humanity or friendship well-nigh cost the doer of it his life. Half a dozen sabres flashed above his defenceless head. MacDermott interposed his sword between them and the young soldier, and touching him lightly on the shoulder, said, in hurried tones:

"You are my prisoner. Bear your friend to the rear. O'Duigenan, attend the prisoners to my quarters, and as you value your life see that no harm befalls them. Forward, men, forward! We are behind in the chase," and at the head of his troopers he rode madly away in pursuit of the scattered bands of fugitives-all that now remained of the army of General Monroe.

We are not concerned with the further events of this memorable day. Before night closed in, more than half the Parliamentarian army had fallen by the banks of the Blackwater. Long after darkness had come down upon the earth, the hills echoed with the tumult of the pursuit the shouts of triumph and vengeful hatred-the cry of despair, and the appeal for mercy, too often sternly refused. With the dawn of day the pursuit began afresh, and before another night came on, most of the stragglers who had failed to reach a friendly fortress, had fallen into the hands of the Irish, and had been made prisoners or slain according to the temper of their captors.

Late in the day succeeding the battle, MacDermott and his exhausted troopers returned to Benburb. His first inquiry on entering the village was for the prisoners he had made the day preceding. With discontented and sullen mien, O'Duigenan, who had spent the morning cursing the accident that had deprived him of his share in the chase of the Sassenach, informed him that one of the prisoners was dead, and that the other was keeping watch by his body. MacDermott hastened to report his return to the General, and then proceeded to his own quarters.

His

On entering the cabin assigned him as his lodging, a painful sight encountered him. Stretched on a pallet of straw lay the body of the commander of the Scottish artillery-his rugged features bearing still in death the look of proud defiance they wore when he fell. breastplate had been removed by some friendly hands, and the buff coat which he wore beneath it was deeply stained with blood. Beside the body sat the officer who had borne him from the field. His youthful figure was bent down in silent grief, his forehead rested on his hands, which were clasped round the hilt of his sword, and his eyes were fixed moodily on the earthen floor. The solitary mourner raised himself from his attitude of deep dejection as soon as he heard MacDermott's heavy tread within the cabin, and an expression of satisfaction came over his troubled features as he recognised his deliverer. "I will not attempt to express my gratitude," he began. "I owe you my life, and I owe it to you that the body of my best friend has been preserved from insult and disfigurement."

"I deeply regret," returned the Irish officer, courteously, "that he, too does not owe me life. Never have I seen soldier bear himself more gallantly against desperate odds. It shall be my care that his body is treated as becomes the remains of a man of rank and a valiant officer. This is all the honour it is in our power to pay him. But

now a word about your own lot. You will pardon me if I remark that you seem over young and over delicate for the hardships of the rude trade of war."

"This is my first experience of its disasters," replied the prisoner, "and it will probably be my bitterest. It cannot deprive me of more than I lost yesterday. I was left when a child to the care of him who lies there before us. He has been to me more than parent could have been. He trained me to his own profession, it is the only one open to me now; I cannot abandon it."

"Ill would it beseem me to persuade you to do so," replied MacDermott, with a glance of pride at his own glittering harness. "I did but sympathise with the mishaps you have met thus early in your career. Happily it is given me to do something to alleviate them. The officers we have made prisoners are to be divided between Charlemont and Clough Oughter. I shall, I doubt not, be able to obtain from General O'Neill that you be sent to Charlemont. The prisoners in that fortress will, it is expected, be speedily exchanged for our officers at present confined in Derry and Dungannon. I go at once to prefer my request. The convoy of prisoners will leave within the hour. If you are to be of the number, you will need to refresh yourself for the journey."

Bidding O'Duigenan attend to the wants of the captive, he quitted the cabin. After half-an hour's absence, he returned with the intelligence that his request had been granted by The O'Neill.

"You have not been amenable to my counsels," he remarked, perceiving that the bread and beer provided by O'Duigenan remained untouched. "I fear you will have reason to regret it before the day is over."

"I appreciate your kindness," answered the prisoner, "but I cannot profit by it now. I am ready, let us go."

He stooped, took the hand of his dead commander, and raised it to his lips. "Kinder or truer hand than thine I shall never grasp again," he said, sorrowfully. He gently restored the stiffened member to its place on the straw, and followed MacDermott in silence from the cabin.

At the extremity of the village street the prisoners stood ready to begin their march. They were all officers of rank-the private soldiers who had been spared by the conquerors had been already dismissed. The prisoners were guarded by a strong escort of horse and foot, the musketeers with matches smoking, the horsemen with pistols "ordered." MacDermott conducted his single prisoner to his place among the captives and bade him a friendly adieu.

"Shoulder your pike! march!" ordered the officer in command of the detachment of foot.

"Farewell, Captain MacDermott," said the prisoner; "should you ever need a friend in the camp of your enemies, count on the gratitude of Arthur Montgomery."

SUMMER had fairly come, and the evening air was now so mild that Kathleen Dillon could prolong her stay in the garden to see the sun go down behind the blue hills that rose beyond the woods on the shore. One bright June evening Mary had led her to her favourite nook, and bidding Wolf, a large shaggy hound, wait upon her, had quitted her to attend to her household concerns. As she passed through the castle hall; her eye caught the outline of figures moving on the shore, and she paused by the open window to observe them. She recognised her father and some of the servants of the castle. But, her curiosity satisfied, she quitted not her post of observation. It had become with her a favourite occupation to while away the time by the window, gazing on the flood that came pouring down from the hazy North, and wondering what events were happening there where these waters had their source. Her interest in passing events had been wonderfully intensified during the past few weeks. She listened eagerly to the rumours afloat of battles fought and victories won, and heard with unwonted attention the comments on the success or failure of the rival commanders who warred on each other in every province of the island. Absorbed in her own thoughts she stood by the window, her eyes fixed on the hazy purple border that stretched northwards along the bank of the river, when the door opened softly and Lucas Plunkett entered.

His face was paler than usual, and a livid scar across the forehead had come since we last saw him in the same apartment, to add to its unattractiveness. He had returned to Duneevin a few days after he and quitted it, with an ugly wound on the forehead, caused, he said, by a fall off his horse. His hurt was a serious one, and it required much careful nursing to save him from the ugly consequences which it threatened. He had been received with the sympathy which suffering of any kind never failed to excite at Duneevin, and the kindness of the young mistress of the castle had called back to his breast hopes which he had abandoned. He was now recovered from the effects of his fall, and bore no other token of the disaster than the livid weal upon his face which no skill of leech could ever remove. With noiseless step he approached the window at which Mary stood.

"Have I found you of melancholy mood, at last ?" he asked, softly. She started at the sound of his voice, and her confusion increased when she encountered his piercing eyes fixed upon her face.

"Not sad, but thoughtful, Mr. Plunkett," she answered presently.

"Am I privileged to know whither you have gone to seek a theme for your grave thoughts ?" he asked, with a cold smile.

"Such themes are ever at hand now," she replied. "Every courier brings an abundant supply."

"Nay, not of such as suit your meditations. You have no concern in the raids Inchiquin is making in Cork, nor in the skirmishes between Monroe's devout cavaliers and O'Neill's naked legions in the North."

"Yet even in such things do I interest me."

"Then have I news of moment to give you. A courier has passed southwards with the news that a fierce battle has been fought in Ulster. Blood has flowed freely, and the dead lie thick on the banks of the Blackwater.

The cheeks of the maiden grew pale at the tidings.

"Who are the victors ?" she asked, with trembling voice, heedless of the keen eyes that watched every change of her countenance. "O'Neill."

"Thank Heaven !" exclaimed the lady, fervently. "Are his losses great ?"

"Only seventy-five men killed, and but one officer wounded." "Have you heard his name?" she inquired, with anxiety it was impossible to hide.

"Your neighbour, Colonel O'Farrell; but there is no cause for alarm on his account. His hurt is but slight."

There was an ill-concealed irony in the last words which brought a blush to Mary's cheek.

"Said I not well that themes for grave thought are abundant ?" she asked, endeavouring to give the conversation a new turn.

"I will not gainsay it now," replied Plunkett, "though this makes me hesitate to say I have come to add to the number."

"Nay, we have talked enough on momentous topics for the present. We shall return to them another time. I must away to other duties," and she turned from the window.

"Stay, Miss Dillon," interposed Plunkett, laying his hand on her arm, "to hear but one word on what is for me the most momentous of all questions."

She trembled violently, but made no reply.

"To-morrow I leave Duneevin, and return to Louth. I have not words to thank you for the kindness to which I owe my life. Nor have I sought you here to speak my thanks. I have come to ask a

further favour-the greatest you can bestow."

"It is ?"

"That you would make happy the life you have preserved, that you would consent to share the fortune to which I have been restored through you."

Distress and perplexity were pourtrayed in every feature of Mary Dillon's face.

"Mr. Plunkett," she replied, in a low voice, "it cannot be. You ask what I cannot grant, what my duties to others oblige me to refuse."

The reply was given in a manner which left no room for hope to the rejected suitor. His pale face became paler with anger and disappointment, and the scar upon his brow grew hideously livid.

"I thought it would have been so," he muttered, bitterly. "The arts which win a lady's heart I am not skilled in, and now this cursed seam upon my face spoils my slender chance of ever finding favour in woman's eyes. I cannot blame you for your decision, Miss Dillon," he proceeded in the same bitter tone. "I am but an unlikely suitor and do sadly lack the gifts with which some feathered cavalier will win the heart of which I am unworthy."

"Mr. Plunkett," returned the lady, "you do much mistake the motives by which I am influenced. I have pleaded as the grounds of my refusal my duty to my father and sister. My presence is, I believe, necessary to their happiness, and so long as it is I cannot quit them."

"And this," he asked, "is the sole motive of your refusal ?" "It is the principal one, and is all sufficient."

Plunkett paused and bent his restless eyes upon the floor. After a moment's reflection he raised them again and fixed them on the anxious and perplexed face before him.

"Should the time come when this motive no longer existed, would your answer be other than it is now."

"It is idle to say what would be my feelings in circumstances which cannot exist."

"Nay, such circumstances are not impossible. The day may come when as the wife of Lucas Plunkett you could best do a daughter's and a sister's duty. Should that day come, might I hope for a more favourable acceptance of my suit ?"

"Should such an occasion arise," returned the lady, "I shall then as now be guided by my duty to those whom I am most bound to love."

"Be it so," answered Plunkett.

"More than this I will not ask. Should that day, which neither of us can now foresee, arrive, I will not fail to remind you of your resolve."

"And it shall come, haughty lady," he muttered, as Mary Dillon left the room. "The chances of war bring with them strange revolutions."

CHAPTER XVI.

FOREWARNINGS OF EVIL.

"Coming events cast their shadows before."

Campbell.

We will devote but a few words to the events which fill up the two succeeding years of our country's history. During that period the Irish party in the Irish government gained some victories and experienced not a few reverses. Its triumphs, however, were more than connterbalanced by its defeats, and at the close of the period to which we refer it was hurrying fast to its fall.