"It is superfluous to discuss the point," said Plunkett. "There is no time to execute your plan. Your outposts have signalled the approach of the Irish."

"What is deferred is not abandoned," remarked the officer, evidently unwilling to forget the slight put upon his authority by the allusion to his dependence on Sir Charles Coote. "What is the number of the rebels ?"

"They cannot be more than two squadrons-about forty cuirassiers."

"It is well," said the officer, adjusting his sword. "I go to make arrangements for their becoming reception. Bid Major Storey attend me," he continued, raising his voice and addressing the orderly in waiting. "The officers of his troop will lead their men, on foot, to the verge of the wood, and there await further orders. Captain Hamilton will mount his Lancers, and hold them in readiness to act on a moment's notice."

Obedient to the summons, Major Storey promptly appeared before his commander.

"A troop of O'Neill's hobellers is coming to interrupt your diversions, major," observed Ormsby. "I have devised a pleasant surprise for them."

He whispered a few words in the ear of his confederate, and a smile of satisfaction distorted the features of the pious veteran.

"Perhaps," observed Plunkett, "it will interest Major Storey to know that the leader of the rebel troop is one to whom he became debtor on a certain occasion on which I myself had the honour of serving under him."

"And on which thou didst flee with exceeding speed, yea, even as the evil one fleeth before the prayers of the saints," retorted the major, maliciously.

"Wherein I did but obey the orders and imitate the example of my commander," rejoined Plunkett.

"Verily it did please the Lord to humble us. But great is His mercy who doth now deliver into our hands him who hath rubbed shame on the faces of the chosen ones."

The two officers accompanied by Plunkett left the farmyard. The men under their command followed in a short time; and, when Arthur Dillon arrived, there was no indication of the presence of the large force which had been entertaining itself at his expense other than about two score troop-horses, picketed in the wood and guarded by a few lounging troopers.

One of these latter informed Dillon that Major Ormsby had found employment for his men on the border of the wood, and intimated that he might find that officer himself in the direction he pointed out, if only he would risk the consequences of disturbing him in his occupations. Regardless of the hint conveyed in the last words, Dillon took the path indicated. A walk of ten minutes brought him upon a squadron of Lancers stationed at the foot of a rising ground on the verge of the wood. In reply to the challenge of the officer in command he explained the object for which he came, and was directed to

the spot where he should find Major Ormsby. That worthy soldier he discovered standing behind a clump of furze in company with some of his brother officers; and Dillon was not a little surprised to observe that his cousin Plunkett, who had quitted him on the previous day, was of the group, apparently on familiar terms with those about him. As soon as Dillon approached, his kinsman stepped forward to meet him, and presented him to the Parliamentarian commander.

"You are tardy to exchange greetings with us, Mr. Dillon," said Ormsby, coldly. "Had you waited a little longer, we would probably have spared you the inconvenience of your present journey. We would have striven to pay our respects to you within the walls of your own mansion."

"You will excuse me, if I am unable to appreciate your jocoseness," returned Dillon. "Your object is plunder. Spare my family insult, and take what you will.”

"So spontaneous an offer does infinite credit to your courtesy," rejoined Ormsby, with insulting irony. "We have not leisure now to consider it, but we will do so later on. Meanwhile I shall so far take advantage of your generosity as to sacrifice to the service of the Parliament a few of the offices of your farmyard. We are playing here an interesting little game. As you will have to bear the expense of the torches, it would be unjust not to give you a view of the sport."

He beckoned to him a grim-visaged subaltern who stood at a little distance.

66

Sergeant Lovegrace, I commend this gentleman to your safe keeping. Take him to the top of the hill, and from behind the fence let him see what is going forward. I must, however, caution you against interfering with the play," he continued, addressing Dillon, with an ugly smile. "The sergeant," with an expressive nod to that individual, “would be obliged to prevent any such intermeddling by means which it would be uncourteous to name. Both of you understand me. We shall meet again when the entertainment is over." "It would be imprudent to permit him to return," he continued, turning to his associates. "He might even yet warn the birds before they get within our nets."

CHAPTER XX.

THE FAIRIES' PASS.
"Sisters! I from Ireland came!
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
I triumphed o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done.
On as I strode with my huge strides

I flung back my head and I held my sides

It was so rare a piece of fun

To see the sweltered cattle run

With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light.
By the light of his own blazing cot
Was many a naked rebel shot."

Coleridge.

FROM the spot to which he was conducted Arthur Dillon could obtain a view of the road that led southwards along the Shannon in the

direction of Athlone. About a quarter of a mile in front of the position he occupied, the road passed through a defile, the sides of which were covered with brushwood and withered ferns. It was a picturesque spot, one which he had sometimes visited when his daughters accompanied him on shore, and which, from the legends connected with it, was known in the country round as "The Fairies' Pass." Authentic narratives from the lips of a hundred wandering story-tellers averred that the ferns which clothed its sides gave shelter to innumerable tribes of tiny elves, and it was well ascertained that, in the bright moonlight, dapper troops of these diminutive beings came forth from their hiding-places, and danced odd dances on the open space between the furze-bushes.

From his post of observation, Dillon perceived that the pass was likely soon to be invested with an interest greater than that which it derived from being the haunt of the fairies. His elevated position enabled him to command a view of the entire defile; he was surprised to observe that scores of dismounted troopers crouched behind the brush-wood which crept up its sides. His eye sought the broad open country visible through the pass, and in the distance he perceived a column of horse moving towards it at a rapid pace. At the head of the column a ragged youth bounded along beside the leader's horse with a lightness which only the practised horse-boy could command. Dillon strained his eyes to distinguish the approaching figures, and at last convinced himself that the guide of the advancing column was no other than his own singular domestic, Shawn-na-Coppal. He understood the situation now, and his heart sank within him as he saw the fate that awaited his deliverers. The clanking of their armour was already audible at the spot where he stood, and the dull sound of their horses' hoofs upon the soft earth smote upon his ear with a hollow, grave-like cadence that made him shudder. However, there was yet a hope. Knowing they were in the neighbourhood of a hostile force these friendly cavaliers, whoever they were, would perhaps distrust the defile, and distrust for them meant safety. But as yet they gave no sign of suspicion; they rode on at a steady pace, their guide maintaining his position in front; the stillness of death reigned in and around the pass, not a sight or a sound was there to awaken distrust in those for whom the ambush was laid. What if they disregarded in this instance the rules of military prudence? Should they perish without a warning? A signal, a shout, the waving of a handkerchief would arrest them in their fatal career. But how to make it? His life he knew would pay the forfeit of any attempt to give the warning. The eyes of his grim-featured guardian were upon him, and he felt that the veteran would not hesitate to execute the significant order he had received. Yet did not gratitude oblige him to risk his life? True; but if he fell-what of his children? The thought was harrowing; he stood riveted to the spot, distracted by the opposing claims of grateful generosity and paternal love, gazing in helpless, heart-rending suspense at the approaching horsemen. But, see! Suspicion of some kind has crossed the mind of their leader. As he nears the entrance of the fatal pass, he gradually slackens his

speed, and at length halts within gunshot of the lurking place of his foes. Thank Heaven!-he is saved. The silence became, if possible, deeper and more painful, during the momentary suspense that ensued. The commander of the detachment of cavalry conversed eagerly with some of his followers near him, while the Parliamentarian soldiers bent low behind the furze-bushes.

All at once a rushing sound came from the direction of the farmyard. A huge column of smoke rose into the air, bright tongues of flame shot up above the tree-tops, and the cries of men and animals mingling in wild confusion came from the scene of the fire.

The ruse was successful. Shawn-na-Coppal brandished his long hunting pole, uttering frantic cries of distress and impatience, and seizing the bridle of the captain of the troop endeavoured to urge forward his horse towards the pass. The soldier needed no such persuasions. The tokens of the devastation which was in progress seemed to make him forget his precautions, or perhaps made him think them unnecessary. He settled himself in his saddle, and with a hoarse command to his men to follow, and a warning cry to the lad who still held his bridle, he dashed towards the defile. He was already within a few strides of the entrance. Dillon could mark the eagerness with which the officer bent forward over his charger's neck and struck his spurs into the animal's panting sides. Arthur Dillon was not a daring man, perhaps not even a brave one, in the ordinary sense of the word, but the spectacle of these strangers advancing to certain though unexpected death for his sake, their eagerness excited by what they believed to be his danger, the reckless impetuosity with which they advanced, while the cold, glittering pistol-barrels of their concealed foes rising slowly to a level with the tops of the furzebushes marked them out for death-all this made him for the moment a hero, oblivious of himself and his kindred. He cleared the fence before him at a bound, waved his hat above his head, and uttered one loud, warning shout which woke the echoes of wood and defile for miles around. He had not time to repeat the signal, there was a flash from the thicket behind him, a sharp report,--he staggered, and face downwards he fell to the earth.

The warning which it cost him so much to give came almost too late. The shout he uttered checked the horsemen in their swift career, but that single pistol-shot which followed was the signal for dozens of others directed upon the astonished troopers by dozens of unseen weapons from out the brushwood on both sides. They were thrown into confusion for a moment, more than one saddle was emptied by the volley, and, to add to their dismay, a strong detachment of Parliamentarian Lancers suddenly appeared on the crest of the hill before them, and began descending the slope at headlong speed.

The Irish leader was not unequal to the emergency. With a steady voice which reassured his followers, he gave the order to retire. His lieutenant led the retreat, he himself, according to the rules of war, brought up the rear. The order was executed with the promptitude and steadiness for which O'Neill's cavalry were remarkable. But the movement which was the saving of his men placed the Irish leader

himself in the power of his enemies. His horse had been crippled by a pistol shot, and could no longer keep pace with the troop. He saw himself outdistanced by his men, and he heard more and more distinct behind him the clatter of the pursuing Lancers. To no one would he give notice of his distress-his first duty was to save the soldiers entrusted to him.

"Bayard is failing fast," remarked the trumpeter of the captain's squadron, who was reining in his own horse, in order not to pass ahead of his commander.

"Poor brute !" said the officer, in a troubled voice, patting fondly the neck of the noble steed he rode, "he has led his last charge."

The wounded animal, encouraged by the voice and caresses of his master, and conscious of the sympathy he excited, struggled to regain his place in the rear of the retreating column.

"It is hopeless, Bayard, it is hopeless," said his rider, despondingly, feeling the agonized quivering of the sinewy frame that bore him along. "Ride on, O'Duigenan; rejoin the troop. I will empty one Sassenach saddle before I go down."

"Leave Bayard to me," rejoined the trooper, pretending not to have heard the command; "there is strength in him yet. I know him well, and could lift him across the ground better than you. Quick! quick!" he cried, impatiently. "These Sassenach devils will be on

us in a few minutes."

"Thanks, O'Duigenan! it must not be," replied the officer, who saw through the generous plan of his subordinate. "Ride on, I

command you.

Wait not for me!"

The honest trooper was perplexed by the order. His soldier's instinct inclined him to obey; his attachment to the leader whom he had followed for years, who had been always kind and considerate towards him, and who was, moreover, one of the "old family" which his fathers had served for centuries, prompted him to remain. He made no answer, but he did not increase his speed.

"Have you heard my orders?" asked his commander, sternly. “Go on !”

The soldier made a feint of obeying. He took the lead by a few score yards, but almost at every stride he turned to observe the progress of the chase behind him. He saw poor Bayard's speed decrease more and more. He turned away his head for an instant to regulate the motions of his own steed. He looked back again in time to see Bayard stumble and fall, crushing his rider under him.

In an instant he was on foot, rushing to the assistance of his commander. His disobedience met with no rebuke, the fallen man lay stunned and insensible under his dying steed.

"My God! they will ride over him," cried O'Duigenan, in deep distress, as he saw the Parliamentarian Lancers bear down upon them at headlong speed.

Not so, faithful servant. It is hard to drive humanity from human breasts; and, though you know it not, there is gentle feeling lurking yet beneath the iron corselet of him who commands these lawless horsemen. With something of generous pity, and much of generous admiration,