looking of them all, and who, from the respect paid 
 to his opinions by his comrades, appeared to have 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 •285 
 
 the command in the absence of John of the Bridle, 
 — “First an’ foremost, we’re waitin’ to know would 
 you come; an’ second, we have a plan made out 
 among ourselves that’ll maybe settle with them 
 throopers — for they’re now cornin’ over the hills 
 back to Doneraile —better than if we met them on 
 the hills ; an’ — aur vonom ! — ’twill give us what we 
 hadn’t this many a day,— a little sport. Twenty o’ 
 the boys are now lyin’ in ambush outside in the 
 wood, an’five or six more are over on the height; 
 an’ the very minnit that the throopers get a look at 
 them, they’re to run back here, an’ never stir out o’ 
 this till the Black Captain begins to smoke them 
 out. Dhar Dhia ! when we ketch himself an’ his 
 throopers among these ould thraps o’ walls, but I’ll 
 soon have a betther helmet than this rusty ould gris- 
 sid on my head at present! ” 
 
 John of the Bridle was strategist enough to see 
 that this was an excellent plan for settling accounts 
 with the troopers. The only improvement he would 
 suggest was that he should go himself, and head the 
 ambuscade. He found the men outside crouched 
 among the thick underwood of the forest, and wait¬ 
 ing with impatience for the coming of their enemies. 
 In the meantime those who served for a decoy sat 
 upon the summit of a steep height, looking west¬ 
 ward upon a troop of about thirty horsemen, return¬ 
 ing from their murdering expedition. Suddenly one 
 of the troopers looked up, and, beholding the wild¬ 
 looking figures on the summit, pointed them out to 
 
286 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 his leader, the Black Captain; who, sticking his long 
 spurs into his horse’s flanks, dashed towards them, fol¬ 
 lowed by his men. Away rushed the others, making 
 a circuit in order to avoid the hollow where the 
 horses were concealed, and were just in among their 
 comrades when the troopers appeared in front of 
 the castle upon the shore of the lake. 
 
 “Ha, ha!” exclaimed one of them, as he entered, 
 “we have the bloody murtherers caught at last, an’ 
 by the morthial big soord o’ Brian Boru, bud they 
 have nate horses ! ” 
 
 All inside now arose, and stood darkly around 
 Remy of the Glen, their arms flashing in the red 
 firelight, and the glow of revenge and hate shining 
 in their wild countenances as they listened for the 
 onset of their enemies. Remy now looked out, and 
 beheld through the shattered outworks the troopers 
 in a cluster by the lake, apparently deliberating on 
 the best method of capturing the fugitives of the 
 castle. Among them stood Theige the Wolf, like an 
 evil spirit, grinning with glee at the prospect of the 
 exercise he was apparently to have in his darling 
 profession of a skibbioch, or hangman. The Black 
 Captain now gave some orders, at which they all 
 dismounted; and one of them, a low-sized, lank-vis- 
 aged, but stout man, who went by the euphonious 
 name of Corporal Ebenezer Kick-the-Goad, advanced 
 to the gateway of the castle. 
 
 “ Come forth,” he exclaimed, “ ye robbing Amalek- 
 ites, or ye shall die the death of wolves, whom ye 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 287 
 
 imitate, betaking yourselves to dens and caverns to 
 avoid the path of the just and chosen ! ” 
 
 The answer was a couple of bullets fi'om the in¬ 
 side, one of which stretched him by the gate, wound¬ 
 ing him severely ; the other breaking the leg of the 
 Black Captain’s horse, which stood on the shore al¬ 
 most in a direct line behind him. 
 
 “ Now, by the soul of Abraham! ” said the captain, 
 “they shall die. Follow me, children of Zion, and 
 we’ll send their souls from yon unhallowed den to 
 get an eternal taste of the punishments awaiting 
 God’s accursed.” 
 
 All now advanced towards the gateway, firing as 
 they went, their shot killing a few inside. The be¬ 
 sieged, on their part, were not idle; for, as the troop¬ 
 ers came clambering up the gateway, and through 
 the ragged apertures of the outworks, they were sa¬ 
 luted by a volley from the doorway which killed 
 several of them, and sent the Black Captain rolling 
 over and over in his death agony almost down to 
 the shore of the lake. Finding their reception a 
 little too hot, the rest retreated behind the shelter 
 of the walls, in order to get time for a little deliber¬ 
 ation before they renewed the attack. 
 
 “ That’s my shot,” said Remy of the Glen, when he 
 saw the Black Captain rolling down; “an’ his helmet 
 an’ back-aii-breast are mine. Poor Randal Breen, 
 that broke the horse’s leg outside, has no claim; for 
 he’s shot himself.” 
 
 The command of the besiegers now devolved 
 
288 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 upon a gigantic, iron-visaged man, the tallest of the 
 troop, who, as he said himself, had cast away as an 
 unhallowed thing his name of the flesh, but amply 
 recompensed himself by taking the tremendous ap¬ 
 pellation of Habakuk Burn-the-Gentiles. This 
 changing of names was the universal custom of tlie 
 Puritans of those days. Burn-the-Gentiles held the 
 rank of sergeant, and was an experienced and cour¬ 
 ageous soldier. The ambuscade had not yet come 
 out from their hiding-place, and it is necessary to 
 explain the reason. The Black Captain, on picket¬ 
 ing the horses, had left them in care of Cu Allee 
 and the Rev. Hezekiah Shout-the-Word-frorn-Zion; 
 who, although a preacher of the Word, was perhaps 
 one of the keenest-eyed soldiers of the troop. At 
 the moment of the first attack, the ambuscade, 
 therefore, could not by any possibility come una¬ 
 wares on their enemies. Various methods were 
 now suggested by the troopers for dislodging the 
 besieged, but Burn-the-Gentiles at length proposed 
 one which was universally acceded to. 
 
 “ Comrades in the chosen path,” he said, “the cun¬ 
 ning of the Amoritish slaves hath prevailed for the 
 moment. But it shall avail them not. Even as 
 Samson burned the vineyards, so shall we burn to 
 the death those children of sin in yon accursed house. 
 Depart. Gather ye fern and the dried grass of the 
 forest, and place it even as a burning and suffocating 
 and scorching barrier before the door of the 
 heathen.” 
 
TEE WHITETHORN TREE, 
 
 289 
 
 This order was obeyed with snch alacrity that 
 they soon had a great heap of half-withered boughs, 
 grass, and fern, piled up beside the outer wall. Of 
 this, each took a portion; and, stealing round the 
 corners of the castle, they threw their bundles from 
 them into the doorway, and in a short time had 
 the whole space filled up with combustibles ready 
 for the igniting spark. The heap was now set on 
 fire, and all thronged around, — even the Reverend 
 Hezekiah himself coming up from the horses to be a 
 witness, — and stood in immense satisfaction at the 
 idea of the sport they were to have in the charitable 
 work of roasting half-a-dozen of their fellow-crea¬ 
 tures ; and so intent were they on the interesting 
 operation, that they never noticed the approach of a 
 body of men equalling themselves in number, which, 
 led by John of the Bridle, came slowly but surely to 
 the attack behind them. On came these vengeful 
 men, stealing through the bushwood, like panthers 
 approaching their prey. Suddenly, with a savage 
 yell, they sprang upon the rear of the terrified 
 troopers; and at the same moment the burning heath 
 was scattered, as by the blast of a tempest, from the 
 doorway, and out rushed Remy of the Glen and his 
 remaining followers. Shot after shot rang around 
 the ancient castle, shout and groan and sabre-clash 
 woke the sullen echoes of the lake: but, after some 
 moments, a few groans, scarcely louder than the 
 murmur of the waves against the shore, fell ujDon 
 the ear; for all the troopers, except Burn-the-Gen- 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 tiles, Shout-tlie-Wol'd-froin-Zion, and a few others 
 with equally astounding appellations, met their death 
 in that wild onset. The horse of John of the Bridle, 
 hearing the shots, broke loose from the guardianship 
 of Body, and darted down to the scene of conflict. 
 John sprang upon his back, and with a few others, 
 who had each appropriated a trooper’s horse, gal¬ 
 loped away in pursuit of the fugitives, while the re¬ 
 mainder of his men rushed after the chargers of the 
 other dead troopers, which were careering in all direc¬ 
 tions around Lough Ullair. On riding somewhat 
 more than a mile in pursuit of Burn-the-Gentiles, who 
 had turned in a difierent direction from his comrades, 
 John of the Bridle reined in his horse; for the re¬ 
 doubtable sergeant fled with such reckless rapidity 
 through the forest that it was quite useless to pursue 
 him any farther. 
 
 In the mean time, John’s men had secured the 
 horses, and brought them in; and were now crowded 
 in front of the castle, dividing the spoils of their 
 fallen enemies. Some of their own comrades had 
 also fallen, their bodies lying side by side with those 
 of the troopers. In the absence of their captain, 
 Remy was necessarily the umpire ; and it was amus¬ 
 ing to see with what tact and rapidity he managed 
 the affair. Putting aside the horses to be disposed 
 of according to the judgment of John of the Bridle, 
 he first cast away his own old rusty helmet, and ar¬ 
 rayed himself in the bright morion and corselet of 
 the Black Captain ; then to one of his men he gave 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 291 
 
 a back-and-breast, to another a sword and belt, and 
 to some one else a helmet, and so on until the whole 
 spoil was disposed of in a satisfactory manner. 
 
 Whilst engaged in admiring themselves in their 
 new habiliments, they heard a shriek behind them; 
 and, on turning round, beheld Alice O’Brien running 
 towards them, pursued by a tall, dark woman who 
 seemed blind with fury, for she still came on quite 
 unheeding the threatening gestures of Remy and 
 his commdes. Remy ran towards Alice, who fell 
 fainting into his arms; and a few othei’s laid hold on 
 her pursuer, who struggled and kicked and bit in 
 their grasp with all the energy of a demon. Alice 
 and the woman were still in the apartment described 
 in the beginning of the first chapter, when the castle 
 was suddenly occupied by Remy of the Glen and 
 his companions. Not knowing who were beneath 
 them, they had remained hidden during the morn¬ 
 ing. Then came the noise of the fighting, the silence, 
 and the distribution of the spoils: and Alice, hearing 
 her cousin Remy’s voice, could bear the suspense 
 no longer; so, darting suddenly out through a ruined 
 window, she clambered down the old broken wall, 
 pureued by the woman, and was thus happily restored 
 to her friends. The old woman now seemed calmed 
 a little in her fury; but, iii all the varieties of abuse 
 that the human tongue is capable of, she commenced 
 to demonstrate to her captors that she was not at all 
 afraid of them or any thing they could do. 
 
 “Take the ould bird o’ Satin into the* castle, an’ 
 
292 
 
 TEE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 roast lier, like a throut, upon the fire,” said one of 
 the horsemen. 
 
 “ Tie her to one o’ the horse’s tails, the ould ban¬ 
 shee, and let him whip, like a thimble-man, through 
 the forest wid her,” exclaimed another. 
 
 “No,” said Remy, “ let her go her own ways. W e 
 have got plenty of her already.” And, with that, she 
 was liberated; and, leaving Alice and the horseman, 
 with many a curse upon her tongue, she walked ofi* 
 round the lake, and took her way in the . direction 
 of Doneraile. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 But oh ! one morn I clomb a hill, 
 
 To sigh alone, to weep my fill. 
 
 And there Heaven’s mercy sent to me 
 My treasure rare, Ben — Erinni ! 
 
 Irish Ballad. 
 
 Reining up from the pursuit of Burn-the-Gen- 
 tiles, John of the Bridle dismounted in a deep hol¬ 
 low of the forest, in order to fasten a strap of his 
 armor which had become loosened in the fray. 
 On sheathing his sword, and while in the act of 
 buckling the strap, he was seized around the body 
 and arms as if in the grasp of a giant, and dashed 
 roughly on his back to the ground. And it was truly 
 a giant; for, on looking up, the young horseman be- 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 293 
 
 held Theige of the Red Cloak standing over him, 
 with an expression of triumphant hate in his massive 
 features, and his skean in his hand, ready to prevent 
 his victim from making any movement of escape. 
 John instinctively moved his hand to where his 
 sword ought to have been ; but the belt had been un¬ 
 buckled when he was grasped first, and sword and 
 dagger thrown to a distance from where he lay. Just 
 at this moment, the attention of both was attracted 
 to another object. It was Cu Alice, who had made 
 his escape from the battle, and who now, darting 
 from the thicket, was instantly clinging, like a cata¬ 
 mount, to the saddle of John’s charger. The horse, 
 not at all relishing this companionship, commenced 
 rearing and dashing wildly up and down the hollow, 
 till at length, by means of an agile spring to one 
 side and a demivolt, he landed his rider in the bot¬ 
 tom of a rough, gravelly drain. Up started Cu Allee 
 with a shrill yell of vengeance, and all bleeding 
 from the fall; and, with his long dagger gleaming in 
 his hand, rushed after the horse, which, clearing the 
 thicket at the verge of the hollow, gained the more 
 open part of the forest, and was soon safe from the 
 resentment of his pursuer. Foiling Dearg turned 
 again to his prostrate captive. 
 
 “Ha, ha !” he almost yelled, with a savage laugh 
 of triumph, “hur is caught at last. Dhar YuiThia! 
 but it was like a riffinly little dog follyin’ on the 
 thrack of a wild wolf. An’ a dog’s death Shane na 
 Shrad must die for that soi'C blow in the cave, an’ 
 
294 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 for crossing Thiege Foiling Dearg in his love.” And, 
 so saying, he made John of the Bridle arise and 
 march olF in the direction of the Fairy Whitethorn ; 
 Foiling Dearg keeping close behind, with a short 
 gun ready pointed in his hand; and Cu Allee closer 
 still, his dagger ready to be plunged into the back 
 of their captive, should he make any hostile move¬ 
 ment. 
 
 During the early part of that day, a burst of gay 
 sunshine had flooded hill and valley; but, as the 
 morning advanced, the sky was overstrewn by layers 
 of dull, copper-colored clouds, which came moving 
 up from the eastern horizon with the slowness and 
 regularity of a well-disciplined army proceeding to 
 battle. Not a breeze stirred the leaves on the 
 thickets; and a dead and oppressive silence reigned 
 around, which was at length broken by a low, rum¬ 
 bling sound behind the distant mountains. A sud¬ 
 den flash now illuminated the far-off horizon. It 
 was succeeded by others, which, as they came, trav¬ 
 ersed a wider arch of the heavens, and by thunder, 
 each successive peal waxing louder and more hollow, 
 till the very earth seemed bursting behind the hills. 
 At length, and just as Timothy of the Red Cloak 
 and his ill-favored companion, with their captive, 
 were descending the side of a bare mountain, a 
 brio-ht ball of electric fire burst from the bosom of 
 
 O 
 
 a black mass of cloud on the summit, and, darting in a 
 zigzag course along the sky, burst, overspreading the 
 whole wide arch with a flood of blindinsr and intense 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 295 
 
 brilliancy. Then came a dead silence, only broken 
 by the patter of a few heavy rain-drops, which was 
 succeeded by an explosion so loud and hollow that 
 the very rocks seemed tottering from their firm 
 foundations. A black column of falling rain, like a 
 waterspout, now advanced up the eastern heights, 
 and spread and spread till the dark moorland and 
 steep valley were one universal hiss and clatter of 
 falling drops. 
 
 Unstayed for a moment by the gloom and loud 
 deluging of the storm, John of the Bridle and his 
 captors proceeded over the bogs till they reached 
 the edge of the deej) glen through which the Ounanar, 
 now swelled into a great torrent, rushed downward 
 on the rocks, whirling along its jagged banks with a 
 roar that almost drowned the frequent reverberations 
 of the thunder overhead. Before them the stream 
 was too deep and violent to attempt a passage 
 across; so they proceeded upwards some distance 
 to the junction of its two branches, where its bed 
 was broader, and consequently more* shallow. Here 
 they changed their order of march, and began to 
 wade the torrent. Foiling Dearg in front of the 
 captive, and Cu Allee close behind, with his long 
 dagger still glittering in his hand. Close above 
 them the two streams rushed into one, forming a 
 black and boiling pool, whose waters, as if eager 
 for more noisy strife, issuing out, foamed and hissed 
 and roared hoarsely around the many fi'agments of 
 rock that obstructed their way to the narrow and 
 
296 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 torn channel some distance below. The three were 
 now past the middle of the torrent. A bright blaze 
 of lightning for an instant illuminated the gloomy 
 valley, when, with almost the suddenness of the 
 electric flash, John of the Bridle turned round, 
 snatched his sword-belt from the shoulders of Cu 
 Allee, and dashed headlong downward into the 
 whirling current. That wild current, reinforced by 
 some roaring tributary, now rose with fearful sud¬ 
 denness higher and higher, till it became too power¬ 
 ful for mortal strength to contend against; so the 
 disappointed pair, after a few unsuccessful plunges, 
 were fain to scramble to the bank before them, and 
 leave John of the Bridle to the flood, which they 
 supposed would dash him to pieces against the rocks 
 beneath them in the glen. But the sudden swell 
 saved him ; for, just as he was about to be shot down¬ 
 ward through the narrow channel, he was raised high 
 enough to catch at the naked roots of a giant ash- 
 tree which grew upon the edge of the bank. With 
 a mighty effort he heaved himself upward, and 
 clutched one of these; sci*ambled higher still, and 
 stood all blinded by the yellow foam upon the bank 
 where they first looked for a ford across the torrent. 
 At length he turned round, and shook his sword at 
 the two as they stood beneath the cliffs at the oppo¬ 
 site side. For answer to his defiance, a bullet from 
 the musketoon of Foiling Dearg whistled across 
 the glen, and struck with a shrill clang upon his 
 breastplate, but, unable to penetrate the good steel. 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 297 
 
 glanced aside, striking off the head of a sapling that 
 grew hard by. Little relishing another visitor like 
 this, John of the Bridle struck upwards through 
 the wood; and, on gaining the open heath, took his 
 way in the direction of the spot where he was made 
 prisoner that morning. 
 
 After crossing a high, plashy bog, he began to 
 ascend a stone-strewn hill, on whose summit rose a 
 cairn, — probably an ancient landmark, or some 
 monumental heap, erected long ago over some chief 
 who had fallen in battle among the hills. The rain 
 now began to abate, and, as he stood beside the 
 cairn, had ceased altogether. He sat himself upon 
 a fragment of stone, and looked around. Beneath 
 him, towering over the green forest, lay Kilcolman 
 Castle. Between him and the skirts of the forest 
 spread a slanting and rushy moorland, across which 
 a body of horsemen were now advancing, whom, 
 notwithstanding the distance, he instantly knew to 
 be his own comrades. As they drew nearer, he 
 could distinguish that one horse was without a rider, 
 and that a female, seated behind a horseman, came 
 on in the front of the cavalcade. Without waiting 
 to see more, he now set off across the moor, as 
 quickly as he could, towards a deep glen, which he 
 knew was to be crossed by his companions. He and 
 they coming to opposite sides of the glen at the 
 same time, they soon observed him, and gave a wild 
 and glad shout of recognition ; on which, the led 
 horse, breaking away from the rider that held him, 
 
298 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 dashed down across the glen, and, with many a glad¬ 
 some neigh, came bounding towards the spot where 
 John of the Bridle stood. It was his own steed. 
 After escaping from Cu Alice, he was caught by 
 Body, in the forest, and brought in with the other 
 horses. But a far more welcome surprise now 
 awaited John. The party had crossed the glen, and 
 were close upon liim, when the female sprang lightly 
 from behind Remy of the Glen, and the next mo¬ 
 ment John of the Bridle was clasping fondly to his 
 breast his long-lost and long-sought love, Alice 
 O’Brien. As the wild horsemen circled round, and 
 surveyed the meeting of the lovers, their rugged 
 countenances lit up with pleasure; and each began 
 to tell, with many rough oaths and contradictions, 
 how and where they had rescued Alice. 
 
 “ Arrah, by the holy staff o’ the saint! ” exclaimed 
 Remy of the Glen, “ but if we’re not real fortunate 
 men! There I was this mornin’, with a bare breast, 
 an’ an ould rusty pot of a helmet; an’ here I am 
 now with the black ould Parliaminthef’s back-an’- 
 breast, an’ a helmet as briglit as the flamin’ diamond 
 o’ Lough Lein. But what is it all to the bringin’ 
 back o’ my sweet cousin Alice into the arms of our 
 captin, her own true an’ dear lover, as she says her¬ 
 self? I’ll bet my new helmet against Jack Burke’s 
 ould spurs that I’ll grind the flags of any floor to 
 smithereens, dancin’ at their weddin’! ” And, with 
 that, he turned his spurs inward, and, in the excess 
 of his delight, commenced driving his horse in an 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 299 
 
 infinite number of capers and gambadoes around the 
 splashing bog. 
 
 “Little you knew, John,” said Alice, after they 
 had mutually told the sorrow each felt during the 
 time they were separated, “ little you knew, when 
 speaking to Theige of the Red Cloak about restor¬ 
 ing me, that it was he and his men bore me away 
 into the hills. They stole upon me that evening at 
 the milking bawn in Glenisheen, and took me first 
 to his hut beside the fairy whitethorn. The black 
 traitor! did he think that I could give my heart to 
 such as he, — a betrayer among his own companions, 
 and to his native country? When he found it all in 
 vain, he took me away to Kilcolman, and left me 
 with his sister, to sell me to the Black Captain, — he 
 who, they tell me, lies beyond there by the wall of 
 the castle. But I am rescued ; and now, my dear¬ 
 est John, we meet, I hope, to part no more.” 
 
 Leaving John and Alice to their happy thoughts, 
 it is time to return to Foiling Dearg and his sweet¬ 
 faced companion. They made no attempt to pur¬ 
 sue their captive, for the simple reason that it was 
 impossible for them to cross the flood ; but, turning 
 upwards along the edge of the glen, they soon 
 reached their hut, opposite the whitethorn. In its 
 outer apartment Theige na Meerval was sitting be¬ 
 fore them; and, to judge by the expression of his 
 countenance, he seemed in no very elysian humor. 
 They stood silent for some time, the face of each 
 indicating in its own peculiar manner the dark pas- 
 
300 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 sions aroused by disappointment. Na Meerval was 
 the first to brealj: it: — 
 
 “ Cu Allee’s work is over, is it ? An’ why didn’t 
 you bring Shane na Shrad here, as you promised, 
 an’ let him take his last swing from the branch of 
 the whitethorn outside? Or maybe he escaped 
 ye. Ha! you said this mornin’ that your revinge 
 was so strong that you could scent Shane na Shrad’s 
 footsteps thro’ coom an’ forest, wherever he went.” 
 
 “ My curse upon this roarin’ flood undher us ! ” 
 exclaimed Foiling Dearg, “ when we were crossin’, 
 an’ so far that we couldn’t get back here agin, it, I 
 may say, took him in its arms, an’ tore him from be¬ 
 tween us, an’ threw him safe upon the bank we left. 
 An’ he’s gone. My black an’ heavy an’ burnin’ 
 curses upon him, night, noon, and mornin’! ” 
 
 “ Yes : Cu Allee’s work! ” said that worthy: “ why 
 didn’t you do the work you got for yourself? There 
 is a difierence between bringin’ a strong man across 
 a floody river, and coming round the colleen you 
 have inside there. I thought ye’d be in love with 
 each other in a min nit. Why didn’t you do that 
 work with your sleight-o’-hand ? ” 
 
 “ I’ll do it yet,” answered the little man, in all the 
 energy of vindictive'passion ; “an’ if I can’t,” con¬ 
 tinued he, laying his hand upon his dagger, “there’s 
 some sleight-o’-hand in this, an’ I’ll make it help 
 me, an’ be my matchmaker.” 
 
 “If I’d depended upon my skean, an’ not upon 
 Cu Allee’s gad,” said Foiling Dearg, “ my mortal 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 301 
 
 inimy wouldn’t be walkin’ free acrass the mountains 
 this blessed hour. But maybe he isn’t gone far 
 yet. The flood will soon begin to go down; give 
 us somethin’ to ate, an’ we’ll see what revinge can 
 do to overtake him.” 
 
 After partaking of some black, coarse bread, and 
 making a few other preparations, they crossed the 
 flood once more, and set out again in pursuit of 
 John of the Bridle. 
 
 When something more than an hour had passed, 
 Na Meerval rolled away the large stone with which 
 the door of the inner apartment was fastened, and 
 stood once more in the presence of Ellen Roche. 
 
 “ Come ! ” said he sternly, “ this is my third an’ 
 last time for askin’ you. Say you’ll have me, love 
 or no love, an’ your troubles are over.” 
 
 Ellen had tried every kind of entreaty before. She 
 now determined to brave it out, and meet her fate, 
 if it came to the worst, as fearlessly as she could. 
 
 “ I said that but once in my life, an’ you know to 
 whom: can I say it now to one of the murderers 
 of my betrothed* Moran ? ” 
 
 “ Your betrothed! He’s betrothed to the worms 
 by this, an’ what^s the use o’ thinkin’ about him any 
 longer? Think o’the long life that’s before you, 
 an’ that you must spend it in my company, whether 
 you like it or not. Think o’ the fair journeys an’ 
 pleasant days an’ fine dresses you’ll have when my 
 wife, an’ forget your betrothed for a truer man. I 
 ask again. Say but that you’ll have me, an’ we’ll 
 
302 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 leave the company of Foiling Dearg an’ Cu Alice, 
 an’ fly to a more peaceful land, where we can live 
 together happy.” 
 
 “ I think,” rejoined Ellen, “ of the life that was 
 before me, and that you have blasted for ever. I 
 think of him who lies in some bloody nook, with 
 none to pray for him, and none to cover him from 
 the ravens an’ the wild wolves of the bills. I think 
 of all this; and, if I live, each day your life will be 
 near the brink, while I am near you. Keep me, 
 then, if you dare; an’ see how I’ll remember the 
 long life before me ! ” 
 
 The Man of Wonders saw that any further pic¬ 
 turing of a pleasant life in his company to Ellen 
 was useless. His demeanor now changed with a 
 startling suddenness. As a connected set of ma¬ 
 chinery with its complicated wheels, when one im¬ 
 portant spring is put out of order, whirls round, and 
 runs into irretrievable confusion and destruction, so, 
 when one passion is set completely loose, a host of 
 others is aroused to help its madness. And it was 
 so with Ka Meerval. His vindictive eyes, and 
 every lineament of his face, seemed lighted up and 
 blazing with the anger of disappointed love, if 
 his could be called love; and the revenge that 
 knows no mercy was but too truly shown in the 
 iron grasp with which he clutched his dagger, as he 
 drew it to strike at the defenceless bosom of poor 
 Ellen Roche. But, the moment he raised his dag¬ 
 ger, he was struck from behind himself, on the head, 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 303 
 
 and with a force that stretched him swooninsc on 
 the floor. 
 
 Accustomed as Na Meerval was to produce won¬ 
 ders the most amazing, he was not at all prepared 
 for the miraculous change of circumstances that 
 presented itself to his view on his recovery. The 
 flrst thing apparent to his awakening senses was him¬ 
 self, Theige of the Red Cloak, and Theige the Wolf, 
 bound hand and foot, and sitting side by side, with 
 osier gads, or withes, round their necks, under the 
 three ominous branches of tlie fairy whitethorn. 
 Immediately before them stood a short, dark-browed 
 man, who seemed calculating the height of those 
 three branches from the ground, and apparently 
 having in his mind’s eye a lively picture of three 
 men dangling in the intervening space. Around 
 the tree, in various attitudes beside their horses, 
 were the men of John of the Bridle, who himself, 
 with his lieutenant, Remy of the Glen, stood a small 
 distance outside the group, talking to Alice O’Brien 
 and Ellen Roche. There was a horrible light in the 
 eyes of both liis comrades, wliich told Na Meerval 
 too plainly what was to be their fate and his own. 
 
 “ Where,” exclaimed he, not yet able to collect 
 his thoughts, — “where is my skean gone to, that I 
 had this minnit so firm in mylianS? Ha! did I 
 stab myself, that this blood is flowin’ down my 
 back?” 
 
 “ Go an’ ask Remy o’ the Glen,” answered Foiling 
 Dearg; “ that’s the man that put the blood flowin’ 
 
304 
 
 THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 down your back, when you should be protectin’ 
 yourself, instead o’ raisin’ your dagger to the breast 
 of a wake girl.” 
 
 “Ha!” said Na Meerval, now fully awakened, 
 “ we’re caught in our own thrap at last. My curge 
 upon the two that had strong revinge in their hearts, 
 an’ their legs upon the free hills, an’ couldn’t escape 
 from their worst inimies I ” 
 
 “ Were they free hills,” exclaimed Cu* Alice, with 
 a wild volubility in his native tongue, “when they 
 waited for us in the thickets, as the wild-cat waits 
 for its prey; and when they sprang upon us, and 
 bound us hand and foot, before we could find our 
 dagger-hilts to defend ourselves ? And are they 
 free hills here, when we have the keen, torturing, 
 and destroying gads about our necks, that will send 
 us with strange, piercing pain, and mortal fear and 
 anguish, into the other world ? ” 
 
 “ Stop,” answered Foiling Dearg, with a sullen 
 and ferocious look, “ stop your pains and tormints: 
 what is the torthure o’ death to the tormints I feel 
 at bein’ bound this way, an’ seein’ him beyant there, 
 talkin’ to Alice O’Brien? Shane na Shrad,” he 
 continued, raising his voice, “ I have but small time 
 to live; but, if I had a thousant years, every day of 
 id would be spent plannin’ revinge, till I had sarved 
 you as I sarved your lovin’ frind, Moran O’Brien. 
 My etarnal curse upon the fate — an’ may the tor¬ 
 rent dhi'y for ever in its bed — that tore you from 
 my grasp! ” 
 
THE WHITETHORN TREE. 
 
 305 
 
 John of the Bridle made no reply; but, after say¬ 
 ing a few words to the dark-faced man who was 
 calculating the height of the branches, proceeded 
 with Remy of the Glen and the two young maid¬ 
 ens up the valley, and left the three Timothys to 
 their doom. 
 
 A few days after the death of the three Timothys, 
 there was another merry dance on the green of 
 Fannysto^n. But it was more of a novelty this 
 time, for there was a bride and bridegroom to lead 
 the measure; John of the Bridle — or Captain 
 John, as he was at last entitled to be called — 
 and Alice O’Brien having been joined heart and 
 hand the same morning by the young priest who 
 attended the cavalry force then occupying Castle 
 na Doon. 
 
 Ellen Roche’s sorrow was deep and true for her 
 dead lover. But, as months wore on, time began 
 to soften her grief; and she eventually became the 
 bride of Remy of the Glen, John’s lieutenant, whose 
 timely blow rescued her from the dagger of the Man 
 of Wonders. 
 
 Years upon years had passed away, until the gray 
 fortifications of Kilcolman were level with the grass, 
 and even the forests themselves were now dead upon 
 the hills ; but the ancient tree lived on in its soli¬ 
 tude of Glenanar, regarded with a strange rever¬ 
 ence by the peasantry, and still called by them “ the 
 Whitethorn of the three Timothys.” 
 
 20 
 
ROSALEEN; OR, THE WHITE LADY 
 OF BARNA. 
 
 A STRANGE case!” said the doctor, as he 
 came upon a certain page of his manuscript. 
 “What is it?” I inquired. 
 
 “‘Captain John Fitzgerald and Rosaleen his wife, 
 aged eighty-four and eighty-two respectively,’ ” pur¬ 
 sued the doctor, heedless of my question, and read¬ 
 ing from the closely-written page. ‘“June 80, 
 1858,’” continued he aloud once more, after a few 
 moments’ silent perusal, “ ‘ ten o’clock, p.m. ; respira¬ 
 tion weak, pulse forty-five and forty respectively;’” 
 and then followed a long and minute catalogue of 
 appearances and symptoms, on coming to the end of 
 which, the doctor, who was in one of his fits of.ab¬ 
 straction, sat up straight before his desk, and gazed 
 vacantly into my face as I sat opposite. “Eleven 
 o’clock, P.M.,” he resumed at length, half remem¬ 
 bering my question, “cheerfully and without pain 
 they both died, — died on the same instant.” 
 
 “ Who were they, Doctor ? ” inquired I again. 
 306 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BAIiNA. 
 
 307 
 
 “ They must have been a strange pair, when they 
 fasten on your memory so firmly.” 
 
 “ They were my best friends,” answered the doc¬ 
 tor, now fully awake, “ and had their troubles like 
 other mortals, — or rather, I should say, unlike other 
 people, as you will see by reading that.” And he 
 handed me over his manuscript, in the perusal of 
 which I was soon eagerly engaged, leaving him to 
 pore with critical eye over some recent numbers of 
 “ The Lancet.” 
 
 The doctor’s manuscript was beautifully and 
 closely written; and, if printed, and denuded of the 
 quaint technical phrases with which it was so fre¬ 
 quently interspersed, would make a handsome nov¬ 
 elette. An abridgment of the tale, however, will 
 better suit our purposes at the present: — 
 
 Towards the end of the eighteenth century, there 
 dwelt at the foot of a certain high mountain, 
 in the soutli of Ireland, a gentleman named 
 Weston, whose wife had died a few years after their 
 marriage, leaving behind her to deplore her loss a 
 son and a daughter. The demesne adjoining that 
 of Weston wood belonged to an old gentleman who 
 had served for a long time as an officer in the French 
 army, and whose name was Fitzgerald. His only 
 son John was abouV'the same age as that of young 
 Weston. The two old gentlemen lived on terms of 
 very close intimacy with one another, and the 
 youngsters were consequently very often compan¬ 
 ions in their sports. Young Weston was, while yet 
 
308 
 
 llOSALEEN; OR, 
 
 a boy, of a dark and violent disposition, subject to 
 frequent fits of morose moodiness or passion, during 
 wlrlch be was often known to vent his anger with 
 strange vindictiveness on his father’s domestics, and 
 in fact on any one who interfered with him even in 
 the slightest degree. His sister, on the other hand, 
 was a bi’ight, handsome little creatui’e, full of joyous 
 spirits, and beloved by the whole neighborhood. In 
 the frequent rambles of these three young people 
 together, John Fitzgerald, who was a bold and 
 light-hearted boy, was, during the gloomy fits of her 
 brother, thrown into the exclusive company of little 
 Rosaleen Weston, helping her over thicket and 
 brook, gathering wild berries and nuts for her in 
 the autumn, and bringing her many a blooming 
 nosegay of flowers in the summer, from the leafy 
 dells and fairy hollows and romantic crags that lay 
 around their homes. 
 
 It was the old story. As years rolled on, their 
 childish fondness ripened into love, and they were 
 as happy for a time as human hearts could be. The 
 old gentlemen met frequentl}^, and talked jovially 
 over their wine of the prospects of their children, 
 and even of the day when John Fitzgerald and the 
 fair Rosaleen were to be united heart and hand in 
 marriage. They were happy, that young pair; but 
 they little knew that in a certain dark heart there 
 was a plot fast maturing to put a period to their joy, 
 and blight their future lives. Them enemy, strange 
 to say! .>was young Weston. Since his early boy- 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BAUNA. 
 
 309 
 
 hood, from some unknown cause, he had hated young 
 Fitzgerald; but, with the consummate tact peculiar 
 to a vindictive and treacherous mind, he continued 
 to conceal his hatred beneath the mask of a friendly 
 countenance. This was the more dangerous, as 
 young Fitzgerald was of an open and impetuous 
 temper, simple and confiding, and never restrained 
 himself in telling to' the brother of his affianced 
 bride every secret of his heart, — everything that 
 arose to his mind at the impulse of the moment. 
 
 Young Weston secretly and skilfully continued to 
 work at his dark plans as time wore on, and unfortu¬ 
 nately the political disturbances of the time aided him 
 surely in his treacherous intents. In an unguaixled 
 hour, John Fitzgerald disclosed to him his connec¬ 
 tion with a band of United Irishmen that were at 
 the time maturing their plans for raising the South 
 on the breaking out of the war. This band of 
 United Men was at the time under the command of 
 several young gentlemen who held a high place in 
 society, and among >vhom John Fitzgerald was 
 held in high esteem, on account of his daring courage 
 and the knowledge of military tactics ho displayed 
 at their secret meetings. The disclosure of his 
 fatal secret to young Weston filled that worthy with 
 an infamous delight, knowing as he did that his 
 base plot was coming speedily to its consummation; 
 and yet he hesitated to inform his father, who was 
 a magistrate, because he was well aware of the 
 strong friendship that existed between the two old 
 
310 
 
 ROSALEEN; OR, 
 
 gentlemen, and suspected that his disclosure would 
 not have the desired effect. But he adopted another 
 plan. One morning his father walked out to the 
 kennel to see how some of his favorite fox-hounds 
 were getting on ; and met Ter Kelly, the whipper- 
 in, before him, most industriously attending to the 
 morning meal of the noisy dogs. 
 
 “^Yell, Ter,” asked the old gentleman, “how is 
 Miss Biddy to-day ? ” (Miss Biddy, by the way, 
 was the favorite of the pack, and had been sick for 
 a few days pi'evious.) 
 
 “Begor! your honor,” answered the slippery Ter, 
 “ she’s gittin’ on most beautifully. Look at her how 
 she aits ! May I never sin, if she’s not able this 
 morthial minnit to swally a fox, body an’ sowl, an’ 
 all bekaise o’ the dhrop o’ potheen I gave her this 
 mornin’ to warm her heart, the crathur! ” 
 
 “She looks better certainly,” rejoined his master, 
 turning away satisfied; but this did not suit Ter 
 Kelly. 
 
 “ I hope your honor is better o’ the rheumaties 
 this mornin’, sir,” he said, “ an’ that you heard the 
 morthial an’ awful news that’s runnin’ about, like 
 wildfire, through the counthry.” 
 
 “ What news, you scoundrel ? ” answered his mas¬ 
 ter, whose joints began to be afflicted at the moment 
 with some twinges of the unpleasant malady Ter 
 had just named. 
 
 “The news about the ruction that’s to be, your 
 honor,” answered Ter; “an’ about the way the 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BARN A. 
 
 311 
 
 United Men are meeting every night, an’ preparin’ 
 to massacray every livin’ sojer in the counthry. They 
 say also, that the young masther over the way,” 
 and he pointed his thumb knowingly in the direc¬ 
 tion of Fitzgerald’s home, “ that he is to be gineral 
 over them; an’ that his name is mentioned in the 
 prophecy of Saint Columkill, an’ that he’s to walk 
 knee-deep in the blood o’ the ” — 
 
 “ Is that all ? ” said the old foxhunter, turning 
 away suddenly, and thus cutting short Ter’s san¬ 
 guinary communication. 
 
 That was all that morning. But day by day the 
 news came in from every side, confirming Ter’s 
 statement, till at last old Weston began to think seri¬ 
 ously on the matter. It is enough to say, that, ere 
 a week was over, —so artfully had young Weston 
 worked out his plans, — the two old gentlemen were 
 estranged, and all intercourse forbidden between 
 Rosaleen and her faithful lover, John Fitzgerald. 
 But prohibitions like this are rarely obeyed. The 
 lovers still met frequently, and vowed eternal con¬ 
 stancy to one another at each parting. 
 
 It was the summer of ’98 ; and the insurrection 
 had at length broken out, bringing consternation 
 and sorrow to many a household throughout the 
 length and breadth of the land. John Fitzgerald at 
 length received a secret summons that should be 
 obeyed. It was an intimation from the insurgent 
 commander, that his services were required at head¬ 
 quarters; and, notwithstanding his love for Rosaleen 
 
312 
 
 ROSALEEN; OR, 
 
 and other circumstances, he began his preparations 
 for setting out for Wexford, where the war was 
 then raging furiously. The disclosure of his inten¬ 
 tion fell heavily on the heart of poor Rosaleen 
 Weston. After the first burst of her grief was 
 over, tliey agreed to have one other interview be¬ 
 fore his departure; and, when the hour came, they 
 met at the usual trysting-place, — a deep and woody 
 dell that extended up the breast of the high moun¬ 
 tain. 
 
 They sat beside the tiny stream that tinkled 
 downward through the quiet glen, and, with all they 
 had to say, did not perceive the time passing, till 
 the approach of sunset. The spot on which they 
 were sitting afforded a splendid view over the 
 broad and varied plain that extended far away from 
 the foot of the mountains, and that was bounded 
 on the south by a steep and picturesque range of 
 hills, the green slopes and summits of which the 
 setting sun was now gilding with his expiring 
 glories. 
 
 “It is a hard thing to part, dearest,” said John 
 Fitzgerald, looking fondly into the tearful eyes of 
 Rosaleen; “ but it is harder still to stay inactive 
 here, branding my name with dishonor, breaking 
 my plighted oath, and perhaps hiding my head in 
 shame, while my countrymen are bravely fighting 
 for their liberties.” 
 
 “ It is hard, John,” said Rosaleen, “ but does it 
 not seem harder to leave me? Alas! why did you 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BARN A. 
 
 313 
 
 take that fatal oath of the United Men ? Have you 
 not liberty enough? ” 
 
 “ I have, perhaps, liberty enough, Rosaleen,” an¬ 
 swered her lover; “but there are thousands of my 
 countrymen ground down to the dust, and it is my 
 duty to give my humble aid in assisting them to 
 arise. But I shall not be long away, dearest,” con¬ 
 tinued he. “ The war cannot last long ; and then, 
 when we are victorious, as I trust we surely shall 
 be-; when I have gained by my deeds preferment 
 in the new army of my country, — then, darling, I 
 will return and claim you as my brightest reward.” 
 
 “Alas!” answered Rosaleen, as she burst into 
 tears, “ it will be a perilous time for you, John; and, 
 for my part, I cannot look on the matter in any 
 other light. You are going wilfully into danger, 
 and the day you mention may never come,” 
 
 “ But it will come, Rosaleen,” exclaimed her 
 lover vehemently. “ Our plans are laid well, and 
 trust me, that, with God’s blessing, I shall come back 
 soon, and claim you for my wife. And now we 
 must part. Good-by, and may Heaven bless and 
 guard you!” And the brave youiig enthusiast 
 clasped her in his arms, kissed her wet cheeks 
 fondly, and in a moment was gone. That night tb.e 
 United Men met on the summit of the mountain. 
 John Fitzgerald was elected their commander; and, 
 putting himself at their head, he marched gallantly 
 down into the plain, and by many a wild and un¬ 
 frequented path shaped his course for Wexford, 
 
314 
 
 ROSALEEN; OR, 
 
 A deep melanclioly fell upon the spirits of Rosa- 
 leeii Weston, after the departure of her lover. She 
 that was so joyous and happy while she knew 
 the chosen of her heart was near, now that he was 
 gone—gone to encounter hardship and privation, 
 and perhaps to meet death upon the field of battle 
 — was almost mad with grief, and knew not a mo¬ 
 ment’s interval of enjoyment. There are some, who, 
 when parting from those they love, feel a sudden 
 and violent burst of sorrow, which, like the moun¬ 
 tain torrent when the storm is over, soon subsides; 
 but the grief of Rosaleen was not of this kind: 
 though deep and strong, it was as enduring as her 
 veiy life itself. Her friends, her father, and all 
 tried to comfort her, but in vain. 
 
 The country was now in a state of dreadful com¬ 
 motion. The insurgents had at length met the 
 royal army face to face upon a fair field, and had 
 conquered. Day after day news came of the prog¬ 
 ress of the war. Three successive engagements 
 had again been fought, and in each of them the 
 royal party had been worsted. It was indeed sur- 
 j)i-ising to witness the celerity with which the intel¬ 
 ligence of a battle spread throughout the country 
 at this time. Fugitives endeavoring to return 
 secretly to their homes from some skirmish in which 
 they had been badly wounded, carmen driving 
 downward after being pressed into the service of 
 royalists or insurgents to convey baggage to Wex¬ 
 ford, disbanded or deserting yoeman hurrying with 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BAENA. 
 
 315 
 
 terror in their countenances to some place of pro¬ 
 tection, spread — as they brouglit information of the 
 success or discomfiture of the insurgent armies —joy 
 or sorrow throughout the southern province. But 
 still no news came of John Fitzo’erald. 
 
 Matters at last came to a crisis. The battle of 
 Vinegar Hill was fought and lost by the insurgents; 
 chiefly indeed through tlieir own misconduct, and 
 the irresolution and disagreement of their generals. 
 Home was now their signal word; and, as they 
 passed in deta(died parties through the southern 
 counties, they spread sorrow and consternation on 
 their way. A few days after the battle, as Rosaleen 
 Avas sitting on a shady seat out on the lawn, think¬ 
 ing with sorrowful heart upon the i>robable fate of 
 her lover, she saw her brother riding quickly 
 towards her up a narrow walk that led to the pub¬ 
 lic road. He dismounted, and, as he took a seat 
 near her, appeared much excited, and in a far lighter 
 and more jovial mood than was usual to his dark tem- 
 jierament. From this, however, she could augur 
 nothing favorable, and, with a sad presentiment at 
 her heart, begged of him, if he had, as he seemed, 
 any intelligence to communicate, to do so at once. 
 
 “I was riding a few hours,” he said, with an ex- 
 jn-ession of mock sorrow in his dark face, “ at the 
 foot of the hill, and came upon a party of the 
 broken-down rebels returning from the thrashinar 
 they got at Vinegar Hill. I inquired about my old 
 comrade, John Fitzgerald” — 
 
316 
 
 ROSALEEN; or, 
 
 “ My God, Harry! ” exclaimed Rosaleen, “ tell 
 me, I beg of you, what about him, at once, — at 
 once, I tell you; for, no matter what’s past, he is 
 still my betrothed husband.” 
 
 “I am going to do so,” answered her brother 
 coolly. “They told me that on the evening of the 
 battle, while leading — like a general, of course — 
 the small detachment under his command into the 
 final charge — they said that he was struck by a 
 cannon-shot, and left for dead upon the field. That’s 
 the fate of your general that — according to his cal¬ 
 culations — was to be.” 
 
 Poor Rosaleen could hear no more. With a wild 
 shriek of despair and grief, she fell insensible from 
 her seat. This was a result which her cruel broth¬ 
 er very little expected; and, feeling now a real 
 apprehension, he alarmed the servants, and Rosa¬ 
 leen was conveyed to her chamber. But there all 
 their efforts to restore her to consciousness proved 
 unavailing. A doctor was sent for immediately to 
 the nearest town ; but, when he arrived and learned 
 the circumstances, he shook his head, and told her 
 father that he had very serious fears regarding her 
 recovery. His fears were but too well founded; 
 for, at the dawn of the next morning, she awoke in 
 the delirium of a brain fever. For many days the 
 wild delirium continued. At length it subsided 
 somewhat. For some hours she spoke to those 
 around her with a strange and unnatural calmness; 
 but the wandering fits again returned, again sub- 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BARN A. 
 
 817 
 
 sided and returned, and she finally relapsed into a 
 state of mental dei-angernent. Poor Rosaleen, the 
 accomplished, the guileless, the beautiful! the fair 
 fabric of her mind was sapped to its foundation, and 
 the bright hopes she had built up seemed shattered 
 forevermore. 
 
 After some time she began to gain a little strength, 
 and was permitted by her father to take a short 
 walk, occasionally, into the garden and round the 
 lawn, but at first always attended by her nurse. On 
 these occasions, with that affecting simplicity pecu¬ 
 liar to persons in her state, she usually employed 
 herself in searching round the shrubberies, and un¬ 
 derneath the old beach-trees that studded the lawn, 
 for something which she appeared desirous of keep¬ 
 ing secret. On retuniing one evening from one of 
 these rambles, she appeared more dejected than 
 usual; and, when her nurse inquired the cause of 
 her sadness, she burst into a violent fit of weeping, 
 saying that she was ever searching round the lawn 
 for John Fitzgerald’s grave, but that she could never 
 find. it. Time wore on: the vigilance with which 
 she was watched began to be relaxed, and she was 
 frequently permitted to walk alone round the liiwn, 
 and farther into the demesne. She had not indeed 
 abandoned the idea that her lover’s grave was 
 somewhere near ; and between seai'ching for it, and 
 plucking garlands of wild flowers to deck it, should 
 her search prove successful, she spent most of her 
 time in the open air during the beautiful evenings 
 
318 
 
 EOS ALE EN; OE, 
 
 of declining summer, but at the same time always 
 returned punctually before nightfall. 
 
 One evening Rosaleen Weston did not appear in 
 her father’s parlor at her usual hour. The old gen¬ 
 tleman, after waiting some time, sent out a couple 
 of the servants to see what caused her delay. They 
 came hastily back, saying that they had searched 
 round all her haunts, but could not find her. A gen¬ 
 eral search was now made, but it was unsuccessful. 
 The tenantry around were by this time made 
 acquainted with Avhat had happened; and a sharp 
 search was made round the villages near, round the 
 base of the mountain, and into the wild dells where 
 she loved so much to ramble when John Fitzgei’ald 
 was by her side : but still no Rosaleen could be 
 found. In the darkness, still the search was con¬ 
 tinued ; but it was unavailing. Morning dawned 
 upon the heart-broken father and the remorseful 
 brother, and another and more vigorous search was 
 made, but with the same success as on the pre¬ 
 ceding day and night. 
 
 Years before, ere dissension had arisen between 
 their fathers, young Rosaleen and her lover fre¬ 
 quently ascended to the summit of the mountain 
 on the side of which lay their last trysting-place. 
 There they were wont to sit for hours, and talk of 
 the wild legends told by the peasantry in connec¬ 
 tion with that stately mountain. Often, too, John 
 Fitzgerald would tell her stories of the battered old 
 castles that lay beneath, of the bravery of the 
 
THE WHITE LAEY OF BAUKA. 
 
 319 
 
 sturdy chiefs tliat held them in the olden time, and 
 the manner in which they fought against the enemy 
 of their native land on many a well-contested field. 
 There was one feature of the scene, however, on 
 which the lovers, particularly at sunset, looked with 
 more delight than on all the others. It was the 
 beautiful range of hills that formed the far southern 
 boundary of the broad plain beneath. One of these 
 hills towered high above its neighbors, in the shape 
 of a smooth green cone, with scattered woods run¬ 
 ning up its sides, and a solitary rock upon its sum¬ 
 mit. On a certain evening they were sitting on 
 their usual seat on the summit of the mountain 
 near their home. A gorgeous scene lay before them. 
 The silent plain, the broad river that ran along its 
 northern verge glittering like a stream of gold in 
 the descending sun, and the far circle of suri-ounding 
 mountains, brought a holy and strange calmness into 
 their young hearts. 
 
 “ How red and clear! ” exclaimed John Fitzgerald, 
 turning towards their favorite point of the prospect: 
 “ how bright the sunset falls upon that lonely group 
 of hills ! ” 
 
 “ And look,” answered Rosaleen, “ at the little 
 rock on the point of the highest hill. It is like one 
 of those ancient altars you tell me of, where the 
 ancient inhabitants worshipped the sun.” 
 
 “Yes,” rejoined her lover; “and beneath, how 
 bright it is! Ah! Rosaleen, when in after times 
 death shall steal upon us, how I long that we could 
 
320 
 
 ROSALEEN; OR, 
 
 sleep side by side in one of those peaceful and 
 lonely gorges! There the birds would sing day 
 after day their sweet songs, the wild flowers would 
 bloom undisturbed over our grave, and the moun¬ 
 tain streams murmur around it joyously forever.” 
 
 On the evening previous to Rosaleen’s disappear¬ 
 ance, she had paid a stolen visit to the summit of 
 the mountaiu from which they viewed that loved 
 scene so often. Casting her eyes to the south, she 
 beheld again that beautiful chain of hills in all their 
 sunset glory. Suddenly it struck her mind that 
 the wish of hei' lover might have been fulfilled, 
 and that his grave lay in the sunlit gorge he had 
 pointed out on the evening alluded to above. 
 
 “ It must be so,” she exclaimed, as she now quick¬ 
 ly descended the mountain. “ His grave must be 
 there, and I will go and seek it.” 
 
 She hurried homeward, and it was noticed by 
 those who attended on her that she appeared on that 
 night in a happier state of mind than usual. Next 
 day, at her usual time of walking, wrapping herself 
 in a large mantle which she occasionally wore, she 
 stole out, and proceeded by an unfrequented path in 
 the direction of the southern chain of hills. And 
 thus it was that she had disappeared from her 
 home. 
 
 At the foot of the highest of these hills, there 
 was at that time a small village called Barna. It 
 was completely surrounded by woods, the remains 
 of the ancient forest that once clothed the whole 
 
THE WHITE LADA OF BARNA. 
 
 321 
 
 of that wild and romantic district. At the upper 
 end of this village, there was a green glade in the 
 wood, sloping up the foot of the mountain ; and in 
 a level hollow of this glade, beneath a huge syca¬ 
 more-tree, the villagers were accustomed to sit on 
 holiday evenings, listening to the strain of some 
 wandering musician, or the tale of some ancient 
 shanachie, or story-teller. One evening they were 
 all not a little astounded at the sight of a young 
 and beautiful lady, dressed in white, and sitting on 
 the verge of the glade, smiling at them, and watch¬ 
 ing their merriment. It was poor Rosaleen Wes¬ 
 ton. How she had reached the place, and how she 
 continued to subsist during her sore and toilsome 
 journey, she was unable during the whole of her 
 after life — and it was a long one — to remember. 
 But there, however, she was, to the no small wonder¬ 
 ment of the villagers. First, they thought her a 
 spirit, and were inclined to scatter in consternation 
 to their homes. By degrees, however, their curiosity 
 got the better of their fear. They waited, gazing 
 silently upon her, until at length she rose, came 
 down to tiifc tree, and spoke to them. Then tlicy 
 soon found out what she was, and the sad mental 
 malady into which she had fallen. In that quiet 
 hamlet she lived for nearly a month, and was treated 
 kindly and tenderly by the poor villagers, who soon 
 grew to love her for her simple ways, her beauty, 
 and her artless talk, and more than all, because, as 
 they said, her mind was gone, and that it was their 
 
 21 
 
322 
 
 ROSALEEN; OR, 
 
 duty to tend her and guard her well. She had 
 found a green spot amid the wood, wliich she said 
 was her lover’s grave; and day by day she visited it, 
 decked it with flowers, and sang sad songs over it. 
 
 One day, about a month after her arrival, she was 
 sitting on the green spot in the wood, weaving a 
 garland of flowers. Suddenly she heard a step 
 behind her, and, on turning round, beheld her lover. 
 
 She started to her feet, flew to him, clung fondly 
 around him for a moment, and then dropped down 
 into a long but quiet swoon. When she awoke, 
 John Fitzgerald was bending over her, and sj)rink- 
 ling her brow with water. Strange to say, her men¬ 
 tal malady was quite gone; and she now remem¬ 
 bered every thing distinctly that had happened 
 previous to that terrible moment her brother had 
 given his fatal and treacherous news on the lawn. 
 
 John Fitzgerald had been only slightly wounded 
 at Vinegar Hill. He had, some time after the 
 battle, returned to his native })lace, where he con¬ 
 trived to evade the officers of the Government. 
 
 Hearing of the disappearance of Rosaleen, he 
 had made search for her during many aweary day, 
 and was now rewarded well for his trouble. 
 
 “How can we go home ? ” said Rosaleen. “Ah ! 
 John, it was a weary time for me; but I hope we 
 will be parted no more. And yet I fear my father 
 and brother.” 
 
 “We will not go home,” answered her lover. 
 “ The priest of this parish is my father’s cousin. 
 
THE WHITE LADY OF BARN A. 
 
 323 
 
 He will marry us; and then we can easily reach 
 France, where I trust to be able to advance myself 
 in the profession I have chosen, — as a soldier.” 
 
 They were married; they contrived to reach 
 France also, and there John Fitzgerald prospered in 
 his profession. About eighteen years afterwards, a 
 carriage drove by the village of Barna, where they 
 still remembered the White Lady. It stopped at 
 the little inn by the wayside. In it were a dark, 
 military-looking gentleman and a lady, who desired 
 that the heads of the different families in the village 
 should come to them. To each they gave a present 
 of money; for the sake, they said, of the poor young 
 lady that had received such kindly shelter there 
 many years before. Away again rolled the car¬ 
 riage over the great plain, and, stopping only to 
 change horses at an occasional town, at length 
 arrived at the foot of the mountain, and before the 
 gate of old Fitzgerald, who was still living. It 
 was Capt. John Fitzgerald and his lady, the still fair 
 Rosaleen. 
 
 At this part of his manuscript, the doctor goes so 
 deeply and profoundly into the analysis of human 
 feelings that, it is impossible to follow him in his 
 lucubrations. The reader will easily conceive the 
 joy of old Fitzgerald and his son and daughter-in- 
 law at their meeting after so many years’ separation. 
 Rosaleen’s father was dead; and her brother married 
 and flourishing— as if he had never done wrong — 
 upon his ancestral estate. Probably he had repented 
 
3*^4 THE WHITE LADY OF BARN A. 
 
 of his bad deeds; else, I am sure, the erudite and 
 somewhat irascible doctor would have done him 
 poetic justice in his manuscript. After some time 
 old Fitzgerald also died, and Capt. John succeeded 
 to the estate. 
 
 On finishing my notes from this part of the manu¬ 
 script, the doctor, guessing to what I had arrived, 
 raised his head somewhat, and put back his white 
 hair from his forehead. Still gazing on a page of 
 “The Lancet,” however, he said, half to himself and 
 half to me, — 
 
 “June 30, 1858, eleven o’clock, p . m ., Capt. John 
 Fitzgerald and Rosaleen his wife, cheerfully and 
 without pain, and surrounded by their children, 
 grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, both died 
 — died on the same instant.” 
 
The Bridal Ring. 
 
 A STORY OF CAHIR CASTLE. 
 
 HE site on which Cahir Castle is built was 
 
 -I- formerly a dun^ or fort, — a structure which was 
 formed of woodwork and earthen embankments. 
 The present castle was founded, it would seem, by 
 one of those bold Norman adventurers who came to 
 our shores in the train of the Earl of Chepstow, or 
 Strongbow, as he was more familiarly called. It 
 stands upon an island rock which divides the waters 
 of the Suir, and, during the several wars that raged 
 in Ireland since the invasion, was always a place of 
 great strength and importance. It belonged, since 
 the beginning of the fourteenth century, to the pow¬ 
 erful house of Ormond; for we find it then in pos¬ 
 session of James Butler, son of James the third 
 earl, by Catherine, daughter of the Earl of Desmond. 
 During the wars of Elizabeth and those of the suc- 
 • ceeding reigns, it changed hands frequently, and 
 stood several gallant sieges, the relation of which 
 would be far too long for the limits of this story. 
 
 326 
 
326 
 
 THE BRIDAL BING. 
 
 The ancient Irish name ^ of the town of Cahir was 
 Cahir duna-iascaigh; that is, the circular fortress 
 of the fish-abounding fort. One of the incidents 
 connected with the military history of Cahir Castle 
 is told in the following story: — 
 
 In a corner of a solitary churchyard some short 
 distance from Cahir, there lies a portion of an ancient 
 tomb, namely, the upper half of a limestone slab, 
 which is now almost completely hidden from the eye 
 of the curious visitor by the rank and luxuriant 
 growth of docks, nettles, and other weeds that 
 clothe the silent dwellings of the dead around. If 
 you raise it up, and rub the moss carefully from its 
 timeworn face, you will be rewarded with the sight 
 of the following portion of an inscription: — 
 
 “ Heere lieth ye bodye of John de Botiller, 
 who was shot. 
 
 Alsoe ye bodye of his Wife Mary de Botiller, 
 who died when he died. 
 
 Their youthe was Love, 
 
 Their courtshippe was Love, 
 
 Their marriage-daie was Love, 
 
 Their wedded life was Love, 
 
 Their deathe was Love, 
 
 And —— " 
 
 What the remaining portion of the inscription was 
 will most probably remain unknown forever; for 
 the fracture occurs at the word “ And, ” while the 
 other half of the slab is lost. Many an hour’s toil 
 the search for that lost fragment of. sculptured lime- 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 327 
 
 stone cost us: but it was all of no avail; and the 
 history of the personages whom the above quaint 
 words commemorate would perhaps have remained 
 in obscurity till the end of time, were it not that we 
 happened, some years ago, to meet Brian Tiernay, of 
 Templetenny, as fine and jovial and stalwarth, and 
 withal as venerable, a s})ecimen of a senacJiie., or 
 story-teller, as you would find within the four seas of 
 old Ireland. Brian Tiernay’s relation is far too long 
 to come within the limits of such a short tale as this 
 must necessarily be. Stripping it, therefore, of 
 some of its ornate flourishes, and a great number of 
 incidental episodes, we shall proceed to relate the 
 thread of the story according to his version. 
 
 About a mile or so to the south-east of Cahir Castle, 
 there stood, on a high crag over the Suir, a square 
 tower, or peel-house as they would call it in Scotland; 
 which tower was for a long time the dwelling of 
 "Walter Ridensford, an ancient retainer of the great 
 house of Ormond. The tower was one of a chain of 
 similar buildings, which, with their high bawn walls 
 and strong gates, stood at the distance of a few 
 miles from one another towards the south and west, 
 in a semicircle beyond the great border fortress of 
 Cahir, and acted as advanced posts through which 
 an enemy would have to pierce before he could 
 attack the strongly-situated central castle.- The 
 tower to which we allude was called Tig-na-Sg-iath, 
 or the House of the Shield, from a rude representa¬ 
 tion of that defensive appurtenance of a warrior, 
 
328 
 
 THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 which was sculptured over the sturdy archway that 
 led into the bawn. It was a strong place, and espe¬ 
 cially so during the time it was occupied by the 
 brave old castellan whom we have named above. 
 
 Walter Ridensford, or Wattie Stem-the-Stream, 
 as he was called along the borders, — by which we 
 mean that strip of debatable land which lay between 
 the territories of the two great and rival houses of 
 Ormond and Desmond, — was one of the most eccen¬ 
 tric men that ever struck morion on head to follow 
 the banner of his master on fray or foray. At the 
 time of our story, he had attained to that respecta¬ 
 ble age which generally precludes a man from en¬ 
 gaging in the rough and dangerous occupations 
 of war. But time seemed to have had but little effect 
 upon the iron frame and hardy spirit of Wattie- 
 Stem-the-Stream; for he was still one of the most 
 quarrelsome, and at the same time most* formidable, 
 of all those I’etainers of the house of Ormond who in¬ 
 habited that dangerous and troublesome district lying 
 along the south-western banks of the Suir. Many 
 a single combat he had fought, and many a foray he 
 had ridden, in every one of which, by some good 
 chance or other, he had been successful; and this, 
 we need not say, caused him to be regarded as a 
 personage of no small consequence by the various 
 seneschals, castellans, and other people of note and 
 authority for many a mile round. Wattie had mar¬ 
 ried late in life ; and his wife, dying soon after, left 
 behind her an only daughter, who was dear as the 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 329 
 
 apple of liis eye to the old warrior, and who, about 
 the period at which our story commences, was nearly 
 seventeen years of age. 
 
 Mary Ridensford was a beautiful and gentle girl; 
 and, when we say that much of her, it is enough to 
 indicate the fact that her hand was sought in mar¬ 
 riage by many a young cavalier of the borders. 
 But to all those, when they ventured to speak upon 
 such a delicate subject to Wattie Stem-the-Stream, 
 .that grim old warrior made the rather ambiguous an¬ 
 swer, that no one but the best man in Ormond would 
 get his daughter for a wife. This oracular response, 
 it seems, instead of decreasing, added considerably 
 to the number of young Mary Ridensford’s suitors. 
 There was Gibbon of the Wood, from the banks of 
 Funcheon, who looked upon her with a loving eye, 
 and who gave it out that he would cheerfully do 
 battle with sword and axe — if that was the mean¬ 
 ing of old Wattie Stem-the-Stream’s answer — 
 
 O 
 
 against any competitor for the lady’s hand; there 
 Avas Donat Burke of Ruscoe, who swore, that, as he 
 had lost his heart, he did not care a straw about losing 
 his head for her sake ; there was Raimond Grace, of 
 Burnfort, who made oath to his confidential friend, 
 that, along with putting his heart’s blood in jeopardy 
 for the sake of gaining her affections, he would will¬ 
 ingly throw his lands and castle into the bargain; 
 and there was a host of others. But the rivalry at 
 last seemed hottest between Gibbon of the Wood 
 and the young castellan of Cnoc Graffon, whose 
 
330 
 
 THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 name was John de Botiller, or Butler, and who, 
 besides being a distant cousin of the Earl of Ormond, 
 Avas also accounted the boldest horseman of the bor¬ 
 der, and the best and truest hand at sword-play, 
 pistol-mark, or deft tricks of dagger in time of war, 
 and also in every athletic amusement on festival 
 days on village green and by fairy well. One day 
 John de Botiller received intimation from one of his 
 daltins, or horseboys, that Gibbon of the Wood had 
 just paid a visit, on matrimonial subjects intent, 
 to the House of the Shield. This information was 
 not, of course, very welcome to the young and fiery 
 castellan of Cnoc GralFon. With a dark brow he 
 began revolving the subject in his mind, and at last 
 took his horse, and rode away for the purpose of 
 paying a similar visit to Wattie Stem-the-Stream. 
 He found that worthy sitting by his castle-gate, 
 grimly contemplating a certain pass in the far-off 
 range of mountains, where, once upon a time, he had 
 the satisfaction of seeing a detachment of the Des¬ 
 mond soldiers cut to pieces by the followers of his 
 ancient lord and master, Thomas the Black, Earl of 
 Ormond. How, the young castellan of Cnoc Graf- 
 fon knew well the kind of man he had to deal with, 
 and proceeded at once to business, with an abruptness 
 and candor wofully contrasting with the match¬ 
 making chicanery and matrimonial circumlocutions 
 of more modern times. 
 
 “ Wat Ridensford,” said he, on receiving the curt 
 but hearty welcome of the old man, “ you know me 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 331 
 
 since I was a child. I have nothing but my castle 
 and a few acres around it, — nothing else but my 
 sword to help me on through the world: will you 
 give me your daughter for a wife ? ” 
 
 “ That I cannot tell,” answered the phlegmatic 
 Wattie. “ I have often said that the best and bravest 
 man in Ormond only should get her. What do you 
 say to that ? ” 
 
 “Nothing,” answered John de Botiller, “noth¬ 
 ing, only that I cannot understand it. I tell you 
 what I have heard, that Gibbon of the Wood was 
 here to-day. To him, I suppose, you have given the 
 same answer; but know, Wattie Stem-the-Stream, 
 that as I have come — yes, come here for, I believe, 
 the twelfth time, I am determined not to be put 
 olF with a riddle any longer.” It was now he 
 showed his knowledge of Wattle’s character. “ You 
 must tell me what you mean,” continued he. “If 
 you do not, here is a level space before us; draw 
 your sword, and you will soon see, that, if you 
 were twice as good a man as you are. I’ll whip the 
 answer in a trice out of that old iron carcass of 
 yours. Draw.” 
 
 This was exactly what Wattie wanted, and what 
 he was for a long time expecting from some one of 
 the suitors for his daughter’s hand. He now quietly 
 stood up, and drew the heavy sword he usually ^car¬ 
 ried by his side. With a grim smile of mingled 
 approval and affection, he looked upon the splendid 
 figure of the young castellan of Cnoc Grafibn, as the 
 
332 
 
 THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 latter stood opposite him, also with his drawn sword 
 in hand, ready to begin the strange combat. 
 
 “ The answer, the answer! ” cried John de Botil- 
 ler. 
 
 “ Take that, instead,” answered Wattie, making a 
 playful cut of his sword at the young castellan, 
 which, however, the latter avoided by a nimble 
 bound in a backward direction. A sharp combat, 
 half play, half earnest, ensued; the result of which 
 was, that W^attie was at last beaten back against the 
 wall by his young- antagonist. 
 
 “Yield, Wattie! yield, and give the answer! ” ex¬ 
 claimed John de Botiller, as the old man planted 
 his back against the wall, and stood warily on 
 his defence. “ Yield, yield! ” continued he, dancing 
 nimbly round, and making various playful lunges 
 and slashes at the old man, at which the latter at 
 length burst into a hearty and sonorous fit of laugh¬ 
 ter, and dropped the point of his sword with a mock 
 grimace on his swarthy old countenance, in token 
 of submission. 
 
 “ The answer you shall have, by my father’s 
 head !” exclaimed Wattie, as he now planted him¬ 
 self upon the stone seat by the gateway, and invited 
 the young horseman to take a se.at beside him. 
 “ Here it is,” continued he. “ I have sworn that 
 notie but the best man in Ormond shall get my 
 daughter for a wife; and you may be sure that 
 Wattie Ridensford is not the man to break his oath. 
 I will appoint a day on which the suitors can come 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 333 
 
 to Tig-na-Sgiath, and try their j^rowess at every 
 kind of exercise. On that day, if you come, you 
 will get your chance; and, between us both,” con¬ 
 tinued he, grasping the hand of the young castellan, 
 and giving it a tremendous squeeze, “ I wish you suc¬ 
 cess ; so, whatever happens by flood or field, be here 
 on the day appointed.” 
 
 “It is enough,” said John de Botiller, returning 
 the fi-iendly grasp of the old soldier. “ I will be 
 here; and, with Mary looking on me from the cas¬ 
 tle window, I hope to acquit myself so that I shall 
 come ofl* the winner of her fair hand.” 
 
 With that he bade farewell to old Wattie, and 
 rode away to Cnoc Grafibn. This occurred on the 
 evening of May-day; but, ere a fortnight was over, 
 there was a storm raised in the land, which left but 
 little time to the wooers of young Mary Ridensford 
 to think on the day of trial, whatever time it might 
 occur. The Earl of Essex had marched southwards, 
 and laid siege to Cahir Castle. After several sallies 
 and skirmishes between the belligerents, and a ter¬ 
 rible cannonade from the batteries of Essex, the 
 latter at length succeeded in taking possession of 
 the fortress. Leaving a garrison behind him, he 
 then marched into Desmond, fighting various bat¬ 
 tles as he proceeded. Throughout the whole siege, 
 John de Botiller and all the young men of the 
 neighborhood were, of course, enqoloyed in defend¬ 
 ing the castle ; but now, when all was over, they 
 began to think of the strange resolution the old 
 
334 
 
 THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 Master of Tig-na-Sgiatli had come to with regard to 
 the disposal of the hand of his daughter. They so 
 importuned Wattie, that he at last fixed a day; and 
 now, without the slightest consideration for the feel¬ 
 ings of his daughter, although he loved her well, he 
 awaited its coming; thinking, of course, that the 
 bravest soldier and most active man in the country, 
 whoever he was, would make the best and fondest 
 husband for Mary. But the latter did not agree 
 with her father’s notions on the matter. She loved 
 the handsome young castellan of Cnoc Graffon, and 
 was resolved to marry no one else, whoever the suc¬ 
 cessful competitor might be on Midsummer Day; 
 for that was the one ajjpointed by Wattie for the 
 trial between her wooers. Many an hour she sat 
 and wept in her little chamber in the House of the 
 Shield, thinking of the dangerous position she was 
 in ; and what must have been her grief and terror, 
 when at last Midsummer Day came, and, though a 
 numerous throng of competitors had arrived at the 
 castle, there was still no appearance of John de 
 Botiller! The latter, however, was a score of miles 
 away at the time, acting as officer of the guard at 
 Garrick Castle, where military discipline was en¬ 
 forced with such strictness that he did not dare to 
 leave his post during the temporary absence of Lord 
 Ormond. 
 
 Meanwhile the trial between the wooers at the 
 House of the Shield went on gloriously, Wattie 
 Stem-the-Stream wondering from time to time at 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 335 
 
 the continued absence of the young castellan of 
 Cnoc Graffon, whose suit he favored secretly. Several 
 competitors had given in, as the day advanced; and, 
 before noon was over, the contest, in every athletic 
 trial, lay principally between Gibbon of the Wood, 
 Donat Burke of Ruscoe, and Raymond Grace, the 
 young Lord of Burnfort. Poor Donat Burke at 
 last nearly fractured his knee, at the leaping of the 
 bawn wall, and gave up the contest; so that, to all 
 appearance, the hand of Mary Ridensford was des¬ 
 tined in a short time to fall to the lot of either 
 Raymond Grace or the sturdy Gibbon of the Wood, 
 both of whom were en 2 :ao:ed at a terrible bout of 
 wrestling on the level bawn. At length Raymond 
 went down; and, notwithstanding his various 
 threats, that he would peril life and lands to gain 
 the hand of Mary Ridensford, and a gratuitous one 
 to the effect that he would have the heart’s blood 
 of any other man that would succeed in winning it, 
 he very philosophically gave in at the proposal of 
 the next and final trial, which was to be a deadly 
 bout between himself and the formidable Gibbon, 
 with broadsword, buckler, and skean. 
 
 And now Gibbon of the Wood boldly claimed the 
 hand of poor Mary, who was at the moment, with 
 bitter tears in her eyes, looking over the sloping 
 plain beyond the Suir, expecting her lover to make 
 his appearance. And he did appear at last, just as 
 the fatal words were about being spoken by her 
 father, that would make her the affianced wife of the 
 
336 
 
 THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 dreaded Gibbon. Lord Ormond had returned to 
 Garrick early that morning; and, when he heard the 
 story from the young castellan of Cnoc Gralfon, he 
 laughed heartily, and gave the latter liberty to set 
 off as fast as his good steed would carry him for 
 the House of the Shield. There John de Botiller 
 arrived at the time we have indicated; and a ter¬ 
 rible contest commenced between him and the now 
 enraged Gibbon, who did not give in till he had lost 
 the two best fingers of his right hand, in the last 
 trial with skean and broadsword. 
 
 And so John de Botiller won the hand of the 
 lovely Mary Ridensford, and they were wedded 
 shortly afterwards. But there were tears in her 
 eyes soon after the marriage; for, two days after¬ 
 wards, her young husband was forced to bid her 
 farewell, and, with as many men as he could muster, 
 return to the banner of Loi’d Ormond, the eastern 
 borders of whose territory were at the time in a 
 state of war and trouble and continual tumult. 
 
 • Many a weary moon passed over poor Mary, as she 
 sat in the turret window of her father’s house, look¬ 
 ing out over the wide plains for the return of hei 
 gallant husband; but he came not, for he was still 
 taking part in the raids of Lord Ormond, on the far- 
 off eastern borders. Many a time she looked upon 
 her marriage-ring, and bathed it with tears, as she 
 thought of the day on which John de Botiller had 
 placed it on her finger. 
 
 And now the south-western borders began to 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 337 
 
 come in for their share of the troubles. Wattle 
 Stem-the-Stream and the other castellans of the 
 neighborhood rose with their followers, and fell 
 uiDon Cahir Castle; but, after a sharp contest with 
 the garrison left behind by Essex, they were forced 
 to retire from its walls. In consequence of this 
 attack, the President of Munster sent Sir John 
 Dowdall, a veteran soldier of the Queen, across the 
 mountains from Youghal, to quiet the borders, and 
 place a fresh garrison in Cahir Castle. Sir John ex¬ 
 ecuted his commission with a high and successful 
 hand. He not only succeeded in throwing in the 
 garrison, but he also laid siege to and took the 
 whole chain of border towers, one after the other, 
 — the stronghold of Tig-na-Sgiath included. It 
 was thus that on a certain fine day the belliger¬ 
 ent and dauntless Wattie found himself and his 
 daughter, the young and sad wife of the castellan 
 of Cnoc Gralfon, close prisoners in the mighty, 
 and at the time almost impregnable, fortress of 
 Cahir. The father fretted and futned at being thus 
 rendered inactive, when so much was still to be 
 done outside; but the daughter sat quietly in her 
 lonely prison, and, looking on her bridal ring, day 
 after day, still bathed it with many a bitter tear, as 
 she thought of the grief her absent husband would 
 feel when ho heard of their woful state, 
 
 It is not to be supposed that the young castel¬ 
 lan of Cnoc GrafiTon remained quiet when a secret 
 messenger from the stout W^attie bore him the 
 
 22 
 
•338 
 
 TUE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 news. He immediately proceeded to James Galdie, 
 the Earl of Ormond’s brother, and witli him con¬ 
 cocted a plan for the capturing of the Castle of 
 Cahir. At the head of about sixty chosen men, 
 they marched across the country, and, without at¬ 
 tracting the observation of the garrison, contrived 
 to ensconce themselves opposite the walls of the 
 castle, just as the shadows of night loomed down 
 darkly upon plain and glen from the adjacent sum¬ 
 mits of the Gaulty Mountains. They had brought 
 with them a number of ladders; and, having crossed 
 the drawbridge, in the dead silence of the niglit 
 they began scaling the inner wall. Ere a dozen of 
 them had gained the bawn inside, the garrison was 
 aroused, and rushing out, sword and gun in hand, 
 under Thomas Quayle, the castellan, a short and 
 sharp struggle commenced between the two parties. 
 Wattie Stem-the-Stream and his daughter were 
 soon .awakened in their prison chambers by the loud 
 clashing of swords and the rattling of guns and pet- 
 ronels outside. And now the loud crash of a fal¬ 
 conet, or smair cannon, resounded from a tower 
 overhead, followed by a strange, fearful, and rust¬ 
 ling noise that seemed to tear the rocky walls of the 
 prison chamber .asunder, after which the young 
 bride sat pale and terror-stricken for a moment, and 
 theu gave one wild and heart-piercing cry of anguish 
 and despair. 
 
 “ The ring! the ring! ” she cried, holding out her 
 hand towards her startled father. “Ah, me! ah. 
 
THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 339 
 
 me! it is broken; and I know but too well that my 
 noble husband is slain.” 
 
 The father took the trembling hand in his; and, 
 examining the bi-idal ring, found it cracked asunder, 
 and almost falling off the finger of the poor young 
 bride. Still the uproar continued outside, but in 
 a short time it ceased. The prison door at length 
 opened, and James Galdie and a few men strode 
 into the chamber with the news that they had taken 
 the castle. At the moment the door was opened, 
 Mary, with another wild ci-y, rushed out; and, when 
 they searched for her a few moments afterwards, 
 they found her by the wall, stretched beside the 
 dead body of her gallant husband, who had fallen 
 beneath the cannon-ball from the tower above. 
 They raised her; but she too was dead, and when 
 they took her lily-white hand, and looked upon the 
 ring, they found it whole and sound as ever, — a mys¬ 
 terious sign of her being reunited to her husband in 
 the bridal of death. They were laid side by side 
 in the little churchyard; and many a traveller, as 
 the seasons come and go, sits there and muses sadly 
 over the last resting-place of the brave John de 
 Botiller and his loving wife. 
 
The Little Battle of Bottle Hill. 
 
 “ Saddled and bridled 
 And booted rade he ; 
 
 Toom * hame came the saddle, 
 
 But never came he ! ” 
 
 MIDST the wild tract of country lying between 
 
 Cork and Mallow rises Bottle Hill, remarkable 
 
 only for its barrenness, and for a fight that took 
 place there between the partisans of King James 
 and King William. The following is the traditional 
 aocount of that fight. 
 
 At the foot of Bottle Hill might be seen, some 
 few years ago, a spot conspicuous for its greenness 
 amidst the surrounding heath and shingle. Traces 
 of the foundations of buildings might then be ob¬ 
 served over its unequal surface. Now the heath has 
 encroached upon it, so that it is scarcely distinguish¬ 
 able, except by a few stunted hazel-bushes, from the 
 
 340 
 
 * Empty. 
 
THE LITTLE BATTLE OF BOTTLE HILL. 341 
 
 general surface of the barren and broken moorland 
 around. On this spot once stood the strongly fortified 
 house of Master Griinshaw Stubbles, son of the 
 stout and godly Ephraim Stubbles, one of the victo¬ 
 rious Undertakers, who settled down in the country 
 to enjoy the conquests of their bows and spears, 
 after the termination of the disastrous wars of 
 Cromwell. 
 
 Master Grimshaw proved himself a worthy suc¬ 
 cessor to his father, when that sanctified and redoubt- 
 al)le hei’o condescended to look his last on the broad 
 domain he had won by his conjoint labors as drum¬ 
 mer and expounder of the Word in one of the 
 Great Protector’s regiments of cavalry. As a con¬ 
 sequence of the desolation caused by the Cromwel¬ 
 lian wars, the wolf still prowled almost unmolested 
 over the barren moorlands and woody fastnesses of 
 the neighborhood. Ephraim amused himself occa¬ 
 sionally by a hunt after one of these fiei’ce animals; 
 but his propensities as a Nimrod were often gratified 
 in a more bloody manner, — namely, in chasing with 
 sleuthhound and horn the unfortunate men who 
 some years before had met him face to face bravely 
 in battle, but who now, reduced to outlaws and Rap- 
 parees, broken-hearted and despoiled, tried to gain a 
 subsistence, as^ best they could, amidst the sterility 
 of the wild region above-mentioned. 
 
 At the end of such a hunt, and when the poor human 
 game was at last run down and captured, not one of 
 all the followers of old Ephraim Stubbles had such 
 
342 
 
 THE LITTLE BATTLE 
 
 a deft and masterly hand as his son at tying the 
 hangman’s noose, and adjusting the fatal cord by 
 which they generally suspended the body of their 
 tortured victim to the branch of some neighboring 
 tree. It will not therefore be thought wonderful, 
 when, at the end of the reign of Charles the Second, 
 his father died, and when a slight change came over 
 the management of affairs under the authority of 
 King James, that, with such training in his youth, 
 Master Grimshaw Stubbles, in the prime of life, 
 should lonci: for another ruler of the land and for a 
 return of the old license. 
 
 Master Grimshaw had not long to wait. After a 
 reio-n that broug-ht more trouble and disaster to Ire- 
 land than any of the preceding ones. King James 
 fled to France; and the south was occupied by the 
 victorious armies of William, who was just begin- 
 iiinfr the memorable siege of Limerick. Then it was 
 that the Undertakers rose rampant and furious from 
 under the weak restrictions that had been imposed 
 upon them during the rule of the preceding Stuarts. 
 The hunting horns rang amidst the woods, and the 
 sleuthhounds were let loose once more; and many a 
 brave peasant, who had fought and bled in the cause 
 of the worthless Stuart, met his cruel fate after the 
 chase, under the hands of his triumphant and ruth¬ 
 less foes. 
 
 The lands now held by Master Grimshaw for¬ 
 merly belonged to Donal MacCarthy, a gentleman 
 distantly related to the Earl of Glencar, and who. 
 
OF BOTTLE HILL. 
 
 343 
 
 like Ms more powerful relative, had fought in the 
 cause of Charles the First against the Parlia^nenta- 
 rians. Driven from his home, Donal retired to 
 the woods with his wife and only son, and the 
 few dependents who were faithful enough to share 
 his broken fortunes. Here, season after season, he 
 fell deeper into misery; his followers died, or left 
 him to eke out their own miserable subsistence in 
 other parts of the country, but not before they had 
 aided him in driving otf two preys of cattle from the 
 lands of Ephraim Stubbles. He was outlawed, of 
 course; so that any man who wished might legally 
 kill him, and get a reasonable reward for his head. 
 
 At last the indefatigable Ephraim Stubbles fer¬ 
 reted out DonaFs retreat in the woods, surrounded 
 the wretched hut early one morning with his con¬ 
 freres and followers, dragged out the poor old gen¬ 
 tleman and his wife, and shot them at their own 
 door. Young Donal Riagh, or the Swarthy, their 
 son, would have shared the same fate as his parents, 
 were it not that he was saved by a merciful and 
 jolly old Roundhead magistrate, who, instead of 
 the draughts of the Word he had drunk so deep of 
 in his youth, had taken in his latter days to jovial 
 stoups of Schiedam and foaming tankards of Octo¬ 
 ber ale. 
 
 With the memory of his parents’ fate for ever in 
 his mind, it was no wonder that Donal Riagh, as he 
 grew up, hated with his whole heart the son of their 
 murderer. By his daring exploits against the Wil- 
 
344 
 
 THE LITTLE BATTLE 
 
 liamites, and by his hereditary influence amongst the 
 people of the surrounding country, he had become 
 the leader of a numerous band of Rapparees, by 
 whose aid he was now planning to pay back the 
 debt he owed to Master Grimshaw Stubbles. On 
 the other hand, Grimshaw was by no means idle, 
 and with his followers, and an occasional troop of 
 drasroons from Mallow, scoured the woods several 
 times in search of his mortal foe. And thus matters 
 stood between the two on a flne sunny morning in 
 the beginning of August, 1690. 
 
 Grimshaw, accoutred in morion and corselet and 
 the other warlike habiliments of his defunct father, 
 was mounted outside his own gate. Around him 
 were grouped several other horsemen, — namely, two 
 or three officers from the garrison of Mallow, who 
 had come all the way over to see the sport; about a 
 dozen other landholders of his own stamp, amongst 
 whom might be seen Adam Blundel, the jolly old 
 toper who had saved the life of Donal Riagh; de¬ 
 pendents, hoi'se and foot, armed to the teeth, and 
 ready for any cruelty, however atrocious ; while be¬ 
 hind, under the archway of the gate, stood a man, 
 with a leathern leash in his hand, holding in check 
 a brace of strapping, tawny bloodhounds. 
 
 “ By my soul! ”— said old Adam Blundel, who had 
 long done away with the sanctimonious twang with 
 which he Avas wont to garnish his words in the days 
 of Cromwell — “ by my soul, and by the hand of 
 Oliver! but I little thought that the boy whose life I 
 
OF BOTTLE HILL. 
 
 345 
 
 saved twenty years ago should come to this, —that 
 he should he chased, caught, and strung up, as he 
 will, I fear, before the day is over.” 
 
 “You fear?” remarked Grimshaw Stubbles, with 
 a fierce and dissatisfied look: “ what a tender heart 
 you have got, Master Blundel! ” 
 
 “I tell you what it is, Grimshaw,” retorted the 
 old toper, “from your father the drummer, up to 
 Oliver the general, there was not a man in the army 
 that had a harder heart than mine while I was 
 filled with the Spirit; but ” — 
 
 “But since you have taken to filling yourself with 
 another kind of spirit,” interrupted one of Adam’s 
 ancient bottle-companions, with a grim smile, “ your 
 heart is softening to mankind in generad, especially 
 to this damned Rapparee, Donal Riagh.” 
 
 “Yes,” remarked another, “we’ll soon have him 
 petitioning King \Yilliam, I suppose, for the Rap- 
 paree’s pardon, and for the lives of his followers, 
 who harry our lands worse than their brothers, the 
 wolves.” 
 
 “Donal Riagh has never done harm to me or 
 mine,” returned the honest and blunt old magistrate, 
 “ and why should I pursue him to the death ? I 
 have come here to-day to prevent unnecessary 
 bloodshed; and yet, as for Donal Riagh, I fear he 
 must die at last, else there can be no peace in the 
 country. Master Grimshaw here, however, knows 
 that Donal has suffered enough wrong to drive a 
 wiser man mad.” 
 
346 
 
 THE LITTLE BATTLE 
 
 “ Die ! ” exclaimed Grimshaw, unheeding the lat¬ 
 ter part of Old Blundel’s remark, “ ay, if he had 
 twenty lives; and, if we catch him, he shall die to¬ 
 day. But see, by heaven, Blundel! but the Lord 
 has delivered the rebel dog into our hands without 
 trouble. For look yonder! ” And he pointed towards 
 a little \Vood, something more than a furlong in 
 front of the house. 
 
 Blundel looked in the direction indicated; but 
 his eyes were none of the best, and he could barely 
 distinguish the figure of a man leaning against a 
 tree. Not so with the eyes of Master Grimshaw, 
 which were rendered doubly sharp by hate. 
 
 “ Look, gentlemen all,” continued he, “ for there 
 he stands yonder, alone and unarmed; for what 
 purpose, I know not. I suppose the Lord hath 
 blinded him, so that he conies to us to sue for 
 mercy, and’imagines he shall obtain it. Unslip the 
 hounds, Wattie; and away, gentlemen! It is a 
 pleasure we can hunt at sight.” And, with that, he 
 threw his bridle loose, gave his horse the spur, and 
 dashed off in the direction of the wood, followed 
 by the others. 
 
 But Grimshaw Stubbles little knew the darinsr 
 
 O 
 
 and subtle man he had to deal with. The moment 
 he had given his horse the spur, Donal Riagh dis¬ 
 appeared from beneath the tree, and darted through 
 the wood; so that by the time his pursuers had 
 gained the outskirts next the house he was at the 
 opposite side, and running away with extraordinary 
 
OF BOTTLE HILL. 
 
 347 
 
 swiftness over the slojDing moorland that extended 
 beyond. At the other side of this moorland, the 
 country became rough and woody; and towards 
 this wild fastness Donal Riagh was flviug at full 
 speed, when the two bloodhounds, with horse and 
 foot behind them, burst with wild clamor from the 
 co 2 :)se, and stretched out eagerly and fiercely upon 
 his track. 
 
 The moorland was soon crossed, and Donal dis- 
 apj^eared in the ragged and stunted wood that 
 skirted its opjoosite side. As he pushed onward, the 
 wood, liowever, became denser, the trees more large 
 and lofty, and the glens by which it was intersected 
 more difficult and dangerous. ISTow and then his 
 pursuers caught sight of him as he crossed some 
 broken glade, but that was all. They continued, 
 however, unerringly upon his track; for they had 
 only to follow the two bloodhounds that were all 
 the while making the woody dells i-esound with 
 their fierce baying. But Donal Riagh took it all 
 very unconcernedly, pushing on and on, and draw¬ 
 ing his pursuers deeper and deeper into the intrica¬ 
 cies of that wild forest, with every foot of which he 
 was so well acquainted. 
 
 After about an hour’s chase, he plunged into a 
 deep and wooded gorge, througli the bottom of 
 which a broken bridle-i^ath led in through the 
 innermost depths of the forest. Midway in this 
 lonely ravine, he turned round a bowlder of rock, 
 jDlunged into the thick underwood that clothed its 
 
348 
 
 THE LITTLE BATTLE 
 
 rugged side, and disappeared, just as the blood¬ 
 hounds came about a hundred yards behind, making 
 the whole forest ring with their loud and triumph¬ 
 ant howling. On they came, their black noses 
 scattering the fresh dew from the morning grass, 
 lill, just as they reached the crag around which 
 Donal Riagh had turned, two stalwart young Rap- 
 parees darted out from the thicket, and pinned them 
 to the ground with their light spears. A moment 
 after, Grimshaw Stubbles and his followers dashed 
 up the gorge, and halted beside the writhing bodies 
 of the two luckless bloodhounds. Then came the 
 loud pattering of petronel and musketoon from 
 both sides of the gorge, and Donal Riagh and his 
 vengeful Rapparees, with a wild and thrilling shout, 
 rushed down upon the unfortunate Tory hunter 
 and his comrades. 
 
 Let us now return to the house of Grimshaw 
 Stubbles. Scarcely had that worthy and his con¬ 
 freres disappeared under the shades of the forest 
 beyond the moorland, when a body of men, about 
 forty in number, and led by Theige MacDonogh, 
 Donal’s lieutenant, rushed out from the little wood 
 above mentioned, darted in through the open gate¬ 
 way, fell upon the scanty guard left behind, slew 
 them to a man, and took possession of the house. 
 After the proper military arrangements were made by 
 Theige MacDonogh, — who, by the way, had served 
 as a cornet under King James, at the Battle of the 
 Boyne, — the sentinel who stood guard at the gate- 
 
OF BOTTLE HILL. 
 
 349 
 
 way saw a horse tearing madly up the moorland and 
 around the little wood, which his practised eye 
 recognized instantly as that belonging to Master 
 Grirnshaw Stubbles. The fate of its master and 
 most of his comrades in the wild forest-gorge may 
 easily be guessed. 
 
 About the same moment, two horsemen might 
 be seen riding at full speed, and in different direc¬ 
 tions from the fatal gorge. One was the jovial old 
 toper, Adam Blundel, whose life had been, as a mat¬ 
 ter of course, spared by Donal Riagh ; the other 
 was one of the officers from Mallow, who had 
 escaped, aiid who was riding now towards that 
 town at his topmost speed, to bring out as many of 
 the cavalry of the garrison as he could to the scene 
 of the wild and fatal onslaught of the morning. 
 
 On the evening of that day, two troops of Wil- 
 liamite dragoons wound up the sylvan valley of the 
 Clydagh from Mallow, crossed by the little wood in 
 front of Grimshaw’s house, formed in line, and 
 halted at the foot of Bottle Hill. A trumpeter 
 was sent forward, after a slight delay, who rode 
 directly onward to the front gate, and summoned 
 the Rapparees to surrender without conditions. 
 The garrison was now, however, strengthened by 
 Donal Riafifh and his followers, so that it somewhat 
 outnumbered the Williamite force sent against it. 
 The answer returned to the trumpeter, therefore, 
 may be easily imagined. He rode back with a re¬ 
 fusal, of course, to report it to his comiq^nder. 
 
350 
 
 THE LITTLE BATTLE 
 
 Scarcely had the trumpeter reached the line, when 
 a Rapparee horseman, with a white handkerchief on 
 the point of his sword, dashed out from the gate¬ 
 way, and approached within talking distance of the 
 Williamites. 
 
 “ Our captain, the brave Donal Riagh MacCar- 
 thy, sent me forward,” said he, addressing the officer 
 who appeared to command the English dragoons, 
 “ to know how many sabres ye be to a man ? ” 
 
 “A very modest inquiry, indeed,” exclaimed the 
 Williamite captain, laughing. “ May I ask, how¬ 
 ever, before I answer, for what purpose does your 
 master ask the question ? ” 
 
 “For this,” answered the Rapparee: “that for 
 every sabre you have, Donal Riagh is willing to tell 
 out the same number on this nice moorland, and 
 then let both sides see it out, man to man, on horse¬ 
 back or on foot, before the sun sets beyond Mount 
 Hillary.” • . 
 
 “I have a hundred men besides myself and the 
 three officers you see yonder,” returned the English 
 caj)tain, delighted at the pi’oposal. “ Go back and 
 tell your chief, or whatever he is, that I am hapjjy 
 to accede to what he proposes ; that man and horse, 
 I and my officers and my hundred men, will fight 
 him and his officers and an equal number. Such, I 
 believe, are the conditions. Stay for a moment,” 
 continued he with a sneer; “tell your captain that 
 he may add fifty more to his number. We shall 
 fight them, IF they come out from their stone walls.” 
 
OF BOTTLE HILL. 
 
 351 
 
 The messenger went off at a brisk gallop, and soon 
 rode in through the guarded gateway. 
 
 Most of the men under Donal Riagh, as well as 
 Donal himself, had served in the cavalry of King 
 James; so, after being disbanded for a time subse¬ 
 quent to the Battle of the Boyne, each, on his com¬ 
 ing home, had taken care, along with keeping his 
 arms and accoutrements, which he was allowed to 
 do by his commanders,'to provide himself also with 
 a horse. And thus it happened that the delibera¬ 
 tions of the English w'ere soon disturbed by the 
 martial strain of a cavalry trumpet, and immediately 
 afterwards Donal Riagh was seen riding forth from 
 the gate of Grimshaw Stubbles’s house at the head 
 of a hundred horsemen, with Theiare MacDonoo-Ii 
 and two other subordinate commanders by his side. 
 The English trumpeter now sounded forth his chal¬ 
 lenge in return; and, in a few moments, the men on 
 both sides sat their horses opposite one anothei-, ex¬ 
 pecting the command to charge. It came; and then 
 followed the thundering rush across the dry spot of 
 moorland that lay between the belligerents, the 
 crash of both lines as they closed in the deadly con¬ 
 flict, and, soon after, the victorious shouts of the 
 brave Rapparees, as the English, massing themselves 
 together as closely as they could, began to retreat 
 slowly over the hills, leaving about twenty of their 
 number behind upon the field. After losing about 
 lialf-a-dozen more of his men, the Williamite cap¬ 
 tain, who, all through the fight, showed himself a 
 
3.52 the little battle of bottle hill. 
 
 man of much judgment and mettle, at last succeed¬ 
 ed in making his retreat into Mallow. On the side 
 of the Rapparees about a dozen men fell. The 
 horses and trappings of the slain dragoons were, 
 however, an important addition to the armament of 
 the gallant and victorious Donal Riagh MacCarthy, 
 who, in the war that followed, became one of the 
 most celebrated and successful Rapparee leaders in 
 tlie south of Ireland. 
 
 Thus ended what we have called, at the head of 
 this paper, the little battle of Bottle Hill. The 
 story, though traditional, and though perhaps its 
 details on that account cannot be strictly relied, 
 upon, is still instructive, showing, as it does, how the 
 Irish peasantry, when properly prepared, and acting 
 in concert under a brave and skilful leader like 
 Donal Riagh, can fight, and win even, on a fair field 
 and man to man, against English or any other 
 troops, no matter how high the valor and perfect 
 the discipline of the latter. 
 

 
 
 
 
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