The Rapparee glared at him, but with a quailing and subdued, yet sullen and vindictive, expression.

“Stand up, sir,” proceeded this daring and animated young man, addressing Mr. Folliard; “and you, Cummiskey, get to your legs. No person shall dare to injure either of you while I am here. O'Donnel—stain and disgrace to a noble name—begone, you and your ruffians. I know the cause of your enmity against this gentleman; and I tell you now, that if you were as ready to sustain your religion as you are to disgrace it by your conduct, you would not become a curse to it and the country, nor give promise of feeding a hungry gallows some day, as you and your accomplices will do.”

Whilst the young stranger addressed these miscreants with such energy and determination, Mr. Folliard, who, as well as his servant, had now got to his legs, asked the latter in a whisper who he was.

“By all that's happy, sir,” he replied, “it's himself, the only man living that the Red Rapparee is afraid of; it's 'Willy Reilly.'”

CHAPTER II. The Cooleen Baum.

The old man became very little wiser by the information of his servant, and said in reply, “I hope, Andy, he's not a Papist;” but checking the unworthy prejudice—and in him such prejudices were singularly strong in words, although often feeble in fact he added, “it matters not—we owe our lives to him—the deepest and most important obligation that one man can owe to another. I am, however, scarcely able to stand; I feel be-numbed and exhausted, and wish to get home as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Reilly,” said Andy, “this gentleman is very weak and ill; and as you have acted so much like a brave man and a gentleman, maybe you'd have no objection to see us safe home.”

“It is my intention to do so,” replied Reilly. “I could not for a moment think of leaving either him or you to the mercy of this treacherous man, who dishonors a noble name. Randal,” he proceeded, addressing the Rapparee, “mark my words!—if but a single hair of this gentleman's head, or of any one belonging to him, is ever injured by you or your gang, I swear that you and they will swing, each of you, from as many gibbets, as soon as the course of the law can reach you. You know me, sir, and my influence over those who protect you. As for you, Fergus,” he added, addressing one of the Rapparee's followers, “you are, thank God! the only one of my blood who has ever disgraced it by leading such a lawless and guilty life. Be advised by me—leave that man of treachery,rapine, and murder—abandon him and re-form your life—and if you are disposed to become a good and an industrious member of society, go to some other country, where the disgrace you have incurred in this may not follow you. Be advised by me, and you shall not want the means of emigrating. Now begone; and think, each of you, of what I have said.”

The Rapparee glanced at the noble-looking young fellow with the vindictive ferocity of an enraged bull, who feels a disposition to injure you, but is restrained by terror; or, which is quite as appropriate, a cowardly but vindictive mastiff, who eyes you askance, growls, shows his teeth, but has not the courage to attack you.

“Do not look at me so, sir,” said Reilly; “you know I fear you not.”

“But the meantime,” replied the Rapparee, “what's to prevent me from putting a bullet into you this moment, if I wish to do it?”

“There are ten thousand reasons against it,” returned Reilly. “If you did so, in less than twenty-four hours you would find yourself in Sligo jail—or, to come nearer the truth, in less than five minutes you would find yourself in hell.”

“Well, now, suppose I should make the trial,” said the Rapparee. “You don't know, Mr. Reilly, how you have crossed me to-night. Suppose now I should try—and suppose, too, that not one of you three should leave the spot you stand on only as corpses—wouldn't I have the advantage of you then?”

Reilly turned towards the ruined chapel, and simply raising his right hand, about eight or ten persons made their appearance; but, restrained by signal from him, they did not advance.

“That will do,” said he. “Now, Randal, I hope you understand your position. Do not provoke me again; for if you do I will surround you with toils from which you could as soon change your fierce and brutal nature as escape. Yes, and I will take you in the midst of your ruffian guards, and in the deepest of your fastnesses, if ever you provoke me as you have done on other occasions, or if you ever injure this gentleman or any individual of his family. Come, sir,” he proceeded, addressing the old man, “you are now mounted—my horse is in this old ruin—and in a moment I shall be ready to accompany you.”

Reilly and his companions joined our travellers, one of the former having offered the old squire a large frieze great-coat, which he gladly accepted, and having thus formed a guard of safety for him and his faithful attendant, they regained the old road we I have described, and resumed their journey.

When they had gone, the Rapparee and his companions looked after them with blank faces for some minutes.

“Well,” said their leader, “Reilly has knocked up our game for this night. Only for him I'd have had a full and sweet revenge. However, never mind: it'll go hard with me, or I'll have it yet. In the mane time it won't be often that such another opportunity will come in our way.”

“Well, now that it is over, what was your intention, Randal?” asked the person to whom Reilly had addressed himself.

“Why,” replied the miscreant, “after the deed was done, what was to prevent us from robbing the house to-night, and taking away his daughter to the mountains. I have long had my eye on her, I can tell you, and it'll cost me a fall, or I'll have her yet.”

“You had better,” replied Fergus Reilly, for such was his name, “neither make nor meddle with that family afther this night. If you do, that terrible relation of mine will hang you like a dog.”

“How will he hang me like a dog?” asked the Rapparee, knitting his shaggy eyebrows, and turning upon him a fierce and gloomy look.

“Why, now, Randal, you know as well as I do,” replied the other, “that if he only raised his finger against you in the country, the very people that harbor both you and us would betray us, aye, seize us, and bind us hand and foot, like common thieves, and give us over to the authorities. But as for himself, I believe you have sense enough to let him alone. When you took away Mary Traynor, and nearly kilt her brother, the young priest—you know they were Reilly's tenants—I needn't tell you what happened: in four hours' time he had the country up, followed you and your party—I wasn't with you then, but you know it's truth I'm spakin'—and when he had five to one against you, didn't he make them stand aside until he and you should decide it between you? Aye, and you know he could a' brought home every man of you tied neck and heels, and would, too, only that there was a large reward offered for the takin' of you livin' or dead, and he scorned to have any hand in it on that account.”

“It was by a chance blow he hit me,” said the Rapparee—“by a chance blow.”

“By a couple dozen chance blows,” replied the other; “you know he knocked you down as fast as ever you got up—I lave it to the boys here that wor present.”

“There's no use in denyin' it, Randal,” they replied; “you hadn't a chance wid him.”

“Well, at all events,” observed the Rapparee, “if he did beat me, he's the only man in the country able to do it; but it's not over, curse him—Ill have another trial with him yet.”

“If you take my advice,” replied Reilly, “you'll neither make nor meddle with him. He's the head o' the Catholics in this part of the country, and you know that; aye, and he's their friend, and uses the friendship that the Protestants have towards him for their advantage, wherever he can. The man that would injure Willy Reilly is an enemy to our religion, as well as to every thing that's good and generous; and mark me, Randal, if ever you cross him in what he warned you against this very night, I'll hang you myself, if there wasn't another livin' man to do it, and to the back o' that again I say you must shed no blood so long as I am with you.”

“That won't be long, then,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a purse; “there's twenty guineas for you, and go about your business; but take care, no treachery.”

“No,” replied the other, “I'll have none of your money; there's blood in it. God forgive me for ever joinin' you. When I want money I can get it; as for treachery, there's none of it in my veins; good-night, and remember my words.”

Having thus spoken, he took his way along the same road by which the old squire and his party went.

“That fellow will betray us,” said the Rapparee.

“No,” replied his companions firmly, “there never was treachery in his part of the family; he is not come from any of the Queen's O'Reillys.* We wish you were as sure of every man you have as you may be of him.”

“Well, now,” observed their leader, “a thought strikes me; this ould squire will be half dead all night. At any rate he'll sleep like a top. Wouldn't it be a good opportunity to attack the house—aise him of his money, for he's as rich as a Jew—and take away the Colleen Bawn? We'll call at Shane Bearna's** stables on our way and bring the other boys along wid us. What do you say?”

“Why, that you'll hang yourself, and every man of us.”

“Nonsense, you cowardly dogs,” replied their leader indignantly; “can't we lave the country?”

“Well, if you're bent on it,” replied his followers, “we won't be your hindrance.”

“We can break up, and be off to America,” he added.

“But what will you do with the Cooleen Bawn, if you take her?” they asked.

“Why, lave her behind us, afther showin' the party creature the inside of Shane Bearea's stables. She'll be able to find her way back to her father's, never fear. Come, boys, now or never. To say the truth, the sooner we get out of the country, at all events, the better.”

The Rapparee and his men had moved up to the door of the old chapel already alluded to, whilst this conversation went on; and now that their dreadful project had been determined on, they took a short cut across the moors, in order to procure additional assistance for its accomplishment.

No sooner had they gone, however, than an individual, who had been concealed in the darkness within, came stealthily to the door, and peeping cautiously out, at length advanced a few steps and looked timidly about him. Perceiving that the coast was clear, he placed himself under the shadow of the old walls—for there was now sufficient light to cast a shadow from any prominent object; and from thence having observed the direction which the Rapparee and his men took, without any risk of being seen himself, he appeared satisfied. The name of this individual—who, although shrewd and cunning in many things, was nevertheless deficient in reason—or rather the name by which he generally went, was Tom Steeple, a sobriquet given to him on account of a predominant idea which characterized and influenced his whole conversation. The great delight of this poor creature was to be considered the tallest individual in the kingdom, and indeed nothing could be more amusing than to witness the manner in which he held up his head while he walked, or sat, or stood. In fact his walk was a complete strut, to which the pride, arising from the consciousness of, or rather the belief in, his extraordinary height gave an extremely ludicrous appearance. Poor Tom was about five feet nine in height, but imagined himself to be at least a foot higher. His whole family were certainly tall, and one of the greatest calamities of the poor fellow's life was a bitter reflection that he himself was by several inches the lowest of his race. This was the only exception he made with respect to height, but so deeply did it affect him that he could scarcely ever allude to it without shedding tears. The life he had was similar in most respects to that of his unhappy class. He wandered about through the country, stopping now at one farmer's house, and now at another's, where he always experienced a kind reception, because he was not only amusing and inoffensive, but capable of making himself useful as a messenger and drudge. He was never guilty of a dishonest act, nor ever known to commit a breach of trust; and as a quick messenger, his extraordinary speed of foot rendered him unrivalled. His great delight, however, was to attend sportsmen, to whom he was invaluable as a guide and director. Such was his wind and speed of foot that, aided by his knowledge of what is termed the lie of the country, he was able to keep up with any pack of hounds that ever went out. As a soho man he was unrivalled. The form of every hare for miles about was known to him, and if a fox or a covey of partridges were to be found at all, he was your man. In wild-fowl shooting he was infallible. No pass of duck, widgeon, barnacle, or curlew, was unknown to him. In fact, his principal delight was to attend the gentry of the country to the field, either with harrier, foxhound, or setter. No coursing match went right if Torn were not present; and as for night shooting, his eye and ear were such as, for accuracy of observation, few have ever witnessed. It is true he could subsist a long time without food, but, like the renowned Captain Dalgetty, when an abundance of it happened to be placed before him, he displayed the most indefensible ignorance as to all knowledge of the period when he ought to stop, considering it his bounden duty on all occasions to clear off whatever was set before him—a feat which he always accomplished with the most signal success.

“Aha” exclaimed Tom, “dat Red Rapparee is tall man, but not tall as Tom; him no steeple like Tom; but him rogue and murderer, an' Tom honest; him won't carry off Cooleen Bawn dough, nor rob her fader avder. Come, Tom, Steeple Tom, out with your two legs, one afore toder, and put Rapparee's nose out o' joint. Cooleen Bawn dats good to everybody, Catlieks (Catholics) an' all, an' often ordered Tom many a bully dinner. Hicko! hicko! be de bones of Peter White—off I go!”

Tom, like many other individuals of his description, was never able to get over the language of childhood—a characteristic which is often appended to the want of reason, and from which, we presume, the term “innocent” has been applied in an especial manner to those who are remarkable for the same defect.

Having uttered the words we have just recited, he started off at a gait, peculiar to fools, which is known by the name of “a sling trot,” and after getting out upon the old road he turned himself in the direction which Willy Reilly and his party had taken, and there we beg to leave him for the present.

The old squire felt his animal heat much revived by the warmth of the frieze coat, and his spirits, now that the dreadful scene into which he had been so unexpectedly cast had passed away without danger, began to rise so exuberantly that his conversation became quite loquacious and mirthful, if not actually, to a certain extent, incoherent.

“Sir,” said he, “you must come home with me—confound me, but you must, and you needn't say nay, now, for I shall neither take excuse nor apology. I am a hospitable man, Mr.—what's this your name is?”

“My name, sir,” replied the other, “is Reilly—William Reilly, or, as I am more generally called, Willy Reilly. The name, sir, though an honorable one, is, in this instance, that of an humble man, but one who, I trust, will never disgrace it.”

“You must come home with me, Mr. Reilly. Not a word now.”

“Such is my intention, sir,” replied Reilly. “I shall not leave you until I see that all risk of danger is past—until I place you safely under your own roof.”

“Well, now,” continued the old squire, “I believe a Papist can be a gentleman—a brave man—a man of honor, Mr. Reilly.”

“I am not aware that there is any thing in his religion to make him either dishonorable or cowardly, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile.

“No matter,” continued the other, who found a good deal of difficulty in restraining his prejudices on that point, no matter, sir, no matter, Mr.—a—a—oh, yes, Reilly, we will have nothing to do with religion—away with it—confound religion, sir, if it prevents one man from being thankful, and grateful too, to another, when that other has saved his life. What's your state and condition in society, Mr.—? confound the scoundrel! he'd have shot me. We must hang that fellow—the Red Rapparee they call him—a dreadful scourge to the country; and, another thing, Mr.—Mr. Mahon—you must come to my daughter's wedding. Not a word now—by the great Boyne, you must. Have you ever seen my daughter, sir?”

“I have never had that pleasure,” replied Reilly, “but I have heard enough of her wonderful goodness and beauty.”

“Well, sir, I tell you to your teeth that I deny your words—you have stated a falsehood, sir—a lie, sir.”

“What do you mean, sir?” replied Reilly, somewhat indignantly. “I am not in the habit of stating a falsehood, nor of submitting tamely to such an imputation.”

“Ha, ha, ha, I say it's a lie still, my friend. What did you say? Why, that you had heard enough of her goodness and beauty. Now, sir, by the banks of the Boyne, I say you didn't hear half enough of either one or other. Sir, you should know her, for although you are a Papist you are a brave man, and a gentleman. Still, sir, a Papist is not—curse it, this isn't handsome of me, Willy. I beg your pardon. Confound all religions if it goes to that. Still at the same time I'm bound to say as a loyal man that Protestantism is my forte, Mr. Reilly—there's where I'm strong, a touch of Hercules about me there, Mr. Reilly—Willy, I mean. Well, you are a thorough good fellow, Papist and all, though you—ahem!—never mind though, you shall see my daughter, and you shall hear my daughter; for, by the great Boyne, she must salute the man that saved her father's life, and prevented her from being an orphan. And yet see, Willy, I love that girl to such a degree that if heaven was open for me this moment, and that Saint Peter—hem!—I mean the Apostle Peter, slid to me, 'Come, Folliard, walk in, sir,' by the great Deliverer that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money, and—ahem! I beg your pardon—well, I say if he was to say so, I wouldn't leave her. There's affection for you; but she deserves it. No, if ever a girl was capable of keeping an old father from heaven she is.”

“I understand your meaning, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile, “and I believe she is loved by every one who has the pleasure of knowing her—by rich and poor.”

“Troth, Mr. Reilly,” observed Andy, “it's a sin for any one to let their affections, even for one of their own childer, go between them and heaven. As for the masther, he makes a god of her. To be sure if ever there was an angel in this world she is one.”

“Get out, you old whelp,” exclaimed his master; “what do you know about it?—you who never had wife or child? isn't she my only child?—the apple of my eye? the love of my heart?”

“If you loved her so well you wouldn't make her unhappy then.”

“What do you mean, you despicable old Papist?”

“I mean that you wouldn't marry her to a man she doesn't like, as you're goin' to do. That's a bad way to make her happy, at any rate.”

“Overlook the word Papist, Mr. Reilly, that I applied to that old idolater—the fellow worships images; of course you know, as a Papist, he does—ahem!—but to show you that I don't hate the Papist without exception, I beg to let you know, sir, that I frequently have the Papist priest of our parish to dine with me; and if that isn't liberality the devil's in it. Isn't that true, you superstitious old Padareen? No, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Mahon—Willy, I mean—I'm a liberal man, and I hope we'll be all saved yet, with the exception of the Pope—ahem! yes, I hope we shall all be saved.”

“Throth, sir,” said Andy, addressing himself to Reilly, “he's a quare gentleman, this. He's always abusing the Papists, as he calls us, and yet for every Protestant servant undher his roof he has three Papists, as he calls us. His bark, sir, is worse than his bite, any day.”

“I believe it,” replied Reilly in a low voice, “and it's a pity that a good and benevolent man should suffer these idle prejudices to sway him.”

“Divil a bit they sway him, sir,” replied Andy; “he'll damn and abuse them and their religion, and yet he'll go any length to serve one o' them, if they want a friend, and has a good character. But here, now we're at the gate of the avenue, and you'll soon see the Cooleen Bawn”

“Hallo!” the squire shouted out, “what the devil! are you dead or asleep there? Brady, you Papist scoundrel, why not open the gate?”

The porter's wife came out as he uttered the words, saying, “I beg your honor's pardon. Ned is up at the Castle;” and whilst speaking she opened the gate.

“Ha, Molly!” exclaimed her master in a tone of such bland good nature as could not for a moment be mistaken; “well, Molly, how is little Mick? Is he better, poor fellow?”

“He is, thank God, and your honor.”

“Hallo, Molly,” said the squire, laughing, “that's Popery again. You are thanking God and me as if we were intimate acquaintances. None of that foolish Popish nonsense. When you thank God, thank him; and when you thank me, why thank me; but don't unite us, as you do him and your Popish saints, for I tell you, Molly, I'm no saint; God forbid! Tell the doctorman to pay him every attention, and to send his bill to me when the child is properly recovered; mark that—properly recovered.”

A noble avenue, that swept along with two or three magnificent bends, brought them up to a fine old mansion of the castellated style, where the squire and his two equestrian attendants dismounted, and were ushered into the parlor, which they found brilliantly lighted up with a number of large wax tapers. The furniture of the room was exceedingly rich, but somewhat curious and old-fashioned. It was such, however, as to give ample proof of great wealth and comfort, and, by the heat of a large peat fire which blazed in the capacious hearth, it communicated that sense of warmth which was in complete accordance with the general aspect of the apartment. An old gray-haired butler, well-powdered, together with two or three other servants in rich livery, now entered, and the squire's first inquiry was after his daughter.

“John,” said he to the butler, “how is your mistress?” but, without waiting for a reply, he added, “here are twenty pounds, which you will hand to those fine fellows at the hall-door.”

“Pardon me, sir,” replied Reilly, “those men are my tenants, and the sons of my tenants: they have only performed towards you a duty, which common humanity would require at their hands towards the humblest person that lives.”

“They must accept it, Mr. Reilly—they must have it—they are humble men—and as it is only the reward of a kind office, I think it is justly due to them. Here, John, give them the money.”

It was in vain that Reilly interposed; the old squire would not listen to him. John was, accordingly, dispatched to the hall steps, but found that they had all gone.

At this moment our friend Toni Steeple met the butler, whom he approached with a kind of wild and uncouth anxiety.

“Aha! Mista John,” said he, “you tall man too, but not tall as Tom Steeple—ha, ha—you good man too, Mista John—give Tom bully dinners—Willy Reilly, Mista John, want to see Willy Reilly.”

“What do you want with him, Tom? he's engaged with the master.”

“Must see him, Mista John; stitch in time saves nine. Hicko! hicko! God's sake, Mista John: God's sake! Up dere;” and as he spoke he pointed towards the sky.

“Well, but what is your business, then? What have you to say to him? He's engaged, I tell you.”

Tom, apprehensive that he might not get an opportunity of communicating with Reilly, bolted in, and as the parlor door stood open, he saw him standing near the large chimney-piece.

“Willy Reilly!” he exclaimed in a voice that trembled with earnestness, “Willy Reilly, dere's news for you—for de squire too—bad news—God's sake come wid Tom—you tall too, Willy Reilly, but not tall as Tom is.”

“What is the matter, Tom?” asked Reilly; “you look alarmed.”

“God's sake, here, Willy Reilly,” replied the kind-hearted fool, “come wid Tom. Bad news.”

“Hallo!” exclaimed the squire, “what is the matter? Is this Tom Steeple? Go to the kitchen, Tom, and get one of your 'bully dinners'—my poor fellow—off with you—and a pot of beer, Tom.”

An expression of distress, probably heightened by his vague and unconscious sense of the squire's kindness, was depicted strongly on his countenance, and ended in a burst of tears.

“Ha!” exclaimed Reilly, “poor Tom, sir, was with us to-night on our duck-shooting excursion, and, now that I remember, remained behind us in the old ruin—and then he is in tears. What can this mean? I will go with you, Tom—excuse me, sir, for a few minutes—there can be no harm in hearing what he has to say.”

He accompanied the fool, with whom he remained for about six or eight minutes, after which he re-entered the parlor with a face which strove in vain to maintain its previous expression of ease and serenity.

“Well, Willy?” said the squire—“you see, by the way, I make an old acquaintance of you—”

“You do me honor, sir,” replied Reilly. “Well, what was this mighty matter? Not a fool's message, I hope? eh!”

“No, sir,” said the other, “but a matter of some importance.”

“John,” asked his master, as the butler entered, “did you give those worthy fellows the money?”

“No, your honor,” replied the other, they were gone before I went out.”

“Well, well,” replied his master, “it can't be helped. You will excuse me, Mr.—a—a—yes—Mr. Reilly—Willy—Willy—ay, that's it—you will excuse me, Willy, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is, neither of us is in a proper trim to go there—both travel-soiled, as they say—you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride—besides, I am quite too much fatigued to change my dress—John, some Madeira. I'm better than I was—but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John, tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A glass or two will do neither of us any harm, Willy, but a great deal of good. God bless me! what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my young friend and preserver—for as such I will ever look upon, you.”

“Sir,” replied Reilly, “I will not deny that the appearance of myself and my companions, in all probability, saved your life.”

“There was no probability in it, Willy—none at all; it would have been a dead certainty in every sense. My God! here, John—put it down here—fill for that gentleman and me—thank you, John—Willy,” he said as he took the glass in his trembling hand—“Willy—John, withdraw and send down, my daughter—Willy”—the old man looked at him, but was too full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room, and her father, laying down the glass, opened his arms, and said in a choking voice, “Helen, my daughter—my child—come to me;” and as she threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.

“Dear papa!” she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over, “what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?”

“Look at that noble young man,” he exclaimed, directing her attention to Reilly, who was still standing. “Look at him, my life, and observe him well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from the deadly aim of an assassin—from being murdered by O'Donnel, the Red Rapparee, in the lonely moors.”

Reilly, from the moment the far-famed Cooleen Dawn entered the room, heard not a syllable the old man had said. He was absorbed, entranced, struck with a sensation of wonder, surprise, agitation, joy, and confusion, all nearly at the same moment. Such a blaze of beauty, such elegance of person, such tenderness and feeling as chastened the radiance of her countenance into something that might be termed absolutely divine; such symmetry of form; such harmony of motion; such a seraphic being in the shape of woman, he had, in fact, never seen or dreamt of. She seemed as if surrounded by an atmosphere of light, of dignity, of goodness, of grace; but that which, above all, smote him, heart on, the moment was the spirit of tenderness and profound sensibility which seemed to predominate in her whole being. Why did his manly and intrepid heart palpitate? Why did such a strange confusion seize upon him? Why did the few words which she uttered in her father's arms fill his ears with a melody that charmed him out of his strength? Alas! is it necessary to ask? To those who do not understand this mystery, no explanation could be of any avail; and to those who do, none is necessary.

After her father had spoken, she raised herself from his arms, and assuming her full height—and she was tall—looked for a moment with her dark, deep, and terrible eyes upon Reilly, who in the meantime felt rapt, spell-bound, and stood, whilst his looks were riveted upon these irresistible orbs, as if he had been attracted by the influence of some delightful but supernatural power, under which he felt himself helpless.

That mutual gaze and that delightful moment! alas! how many hours of misery—of sorrow—of suffering—and of madness did they not occasion!

“Papa has imposed a task upon me, sir,” she said, advancing gracefully towards him, her complexion now pale, and again over-spread with deep blushes. “What do I say? Alas—a task! to thank the preserver of my father's life—I know not what I say: help me, sir, to papa—I am weak—I am—”

Reilly flew to her, and caught her in his arms just in time to prevent her from falling.

“My God!” exclaimed her father, getting to his feet, “what is the matter? I was wrong to mention the circumstance so abruptly; I ought to have prepared her for it. You are strong, Reilly, you are strong, and I am too feeble—carry her to the settee. There, God bless you!—God bless you!—she will soon recover. Helen! my child! my life! What, Helen! Come, dearest love, be a woman. I am safe, as you may see, dearest. I tell you I sustained no injury in life—not a hair of nay head was hurt; thanks to Mr. Reilly for it thanks to this gentleman. Oh! that's right, bravo, Helen—bravo, my girl! See that, Reilly, isn't she a glorious creature? She recovers now, to set her old loving father's heart at ease.”

The weakness, for it did not amount altogether to insensibility, was only of brief duration.

“Dear papa,” said she, raising herself, and withdrawing gently and modestly from Reilly's support, “I was unprepared for the account of this dreadful affair. Excuse me, sir; surely you will admit that a murderous attack on dear papa's life could not be listened to by his only child with indifference. But do let me know how it happened, papa.”

“You are not yet equal to it, darling; you are too much agitated.”

“I am equal to it now, papa! Pray, let me hear it, and how this gentleman—who will be kind enough to imagine my thanks, for, indeed, no language could express them—and how this gentleman was the means of saving you.”

“Perhaps, Miss Folliard,” said Reilly, “it would be better to defer the explanation until you shall have gained more strength.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she replied; “my anxiety to hear it will occasion me greater suffering, I am sure, than the knowledge of it, especially now that papa is safe.”

Reilly bowed in acquiescence, but not in consequence of her words; a glance as quick as the lightning, but full of entreaty and gratitude, and something like joy—for who does not know the many languages which the single glance of a lovely woman can speak?—such a glance, we say, accompanied her words, and at once won him to assent.

“Miss Folliard may be right, sir,” he observed, “and as the shock has passed, perhaps to make her briefly acquainted with the circumstances will rather relieve her.”

“Right,” said her father, “so it will, Willy, so it will, especially, thank God, as there has been no harm done. Look at this now! Get away, you saucy baggage! Your poor loving father has only just escaped being shot, and now he runs the risk of being strangled.”

“Dear, dear papa,” she said, “who could have thought of injuring you—you with your angry tongue, but your generous and charitable and noble heart?” and again she wound her exquisite and lovely arms about his neck and kissed him, whilst a fresh gush of tears came to her eyes.

“Come, Helen—come, love, be quiet now, or I shall not tell you any thing more about my rescue by that gallant young fellow standing before you.”

This was followed, on her part, by another glance at Reilly, and the glance was as speedily followed by a blush, and again a host of tumultuous emotions crowded around his heart.

The old man, placing her head upon his bosom, kissed and patted her, after which he related briefly, and in such a way as not, if possible, to excite her afresh, the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted. At the close, however, when he came to the part which Reilly had borne in the matter, and dwelt at more length on his intrepidity and spirit, and the energy of character and courage with which the quelled the terrible Rapparee, he was obliged to stop for a moment, and say,

“Why, Helen, what is the matter, my darling? Are you getting ill again? Your little heart is going at a gallop—bless me, how it pit-a-pats. There, now, you've heard it all—here I am, safe—and there stands the gentleman to whom, under God, we are both indebted for it. And now let us have dinner, darling, for we have not dined?”

Apologies on the part of Reilly, who really had dined, were flung to the winds by the old squire.

“What matter, Willy? what matter, man?—sit at the table, pick something—curse it, we won't eat you. Your dress? never mind your dress. I am sure Helen here will not find fault with it. Come, Helen, use your influence, love. And you, sir, Willy Reilly, give her your arm.” This he added in consequence of dinner having been announced while he spoke; and so they passed into the dining-room.

CHAPTER III.—Daring Attempt of the Red Rapparee

—Mysterious Disappearance of His Gang—The Avowal

We must go back a little. When Helen sank under the dreadful intelligence of the attempt made to assassinate her father, we stated at the time that she was not absolutely insensible; and this was the fact. Reilly, already enraptured by such wonderful grace and beauty as the highest flight of his imagination could never have conceived, when called upon by her father to carry her to the sofa, could scarcely credit his senses that such a lovely and precious burden should ever be entrusted to him, much less borne in his very arms. In order to prevent her from falling, he was literally obliged to throw them around her, and, to a certain extent, to press her—for the purpose of supporting her—against his heart, the pulsations of which were going at a tremendous speed. There was, in fact, something so soft, so pitiable, so beautiful, and at the same time so exquisitely pure and fragrant, in this lovely creature, as her head lay drooping on his shoulder, her pale cheek literally lying against his, that it is not at all to be wondered at that the beatings of his heart were accelerated to an unusual degree. Now she, from her position upon his bosom, necessarily felt this rapid action of its tenant; when, therefore, her father, after her recovery, on reciting for her the fearful events of the evening, and dwelling upon Reilly's determination and courage, expressed alarm at the palpitations of her heart, a glance passed between them which each, once and forever, understood. She had felt the agitation of him who had risked his life in defence of her father, for in this shape the old man had truly put it; and now she knew from her father's observation, as his arm lay upon her own, that the interest which his account of Reilly's chivalrous conduct throughout the whole affair had excited in it were discovered. In this case heart spoke to heart, and by the time they sat down to dinner, each felt conscious that their passion, brief as was the period of their acquaintance, had become, whether for good or evil, the uncontrollable destiny of their lives.

William Reilly was the descendant of an old and noble Irish family. His ancestors had gone through all the vicissitudes and trials, and been engaged in most of the civil broils and wars, which, in Ireland, had characterized the reign of Elizabeth. As we are not disposed to enter into a disquisition upon the history of that stormy period, unless to say that we believe in our souls both parties were equally savage and inhuman, and that there was not, literally, a toss up between them, we have only to add that Reilly's family, at least that branch of it to which he belonged, had been reduced by the ruin that resulted from the civil wars, and the confiscations peculiar to the times. His father had made a good deal of money abroad in business, but feeling that melancholy longing for his native soil, for the dark mountains and the green fields of his beloved country, he returned to it, and having taken a large farm of about a thousand acres, under a peculiar tenure, which we shall mention ere we close, he devoted himself to pasturage and agriculture. Old Reilly had been for some years dead, and his eldest son, William, was now not only the head of his immediate family, but of that great branch of it to which he belonged, although he neither claimed nor exercised the honor. In Reilly, many of those irreconcilable points of character, which scarcely ever meet in the disposition of any but an Irishman, were united. He was at once mild and impetuous; under peculiar circumstances, humble and unassuming, but in others, proud almost to a fault; a bitter foe to oppression in every sense, and to bigotry in every creed. He was highly educated, and as perfect a master of French, Spanish, and German, as he was of either English or Irish, both of which he spoke with equal fluency and purity. To his personal courage we need not make any further allusion. On many occasions it had been well tested on the Continent. He was an expert and unrivalled swordsman, and a first-rate shot, whether with the pistol or fowling-piece.

At every athletic exercise he was matchless; and one great cause of his extraordinary popularity among the peasantry was the pleasure he took in promoting the exercise of such manly sports among them. In his person he combined great strength with remarkable grace and ease. The wonderful symmetry of his form took away apparently from his size; but on looking at and examining him closely, you felt surprised at the astonishing fulness of his proportions and the prodigious muscular power which lay under such deceptive elegance. As for his features, they were replete with that manly expression which changes with, and becomes a candid exponent of, every feeling that influences the heart. His mouth was fine, and his full red lips exquisitely chiselled; his chin was full of firmness; and his large dark eyes, though soft, mellow, and insinuating, had yet a sparkle in them that gave evidence of a fiery spirit when provoked, as well as of a high sense of self-respect and honor. His complexion was slightly bronzed by residence in continental climates, a circumstance that gave a warmth and mellowness to his features, which, when taken into consideration with his black, clustering locks, and the snowy whiteness of his forehead, placed him in the very highest order of handsome men.

Such was our hero, the fame of whose personal beauty, as well as that of the ever-memorable Cooleen Bawn, is yet a tradition in the country.

On this occasion the dinner-party consisted only of the squire, his daughter, and Reilly. The old man, on reflecting that he was now safe, felt his spirits revive apace. His habits of life were jolly and convivial, but not actually intemperate, although it must be admitted that on some occasions he got into the debatable ground. To those who did not know him, and who were acquainted through common report only with his unmitigated abuse of Popery, he was looked upon as an oppressive and overbearing tyrant, who would enforce, to the furthest possible stretch of severity, the penal enactments then in existence against Roman Catholics. And this, indeed, was true, so far as any one was concerned from whom he imagined himself to have received an injury; against such he was a vindictive tyrant, and a most implacable persecutor. By many, on the other hand, he was considered as an eccentric man, with a weak head, but a heart that often set all his anti-Catholic prejudices at complete defiance.

At dinner the squire had most of the conversation to himself, his loquacity and good-humor having been very much improved by a few glasses of his rich old Madeira. His daughter, on the other hand, seemed frequently in a state of abstraction, and, on more than one occasion, found herself incapable of answering several questions which he put to her. Ever and anon the timid, blushing glance was directed at Reilly, by whom it was returned with a significance that went directly to her heart. Both, in fact, appeared to be influenced by some secret train of thought that seemed quite at variance with the old gentleman's garrulity.

“Well,” said he, “here we are, thank God, all safe; and it is to you, Willy, we owe it. Come, man, take off your wine. Isn't he a fine young fellow, Helen?”

Helen's heart, at the moment, had followed her eyes, and she did not hear him.

“Hello! what the deuce! By the banks of the Boyne, I believe the girl has lost her hearing. I say, Helen, isn't Willy Reilly here, that prevented you from being an orphan, a fine young fellow?”

A sudden rosy blush suffused her whole neck and face on hearing this blunt and inconsiderate question.

“What, darling, have you not heard me?”

“If Mr. Reilly were not present, papa, I might give an opinion on that subject; but I trust you will excuse me now.”

“Well, I suppose so; there's no getting women to speak to the point. At all events, I would give more than I'll mention that Sir Hobert Whitecraft was as good-looking a specimen of a man; I'll engage, if he was, you would have no objection to say yes, my girl.”

“I look to the disposition, papa, to the moral feelings and principles, more than to the person.

“Well, Helen, that's right too—all right, darling, and on that account Sir Robert must and ought to be a favorite. He is not yet forty, and for this he is himself my authority, and forty is the prime of life; yet, with an immense fortune and strong temptations, he has never launched out into a single act of imprudence or folly. No, Helen, he never sowed a peck of wild oats in his life. He is, on the contrary, sober, grave, silent—a little too much so, by the way—cautious, prudent, and saving. No man knows the value of money better, nor can contrive to make it go further. Then, as for managing a bargain—upon my soul, I don't think he treated me well, though, in the swop of 'Hop-and-go-constant' against my precious bit of blood, 'Pat the Spanker.' He made me pay him twenty-five pounds boot for an old—But you shall see him, Reilly, you shall see him, Willy, and if ever there was a greater take in—you needn't smile, He en, nor look at Willy. By the good King William that saved us from Pope, and—ahem—I beg pardon, Willy, but, upon my soul, he took me completely in. I say, I shall show you 'Hop-and-go-constant', and when you see him you'll admit the 'Hop,' but the devil a bit you will find of the 'Go-constant.'”

“I suppose the gentleman's personal appearance, sir,” observed Reilly, glancing at Miss Folliard, “is equal to his other qualities.”

“Why—a—ye-s. He's tall and thin and serious, with something about him, say, of a philosopher. Isn't that true, Helen?”

“Perfectly, papa,” she replied, with a smile of arch humor, which, to Reilly, placed her character in a new light.

“Perfectly true, papa, so far as you have gone; but I trust you will finish the portrait for Mr. Reilly.”

“Well, then, I will. Where was I? Oh, yes—tall, thin, and serious; like a philosopher. I'll go next to the shoulders, because Helen seems to like them—they are a little round or so. I, myself, wish to goodness they were somewhat straighter, but Helen says the curve is delightful, being what painters and glaziers call the line of beauty.”

A sweet light laugh, that rang with the melody of a musical bell, broke from Helen at this part of the description, in which, to tell the truth, she was joined by Reilly. The old man himself, from sheer happiness and good-humor, joined them both, though utterly ignorant of the cause of their mirth.

“Aye, aye,” he exclaimed, “you may laugh—by the great Boyne, I knew I would make you laugh. Well, I'll go on; his complexion is of a—a—no matter—of a good standing color, at all events; his nose, I grant you, is as thin, and much of the same color, as pasteboard, but as a set-off to that it's a thorough Williamite. Isn't that true, Helen?”

“Yes, papa; but I think King William's nose was the worst feature in his face, although that certainly cannot be said of Sir Robert.”

“Do you hear that, Reilly? I wish Sir Robert heard it, but I'll tell him—there's a compliment, Helen—you're a good girl—thank you, Helen.”

Helen's face was now radiant with mirthful enjoyment, whilst at the same time Reilly could perceive that from time to time a deep unconscious sigh would escape from her, such a sigh as induced him to infer that some hidden care was at work with her heart. This he at once imputed to her father's determination to force her into a marriage with the worthy baronet, whom in his simplicity he was so ludicrously describing.

“Proceed, papa, and finish as you have begun it.”

“I will, to oblige and gratify you, Helen. He is a little close about the knees, Mr. Reilly—a little close about the knees, Willy.”

“And about the heart, papa,” added his daughter, who, for the life of her, could not restrain the observation.

“It's no fault to know the value of money, my dear child. However, let me go on—close about the knees, but that's a proof of strength, because they support one another: every one knows that.”

“But his arms, papa?”

“You see, Reilly, you see, Willy,” said the squire, nodding in the direction of his daughter, “not a bad sign that, and yet she pretends not to care about him. She is gratified, evidently. Ah, Helen, Helen! it's hard to know women.”

“But his arms, papa?”

“Well, then, I wish to goodness you would allow me to skip that part of the subject—they are an awful length, Willy, I grant. I allow the fact, it cannot be denied, they are of an awful length.”

“It will give him the greater advantage in over-reaching, papa.”

“Well, as to his arms, upon my soul Willy, I know no more what to do with them—”

“Than he does himself, papa.”

“Just so, Helen; they hang about him like those of a skeleton on wires; but, on the other hand, he has a neck that always betokens true blood, long and thin like that of a racer. Altogether he's a devilish interesting man, steady, prudent, and sober. I never saw him drink a third glass of—”

“In the meantime, papa,” observed Helen, “in the enthusiasm of your description you are neglecting Mr. Reilly.”

Ah, love, love! in how many minute points can you make yourself understood!

“By the great William, and so I am. Come, Willy, help yourself”—and he pushed the bottle towards him as he spoke.

And why, gentle reader, did Reilly fill his glass on that particular occasion until it became literally a brimmer? We know—but if you are ignorant of it we simply beg you to remain so; and why, on putting the glass to his lips, did his large dark eyes rest upon her with that deep and melting glance? Why, too, was that glance returned with the quickness of thought before her lids dropped, and the conscious blush suffused her face? The solution of this we must also leave to your own ingenuity.

“Well,” proceeded the squire, “steady, prudent, sober—of a fine old family, and with an estate of twelve thousand a year—what do you think of that, Willy? Isn't she a fortunate girl?”

“Taking his virtues and very agreeable person into consideration, sir, I think so,” replied Reilly in a tone of slight sarcasm, which was only calculated to reach one of his audience.

“You hear that, Helen—you hear what Mr. Reilly—what Willy-says. The fact is, I'll call you nothing but Willy in future, Willy—you hear what he says, darling?”

“Indeed I do, papa—and understand it perfectly.”

“That's my girl. Twelve thousand a year—and has money lent out at every rate of interest from six per cent. up.”

“And yet I cannot consider him as interesting on that account, papa.”

“You do, Helen—nonsense, my love—you do, I tell you—it's all make-believe when you speak to the contrary—don't you call the curve on his shoulders the line of beauty? Come—come—you know I only want to make you happy.”

“It is time, papa, that I should withdraw,” she replied, rising.

Reilly rose to open the door.

“Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa,” she added, putting her snowy arms about his neck and kissing him tenderly. “I know,” she added, “that the great object of your life is to make your Cooleen Bawn happy—and in doing so, dear papa—there now is another kiss for you—a little bribe, papa—in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night.”

“Good-night, my treasure.”

During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she turned to him and said, “Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service—the service indeed so important that no language could find expression for it—which you have rendered to dear papa, and to me. But, Mr. Reilly, I pray you do not think me ungrateful, or insensible, for, indeed, I am neither. Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot express it.”

“If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have saved, and if it were not that your happiness was so deeply involved in it,” replied Reilly, “I would say that you overrate what I have done this evening. But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of my services, and I thank heaven for having made me the humble instrument of saving your father's life, not only for his own sake, Miss Folliard, but for yours. I now feel a double debt of gratitude to heaven for it.”

The Cooleen Bawn did not speak, but the tears ran down her cheeks. “Good-night, sir,” she said. “I am utterly incapable of thanking you as you deserve, and as I ought to thank you. Good-night!”

She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke. Reilly took it in his, and by some voluntary impulse he could not avoid giving it a certain degree of pressure. The fact is, it was such a hand—so white—so small—so soft—so warm—so provocative of a squeeze—that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor wherefore, at least he thought so at the time; that is to say, if he were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing. But heaven and earth! Was it true! No delusion? No dream? The pressure returned! the slightest, the most gentle, the most delicate pressure—the barely perceptible pressure! Yes! it was beyond all doubt; for although the act itself was light as delicacy and modesty could make it, yet the spirit—the lightening spirit—which it shot into his bounding and enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken.

As she was running up the stairs she returned, however, and again approaching her father, said—whilst Reilly could observe that her cheek was flushed with a feeling that seemed to resemble ecstasy—“Papa,” said she, “what a stupid girl I am! I scarcely know what I am saying or doing.”

“By the great Boyne,” replied her father, “I'll describe him to you every night in the week. I knew the curve—the line of beauty—would get into your head; but what is it, darling?”

“Will you and Mr. Reilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shall I send it down to you?”

“I am too comfortable in my easy chair, dear Helen: no, send it down.”

“After the shock you have received, papa, perhaps you might wish to have it from the hand of your own Cooleen Bawn?”

As the old man turned his eyes upon her they literally danced with delight. “Ah, Willy!” said he, “is it any wonder I should love her?”

“I have often heard,” replied Reilly, “that it is impossible to know her, and not to love her. I now believe it.”

“Thank you, Reilly; thank you, Willy; shake hands. Come, Helen, shake hands with him. That's a compliment. Shake hands with him, darling. There, now, that's all right. Yes, my love, by all means, come down and give us tea here.”

Innocent old man—the die is now irrevocably cast! That mutual pressure, and that mutual glance. Alas! alas! how strange and incomprehensible is human destiny!

After she had gone upstairs the old man said, “You see, Willy, how my heart and soul are in that angelic creature. The great object, the great delight of her life, is to anticipate all my wants, to study whatever is agreeable to me—in fact, to make me happy. And she succeeds. Every thing she does pleases me. By the grave of Schomberg, she's beyond all price. It is true we never had a baronet in the family, and it would gratify me to hear her called Lady Whitecraft; still, I say, I don't care for rank or ambition; nor would I sacrifice my child's happiness to either. And, between you and me, if she declines to have him, she shan't, thats all that's to be said about it. He's quite round in the shoulders; and yet so inconsistent are women that she calls a protuberance that resembles the letter C the line of beauty. Then again he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant;' and you know yourself, Willy, that no person likes to be bit, especially by the man he intends for his son-in-law. If he gives me the bite before marriage, what would he not do after it?”

“This, sir, is a subject,” replied Reilly, “on which I must decline to give an opinion; but I think that no father should sacrifice the happiness of his daughter to his own inclinations. However, setting this matter aside, I have something of deep importance to mention to you.”

“To me! Good heavens! What is it?”

“The Red Rapparee, sir, has formed a plan to rob, possibly to murder, you, and what is worse—”

“Worse! Why, what the deuce—worse! Why, what could be worse?”

“The dishonor of your daughter. It is his intention to carry her off to the mountains; but pardon me, I cannot bear to dwell upon the diabolical project.”

The old man fell back, pale, and almost insensible, in his chair.

“Do not be alarmed, sir,” proceeded Keilly, “he will be disappointed. I have taken care of that.”

“But, Mr. Reilly, what—how—for heaven's sake tell me what you know about it. Are you sure of this? How did you come to hear of it? Tell me—tell me every thing about it! We must prepare to receive the villains—we must instantly get assistance. My child—my life—my Helen, to fall into the hands of this monster!”

“Hear me, sir,” said Reilly, “hear me, and you will perceive I have taken measures to frustrate all his designs, and to have him a prisoner before to-morrow's sun arises.”

He then related to him the plan laid by the Red Rapparee, as overheard by Tom Steeple, and as it was communicated to himself by the same individual subsequently, after which he proceeded:

“The fact is, sir, I have sent the poor fool, who is both faithful and trustworthy, to summon here forty or fifty of my laborers and tenants. They must be placed in the out-houses, and whatever arms and ammunition you can spare, in addition to the weapons which they shall bring along with them, must be made available. I sent orders that they should be here about nine o'clock. I, myself, will remain in this house, and you may rest assured that your life, your property, and your child shall be all safe. I know the strength of the ruffian's band; it only consists of about twelve men, or rather twelve devils, but he and they will find themselves mistaken.”

Before Miss Folliard came down to make tea, Reilly had summoned the servants, and given them instructions as to their conduct during the expected attack. Having arranged this, he went to the yard, and found a large body of his tenants armed with such rude weapons as they could procure; for, at this period, it was a felony for a Roman Catholic to have or carry arms at all. The old squire, however, was well provided in that respect, and, accordingly, such as could be spared from the house were distributed among them. Mr. Folliard himself felt his spirit animated by a sense of the danger, and bustled about with uncommon energy and activity, considering what he had suffered in the course of the evening. At all events, they both resolved to conceal the matter from Helen till the last moment, in order to spare her the terror and alarm which she must necessarily feel on hearing of the contemplated violence. At tea, however, she could not avoid observing that something had disturbed her father, who, from his naturally impetuous character, ejaculated, from time to time, “The bloodthirsty scoundrel!—murdering ruffian! We shall hang him, though; we can hang him for the conspiracy. Would the fool's, Tom Steeples', evidence be taken, do you think?”

“I fear not, sir,” replied Reilly. “In the meantime, don't think of it, don't further distress yourself about it.”

“To think of attacking my house, though; and if it were only I myself that—however, we are prepared, that's one comfort; we are prepared, and let them—hem!—Helen, my darling, now that we've had our tea, will you retire to your own room. I wish to talk to Mr. Reilly here, on a particular and important subject, in which you yourself are deeply concerned. Withdraw, my love, but don't go to bed until I see you again.”

Helen went upstairs with a light foot and a bounding heart. A certain hope, like a dream of far-off and unexpected happiness, rushed into and filled her bosom with a crowd of sensations so delicious that, on reaching her own room, she felt completely overpowered by them, and was only relieved by a burst of tears. There was now but one image before her imagination, but one image impressed upon her pure and fervent heart; that image was the first that love had ever stamped there, and the last that suffering, sorrow, madness, and death were ever able to tear from it.

When the night had advanced to the usual hour for retiring to rest, it was deemed necessary to make Helen acquainted with the meditated outrage, in order to prevent the consequences of a nocturnal alarm for which she might be altogether unprepared. This was accordingly done, and her natural terrors were soothed and combated by Reilly and her father, who succeeded in reviving her courage, and in enabling her to contemplate what was to happen with tolerable composure.

Until about the hour of two o'clock every thing regained silent. Nobody went to bed—the male servants were all prepared—the females, some in tears, and others sustaining and comforting those who were more feeble-hearted. Miss Folliard was in her own room, dressed. At about half past two she heard a stealthy foot, and having extinguished the light in her apartment, with great presence of mind she rang the bell, whilst at the same moment her door was broken in, and a man, as she knew by his step, entered. In the meantime the house was alarmed; the man having hastily projected his arms about in several directions, as if searching for her, instantly retreated, a scuffle was heard outside on the lobby, and when lights and assistance appeared, there were found eight or ten men variously armed, all of whom proved to be a portion of the guard selected by Reilly to protect the house and family. These men maintained that they had seen the Red Rapparee on the roof of the house, through which he had descended, and that having procured a ladder from the farmyard, they entered a back window, at a distance of about forty feet from the ground, in hope of securing his person—that they came in contact with some powerful man in the dark, who disappeared from among them—but by what means he had contrived to escape they could not guess. This was the substance of all they knew or understood upon the subject.

The whole house was immediately and thoroughly searched, and no trace of him could be found until they came to the skylight, which was discovered to be opened—wrenched off the hinges—and lying on the roof at a distance of two or three yards from its place.

It soon became evident that the Rapparee and his party had taken the alarm. In an instant those who were outside awaiting to pounce upon them in the moment of attack got orders to scour the neighborhood, and if possible to secure the Rapparee at every risk; and as an inducement the squire himself offered to pay the sum of five hundred pounds to any one who should bring him to Corbo Castle, which was the name of his residence. This was accordingly attempted, the country far and wide was searched, pursuit given in every direction, but all to no purpose. Not only was the failure complete, but, what was still more unaccountable and mysterious, no single mark or trace of them could be found. This escape, however, did not much surprise the inhabitants of the country at large, as it was only in keeping with many of a far more difficult character which the Rapparee had often effected. The only cause to which it could be ascribed was the supposed fact of his having taken such admirable precautions against surprise as enabled his gang to disappear upon a preconcerted plan the moment the friendly guards were discovered, whilst he himself daringly attempted to secure the squire's cash and his daughter.