The applause which followed the song had barely ceased, when a low whistle was heard from outside.

“Open!” cried the captain of the Rapparees.

The barrier closing the entrance to the cave was removed, and a man covered with perspiration, and almost fainting for want of breath, rushed in.

“Two troops of infantry left Adamstown Barracks three hours ago. Shaun-na-cappal was with them.”

“Shaun-na-cappal!”

“Yes! They made for the red lanes, and ought to be in the glen by this.”

Another low whistle was heard, when the door was again opened, and a lad burst in.

“The sojers are in the glen, captain, and the clouds are going and the moon is coming.”

“Well, my lads,” said the captain, “our retreat is discovered. They think they will catch us here like rats in a trap. Perhaps we can set one for them. Bar the entrance. Pile up everything; make it as firm as you can.”

The men set to work with a will, and their task was soon completed. The captain, having surveyed it, said:

“That will do, men. They won’t burst in that in a hurry. We have a means of escape, which I have hitherto kept to myself. Get a few picks and loosen the hearth stone. That will do. Lift it up now, boys, and leave it in the centre of the floor.”

The men did as they were bidden, and when the stone had been set down, the captain, catching up one of the flaming brands, held it over the opening discovered by the removal of the hearth stone. It was large enough to allow a man to go down through it.

“Nine or ten steps,” said the captain, “lead to a narrow passage, through which by stooping a man can make his way. It is not more than fifty yards long. The outlet is blocked by a bank of earth; but just there the passage is wide and high enough to allow two men to stand abreast and erect. A hole can easily be cut or dug through this bank.

“You, O’Donovan,” he said, turning sharply to one of the Rapparees, “will know, once you are outside, where you are—close to the stream that runs down to the glen. Take a dozen men with you, turn to the left, and five minutes will bring you to the heathery height above the left of the track leading to this cave. And you, Mullooney,” said the captain to the singer of “The Rapparees,” “take a score of men with you, and make for the right. You’ll have a bit of climbing at first, but in ten minutes you should be able to get down to the right bank of the track. Be all of you as wary as foxes, and let not a sound escape from any of you, even if you see the enemy coming right up to the door of the cave, and none of you are to fire a shot until you see a flaming brand flung out by us who will remain here to defend the cave against assault, but when you see the lighted brand, blaze away! If they waver, down on them like thunderbolts. When you beat them off, you will find us here, if not, we shall be at the sally gap two hours from this. Now go!”

“Would you like to go or stay, Frank?” said the captain, turning to me.

“I should like to go,” I replied.

“All right, my lad. Look to him, O’Donnell, and take this Frank,” said he, handing me a musket, “it has never missed fire.”

The two bodies of men descended in single file. The air of the passage was remarkably pure, and we made our way without difficulty. Then there was a halt of a few minutes while the foremost men were forcing a passage. One by one we passed out, and found ourselves knee-deep in the heather. A brawling stream ran down a few feet below us. O’Donovan and his men crept along by the stream. We, with O’Donnell at our head, clambered up through the heather, and in about ten minutes we were lying snugly concealed within fifteen yards of the rock in which was the cave entrance.

We were lying at right angles to it, and about twelve feet above the open space in front of the rock. It was from this very height I had fallen an hour before. Opposite us the ground was about the same elevation as ours, and in the cover of the heather which crowned it, O’Donovan and his men were to ensconce themselves.

The moon was shining, and for about twenty yards we had a full view of the pathway leading to the cave. At that distance it took a sharp turn. I had barely time to make these observations, when we saw the moonlight glint on the level arms of the advancing troops. In a few seconds they were against the face of the rock. With the soldiers was a tall, wiry-looking man, dressed in a long frieze coat that went to his heels.

“Where is the entrance?” cried the captain of the troops. “I can find none.”

“There,” came the answer in a hoarse whisper.

“There, behind those furze bushes.”

“Come, my lads,” said the captain, “clear away those bushes.”

The soldiers began to work. Our fingers were impatient. The desire to fire grew upon me, when suddenly from the cave came a flash, a report, and the tall man in the frieze coat fell without a moan. Another shot and another and two soldiers were struck down.

“Quick, my lads, quick! Bring a canister, and we’ll blow the door in or out.”

The soldiers advanced with the canister, and were about to set it down at the cave’s mouth. Only then was hurled out the red brand, the signal for firing.

We poured a volley into their midst, O’Donovan’s men firing at the same time, while single firing was kept up from the cave.

The troops were staggered; their captain was shot dead. They paused for a moment; then, as they turned to run, a second volley laid low more than half their number.

“Down on them!” cried O’Donnell.

We hurled ourselves down into the path. O’Donovan’s men as eager, but with a view to cutting off all hope of retreat, had rushed down on the other side so as to meet them retreating. Caught between the two forces, the soldiers clubbed their muskets and fought desperately. Not more than four or five escaped. Desisting from the pursuit, we returned to the cave.

Our captain and the men with him had, in the meantime, removed the barrier and were standing outside. We were all curious to see the opening through which the captain fired, and through which he threw the lighted brand. No one except himself had known of it. It was a fissure in the rock which had been closed up with clay and moss, and which the captain, when we left the cave, dug out with a bayonet.

In the meantime some of our men were examining the fallen enemy, and found five that were wounded only. These were borne into the cave and placed under the charge of the old woman, the captain saying that a large body of troops were sure to come out next day who would take them away.

There was one object that attracted universal attention—the corpse of Shaun-na-cappal. He had fallen on his back; a bullet had pierced his throat; from the round hole the blood was still flowing. His mouth grinned horribly, and we felt it a relief when a dark cloud covered the moon, which had been shining down on the upturned face and open eyes. The captain having given his orders, and having arranged for the next meeting with his followers they dispersed, and he, having given some instructions to Moira with regard to the wounded, set out, taking me along with him. We found shelter that night in a little shebeen about two miles away from the cave.

And that is the story of my first night with the Rapparees.

“WORSE THAN CREMONA.”

He was alone. The room in which he was sitting looked in the direction of the camp of the allies, then besieging Landau, and from it a good view could be had of the fortress. The siege had lasted longer than had been anticipated, and no one chafed more at the delay than the subject of our sketch. His one desire was to be for ever rushing from battlefield to battlefield. Rapid in action as in decision, he found the time hang heavily on his hands. While the siege was in progress he had been considering the possibility of engaging in some other enterprise which might redound to the honour of his Emperor, and at the same time add to his own glory.

He pushed the maps away from him, rose from his chair, and taking a large pinch of snuff, moved towards the window and stood a while watching the operations of the siege. A knock at the door attracted his attention.

“Enter!”

“The Governor of Freiburg awaits the pleasure of your Highness,” said the person who entered, evidently an officer of rank, who was, in fact, an aide-de-camp to his Highness.

“I am ready to see him,” was the reply.

His Highness took another heavy pinch of snuff.

A tall, military looking man, somewhat over middle age, and of resolute countenance, entered. He made a low bow and then drew himself erect.

“Be seated,” said his Highness, as he himself resumed his chair. The Governor of Freiburg obeyed.

“You bring news of Brissach, Governor?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Your informant?”

“My valet, your Highness. He has been a soldier, and possesses a keen power of observation. He succeeded in getting into the Old Town several times on the pretence of purchasing wines. The French are busy strengthening the fortifications, but discipline is lax, and as there are over twelve hundred labourers employed in the works there is considerable disorder in the town.”

“Good. What is the strength of the garrison?”

“Only four battalions, your Highness, and six independent companies.”

“Any Irish among them?” and his Highness again had recourse to his snuff-box.

“None, sir.”

“Sure?”

“Certain, your Highness.”

“So much the better. Those fighting devils upset the best laid plans, as I learned to my cost at Cremona. And pardieu, they can fight!” And Prince Eugene of Savoy, for it was he, shook his head, causing some of the snuff he was taking to fall down, and increase the stain on his doublet.

“But, let me see. Four battalions and six independent companies. What time are the gates open in the morning?”

“At daybreak, your Highness. Many of the labourers live outside the town.”

Prince Eugene remained silent for a few moments.

“Then,” he said, as he rapped the lid of his snuff-box, “you should be able to surprise Brissach Old Town. We may also make an attempt on the New Town. You will command the expedition—” a slight flush of pleasure exhibited itself on the Governors face—“I shall place at your disposal 4,000 picked men from the German and Swiss infantry, and 100 cavalry; with that force you should be able to possess yourself of Old Brissach and hold it.”

The Governor of Freiburg bowed as if in assent, but could not help remembering that only the year before, King Louis of France had employed 40,000 men and 160 guns in the reduction of the two Brissachs.

“You shall have under you,” continued the Prince, dabbing at the same time his nostrils with snuff, “some capable officers, including the Lieutenant-Colonel of the Regiment of Bayreuth and the Lieutenant-Colonel of the Regiment of Osnabruck, who shall be Governor of the town.”

“He regards it as good as taken,” thought the Governor, and he did not feel too happy at the thought. There is so much chance in war.

“These mornings lend themselves to such an enterprise,” continued the Prince, again resorting to the snuff-box, for it had become a habit with him to punctuate, as it were, his sentences with a pinch of snuff. “The fog lies low upon the river until some hours after sunrise.”

“He thinks of everything,” said the Governor to himself.

“And,” added the Prince, “you will hear from me by to-morrow as to the time for your attempt.”

The Governor of Freiburg accepted this as a dismissal, and saluting Prince Eugene, passed from the room.

The morning of the 10th of November was fixed for the attempt on the town. That day had been selected because it had come to the ears of the Governor of Freiburg, whom we know was to command the expedition, that a large quantity of hay requiring many carts to convey it, was to be brought into the magazine at Brissach. The hay was to be coming from a considerable distance, and the carters in charge would travel all night, and endeavour to arrive at the town as soon as, if not earlier than, the gates would be opened.

That this was their intention the Governor, who was well served by his spies, had also learned. The opportunity was too good to be lost. Over 50 waggons had been requisitioned, and each would be attended by at least two peasants. The entering of so many waggons into the town would necessarily cause some distraction, and if it were possible, under the cover of darkness, to follow close on them, the Germans and Swiss, might hope to pour in after them without let or hindrance of any kind, as discipline had become very much relaxed.

When the day came, fortune proved even kinder than the Governor of Freiburg had hoped. A thick, dark fog was over the river, and hung like a pall over the two Brissachs, so that those in the new town, on the French bank of the Rhine, could not see their neighbours on the German bank, nor could their neighbours see them. And it was through this fog, that what might be called the advance guard of the waggons made their way into the town.

It was then eight o’clock in the morning. The reveille had sounded long before. The garrison were preparing for breakfast, and the labourers had gone to work in the fortifications. There were, however, owing to the thick fog, but few people about the streets, and the sentries at the gate were watching, with no very keen interest, the lumbering hay waggons passing in.

Several of the peasants who had followed them, other than the drivers, stood inside the gates in an aimless fashion as if their task had been completed.

Attracted by the rumble of the carts, the Overseer of the workmen on the fortifications, a tall, brawny looking fellow, came towards the gate, and seeing the group of idle peasants mistook them for some of his labourers, and asked them why they were not at work. He received no answer. He then addressed himself particularly to one who was a little in advance of the others, and who had a keen eye and appeared to be a man of intelligence.

“Why are you not at work?”

The man accosted, did not at once answer, and the Overseer had to step back and make way for an incoming waggon.

“Why are you not at work, I say?” he repeated angrily.

Still no answer, and the Overseer thought he detected in the faces of the other peasants something like a grin. His temper at the best was not angelic, and this suspicion proved too much for him.

“By G——, I’ll teach you how to talk,” and before the astonished peasant could lift a hand to defend himself, down came the blackthorn on his shoulders with a rapidity that showed that the Overseer was well versed in the argumentum baculinum. Instead of answering, the peasant rushed to the nearest hay waggon, and crying out some word in German, thrust his hand into the hay, drew out a loaded musket, aimed at the Overseer, fired point blank and missed. A blow of the blackthorn sent the peasant down. In the meantime others of the peasants had crowded round the Overseer, who, while with every blow he felled an assailant, kept crying, “To arms, to arms!”

But suddenly the hay was swept from the waggons, and from each a number of armed men sprang out. The Overseer, unable to withstand so many foes, having succeeded in getting round one of the carts, made a rush for the sedge on the river.

The enemy, in an excess of folly, fired at the sedge, and the bullets whizzed through it, cutting it just above his head, but the report of the muskets was heard through the town, and the whole garrison turned out. A rush was made for the gate, inside of which there were now some hundreds of the enemy. The Overseer, seeing the troops coming out, quitted his retreat and joined them, and threw himself into the midst of the desperate hand-to-hand conflict, in which both sides were at once engaged. Many a stout German went down with a cracked skull before the wielder of the blackthorn. At length, after a stubborn resistance, the enemy were driven out and pursued some distance, the Governor of Freiburg covering their retreat with the cavalry. They left behind them nearly two hundred dead, including the Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment of Osanbruch and the Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment of Bayreuth, and several majors and captains.

Bad news travels fast, but the Governor of Freiburg determined that he himself would be the bearer of it to the Prince. It was an unpleasant task, but he thought it better that he should be the first to carry it, so that rumour might have no time to make out a worse case against him than his conduct of the affair warranted.

On the following day he found the Prince alone, as on the former occasion, and in the same apartment.

“You have taken Brissach?” said the Prince, with an eager glance.

The Governor flushed.

“After a stubborn fight we were driven out, your Highness.”

“You were inside the gate?”

“Yes.”

“Details. Briefly!” And the Prince rapped the lid of his snuff-box sharply.

The Governor told what the reader has already learned.

Several times during the brief narrative the Prince’s thumb, dipped into the box, and small showers of snuff fell on his doublet.

“How many were inside the gate when the rascal with the stick came up?”

“About forty, your Highness.”

“And they were unable to disarm him, or take him without firing and raising the garrison?”

The Governor did not reply.

“Who was the idiot who fired the first shot?”

“The Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment of Bayreuth.”

The Prince looked hard at the Governor, who almost shrank before the fierce gaze.

“Where is he?”

“Dead, your Highness. He fell fighting.”

“The fate was too good for him.”

The Prince made a gesture of dismissal. The Governor bowed, and was on the point of withdrawing.

“Stay,” said the Prince. “Did you chance to hear the name of the prodigy whose single blackthorn foiled the attempt made by four thousand of the best troops in the Imperial service?”

“He is called, your Highness, the Sieur O’Byrne.”

“O’Byrne! O’Byrne! an Irishman!” exclaimed the Prince.

The Governor bowed.

“But you told me there were no Irishmen in Brissach.”

“There was only one.”

“Only one!” The Prince arrested his thumb as he was lifting up a pinch of snuff. He made a gesture of dismissal and the Governor retired.

“Only one,” the Prince repeated when he was alone. “If there had been a hundred it is more than probable the Governor of Freiburg would never have found his way back from Brissach.”

The Prince made up for his interrupted pinch, and dabbed at both nostrils as he moved to the window. The cannonade, which had been going on for some hours, had ceased, but a puff of smoke from the trenches, followed by a report, showed that the firing was kept up in a desultory fashion. The Prince’s eyes rested for a second on the portrait of the Emperor on his snuff-box. “The loss of Brissach,” he said half aloud, “was a severe blow to the Emperor. I had recovered it for him if it were not for that infernal Irishman with his blackthorn. Pardieu, but it is worse than Cremona!” And the Prince, of whom it has been written that his “passion was for glory and his appetite for snuff,” flicking up the lid of the precious box, scooped up between finger and thumb what was left, and as he sniffed the fragrant but strong powder, “I must get more snuff,” he said.

MAURYA NA GLEANNA.

“I wasn’t more nor nine or ten years old when I first saw Maurya na Gleanna, and although I’m over seventy years now I can see her face just as if she was standing there foreninst me. She would have been very tall if it were not for a stoop in her shoulders. Her face was rather long, her cheeks shrunken and almost yellow. Her hair (and there was plenty of it) was tied up in a wisp at the back of her head, and was gray almost to whiteness, while her eyebrows were as dark as the night. Her lips were full and might have once been red, but the colour had left them and they looked dry and blanched. Her eyes were as black as a coal with a red heart that would blaze up for a moment and then become dull.

“She had come into the glen many years before. She had wandered into it of a wild March morning—a Patrick’s morning, too, it was—when the snow lay deep in the glen, and you could hardly see a bit of green for miles around.

“The snow was in a drift against Jack M’Guinness’s door when she knocked at it just after the break of day. There was hardly one astir in the house at the time, but when the knock was repeated the servant-man got up and went to the door and opened it; before he could question the woman he saw standing outside, she had stepped across the threshold.

“Her hair was then, so they afterwards told me, as white as when I first saw her, but there was some colour in her cheeks, nor had it left her lips. A kerchief covered her head, and a shawl thrown over her shoulders was fastened above her breast by a skewer that had been beaten into the semblance of a pike, and which served to keep in its place a bunch of shamrocks. Her head-dress and shoulders were thickly coated with snow, which clung to her dress that stopped short at her ankles. Her feet were bare.

“The man said afterwards that the blaze of her eyes nearly blinded him, and took the word out of his mouth.

“She laid her left hand upon his shoulder, and touching the shamrock with one of the fingers of her right hand, she whispered in a tone suggestive of mystery:

“‘Is there green upon your cape?’

“’Twas then a few years after the troubles, but the servant boy had been one of the United men, and had fought at Ballinahinch. He knew the words of the rebel song, but as he didn’t reply at once, she whispered again:

“‘Is there green upon your cape?’

“For answer he took her hand, while a strange feeling came over him that she was something ‘uncanny,’ and he gave her the ‘grip’ that showed he was a United man. She returned it.

“‘Who is there?’ cried Jack M’Guinness, who came out of his room into the kitchen, having heard the door open.

“He started back a step when he saw the blazing eyes and tall figure (for the stoop had not fallen on her then).

“‘Is there green upon your cape?’ she asked him eagerly, almost feverishly.

“‘Ah, my poor woman, the day is over I’m afeard,’ he said softly, for, with a keener perception than that of the servant boy, he saw the poor creature was demented.

“‘Over! over!’ she cried, almost hysterically, ‘it will never be over until he—he that you know—sure everybody knows him—until he, Red Michil of the Lodge, comes to his own, his own, you know, the three sticks, two standin’ straight and one across. Red Michil, with the brand of Cain and the curse of God on him. An’ isn’t this a purty posy?’ and she took the bunch of shamrocks from her breast and held it up to Jack M’Guinness.

“‘A purty posy it is, my girl,’ said he, falling in with her humour; ‘but shake the snow from yourself and come near the fire. Blow up the turf, Shane,’ and he turned to the servant boy, ‘and let the girl warm herself.’

“‘Ay, sure enough, it’s the purty posy,’ the girl continued, ‘but hadn’t I trouble enough finding it, with the snow here, there and everywhere, every step I took goin’ deeper than the rest; but I didn’t mind the snow, why should I? Sure his face was colder when I saw it last, and his windin’ sheet was as white.’

“‘Sit down, achorra, and the good woman will be up in a few minutes and will give ye something to warm ye.’

“‘Ay, then! ‘tis cowld ye think I am, and maybe I am cowld, too; an’ I gets tired sometimes; but there’s a fire in my heart always—a fire that’ll niver go out—niver go out, I tell ye, until Michil of the Lodge comes to his own.’ And then the poor thing sat down by the hob, and the boy blew up the turf till the blaze lighted the whole kitchen, and the pewter on the dresser flashed back the ruddy rays. And when the heat began to spread about the room, the head of the poor, tired creature dropped on her breast and she fell into a deep sleep.

“This was the first coming of Maurya to the Glen, and that’s the way the story was told to me. For, as I told you, it was before my time. She was treated kindly by Jack M’Guinness and his wife, who took to the poor girl, and would have kept her with her if she could, but Maurya couldn’t be induced to spend more than a few days in any place.

“Who she was, or why she came to the glen, or where she came from nobody in the glen knew.

“The women said it was love trouble that drove the poor thing wandering, and that her question about the green upon the cape showed that the lover had fallen a victim on the scaffold, or in the field, in the struggle in ’98.

“There wasn’t a family in the glen that hadn’t sent a man to Ballinahinch, and not a few sent more than one, and there wasn’t a hearth in the glen where poor Maurya didn’t find a welcome.

“But she was always roaming. After a night’s rest she went ‘scouting,’ as she used to say, hoping to catch Red Michil to bring him to his own—‘the three sticks.’

“And so in the first light of the morning she used to go out and ramble over the hills, living any way she might, and coming back and seeking hospitality—now in one house, now in another, in the glen.

“‘I didn’t see any signs of him to-day,’ she used to say, on entering the house which she had come to for her night’s lodging. ‘I didn’t see any signs of him to-day, but, please God, I soon will. Red Michil won’t escape me, never fear.’

“And this mode of life Maurya continued for years. The colour faded from the cheeks and from the lips, and the tall form began to stoop, and they noticed that she didn’t ramble so far as she had been wont to do. She had always been very gentle in her manner, but at times, and when she seemed oblivious to everything passing round her, the flame would flash from her eyes, and she would leave her seat by the fire, and despite remonstrance, no matter what the weather or the hour, would start out on her quest for Red Michil. Over and over again, some of her women friends tried to get her story from her, not so much through curiosity as through a belief that it might lighten the burden on her heart if she would confide her sorrow to some one.

“But they could get nothing from her but a denunciation of Red Michil of the Lodge; but who he was, or what he had done, they could not find out from her.

“There was one house in the glen to which she came oftener than to any other, and that was Shane O’Donnell’s, an uncle of mine. I don’t mind saying it now (said the schoolmaster), but Shane had a little shanty upon the hills, beyond the glen, where he carried on, in a small way, the manufacture of the mountain dew. You’d hardly know the hut from the heather. It was in a little dip on the side of a hill, just deep enough for the walls, and until you were almost atop of it you could hardly distinguish the roof from the heather, and no wonder, for it was thatched with scraws, with the heather roots in them. The only thing that betrayed its existence was the occasional smoke from the hole in the roof that was the excuse for the absence of a chimney. Thither Maurya na Gleanna often went, and there she was always welcome. Although her wits were generally wandering, she was always able to lend a hand in household matters, and in the cabin I’ve mentioned she used to boil the potatoes and cabbage, and do other cooking what was necessary.

“The hut itself was little more than an excuse. It covered the descent into a cave, in which was carried on the manufacture of poteen, and this was reached through an opening which was disclosed when the hearthstone was lifted up.

“The smoke from the operations below came up through an aperture close to the hearthstone, and was carried off with that of the fire in the hut, so that anyone who might drop into the hut would not suspect anything. It was a shepherd’s hut and nothing more.

I was occasionally called on to assist in making the poteen, and at this time Maurya na Gleanna had been regularly employed as cook, that is to say, whenever the men were at work Maurya was sure to come there, and boil the potatoes and make the stirabout, and sometimes, too, a bit of mountain mutton found its way into the pot.

Well, it happened one day Maurya was boiling a bit of mutton, and myself was sitting near the fire, when Maurya said:

“It was a quare dhrame I had last night, Shamey.”

“What was it, Maurya?” I asked, for all of us, young and old, used to humour her.

“Well, then,” said she, “do you see them three legs to the pot that’s boilin’ there before you?”

“I do,” said myself, “why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, then, Shamey, and mind you, I didn’t tell this to anyone but yourself, I dreamt last night them three legs to the pot were the three sticks; and rayson that out for me if you can, for I can’t. I think sometimes my poor head is goin’, Shamey.”

I knew what she meant by “the sticks,” but, of course, I couldn’t guess the meaning of her dream.

“I don’t know, Maurya,” said I. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Ah, then, how could you, Shamey?” said she. “Sure you never supped sorrow, and I hope you never will, avick, and ’tis only them that has supped it year after year that could tell poor Maurya what she wants to know.”

And she swung the crane from which the pot was hanging out from the burning turf.

“Do you see the three legs of it, Shamey?” she asked.

“I do, Maurya,” said I.

“They are red now from the fire,” said she. “And he was red—Red Michil, you know—and I dreamt last night that they were the three sticks. But dhrames are foolish, and there’s no use minding them, Shamey. And how could they be the three sticks? Sure, you couldn’t hang a mouse on them, could you, Shamey, let alone Red Michil?”

Though I was used to Maurya, I was beginning to feel frightened, sitting there alone with her, while as she spoke she became excited in a way that I know would frighten me now as it did then. She hardly raised her voice as she spoke, but you heard something—something that was like ringing through it, and the veins on her arms, that were bare, began to swell, and her eyes flared in a way that would almost burn the very soul out of you.

She swung the pot back over the blazing peat again, and examined its contents, and I took my chance of stealing out of the hut.

I had hardly got outside the door when I saw a number of soldiers making straight for it. I darted back.

“The soldiers are coming!” I cried down through the hole through which I have mentioned the smoke from the still below used to escape.

I shouted twice. Then I heard the words ‘All right,’ and I knew that the men below would be able to manage their escape, and perhaps destroy all evidence of their trade should the soldiers discover their retreat, which to me at this time seemed a most unlikely thing.

“The soldiers are comin’, did ye say?” cried Maurya, when I had finished speaking to the others. “Are ye sure, Shamey, ’tisn’t the yeos?” And her whole frame was quivering with excitement.

“It’s the soldiers, Maurya,” said I, “and I think the gauger is with them, and there is another man along with them, with a cast in his eye. He is sandy complexioned, and has red hair that’s getting grey.”

“Shamey,” she cried, “Shamey!” and she caught me in her arms. “Look at me. Am I tremblin’ like a lafe? I think my dhrame is comin’ true somehow—but how, Shamey? how, tell me?”

I was so frightened I couldn’t reply, and before Maurya could say another word, three or four soldiers entered the hut, and with them two men in civilian dress.

I drew into a corner. Maurya took no notice of them, and seemed to be taken up with her cooking, her back turned to the intruders.

“What have you brought us here for?” asked the officer who was in command of the military, and who was one of the soldiers who had entered the hut.

“This man was my informant,” replied the Excise officer, to whom the question had been addressed.

“That’s not enough for me,” rejoined the officer. “I hope we have not come here on a wild goose chase. We have had too much of that sort of sport lately,” said he, somewhat bitterly.

“Tell that woman to swing the pot from the fire, captain, yer honour,” said the man whom the gauger had described as his informant, and who was the man with the cast in his eye and the sandy complexion.

The captain requested Maurya to do so, but she took no notice.

“Do it yourself,” said the captain, addressing the informer.

The latter approached the fire. As he did so, Maurya slunk back towards the side wall of the big chimney, and in the same direction the informer swung the crane, so that the pot came almost against her.

The informer, without saying a word, kicked the peats from the hearthstone, and I knew then that he was acquainted with our secret. The hearthstone fitted very tight into its casing, and unless one had been previously informed he could never suspect that it was removable. The informer begged the help of the soldiers to lift it, and two of them at different corners having with some difficulty inserted the points of their bayonets succeeded in raising it, and the others coming to their aid, it was quickly removed, and an open space, showing a ladder was disclosed.

“Go before us,” said the officer, addressing the informer.

“I didn’t undertake to do that,” said the wretch, trembling in every limb.

“We’ll go, captain,” said one of the soldiers, and, bayonet in hand, he descended, followed by three of his comrades. Then the informer, plucking up some courage, began to descend. Suddenly the noise of shouting and the report of a musket shot was heard, and the informer, white with fear, was climbing up again.

“Go down and be d——d to you,” cried the officer, “and make way for my men!”

“Oh, captain, darling, save me.”

They were the last words he ever spoke. The crane was flung back from the wall right over the hole. As quick as thought the heavy pot was loosened from it, and it fell with a sickening thud on the informer’s head. A squirt of blood struck the wall just beside my head.

“Seize that woman,” cried the astonished officer.

“Shamey! Shamey!” shouted Maurya to me, her whole face as bright as if all her sorrow had left her. “Shamey, my dhrame came true.”

I never saw Maurya na Gleanna again. I heard that they said (and sure they were right, and they were wrong at the same time), that she didn’t know what she was doing, and they put her in an asylum somewhere.

“But did you,” said I, “ever find out who Red Michil was, and was he the informer?”

“I didn’t then, till years after,” said the old gardener, “and then I learned it by accident like. Maurya na Gleanna, as we called her, was one Mary M’Kenna, and at the time of the troubles, she was, everybody said, one of the most beautiful girls in all Ulster. And it seems she was in love with a boy called Pat Gallagher, who was one of the “United Men,” and he was in love with her, as many another man was also. And sure amongst them was the one she called Red Michil, whose mother, who was a widow woman, kept the lodge at the front gate of Pennington Hall in the County of Antrim. And Red Michil pursued her, but ’twas the back of her hand she gave him, and to take revenge on her and on Pat Gallagher, who took her fancy, he informed on him, and made up a charge against him, and Gallagher was tried by court-martial and hanged, and the poor creature wouldn’t leave until he was at the foot of the gallows, and when she was taken away they saw that her mind was gone.

Her relatives did their best to look after her, but they were poor, and so she rambled off from them till she found her way to our glen. Red Michil, when he had wreaked his vengeance, sank lower and lower. He became a common informer, and then, when the hangings were all over, he secured employment under the Revenue as a scenter-out of illicit stills, and, as he had some experience of the trade himself, he was well up in the expedients which the potheen makers were wont to adopt in order to evade the agents of the law. He was thus an instrument in working out his own fate, and after long, weary years, poor Maurya na Gleanna had her revenge at last.

STORY OF THE RAVEN.

The duty had been light enough for many days, for, though the great Fair of Tara was close at hand, the weather was most unseasonable. The heavy rains had beaten the ripening corn to the ground, and the road was sodden, and it seemed at times as if all the winds had been let loose and met in conflict, snapping in their struggle the leafy trees that fell with a crash on hill and in valley, and their outstretched limbs, cumbering the roads, made them almost impassable for man or beast. During those days of rain and storm the sun never showed himself, and the night came almost as quickly as in the wintertide, and men said that the seasons had changed, and that ruin threatened the land. Yet no one knew why it should be so, for the king was good and generous, and while he maintained his own dignity, and insisted on his dues, his hand was open as the doors of his hospitality, and to no man, simple or gentle, was justice denied.

Night after night, when the day was drawn into the mouth of darkness, I kindled the light on the lawn to guide the wayfarers who might seek food and shelter, but night after night passed over, and no one came.

At length there was a day when the rain no longer fell, and the winds, which had gone back to the hollows of the mountains, no longer blustered. But sullen clouds covered the sky, and the night, as chill as if the breath of winter was on it, crept early under them. I had lit the light upon the lawn, and had come in and closed the door, and was sitting facing the fire of pine logs that smouldered upon the hearth. The servants of the Brugh were in the outhouses attending to cattle, or discharging other duties, and I was quite alone, for even the raven, who was my usual companion, was out in the barn watching the milking of the cows. I was thinking of going up to the house of the leech to inquire for my uncle, when, suddenly, I heard the sound of chariot wheels coming up the beaten road to the door of the Brugh. I had hardly opened the door when I saw in the light cast from the “candle in the candlestick” two horses covered with foam, and I distinguished in the seat of the chariot two figures muffled up against the weather; but I had no difficulty in recognising one as that of a lady.

“The blessing of God be on you,” said the man.

“God and Mary be with you,” I replied, “and cead mile failte.”

The servants had heard the chariot approaching, and were ready to take the horses to the stable as the guests stepped from the car. The first offices of hospitality having been discharged, and father and daughter, for such they were, having refreshed themselves from the fatigues of their journey, and partaken of the fare that had soon been set before them, took their places by the fire. The man was rather old, and wore the dress of a chief; he and his daughter were going to the great fair at Tara to witness the games and contests. The maiden was the fairest I had ever seen, her face as beautiful as a flower, and when she lifted, as she did occasionally, her long, dark lashes from her eyes, they were as stars shining in a dark pool in the woodland.

“I fear, Brother Mailcoba,” said the Abbot, “that thou wert over-given to the vanities of this world at that time. The beauties you speak of are transient, and perish.”

“So shall the stars perish, Father, that to the brief life of man seem eternal; but, nevertheless, we may admire their lustre in the dusk of the summer night, and then I was young, and all that was beautiful seemed to me to be good.”

“Would it were so,” said the Abbot, “but proceed with your story.”

We had not been long seated together, continued Brother Mailcoba, when I heard a halting step coming towards the door, and as I turned my ear I caught the twang of chords.

“It is a harper who comes,” said the lady in a sweet, low voice that was almost timid. You will forgive me, Father, for saying that I thought her voice was as musical as any harp ever sounded.

“You were very young then, brother,” replied the Abbot with a smile. “And remembering your youth, we forgive you.”

We gave the harper his meed of greeting, continued Brother Mailcoba. He was lame, and old, and seemingly weak of sight, but the lady laid on his arm her hand, that was as soft and as white as a white cloud against a blue sky——

“Brother, brother,” put in the Abbot with a mild deprecatory gesture.

And she brought him towards her, continued Brother Mailcoba, not heeding the interruption, and made him take the seat beside hers.

When I opened the door to admit the harper, the raven, who had finished his self-imposed task in the cowhouse, hopped in and took up his perch on the rafter, and eyed the company in the most critical manner. He had only one eye, having lost the other in a scrimmage with one of the cats, but this, instead of detracting from, rather added to, the solemnity of his gaze. At the harper’s heels, sniffing in the friendliest way, came the house dog, Bran, who stretched himself before the fire.

The harper made only a very slight repast, and when it was finished the lady begged him to soothe the night with song. He, nothing loth, proceeded to comply, and, after coaxing the strings to follow him, began to sing of the wooing of Lady Eimer by Cuchullin. But suddenly the old man, the maiden’s father, started like one aroused from sleep.

“Have you no other song,” he cried, “no song of battle, of burning, or of voyages across the seas, that tell how heroes fight and fall? Sing of Cuchullin when he stood alone against the hosts of Connaught in the battle armour drest, or when he met Ferdiah at the ford, but waste not your time and ours with the story of his love-sick fits.”

The harper paused, the maiden’s lashes hid her eyes, and a blush like that which follows the grey light of the dawn stole to her cheeks. The harper was about to make reply when the raven, from the rafter, and behind where we were sitting, croaked, “Grob! grob!”

“A soldier is coming,” said the old harper.

I noticed that the maiden cast a furtive glance at the door, which I hastened to open, expecting, of course, to see a soldier, for the raven never lied.

“But was not that a Druidic superstition, and unworthy of the credence of a Christian?” queried the Abbot.

“May be so, father,” replied Brother Mailcoba, “but they say the ravens are very knowledgeable birds, and in my boyhood I was taught to believe in them, and so was the harper.”

“But you were deceived on this occasion,” said the Abbot.

“I thought so,” said Brother Mailcoba, “when, as I opened the door a monk entered with his robe and cowl, but still the raven croaked ‘grob! grob!’”

After the usual salutations the newcomer sat down to the table and he ate like as one who had long fasted. I mention this only because it seemed to justify the character in which he presented himself, but the raven kept fidgeting on the rafter, and fixing his single eye on the new guest, croaked “grob! grob!” in a fretful, almost angry voice.

When his repast was finished, the monk took a seat on a bench near the harper, but, so that he had a full view of the lady, although he was partly concealed from her father. His cowl almost concealed his face, but what was visible of it suggested youth and comeliness. It was natural, perhaps, that he should excite the curiosity of the maiden, but I must confess I was surprised to find her lashes lifting so frequently and her eyes turning towards him, and once or twice I thought those of the monk responded to the questioning glances of the maiden.

“I fear thou wert uncharitable, Brother Mailcoba,” said the Abbot.

“Not so, father, as the event proved.” By this time the maiden’s father, overcome by the weary journey and the hospitality, had fallen into a slumber. The harper, too, who was hurt by the rebuff which he had received, seemed rather somnolent, and he sat back against the couch with eyes almost closed, but his fingers strayed across his harp as if he were playing in his sleep, and the numbers stole out clearly if faintly, and if the spirit of music ever come and move the hand of the harper it must have led his across the strings that night. I know not how the others felt, indeed, I forgot their existence for the time. I was under a spell. It seemed to me as if my body was inert, and as if my listening soul was borne on sounds that would not stay, but would steal out like a bird from an opened cage seeking on happy wings the lustrous woodland. Suddenly I was brought to myself by the snarl of the hound and the hoarse voice of the raven croaking.

“Carna, carna! Grob, grob! Coin, coin!”

“There are wolves about,” cried the harper, starting up. “Listen to the raven.”[1]

The hound kept on snarling as the raven croaked, but he made no move from the fire. I thought I heard a light, quick step on the path, but the hounds around the sheepfold were baying so furiously that I was not sure. However, I went to the door, and as I was about to open it, it was struck rapidly as if by one in haste. When I had drawn it half back, a tall, athletic looking man with a huge cloak wrapped about him almost rushed in. He was scant of breath, as if he had been running, and I noticed that his cloak was torn in several places. This he quickly cast off, and darting a glance around him from restless and glittering eyes took his seat.

I noticed the harper eyeing him curiously, and I thought I saw the maiden shrink. The monk, too, seemed more curious than was hospitable or polite. I gave the stranger the usual welcome, but his response was brief, and so was his salutation to the other guests, and their replies, and indeed, during the time that I was busying myself in getting him some refreshment, the silence of the Brugh was broken only by the croaking of the raven, “Carna! carna! Coin! coin!” and the snarls and smothered yelp of Bran. I was quite puzzled by the raven. First he announced a soldier instead of a cleric, and secondly, at his call of “wolves! wolves!” which had no longer any meaning, for if there were wolves abroad they must have been scared away by the watchdogs, who ceased barking as I closed the door after admitting the new guest.

I had seen many a man eating in my time, but never saw I one who ate so ravenously. I replenished his platter several times before his hunger was satisfied, and indeed I was kept so busy that I had not time to pay attention to the other guests. When at length I was able to do so I noticed the old chief was still slumbering, and that the harper had changed places with the monk, and the latter was sitting beside, or rather close to the maiden, and indeed I thought I saw him drawing his arm hastily away.

“I fear, brother, your story is far from edifying,” said the Abbot.

“Well, maybe I was wrong,” continued Brother Mailcoba, “and perhaps it was the glow from the pine logs that caused the maiden’s face to look like a red rose. I think it was for the purpose of distracting my attention that the harper began to play a low, sweet melody. I recognised its first notes as those of the ‘Song of Clumber.’”

“Not that, not that!” suddenly exclaimed the last come guest fixing his glittering eyes on the harper. The vehemence of the exclamation and the harsh tones in which it was uttered caused general surprise. The stranger noticing this appeared somewhat confused, and he endeavoured to explain himself by saying—“It was too early yet for slumber, and that for his part he preferred that sleep should come to him naturally than that it should be brought by song.”

“It seems to me,” quoth the harper, sadly, “that I can please no one to night.”

“Say not so,” said the maiden softly, “and perhaps now,”—and she glanced at her sleeping parent—“you might sing us of Lady Eimer.”

The harper’s face lighted up with pleasure, and soon under the skilful fingers the harp gave out a witching strain, the accompaniment of his song. When it ended the maiden slipped a gold brooch of exquisite workmanship into his hand. Nor did he go without reward from the monk and the stranger, as I must still call the last-comer.

By this time the night was pretty far advanced, and as the travellers had stated that it was their intention to start early in the morning, I reminded them that their couches were ready. The last-comer took the hint at once, and sought the couch that was nearest to the door. The maiden and the monk seemed loth to go. The former pretended—for I fear it was but a pretence—that she was unwilling to disturb her father, but, after a while, the old man roused himself, and looked about him.

“Carna, carna! Coin, coin!” croaked the raven from the rafters.

“There must be wolves at hand,” said the old chief.

A long-drawn, low growl came from Bran, as if in response.

“That can hardly be,” I said, “for the watchdogs without are silent.”

“I never knew a raven to be wrong yet,” replied the chief, “but let the shepherds look to it. I had better lie down. We must start a little after daybreak. I want to be at Tara early.”

The old man and his daughter retired, and if my eyes did not deceive me, those of the maiden rested longer on the monk as she bade him “good-night” than was altogether seemly. The harper, who was very old, also betook himself to rest, and only the monk and myself remained sitting by the fire.

“It is not likely that any more travellers will come to-night,” I said to the monk, “so I think I had better look to the lawn light, and go to bed, as I wish to be up to see the old chief and the maiden off.” And I added, “I suppose you will not start early?”

“I have not quite made up my mind on that point,” he replied, “but I think I shall also retire, as it is not fair to keep you up any longer. But let me go with you to the lawn; I should like to see what the night is doing, and what is the promise of the morrow.”

Of course, I accepted his offer. We went on to the lawn together, and when the light was supplied with fresh fuel, returned. As we were coming towards the door, the monk remarked the chariot which had brought the chief and his daughter, and that, although well constructed, it would require a powerful horse to draw it.

“There are two horses,” I answered; “splendid animals, that could fly away with it. Perhaps, I had better look at them, to see if they are all right,” and I went towards the stable.

“They are, indeed, splendid animals,” said the monk, who looked at them with a critical eye, as he took the candle from my hand that he might view them better, and he evinced an interest in, and a knowledge of, horseflesh that surprised me not a little, seeing that he was a poor monk, that was forced to make his journeys on foot. After bolting the stable door we returned to the house, and shortly after the monk, who refused to join me in a beaker of mead, although I urged he would sleep all the better for it, went to his couch, and when I had finished my beaker, I followed his example, and was soon fast asleep.

I slept soundly, as was my wont, but at daybreak I was awakened by the frantic yelping of the hounds, while the raven, flapping his wings in wild shouts of excitement, croaked “Grob grob! Carna, carna! Coin! coin!” I felt the cold air of the morning on my face, and the grey light came through the open door. I leaped from my couch, and looked about me. The harper was sound asleep, so also was the old chief, but the couch which the maiden had occupied was vacant, as was that of the monk, and the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

I rushed out, the stable door was open, and the chariot had disappeared. In the stable was a monk’s robe and cowl. The hounds were still yelping in the distance, but not frantically as at first, and I pushed on towards them. I met them returning with bloody mouths, and in a few seconds one of the shepherds followed with a huge coat, torn almost to tatters, and stained with blood. It was the remains of the great coat which the stranger had worn the night before!

“And the stranger?” asked the Abbot.

“The bloody mouths of the hounds supplied the answer, at least so said the harper, when I related to him what had happened. The stranger was a man wolf, who was allowed to assume human form by night, but had to take that of the wolf by day.[2] He must have slept till daybreak, and not being able to escape from the neighbourhood of the Brugh in human shape, fell a prey to the hounds.”

“And what of the monk?” queried the Abbot.

“He was no more a monk than I was. When I related what had happened to the old chief, he tore his hair, and declared that his daughter had been carried off by a soldier with no more land or possession than would fit on the edge of his sword. He had persistently wooed the maiden, but had been rejected by the father, so that the story of Lady Eimer had a special significance for her. The father threatened to have vengeance; he would go to Tara and see the High King, and carry his complaints to him. He begged for the loan of a chariot, which, of course, I supplied him with, and he set off for Tara. A few days after the great fair began, and I went to it. I hardly think that the chief carried out his threat, or if he complained to the king the king must have induced him to make the best of it, for as I was going round the course, on the day of the chariot race, I saw seated in the Queen’s pavilion, amongst the ladies of the court, the maiden who had sought the hospitality of the Brugh, but who was now the wife of a gallant soldier, and, I must confess, that I shared her exultation when, in the last rush home, the chariot that was guided by her soldier husband swept past the winning post, amidst the thunderous plaudits of the multitude of the men of Erinn. So you see, Father, the raven was right after all.”